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"The Courtly Charlatan," Herbert Jenkins, London, 1942
"The Courtly Charlatan," Herbert Jenkins, London, 1942
Born, God knows where, supported, God knows how,
From whom descended—difficult to know.
English lampoon, 18th Century.
... As early as the 13th century, a few men, among them the Oxford friar, Roger Bacon, realised that a knowledge of the nature and behaviour of material things could be used to improve the amenities of human life. Roger Bacon may have carried out some experiments in his laboratory upon Folly Bridge, but his writings assert no more than the possibility of making certain inventions, such as telescopes and the mechanical propulsion of boats, which doubtless he never realised in practice. Throughout the late Middle Ages, and even after, most men believed that "cunning Clerkes" and "material magicians" could accomplish marvels by a knowledge of nature's secrets. At this period no sharp line was drawn between what are now called science and magic... it was only at the beginning of the 19th century that science became conscious of itself as a branch of learning radically different from magic, travellers' tales, ancient lore and metaphysics.
The Century of Science.
—F. Sherwood Taylor, 1941.
The imagination of man is naturally sublime, delighted with whatever is remote and extraordinary, and running, without control, into the most distant parts of space and time in order to avoid the objects which custom has rendered too familiar to it.
—David Hume.
WHEN the Maréchal de Belleisle returned from Vienna he brought with him in his train an elegant and eccentric gentleman who passed by the name of the Comte de St. Germain, though it was at once whispered as a delicious, mysterious secret, that this was no relation of the French nobleman of that name, but some marvellous, perhaps supernatural being whom M. de Belleisle had been fortunate enough to secure—who knew by what persuasions.
Madame de Pompadour had lately secured the affections and the good graces of His Most Christian Majesty permanently, as it seemed to the anxious courtiers, and it was her influence that ruled France. She appeared, although of middle-class origin, in everything brilliant, accomplished and exquisite. But all her numerous devices could not prevent an intense tedium blighting not only her royal lover but all who pressed round the throne, and even those eager traders who served and pandered to the amusements and vices that no longer pleased nor distracted.
What ailed Society in the middle of the eighteenth century in France, when wit, grace, elegance and refinement were in their flower? Nothing seemed lacking to render life enjoyable; no one could imagine a luxury that could not be at once supplied, no one could sigh for an experience and not be at once satisfied. The most sumptuous artist, the most superb decorators, the most assiduous of craftsmen supplied the background before which the most glittering and gifted society in the world, who formed the pattern for the society of every other country with any pretension to civilisation, played their glittering parts.
It was indeed a rich and delightful scene to which M. de Belleisle introduced the enigmatic stranger from Vienna, a city that was in every way luxurious and splendid but that could not compare with Paris for fantastic beauty, for well-bred licence, for all the varied delights that money could procure for fastidious taste and voluptuous leisure.
Charles Louis Auguste Fouquet, Comte de Belleisle, was himself a man of fashion, of experience, of high position, having been since 1749 French Minister of War. When he brought this enthralling foreigner with the absurd assumed name to Versailles in 1757, M. de Belleisle was in his sixty-fourth year, Maréchal de France and afflicted with that complication of diseases that sooner or later extinguish the self-indulgent in a period of medical ignorance.
Whoever M. de St. Germain was, he declared both to his patron, and his admirers who speedily gathered round him, that he had not visited France before—reserving the right to add, with dark emphasis—"at least in this century."
The scene on which he looked—the court, Paris, such places as courtiers and Parisians used for their distraction and amusement, impressed the foreigner first by its luxurious magnificence.
It is probable that human desires had never before been so indulged and gratified. Not the nobility only, those "of the Sword" or "the Robe" or "of the Province" who were by heredity the privileged caste of France, but the "farmer-generals," the Industrialists and men of Finance such as Van Robas, Samuel Bernard, Des Crozat, De Paris, De Boujon, lived in dazzling opulence. Their revenue amounted to figures that were considered fantastic by sober men of other countries—fifteen hundred thousand livres in one case; one fermier general left fifteen million livres to his son; these persons then used these great fortunes in employing the most highly paid artists of the day, in constructing the most handsome mansions in Paris, the most costly châteaux in the country, the most sumptuous pavilions in the suburbs. And, when all these means of display had been exhausted, they amused themselves by erecting those curious little dwellings adorned with every caprice of useless ingenuity that were termed "follies." Architects, sculptors, landscape gardeners, painters, decorators, worked incessantly, and it would seem eagerly, in the service of these millionaires who never had to concern either their energies or their wits as to the sources or the gathering of their huge revenues.
Those who could not command large fortunes stayed away from the court, or came there merely in the capacity of panders, jobbers, underlings or menials; those who had the money spent it lavishly on every form of extravagance that had as yet been devised, or in searching for some novel means of display of vanities, or some more subtle gratification of human appetites, that are, unfortunately for those who care for nothing but sensualities, so limited and so soon staled.
A woman directed, in every sense of the word, this elaborate society, and it was to her that M. de Belleisle brought the fascinating stranger from Vienna.
The King's mistress, whom he had ennobled with the title of Marquise de Pompadour, had begun life as Jeanne Antoinette Poisson, was believed to be the illegitimate daughter of a fermier general, Le Normand de Tournehem, whose nephew, Le Normand d'Étoiles, she had married.
When she received St. Germain she had been for twelve years arbitress of the politics, the fashions, the arts of France and was then in her thirty-seventh year.
The absolute monarch who was her lover had relegated to this cold, ambitious woman the conduct of both his business and his pleasure; he allowed her, without demur, to reverse the traditional policy of France, to pledge the kingdom to expensive and useless wars, to fill all the highest posts with her relatives, her flatterers and her creatures.
She was comely and supremely elegant, she had long been trained for the position she now held, her incomparable taste, tact and skill in all the petty arts by which a great courtesan holds her own, were unquestioned.
But somewhere there was a flaw; St. Germain found that the King, the court, indeed all the fashionable world, were blighted by an aching tedium.
It might be that idleness was the cause of this teasing boredom. Those who served by art, craft, or labour these great ones did not seem to lack as much pleasure and happiness as human beings may reasonably expect, but those who enjoyed the fruits of their intricate, varied, exquisite or heavy labours, suffered from a sick gloom that no device had yet been found to relieve.
It was Madame de Pompadour's office to ease, if she could not cure, the King's tedium and melancholy; on those terms she held her coveted position. She must at all costs (failure meant retiring from the position of uncrowned Queen to that of obscurity) amuse the King.
It might seem to the visitor from Vienna, in this year 1757, that she had already employed every possible device likely to amuse the King, who had been satiated with luxury, with lust, with gambling, with all the delights of soft living, before he met this shrewd and clever woman with good business capacity and, more important, a gift for organisation of all the entertaining side of life. She knew how to arrange superb concerts, how to engage the finest singers, the most graceful dancers for the Opera, how to contrive suppers that seemed most intimate and yet were served with the most fastidious luxuries and varied by some dramatic scene, song, or dance that seemed to occur carelessly. She was the perfect impresario, she knew the value of all little things, of little surprises; the King when most jaded could be flicked into at least passing interest when some unknown actress of great beauty would appear at his table and with diamond stars glittering in her powdered hair recite a simple pastoral; or when a brocade curtain would be pulled aside and that music which is potent to disperse even the glooms of satiety would come softly into the gilded cabinet.
Madame de Pompadour knew even how to make the services of the Holy Church in the Royal Chapel that His Majesty must attend, entertaining. These she changed into concerts, with cheerful music, brilliant voices carefully arranged to harmonise with the glitter of gold and silver on the laden altar, the flash of crimson and purple in the vestments of the priests, the perfume of the costly incense.
She was an expert in the theatre, where comedy could divert with a sarcastic reference to modern manners, a satiric scorn of individual foibles.
Besides these outstanding devices when all the arts and all the material resources of France were at her service, Madame de Pompadour knew endless tricks whereby she could amuse, distract or flatter the King. She held the reins of government as firmly in her capable, pretty hands, as she held the ribbons of the white horses that drew her smart chariot through the park; she liked, in everything, to drive herself.
Not only the French nobility, but the ambassadors of foreign powers were at her feet, and it might have been supposed that Madame de Pompadour thought herself extremely successful. There seemed nothing necessary to her own ambition that she could not do and do well, but she was in a state of constant nervous anxiety. Though she had been for twelve years the King's mistress and had held this office longer than any of her more beautiful, more proud predecessors, she was still not quite sure of him; he was at the same time her slave and her master, and any day, any hour, any moment might see her dismissal from the position that she had worked so patiently to attain and to hold.
It was a delicate, intricate society, too sumptuous, too idle, that this bold woman swayed; one on the verge, though few of those enjoying this decaying splendour knew it, of the abyss of great changes.
The King was intelligent, had been warned of the perils ahead. The long, ostentatious, vainglorious reign of Louis XIV, that monarch's wars of aggression that had been, before his own death costly failures, had left the nation exhausted. And those among the earlier ministers of Louis XV who possessed any honesty and courage had advised His Majesty that he might expect, before long, a downfall of the monarchy, a collapse of French finances, and French social fabric.
But Louis XV had replied with one of those sardonic bitternesses he knew so well how to utter with a naive elegance: "After me, the deluge," a comment that hits off human weakness so nicely that it has become a catch phrase.
It seemed to many people in 1757 that the deluge might be a long time after their lusts, greeds and ambitions were satisfied. On the surface all seemed secure; Paris was so sumptuous, so elegant, so frequented by foreigners, a model for all the tastes, for all the arts, crowded with foreigners eager to learn how to behave, how to dress, how to sing, how to play, how to catch up this or that trick of manner or behaviour. Yet to M. de St. Germain all this splendid display had no light behind it; he sensed a deep desperation behind the constant gaiety and sensed too that all that money, the arts, sensuality could do was not sufficient to clear away those foul fogs of boredom that tarnished all this luxury.
The courtiers pretended to be amused; they gambled and drank, they wove their amorous intrigues, they made moves this way and that to obtain place and power. There were foreign politics, there were endeavours to snatch high or lucrative positions, but somehow everything, even the amusements, seemed stale and, in a way, distasteful. The hunts, the balls, the concerts, the suppers, the theatres—what was wrong with them? Everything that; could be done to make these entertainments shine brilliantly had been done, and with the greatest possible taste and talent. But the zest of enjoyment had gone alike from vice, from luxury, from folly.
And Madame de Pompadour considered carefully in her superb cabinet that the most exquisite artists of the age had filled with beautiful rarities, as to how she could continue to hold her power over the King. She had observed, and with horror, his lassitude, his drowsy glance, his occasional yawn. Something new must be found to divert His Most Christian Majesty: Madame Pompadour wondered if M. de St. Germain had brought it from Vienna.
When Madame d'Étoiles had become the King's mistress she had been deeply in love with his person as well as with his position, yet the illegal connection had been arranged with as much delay and policy as if she had been about to become his wife. From his earliest youth Louis XV had had many mistresses, all beautiful and able aristocrats. He was married to a Polish princess many years his senior, who had retired (only her own intimates knew with what thwarted desires, tendernesses and regrets) into a religious life that she kept apart with her ladies and priests. The Queen was treated with every courtesy by Madame de Pompadour and seemed herself to disdain to endeavour to retain any hold upon her husband for whom she had never felt either fondness or passion.
Yet Louis XV was a resplendent personage, and even among that magnificent Court he shone. But there was a vacancy somewhere behind the splendour that showed like a golden mask that is held before a skull. In his youth he had been much beloved by his people who had seen in him a touching and even an heroic figure. But that enthusiasm had long since faded, the great-grandson of the same King who had dazzled and played over Europe, had now nothing but his personal magnificence and the rich sparkle of his background to distinguish him from any idle, well-bred voluptuary. Indifferent to the failure of his foreign policy, to the misgovernment at home, drawing recklessly on the Treasury for large sums to satisfy his mistress, the King demanded in return merely to be relieved of all cares of business and to be amused. His brief passion for the charming, clever woman who had with so much calculation fascinated him, had soon passed; she kept her almost regal position of "maistress en titre" because until this year 1757 she had amused him.
Now, as she considered M. de St. Germain, she considered also the possibility that she might not be any longer able to amuse the King.
What could be done? Where could she look? Since the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle she had been taxing all her large resources of energy, ingenuity, wit, charm. And now, in a few more years, she would be what even a flatterer must term middle-aged. At any cost she must entertain the King—and she wondered how.
All vices had been long on parade. The arts had been ransacked, even science had been glanced at—and what was the sum-total of all? A growing discontent. One could not be for ever building hôtels and châteaux, one could not be for ever decorating salons and gilded apartments, and viewing charming or rich treasures, admiring the pictures of flattering artists, listening to the exquisite singing of the Italian opera, or the humour of the comedy.
But, if everything in this world was stale—there was always a chance that there were other worlds. And it was whispered that M. de St. Germain was a magician.
Madame de Pompadour from the heights of her splendour and the depths of her secret chagrin therefore welcomed eagerly, though this was disguised under a suave condescension, the Comte de St. Germain. For what did this fascinating stranger offer? Nothing less than some revelation in the province of Magic, black or white, or if of any colour at all it would be very welcome to Madame de Pompadour.
The word magic was sufficient to whet the appetite of the mistress of France. She had seen charlatans and quacks come and go, but here was one who promised at least some hopes of entertainment for the King, and who had certainly excellent credentials.
Madame de Pompadour decided to extend her patronage to the elegant stranger for whose occult powers M. de Belleisle vouched, and M. de St. Germain, under the protection of the Maréchal de Belleisle, rented a handsome apartment in Paris, surrounded himself with liveried lackeys and well-trained servants and proceeded to live the life of a gentleman of considerable means.
His reputation as a magician soon spread abroad. He was often in the cabinet of the King, and in the company of Madame de Pompadour, and these courtiers who had nothing to do but to sigh over their boredom, were soon eager to ascertain what the future might be, or what the past might have been, from the lips of this mysterious Comte de St. Germain.
Occultism had been much discussed among the idlers of Versailles; those who believed neither in God nor Devil were well disposed to credit magic. Who was this gentleman who had thus suddenly appeared, of whom his patron could give no account, who was able to assume the manners of Versailles and to receive on an equality the most polished nobility of France? His appearance was eagerly scrutinised and some ladies who had given too much time to the reading of antique legends suggested in a delicious apprehension that he might be Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew.
M. de St. Germain appeared to be a man of about fifty years of age, with aquiline features, large dark eyes with a keen glance, a powdered peruke that concealed the scarcity or quantity of his hair, and a rich, distinguished costume that was yet well in the fashion. His figure was subtle and well trained to execute all the gestures of courtesy, his manners were unexceptional; he was able to converse both with the King and with Madame de Pompadour without either confusion or awkwardness.
The Maréchal de Belleisle answered for his powers without explaining his origin; idle women avid for a new excitement, whispered the question, was this Dr. Faustus come again to earth? Was this some accursed creature, some lost soul, who, born in the Middle Ages, was forced to assume this disguise? This wild speculation and this unsolved mystery added a thrill of awe to the curiosity with which the Comte de Saint-Germain (for he insisted on this name) was received at the Court of Versailles and in the salons of Paris. All that the French nobility, jaded as they were with vice, music, art, luxury and idleness, knew, was that here was a fresh source of possible amusement, one who might be, if luck held, an emissary of the Devil, or at the least someone who had a secret that would be very useful to themselves.
The much-discussed foreigner, without disclaiming that his name was a mere incognito, did not reveal who he was even by a hint.
He rented a handsome apartment in Paris, engaged a splendid staff of servants, and was seen daily at Versailles. He made no disguise that he was an adept or dabbler in obtuse science, and by words cast skilfully here and there, conveyed that he knew how to communicate with evil spirits and how to raise the dead.
In brief, he engaged the attention of the jaded aristocracy on the one subject that held for them any element of novelty. They had done with this world, they saw it as threadbare, the lusts, the luxuries, the politics, the intrigues, this scheme and that scheme, this trick and that trick, they knew only too well all the devices and designs of which human nature is capable, all were shrewdly aware of the many spites and malices that might be played by one on another. But there might be, most of them admitted, supernatural, superhuman possibilities.
The women at least were not wholly free from superstition; though the Church had lost her hold there still lingered in the ignorant minds the dreadful echoes of ancient beliefs, and sometimes the most sceptic of these mockers, laughing in their mirrors or sneering in their drawing-rooms, would uneasily recall some old and ugly tale of spirit or fiend. Now and then these young ladies and these bloated gentlemen, gambling and drinking in their gilded salons, would be stirred by some old traditions or half-understood beliefs that had been handed down to them from a distant past.
One might laugh and jeer as one would, one might join the fashionable atheists or the brilliant sceptics, yet did one really understand everything? Were there not vast tracts and wastes of the human mind, of human fancy that had not been explored?
This eccentric stranger, this Comte de St. Germain, declared that it was so, that there were many secrets that he could disclose. What they were, or to whom he would reveal them, he did not say.
Even Madame Pompadour admitted that she had discovered nothing from him; but he had to some extent served her turn; even his reputation had been sufficient to cause some interest in this languid society.
And the King had received Mm with a flash of interest, though he considered him with that distant sarcasm he applied to most affairs.
Born into an impossible position, he seemed long since to have decided to play his part negligently; he had been again and again used, exploited, betrayed, by that man, by this woman, and now knew this, and acquiesced. It seemed even as if he might submit to be cajoled, perhaps fooled, by this sham count from Vienna, and that it would amuse him to be thus deceived.
Or so at least Madame de Pompadour hoped; she indulged the stranger, tried to surprise his confidence and had him watched by her secret police.
M. de Belleisle, pressed for details of his protégé, could give but little information; the stranger had appeared suddenly in Vienna, where many curious stories were current concerning him, and the Maréchal had met him at the palace of a great noble.
Seemingly indifferent to money and with all the appearance of possessing great wealth, St. Germain had agreed to accompany the Frenchman to Paris and to present him with a box of his special pills that would, he promised, prolong life almost indefinitely.
Madame de Pompadour agreed with M. de Belleisle that this hint, that no less a secret than the elixir of life had been found, was absurd, but a desperate and secret hope arose in her tormented mind, especially as the Maréchal declared that he felt rejuvenated since he had begun to take M. de St. Germain's medicine. Madame de Pompadour smiled unpleasantly at this assertion; the Maréchal had no youthful air, but her hope persisted; the King feared death, tedious as he found life, he dreaded the cold certainty that one hour would be the last in which he could remain in this tedium that was, at least, a refuge from the terrors of annihilation, perhaps of Hell. For the King, too, had his superstitions. Then, for the mistress there were other apprehensions hardly less lively, that perhaps M. de St. Germain could remove—the loss of her energy, her grace, her smooth cheeks, her thick hair, her bright clear eyes—of the last glow of her youth, would be to her as bitter as death itself.
M. de Belleisle repeated in the salons a careful account of the scene in the rose-silk-lined cabinet of Madame de Pompadour, when he had formally presented to the King the stranger whom hitherto His Majesty had acknowledged by a distant inclination of his handsome head only.
The Marquise appeared to be occupied with a portfolio of prints; she left the three men together after merely smiling.
"Monsieur de St. Germain—he has no other name, may divert you, sire, with some of his tales, that are extremely marvellous and amusing."
"Before the greatest monarch in the world it is fitting to relate only the most extraordinary events," said the stranger.
The King made no immediate reply. He, also, had glanced at chemistry, magic and all such follies. He, also, had tried to escape from the humiliation of these mundane affairs in which he was too indolent to succeed, into supernatural mysteries. But fear and sloth had always held him back. Yet he was now a little curious.
"Who is Monsieur de St. Germain?" he asked. "And have we not enough alchemists, charlatans and quacks in Paris? Is this man supposed to outshine them all?"
Louis XV smiled as he spoke, resting his face in his hand; he was weary of the world and all its tricks, mysteries and devices and only a little tempted with this new diversion. He was not himself either slow or gullible, and M. de Belleisle in relating this scene, which he did with many flourishes, declared that at this point he feared that the stranger would receive a languid dismissal, for the King turned on him all the superb indifference of his artificial splendour, and glanced at him as if he had been a vendor of toys.
Louis XV was then in his forty-fifth year, and his valets, his hairdresser and his tailor had, with every month, to take increasingly ingenious pains to preserve the magnificent façade that the Majesty of France presented to those who were permitted to glimpse his glories. In his youth and early maturity he had possessed much natural beauty; even now his features retained their classic outline, his eyes their sapphire blue; the superb elegance of the fashions, so costly and extravagant, did not extinguish his air of aloof nobility that no action of his life had ever remotely justified.
Yet the Comte de St. Germain bowed without loss of grace or dignity and waited until the King deigned to ask: "What is your trade? I suppose you search for the Philosopher's Stone or the Elixir of Youth?"
"Nay, your Majesty, I make no claim beyond that of being an experimenter. I have not sought to obtain wealth by my practices, nor to deceive those who come to me for advice, or to make any boast of my powers."
And as he spoke he darted a sidelong look at the Majesty of France.
"What is it your Majesty wishes to know, to understand?"
At that the King was silent, not out of indifference, M. de Belleisle thought, but because of his sincerity; he appeared to question himself as to what were his desires. Glossed over as he was by so much trickery and subterfuge, at this moment he seemed candid.
For a second the two looked at each other and M. de Belleisle expected something important, perhaps startling, from His Majesty, but when he spoke it was to ask a most commonplace question.
"Can you make gold or perform any of the tricks expected from the alchemists?"
"I can perform tricks enough, sire, to make most men wonder."
"Who are you?" demanded the King suddenly.
"That is my secret, sire. It may be that I can be useful to you, maybe not. To reveal my identity would not be of any service to your Majesty."
The King rose and walked up and down the cabinet that was richly and finely painted with extraordinary miniatures of remarkable events. Then he paused and the two faced each other, as it were, as if in a crisis—the man who was an absolute monarch ruling over millions of people, and the man who was brought from mystery, perhaps from the gutters of the underworld.
The King saw the Comte de St. Germain as a man of a fine countenance that might be Oriental,'-dark and heavily marked, of the age perhaps of fifty years or less, with a periwig of rich curls and a correct attire of dove-grey and cinnamon brown gallooned with lace. He wore a wide-skirted coat and upon his breast a watered ribbon that bore a glittering order of some obscure or perhaps imaginary kingdom. His level glance was shrewd, his dry lips composed, his narrow eyes alert.
M. de Belleisle in relating this scene declared his conviction that the King was more interested in the bizarre personality before him than he had been in anyone for a considerable time, while the watchful eyes of Madame de Pompadour sparkled with a fresh hope, a keen expectation as she observed the impression that this remarkable stranger made on His Majesty.
The King asked in what direction the powers of M. de St. Germain lay, and was answered by another request—"What, sire, are your wishes, desires, commands?"
"Even a few years ago I might have asked you to perform some of the wonders expected from alchemists and magicians—now I expect no more than—possibly—a little entertainment."
"What does your Majesty consider entertainment?"
The King motioned to M. de Belleisle to answer for him, and the old Maréchal remarked that it was obvious that everyone suffered from tedium.
"We are weary of our power, our luxury, our arts, our artificial parks, our decorated chambers, our proud horses, our exotic plants, our philosophy. Yes, we have probed this world to the depths and therefore we desire some knowledge of the other world, that alone can satisfy our curiosity and our weariness."
"Your curiosity and your weariness," repeated the stranger. "And do you think that I have any entrée into those kingdoms of the invisible world—and does this unseen realm belong to God or to the Devil?"
The King here put in a cool comment.
"You have much effrontery. I believe that you have had many adventures in Arabia and Syria? Well, let that go. I have said that I expect nothing but the possibility of amusement."
"That, sire, I believe I can furnish."
"But no familiar tricks—I have investigated most of the activities of the rogues, the quacks and the secret societies who endeavour to assume more power than they have. Believe me, I have many hours of leisure, and I have examined these matters."
"Your Majesty need not disturb yourself that I shall repeat stale devices. I, too, have pondered these subjects and I know something of them. I can tell you, sire, all there is to be known of this world that you term supernatural."
At this statement so audacious, so calmly given, and that was exactly what all three listeners desired most ardently to hear, a pause of awe and expectation held them all quiet in their places.
In relating the incident M. de Belleisle always declared that at this point there was an uneasy stir in the air and that the narrow features of M. de St. Germain took on an expression of cool and cynical power, while his eyes that had hitherto appeared dark, now seemed to twinkle with a greenish light.
The King was moved from his usual apathy, and suddenly expressed himself with some force, fixing the stranger with his splendid glance that was as yet only slightly bloodshot and suffused.
"The supernatural, my good magician, alone has any novelty, any attraction for me. Everything that this earth can offer I have had, gold and jewels, and charming women, flatterers, great palaces and gardens displaying exotic flowers, and forests full of beasts to hunt, armies that I can send to the slaughter, churches that I can fill with bishops ready to do my bidding, peasantry who will go on then-knees as I pass by, craftsmen who will doff their hats and do their best to decorate even my meanest chambers. What more is there, what more can a man desire?
"Only," agreed M. de St. Germain coolly, "communion with the invisible world."
"The invisible world," repeated the King. "Tell me, who are you?"
"That is a question even your Majesty must not ask. Can I put you in touch with spirits would be a more pertinent inquiry."
"In touch with what?" demanded His Majesty with a frown. "I said nothing of spirits—I will give no offence to Holy Church."
"I said nothing of Devils, sire."
"They must not as much as be mentioned," whispered Madame de Pompadour, and M. de Belleisle believed that her steady features a little clouded.
"What can you show?" demanded the King, casting himself into the chair of padded yellow satin.
"To the frivolous, to the mocking, nothing, sire."
M. de St. Germain's bow was equally between the King and his mistress.
Then they were silent in that gay painted cabinet; the King whose royal pedigree was so well established, whose past was so pompous and whose future seemed so well assured, appeared, however, on a level with this charlatan who had no credentials beyond his manner that might be mere insolence.
The King rested his elbow on the table of inlaid wood and pressed his full chin into his handsome hand and mused. Here certainly was his only means of escape from his existence that had become so outworn and so intolerable—escape into this supernatural region where unheard-of adventures at least might be encountered.
"Who are you?" he asked again, and he turned his dark blue eyes with a compelling gaze on the stranger.
"Your Majesty must put some trust in me. Provide me with a chance to show that I am above the common rank of men. Monsieur de Belleisle will assure you that I was able to perform some—"
"Tricks!" smiled the King, rising.
"Tricks, if your Majesty likes so to call them, but where do facts end and tricks begin? There is much to be learned before one can dare even to begin to investigate." Madame de Pompadour here interrupted, nervously:
"Show me the secrets of the magical arts or sciences, how do you term them? Tell me the results of your private reflections on the hidden mysteries.... Sire, there is much that neither you nor I understand, and there is much, too, that perhaps this man holds the clue to—"
"What, sir," asked the King, turning sharply, "is magic? The philosophers will tell you that it is nothing more than the pretended art of influencing the course of events and of producing marvellous physical phenomena by methods that are supposed to owe their efficacy to compelling the interest of supernatural beings. Is not that the exact definition of the term? I believe that there are men of science who can prove that the fundamental pretences of magic are in opposition to the laws and principles of nature."
"Sire," put in M. de Belleisle, "the belief in magic seems to be grounded in fear, for man has ever dreaded the unknown."
"The unknown," repeated the King. "The sun, the moon, the thunderstorm and the tempest! Have we not them all now classified and understood?"
M. de St. Germain here remarked:
"Does your Majesty feel that you have understood all things?"
"Well," evaded the King, "give me some proof of the powers that you claim."
"Nay, sire, I claim nothing that I cannot justify."
"Monsieur de Belleisle has told me that he brought you from Vienna because he thought you a being who had some contact with the supernatural. Leave it at that. I have, as I suppose, understood and experienced most things, possibly not what you have to reveal. Nay, I do not say that I believe in your pretensions. I give you your chance. If you can compose the Elixir of Life or find the Philosopher's Stone we will be very ready to buy the recipe. Meanwhile, you may have your mansion and your pension."
"I require neither, sire," replied M. de St. Germain sternly. "I bring with me all the means I require, a retinue of servants, money to hire a house, and, if it please your Majesty," he put his hand into his large braided pocket and took out a number of loose diamonds and cast them on the inlaid table that stood between the King and himself, "these, as a poor offering."
His Majesty turned quickly; he was one to whom all sensual pleasures appealed. He could not resist an exclamation of delight when he beheld the stones sparkling with the pure glitter of the spectrum as they lay scattered on the gleaming surface of the polished wood.
"There, your Majesty, are some diamonds that I have been able to manufacture by my art."
The King took up the gems and held them in his fine hands; he knew at once by their water that they were equal to anything that he had ever worn in his buckles or his clasps; a new excitement dispersed his cynic doubt. What then had he found—some creature from another world, some philosopher or alchemist? Why, were all these old stories true? Were there supernatural beings? He glanced up sharply into the eyes of the foreigner.
The man was looking at him straightly with a keen, darkling glance, his arms folded on his breast.
"Those diamonds, sire, are a gift to yourself and to Madame de Pompadour. You may take them to what chemist or merchant you desire and test their water and their value."
The King studied the stones and turned them about in his palm; he had some knowledge of gems and these seemed to him of perfect water. They were skilfully cut, and all flashed out strong beams or light.
M. de Belleisle described the scene as most curious; he admitted that he, equally with the King and Madame de Pompadour, had been strongly impressed, even startled, by the display of these magnificent jewels—yet what connection had they with magic? Gould they not have been procured by natural means?
The King, controlling his wonder, refused the gift, and M. de St. Germain, without embarrassment, returned the unwrapped stones carelessly to his pocket.
"Have I your Majesty's permission to remain in Paris?" he asked. "And to display before you a few experiments?"
This was at once granted, and Madame de Pompadour pressed the stranger to name the time and place for the display of his powers.
This, however, he courteously evaded.
"His Majesty," said M. de Belleisle, concluding his recital, "desired me to understand that the audience was over, and I withdrew with my protegé, who, I am sure, made a very deep impression, and about whom I know nothing—save that his pills agree with me and that he is obviously a man of great talents."
While the old Maréchal was tantalising his friends with piquant accounts of this interview, that varied considerably with each telling, the Comte de St. Germain, who seemed to concern himself very little about anything, retired to a small maison du plaisir that he hired at Passy, bore none with him but the servants whom he had brought with him from Vienna, who were so well trained by his secretary, a man of the most perfect discretion, that not even Madame Pompadour's secret police had been able to obtain any information from them.
This personage, who was known by the fantastic name of Zeffiro, and who seemed as mysterious as his master, had placed before M. de St. Germain a brief account of Parisian Society, of the characters of the King and of Madame Pompadour that the stranger in his charming retreat proceeded to study. His own impressions agreed with the notes made by Zeffiro; brilliant was the only word with which to describe the surface of the life lived by the upper and privileged classes. Everything that could make life engaging, enchanting and delightful seemed to have been discovered by those who governed France at this period.
At the head of this society, that had never been equalled before in splendour and that did not seem likely to be surpassed, was a king who seemed well fitted to rule it vicariously through Madame de Pompadour. M. de St. Germain knew that he saw only with her eyes, that he did nothing without consulting her, that she was all-powerful.
But the stranger knew her fears and understood her difficulties, while he had some sympathy for her passionate desire to keep the position she had toiled so hard to obtain and to keep. He had observed that she allowed herself no relaxation; ingenious, shrewd, she had carefully adapted herself to the tastes and manners of her time that she partly created and partly followed. Her beauty was no more than that possessed by many other ladies well fed and groomed; she was of middle class, of base birth, but she was very adroit. To enhance her charms, smooth, feminine, elegant, she had invented an entire costume and an entire decoration. She had at her command numbers of painters, sculptors, jewellers, manufacturers of porcelain and glass, and directed all their efforts; the period might well be named after her, for on it she already impressed her cool, exquisite personality.
She knew how far to go in presuming upon her immense power, she never underestimated the importance of etiquette and decorum. She always surrounded herself with the most charming women, with the most costly and becoming of toilettes, the most gallant and distinguished men, the keenest wits, the most seductive conversationalists. Her name was associated with brilliant grace and with perfect taste, with well-bred luxury. At Bellevue, as at Versailles, she constructed delicate little theatres in which the most accomplished actors of the day played comedies that were flippant and charming comments on the manners of the time.
This clever woman had at her command not only the resources of the greatest nation in Europe, but all the intelligence and genius of the most advanced people in the world. She turned to her advantage not only the arts but the elements. Like Louis XIV, she understood the use of air, of space, of lawns, cascades of water, of groves of trees, of fountains and of fireworks. She knew how to combine the artificial with the simple, how to enter a salon in a satin dress low on the bosom with the silver lace in the tucker and a straw shepherdess hat tied under her chin, tilted off the powdered hair, and on her lovely bare arm a wicker basket of jasmine flowers and rosebuds.
She knew, to every detail, what pleased the satiated, the jaded, those who had nothing more to wish for and were therefore often despondent and even in despair.
"She is, however," mused M. de St. Germain, "nearly forty years of age and begins to be tired. And what of her master and her slave?"
Zeffiro had noted that the King possessed a personal splendour that amazed and almost terrified those who saw him for the first time. Although the handsomest and most distinguished men of Europe considered it an honour to be at his Court, the King, and not only by reason of his birth, outshone them all. He had been born into this place that fitted him as a glove the hand for which it has been made; his nonchalance, his indifference, his insolence, were well suited to the position of a monarch who had in theory absolute power but in practice little or none.
When his sumptuous coach was jolted over the uneven streets of Paris, he remarked: "Were I Chief of Police I would see that the capital was better paved." Such a comment was typical of his sardonic humour that showed with what acrid philosophy he viewed the position in which he found himself. No virtue had ever been imputed to him; it might be reasonably argued that no virtue was possible for him. He had been orphaned of both father and mother when three years of age, and the Duke of Orléans, the Regent during his minority, had not concerned himself with teaching his young ward anything but elegance and vice. When he was five years old he had been held up at a window in the château at Versailles and shown the crowd, who had been permitted, graciously enough, to enter the park, and told by his governor: "Sire, those are your people; you may do with them what you please."
At fifteen years of age he had been married, through policy, to a plain and timid foreigner seven years older than himself. For some while this curious union had had some sparkle of what passed for happiness, but the Queen was absorbed in her religion and her own friends, and had never admired the capricious and pampered boy who had been given to her as a husband. They had, nevertheless, ten children before the corruption and cynicism of those who surrounded him, drew the King away from his indifferent spouse, whom he always respected and as long as Cardinal Fleury, his Minister and his one-time tutor, lived, had treated with full deference and even reverence.
After the death of this old statesman, who with the most well-meaning zeal had made blunder after blunder, the young King came under the influence of the Due de Richelieu, a man who had the reputation of being a successful soldier; that is, he could lead with dash and brilliancy the golden youth of France into the slaughter of useless and costly wars. But in himself he was, in the language of his contemporaries, "a complication of vices."
The first lesson that he gave to the young King who so soon fell under the charm of his conversation, his wit and his gaiety, was that everything was permissible to a sovereign, everything, that is, except to rule his country. That the King had never been allowed to suppose he might do; his power was only in the liberty with which he might indulge his passions, his appetites, his whims.
Four sisters by the name of Nesle in turn obtained an ascendency over him. They in the usual manner were used by the Ministers of the day to forward this or that policy, this or that petty intrigue or foolish embroilments or which the common people knew nothing but for which they paid dearly.
One of these sisters, Madame de Châteauroux, was inflamed with a longing for military glory and persuaded the young King to leave the enervating and indolent pleasures of his luxuriant palaces and to put himself at the head of his armies. She succeeded in inspiring the young man to play the hero; he had his moment of fame in the usual expensive and senseless war. Then the infectious diseases to which the long campaign gave rise, killed the beautiful and ardent adventuress and brought the King to what was feared would be his death-bed.
The people, who had generously loved him for this brief flash or what they termed glory, prayed for his recovery and named him "Louis the Well-Beloved."
And when he recovered from his illness and found that Madame de Châteauroux was dead, he, in an excess of superstitious terror, threw himself at the feet of the priests and vowed an amendment of his former dissolute behaviour.
This merely meant that he would forgo the open vice that had hitherto marked his conduct. But with returning health came a dulling of supernatural fears! The King was young, of an extraordinary splendour in his person, of a cynical wit, and above all, idle.
The complicated machinery of government had no place for him. Although the fear of Hell had caused him to gasp out repentance when he believed himself dying, as soon as he was well he affected the popular scepticism. The Church was bloated, had money, lands, revenues, great princes as her prelates, and had no spiritual influence in France. The King did not fear in his sane moments those terrors that in the delirium of fever had brought him to a superficial remorse.
The influence of Madame de Pompadour on this unhappy man was stabilising. She surrounded him with people of a certain intellectual value; she knew all their parts and how they ought to play them. She arranged the court like a well-staged play, she distracted the King from the boredom of idleness and uselessness with all the devices of an active mind and exquisite taste. She was shrewd and intelligent, she was never known, within the compass of her own sphere, to make a mistake, not even a mistake of etiquette. She knew how to sweep a low curtsy to the Queen, against whom she never allowed a word of disrespect to be uttered.
What was the secret to her character, the key to her long and laborious endeavours? So M. de St. Germain wondered. The game must often have been scarcely worth the candle to this woman who had little time to herself, no repose, no leisure, who must be always on duty, always alert, always quick to watch here and there for a possible error, a possible indiscretion.
"Strangely fond must these women be of power to endure so much fatigue and boredom for its sake," mused the stranger who turned over the pages of her dossier.
At first she had been, with the brief passion of the Southern woman, enamoured of the King, but soon satiety dulled the edge of this ardour and now she worked hard, carefully, cunningly, not for love of the man or for any cause outside herself, merely for the sake of power. And yet she must have had but little space in which even to consider what lay between her hands—power, and power for what end? Power to make the financiers, the nobles, the clergy bow before her, condone her position, flatter her, bend the knee. She could send a man to the Bastille or Vincennes for life, if it suited her, and sometimes it did suit her. Or she could make war or peace, could send hundreds of thousands of men, her own countrymen, all in the name of honour and glory and of France, to the brutal horrors of warfare on land or sea. She could reward with a smile, with a ribbon, with gold, with a pension, those artists who administered to her insatiable luxury. That was her power; she must have considered it as of supreme worth, for to it she sacrificed all that most human beings hold precious and lived an existence of continual fatigue and anxiety.
She is wondering, rather wearily, what she can offer the King—what can any of these people expect to find in the way of a fresh amusement? The pleasures of vice were exhausted and few knew how to try those of virtue, save that unfashionable section of the nation whom no one considered, and that mostly lived in retirement.
