Love.
FOR Balsamo another life had commenced, a life hitherto unknown in his active, troubled, multiplied existence. For three days there had been for him no more anger, no more apprehension, no more jealousy; for three days he had not heard the subject of politics, conspirators, or conspiracies, as much as whispered. By Lorenza’s side, and he had not left her for an instant, he had forgotten the whole world. This strange inexplicable love, which, as it were, soared above humanity, this intoxicating and mysterious attachment, this love of a shadow, for he could not conceal from himself that with a word he could change his gentle bride into an implacable enemy — this love snatched from hatred, thanks to an inexplicable caprice of nature or of science, plunged Balsamo into happiness which bordered on madness.
More than once, during these three days, rousing himself from the opiate torpor of love, Balsamo looked at his ever smiling, ever ecstatic companion — for from thenceforth, in the existence he had created for her, she reposed from her factitious life in a sort of ecstasy equally factitious — and when he saw her calm, gentle, happy, when she called him by the most affectionate names, and dreamed aloud her mysterious love, he more than once asked himself if some ruthless demon had not inspired Lorenza with the idea of deceiving him with a falsehood in order to lull his vigilance, and when it was lulled, to escape and only appear again as the Avenging Eumenides.
In such moments Balsamo doubted of the truth of a science received by tradition from antiquity, but of which he had no evidence but examples. But soon the ever-springing fountain of her affection reassured him.
“If Lorenza was feigning,” argued he with himself, “if she intended to fly from me, she would seek opportunities for sending me away, she would invent excuses for occasional solitude; but, far from that, her gentle voice ever whispers, ‘Stay!’”
Then Balsamo’s confidence in himself and in science returned. Why, indeed, should the magic secret to which alone he owned his power have become all at once, and without any transition, a chimera, fit only to throw to the winds as a vanished recollection, as the smoke of an extinguished fire? Never with relation to him had Lorenza been more lucid, more clear-sighted. All the thoughts which sprang up in his mind, all the feelings which made his heart bound, were instantly reproduced in hers. It remained to be seen if this lucidity were not sympathy; if, beyond himself and the young girl, beyond the circle which their love had traced, and which their love illuminated with its light — the eyes of her soul, so clear-sighted before this new era of continued sleep, could yet pierce the surrounding darkness.
Balsamo dared not make the decisive trial; he hoped still, and this hope was the resplendent crown of his happiness.
Sometimes Lorenza said to him, with gentle melancholy:
“Acharat, you think of another than me, of a northern woman, with fair hair and blue eyes. Acharat! Acharat! this woman always moves beside me in your thoughts.”
Balsamo looked tenderly at Lorenza.
“You see that in me?” said he.
“Oh! yes; as clearly as I read the surface of a mirror.”
“Then you know it is not love which makes me think of that woman,” replied Balsamo. “Read in my heart, dearest Lorenza!”
“No,” replied she, bending her head; “no, I know it well. But yet your thoughts are divided between us two, as in the days when Lorenza Feliciani tormented you — the naughty Lorenza, who sleeps, and whom you will not again awake.”
“No, my love, no,” exclaimed Balsamo; “I think only of thee, at least with the heart. Have I not forgotten all, neglected even-thing — study, politics, work — since our happiness?”
“And you are wrong,” said Lorenza, “for I could help you in your work.”
“How?”
“Yes; did you not once spend whole hours in your laboratory?”
“Certainly. But I renounce all these vain endeavors. They would be so many hours taken from my life — for during that time I should not see you.”
“And why should I not follow you in your labors as in your love? Why should I not make you powerful as I make you happy?”
“Because my Lorenza, it is true, is beautiful, but she has not studied. God gives beauty and love, but study alone gives science.”
“The soul knows everything.”
“Then you can really see with the eyes of your soul?”
“Yes.”
“And you can guide me in the grand search after the philosopher’s stone?”
“I think so.”
“Come, then.”
And Balsamo, encircling her waist with his arm, led her into his laboratory. The gigantic furnace, which no one had replenished for four days, was extinguished, and the crucibles had grown cold upon their chafing-dishes.
Lorenza looked around on all these strange instruments — the last combinations of expiring alchemy — without surprise. She seemed to know the purpose which each was intended to fulfill.
“You are attempting to make gold?” said she, smiling.
“Yes.”
“All these crucibles contain preparations in different stages of progress?”
“All stopped — all lost; but I do not regret it.”
“You are right, for your gold would never be anything but colored mercury; you can render it solid, perhaps, but you cannot transform it.”
“But gold can be made?”
“No.”
“And yet Daniel of Transylvania sold the receipt for the transmutation of metals to Cosmo, the First for twenty-thousand ducats.”
“Daniel of Transylvania deceived Cosmo the First.”
“And yet the Saxon Payken, who was condemned to death by Charles the Second, ransomed his life by changing a leaden ingot into a golden one, from which forty ducats were coined, besides taking as much from the ingot as made a medal, which was struck in honor of the clever alchemist.”
