The Sorcerer Chase.
A long train of carriages filled the avenues of the forest of Marly, where the king was hunting. It was what was called the afternoon chase.
In the latter part of his life, Louis XV. neither shot at nor rode after the game; he was content with watching the progress of the chase.
Those of our readers who have read Plutarch, will perhaps remember that cook of Mark Antony’s, who put a boar on the spit every hour, so that among the six or seven boars which were roasting, there might always be one ready whenever Mark Antony wished to dine.
The reason of this was that Mark Antony, as governor of Asia Minor, was overwhelmed with business; he was the dispenser of justice, and as the Sicilians are great thieves (the fact is confirmed by Juvenal), Mark Antony had abundance of work on his hands. He had therefore always five or six roasts in various degrees of progress on the spit, waiting for the moment when his functions as judge would permit him to snatch a hasty morsel.
Louis XV. acted in a similar manner. For the afternoon chase there were three or four stags started at different hours, and accordingly as the king felt disposed he chose a nearer or more distant “view halloo.”
On this day his majesty had signified his intention of hunting until four o’clock. A stag was therefore chosen which had been started at twelve, and which might consequently be expected to run until that hour.
Madame Dubarry, on her side, intended to follow the king as faithfully as the king intended to follow the stag. But hunters propose and fate disposes. A combination of circumstances frustrated this happy project of Madame Dubarry’s, and the countess found in fate an adversary almost as capricious as herself.
While the countess, talking politics with M. de Richelieu, drove rapidly after the king, who in his turn drove rapidly after the stag, and while the duke and she returned in part the bows which greeted them as they passed, they all at once perceived about fifty paces from the road, beneath a magnificent canopy of verdure, an unfortunate caleche revolving its wheels in the air, while the two black horses which should have drawn it were peacefully munching; the one the bark of a beech-tree, the other the moss growing at his feet.
Madame Dubarry’s horses, a magnificent pair presented to her by the king, had outstripped all the other carriages, and were the first to arrive in sight of the broken carriage.
“Ha! an accident!” said the countess, calmly.
“Faith, yes!” said the Duke de Richelieu, with equal coolness, for sensibility is little in fashion at court; “the carriage is broken to pieces.”
“Is that a corpse upon the grass?” asked the countess. “Look, duke.”
“I think not, it moves.”
“Is it a man or a woman?”
“I don’t know. I cannot see well.”
“Ha! it bows to us.”
“Then it cannot be dead.”
And Richelieu at all hazards took off his hat.
“But, countess,” said he, “it seems to me—”
“And to me also —
“That it is his eminence Prince Louis.”
“The Cardinal de Rohan in person!”
“What the deuce is he doing there?” asked the duke.
“Let us go and see,” replied the countess. “Champagne, drive on to the broken carriage.”
The coachman immediately left the high road and dashed in among the lofty trees.
“Faith, yes, it is my lord cardinal,” said Richelieu.
It was in truth his eminence, who was lying stretched upon the grass, waiting until some of his friends should pass.
Seeing Madame Dubarry approach, he rose.
“A thousand compliments to the countess!” said he.
“How, cardinal! is it you?”
“Myself, madame.”
“On foot?”
“No, sitting.”
“Are you wounded?”
“Not in the least.”
“And how in all the world do you happen to be in this position?”
“Do not speak of it, madame; that brute of a coachman, a wretch whom I sent for to England, when I told him to cut across the wood in order to join the chase, turned so suddenly, that he upset me and broke my best carriage.”
“You must not complain, cardinal,” said the countess; “a French coachman would have broken your neck, or at least your ribs.”
“Very possibly.”
“Therefore, be consoled.”
“Oh! I am a little of a philosopher, countess; only I shall have to wait, and that is fatal.”
“How, prince! to wait? A Rohan wait?”
“There is no resource.”
“Oh, no! I would rather alight and leave you my carriage.”
“In truth, madame, your kindness makes me blush.”
“Come, jump in, prince — jump in.”
“No, thank you, madame, I am waiting for Soubise, who is at the chase, and who cannot fail to pass in a few moments.”
“But if he should have taken another road?”
“Oh! it is of no consequence.”
“My lord, I entreat you will.”
“No, thank you.”
“But why not?”
“I am unwilling to incommode you.”
“Cardinal, if you refuse to enter, I shall order one of the footmen to carry my train, and I shall roam through the woods like a Dryad.”
The cardinal smiled, and thinking that a longer resistance might be interpreted unfavorably by the countess, he consented to enter the carriage. The duke had already given up his place, and taken his seat upon the bench in front. The cardinal entreated him to resume his former position, but the duke was inflexible.
The countess’s splendid horses soon made up for the time which had thus been lost.
“Excuse me, my lord,” said the countess, addressing the cardinal, “has your eminence been reconciled to the chase?”
“How so?”
“Because this is the first time I have had the pleasure of seeing you join in that amusement.”
“By no means, countess. I had come to Versailles to have the honor of paying my respects to his majesty, when I was told he was at the chase. I had to speak to him on some important business, and therefore followed, hoping to overtake him; but, thanks to this cursed coachman, I shall not only lose his majesty’s ear, but also my assignation in town.”
