Gold
THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN and Balsamo wound along a narrow staircase which ran parallel with the great staircase, and, like it, led to the apartments on the first floor. There, in a vaulted apartment, appeared a door which Balsamo opened, and a very gloomy corridor was disclosed to the cardinal’s views, who entered it resolutely.
Balsamo closed the door behind them. At the noise which this door made in closing, the cardinal looked back with a slight feeling of trepidation.
“My lord,” said Balsamo, “we have now arrived. We have but one more door to open and close; but let me warn you not to be alarmed at the sound it will make, for it is of iron.”
The cardinal, who had started at the sound of the first door, was glad to be thus prepared in time, for otherwise the grating noise of its hinges and lock would have jarred disagreeably on nerves even less susceptible than his. They descended three steps and entered the laboratory.
The first aspect of this new apartment was that of a large room with the beams and joists of the ceiling left in their original state, and containing a huge lamp with a shade, several books, and a great number of chemical and other philosophical instruments.
After a few seconds the cardinal began to feel that he breathed with difficulty.
“What is the meaning of this?” said he, “I am stifling here, master; the perspiration pours from my forehead? What noise is that?”
“Behold the cause, my lord,” said Balsamo, drawing back a large curtain of asbestos cloth, and disclosing to view an immense brick furnace, in the center of which two holes glared in the darkness like the gleaming eyes of a panther.
This furnace was situated in the middle of a second apartment, double the size of the first, which the prince had not perceived, hidden as it was by the asbestos curtain.
“Ah-ha!” cried the prince, retreating two or three steps, “that looks a little alarming.”—”It is a furnace, my lord.”
“Yes, but this furnace of yours has a very diabolical sort of a look. What are you cooking in it?”
“What your eminence asked from me.”
“What I asked from you?”
“Yes. I think your eminence said you wished for a specimen of my handiwork. I had not intended beginning the operation till to-morrow evening, as you were not to visit me till the day following; but your eminence having changed your intention, as soon as I heard you set out for my abode, I kindled the furnace and put in the ingredients for amalgamation; so that now the furnace is boiling, and in ten minutes you will have your gold. Permit me to open this ventilator to give a current of fresh air.”
“What! those crucibles on the furnace—”
“Will in ten minutes give your highness gold as pure as that of the sequins of Venice, or the florins of Tuscany.”
“I should like to see it, if it is at all practicable.”
“Certainly. But you must use some necessary precautions.”
“What precautions?”
“Cover your face with this mask of asbestos with glass eyes; otherwise your sight might be injured by the glowing heat.”
“Peste! I must take care of that. I attach a good deal of value to my eyes, and would not give them for the hundred thousand crowns which you have promised me.”
“I thought so, for your eminence’s eyes are very fine.”
This compliment was by no means displeasing to the cardinal, who was not a little vain of his person.
“Ha!” said he, putting on his mask, “so it seems we are to see what gold is?”
“I trust so, my lord.” “Gold, to the value of one hundred thousand crowns?”
“Yes, my lord, perhaps even a little more; for I made a very abundant mixture.”
“Upon my honor, you are a most generous sorcerer,” said the prince, with a joyous palpitation of the heart.
“Less so than your highness, who so kindly compliments me. In the meantime, my lord, may I beg you to keep back a little while I take off the lid of the crucible?”
And Balsamo, having put on a short shirt of asbestos, seized with a vigorous arm a pair of iron pincers, and raised the cover, now red hot, which revealed to view four crucibles of a similar form, some containing a mixture of a vermilion color, others a whitish matter, although still retaining something of a purple transparent hue.
“And that is gold!” said the prelate in a half whisper, as if he feared to disturb the mystery which was being accomplished before him.
“Yes, my lord. These four crucibles contain the substance in different stages, some of them having been subject to the process twelve, others only eleven hours. The mixture — and this is a secret which I reveal only to a friend of the hermetic science — is thrown into the matter at the moment of ebullition. But, as your eminence may see, the first crucible is now at a white heat; it has reached the proper stage, and it is time to pour it out. Be good enough to keep back, my lord.”
The prince obeyed with the promptitude of a soldier at the command of his captain, and Balsamo, laying aside the pincers already heated by contact with the crucibles, rolled forward to the furnace a sort of movable anvil in which were hollowed eight cylindrical molds of equal caliber.
“What is this, my dear sorcerer?” asked the prince.
“This, my lord, is the mold in which your ingots are to be cast.”
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed the cardinal, and he redoubled his attention.
Balsamo spread over the floor a thick layer of white tow as a sort of protection against accidents; then, placing himself between the furnace and the anvil, he opened a huge book, and, wand in hand, repeated a solemn incantation. This ended, he seized an enormous pair of tongs intended for grasping the weighty crucibles.
“The gold will be splendid, my lord,” said he; “of the very finest quality.”
“What! Are you going to lift off that flaming pot?”
“Which weighs fifty pounds? Yes, my lord; few founders, I may say it without boasting, possess my muscles and my dexterity. Fear nothing, therefore.”
“But if the crucible were to break?”
“Yes, that happened with me once, my lord — in the year 1399. I was making an experiment with Nicolas Flamel, in his house in the Rue des Ecrivains, near the church of St. Jacques-la-Boucherie. Poor Flamel was nearly losing his life; and I lost twenty-seven marks of a substance even more precious than gold.”
“What the devil is that you are saying; master?”
“The truth.”
“Do you mean to make me believe that you pursued the great work in 1399, along with Nicolas Flamel?”
“Precisely so, my lord. We found out the secret together, about fifty or sixty years before, when experimenting with Pierre le Bon in the town of Pola. He did not shut up the crucible quickly enough, and I lost the use of my right eye for nearly twelve years in consequence of the evaporation.”
“Pierre le Boil, who composed that famous book, the ‘Margarita Pretiosa,’ printed in 1330?”
“The very same, my lord.”
“And you knew Pierre le Bon and Flamel?”
“I was the pupil of the one and the teacher of the other.”
And while the terrified prelate asked himself whether the personage at his side was not the devil in person and not one of his satellites, Balsamo plunged his long tongs into the furnace. The alchemist’s grasp was sure and rapid. He seized the crucible about four inches from the top, satisfied himself, by raising it up a little, that his hold was firm; then, by a vigorous effort, which strained every muscle in his frame, he heaved up the terrible pot from the glowing furnace. The handle of the tongs turned glowing red immediately; then, rippling over the fused matter within, were seen white furrows like lightning streaking a black sulphureous cloud; then the edges of the crucible turned a brownish red, while the conical base appeared still rose-colored and silver beneath the shade of the furnace; then the metal, on the surface of which had formed a violet-colored scum, crusted here and there with gold, hissed over the mouth of the crucible, and fell flashing into the dark mold, around the top of which the golden wave, angry and foaming, seemed to insult the vile metal with which it was forced into contact.
“Now for the second,” said Balsamo, seizing another crucible; and another mold was filled with the same strength and dexterity as the first. The perspiration poured from the operator’s forehead; and the cardinal, standing back in the shade, crossed himself. In fact, the scene was one of wild and majestic horror.
Balsamo, his features lighted by the reddish glare of the glowing metal, resembled one of the damned of Michael Angelo or Dante, writhing in the depths of their flaming caldrons; while over all brooded the feeling of the mysterious and unknown.
Balsamo took no breathing time between the two operations; time pressed.
“There will be a slight loss,” said he, after having filled the second mold. “I have allowed the mixture to boil the hundredth part of a minute too long.”
“The hundredth part of a minute!” exclaimed the cardinal, no longer seeking to conceal his stupefaction.
“It is enormous in alchemy,” replied Balsamo, quietly; “but in the meantime, your eminence, here are two crucibles emptied, and two molds filled with one hundred pounds’ weight of pure gold.”
And, seizing the first mold with his powerful tongs, he plunged it into water, which hissed and bubbled around it for some time. Then he opened it and took out a lump of solid gold in the form of a sugar-loaf flattened at each extremity.
“We shall have some time to wait for the other crucibles,” said Balsamo. “Will your eminence in the meantime be seated, or would you prefer to breathe for a few moments a cooler atmosphere than this?”
“And that is really gold?” asked the cardinal, without replying to the operator’s question.
Balsamo smiled. The cardinal was his.
“Do you doubt it, my lord?”
“Why — you know — science is so often mistaken—”
“Prince, your words do not express your whole meaning,” said Balsamo. “You think that I am deceiving you, and deceiving you wittingly. My lord, I should sink very low in my own opinion could I act such a part, for my ambition in that case would not extend beyond the walls of my cabinet, which you would leave filled with wonder, only to be undeceived on taking your ingot to the first goldsmith you should meet. Come, come, my lord! Do not think so meanly of me, and be assured that, if I wished to deceive you, I should do it more adroitly, and with a higher aim. However, your eminence knows how to test gold?”
“Certainly. By the touchstone.”
“You have doubtless had occasion, my lord, to make the experiment yourself, were it only on Spanish doubloons, which are much esteemed in play because they are of the purest gold, but which, for that very reason, are frequently counterfeited.”
“In fact, I have done so before now.”
“Well, my lord, here are the stone and the acid.”
“By no means; I am quite convinced.”
“Milord, do me the favor to assure yourself that these ingots are not only gold, but gold without alloy.”
The cardinal appeared unwilling to give this proof of his incredulity, and yet it was evident that he was not convinced. Balsamo himself tested the ingots, and showed the result of the experiment to his guest.
“Twenty-eight carats,” said he; “and now I may pour out the two others.”
Ten minutes afterward the four ingots lay side by side on the tow, heated by their contact.
“Your eminence came here in a carriage, did you not? At least when I saw you you were in one.”
“Yes.”
“If your lordship will order it to the door, my servants shall put the ingots into it.”
“One hundred thousand crowns!” murmured the cardinal, as he took off his mask to feast his eyes on the gold lying at his feet.
“And as for this gold, your highness can tell whence it comes, having seen it made!”
“ Oh, yes; I shall testify —
“Oh, no!” said Balsamo, hastily; “savants are not much in favor in France! Testify nothing, my lord. If instead of making gold I made theories, then, indeed, I should have no objection.”
“Then, what can I do for you?” said the prince, lifting an ingot of fifty pounds with difficulty in his delicate hands.
Balsamo looked at him steadily, and without the least respect began to laugh.
“What is there so very ludicrous in what I have said?” asked the cardinal.
“Your eminence offers me your services, I think. Would it not be much more to the purpose were I to offer mine to you?”
The cardinal’s brow darkened.
“You have obliged me, sir,” said he, “and I am ready to acknowledge it; but if the gratitude I am to bear you proves a heavier burden than I imagined, I shall not accept the obligation. There are still, thank Heaven, usurers enough in Paris from whom I can procure, half on some pledge and half on my bond, one hundred thousand crowns, the day after to-morrow. My episcopal ring alone is worth forty thousand livres.” And the prelate held out his hand, as white as a woman’s, on which shone a diamond the size of a small nut.
“Prince,” said Balsamo, bowing, “it is impossible that you can for a moment imagine that I meant to offend you.” Then, as if speaking to himself, he proceeded; “It is singular that the truth should always produce this effect on those who bear the title of prince.”
“What mean you?”
“Your highness proposes to serve me; now I merely ask you, my lord, of what nature could those services be which your eminence proposes to render me?”
“Why, in the first place, my credit at court.”
“My lord, my lord, you know too well that that credit is much shaken; in fact, I should almost as soon take the Duke de Choiseul’s, and yet he has not perhaps a fortnight to hold his place. Take my word for it, prince, as far as credit goes, depend on mine. There is good and sterling gold. Every time that your eminence is in want of any, let me know the night before, and you shall have as much as you like. And with gold, my lord, cannot all things be procured?”
“Not all,” murmured the cardinal, sinking into the grade of a protege, and no longer even making an effort to regain that of patron.
“Ah! true. I forgot that your lordship desires something more than gold — something more precious than all the riches of the earth. But in this, science cannot assist you; it is the province of magic. My lord, say the word, and the alchemist is ready to become the magician.”
“Thank you, sir; but I want for nothing more; I desire nothing farther,” said the cardinal, in a desponding voice.
Balsamo approached him.
“My lord,” said he, “a prince, young, handsome, ardent, rich, and bearing the name of Rohan, ought not to make such a reply to a magician.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because the magician reads his heart, and knows the contrary.”
“I wish for nothing; I desire nothing.” repeated the cardinal, almost terrified.
“I should have thought, on the contrary, that your eminence’s wishes were such as you dared not avow, even to yourself, since they are those of a — king!”
“Sir,” said the cardinal, with a start, “you allude, I presume, to a subject which you introduced before, when I saw you at St. Denis?”
“I confess it, my lord.”
“Sir, you were mistaken then, and you are equally mistaken now.”
“Do you forget, my lord, that I can read as plainly what is passing at this moment in your heart as, a short time ago, I saw your carriage enter the city, drive along the “boulevard, and stop beneath the trees, about fifty paces from my house.”
“Then explain yourself; tell me what you mean.”
“My lord, the princes of your family have always aimed at a high and daring passion; you have not degenerated from your race in that respect.”
“I do not know what you mean, count,” stammered the prince.
“On the contrary, you understand me perfectly. I could have touched many chords which vibrate in your heart, but why do so uselessly? I have touched the one which was necessary, and it vibrates deeply. I am certain.”
The cardinal raised his head, and with a last effort at defiance met the clear and penetrating glance of Balsamo. Balsamo smiled with such an expression of superiority that the cardinal cast down his eyes.
“Oh! you are right, my lord; you are right; do not look at me, for then I read too plainly what passes in your heart — that heart, which, like a mirror, gives back the form of the objects reflected in it.”
“Silence! Count de Fenix — silence!” said the cardinal, completely subdued.
“Yes, you are right; it is better to be silent, for the moment has not yet come to let such a passion be seen.”
“Not yet, did you say?”
“Not yet.”
“Then that love may, in some future time, bear fruit?”
“Why not?”
“And can you tell me, then, if this love be not the love of a madman, as it often seems to myself, and as it ever will seem, until I have a proof to the contrary?”
“You ask much, my lord. I can tell you nothing without being placed in contact with the person who inspires your love; or, at least, with something belonging to her person.”
“What would be necessary?”
“A ringlet, however small, of her beautiful golden hair, for example.”
“Yes; you are a man profoundly skilled in the human heart; you read it as I should read an open book.”
“Alas! that is just what your great grand-uncle, the Chevalier Louis de Rohan, said to me when I bade him farewell on the platform of the Bastille, at the foot of the scaffold which he ascended so courageously!”
“He said that to you — that you were profoundly skilled in the human heart?”
“Yes; and that I could read it; for I had forewarned him that the Chevalier de Preault would betray him. He would not believe me, and the Chevalier de Preault did betray him.”
“But what a singular analogy you draw between my ancestor and myself!” said the cardinal, turning pale in spite of himself.
“I did so merely to remind you of the necessity of being prudent, my lord, in obtaining a tress of hair whose curling locks are surmounted by a crown.”
“No matter how obtained; you shall have the tress, sir.”
“It is well. In the meantime, here is your gold, my lord; I hope you no longer doubt its being really gold?”
“Give me a pen and paper.”
“What for, my lord?”
“To give you a receipt for the hundred thousand crowns which you are so good as to lend me.”
“A receipt to me, my lord? For what purpose?”
“I borrow often, my dear count; but I tell you beforehand, I never take gifts.”
“As you please, prince.”
The cardinal took a pen from the table, and wrote a receipt for the money in an enormous illegible hand, and in a style of orthography which would shock a poor curate’s housekeeper of the present day.
“Is that right?” asked he, as he handed it to Balsamo.
“Perfectly right,” replied the count, putting it in his pocket without even looking at it.
“You have not read it, sir!”
“I have your highness’s word ; and the word of a Rohan is better than any pledge.” “Count de Fenix,” said the cardinal, with a slight inclination, very significant from a man of his rank, “you speak like a gentleman; and if I cannot lay you under any obligation to me, I am at least fortunate in being obliged to such a man.”
Balsamo bowed in his turn, and rang a bell, at the sound of which Fritz appeared.
The count spoke a few words to him in German. He stooped, and like a child carrying a handful of oranges — a little embarrassed, to be sure, but by no means oppressed with the burden — he carried off the eight ingots wrapped up in tow.
“He is a perfect Hercules, that fellow,” said the cardinal.
“He is tolerably strong, indeed, my lord; but since he has been in my service, I give him every day three drops of an elixir compounded by my learned friend, the doctor Althotas. So you see the rogue profits by it; in a year he will be able to carry a hundred weight with one hand.”
“Wonderful! incomprehensible!” murmured the cardinal, “I shall never be able to resist speaking of all this!”
“Oh! speak of it by all means,” replied Balsamo, laughing; “but remember that, by so doing, you bind yourself to come in person and extinguish the flame of the fagots, if by chance the parliament should take it in their heads to burn me alive in the Place de Greve.”
And, having escorted his illustrious visitor to the outer gate, Balsamo took leave of him with a respectful bow.
“But I do not see your servant?” said the cardinal.
“He has gone to carry the gold to your carriage, my lord.”
“Does he know where it is?”
“Under the fourth tree to the right, on the boulevard; that was what I said to him in German, my lord.”
The cardinal raised his hands in astonishment, and disappeared in the darkness.
Balsamo waited for Fritz’s return, and then entered the house, closing all the doors carefully behind him.