The Coffer.
WHEN HE WAS alone, M. de Sartines turned the coffer round and round with the air of a man who can appreciate the value of a discovery. Then he stretched out his hands and picked up the bundle of keys which had fallen from Lorenza’s hands.
He tried them, all; none would fit.
He took several similar bunches from his drawer.
These bunches contained keys of all dimensions; keys of all sorts of articles, coffers included; common keys, and microscopic keys. M. de Sartines might be said to possess a pattern of every key known.
He tried twenty, fifty, a hundred; not one would even turn round. The magistrate concluded, therefore, that the lock was only a feigned one, and that consequently his keys were only counterfeit keys.
He then took a small chisel and a little hammer from the same drawer, and with his white hand, buried in an ample frill of Mechlin lace, he burst open the lock, the faithful guardian of the coffer.
A bundle of papers appeared, instead of the destructive machine he had feared to find there, or instead of poisons which should diffuse a fatal odor around, and deprive France of its most useful magistrate.
The first words which met the magistrate’s eye were the following, written in a handwriting which was evidently feigned:
“Master, it is time to abandon the name of Balsamo.”
There was no signature, but merely the three letters — L. P. D.
“Ha!” said he, twitching the curls of his wig, “if I do not know the writing, I think I know the name. Balsamo — let me see — I must search the Bs.”
He opened one of his twenty-four drawers, and took from it a list, arranged in alphabetical order, written in a fine handwriting full of abbreviations, and containing three or four hundred names, preceded, followed, and accompanied by flaming notes.
“Oh! ho!” said he, “there is a long article on this Balsamo.”
And he read the whole page with unequivocal signs of dissatisfaction. Then he replaced the list in the drawer, and continued the examination of the coffer.
He had not proceeded far before his brow assumed a darker hue, and soon he came to a note full of names and ciphers.
This paper seemed important; it was much worn at the edges, and filled with pencil-marks. M. de Sartines rang the bell; a servant appeared.
“The assistance of the chancery clerk,” said he, “immediately. Let him come through the reception-rooms from the office to save time.”
The valet retired. Two minutes afterward, a clerk with a pen in his hand, his hat under one arm, a large register under the other, and wearing sleeves of black serge over his coat sleeves, appeared on the threshold of the study. M. de Sartines perceived his entrance in the mirror before him, and handed him the paper over his shoulder.
“Decipher this,” said he.
“Yes, my lord.” replied the clerk.
This decipherer of riddles was a little thin man, with pinched lips, eyebrows contracted by study, pale features, and head pointed both at top and bottom, a narrow chin, a receding forehead, projecting cheek-bones, hollow and dull eyes, which often sparkled with intelligence.
M. de Sartines called him La Fouine.
“Sit down,” said the magistrate to him, on seeing him rather embarrassed by his note-book, his code of ciphers, his paper and his pen.
La Fouine modestly took his seat upon the corner of a stool, approached his knees together, and began to write upon them, turning over his dictionary and searching his memory, with an impassible countenance. In five minutes, he had written:
“An order to assemble three thousand brothers in Paris.
§
“An order to form three circles and six lodges.
§
“An order to form a guard for the Grand Copt, and to contrive four dwellings for him, one in a royal household.
§
“An order to place five hundred thousand francs at his disposal for a police.
§
“An order to enroll the flower of literature and philosophy moving in the first Parisian circles.
§
“An order to hire or to gain over the magistracy, and particularly to make sure of the lieutenant of police, by corruption, violence, or cunning.”
Here La Fouine stopped for a moment, not that the poor man was reflecting — he took care not to do that, it would have been a crime — but because his page was filled, and the ink yet wet, so he was obliged to wait for its drying before he could proceed.
M. de Saltines, becoming impatient, snatched the paper from his hands and read it.
At the last paragraph, such an expression of fear was painted on his face, that he turned a deeper pale at seeing himself change color in the mirror of his cupboard.
He did not return the paper to his clerk, but handed him a fresh sheet. The clerk once more commenced to write in proportion as he deciphered, which he did with a facility terrifying for all writers in cipher.
This time M. de Sartines read over his shoulder;
§
“To drop the name of Balsamo, which is already too well known in Paris, and to take that of the Count de Fe—”
A large blot of ink concealed the rest of the word.
While M. de Sartines was endeavoring to make out the last syllable which would complete the name, a bell was rung outside, and a valet entering, announced:
“The Count de Fenix.”
M. de Sartines uttered a cry, and at the risk of demolishing the harmonious edifice of his wig, he clasped his hands above his head, and hastened to dismiss his clerk by a secret door.
Then, resuming his place before the desk, he said to the valet:
“Introduce him.”
A few seconds afterward, M. de Sartines perceived in his glass the marked profile of the count, which he had already seen at court, on the day of Madame Dubarry’s presentation.
Balsamo entered without any hesitation whatever.
M. de Sartines rose, bowed coldly to the count, and crossing one leg over the other, he seated himself ceremoniously in his armchair.
At the first glance the magistrate had divined the cause and the aim of this visit.
At the first glance also Balsamo had perceived the opened box, half emptied upon M. de Sartine’s desk. His look, however hasty, at the coffer, did not escape the lieutenant of police.
“To what chance do I owe the honor of your presence, my lord count?” asked M. de Sartines.
