 Chapter 1 of the Marie Antoinette Romances, Volume 1. Balsamo, The Magician. This is a LibreBox recording. All LibreBox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreBox.org. The Marie Antoinette Romances, Volume 1. Balsamo, The Magician by Alexandre Dumas, translated by Henry L. Williams. The Grand Master of the Secret Society. On the left bank of the Rhine, near the spot where the Celts rivulate springs forth, the foothill ranges rise of many mountains, of which the bristling humps seem to rush northerly like herds of frightened buffaloes disappearing in the haze. These mountains tower over a deserted region, forming a guard around one more lofty than the rest, whose granite brow, crowned with a ruined monastery, defies the skies. It is Thundermount. On the 6th of May, 1770, as the Great River Wavelets were died in the rainbow hues of the setting sun, a man who had ridden from Mainz after a journey through Poland followed the path out of Daninfell's village until it ended, and then a lighting and leading astide tied it up in the pine woods. Be quiet, my good Jared, Javelin, said the horseman to the animal with this Arabian name which bespoke its blood and its speed. And good-bye if we never meet again. He cast a glance round him as if he suspected he were overheard. The barb nade and pawed with one foot. Right, Jared, the danger is around us. But as if he had made up his mind not to struggle with it, the venturesome stranger drew the charges from a pair of splendid pistols and cast the powder and bullets on the sword before replacing them in the holsters. He wore a steel-hilted sword which he took off with the belt and fastened it to the stirrup leather so as to hang from the saddle-horn point down. These odd formalities being done, he ungloved and searching his pockets produced nail-scissors and pocket-knife which he flung over his shoulder without looking to see whether they went. Drawing the longest possible breath he plunged at random into the thicket for there was no trace of a path. He was a man about thirty, taller than average, but so wonderfully well-built that yet most strength and skill seemed to circulate in his supple and nervy limbs. He wore a black velvet overcoat with gilt buttons, the flaps of an embroidered waistcoat showed below its lowest buttons, and the buckskin riding breeches defined legs worthy to be a sculptor's models. The elegant feet were cased in patent leather boots. His countenance was a notable mixture of power and intelligence with all the play of southern races. His glance, able to display any emotion, seemed to pierce anyone on whom it fell with beams that sounded the very soul. His cheeks had been browned by a sun hotter than that of France. His mouth was large but finely shaped and parted to reveal magnificent teeth, all the wider from his dark complexion. His hand was small but muscular, his foot long but fine. Scarcely had he taken a dozen steps within the glade before he heard faint footsteps. He rose on tiptoe and perceived that unseen hands had unhitched Jared and were leading him away. He frowned slightly and faint smile curled his full cheeks and choicelessly chiseled lips. He continued into the heart of the forest. For a space the twilight guided him, but soon that died out and he stood in gloom so dense that he had to stop lest he blundered blindly. I reached Dananvel from Mainz. He said aloud, As there was a road, I reached this forest as there was a path. I am here as there was some light, but I must stop now as I have no sight. Scarcely had he spoken in a dialect part French, part Sicilian, then a light flashed out only fifty paces off. Thanks, I will follow the light as long as it leads. The light at once moved onward regularly and steadily like a stage lamp managed by the limelight operator. At a hundred paces a breath in the adventurer's ear made him wince. Turn and you die, came this whisper. All right, answered the stranger. Speak and you die, whispered a voice on the left hand. He bowed without speaking, but said a voice seeming to issue from the bowels of the earth. If you are afraid, go back to the plain by which it will be clear that you are daunted and renounce your errand. The traveller waved his hand to imply that he was going ahead and ahead he went. But it was so late and the shade so deep that he stumbled during the hour the magic light preceded him. But he did not murmur or show any tremor in fear. While he heard, not a breath. All of a sudden the light went out. He had passed through the woodland, for on lifting his eyes he could see a few stars glitter on the darksome sky. He kept on in the same direction till he saw loom up the somber mass of the ruins of a castle, its spectre. At the same time his foot met its fallen stones. A clammy thing wound itself round his forehead and sealed his eyes. He could no longer see even the shadows. It was a wet linen cloth. It must have been an expected thing for he made no resistance to being blindfolded. But he put forth his hand silently as a blinded man naturally does to grope. The gesture was understood, for on the instant a cold, dry, bony hand clutched his fingers. He knew it was a skeletons. Had it possessed feeling it must have owned that his own hand no more trembled. For a hundred yards the seeker was dragged forward rapidly. All at once the bandage was plucked aloof and he stopped. He had reached the top of the thunder-mount. Before him rose the moldy, mossy steps of the portico of the old castle of Donabag. On the first slab stood the phantom with the osseous hand that guided him tither. From head to foot a long shroud unwrapped it. Through a slit the dead eyes peered without luster. The fleshless hand pointed into the ruins where the goal seemed to be a hall, too high up to be viewed, but with the collapsed ceiling flickering with a fickle light. A traveller nodded in consent. Slowly the ghost mounted the steps, one by one, to limit the ruins. The man followed with the same solemn and tranquil pace regulating his walk, and he also entered. Behind him slammed the principal door as noisily as a ringing bronze gate. The phantom guide had paused on the threshold of a round hall hung with black and illumined with greenish hues of three lamps. Open your eyes, said the ghastly guide. I see. Replied the other, stopping ten paces from him. Drawing a double-edged sword from his shroud with a swift and haughty gesture, the phantom smote with it a brazen column which boomed in note like a gong. Immediately, all around, the slabs of the hall floor rose up and countless ghosts like the guide stole in with drawn swords and took posts on steps where they stood like statues on their pedestals, cold and motionless. They stood out against the sable drapery. Higher than the steps was a dais for seven chairs. On these six ghosts took place, leaving one seat vacant. They were chiefs. What is our number, brothers? Challenged one of the six rising in the middle. Three hundred is the right tally. Answered the specters with one voice thundering through the hall and dying amid the black hangings. Three hundred, said the presiding chief, representing each ten thousand associates, three hundred swords worth three millions of daggers. What do you want, stranger? He demanded turning to the intruder. To see the light. Was the rejoinder. The paths leading to the mountain of fire are hard and toilsome. Fear you not to tread them. I fear nothing. You cannot turn back once you start. Bear this in mind. I mean to stop only at the goal. Are you ready to take the oath? Say it, and I will repeat. The president lifted his hand and slowly and solemnly uttered these words. In the name of the master carpenter, swear to break all carnal bonds tying you to whomsoever above all to those to whom you may have pledged faith, obedience or service. A newcomer in the firm voice repeated what was pronounced. From this out, continued the president, you are absolved from plights made to native land and rulers. Swear to reveal to your new leader what you have seen and done, heard or learned, read or guessed, and further to spy and discover all passing under your eyes. On his ceasing the novice repeated. Honor and respect the water of death. Went on the president without a changing of voice. As a prompt means in skilled hands, sure and needful to purge the globe by the death or insanity of those who strive to stifle the truth or snatch it from our hands. An echo could not more faithfully repeat the vow. Avoid Spain, Naples, and all accursed lands, or over the temptation to let out what you learn and hear, for the lightning is less swift to strike than we with our unseen but inevitable blade, wheresoever you may flee. Now live in the name of the Supernal Three. In spite of the final threat no emotion could be described on the novice's face as he reiterated the words with as calm a tone as he used at the outset. Now, deck the applicant with the sacred ribbon, said the president. Two shrouded figures placed on the bent brow of the stranger a sky blue ribbon with silver letters and female figures. The ends of the badge were tied behind on the nape. They stepped aside leaving him alone again. What do you want? asked the chief officer. Three things. The iron hand to strangle tyranny, the fiery sword to drive the impure from the earth, and the diamond scales to weigh the destinies of mankind. Are you prepared for the tests? Who seeks to be accepted should be ready for everything. The tests shouted the ghosts. Turn round, said the president. The stranger faced a man, pale as death, bound and gagged. Behold, a traitor who revealed the secrets of the order after taking such an oath as you did. Thus guilty, what think you he deserves? Death. Death! cried the three hundred sword-bearers. Instantly the unhappy culprit, despite superhuman resistance, was dragged to the back of the hall. The initiated one saw him wrestling and writhing in the torturer's hands and heard his voice hissing past the gag. A punyard flashed in the lamp-light like lightning, and after it fell, with a slapping sound of the hilt, the dead body landed heavily on the stone floor. Justice has been executed. Observe the stranger, turning round to the terrifying circle whose greedy eyes had gazed on him out of their grave-clothes. So you approve of the execution? Yes, if the slain were truly guilty. And