The Voice.
THERE WAS a moment of silence, then Balsamo asked in French:
“Are you there?”
“I am,” replied a clear, silvery voice, which, penetrating through the hangings and the doors, seemed to those present rather like a metallic sound than a human voice.
“Peste! it is becoming interesting,” said the duke; “and all without torches, magic, or Bengal lights.”
“It is fearful,” whispered the countess.
“Listen attentively to my questions,” continued Balsamo.
“I listen with my whole being.”
“First tell me how many persons are with me at this moment?”
“Two.”
“Of what sex?”
“A man and a woman.”
“Read the man’s name in my thoughts.”
“The Duke de Richelieu.”
“And the woman’s?”
“Madame, the Countess Dubarry.”
“Ha!” said the duke, “this is becoming serious.”
“I never saw anything like it,” murmured the trembling countess.
“Good!” said Balsamo; “now read the first sentence of the letter I hold in my hand.”
The voice obeyed.
The duke and the countess looked at each other with astonishment bordering upon admiration.
“What has become of the letter I wrote at your dictation?”
“It is hastening on.”
“In which direction?”
“Toward the East.”
“Is it far?”—”Yes, very far.”
“Who is carrying it?”
“A man dressed in a green vest, leathern cap, and large boots.”
“On foot or on horseback?”
“On horseback.”
“What kind of a horse?”
“A piebald horse.”
“Where do you see him?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Look,” said Balsamo, imperatively.
“On a wide road, planted with trees.”
“But on which road?”
“I do not know; all the roads are alike.”
“What! does nothing indicate what road it is — no post nor inscription?”
“Slay! stay! A carriage is passing near the man on horseback; it crosses his course, coming toward me.”
“What kind of carriage?”
“A heavy carriage, full of abbes and soldiers.”
“A stage coach,” said Richelieu.
“Is there no inscription upon the carriage?” asked Balsamo.
“Yes.” said the voice.
“Read it.”
“Versailles is written in yellow letters upon the carriage, but the word is nearly effaced.”
“Leave the carriage and follow the Conner.”
“I do not see him now.”
“Why do you not see him?”
“Because the road turns.”
“Turn the corner, and follow him.”
“Oh! he gallops as quickly as his horse can fly! He looks at his watch.”
“What do you see in front of the horse?”
“A long avenue, splendid buildings, a large town.”
“Follow him still.”
“I follow.”
“Well?”
“The courier redoubles his blows, the animal is bathed in perspiration; its ironshod hoofs strike the pavement so loudly that all the passers-by look round. Ah! the courier dashes into a long street which descends. He turns to the right. He slackens his horse’s speed. He stops at the door of a large hotel.”
“Now you must follow him attentively, do you hear?”
The voice heaved a sigh.
“You are tired. I understand.”
“Oh! crushed with weariness.”
“Cease to be fatigued, I will it.”
“Ah! Thanks.”
“Are you still fatigued?”
“No.”
“Do you still see the courier?”
“Yes, yes; he ascends a large stone staircase. He is preceded by a valet in blue and gold livery. He crosses large salons full of splendid gilt ornaments. He stops at a small lighted closet. The valet opens the door and retires.”
“What do you see?”
“The courier bows.”
“To whom does he bow?”
“He bows to a man seated at a desk, with his back toward the door.”
“How is the man dressed?”
“Oh, in full dress, as if he were going to a ball.”
“Has he any decoration?”
“He wears a broad blue ribbon crosswise on his breast.”
“His face?”
“I cannot see. Ah!—”
“What?”—” He turns.”
“What sort of features has he?”
“A keen glance, irregular features, beautiful teeth.”
“What age?”
“From fifty-five to fifty-eight years of age.”
“The duke!” whispered the countess to the marshal; “it is the duke!”
The marshal made a sign as if to say, “Yes, it is he; but listen.”
“Well?” asked Balsamo.
“The courier gives a letter to the man with the blue ribbon—”
“You may say to the duke; he is a duke.”
“The courier,” repeated the obedient voice, “takes a letter from a leathern bag behind him, and gives it to the duke. The duke breaks the seal, and reads it attentively.”