Even gambling had lost its savour; sexual morality was so low that there was no longer any excitement in seducing another man's wife, or in eloping with another man's daughter. The courtiers and millionaires were tired of wit and talent, even of genius, weary of watching the actors mouth their lines, of hearing the satirical verses that exposed the vices of their neighbours, bored with the fêtes, with the cascading fountains and the profane fireworks, weary of the costly suppers where the most rare and luxurious dishes were put before them in vessels of fine painted porcelain and chased silver. No longer did games amuse them; the most difficult and the most trivial had been tried in vain, such as the brief craze for the ladies to snip the gold braid off the costumes of the gentlemen and tat them up into lace. At one time no well-attired man dare venture into a room full of females for fear they should all rush at him with their tiny gilt scissors, clipping and cutting with shrilling laughter at the galloonings on his hems and seams until his coat fell apart.
No longer was there any stir of the senses to be had from the tragedies where the heroes and heroines of antiquity recited in thunderous yet smooth blank verse the woes and triumphs of the fabulous inhabitants of a fabulous world. Trifles pleased longer, and petty distractions were followed with zeal.
Some of these great ones collected shells, some translated the Latin and Greek poets. Most had a cabinet of curiosities, but what interest was there in that when the curiosities could be bought so easily? A mummy in a sycamore coffin caused a brief hubbub among the Parisians, but this was soon forgotten. Pictures by Rembrandt and Van Dyck, Chinese porcelain, what was a more valued variety, a silk stocking worn by a celebrated Russian dwarf failed to hold for long the attention of these jaded courtiers, these staled philosophers, these cynic financiers.
The etiquette that surrounded the court was long and fatiguing; the ladies had to stand for hours in the presence of the Queen. To obtain the privilege of a stool to slip under a hooped petticoat and so to rest exhausted limbs for a brief time, was an honour that was sought for assiduously and obtained only with difficulty. The napkins of the King and Queen were placed on a gold dish before they went in to supper and all the lords and ladies who passed them had to drop curtsies or make low bows before these scraps of embroidered linen.
How was one to escape from what was at once so formal and so dull a life?
There was a certain solace for some in wit, in caustic comment on contemporary affairs, on the feebleness of human nature, not forgetting one's own. This bitter satire penetrated all classes of society; it could be heard in the cafés where the middle-class drank their wine and coffee, and in the salons of the brilliant ladies who gathered round them all the intellectuals of the day, in the boudoirs of the hôtels and in the gambling-hells.
A desire for company was a nervous symptom, no one could endure solitude even for half an hour. It must be the concert, the theatre, the opera, the crowded drawing-rooms, the restaurant where the patrons could not find room to move, the soirées where men and women sat closely packed together on uncomfortable benches exchanging their witticisms.
But something was wrong even with this way of wasting the time; people, even when crowded together, were still not satisfied. This intellectual brilliancy left out intimacy, repose and the finer passions, the noblest attributes of human nature appeared to be in abeyance, and what remained were acrid and of a startling vehemence.
Madame du Deffand, who, being for a fortnight the mistress of the Regent, had received a pension for life, held when she was old and blind, a salon that was one of the most celebrated in Paris. There she kept a poor relation, Julie de Lespinasse; as Madame du Deffand became, brilliant as she was, courted as she was, more and more tiresome with her affliction and her hooded chair and her spoilt dogs, the sly and charming companion entertained the friends of her patron and mistress, upstairs in her own poor chamber. When this was discovered, it was followed by a terrible scene where the veneer of etiquette and courtesy was soon broken and which embittered all relations between the two women.
Madame du Deffand turned out, and for ever, Julie de Lespinasse from her home, accusing her of insidious treason, branding her a criminal. They never spoke to each other again. Madame du Deffand could not forgive that Julie de Lespinasse had taken from her company the man who had been the great attraction of her gathering—the great mathematician, d'Alembert. So long, so intense, and so ferocious was this feud that when Madame du Deffand heard of the death of Julie de Lespinasse, from tuberculosis under the most atrocious circumstances, she remarked: "If Julie has gone to Paradise, the Holy Virgin had better be careful, for Julie will steal the affections of the Eternal Father from her."
The supreme bitterness of this incident and of such remarks as these show how superficial was this air of elegant lassitude with which the intellectuals of the day disguised the essential passions that no human creature can escape. Underneath all the badinage, the light cynicism and the sparkling jests, the careless tossings to and fro of innuendo, and glittering comment on the cynical affairs of the day, were the strong, the baser and the sometimes uncontrollable passions of the human heart.
"There is a void," reflected M. de St. Germain, "can we not perceive it in this woman Pompadour; there is a hollowness in her eternal grace."
He closed his dossier, and took up a letter from the King's mistress; in this she asked clearly if M. de St. Germain knew anything of the dark realm of—magic?
Magic! Was that what everyone longed for? In this one word have we the answer to so much of the miasma, the forlornness and misery of the French life in the eighteenth century? The sceptics denied the existence of God; the Church, glutted with riches, served by priests who were also nobles and thus exerted a double privilege, had no good answer to the materialists. If they should quote a Christian miracle or point to the good wrought by Christian charity, they had little effect on a society largely influenced by Voltaire who stood for justice, for the purity of the human heart, for the integrity of the human intellect. And the churchmen, grown fat and lazy in their sinecures, had no defence against his dry condemnation of their corruption, their luxury, their sloth.
The Christian Church, with all her panoply of impressive ceremonial, with all her inherited superstitions, with all her hold over the terrors and horrors of the human mind, had failed. She had not elevated mankind; she had not liberated humanity; she had not increased the ethical content of the world. Rather she had provided the means whereby ambitious and sly men might come to power and through their superior learning or their higher birth might subjugate their fellow human beings.
Eighteenth-century rationalism, as exemplified in the French intellectuals, had torn to pieces the so-called mystic fabric of the Church of Rome and exposed the shreds to ridicule. The ages were past when these freethinkers could have been burnt as heretics, or imprisoned as disbelievers; they spoke their minds and for the most part escaped with no more than censure. And the gilded gallants and the bold ladies who adorned the court of Louis XV laughed up their sleeves or even openly over their games of cards or behind their stately fans at the pretensions of the Church.
"I hope," said one insolent noble to a chaplain whom he engaged, "that you do not expect me to attend your sermons."
"I hope," replied the chaplain, with equal arrogance, "that you do not expect me to deliver any of them."
This was the tone of the age; no one believed in Christianity. After the vain attempt of Prince Charles Edward Stuart on the throne of Great Britain, a lady of eminent position was observed to wear his portrait in a bracelet. She was then devote, that is, following, as a whim, one of the religious movements of the moment, and the other side of the miniature displayed the face of Jesus Christ.
"Why the juxtaposition?" asked a friend. "What is the connection?"
"Both of them," was the reply, "have kingdoms that are not of this world."
So, among the ruling classes jests such as these were bandied about, revealing the contempt into which the spiritual side of the Church, and the faith it was supposed to represent, had fallen.
Yet, if the Church had lost, in the eyes of most people, all supernatural power, that word magic had not.
And it was with the charm of that word about him that M. de St. Germain returned from his short retirement in Passy and set up his establishment in Paris.
He had disclosed nothing of his identity, powers or plans, and it was as a mysterious stranger that he set up a household that was on the most precise and splendid pattern of the establishments of the nobility of France. He hired a hôtel and a retinue of servants and set himself out in every particular as befitted one of high birth.
Who was he? That speculation was in itself sufficient to give a thrill of excitement to the sensation seekers of Versailles, Paris, the Palais Royal and the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Who was he? It was possible for those who had posed as sceptics, who had sneered at the imbecility of the Gospels, to believe that this elegant stranger was possessed of diabolical powers.
Who was he? The question passed from lip to lip and formed an important part of the discussions of the hour. From outward observation he was no more than a richly attired and carefully mannered foreigner, of aquiline features, of noble attire, with a following of well-trained lackeys, while Zeffiro was always behind him, taciturn, loyal and attentive to his master.
In a short time the stranger had a considerable reputation. Important people waited in his antechambers and begged to be admitted to his salons. He held himself retired, granting few favours, receiving none but those whom he considered of some value for intelligence or position, and even to these he did not disclose himself.
Madame de Pompadour became impatient; as the man did not solicit an audience, as he never mentioned her to M. de Belleisle, she summoned him to her presence.
Her close friend, Madame du Hausset, was present and afterwards gave an account of the interview.
The Marquise sat before an oval mirror, into which she now and then glanced. It was impossible to ignore the fact that every year that passed took something from her bloom, extinguished some sparkle in her eyes and some fragrance from hair and bosom. Did this man know how to preserve for ever those charms with which she had seduced His Most Christian Majesty? She believed it might be possible.
She had been bred up amid superstitions, those of an organised and authorised Church, and those of ancient and untutored legends. Even despite the cynic's laugh, the sneer of the sceptic, the cold voice of reason, she was obliged to listen to these ancient whispers.
M. de St. Germain stood before her in an obliging attitude and paid her gracious compliments, and she considered him, alarmed, though she concealed her alarm, concerned, although she concealed that also, with all her feminine wits keenly alert. She was ruler of France and the King of France, and if this man was in any way powerful he must be attached to her, and to her alone.
"What," said she, "can you do? I asked that before, now you must answer."
He replied that that was a dangerous question such as only a woman would pose.
She demanded to know his birth and pedigree, and he evaded her again and with a steely precision that gave her an inward tremor. She stared at him across her choice cabinet that she had made exquisite and resplendent with enamelled panels and delicate furniture of a gay futility that had hitherto not been thought possible. In herself she was a supreme epitome of femininity, cunningly set out to appear beautiful, her complexion clear, her eyes amused and slanting, her hair drawn back from her brow and of a blue-grey hue, and set off with small bows of turquoise velvet, her glittering satin bodice fastened with clasps of diamonds and her wide skirt only showing her slim embroidered slipper.
She tapped her small fingers on the portfolio of dark-blue velvet that held the proofs of the foremost engravers of France, and her glance, so reserved and yet so keen, confronted the adventurer as in her astute mind she termed the man who sat before her.
"I do not presume to undertake to say, sir, that there may be magic," she paused, thinking she had made a false step, for the foreigner interposed, smoothly: "Madame, you mention—magic?"
She frowned a little at that and played with the azure ribbons of the portfolio.
"You know who rules His Most Christian Majesty—and France."
"Why, if I had not known that I should not have troubled to have come to France. Monsieur de Belleisle brought me from a life that I found lucrative and amusing."
She tapped her heel and was silent. Who was this creature? She had heard so many curious tales of him. What was one to believe? There were the sceptics, the philosophers who declared that there was nothing except that which could be tested and proved by the senses; on the other side were those who believed in—magic. The word seemed to hang between them....
"Do you pretend," she asked, raising her fingers from the portfolio to her white bosom, "do you pretend to make gold or the Elixir of Youth?"
He lowered his eyes without replying and in his silence she felt a chill.
"Do you pretend," she began again, but he interrupted her:
"Madame, did you ask what I pretend? You have reminded me just now that you rule His Most Christian Majesty and all this realm of France that in the whole of Europe is the most cultured, the most noble, the most opulent—"
"Yes," she quickly broke in, "but more important still is the realm of magic."
Again the word hung between them—magic
"I make no pretensions, as I stated before," said he, "that I cannot verify."
She snatched at that:
"Do you say, then, that you can"—and she paused and looked in the mirror adorned with the figures of cupidons; a lovely mirror, but would it seem so fair when she should therein see an ageing face, and would the King, on whom all her luck depended, look on her with so much kindness when she should be wrinkled, with sunken cheeks and tarnished hair?—"that you can make the Elixir of Youth?" she repeated.
"Ah, Madame," and he smiled as if he had scored an advantage. "All the women want the Elixir of Youth and all the men want the Philosopher's Stone, the one eternal beauty, the other eternal wealth."
This was but a commonplace, but the tone in which it was uttered caused her to demand again:
"Who are you, and why have you come to France, and what do you want of me?"
"Countenance," said he, rising and bowing before her, "countenance, Madame!"
"Then tell me who you are. St. Germain is a false name. We have a nobleman of that title who repudiates you."
"Nevertheless, that is the title by which I pass—that of your modern Faubourg. I am of noble birth. I have in my time made certain discoveries. I ask no favours."
"Nay," said she, "no favours?" peering at Mm keenly.
"No favours, Madame, and I am well aware of your power. I had all this matter clearly disputed between myself and Monsieur de Belleisle before I came to Paris. I know well enough that you could, if you wished, send me to Vincennes or the Bastille."
"If you are really possessed of occult arts, as you pretend," she sneered, "you could escape even from those donjons. You told the King that you could reveal the invisible world."
"If I had not felt secure I should not have come to Paris. I did well enough in Vienna. I shall reveal who I am, what I can do, when I choose."
"Trust me!" said Madame de Pompadour, leaning forward. "I manage and contrive a very difficult affair. Tell me who you are, once again I entreat."
"That must always be a matter of speculation. Even to you, Madame, I cannot reveal my origin."
The mundane woman was chilled by a supernatural awe that disgusted her and yet that she could not throw off. Supposing this man were an emissary of the Devil, supposing also he was an adept with spells and incantations and black magic? She put her ringers to her lips and looked aside.
"What do you desire above everything else?" he asked, then answered himself this question: "A continuation of your power—and all that implies."
He smiled, and she considered him keenly. Who was he?—a devil, a demon, the Wandering Jew? Old superstitions disturbed her shrewd, shallow mind.
"How old are you?" she asked quickly.
"Eighty-five years of age—perhaps," he replied, and she laughed; he seemed a man in the prime of life, not more than fifty years at the most; she studied his features that were severe and aquiline, his figure that was erect and bore no signs of age.
"You do not fool me, Monsieur de St. Germain. I shall find out more about your pretension. I have unmasked quacks and charlatans before."
"He who is standing before you, Madame, is your equal. And if I have your permission I shall now take my departure."
But Madame de Pompadour anxiously entreated him to remain, she even asked him to show her again the jewels that the King had refused to accept on the previous interview that Majesty and beauty had granted the adventurer. Here Madame du Hausset's narrative ended, for she had been sent out of the cabinet, on the excuse of fetching a vinaigrette for her mistress, but she declared that she had seen the flash of diamonds that seemed to gleam with unearthly fires, as M. de St. Germain, as easily as if he produced his handkerchief, put his hand into his pocket and withdrew it enclosing—the lady was sure of this—a heap of magnificent stones.
From that day the protegé of M. de Belleisle was acknowledged to be directly under the patronage of Madame de Pompadour, and his fame spread from the brilliant circles of the court to those who, from a distance, condemned or admired the glitter of the governing classes.
The Church and the philosophers began to take some notice of M. de St. Germain and of what he represented—which could only be described-by that dangerous, yet childish word, Magic.
The blight of tedium lay largely over both the priests and the atheists, though many strove for tranquillity of mind and decency of life, few attained either; yet even the most acute critics could not discover the flaws that were ruining the social structure of France.
A bitter materialism had been the reaction to a gross superstition, that still lingered. The Church was still powerful, though not in spiritual realms. Handsome convents and monasteries were splendidly maintained, and the revenues of the Church were magnificent. Her prelates were cultured men, some of whom endeavoured to be honest in the ambiguous positions in which they found themselves; in many a quiet village and humble country house there was what might have been termed "true belief," in the old sense of the term.
Some humble folk still went about their work and their modest pleasures and prayed and read their Bibles and listened to the village curé in the honest hope and expectation that they were obeying some Divine providence that was looking after their destiny.
Those who had the money or the energy to come to Paris to try their luck about the court or the capital had no such stay or prop, though they were quite prepared to employ the intolerance of the Church to confound those who dared to criticise their actions. Since they did not follow any tenets of Christianity, it could not be supposed by any standards that they were Christians, yet they were adroit in the attempt to use the machinery of the Christian Church to suppress all free thought.
In this they had not been successful. The philosophers, the wits, the cynics in France had exposed and flouted all the traditions of orthodox Roman Catholicism. The King was known as His Most Christian Majesty and dutifully attended the elaborate ritual, the glittering ceremonials of the Church in the chapels of Versailles, Fontainebleau, or Marly, and was conventionally believed to hold his throne by divine right. He had his confessors, and when any sickness overtook him they were busy about the grandiose bed in which he lay a victim to the incompetent and ignorant arrogance of his physicians, but all he had retained of the teachings of the Church was a horror of death and Hell.
Ladies, disappointed in their amorous affairs or left widowed with small pensions, rented apartments in aristocratic convents and found a gloomy satisfaction in attending the sombre services of Holy Church, even inflicting on themselves penances and performing, within well-circumscribed limits, services to the poor of the neighbourhood, with whom, however, they never met on terms of either spiritual or social equality.
The Church had still an elaborate charitable organisation, the nuns had their hospitals and their schools. The charming, delicate, ironic ladies who came to adorn Paris on marriage had all of them, if they were well enough born, been educated in a convent, where the nuns, discreetly mute on all that really mattered to those about to confront the world, had taught them the offices of the Church, to say their prayers, to read their books of hours, to embroider, to perform on some musical instrument, to walk upright, and to cast their eyes down when spoken to by a gentleman.
In a society, so artificial, that was indeed already crumbling at the core, there must have been an immense dissatisfaction among all classes. Energetic or enthusiastic thinkers like Diderot, Voltaire and Rousseau spoke out their minds boldly and, had continually to fly the country; others who, like Mirabeau, because or their own vices and their sharp, bitter criticism of the order to which they belonged, removed to The Hague or Switzerland, where from more serene and ordered civilisations they wrote their diatribes against their own country that were smuggled into France and smiled over in the painted closets and the gilt salons of the idle nobility; the wit, the satire was admired, the lessons not learned. Yet there were many besides the King who thought "the deluge" was coming, but those with power to avert the threatened ruin thought that this mattered nothing if the society in which they moved should last their time; since they were so weighed down by tedium it might well be asked why they desired this society to endure.
Since nothing any longer much pleased, neither amorous intrigues nor the excitements of the chase, of gambling, the throwing down of heaps of gold on the green baize, the winning or losing of a fortune overnight, nor the sensuous pleasures of music or painting, or the masque or the theatre, why were those who ruled and made this world so loth to lose what they despised?
Even the farmer-generals, the financiers, the bankers who were making so much money, who were spending it on the most superb châteaux, on the most sumptuous hôtels, on importing the finest horses and dogs from France and having the most costly furniture designed, found a certain bitter tang in life, yet they had the stimulus of personal success and social climbing.
What was lacking? Was everything too easy? When all was so fastidiously refined, when all moved so harmoniously without opposition, it was pitiful that there should have been this weariness that expressed itself in the famous "a quoi hon?" of one of the most representative women of the time.
Yet however vain this life might seem, those who held high places in it were extremely reluctant to relinquish them.
Madame de Maintenon, who had married King Louis XIV in his old age, had endured a life that was little short of torture, personal, material and spiritual. She spoke with acrid resentment of the long exhausting evenings she was forced to spend with her husband, he one side of the fire, she the other, all the lights, candles in crystal and silver, blazing because the man who hoped he was immortal was afraid to be in the dark; the unhappy woman, tortured by a neuralgic headache, exerting all her wits to entertain him, to keep him in some humour that would make him leave her power in her hands. Was this particular game worth this particular candle? It seemed every time yes.
Madame de Pompadour was now in much the same position as the ex-governess who had been Queen of France; Louis XV was as "unamusable" as his great-grandfather; nothing could be found that would please him for more than a moment or so. Every luxury had been displayed before him, every novelty exploited; he was sated with vice, with beauty, with brilliance, even with the applause of his subjects. The myth of absolute power into which he had been born had acted upon him not like a stimulant as it had acted on Louis XIV, but like a drug; yet he was not to be easily gulled; sometimes this skilful, well-trained and energetic woman would consider him with lively terror, seeing a sardonic gleam in his indolent eyes that might mean the first hint of her dismissal.
And with every day she was more careful to keep any possible rival from coming within any hopeful distance of her lover, more assiduous to use every trick and device to keep him distracted. But never had she been entirely successful.
The King, indeed, was beyond being satisfied, even by her arts. Separated from his wife and from his family, his relatives possessed, as he was constantly told, of an immense power but with little influence in reality on his country, believing in nothing, trusting no one, tormented by a dark and dreadful fear of death, and an even deeper and more secret fear of damnation, physically splendid and spiritually mean, the King of France glittered with all those false colours of decay that are seen upon stagnant water.
It might have seemed that Madame de Pompadour could see this, that her position was so arduous and unthankful that she would have been glad to retire with what spoils she could put her hands to or retired into what retreat she could easily have found and enjoyed some leisure among the arts and witty company that she undoubtedly relished. But it was not so. It has not often been so; however tedious the great ones of the earth find their greatness, they usually cling to it desperately, not leaving untried any stratagem or plot to retain what is often a misery, a fatigue and a constant bitterness.
In this half-light of the mind, between superstition and philosophy, one subject had a universal attraction. And that was magic. There was hidden in the shallow minds of these two people this hope—that some special Providence was overlooking their destinies, essentially so dingy, outwardly so magnificent. Madame de Pompadour could not entirely refuse to credit that she might one day find a panacea for eternal youth and beauty; the King, who so feared death, could not dismiss from the recesses of his heart the trembling consolation that somehow, somewhere, there might be a means of escaping the universal doom that to him was annihilation. The Heaven and Hell preached to him by the priests seemed fearful enough when he was dazed by the fumes of fever and his senses outraged in delirium, and then he believed and repented. But when his wits returned, he pondered and brooded, for the arid, mocking materialism of the philosophers confronted and alarmed him. Was there no means to discover the truth? It seemed there might be, and in magic.
There had been many charlatans and impostors who had come to France, offering adroitly enough their wares, spells and incantations, promising to undertake for a fee the eternal search for the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Youth. Madame de Pompadour, always a clever businesswoman, shrewdly able to distinguish between what was useful and what was merely tiresome, had examined and dismissed them all.
But now her own instinct assured her that in this mysterious Comte de St. Germain a man had been found who was truly a magician. Without doing anything—for the production of the diamonds might so easily have been a trick, he had, by the mere force of his personality, made her tremble with the hope that here at last was the solution not only to her problem, as to how to keep the King enthralled, but possibly to her own more intricate and complicated bewilderment. How did she know that it was not possible that one might live for ever, always clad in satin and adorned with brilliants, possessed of power, with the most splendid King in the world as a lover?
Her present position had seemed, when she had been striving for it, a gorgeous dream; though it was sour enough to the taste now, still it was, she knew from those who regarded it from afar, still as fantastic as a gorgeous dream. All the sovereigns of Europe must write to her in humble terms, she could choose and dismiss ministers, she could send men to lifelong imprisonment, she could indulge to the full her exquisite taste for sumptuous, sophisticated trifles; though there were two Empresses in the world, she could deal with them as equals.
Was there any chance that this might last for ever? M. de Belleisle assured her that M. de St. Germain would be able to help in the attainment of desires beyond earthly gratification. The old Maréchal also assured the Marquise, who was only too willing to listen to these beguiling words, that the man whom he had brought from Vienna had very desirable worldly gifts. He had not pretended to be able to manufacture the Elixir of Youth or to have found the Philosopher's Stone, but it was certain that he could procure (and what his means were he kept secret) the most brilliant stones, diamonds in particular, and would scatter them about lavishly.
He was also a story-teller of the most entrancing merit and could entertain the most jaded listeners with his romances... as to his past history, either nothing was known of this or the Maréchal de Belleisle did not choose to relate it, perhaps thereby hoping to enhance by secrecy the prestige of his protegé.
As neither the stranger nor his patron would reveal anything, the Marquise put her own secret agents, and she had many, on St. Germain's track, but they could give her but meagre reports. He had lived for a while in Vienna under the most august patronage; it was clear that his incognito was a mere burlesque, but who he was was either known to none or only to a few who kept the secret most carefully concealed.
He had lived in Vienna, in Prague, he had appeared several times in Hungary. He was supposed to be one with a certain noble Arabian who had lived in Constantinople and Cairo and who was reported to have worked miraculous cures. It was undoubted that he had a considerable knowledge of medicine, had always travelled with great splendour, and made a remarkable display of superb stones. Nor were his talents as a story-teller doubted; it was considered, in Vienna, extremely condescending on his part that he had followed M. de Belleisle to France.
In brief, from all these reports, Madame de Pompadour was encouraged to believe that the man was not a common impostor or charlatan. Her secret police were diligent, and they had never been able to learn that the man had been bribed, had taken money for his talents, had imposed on any one by any trick or delusion; he appeared to be of princely origin; he had never been concerned in any scandalous or sordid intrigue; in brief, he had always been received with respect in the best society.
The Marquise became extremely curious, especially now she learned that this stranger under various names appeared and disappeared capriciously in the capitals of Europe, Asia and India; it might be that he was a clever adventurer, it might be that he was indeed of supernatural origin; the Marquise considered this possibility with an inward horror and hope. Superstition did not lay far beneath the fashionable scepticism of the moment, she had so readily assumed; it was easier for her to believe in that vast and misty realm the invisible world than in the formal ceremonies of the Church performed by cynic priests.
She knew that the Comte de St. Germain had been called by some the Wandering Jew, and Madame de Pompadour, however satiric her tongue, however worldly her position, could remember a childhood when the story of Ahasuerus had been accepted as literal truth. The philosophers might laugh and sneer, but what proof had Madame de Pompadour that they were not mistaken? How went the tinkling rhyme:
He hath passed through many a foreign place; Arabia, Egypt, Africa, Greece, Syria and Great Thrace, And throughout all Hungaria.
Madame de Pompadour had heard from the ignorant servants who had been about her in her childhood, the tale of the man who, when Christ was on His way to Golgotha, stumbling under the Cross, had denied Him the poor comfort of a cup of cold water, upon which the Saviour had said, "I go on my way, but thou shalt thirst and tarry till I come."
Yes, she could remember, armoured as she was against all faith by the fashionable scepticism of the age, those old tales told by the chimney-corner of the man who had wandered day and night through the centuries, for ever travelling, for ever asking for the cup of water. She could remember the stories of the black winter nights and the scratch at the lonely doors and the voice at the shuttered window: "Water! Water! For the love of God!"
It was popularly believed that the unhappy Jew had long since expiated his crime, that his punishment now consisted of nothing more than wandering through the world until the Last Trump sounded, and that he was able to bring good fortune to all who befriended him, and to perform miracles, so anyone who had the chance of entertaining him kept him as long as possible in hut or mansion. There was no city in the world that had not its legend of this accursed and yet pitiful personage, there was no lonely waste or desolate village that could not at one time or another have reported that some solitary wayfarer had seen him gliding past, an ancient book in his hand, an anxious glance in his eyes. He was always young or of no more than middle age, with comely features, wearing a rich costume; he was seldom seen to issue from or enter a house or to pause upon his way; usually he was looked at silently and with awe as he passed, and people sighed with compassion as they watched him disappear into the distance.
He had been seen again in the same places after the lapse of twenty or thirty years by the children of those who had noted him in their youth. Then occasionally he had appeared in the most celebrated universities of Europe, disputing with the most celebrated and learned professors, for he had the accumulated learning of many centuries with which to enforce his points.
Was the Comte de St. Germain the Wandering Jew? It seemed at least a possibility.
Those whom he received in Paris declared that they had never given him any fees, although they were all much indebted to him for medicines and gifts, shoe-buckles, rings, plumes for hats; he seemed to disdain any reward for the benefits that he lavishly gave to those whom he liked. He had chosen to come to Paris not for any advantage of his own, as he declared, but merely because he had decided to make that capital his residence for a while.
Zeffiro, his secretary, sly, adroit and insolent, was completely in his confidence, and completely loyal to his master; the French nobility who so eagerly gathered in the salons of this exciting stranger, tried to induce this man to betray some of the secrets he must possess. It was useless. The man seemed as sinister as his employer, and helped to make M. de St. Germain an instantaneous success in this sophisticated yet credulous, this brilliant yet idle society or Paris; Madame de Pompadour made every endeavour to attach him entirely to her service and he was often in her company; she did not succeed, however, in extracting from him any definite or coherent account of himself. Why had he disdained to exploit the mystery that undoubtedly surrounded him? Why did he refuse to reveal what was his birth and station or his previous history? He put these questions by and admitted only that he had travelled in the East and that he knew many secrets, chemical, occult, and medicinal, but he did not intend to use these as a means of gain but to employ them for the benefit of those whom he admired.
His appearance, and this was carefully noted by those in whose breasts he excited such a fervent curiosity, seemed to change; one day he would appear an ordinary gentleman, the next to have some satanic power, his features, and here the legend of the Wandering Jew seemed to obtain some support, of an aquiline and Eastern cast, lean and haughty; his eyes, clear and sparkling, had an unpleasant expression; they tended to fix the person with whom he conversed with a glance reminiscent of that of a toad or snake, an unearthly, inhuman gleam—so declared those who gathered to his salon or invited him to their soirées, while others found him agreeable, even ordinary.
Even those who laughed at the man's pretensions to magic power (and there they did him wrong, for he pretended to nothing) admitted that there was something formidable about this cool, reserved and courteous personality.
Though he made no definite statement about himself, it was blown abroad that he was at least seventy-five or eighty years of age and that he owed his youthful appearance to some remarkable powder that was of his own manufacture. This rumour, confirmed by M. de Belleisle's account of his own success with the pill, was in itself sufficient to make the stranger's popularity extreme; however dull, tedious, stale, life might be, everyone wanted it to continue. Everyone, also, wanted to be free from disease, to be young, to be healthy, to be charming; if this St. Germain possessed these secrets he was worth all manner of flattery and of bribes.
It was at least certain that he had a laboratory fitted up in his sumptuous house in Paris and that he conducted there, without any disguise, chemical experiments. These were then extremely fashionable; but science and magic were intermingled, only enough was known of the fact to confuse and bewilder the credulous and to bewilder even the learned; experiments undertaken with ardour, sincerity and enthusiasm had ended too often in failure, disappointment, persecution, and disaster for them to be regarded as anything but an entertainment by the wise and as infernal by the ignorant.
The Comte de St. Germain made no pretensions, told no lady that he had discovered how to preserve her cheeks in their state of exquisite bloom for ever, no minister how he could maintain his shrewd wits at their present state of penetration for an indefinite period; he never promised his patron, M. de Belleisle, that he could make him immortal, the pills were merely to improve the health.
So M. de St. Germain went his way, a dazzling adornment to French society, always at his ease, always ready to entertain with his marvellous stories, and living entirely at his own expense in the handsomest possible style.
The continued inquiries set on foot about him brought in from time to time various accounts from the police of Europe to the Court of France. But one was not to be trusted more than another, and all were contradictory.
It appeared that he had, at one time, called himself the Marquis de Montferrat, that he had been known as M. Day-mar, or Belmar, but even his nationality was in doubt. Some reports stated that he had been living for a long time at Bayonne and that there it had been generally supposed that he was the natural son of Charles II of Spain. Other surmises were that he was a Spanish Jesuit of noble birth, while by some he was thought to be a Portuguese Jew; the Parisians noted that he spoke several languages with great correctness, but French with a marked foreign accent.
There were spies and jobbers busy about backstairs of the Court who had made their way through the dubious by-paths of most of the capitals of Europe, who stated that this entrancing stranger was no other than an Alsatian Jew of the name of Simon Wolff, and a clever adventurer and swindler.
All these hypotheses had nothing substantial to support them, and those who declared with the most certainty that they knew who "M. de St. Germain" was, could not name the source of his wealth, though there was gossip current to the effect that he had made discoveries in the washing and cleaning of diamonds, and in the dyeing of rich stuffs, that had brought him in large sums of money.
Some supposed that he was receiving a large pension from the Court of the Holy Roman Empire for secret intelligence work and that he had done such good service to his early patrons, in whose castles he was known to have resided, that they had supplied him with sufficient sums to make this resplendent appearance in Paris.
After he had been resident in France for some time, it became known with tolerable certainty that he had lived for indefinite periods in the households of Count Zobor, Prince Lobkowitz, and Count Lambert, and that he had been for a while in the intimacy of the Emperor Francis I and had studied with him in speculative chemistry, but these personages, when appealed to, could not, or would not, throw any light on his identity.
There were large gaps in his story, when he had disappeared from Europe, or at least from the knowledge even of those whom he had most obliged and who had the greatest interest in endeavouring to discover him. It was related of him that he had been for a while in London under some obscure incognito, that he had travelled in the East Indies, and even lived with the American savages in the New World.
He neither confirmed nor discouraged those tales, but being at once reserved and gracious, contrived to stimulate curiosity, and retain the admiration of the French aristocracy. Not only did they find nim entertaining and the mystery that surrounded him piquant, but they all always suspected that he might one day disclose a secret that would mean either that they were rejuvenated or promised eternal life; they mocked at themselves for indulging in these fantastic speculations in an age so rational, but could not destroy their grotesque hopes.
Over all this society, so sparkling, so refined, so sophisticated, so sceptical, hung the dread of annihilation. Few of these wordlings could face the prospect of death with equanimity. The Church, with her terrors of Purgatory and Hell, and a Heaven that could only be gained by foregoing the pleasures of the earth, offered little consolation to these baffled and terrified hedonists. Nor could they believe the consolations of the priests, whom they knew to be but human beings, feeble, insincere like themselves. Some of the women indeed took refuge in fanaticism, retiring to convents, where they underwent penances, and lashed their emotions to a pitch when they could believe in damnation and salvation, and so, by making themselves completely wretched in this world, raised the hope that they might secure some existence in another world.
But there were others—and they were the majority like the King and Madame de Pompadour, those who circled round them, their panderers, flatterers, place-men and women—to whom the Church meant nothing but a dark and gloomy terror, that could not be either ignored nor trusted seriously. And to these the one hope of some relief from the tormenting thought of death was magic.
Everyone knew that strange things had been discovered by the alchemists, by the chemists; most people believed in the supernatural, in charms, in incantations, in spells, ghosts and apparitions. Everything supported these beliefs; the reasonings of the sceptics did not disturb them; they were too deeply rooted in the human consciousness; the sceptics also had their secret terrors and superstitions.
When questioned on these matters, M. de St. Germain always replied that he was merely a searcher after truth; this was the usual reply given by magicians to those who importuned them for their secrets, and did not discourage his followers. He did not deny that he could foretell the future and that he remembered the past, and sometimes in his entrancing conversation he would refer to events that had taken place five hundred years before the present date. On one occasion he asked Zeffiro if he remembered an amusing episode that had occurred at the Court of King Francis I, upon which the suave secretary replied:
"You forget, sir, that I have been in your service two hundred years only."
This might have been taken as a merely impertinent or insolent quip, but the tone in which it was spoken impressed all who heard it. Indeed, there was something in the personality of this stranger that made what would have seemed commonplace or insolent in another, impressive and formidable in him. (He affected no airs, was indeed modest and dignified in his demeanour. He had no pretensions, and yet contrived to convey that he was of remarkable powers and had all the craft of witchery and sorcery at his finger-tips.)
To those, and they were not many, whom he entertained in his handsome salon, he would discourse frankly on ancient magic, the Kabbala, or magic of the Jews, and describe how to obtain the assistance of spirits by those means, relating how Jewish magicians used incantations, burnings of incense, sacrifices, and offerings. He declared, however, that the practice of this magic was always kept jealously among a few initiates, and though some of the details might be generally known, such as how to raise evil spirits by the lighting of different coloured candles, by the burning of potent incenses, by the drinking of rare philtres, yet in general the secrets passed from one master to another and were by no means to be divulged to the merely curious. He added that the Jews had not been permitted to converse with devils, but explained that there were two kinds of magic, black and white, and that the second might legitimately be used by the Hebrews.
He had in his possession, and candidly showed a manuscript of the "Key of Solomon," which had a print of the secret seal of the wise king. All this talk of these mystical doctrines, drawings of incomprehensible diagrams, profound and obscure statements, were of little use to the impatient seekers after novelty, who had found an object of such intense interest in the Comte de St. Germain.
They wanted practical results; in this world wealth and power, continuation of youth, health and beauty, and after death the assurance of the continuation of their individuality in some sphere not inferior to that which they now inhabited. But he merely smiled at their attempts at pressure and easily silenced them all, for the man could be terrifying; one said of him that he was described in the verses in Isaiah: "Thy voice shall be as one that has a familiar spirit out of the ground; thy spirit shall whisper out of the dusk."
Sometimes, in the midst of the elegant supper when he was entertaining the company with some light and scandalous tale of pagan adventure, he would suddenly fall silent and his listeners would draw back a little in their seats and think that the candles were burning blue or fluttering at a strange angle. And the Comte de St. Germain would turn his head sideways and bend his ear downwards as if he listened to some familiar tapping or muttering from the earth.
So the fascination of terror helped to keep M. de, St. Germain in the forefront of Parisian society; not only was everyone hoping to gain something from him, but everyone was slightly afraid of this enchanter.
Once he allowed Madame de Pompadour to view his laboratory, and she declared afterwards that he had a complete magical equipment, peeled wands, symbolic keys, little figures of wax and clay, many coloured bottles of powders, sheets of magical alphabets written in curious forms.
There were also many limbecks of differing sizes and crystal vases and some plans on which were traced complicated diagrams. Yet there was no trash or mummery there, as too many charlatans or impostors and physicians kept in their closets and cabinets, such as dry crocodiles, mummies, portions of petrified corpses, shrivelled toads, skulls, and such-like ugly trash, and Madame de Pompadour learned nothing from her visit.
Some ladies lowered themselves to ask M. de St. Germain for love philtres. But he put them by, and not without contempt. He would not, he declared, indulge in the meaner traffic of magic. He also refused to practise divination even for the prettiest supplicant, yet this restraint increased instead of lessening his reputation; some women declared that he was probably in league with the Devil and might even on occasion descend to Hell to have consultation with his master and familiars.
One of the Court chaplains, who was not without some glimmer of conscience, charged M. de St. Germain with encouraging a wild and wilful curiosity into the idle minds of the Parisians, and directly challenged him as to whether or not he pretended to Black Magic.
M. de St. Germain answered neither Yes nor No, but declared that he did not consider magic to be evil inasmuch as it was a means of controlling devils and turning their power to lawful purposes. He added that it must not be supposed that his laboratory was for dealing with the supernatural since he was a serious student of chemistry and had made several discoveries that were of some use to humanity.
The Church made no further interference with M. de St. Germain, perhaps because he was so well received by the King and the King's mistress, and clerics accepted the hospitality and enjoyed the society of one supposed to be a magician.
This corrupt and decadent society in which the Comte de St. Germain moved with such familiar grace and where he found himself from the first so brilliantly at ease, was complicated in everything from manners to morals, from etiquette to religion. The nobility maintained, jealously yet indolently, their privileges; they paid no taxes and they alone had the right to wear the sword; they filled all the places at Court. It was almost impossible for a bourgeois to obtain even a lieutenancy in the Army, quite impossible for a man who had not a stated number of quarterings to obtain a commission in the Navy. Intermarriages among this military caste kept most of their estates, their ranks and privileges in their own hands from generation to generation, but now and then some of them married into the upper bourgeoisie and many of them were financed by the bankers or farmer-generals, who in return received a certain tolerance.