“The clever alchemist was nothing but a clever juggler. He merely substituted the golden ingot for the leaden one; nothing more. Your surest way of making gold, Acharat, is to melt into ingots, as you do already, the riches which your slaves bring you from the four quarters of the world.”
Balsamo remained pensive.
“Then the transmutation of metals is impossible?” said he.
“Impossible.”
“And the diamond — is it, too, impossible to create?”
“Oh! the diamond is another matter,” said Lorenza.
“The diamond can be made, then?”
“Yes; for, to make the diamond, you have not to transmute one body into another; to make the diamond is merely to attempt the simple modification of a known element.”
“Then you know the element of which the diamond is formed?”
“To be sure; the diamond is pure carbon crystalized.”
Balsamo was almost stunned; a dazzling, unexpected, unheard-of light flashed before his eyes; he covered them with both hands, as if the flame had blinded him.
“Oh, bountiful Creator!” said he, “you give me too much — some danger threatens me! What precious ring must I throw into the sea to appease the jealousy of my fate? Enough, Lorenza, for to-day!”
“Am I not yours? Order, command me!”
“Yes, you are mine. Come, come!”
And he drew her out of the laboratory, crossed the chamber of furs, and, without paying any attention to a light creaking noise he heard overhead, he once more entered the barred room with Lorenza.
“So you are pleased with your Lorenza, my beloved Balsamo?”
“Oh!” exclaimed he.
“What did you fear, then? Speak — tell me all.”
Balsamo clasped his hands, and looked at Lorenza with an expression of such terror that a spectator ignorant of what was passing in his heart would have been totally at a loss to account for it.
“Oh!” murmured he, “and I was near killing this angel — I was near expiring of despair before resolving the problem of being at once powerful and happy! I forgot that the limits of the possible always exceed the horizon traced Toy the present state of science, and that the majority of truths which have become facts have always in their infancy been looked upon as dreams! I thought I knew everything, and I knew nothing!”
The young Italian smiled divinely.
“Lorenza, Lorenza!” continued Balsamo, “the mysterious design of the Creator is, then, accomplished which makes woman to be born of the substance of the man, and which commands them to have only one heart in common! Eve is revived for me — an Eve who will not have a thought that is not mine, and whose life hangs by the thread which I hold. It is too much, my God, for a creature to possess! I sink under the weight of Thy gift!”
And he fell upon his knees, gazing with adoration upon the gentle beauty, who smiled on him as no earthly creature can smile.
“Oh, no!” he continued; “no, you shall never leave me more! I shall live in all safety under your look, which can pierce into the future. You will assist me in those laborious researches which you alone, as you have said, can complete, and which one word from you will render easy and successful. You will point me out, since I cannot make gold, gold being a homogeneous substance, a primitive element — you will point me out in what corner of the world the Creator has concealed it; you will tell me where the rich treasures lie which have been swallowed up in the vast depths of the ocean. With your eyes I shall see the pearl grow in the veined shell, and man’s thoughts spring up under their gross earthly covering. With your ears I shall hear the dull sound of the worm beneath the ground, and the footsteps of mine enemy as he approaches!”
And Lorenza still smiled upon him, and as she smiled she replied to his words by affectionate caresses.
“And yet,” whispered she, as if she could see each thought which whirled through his restless brain, “and yet you doubt still, Acharat, as you have said, if I can cross the circle of our love — you doubt if I can see into the distance; but you console yourself by thinking that if I cannot see, she can.”
“She! Who?”
“The fair-haired beauty. Shall I tell you her name?”
“Yes.”
“Stay — Andree!”
“Ah, yes; you can read my thoughts! Yet a last expiring fear still troubles me. Can you still see through space, though material obstacles intervene?”
“Try me.”
“Give me your hand, Lorenza.”
The young girl passionately seized Balsamo’s hand.
“Can you follow me?”
“Anywhere!”
“Come!”
And Balsamo, leaving in thought the Rue Saint Claude, drew Lorenza’s thoughts along with him.
“Where are we?” asked he.
“We are upon a hill,” replied the young Italian.
“Yes, you are right,” said Balsamo, trembling; with delight. “But what do you see?”
“Before me, to the right, or to the left?”
“Before you.”
“I see a long alley, with a wood on one side, a town on the other, and a river which separates them and loses itself in the horizon, after flowing under the walls of a large chateau.”
“That is right, Lorenza. The forest is that of Vesinet; the town St. Germain; the chateau is the Chateau de Maisons. Let us enter the pavilion behind us. What do you see there?”
“Ah! in the first place, in the antechamber, a little negro, fantastically dressed, and employed in eating sugarplums.”
“Yes, Zamore. Proceed, proceed.”
“An empty salon, splendidly furnished; the spaces above the doors painted with goddesses and cupids.”
“The salon is empty, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Let us go still further.”
“Ah! we are in a splendid boudoir, lined with blue satin embroidered with flowers of natural colors.”
“Is that empty also?”
“No; a lady is reclining upon a sofa.”
“What lady? Do you not remember to have seen her before?”