“Well?”
“He takes a pen and a sheet of paper and writes.”
“He writes!” said Richelieu. “Diable! if we could only know what he writes?”
“Tell me what he writes,” commanded Balsamo.
“I cannot.”
“Because you are too far away. Enter the room. Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Look over his shoulder.”
“I am doing so.”
“Now read.”
“The writing is bad, small, irregular.”
“Read it; I will it.”
The countess and Richelieu held their breaths.
“Read,” repeated Balsamo, more imperatively still.
“My sister,” said the voice, trembling and hesitating.
“It is the reply,” said the duchess and Richelieu in the same breath.
“My sister,” continued the voice, “do not be uneasy. The crisis took place, it is true; it was a dangerous one; that is true also; but it is over. I am anxiously awaiting to-morrow, for to-morrow it will be my turn to act on the offensive, and everything leads me to expect a decisive triumph.
“The parliament of Rouen, Milord X — , the petards, are all satisfactory.
“To-morrow, after my interview with the king, I shall add a post scriptum to my letter, and send it you by the same courier.”
Balsamo, with his left hand extended, seemed to drag each word painfully from the voice, while with the right hand he hastily took down those lines which M. de Choiseul was at the same time writing in his closet at Versailles.
“Is that all?” asked Balsamo.
“That is all.”
“What is the duke doing now?”
“He folds the paper on which he has just written, and puts it into a small portfolio, which he takes from the pocket in the left side of his coat.”
“You hear,” said Balsamo, to the almost stupefied countess.—” Well?”
“Then he sends away the courier.”
“What does he say to him?”
“I only heard the end of the sentence.”
“What was it?”
“‘At one o’clock at the postern gate of Trianon.’ The courier bows and retires.”
“Yes,” said Richelieu, “he makes an appointment to meet the courier when his audience is over, as he says in his letter.”
Balsamo made a sign with his hand to command silence.
“What is the duke doing now?” he asked.
“He rises. He holds the letter he has received in his hand. He goes straight toward his bed, enters the passage between it and the wall, and presses a spring which opens an iron box. He throws the letter into the box and closes it.
“Oh!” cried the countess and the duke, turning pale, “this is in truth magical.”
“Do you know now what you wish to know, madame?” asked Balsamo.
“Count,” said Madame Dubarry, approaching him with terror, “you have rendered me a service which I would pay with ten years of my life, or rather, which I can never pay. Ask what you wish.”
“Oh! madame, you know we have already an account.”
“Speak; say what you wish.”
“The time has not yet come.”
“Well, when it comes, if it were a million—”
Balsamo smiled.
“Oh! countess,” exclaimed the marshal, “you should rather ask the count for a million. Cannot a man who knows what he knows, and who sees what he sees, discover diamonds and gold in the bosom of the earth as easily as he discovers the thoughts in the heart of man?”
“Then, count,” said the countess, “I bow myself before you in my weakness.”
“No, countess, one day you will acquit your debt toward me. I shall give you the opportunity.”
“Count,” said Richelieu to Balsamo, “I am conquered — crushed. I believe.”
“As Saint Thomas believed, duke. I do not call that believing, but seeing.”
“Call it what you will. I will make the amends honorable; and, in future, if I am asked about sorcerers, I shall know what to say.”
Balsamo smiled.
“Madame,” said he to the countess, “will you permit me to do one thing now?”
“Speak.”
“My spirit is wearied. Let me restore it to liberty by a magic formula.”
“Do so, sir.”
“Lorenza.” said Balsamo, in Arabic, “thanks, I love you; return to your apartment by the same way you came, and wait for me. Go, my beloved.”
“I am very tired,” replied in Italian the voice, softer still than even during the evocation. “Hasten, Acharat.”
“I come,” and the footsteps died away in the distance with the same rustling noise with which they had approached.
Then Balsamo, after a few moments’ interval, during which he convinced himself of Lorenza’s departure, bowed profoundly but with majestic dignity to his visitors, who returned to their fiacre more like intoxicated persons than human beings gifted with reason, so much were they staggered and absorbed by the crowd of tumultuous ideas which assailed them.