would you drink the downfall of anyone who sold the secrets of this ancient association? In any beverage. Bring hither the cup, said the arch-officer. One of the two executioners drew near with a skull brimming with a warm and ruddy liquid. The stranger took the goblet by its brass stem and said as he held it up, I drink to the death of all false brothers. Lowering the cup to his lips, he drained it to the last drop and calmly returned it to the giver. A murmur of astonishment ran around the assemblage as the phantoms glanced at one another. So far, well, the pistol, said the chief. A ghost stole up to the speaker holding a pistol in one hand and powder and ball in the other without the novice seeming to deign a glance in that direction. Do you promise passive obedience to the brotherhood, even though it were to recoil on yourself? Whoso enters the household of the faithful is no longer his own property. Hence, you will obey any order given you. Straight way. Take this firearm and load it. What am I to do with it? Cock it. The stranger set the hammer and the click of it going on full cock was plainly heard in the deep stillness. Clap the muzzle to your temple. Ordered the president and the suppliant obeyed without hesitating. The silence deepened over all. The lamps seemed to fade and the bystanders had no more breath than ghosts. Fire! exclaimed the president. The hammer fell and the flint emitted sparks in the pan, but it was only the powder there which took fire and no report followed its ephemeral flame. Loud cry of admiration burst from nearly every breast and the president instinctively held out his hand toward the novice. The two tests were not enough for some doubters who called out, the dagger! Since you require it, bring the dagger! said the presiding officer. It is useless. Interrupted the stranger shaking his head disdainfully. What do you mean? Asked several voices. Useless. Repeated the newcomer in a voice rising above all the others. For you are wasting precious time. I know all your secrets and these childish proofs are unworthy the head of sensible beings. That man was not murdered. The stuff I drank was wine hidden a pouch on his chest. The bullet and powder I loaded the trick pistol with fell into a hollow in the stock when the weapon was cocked. Take back the sham arm. Only good to frighten cowards. Rise, you lying corpse. You cannot frighten the strong-minded. A terrible roar shook the hall. To know our mysteries you must be an initiate or a spy. Said the president. Who are you? Demanded three hundred voices together as a score of swords shown in the grip of the nearest and were lowered by the regular movement of trained soldiers toward the intruder's bosom. Calm and smiling he lifted his head, wound round with the sacred fillet and replied, I am the man for the time. Before his lordly gaze the blades lowered unevenly as they on whom it fell obeyed promptly or tried to resist the influence. You have made a rash speech. Said the president. But it may have been spoken without your knowing its gravity. I have replied as I was bound. Said the other, shaking his head and smiling. Whence come you then? questioned the chief. From the quarter whence cometh the light. Was the response? That is the east and we are informed that you come from Sweden. I may have passed through there from the Orient. Said the stranger. Still we know you not a second time. Who are you? I will tell you in a while, since you pretend not to know me. But, meantime, I will tell you who you are. The specters shuddered and their swords clanked as they shifted them from left to right hands again to point them at his breast. To begin with you, said the stranger pointing to the chief, one who fancies himself a god and is but a forerunner, representative of the Swedish circles. I will name you, though I need not name the others. Svedenborg, have not the angels who speak familiarly with you, revealed that the man you expect was on the way? True, they told me so. Answered the principal, parting his shroud, the better to look out. This act, against the rule and habit during the rites, played the venerable countenance and snowy beard of an old man of eighty. On your left, continued the stranger, sits the representative of Great Britain, the chief of the Scottish rites. I salute your lordship. If the blood of your forefathers runs in your veins, England may hope not to have the light die out. So, this is you, captain. Went on the stranger to the last leader on the president's left. In what port have you left your handsome cruiser, which you love like a lass? The Providence is a gallant frigate, and the name brings good luck to America. Now for your turn, prophet of Zurich. He said to the man on the right of the chief, Look me in the face, since you have carried the science of physiognomy to divination, and tell me if you do not read my mission in the lines of my face. The person addressed recoiled a step. As for you, descendant of Pelagius, for a second time the moors must be driven out of Spain. It would be an easy matter if the Castilians have not lost the sword of the Sid. Newton motionless, 12th the fifth chief, the voice seemed to have turned him to stone. Have you nothing to say to me? Inquired the sixth delegate, anticipating the denouncer who seemed to forget him. Yay. To you I have to say what the son of the great architect, said to Judas, and I will speak it in a while. So replied the traveller, fastening on him one of those glances which pierced to the heart. The hearer became whiter than his shroud, while a murmur ran round the gathering, wishful to call the accursed one to count. You forget the delegate of France. Observe the chief. He is not among you, as you well know for there is his vacant place. Haughtily made answer the stranger. Bear in mind that such tricks make them smile who can see in the dark, who act in spite of the elements, and live though death menaces them. You are a young man to speak thus with the authority of a divinity. Resumed the principle, reflect yourself. Impudence only stuns the ignorant, or the irresolute. You are all irresolute. Retorted the stranger with a smile of supreme scorn, or you would have acted against me. You are ignorant, since you do not know me, while I know ye all. With boldness alone I succeed against you, but boldness would be in vain against one with irresistible power. Inform us with a proof of this power. Said the Swedenborg. What brings ye together? The Supreme Council? What without intention? Went on the visitant. Have you come from all quarters to gather in the sanctuary of the terrible faith? Surely not. Replied the swede. We come to hail the person who has founded a mystic empire in the Orient, uniting the two hemispheres in a commonality of beliefs, and joining the hands of human brotherhood. Would you know him by any token? Heaven has been good enough to unveil it by the intermediation of its angels. Answered the visionary. If you hold this secret alone and have not revealed it to a soul, tell it aloud, for the time has come. On his breast, said the chief of the Illuminati, he wears a diamond star. In the core of which shines the three initials of a phrase known to him alone. State those initials. L, P, D. With a rapid stroke, the stranger opened his overcoat, coat, and waistcoat, and showed on the fine linen front, gleaming like flame, a jeweled plate on which flared three letters in rubies. He ejaculated the swede. Can this be he? Whom all await? added the other leaders anxiously. The hero font of Memphis, the grand copte, muttered the three hundred voices. Will you deny me now? He demanded the man from the east triumphantly. No! cried the phantoms bowing to the ground. Speak, master! said the president and the five chiefs bowing. And we obey! The visitor seemed to reflect during the silence, some instance long. Brothers, he finally said, You may lay aside your swords uselessly, fatiguing your arms, and lend me an attentive ear, for you will learn much in the few words I address to you. The source of great rivers is generally unknown, like most divine things. I know whither I go, but not my origin. When I first opened my eyes to consciousness, I was in the sacred city of Medina, playing about the gardens of the Mufti Suleiman. I loved this venerable old man like a father, but he was none of mine, and he addressed me with respect, though he held me in affection. Three times a day he stood aside to let another old man come to me, whose name I ever uttered with gratitude, mixed with awe. This august receptacle of all human wisdom, instructed in all things by the seven superior spirits, bore the name of Altatis. He was my tutor, and master, and venerable friend, for he is twice the age of the oldest here. Long shivers of anxiety hailed this beach, spoken in solemnity, with majestic gesticulation, and in a voice severe while smooth. One day, in my fifteenth year, in the midst of my studies my old master came to me with a file in hand. Akkarat, he said, it was my name. I have always told you that nothing is born to die forever in this world. Man only lacks clearness of mind to be immortal. I have found the beverage to scatter the clouds, and next we'll discover that to dispel death. Yesterday I drank of this distillation. I want you to drink the rest today. I had extreme trust in my teacher, but my hand trembled in taking this file, like eaves in taking the apple of life. Drink, he said, smiling. And I drank. Sleep, he said, laying his hands on my head, and I slept. Then all that was material about me faded away, in the soul that solidarily remained lived again, like Pythagoras, for centuries through which it had passed. In the panorama unfolded before it, I beheld myself in previous existence, and, awaking, comprehended that I was more than man. He spoke with so strong a conviction, and his eyes were fixed heavenward with so sublime an expression that a murmur of admiration hailed him. Astonishment had yielded to wonder as wrath had to astonishment. Thereupon continued the enlightened one. I determined to devote my existence at present, as well as the fruit of all my previous ones, to the welfare of mankind. Next day, as though he devined my plan, Altotus came to me and said, My son, your mother died twenty years ago as she gave birth to you. For twenty years your sire has kept hidden by some