"Holá! hé!" shouted the captain a second time, "come when you are called. Don't you see that these gentlemen need help?"
The carter, whose repulsive exterior and coarse face formed a singular contrast with the sweet and sylvan song we have just quoted, stopped his horse, got out, and bending over the two bodies said:
"These be terrible wounds, sure enough, but I have made worse in my time."
"Who are you, pray?" inquired Marguerite, experiencing, in spite of herself, a certain vague terror which she could not overcome.
"Madame," replied the man, bowing down to the ground, "I am Maître Caboche, headsman to the provostry of Paris, and I have come to hang up at the gibbet some companions for Monsieur the Admiral."
"Well! and I am the Queen of Navarre," replied Marguerite; "cast your corpses down there, spread in your cart the housings of our horses, and bring these two gentlemen softly behind us to the Louvre."
The tumbril in which Coconnas and La Mole were laid started back toward Paris, following in the shadow the guiding group. It stopped at the Louvre, and the driver was amply rewarded. The wounded men were carried to the Duc d'Alençon's quarters, and Maître Ambroise Paré was sent for.
When he arrived, neither of the two men had recovered consciousness.
La Mole was the least hurt of the two. The sword had struck him below the right armpit, but without touching any vital parts. Coconnas was run through the lungs, and the air that escaped from his wound made the flame of a candle waver.
Ambroise Paré would not answer for Coconnas.
Madame de Nevers was in despair. Relying on Coconnas's strength, courage, and skill, she had prevented Marguerite from interfering with the duel. She would have had Coconnas taken to the Hôtel de Guise and gladly bestowed on him a second time the care which she had already lavished on his comfort, but her husband was likely to arrive from Rome at any moment and find fault with the introduction of a strange man in the domestic establishment.
To hide the cause of the wounds, Marguerite had had the two young men brought to her brother's rooms, where one of them, to be sure, had already been installed, by saying that they were two gentlemen who had been thrown from their horses during the excursion, but the truth was divulged by the captain, who, having witnessed the duel, could not help expressing his admiration, and it was soon known at court that two newraffinés[6]had burst into sudden fame. Attended by the same surgeon, who divided his attentions between them, the two wounded men passed through the different phases of convalescence arising from the greater or less severity of their wounds. La Mole, who was less severely wounded of the two, was the first to recover consciousness. A terrible fever had taken possession of Coconnas and his return to life was attended by all the symptoms of the most horrible delirium.
Though La Mole was confined in the same room with Coconnas, he had not, when he came to himself, seen his companion, or if he saw him, he betrayed no sign that he saw him. Coconnas, on the contrary, as soon as he opened his eyes, fastened them on La Mole with an expression which proved that the blood he had lost had not modified the passions of his fiery temperament.
Coconnas thought he was dreaming, and that in this dream he saw the enemy he imagined he had twice slain, only the dream was unduly prolonged. After having observed La Mole laid, like himself, on a couch, and his wounds dressed by the surgeon, he saw him rise up in bed, while he himself was still confined to his by his fever, his weakness, and his pain; he saw him get out of bed, then walk, first leaning on the surgeon's arm, and then on a cane, and finally without assistance.
Coconnas, still delirious, viewed these different stages of his companion's recovery with eyes sometimes dull, at others wandering, but always threatening.
All this presented to the Piedmontese's fiery spirit a fearful mixture of the fantastic and the real. For him La Mole was dead, wholly dead, having been actually killed twice and not merely once, and yet he recognized this same La Mole's ghost lying in a bed like his own; then, as we have said, he saw this ghost get up, walk round, and, horrible to relate, come toward his bed. This ghost, whom Coconnas would have wished to avoid, even had it been in the depths of hell, came straight to him and stopped beside his pillow, standing there and looking at him; there was in his features a look of gentleness and compassion which Coconnas took for the expression of hellish derision.
There arose in his mind, possibly more wounded than his body, an insatiable thirst of vengeance. He was wholly occupied with one idea, that of procuring some weapon, and with that weapon piercing the body or the ghost of La Mole which so cruelly persecuted him. His clothes, stained with blood, had been placed on a chair by his bed, but afterwards removed, it being thought imprudent to leave them in his sight; but his poniard still remained on the chair, for it was imagined it would be some time before he would want to use it.
Coconnas saw the poniard; three nights while La Mole was slumbering he strove to reach it; three nights his strength failed him, and he fainted. At length, on the fourth night, he clutched it convulsively, and groaning with the pain of the effort, hid the weapon beneath his pillow.
The next day he saw something he had never deemed possible. La Mole's ghost, which every day seemed to gain strength, while he, occupied with the terrible dream, kept losing his in the eternal weaving of the scheme which was to rid him of it,—La Mole's ghost, growing more and more energetic, walked thoughtfully up and down the room three or four times, then, after having put on his mantle, buckled on his sword, and put on a broad-brimmed felt hat, opened the door and went out.
Coconnas breathed again. He thought that he was freed from his phantom. For two or three hours his blood circulated more calmly and coolly in his veins than it had done since the duel. La Mole's absence for one day would have restored Coconnas to his senses; a week's absence would perhaps have cured him; unfortunately, La Mole returned at the end of two hours.
This reappearance of La Mole was like a poniard-stab for Coconnas; and although La Mole did not return alone, Coconnas did not give a single look at his companion.
And yet his companion was worth looking at.
He was a man of forty, short, thick-set, and vigorous, with black hair which came to his eyebrows, and a black beard, which, contrary to the fashion of the period, thickly covered the chin; but he seemed one who cared little for the fashion.
He wore a leather jerkin, all covered with brown spots; red hose and leggings, thick shoes coming above the ankle, a cap the same color as his stockings, and a girdle, from which hung a large knife in a leather sheaf, completed his attire.
This singular personage, whose presence in the Louvre seemed so anomalous, threw his brown mantle on a chair and unceremoniously approached Coconnas, whose eyes, as if fascinated, remained fixed upon La Mole, who remained at some distance. He looked at the sick man, and shaking his head, said to La Mole:
"You have waited till it was rather late, my dear gentleman."
"I could not get out sooner," said La Mole.
"Eh! Heavens! you should have sent for me."
"Whom had I to send?"
"True, I forgot where we are. I had told those ladies, but they would not listen to me. If my prescriptions had been followed instead of those of that ass, Ambroise Paré, you would by this time have been in a condition to go in pursuit of adventures together, or exchange another sword-thrust if such had been your good pleasure; but we shall see. Does your friend listen to reason?"
"Scarcely."
"Hold out your tongue, my dear gentleman."
Coconnas thrust out his tongue to La Mole, making such a hideous grimace that the practitioner shook his head a second time.
