The Evocation.
THE COUNTESS had completely concealed her face in a hood. As she had found time in passing to call at the family residence, she had assumed the dress of a citizen’s wife. She had come in a hackney-coach with the marshal, who, even more timid than she, had donned a gray dress like that of a superior servant in a respectable household.
“Do you recognize me, count?” said Madame Dubarry.
“Perfectly, Madame la Comtesse.”
Richelieu had remained in the background.
“Deign to be seated, madame, and you, also, monsieur.”
“This is my steward,” said the countess.
“You err, madame,” said Balsamo, bowing; “the gentleman is the Marshal Duke de Richelieu, whom I recognize easily, and who would be very ungrateful if he did not recognize me.”
“How so?” asked the duke, quite confounded, as Tallemant des Reaux would say.
“My lord duke, a man owes a little gratitude, I think, to those who have saved his life.”
“Ah, ah! duke,” said the countess, laughing; “do you hear, duke?”
“What! you have saved my life, count?” asked Richelieu, quite astounded.
“Yes, my lord; at Vienna, in the year 1725, when you were ambassador there.”
“In 1725! But you were not born then, my dear sir.”
Balsamo smiled.
“It seems to me that I was, my lord duke,” said he, “since I met you, dying, or rather dead, upon a litter; you had just received a sword-thrust right through your body, and I poured three drops of my elixir upon the wound. There, hold! — the place where you are ruffling your Alencon lace — rather fine, I must say, for a steward.”
“But,” interrupted the marshal, “you are scarcely thirty-five years of age, count.”
“There, duke,” cried the countess, laughing heartily, “there, you are before the sorcerer; do you believe now?”
“ I am stupefied, countess. But at that period,” continued the duke, addressing Balsamo, “you called yourself—”
“Oh! duke, we sorcerers change our name in each generation. Now, in 1725, names ending in us, os, or as, were the fashion; and I should not be surprised if, at that time, I had been seized with the whim of bartering my name for some Latin or Greek one. This being premised, I wait your commands, countess, and yours also, my lord.”
“Count, the marshal and I have come to consult you.”
“You do me too much honor, madame, especially if this idea arose naturally in your minds.”
“Oh! in the most natural manner in the world, count; your prediction still haunts my thoughts, only I fear it will not be realized.”
“Fever doubt the dictates of science, madame.”
“Oh! oh!” said Richelieu; “but our crown is a hazardous game, count. It is not here an affair of a wound which three drops of elixir can cure.”
“No; but of a minister whom three words can ruin,” replied Balsamo. “Well, have I guessed rightly? Tell me.”
“Perfectly,” said the trembling countess. “Tell me, in truth, what think you of all this, duke?”
“Oh! do not let such a trifle astonish you, madame,” said Balsamo; “whoever sees Madame Dubarry and Richelieu uneasy, may guess the cause without magic.”
“But,” added the marshal, “if you can give us the remedy, I will perfectly adore you.”
“The remedy for your complaint?”
“Yes; we are ill of the Choiseul.”
“And you wish to be cured?”
“Yes, great magician.”
“Count, you will not leave us in our embarrassment,” said the countess; “your honor is engaged.”
“My best services are at your command, madame; but I first wish to know if the duke had not some definite plan formed when he came here?”
“I confess it, count. Really it is delightful to have a count for a sorcerer; we do not need to change our modes of speech.”
Balsamo smiled.
“Come,” said he, “let us be frank.”
“‘Pon honor. I wish for nothing else,” replied the duke.
“You had some consultation to hold with me!”
“That is true.”
“Ah, deceiver!” said the countess, “you never spoke of that to me.”
“I could only speak of it to the count, and that in the most secret corner of his ear,” replied the marshal.
“Why, duke?”
“Because you would have blushed, countess, to the whites of your eyes.”
“Oh! tell it now, marshal, just to satisfy my curiosity. I am rouged, so you shall see nothing;.”
“Well!” said Richelieu, “this is what I thought. Take care, countess. I am going to take a most extravagant flight.”
“Fly as high as you will, duke, I am prepared.”
“Oh, but I fear you will beat me the moment you hear what I am about to say.”
“You are not accustomed to be beaten, my lord duke,” said Balsamo to the old marshal.
“Well,” continued he, enchanted with the compliment, “here it is. Saving the displeasure of madame, his maj — how am I to express it?”
“How tiresome he is!” cried the countess.
“You will have it, then?”
“Yes, yes; a hundred times, yes!”
“Then I will venture. It is a sad thing to say, count, but his majesty is no longer amusable. The word is not of my originating, countess; it is Madame de Maintenon’s.”
“There is nothing in that which hurts me, duke,” said Madame Dubarry.
“So much the better; then I shall feel at my ease. Well, the count, who discovers such precious elixirs, must —
“Find one which shall restore to the king the faculty of being amused.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh! duke, that is mere child’s play — the a b c of our craft. Any charlatan can furnish you with a philter —
“Whose virtue,” continued the duke, “would be put to the account of madame’s merit.”
“Duke!” exclaimed the countess.
“Oh! I knew you would be angry; but you would have it.”