invincible obstacle. We will resume our travels, and if we meet him you may embrace him, but not knowing him. You see, that all was to be mysterious about me, as with all the elect of heaven. At the end of our journeys I was a theosophist. The many cities had not roused my wonderment. Nothing was new to me under the sun. I had been in every place formerly in one or more of my several existences. The only thing striking me was the changes in the peoples. Following the march of progress, I saw that all were proceeding toward freedom. All the prophets had been sent to prop the tottering steps of mankind, which, though blind at birth, staggered step by step toward light. Each century is an age for the people. Now, you understand that I come not from the Orient to practice simply the Masonic rites, but to say, Brothers, we must give light to the world. France is chosen to be the torch-bearer. It may consume, but it will be a wholesome conflagration, for it will enlighten the world. That is why France has no delegate here. He may have shrunk from his duty. We want one who will recoil from nothing, and so I shall go into France. It is the most important post, the most perilous, and I undertake it. Yet you know what goes on there. Question the President. Smiling the man called Akarat replied, I ought to know, for I have been preparing matters. The king is old, timid, corrupt, but less antiquated and hopeless of cure than the monarchy he represents. Only a few years further will he sit on the throne. We must have the future laid out from when he dies. France is the keystone of the arch. Let that stone be wrenched forth by the six millions of hands which will be raised at a sign from the inner circle, and down will fall the monarchical system. On that day, when there shall be no longer a king in France, the most insolently enthroned ruler in Europe will turn giddy, and spring of his own accord into the gulf left by the disappearance of the throne of Saint Louis. Forgive the doubt, most venerated master. Interrupted the chief on the right with the Swiss accent. But have you taken all into calculation? Everything. In my studies, master, I was convinced of one truth, that the characteristics of a man were written on their faces. Now I fear that the French people will love the new rulers of the country you speak of, the sweet Clement King, and the lovely Amiable Queen, the bride of the Prince Royale, Marie Antoinette is even now crossing the border. The altar and the nuptial bed are being made ready at their size. Is this the moment to begin your reformation? Most illustrious brother said the supreme chief to the prophet of Zurich. If you read the faces of man, I read the features of the future. Marie Antoinette is proud and will obstinately continue the conflict in which she will fall beneath our tax. The Dauphin, Louis Auguste, is good and mild. He will weaken in the strife and perish like his wife and with her. But each will fall and perish by the opposite virtue and fault. They esteem each other now. We will not give them time to love one another, for here they will entertain mutual contempt. Besides, brothers, why should we debate on the point whence cometh the light, since it is shown to me? I come from out the east, like the shepherds guided by the star, announcing a new birth of man. Tomorrow I set to work, and with your help I ask for twenty years to kill not a mere king, but a principal. You may think twenty years long to efface the idea of royalty from the hearts of those who would sacrifice their children's lives for the little king Louis XV. You believe it an easy matter to make odious the lily-flowers, emblem of the bourbon line, but it would take you ages to do it. You are scattered and tremble in your ignorance of one another's aspirations. I am the master ring which links you all in one grand fraternal tie. I tell you that the principles which now you mutter at the fireside scribble in the shadows of your old towers confide to one another under the rose and the dagger for the traitor or the impudent friend who utters them louder than you dare. These principles may be shouted on the housetops in broad day, printed throughout Europe and disseminated by peaceful messengers, or on the points of the bayonets of five hundred soldiers of liberty whose colors will have them inscribed on their folds. You tremble at the name of Newgate prison, at that of the Inquisition's dungeon, or of the Bastille which I go to flout at. Hark ye, we shall all laugh pity for ourselves on that day when we shall trample on the ruins of the jails, while our wives and children dance for joy. This can come to pass only after the death of Monarchy as well as of the King. After religious powers are scorned, after social inferiority is completely forgotten, and after the extinction of aristocratic castes and the division of noblemen's property, I ask for a generation to destroy an old world and rear a new one. Twenty seconds in eternity, and you think it is too much! A long greeting and admiration and assent hailed the somber prophet's speech. It was clear that he had won all the sympathy of the mysterious mandatories of European intellect. Enjoying his victory just a space, the grand copte resumed. Let us see now, brothers. Since I am going to beard the lion in his den, what will you do for the cause for which you pledged life, liberty, and fortune? I come to learn this. Silence, dreadful from its solemnity, followed these words. The immobile phantoms were absorbed in the thoughts which were to overthrow a score of thrones. The six chiefs conferred with the groups and returned to the president to consult with him before he was the first to speak. I stand for Sweden," he said. I offer in her name the miners who raise the vassus to the throne. Now to upset it, together with a hundred thousand silver crowned pieces. Drawing out tablets, Nahiraphant wrote this offer. On the president's left spoke another. I am sent by the lodges of England and Scotland. I promise nothing for the former country which is burning to fight us Scots. But in the name of poor Erdon and poor Scotia, I promise three thousand men and three thousand crowns yearly. I said the third speaker whose vigor and rough activity was betrayed beneath the winding sheet fettering such a form. I represent America where every stick and stone, tree and running brook and drop of blood belong to rebellion. As long as we have gold in our hills, we will send it she. As long as blood to shed, we will risk it. But we cannot act till we ourselves are out of the yoke. We are so divided as to be broken strands of a cable. Let a mighty hand unite but two of the strands, and the rest will twist up with them into a hauser and pull down the crowned evils from their pride of place. Begin with us, most venerable master. If you want the French to be delivered from royalty, make us free of British domination. Well spoken, said the Hierophant of Memphis. You Americans shall be free, and France will lend a helping hand. In all languages the Grand Architect hath said, Help each other. Wait a while. You will not have long to bide my brother. Turning to the Switzer, he drew these words from him. I can promise only my private contribution. The sons of our republic have long supplied troops to the French monarchy. They are faithful bargainers and will carry out their contracts. For the first time, most venerated master, I am ashamed of their loyalty. Be it so, we must win without them and in their teeth. Speak, Spain. I am poor, said the Grandi, and have but three thousand brothers to supply. But each will furnish a thousand real a year. Spain is an indolent land, where man with a dose thaw a bed of thorns. Be it so, said the Grandmaster. Speak, you brother. I speak for Russia and the Polish clubs. Our brothers are discontented rich men, or serfs, doomed to restless labor and untimely death. In the name of the latter, owning nothing, not even life. I can promise nothing, but three thousand rich men will pay twenty Louis a head every year. The other deputies came forward by turns and had their offers set down in the cop's memorandum book as they bound themselves to fulfill their plight. The word of command, said the leader, already spread in one part of the world, is to be dispensed through the others. It is symbolized by the three letters which you have seen. Let each one wear them in the heart as well as on it. For we, the sovereign master of the shrines of the Orient and the West, we order the ruin of the lilies. L-P-D signifies Lillia Peruvus destroy, trample lilies under. I order you of Spain, Sweden, Scotland, Switzerland, and America to trample down the lilies of the bourbon race. The cheering was like the roar of the sea under the vault escaping by gusts down the mountain gorges. In the name of the architect, be gone! said the master. By stream and strand and valley, be gone by the rising of the sun. You will see me once more, and that will be on the day of triumph. Go! He terminated his address with a Masonic sign which was understood solely by the six chiefs, who remained after the inferiors had departed. Then the grand cop took the suite aside. Swedenberg, you are really an inspired man, and heaven thanks you by my voice. Send the cash into France to the address I shall give you. The president bowed humbly and went away amazed by the second sight which had unveiled his name. Brave Fairfax said the master to another, I hail you as the worthy son of your sire. Remind me to General Washington when you next write him. Fairfax retired on the heels of Svedenberg. Paul Jones went on the cop to the American deputy. You have spoken to the mark. As I expected of you, you will be one of the heroes of the American Republic. Be both of you ready when the signal is flying. Quivering as though inspired by a holy breath, the future capturer of the Serapis likewise retired. Lavate said the master to the Swiss. Drop your theories for it is high time you take up practice. No longer study what man is, but what he may become. Go and woe to your fellow countrymen who take up arms against us, for the wrath of the people is swift, and devouring even as that of the God on high. Trembling, the physionymous bowed and went his way. List to me, Shimenes, said the cop to the Spaniard. You are zealous, but you distrust yourself. You say Spain doeses? That is because no one rouses her. Go and awake her. Castile is still the land of the Sid. The last chief was skulking forward when the head of the masons checked him with a wave of the hand. Sheaford of Russia, you are a traitor who will betray our cause before the month is over. But before the month is out, you will be dead. The Muscovite envoy fell on his knees, but the other made him rise with a threatening gesture and the doomed one reeled out of the hall. Left by himself in the deserted and silent hall, the strange man buttoned up his overcoat, settled his hat on his head, pushed the spring of the bronze door to make it open and went forth. He strode down the mountain defiles as if they had long been known to him, and without light or guide in the woods, went to the further edge. He listened and hearing a distant neigh he proceeded tither. Whistling peculiarly, he brought his faithful Jared to his hand. Leaped lightly into the saddle in the two, darting away headlong, were unwrapped in the fogs, rising between Deninfels and the top of the Thunder Mountain. End of chapter 1, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter 2 of Balsamo the Magician by Alexander Dumas, translated by Henry L. Williams. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Living Wagon in the Storm A week after the events depicted, a living wagon drawn by four horses and conducted by two post-boys left Pante-Mousson, a pretty town between Nancy and Metz. Nothing like this caravan, as show-people-style the kind, had ever crossed the bridge, though the good folks see theatrical carts of queer aspect. The body was large and painted blue, with a barren's insignia surmounting a J and a B artistically interlaced. This box was lighted by two windows, curtained with muslin, but they were in the front, where a sort of driver's cab hid them from the vulgar eye. By these apertures the inmate of the coach could talk with outsiders. Ventilation was given this case by a glazed skylight in the dicky, or hind-box of the vehicle, where grooms usually sit. Another orifice completed the oddity of the affair by presenting a stovepipe, which belched smoke to fade away in the wake as the whole rushed on. In our times one would have simply imagined that it was a steam conveyance and applauded the mecanician who had done away with horses. The machine was followed by a lead horse of Arab extraction, ready-saddled, indicating that one of the passengers sometimes gave himself the pleasure and change of riding alongside the vehicle. At St. Michiel the mountain ascent was reached. Forced to go at a walk, the quarter of a league took half an hour. Toward the evening, weather turned from mild and clear to tempestuous. A cloud spread over the skies with frightful rapidity and intercepted the setting sunbeams. All of a sudden the cloud was stripped by a lightning flash and the startled eye could plunge into the immensity of the firmament, blazing like the infernal regions. The vehicle was on the mountainside when a second clap of thunder flung the rain out of the cloud. After falling in large drops it poured hard. The post boys pulled up. Hello. Demanded a man's voice from inside the conveyance. What are you stopping for? We are asking one another if we ought to go on. Answered one Pustillion with the deference to a master who had paid handsomely. It seems to me that I ought to be asked about that. Go ahead. But the rain had already made the road downward slippery. Please, sir, the horses won't go. Said the elder Pustillion. What have you got spurs for? They might be plunged rowls deep without making the bulky creature's budge. May heaven exterminate me if— The blast for me was not finished as a dreadful lightning stroke cut him short. The coach was started and ran upon the horses which had to race to save themselves from being crushed. The equipage flew down the sloping road like an arrow, skimming the precipice. Instead of the traveller's voice coming out from the vehicle, it was his head. You clumsy fellows will kill us all. He said, Bear to the left, deuce-takey. Oh, Joseph! Screamed a woman's voice inside. Help! Holy Madonna, help us! It was time to invoke the Queen of Heaven, for the heavy carriage was skirting the abyss. One wheel seemed to be in the air, and a horse was nearly over when the traveller, springing out on the pole, grasped the post-boy nearest by the collar and slack of the breeches. He raised him out of his boots as if he were a child. Flung him a dozen feet clear and taking his place in the saddle, gathered up the reins and said in a terrifying voice to the second rider. Keep to the left, rascal, or I shall blow out your brains. The order had a magical effect. The foremost rider, haunted by the shriek of his luckless comrade, followed the substitute impulse and bore the horses toward the firm land. Gallop shouted the traveller, If you falter, I shall run right over you and your horses. The chariot seemed an infernal machine drawn by nightmares and pursued by a whirlwind. They had eluded one danger only to fall into another. As they reached the foot of the declivity, the clouds split with an awful roar in which was blended the flame and the thunder. A fire enwrapped the leaders, and the wheelers and the leaders were brought to their haunches as if the ground gave way under them. But the four pair, rising quickly and feeling that the traces had snapped, carried away their man in the darkness. The vehicle, rolling on a few paces, stopped on the dead body of the stricken horse. The whole event had been accompanied by the screams of the woman. For a moment of confusion, none knew who was living or dead. The traveller was safe and sound on feeling himself, but the lady had swooned. Although he guessed this was the case, it was elsewhere that he ran to aid, to the rear of the vehicle. The dead horse was rearing with bristling mane and shaking the door to the handle of which his halter was hitched. Hang the confounded beast again. Muddered a broken voice within, a curse on him for shaking the wall of my laboratory. Becoming louder the same voice added in Arabic, I bid you keep quiet, devil. Do not wax angry with Jared, master. The traveller, untying the steed and fastening it to the hind wheel, he is frightened, and for sound reasons. So saying, he opened the door, let down the steps, and stepped inside the vehicle, closing the door behind him. He faced a very aged man with a hook and nose, grey eyes, and shaking, yet active hands. Sunk in a huge armchair, he was following the lines of a manuscript book on vellum, entitled The Secret Key to the Cabinet of Magic, while holding a silver skimmer in his other hand. The three walls, for this old man had called the sides of the living wagon walls, held bookcases, with shelves of bottles, jars, and brass-bound boxes set in wooden cases like utensils on ship-board, so as to stand up without upsetting. The old man could reach these articles by rolling the easy chair to them, a crank enabled him to screw up the seat to the level of the highest. The compartment was, in feet, eight by six and six in height. Facing the door was a furnace with hood and bellows. It was now boiling a crucible at a white heat. Wents issued the smoke by the pipe overhead, exciting the mystery of the villagers wherever the wagon went through. The hole emitted an odor which, in a less grotesque laboratory, would have been called a perfume. The occupant seemed to be in bad humor, for he grumbled. The cursed animal is frightened, but what has he got to disturb him? I want to know. He has shaken my door, cracked my furnace, and split a quarter of my enixer in the fire. Ocarot, in heaven's name, drop the beast in the first desert we cross. In the first place, master. Return the other smiling. We are not crossing deserts, for we are in France, and next I would not abandon a horse worth a thousand Louis, rather priceless, as he is of the breed of Alba Rock. I will give you a thousand over and over again. He has lost me more than a million. Say nothing of the days he has robbed me of. The liquor would have boiled up without loss of a drop, in a little longer which neither Zoroaster nor Paracelsus stated, but it is positively advised by Boris. Never mind. It will soon be boiling again. But that is not all. Something is dropping down my chimney. Merely water. It is raining. Water? Then my enixer is spoiled. I must renew the work, as if I had any time to spare. It is pure water from above. It was pouring as you might have noticed. Do I notice anything when busy? Oh, my poor soul, Akkarot, this is exasperating. For six months I have been begging for a cowl to my chimney. I mean, this year, you never think of it, though you are young and have lots of leisure. What will your negligence bring about? The rain today, or the wind tomorrow, can found my calculations and ruin all my operations. Yet I must hurry. My jove, for my hundredth year, commences on the fifteenth of July, at eleven at night precisely, and if my enixer of life is not then ready, good night to the sage Altatis. But you are getting on well with it, my dear master, I think. Yes. By my tests, by absorption, I have restored vitality to my paralyzed arm. I only want the plant mentioned by Pliny, which we have perhaps passed a hundred times or crushed under the wheels. By the way, what rumbling is that? Are we still going? No, that is thunder. The lightning has been playing the mischief with us, but I was safe enough, being clothed in silk. Lightning, phew! Wait till I renew my life and can attend to other matters. I will put a steel bridle on your electric fluid and make it light this study and cook my meals. I wish I were as sure of making my enixer perfect. And our great work. How comes it on? Making diamonds? That is done. Look here in the glass dish. Joseph Balsamo greedily caught up the crystal saucer and saw a small brilliant amid some dust. Small and with flaws. He said disappointed. Because the fire was put out, Akkarot, from there being no cowl to the chimney. You shall have it. But do take some food. I took some elixir a couple of hours ago. Nay, that was at six this morning, and it is now the afternoon. Another day gone, fled and lost. Moaned the alchemist, wringing his hands. Are they not growing shorter? Have they less than four and twenty hours? If you will not eat, at least take a nap. When I sleep, I am afraid I shall never wake. If I lie down for two hours, you will come and call me Akkarot. Said the old man in a coaxing voice. I swear I will, master. At this point they heard the gallop of a horse and a scream of astonishment and disquiet. What does that mean? Questioned the traveller, quickly opening the door and leaping out on the road without using the steps. End of chapter two, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter three of Balsamo the Magician by Alexander Dumas, translated by Henry L. Williams. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The lovely Lorenza, the woman who was in the four part of the coach in the cab, remained for a time deprived of sense. As fear alone had caused the swoon she came to consciousness. Heavens! she cried. Am I abandoned helpless here, with no human being to take pity upon me? Lady, said a timid voice at hand, I am here, and I may be of some help to you. Passing her hand in both arms out of the cab by the leather curtains, the young woman, rising, faced the youth who stood on the steps. Is it you offered me help? What has happened? The thunderbolt nearly struck you, and the tracers were broken of the leading pair which have run off with the post-boy. What has become of the person who was riding the other pair? She asked with an anxious look round. He got off the horses as if all right and went inside the other part of the coach. Heaven be praised! said she, breathing more freely. But who are you to offer me assistance so timely? Surprised by the storm, I was in that dark hole which is a quarry outlet when I suddenly saw a large wagon coming down at a gallop. I thought it a runaway but soon saw it was guided by a mighty hand. But the lightning fell with such an uproar that I feared I was struck and was stunned. All seemed to have happened in a dream. The lady nodded as if this satisfied her, but rested her head on her hand in deep thought. He had time to examine her. She was in her twenty-third year and of dark complexion, but richly coloured with the loveliest pink. Her blue eyes sparkled like stars as she appealed to heaven, and her hair fell in curls of jet unpowdered contrary to the fashion on her opal neck. Where are we? she suddenly inquired. On the Strasbourg to Paris Highway, near Piafit, a village. Valaduque is the next town with some five thousand population. Is there a shortcut to it? None I ever heard of. What a pity! she said in Italian. As she kept silent toward him, the youth was going away when this drew her from her reverie, for she called him for another question. Is there a horse still attached to the coach? The gentleman who entered tied it to the wheel. It is a valuable animal, and I should like to be sure it is unhurt, but how can I go through this mud? I can bring it here, proposed the stripling. Do so. I pretty, and I shall be most grateful to you. But the barb reared and nade when he went up. Do not be afraid, said the lady. It is gentle as a lamb. She called in a low voice. The steed recognized the mistress's voice, for it extended its intelligent head toward the speaker, while the youth unfastened it. But it was scarcely loose before it jerked the reins away and bound it up to the vehicle. The woman came forth, and almost as quickly leaped on the saddle with the dexterity of those sylphs in German ballads who cling to riders while seated on the cropper. The youth sprang toward her, but she stopped him with an imperative wave of the hand. Listen to me. Though but a boy or because you are young, you have humane feelings. Do not oppose my flight. I am fleeing from a man I love, but I am above all a good Catholic. This man would destroy my soul were I to stay by him, as he is a magician whom God sent a warning to by the lightning. May he profit by it. Tell him this, and bless you for the help given me. Farewell. Light as the marsh missed. She was carried away by the gallop of Jared. On seeing this, the youth could not restrain a cry of surprise, which was the one heard inside the coach. End of Chapter 3, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter 4 of Balsamo the Magician by Alexander Dumas, translated by Henry L. Williams. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Gilbert The armed traveller closed the coach door behind him carefully and looked wistfully around. First he saw the young man frightened. A flash of lightning enabled him to examine him from head to foot, an operation habitual to him on seeing any new person or thing. This was a spring-hold of sixteen, small, thin, and agile. His bold black eyes lacked sweetness, but not charm. His shrewdness and observation were revealed in his thin, hooked nose, fine lip, and projecting cheekbones, while the rounded chin stuck out in token of resolution. Was that you screamed just now? What for? queried the gentleman. The lady from the cab there rode off on the lead horse. The traveller did not make any remark at this hesitating reply. Not a word. He rushed to the four-part and saw by the lightning that it was empty. Splod! He roared, in Italian, almost like the thunder-peel accompanying the oath. He looked round for means of pursuit, but one of the coach horses in Chase of Jared would be a tortoise after a gazelle. Still, I can find out where she is. He muttered. Unless. Quickly and anxiously he drew a small book from his vest pocket, and in a folded paper found a tress of raven hair. His features became serene and apparently he was calmed. All as well. He said, wiping his streaming face. Did she say nothing when she started? Yes, that she quitted you not through hate, but fear, as she is a Christian while you, you are an atheist and miscreant, to whom God sought to give a final warning by this storm. If that is all, let us drop the subject. The last traces of disquiet and discontent fled the man's brow. The youth noticed all this with curiosity mingled with keen observation. What is your name, my young friend? Inquired the traveller. Gilbert. Your Christian name? But... It is my whole name. My dear Gilbert, Providence placed you on my road to save me from bother. I know your youth compels you to be obliging, but I am not going to ask anything hard of you, only a night's lodging. This rock was my shelter. I should like a dwelling better, where I could get a good meal and bed. We are a league and a half from Pier Fitt, the next village. With only two horses, that would take two hours. Just think, if there is no refuge nearer. Tavernay Castle is at hand, but it is not an inn. Not lived in? Baron Tavernay lives there. What is he? Father of Mademoiselle Andrea de Tavernay. Delighted to hear it. Smilingly said the other, but I want to know the kind of man he is. An old nobleman who used to be wealthy. An old story. My friend, please take me to Baron Tavernay's. He does not receive company, said the youth in apprehension. Not welcome astray gentlemen. He must be a bear. Much like it. I do not advise you are risking it. Poo, the bear will not eat me up alive. But he may keep the door closed. I will break it in, and unless you refuse to be my guide. I do not. I will show the way. The traveller took off the carriage-lamp which Gilbert held curiously in his hands. It has no light, he said. I have fire in my pocket. Pretty hard to get fire from Flint and steal this weather. Observe the youth. But the other drew a silver case from his pocket, and opening the lid plunged a match into it. A flame sprang up, and he drew out the match of flame. This was so sudden and unexpected by the youth who only knew of Tinder and the spark and not of Phosphorus, the toy of science at this period, that he started. He watched the magician restore the case to his pocket with greed. He would have given much to have the instrument. He went on before with the lighted lamp while his companion forced the horses to come by his hand on the bridle. You appear to know all about this Baron of Tavernay, my lad. He began the dialogue. I have lived on his estate since a child. Oh, you are kinsman, tutor, master. At this word the youth's cheek colored up, though usually pale, and he quivered. I am no man's servant, sir. He retorted, I am the son of one who was a farmer for the Baron, and my mother nursed mademoiselle Andrea. I understand. You belong to the household as foster brother of the young lady. I suppose she is young. She is sixteen. He had answered only one of the two questions and not the one personal to him. How did you chance to be on the road in such weather? I hired the other, making the same reflection as our own. I was not on the road but in the cave, reading a book called The Social Contract by one Rousseau. Oh, found the book in the Lord's library, asked the gentleman with some astonishment. No, I bought it of a peddler, who like others of his trade has been hawking good books hereabouts. So the contract was a good book. I found that out by reading it in comparison with some infamous ones in the Baron's library. The Baron gets indecent books, always costly in this whole. He does not spend money on them as they are sent him from Paris by his friend the Marshal Duke of Richelieu. Oh, of course, he does not let his daughter see such stuff. He leaves them about, but Mademoiselle Andrea does not read them. Rejoined the youth, dryly. The mocking-traveller was briefly silent. He was interested in this singular character in whom was blended good and evil, shame and boldness. How came you to read bad books? I did not know what they were until read, but I kept on as they taught me what I was unaware of. But the contract told me what I had guessed, that all men are brothers. Society badly arranged, and that instead of being serfs and slaves, individuals are equal. Whistled the gentleman as they went on. You seem to be hungry to learn. Yes, it is my greatest wish to know everything, so as to rise. To what station? Gilbert paused, for having a goal in his mind he wanted to keep it hidden. As far as man may go, he answered. So you have studied? How study when I was not rich and was cooped up in tavernet? I can read and write, but I shall learn the rest somehow one of these days. An odd boy, thought the stranger. During the quarter of an hour they had trudged on. The rain had ceased, and the earth sent up the sharp tang, replacing the sulfurous breath of the thunderstorms. Do you know what storms