The Mesmerist's Victim. Dumas Alexandre
be frank,” said the host smiling. “You want to consult me?”
“But I can only whisper it in the strictest privacy to the count because you would beat me if you overheard, countess.”
“The duke is not accustomed to being beaten,” remarked Balsamo, which delighted the old warrior.
“The long and the short of it is that the King is dying of tedium.”
“He is no longer amusable, as Lady Maintenon used to say.”
“Nothing in that hurts my feelings, duke,” said Lady Dubarry.
“So much the better, which puts me at my ease. Well, we want an elixir to make the King merry.”
“Pooh, any quack at the corner will provide such a philter.”
“But we want the virtue to be attributed to this lady,” resumed the duke.
“My lord, you are making the lady blush,” said Balsamo. “But as we were saying just now, no philter will deliver you of Choiseul. Were the King to love this lady ten times more than at present – which is impossible – the minister would still preserve over his mind the hold which the lady has over his heart?”
“That is true,” said the duke. “But it was our sole resource.”
“I could easily find another.”
“Easily? do you hear that, countess? These magicians doubt nothing.”
“Why should I doubt when the simple matter is to prove to the King that the Duke of Choiseul betrays him – from the King’s point of view, for of course the duke does not think he is betraying him, in what he does.”
“And what is he doing?”
“You know as well as I, countess, that he is upholding Parliamentary opposition against the royal authority.”
“Certainly, but by what means?”
“By agents who foster the movement while he warrants their impunity.”
“But we want to know these agents.”
“The King sees in the journey of Lady Grammont merely an exile but you cannot believe that she went for any other errand than to fan the ardent and fire the cool.”
“Certainly, but how to prove the hidden aim?”
“By accusing the lady.”
“But the difficulty is in proving the accusation,” said the countess.
“Were it clearly proved, would the duke remain Prime Minister?”
“Surely not!” exclaimed the countess.
“This necromancer is delightful,” said old Richelieu, laughing heartily as he leaned back in his chair: “catch Choiseul redhanded in treason? that is all, and quite enough, too, ha, ha, ha!”
“Would not a confidential letter do it?” said Balsamo impassibly. “Say from Lady Grammont?”
“My good wizard, if you could conjure up one!” said the countess. “I have been trying to get one for five years and spent a hundred thousand francs a year and have never succeeded.”
“Because, madam, you did not apply to me. I should have lifted you out of the quandary.”
“Oh, I hope it is not too late!”
“It is never too late,” said Count Fenix, smiling.
“Then you have such a letter?” said the lady, clasping her hands. “Which would compromise Choiseul?”
“It would prove he sustains the Parliament in its bout with the King; eggs on England to war with France; so as to keep him indispensable: and is the enemy of your ladyship.”
“I would give one of my eyes to have it.”
“That would be too dear; particularly as I shall give you the letter for nothing.” And he drew a piece of paper folded twice from his pocket.
“The letter you want!” And in the deepest silence the letter was read by him which he had transcribed from Lorenza’s thought reading.
The countess stared as he proceeded and lost countenance.
“This is a slanderous forgery – deuce take it, have a care!” said Richelieu.
“It is the plain, literal copy of a letter from Lady Grammont on the way, by a courier from Rouen this morning, to the Duke de Choiseul at Versailles.”
“The duchess wrote such an imprudent letter?”
“It is incredible, but she has done it.”
The old courtier looked over to the countess who had no strength to say anything.
“Excuse me, count,” she said, “but I am like the duke, hard to accept this as written by the witty lady, and damaging herself and her brother; besides to have knowledge of it one must have read it.”
“And the count would have kept the precious original as a treasure,” suggested the marshal.
“Oh,” returned Balsamo, shaking his head gently; “that is the way with those who break open seals to read letters but not for those who can read through the envelopes. Fie, for shame! Besides, what interest have I in destroying Lady Grammont and the Choiseuls? You come in a friendly way to consult me and I answer in that manner. You want service done, and I do it. I hardly suppose you came fee in hand, as to a juggler in the street?”
“Oh, my lord!” exclaimed Dubarry.
“But who advised you, count?” asked Richelieu.
“You want to know in a minute as much as I, the sage, the adept, who has lived three thousand and seven hundred years.”
“Ah, you are spoiling the good opinion we had of you,” said the old nobleman.
“I am not pressing you to believe me, and it was not I who asked you to come away from the royal hunt.”
“He is right, duke,” said the lady visitor. “Do not be impatient with us, my lord.”
“The man is never impatient who has time on his hands.”
“Be so good – add this favor to the others you have done me, to tell me how you obtain such secrets?”
“I shall not hesitate, madam,” said Balsamo slowly as if he were matching words with her speech, “the revelation is made to me by a bodiless Voice. It tells me all that I desire.”
“Miraculous!”
“But you do not believe!”
“Honestly not, count,” said the duke; “how can you expect any one to believe such things?”
“Would you believe if I told you what the courier is doing who bears this letter to the Duke of Choiseul?”
“Of course,” responded the countess.
“I shall when I hear the voice,” subjoined the duke.
“But you magicians and necromanciers have the privilege of seeing and hearing the supernatural.”
Balsamo shot at the speaker so singular a glance that the countess thrilled in every vein and the sceptical egotist felt a chill down his neck and back.
“True,” said he, after a long silence, “I alone see and hear things and beings beyond your ken: but when I meet those of your grace’s rank and hight of intellect and of your beauty, fair lady, I open my treasures and share. You shall hear the mystic voice.”
The countess trembled, and the duke clenched his fist not to do the same.
“What language shall it use?”
“French,” faltered the countess. “I know no other and a strange one would give me too much fright.”
“The French for me,” said the duke. “I long to repeat what the devil says, and mark if he can discourse as correctly as my friend Voltaire.”
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