“Yes; it is the Countess Dubarry.”
“Right, Lorenza! I shall go frantic with delight! What does the lady do?”
“She is thinking of you, Balsamo.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can read her thoughts?”
“Yes, for I repeat she is thinking of you.”
“For what purpose?”
“You have made her a promise.”
“Yes.”
“You promised her that water of beauty which Venus, to revenge herself on Sappho, gave to Phaon.”
“Yes, yes, you are right again! And what does she do while thinking?”
“She comes to a decision.”
“What decision?”
“She reaches out her hand toward the bell; she rings; another young lady enters.”
“Dark or light-haired?”
“Dark.”
“Tall or short?”
“Little.”
“Her sister. Listen to what she says to her.”
“She orders the horses to be put to her carriage.”
“Where does she wish to go?”
“To come here.”
“Are you sure?”
“She is giving the order. Stay — she is obeyed. I see the horses and the carriage. In two hours she will be here.”
Balsamo fell upon his knees.
“Oh!” exclaimed he, “if in two hours she should really be here, I shall have nothing left to ask for on earth!”
“My poor Balsamo! then you still feared?”
“Yes, yes!”
“And why did you fear? Love, which completes the material existence, increases also our mental powers. Love, like even generous emotion, brings us nearer to God, and all wisdom comes from God.”
“Lorenza, Lorenza, you will drive me mad with joy!”
Balsamo now only waited for another proof to be completely happy. This proof was the arrival of Madame Dubarry.
The two hours of suspense were short. All measure of time had completely ceased for Balsamo.
Suddenly the young girl started and took Balsamo’s hand.
“You are doubting yet,” said she, “or you wish to know where she is at this moment.”
“Yes,” said Balsamo, “you are right.”
“Well,” replied Lorenza, “she is thundering along the boulevards at the full speed of her horses; she approaches; she turns into the Rue Saint Claude; she stops before the door and knocks.”
The apartment in which they were was so retired and so quiet that the noise of the iron knocker could not penetrate its recesses; but Balsamo, raised upon one knee, was anxiously listening.
At this moment two knocks struck by Fritz made him bound to his feet, for the reader will remember that two knocks were the signal of an important visit.
“Oh!” said he, “then it is true!”
“Go and convince yourself, Balsamo; but return quickly.”
Balsamo advanced toward the fireplace.
“Let me accompany you,” said Lorenza, “as far as the door of the staircase.”
“Come!”
And they both passed together into the chamber of furs.
“You will not leave this room?”
“No; I will await you here. Oh, do not fear; you know the Lorenza who loves you is not the Lorenza whom you fear. Besides —
She stopped and smiled.
“What?” asked Balsamo.
“Can you not read in my soul as I read yours?”
“Alas! no.”
“Besides, you can command me to sleep until you return. Command me to remain immovable upon this sofa, and I shall sleep and be motionless.”
“Well, my Lorenza, it shall be so. Sleep, and await my return here!”
Lorenza, already struggling with sleep, fell back upon the sofa, murmuring:
“You will return soon, my Balsamo, will you not?”
Balsamo waved his hand; Lorenza was already asleep; but so beautiful, so pure, with her long flowing hair, the feverish glow upon her cheeks, her half-opened and swimming eyes, so little like a mortal, that Balsamo turned again, took her hand and kissed it, but dared not kiss her lips.
Two knocks were heard a second time. The lady was becoming impatient, or Fritz feared that his master had not heard him. Balsamo hastened to the door, but as he closed it behind him, he fancied he heard a second creaking noise like the former one. He opened the door again, looked round, and saw nothing but Lorenza sleeping, and her breast heaving beneath the magnetic sleep.
Balsamo closed the door and hastened toward the salon, without uneasiness, without fear, without foreboding — all heaven in his heart! But he was mistaken; it was not sleep alone which oppressed Lorenza’s bosom and made her breathe so heavily. It was a kind of dream which seemed to belong to the lethargy in which she was plunged — a lethargy which so nearly resembled death.
Lorenza dreamed, and in the hideous mirror of her gloomy dreams she fancied she saw, through the darkness which commenced to close around her, the oaken ceiling open, and something like a large circular platform descend slowly with a regular, slow, measured movement, accompanied by a disagreeable hissing noise. It seemed to her as if she breathed with difficulty, as if she were almost suffocated by the pressure of this moving circle.
It seemed to her as if upon this moving trap something moved — some misshapen being like Caliban in “The Tempest” — a monster with a human face — an old man whose eyes and arms alone were living, and who looked at her with his frightful eyes, and stretched his fleshless arms toward her.
And she — she, poor child! — she writhed in vain, without power to escape, without dreaming of the danger which threatened her. She felt nothing but the grasp of two living flesh-hooks seizing upon her white dress, lifting her from her sofa and placing her upon the trap, which reascended slowly toward the ceiling, with the grating noise of iron scraping against iron, and amid a hideous mocking laugh from the monster with the human face who was raising her aloft without shock and without pain.