"Oho!" he muttered, "contraction of the muscles. There's no time to be lost. This evening I will send you a potion ready prepared; you must make him take it three times: once at midnight, once at one o'clock, and once at two."
"Very well."
"But who will make him take it?"
"I will."
"You?"
"Yes."
"You give me your word?"
"On my honor."
"And if any physician should attempt to abstract the slightest portion to analyze it and discover what its ingredients are"—
"I will spill it to the last drop."
"This also on your honor?"
"I swear it!"
"Whom shall I send you this potion by?"
"Any one you please."
"But my messenger"—
"Well?"
"How will he get to you?"
"That is easily managed. He will say that he comes from Monsieur Réné, the perfumer."
"That Florentine who lives on the Pont Saint Michel?"
"Exactly. He is allowed to enter the Louvre at any hour, day or night."
The man smiled.
"In fact," said he, "the queen mother at least owes him that much. It is understood, then; he will come from Maître Réné, the perfumer. I may surely use his name for once: he has often enough practised my profession without having taken his degree either."
"Then," said La Mole, "I may rely on you."
"You may."
"And about the payment?"
"Oh, we will arrange about that with the gentleman himself when he is well again."
"You may be quite easy on that score, for I am sure he will pay you generously."
"I believe you. And yet," he added with a strange smile, "as the people with whom I have to do are not wont to be grateful, I should not be surprised if when he is on his legs again he should forget or at least not think to give a single thought to me."
"All right," said La Mole, smiling also, "in that case I should have to jog his memory."
"Very well, we'll leave it so. In two hours you will receive the medicine."
"Au revoir!"
"You said"—
"Au revoir."
The man smiled.
"It is always my custom," he added, "to say adieu! So adieu, Monsieur de la Mole. In two hours you will have the potion. You understand, it must be given at midnight—in three doses—at intervals of an hour."
So saying he took his departure, and La Mole was left alone with Coconnas.
Coconnas had heard the whole conversation, but understood nothing of it; a senseless babble of words, a senseless jangling of phrases, was all that came to him. Of the whole interview he remembered nothing except the word "midnight."
He continued to watch La Mole, who remained in the room, pacing thoughtfully up and down.
The unknown doctor kept his word, and at the appointed time sent the medicine, which La Mole placed on a small silver chafing-dish, and having taken this precaution, went to bed.
This action on the part of La Mole gave Coconnas a little quietude. He tried to shut his eyes, but his feverish slumbers were only a continuation of his waking delirium. The same phantom which haunted him by day came to disturb him by night; across his hot eyelids he still saw La Mole as threatening as ever, and a voice kept repeating in his ear: "Midnight, midnight, midnight!"
Suddenly the echoing note of a clock's bell awoke in the night and struck twelve. Coconnas opened his blood-shot eyes; the fiery breath from his breast scorched his dry lips, an unquenchable thirst devoured his burning throat; the little night lamp was burning as usual, and its dim light made thousands of phantoms dance before his wandering eyes.
And then a horrible vision—he saw La Mole get out of bed, and after walking up and down the room two or three times, as the sparrow-hawk flits before the little bird it is trying to fascinate, come toward him with his fist clinched.
Coconnas seized his poniard and prepared to plunge it into his enemy.
La Mole kept coming nearer.
Coconnas muttered:
"Ah! here you are again! you are always here! Come on! You threaten me, do you! you smile! Come, come, come! ah, you still keep coming nearer, a step at a time! Come, come, and let me kill you."
And suiting the action to the word, just as La Mole bent down to him, Coconnas flashed out the poniard from under the clothes; but the effort he made in rising exhausted him, the weapon dropped from his hand, and he fell back upon his pillow.
"There, there!" said La Mole, gently lifting his head; "drink this, my poor fellow, for you are burning up."
It was really a cup La Mole presented to Coconnas, who in the wild excitement of his delirium took it to be a threatening fist.
But at the nectarous sensation of this beneficent draught, soothing his lips and cooling his throat, Coconnas's reason, or rather his instinct, came back to him, a never before experienced feeling of comfort pervaded his frame; he turned an intelligent look at La Mole, who was supporting him in his arms, and smiling on him; and from those eyes, so lately glowing with fury, a tear rolled down his burning cheek, which drank it with avidity.
"Mordi!" whispered Coconnas, as he fell back on his bolster. "If I get over this, Monsieur de la Mole, you shall be my friend."
"And you will get over it," said La Mole, "if you will drink the other two cups, and have no more ugly dreams."
An hour afterward La Mole, assuming the duties of a nurse, and scrupulously carrying out the unknown doctor's orders, rose again, poured a second dose into the cup, and carried it to Coconnas, who instead of waiting for him with his poniard, received him with open arms, eagerly swallowed the potion, and calmly fell asleep.
The third cup had a no less marvellous effect. The sick man's breathing became more regular, his stiff limbs relaxed, a gentle perspiration diffused itself over his burning skin, and when Ambroise Paré visited him the next morning, he smiled complacently, saying:
"I answer for Monsieur de Coconnas now; and this will not be one of the least difficult cures I have effected."
This scene, half-dramatic, half-burlesque, and yet not lacking in a certain poetic touch when Coconnas's fierce ways were taken into consideration, resulted in the friendship which the two gentlemen had begun at the Inn of theBelle Étoile, and which had been so violently interrupted by the Saint Bartholomew night's occurrences, from that time forth taking on a new vigor and soon surpassing that of Orestes and Pylades by five sword-thrusts and one pistol-wound exchanged between them.
At all events, wounds old and new, slight or serious, were at last in a fair way of cure. La Mole, faithful to his duties as nurse, would not forsake the sick-room until Coconnas was entirely well. As long as weakness kept the invalid on the bed, he lifted him, and when he began to improve he helped him to walk; in a word, he lavished on him all the attentions suggested by his gentle and affectionate disposition, and this care, together with the Piedmontese's natural vigor, brought about a more rapid convalescence than would have been expected.
However, one and the same thought tormented both the young men. Each had in his delirium apparently seen the woman he loved approach his couch, and yet, certainly since they had recovered their senses, neither Marguerite nor Madame de Nevers had entered the room. However, that was perfectly comprehensible; the one, wife of the King of Navarre, the other, the Duc de Guise's sister-in-law, could not have publicly shown two simple gentlemen such a mark of evident interest, could they? No! La Mole and Coconnas could not make any other reply to this question. But still the absence of the ladies, tantamount perhaps to utter forgetfulness, was not the less painful.
It is true the gentleman who had witnessed the duel had come several times, as if of his own accord, to inquire after them; it is true Gillonne had done the same; but La Mole had not ventured to speak to the one concerning the queen; Coconnas had not ventured to speak to the other of Madame de Nevers.