“Sir,” replied Balsamo, with a most affable smile, “I have had the honor of being presented to all the sovereigns, ministers, and ambassadors of Europe, but I have not found any one to present me to you; I have therefore come to introduce myself.”
“In truth, sir,” replied the lieutenant of police, “you arrive most opportunely, for I feel convinced that had you not come of yourself, I should have had the honor of sending for you.”
“Ah! indeed!” said Balsamo. “What a coincidence!”
M. de Sartines inclined his head with a sarcastic smile.
“Shall I be so fortunate as to be of any use to you?” asked Balsamo.
And these words were uttered without a shadow of emotion or of uneasiness clouding his smiling features.
“You have traveled much, my lord count?” asked the lieutenant of police.
“A great deal, sir.”
“Ah!”
“You wish for some geographical information, perhaps? A man of your capacity does not confine his observations to France alone — he surveys Europe — the world.”
“Geographical is not exactly the word, count. Moral would be-more correct.”
“Have no scruples, I beg; one is as welcome as the other. I am wholly at your service.”
“Well, count, picture to yourself that I am in search of a most dangerous man — a man who, on my word, is a complete atheist.”
“Oh!”
“A conspirator.”
“Oh!”
“A forger.”
“Oh!”
“A debauchee, a false coiner, a quack, a charlatan, the chief of a society — a man whose history I have in my books, in this box that you see here — everywhere, indeed.”
“Ah! yes, I comprehend,” said Balsamo; “you have the history but not the man.”
“No.”
“Diable! The latter seems to me the most important point.”
“Of course; but you shall see we are not far from having him. Certainly Proteus had not more forms, nor Jupiter more names, than this mysterious traveler. Acharat in Egypt — Balsamo in Italy — Somini in Sardinia — the Marquis Danna in Malta — the Marquis Pellegrini in Corsica — and lastly, the Count de — ?”
“Count de — ?” added Balsamo.
“The last name I could not decipher perfectly, sir. But I am sure you will be able to assist me, will you not? For there is no doubt you must have met this man during your travels in each of the countries I have just now named.”
“Enlighten me a little, I entreat,” said Balsamo, quietly.
“Ah! I understand; you wish for a description of his person, do you not, count?”
“Yes, sir, if you please.”
“Well!” said M. de Sartines, fixing a glance which he intended to be inquisitorial upon Balsamo, “he is a man of your age, of your size, of your figure. He is sometimes a great lord, scattering money on all sides — sometimes a charlatan, searching into the secrets of nature — sometimes a gloomy member of some mysterious brotherhood which meets by night, and swears ‘Death to kings and the overthrow of all thrones.’”
“Oh!” said Balsamo, “that is very vague.”
“How, vague?”
“If you knew how many men I have seen who resemble this description.”
“Indeed!”
“Of course; and you must be a little more precise if you wish me to assist you. In the first place, do you know in which country he prefers to live?”
“He dwells in all.”
“But at present, for instance?”
“At present he is in France.”
“And what is his errand in France?”
“He directs an immense conspiracy.”
“Ah! that is indeed some clew; and if you know what conspiracy he directs, you probably hold the thread by which to catch your man.”
“I am just of your opinion.”
“Well! if you think so, why in that case do you ask my advice? It is useless.”
“Ah! but I am not yet decided.”
“On what point?”
“Whether I shall arrest him or not.”
“I do not understand the not, M. Lieutenant of Police, for if he conspires—” “Yes; but if he is partially defended by some name or some title!”
“Ah! I understand. But what name? — what title? You must tell me that before I can assist you in your search, sir.”
“Wiry, sir, I have told you that I know the name under which he conceals himself, but—”
“But do you not know the one which he openly uses — is that it?”
“Yes, otherwise—”
“Otherwise you would arrest him.”
“Instantly.”
“Well, my dear M. de Sartines, it is very fortunate, as you said just now, that I arrived at this moment, for I will do you the service you require.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You will tell me his name?”
“Yes.”
“His public name?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know him?”
“Perfectly well.”
“And what is his name?” asked M. de Sartines, expecting; some falsehood.
“The Count de Fenix.”
“What! the name by which you were announced?”
“The same.”
“Your name?”
“My name.”
“Then this Acharat — this Somini — this Marquis Danna — this Marquis Pellegrini — this Joseph Balsamo — is you?”
“Yes,” said Balsamo, quietly; “is myself.”
It was a minute before M. de Sartines could recover from the vertigo which this frank avowal caused him.
“You see I had guessed as much,” said he. “I knew you. I knew that Joseph Balsamo and the Count de Fenix were the same.”
“Ah!” said Balsamo, “you are a great minister — I confess it.”
“And you are most imprudent,” said the magistrate, advancing toward the bell.
“Imprudent? — why?”
“Because I am going to have you arrested.”
“What say you?” replied Balsamo, stepping between the magistrate and the bell. “You are going to arrest me?”
“Pardieu! what can you do to prevent me, may I ask?”
“You ask me?”
“Yes.”
“My dear lieutenant of police, I will blow your brains out.”
And Balsamo drew from his pocket a charming little pistol, mounted in silver gilt — which, from its appearance, might have been chased by Benvenuto Cellini — and calmly leveled it at the forehead of M. de Sartines, who turned pale and sunk into an armchair.
“There,” said Balsamo, drawing another chair close to that occupied by the lieutenant of police, and sitting down; “now that we are comfortably seated, we can chat a little.”