“You see, madame.” said the duke, laughing, “monseigneur makes a free confession! — he has an assignation.”
“In which I shall fail, I repeat,” replied the cardinal.
“Does a Rohan, a prince, a cardinal, ever fail in anything?” said the countess.
“Dame!” said the prince, “unless a miracle comes to my assistance.”
The duke and the countess looked at each other; this word recalled their recent conversation.
“Faith! prince.” said the countess, “speaking of miracles, I will confess frankly that I am very happy to meet a dignitary of the church, to know if he believes in them.”
“In what, madame?”
“Parbleu! in miracles.” said the duke.
“The Scriptures give them as an article of faith, madame,” said the cardinal, trying to look devout.
“Oh! I do not mean those miracles,” replied the countess.
“And of what other miracles do you speak, madame?”
“Of modern miracles.”
“Those indeed, I confess, are rather more rare,” said the cardinal. “But still—”
“But still, what?”
“Faith, I have seen things, which, if they were not miraculous, were at least very incredible.”
“You have seen such things, prince?”
“On my honor.”
“But you know, madame,” said Richelieu, laughing, “that his eminence is said to be in communication with spirits, which, perhaps, is not very orthodox.”
“No, but which must be very convenient,” said the countess. “And what have you seen, prince?”
“I have sworn not to reveal it.”
“Oh! that begins to look serious.”
“It is a fact, madame.”
“But if you have promised to observe secrecy respecting the sorcery, perhaps you have not done so as regards the sorcerer?”
“No.”
“Well, then, prince, I must tell you that the duke and myself came out to-day with the intention of seeking some magician.”
“Indeed?”—” Upon my honor.”
“Take mine.”
“I desire no better.”
“He is at your disposal, countess.”
“And at mine also, prince?”
“And at yours also, duke.”
“What is his name?”
“The Count de Fenix.”
The countess and the duke looked at each other and turned pale.
“That is strange,” said they, both together.
“Do you know him?” asked the prince.
“No. And you think him a sorcerer?”
“I am positive of it.”
“You have spoken to him, then?”
“Of course.”
“And you found him—”
“Perfect.”
“On what occasion, may I ask?”
The cardinal hesitated.
“On the occasion of his foretelling my fortune.”
“Correctly?”
“He told me things of the other world.”
“Has he no other name than the Count de Fenix?”
“I think I have heard him called—”
“Speak, sir,” said the countess, impatiently.
“Joseph Balsamo, madame.”
“Is the devil very black?” asked Madame Dubarry all at once.
“The devil, countess? I have not seen him.”
““What are you thinking of, countess?” cried Richelieu. “Pardieu! that would be respectable company for a cardinal.”
“And did he tell you your fortune without showing you the devil?”
“Oh! certainly,” said the cardinal, “they only show the devil to people of no consideration; we can dispense with him.”
“But say what you will, prince,” continued Madame Dubarry, “there must be a little devilry at the bottom of it.”
“Dame! I think so.”
“Blue fire, specters, infernal caldrons which smell horribly while they burn, eh?”
“ Oh, no! my sorcerer is most polite and well-bred; he is a very gallant man, and receives his visitors in good style.” “Will you not have your horoscope drawn by this man, countess?” said Richelieu.
“I long to do so, I confess.”
“Do so, then, madame.”
“But where is all this accomplished?” asked Madame Dubarry, hoping that the cardinal would give her the wished-for address.
“In a very handsome room, fashionably furnished.”
The countess could scarcely conceal her impatience.
“Very well,” said she; “but the house?”
“A very fine house, though in a singular style of architecture.”
The countess stamped with rage at being so ill understood. Richelieu came to her assistance.
“But do you not see, my lord,” said he, “that madame is dying to know where your sorcerer lives?”
“Where he lives, you say? Oh! well.” replied the cardinal, “eh! faith — wait a moment — no — yes — no. It is in the Marais, near the corner of the boulevard, Rue St. Francois — St. Anastasie — no. However, it is the name of some saint.”
“But what saint. You must surely know them all?”
“No, faith. I know very little about them,” said the cardinal; “but stay — my fool of a footman must remember.”
“Oh! very fortunately he got up behind,” said the duke. “Stop, Champagne, stop.”
And the duke pulled the cord which was attached to the coachman’s little finger, who suddenly reined in the foaming horses, throwing them on their sinewy haunches.
“Olive,” said the cardinal, “are you there, you scoundrel?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where did I stop one evening in the Marais — a long time back?”
The lackey had overheard the whole conversation, but took care not to appear as if he had done so.
“In the Marais?” said he, seeming to search his memory.
“Yes, near the boulevards.”
“What day, my lord?”
“One day when I was returning from. St. Denis. The carriage, I think, waited for me in the boulevards.”
“Oh, yes, my lord,” said Olive, “I remember now. A man came and threw a very heavy parcel into the carriage; I remember it perfectly.”
“Very possibly,” replied the cardinal, “but who asked you about that, you scoundrel?”
“What does your eminence wish, then?”
“To know the name of the street.”
“Rue St. Claude, my lord.”