For some time each of the young men kept his secret confined to his own heart. At last their reserve burst its barriers, and the thought which had so long occupied them escaped their lips, and both cemented their friendship by this final proof, without which there is no friendship,—namely, perfect confidence.
They were both madly in love—one with a princess and the other with a queen.
For these two poor suitors there was something frightful in the almost insuperable distance separating them from the objects of their desires.
And yet hope is a sentiment so deeply rooted in man's heart that in spite of the madness of their love they hoped!
They both, as they recovered from their illness, took great pains with their personal appearance. Every man, even the most indifferent to physical appearance, has, at certain times, mute interviews with his looking-glass, signs of intelligence, after which he generally leaves his confidant, quite satisfied with the interview. Now our two young men were not persons whose mirrors were compelled to give them harsh advice. La Mole, delicate, pale, and elegant, had the beauty of distinction; Coconnas, powerful, large-framed, and fresh-colored, had the beauty of strength. He had more, for his recent illness had been of advantage to him. He had become thinner, grown paler, and the famous scar which had formerly caused him so much anxiety from its prismatic relationship to the rainbow had disappeared, giving promise, probably like the post-diluvian phenomenon, of a long series of lovely days and calm nights.
Moreover, the most delicate attentions continued to be lavished on the two wounded men, and each of them on the day when he was well enough to rise found arobe-de-chambreon the easy-chair nearest his bed; on the day when he was able to dress himself, a complete suit of clothes; moreover, in the pocket of each doublet was a well-filled purse, which they each kept, intending, of course, to return, in the proper time and place, to the unknown protector who watched over them.
This unknown protector could not be the prince in whose quarters the two young men resided, for the prince had not only never once paid them a visit, but he had not even sent to make any inquiry after them.
A vague hope whispered to each heart that this unknown protector was the woman he loved.
So the two wounded men awaited with intense impatience the moment when they could go out. La Mole, stronger and sooner cured than Coconnas, might have done so long before, but a kind of tacit convention bound him to his friend. It was agreed between them that the first time they went out they should make three calls:
The first should be upon the unknown doctor whose suave medicine had brought such a remarkable improvement in the inflammation of Coconnas's lungs.
The second to the dwelling of the defunct Maître La Hurière, where each of them had left his portmanteau and horse.
The third to the Florentine Réné, who, uniting to his title of perfumer that of magician, not only sold cosmetics and poisons, but also concocted philters and delivered oracles.
At length, after two months passed in convalescence and confinement, the long-looked-for day arrived.
We used the word "confinement;" the use of it is accurate because several times in their impatience they had tried to hasten that day; but each time a sentinel posted at the door had stopped their passage and they had learned that they could not step out unless Maître Ambroise Paré gave them theirexeat.
Now, one day that clever surgeon, having come to the conclusion that the two invalids were, if not completely cured, at least on the road to complete recovery, gave them thisexeat, and about two o'clock in the afternoon on a fine day in autumn, such as Paris sometimes offers to her astonished population, who have already laid up a store of resignation for the winter, the two friends, arm in arm, set foot outside the Louvre.
La Mole, finding to his great satisfaction, on an armchair, the famous cherry-colored mantle which he had folded so carefully before the duel, undertook to be Coconnas's guide, and Coconnas allowed himself to be guided without resistance or reflection. He knew that his friend was taking him to the unknown doctor's whose potion (not patented) had cured him in a single night, when all of Master Ambroise Paré's drugs were slowly killing him. He had divided the money in his purse into two parts, and intended a hundred rose-nobles for the anonymous Esculapius to whom his recovery was due. Coconnas was not afraid of death, but Coconnas was not the less satisfied to be alive and well, and so, as we see, he was intending to recompense his deliverer generously.
La Mole proceeded along the Rue de l'Astruce, the wide Rue Saint Honoré, the Rue des Prouvelles, and soon found himself on the Place des Halles. Near the ancient fountain, at the place which is at the present time called the Carreau des Halles, was an octagon stone building, surmounted by a vast wooden lantern, which was again surmounted by a pointed roof, on the top of which was a weathercock. This wooden lantern had eight openings, traversed, as that heraldic piece which they call thefascistraverses the field of blazonry, by a kind of wooden wheel, which was divided in the middle, in order to admit in the holes cut in it for that purpose the head and hands of such sentenced person or persons as were exposed at one or more of these eight openings.
This singular arrangement, which had nothing like it in the surrounding buildings, was called the pillory.
An ill-constructed, irregular, crooked, one-eyed, limping house, the roof spotted with moss like a leper's skin, had, like a toadstool, sprung up at the foot of this species of tower.
This house was the executioner's.
A man was exposed, and was thrusting out his tongue at the passers-by; he was one of the robbers who had been following his profession near the gibbet of Montfaucon, and had by ill luck been arrested in the exercise of his functions.
Coconnas believed that his friend had brought him to see this singular spectacle, and he joined the crowd of sightseers who were replying to the patient's grimaces by vociferations and gibes.
Coconnas was naturally cruel, and the sight very much amused him, only he would have preferred that instead of gibes and vociferations they had thrown stones at a convict so insolent as to thrust out his tongue at the noble lords that condescended to visit him.
So when the moving lantern was turned on its base, in order to show the culprit to another portion of the square, and the crowd followed, Coconnas would have accompanied them, had not La Mole checked him, saying, in a low tone:
"We did not come here for this."
"Well, what did we come for, then?" asked Coconnas.
"You will see," replied La Mole.
The two friends had got into the habit of addressing each other with the familiar "thee" and "thou" ever since the morning of that famous night when Coconnas had tried to thrust his poniard into La Mole's vitals. And he led Coconnas directly to a small window in the house which abutted on the tower; a man was leaning on the window-sill.
"Aha! here you are, gentlemen," said the man, raising his blood-red cap, and showing his thick black hair, which came down to his eyebrows. "You are welcome."
"Who is this man?" inquired Coconnas, endeavoring to recollect, for it seemed to him he had seen that face during one of the crises of his fever.
"Your preserver, my dear friend," replied La Mole; "he who brought to you at the Louvre that refreshing drink which did you so much good."
"Oho!" said Coconnas; "in that case, my friend"—
And he held out his hand to him.
But the man, instead of returning the gesture, drew himself up and withdrew from the two friends just the distance occupied by the curve of his body.
"Sir!" he said to Coconnas, "thanks for the honor you wish to confer on me, but it is probable that if you knew me you would not do so."
"Faith!" said Coconnas, "I declare that, even if you were the devil himself, I am very greatly obliged to you, for if it had not been for you I should be dead at this time."
"I am not exactly the devil," replied the man in the red cap; "but yet persons are frequently found who would rather see the devil than me."
