“Anyway,” he added, “this path is fateful.”
It led straight to a brick cottage hidden in ivy, which had doubtless once served as a keeper’s lodge. Here the park terminated on the monotonous marshes of the Seine.
“You see this cottage,” said Monsieur d’Astarac.
“It has in its keeping the wisest of men. There it is that Mosaïde, now aged one hundred and twelve years, penetrates with a persistency that has a majesty of its own to the arcana of nature. He has left Imbonatus and Bartolini far behind him. I desired to honour myself by entertaining under my roof the greatest of cabalists since Enoch the son of Cain. But religious scruples prevent Mosaïde from sitting at my table which he holds for Christian — in which he does it too much honour. You cannot conceive to what extremity of violence this sage carries his hatred of Christians. It is under great persuasion only that he consents to inhabit this cottage where he lives alone with his niece Jael. Messieurs, you must no longer delay in making his acquaintance, and I will present you both immediately to this inspired being.”
Having spoken thus, Monsieur d’Astarac pushed us into the cottage and made us climb up a spiral staircase to a room where, in the midst of scattered manuscripts in a great winged chair, sat an aged man, bright-eyed, hook-nosed, whose sloping chin let fall two thin streamers of white beard. A velvet cap, shaped like a cap of state, covered his bald head, and his body so thin as to be scarcely human, was wrapped in an old yellow silk gown, splendid but soiled.
Although his piercing gaze was turned towards us, he showed no sign of being aware of our approach. His face showed a painful stubbornness and he twisted slowly between his wrinkled fingers the reed which served him as a pen.
“Do not expect empty words from Mosaïde,” said Monsieur d’Astarac.
“For many a long day this sage has discoursed with no one save the Genii and myself. His discourse is sublime. As he will doubtless not consent to converse with you, Messieurs, I will give you in a few words an idea of his worth. Firstly, he has penetrated to the spiritual meaning of the books of Moses in accordance with the value of the Hebrew characters, which depend on the order of the letters in the alphabet. This order had been upset after the eleventh letter. Mosaïde has re-established it, which Atrabis, Philo, Avicenna, Raymond Lully, Pico della Mirandola, Reuchlin, Henry More, and Robert Fludd were unable to do. Mosaïde knows the golden number which corresponds to Jehovah in the spirit-world. And you will understand, Messieurs, that that is of infinite importance.”
My good master drew his box from his pocket and after offering it civilly to us inhaled a pinch of snuff, and said:
“Do you not think, Monsieur d’Astarac, that these attainments are extremely likely to guide you to the devil at the end of this transitory life? For this Seigneur Mosaïde errs palpably in his interpretation of Holy Writ. When Our Saviour died on the Cross for the redemption of mankind, the synagogue felt a bandage tighten over her eyes, she tottered like a drunken woman, and her crown fell from her head. Since then the interpretation of the Old Testament has been relegated to the Catholic Church, to which I belong notwithstanding my multiple sins.”
At these words Mosaïde, looking like a Satyr, smiled in a manner truly terrifying, and addressed my good master in a slow grating far-away voice: “The Mashora has not confided its secrets to you, nor the Mischna its mysteries.”
“Mosaïde,” continued Monsieur d’Astarac, “interprets clearly not only the books of Moses but that of Enoch, which is much more important, and which for lack of understanding the Christians have rejected, as the cock in the Arabian fable disdained the pearl fallen in his food. This book of Enoch, Monsieur l’Abbé Coignard, is the more precious as one finds therein the first dealings of the daughters of men and the Sylphs. For you well understand that these angels whom Enoch shows us as allying themselves with women in amorous intercourse are Sylphs and Salamanders.”
“I am ready to understand it that way,” replied my good master, “so as not to annoy you. But by what has been left to us of the book of Enoch, which is visibly apocryphal, I suspect that those angels were not Sylphs, but Phoenician merchants.”
“And on what, may I ask, do you found such a strange opinion?” said Monsieur d’Astarac.