are? Question, Gilbert, after deep musing. Thunder and lightning are the result of a shock between the electricity in the air and in the earth. He said, smiling, I do not follow you, sighed Gilbert. The traveller might have supplied a more lucid explanation, but a light glimmered through the trees. That is the carriage-gateway of tavernet, said the guide. Open it. Tavernet-gate does not open so easily as that. Is it a fort? Knock, and louder than that. Thus emboldened, the boy dropped the knocker and hung on to the bell, which clanged so lustily that it might be heard afar. That is Mahon parking, said the youth. Mahon? He names his watch-dog after a victory of his friend, my Lord Richelieu. I see. Remarked the traveller. I did not know that. You see how ignorant I am, sighed Gilbert. These sighs summed up the disappointments and repressed ambition of the youth. That is the good man Lebris coming, said the latter of the sound of footsteps within. The door opened, but at the sight of the stranger the old servant wanted to slam it. Excuse me, friend. Interposed the traveller. Don't shut the door in my face. I will risk my travel-stained garb, and I warrant you that I shall not be expelled before I have warmed myself and had a meal. I hear you keep good wine, eh? You ought to know that. Lebris tried still to resist, but the other was determined and led the horses right in with the coach, while Gilbert bare closed the gates in a trice. Vanquished, the servant ran to announce his own defeat. He rushed toward the house, shouting, Nicole, the gay! Nicole, as mad was Elle Andreia's maid, explained the boy as the gentleman advanced with his usual tranquility. A light appeared among the shrubbery, showing a pretty girl. What is all this riot? What's wanted of me? She challenged. Quick, my lass! faltered the old domestic. Announced to master that a stranger, overtaken by the storm, seeks hospitality for the night. Nicole darted so swiftly toward the building as to be lost instantly to sight. Mabry took breath, as he might be sure that his lord would not be taken by surprise. Announced, Baron Joseph Balsamo, said the traveller, the similarity in rank will disarm your lord. At the first step of the portal he looked round for Gilbert bare, but he had disappeared. End of Chapter 4 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 5 of Balsamo The Magician by Alexander Dumas Translated by Henry L. Williams This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Tavernay and his daughter Though forewarned by Gilbert bare and Tavernay's poverty, Baron Balsamo was not the less astonished by the meadness of the dwelling which the youth had dubbed the castle. On the paltry threshold stood the master in a dressing gown and holding a candle. Tavernay was a little old gentleman of five and sixty, with bright eye and high but retreating forehead. His wretched wig had lost by burning at the candles with the rats had spared of its curls. In his hands was held a dubiously white napkin, which proved that he had been disturbed at table. His spiteful face had a likeness to Voltaire's, and was divided between politeness to the guest and distaste to being disturbed. In the flickering light he looked ugly. Who was it pointed out my house as a shelter? Quirried the Baron, holding up the light to spy the pilot, to whom he was eager to show his gratitude, of course. The youth bore the name of Gilbert, I believe. Ugg, I might have guessed that. I doubted, though, he was good enough for that. Gilbert, the idler, the philosopher! This flow of epithets emphasized threateningly, showed the visitor that little sympathy existed between the Lord and his vassal. Be pleased to come in, said the Baron after a short silence, more expressive than his speech. Allow me to see to my coach, which contains valuable property. Return to the foreign nobleman. Labry, said Lord Tabernay. Put my Lord's carriage under the shed, where it will be less uncovered than in the open yard, for some shingles stick to the roof. As for the horses, that is different, for I cannot answer for their supper. Still, as they are not yours, but the posts, I dare say it makes no odds. Believe me, I shall be ever grateful to your lordship. Oh, do not deceive yourself! Said the Baron, holding up the candle again to light Labry, executing the work with the aid of the foreign noble. Tabernay is a poor place, and a sad one. When the vehicle was under cover after a fashion, the guest slipped a gold coin into the servant's hand. He thought it a silver piece and thanked heaven for the boon. Lord, forbid I should think the ill of your house that you speak! Said Balsimo, returning and bowing as the Baron began leading him through a broad, damp anti-chamber, grumbling, Nay, nay, I know what I am talking about. My means are limited. Oh, you French! Though your accent is German in spite of your Italian title, but never mind, you would be reminded of the rich Tabernay. Philosophy muttered Balsimo, for he had expected the speaker would sigh. The master opened the dining-room door. Labry, serve us as if you were a hundred men in one. I have no other lackey, and he is bad. But I cannot afford another. This dalt has lived with me nine twenty years without taking a penny of wages, and he is worth it. You will see he is stupid. Heartless, Balsimo continued his studies unless he is putting it on. The dining-room was the large main room of the farmhouse which had been converted into the manor. It was so plainly furnished as to seem empty. A small round table was placed in the midst, on which reeked one dish, a stew of game and cabbage. The wine was in a stone jar. The battered, worn and tarnished plate was composed of three plates, a goblet and a salt dish. The last of great weight and exquisite work seemed a jewel of price amid the rubbish. Ah, you let your gaze linger on my salt-dish, said the host. You have good taste to admire it. You notice the sole object presentable here. No, I have another gem. My daughter. Mademoiselle Andrea. Yes, said Tavernay, astonished at the name being known. I shall present you. Come, Andrea, my child, and don't be alarmed. I am not father, said a sonorous but melodious voice as a maiden appeared who seemed a lovely pagan statue animated. Though of the utmost plainness her dress was so tasteful and suitable that a complete outfit from a royal wardrobe would have appeared less rich and elegant. You are right, he whispered to his host, she is a precious beauty. Do not pay my poor girl too many compliments, said the old Frenchman carelessly, for she comes from the nunnery school and may credit them. Not that I fear that she will be a caquette. He continued, just the other way, for the dear girl does not think enough of herself, and I am a good father who tries to make her know that cockatry is a woman's first power. Andrea cast down her eyes and blushed. Whenever her endeavor she could not but overhear this singular theory. Was that told to the lady at Convent? And is that a rule in religious education? Quirried the foreigner laughing. My lord, I have my own ideas as you may have noticed. I do not imitate those fathers who bid a daughter play the prude and be inflexible and obtuse. Go mad about honor, delicacy and disinterestedness. Fools! They are like seconds who lead their champion into the list with all the armor removed and pit him against a man armed at all points. No, my daughter Andrea will not be that sort, though reared in a rural den at Tavernay. Though agreeing with the master about his place, the Baron deemed it duty to suggest a polite reproof. That is all very well, but I know Tavernay. Still, be that as it may and far though we are from the Sunshine of Versailles Palace, my daughter is going to enter the society where I once flourished. She will enter with a complete arsenal of weapons forged in my experience and recollections. But I fear, my lord, that the Convent has blunted them. Just my luck, my daughter is the only pupil who took the instructions as in earnest and is following the gospel. Am I not ill-fated? The young lady is an angel. Returned balsamo. And really I am not surprised at what I hear. Andrea nodded her thanks and they sat down at table. Eat away if hungry. That is a beastly mess which Lebris has hashed up. Call you partridges so. You slander your feast. Gamebirds in May. Shot on your preserves. Mine. My good father left me some, but I got rid of them long ago. I have not a yard of land, that lazy bone skill-bear, only good for mooning about, stole a gun somewhere and done a bit of poaching. He will go to jail for it and a good riddance. But Andrea likes game. And so far I forgive the boy. Balsamo contemplated the lovely face without perceiving a twinge, wrinkle or color as she helped them to the dish cooked by Lebris furnished by Gilbert and maligned by the Baron. Are you admiring the salt-dish again, Baron? No, the arm of your daughter. Capital, the reply is worthy, the gallant Vishaloo. That piece of plate was ordered of Goldsmith Lucas by the Regent of Orleans. Subject, they are moors of the baccant and satyrs. Rather free. More than free, obscene. But Balsamo admired the calm unconcern of Andrea, not blenching as she presented the plate. Do eat, said the host. Do not fancy that another dish is coming, for you will be dreadfully disappointed. Excuse me, father. Interrupted the girl with habitual coolness. But if Nicole has understood me, she will have made a cake of which I told her the recipe. You gave Nicole the recipe of a cake? Your waiting-maid does the cooking now, eh? The next thing will be your doing-it-yourself. Do you find duchesses and countesses playing the kitchen wench? On the contrary, the king makes omelets for them. Gracious that I have lived to see women cooks under my roof. Pray, excuse my daughter, Baron. We must eat, father. Rebuked Andrea tranquilly. Dish up, legay. She called out and the girl brought in a pancake of appetizing smell. I know one who won't touch the stuff. Cried Tavernet, furiously dashing his plate to pieces. But the gentleman perhaps will, said the lady coldly. By the way, father, that leaves only seventeen pieces in that set, which comes to me from my mother. The guest's spirit of observation found plenty of food in this corner of life in the country. The salt-dish alone revealed a facet of Tavernet's character, rather all