M. de St. Germain flattered this aristocracy by declaring it the fine and final flower of this particular civilisation and by stating that on the whole these nobles more adorned than abused the place, power and distinction into which they were born.
"That is one of the reasons," he said, "why I prefer to reside here, than in Vienna."
Asked, nay, importuned as to what the others might be, he admitted an interest in the late Regent, to whom he intended to dedicate his works, when these should be at length published.
As he spoke of this Prince, now many years dead, as if he was among his closest friends, and as the Regent was well known to have studied deeply and secretly in occultism, this statement increased the already sinister reputation of both men. Did St. Germain, within his shuttered room at midnight, raise the spectre of M. d'Orléans? Did this spectre perhaps accompany the wizard abroad, in some grotesque form, a dog, a horse, a servant? Had, possibly, the Regent never died; had he discovered the secret of immortality in his meddlings with infernal powers? Such tales as these went about the gossips of Paris and gave an even more lurid lustre to the already diabolical fame of M. de St. Germain.
M. d'Orléans had left a deep impress on his age; he was a man not easily forgotten, nor remembered with anything but a cynic admiration for a personality that seemed to defy the ordinary standards of mankind.
What had he to do with the stately foreigner who affected to be so concerned with him so long after his death? Philip de Bourbon, Duke of Orléans, Regent of France during the minority of Louis XV was typical of the French nobles of the sword, or grands seigneurs. His mother, after the fashion of the rime, left a pen-picture of her son, and it is not believed to be too favourable, for the Princess Palatine was a keen observer, had a shrewd wit, and a sharp pen. This Prince, whose cool cynicism, glittering and scandalous court was a reaction to the gloomy, pious and austere period of the last years of Louis XIV, had formed the young King according to his own character and taste, and therefore had set the model for the next generation of the princes and nobility of France. He left a reputation for luxury, extravagance, debauchery, wit, polished manners and a handsome exterior; but he had more amiable qualities. His mother wrote of him, "He is serious when it is necessary to be serious, he is quick, knows well and speaks fluently several languages. He delights in literature, speaks correctly, has been well trained in deportment, is highly educated, a connoisseur in all the arts. An accomplished musical performer, he does not compose badly, either. He is a clever amateur painter and an expert chemist. He is deeply read in universal history, and no problem, however difficult, can be put before him that he does not easily solve."
On the other hand, this elegant, courteous, intelligent, exquisitely trained Prince, with his lively intelligence, quick appreciation of all that was wise and beautiful, set the fashion for orgies such as had not been indulged in since the time of the Romans. Whatever licence kings and nobles and those who could command money and privilege might have permitted themselves behind closed doors in preceding ages, no one since the days of the last Roman emperors had so openly and cynically conducted revelries that even the manners of the period, so gross, so disgusting, by no means squeamish, found them shocking.
These saturnalia were held in the Palais Royal and set the standard for the suppers and fêtes, as they termed them, that continued, marvels of costly splendour, to divert the upper classes until the revolution of 1789 swept them, and most of those who had participated in them, away.
The company that the Regent entertained at these revels was composed of anyone who chanced to please him; among them were usually the exquisite and charming Duchesse de Berry, dancers from the Opera in the spangles and satin, some intimates distinguished by little but their high rank and debaucheries, and the reigning "sultana," as the Regent's mother termed his favourite of the moment—Madame de Paradere, or Madame de Falare, who began by amusing themselves in a simple way by cooking sausages or beating up whites of eggs to make meringues in silver vessels over spirit lamps.
After eating and drinking, with complete licence, had continued for some hours, the lackeys were turned out and forbidden to enter the room again, the doors were locked and the already dishevelled company slept on the couches placed about the chamber.
When the Prince and his friends roused again the debauchery would recommence, this time all waiting upon themselves, and so the orgy be renewed until, as the Princess Palatine described with contemptuous disgust, "the room was in such an intolerable state both as regards smell and sight, that the servants had to be allowed in to clean it."
In contrast, the Prince went very willingly to the superb, refined, sumptuous and most costly fêtes held by Madame de Maine at Sceaux; this lady had the most extravagant and fanciful taste of the age; she liked masquerades, carnivals, mythological costumes, allegories, fireworks, lamplit promenades, sparkling comedies, exquisite singing. When M. de St.' Germain arrived in Paris this lady had been for ten years dead, but her style was still copied. She, like the Regent, had left her impression upon the time; Madame de Pompadour might have her comedians, her theatre, her opera singers whom she paid for at reckless cost out of public funds, but they were no more, in the opinion of those Who had been astonished and almost overwhelmed by the prodigal and fantastic displays given by Madame de Maine, than copies of the glories of Sceaux, any more than the petit soupers held by the King and the great nobles were more than copies of those that had been provided by the Duke of Orléans for his flatterers and mistresses in the Palais Royal.
M. de St. Germain often spoke of Madame de Maine, and exactly as if he had been of her personal acquaintance.
He even ventured to make this comment upon her and Madame de Pompadour:
"The Duchesse de Maine was a woman of perfect taste and always strove more to seduce and please than to startle or surprise, she generously and lavishly encouraged all the arts, she enlivened the fatiguing etiquette of Versailles with a hundred ingenious devices, it was a shrewd, cool, intelligent, hard-working woman of the middle-classes who took, as it were, the designs left by Madame de Maine and the Regent and stamped them with her own peculiar taste and made them the model of the age."
M. de St. Germain was pleased to remark on other aspects of French society, and, speaking as if he was a being from another sphere, commented:
"Gorgeous amusements do not by any means occupy the entire leisure of your nobility. It is an age of thought, of experiment, of daring speculation; also an age of fanaticism and tyranny. There is no free press, the King has absolute power over the persons and fortunes of his subjects, the Roman Catholic Church is acknowledged to be all-powerful and is extremely wealthy though her priests are mostly disillusioned and perfectly willing to meet and banter on equal terms with your ironic philosophers."
This exasperating foreigner also claimed to have been received by M. Voltaire at Ferney, and spoke of him with great respect, adding unexpectedly, that they had met on a matter of business to do with the manufacturing of watches.
"Monsieur Voltaire is your greatest man, as well as the most influential. He has been arrested, exiled, imprisoned, flattered at court, cast from court, has gone here and there starting a clamour wherever he went—he has used all the brilliancy of his genius and all the pointed flashes of his wit in the cause of tolerance and free thought, together with other of your foremost writers he has used the theatre and literature as a means of expressing political and anti-religious opinion. The philosophers, the dramatists, the authors have contrived to amuse with their wit, their grace, a society that asks for nothing but entertainment, and at the same time to spread ideas that are new and dangerous to the established order that laughs at them."
This kind of talk set the gossips off on a fresh track; was it, perhaps, not M. d'Orléans but M. Voltaire who was the devil or acting for the devil?
Was M. de St. Germain an emissary of the philosopher of Femey?
It was certainly true that his life had been very remarkable, and though he had left France in disgust since the influence of the Church had suspended the publication of the Encyclopedia, on account of the article on God, his influence in his native country was still immense. He was also an extremely wealthy man, having made large sums by speculating in lotteries, doubtful transactions with Berlin Jews, and cornering grain. His plays and romances had also proved very lucrative and he ran a successful watch factory outside Geneva; as far as any age can be said to have the impression of a single personality, this age had the impression of that of Voltaire, even though he might be in exile and his books either condemned or read in secret.
Nor did M. de St. Germain despise other means of becoming acquainted with the society in which he had decided to take up his residence; besides his mysterious and sinister interest in the late Regent and his supposed connection with M. Voltaire, he surveyed, as through a quizzing-glass, what opportunities there might be of spreading and discussing in a country where the Church was still not only nominally supreme but fanatically intolerant, the new discoveries, speculations, wonderments that were tormenting the minds of thinking men and women; one such that he discovered was the salon, where matters that had not been allowed to get into print were freely debated.
And he visited the salon of Mademoiselle Julie de Lespinasse, a woman of mysterious origin and strange life, possessed of a remarkable wit and that extraordinary tact and elegance which is essentially French, known as the muse of the encyclopedia, who gathered together the most brilliant men and women not only in France but in Europe, in her meagrely furnished apartment.
Soon after M. de St. Germain appeared in Paris this lady, having left Madame du Deffand after her famous quarrel, rented two floors in an aristocratic but plain house in the rue St. Dominique; her retinue was a cook, a chambermaid and a manservant; she was extremely poor, her furniture was mostly borrowed and her sole revenue was a pension made up by a few friends and relatives of eight thousand five hundred livres. She could not afford even to offer refreshments, but there was nobody in Europe who was not proud to be admitted to her severe apartments, where she was ready to receive them every day from five o'clock until nine o'clock; men who represented the State, the Church, the Court, the Army, the Arts, and distinguished foreigners of every kind came to wait on this middle-aged woman without beauty, but of incomparable grace and brilliance, who encouraged everyone to discuss freely all the problems, hopes and fears that then agitated mankind.
Among the habitués of her salon was Condorcet, one of the noblest minds of the century, d'Alembert, the greatest mathematician of his time, Grimm, Turgot, the famous financier, and such famous visitors to France as David Hume, Lord Selborne, the Abbé Galiani and John Wilkes. M. de St. Germain passed his eye over all these and passed on to survey those artists who also used their studios as salons, and in particular that of one of the most successful, witty and attractive portraitists of the day, La Tour, who had put on paper the likeness of all the great ones, the King, the Dauphin, financiers like Mont Martel, writers like Diderot, and all the courtiers; the Maréchal de Saxe, the victor of Fontenoy, while typical genius of the century such as Bouffon, Du Clos, la Conclamine, and Helvetius, went not only to have their portraits taken by this superb pastellist, an artist of unique talent, but to discuss freely, often with satire and irony, the affairs of the day, and in this spacious atelier M. de St. Germain met beautiful, gay and seductive women, among whom were the Maréchal de Bouffiers and Madame de Luxembourg, who attended the salons and the studios where there was no attraction beyond that of intelligent company, animated and sometimes inspired conversation, and who were content to waive their claims to homage and flattery, for a while, at least.
These eager intellectuals and learned men of action were nearly all keen musical amateurs; not only was there the Opera where the pieces that were performed acted upon the more sensitive of them with the force of an intoxication and an enchantment, but there were numerous concerts where the music of Lulli, the Italian, and that of Rameau, the Frenchman, was performed by accomplished and enthusiastic amateurs.
M. de St. Germain observed that great men adorned every activity possible to the human intelligence and were honoured by royal patronage and public approval; Bouffon, unrivalled as a naturalist, was the Intendant of the King's Gardens and a member of the Academy of Sciences; Lalant, the greatest French astronomer, was a professor in the College of France; La Grange, the mathematician, had the means and leisure to work on and clarify the theories put forward by the other workers in this field, Clairot and d'Alembert. The last, like Julie de Lespinasse with whom he lodged, was of obscure birth, an abandoned foundling, but he had been able by the force of his intellect to leave his impress on his generation.
M. de St. Germain visited the brothers Montgolfier who were making experiments with aeronautics, Lavoisier a chemist of the first importance, and men like Vaucasson who, in the applied sciences, were passing from theory to practical application; M. de St. Germain admired the automatic flautist that Vaucasson had built when twenty years of age and the machines he had invented later for the silk-weavers of Lyons; nor was the stranger surprised to learn that Louis XV subsidised Castinet and Borda, members of the Academy of Sciences, who were solving the problems of longitude and working out the map of France, nor that this patronage of science did nothing to relieve His Majesty's boredom. An age of industrialism was beginning; with every year that passed more and more machines were being used in the factories, from which the financiers made the large fortunes that enabled them to compete in opulence with the nobility and princes of the blood and to purchase for their gratification all the superb achievements of the most highly paid artists.
M. de St. Germain observed that if Voltaire dominated the mind of the period, it might be said that Rousseau dominated the heart. Highly intelligent, original, yet sentimental and emotional, the Swiss philosopher supplied that softness, that tenderness, that artificial love of Nature, the country, solitude and simplicity that all other writers and painters had ignored. He offended the Church, but himself condemned atheists. Most of his ideals were as impractical as they seemed attractive. A spiritual agnostic who became a believer in a revealed religion, he did more to unsettle human stability, to cloud reason, and to delude his followers along false paths towards impossible goals than he did to soothe, encourage, and to strengthen them; he was a disturbing rather than a unifying element and his intense popularity rested more on his appeal to the sentimentality that, adopted from England through the poems and novels of Edward Young, Laurence Sterne and Samuel Richardson, was then in this complicated society inextricably involved with a satiric intellectualism and a sceptic cynicism.
The Church, while allowing her own clergy, and in particular her higher dignitaries, the cardinals and bishops who lived like princes, all liberty and licence, pretended to maintain with rigid tyranny control over men's consciences, was disturbed by heresies within her own sphere. The Sorbonne and the Universities had always resented the authority of the Pope and in the reign of Louis XIV there had been a movement to detach the Church of France from the overlordship of Rome, and these difficulties had not yet been adjusted.
Besides this lingering quarrel, there was the trouble caused by the Jansenists, who practised an austere form of Christianity that the Church regarded with extreme disfavour.
M. de St. Germain found it a curious and ironic anomaly that in the century where Voltaire and d'Alembert were, however persecuted or suppressed, at least allowed at large and permitted by one means or another to extend an almost universal influence, it was possible for Carré de Montgeron to spend sixteen years in the Bastille and other prisons for having ventured to present to Louis XV his Vérité des Miracles. Nor was he the only Jansenist to suffer, and suffer with dignity for his faith; most of these heretics, as the Church termed them, were men of sober morals and high intelligence; among those persecuted by the zeal of Cardinal Fleury and the Archbishop of Paris was Charles Coffin, who had been at one time Rector of the University of Paris and who was the author of some of the most spiritual hymns in the Breviaire de Paris; this persecution of the Jansenists was at its height when M. de St. Germain surveyed Paris, and he was later brought into close touch with some of its strangest manifestations. He was amused to note at the same time there was a clerical campaign against the Jesuits, who were, to a certain extent, defended by Voltaire, who had been educated in a Jesuit college until the age of seventeen years and who always held in respect Peère Porée, his professor of rhetoric, and who maintained that among them were many learned, able and scrupulous men.
There was a fair minority of Protestants in France, largely in the South, but the practice of their religion had been completely forbidden to them; it was in the position of a secret cult. In truth, France, in the last years of the Bourbon monarchy, was in as dark a confusion of faith, thought, morals and manner as had been the Roman Empire at the end of her sumptuous, cynical, and insolent decadence. Humanity, feeling laborious and painful ways through the dismal inheritance of centuries of gloomy, degrading and useless superstition, was endeavouring to achieve something more than the satisfaction of the sensual needs of the moment, but so far without much success.
Enthusiastic men and women in all spheres of life were making efforts to discover something of the truth in themselves in all they saw about them, the truth behind their spiritual and material needs, to think out some plan of living, some philosophy that might help them through those misfortunes, humiliations and tragedies that it seemed impossible to avoid, that might either inspire them with some hope of felicity in another world or with the fortitude to endure the wretchedness of this. This eager, inquiring human intelligence, the ardent human emotions could not be either satisfied or drugged by orgies, by arts, by philosophic conversations, by intellectual disputations, by listening to satiric comedies or concerts of voluptuous music.
"Why?" and "what?" and "wherefore?" were the questions asked by the sensitive, the honest, and some uttered an even more tragic cry—"What is the use of it all?"
It was abundantly clear to M. de St. Germain that neither the religion as was offered by the Church that few believed in, nor the arid scepticism of the philosophers, nor this or that theory put forward by this or that man of science, savant or thinker, met the needs of humanity.
Some took up rustic simplicity in an attempt to outwit tedium; inspired by Rousseau, men of wealth and position would retire to the country, take a small house or cottage and eat with their own workpeople, labour in the fields, and sleep on straw pallets.
While it was fashionable for sentimental women to walk along the roadside giving money, with tears, to beggars, there were many serious attempts at social reform, there were many earnest efforts to straighten the perilous financial position of the country, a service to France that John Law by his system of credits had almost succeeded in achieving under the Regency. With his failure and flight the economic position of the country deteriorated from year to year until the two Huguenot Genevan bankers, Turgot and Necker, found it out even of the power of their inventive skill and industry to save the state from bankruptcy. So there was ample scope for worldly wisdom, energy and recourse in this direction.
What, then, did the French people want with everything, as it were, offered, with all open before them?
M. de St. Germain remarked to some idlers, "You could, if you would, retire to a convent or a monastery, you could become a priest, or you could devote your life to good work among the outcasts or the paupers. You could, on the other hand, become a Jansenist or a Protestant and run a good chance of martyrdom if that were your fancy. Or you could become a philosopher or the follower of a philosopher and spend your time between Switzerland and The Hague, printing books outside the country, smuggling them in, and working into your plays and novels some satiric lines on the abuses of the age. Or, if born into such a position, you could spend your life in the most complete luxury, either of the grossest type or of the most refined elegance. On moral questions, too, the range is wide; it is possible to be one of the virtuous matrons or maidens painted by your admirable artist Greuze and written of by Rousseau and spend your life in the most sentimental atmosphere of domestic bliss, or to conduct with no loss of reputation or caste, a series of heartless and even mercenary amorous adventures. Taste has reached such superb heights that there is nothing to offend the artistic sense, then so highly developed in the length and breadth of the land, save only the uglinesses of poverty or the disfigurement of disease, and that you, if you wish, avoid.
"Paris is a magnificent city where the sure decorative sense of the architect Gabriel has laid out buildings in perfect proportions and symmetry, as, for example, the military school at the side of the Champs de Mars, the hôtels that border the gardens between the Palace and gardens of the Tuileries and the Champs-Elysées; while gardens, avenues of trees and the noble façade of the Louvre, the fine splendour of the Invalides, that I consider Mansart's masterpiece, make the external grace and refinement of the city a perfect compliment to the internal graces of her noble salons, her pretty chambers, her charming cabinets and her scented boudoirs.
"You have decorated everything, your walls, your floors, your furniture, china, silver, and all in such perfect taste that nothing seems gaudy, overloaded, or jarring.
"Madame de Pompadour has set a style of feminine fashion that has never been surpassed for grace, refinement and sumptuous delicacy. The costume of your bourgeoisie, as seen in the pictures of your excellent Chardin, is also pleasing, becoming and convenient.
"The most beautiful light in the world, that of hundreds of wax candles, illuminates your princely chambers as soon as twilight falls; Louis XIV discovered the fascination of space and air and all your houses have large windows and glass doors on the ground floor opening on to terraces and gardens. I have found nowhere, as I found in the English houses, sombre chambers, dark corners, gloomy, closed staircases; all is light, gay and gracious. Sun and air in the daytime, mingled light in the twilight, and the twinkling glow of wax candles in the evening. Even the poorest of you has the pretty gleam of a floating wick in a bowl of oil, the rush-fight, a taper or a lantern. You have even other pleasures, exotic fruits and flowers are cultivated in stove and glass-houses, acacias, chestnuts and Persian lilacs bloom in the city gardens. The shops are stocked with all the extremes of luxury, there is nothing that human ingenuity could contrive that cannot be bought in Paris. There is nothing cheap or of inferior workmanship, those who can afford anything are supplied with an article that is well made and charming within its scope.
"In the spring and summer your great lords came to visit their châteaux where they hold fêtes, picnics and hunts, on a most elaborate and costly scale. Some of the smaller provincial nobility live more cramped lives on their estates in a feudal fashion, many of them perhaps on the verge of poverty, but surrounded by their own tenants and servitors with a certain dignity and tranquillity.
"Poverty you have and social injustice, the lot of your peasantry is by no means always enviable. But it is almost certain that it is no worse than that of the peasantry of any other country at any other time, and nothing like as dismal as it is represented by your professional agitators, pamphleteers and indignant intellectuals who foment discontent. The landlords I found as often good as bad; there were many admirable charitable schemes and institutions. When the harvests are good the peasants enjoy all that any peasant up to this period had ever had, enough to eat and a roof to cover them. They have an opportunity to enter the army or the navy, where they are as well treated as any men in military service in any country at any time.
"Your lower middle-classes can obtain, and often seize, opportunities for education, while the unparalleled luxury of the Court, the nobles, the financiers, and their hangers-on, give almost limitless opportunities for the craftsmen, the tradesmen, the decorators, the artists, the shopkeepers, the servants, to make easy money, to lead comfortable lives.
"I find the position of your women, too, fairly favourable. They hold no very favourable legal rights and they are often sacrificed, either to the seclusion of a convent, which is, however, usually made quite easy and agreeable for them, in order that their father's estates may not be impaired by carving dowries out of it for them, or to marriages in which they have not the least choice. At the same time, they are allowed, you must agree, a great deal of licence, and any woman with wit, charm, tact-or beauty is able to exploit these qualities to the full. The country has never been chilled by Puritanism which has blighted England; on the whole the women seem to have as much liberty as the men, to receive a generous recognition for any talents or gifts they may possess, and to be allowed to meet on terms of equality all the foremost thinkers of the day.
"Yet they, too, are dissatisfied! Neither religion nor domestic bliss nor intellectual freedom nor a gay licentiousness seems to cure their eternal restlessness!"
His audiences endured these perorations on the part of M. de St. Germain because they knew that he used them as prefaces to the one dark, involved and half-forbidden subject to which all turned eagerly and with a sense of relief; the invisible world that M. de St. Germain represented—the realm of magic. However cultured and polished the human intellect, however keen the sneers and gibes of the philosophers, however stem the rebukes of the priests, there was everywhere in France this deep longing to explore this forbidden territory. Never had there been so many charlatans, so many charms, so many secret inquiries into occult practices.
What was the gain so eagerly sought no one seemed able to define. There were, obviously, such material delights as eternal youth, perpetual beauty, or the securing of the affection of some desired creature. But the longing was for something more than this, something deep, something inherent in human nature that could be satisfied in only this manner, as if some energy was surging up that could neither be held down nor diverted into the usual practices and occupations of the day, many and varied as these were.
It was not the idle people only, those who generally turn their vague glance to such matters, but those who were actively concerned in worldly affairs and endowed with worldly blessings; in fact, everyone was attracted to this subject: "You may name it chemistry, or occultism, or witchcraft, or black magic, or what you will, but it is found universally seductive," remarked M. de St. Germain. "When it was whispered that I was the Wandering Jew and therefore about seventeen hundred and fifty years old, there were many people who believed it, and with a delicious shudder; the oddest tales began to circulate about me and were eagerly repeated; ladies have declared that they could remember their mothers having said that they had seen me at the Court of Vienna, looking about the same age as I do now, fifty or sixty years ago. It is true that I am much older than I look, but it is also possible that these ladies are in their dotage."
Both he and Zeffiro appeared to enjoy the incredible tales that were put about concerning him; he liked to hear the half-alarmed whispers that followed him when he went abroad from salon to salon, searching, as he declared, for anecdotes of M. d'Orléans and, quite possibly, accompanied by the invisible spectre of that infamous Prince, how commonplace, he sneered, were these questions, these guesses! What were his secrets? Where, for instance, did he obtain his great wealth? His establishment was superb and he wore jewels that were supposed to outshine those with which the King himself adorned his magnificent person. Men and women alike cast envious glances on the lustre of the diamonds he wore in his lace, on his fingers and shoe-buckles. For the rest, his attire was always in an austere taste, good material and fine tailoring, but had little in the way of braid or ribbons, save for the one order he wore. But the splendour of his jewels was conspicuous and it was believed that he manufactured them by some infernal means.
Among the stories circulating about the stranger and that much diverted him were those that he was an English spy, that he was a Freemason, that he was a member of the Rosicrucians and of the Illuminati, two secret powerful societies that were regarded with considerable awe and dread by those who were not members of them. When one of his more daring acquaintances asked if these rumours were true, the Count always evaded an answer with a negligent shrug or a shrewd smile, leaving the questioner rebuffed.
It was observed that Madame de Pompadour had a renewed lustre in her hair, a renewed sparkle in her eyes, and, as she was often closeted with M. de St. Germain, he was given the credit of her increased charms and gained the reputation of being, at least, a manufacturer of the most valuable cosmetics. It was rumoured, also, that the King had at last discovered a new diversion and might be seen, wrapped in a black cloak, hastening into a side door at the magician's house, after dusk, in order to take part in some dreadful but exciting incantations. It was unfortunate, however, that M. de Belleisle died suddenly, at no great age, and with no great réclame for his protegé's pills.
When the subject was mentioned before M. de St. Germain, he did not, however, appear in the least discomposed, but merely remarked, "It is unfortunate that he did not follow my directions."
Among the remarkable men received by M. de St. Germain was M. de Lacondamine, who had all the restless discontent characteristic of his age, and many peculiar talents. While protesting an utter disbelief in the supernatural, he lost no opportunity of investigating the pretences of anyone who had the reputation of being a magician, a saint, an astrologer or a miracle worker. He was an elderly soldier of good birth, who had travelled almost as extensively as M. de St. Germain himself, he could boast of having penetrated the uncharted reaches of the Amazon, of a mission to Peru undertaken with the purpose of measuring a degree of the meridian, of the authorship of a treatise on inoculation, and of foreseeing that a substance obtained from tropic trees (afterwards known as india-rubber) would be of great use to humanity.
His ruling passion was an insatiable curiosity rendered difficult to indulge by his deafness, and when St. Germain baffled his persistent questionings and probings, Lacondamine suggested that they should see together the supposed miracles that were reported to be performed in those secret clubs, that had taken the place of the cemetery of Saint-Médard, which had caused so much excitement among the baser population of Paris and some exasperation to the police. And the magician accepted the invitation.
These meetings in the cemetery of Saint-Médard were held by the Convulsionists as those who followed the now debased cult of Jansenism were termed in derision. The movement had begun on an impulse of genuine piety; the Jansenists, or Port Royalists, had not found sufficient spirituality in the Church of Rome to satisfy their mystical yearning: unlike the Protestants, they did not wish to reform the Church, but only again to fill her with a stronger and holier meaning; but now the impulse that had inspired the noble mind of Blaise Pascal and the saintly nuns of Port Royal had degenerated into furious and often obscene exhibitions of mass hysteria. These displays had become so troublesome that the orgies and ecstasies of the cemetery Saint-Médard where the martyr of the Jansenists, Deacon Paris, was buried, had been suppressed by the police and the cemetery closed, when a wit had stuck upon the gates a notice: "God, by the order of the King, is forbidden to perform miracles here."
The performance of miracles was, however, not abandoned by the Convulsionists. They had claimed that the blind were made to see, the lame to walk, the deaf to hear, the decrepit whole again merely by placing their hands on the grave of the man whom they had regarded as a saint since his pious death in 1727.
The closing of the cemetery where these holy relics rested, however, was by no means sufficient to quell the ardour of the Jansenists, who now declared that all that was necessary was to obtain a little earth from the grave of Deacon Paris and to place this in a casket in the centre of a room, for the believers to gather around, for all the miracles that had hitherto sanctified the cemetery of Saint-Médard to again take place.
The result of this teaching was the formation of the secret clubs or societies where these fanatics met in secret, for they were carefully watched by the government for fear that they might prove dangerous rebels, and by the Church, who considered them mischievous heretics. It was not, then, easy to obtain admission to their meetings, and neither the known worldly shrewdness of M. Lacondamine nor the reputed supernatural powers of M. de St. Germain appeared to be able to obtain the jealously guarded tickets necessary before anyone could enter, even as a spectator, the apartments where the Convulsionists held their services, as they chose to call them, in memory of the saintly Paris.
Neither the scientist nor the magician had any claims on the good graces of these fanatics, who regarded them both with considerable suspicion, one as a dry rationalist, blind to the spiritual world, and the other as either a charlatan or a wizard, while it was always possible that one or both were spies of the government or the Church.
Another adroit man-about-town, however, the Baron von Gleichen, who had been obliged by some powders given him by M. de St. Germain, offered to help these two searchers after truth. This gentleman, like Lacondamine, was animated by scientific curiosity; he could find no satisfactory interpretation of the scenes that had taken place at Saint-Médard, where large congregations, who were not themselves Jansenists, had pressed together to hold public prayers and to listen to sermons that were supposed to be of Divine inspiration; this orderly ritual soon changed into prophecies of the future and the performance of alleged miracles; M. von Gleichen declared that there might have been something of imposture and calculation in these exhibitions, but that there was also a wild ecstasy, a ravishment of the senses, and what were termed "supernatural" states induced in the partakers of these scenes, adding, that when these ecstasies rose to the height, many members of the congregation would denude themselves of their clothes, their motive being, they declared, a complete disdain of sensuality, but all manner of other mystic interpretations were given to these acts of frenzy, voluntary tortures even being enthusiastically undergone; sometimes these were elaborate frauds staged to deceive the spectators, but on occasions the phenomena seemed to be genuine and produced paroxysms that rendered the victims completely insensible.
'M. de St. Germain declared that none of this was in the least mysterious to him, nor even interesting, and that it was merely to oblige his two scientific acquaintances that he deigned to turn from his own absorbing pursuits to glance at these crude displays of religious fervour, in which, he declared, only the ignorant could find any satisfaction. M. von Gleichen added to the magician's distaste for the adventure by admitting that M. de Lacondamine was, on any occasion, a very tiresome companion.
It was difficult, he remarked, to conduct a secret investigation into anything when in the company of a man who always had to have an ear-trumpet and who, if he saw a letter lying on the table, could not refrain from opening it and reading it. Indiscretion and curiosity were indeed the leading characteristics of M. de Lacondamine, despite his long experience in the army and his perilous travels in the Levant, on the African coasts and in South America.
"He has now the courage, out of this same curiosity, to put into practice methods of inoculation on himself, in order that he make an accurate report of the matter to the Academy. And, as for his indiscretion, I must tell you that he has already succeeded in obtaining admission to one of these secret Jansenist meetings; a friend of his believed in these alleged miracles and contrived to pass him into a certain modest hôtel not very far from the rue St. Dominique."
"I suppose," suggested M. de St. Germain, "his curiosity remained, by reason of his own imprudence, unsatisfied?"
"Exactly. What he saw at the meeting to which he was so discreetly smuggled he did not take very seriously. A young and charming milliner was attached to a wooden cross and supposed to be suffering most atrocious torment that she was enduring with an ecstatic bliss because of her conviction of Divine truth. Our friend was not impressed and after the ceremony was over betrayed himself by shouting in those loud tones that deaf people cannot control: 'Mademoiselle, you follow a very mean calling! If it is for gain, come instead to visit me and I will teach you another that will bring you both more enjoyment and more money.'
"As M. de Lacondamine shouted these words they caused immense agitation in the crowd of fanatics, so that for a while the unfortunate fellow, when he saw the furious faces about him, believed that he was about to be torn in pieces. The end of it was, however, that he was thrown out from the gathering and warned that he must not ever venture to show his face at any of these secret assemblies. And that is why, sir, I fear that, with all my tact and influence, it will be difficult for me to, after all, procure the tickets that I promised to obtain."
"For me," replied M. de St. Germain coolly, "there will be no difficulty. Now that I have given my attention to the affair, I can manage it very easily. There is to be a meeting of these people on Good Friday, at the house of a certain advocate, and if you and your friend desire to be present, all you have to do is to meet me here, at ten o'clock on the evening of that day."
M. von Gleichen was somewhat troubled at this, since he had known of no such meeting, and the date was sinister; however, he accepted the good offices of M. de St. Germain and die three met as appointed. It was a stormy night and the three proceeded on foot through the wet, dark streets of Paris, to the handsome residence of a lawyer well known in Paris. After he had rapped in a peculiar manner on a side door, M. de St. Germain was admitted by a servant to whom he made a sign, and, followed by his astonished and uneasy companions, proceeded upstairs to the library, where a considerable company were seated engaged in obtuse disputations.
These were all masked, and the three new-comers retained their vizards; no one knew anyone else therefore, as plain black robes concealed everyone's figure.
Three men, who spoke with German accents, began to debate with M. de Lacondamine, who was soon confused by reason of his deafness; von Gleichen took the matter up, with no better success, but St. Germain had no difficulty whatever in dealing with the arguments the three professors or priests put forward.
The mask seated behind von Gleichen whispered in his ear, "They both talk great nonsense, and therefore they understand one another perfectly."
He added that he had recognised Lacondamine by his loud voice and ear-trumpet, and also discovered the identity of von Gleichen, "But who," he asked, "is the third man?"
Von Gleichen, already nervous, declined to answer, but the other whispered back that he need not be so cautious, since he was himself no other than M. de Nesle, the libertine atheist, who was there to expose the trickery he was sure would be practised at this Good Friday meeting, to which he had obtained admission by means of a forged ticket.
"It is not so difficult to enter these clubs," he continued; "all the mystery that surrounds them is intended more to impress the simple than to deceive the police, who' attach very little importance to these displays of hysteria."
Though these words were spoken in a very low tone, close to M. von Gleichen's ear, M. de St. Germain overheard them, for stooping over the speaker's shoulder he murmured in a thrilling voice:
"Take care—lest behind all the mummery you find the inexplicable—that dark tangle that lies behind all religion, all philosophy, all faith, all scoffing—that invisible world into which all, however scornful of what they term magic, who wish to explore the recesses of our humanity, must sometimes endeavour to visit."
The meeting was held in a handsome apartment that was hung with crimson damask, lit by thick candles in massive brass sticks, and the heroine of the occasion was a young lace-maker, who was voluntarily offering herself to be crucified. It had lately become difficult to convey ready-made crosses into private houses, therefore in order to avoid all trouble a plank had been laid upon the floor with four large nails beside it.
The girl lay down upon the board, and the masked master of the house, known to most of those present, however, as an ex-councillor of Parliament, drove with a large hammer, according to the evidence of the senses of these men, heavy nails through her hands.
The company then fell on their knees and appeared to fall into an ecstasy of prayer, while the girl on the plank, using the whimpering voice of an infant, moaned, "Father Elijah, where are you? Do you say that I am a very naughty little girl? Oh, you are right, my little papa! But I shall behave myself better! Only teach me what I ought to do and I shall obey."
After she had been babbling in this manner for a little while she stock out her tongue and the man still standing over her declared that she was demanding to have her speech loosened. He, therefore, delicately using a cloth and a razor, made three snicks in the form of a cross in the girl's tongue, catching the blood in a small basin; and the little childish voice was heard again and the girl began to prophesy, the while her tongue bled profusely. Another member of the company came forward with a notebook and seemed to be writing down what the girl said, but M. de Lacondamine, at least, could not hear anything but absurdities, although he listened as keenly as he could, his trumpet in his ear. For half an hour the little lace-maker continued her rambling prophecies, which, M. de Nesle whispered contemptuously to von Gleichen, were more obscure than those of "Nostradamus Mysterium Tremendum," he mocked.
Then the Councillor appeared to thrust a needle repeatedly into the girl's arm and thrashed her severely with a heavy stick. She seemed to enjoy this torture and insisted upon being even more sternly punished and "prophesied" with a babble of fluent nonsense.
When, however, she was raised from the plank, there was no sign of wounds or disorder on her dainty person; she drew on her white silk stockings striped with pink, her high-heeled shoes, and smiled at the company.
Baron von Gleichen whispered to M. de Lacondamine that this performance was a piece of obvious fraud, practised for the benefit of any fools who might be present, and M. de Nesle sneered openly at this stupid display.
Suddenly, however, the character of the ceremony changed; St. Germain came forward and muttered what everyone present was forced to regard as a powerful charm; they believed, before their dazed senses entirely left them, that they heard him use some sentences from the Gospel of St.. John, so tremendously potent in magic, and able, when recited, to expel devils. He then brought from his bosom a paper of yellow skin, on which were written characters in scarlet ink, the candles began to burn straightly with a tall flame, bluish at the tips, and the spell was over the company. A sensation of ineffable sweetness possessed them, they felt as if all their desires were gratified, without even knowing what these desires were; casting off their masks and cloaks, they revealed themselves as distracted men and women who, under various pitiful pretences, either of scepticism or credulity, were searching for release from pain, delusion and disappointment. Each one of them, from those who had come to mock, to those who had come eager to be deceived, now felt that he was possessed of his chimera and holding it in a close embrace.
The sombre and commonplace room dissolved into vast perspectives, where sharp mountains of dazzling height faded into endless vistas of changing light; the most gentle yet inspiring melodies filled the air and whispered to each listener in the tones of those he most loved or desired. Dim and entrancing glimpses of some celestial bliss soothed these people and their past lives became to them but confused symbols of realities now, at length to be revealed to them.
A serene desire for humble adoration made them bend low on the ground; the figure of the stranger took on the likeness of a God, remote, holy, capable of arousing sentiments of faith, trust and love. Who, or what, stood before them?
Lacondamine and de Nesle were as overwhelmed as the simple-minded women who had come in the hope of seeing a crude miracle; the little lace-maker who had been the central figure in a pitiful display, was now filled by an ebullition of genuine piety. All felt themselves transformed as they gazed (a fascination would not permit them to look aside) at the tremendous yet impalpable figure that shone above and before these endless chains of precipice and ravine, these glittering distances of shifting light.
Then this vision seemed to be rent, as if a gauzy fabric had been torn in twain, and through this tear a bewildering darkness, peopled by writhing forms yet darker, showed. The company began to shudder, to rave, to tremble into transports and frenzies, a dreadful terror possessed them, with spasms of fear and struggles of horror they sank down, rose up, tore their clothes, shouted and shrieked.
Infernal figures strode about the chamber that had now shrunk to the usual size, the heavenly vistas were scrolled away like a dropcloth in the theatre, and now appeared to be but a cheat; what had been sublime became puerile when it was not demoniacal.
Then all vanished in a flash of lurid glare that was like an agony and a crowd of disordered people, with dishevelled attire, found themselves shuddering and gasping before the stately figure of the man who called himself M. de St. Germain, who was standing by the plank of wood surveying his victims with a quizzical glance, a tall apparition faintly outlined in a greenish light hovered behind him and was recognised by the elder members of the company as the late Regent.
"Hallucinations," muttered M. de Lacondamine feebly. "I am not convinced of anything beyond that I have been deluded."
"Delusions," gasped M. de Nesle. "Yes, I too admit no more than that."
Everything now appeared normal; M. de St. Germain, who was flicking a speck of blue powder from the back of his hand, no longer had an infernal companion; the shamed and exhausted men and women, again self-conscious, hastily replaced their masks and cloaks in a pathetic attempt at self-concealment.
M. de St. Germain glanced at the two sceptics who, though still shaken, were more loudly protesting their utter incredulity.
"Hallucinations, delusions," he repeated. "Can you inform me what they are?"
Despite the immense rise in the reputation of M. de St. Germain after this incident, he made no further pretensions to magical power, nor could even Madame de Pompadour extract from him any promise of miracles, though she every day relied more and more on him, not only for her excellent cosmetics but for some diversion from her increasing melancholy.
She still believed even more fervently after the experiences related to her by those present at the meeting of the Convulsionists, that the stranger was indeed a magician, who, when he chose, would assist her in maintaining her empire over the King.
Alarmed at the ascendency this dubious foreigner was gaining over the most powerful woman in France, her confessor endeavoured to alarm her by the authority of the Church.
But her common sense, that could not resist M. de St. Germain, rejected the religion offered her by the priests.
While the blood ran freely in her veins, while the light was in the sky and the breeze was in the air, and laughter on at least some lips if not on hers, and a gleam in some eyes if not in hers, it was hard, if not impossible, to believe in the gloomy doctrines of the Church or in the sanctity of those who performed her offices.
But somewhere, somehow, there must be an answer to the riddle of the sphinx and Magic was as old as the history of China, of Egypt, of Arabia... always there had been the astrologers, the alchemists, the wise men, the witches, the wizards, the prophets, those who could tell the stars, those who could read the cards, breathe on the sand, gaze into the crystal.
Madame de Pompadour listened to M. de Lacondamine, who was certain he had been deceived by drugs on that Good Friday meeting and was not convinced by his scepticism. She re-read the works of Voltaire and was not satisfied that all the truth was there... these men could destroy, but what could they put in the place of that which they had thrown down?
She asked M. de St. Germain into her cabinet one day when her head ached, her heart was heavy, the sky was low with mournful clouds, and not all the exquisite colours and paintings of her cabinet nor all the tender administrations of Madame du Hausset could relieve the melancholy of the woman who ruled France; M. de St. Germain seemed to have expected that his hostess would be in a sad mood, for he placed upon the table a gilt casket of the most elaborately worked gold, and opening the lid he displayed a heap of uncut topaz, emerald, rubies and sapphires. These were of such an extraordinary brilliance that Madame de Pompadour leaned from her satin-striped couch at once with an exclamation of amazement, while Madame du Hausset, who was standing behind the visitor, made a little grimace of incredulity as if she would infer that the stones must be false; at the same time this experienced and polished lady passed a critical eye over the gorgeous treasure that St. Germain had set down as carelessly as if he offered a box of sweetmeats. The magician smiled, and darting a look at Madame du Hausset to convey that he quite well understood that she believed the jewels to be counterfeit, he drew from his pocket and presented her a watch set with square emeralds and rose diamonds that flashed with the purest light.
He asked the lady-in-waiting to accept "this trifle" as a gift, which, after some pressing, she did and immediately afterwards had it valued, when the tax alone on it was placed at one thousand five hundred francs; such remarkable munificence greatly enhanced the already mysterious and glittering reputation of the fascinating stranger.
Baron von Gleichen made every endeavour to find out something about this mysterious and, in a way, menacing personality. He often visited the superb hôtel that M. de St. Germain rented, and he found that his host was very liberal and generous not only with his gifts but with his time, and delighted to show him the exquisite cabinets of paintings, that included superb canvases by the most famous Italian masters.
But what interested M. von Gleichen more, was that on several occasions his host showed him heaps of brilliants so large and glittering that it seemed to the envious and astonished spectator that he was gazing on the fabulous treasure of some Arabian tale.
Afterwards he expressed a strong suspicion that M. de St. Germain manufactured these stones, or at least knew how to place the small fragments of genuine gems and make them into these large brilliants. But there was no proof of this, and the laboratories that he kept in his hôtel in Paris and in the apartments that he hired in Versailles seemed so modest that it seemed it would be impossible for him to perform these extraordinary feats of chemistry that would be necessary to produce by artificial means such magnificent jewels.
The courtiers, who were shrewd enough at anything that concerned their voluptuous and expensive pleasures, declared that the diamonds the count bore on his snuff-box, at his wrist, and on his buckles, were of more value than those the King wore on the most ceremonious of occasions.
When sometimes boldly enough questioned about these remarkable gems, M. de St. Germain replied frankly that he knew indeed how to produce them, but that they were genuine, not in any way manufactured, and that his talents were always at the service of his friends.
Besides this astonishing faculty for producing, and at the right moment, heaps of stones of the purest water, M. de St. Germain possessed other talents calculated to entrance even this decadent, restless and intelligent society. He could take his part in the chamber music that was then so fashionable ana play with equal skill upon the violin, the violoncello, the clavecin, or the harpsichord. He could recite poems, the origin of which was totally unknown to his audience and the nature of which always bordered upon the marvellous and the strange. He could perform extraordinary feats that astonished and delighted the idle and the curious.
Once a test of ambidextry was put to him and he wrote down with ease twenty verses of a poem that was dictated to him by one of the company, simultaneously using the right and left hand on two different sheets of paper, and when these were afterwards examined no difference could be found between them.
Such tricks as these were enthralling to a jaded audience, but what attracted them most to the personality of M. de St. Germain was the mystery concerning him and the hope of one day benefiting by his magic powers.
As distinguished strangers came and went to the Court of Versailles different stories were circulated about the origin of the fascinating magician, for nobody considered him any less. That he was the Wandering Jew was still a persistent rumour, whether he might be die legitimate son of an Austrian or Spanish princess was often debated, while there were those who were cynical to maintain that he was nothing more than the son of a wandering Arab who had learnt all these juggling tricks and elegant affectations during his travels in the East where such accomplishments were common enough.
When such reports were brought to his ears, M. de St. Germain smiled them aside. "I make," said he, "no pretensions, either to extreme old age, to possessing the Elixir of Youth, or to being able to discover the Philosopher's Stone. It is true that I possess a certain amount of knowledge and that I have travelled extensively over the earth, and that both the fruits of the one and the other are at the service of my friends, while the invisible world is at my command."
Those who were of a cynical and materialistic turn of mind maintained the tale that the gentleman was no other than a spy either of one of the German Courts and the Emperor, or of the King of Great Britain, or, if not exactly a spy, at least some secret agent, and that it was his paymaster who furnished him with the funds to cut so miraculous a figure at the Court of Versailles. But as this was the most luxurious and expensive Court in the world, these stories seemed not likely to be true. What King or even Emperor could afford to supply M. de St. Germain with sufficient means to cast about diamonds as if they had been of no more importance than crystals, and to present to the King's favourite a box of uncut topazes, rubies and emeralds?
Apart from his mysterious power, and as it was supposed his mysterious influence, and the possibility that he belonged to the secret societies that were so formidable and so difficult to trace and so dreaded by Church and State, M. de St. Germain had all the arts of rendering himself agreeable to an idle society that suffered too often from weariness and languor.
He was an inimitable story-teller and could, when the mood pleased him, throw off a novelette that fascinated and excited all the ladies in their satin brocade, their powder and their weariness, who listened to him in the light of the wax candles in their painted boudoirs or in the sunlight of the garden where, under the tresses of lilac and chestnut, the fine lawn cloth was spread upon the grass for the picnic.
M. de St. Germain was always the centre of such entertainments. His elegance, his ease, his reputation made even the young men, who might otherwise have been inclined to dispute his supremacy, bow to him and to listen to his tales, that might or might not be true. It was worth while to give them respect, if not credence, for this man, with his lean and aristocratic features, with his knowledge of so many languages, with his compact figure and superb tastes, with his magnificent brilliants glittering on fingers, throat and buckles, might possibly be (for who knew even in the age of reason what was false and what was true?) some emissary of the Devil, some sentry holding an outpost for Satan. And if this was so, all these men and women, who had exhausted all the resources of human nature and who were greedy for further experiences and for further pleasures, for further luxuries, wondered what might not be obtained from him in the way of supernatural benefits?
So they sat upon the green sward, pressing their lawn napkins to their lips, and listened, as enthralled as children, to the fairy-tales that he deigned to relate to them when he was in the mood and when the ladies presiding at the feast, Madame de Pompadour, or whoever it might be, gave him leave to speak.
He always related his stories slowly and with point, with a certain telling effect, as if he himself had been witness at the events that he described, and his features, usually so impassive, took on varying expressions as he assumed the different characters of whose adventures he related; and his eyes, dark, and only slightly lined beneath, despite the immense age with which he was credited, would flash or brood according to the emotion that he was relating.
He was, in fine, a consummate actor, and the ordinary material that he dealt with took under his artful care a fire, a taste, and a charm that even the most jaded found irresistible.
Moreover, he could relate, with considerable art, anecdotes of his acquaintances, that had a delightful touch of malice, and he would, in particular, take off the deafness and curiosity of M. de Lacondamine into whose ear-trumpet the sceptics screamed their speculations on his (St. Germain's) origin. "The Wandering Jew! What nonsense! That experience at the Councillor's! A simple fraud! A waft of intoxicating perfume!"
The savant's contempt for superstition had more than once nearly cost him his life. Not only the Convulsionists had handled him roughly.
M. de St. Germain related how M. de Lacondamine, once when travelling in a remote part of Italy, had entered a church situated on the seashore. Before the altar an immense candle was burning, and the peasants who had followed this eccentric foreigner into the building told him that if it were extinguished the sea would overflow the land and that therefore a priest was constantly on watch so that as the wax diminished it might be replenished.
Annoyed by so vulgar and stupid a superstition, the Frenchman had blown out the candle; the only result was that the infuriated peasantry had chased him for his life, so he was not able to remain behind and prove to them how absurd had been their delusion.
Sometimes before he began his stories, one of the idlers present would engage him on some question of the day, asking for his opinion, on, for example, the Convulsionists.
One could understand the vulgar being amused and deluded by the scenes at Saint-Médard, but when, in the name of public decency, the police turned these fanatics out of the cemetery, how was it possible that respectable and well-known people allowed them to meet in their apartments and there to perform their extraordinary and disgusting orgies—girls nailed to planks, women crucified upside down, strange gurgling prophecies in infantile voices proceeding from the lips of ancient crones?
What was to be made of all this?
Human nature, it seemed, could not be satisfied by materialism or rationalism, common sense was not enough for most people. What longings were satisfied by these prophesyings, these raptures, these self-inflicted tortures, these ecstasies?
"It is religious fervour," a princely prelate remarked, "common in all ages, and there are excesses that must be sternly punished."
"The pursuit of magic—an ancient word, the exact meaning of which I shall not attempt to define—alone can account for the terrors, the ecstasies, the raptures, the delusions that afflict your society that on the surface is so smooth and cynical and that underneath is so alarmed and distressed."
The subject became dangerous and was dismissed. All realised, however, the truth of M. de St. Germain's assertion.
What use was it for the Church, powerful, opulent, intolerant, to suppress Jansenists and Jesuits when like a sewer the pursuit of magic crept from palace to hovel, and there was no one from the King himself who was not engrossed in this science or art, whatever it might be termed, that might place poor humanity in touch with the supernatural world?
Man had always been discontented with his lot, at strife with the universe, with his own destinies, with the societies in which he found himself, and seldom by his own wits or endeavours could set himself free from what galled, tormented or depressed. But always, and never stronger than now, had been this hope, that through the agency of spirits dwelling in another world, immoderate desires might be satisfied and gilded hopes realised.
The King, who had all that life could offer to a man, Madame de Pompadour, who had everything that life could offer to a woman, were restless and secretly forlorn, infused by undefined terrors, bewildered, not knowing which way to turn, seeing always before them the end—old age, death, darkness, annihilation.
The Church—who could believe in that? The priests were satirical and greedy, the whole fabric corrupt through and through. Here and there there might be a saint, a prophet, when a sinner was on his death-bed he might turn to the figure who stood with his unctions and censers, with his menacing or appealing look—in case Christianity as taught by Rome might be true and one was thrust, grinning at one's damnation, into some intolerable Hell.
But then, and then only, did the Church secure even a semblance of power over the spiritual lives of mankind.
M. de St. Germain usually dismissed these subjects after but a short consideration and amused the company with one of his stories.
One of his novelettes thus recited in the hazy, golden air that seemed to sparkle with the dust of festival of a June afternoon was preserved in his own handwriting and presented to Madame de Pompadour bound in azure velvet and laid among her papers when that lady one stormy morning had gone on her journey towards that unknown goal where she might at last discover if M. de St. Germain came from God or the Devil or was merely a human juggler.
The Devil's business, and all his aim, is not to destroy, but to damn mankind; not to cut him off and put his master to the trouble of a new creation, but to make him a rebel, like himself, and even this he is fain to bring to pass by subtlety and art, making use of man against man... while he lies behind the curtain himself and is not seen, or at least not publicly, he corresponds most punctually with these agents, empowering and directing them, by a great variety of hellish arts and contrivances to work wonders, amuse and impose on mankind, and carry on all his affairs for him. And this is what we call the black art.
An ancient writer quoted in Glimpses in the Twilight.
—George Lee.
THE Marquis de St. Giles, Spanish envoy at The Hague (my story is placed sixty or more years ago at the beginning of the century), had, since a boy, been close friends with the Conde de Moncada, a very wealthy Spanish grandee. It was shortly after he had taken up his post in this, the most stately and aristocratic of European cities, that M. de St. Giles received by express this letter from Moncada:
You can guess the anguish that I must feel, my dearest friend, knowing, as I now do, that I may not be able to perpetuate my famous name. In my distress, I thus appeal to you, reminding you of our ancient ties.
By the will of God, it chanced soon after I last saw you (that is many years ago), a son was given to me, who would, as I hoped, continue my race. These expectations seem justified, for the youth, at an early age, displayed all those virtues and activities which are worthy of his rank; above all, he was pious, and had, at my earnest request, willingly dedicated his future to God.
But what should occur but this? He must go abroad to Toledo, that most dangerous of cities, under the excuse of studying Arabic, and fall in love with an actress who was then very popular and, as I believe, in her manner entrancing. Who she was no one knew, so it was supposed she must be a foundling. Her sole name was Leila.
Up to this period I had no cause to criticise my son, whom, as you may suppose, I held in the dearest affection, so I turned my head away, not wishing to give any importance to what was, I hoped, merely a romantic episode in the career of a young man; after all, what young nobleman is there that has not sooner or later been in attendance on an enchanting creature who happens to be the fashion of the moment?
I was not, however, so far from the prudence of my age that I did not have agents, or if you choose to call them so, spies, on the track of my son, and these reported to me that not only bad he been seen with the fair young actress in public places and on auspicious occasions, but that it was rumoured in Toledo that he was engaged to be married to her... indeed, the ascendency she had over him was astonishing.
I did not then, believe me, act with impetuosity, though the situation might have justified it; I employed my bankers, who were always my good friends, to investigate the affair, and they assured me that it was current talk in Toledo that my heir was not only seen as the escort of the brilliant Leila on every possible opportunity, but that it was indeed bruited about that he had given her a written promise of marriage. Besides this, he neglected his studies, his friends of his own rank, and even the offices of the Church.
I have, as you know, some influence in high places. I judged it wiser to have my son arrested on a lettre de cachet than to put in motion the laborious machinery of the law. I implored His Most Catholic Majesty to do this service for me, and he most obligingly acceded to my prayers, for the reports of my son's confessor (whom he had dismissed) were extremely gloomy.
But somehow my intentions must have been noised among the confidants of my son, for he certainly became aware then and suddenly left the city with the enchanting actress.
M. de Moncada then continued in his letter, that was already lengthy, to describe the fruitless search that he had made for his son.
He believed that the youth might be in The Hague under an assumed name living with the exquisite creature who had thus beguiled him to his doom—no less a word was used.
For more than six months I have been quite unable to trace his whereabouts, for he has gone here and there in Europe, not being wholly unprovided with means. But I now have good cause to suppose that he is hiding at The Hague and with this actress (if she be no worse) passing as his wife.
Here M. de Moncada asked M. de St. Giles to make inquiries in that stately and princely capital as to the whereabouts of his lost heir, who, it was supposed, was living in this superb city in seclusion with the object of his affection, for whom he had cast aside all the glittering prospects open to him as heir of one of the most superb of the Spanish nobility and for whom, his father miserably hinted, he might jeopardise his soul.
The letter concluded with the most earnest appeal, counselling the Marquis, as he valued the close intimacy that had always existed between their houses, to endeavour to discover the whereabouts of the wilful young man and the beautiful woman for whom he had risked, and, as it seemed, lost all his future—maybe in Heaven, too.
The Conde added: "I know not if you are a father, but if you are, you can form an idea of my distress." In a postscriptum Moncada stated that he was willing to provide for the lady who had been able to seduce his son into this unfortunate adventure.
I am agreeable to buying from her the marriage promise at a high sum, and to secure her for life. I cannot suppose that any but mercenary motives have induced her so to beguile my son from his religion, his duty, his King, and his father. If it be worse, the aid of the Church must be implored.
Thus concluded the letter that was written in impassioned terms and in the Conde's own hand, but at the end and in the penmanship of a secretary was an accurate description of the young Moncada and the beautiful actress with whom he had eloped. Here, also, was some explanation of the sombre hints Moncada had given in his letter. The lost youth's confessor, several other priests, and many of his companions, feared that Leila was not a human being. She had appeared, from nowhere, with great splendour, in Toledo, had bewitched the public with her beauty and her art and was reputed to have lured' several gentlemen of noble birth and virtuous inclinations to the damnation that follows self-destruction. The heir of the Moncadas had been a fervent Christian, ardent to place at the disposal of Holy Church all the resources of his magnificent house; since his liaison with Leila he had neglected all his religious duties, and had even been heard to sneer at Christianity.
Might, then, Leila be some emissary of the Devil, sent to snare this prize for the courts of Hell?
M. de St. Giles shuddered as he read, and assured himself that his reliquary, a male sapphire that contained a lock of the hair of St. Ignatius set behind in a silver case, was securely fastened round his neck. He also consulted with his confessor, Father Gaper, a man of a most holy life, whose origin, like that of Leila, was unknown. He had suddenly appeared in the monastery of St. Ignatius, of reverent age and of impeccable learning. Some believed that he was that saint himself returned to earth. His advice now was that the youth should be sought for at once, and that those on this quest should be supplied with powerful charms'. He was himself prepared, if need and opportunity arose, to act as exorcist.
The Marquis de Moncada was not in the least reluctant to undertake this task for the sake of his old friendship with the Count, for that of the Spanish nobility to which he himself belonged, and most of all, for the sake of God.
He much disliked hearing of these heirs of ancient houses who for some whim or fancy, for some passion or caprice, compromised all their future because of some actress, opera singer, or wanton woman whom they had met in their travels; nothing, according to him, was to be more detested, save devilish cantrips, of which also there were some here, and so, with the greatest good-will, he set all his agents' in the Low Countries to discover where the young man and the actress might be hiding.
As he had an accurate description of their persons, the case would not be difficult, he thought, as he sent his men, well trained in subterfuge, particulars of the young Spanish grandee, and the charming actress, to all the inns at Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and The Hague, and to various towns and villages where they might be hiding. Not difficult, M. de St. Giles agreed, unless there was magic in the affair.
But these efforts produced no results, nothing could be discovered; either all the Dutch innkeepers had been well bribed or they were stupid... the agents discovered absolutely nothing of any couple resembling the young grandee and Leila even as having passed a-few hours for the sake of refreshment or cooling the horses in some roadside inn.
The Marquis began to fear that he had failed. Father Gaper suggested that a certain page whom M. de St. Giles always kept in his employ, French and extremely able at this manner of intrigue, should be employed on this matter, and considering thus the personality of the boy afresh, the Marquis agreed that he might be employed in this intimate and almost, as it were, family matter.
So he demanded of the lad: "Can I employ you on a very secret and important business?"
The page, named Gullet, who was wizened and dwarfish for his age, replied with a leer that there was nothing on which he might be engaged that he would not, somehow or other, bring to a successful termination. He added that Father Gaper had already given him a gloss of this mystery.
"Well, then," said the Marquis, "here is the affair in hand."
And he informed Gullet briefly, and using assumed names, yet clearly, the problem that he wished to solve—the tracing of the heir of a magnificent estate in Spain and the young gypsy (if she was no worse a creature) with whom he had eloped from Toledo.
This page, who was of as mysterious an origin himself as either the priest or Leila, and who never would discover by any means whatever either his parentage or his training, willingly accepted the commission, and bidding his master to give no more thought to the subject, set out on the task.
The Marquis felt much easier when he had employed this skilful and astute youth upon the duty that his old friend had assigned to him; not that he was himself greatly concerned as to what became of the heir of the Moncadas, or as to any disgrace or disaster that might fall upon that ancient house. "Such incidents," said he in his philosophy, which was really that of a sceptic, "were certain to occur, and it might well be that an actress, even if taken from the theatre, was as delightful and entrancing as any aristocratic gentlewoman brought from a convent. As for the black magic—I believe Moncada is credulous, and Gaper is a saint, and neither to be trusted."
But the Conde had appealed to him in terms of ancient amity and there was no denying this was a powerful plea. But having set his smart page, whom he had never known to fail upon this kind of matter, upon the business, he put it from his mind, and indeed had forgotten all about it when the youth appeared to him a few days later with this tale—that he had searched all the records of the public resorts for many weeks past and found no results. Many strange people, many people incogniti, in disguise, had passed to and from The Hague, but never had Gullet, with all his shrewdness and quickness, detected any who might have answered to the description of the missing heir and his actress bride, as bride indeed she might be called. This only had he to add, that the other evening, yes, two nights ago, when attending, on the chance of finding something of interest, the principal theatre at The Hague, he had examined, through his perspective glass, all the boxes. Most of the occupants were known to him, but there were two that were strangers, and these had instantly betrayed themselves by shrinking back from his fixed gaze, withdrawing into the shadows of the loge, and he no longer doubted that he had come upon the objects of his search. However, of course, he disguised all his suspicions, but merely remained in his place and kept a furtive watch on the box, that was darkened, and those who were seated in it, well behind the curtains.
The opéra was brilliant, much applauded, there was a great deal of movement and to and fro among the spectators, that included all the foreign embassies and their servants. "And I, sir," said the page, "had some difficulty in keeping my feet and my head among all this brouhaha of all the fashionables at The Hague."
The Marquis acknowledged the justice of this remark and begged him to proceed with his narration.
"No sooner, sir, had the curtain come down on the last notes of the last act than I hastened into the passage that leads from the private boxes to the main doors. And I identified my couple, who, hurrying from their loge, came full into my view. The young man (it could scarcely be doubted he was a great personage in disguise) had his handkerchief full before his face, the lady had her mask on and hung upon his arm. I could see no more than that she was elegant, graceful and attired in a full-flounced dress of oyster-coloured satin fringed with silver. I believed that these were the people that you desired me to follow and so was soon close in their pursuit.
"You must suppose that this was very difficult; the night was dark, without moon and the stars scarce, I skipped in and out of the flambeaux, the coaches and the pages in waiting, did not allow myself to be distracted by all the cries, shouts and clamour of the crowd and kept my couple well in view, for they went on foot all the way, the lady's skirts in the dust.
"They paused at the inn, near the Gerangenpoort that is termed the Lion and Billets; and there they entered... the door closed behind them. I deemed it more prudent to come to you with this relation than to knock and to ask the porter about them; he would have been certain to have told me lies. Now, sir, it may have been that I have been deceived and misled, but I think these are the couple for whom you are searching."
The Conde, on hearing this tale, believed that he was now able to assist his ancient friend, and commending the page for his cleverness, said that he himself would go to the inn of the Lion and Billets and discover who were the couple who were lodging there, taking with him, in order not to give the Devil a possible advantage, Father Gaper.
"It may be," said he, "that we have made some mistake, and that we shall have to apologise for a painful error. On the other hand, it may be that we have at last found the missing heir to one of the finest estates in Spain and the woman, whom I cannot in polite terms describe, but who is, I hope, at least human."
"I have discovered," remarked the page, grinning, "that they are passing as husband and wife, and their name, which is not generally known, is given as that of an English couple—Monsieur and Madame Montague. I learned this from gossiping with the post-boys at the inn."
The Ambassador, with a shrug, put aside this, which was nothing to him but the most stupid of lies. He was rather weary of the affair and wished that his friend had not pressed the matter upon him. But, as a man of property himself, he knew the importance that was to be attached to the vagaries of the heir of a great estate, and it seemed to him monstrous that an actress, a creature from the gutters, perhaps, should thus beguile and seduce the heir to enormous properties. Besides, Father Gaper must be humoured.
Therefore, the next night, putting aside all other business, he set out with the priest and proceeded to the inn that the page had indicated, with a small train of armed men that were well instructed behind him.
On reaching the hostelry, that stood in the most respectable part of The Hague, shaded with lime trees close to the Vyverberg, he knocked up the porter and demanded to know where were the young noble and his wife who had occupied some rooms for some time past.
The porter at this summons looked at the Conde a little doubtfully and with scorn at the priest and demanded what name was to be given to these clients of his who were thus asked for? Adding that he would only tell the room where the people lodged if the visitor would give the parties their titles.
This might have been a difficulty enough, but the page, who always had an adroit slyness about him, stepped up to the porter and said: "This is the Spanish Ambassador who is speaking and he has good reason for wishing to see the people of whom he speaks. They go by the name of Montague, which is, however, false."
But still the man remained obdurate or sullen and replied that the lady and gentleman in question desired to remain incogniti. "It has been," said he, "their express desire that all who wished to see them should mention their true names first."
The Conde then, fatigued with the whole business, said haughtily: "I am the Ambassador of His Most Catholic Majesty and have come here upon a private and family affair, as my page has told you. I demand to see this lady and gentleman of whose business you make so much delay and tedium."
Father Gaper now stepped forward and harshly demanded admission. This did not mend matters, for though The Hague is the most tolerant of capitals, a Spanish priest is not beloved there. The landlord appeared, declared that M. and Madame Montague led a retired life of the utmost respectability, and desired that they might not ever be disturbed.
Father Gaper, aided by Gullet, now took charge of the business, called up the lurking bravi and forced an entrance into the inn; one, the drawer, then led the way up the stairs to the chamber of the young couple.
These same apartments proved to be the meanest attics under-the tall roof; the bravi and servants withdrew, only Father Gaper and Gullet remaining with the Ambassador, who, not without a pain at his heart, for he expected to face the heir of his ancient friend, scratched at the door and then knocked at it with the knob of his ivory and ebony cane. There was a long silence.
"I believe," said the Conde de St. Giles with a groan, "we have come upon the right scent and I would it had not been so, for my old friend has put upon me a task that I would willingly have avoided."
The priest, however, encouraged him, for, said he, "Your Excellency may be saving a soul from damnation."
The Ambassador was forced to agree, though he was to find it very inconvenient to have a saint so constantly in attendance; however, he recalled the enormous property that would be dispersed by litigation among many disreputable people if the son of Moncada was disinherited and applied himself to the troublesome enterprise that he had undertaken.
They listened for a while, their heads bent towards the door, but could hear nothing save (possibly) a faint sighing.
"I find the atmosphere baleful," muttered Father Gaper, and thus urged, the Conde made another attempt.
He scratched again, and again rapped, then the priest, infuriated at this delay, stepped forward and himself struck loudly upon the door, muttering a Latin charm.
The door was then, though with great hesitancy, opened: a beam of lamplight fell upon the landing and a gentleman peered out, who instantly perceived the company upon the landing and cried, "This is some error!" and endeavoured to close the door again.
M. de St. Giles, assisted vigorously by the others, however, pushed it wide and walked into the apartment.
They found themselves confronting a youth of charming exterior, who answered, as the Ambassador quickly assured himself, in every detail to the description that had been given to him by his one-time friend. Yes, there was the gallant aristocrat, proud, haughty, with a curling Up and a sparkling eye, his unpowdered hair caught back into a horn buckle, the fine cambric on his bosom gathered together by a mean brooch, with a poor sword upon his side, and, as it seemed, despair upon his lips as he demanded what this intrusion at this hour meant.
The Ambassador bowed low and glanced around the chamber that was furnished with a certain elegance but bore every evidence of poverty.
There was the cause of all this agitation and trouble—an exquisite young woman, pretty, well formed, exact, as the Ambassador immediately recognised, to the account given him by his friend; delicate, tender, wistful, in scoured satin and darned cambric she sat in the window-place gazing upon her lover and strangers; there was nothing either offensive or arrogant in her demeanour, which was that of a woman well schooled to endure the embroilments of mankind.
The Ambassador noted that she clasped her pale thin hands anxiously together, that her fine lips were tenderly apart, that her thick dark ringlets showed in an enchanting contrast on the whiteness of her neck.
While he was observing the enchanting contours of her profile, the young man was peremptorily challenging him as to his right to enter the apartment. "I am," cried he, "living in a country that I believe is proud of her liberty, and I am under the protection of the laws of the government of the States-General."
The Conde again bowed low and replied: "My dear Moncada, how impossible it is for persons of our quality to dissimulate with one another! How can you any longer pretend to be what you are not? I know who you are, I was a friend of your father's—I do not come here to offer any affront to you or to this lady, whom I perceive is entirely lovely, and, no doubt, of exceptional virtue."
The youth, however, who was haughty and fiery, would not betray himself, but replied at once that there was an error. "I am not," said he, "a Moncada or a nobleman, but the son of a tradesman at Cadiz. This young lady," he added, glancing with love towards the trembling female in the window-place, "is my lady, my wife, and we are travelling for our pleasure."
At this poor subterfuge, the Envoy sighed, Father Gaper frowned and the page sniggered, and M. de St. Giles, suffering his glance to travel round the room, which was very poorly furnished and bespoke strained means and many awkward attempts to deal with the blows of fortune, said:
"Sir, you say you are the son of a trader—how, therefore, can you account for this poor, miserable baggage that I perceive? My dear child, surely you will allow me to call you that, for I am an old friend of your father's, as I said. Is it here, in this attic, that the son of the important, the arrogant, and the mighty Marquis de Moncada resides?"
The young man flushed, fumbled at his cravat but still endeavoured to keep up the farce and protested:
"Sir, I know not what you mean. I have nothing to do with the Marquis de Moncada. The tale that I have told you is true."
M. de St. Giles spoke to him earnestly, holding the door the while:
"With me rests power and authority. I can, if I will, have you arrested by the States-General. I can evoke the power of His Most Catholic Majesty. This that I do is a sacred charge that has been put upon me by your father. I have your description and that of your lady, who is no more, I believe, than an actress who sang and danced upon the boards of a theatre in Toledo."
The young man, biting his Up, would still have persisted in his obvious lie had not the woman at this moment perceived that it was hopeless to endeavour to deceive this acute Spaniard. She came forward and with sobs in her voice and tears in her eyes, assured his Excellency that she did not wish to be the cause of her lover's downfall.
"For, indeed," she declared, "I love him so much that my affection for him shall be victorious over my own interests. I consent to separate from him. Let him return to his father, and his father's people, let me be forgotten. Let me return to the place where I came."
With this she burst into a passion and turned her face against the wall; the Ambassador was moved to a certain compassion at what seemed to him little less than a noble disinterestedness; the young gallant, however, was most agitated and distracted at this display that he termed a weakness on the part of his beloved.
"What," he cried, "when we have vowed one to another to be true until death and torment, must you upon the first occasion play me false?"
"Not the first occasion," she sobbed, with her tender eyes turned towards him gleaming with pearly tears. "I know how we have been pursued and watched. Trust a woman's tenderness for that. And this is the last test! See, here is your father's friend, one who can be revered and regarded with respect. Indeed, indeed—" She tried to control her weeping, and the Conde interfered in a discreet and respectful manner.
"Do not," he implored the distracted youth, "reject this lofty self-sacrifice that is offered to you by this female who is worthy of you in every respect save that of her rank. Return to your father and the position that belongs to you. This lady, who has shown herself so worthy of your passing fancy, shall be in every way provided for."
But the young Moncada was bitter and reproachful; he turned to the woman and vowed that he would not under any conditions forsake her nor use her own nobility of heart against her. The scene became warm and sentimental, even passionate, and the Marquis, standing in the doorway, watched it with a good deal of interest and sympathy and at the same time with a certain amount of calculation. He knew that the situation was in his hands; he dismissed Gullet and silenced the priest, who, glowering by the door, wished to have no mercy on the lovers. But all that concerned M. de St. Giles was to save the heir of a noble house from the degradation of an unsuitable alliance, or from an infatuation that might impoverish the estates and debase the name.
As the two young creatures clung together, protesting vows of affection and devotion, the Ambassador remarked softly and pleasantly, "It is not the intention of the Marquis de Moncada to reduce you, Madame, to poverty. Indeed, I am empowered to give you a fine sum which will be sufficient to allow you to return to Toledo or to any part of the continent you please, where, indeed, I am sure your beauty and talent will assure you a wide audience and continual rewards. Indeed," he added as the two lovers flashed dark looks at him, "do not suppose that I am endeavouring to degrade your passion, which I perceive to be of considerable nobility. I know," he continued, addressing the young actress, "that your sentiments are lofty, that your tenderness is indeed sincere. This inspires me with a deep compassion. I am inclined, on the mere fact of seeing your mutual passion, to raise the sum, which I am ordered to give you, as high as possible. I believe," he added, "you have a certain promise of marriage from the Comte de Moncada. So when this gentleman has returned to Spain or taken up his residence with me at the Embassy of His Most Catholic Majesty, I shall raise that amount that your lover's father has, through me, promised you. Indeed, I can assure you that the sum of thirty thousand livres will be paid you the moment you set free the youth," and here a sneer showed, "whom you at present hold in your power."
The beautiful young actress paid no attention to these specious promises. She appeared to be in despair and taking no heed of the prospect of any material gains, but to have no concern save with him and the horror of parting from him; and yet at the same time she admitted, whether from base or noble motives the watchful Conde could not decide, the necessity of this separation. Father Gaper stepped forward, and with a menacing look indicated a desk in the corner of the room; from this she brought out a pocket-book and from it a letter folded in two and sealed twice with the arms of the Moncadas.
"Here," said she, "is the promise of marriage signed by my lover!"
She kissed it often, with tears and sighs, then gave it to the Envoy, sighing, "I know his heart too well to require this paper."
M. de St. Giles was astonished at this generosity. It was not what he would have expected from all he had heard of the lady and her previous adventures. He still suspected some trick, but was obliged, from motives of honour and diplomacy, to accept the gesture at face value, and quickly placed the paper, which he hoped was the only remaining record of the reckless young man's promise, in his portfolio that he secured in his brocaded vest; he glanced at the lady, who was leaning against the desk weeping, and wondered once more at the perversity, magnanimity and nobility of womankind.
He was also baffled by the attitude of the young gentleman, who seemed to accept as a matter of course this sacrifice on the part of his beloved. M. de St. Giles could do no more than make a conventional speech. He promised Leila her reward in these terms.
"Madame, I shall endeavour to see that all justice is done to you. The family whom you so gracefully oblige will ever have your welfare at heart." To the young man he turned and said: "Sir, I am able to assure you that your father will entirely forgive this escapade. Indeed, he will his only heir receive with the utmost generosity. Remember that you will return to the bosom of a house that has long been in despair. Remember, too, that a paternal heart is never exhausted of tenderness."
The two young people seemed to have no suitable reply to these comments. Leila remained sobbing quietly; the young Moncada pinched his cravat and stared down at the floor as if he was not altogether pleased with the part he had played. M. de St. Giles had not quite the clue to this situation. He continued, however, on the smooth line that he well knew how to employ at a difficult moment.
"My friend," said he, "your father has been long afflicted at your disappearance, at the story he has heard of your elopement with this young lady, for whom I now nave honourable terms but whom you must now admit is no fit match for the heir of one of the noblest grandees of Spain. What will be his delight, what will be the joy of your friends, when once more you return to him? And how gratified shall I be when I can send such joyful news!"
The Conde, though he spoke thus suavely, yet was not entirely indifferent to the power of passion, affection, or love. He had studied these several afflictions, as he termed them, of the human heart and knew their different variants and how they might affect this or that; he glanced 'at Father Gaper, who remained sombrely silent.
And so the Envoy stood in the doorway, a little doubtful for all his flattery, for all the tears of the lady, for all the dark looks of the young man, as to how far they were going to obey him. The lady had been generous, but if he left them alone for a few hours longer—for the night, perhaps the young man's ardour would overcome her desire for self-sacrifice. Whatever her motives were, whether she spoke sincerely, from trickery, or merely on the impulse of the moment, M. de St. Giles could not trust her with the susceptible young man, and Father Gaper whispered in his ear to stand firm.
Therefore, drawing near the son of his friend, he said: "Sir, I desire that you shall accompany me to the Embassy to-night."
"To-night!" echoed the lady, and put her hand before her eyes.
"Madame," said Father Gaper sternly, "if your resolution is sincerely generous, you will applaud His Excellency in his desire to take this young man away from you at once."
"It is a barbarous parting," she cried, and broke into tears and lamentations. M. de St. Giles greatly feared the effect of these upon the amorous youth; yet, his father's friend curiously observed, he was not greatly moved by her distress. He was, perhaps, tired of this life of hiding, of fatigue, of being a fugitive, of moving from cheap apartments to cheaper inns, of keeping in defiance all those to whom he was naturally bound, of foregoing the society of all those to whom he was naturally allied; he seemed, to the Spanish Ambassador's keen eye, to hesitate, to hesitate between the woman, her voluptuous beauty and her kind tenderness, at the man who represented all that he had forfeited for her sake.
Leila was quick to take advantage of what might have been a defeat. Stamping her foot, she bade him go, and said that for his sake she would sacrifice all.
M. de St. Giles, also keen to turn this moment into some nobility and to give her credit for a courage and a virtue that possibly she did not possess, declared: "Madame, I assure you of my constant and powerful protection. I shall see that you want for nothing."
"Nothing!" cried she. "Then see that I do not want for love and fidelity!"
And she turned aside and set her back to them, her elbows on the desk, her face in her hands, while the poor amount of baggage that the young man possessed was deftly and quietly removed by Gullet, who had been waiting behind the door.
So the young Moncada was elbowed and seduced from the apartment, the Ambassador whispering in his ear that it was far better for him to leave the lady in a moment of emotion than to attempt with her elaborate explanations that in any case would be useless, while the priest explained that, on many counts, his soul was in peril.
"What can be said or done in such a moment as this? You have made a mistake, you have paid for it. Your father now counts upon your duty. Come with me. I am, in every way, his representative. You have also your mother and your other relatives to think of. The Embassy is at your disposal."
The young man, thus persuaded, was hurried down the stairs between the diplomat and the priest into the handsome chaise of the Ambassador and so to the Embassy, where he was at once escorted to the most sumptuous apartment and given in every way that attendance that was due to his rank, but that he had never known since he had fled from Toledo with the enchanting young actress.
He delighted, and it was idle to deny that he did delight, in receiving once more all the distinctions, all the comforts to which he had been used. He had, for the sake of his love, lived in hiding and in garrets, he had gone here and there from mean apartments and mean hôtels, but now that he was once more with the people of his own breeding, when he was surrounded by what he had been used to being surrounded by—lackeys, valets, scented baths, perfumed chambers, handsome apartments, observing in every way exquisite and sumptuous, he could not conceal that he had found his time of hiding tedious and even humiliating.
After a supper at which the wines were skilfully chosen and deftly forced upon the young man by M. de St. Giles, he was conducted to a bed hung with oyster-coloured satin and amber-tinted velvet, and sunk into a sleep that was, whatever one may say of the ardours and satisfactions of love, on his own declaration the most satisfactory that he had had for weeks.
On awaking he found himself, and was gratified to find himself, facing a number of tailors, tradesmen and dealers, with cloths and laces, who offered their wares to him, all of the richest possible quality, so that he had merely to select what he wished. For one who had so long foregone all that appertained to his rank, this was luxury indeed. There were, besides, two body-servants and three lackeys who were waiting his least commands.
The young man admitted he could not resist these seductions or the luxury that he had left in a moment of passion that he had always regretted.
In the midst of his somewhat embarrassed felicity, the Ambassador entered the room, and showing him every courtesy, for he was of his own race and rank, put before his eyes a letter that he had just dictated to his father.
This spoke of the youth in the most flattering terms, who seemed in every way worthy of his high rank and station. Among these flattering sentences was given the information that the young Count was likely to return immediately to his ancestral mansion. Nor was the fair heroine of his drama overlooked; the Ambassador mentioned that the happy termination to this domestic strife was owing largely to the generosity of the fair gentlewoman concerned; which, he added in his letter to the youth's father, quite justified him in making her a handsome gift of no less a sum than thirty thousand livres and a pair of fine diamond ear-rings.
The young Moncada, though his sentiments appeared somewhat jarred at such a tame ending to such a protracted romance, and who would scarcely believe that his beloved had left him for a sum comparatively paltry, was obliged to acquiesce in these arrangements, and, it must be confessed, ne showed a distinct relief.
The Ambassador rallied Father Gaper on his suspicions of black magic: "It is strange that both you and my old friend should have thought of such a strange ingredient in what is, after all, a commonplace case."
The priest did not agree, he declared that the youth was in a dazed, half-bewitched condition which accounted for his indecision and meekness in the interview in the Lion and Billets.
"She was, I believe, putting spells upon him, and I counteracted them by my prayers." Be this as it might, the Conde carried out his part of the bargain, and sent round to the lady's rooms thirty thousand livres in a silver-gilt casket, and a pair of diamond ear-rings of the finest water.
The next day the disconsolate Leila left The Hague.
Father Gaper now suggested that he should accompany the young man to Spain, in order that he might keep him steady to his duty to God and the Moncadas, in case the lady should reappear during the voyage, suggesting that Gullet, who had been so useful in the affair, should go with them.
M. de St. Giles readily agreed, not only because he was glad to know that his charge would be so well protected, but because he was weary of his rigid confessor and his sly page.
The young Moncada accepted these travelling companions gratefully, he now declared that he must have been enchanted, and he took a great interest in the different preparations for his splendid journey. A handsome wardrobe and an equipage worthy of his name was provided for him and all sent on board a vessel at Rotterdam that was bound for France. The passage of the young man was paid, and he was given a large sum more than sufficient for the journey, and heavy bills on Paris. Overwhelmed by all this kindness and generosity, the young noble with the priest and the page took leave of the Ambassador with tears of gratitude and promises of genuine reformation and eternal obligation.
The Ambassador now was satisfied that he had rendered his friend a very good service and, to some extent, some trouble to himself For, needless to say, he advanced all the money necessary to buy the marriage promise and to equip the young gentleman for his journey to Paris out of his own pocket. He sent off an express to Madrid with an account of all these transactions and amid all his public business awaited with some impatience the answer of the Marquis de Moncada to this account of this problem, that at first appeared so embarrassing but that he had so quickly and adroitly solved.
Several months, however, passed before a messenger arrived from Spain with an answer from his one-time friend.
When he had cut the string, broken the seals, and ripped open the parchment, this was what he read:
The Good God, in His beneficence, my dear Conde, never gave me that great felicity to possess an heir. I feel but burdened with honours and wealth, since I have no son. I have long been saddened by the knowledge that with me an illustrious family will pass into oblivion, but I do not intend that the cheat that was put upon you shall cause you any loss. It is clear that, in a point of honour, it was the Marquis de Moncada whom you intended to oblige and he feels bound to pay that sum which you, in your self-sacrificing friendship, advanced in the hope of causing him the satisfaction which, had it been possible, he would have so deeply appreciated.
My Lord Conde, I hope that your Excellency will feel no scruples at accepting the enclosed draft for three thousand livres.
In brief, the Ambassador, who prided himself on his astuteness, the variety of his talents and the accuracy of his knowledge, had been duped by a couple of adventurers, who had stripped him of money and goods, and though he was to a large extent repaid his out-of-pocket expenses by the draft sent, with true Spanish nobility, by his friend, yet he felt, to the depths of his being, humiliated at thus being laughed at by four cheats, who, no doubt, by now, safe in some gaming-house in Florence or Milan, were laughing at him for an old fool.
You think, perhaps, that is the end of the story? It is not.
One day when M. de St. Giles was returning late to the Embassy, he beheld Leila standing in the passage leading to his room.
She declared that she had come to complain that the diamonds he had given her were false.
He made an appointment with her to visit a jeweller's to have the stones tested, and passed an evil night, for it seemed to him, that on leaving him, she had passed through a closed door.
This was the story that he told his secretary on the following day. No one ever saw Leila, but M. de St. Giles began to take up the study of occult sciences and to lose his money and his wits. In the course of two years he had to be confined in a hospital for the insane. It is possible that what appears to be a tale of a vulgar trickery, is really the account of the machinations of the Devil. For it Is certain that the priests regarded M. de St. Giles, who became exceedingly blasphemous, as a lost soul.
Patience, good lady; wizard know their times
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,
The time of night when Troy was set on fire;
The time when screech owls cry and ban dogs howl
And spirits walk and ghosts break up their groves
That Time best fits the work we have in hand.
—Shakespeare.
Let no man think lightly of sin, saying
in his heart, "It cannot overtake me."
As the waterpot fills by even drops of water falling
The fool gets full of sin, ever gathering, little by
little.
"The Path of Right," from the Pitakas.
—Translated by Rhys Davids.
M. DE ST. GERMAIN entertained his listeners with other tales of a less pleasant nature; he could relate stories of the unhappy mortals who, if born in Sicily at the time of the full moon, or who, on Fridays in midsummer, sleep with the lunar rays on their faces, must become werwolfs, and, dropping on all fours, rush out to destroy, with desperate howls, all who might not be able to escape his furious course.
These lycanthrope can be saved from damnation only, M. de St. Germain averred, by someone brave enough to confront him in his frenzy, and cut upon his forehead the sign of the cross. Sometimes he will live for years as an ordinary human being, then suddenly the possession will seize him and the dreadful transformation take place.
It is, perhaps, true that those who are irreverent enough to be born during the octave of Christmas are forced to become werwolves during this period for all their lives.
This was one of the fables that M. de St. Germain related when in a sombre mood, but in an even more gloomy vein he would sometimes recite ghastly stories that held Madame de Pompadour, Madame du Hausset and the other ladies whom he condescended to entertain enthralled, and these he told with a power and emphasis that brought into the perfumed and satin-lined boudoirs of Paris a fog from the dread and bitter North, that none of them had known and that none of them wished to know, or a miasma from mid-Europe, Rumania, Bulgaria, Serbia, that was a legendary region to them that they only knew by legends and travellers' tales.
Sometimes, as these pampered idlers listened to this strange creature reciting these adventures, that he often with a dry smile declared were true, they felt a chill creep in through their blood and a shudder pucker their flesh; it was useless for the women to flash sequined fans before their alarmed faces and to look steadily at the light of the wax candles or the glow from the gathered coals on the marble hearth, and to remind themselves that they were in Paris in the midst of an intricate and subtle civilisation that would keep them secure from any such horrors as took place in these distant lands.
As the magician (he could be no less) sat rigid with his lean, aquiline, wax-coloured features ringed either side in stiff curls dusted with azure powder, with his smile that they supposed to be ageless, his handsome clothes so well cut to set off his shapely figure, and magnificent diamonds flashing on his rings, shoe-buckles and at his throat, they felt a creep of terror, which was more than they relished. It was all very well to be amused and charmed by some wizard, dangerous and supernatural perhaps, who was lavish and skilful, but it was unpleasant to fear that a visitant from Hell or at best an unearthly creature possessed of diabolical powers was among them.
As M. de St. Germain remained in France the rumours concerning him spread; it was whispered by some that he was the son of a Salamander who lived eternally in brilliant flame, while his mother was an Arabian princess. Again, it was related that, an anecdote of the Court of Francis I being mentioned in his presence, he had turned round and remarked: "Yes, and it is true—I was there—" words spoken with such an air of casual sincerity that those about him had been, despite their own common sense, deeply impressed.
Zeffiro, his secretary also, who was he, that creature who was always behind his master, the man with the flat features, the dull brown eyes that occasionally flashed in an upward look? Once M. de St. Germain had asked him, "Do you remember when I used to hunt in the forest of Fontainebleau?" And Zeffiro had replied coolly: "You forget, Monseigneur, that I have only been in your service two hundred years."
All these stories might, in daytime, be laughed at, but in the twilight or candle-glow they were uncomfortable to recall.
Horror lingered about the ladies as, sitting tensely in their chairs, outwardly at ease but inwardly perturbed, they listened to this strange foreigner as with his elaborate French (slightly marked with a strange accent) he told them ghastly stories that he related in the third person but that were, he declared, matters of his own experience. "And had you come from the lands that I know so well, you would not find them so peculiar; to me they are trifling, but they may perhaps serve to pass an idle hour or so."
Then, leaning forward with his thin hand upon his cane and his grey face only faintly illuminated with colour from the fire, he would recite some such tale as this before which the astonished listeners would droop.
"My narrative is set in the North. You must imagine pyramids of ice, ice-packs, snow and skies of a dull steely hue beyond mountains that appear a sullen grey and a dim white in their ragged slopes and outlines.
"There lived in this bleak country in a lonely castle a youth of noble birth who had exhausted his wealth and physical powers in dissipation. His beauty had proved his passport to easy fortune and he had had so many lovers that he was satiated with the charm and beauty of women.
"Musing one evening in a melancholy fit, with a candle before him forming a winding sheet, for the tall window was open and the sea breeze blew in strong and chill, he sighed to his constant friend, who, always anxious for his soul's welfare, always accompanied him: 'I am weary of sensual pleasures. I am so sickened of all that the world can offer me that nothing can satisfy me but the embraces of a ghost, an apparition or vampire.'
"As he spoke this last, dread word his friend shuddered, drew back, and making the sign of the Cross on his breast, murmured: 'You are bewitched to speak so rashly I Go to Church and pray for God's help.'
"'Pray!' exclaimed the other, with a menacing laugh and a blue flash in his sullen eyes. 'To whom do you suppose you speak? Not to one whom Heaven can aid—I am going to the graveyard to see if from the dead I can bring a bride who will satisfy my aching desires.'
"Dismayed by his wild look, his friend left him to consult a physician and would have no more to do with such blasphemy.
"But the young gentleman, whom I must call Baron P—, resolved to put into practice his desperate intention.
"He was an adept (what you may call an alchemist), and had some proficiency in the black arts.
"On the following night he proceeded alone to the graveyard that was outside the city and some distance from his castle, and there alone cast his spells and made his incantations according to the grimoire written in red ink that he had with him and which he had studied through many bewildered nights of sleepless distress.
"An Arabian, who wandered from city to city, had been for a while his guest in his solitary residence, and had taught him how to cast spells and what to expect from their potency. This Eastern sage had soon passed upon his unknown way and the young Baron P— had not been able to trace him, though he earnestly desired more knowledge from one so learned in the occult sciences.
"The daring youth was, however, able to recall much of what this magician had told him, and now on this icy night beneath the stars that seemed to crackle like frozen flames in the violet blue heavens, he made his signs upon the hard hallowed ground of the graveyard and stood there among the tombs, conjuring up the spirit of some dead, beautiful woman to be his bride... only the fairest there did he desire. One there must be, lovely as summer in the North beneath the towering monuments that rose about him.
"'And if,' he cried in his wild blasphemy, 'she be a vampire I care nothing, as long as she be fair beyond mortality and fulfil the longing I have to unite myself with some being who is above these mean mortals who do not satisfy me.'
"Utter silence met his desperate boasting; he peered about the graveyard that was on an incline and saw nothing but the sharp shadows cast by the moon from the heavy tombstones that were in the altar shape common to the North, or in the form of pyramids, gigantic crosses or chapel vaults with doors closed by rusty gratings.
"It was uncommonly cold and the bold youth shivered in his thick brown cloak of marten fur. But no apparition did he see in the ghostly sheen of the moonshine and he felt disgusted and disappointed, believing the Arabian had deceived him and cheated him of his money. His dreadful incantations were, then, of no avail, and so much childish nonsense.
"Disabused and disappointed, Baron P— was turning away when he heard in the distance a delicate feminine voice singing a light amorous ditty that he had often heard trolled out in the gambling hells and coffee-houses of the capital. So pure and sweet were the tones that he paused to listen, thinking it was a peasant girl going home with her gathered faggots, though the hour was late; the forest was a long way off.
"He forgot about his incantations, and ever eager to pursue any attractive female who might cross his path, he hastened to the great iron gates of the cemetery, and there in the moonlit snowy field beyond saw the solitary creature who was singing in this unlikely place.
"She was a tall girl attired in a plain gown of a greyish-white to which the moonbeams gave a glistening hue; above was a mantle of a sage green. Her head was uncovered and the strands of her tresses also seemed turned to white molten metal by the power of the moon that was now blazing overhead in the zenith of the empty sky. Indeed, the light that lay about the young man seemed, although he scarcely gave this a thought, of an unnatural brightness. He had not realised that the moon would be full to-night, and never before had he known it give out such a powerful illumination.
"All this, however, was but the background of his thoughts, and all he cared about was to address himself to this charming female, which he did with much grace, desiring that she would go with him into the city and bear him company at a supper and entertainment.
"'Favours such as those,' she said, 'I can grant only to a husband.'
"The young man was amused at so bold a statement, and laughed scornfully as he replied:
"'Perhaps to a betrothed you can allow the privilege of your company at a supper and a wine-drinking?'
"She bowed her head gravely: 'If, sir, on a moment's acquaintance, you care to betroth yourself to me, it is possible that I might grant you some such favour. But give me a ring as token that what you say is earnest.'
"With that he drew from his finger the large signet that had been given him by his father, that was cut in pure crystal shot with colours of both grey and scarlet, so that it seemed that both sun and moon were intermingled in the stone. This the girl received and placed upon her own finger.
"'Sir, I must return now and put some affairs in order, then I shall meet you at the city gates and accompany you to whatever place it is where you desire we should hold our festival.'
"He, contrary to his usual custom, for he was always bold to follow up his successes, allowed her to depart as if some dream engrossed him. In a gliding fashion, she moved across the snowy fields, that were still uncommonly bright from the moonshine, and he returned to 'his apartment, where, there being a certain bemusement in his senses, he walked back to his castle, took to his bed and drawing the curtains, slept, not only till the next morning but through the next day. His body servant corning to rouse him, saw him in so deep a slumber that he left him to lie undisturbed and told the other servants not to disorder their master.
"So the great household went about the routine of duty and the young Baron P— lay in his feather bed behind his curtains of sapphire silk lined with purple satin.
"The clock on the staircase struck midnight and he woke suddenly, pulled aside his curtains with he knew not what expectation, and saw his chamber door opening slowly, allowing a dim beam of light from the lamp in the passage to penetrate the shadows.
"There was not sufficient light in his own chamber for him to observe who it was who entered, but he was certain something was moving amidst the dusky shadows, and he could hear a breathing deep and constant, a stiff rustle like that of taffeta silk.
"Then the bed draperies were shaken further aside and the whole interior of the chamber was revealed to him in a wavering glow. He knew not whether he was in his right senses or a delirium, tried to speak, but could not.
"A delicate and yielding body seemed to slip under his padded coverlet, to draw him down from his sitting posture and to lie pressed close to him; he had the impression that his companion was as cold as death and exuded a smell of mould.
"This state of speechless terror when he felt the icy embraces of an unearthly bedfellow endured for an hour, then with the clang of the first hours of the morning that came in from the passage without, the spectre or vision melted away like a cold mist and he fell into a swooning sleep of fear.
"When he awoke in the morning he was, after the usual manner of humanity, inclined to pass all off as a dream or vision, something that must have arisen from his vain attempt with an incantation in the cemetery the night before.
"A deep dread, however, lingered on his mind all day, though he went about his usual avocations with his usual splendour and recklessness.
"His fear increased with the falling darkness; and in order to disperse all his visionary terrors he gathered around him the gayest companions whom he could find, and entertained them all at a splendid feast, in the great salon lit by crystal chandeliers in his castle. The lightest beauties and the most worldly gallants of the city were invited to this entertainment, and none refused, for the Baron's feasts were well known to be lavish and he was sumptuous in all that he offered to his guests; such as remained of his fortune he thus extravagantly cast away.
"With rollicking music, with gay dancing, with quip and mirth, the entertainment continued until midnight, when the young host was observed by those who stood near him to drink deeply and cast ever and again an anxious glance at the tall clock of black and white marble with the gilt face that stood in a corner of the rich apartment.
"As the hand approached the hour of twelve, he nervously bid the orchestra play their loudest measure, when they, eager to obey so generous a master, at once struck up an entrancing gigue.
"But the music seemed to die away into the distance as the clocks in the salon and in the passage without, chimed the twelve strokes.
"There was a little pause of trepidation and expectation, for the Baron P— sank down in his place as if expecting some scene of horror; but on the contrary, a lackey brought in some letters of recommendation from an Italian princess, who was travelling incognito and who, staying with a friend of the Baron P— in the city, had heard that he was giving a festival that evening and wished to know if she might be entertained at it?
"The Baron tore open the letters, read them over and smiled with relief, then turning to his friends informed them that a beautiful, and no doubt a fantastic and gallant stranger had come into their midst. Should she not be welcomed with all the gaiety and courtesy that they could muster and for which their city was famous?
"Everyone, for by now the wine had been freely drunk and all were in a good mood, gaily agreed, and the lackey was sent down to bring up the Italian Princess who, it appeared, was unattended. The whisper went about that she might be an actress or an adventuress in disguise, but what did that matter as long as she added to the merriment of the moment?
"The lackey returned and bowing low set the folding doors wide.
"The Princess entered. She wore a black dress of glittering silk spangled with diamonds, cut low on the corsage, and across her face, that appeared to be of exceeding beauty, a grey veil also spangled here and there with sequins that burnished like stars in the light of the hundreds of candles that lit the gorgeous scene.
"A chill like the blast from an iceberg fell on the room; the company inclined to put this by and to make the best of the newcomer. But the Baron P— had recognised in the Italian Princess the phantom whom he had raised in the graveyard who last night had crept into the bed beside him.
"He remained livid in his place while the spectre stepped up to him with her gliding motion, moving her feet under her wide hooped petticoat as is the habit of high-born ladies, and turned on him her sunken, glazed eyes that showed dimly through her veil.
"He was unable to escape from her presence as she sank into the chair beside him and detained him in her company until the clock struck the hour one, when she retired, declaring that her people were waiting below.
"This, then, was the manner of his haunting. No matter where he might be, under one guise or another the spectre would appear to him and stay with him from twelve o'clock at night until one o'clock in the morning.
"Baron P— tried all manner of devices to rid himself of this fearful punishment (for so he deemed it) for his sins, and for his blasphemous practices of black magic in a holy burial ground.
"He went here and there, he stayed at home, he hied abroad; he cast himself into the solitude of churches, he went into the vulgar merriment of public ball-rooms and gambling-hells. But always, in a different shape, the phantom was there, leaning over his shoulder, peering into his face, waiting at the door.
"After a few months of this incredible torment, his mortal frame began to languish. Exhausted both by anger and fright, he wished only to die. 'Better,' he muttered, 'Hell, itself than this constant haunting on earth.'
"It happened," added the Comte de St. Germain carelessly, "that in this moment of his utter despair, I met him, I then being travelling in the North. And it did not take me long to draw from him the cause of his misery, his emaciation, and his restless wanderings to and fro, all of which was distracting to his friends and distressing to his relatives.
"I told him that I had a sure cure for his trouble. At first he laughed in my face, but I think I was able to convince him that I knew what I was talking about, although he told me that he had long given up all hope of any relief. I was able to inspire him with a little confidence and I promised him that I would come to his castle at midnight and confront the phantom.
"I was punctual to-my appointment and found the young man awaiting me in a state of feverish excitement."
At this point of the story the ladies, who had been listening with restless terror, could not avoid breaking in!
"Tell us how you passed the time while you were waiting with this unfortunate young man for the approach of the spectral bride?"
The Comte de St. Germain gave his wan smile.
"It would take a long time to inform you of the measures that I took. Moreover it would be giving away some secrets. It is sufficient to say that I drew a magic circle on the floor, placed incense in the brazier and bade the youth stand in the centre of the magic triangle. I conjured him sternly not to leave it, whatever might happen, and I warned him that some fearful apparitions might endeavour to disturb his resolution.
"The circle was carefully made, near the bed, on a portion of the floor that was nine feet square, the lines intersecting one another formed crosses and triangles, there was an inner circle and in the centre of all a square on which we both stood. I had with me a toad, given me by a witch at Prague. I much caressed this creature, who wore a gown of purple velvet, with a hood hung with gilt bells. I had the proper ingredients to cast into the brazier, I knew the conjuration necessary, in brief, nothing was lacking to fortify us against this spectre.
"I recited an ancient incantation:
"'Evil spirit, evil demon, evil ghost, evil fiend,
Hag, demon, ghoul thief,
Phantom of night, handmaiden of sorcery,
Foul spell, witchcraft, sorcery,
Enchantment, black magic,
From this house go forth,
From this man depart,
Get thee to Hell!'
"The young man showed much nervous excitement, but I was able to convince him that we were in no danger if we remained within the magic circle. I had hung a copy of some verses from St. John's Gospel round his neck and placed fleabane and basil in his hand.
"We then waited, without speaking, until the two clocks struck—that of black and marble in the young man's salon below, and that on the great staircase. I had taken, as I have said, due precautions and been about the room, which was lit with seven candelabra, and in my hand I held, firmly gripped, the staff of Moses. I had received this," the Count said with a smile, "from one of Moses' great-grandsons at Babylon during the time of Cyrus."
There was a murmur, half of awe, half of incredulity, among his audience. He fixed them with his glittering eye while a more ashy hue overspread his cheek, and continued:
"The door opened punctually, as I had supposed it would, and I saw the spectre enter. Her appearance would have been, I suppose, to an uneducated eye, that of a human being, but to me she was hollow, like an image carved from a rotten trunk of tree, fair in front but behind nothing but decay. Moreover, from her person came the noisome odour of mould.
"I perceived at once that she had much power, therefore I lit a sympathetic candle and placed it on the table between herself and me, always holding in my hand the staff of Moses and remaining within the circle.
"The phantom floated towards the bed, but seeing this empty wafted itself towards the youth, who, drawn by her attraction, had moved to the edge of the circle.
"Perceiving her designs thwarted by my incantations, she whispered in a menacing voice that seemed to come from the ground: 'He is my betrothed, my husband.'
"I answered sternly, holding out the rod; 'It is you who have beguiled him. You never informed him that you were an inhabitant of the invisible world.'
"The spectre at this was mute, and I, leaning forward, touched what still had the semblance in front of a woman with my terrible staff; the appearance wavered into streaks of light and shade and there was soon no more than a little fall of dust upon the floor.
"Perceiving that my power was efficacious, I demanded: 'Give me back the ring.'
"A faint voice moaned: 'Not here, but In the graveyard where I received it.'
"I accepted this condition and bade the phantom go ahead of us. So we proceeded, the ghost having now disappeared from our sight, but being present in the disguise of a faint sighing that went ahead of us to the cemetery.
"And now I have come to a part of my story," said the Comte de St. Germain, "of which I am not free to speak. I must not recount the incantations that I performed, nor the struggle that took place in the graveyard that night. But it is sufficient to say that, in the end, I conquered.
"The young man, who was by then in a state bordering on frenzy, cast the ring I had wrested from the spirit on the grave where he had seated himself when he had first heard the phantom singing in the fields, where it fell with a hollow rattle upon the frozen stone.
"I seized this, by the power of my magic, and returned it to the Baron P—. Thereupon the spectre, then faintly visible like a tall flame of dim fire, with many cries and lamentations, disappeared into the thick storm of snow and I led the youth, who was in a swooning condition, back to the castle and laid him on his bed.
"He was not able even to express to me the gratitude that he felt for this salvation. He was convinced, and his conviction proved correct, that the phantom that he had unwittingly and in blasphemy raised, had returned again to the invisible world and would never more torment him.
"But he was changed. Never more could he riot and wanton with easy women or careless men. There was a cloud upon his brow, a darkness in his eye. He had experienced terrors that it is given to few men to know and to five to remember, and feared to encounter them again.
"I tried to reassure him, telling him that if he had mended his life he need no longer dread a repetition of such horrors as he had lately experienced. He believed, however, that a refuge in religion would be his only salvation.
"There was a gloomy convent on a cliff near his castle that his forebears had endowed, and there he betook himself in full penitence of his sins. He said that he wished to forgo all his worldly goods, and since he had no heir they were to be sold for the benefit of the poor.
"He entered this holy retreat as a humble novice. I visited him once and found him working in the bleak garden among the beds of herbs with a broad straw hat bound upon his head and tied under his chin. He seemed serene, though he was very quiet, and as I thought, had a sombre sullen look in his half-shut eye.
"I asked him if he had forgotten the phantom bride and how I had dissipated her into small crystals of air with my magic staff. He would not, however, talk upon the matter, but declared that he never left the sacred walls of the monastery, feeling only secure when he was within their bounds.
"So I left him. I had done what I could for him, and felt that I must no longer delay upon my travels. For, believe me, ladies, I have during many hundreds of years, journeyed here and there over the world's surface and have no more than a certain amount of time that I may give to each individual case."
Upon this, the Comte de St. Germain with his writhing smile and leaden looks, abruptly ceased his narration, the truth of which none of those present dared to dispute openly.
Some of them rallied enough, however, to tell him that he had caused them a great deal of dread, and begged he would show them the staff of Moses that had been so powerful a factor in this drama.
The Count put this by with a contemptuous air, leisurely tapping his snuff-box that was set with monstrous brilliants, and proceeded to tell another tale, for Madame de Pompadour had declared that she could not, after so frightful a narrative, retire until she had heard something of a more cheerful nature.
"Madame," said he, "I am wholly at your service and will proceed to recite to you something that occurred to me myself, I will not tell you how many years ago, for I perceive that if I put a date to a tale there is always a wonder and an exclaim and my audience tease to know what age I am or in what clime and country I have been. To these questions I can give no answer, neither must I mention the names of cities nor of people nor of countries through which I have passed. I know that some of you say I-am the Wandering Jew and others that I am the son of a Salamander and an Arabian princess, others that I am a magician who has spent hundreds of years searching for the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life.
"I have no answer to all these rumours, no reply to all these questions. My stories you must accept as stories, and believe that their gist, as I have last told you, is the result of personal experience. So is that which I shall now divulge. Do not press me, however, to tell you names, suffice it to say that I was in a certain capital in Europe when a charming lady of exquisite manners and polished address became, I know not how, greatly attached to me.
"She sent me several invitations to her festivals, to which I replied in a polite tone, not, however, ever accepting them.
"One day, however, she was very pressing that I should attend the magnificent ball that she was giving at one of her mansions. She added that it was going to be a most splendid affair and that she hoped I would appear in my most remarkable raiment. Something, I know not what, perhaps a moment of idleness, tempted me to accede to her request.
"I arrayed myself in a coat of grass-green satin, that was adorned with many buttons, everyone of which was a diamond worth a thousand louis d'or. I had a hat made of the same material with a rippling band of diamonds around it of the same quality, worth at least a hundred thousand crowns. There was my sword-hilt, my buckle, my rings, my snuffbox, I know not what equally embellished with precious stones. Indeed, I may declare that on this occasion all the brilliants that I wore were worth at least a million louis d'or.
"I took with me two lackeys to go in front and fight the horses with flambeaux, and three behind as an escort, besides the servants on the box, and in resplendent livery of amber and blue.
"We proceeded to the lady's villa, that was a few leagues beyond the suburbs, and I remarked with some suspicion that the way there seemed very desolate. There was no sign of other equipages going to this festival, of other guests either in carriages, on horseback, or on foot. However I, having no fear of any person or anything at any time, proceeded, and finally reached the villa that was enclosed by a high wall and the entrance to which was an iron grille set in massive gates.
"Upon my groom pulling the chain beside this, we were admitted by a porter who opened the gates, and by the light of my flambeaux we drove up the winding avenue of chestnut trees to the mansion, which was in darkness, and I was something surprised though nothing alarmed.
"My outrider having summoned the major domo, he declared that there was some mistake and this was not the night of the festival. The lady, however, appeared in the corridor and was dismayed and chagrined that I should have made this mistake and begged that I should come in and converse with her and some other friends whom she expected.
"I readily agreed, though perfectly well knowing what was to be expected.
"I was shown into a little boudoir lined with straw-coloured silk, and there the lady who was clad in yellow gauze reclined on a couch of a puce-colour satin buttoned with sapphires. All was extremely rich and I admired the taste of the apartment. There were fine pastels upon the walls, the candles set in crystal sticks were of pure wax, and the lady herself with her high headdress tied with bows of turquoise velvet, her low-cut bodice of strawberry satin and her full skirts of saffron colour was a pretty hostess.
"She held out her small hand for me to kiss, which I was only too pleased to do, and made an artful display of her tiny gold shoes upon which large emerald buckles sparkled.
"She could not understand, she declared, how this mistake had arisen. The great festival was for to-morrow, and there was I in all my array of diamonds and no one to welcome me save herself!
"I showed her the invitation card on which the date was written clearly enough and she exclaimed impatiently against her steward, who had made so grievous an error.
"'But you, sir, shall make amends to me, and I to you, by staying to have supper with me to-night.'
"I replied with a low bow: 'Madame, I never eat away from home.'
"'Surely,' said she,' when I am alone, for my friends are late and may not come, you will not refuse me this favour?'
"'Indeed,' said I, 'it is a rule that I have made, and I do not intend to break it, even on so charming a provocation as yourself,' and I bowed again.
"She then begged that I would take a glass of her home-made wine, a currant brew that she had seen concocted with her own hands. 'You must,' cried she, 'taste it.'
"One of her lackeys brought it in a tall glass of a pale citron colour set on a tray of finest porcelain. I had only to touch this with one of my rings, which had a magic quality, for the glass and the liquid to fly into a thousand pieces, into the fire, about the room, and on the Persian carpet.
"I knew then that what had been offered me was poison.
"The lady, on seeing her trick discovered, seemed somewhat discomfited, but smiled and pretended this was an accident.
"At the same moment I heard the sound of coach-wheels, I was convinced that they were those of my own vehicle that by some ruse had been sent back to the capital.
"I asked, however, whose carriage had passed, since I had been told that this lady was to be alone that night?
"'It is,' said she, 'an ancient uncle of mine who is remaining to the town after spending the day with me. I no longer expect my friends. We are alone.'
"I made no to-do about this and seated beside her continued a gay and easy conversation. I observed, however, that under the continuous glitter of my eyes she appeared somewhat confused, shuddered and trembling, tried to edge away from me.
"Taking advantage of my power, I made a few passes before her face. She sank back upon the couch in a stupor and I placed my hands upon her forehead; she went into a trance and though we both heard the sound of footsteps without and she made an effort to rise, I forced her not only to remain where she was but to answer my questions.
"'Where did you wish to go?' I demanded.
"'Someone is outside waiting for me. I shall return in a moment.'
"'No, you will remain. I insist upon it!' And again I passed my hand across her forehead and with a determined effort of my will forced her to stay on the sofa.
"She was at my mercy and I demanded in a stern tone: 'You intended to poison me?'
"'Yes.'
"'And as that did not succeed you determined to have me murdered?'
"'Yes.'
"'Where are your servants?'
"'They are waiting until I pull the bell-rope.'
"'How many are they?'
"'Five.'
"'What is your object?'
"'To steal your diamonds.'
"'You are a miserable criminal. Return to your senses.'
"She awoke then without recalling what she had said, shook herself, laughed nervously and glanced round the splendid boudoir.
"'I believe I have been drowsy,' she exclaimed, with a touch of uneasiness in her merriment.
"'Only for a moment or two,' said I, casually.
"She still appeared bewildered and confused and made one or two attempts to walk up and down the room. But I had put a magic spell on her so that she was not able to open the door.
"'Permit me,' she implored in faint tones, 'to call my chamber-woman. Is it not time that you, since you will not have supper with me, returned to the city?'
"Folding my arms upon my breast, I made no answer. I saw her moving towards the chimney-place, where she intended to pull the embroidered bell-rope. I then drew my pistol of gold inlaid with ivory and set with brilliants that had magic qualities.
"I allowed her to set the bell clanging and her five accomplices rushed into the room.
"I turned the pistol upon them, upon which the ruffians stood blind and mute.
"I then told this wretched woman what I thought of her and her criminal practices, and by my arts cast a cloud of vapour about myself and left this most unpleasant company.
"I was able, by a few incantations, to recall my equipage, and getting into my coach returned to the capital, where I at once laid information before the chief of police.
"The lady, who turned out to be a notorious adventuress, and her five accomplices, were all discovered in the villa, tried, and hanged."
Upon this unpleasant word M. de St. Germain ended his narration.
Madame de Pompadour and her ladies did not know what to make of such stories. They might be purely invention, fairy-tales designed to keep them in a good humour, but they were told with an accent, with a glitter, with an emphasis that seemed to leave an uneasy impression of truth behind them, and after all, since nothing certain could be discovered of this mysterious personage, it was difficult to disbelieve all that he told about himself.
Even those admitted to his intimacy could throw no light upon his origin or powers, but could only maintain that he did possess certain unguents and powders that, taken together, rejuvenated human beings and prolonged life.
"Look at myself," some gallants whispered. "I have certainly put off ten, nay twenty years since I began to take these medicines. And is not the Marquise looking much younger of late? even if she does not quite believe in him she uses his cosmetics."
Hints such as these were quite sufficient recommendation to the ladies who pestered M. de St. Germain, begging for only the smallest grain, enough that would go under a finger-nail, of his magic powder that preserved youth.
"Could we but cast off five years," they cried, "we ask no more! And we are willing to offer the choicest diamonds in our parures or even to obtain for you a dazzling pension for life in order to obtain such a miraculous gift!"
M. de St. Germain promised nothing definite to anyone, but it was obvious that the ointments and pomades that he gave to his fair clients at least cleared their complexions, brightened their eyes, and sent the warm blood brightening their cheeks.
It was also obvious (a fact that none could dispute) that if any gave to him small, dirty, or broken fragments of diamond, he would in the course of a few weeks return them in the shape of a splendid specimen of that jewel which is most potent in magical qualities and cannot be changed, even by fire.
He also affected cures of certain diseases, notably earache, melancholia and the quinsy. It was a growing belief that he could at will make himself invisible, and that he was often present, with the spectre of the Regent, and perhaps that or Madame du Maine, at the most intimate gatherings. This lady had been seen, it was declared, entering his laboratory, flames creeping under her petticoat and on her face an expression of the most fearful woe.
Were such things here as one do speak about
Or have we eaten the insane root,
That takes the reason prisoner?
—Shakespeare.
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac'd villain,
A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller,
A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch,
A living dead man. This pernicious slave,
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer;
And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,
And with no face, as 'twere, out-facing me,
Cries out, I was possess'd.
—Shakespeare.
WITH every month that passed M. de St. Germain saw fewer and fewer people; he had passed absolutely into the confidence of the King, to whom it was supposed he had revealed his identity; even Madame de Pompadour was excluded from this intimacy. The man whom she had hoped would amuse her lover with juggling tricks at worse, with magic at best, had now become possessed of a greater ascendency over him than she could herself exert.
Often the two men were closeted together and long were the visits paid by the King to the magician's laboratory, nor would His Majesty disclose to anyone as much as a hint of what passed between him and the wizard, charlatan, adventurer or spy, who cynically disguised himself under the name of the most fashionable faubourg in Paris.
The Marquise was vexed and uneasy at being excluded from this secret, yet afraid of offending M. de St. Germain she controlled her curiosity and jealousy and flattered him with all the resources of her art; for he kept her supplied with superb washes, lotions and pomades, perfumes, powders, dyes and creams, and did not deny her long-sustained half-incredulous hope that he might one day confer on her eternal life, power and beauty. She never failed to wear a ruby, cut in the form of a pig, that he had given her, declaring that it was a charm that had belonged to a number of great men, including the late Regent.
She did not dare to enquire into the history of this jewel, nor how M. de St. Germain had obtained it—was it from the cold hand of a spectre that he had taken it? Worse, was it of himself he spoke when he referred to the "late Regent"?
It might be that this was his hold over the King, that he was that M. d'Orléans who had formed his character and his manners, returned from the invisible world to support and guide him again. Some—ah! there were always gossips!—had whispered that Madame du Maine had been seen to glide along the corridor, and into the cabinet where the King was locked in with the magician.
Those of a more practical mind declared that the pretentious foreigner was probably an English spy and that all his stories of magic were so many covers and devices to disguise his real business.
The most sceptical, however, were bound to admit that there was nothing of the swindler and little of the charlatan about St. Germain. He never pretended to more than he could do; he never declared that he was the son of a Salamander, that he was a thousand years old or that he had the panacea for prolonging life definitely, though he admitted that it was quite true that he could, by scientific means, wash diamonds so that a poor stone appeared as good as one of the first water, and that the pomade he gave Madame de Pompadour brightened her beautiful hair and retained its luxuriance and strength.
The King gave him apartments in the Château de Chambord, which he reserved entirely for experiments and where he would retire for months at a time with Zeffiro and a small number of assistants.
This great favour on the part of the King, for this château was one of the most famous in France and had lately been inhabited by His Majesty's father-in-law, the ex-King of Poland, and before by the celebrated Maréchal de Saxe, further enhanced the already immense reputation of M. de% St. Germain.
When he left the capital for this magnificent but lonely, immense and deserted palace that stood in a huge park that was reputed to be haunted by ghosts of gigantic huntsmen, fashionable Paris shuddered and waited with a mingled terror and delight for the return of the noted magician with new cures for wrinkles and pale cheeks, and more panaceas for boredom and gloom.
There was, besides, an expectation of something more than trifles. The reputation of the Château de Chambord was already sufficiently frightful. The massive buildings were partly decayed in gloomy magnificence, some wings for long deserted were in a ruinous condition. Others were damp, neglected and, as the last resident, King Stanilaus had complained, the rich ceilings were falling down in flakes of laster and walls were covered with Chinese paper that was blotching under the touch. Noble suites of apartments with long galleries had been shut up for years, connected, since the brief reign of the Maréchal de Saxe had filled the château with the clatter of troops of dragoons, the shrill songs of play-actresses, the shouts of the companions of a hero dying of debauchery.
The vast park that spread for miles was known to be most dreadfully haunted by monstrous spectral huntsmen who, when the sun set, began the fearsome gallops beneath the ancient oaks and along the sombre glades.
When, therefore, M. de St. Germain with his sinister repute took up his residence in this solitary abode, terror was added to terror and even the neighbouring gentry in their coaches would go a long way round to their destination sooner than pass these high walls that for leagues encompassed the domain of the Château de Chambord..
Therefore, M. de St. Germain was able to work at whatever experiments he was engaged with secretly, without any fear of being pried upon or watched.
A number of people were observed to come and go between Chambord and Paris and many of them appeared to be businesslike enough. Then there was a regular passage of wagons and carriages across the gloomy park and the more sober minded of the neighbouring nobles declared that what M. de St. Germain was engaged on in the old château was nothing less than making those beauty preparations that were then in such demand in Paris, pomade for the hair, lotions for the eyes, colouring for the lips and cheeks, articles for which he had cleverly created a large demand.
It was rumoured also that he had discovered the secret of extracting a brilliant red dye from cochineal, that not only might be applied to fine satins and silks, but also in a more delicate manner used to tint the cheeks and lips of the idle, sensual ladies who flourished in their glittering decorations at the courts and in the hôtels of the fashionable faubourgs.
Yet it was impossible to dislodge superstition not only from the minds of the peasantry and the country nobles but from the most sceptic of the Parisians. Some of the most curious of M. de St. Germain's courtiers made the journey to Chambord and drove or rode round the walls at dusk, and when they saw the lights of a vivid spectral blue colour flashing from an upper window, they returned again without venturing to intrude upon the necromancer, nothing less the gentleman might be. Might he not be calling up the spirits of the dead in his endeavours to discover the Philosopher's Stone, the Elixir of Life, or discoursing with the spectral M. d'Orléans.
In brief, these long sojourns in Chambord, whatever the reason for them (and this was a well-kept secret, though so many shared it), greatly increased the dark fame of the mysterious stranger, especially as Zeffiro was observed to arrive frequently at Versailles with private messages for the King and dainty packages for Madame de Pompadour that Madame du Hausset eagerly received.
When M. de St. Germain himself made occasional visits to Versailles, crowds of supplicants hurried to his hôtel, flattering him, bowing before him, endeavouring to extract from him secrets, to get from him some favour or benefit. Yet others avoided him, or, if they chanced to meet him, muttered some prayer that they believed they had long since forgotten, or tracing upon their embroidered coats and rich cravats the sign of the Cross, betraying that the tangled superstitions of the Middle Ages had lingered into the age of reason.
And even those who were materialistic enough to believe that all this parade of magic, pomades and lotion manufacture was but a disguise for the fact that the gentleman was an English or a German spy, or an emissary of Prince Kaunits, the astute and adroit Austrian minister, who was doing his utmost to keep the Holy Roman Empire in a foremost place in Europe, would confess to doubts and suspicions of a darker kind.
So the counter-rumours went, and one said this and one said that, and through them all flickered like a green light the mystery of St. Germain.
Now he would disappear for weeks together, now he would be there at Versailles or Paris, dressed in the extreme of whimsical fashion, his hair piled high and dusted with a purple or blue powder, his breast, fingers and shoes shooting rays of light from the mystic diamonds.
He was said to have offered the King a box of brilliants of almost inestimable price—such as a great merchant from Amsterdam would have considered to be sufficient to make his entire stock.
There were, however, some whispers in Paris (but only repeated in hushed tones and supposed to emanate from Dutch and German Jews) that the stones that the Count de St. Germain displayed with such graceful lack of ostentation were merely inferior diamonds that he had the art of washing and piecing together. These tales declared that the laboratory at Chambord was largely used for this work and that many diamond chips were used by the charlatan in the manufacture of these superb parures; while he also had the art of producing artificial pearls and making paste appear in every way as splendid as genuine stones.
But this gossip was never put to the test; those who might, if it were possible to do so, have unmasked the foreigner, took no steps towards this proceeding, for all who were of influence and power supported and flattered the stranger.
On one occasion he appeared in Paris after an absence of six weeks or more at Chambord and gave a splendid festival in his hired hôtel in the Faubourg de Saint-Germain.
The cards were sent out with discretion and only those of unquestioned wit and beauty, talent or breeding were asked. These most eagerly accepted the invitations, however sceptical they might declare themselves to be; they were none the less anxious to attend an entertainment where they hoped something marvellous might be disclosed.
More and more as this vexed and troubled century drew to the close was the mind of humanity disturbed and exasperated. Those who laughed in the loudest mockery were the most distracted and pained by the confusion of ancient dreads that lay beneath this modern agnosticism. After all, let the sage preach as he would, or the philosopher sneer as he might, there was so much that was not understood, there was so much that was mysterious abroad. And always, when someone like St. Germain, mysterious, powerful, performing what at least appeared to be miracles, came upon the scene, there was always the hope or the chance that there might be some discovery made of escape from the boredom and decay of the earth into a life for ever exciting, for ever full of youth and bloom.
Therefore this particular reception, that was given with much flamboyancy was well attended, and even those who had not received tickets of admission strove to pass the gates; but these were barred, courteously but firmly, by the lackeys of M. de St. Germain.
The apartment where the guests Were received was not large and was plainly hung with curtains of saffron-coloured velvet, lit by chandeliers of cut crystal on a puce towel in which were stuck tapers of pure white wax. The host himself (it was autumn) stood by the elegant fire on which glowed some logs that had burnt down then to a clear centre of scarlet and gold. He was attired in a prune-coloured velvet and the famous diamonds that were the curiosity and envy of all Paris lay in the form of a bar across the lace at his throat, fastened the cuffs of his shirt at the wrists, winked in the hilt of his small dress-sword and the clasps and buckles of his shoes. His hair, that was then powdered to a greenish shade, was raised high over a fantastic shape and fell in curls either side of his ears; in one of these hung a long brilliant drop, like frozen water. His face was carefully tinted and powdered, it had a look that was neither of age nor youth, but seemed stayed and stilled in its natural course.
One lady whispered to her neighbour with a shudder that it was nothing less than the countenance of a mummy; another declared, however, that he appeared like a blooming young man. But those who were frankest with themselves, admitted that the famous charlatan or magician, whatever he might be, had a ghastly and unearthly appearance as he stood between his own firelight and candlelight; with fingers that were long, thin and had a withered air, he offered sweetmeats of nuts and spices and yellow wine that he poured himself into twisted goblets of sapphire blue and emerald green or Venetian glasses shaped like bell-flowers and encrusted with gold.
Long had been his sojourn at Chambord, but he was well informed as to the gossip and politics of the day, and nothing could be said that he was not able to reply to at once and with the greatest and apropos wit.
The ladies who were nearest to him implored him to tell them one of hi? usual novelettes or stories, but he declined, saying that for the moment he had nothing to relate on those lines, being indeed weary of fiction.
He had been absorbed, he said, admitting as much with a thin smile, in experiments at the Château de Chambord, and he would be very glad to tell them the result of these, but prudence and expediency forbade.
There was a murmur of disappointment among the crowd who believed that they had been brought together that they might hear of some miracle.
The Comte de St. Germain observed this depression among the company and his deep set eyes glittered from one to another of those fair, handsome, worn, or jaded faces, and he asked, plainly:
"What is it you, all of you, desire? It seems that you are glutted, sated with everything that the world can offer. You are the flower of a brilliant nation, you possess all the gifts that the gods, I should have thought, could bestow. You are rich, idle, able to indulge every whim. You can pursue all the caprices that enter your mind. Philosophy, art, science, are all at your service, yet you come here to-night looking at me with eager expectancy, hoping that I will tell you of some miracle. Now, what is the miracle that you desire?"
As no one answered, the Comte de St. Germain took a pinch of snuff from his box of green amber and added with a sneer:
"I suppose that you would all reply—happiness? And yet none of you would be able to define what that is! I know that I have a reputation for searching for the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life. I have made no such pretensions."
They still were silent and he looked at them again, and the spark of his eye, that seemed to change from a grey-green to a blue-gold, was no means pleasing to the company, who many of them felt a chill over their flesh and quiver in their hearts as if they had been gazed at by a malevolent serpent.
The stranger, however, continued with a negligent air.
"Do any of you know the history of alchemy, die great men who have tried to follow this wonderful science down the ages, and the mistakes and errors they have made? Permit me, then, to enlighten you, and perhaps when we have discussed together those who have trodden this difficult path, we shall come a little nearer to understanding the goal."
"We know," protested a philosopher, who had (and he was the only one there who had done so) attended this festival with some reluctance, "that the science of alchemy is as old as the history of mankind, that it began in Persia, Arabia and China, where patient sages became withered endeavouring to make the most precious metal in the world and how to discover what poor misled humanity believes to be the most precious secret—that of preserving eternal youth."
M. de St. Germain bowed politely in his direction and said:
"That is understood. The Philosopher's Stone able to transmute baser metals into gold was what they went insane trying to find. You think that impossible? You know that you have often talked of me as a magician—do you think I am one? Able to find this stone?"
At this a wit muttered over his shoulder to his neighbour that the charlatan was no more than the son of a Hebrew rag-picker established in Bordeaux, who had some luck and much effrontery.
Either M. de St. Germain did not hear this aside or decided to ignore it, for he continued in his elegant tones:
"The first alchemists to whom I would refer are Albertus Magnus, and his friend, another considerable man, Thomas Aquinas. They lived some time in the thirteenth century and the last was the pupil of the first. Both were monks, but tiring of their religious duties they went secretly to discover the philosopher's Stone and the elixir vita. What they actually found remains a secret, yet it is clear they came upon some important knowledge. They animated a brazen statue that they had diligently made between them, and employed it to perform their menial work...
"It would run up and down stairs, fetch their meals, tidy their rooms, set their beds and even draw their diagrams and maps.
"It had, however, one defect." M. de St. Germain's glance that was then of a peculiar livid colour, slid round the ladies in the company. "It was continually talking of this and that, and of nothing at all. This monotonous voice that could not be stilled, angered the students. They tried many devices to silence their automatic servant, but none were successful.
"At last the matter came to a head when Thomas Aquinas, being engaged one day upon a problem of geometry and the brazen servant coming to him with his midday meal and talking incessantly of the gossip of the neighbourhood, the philosopher seized a large hatchet and broke the contraption into pieces.
"Albertus Magnus rebuked his pupil for giving way to a passion that was very unbecoming in a sage, but he agreed that the mechanical servant had become an intolerable nuisance, and there was no attempt to repeat the experiment. The alchemists waited on themselves until the disorder forced them to abandon the laboratory.
"Albertus Magnus certainly obtained a good deal of skill in matters that might have been considered miraculous, and had some reward for his concentration and diligence.
"On one occasion, it falling to his lot to entertain two travellers who were passing through Cologne (where he then resided), and he being desirous to obtain their favour, he used his occult powers to offer them some gratifying luxury.
"It was gloomy midwinter and the Rhine was a block of grey ice; the nobles and their retinue were in great discomfort, their toes being so frost-bitten that many of them could not ride on horseback but travelled in litters. The snow had fallen to the depth of several feet, and though for the moment there were no flakes in the sky, the heavens were overcast with that dull, dun hue that resembles the breast of a goose and portends a heavy storm.
"It was therefore with shivers and mutters of disgust that the two noblemen and their followers hobbled into the humble gates of the sage's house. All were in an ill humour and by no means disposed to grant any favours to the philosopher, who had, however, some to ask.
"Grumbling, cursing and shuddering, they came into the courtyard, grey and chill and full of slush. A bare table was spread, to their great wrath, in this open place, but Albertus Magnus begged for patience, persuaded the first of the gentlemen, William, Count of Holland, and King of the Romans, to take his place in the old, dirty chair at the head of this empty table that was set beneath some stunted, leafless elms.
"As he did so the atmosphere entirely changed. A genial sun drew up the grey and leaden-looking clouds, a warm and odorous breeze wafted the last trace of snow from the ground. The trees became covered with tender green leaves and reddest blossoms. All ice disappeared from the river, that bounded in blue and glittering waves through the rich landscape. Birds, with songs of pleasure, flew in the pure air.
"The feast was equal to the surroundings, every delicacy obtainable only in the mildest of seasons was put upon the table, the rarest of wines, the plumpest of fowls, the lightest of pastries were set before the Lords and their attendants. Their good humour was excessive and the King gave the magician what he required—a piece of ground outside the city on which to build a hermitage where he could study in peace.
"When the deed (that the sage had ready) was signed, Albertus Magnus conducted his noble guests upon their way. And then the miracle was over—or the hallucination was passed—for they were obliged to muffle themselves in their great-coats and leap quickly into the saddles, for winter was about them again, the snowstorm was in full blast, there were no leaves upon the trees, no singing birds in the air, a great wind howled dismally over the frozen Rhine, and the Lords and their retinues had to hasten on their frost-bitten beasts in an endeavour to keep themselves warm.
"You must not suppose that Thomas Aquinas was behind his master in the constant study of occultism. He lived also in Cologne and lodged in a street where there was much traffic, his laboratory gave upon a lane where the grooms were constantly exercising the horses from a ménage near by and the clatter upon the cobbles caused great annoyance to our studious philosopher.
"He pleaded for a little tranquillity, but the men only jeered at him for a tedious old pedant.
"He then resorted to other means and spent much time in making and casting a small horse of mingled metals on which he inscribed some potent signs.
"Quietly going out one dark night he prised up one of the cobblestones and buried the horse beneath.
"The next morning when the grooms and foot-boys came by with their string of steeds on their usual exercise, they could go no further than the place where the magic horse was buried. There the animals reared, plunged as if smitten with the most desperate horror and refused, even under the threat of whip and spur, to go one step further.
"The men soon suspected that the Devil had been at work, but did not connect this annoyance with the quiet philosopher who in his room above could be seen absorbed in his books. He, however, obtained his end, for the grooms decided that they would exercise their charges in another part of the city. And so Thomas Aquinas was permitted to follow his studies in peace.
"I must tell you," added M. de St. Germain with a sneer, "that this magician was a Dominican monk and very assiduous in his duties towards the Church. One of his friends was a celebrated physician who was absorbed in the' same studies, and who must not be forgotten in any history of alchemy. He travelled in Italy and effected many cures that were supposed to be miraculous. He wrote a book," added M. de St. Germain with emphasis, "that should be of peculiar interest to all of you, and one that I must confess I have myself found of value. It is entitled The Practice of Medicine. It was the author's intention to present this effort to the Pope, who suffered from a complication of diseases, but he died without this wish being fulfilled and his work long lay hidden in manuscript in a chest neglected in an attic, but finally fell into the hands of a Monsieur Longeville Harcourt, who used it as the basis for his treatise 'The History of the Persons who have lived for centuries.'"
A thrill went through the audience. Was M. de St. Germain about to disclose his terrible, yet fascinating secret? He smiled at their eagerness, that even the most sophisticated were not able to disguise.
"There can be no doubt," said he, "that this physician had discovered how to make people live, as Harcourt says in his treatise, several centuries. Why not?"
"It is against Nature," muttered one of the company, and another, scarcely trying to disguise his anxiety demanded: "Monsieur de St. Germain, since you have read this book, as it appears, will you tell us the means by which we may be enabled to live several hundred years?
"Monsieur de Villeneuve and Alaine Delisle also wrote books upon the possibility of a human being obtaining several centuries of life. Both these adepts were able to produce vast quantities of gold from copper and other base metals, both prophesied the end of the world in the year 1800."
"In that, surely," exclaimed one of the sceptics present, "they were mistaken?"
"No doubt some of these prophecies may be taken in a symbolical manner, but that a great deal of attention was given to Monsieur de Villeneuve's essay on longevity may be learned from the fact that Pope Clement V wrote a circular letter to all the clergy of Europe ordering them to search out by every possible means for this famous treatise. However, it escaped their diligent search and I believe that I am possessed of the only copy now existing in the world."
With that he stretched out his long hand, that had a white livid gloss in the mingled glow of the firelight and the wax candles, and took down from the gilt shelf by the chimney-piece a small volume bound in wood with brass clasps. Opening it at a place from which a purple marker hung, he read out in a negligent voice:
"'The person intending to prolong his life must rub himself well two or three times a week with the juice of cacia-nut oil. Every night upon going to bed he must put upon his heart a plaster composed of a certain quantity of Orient saffron, red roses, sandalwood, aloes, and amber, liquefied in oil of roses and the best white wax. In the morning he must take it off and enclose it carefully in a leaden box until the next night, when it must be again applied.
"'If he be of a sanguine temperament he shall take sixteen chickens, if phlegmatic, twenty-five, and if melancholy, thirty, which he shall put into a yard where the air and water are pure. Upon these he is to feed, eating one a day, but previously the chickens are to be fattened by a peculiar mixture which will impregnate their flesh with the qualities that are to produce longevity in the eater. Being deprived of all other nourishment until they are almost dying of hunger, they are to be fed upon broth made of serpents and vinegar, this broth is to be thickened with wheat and bran and the chickens are to be fed upon it for two months. They are then fit for table and are to be washed down with moderate quantities of good white wine or honey.
"'This diet is to be followed carefully every seven years, and anyone doing so may live to be as old as Methuselah.'"
Upon hearing this fantastic and trivial remedy for old age and death, most of the company looked affronted and believed either that their host was playing a jest upon them or that he was leading them up to some point where he should discover his malignancy or his magic; they therefore had an air at once scornful and wary.
But some of the ladies appeared impressed and tried to scribble down on their tablets the recipe that M. de St. Germain had given them.
He proceeded at once, however, taking no notice of any of their emotions, with his history of the alchemists. He mentioned Pietro d'Apone, who accumulated a magnificent fortune by foretelling the future and curing diseases.
Such was his skill that he had captured seven evil spirits that he kept confined in seven magical bottles of bluish crystal. These fiends had considerable talents—in philosophy, in alchemy, in astronomy, in physics, in poetry, in music, and in painting—and each obeyed their master in their several capacities when he unstoppered their bottles.
M. de St. Germain gave no further particulars of the life of this alchemist that were, he admitted, rather dismal, but glanced at the great name of Raymond Lull, who was born of a noble family in Majorca. Being of aristocratic birth he easily obtained the appointment of Grand Seneschal at the Court and there led a life of pleasure that was in no way different from that of any other brilliant and well-born young man of his time, until he was turned by a sudden shock to higher things.
Pursuing, for he was always inconstant to his wife, a mournful but beautiful woman who had wholly taken his fancy, she revealed to him that she was dying of a dreadful disease. This so impressed him that he renounced the world and retiring into solitude endeavoured to put himself into communication with spirits. It is believed that he lived for many years in complete solitude in the mountains, that he undertook pilgrimages to holy shrines, that he learnt Arabic in order to be able to converse with and, in time, convert Mahomet.
However true this may be, it is certain that in his middle age he began to roam over Europe stopping at cities where he would practise philosophy, astrology and alchemy for a while. During his travels, that still remain obscure, for he went under various names and guises, he came to the court of King Edward II of England. This monarch, who was most unfortunate in all his affairs, gave the foreigner a handsome set of apartments in the noble Tower of London, and there Raymond Lull made ingots of red gold to supply King Edward with the means of making war upon the Infidels.
"It must be admitted," added the Comte de St. Germain carelessly, "that some writers declare that Raymond Lull advised the King to lay a tax upon wool and that this produced the millions which furnished the weapons of war to be used against the heathen. However this may be, after a while he left the sumptuous chambers that had been prepared for him in the Tower and moved to another palace, that of Westminster, attached to the Abbey of St. Peter, where he found a fast friend in the Abbot, one John Cremer, who had already spent many years in a search that had not so far proved successful, for the Philosopher's Stone.
"Lull informed the Englishman it was no use asking for his help as the discovery of this mighty secret must be made single-handed. The Abbot, however, fitted him up with a cell in the Abbey and gave him all the apparatus, furnace and limbecks that he needed for his experiments, treating him with the greatest kindness and indulgence.
"There Lull lived for many a year, protected by the King and the Abbot, and, as the stories say, making many millions of pounds worth of gold. He stated that during his retreat in Westminster it was usual for him to turn fifty-thousand pounds' worth of quicksilver, lead and pewter into the precious ingots in the course of a few weeks; the gold thus magically obtained was distinguished by the name of Rose Noble from the more common metal.
"When Raymond Lull was extremely old, and perhaps in his dotage, he left the protection of the Abbot of Westminster and the King of England and wandered to Rome, where he visited the Pontiff and endeavoured to persuade His Holiness on certain matters that are still secret; the Pontiff did not at all kindly receive this advice, whatever it was.
"Much disappointed, the aged alchemist withdrew from the Holy City and returned to the East where he roused the fury of the infidels by roundly and openly cursing their Prophet, a personage whom he regarded as of infernal origin.
"Being maltreated by these wretches when he was preaching to them, he was rescued by some Italian mariners who carried him on board their ship, where he died a few hours before the vessel came to one of his native ports, regretting to the last the obstinacy of the Pope and the blindness of the infidels.
"Lull was buried near his birthplace and miracles were soon worked at his massive tomb, which was built of black and white marble enriched with gold-work.
"He left five hundred volumes, all on occult subjects, not one of which remain.
"I think I have told you how Thomas Aquinas and his master, Albertus Magnus, made a brass servant between them and how one of them, the student, in a fit of temper, destroyed this automaton because it kept continually chattering.
"The same result was obtained by Roger Bacon, who was a monk of the order of St. Francis and a student at the University of Oxford. It was commonly believed that he had a close link with the Devil, and so it may have been, for he made many curious inventions, many of which perhaps would have been better left alone—the telescope, the convex and concave lenses, the magic lantern, the burning-glasses, and gunpowder, all these vexations of tranquillity are blamed to this erudite Englishman. But none of his marvels was thought so much of as the metal servant who ran up and down stairs and was very diligent, but whom he was forced to destroy in a moment of spleen because it would continually repeat the senseless gossip of the colleges, though it was said that (unlike Albertus Magnus and Thomas Aquinas) he profoundly regretted afterwards the loss of this useful and unpaid servitor.
"He also manufactured in his rooms on Folly Bridge with the help of his assistants, a brass head that they hoped would be able to predict the future. Placing this upon the table and making all the necessary incantations, they waited impatiently for it to speak.
"The head announced in a deep and sonorous voice: 'Time was,' and, after a pause, 'Time is.' Then again, after a lapse, 'Time shall be.'
"Irritated at this tedious delay in answering his questions, which had been some pertinent queries as to the future of the world and the destiny of mankind, Roger Bacon struck the brass head so that it fell off the table into a thousand pieces and never spoke again.
"I could tell you a great deal more of this wonderful man, but must turn rapidly from his career to that of another alchemist who lived in the same century and was a pupil of the philosopher whom we have already mentioned, Arnold de Villeneuve. This was a Frenchman who became Pope John XII; he lived in Avignon, where he had a celebrated laboratory in which he employed some of the most skilful workers of the day. They were supposed to have easily found the way of transmuting metals. He kept his experiments very secret and when raised to the Papacy even issued Bulls against the alchemists, although the adepts always declared that these were not intended for the true philosophers but merely for Charlatans and pretenders.
"This Pope lived in sumptuous state and his entertainments were of royal dignity. But what convinced the world that he had some extraordinary means of obtaining wealth was that after his death no less than twenty million florins were found in his vaults. And it was not thought possible that even with the greatest industry and the most adroit chicanery (that he doubtless possessed) he would have been able to accumulate such a treasure.
"He wrote many books in which strange secrets are disguised in specious terms, but to no one did he divulge the recipe for making gold or for living for centuries which last indeed none of these adepts seem to have discovered."
At this point in his narrative M. de St. Germain paused and a chill, even a gloom, fell upon the company as if a cloud and snow had passed through the chamber.
The liveried servants came in, piled the aromatic logs on to the fire and took round the refreshments, amber wine, Naples cakes of the choicest variety on silver filigree platters and trays of painted porcelain.
"You have all heard," continued the host, "of two countrymen of yours, Jean de Meung and Nicolas Flamel, who were honoured at the courts of your kings, and who knew the secret of making gold. The first was a poet and the second a tradesman, who began life as a public scribe. He was a pious man and I believe that the almshouses that he built with some of his magic gold may still be seen in Paris. He has himself left behind a description of the ancient book that he bought by chance on a stall for a couple of florins. This was written with a steel instrument from the bark of trees and contained twenty-one leaves, three times seven. The Latin script was very elegant, each seventh leaf was a picture; the first was a serpent swallowing rods, the second a Cross with a serpent crucified, and on the third the representation of a desert in the midst of which was a mountain with serpents crawling from side to side; the description of the others is lost.
"The book was held to be sacred and to be written by Abraham, and it was inscribed with curses upon those who should look upon it with casual or blasphemous eyes.
"After years of study of this treatise, and much patient and diligent research, Nicolas Flamel believed himself in possession of the great secret. You must understand that twenty-one years of weary toil had gone by before he was able to grasp the symbolism of the pictures and the meaning of the writing that accompanied them.
"He had a friend who helped him in this work, but the story is too long for me to entertain you with it now. Sufficient to say that this man did discover how to make gold and that he put all his wealth to honest means. He also discovered how to live well, and in full enjoyment of all his faculties until he was about a hundred-and-fifty years old."
The account of Nicolas Flamel greatly interested the French audience, who had seen themselves the almshouses that the alchemist had endowed, and who had heard in their native cities accounts of his great age and the wealth that he had accumulated by mysterious means:
"No doubt whatever," repeated M. de St. Germain, "this man knew the secret of making gold. And this fact refutes those who believe that alchemy is one of the black arts, for Flamel endowed churches as well as almshouses. One of them is St. Jacques de la Boucherie, which no doubt you have observed in the rue de Marivaux. It was in this street that he had his permanent residence, though during his lifetime he journeyed round various parts of the Kingdom. He built fourteen hospitals for the cure of leprosy ana suchlike diseases as were common in his time. He also raised three chapels in which Masses were to be perpetually recited for his soul and for that of his wife."
"It could not then," lisped one of the ladies, "be said that he had employed in ill fashion the wealth that he had gathered by means of his ancient book, but how unfortunate that he did not leave behind a complete receipt whereby others might have come into possession of his miraculous secret!"
"You may suppose," replied M. de St. Germain, "that during his life he was visited by all the famous philosophers, alchemists and doctors of the day. They all discovered that he made no display of his wealth, but lived meekly, was clad humbly and ate no more than porridge and soup. As to his secret, he was no more willing to reveal this than had been any of his predecessors.
"His Majesty himself—I believe he was King Charles VII, heard of the philosopher's fame and sent one of his most adroit spies, who endeavoured to discover from Monsieur Flamel the recipe for making gold. But in vain."
"Always in vain," murmured one of the sceptics present, taking a pinch of snuff and after that a sip of the golden wine that M. de St. Germain so freely included in his superb hospitality.
"It should be said of His Majesty," continued M. de St. Germain, unperturbed, "that although his agent learnt nothing from his visit to the alchemist, he left Monsieur Flamel undisturbed in his studies and his charities.
"I believe it was somewhere in the second decade of the fifteenth century that he lost his cherished wife, whose name was Petronella, who had been for long his constant companion and was even supposed to help him in his researches. He did not survive her for many months. They lived to extreme age and were buried with great magnificence in the church that he had so magnificently endowed—St. Jacques de la Boucherie."
"It is true," remarked one of the gentlemen present, "that this Nicolas Flamel is an historical character and that he left a considerable treasure behind. But there is, however, a practical explanation given for his being enabled to amass so much of this world's goods. It is believed that he was a usurer, that his journeys abroad were undertaken to collect debts due from Jews in Spain and Arabia, that he was a universal moneylender and link between bankers and their clients and that he charged a commission of fully ten per cent in consideration of the difficulty of collecting and the danger of the journeys. When one adds to this the fact that he was a miser who lived practically on nothing and that he was able to invest his own moneys in the best securities of the time one need not, surely, look towards magic or the marvels of the Philosopher's Stone to account for the wealth that he undoubtedly left behind."
M. de St. Germain smiled darkly and did not reply, while another sceptic took up the story by remarking:
"It would be in keeping that one of Nicolas Flamel's temperament, who had made all his money in these diverse byways, should be somewhat remorseful and desirous of making amends to the Heaven in which he believed by building churches and chapels and raising a rich tomb for himself and his wife. Then may we not, Monsieur de Saint Germain, suppose that this story is as likely to be true as the other? And," added he, with a daring, sidelong look, "may we not suppose that in pomades, in cochineal, in the art of making dyes, of washing diamonds, of manufacturing pearls and gems there lies as much wealth as in the Philosopher's Stone?"
This was supposed by the company to be a home thrust that would be greatly resented and many of them were fearful, in case M. de St. Germain indeed possessed some infernal powers. But their host only bowed calmly and said that it might be so indeed and that there were always these matter-of-fact tales to account for what seemed supernatural.
"Allow me, however," he added, "to continue with my story, which is no less than a brief history of alchemy. We will put by for the moment the disputation as to whether or not Monsieur Nicolas Flamel was possessed of the secret of the Philosopher's Stone, or whether he was a skilful usurer who went from capital to capital of Europe collecting dues for others and for himself.
"Only a few years ago," he continued casually, "there was a poem printed in Paris that was supposed to be by Nicolas Flamel and that was on the subject of alchemy. It is called the 'Philosophic Summary,' and indeed, it is possible that he is still alive, for he prophesied that he would live at least six hundred years, and perhaps it was but a wax effigy that was buried in the sumptuous tomb he had prepared for himself in the church that he had so handsomely endowed."
At this remark, which was given with full emphasis and sinister effect, several members of the company desired the lackeys to snuff the candles that were giving out a sulphurous and gloomy light. When this was done and cheerfulness restored to the salon, their spirits rose and they urged M. de St. Germain to continue his conversation, though some of the ladies whispered that it was possible that their host was himself this M. Flamel who had lived three hundred years ago in Paris. "Only," they murmured, "it does not seem as if he uses his wealth for endowing churches and forwarding good works but rather to ostentation and display. However, let us listen to what further he has to relate."
A gentleman then put in his word and observed that "the house occupied by M. Flamel was still standing at the corner of the rue de Mariveaux and that it had been often taken on short leases by greedy and credulous persons who had ransacked it from cellar to attic in the hope of discovering some magic papers or secret hoards of gold and treasure. And they found, I suppose," queried M. de St. Germain.
"Nothing," admitted the gentleman, "save in the cellars several large pots that were filled with a dun-coloured sticky paste. This, however, proved to be of no interest or value and there was a heavy bill to pay to the owner of the house by one tenant who almost pulled the place to pieces in his desperate search."
M. de St. Germain bowed as if pleased at hearing this anecdote and continued smoothly with his history of alchemy. He mentioned a British adept, the famous George Ripley, who was a Yorkshireman who studied to the prime of life at the universities of Pisa and Paris and then returned home possessed of strange and possibly forbidden knowledge, and at an opportune moment, for when he arrived in London the act that had been passed in 1404 forbidding the making of gold and silver, and declaring even attempts at the transmutation of metals to be felony, had been repealed because the King, then beset by civil strife, was anxious to find some alchemist who could produce bunion as rapidly as had Albertus Magnus when in Westminster. The Council and Parliament had already given many various patents to learned citizens of London, to chemists and monks, permitting them, without fear of persecution, to pursue their search for the Philosopher's Stone.
So George Ripley found many eager workers, many of them unqualified, concerned in this difficult study. This might have seemed a chance for our alchemist; but the King who had from the first much doubted whether gold could ever be made had finally appointed a Commission of learned men to enquire into the qualifications of anyone offering to engage in the transmutation of metals, not desiring to put himself to any such test, George Ripley returned to the Continent and, by what divers ways is not known, became a domestic chaplain and close intimate with Pope Innocent VIII.
However, in the year 1477 he decided once more to go to his native land, and brought with him a book that he had been long in preparing, which he presented to the handsome young Yorkist King, Edward IV, himself a magician; this volume was most finely written, emblazoned, and decorated, the title was The Twelve Gates Leading to the Discovery of the Philosopher's Stone.
"It is useless," remarked M. de St. Germain, "to trouble you with the names of these twelve gates, which are in learned terms that no longer have much meaning. But what impressed His Majesty (who was luxurious and expensive) far more than the learned treaty was the wealth that George Ripley was able to display.
"He maintained himself on an extremely lavish scale, had well-fed, well-liveried domestics in his large retinue and lacked for nothing. The King heard also the report, which was very substantially confirmed, that Ripley had, in his travels, given to the Knights of Rhodes and Malta the sum of one hundred thousand pounds in gold to equip them in their struggle against the Pagans.
"I regret that little more is known of this great alchemist, what was his luck at the court of the extravagant monarch and his voluptuous queen, Elizabeth Woodville? We last hear of him as an anchorite dwelling in a cell on the marshes near Boston in Lincolnshire, there he spent his time writing; the rustic who attended his death-bed was given this strange injunction that all the manuscript should be burnt, unread, for Ripley declared that he had wasted his life in a vain study. The peasant cast the books to the flames, fearing the Devil had had a hand in composing them.
"There are many other alchemists of this period that I must pass over, not wishing to detain you until the dawn, but we must mention Bernard of Treves, who devoted his entire existence to this science, from the age of thirteen years to that of eighty-eight he never for more than half-an-hour left his laboratory, where he was incessantly employed with drugs and experiments. What was he endeavouring to find? Was he successful? He left a vast fortune to his son, who squandered it in aimless pleasures.
"Bernard's story is long and complicated and I shall not attempt to relate it now, save to add that, at the age of eighty-nine he wandered all over the world spying with curious eyes into all the foibles, weaknesses and extravagances of mankind, and died in a wayside inn of a glut of cherries. He had several pupils of his own disposition who helped him in his labours, but of these I have no time to speak.
"There are, I may say, many curious anecdotes and particulars that would seem to you fantastic about Bernard and his followers, but I must pass to John Hidenberg, who called himself by a Latin form of the place where he was born, Triphemius.
"He was from early years of studious mind, and not being able to afford a candle worked often by the light of the moon that was very suitable to his kind of research. His father, a poor vine-grower, was in very miserable circumstances, and John left him, wandered far and then, on a night of fearful storm, reached a monastery where he took shelter; the monks received him as a novice, and there he remained, so gaining on the brethren by his piety and obedience that he was after many years elected abbot.
"He had found the establishment in the most wretched condition, but by his good management and tact restored it to a certain magnificence. Not forgetting his ancient love of learning, he set his monks to work to supply the monastery with a library, which, through diligence in the course of a few years they did, writing out in thir own hands no less than fifty volumes, all enriched with valuable miniatures and initial letters of gold and silver.
"While his flock were thus employed, the Abbot was occupying himself with the occult sciences. He left several books on sorcery, some of which were translated by the celebrated William Lilly, nearly two hundred years, unless my memory misleads me, later.
"It was supposed that the sudden prosperity of the Abbey that had flourished so under John's management, was caused by his knowledge of turning the baser metals into gold. The Abbot was believed to be possessed of many dark secrets of magic, including that of necromancy, and it was commonly related of him that when the frenzied Maximilian resorted to him after the death of his wife from a fall from her horse, the Abbot, taking pity upon the Prince's misery, worked his spells and such powerful incantations, that Mary of Burgundy, robed and crowned, rose from her tomb and for the dreadful space of a few seconds, faced her husband again, at which he shrieked, fled, and wished that he had not meddled with the invisible world."
At this, related in M. de St. Germain's most impressive tones, the company shuddered; he gave his thin smile and added that it was in the works of this adept that mention was first made of the story of Doctor Faustus who had had a bargain with the Devil, and that it was certain that after the abbot's death his writings were judged to be pernicious, and even devilish and, by the command of the Count Palatine, Frederick II, were taken from his library and burnt.
This Abbot also admitted freely that he had a favourite spirit whom he named Hudekin, who at times tormented him and at other times assisted him in his studies.
"But," added M. de St. Germain, "if you consider this story in any degree horrible, I fear that you will be more terrified by what I am about to relate to you. And yet I suppose that the character of whom I am about to speak is well known to most of you. I mean Monsieur le Maréchal de Rais."
Silence clouded his audience; they were not very willing to have this subject touched upon, after all, the diabolic character who had been mentioned had not lived so very long ago as far as the annals of great families went, and some of these might be descended from him, and whatever the truth might be as to his skill in alchemy or the black arts, his crimes were very clearly indicated in the law records of France.
M. de St. Germain, however, had no compassion on these side glances and hesitancies but gave briefly the history of Gilles de Laval, Lord of Rais and Maréchal de France. He was born into the most ancient and proudest families of Brittany, a near kinsman of all the great ones of the time, and came at an early age into an inheritance that was one that a King might have envied him. He had been well trained in all sports, arts, graces, was attractive in his person, learned, courageous and of fascinating manners. Eagerly rallying to the standard of his sovereign, he placed his vast possessions, his great influence, his resplendent personal qualities at the service of Charles VII, whom he served so zealously that he was rewarded with the title of Maréchal de France, then, as now, the highest in the French Army.
The wars being over, and he having received his due honours and rewards, he retired to his castle at Champtoce. There he dispensed his enormous wealth in magnificent living. He did not disband, now that the English had been expelled from France, the picked troop of brilliant horsemen that had accompanied him in all his campaigns, but retained it as a personal bodyguard; extravagantly accoutred, they always accompanied him on his hunting and hawking expeditions, while the liveries of his retainers and the caparisons of his coursers were of such splendour as to amaze the many guests, for he dispensed an extravagant hospitality. His superb castle never had any of the gates or doors closed; any who passed might share the exotic food, the costly drink, the soft beds, the rare amusements of Gilles de Laval, Lord of Rais and Maréchal of France.
Nor was his generosity confined to knights and ladies, or even to clerks and pilgrims; the meanest mendicant, the most wretched wayfarer was given the choicest wines and meats before he was once more set upon his way, so that the prodigality of the Château de Champtoce, where stewards and cooks daily undertook to provide for no less than five hundred persons, became proverbial in France.
Nor was the Lord of Rais remiss in his spiritual devotions; his chapel, the most superb in France, glittered far more brightly with precious stones than the most magnificent cathedrals in the land; the chandeliers were of the finest red gold, exquisitely inlaid with silver, the walls were hung without with purple Genoese velvet and azure damask in which was interwoven threads of bullion. Above the altar (of pure sparkling crystal) was a massive crucifix made of wrought and foliated silver of the most skilful workmanship; all the other furniture of the chapel, the incense burners and the chalices were the finest materials, agate, lapis, sardonyx, and what was more important, of the most graceful design and the product of the best craftsmen of Italy.
The music heard in this chapel was the most melodious in
France, the Maréchal employed a choir of fifty young boys who, selected for their pale blond hair, tender faces and delicate voice looked like choirs of angels in their lace smocks when they sang the elaborate hymns of the ritual of the Church of Rome.
M. de Rais had a portable organ that was painted in Italy with scenes of Paradise, and this was carried by six men in blue livery from one castle to another when he travelled. It was used for the services in the Château de Champtoce when he was in residence there, then some of the first musicians of Italy and France came to instruct his choir and to play on his organ, so that anyone who considered himself to be of taste did not believe his education complete unless he had visited M. de Rais's famous chapel.
To maintain this holy place M. de Rais had a Bishop, and under him a dean, archdeacons and vicars; all these priests received handsome salaries and were expected to be active in their care of the chapel; if they did not at once amend whatever had been complained of by their master, they were dismissed and others put in their places.
As far as secular amusements went, M. de Rais was equally unrivalled. He kept a troupe of Italian players for opera, comedy, and buffoonery, ballet singers, dancing girls, and boys, jugglers, and a variety of mountebanks and clowns. A stage was set up with elaborate machinery for theatrical effects on the dais of the great Hall in which he entertained his more distinguished guests.
There every night some drama, pageant or show was performed for the diversion of such of the household as cared to witness it, or of those who were sharing the hospitality of the château or for the passing away the weary hours of the Maréchal himself.
"Weary hours, I say, and it is true that the lord of all this fantastic wealth was often distracted and seemed to be under some weight of care. It is often so with those who are enabled to enjoy all the splendours of this world and to peer into many of the secrets of the next world.
"Yet the private life of Gilles de Laval was fortunate; he had married Catherine, an heiress of the splendid family of Touar, and to please her when he returned from the wars he refurnished his castle with yet more magnificent hangings; sent all over Europe for expensive singers and costly dancers and in her honour gave elaborate tournaments in his vast courtyard, where every ten days all the knights of the province of Brittany met in passages of arms.
"The wanton extravagance of Gilles de Laval became a byword in Brittany; the reigning Duke himself was not half so wealthy, and people began to look askance, yes, even those who most enjoyed this luxury, on this unparalleled luxury. Whence did it come? How was it provided?
"There were whispers of leagues with the Devil, of alchemical experiments, of searches for the Philosopher's Stone, for Gilles de Laval was so careless that any crafty hanger-on who chose to ingratiate himself into the castle might receive a rich dole of meat, wine, and even money without rendering any service in return.
"So, as the years went by and neither the expenditure nor the pleasures of the Maréchal diminished, there was a certain blight clouded the reputation of this mighty noble. It was observed that he often retired for days together to his private chambers or laboratory and that when he did appear at his gilded board, though his discourse was as reasonable, his sallies witty as ever, yet there was a wildness in his look and a sombre frown upon his brow that had not been there when he had first returned from the wars.
"The charming singers, the exquisite dancing-girls, the brilliant actresses who had hitherto known how to beguile him from dull or tedious moods no longer had any effect upon him. Nor could the priests, who besought him to tell them if any shadow lay upon his soul, make any way with him.
"His wife withdrew into her own apartments, and presently died, unregarded by the lord who had once been her lover.
"There was nothing against Monsieur de Rais, yet his wealth was too spectacular, his expenditure too tremendous; there was something of an unearthly and ghastly brilliance that seemed unhallowed about the splendour of this Breton noble.
"The King sent messengers to make discreet enquiries as to how this gentleman who though he had distinguished himself in the wars and who was known to be of enormous wealth, was able to maintain a scale of costly expenditure that seemed without parallel, and so beyond what even his resources should have commanded.
"His Majesty received, however, no satisfaction; the wife of the Maréchal he was told had been a pious lady and discreet; it had soon appeared, however, to those who endeavoured to pry into the affairs of the illustrious couple, that she had little or no influence on her husband and she had dwelt much apart and spent a great deal of her time in prayers, and died suddenly, of a wasting melancholy.
"So the years went on and the pointed turrets and massive walls of the château Gilles de Rais began to acquire a sinister repute that prevented any save the boldest from passing them after nightfall.
"Stories that were without confirmation and yet were able to cause a tremor in the breasts of all save the most hardy, of spirits seen flitting underneath the darkling trees, of supernatural lights appearing in the topmost windows, began to spread across Brittany, and those who valued their present health and their future spiritual welfare, avoided the extensive grounds of Gilles de Rais, save in the broad light of day.
"At the same time as the Maréchal's reputation began to be thus more deeply smirched, a series of miserable crimes caused a shock of horror throughout the countryside; these atrocities were reported to the Maréchal and he expressed astonishment and indignation that it should be possible such villainies were taking place in the Duchy of Brittany while he was one of the most powerful nobles there.
"He promised all his aid in pursuing the perpetrators of such ghastly deeds and often sent out his troop of horse and his huntsmen in an attempt to discover the criminals, but always without success.
"What were these crimes? The disappearance of young children, boys and girls going to and from school or playing in fields or romping in the country roads on the way from one relative's house to another, who vanished as suddenly as if the unseen folk had taken them into thin air.
"Now I do not know, since the time is long past when it would be possible to make accurate enquiries into this affair, how it was that the name of this handsome, learned, polished and wealthy gentleman began to be associated with what was so horrible and so vulgar, but certain it was that children were warned not to pass round the château after nightfall, and whenever it was possible they were only sent out with a strong escort if they had to go anywhere near the grounds of Gilles de Laval.
"While these gloomy rumours were darkening the fame of the extravagant noble there came a crisis in his material fortune. Having exhausted his capital, he offered some of his estate for sale to the Duke of Burgundy, a careful Prince who was willing to come to terms with the impoverished Maréchal and to drive a good bargain.
"The King of France, however, was importuned by the heirs of this property (distant relations of the Maréchal, who had no son) to prevent the sale, and did so by an edict which was confirmed by the Parliament of Brittany.
"Thus faced with ruin, for he regarded any retrenchment in his pleasures as impossible, Gilles de Laval resolved to seek in alchemy the gold that was absolutely necessary for the maintenance of his enormous, costly and thriftless establishment.
"It is now necessary to introduce two of the Maréchal's intimates—Gilles de Fillet and Roger de Bricqueville.
"When the Lady Catherine, perhaps fortunately for herself, had died forlornly in the sumptuous and extravagant castle, she had left no heir but one sickly daughter, who was thus the sole inheritor of these ruined fortunes and this tarnished name.
"Such as the child was, she might still be counted an important personage, and her father promised her hand with a division of his estates, to Roger de Bricqueville if he should be able to save Gilles de Rais's fortune by the discovery of the art of making gold.
"The child was then little more than an infant, and Roger was not then very tempted by the promise. He did not know how when in ten, twelve or fifteen years' time when the girl was marriageable, he might be himself placed, and there were the heirs presumptive to reckon with. But he signed the document in which the Maréchal gave the child's future into his charge; this allowed him to marry her to whom he would or to take her himself to wife if it suited him, when she was marriageable—if she lived—and this seemed unlikely.
"Having thus made his bargain with his master de Bricqueville, with the assistance of Fillet, sent messengers to all the capitals of Europe and invited any such Adepts as then might be practising magic to come to the château of Monsieur Gilles de Laval, where, it was promised, they would have honourable treatment.
"You must understand that these two men, adventurers as they may seem, were yet possessed of considerable culture and learning, and that their master, however far he may have gone then on the road to damnation, was also a man of astute intelligence. He did not offer the reward of the heiress's hand for any easy task. He believed that these two would, through their connections in Europe, discover an alchemist who would be able to manufacture gold and thus he could continue the life of the château according to his standards of easy splendour.
"Several alchemists were thus brought from different countries and took up their residence in the castle; the foremost was an Italian, Prelati, who had long studied at the University of Padua and enjoyed great renown, and a Frenchman who had, with brilliant éclat, practised medicine in Poitou. Many other pretenders to the science of alchemy joined these two notable guests, and at one time forty alchemists were working in Gilles de Laval's laboratories. As they were well housed, fed, and paid they made little haste in their experiments.
"Monsieur de Rais, however, was not one to be easily beguiled or lightly fooled. His affairs approached a climax and on a sudden he dismissed all the alchemists save Prelati and the doctor of medicine from Poitou. These two had convinced the Maréchal that they were certainly able to discover the secret of the Philosopher's Stone if they had a laboratory sufficiently elaborate and enough time and diligence were allowed them, the first by the man who employed them, the second by their natural characters, to pursue their tremendous tasks.
"No sooner, however, had all the other alchemists left the château than the doctor from Poitou presented to Monsieur de Rais a startling proposition. It was no less than this—that as the secret of making gold had not yet been discovered by any human being, might it not be as well to attempt to raise the Devil, who surely had this information as well as any other?
"Monsieur de Rais saw no objection to this course, as was afterwards proved, he had already gone far in evil and did not blench before this suggestion. He declared himself, in return for the wealth which would enable him to purchase the pleasures that were dearer to him than life, willing to come into any bargain with the Devil save that of giving him his soul, and the doctor of medicine agreed that an arrangement might be made with the arch-fiend which would exclude the fear of eternal damnation.
"On a certain wild evening in October the two of them went into a deep wood that lay on a slope beneath the château, and after the proper pentagram and other forms had been drawn on the ground by the physician and the proper incantations muttered the physician fell into a trance and dropped struggling on to the ground, his eyes staring, his hair on end.
"Monsieur de Rais looked on this display with contempt. He was expecting to see the apparition of a frightful fiend and beheld nothing but the form of his paid servant writhing in some manner of convulsion.
"When the medical man came to his senses he asked the Maréchal if he had not observed how offended and hideous the fiend had appeared?
"Monsieur de Rais replied that he had observed nothing, upon which the physician said that no less a devil than Beelzebub had appeared in the form of a leopard, who, growling most violently, had declared that he could not be of any assistance to Monsieur de Rais while that personage held back something—his own soul.
"The Maréchal was impressed by this account, he had always heard that it was hopeless to make a bargain with the Devil unless he was prepared to offer what the fiend most coveted—an immortal soul. Monsieur de Rais, however, refused, after a certain hesitation, to bind himself to eternal damnation.
"The physician then declared that the fined had said that if he, the medical man, were to go to Spain and Africa and procure certain herbs there, he might on his return to the château be able to discover the secret of making gold; in order to undertake this journey he required considerable funds, these Gilles de Rais at once provided and the French doctor departed from the château that evening, never to be seen again.
"Although this business was a palpable fraud it did not deter the frantic nobleman from his endeavours to procure the gold that would alone enable him to continue the life that he found so delightful. He believed that in endeavouring to enter into a league with the Devil he was on the right path and, often went out alone again to the forest, made the magic circles, uttered the grim combinations that were given in die grimoire, but all to no purpose. Neither Beelzebub nor any other devil appeared.
"At last he sought out Prelati, who was still at the château and put the case to Mm."
M. de St. Germain's audience, who had received this narrative with cries of horror, now declared that they did not wish to hear any more of this frightful story, which was only too well known to them. Had it not even undergone a change and become a fairy-tale, one that was used to quiet naughty children?
"It is an ancient monster, Bluebeard!" exclaimed one of the noble dames with a thrill of awe and alarm. "Did he not tint his hair and beard, if indeed he wore any, of an azure colour, and did he not appear in this fantastic guise at his trial?"
"So, indeed, I believe," replied M. de St. Germain, "but owing to pressing business I was not able to be present myself at this historic event."
At this confession, the company exchanged glances; was the man trying to fool them, or was he indeed spiking from a lapse of memory. He continued, however, without a pause.
"No, I was not present but I have first-hand accounts of what took place. At first, Monsieur de Rais, who had been arrested on a charge of sorcery and murder, displayed the utmost insolence, defying his judges, who were, you must understand, the chancellor of Brittany, who was the Bishop of Nantes, the Vicar of the Holy Inquisition in France, and the President of the Provincial Parliament, who was himself a well-known personage, being no less than Pierre l'Hôpital.
"The Maréchal, as I have said, bore himself with great bravado, defying the authority of those on the bench and declaring them all to be possessed of evil demons. He made a superb figure, so I am told by my friends, in his robe of crimson and purple velvet, with his hair and beard that he wore trimmed and spade-shaped dyed a light blue and his eyes sparkling with what seemed to be an infernal lustre.
"A large amount of evidence was taken that, having regard to the feelings of the fair sex present, I shall not relate. Suffice it to say that as usual those who had been in his employ were quite ready, now that he was fallen, to turn against him, and in order to save their own necks, to put his into the rope."
"Was it true," interrupted one of the company with great trepidation, "that he had indeed trapped and murdered over a hundred children, young girls and youths, using them as sacrifices in the woods of his château?"
"No matter what was proved," replied M. de St. Germain, "Monsieur de Rais was convicted of black magic and witchcraft and condemned with Prelati, the Italian, his accomplice, to be burned alive as a wizard.
"The King, however, intervened, and out of regard for his high rank he was hanged before his body was consumed. He had made a full confession in his cell and seemed to take a keen zest in his crimes. He declared that the object of all his villainies had been to gain the friendship of the Devil, by whose assistance he hoped to discover the secret of the Philosopher's Stone. But on the day of his death he assumed an air of remorse and repentance and embraced Prelati with tears, declaring that though they had offended God on earth they had made confession in good time, and that as they were about to undergo severe punishment it might be hoped that they would meet in Paradise."
"I suppose, Monsieur de Saint Germain," asked one of the ladies timidly, "you have never chanced to go to that celestial place to see if this touching hope was fulfilled?"
M. de St. Germain bowed as if in acknowledgment of an indifferent jest and went on to speak of another alchemist who had lived at the same time as Gilles de Rais, but who had been more modest in his origin and less pretentious in his claims. This was Jacques Coeur, who was the son of a goldsmith and had been a workman in the Royal Mint at Tours. How he rose to court favour is obscure, but it is possible that he chanced to catch the eye of the lovely Agnes Sorel, who was the gentle and beloved mistress of the King, and that she, recognising his ability and perhaps some good qualities in him, gave him the opportunity to prove his worth. True it is, that while still in his early years he was made Master of the Mint and became soon after Grand Treasurer of the Royal Household.
In these two capacities he was able to accumulate a great deal of wealth by material and ordinary means. That is to say, he acquired an accurate knowledge of economics and was able, by the possession of the large funds in his power, to turn this to great personal advantage. He was a speculator, bought up grain, honey, wine, until he had made corners in them and they were scarce, and then sold them again at a large profit.
One of the farmer-generals, as M. de St. Germain reached this part of his narrative, gave a conscious laugh and turned aside to look at his reflection in the mirror, elegantly helping himself to a pinch of snuff, while another who affected the character of a philosopher remarked that had not a combination of intelligence and dishonesty been the true Philosopher's Stone in all ages?
M. de St. Germain, undisturbed by either the gesture or the comment, continued with his tale.
"As he made money, Jacques Coeur became very arrogant and tyrannised over the poor whenever it was in his power to do so, using his influence with the King and the Royal favourite for the worst ends.
"He thought of nothing but self-aggrandisement and was merely vain of the title (that he soon earned) of being the wealthiest subject in France.
"The King relied on him in many particulars and sent him on secret and important embassies concerned with financial matters, to the Republics of Genoa and Venice and to Pope Nicholas V; whatever this concealed business might have been with which he was entrusted he was successful with it, and when he returned received, further handsome rewards.
"It is a matter of history that after the death of the Duke of Bedford, equally illustrious as statesman and warrior, the war with the English broke out again in Normandy and ended with the victory of the French. This warfare which brought the handsome province of Normandy again under the power of the King of France, was largely financed by the almost incalculable riches of Jacques Coeur, and when the King made his conqueror's entry into Rouen as victor over the invader and the oppressor, Jacques Coeur, financier and the man of business, was allowed to ride with the most haughty knights in a chariot that was as handsome as that which bore the King, while it was publicly remarked that it was his gold and not the courage of the French soldiers that had driven the English out of Normandy.
Jacques Coeur took advantage of the peace as he had taken advantage of the war. He built many large galleys for trade with Genoa, and the large sums he was always able to lay his hands on enabled him to buy property that in the ordinary way would have belonged only to the highest ranks of the nobility.
"Such was his power that he was able to obtain for his son, who had nothing much either in the way of wits or learning, no less a position than that of Archbishop of Lourdes. He could not have hoped to rise so high without making many enemies, and his pompous and limitless pretensions encouraged those who envied him to vent their spite in rumour and gossip, and though he braved their enmity for long, at last he was a little discouraged by the reports constantly put about that he was debasing the coin and forging the King's name to various documents in his own interests. If this was not so, his rival demanded, where did he obtain his astonishing affluence?
"His answer to these slanders was to put about the story that he had discovered the secret of making the Philosopher's Stone."
M. de St. Germain paused, his audience by then besotted with potent wines and drugged with rich food, listened, although many of them professed sceptics and philosophers, to these legends with an increasing uneasiness. Surely M. de St. Germain, standing in his gleaming satin between the flickering lights of the heavy wax candles and glow from the aromatic logs on the marble hearth, had a hellish majesty and satanic beauty? What was it that he meant to convey by these fables, some of which were known to them and they perceived had been garbled in his version? Was he, in the conclusion, going to declare that he was Nicolas Flamel or Gilles de Rais, that he had lived hundreds, nay, thousands of years upon the earth and was no less than the personfication of Evil itself? Or did he mean to advise them all was but a mummery of charlatans, and that all the Philosopher's Stone was nothing more nor less than the capacity for clever scheming, and, if need be, adroit trickery? Was he, M. d'Orléans, who had been so absorbed in such foul experiments?
Taking no notice of the glances, some sullen, some alarmed, cast on him, of the high nervous laughter of the ladies, the sneers of the gentlemen, M. de St. Germain proceeded with his narration, to which he gave a brilliant and emphatic point.
He reminded his listeners of the mansions of Jacques Coeur in his native city, which could still be seen, an elegant building with oriel windows, pointed turrets and many glittering weathercocks arranged round a spacious and lordly court of honour. In a handsome stone above the splendid entrance was an inscription that stressed that the builder was an alchemist who had discovered the Philosopher's Stone. And as if this was not sufficient to satisfy the curiosity and spite of his enemies, in the other mansions that he built for himself at Montpellier he had another slab on which was a similar defiant inscription. In order to display to a sceptic world his knowledge of transmuting metals, he wrote a treatise on hermetic philosophy; these acts, however, were considered so many excuses to disguise his various concealed frauds and dishonest speculations.
Finally his enemies got the ear of the King and Coeur was arrested and put to trial, with much pomp and detail, on various charges. One of these was that of being a sorcerer, another, and this seemed unlikely to be true, was of putting to death by the means of secret poison, Agnes Sorel who had been the means of his first success, or at least, this was supposed. She had died suddenly some years before the fall of Jacques Coeur.
Some of the crimes imputed to him were held to be true by most people, who believed that he had, often enough, forged the King's seal and that as Master of the Mint he had debased the coin whenever he chose. Another accusation was that he had loaned large sums to the Turks to enable them to carry on the wars against Europe, thinking nothing of heathendom or Christianity, but only of the interest that he might receive on his money.
The King, however, was unable to credit that the man whom he had so long regarded as his friend and favourite and whom he had trusted with his most intimate affairs and his most confident missions, was guilty of these detestable offences, so he contrived that Jacques Coeur should receive the most lenient sentence possible but could achieve no more for the man who had been so long (as he was confident) his friend, than that he should be banished from France on the payment of an enormous fine. It was whispered that His Majesty, out of his great kindness and his trust in the innocence of the fallen man, paid part of this huge sum out of the confiscated estates.
However this may be, Jacques Coeur was not wholly ruined. He withdrew to the island of Cyprus, that was then a magnificent retreat for those unfortunate in the affairs of Europe, at once gathered about him a handsome establishment, a number of friends, servants, and hangers-on, and lived there in the most splendid style, the most magnificent personage in that rich island until he died.
"We are now coming to a period," continued M. de St. Germain, "when alchemy was so commonly discussed in Europe, that there was hardly an apothecary who had not his attempts at an experiment to discover the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life. Many men, obscure, ignorant, and even stupid and dense, wasted their time and their substance in gaping after this marvellous prize. You could scarcely find a chemist's shop in Flanders, the Lowlands, Italy, Spain, Poland, or France, where there was not an astrologer or prophet or some creature who was endeavouring by means of formula; that he had discovered in an ancient book or that had been put upon him by some rogue or charlatan, to come at this marvellous secret. As every monarch was always in need of money with which to maintain ruinous wars against his neighbour, all were avid to come upon an alchemist who could supply them with magic gold.
"The Kings of England, in particular, and the Emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, encouraged everyone whom they supposed to be likely to arrive at this desirable discovery, flattering and courting all pretenders until they discovered that they had set their hopes upon a rogue or an impostor, or a poor wretch who had deluded himself as to his own powers.
"The miserable princelings of Germany, who were little tyrants in their own petty estates, were apt to seize upon some unhappy chemist or philosopher, imprison him in a dungeon and hold him there for ever until he made gold, which meant some unlucky pretender to science passed his life in the perpetual blackness and semi-starvation of a vault.
"It may be supposed that there was a vast literature on this science, or subject, whichever you choose to term it. Hundreds of volumes were printed in Holland and in England dealing with alchemy, with occultism, treatises on the Philosopher's Stone in manuscript were passed from hand to hand and eagerly read over by those who imagined that by diligent study and infinite patience they might come upon this precious discovery.
"By this time, moreover," added M. de St. Germain, with a cunning smile, "we may suppose that the alchemists formed themselves into secret societies, or joined those already in existence, and that what the popular or the vulgar knew of them was what they, the adepts, chose should be made common. The alchemists, like all persecuted people of talent, formed themselves into circles and moved, as it were, underground. They had their own secret meeting-places, their code-words, their ciphers, their literature. Only now and then were the general public allowed, or by chance obtained, some glimpse of their activities."
The company at this broke in again and there were murmurs of "the Illuminati" or "the Rosicrucians" from some of the philosophers present. M. de St. Germain continued his narration.
"Whatever it was the learned were secretly and quietly studying, the credulous and the benighted were a rich harvest for the impostors and charlatans who swarmed across Europe and England.
"It was impossible to come upon a sovereign's court that had not an attendant astrologer, philosopher, alchemist or charlatan of one kind or another, who with more or less skill affected to read the future, to disentangle the symbols of the past and to be making steps towards the discovery of the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life.
"During the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries, a certain change came over this study, or science, call it what you will! The enthusiasts did not decrease in numbers, nor did the credulous. They are with us," said M. de St. Germain, with a bow to the brilliant company, "in all ages. Without them, how would the world continue to revolve?
"But the tone of their discourse was changed. Something higher was aimed at, students no longer talked of transmuting base metals such as copper and lead into gold and of discovering the Philosopher's Stone, the magic substance which should endow all who obtained it with eternal life, but of something that they declared was worthier of human effort and sacrifices. Some of these pretensions were indeed now magnificent, they declared that they would be able to put mankind into close contact with his Maker, the creature with the Creator, and that through this mysterious union illness, warfare, and all the evils that afflict humanity would vanish. Some adepts also stated, with a good deal of effrontery, that the unseen beings who walk the earth would by their means be rendered visible and persuaded to become the guardians of humanity.
"You will perceive," added M. de St. Germain, "that these lofty ideas were becoming poetical and fantastical. Many noble and brilliant minds accepted them with ardour. Among them we must mention Doctor Dee, the Englishman, who was the astrologer kept, but never paid, by Queen Elizabeth, Edward Kelly, the Irishman, who was his assistant, Paracelsus, who is so great a figure that I am not able to speak of him in detail here, and many others, among whom I must mention Rosencreutz, who is believed to have founded the secret society known as the Rosicrucians, of which perhaps I shall have something to tell you later.
"These adepts were considered by many people, who were in a practical way of life and business, as nothing more than fantastic visionaries, absorbed in the pursuit of grotesque follies. They had passed, so these materialists declared, from a reasonable pursuit of a possible goal—the discovery of the Elixir of Life or the Philosopher's Stone and the method of transmuting metals—into an endeavour to fly after the intangible, the non-existent.
"When however the alchemists thus lost the good opinion of practical men of the world who had been willing enough to follow Nicolas Flamel or Jacques Coeur, they still received many disciples. There were always the discontented, the unsatisfied, the bewildered, the unhappy, who trusted that in these alchemists, who claimed to be able to put them in touch with God and to reveal to them the guardian angels who glided beside them in work and play, might be found some answer to the baffling miseries of life, some clue to the reason for their own mistakes, misfortunes and disappointments.
"Therefore the secret societies spread with great celerity all over Europe and England. There was not a capital city that had not some branch lodge of Freemasons, Illuminati, or Rosicrucians. Sometimes the societies met in private houses, sometimes they were reduced to hiding in cellars, or in some obscure apartments in the attics of an inn where they gathered under some plausible excuse.
"But it was impossible for the wiser adepts to restrain this longing for the mysterious, this desperate attempt to become one with what the adepts termed 'the harmony of the universe.' And there were always those who would willingly enough fall into trances, fits and ecstasies and declare that they beheld these angels standing beside them or hovering over their heads. The meetings held by the Rosicrucians and the Illuminati and the Freemasons were often orgies in which devils and demons appeared readily enough at the summons of the adepts who conducted the ceremonies. What was achieved, what was discovered must remain undiscussed for the present; we will state only that the subject has an almost universal attraction. Far more people were interested in learning about the mysteries of the spiritual world, in discovering if there was any hope of the immortality of the soul, in finding out if it was possible to meet once more the beloved dead, than there were those who were eager to know if it was possible to make gold or to live for ever, so this phase of alchemy had very many followers.
"One of the magicians most frequently quoted by these later adepts was Cornelius Agrippa. He was a chemist and philosopher of the fifteenth century who was highly honoured in France for his learned attainments, secretary to the Emperor Maximilian, and Professor of Hebrew at the University of Dole.
"After many adventures," continued M. de St. Germain, "most of which are not entirely to his credit, this accomplished but unstable man died poor in the Low Countries where he had been in the service of Margaret of Austria, Governess of the Netherlands.
"But what matters his attainments during his life? After his death the adepts of the two following centuries seized upon his name as the focus for many of their experiments and tricks. It was related of him that by speaking a single syllable he could turn a clot of base metal into the most shining gold, that by a brief incantation he could invoke the dead to converse with the living, that the brilliant coins with which he paid those who had dealings with him, turned into slate or leaves after twenty-four hours; it was, naturally enough, told of him that he was on intimate terms with the Devil and went very far in the study of magic of all kinds, but the secret societies insisted that he had prepared the way for the possibility of entering the invisible world.
"They related of him the story of the apprentice who went into his laboratory while Agrippa was absent and this against his express orders. Peering about with intense curiosity the youth noticed upon the desk a grimoire that he opened. He muttered the first incantation in boyish bravado that he saw upon the first page and was startled by instantly hearing a scratch upon the door. He tried to ignore this and continued reading the spell, but the scratch was repeated; so he was obliged then to invite—whoever it might be without—to enter.
"The door was opened and his fear was confirmed—a shape that the shuddering youth knew must be of devilish origin, slid into the apartment. He had a stately appearance and sullen features and advancing to the youth who stood rigid with the grimoire before him, demanded: 'Why have I been summoned?'
"'I had no desire to disturb you°' stammered the apprentice.
"'The spirits of Hell are not to be evoked in vain.'
"The young man was powerless before this threat; he did not know the charms whereby his master was able to subdue evil spirits, but sank helpless into the chair, whereupon the demon fell upon him, seized him by the throat and flung him, while contemptuously scowling, to the ground.
"When Cornelius Agrippa returned two days later, he perceived that his residence was infested with devils. They were running along the roof, in and out the apartments, playing their games and pranks in all his chambers. There was such a multitude in his study that it was only with difficulty he could make his way to his desk; when, however, by means of his powerful spells he was able to do so, he saw the dead body of the student and the grimoire lying open.
"Upon this the mighty magician addressed the press of ribald demons and demanded of them why they had worked this trick in his absence, for they knew very well that had he been present they would not have had the courage.
"The master fiend retorted, somewhat faltering in his insolence, that the fond youth had invoked him by a well-known incantation and had had no use for him when he appeared, so there was nothing to do but strangle the fool, as he had done, and to take possession of the house, according to the rules of black magic.
"Agrippa replied haughtily that the demons, and he seized the grimoire as he spoke, were now in his power, that he was in possession of all the spells which would keep them at his mercy, and unless they wished to be sent for ever to the Red Sea, the abode of all lost and condemned spirits, they must at once restore the young man to life.
"Subdued by this threat, the principal among these devils agreed to make amends, the youth rose and seemed to be not only alive, but sane and healthy.
"Not satisfied, however, Agrippa bade the fiend take the youth by the arm and walk with him about the marketplace below until sunset. The youth, who was dazed, did not remember what had happened, accepted the escort of this dark cavalier, the other spectres having disappeared like wreaths of smoke from the now purified building. And Agrippa watched from a window while the apprentice and the demon paced up and down between the stalls and among the peasant women with their wares and the hucksters, crying their finery in the broad market-place.
"This was all very well, but with the sunset the demon vanished and the student fell down dead.
"Some soldiers, rushing forward, lifted up the body and carried it to the hospital, where the physician in charge declared that the youth had died of strangulation and pointed out to the curious who gathered round the bed, the purple marks of claws about his throat. As a result of this unfortunate error, Cornelius Agrippa was obliged to leave the city in haste, not even having time to catch up many of his most precious books. Yet, as the later adepts pointed out, he was on the way to obtain great power over spirits.
"Many other stories are told of this famous adept, which seem but too well authenticated; a large black dog was always in his company; he would not tell who this was, but it certainly was not, he declared, a dog.
"Cornelius Agrippa, however, although he was obliged hastily to leave one city for another, often found favour with the great ones of the earth. He was particularly acceptable in England, where he had acquaintance with Lord Thomas Cromwell, with the Earl of Surrey, with Erasmus and with other keen and enquiring scholars.
"To oblige these curious enquirers he once evoked the spectres of the wisest philosophers of antiquity, while to Lord Surrey he showed, in a magic globe, the likeness of Geraldine, his fair and absent love; she was thrown on a couch weeping because of the departure of her lover, small as a butterfly, but perfect in every detail.
"He went further in his endeavour to please the great Emperor Charles V, for he brought before His Majesty the apparitions of King David and King Solomon.
"What was his end I do not know. He may have died as a hermit, or a recluse, or in splendour and magnificence—he may still live. The later adepts much revered him.
"There are many gaps in the tales of these wonderful men, but before I end my narration, I must say something about Paracelsus, whose real name was Hohenheim, because these more modern enquirers held him in great respect.
"His career is fairly well known and there is no need for me to recite it now. He was trained as a physician but was early attracted to the study of alchemy, being, it is supposed, first brought into this science by his discovery of the properties of mercury and opium. He was professor of Physics and Natural Philosophy in the University of Basle and was able to bewilder the vast number of students who came to hear his remarkable lectures by his declaration that all previous physicians had been impostors and quacks as well as ignoramuses.
"His teachings were considered remarkable, but his boasts passed all credulity. He talked of spirits who followed him about, in airy legions, and of one demon particularly powerful who dwelt in the hilt of his sword, while around his neck he wore a jewel of a dull pinkish hue in which he declared he kept a fiend named Azoth imprisoned. He was always threatening those who in any way disputed his authority or contradicted his opinion, with the wrath of the invisible beings at his command, and these two powerful angels—he who dwelt in the hilt of his sword and he who lay coiled in the jewel that glittered on his breast.
"Thus falling into many disputes with the bewildered and exasperated citizens of Basle, Paracelsus left the University and began that wandering life to which so many adepts have been condemned. He described himself wherever he went as an adept, able to cast horoscopes and to tell fortunes, to find the Philosopher's Stone and to aid in the recovery of stolen goods. He died, as have so many of his predecessors, in poverty and obscurity, perhaps in misery, leaving behind him these random teachings—that the contemplation of the protection of God suffices to secure all wisdom and knowledge, that in the Bible is the key to the cure of all diseases, that the man who could blindly obey the will of God and identify himself with the Celestial Intelligence would possess the Philosopher's Stone. When in this state, he would be able to cure all and to prolong life to as many centuries as he pleased, it being by this very means that Adam and the antediluvian patriarchs prolonged their existences on earth.\ Many learned books were based on this dubious declaration, but others thought Paracelsus passed his life in a cloud of fantasy.
"Whether or no he established his claims, that of being able to live for centuries, I leave you," said M. de St. Germain with his bow, "to decide. The later adepts found in him a forerunner of their own beliefs.
"The next adept whom we may mention is George Agricola, who was a physician in the household of Maurice of Saxony; Agricola spent most of his life in the galleries of the silver mines at Chemnitz, he was convinced of the existence of spirits, some good and some evil, inhabiting these subterranean tunnels.
"Let us say no more of him but pass to one Denis Zachaire, who wrote an autobiography; he was early apprenticed to an alchemist who was stifled by the extreme heat of the laboratory in which he worked. This did not discourage Denis, who mortgaged all his property for enough money to continue his experiments... he believed he was on the way to discovering the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life—we have heard that claim fairly often.
"He laboured in Toulouse and Milan, under extraordinary difficulties and enduring pitiful privations. Needless to describe the formulae he relates in his autobiography; most are useless. But we must pay some respect to the patience and energy with which this unfortunate man bent his entire substance and all his time in these attempts. All came to nothing and Denis was forced to admit complete failure, to sell his estates and possessions in an attempt to obtain his bread and to retire to obscurity, there to end his days, as he says, in shame and penitence. The Rosicrucians admit him to some honour.
"Of Doctor Dee I will say no more than I have already mentioned. His adventures and that of the Irishman Kelly, and the Pole, Count Laski, would in themselves make an entertaining romance. His converse with angels gives him a rustic reputation.
"Now I suppose that all of you have heard of the adept by the name of the Cosmopolite? There have been many arguments as to his real name, but I believe I am betraying no secret in telling you that he was a Scot, Alexander Seton, and his adventures began when he rescued a Dutchman from drowning off his native shores in the year 1600.
"The man who had been saved from the sea and treated so generously, noted that his host spent much time in his laboratory. Nothing, however, was said between the two about this mysterious and enthralling science, and in due time the Dutchman returned to his native town, which was Enkhuysen. He was not altogether surprised when a year or two later he received a visit from the Scot, who said that he had come to renew the acquaintanceship that had been begun by the shipwreck.
"The hospitable Dutchman was glad to entertain his benefactor and Seton returned this kindness by presenting him with a large quantity of gold which he said he had been able to make owing to his discovery of the Philosopher's Stone.
"He then left Enkhuysen and travelled into Germany, where unfortunately his reputation excited the cupidity of the Elector of Saxony, who had him arrested and imprisoned in a high tower.
"But the Cosmopolite," continued M. de St. Germain, "refused to, despite all the blandishments and threats of the brutal Prince, disclose the secret of the making of gold, and so continued in this high dungeon, unvisited by any and pitied by but a few. In his zeal to discover this invaluable, secret, Maurice put Seton to the torture, but still without any result; he was then half starved and given violent emetics, but remained obdurate.
"Then a fellow-alchemist who chanced at that time to be journeying through Dresden, a Pole, named Michael Sendivogius, decided to help the valiant adept to escape from the tyrant.
"Under pretence of making an endeavour to get his secret from him, he received the Prince's permission to wait upon the prisoner, whom he found in the most squalid condition. Between them the two alchemists contrived a means of liberating the Scot, Seton promising, in return for this huge benefit, to make the Pole richer than Croesus."
The story here has the romantic interest that pleases the ladies.
"All the while the prisoner had been enduring his miseries in prison, his wife, young and comely, had been residing in Dresden, pleading in vain with the Elector, and searching for a means to affect the release of her husband.
"The Pole now sought her out, and between them they concocted a plan that sounds commonplace enough; it was that ancient device of getting into the confidence of the soldiers who took the guard at the tower, and one day, at an arranged time, drugging the wine of the sentries who were on duty, stealing their keys and proceeding to Seton's cell and taking him out of the tower and away in a post-chaise that would be ready waiting for them.
"Madame Seton had in her bosom a small bag of white silk in which was contained a dense black powder which was, in fact, that secret to obtain which the Elector had vainly used tortures and promises.
"The simple plot succeeded; the three fugitives outwitted and outstripped the Elector's pursuers and soldiers, and arrived at Cracow, where they were comfortably installed in Michael Sendivogius's house.
"However, the unfortunate Seton was so enfeebled by the privations that he had undergone that he could do no more than murmur his gratitude; but he was at least allowed to die in peace in a comfortable bed before he delivered up his soul to its maker.
"The Pole then took the extremely wise step of marrying the pleasant and agreeable widow who possessed the black powder. By its means he was able to change enormous quantities of mercury into the finest gold.
"When he was sure that he was in possession of this secret that had baffled many, he presented himself before the Emperor Rudolf II, who lived in his capital of Prague and who was himself an alchemist of no mean pretensions.
"The Emperor was soon satisfied that the experiment was genuine and was so delighted with Sendivogius that he offered to make him a Counsellor of State.
"The Pole, however, declined this honour and retired with his wife, the former Madame Seton, to his paternal estate, where he lived in the princely fashion of his forefathers, for he came of a noble family.
"His one annoyance was the safeguarding of the precious powder; he had no more than an ounce of it, but that was sufficient, as one grain could change a pound of mercury or quicksilver into five hundred dollars. A few specks of this treasure he kept in a small gold phial that he hung round his neck by a stout chain of the same metal. The bulk of it he placed in the hub of the left wheel of his travelling carriage.
"As it may be supposed, he was much spied upon and was in great dread of thieves and footpads; he believed that a cavity in the wheel of his post-chaise would be the last place that anyone would search for the powder if he was attacked on the highways.
"By a contemptible device, however, a German princeling played a successful trick on him. Visiting the Pole in his castle, he begged as the highest favour that he might be allowed to see the projection made and the mercury transmuted; the Pole, who was, on the whole, good-natured, consented, demanding first, however, complete secrecy.
"The prince, after seeing the wonderful process, hastened away to tell his own alchemist, a German named Muhlensel, what he had seen; this rascal pressed his master to make sure of securing, and for ever, a secret of such incalculable value.
"With this end in view the two rogues, with twenty cavaliers, surrounded the mansion of Michael Sendivogius, then the prince and his retinue, overawing the servants, searched the house from cellar to attic.
"It was useless; neither the powder nor the master of the castle were present. Madame Sendivogius, however, admitted that her husband had proceeded towards Prague and was probably by now arrived at the first stage of his journey.
"He was, therefore, pursued by these ruffians, who broke into the inn where he lay. Rushing into his room, they asked him, not with the greatest patience, to disclose his secret. Upon his refusal they beat him, robbed him of his gold box, a valuable manuscript that he always carried with him, a magic green jewel that had been presented to him by the Emperor Rudolf, and a hat-band set with pearls and emeralds.
"The robbers then made off, as quickly as they could, leaving the unfortunate alchemist and his servant tied to the posts of the tester bed, where he was found when the host rallied courage to go to his rescue.
"As soon as Sendivogius was released he hastened to Prague and put his case before the Emperor, who sent for the Prince, who denied all knowledge of the adventure and put the blame upon his own alchemist, declaring he must be the guilty party. This adept he caused to be hanged from a high gallows in his own courtyard to show his indignation at the crime. The hat-band, the jewel, and the other rich appointments were returned to their owner, but not the powder, which the Prince declared he had not seen. It was only a small portion of that possessed by Sendivogius, but he greatly lamented the Joss of it, and in future was very cautious as to whom he admitted into his house, and never before anyone would he make his experiments.
"Indeed, so nervous became he lest in some way he should be tricked out of what remained of the powder that he, his wife and his faithful steward left the magnificent castle and retired to a small house in the grounds, where they lived as if stricken with great poverty, pretending they had lost everything, including the secret and all knowledge of magic. The alchemist would even spend weeks in bed, pretending that he had an infectious disease, in order to keep away impertinent visitors.
"He died at a great age, and is believed to have been one of the founders of the sect known as the Rosicrucians, for it is supposed that aerial beings helped him in his escape from the Elector, and that the rest was a fable."
At this all the company looked even more animated and interested than before; they hoped they were about to hear something that might be of immediate interest.
M. de St. Germain gave a glittering glance round the expectant faces and remarked:
"I daresay that some of you are yourselves Rosicrucians. Who was the founder of the Rosicrucians it is not the moment to discuss. Was there, indeed, a man by the name of Rosencreutz or Rosecross, or was it from the emblem that these mild visionaries wore that they took their name? Paracelsus and Doctor Dee were believed to have had something to do with the matter. The aim that this extraordinary society set itself was no less than the regeneration of man and the establishment of complete peace upon earth."
"They have failed, then, singularly!" exclaimed a member of the audience.
"They believed," continued M. de St. Germain, without taking any heed of this commonplace interruption, "that they were able to overcome all desires for food, sleep and water, that they could judge character, a man's whole soul and his actions by a glance at his face, that they knew as much as if they had been present at the creation of the world. They had in their employment, most powerful spirits who were able to fetch the most valuable gems from the interior of the earth, the most lustrous pearls from the depths of the ocean.
"They supposed that they were followed by the malignancy of unbelievers, who wished to do them evil in order to come at their wealth, but they also claimed the ability to envelop themselves in clouds and mists so they were always able to escape."
"Had they any other pretensions?" asked a member of the company.
"Yes," continued M. de St. Germain, unmoved, "they declared that they could overcome all manner of diseases. Their simple rites were those of the primitive church and they recognised the Fourth Monarchy, that is the Emperor of the Romans, as the Chief of all Christians."
"Give us, pray," cried one of the ladies, "some of their rules, if these are not too secret to divulge!"
"Indeed, these are plain and clear. The Rosicrucians undertook first that when they were abroad they would cure without fee any sick persons whom they might meet. They promised," and he glanced at his own attire, "that they would always dress according to the fashion of the time and place in which they found themselves. All the members promised to meet once a year in some appointed city. If they chose they might be immortal, but if they felt the desire to pass away into clouds or vapour, they were obliged to appoint a member to succeed them in the Society.
"The password was merely Rose Cross, they maintained that a volume bound in massive gold had been found in the tomb of their founder with these laws inscribed in it and the final law was they must remain concealed for six times twenty years and then declare themselves. They know many valuable secrets, such as how to keep a lamp burning for ever, how to make mechanical figures better than those of Roger Bacon and Cornelius Agrippa."
"How to live for ever and how to find gold?" cried several of the ladies together.
"That, too, doubtless," agreed M. de St. Germain.
"I have read," remarked one of the philosophers, "many books and pamphlets on this subject. I found them many years ago in my father's library. The Rosicrucians were believed then to be accursed, nothing less than a confraternity of those in league with the Devil, they were charged with pretending to work miracles and of gathering large crowds of evil and ribald persons around them."
"It is always the same," sighed M. de St. Germain. "There is such a sad number of rogues in the world that no one who is in the least remarkable can come forward without attracting undesirable disciples!"
"Some of these crowds," continued the other, "believed that the miracles were wrought by the aid of fiends, others by that of angels, but the Rosicrucians evidently never lacked immense congregations at their services, which I believe were conducted with great piety and decorum, though in their addresses they claimed that they were able to travel as quickly as thought from one end of the world to the other, to speak all the languages without learning them, to predict the future and to pass through solid walls and the most curious bolts that could be contrived.
"There were thirty-six Rosicrucians then in Paris, as I remember, for the details were very dearly given in these pamphlets, and they lived in the marais du Temple. This quarter of the city soon began to be avoided by the sober and the prudent, for they suspected that it was inhabited by invisible spirits, who might, if in the mood, do any passer-by an ill turn.
"Some fantastic stories began to be circulated—these were some. Well-dressed strangers would enter coffee-houses, order the most expensive dishes, eat them, and when the reckoning was offered them, dissolve. Ladies of unsmirched reputation (and exquisite beauty) on going to their chambers would find handsome cavaliers standing behind the bed-curtains. Upon their shrieking out in alarm these gentlemen would again dissipate into the air like water thrown out of a glass.
"Again, for no reason that anyone could tell, a man would come home and find a large heap of gold upon his table, or, on the other hand, find his valuables gone, even though he had left them under lock and key.
"Placards painted with the Rose Cross were pasted up on walls all over Paris. These bore mysterious injunctions and directions that further confused, bewildered and exasperated the populace."
"Continue," smiled M. de St. Germain, "with your tale, I perceive you are well informed."
"A Jesuit announced that a Cross surmounted by a Rose was nothing less than a device of the arch-heretic Lucifer; feeling rose so high that the police endeavoured to track down the members of this powerful and, as it seemed, invisible society. Of course, there did not lack those sceptics who declared that those Rosicrucians were nothing more than clever, unscrupulous impostors. It was even denied by the learned, who delight to find a quibble in everything, that the letters F.R.C with which this society signed their placards did not mean Brethren of the Rose Cross but 'Fratres Roris Cocti' or Brethren of Boiled Dew. It was urged that some alchemists collected and boiled dew and used it as one of the ingredients for the messes they made in the search for the Philosopher's Stone.
"The police ignored all these confusions, and finally in the marais du Temple discovered a small confraternity of people, who declared that they used no magic, that they had no supernatural pretensions, and certainly had no dealings with the Devil. On the other hand, they admitted that they were in a state of celestial bliss, which was in itself sufficient to cause a great suspicion to rest upon their credibility.
"Nor did they enhance their reputation by declaring that they were all more than a hundred years old and that this long life, health and felicity had been given them by God Almighty in return for a pure devotion to His service.
"They scorned all the slanders that had been put about against them and declared that they had not the least wish to meddle either with the politics or religion of France, but only to reside peacefully in the humble abode that they had chosen for their temporary resting-place.
"They were most emphatic in giving a denial to all whispers of sorcery, witchcraft or communication with evil spirits. They declared there were no such things as Incubi or Succubi, and all the frightful apparitions that mankind had so long dreaded, but that the air was full of delicate, airy sylphs, the water peopled with undines, the fire with salamanders, and the earth with gnomes, and all these were very friendly towards mankind and most willing to work for his benefit.
"Further expounding this curious theory, they declared that man alone had an immortal soul that it was the passionate desire of these invisible creatures to acquire one also and that they could only do so if a human being was to feel for them an ardent, pure and lasting affection.
"From this piteous desire came the incessant labour of these sylphs, undines, gnomes and salamanders to be loved by human creatures, the males offering their services to women, the females to men. Dreams, omens and presentiments were supposed, said Rosicrucians, to be the gift of these gentle spirits.
"Unfortunately, as they had no souls, these unseen fairies might sometimes feel whimsical cruelty and revenge for this reason, as their object was an immortal soul, anyone who, by lack of chastity, gluttony or any other lust of the flesh helped to extinguish the immortal fire in the human frame did them bitter wrong and roused their fury.
"These doctrines pleased none, the Rosicrucians were assailed, not now with slanders, for they seemed indeed to be harmless, but with a ridicule. Stung by shafts of irony and satire, they left Paris for England, where they met Robert Fludd, who himself was an alchemist of the school of Paracelsus. Full of fantastic and grotesque notions, he was not pleased with his simple name but changed it to Robertus Fluctibus. This philosopher, whose notions were very abstruse even for his credulous period, gained the friendship of the Rosicrucians by writing a pamphlet in their favour and soon became prominent in that sect, which continued to flourish, and I use that word advisedly, though secretly even to this day.
"Sir, I may tell you," remarked M. de St. Germain, with a glitter in his sunken eye, "that I have myself conversed with a Rosicrucian who explained their faith as being like that of a spirit which dwells in jewels and raises everything near it to the utmost it is capable of. This spirit, or faith, gives a lustre to the sun and sparkle to the diamond and enriches even lead with all the properties of gold, it heightens smoke into flame, flame into light, and light into glory. A single ray of it dissipates pain and care and melancholy from the person on whom it falls—so is the faith of these Rosicrucians.
"Jacob Bohem investigated the universe on these lines, mingling philosophy with alchemy. He admitted the existence of sylphs, gnomes, undines and salamanders, but added various orders of demons, he stated that he could exist for years without eating or drinking and live for centuries.
"We are now coming very near to our period which is crowded with adepts, philosophers, leaders of religious sects, impostors and charlatans. I have already spoken long enough and I will not weary you with further discourses on this subject."
"But tell us something," the company entreated, "tell us something of what is now discovered, that is what interests us!"
"Ah, yes, you all want to know the great secret which all these magicians endeavoured to discover, that which will make life more beautiful, longer, and touch everything with a glitter like that of the emerald!"
"We do! We do!" most of them cried, but one put in gravely:
Let us beware of the appalling mistakes that have been made by would-be alchemists. I recall that in my grand-father's time, which would be sixty years or so ago, there was a certain Jean de Lisle, who began as a blacksmith and who declared that he could transmute iron into gold. He could also, he swore, make iron into silver by merely heating it white-hot and then pouring on it some magic oil. With this method he was able to manufacture millions of ducats a day. The assessors of Lyons, to whom he delivered some of this gold, declared it to be of the finest quality, while out of old pewter platters he made ingots of gold which were too heavy for two men to lift.
No wonder that he at once received an invitation to the court of Louis XIV, where he was received with the greatest curiosity and respect. He made, I believe, many excuses for not conducting his experiments at once, and the minister of finance, Monsieur des Marets, examined him personally and issued a report upon his pretensions and conversations. Here is an extract from it that I have with me. 'I visited de Lisle at the house of one of my friends. To please me, the family asked de Lisle to operate before me, to which he immediately consented. I offered him some iron nails which he changed into silver in the chimney-place before six or seven credible witnesses. I took the nails thus transmuted and sent them to Imbert, the jeweller, who, having subjected them to the necessary trials, returned them to me saying they were very good silver.
"'Still, however, I was not quite satisfied and therefore summoned the alchemist to come to me at Castellane. He came, and I had him escorted by eight or ten vigilant men, whom I had given notice to watch his hands strictly.
"'Before all of us he changed two pieces of lead into gold and silver. My reason was convinced by my eyes.'
"With all this the affair came to nothing. Neither the King nor his ministers were satisfied that the unfortunate de Lisle could make gold and he ended in the Bastille, where he died wretchedly."
"Such seems the conclusion of too many of these stories," objected a lady sadly.
"At the beginning of the reign of his present Majesty," another gentleman related, "a man named Aluis came to Versailles. Monsieur de Richelieu brought him from Vienna, where he was our Ambassador and swore that he had seen this man change lead into gold by means of a few grains of powder; when he had had him in his hôtel he demanded that all his pokers and fire-irons and even his horses' shoes should be turned into pure gold. It was too much for the alchemist's powers and he left the Duke's service rather than be exposed. What his further adventures were I do not know. He travelled about Europe and did not, I believe, return to France again."
"It is probable," remarked one of the ladies, "that he, too, ended in some damp and hideous dungeon. In short, Monsieur de Saint Germain, what you have told us of the adventures of your predecessors—"
"Predecessors!" interrupted that gentleman. "I made no claim to be an alchemist nor to know anything whatever of the Philosopher's Stone or of the secret of longevity.
"It is true that I make a few pomades and have the recipe for some valuable medicine. Let us leave the matter at that."
They looked at him between doubt and suspicions, wondering if he would, like a Rosicrucian, vanish into a mist before their eyes, change into a salamander—was not a salamander supposed to have been his father?—and leap into the flames on the hearth, or turn upon them a countenance that would prove that he was a follower of the Fiend.
M. de St. Germain, however, performed none of these feats, but ordering the lackeys to bring in refreshments, declared that, while there was much that he might have added—that story, for instance, of Elizabeth Battery, the vampire, as splendid, as well born, as luxurious as Gilles de Rais, with as many victims to answer for, who was walled up in her bedchamber and fed through a slit in the door, or that of Lord Soalis and Redcap, his familiar, who was so powerful a wizard, that when his body was buried it rose even from under the rocks the affrighted priests piled on this frightful corpse, yet, for the moment there was nothing more he could say.
Those who had listened to him, either wrapt away in a reverie, drowsy, or alert and critical, now stirred among themselves and asked random questions.
Where had all these fairy tales led them? No one understood anything more clearly. Madame de Pompadour, who was present, incognito, wearing a white doeskin mask, was at once afraid and dissatisfied. She peered through her eyeholes at the trim figure in the olive green velvet standing on the Persian tapestry—were all these wizards one wizard? Was this creature the Wandering Jew, Gilles de Rais, Paracelsus—the Regent?
Were all the fables he had related his own adventures down the centuries? And, most disturbing question of all, what was the hold he had upon the king? These doubts remained unexpressed, to those that were openly posed, M. de St. Germain had no answer.
He was not able, however, to silence M. de Lacondamine, who had slipped into the chamber without being invited, and who had, through not daring to show his ear-trumpet, missed much of the discourse. He had understood the trend of it, nevertheless, and in the loud voice of the deaf gave his opinion.
"Behind all this nonsense is nothing but humanity's desire to escape from itself—by dancing, leaping, swinging round, staring at a spot in a wall, taking drugs, listening to drum-beats, and in many other ways—a state of trance is induced—the senses are dulled, stunned—and some marvellous world is entered by what these fools call the soul. At least so they tell us, but personally all the gibberish they chatter when their wits are settled prove that they have merely been deluded by physical means!"
"Pray," asked M. de St. Germain, "define 'deluded' and 'physical' and we may be making some progress."
The discussion that followed this, caused the hospitality of M. de St. Germain to be somewhat abused, for arguments became vehement and statements dogmatic. Madame de Pompadour made a sign to her loyal companion, Madame du Hausset, and quietly left the house for her waiting chaise.
"How far," she complained, "have I proceeded in my search for eternal pleasure, power, youth and beauty?"
And so departed the gentleman and all the spectators, much terrified with these visions of horror, withdrew themselves to their houses, beseeching God to defend them from these hellish and prodigious enemies.
—Noises of War and Battle, 1642.
To see a man tread over graves,
I hold it no good mark
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon,
And bad luck in the dark.
—Samuel Coleridge.
MADAME DE POMPADOUR, in her anxiety to discover who the man was who termed himself "St. Germain," sought out a one-time friend of hers, whom, since her rise to grandeur, she had eschewed.
This lady affected to be in touch with the spectre of the late Regent, and so passed as unsettled in her wits, but the King's favourite was by now so uneasy, that she was desperate.
She had sought out the history of St. Germain, to see if there was anything in the legend of this holy man likely to enlighten her as to why the wizard had chosen this incognito.
She discovered that this saint had lived in the reign of the Emperor Valentinian, and travelled as a missionary. On one of his journeys he arrived in a barbarous part of England, named Cornwall, where he was so badly treated that he cursed the church in which he had preached and the rocks on which it stood, while he was carried up to heaven in a post-chaise and pair, with angels on the box, leaving behind a weeping well where the foundations of the once holy edifice had been.
Madame de Pompadour found no help in this story, so, with some misgiving, had secretly brought into her painted cabinet the one person whom she believed might be able to assist her in searching into the origins of this exasperating wizard. This lady was a Madame de la Croix, whose husband had been an officer of some distinction; she was herself the daughter of a provincial nobleman and a niece of the Bishop of Orléans; the Marquise knew something of her life that had been disturbed by unfortunate attachments and keen disappointments.
During a long separation from her husband she had lived with a Spanish nobleman, M. Aquaviva, the Governor of Avignon, but this romantic attachment, though it seemed to begin with the greatest affection on each side, came to a dismal termination.
The lady, at the same period, lost her husband and a good part of her fortune, and wandering about to find some friends to assist her, fell extremely ill when residing in mean lodgings at Lyons. Some nuns received her into their hospital and nursed her devotedly, if not with much skill, nor did they refrain from bringing to bear on her weakened senses all the grim paraphernalia of their gloomy creed.
So the lady who had hitherto been a gay, careless creature, good-humoured, giving little thought to serious matters and inclined to the sceptical opinions of the day, was much changed when she recovered from her sickness, during which, she declared, she had been indulged by some extraordinary apparitions. Now she protested that she had been converted to a holy way of life and received the Divine absolution and blessing.
Some pious books given her during her convalescence by the zealous sisters, notably a volume written by M. St. Martin, confirmed the powerful impressions that she had received from her celestial visitors.
At the same time, and conveniently enough, a small but sufficient fortune was left to her by distant relatives, so it was not only with decency but with some ceremony that she was able to proceed to the French capital and seek out the author of the treatise that she found so important.
What passed between M. St. Martin and the reformed widow has not been recorded, but she left the long interview that he graciously granted to her, with the details of a complete system of theology. This consisted of a Quaternity, the Son, the Father, the Holy Ghost, and Melphisedek. Through the aid of this last and most powerful spirit, Madame de la Croix believed that she could work miracles and full of confidence in her powers began to practise her newly acquired art. She also gave out that she was assisted by the spirit of the late Regent, who came not, as might be supposed, from the infernal, but from the celestial regions.
Full of enthusiasm, the convert turned her attention to the cure of disease; her explanation of the various torments that scourge humanity was simple. They resulted, she declared, from the power which Satan was able to acquire over sinful people. She believed that any part of the body that was especially liable to sin—the hand, the foot, the eye, the nose, the mouth—would be afflicted by corruptions which had obtained power over these instruments of evil.
Madame de la Croix did not trouble herself about polemics or the subtleties of religious controversy or theory. She proceeded directly to her good work, assisted only by strenuous prayers, pails of holy water and bottles of consecrated oil.
Rather avoided by those suffering from known complaints, she occupied herself with finding people who were possessed by devils. She made a nice distinction between these cases; there were those whom the devils inhabited because they had made a compact with them, and there were those who had been unwillingly infested by the fiends. The last, Madame de la Croix declared, she had little difficulty in subduing. She was able to force them to leave the body that they were torturing and to appear before her in any shape that she chose to order them to assume. Those who had taken up the habitation of human bodies by agreement with their possessors were a more arduous proposition.
But Madame de la Croix did not quail even before these difficulties, which she admitted were tremendous.
Waiting upon Madame de Pompadour in her closet, she began to relate the marvellous cures she had effected before the Marquise could begin her questions.
She listened politely and put a few questions to her which soon proved that she was not a Rosicrucian or a member of any religious sect, but an adept, if an adept indeed she was, operating entirely on her own initiative.
Madame de Pompadour, who had learned much from M. de St. Germain, asked her if she used an ointment of aconite and hazel-wands, if she had any special magic herbs in her repertoire, if she had any original cabalistic manuscripts or had in her library any grimoires of especial antiquity or interest which might contain some powerful and little-known incantations for exorcising demons.
"You know, Madame," she said drily, "that many people declare that to recite the gospel is quite sufficient to expel any fiend, there being nothing so much that the Devil or any of his imps dread as a portion of Holy Writ, the Gospel of St. John in particular is supposed to be most efficacious. And I have heard—I was going to say I was present, but I must not be indiscreet—I have heard of a ceremony where some dogs who were grievously sick were brought to church by their owner and cured by a portion of the Gospel being read over their heads."
Madame de la Croix showed a great deal of impatience with these remarks; she declared that the whole of this conversation seemed to savour to her too much of black magic and a league with those fiends whom she was so zealously engaged in expelling. She had nothing, she said, to do with witchcraft, sorceries, or conjuration, nor with any ointments or unguents, only with the sacred oil that she always carried around with her—and she showed it as she spoke—in a phial of pure blue glass.
"You do not then believe in intoxicating perfumes, such as incense, herbs which, thrown into a brazier, produce a smoke calculated to bemuse the sanest wits. You do not believe that toads, cats, are familiars, or in the drawing of magic circles round the possessed person, in the use of wax and clay images. You, perhaps, do not employ belladonna, stramonium and hemlock?"
Madame de la Croix haughtily denied any such knowledge of such beastlinesses, as she termed them, but she admitted that when she had been in the convent she had had a vision of Satan, who was holding one of his festivals surrounded by warlocks and witches.
"He was seated," said she, "on a throne of ebony. His horns were writhen and as black as ink. He had two on his brow and two on the back of his neck. On his forehead was another horn which was luminous and gave the only light. His hair was bristling like that of a hairbrush, his skin greenish and his lower lip pendulous. His staring eyes were bloodshot, his body the shape of a goat, only I observed that his hands seemed to be those of a human being."
Madame de Pompadour smiled and seemed to put this by as of no account, on which the lady, anxious to maintain her credit, told how she had recently cast a small imp out of a man who was grievously afflicted with fits.
"As soon as the evil spirit had quitted the body I ordered him to appear to us as a little Chinese girl, and he had the politeness to assume a really delicious form. Dressed in flame-coloured cloth of gold with a very charming face, he clasped his hands gracefully behind the green taffeta curtain in which he wrapped himself and made all sorts of grimaces at the victim whom he had previously afflicted with his presence.
"It is impossible, however," added Madame de la Croix with a prim air, "for me to complete this cure, for the unfortunate patient continued in sin and put himself in the power of the demon, and one day, waiting on him unannounced, I saw the little Chinese girl sitting on his bureau. I was obliged to go to a vast trouble in order to expel the imp again, and when I left the town I fear that it took up permanent quarters with my poor friend."
Madame de Pompadour listened with some attention to this tale, for she had, as a matter of fact, heard it confirmed from other quarters and she knew that the lady was respected even by such sceptics as the Maréchal de Richelieu, the Chevalier de Montbarry, and the Chevalier de Cosse.
"Do you know anything of the late Regent?" demanded the Marquise, coming brusquely to the point.
"You know perfectly well," replied Madame de la Croix, "that a great number of our common acquaintances are followed by spectres and visited by apparitions, but dare not say so for fear of being mocked by the philosophers. For instance, there is Monsieur de Schomberg, who not only is a sceptic himself and sharply gibes against 'religion and superstition,' as he terms them, and is always to be seen in the company of Monsieur d'Holbach, the ridiculing Monsieur de Buffon because he is too credulous.
"Yet I happen to know that the Maréchal admitted before a large company that he had seen apparitions and in the following terms: 'You know me sufficiently well, ladies and gentlemen, to be persuaded that I do not credit ghosts. Still that has not prevented me for a long time past from seeing the faces of old women, nearly every night, who crouch at the foot of my bed and make frightful grimaces.'"
"You are, I believe," said Madame de Pompadour, "a friend of Monsieur Tieman, an acquaintance of our mutual friend, the Baron von Gleichen? He has gone deeply into what he terms the occult sciences, but I think he may be called an honest man. He takes great pains to protect himself from deceptions and illusions."
"Yes, I know him and of his experiments. When he went to Edinburgh he was shown into Holyrood House and there on the spot where Rizzio, the favourite of Mary Queen of Scots, was murdered, and where, it is declared, one may still observe the stains of blood, saw as clearly as if it had been a material object, the head of the dying man in his final agonies."
Madame de Pompadour, giving but little heed to this anecdote, asked Madame de la Croix if she had made any experiments with longevity and complimented her on her handsome appearance. She was, indeed, still a very comely woman, who had in her youth been a noted beauty, of the haughty, aquiline type. These charms were, despite the compliments of the Marquise, somewhat blemished by time, but the zealot appeared brilliant and livery with an air of nobility, spoke well and readily and in all her words and gestures were signs of breeding. These personal gifts she used to great advantage when exorcising a demon. She could raise her voice to a pitch of haughty majesty that caused a tremor among the spectators, her gestures became splendid and threatening, and there was a fervour and enthusiasm in her presence that made her seem indeed to be some being gifted with supernatural powers.
Neither the Marquise nor any of her acquaintances had ever seen her actually exorcising a demon, but they had observed her effecting what appeared to be miraculous cures of colic, toothache and rheumatism.
She now began to describe to Madame de Pompadour, whom she hoped to find a sympathetic listener, those visits paid to her by the fiends that she was always detailing to her acquaintances. She described these phenomena with such vivacity, detail and an air of veracity that it seemed impossible to disbelieve her.
"And do you really suffer from persecution then from these imps of Hell? asked the Marquise.
"Yes, sometimes it is so and I am most ill-treated, at another time nothing but quite engaging and comic tricks will be played upon me.
"Sometimes when I am in bed and the curtains drawn at the foot, I see a procession of penitents crossing the room, but instead of being, as they should be, in ash-colour, they are dressed from head to foot in rose velvet, or it may be that they are Capuchin monks who have the most hideous faces and use the most obscene expressions.
"At other times clowns, or people who are grotesquely attired, will gambol and leap upon my bed. Sometimes I am kissed and the blankets plucked away from me. At other times I am frowned at and threatened. Once I was led from my chamber to a salon where the most magnificent ball was in progress. Fashions of every age were to be seen and each was more gorgeous than the last. Never have I seen the glitter of so many brilliants, sapphires, emeralds and rubies!
"Greatly as I enjoyed this experience, it was exceeded in pleasure by another which I was offered by my demons. It was a display of fireworks far exceeding in taste and beauty any which has ever been held in Paris. Entire castles, constellations of stars, suns and moons rose into the air, came and went and reformed in the most beautiful and sparkling colours.
"You, of course, have had these experiences yourself, Madame. I would like, however, to tell you of a long discussion that I have had recently with one of the spirits who most frequently, attends me. He appears to be a Doctor of the Sorbonne, yet his costume is ridiculous. He declares I am a heretic and always defends the doctrines of the Church of Rome.
"At first I took him seriously, and then I began to see his true character, for his discourses ended in complete blasphemy. I could not endure that, so closed his mouth with a padlock which he will wear to the day of the last Judgment."
"And where," asked the Marquise, "did you obtain this padlock?"
"Ah, my dear Marquise," replied Madame de la Croix, "surely you know the difference between spiritual and material realities! It was a real padlock which I placed on him, ours have only the appearance of padlocks. I hoped," said she, with an air of disappointment, "that in you I should find a kind and sympathetic friend. Is it true that Monsieur de Saint Germain is the Wandering Jew or the son of a salamander, that he is making at the Château de Chambord large quantities of gold and diamonds from the Philosopher's Stone or the black powder of the Middle Ages that has come into his possession?"
"That is what I wish to know; did you ask him?"
"Yes, and he only gave me a glaring look and a contemptuous smile, and I retorted with some warmth:' You wish, I suppose, to add to my humiliation. I am well aware that tricks are played upon me, that I have been deceived on many occasions and even disgraced. Ah, you did not know me when I was haughty, beautiful, young and courted and would not have endured a slight from anyone. Do you not see the life I live now? It is on the meanest scale and I give all my patrimony to the poor. I might, believe me, sir, owing to my family and my connections, play a splendid part in Parisian Society, but instead I fulfil a task which is imposed upon me by Divine power.'" Then she added with some apprehension: "Do you think my mind has broken down, Madame, that I have lost my reason?"
"Indeed," said the Marquise, "your mind appears to me to be completely lucid. Indeed I admire you. I wish to know what you think of Monsieur de Saint Germain—of the late Regent."
"Then," said Madame de la Croix hurriedly, "I shall return your compliment by giving you a piece of valuable information that perhaps is not known even to you. This is that the Regent, the Due d'Orléans, wore round his neck and hidden on his bosom a talisman which had been brought to him from England by that celebrated Jew, the High Rabbi Falckscheck. He intended," she said, dropping her voice to a low whisper, "to use this jewel to raise himself to the throne and destroy his present Majesty. But I had the courage and address to get into his confidence, seize the jewel and break it into pieces."
"You have done, then, a very valuable service for your country; but tell me of the magician."
"But I must tell you that I have a case on hand which I find very difficult to deal with, and indeed I would like to ask your help. A man who suffers from convulsions is under my care. As he has made a pact with the Devil I find it very difficult to relieve him of his sufferings. However, I have anointed him with the Holy Water and the oil and prayed over him with all my strength. The battle with the demon was terrific, and now I must come to the part which puts me in such an uneasiness. The fiend, speaking from the mouth of the possessed man, accused me of many crimes and follies that I committed in my loose youth, thus exposing me before the entire company, which included some of the most illustrious people in Paris! Now, what do you think should have been my conduct? I can assure you details that he revealed were sufficient to make an ordinary woman sink to the ground with shame."
"Since they were uttered by a fiend, I should take no notice of them," said the Marquise wearily.
But the lady turned on her eyes that blazed with fanatic zeal.
"Ah! That is your advice! Then I see that you do not come from Heaven, but from a place best not mentioned. I can assure you that I was true to my own beliefs. I raised my eyes, I crossed my hands upon my bosom, and the tears rolled down my face. I said to the company: 'Ladies and gentlemen, you have been witnesses at the punishment of my sins which God has granted me. Now I may truly repent. I deserve the humiliation that I have endured and would willingly submit to it in the presence of all Paris since it will secure the pardon of all my sins.'"
Madame de Pompadour, who had heard some account of this scene from one of the spectators present, again assured the lady that she believed she had behaved very foolishly and that she should have made a denial of all that was being said. Then with some graceful excuses she brought the talk round to her own affairs. Who was M. de St. Germain? Was he the late Regent?
But Madame de la Croix refused to answer.
M. de St. Germain retired to Chambord; his absence left Paris a duller place. Madame de Pompadour's melancholy increased; with all her arts, even with the aid of the magic in which she dabbled, she feared that she was losing her hold on the King. He seemed every day more indifferent to her presence and more apathetic towards her efforts to entertain and amuse him.
Her beauty, for all her care, was tarnished. Not the most exquisite devices, the most becoming costumes, the most costly cosmetics could entirely disguise that she had lost her resplendent bloom; even by the kind and elegant light of the wax candles she did not appear a young woman. It was true that her grace, her wit, and her tact still kept the King in her power, to say nothing of the complicated intrigues with which she handled his ministers. But for all that she lived in a continual uneasiness.
Believing in a state that reached such desperation, that nothing but magic could save her and not knowing of a more accomplished magician than M. de St. Germain, she sent an express to the Château de Chambord, desiring him to return to Paris, but found, to her astonishment and exasperation, that he had, unknown to her, gone to The Hague on some secret political mission. She was vexed, too, when she heard of the superb magnificence with which M. de St. Germain displayed himself in the Netherlands, the flattery that was paid to him by the ladies, and the somewhat dubious deference offered him by the gentlemen.
On expressing her irritation to the King, his Majesty assured her that the political intrigue was a mere blind and that M. de St. Germain had really gone to the Netherlands in order to raise a loan on some diamonds from the merchants of Amsterdam.
"Of his own manufacture?" declared the lady, and the King left that matter undecided.
His mistress, however, suspected that the diamonds, if they really existed, were made by use of the Philosopher's Stone or the black powder, or they were chips pieced together and washed. She was not, therefore, altogether surprised when the King confided to her that a M. Casanova had been called in by Mr. Hope, the banker (who was conducting the sale), to decide on the genuineness of the stones, and had declared that they were false.
This business being bruited abroad in the Netherlands cast an ill odour upon the gorgeous stranger and at the same time His Most Christian Majesty's ambassador at The Hague, Count Affry, declared that M. de St. Germain, whom he regarded as no more than a base adventurer, was endeavouring secretly to arrange a peace without his even being consulted.
He at once sent a courier to inform M. de Choiseul of the matter. That Minister, without advising either the King or Madame de Pompadour, sent orders for M. de St. Germain to be extradited from the Netherlands, handcuffed, and thrown into the Bastille. Then M. de Choiseul, carrying off the matter with a high hand, informed the King in the presence of Madame de Pompadour of his action, remarking drily:
"If I did not await His Majesty's orders in this affair it was because I was convinced that His Majesty would not wish to treat for peace without the cognisance of His Majesty's Minister for Foreign Affairs."
The Estates-General appeared quite willing to execute the orders of the French Minister and a large troop of horse was sent to the magnificent house M. de St. Germain occupied in the suburbs of The Hague.
The King, however, had his own agents in the Netherlands, and these were able to apprise the States-General that it was His Majesty's wish that M. de St. Germain be allowed to escape, for he had really been sent by the King's own secret orders. He was suffered, therefore, to depart, secretly, across the frontier into the Spanish Netherlands.
There for a while he disappeared into obscurity and Madame de Pompadour sadly lamented the awkward management of this stupid affair, the loss of the chance of obtaining her youth and beauty, the blank left in her life by the cessation of the marvellous narratives with which he had solaced her tedium.
With this adventure at The Hague, M. de St. Germain disclosed to Madame de Pompadour that the King was employing him on secret political intrigues, however else he might be using him; this caused her great sadness.
"This is how I am served," she mused, "for encouraging this charlatan (for I suppose he is nothing more) at court, and for trusting him to divert the King."
She began to doubt the worth, of the cosmetics that this strange quack supplied and to consider that he had not succeeded in helping her to retain her beauty. Surely her mirror showed her the face of an ageing woman, nor did she any longer, feel her former energy.
Hardly able to conceal her disdain, she demanded of the King if "St. Germain" was merely a spy, and if his laboratories at Chambord produced anything more remarkable than cheap dyes, artificial jewels, and an amalgam of copper and zinc that passed very well for gold? Was his panacea for all human ills nothing more than the advice to His Majesty to raise a large loan from the Jews of Amsterdam, and was it not true that it was only because he had met his match in the rogue Casanova that St. Germain had failed to put through these negotiations with M. Hope, the banker?
The King refused to answer these pertinent questions; he was already weary of his mistress, and his indolence more than her skill kept her in her place.
The Marquise then, furious at being shut out of this affair, summoned M. de Choiseul, and posed the same queries to him; to her surprise he admitted that her guesses were correct, that the so-called wizard, was nothing more than the son of a Jew from Lisbon, who was extremely adroit in a number of useful tricks... "as for his reputed age, that is a fable, he merely knows how to keep himself in good health by drinking an infusion of senna leaves, that is already termed St. Germain tea." This was all that Madame de Pompadour could gain from the first Minister; she did not believe a word of it, especially as the next day one of her agents informed her as a certainty that this foreigner was no other than the son of a tax-gatherer, named Rotondo, who came from St. Germain in Savoy.
There seemed, however, no proof of this, and the lady believed that this impressive personage was of high birth if not of supernatural origin, and she studied with extreme eagerness the dossier from one of her secret police that just then came to hand, and that contained fuller details of the career of this dubious character.
He had passed under the names of the Chevalier Schoning, the Chevalier Weldon, Count Solitskoff and Baron Bedmar; there was nothing new in any of these incogniti, but the Marquise was startled when she read the statement of a Baron von Stosch, that was enclosed in this report. For this gentleman, then residing at Crakow, but lately in Paris, had declared that in "St. Germain" he had recognised a nobleman whom he had seen in his boyhood, during the regency of M. d'Orléans, who was known as the Marquis de Montferrat and who resided at Versailles; he was so closely in the intimacy of the Regent that he might have been his shadow, but on the death of that Prince disappeared.
"He is then," mused Madame de Pompadour between horror and hope, "an immortal creature, who takes on different shapes—though von Stosch says that there was a rumour that Montferrat was a son of Queen Marianna of Spain, by a Castilian moneylender—I believe nothing of it, but rather that he is the Wandering Jew, who appeared for a while as the Regent—or at least that he was that Prince's âme damnée."
Her sole concern now was to entice St. Germain to her service, but he had gone to Hungary, where he went under the name of Count Tzarogy, which, her informant wrote, was an obvious anagram for the famous and forbidden name of Ragotzy, that of the Princes of Transylvania who, rebelling against the Emperor, had lost everything, even their name.
Here, then, was the explanation of this mysterious personage; his father had fled to Turkey after his defeat by the Austrians and his young children had been brought up in secrecy, and under assumed names, by the Emperor. (The elder, Joseph, discovered his pretensions, raised a rebellion in his native state, was defeated, fled, and died in exile. The younger, Francis, was, however, of a more prudent turn of mind and accepted a title, that of Marchese di Santa Elizabetha, and a pension from the Imperial Government. After a short appearance in Vienna, this prince, who had brilliant gifts, disappeared, it was commonly supposed on some financial business for the Emperor, for he was very interested in economics, chemistry, and trade and had invented a process whereby flax could be made to pass as silk.)
"Is this the man?" sighed the Marquise, not in the least convinced, and again she approached the King, begging him to tell her at least some of the truth and to summon to return to Paris a man who was obviously, whether human or not, very important.
The King, however, refused to interfere in the affair; he had become very listless, was increasingly afraid of death, and unceasingly weary of life.
Madame de Pompadour therefore sent her own express messengers to seek out and bring back, at any price, the man who might be able to cure the King's desperate melancholy and her own failing energies. She could still believe in miracles.
On the day that, to her surprise, the distracted woman received an answer from St. Germain promising his immediate return to Versailles, her physician ventured to hint to her that she was afflicted with an illness that it was beyond her skill to cure.
Madame de Pompadour then drew her rose-coloured brocade curtains closely round her bed, kept herself private from everyone but Madame du Hausset, and with a crucifix in one hand and the ruby amulet given her by St. Germain in the other, debated if she should send for her confessor or await the arrival of St. Germain.
"If only," she lamented, "there could be some revelation on which one could rely..." Madame du Hausset held up a mirror in which the dying Marquise could behold her one remaining beauty, the abundant, bright hair, kept brilliant by the pomade of St. Germain; the King avoided the apartments of his mistress. When informed that she was not likely to outlast the stormy afternoon, he glanced at the sombre sky, the drenched park, and remarking, "The Marquise has chosen a wet day for her journey," continued his game of cup and ball that served him like a praying wheel, "to keep his mind off realities."
M. de St. Germain arrived in much state in Paris; he had outriders and lackeys in sulphur-coloured liveries, a coach painted with intricate symbols, drawn by six dappled horses trained in Vienna, while his person glittered with the famous diamonds set off against a suit of black velvet; his peruke was dyed a clear blue and there was a confident smile on his face.
But when he reached the apartments of Madame de Pompadour, she was already dead.
IT is impossible to give in the form of a Bibliography the various authorities that have been consulted in the making of the preceding volume, but those who would care to have a rational account of the matter dealt with by the Comte de St. Germain could not do better than consult Sixty Centuries of Health and Physick. The Progress of Ideas from Primitive Magic to Modern Medicine, by S.G. Bloxland Stubbs and E.M. Bligh. London: Sampson Low, Marston & Co., 1931.
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