“I found it, Monsieur, on this, that it says in this book that it was the angels who taught to women the usage of bracelets and necklaces, the art of painting their eyebrows, and of using all kinds of dyes. It is also recounted in this book that the angels taught to the daughters of men the properties of roots and trees, charms and the art of stargazing. In all good faith, Monsieur, have not these angels rather the look of Tyrians or Sidonians disembarking on some half-wild coast, and undoing at the foot of the rocks their corded bales to tempt the daughters of the savage tribes? These traffickers gave them collarettes of copper, amulets and medicaments in exchange for amber, incense and furs, and they amazed these handsome ignorant creatures by their talk of the stars with a knowledge gained in navigation. That is all quite straightforward, and I should like to know on what point Monsieur Mosaïde can gainsay it.”
Mosaïde kept silence, and Monsieur d’Astarac smiled once more. “Monsieur Coignard,” said he “you do not argue badly, ignorant as you are still of gnosticism and cabalism. What you say makes me think that there may have been some gnomes who were metal-workers and goldsmiths among the Sylphs who united themselves in love with the daughters of men. Gnomes, in fact, readily busy themselves with goldsmiths’ work, and probably ingenious demons wrought those bracelets you think were of Phoenician manufacture. But you will suffer some disadvantages, I warn you Monsieur, in measuring yourself with Mosaïde in the knowledge of human antiquities. He has found remains thought to be lost, among others the column of Seth and the oracles of Sambethe, daughter of Noah, and the most ancient of the Sibyls.”
“Oh!” exclaimed my good master, bounding on the dusty floor, whence arose a cloud of dust, “oh! what moonshine! It is too much of a good thing! You are laughing at me. And Monsieur Mosaïde cannot house so many follies in his head under his big cap, which looks like Charlemagne’s crown. This column of Seth is a ridiculous invention of that thickhead Flavius-Josephus, an absurd tale which has never yet deceived any one but you. As to the predictions of Sambethe, the daughter of Noah, I should be very curious to know them, and Monsieur Mosaïde, who seems sparing enough of his words, would oblige me greatly by giving us a few by word of mouth, for it is not possible for him, I am glad to see, to utter them by the more hidden way through which the ancient Sibyls were accustomed to give utterance to their mysterious replies.” Mosaïde, who appeared not to have heard anything, suddenly said:— “The daughter of Noah has spoken; Sambethe has said: ‘The foolish man who laughs and mocks shall not hear the voice coming from the seventh tabernacle; and the impious shall go wretchedly to his ruin.’”
On this utterance all three of us took leave of Mosaïde.
XI
THAT year the summer was glorious, whence came a wish to wander afield. One day, as I strolled under the trees of the Cours-la-Reine, with two poor ecus that I had found that morning in my breeches’ pocket, and which were the first visible sign so far of my alchemist’s munificence, I took a seat at the door of a coffee-house at a table whose small size befitted my solitude and my modesty, and there I fell a-thinking of the oddness of my fate, while on either side of me mousquetaires and gay ladies drank the wine of Spain. I questioned whether the Cross of Les Sablons, Monsieur d’Astarac, Mosaïde, the papyrus of Zozimus and my fine coat were not all dreams from which I should awake to find myself in dimity before the spit at the Reine Pédauque. I came out of my dream on feeling myself pulled by the sleeve. And I saw before me brother Ange, whose face was lost between his cowl and his beard.
“Monsieur Jacques Menétrier,” said he, in a low voice, “a young lady who means you well awaits you in her carriage on the road between the river and the Porte de la Conférence.”
My heart beat loudly. Startled and charm
ed with the adventure, I went immediately to the spot indicated by the capuchin, walking nevertheless with the measured step which seemed best to become me. Arrived on the quay I saw a coach and a little white hand on the edge of the door.
The door opened on my approach, and I was extremely surprised to find Mam’selle Catherine in the coach, in a rose-coloured satin dress, her head covered with a hood, her blond hair intermingled with the black lace.
Dumbfounded I hesitated at the step.