“My lord duke,” replied Balsamo, “you were right. Look! the countess blushes. But just now we agreed that neither wounds nor love were to be treated of at present. A philter will not rid France of M. de Choiseul. In fact, if the king loved madame ten times more than he does, and that is impossible, M. de Choiseul would still retain the same influence over his mind which madame exerts over his heart.”
“Very true,” said the marshal; “but it was our only resource.”
“You think so?”
“Dame! find another.”
“Oh! that would be easy.”
“Easy! do you hear, countess? — these sorcerers stop at nothing.”
“Why should I stop, where the only thing necessary is simply to prove to the king that M. de Choiseul alone betrays him — that is to say, what the king would think betraying; for of course M. de Choiseul does not think he betrays him in acting as he does.”
“And what does he do?”
“You know as well as I do, countess; he supports the parliament in their revolt against the royal authority.”
“Certainly; but we must know by what means.”
“By the means of agents who encourage them by promising them impunity.”
“Who are the agents? We must know that.”
“Do you believe, for example, that Madame de Grammont is gone for any other purpose than to sustain the ardent, and warm the timid?”
“Certainly; she left for no other reason,” exclaimed the countess.
“Yes; but the king thinks it a simple exile.”
“It is true.”
“How can you prove to him that in this departure there is any tiling more than he supposes?”
“By accusing Madame de Grammont.”
“Ah! if there were nothing necessary but to accuse her, count!” said the marshal.
“But, unfortunately, the accusation must be proved,” added the countess.
“And if this accusation were proved, incontrovertibly proved, do you think M. de Choiseul would still be minister?”
“Certainly not,” said the countess.
“Nothing is necessary then but to discover the treachery of M. de Choiseul,” pursued Balsamo, with assurance; “and to display it clearly, precisely, and palpably before the eyes of his majesty.”
The marshal threw himself back upon an armchair, and laughed loud and long.
“Charming!” he exclaimed; “he stops at nothing! Discover M. de Choiseul in the act of committing treason! — that is all, nothing more!”
Balsamo remained calm and unmoved, waiting until the marshal’s mirth had subsided.
“Come,” said Balsamo, “let us speak seriously, and recapitulate.”
“So be it.”
“Is not M. de Choiseul suspected of encouraging the revolt of the parliament-?”
“Granted; but the proof?”
“Is not M. de Choiseul supposed,” continued Balsamo, “to be attempting to bring about a war with England, in order that he may become indispensable?”
“It, is so believed; but the proof?”
“Is not M. de Choiseul the declared enemy of the countess, and does he not seek, by all possible means, to drag her from the throne I promised her?”
“Ah! all this is very true,” said the countess; “but once more I repeat, it must be proved. Oh! that I could prove it!”
“What is necessary for that? A mere trifle.”
The marshal gave a low whistle.
“Yes, a mere trifle!” said he, sarcastically.
“A confidential letter for example,” said Balsamo.
“Yes; that is all — a mere nothing.”
“A letter from Madame de Grammont would do, would it not, marshal?” continued the count.
“Sorcerer, my good sorcerer, find me such a one!” cried Madame Dubarry. “I have been trying for five years; I have spent a hundred thousand livres per annum, and have never succeeded.”
“Because you never applied to me, madame,” said Balsamo.
“How so?” said the countess.
“Without doubt, if you had applied to me, I could have assisted you.”
“Could you? Count, is it yet too late?”
The count smiled.
“It is never too late,” said he.
“Oh, my dear count!” said Madame Dubarry, clasping her hands.
“You want a letter, then?”
“Yes.”
“From Madame de Grammont?”
“If it is possible.”
“Which shall compromise M. de Choiseul on the three points which I have mentioned?”
“I would give — one of my eyes to see it.”
“Oh! countess, that would be too dear; inasmuch as this letter — I will give it you for nothing.”
And Balsamo drew a folded paper from his pocket.
“What is that?” asked the countess, devouring the paper with her eyes.
“Yes, what is that?” repeated the duke.
“The letter you wished for.”
And the count, amid the most profound silence, read the letter, with which our readers are already acquainted; to his two astonished auditors.
As he read, the countess opened her eyes to their utmost width, and began to lose countenance.
“It is a forgery,” said Richelieu, when the letter had been read. “Diable! we must take care.”
“Monsieur, it is the simple and literal copy of a letter from the Duchesse de Grammont, which a courier, dispatched this morning from Rouen, is now carrying to the Duke de Choiseul at Versailles.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried the marshal, “do you speak truly, Count Balsamo?”
“I always speak the truth, marshal.”
“The duchesse has written such a letter?”
“Yes, marshal.”
“She could not be so imprudent.”
“It is incredible, I confess; but so it is.”
The old duke looked at the countess, who had not the power to utter a single word.
“Well,” said she, at last, “I am like the duke, I can scarcely believe — excuse me, count — that Madame de Grammont, a woman of sense, should compromise her own position, and that of her brother, by a letter so strongly expressed. Besides, to know of such a letter, one must have read it—”
“And then,” said the marshal, quickly, “if the count had read this letter, he would have kept it; it is a precious treasure.” Balsamo gently shook his head.
“Oh,” said he, “such a plan might suit those who have to break open letters in order to ascertain their contents — but not those who, like myself, can read through the envelopes. Fie upon you! Besides, what interest could I have in ruining M. de Choiseul and Madame de Grammont? You come to consult me, as friends, I presume, and I answer you in the same manner. You wish me to render you a service. I do so. You do not mean I suppose, to ask me the price of my consultation, as you would the fortune-tellers of the Quai de la Ferraille?”
“Oh, count!” said Madame Dubarry.
“Well, I give you this advice, and you seem not to comprehend it. You express a wish to overthrow M. de Choiseul, and you seek the means. I tell you one. You approve of it. I put it into your hands, and — you do not believe it.”
“Because — because — count — I—”
“The letter exists, I tell you, for I have the copy.”
“But who told you of its existence, count?” cried Richelieu.
“Ah! that is a great word — who told me! You wish to know, in one moment, as much as I know; I, the worker, the sage, the adept who has lived three thousand seven hundred years.”
“Oh! oh!” said Richelieu, discouraged; “you are going to alter the good opinion I had formed of you, count.”
“I do not ask you to believe me, my lord duke, it is not I who brought you hither from the chase.”
“Duke, he is right,” said the countess. “Monsieur de Balsamo, pray do not be hasty.”
“He who has time never gets impatient, madame.”
“Will you be so good as to add another favor to those you have already conferred upon me, and tell me how these secrets are revealed to you.”
“I shall not hesitate, madame.” said Balsamo, speaking as if he was searching for each word separately; “the revelation is made to me by a voice.”
“By a voice!” cried the duke and the countess, simultaneously; “a voice tells you all?”
“Everything I wish to know.”
“Was it a voice that told you what Madame de Grammont has written to her brother?”
“I repeat, madame, it is a voice which tells me.”
“Miraculous!”
“Why, do you not believe it?”
“Well, no, count,” said the duke; “how do you imagine I can believe such things?”
“Would you believe it if I told you what the courier who carries the letter to M. de Choiseul is doing at this moment?”
“Dame!” exclaimed the countess.
“I would believe it,” cried the duke, “if I heard the voice; but messieurs the necromancers and magicians have the sole privilege of seeing and hearing the supernatural.”
Balsamo looked at Richelieu with a singular expression, which made a shudder pass through the veins of the countess, and even sent a slight chill to the heart of the selfish skeptic called the Duke de Richelieu.
“Yes,” said he, after a long silence, “I alone see and hear supernatural objects and sounds, but when I am in the society of people of rank — of your talent, duke, and of your beauty, countess, I display my treasures and share them. Would you wish greatly to hear the mysterious voice which speaks to me?”
“Yes,” said the duke, clenching his hands tightly that he might not tremble.
“Yes,” stammered the countess, trembling.
“Well, duke — well, countess, you shall hear it. What language shall it speak?”
“French, if you please,” said the countess. “I know no other; any other would frighten me.”
“And you, duke?”
“As madame said, French; for then I shall be able to repeat what the devil says, and to discover if he speaks the language of my friend, M. de Voltaire, correctly.”
Balsamo, his head drooping on his breast, crossed over to the door leading into the salon, which opened, as we are aware, on the stairs.
“Permit me,” said he, “to conceal you here, in order not to expose you to the risk of discovery.”
The countess turned pale, approached the duke, and took his arm.
Balsamo, almost touching the door leading to the stairs, made a step toward that part of the house in which Lorenza was, and pronounced in a low voice the following words, in the Arabic tongue, which we translate:
“My friend — do you hear me? If so, pull the cord of the bell twice.”
Balsamo waited to see the effect of these words, and looked at the duke and countess, who opened their eyes and ears, and the more so that they could not understand what the count said.
The bell sounded twice distinctly.
The countess started from her sofa, and the duke wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Since you hear me,” continued Balsamo in the same language, “press the marble button which forms the right eye of the sculptured figure on the chimneypiece; the back will open; pass out by this opening, cross my room, descend the stairs, and enter the apartment adjoining the one in which I am.”
Immediately a faint noise, like a scarcely audible breath, told Balsamo that his order had been understood and obeyed.
“What language is that?” asked the duke, pretending assurance. “The cabalistic language?”
“Yes, duke; the language used for the summoning of spirits.”
“You said we should understand it..”
“What the voice said, but not what I say.”
“Has the devil appeared yet?”
“Who spoke of the devil, duke?”
“Whom do you evoke but the devil?”
“Every superior spirit, every supernatural being, can he evoked.”
“And the superior spirit, the supernatural being — ?”
Balsamo extended his hand toward the tapestry which closed the door of the next apartment.
“Is in direct communication with me, my lord.”
“I am afraid,” said the countess; “are you, duke?”
“ Faith, countess, I confess to you that I would almost as soon be at Mahon or at Philipsbourg.” “Madame la comtesse, and you, my lord duke, listen, since you wish to hear,” said Balsamo, severely, and he turned toward the door.