its sides. From curiosity otherwise he stared at Andrea with such perseverance that she tried to frown him down. But finally she gave way and yielded to his mesmeric influence and command. Meanwhile the Baron was storming, grumbling, snarling and nipping the arm of Lebris, who happened to get into his way. He would have done the same to Nicole's when the Baron's gaze fell on her hands. Just look at what pretty fingers this lass has. He exclaimed, they would be supremely pretty only for her kitchen work, having made corns at the tips. That is right, perk up, my girl. I can tell you, my dear guest, that Nicole, a gay, is not a prude like her mistress, and compliments do not frighten her. Watching the Baron's daughter, you also may notice the highest disdain on her beautyous face. He harmonized his features with hers and displeased her, spite of herself. For she looked at him with less harshness or better with less disquietude. This girl, only think, continued the poor noble chucking the girl's chin with the back of his hand, was at the nunnery with my daughter and picked up as much schooling. She does not leave her mistress a moment. This devotion would rejoice the philosophers who grant souls to her class. Father, Nicole stays with me because I order her to do so. Observed Andrea discontented. By the curl of the servant's lip, Valsimos saw that she was not insensible to the humiliations from her proud superior, but the expression flitted, and to hide a tear, perhaps, the girl looked aside to a window on the yard. Everything interested the visitor, and he perceived a man's face at the pains. Each in this curious abode had a secret, he thought. I hope not to be an hour here without learning Andrea's. Already I know her father's, and I guess Nicole's. Tavernay perceived his short absence of mind. What? Are you dreaming? He questioned. We are all at it here, but you might have waited for bedtime. Reverie is a catching compliment. My daughter broods. Nicole is wool-gathering, and I get puzzling about that dodler who killed these birds, and dreams when he kills them. Gilbert is a philosopher, like Lebris. I hope you are not friendly with them. I forewarn you that philosophers do not go down with me. They are neither friends nor foes to me, replied the visitor. I do not have anything to do with them. Very good. Sounds. They are scoundrel-y vermin, more venomous than ugly. They will ruin the monarchy with their maxims, like people can hardly be virtuous under a monarchy, or genuine monarchy is an institution devised to corrupt popular manners and make slaves, or yet royal authority may come by the grace of God, but so do plagues and miseries of mankind. Pretty flummary all this. What good would a virtuous people be, I beg? Things are going to the bad, since His Majesty spoke to Voltaire and read Dieter Rowe's book. At this Galsimo fancied again to spy the pale face at the window, but it vanished as soon as he fixed his eyes upon it. Is your daughter a philosopher? He asked, smiling. I do not know what philosophy is. I only know that I like serious matters. Was Andrea's reply? The most serious thing is to live. Stick to that. Said her father. But the young lady cannot hate life. Said the stranger. All depends. She said. Another stupid saying. Interrupted tavernay. That is just the nonsense my son talks. I have the misfortune to have a son. The discount of tavernay is corne in the Dauphine's horseguards. A nice boy. Another philosopher. The other day he talked to me about doing away with negro slavery. What are we to do for sugar, I retorted, for I like my coffee heavily sweetened, as does Louis XV. We must do without sugar to benefit a suffering race. Suffering monkeys, I returned, and that is paying them a compliment. Whereupon he asserted that all men were brothers, madness must be in the air. I, brother of a blackamore. This is going too far. Observed balsamo. Of course I told you I was in luck. My children are one an angel, the other an apostle. Drink though my wine is detestable. I think it exquisite. Said the guest watching Andrea. Then you are a philosopher. In my time we learned pleasant things, we played cards, fought duels, though against the law, and wasted our time on duchesses and money on opera dancers. That is my story in a nutshell. Tavernay went wholly into the opera house, which is all I sorrow for, since a poor noble is nothing of a man. I look aged, do I not? Only because I am impoverished and dwell in a kennel, with a tattered wig and a gothic coat. But my friend the marshal duke, with his house in town and two hundred thousand a year, he is young in his new clothes, and brushed up parooks, he is still alert, brisk and pleasure-seeking, though ten years my senior. My dear sir, ten years. I am astonished that, with powerful friends like the Duke of Richelieu, you quitted the court. Only a temporary retreat, and I am going back one day. Said the lord, darting a strange glance on his daughter, which the visitor intercepted. But I suppose the duke befriends your son. He holds the son of his friend in horror, for he is a philosopher, and he execrates them. The feeling is reciprocal. Observed Andrea with perfect calm. Clear away, legay. Startled from her vigilant watch on the window, the maid ran back to the table. We used to stay at the board at two a.m. We had luxuries for supper, then. That's why, and we drank, he could eat no more. But how can one drink vinegar when there is nothing to eat? Legay, let us have the maraschino provided there is any. Lickers, said Andrea to the maid, who took her orders from the Baron thus secondhand. Her master sank back in his arm-chair inside with grotesque melancholy while keeping his eyes closed. Albeit the duke may execrate your son. Quite right, too, as he is a philosopher, said Walsimo. He ought to preserve his liking for you who are nothing of the kind. I presume you have claims on the king whom you must have served. Fifteen years in the army. I was the marshal's aide to camp, and we went through the mehan campaign together. Our friendship dates from... let me see. The famous Siege of Phillipsburg, seventeen forty-two to seventeen forty-three. Yes, I was there and remember you. You remember me at the Siege? Why, what is your age? Oh, I am no particular age. Replied the guest holding up his glass to be filled by Andrea's fair hand. The host interpreted that his guest did not care to tell his years. My lord, allow me to say that you do not seem to have been a soldier then as it is twenty-eight years ago, and you are hardly over thirty. Andrea regarded the stranger with the steadfastness of deep curiosity. He came out in a different light every instant. I know what I am talking about. The famous Siege where the Duke of Richelieu killed in a duel his cousin the Prince of Lixin. The encounter came off on the highway by my fey on our return from the outposts. On the embankment to the left he ran him through the body. I came up as France du Paul, held the dying man in his arms. He was seated on the ditch bank while Richelieu tranquilly wiped his steel. Oh, my honour, my lord, you astound me, things past as you describe. Stay, you wore a captain's uniform then in the Queen's Light Horse Guards, so badly cut up at Fontenoy. Were you in that battle, too? jeered the Baron. No, I was dead at that time. Replied the stranger calmly, the Baron stared, Andrea shuddered, and Nicole made the sign of a cross. To resume the subject, I recall you clearly now as you held your horse in the dukes while he fought. I went up to you for an account and you gave it. They called you the Little Chevalier. Excuse me, not remembering before, but thirty years changed a man. Do the health of Marshal Richelieu, my dear Baron. But according to this, you would be upward of fifty. I am of the age to have witnessed that affair. The Baron dropped back in the chair so vexed that Nicole could not help laughing. But Andrea, instead of laughing, mused with her looks on the mysterious guest. He seemed to await this chance to dart two or three flaming glances at her, which thrilled her like an electrical discharge. Her arms stiffened, her neck bent, she smiled against her will on the hypnotizer and closed her eyes. He managed to touch her arm and again she quivered. Do you think I tell a fib in asserting I was at Phillipsburg? He demanded, No, I believe you. She replied with a great effort. I am in my dotage, muttered tavernet, unless we have a ghost here. Who can tell? Returned balsamo with so grave an accent that he subjugated the lady and made Nicole stare. But if you were living at the seat, you were a child of four or five. I was over forty. The Baron laughed, and Nicole echoed him, You do not believe me. It is plain, though, for I was not the man I am. This is a bit of antiquity, said the French noble. Was there not a Greek philosopher? These vile philosophers seemed to be of all ages. Who would not eat beans because they contained souls like the Negres according to my son? What the deuce was his name? That is the gentleman. Why may I not be Pythagoras? Pythagoras? Prompted Andrea. I do not deny that, but he was not at Phillipsburg, or at any rate I did not see him there. But you saw Viscount Jean Barot, one of the black horse musketeers. Rather the musketeers and the light cavalry took turns in guarding the trenches. The day after the Richelieu duel, Barot and you were in the trenches when he asked you for a pinch of snuff, which you offered in a gold box, ornamented with a portrait of a bell. But in the act a cannonball hit him in the throat, as happened the Duke of Burwick four times, and carried away his head. God, just so, poor Barot! This proves that we were acquainted there, for I am Barot. Said the foreigner, the host shrank back in fright, or stupefaction. This is magic, he gasped. You would have been burnt at the stake a hundred years ago, my dear guest. I seem to smell brimstone. My dear Baron, note that a true magician is never burnt or hanged. Only fools are led to the jibbit or pyre. But here is your daughter, sent to sleep by her discussions on metaphysics and occult sciences, not calculated to interest a lady. Indeed, Andrea nodded under irresistible force like a lily on the stalk. At these words she made an effort to repel the subtle fluid which overwhelmed her. She shook her head energetically, rose and