“Come in,” she said, “and sit by me. Close the door, I pray you. You must not be seen. A moment ago, in passing by the Cours, I saw you at the coffee-house. I immediately sent the good brother to fetch you. I engaged him for my lenten practices, and I have kept him with me since, for in whatever condition one may be placed, one must cling to religion. You looked very well, Monsieur Jacques, seated before your little table, your sword across your knees, wearing the melancholy air of a man of quality. I have always had a friendly feeling for you, and I am not one of those women, who, in prosperity, despise their former friends.”
“Eh, what! Mam’selle Catherine,” I exclaimed, “this coach, these lackeys, this satin dress—”
“All come,” said she, “from the kindness of Monsieur de la Guéritaude, who is in the Revenue department, and is one of our richest financiers. He has advanced money to the king. He is a good friend, whom I would not vex for anything in the world. But he is not as agreeable as you, Monsieur Jacques. He has also given me a small house at Grenelle, which I will show you one day from attic to cellar. Monsieur Jacques, I am very pleased to see you on the road to making your fortune. You shall see my bedroom, which is a copy of that of Mademoiselle Davilliers. It is all mirrors and china ornaments. How is your good father? Between ourselves, he neglected his wife and his cook-shop a little. It is exceedingly wrong in a man of his position. But let us talk of you.”
“Let us talk of you, Mam’selle Catherine,” said I at last. “You are very pretty, and it is a great pity that you are so very fond of capuchins. For one must forgive you your Farmers-general.”
“Oh,” she said, “do not reproach me with brother Ange. I only keep him for my soul’s good, and if I gave Monsieur de la Guéritaude a rival it would be—”
“It would be?”
“Do not ask me, Monsieur Jacques. You are ungrateful. For you know I always singled you out. But you took no notice of it.”
“On the contrary, I was alive to your mockery, Mam’selle Catherine. You made me ashamed of my beardless chin. You told me many a time that I was a little stupid.”
“’Twas true, Monsieur Jacques, truer than you thought. Why did you not guess that I meant you well?”
“And you, Catherine, why were you so intimidatingly pretty? I dared not look at you. And then I saw one day that you were downright vexed with me.”
“I had reason to be so, Monsieur Jacques. You preferred that Savoyarde with her handkerchief round her head, the very dregs of the Port St. Nicholas.”
“Oh, do believe, Catherine, that it was neither taste nor inclination, but merely because she took strong means to conquer my bashfulness.”
“Ah, my friend, believe me who am your senior, bashfulness is a great sin against love. But could you not see that beggar had holes in her stockings and a flounce of mud and dirt half an ell wide at the hem of her skirt?”
“I saw it, Catherine.”
“Did you not see, Jacques, that she was badly made, and what’s worse, positively deformed?”
“I saw it, Catherine.”
“You could actually love that beggar of a Savoyarde, you with your fair skin and distinguished manners.”
“I cannot understand it myself, Catherine. It must have been that at the time my fancy was full of you. And if the mere thought of you gave me the hardihood and courage with which you reproach me to-day, judge of my transports, Catherine, if I had held you in my arms, or even a girl a little like you. For I loved you dearly.”
She took my hand and sighed. I continued in a melancholy tone:— “Yes, I loved you, Catherine, and I should love you still were it not for that disgusting monk.”
She defended herself:
“What a suspicion. You make me cross. It is absurd.”
“You do not love capuchins?”
“Fie!”
Not considering it opportune to press her too closely on the subject, I took her by the waist, we kissed one another, our lips met, and I felt my whole being dissolve in delight. After a moment of delicious abandon, she disengaged herself, her cheeks pink, eyes dewy and lips half-open. From that moment I have known how much a woman is beautified and adorned by the kisses one puts on her lips. Mine had made roses of the most delicate tint bloom on Catherine’s cheeks, and drowned the blue flower of her eyes in sparkling dew.
“You are a child,” she said, replacing her hood. “Go along with you, You must not stay a moment longer. Monsieur de la Guéritaude will be here directly. He loves me with an impatience that is apt to forestall the hour of the appointment.”