“Claude, that is it!” cried the cardinal. “I would have laid any wager it was the name of a saint.”
“Rue St. Claude!” repeated the countess, darting such an expressive glance at Richelieu, that the marshal, fearing to let any one guess his secrets, above all when it concerned a conspiracy, interrupted Madame Dubarry by these words:
“Ha! countess — the king!”
“Where?”
“Yonder.”
“The king! the king!” exclaimed the countess. “To the left, Champagne, to the left, that his majesty may not see us.”
“And why, countess?” asked the astonished cardinal. “I thought that, on the contrary, you were taking me to his majesty.”
“Oh! true, you wish to see the king, do you not?”
“I came for that alone, madame.”
“Very well! you shall be taken to the king — —”
“But you?”
“Oh! we shall remain here.”
“But, countess —
“No apologies, prince, I entreat; every one to his own business. The king is yonder, under those chestnut-trees; you have business with the king; very well, the affair is easily arranged. Champagne!”
Champagne pulled up.
“Champagne, let us alight here, and take his eminence to the king.”
“What! alone, countess?”
“You wished to have an audience of his majesty, cardinal?”
“It is true.”
“Well! you shall have his ear entirely to yourself.”
“All! this kindness absolutely overwhelms me.” And the prelate gallantly kissed Madame Dubarry’s hand.
“But where will you remain yourself, madame?” inquired he.
“Here, under these trees.”
“The king will be looking for you.”
“So much the better.”
“He will be uneasy at not seeing you.”
“And that will torment him — just what I wish.”
“Countess, you are positively adorable,”
“That is precisely what the king says when I have tormented him. Champagne, when you have taken his eminence to the king, you will return at full gallop.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Adieu, duke,” said the cardinal.
“Au revoir, my lord,” replied the duke.
And the valet having let down the step, the duke alighted and handed out the countess, who leaped to the ground as lightly as a nun escaping from a convent, while the carriage rapidly bore his eminence to the hillock from which his Most Christian Majesty was seeking, with his short-sighted eyes, the naughty countess whom every one had seen but himself.
Madame Dubarry lost no time. She took the duke’s arm, and drawing him into the thicket —
“Do you know.” said she, “that it must have been Providence who sent that dear cardinal to us, to put us on the trace of our man!”
“Then we are positively to go to him?”
“I think so; but—”
“What, countess?”
“I am afraid, I confess it.”
“Of whom?”
“Of the sorcerer. Oh, I am very credulous.”
“The deuce!”
“And you, do you believe in sorcerers?”
“Dame! I can’t say no, countess.”
“My history of the prediction —
“Is a startling fact. And I myself,” said the old marshal, scratching his ear, “once met a certain sorcerer.”
“Bah!”
“Who rendered me a very important service.”
“What service, duke?”
“He resuscitated me.”
“He resuscitated you!”
“Certainly; I was dead, no less.”
“Oh! tell me the whole affair, duke.”
“Let us conceal ourselves, then.”
“Duke, you are a dreadful coward.”
“Oh, no, I am only prudent.”
“Are we well placed here?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well! the story! the story!”
“Well, I was at Vienna — it was the time when I was ambassador there — when one evening, while I was standing under a lamp, I received a sword thrust through my body. It was a rival’s sword, and a very unwholesome sort of thing it is, I assure you. I fell — I was taken up — I was dead.”
“What? you were dead?”
“Yes, or close upon it. A sorcerer passes, who asks who is the man whom they are carrying. He is told it is I; he stops the litter, pours three drops of some unknown liquid into the wound, three more between my lips, and the bleeding stops, respiration returns, my eyes open, and I am cured.”
“It is a miracle from heaven, duke.”
“That is just what frightens me; for, on the contrary, I believe it is a miracle of the devil.”
“True, marshal, Providence would not have saved a dissipated rake like you. Honor to whom honor is due. And does your sorcerer still live?”
“I doubt it, unless he has found the elixir of life.”
“Like you, marshal?”
“Do you believe these stories, then?”
“I believe everything. He was very old?”
“Methuselah in person.”
“And his name?”
“All! a magnificent Greek name — Althotas.”
“What a terrible name, marshal!”
“Is it not, madame?”
“Duke, there is the carriage returning. Are we decided? Shall we go to Paris and visit the Rue St. Claude?”
“If you like. But the king is waiting for you.”
“That would determine me, duke, if I had not already determined. He has tormented me. Now, France, it is your turn to suffer!”
“But he will think you are lost — carried off.”
“And so much the more that I have been seen with you, marshal.”
“Stay, countess, I will be frank with you; I am afraid.”
“Of what?”
““I am afraid that you will tell all this to some one, and that I shall be laughed at.”
“Then we shall both be laughed at together, since I go with you.”
“That decides me, countess. However, if you betray me, I shall say—”
“What will you say?”
“I shall say that you came with me tete-a-tete.”
“No one will believe you, duke.”
“Ah! countess, if the king were not there!”
“Champagne! Champagne! Here, behind this thicket, that we may not be seen. Germain, the door. That will do. Now to Paris, Rue St. Claude, in the Marais, and let the pavement smoke for it.”