tottered out of the room, sustained by Nicole. At the same time disappeared the face glued so often to the window-glass on the outside, which Balsimo had recognized as Gilbares. Eureka exclaimed Balsimo triumphantly as she vanished. I can say it like Archimedes. Who is he? inquired the Baron. A very good fellow for a wizard whom I knew over two thousand years ago. Replied the guest. Whether the Baron thought this boast rather too preposterous or he did not hear it or hearing it wanted the more to be rid of his odd guest, he proposed lending him a horse to get to the nearest posting-house. What, force me to ride when I am dying to stretch my legs in bed? Do not exaggerate your mediocrity so as to make me believe in a personal ill-will. On the contrary, I treat you as a friend, knowing what you will incur here. But, since you put it this way, remain. Labry. Is the red room habitable? Certainly, my lord, as it is Master Phillips when he is here. Give it to the gentleman, since he is bent on being disgusted with tavernay. I want to be here tomorrow to testify to my gratitude. You can do that easily, as you are so friendly with Aldenick that you can ask him for the stone which turns all things to gold. If that is what you want, apply to me direct. Labry, you old rogue, get a candle and light the gentleman to bed. Said the Baron, beginning to find such a dialogue dangerous at the late hour. Labry ordered Nicole to air the red room while he hastened to obey. Nicole left Andrea alone, the latter eager for the solitude to nurse her thoughts. Tavernay bade the guest good-night and went to bed. Balsimo took out his watch for he recalled his promise to awake Altatus after two hours, and it was a half-hour more. He asked the servant if his coach was still out in the yard and Labry answered in the affirmative, unless it had run off of its own volition. As for Gilbert, he had been a bed most likely since an hour. Balsimo went to Altatus after studying the way to the red room. Labry was tidying up the sweated apartment after Nicole had aired it when the guest returned. He had paused at Andrea's room to listen at her door to her playing on the harpsichord to dispel the burden of the influence the stranger had imposed upon her. In a while he waved his hands as in throwing a magic spell, and so it was. For Andrea slowly stopped playing, but her hands dropped by her sides and turned rigidly and slowly toward the door like one who obeys an influence foreign to Will. Balsimo smiled in the darkness as though he could see through the panels. This was all he wanted to do, for he groped for the banister rail and went upstairs to his room. As he departed, Andrea turned away from the door and resumed playing, so that the mesmerist heard the air again from where she had been made to leave off. Entering the red room he dismissed Labry, but the latter lingered, feeling in the depths of his pocket till at last he managed to say, My lord, you made a mistake this evening in giving me gold for the piece of silver, you intended. Balsimo looked on the old serving man with admiration, showing that he had not a high opinion of the honesty of most men. And honest. He muttered in the words of Hamlet as he took out a second gold coin to place it beside the other in the old man's hand. The latter's delight at this splendid generosity may be imagined, for he had not seen so much gold in twenty years. He was retiring, bowing to the floor when the donor checked him. What are the morning habits of the house? He asked. My lord stays a bed late, my lord, but mademoiselle Andrea is up bedtimes about six. Who sleeps overhead? I, my lord, but nobody beneath, as the vestibule is under us. Oh, by the way, do not be alarmed if you see a light in my coach as an old impotent servant inhabits it. Ask Master Gilbert to let me see him in the morning. Is my lord going away so soon? It depends, replied Balsamo with a smile. I ought to be at Baaladook tomorrow evening. Libri sighed with resignation and was about to set fire to some old papers to warm the room which was damp and there was no wood when Balsamo stayed him. No. Let them be. I want to read them, for I may not sleep. Balsamo went to the door to listen to the servants departing steps making the stairs creak till they sounded overhead. Libri was in his own room. Then he went to the window. And the other wing was a lighted window with half-drawn curtains facing him. The gay was leisurely taking off her neckerchief, often peeping down into the yard. Striking resemblance. Muttered the Baron. The light went out though the girl had not gone to rest. The watcher stood up against the wall. The harpsichord still sounded with no other noise. He opened his door, went down the stairs with caution, and opened the door of Andrea's sitting-room. Suddenly she stopped in the melancholy strain, although she had not heard the intruder, as she was trying to recall the thrill which had mastered her it came anew. She shivered all over. In the mirror she saw movement. The shadow in the doorway could only be her father or a servant, nothing more natural, but she saw with spiritual eyes that it was none of these. My Lord! she faltered. In Heaven's name, what want you? It was the stranger in the black velvet riding-coat for he had discarded his silken suit in which a mesmerist cannot well work his power. She tried to rise but could not. She tried to open her mouth to scream, but with a pass of both hands Balsimo froze the sound on her lips. With no strength or will Andrea let her head sink on her shoulder. At this juncture Balsimo believed he heard a noise at the window, quickly turning he caught sight of a man's face beyond. He frowned, and strangely enough the same impression flittered across the medium's face. Sleep! he commanded, lowering the hands he had held above her head with a smooth gesture and persevering in filling her with the mesmeric fluid and crushing columns. I will you to sleep! All yielded to this mighty will, Andrea leaned her elbow on the musical instrument case, her head on her hand, and slept. The mesmerist retired backwards, drew the door to and went back to his room. As soon as the door closed, the face he had seen reappeared at the window. It was Gilbert's. Excluded from the parlor by his inferior position in Tavernet Castle, he had watched all the persons through the evening whose rank allowed them to figure in it. During the supper he had noticed Baron Balsimo gesticulate and smile, and his peculiar attention bestowed on the lady of the house, the master's unheard of affability to him, and LeBrie's respectful eagerness. Later on, when they rose from table, he hid in a clump of lilacs and snowballs, for fear that Nicole, closing the blinds over and going to her room, should catch him eavesdropping. But Gilbert had other designs this evening than spying. He waited without clearly knowing for what. When he saw the light in the maid's window, he crossed the yard on tiptoe and crouched down in the gloom to peer in at the window at Andrea playing the harpsichord. This was the moment when the mesmerist entered the room. At this site, Gilbert started, and his ardent gaze covered the magician and his victim. But he imagined that Balsimo complimented the lady on her musical talent, to which she replied with her customary coldness, but he had persisted with a smile so that she suspended her practice and answered he admired the grace with which the visitor retired. Of all the interview which he fancied he read aright, he had understood nothing. For what really happened was in the mind, in silence. However keen an observer he was, he could not divine a mystery where everything had passed quite naturally. Balsimo gone, Gilbert remained, not watching but contemplating Andrea, lovely in her thoughtful pose till he perceived with astonishment that she was slumbering. When convinced of all this, he grasped his head between his hands like one who fears his brain will burst from the overflow of emotions. Oh, to kiss her hand! he murmured in a gush of fury. Oh, Gilbert, bear, let us approach her. I so long to do it. Hardly had he entered the room, then he felt the importance of his intrusion. The timid if not respectful son of a farmer to dare to raise his eyes on that proud daughter of the Piers. If he should touch the hem of her dress, she would blast him with a glance. The floorboards creaked under his wary tread, but she did not move, though he was bathed in cold perspiration. She sleeps. Oh, happiness, she sleeps! He panted, drawing with irresistible attraction within a yard of the statue of which he took the sleeve and kissed it. Holding his breath, slowly he raised his eyes, seeking hers. They were wide open, but still saw not. Intoxicated by the delusion that she expected his visit and her silence was consent, her quiet of favour, he lifted her hand to his lips and impressed a long and feverish kiss. She shuddered and repulsed him. I am lost, he gasped, dropping the hand and beating the floor with his forehead. The rose as though moved by a spring under her feet, passed by Gilbert, crushed by shame and terror and with no power to crave pardon, and proceeded to the door. With high held head and outstretched neck, as if drawn by a secret power toward an invisible goal, she opened the door and walked out on the landing. The youth rose partly and watched her take the stairs. After her, pale, trembling and astonished, she is going to tell the Baron and have me scourged out of the house. No. She goes up to where the guest is lodged, for she would have rung or called if she wanted librae. He clenched his fists at the bear idea that Andrea was going into the strange gentleman's room. All this seemed monstrous, and yet that was her end. That door was ajar. She pushed it open without knocking. The lamp light streamed on her pure profile and whirled golden reflections into her wildly open eyes. In the center of the room, Gilbert saw the Baron standing, with fixed gaze and wrinkled brow in his hand extended in gesture of command, ere the door swung to. Gilbert's forces failed him. He wheeled round on the stairs, clinging to the rail, but slid down, with his eyes fastened to the last on the cursed panel, behind which was sealed up all his vanished dream, present happiness and future hope. End of CHAPTER V Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia