Eureka.
WHETHER THIS piece of extravagance was too much for the baron, whether he had not heard it, or whether, having heard it, he thought it best to get rid of his strange guest, we know not, but he made no reply to it; but when the sound of Andree’s harpsichord proved that she was engaged in the next apartment, he offered to procure Balsamo the means of proceeding to the nearest town.
“I have an old horse who, though on his last legs, will carry you so far; and you would at least procure good lodgings. There is, indeed, a room and a bed at Taverney; but my ideas of hospitality are rather peculiar—’good or none’ is my motto.”
“Then you wish to send me away!” said Balsamo, hiding his vexation under a smile. “That is treating me like an intruder.”
“No, indeed; it is treating you like a friend, my dear guest. Lodging you here would be really treating you as an enemy. I say this in all conscience, but with great regret, for I am delighted with your society.”
“Then, pray do not force me to rise when I am tired — to get on horseback when I would rather stretch my limbs in bed. Do not represent your hospitable resources as worse than they are, if you would not have me believe that I have been so unfortunate as to incur your dislike.”
“Oh!” said the baron, “since you view the matter in that light, you shall stay.”
Then looking round for La Brie, who was in a corner, he cried, “Come hither, you old rascal!” La Brie advanced a few steps timidly. “Ventrebleu! come hither, I say! Is the red room fit to accommodate a gentleman, think you?”
“Oh, certainly, sir,” replied the old servant; “you know it is occupied by M. Philip when he comes to Taverney.”
“It may do very well for a poor devil of a lieutenant who comes to pass a month with a ruined father, and at the same time very unfit for a rich nobleman who travels post with four horses!”
“I assure you.” said Balsamo, “I shall be perfectly content with it.”
The baron grinned, as if he would have said, “I know better;” then he added aloud, “La Brie, show the stranger to the red room, since he is determined to be cured of all wish to return to Taverney. Well, you have decided to stay, I suppose?” said he, turning to Balsamo.
“Yes — if you permit it.”
“Stay! there are still other means.”
“Means for what?”
“To avoid having to make the journey on horseback.”
“What journey?”
“To Bar-le-Dur.”
Balsamo waited quietly to hear this new plan developed.
“You were brought here by posthorses, were you not?”
“Yes, unless Satan brought me.”
“I at first almost suspected he did, for you do not seem to be on bad terms with him.”
“You do me infinitely more honor than I deserve.”
“Well, the horses that brought your carriage could now take it away?”
“No; there are only two horses left of the four, and the carriage is heavy. Besides, post-horses must rest.”
“Ha! another reason. You are determined, I see, to remain.”
“Because I wish to see you again tomorrow, and express my gratitude to you for your hospitality.”
“That you could easily repay.”
“How?”
“Since you are on such good terms with his satanic majesty, beg him to permit me to discover the philosopher’s stone.”
“Why, M, le Baron, if you really wish for it—”
“The philosopher’s stone! Parbleu! if I really wish for it!”
“In that case you must apply to another individual than the devil.”
“To whom, then?”
“To me! as I heard Corneille say about a hundred years ago, when he was reciting me a part of one of his comedies.”
“Ha! La Brie, you old rascal!” cried the baron, who began to find the conversation rather dangerous at such an hour, and with such a man, “try and find a wax candle, and light the gentleman to his room.”
La Brie hastened to obey, and during this search, almost as dubious in its result as that for the philosopher’s stone, he desired Nicole to precede him upstairs and air the red room. Nicole being gone, Andree was delighted to find herself alone. She felt as if she required to reflect. The baron bid Balsamo good-night and retired to bed.
Balsamo looked at his watch, for he remembered the promise he had made to Althotas — a promise now impossible to fulfill, the two hours having expired. He asked La Brie if the carriage was still in the place he had pointed out. La Brie replied that unless it would move away of itself, it must be there. He then asked what had become of Gilbert. La Brie assured him that the lazy fellow was no doubt in bed two hours ago. Then, after having studied the topography of the passage which led to the red room, Balsamo went out to waken Althotas.
The Baron de Taverney had not spoken falsely respecting the discomfort of this apartment; it was as poorly furnished as all the other rooms of the chateau.
An oaken bed with a faded green damask coverlet, and hangings of the same material looped up above it; an oaken table with twisted legs; a huge stone chimney-piece of the time of Louis XIII., to which in winter a fire might impart some appearance of comfort, but which now, wanting that, wanting all ornaments and utensils, wanting wood, and stuffed with old newspapers, only made the place look still more dreary. Such was the apartment of which Balsamo was for one night to be the fortunate possessor.
We must add that there were two chairs and a wardrobe painted of a gray color.
While La Brie was endeavoring to give a habitable appearance to the room, which Nicole had aired before retiring to her own apartment, Balsamo had wakened Althotas and returned to the house. When he reached Andree’s door, he stopped to listen. From the moment Andree left the dining-room, she felt that she had escaped from the mysterious influence which the stranger exercised over her, and to rouse herself completely from its power, she continued to play on her harpsichord. Its sound reached Balsamo through the closed door, and, as we have said, he stopped to listen.
After a minute or two he made several gestures with a sweeping circular motion which might have been mistaken for a species of conjuration, since Andree, struck again by the sensation she had previously experienced, ceased to play, let her arms fill immovible by her side, and turned toward the door with a slow stiff motion, as if she were obeying a command against her own free will. Balsamo smiled in the dark as if he saw through the door. No doubt this was all he wanted, for he stretched out his left hand, and, having found the balustrade of the staircase, which was steep and broad, he ascended to the red room. In proportion as he increased his distance, Andree, with the same slow rigid motion, returned to her harpsichord, and when Balsamo reached the highest stair, he heard her resume the first notes of the air which he had interrupted.
Having entered his chamber, he dismissed La Brie. La Brie was evidently a good servant, accustomed to obey on the instant; but now, after moving a few steps toward the door, he stopped.
“Well?” said Balsamo.
La Brie slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and seemed feeling for something in its silent depths, but he did not reply.
“Have you anything to say to me, my friend?” inquired Balsamo, approaching him.
La Brie made a great effort over himself, and pulled his hand out of his pocket.
“I merely wished to say, sir, that you made a mistake this evening.”
“Did I?” said Balsamo. “How so?”
“You meant to give me a crown, and you gave me a louis-d’or;” and he opened his hand and disclosed to view the new shining piece.
Balsamo looked at the old servant with an expression of admiration which indicated he had not the highest opinion of men as far as probity was concerned.
“‘And honest!’” said he, “as Hamlet says; “and, feeling in his own pocket, he drew out a second louis-d’or, which he laid beside the first in La Erie’s hand.
La Erie’s joy at this munificence could not be described. For twenty years he had not once seen gold, and in order to convince him that he was really the happy possessor of such a treasure, Balsamo had to put the money with his own hand into La Erie’s pocket. He bowed to the ground, and was retiring without turning his back on the stranger, when the latter stopped him.
“At what hour does the family usually rise in the morning?” asked he.
“Monsieur de Taverney rises late, but Mademoiselle de Taverney is always up at a very early hour.”
“At what hour?”
“About six o’clock.”
“Who sleeps above this room?”
“I do, sir.”
“And below?”
“No one; the vestibule is under this.”
“Thank you, my friend; now you may go.”
“Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night; but, by-the-by, see that my carriage be all safe.”
“You may depend on me, sir.”
“If you near any noise, or see any light, do not be alarmed; I have an old lame servant in it who travels with me everywhere. Tell M. Gilbert not to interfere with him; and tell him also, if you please, not to go out to-morrow morning until I have spoken to him. Can you remember all this?”
“Oh, certainly! But are you going to leave us so soon, sir?”
“I am not quite sure,” said Balsamo, with a smile; “yet, strictly speaking, I ought to be at Bar-le-Duc to-morrow evening.”
La Brie sighed resignedly, gave a last glance at the bed, and, taking up the candle, went toward the fireplace to give a little warmth to the great damp room by setting fire to the papers, as he had no wood.
“No, never mind,” said Balsamo, preventing him; “leave the old papers; if I do not sleep, I can amuse myself by reading them.”
La Brie bowed and retired.
Balsamo listened until the steps of the old servant had died away on the stairs, and until he heard them overhead. Then he went to the window. In the opposite tower there was a light in the window of a garret, the curtains of which were but half closed. It was Legay’s room. She was thoughtfully unfastening her gown and handkerchief, and from time to time she opened her window and leaned out to see into the courtyard. Balsamo looked at her with more attention than he had chosen to bestow on her during supper. “What a singular resemblance!” he murmured to himself. At this moment the light in the garret was extinguished, although its occupant was not yet ill bed.
Balsamo leaned against the wall, listening anxiously. The notes of the harpsichord still sounded in his ears. He assured himself that its harmony alone awoke the midnight silence a round; then, opening the door, which La Brie had shut, he cautiously descended the stairs, and gently pushed open the door of the salon.
Andree heard nothing; her white hands continued to wander over the old yellow keys of the instrument. Opposite her was a mirror set in an old carved frame, the gilding of which had changed to a dull gray. The air she played was melancholy, or rather, she played merely harmonies instead of an air. No doubt it was all extempore; and she was thus reproducing in music her early recollections, or indulging in the dreams of her imagination. Perhaps her spirit, saddened by her residence at Taverney, had left the chateau to wander in the large shady gardens of the convent of the Annonciades at Nancy, ringing with the merry voices of troops of happy boarders. Whether such were her dreams or not, her vague gaze seemed to lose itself in the somber mirror before her, which reflected only indistinctly the different objects in the vast apartment, dimly lighted by the single candle placed on the harpsichord.
Sometimes she suddenly ceased. It was when she recalled the strange vision of the evening, and her unaccountable impressions; but before her thoughts had time to take any precise form, her heart beat, she felt a thrill run through her limbs, and she started as though a living being had come into contact with her. All at once, as she tried to account for these feelings, they returned. She felt a thrill as if from an electric shock. Her eye became fixed, her floating thoughts became embodied as it were, and she perceived something move over the dim mirror.
The door of the salon had opened noiselessly, and in the doorway a shadow appeared. She shuddered, her fingers wandered involuntarily over the keys; yet nothing could be more easily accounted for than the appearance of the fig tree. Might it not be her father, or Nicole, or La Brie, who, before retiring, had returned to the apartment upon some household errand? La Erie’s visits of that kind were frequent; and on these occasions the faithful creature never made a sound. But no; the eyes of her soul showed her that the being whom she did not see was none of those we have named.
The shadow drew nearer, becoming more distinct in the mirror, and when within the circle of the light afforded by the candle the stranger was seen, his dress of black velvet increasing the ghastly pallor of his face; he had, for some mysterious reason, laid aside the silk one which he wore at supper.*
She would have turned and screamed, but Balsamo extended his arms, and she remained motionless. She made another effort; “Sir,” said she, “in the name of Heaven, what do you want?”
He smiled, the glass reflected his smile, and she watched it with eager gaze, but he did not reply.
She tried once more to rise, but could not; an irresistible power, a paralyzing feeling, which was not without a pleasurable sensation attending it, fixed her to her chair, while her eye never left the magic mirror. This new sensation alarmed her, for she felt that she was altogether in the power of the unknown. She made another almost supernatural effort to call for aid, but Balsamo extended both his hands above her head, and no sound escaped her lips. She continued dumb, her bosom loaded with a stupefying heat which ascended slowly in invading billows to her brain. She had no longer strength or will; her head sank on her shoulder.
At this moment Balsamo thought he heard a slight noise; he turned — the face of the man he had seen before was at the window. He frowned, and, strange to say, the frown was reflected on the young girl’s face.
* It is well known that silk is a bad conductor, and repels the electric fluid. It is almost impossible to magnetize a person who wears a dress of silk.
Then, turning again to Andree, he drew down his hands, which he had hitherto held above her head; then he raised them again gently, again drew them clown, and continued thus to overwhelm her with column upon column of the electric fluid.
“Sleep!” said he.
She still struggled against his power.
“Sleep!” he repeated, in a voice of command, “sleep! it is my will!”
Then all her faculties yielded to that all-powerful will; she leaned her elbow on the harpsichord, drooped her head on her hand, and slept.
Balsamo now, without turning his face from her, left the room, closed the door, and went up to his own chamber. Scarcely had he retired when the face once more appeared at the window. It was Gilbert’s.