"Who are you, pray?" asked Coconnas.
"Sir," replied the man, "I am Maître Caboche, the executioner of the provostry of Paris"—
"Ah"—said Coconnas, withdrawing his hand.
"You see!" said Maître Caboche.
"No, no; I will touch your hand, or may the devil fetch me! Hold it out"—
"Really?"
"Wide as you can."
"Here it is."
"Open it—wider—wider!"
And Coconnas took from his pocket the handful of gold he had prepared for his anonymous physician and placed it in the executioner's hand.
"I would rather have had your hand entirely and solely," said Maître Caboche, shaking his head, "for I do not lack money, but I am in need of hands to touch mine. Never mind. God bless you, my dear gentleman."
"So then, my friend," said Coconnas, looking at the executioner with curiosity, "it is you who put men to the rack, who break them on the wheel, quarter them, cut off heads, and break bones. Aha! I am very glad to have made your acquaintance."
"Sir," said Maître Caboche, "I do not do all myself; just as you noble gentlemen have your lackeys to do what you do not choose to do yourself, so have I my assistants, who do the coarser work and despatch clownish fellows. Only when, by chance, I have to do with folks of quality, like you and your companion, for instance, ah! then it is another thing, and I take a pride in doing everything myself, from first to last,—that is to say, from the first putting of thequestion, to the decapitation."
In spite of himself, Coconnas felt a shudder pervade his veins, as if the brutal wedge was pressing his leg—as if the edge of the axe was against his neck.
La Mole, without being able to account for it, felt the same sensation.
But Coconnas overcame the emotion, of which he was ashamed, and desirous of taking leave of Maître Caboche with a jest on his lips, said to him:
"Well, master, I hold you to your word, and when it is my turn to mount Enguerrand de Marigny's gallows or Monsieur de Nemours's scaffold you alone shall lay hands on me."
"I promise you."
"Then, this time here is my hand, as a pledge that I accept your promise," said Coconnas.
And he offered the executioner his hand, which the latter touched timidly with his own, although it was evident that he had a great desire to grasp it warmly.
At this light touch Coconnas turned rather pale; but the same smile lingered on his lips, while La Mole, ill at ease, and seeing the crowd turn as the lantern did and come toward them, touched his cloak.
Coconnas, who in reality had as great a desire as La Mole to put an end to this scene, which by the natural bent of his character he had delayed longer than he would have wished, nodded to the executioner and went his way.
"Faith!" said La Mole, when he and his companion had reached the Croix du Trahoir, "I must confess we breathe more freely here than in the Place des Halles."
"Decidedly," replied Coconnas; "but I am none the less glad at having made Maître Caboche's acquaintance. It is well to have friends everywhere."
"Even at the sign of theBelle Étoile," said La Mole, laughing.
"Oh! as for poor Maître La Hurière," said Coconnas, "he is dead and dead again. I saw the arquebuse spitting flame, I heard the thump of the bullet, which sounded as if it had struck against the great bell of Notre-Dame, and I left him stretched out in the gutter with streams of blood flowing from his nose and mouth. Taking it for granted that he is a friend, he is a friend we shall have in the next world."
Thus chatting, the two young men entered the Rue de l'Arbre Sec and proceeded toward the sign of theBelle Étoile, which was still creaking in the same place, still presenting to the traveller its astronomic hearth and its appetizing inscription. Coconnas and La Mole expected to find the house in a desperate state, the widow in mourning, and the little ones wearing crêpe on their arms; but to their great astonishment they found the house in full swing of activity, Madame La Hurière mightily resplendent, and the children gayer than ever.
"Oh, the faithless creature!" cried La Mole; "she must have married again."
Then addressing the new Artémise:
"Madame," said he, "we are two gentlemen, acquaintances of poor Monsieur La Hurière. We left here two horses and two portmanteaus which we have come to claim."
"Gentlemen," replied the mistress of the house, after she had tried to bring them to her recollection, "as I have not the honor of knowing you, with your permission I will go and call my husband. Grégoire, ask your master to come."
Grégoire stepped from the first kitchen, which was the general pandemonium, into the second, which was the laboratory where Maître La Hurière in his life-time had been in the habit of concocting the dishes which he felt deserved to be prepared by his clever hands.
"The devil take me," muttered Coconnas, "if it does not make me feel badly to see this house so gay when it ought to be so melancholy. Poor La Hurière!"
"He tried to kill me," said La Mole, "but I pardon him with all my heart."
La Mole had hardly uttered these words when a man appeared holding in his hand a stew-pan, in the bottom of which he was browning some onions, stirring them with a wooden spoon.
La Mole and Coconnas gave vent to a cry of amazement.
As they did so the man lifted his head and, replying by a similar cry, dropped his stew-pan, retaining in his hand only his wooden spoon.
In nomine Patris," said the man, waving his spoon as he would have done with a holy-water sprinkler, "et Filii, et Spiritus sancti"—
"Maître La Hurière!" exclaimed the two young men.
"Messieurs de Coconnas and de la Mole!" cried La Hurière.
"So you are not dead?" asked Coconnas.
"Why! can it be that you are alive?" asked the landlord.
"Nevertheless, I saw you fall," said Coconnas, "I heard the crash of the bullet, which broke something in you, I don't know what. I left you lying in the gutter, with blood streaming out of your nose, out of your mouth, and even out of your eyes."
"All that is as true as the gospel, Monsieur de Coconnas. But the noise you heard was the bullet striking against my sallat, on which fortunately it flattened itself; but the blow was none the less severe, and the proof of it," added La Hurière, lifting his cap and displaying a pate as bald as a man's knee, "is that as you see I have not a spear of hair left."
The two young men burst out laughing when they saw his grotesque appearance.
"Aha! you laugh, do you?" said La Hurière, somewhat reassured, "you do not come, then, with any evil intentions."
"Now tell us, Maître La Hurière, are you entirely cured of your bellicose inclinations?"
"Faith, that I am, gentlemen; and now"—
"Well, and now"—
"Now I have vowed not to meddle with any other fire than that in my kitchen."
"Bravo!" cried Coconnas, "see how prudent he is! Now," added the Piedmontese, "we left in your stables two horses, and in your rooms two portmanteaus."
"Oh, the devil!" replied the landlord, scratching his ear.
"Well?"
"Two horses, you say?"
"Yes, in your stable."
"And two portmanteaus?"
"Yes, in the rooms we had."
"The truth is, don't you see—you thought I was dead, didn't you?"
"Certainly we did."
"You will agree that as you were mistaken, I also might be."
"What? In believing that we also were dead? You were perfectly free."
"Now that's it. You see, as you died intestate," continued Maître La Hurière.
"Go on"—
"I believed something, I was mistaken, I see it now"—
"Tell us, what was it you believed?"
"I believed that I might consider myself your heir."
"Oho!" exclaimed the two young men.
"Nevertheless, I could not be more grateful to find that you are alive, gentlemen."
"So you sold our horses, did you?" asked Coconnas.
"Alas!" cried La Hurière.
"And our portmanteaus?" insisted La Mole.
"Oh! your portmanteaus? Oh, no," cried La Hurière, "only what was in them."
"Now look here, La Mole," persisted Coconnas, "it seems to me that this is a bold rascal; suppose we disembowel him!"
This threat seemed to have great effect on Maître La Hurière, who stammered out these words:
"Well, gentlemen, I rather think the affair can be arranged."
"Listen!" said La Mole, "I am the one who has the greatest cause of complaint against you."
"Certainly, Monsieur le Comte, for I recollect that in a moment of madness I had the audacity to threaten you."
"Yes, with a bullet which flew only a couple of inches above my head."
"Do you think so?"
"I am certain of it."
"If you are certain of it, Monsieur de la Mole," said La Hurière, picking up his stew-pan with an innocent air, "I am too thoroughly at your service to give you the lie."
"Well," said La Mole, "as far as I am concerned I make no demand upon you."
"What, my dear gentleman"—
"Except"—
"Aïe! aïe!" groaned La Hurière.
"Except a dinner for myself and my friends every time I find myself in your neighborhood."
"How is this?" exclaimed La Hurière in an ecstasy. "I am at your service, my dear gentleman; I am at your service."
"So it is a bargain, is it?"
"With all my heart—and you, Monsieur de Coconnas," continued the landlord, "do you agree to the bargain?"
"Yes; but, like my friend, I must add one small condition."
"What is that?"
"That you restore to Monsieur de la Mole the fifty crowns which I owe him, and which I put into your keeping."
"To me, sir? When was that?"
"A quarter of an hour before you sold my horse and my portmanteau."
La Hurière showed that he understood.
"Ah! I remember," said he; and he stepped toward a cupboard and took out from it, one after the other, fifty crowns, which he brought to La Mole.
"Very well, sir," said that gentleman; "very well. Serve me an omelet. The fifty crowns are for Grégoire."
"Oh!" cried La Hurière; "in truth, my dear gentlemen, you are genuine princes, and you may count on me for life and for death."
"If that is so," said Coconnas, "make us the omelet we want, and spare neither butter nor lard."
Then looking at the clock,
"Faith, you are right, La Mole," said he, "we still have three hours to wait, and we may as well be here as anywhere else. All the more because, if I am not mistaken, we are already half way to the Pont Saint Michel."
And the two young men went and sat down at table in the very same room and at the very same place which they had occupied during that memorable evening of the twenty-sixth of August, 1572, when Coconnas had proposed to La Mole to play each against the other the first mistress which they should have!
Let us grant for the honor of the morality of our two young men that neither of them this evening had the least idea of making such a proposition to his companion.
At the period of this history there existed in Paris, for passing from one part of the city to another, but five bridges, some of stone and the others of wood, and they all led to the Cité; there were le Pont des Meuniers, le Pont au Change, le Pont Notre-Dame, le Petit Pont, and le Pont Saint Michel.
In other places when there was need of crossing the river there were ferries.
These five bridges were loaded with houses like the Pont Vecchio at Florence at the present time. Of these five bridges, each of which has its history, we shall now speak more particularly of the Pont Saint Michel.
The Pont Saint Michel had been built of stone in 1373; in spite of its apparent solidity, a freshet in the Seine undermined a part of it on the thirty-first of January, 1408; in 1416 it had been rebuilt of wood; but during the night of December 16, 1547, it was again carried away; about 1550, in other words twenty-two years anterior to the epoch which we have reached, it was again built of wood, and though it needed repairs it was regarded as solid enough.
In the midst of the houses which bordered the line of the bridge, facing the small islet on which the Templers had been burnt, and where at the present time the platform of the Pont Neuf rests, stood a wooden panelled house over which a large roof impended like the lid of an immense eye. At the only window, which opened on the first story, over the window and door of the ground floor, hermetically sealed, shone a reddish light, which attracted the attention of the passers-by to the low, wide façade, painted blue, with rich gold mouldings. A kind of frieze separating the ground floor from the first floor represented groups of devils in the most grotesque postures imaginable; and a wide scroll painted blue like the façade ran between the frieze and the window, with this inscription: "Réné, Florentin, Perfumer de sa Majesté la Reine Mère."
The door of this shop was, as we have said, well bolted; but it was defended from nocturnal attacks better than by bolts by its occupant's reputation, so redoubtable that the passengers over the bridge usually described a curve which took them to the opposite row of houses, as if they feared the very smell of the perfumes that might exhale through the walls.
More than this, the right and left hand neighbors, doubtless fearing that they might be compromised by the proximity, had, since Maître Réné's occupancy of the house, taken their departure one after the other so that the two houses next to Réné's were left empty and closed. Yet, in spite of this solitude and desertedness, belated passers-by had frequently seen, glittering through the crevices of the shutters of these empty habitations, strange rays of light, and had felt certain they heard strange noises like groans, which proved that some beings frequented these abodes, although they did not know if they belonged to this world or the other.
The result was that the tenants of the two buildings contiguous to the two empty houses from time to time queried whether it would not be wise in them to do as their neighbors had done.
It was, doubtless, owing to the privilege which the dread of him, widely circulated, had procured for him, that Maître Réné had ventured to keep up a light after the prescribed hour. No round or guard, moreover, would have dared to molest him, a man doubly dear to her majesty as her fellow-countryman and perfumer.
As we suppose that the reader, panoplied by the philosophical wisdom of this century, no longer believes in magic or magicians, we will invite him to accompany us into this dwelling which, at that epoch of superstitious faith, shed around it such a profound terror.
The shop on the ground floor is dark and deserted after eight o'clock in the evening—the hour at which it closes, not to open again until next morning; there it is that the daily sale of perfumery, unguents, and cosmetics of all kinds, such as a skilful chemist makes, takes place. Two apprentices aid him in the retail business, but do not sleep in the house; they lodge in the Rue de la Colandre.
In the evening they take their departure an instant before the shop closes; in the morning they wait at the door until it opens.
This ground-floor shop is therefore dark and deserted, as we have said.
In this shop, which is large and deep, there are two doors, each leading to a staircase. One of these staircases is in the wall itself and is lateral, and the other is exterior and visible from the quay now called the Quai des Augustins, and from the riverbank, now called the Quai des Orfévres.
Both lead to the principal room on the first floor. This room is of the same size as the ground floor, except that it is divided into two compartments by tapestry suspended in the centre and parallel to the bridge. At the end of the first compartment opens the door leading to the exterior staircase. On the side face of the second opens the door of the secret staircase. This door is invisible, being concealed by a large carved cupboard fastened to it by iron cramps, and moving with it when pushed open. Catharine alone, besides Réné, knows the secret of this door, and by it she comes and departs; and with eye or ear placed against the cupboard, in which are several small holes, she sees and hears all that occurs in the chamber.
Two other doors, visible to all eyes, present themselves at the sides of the second compartment. One opens into a small chamber lighted from the roof, and having nothing in it but a large stove, some alembecs, retorts, and crucibles: it is the alchemist's laboratory; the other opens into a cell more singular than the rest of the apartment, for it is not lighted at all—has neither carpet nor furniture, but only a kind of stone altar.
The floor slopes from the centre to the ends, and from the ends to the base of the wall is a kind of gutter ending in a funnel, through whose orifice may be seen the dark waters of the Seine. On nails driven into the walls are hung singular-shaped instruments, all keen or pointed with points as fine as a needle and edges as sharp as a razor; some shine like mirrors; others, on the contrary, are of a dull gray or murky blue.
In a corner are two black fowls struggling with each other and tied together by the claws. This is the soothsayer's sanctuary.
Let us return to the middle chamber, that with two compartments.
Here the common herd of clients are introduced; here ibises from Egypt; mummies, with gilded bands; the crocodile, yawning from the ceiling; death's-heads, with eyeless sockets and loose teeth; and old musty volumes, torn and rat-eaten, are presented to the visitor's eye in pellmell confusion. Behind the curtain are phials, singularly shaped boxes, and weird-looking vases; all this is lighted up by two small silver lamps exactly alike, perhaps stolen from some altar of Santa Maria Novella or the Church Dei Lervi of Florence; these, supplied with perfumed oil, cast their yellow flames around the sombre vault from which each hangs by three blackened chains.
Réné, alone, his arms crossed, is pacing up and down the second compartment with long strides, and shaking his head. After a lengthened and painful musing he pauses before an hour-glass:
"Ah! ah!" says he, "I forget to turn it; and perhaps the sand has all run through a long time ago."
Then, looking at the moon as it struggled through a heavy black cloud which seemed to hang over Notre-Dame, he said: "It is nine o'clock. If she comes, she will come, as usual, in an hour or an hour and a half; then there will be time for all."
At this moment a noise was heard on the bridge. Réné applied his ear to the orifice of a long tube, the other end of which reached down the street, terminating in a heraldic viper-head.
"No," he said, "it is neithershenorthey; it is men's footsteps, and they stop at my door—they are coming here."
And three sharp knocks were heard at the door.
Réné hurried downstairs and put his ear against the door, without opening it.
The three sharp blows were repeated.
"Who's there?" asked Maître Réné.
"Must we mention our names?" inquired a voice.
"It is indispensable," replied Réné.
"Well, then, I am the Comte Annibal de Coconnas," said the same voice.
"And I am the Comte Lerac de la Mole," said another voice, which had not as yet been heard.
"Wait, wait, gentlemen, I am at your service."
And at the same moment Réné drew the bolts and, lifting the bars, opened the door to the two young men locking it after him. Then, conducting them by the exterior staircase, he introduced them into the second compartment.
La Mole, as he entered, made the sign of the cross under his cloak. He was pale, and his hand trembled without his being able to repress this symptom of weakness.
Coconnas looked at everything, one after the other; and seeing the door of the cell, was about to open it.
"Allow me to observe, my dear young gentleman," said Réné, in his deep voice, and placing his hand on Coconnas's, "those that do me the honor of a visit have access only to this part of the room."
"Oh, very well," replied Coconnas; "besides, I feel like sitting down." And he took a seat.
There was unbroken silence for a moment—Maître Réné was waiting for one or the other of the young men to open the conversation.
"Maître Réné," at length said Coconnas, "you are a skilful man, and I pray you tell me if I shall always remain a sufferer from my wound—that is, always experience this shortness of breath, which prevents me from riding on horseback, using my sword, and eating larded omelettes?"
Réné put his ear to Coconnas's chest and listened attentively to the play of the lungs.
"No, Monsieur le Comte," he replied, "you will get well."
"Really?"
"Yes, I assure you."
"Well, you fill me with delight."
There was silence once more.
"Is there nothing else you would desire to know, M. le Comte?"
"I wish to know," said Coconnas, "if I am really in love?"
"You are," replied Réné.
"How do you know?"
"Because you asked the question."
"By Heaven! you are right. But with whom?"
"With her who now, on every occasion, uses the oath you have just uttered."
"Ah!" said Coconnas, amazed; "Maître Réné, you are a clever man! Now, La Mole, it is your turn."
La Mole reddened, and seemed embarrassed.
"I, Monsieur Réné," he stammered, and speaking more firmly as he proceeded, "do not care to ask you if I am in love, for I know that I am, and I do not hide it from myself; but tell me, shall I be beloved in return? for, in truth, all that at first seemed propitious now turns against me."
"Perchance you have not done all you should do."
"What is there to do, sir, but to testify, by one's respect and devotion to the lady of one's thoughts, that she is really and profoundly beloved?"
"You know," replied Réné, "that these demonstrations are frequently very meaningless."
"Then must I despair?"
"By no means; we must have recourse to science. In human nature there are antipathies to be overcome—sympathies which may be forced. Iron is not the lodestone; but by rubbing it with a lodestone we make it, in its turn, attract iron."
"Yes, yes," muttered La Mole; "but I have an objection to all these sorceries."
"Ah, then, if you have any such objections, you should not come here," answered Réné.
"Come, come, this is child's play!" interposed Coconnas. "Maître Réné, can you show me the devil?"
"No, Monsieur le Comte."
"I'm sorry for that; for I had a word or two to say to him, and it might have encouraged La Mole."
"Well, then, let it be so," said La Mole, "let us go to the point at once. I have been told of figures modelled in wax to look like the beloved object. Is that one way?"
"An infallible one."
"And there is nothing in the experiment likely to affect the life or health of the person beloved?"
"Nothing."
"Let us try, then."
"Shall I make first trial?" said Coconnas.
"No," said La Mole, "since I have begun, I will go through to the end."
"Is your desire mighty, ardent, imperious to know what the obstacle is, Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Oh," exclaimed La Mole, "I am dying with anxiety."
At this moment some one rapped lightly at the street door—so lightly that no one but Maître Réné heard the noise, doubtless because he had been expecting it.
Without any hesitation he went to the speaking-tube and put his ear to the mouthpiece, at the same time asking La Mole several idle questions. Then he added, suddenly:
"Now put all your energy into your wish, and call the person whom you love."
La Mole knelt, as if about to address a divinity; and Réné, going into the other compartment, went out noiselessly by the exterior staircase, and an instant afterward light steps trod the floor of his shop.
When La Mole rose he beheld before him Maître Réné. The Florentine held in his hand a small wax figure, very indifferently modelled; it wore a crown and mantle.
"Do you desire to be always beloved by your royal mistress?" demanded the perfumer.
"Yes, even if it cost me my life—even if my soul should be the sacrifice!" replied La Mole.
"Very good," said the Florentine, taking with the ends of his fingers some drops of water from a ewer and sprinkling them over the figure, at the same time muttering certain Latin words.
La Mole shuddered, believing that some sacrilege was committed.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I am christening this figure with the name of Marguerite."
"What for?"
"To establish a sympathy."
La Mole opened his mouth to prevent his going any further, but a mocking look from Coconnas stopped him.
Réné, who had noticed the impulse, waited. "Your absolute and undivided will is necessary," he said.
"Go on," said La Mole.
Réné wrote on a small strip of red paper some cabalistic characters, put it into the eye of a steel needle, and with the needle pierced the small wax model in the heart.
Strange to say, at the orifice of the wound appeared a small drop of blood; then he set fire to the paper.
The heat of the needle melted the wax around it and dried up the spot of blood.
"Thus," said Réné, "by the power of sympathy, your love shall pierce and burn the heart of the woman whom you love."
Coconnas, true to his repute as a bold thinker, laughed in his mustache, and in a low tone jested; but La Mole, desperately in love and full of superstition, felt a cold perspiration start from the roots of his hair.
"And now," continued Réné, "press your lips to the lips of the figure, and say: 'Marguerite, I love thee! Come, Marguerite!'"
La Mole obeyed.
At this moment the door of the second chamber was heard to open, and light steps approached. Coconnas, curious and incredulous, drew his poniard, and fearing that if he raised the tapestry Réné would repeat what he said about the door, he cut a hole in the thick curtain, and applying his eye to the hole, uttered a cry of astonishment, to which two women's voices responded.
"What is it?" exclaimed La Mole, nearly dropping the waxen figure, which Réné caught from his hands.
"Why," replied Coconnas, "the Duchesse de Nevers and Madame Marguerite are there!"
"There, now, you unbelievers!" replied Réné, with an austere smile; "do you still doubt the force of sympathy?"
La Mole was petrified on seeing the queen; Coconnas was amazed at beholding Madame de Nevers. One believed that Réné's sorceries had evoked the phantom Marguerite; the other, seeing the door half open, by which the lovely phantoms had entered, gave at once a worldly and substantial explanation to the mystery.
While La Mole was crossing himself and sighing enough to split a rock, Coconnas, who had taken time to indulge in philosophical questionings and to drive away the foul fiend with the aid of that holy water sprinkler called scepticism, having observed, through the hole in the curtain, the astonishment shown by Madame de Nevers and Marguerite's somewhat caustic smile, judged the moment to be decisive, and understanding that a man may say in behalf of a friend what he cannot say for himself, instead of going to Madame de Nevers, went straight to Marguerite, and bending his knee, after the fashion of the great Artaxerxes as represented in the farces of the day, cried, in a voice to which the whistling of his wound added a peculiar accent not without some power:
"Madame, this very moment, at the demand of my friend the Comte de la Mole, Maître Réné was evoking your spirit; and to my great astonishment, your spirit is accompanied with a body most dear to me, and which I recommend to my friend. Shade of her majesty the Queen of Navarre, will you desire the body of your companion to come to the other side of the curtain?"
Marguerite began to laugh, and made a sign to Henriette, who passed to the other side of the curtain.
"La Mole, my friend," continued Coconnas, "be as eloquent as Demosthenes, as Cicero, as the Chancellor de l'Hôpital! and be assured that my life will be imperilled if you do not persuade the body of Madame de Nevers that I am her most devoted, most obedient, and most faithful servant."
"But"—stammered La Mole.
"Do as I say! And you, Maître Réné, watch that we are not interrupted."
Réné did as Coconnas asked.
"By Heaven, monsieur," said Marguerite, "you are a clever man. I am listening to you. What have you to say?"
"I have to say to you, madame, that the shadow of my friend—for he is a shadow, and he proves it by not uttering a single little word—I say, that this shadow begs me to use the faculty which material bodies possess of speaking so as to be understood, and to say to you: Lovely shadow, the gentleman thus disembodied has lost his whole body and all his breath by the cruelty of your eyes. If this were really you, I should ask Maître Réné to plunge me in some sulphurous pit rather than use such language to the daughter of King Henry II., to the sister of King Charles IX., to the wife of the King of Navarre. But shades are freed from all earthly pride and they are never angry when men love them. Therefore, pray your body, madame, to love the soul of this poor La Mole a little—a soul in trouble, if ever there was one; a soul first persecuted by friendship, which three times thrust into him several inches of cold steel; a soul burnt by the fire of your eyes—fire a thousand times more consuming than all the flames of hell. So have pity on this poor soul! Love a little what was the handsome La Mole; and if you no longer possess speech, ah! bestow a gesture, bestow a smile upon him. My friend's soul is a very intelligent soul, and will comprehend everything. Be kind to him, then; or, by Heaven! I will run my sword through Réné's body in order that, by virtue of the power which he possesses over spirits, he may force yours, which he has already so opportunely evoked, to do all a shade so amiably disposed as yours appears to be should do."
At this burst of eloquence delivered by Coconnas as he stood in front of the queen like Æneas descending into Hades, Marguerite could not refrain from a hearty burst of laughter, yet, preserving the silence which on such an occasion may be the supposed characteristic of a royal shade, she presented her hand to Coconnas. He took it daintily in his, and, calling to La Mole, said:
"Shade of my friend, come hither instantly!"
La Mole, amazed, overcome, silently obeyed.
"’T is well," said Coconnas, taking him by the back of the head; "and now bring the shadow of your handsome brown countenance into contact with the white and vaporous hand before you."
And Coconnas, suiting the action to the word, raised the delicate hand to La Mole's lips, and kept them for a moment respectfully united, without the hand seeking to withdraw itself from the gentle pressure.
Marguerite had not ceased to smile, but Madame de Nevers did not smile at all; she was still trembling at the unexpected appearance of the two gentlemen. She was conscious that her awkwardness was increased by all the fever of a growing jealousy, for it seemed to her that Coconnas ought not thus to forget her affairs for those of others.
La Mole saw her eyebrows contracted, detected the flashing threat of her eyes, and in spite of the intoxicating fever to which his delight was insensibly urging him to succumb he realized the danger which his friend was running and perceived what he should try to do to rescue him.
So rising and leaving Marguerite's hand in Coconnas's, he grasped the Duchesse de Nevers's, and bending his knee he said:
"O loveliest—O most adorable of women—I speak of living women, and not of shades!" and he turned a look and a smile to Marguerite; "allow a soul released from its mortal envelope to repair the absence of a body fully absorbed by material friendship. Monsieur de Coconnas, whom you see, is only a man—a man of bold and hardy frame, of flesh handsome to gaze upon perchance, but perishable, like all flesh.Omnis caro fenum.Although this gentleman keeps on from morning to night pouring into my ears the most touching litanies about you, though you have seen him distribute as heavy blows as were ever seen in wide France—this champion, so full of eloquence in presence of a spirit, dares not address a woman. That is why he has addressed the shade of the queen, charging me to speak to your lovely body, and to tell you that he lays at your feet his soul and heart; that he entreats from your divine eyes a look in pity, from your rosy fingers a beckoning sign, and from your musical and heavenly voice those words which men can never forget; if not, he has supplicated another thing, and that is, in case he should not soften you, you will run my sword—which is a real blade, for swords have no shadows except in the sunshine—run my sword right through his body for the second time, for he can live no longer if you do not authorize him to live exclusively for you." All the verve and comical exaggeration which Coconnas had put into his speech found their counterpart in the tenderness, the intoxicating vigor, and the mock humility which La Mole introduced into his supplication.
Henriette's eyes turned from La Mole, to whom she had listened till he ended, and rested on Coconnas, to see if the expression of that gentleman's countenance harmonized with his friend's ardent address. It seemed that she was satisfied, for blushing, breathless, conquered, she said to Coconnas, with a smile which disclosed a double row of pearls enclosed in coral:
"Is this true?"
"By Heaven!" exclaimed Coconnas, fascinated by her look, "it is true, indeed. Oh, yes, madame, it is true—true on your life—true on my death!"
"Come with me, then," said Henriette, extending to him her hand, while her eyes proclaimed the feelings of her heart.
Coconnas flung his velvet cap into the air and with one stride was at the young woman's side, while La Mole, recalled to Marguerite by a gesture, executed at the same time an amorouschassezwith his friend.
Réné appeared at the door in the background.
"Silence!" he exclaimed, in a voice which at once damped all the ardor of the lovers; "silence!"
And they heard in the solid wall the sound of a key in a lock, and of a door grating on its hinges.
"But," said Marguerite, haughtily, "I should think that no one has the right to enter whilst we are here!"
"Not even the queen mother?" whispered Réné in her ear.
Marguerite instantly rushed out by the exterior staircase, leading La Mole after her; Henriette and Coconnas almost arm-in-arm followed them, all four taking flight, as fly at the first noise the birds seen engaged in loving parley on the boughs of a flowering shrub.
It was time the two couples disappeared! Catharine was putting the key in the lock of the second door just as Coconnas and Madame de Nevers stepped out of the house by the lower entrance, and Catharine as she entered could hear the steps of the fugitives on the stairs.
She cast a searching glance around, and then fixing her suspicious eyes on Réné, who stood motionless, bowing before her, said:
"Who was that?"
"Some lovers, who are satisfied with the assurance I gave them that they are really in love."
"Never mind them," said Catharine, shrugging her shoulders; "is there no one else here?"
"No one but your majesty and myself."
"Have you done what I ordered you?"
"About the two black hens?"
"Yes!"
"They are ready, madame."
"Ah," muttered Catharine, "if you were a Jew!"
"Why a Jew, madame?"
"Because you could then read the precious treatises which the Hebrews have written about sacrifices. I have had one of them translated, and I found that the Hebrews did not look for omens in the heart or liver as the Romans did, but in the configuration of the brain, and in the shape of the letters traced there by the all-powerful hand of destiny."
"Yes, madame; so I have heard from an old rabbi."
"There are," said Catharine, "characters thus marked that reveal all the future. Only the Chaldean seers recommend"—
"Recommend—what?" asked Réné, seeing the queen hesitate.
"That the experiment shall be tried on the human brain, as more developed and more nearly sympathizing with the wishes of the consulter."
"Alas!" said Réné, "your majesty knows it is impossible."
"Difficult, at least," said Catharine; "if we had known this at Saint Bartholomew's, what a rich harvest we might have had—The first convict—but I will think of it. Meantime, let us do what we can. Is the chamber of sacrifice prepared?"
"Yes, madame."
"Let us go there."
Réné lighted a taper made of strange substances, the odor of which, both insidious and penetrating as well as nauseating and stupefying, betokened the introduction of many elements; holding this taper up, he preceded Catharine into the cell.
Catharine selected from amongst the sacrificial instruments a knife of blue steel, while Réné took up one of the two fowls that were huddling in one corner, with anxious, golden eyes.
"How shall we proceed?"
"We will examine the liver of the one and the brain of the other. If these two experiments lead to the same result we must be convinced, especially if these results coincide with those we got before."
"Which shall we begin with?"
"With the liver."
"Very well," said Réné, and he fastened the bird down to two rings attached to the little altar, so that the creature, turned on its back, could only struggle, without stirring from the spot.
Catharine opened its breast with a single stroke of her knife; the fowl uttered three cries, and, after some convulsions, expired.
"Always three cries!" said Catharine; "three signs of death."
She then opened the body.
"And the liver inclining to the left, always to the left,—a triple death, followed by a downfall. ’T is terrible, Réné."
"We must see, madame, whether the presages from the second will correspond with those of the first."
Réné unfastened the body of the fowl from the altar and tossed it into a corner; then he went to the other, which, foreseeing what its fate would be by its companion's, tried to escape by running round the cell, and finding itself pent up in a corner flew over Réné's head, and in its flight extinguished the magic taper Catharine held.
"You see, Réné, thus shall our race be extinguished," said the queen; "death shall breathe upon it, and destroy it from the face of the earth! Yet three sons! three sons!" she murmured, sorrowfully.
Réné took from her the extinguished taper, and went into the adjoining room to relight it.
On his return he saw the hen hiding its head in the tunnel.
"This time," said Catharine, "I will prevent the cries, for I will cut off the head at once."
And accordingly, as soon as the hen was bound, Catharine, as she had said, severed the head at a single blow; but in the last agony the beak opened three times, and then closed forever.
"Do you see," said Catharine, terrified, "instead of three cries, three sighs? Always three!—they will all three die. All these spirits before they depart count and call three. Let us now see the prognostications in the head."
She severed the bloodless comb from the head, carefully opened the skull, and laying bare the lobes of the brain endeavored to trace a letter formed in the bloody sinuosities made by the division of the central pulp.