Then reading on my face the disappointment I felt, she pursued with tender vivacity:
“But listen, Jacques: he goes home every evening at nine o’clock to his old wife, who has become peevish with years, and no longer permits his infidelities now that she is beyond the possibility of paying them back. Her jealousy has become something terrible. Come at half-past nine to-night. I will receive you. My house is at the corner of the Rue du Bac. You will know it by its three windows on every floor and its rose-covered balcony. You know I have always loved flowers. Till tonight.”
She put me from her with caressing gesture wherein she seemed to show her sorrow that I might not stay; then, finger on lips, she whispered once more:
“Till to-night.”
XII
I DO not know how I managed to tear myself away from Catherine’s arms. But it is certain that, in jumping out of the coach I nearly fell over Monsieur d’Astarac whose tall figure was planted like a tree on the edge of the path. I saluted him politely and evinced my surprise at so happy a chance.
“Chance,” said he, “diminishes in proportion as knowledge is augmented: for me it does not exist. I knew, my son that I was to meet you here. I must have an interview with you which has been too long deferred. Let us, if you please, go in search of that solitude and silence necessary to the speech I wish to have with you. Do not look anxious. The mysteries that I shall unveil to you are sublime, it is true, but of a pleasing nature.”
Having thus spoken he led me to the banks of the Seine hard by the Isle of Swans, which lifted itself in mid-stream like a leafy barque. There he signalled the ferry-man whose shallop bore us to the verdant isle, frequented only by a few pensioners who on fine days played at bowls and drank their glass of beer. Night lit her first stars in the sky and gave voice to the insects in the grass. The isle was deserted. Monsieur d’Astarac sat down on a wooden bench in a clearing at the end of a grove of walnuts, invited me to sit down by him and spoke in these words:
“There are three kinds of people, my son, from whom the philosopher must hide his secrets. They are princes, because it would not be prudent to add to their might; the ambitious, whose pitiless driving power wants no reinforcement; and the debauched, who would find in the hidden knowledge the means of glutting their worst passions. But I may bare my mind to you who are neither debauched, for I think nothing of the slip whereby a moment ago you fell into the arms of that young woman, nor ambitious, having lived till now content to turn the paternal spit. I can then without fear unfold to you the hidden laws of the universe. You must not suppose that life is confined within the narrow condition in which it manifests itself to vulgar eyes. When they teach that creation had man for end and object, your theologians and philosophers reason like the ground-lice in Versailles, or the Tuileries, who believe that the damp cellars are made for them, and that the rest of the château is quite uninhabitable. The solar system, taught by the canon Copernicus in the last century, follow
ing Aristarchus of Samos and the Pythagorean philosophers is, no doubt, known to you, for they have even made abridgements of it for the use of urchins at schools and dialogues for the chatterboxes in town. You have seen an instrument at my house which demonstrates it perfectly by means of a clock-work movement. Look up, my son, and see above your head the chariot of David drawn by Mizar and his two illustrious companions turning round the Pole, Arcturus, Vega in Lyra, Spica in Virgo, Ariadne’s crown and its lovely pearl.
“These are suns. One glance at the world will show you that all creation is a work of fire and that life under its highest forms must be nourished by flame.
“And what are the planets? Specks of mud, a little scum and ferment. Contemplate the stately choir of the stars, this gathering of suns. They equal or surpass our own in grandeur and in power, and when, some clear winter night, I show you Sirius through my glass, your eyes and your soul will be dazzled.
“Can you really, believe that Sirius, Altair, Regulus, Aldebaran, all these suns indeed, are merely luminaries? Can you believe that old Phœbus, who pours incessantly through space, wherein we swim, his immeasurable floods of heat and light, has no other function than to illuminate the earth and a few other imperceptible and contemptible planets? What a candle! A million time bigger, than the house!
“I have been obliged to give you the idea to start with that the Universe is composed of suns, and that the planets that may be found there are less than nothing. But I foresee that you would raise an objection, and I will reply to it. These suns you were going to say burn out in the course of ages and become as dirt in their turn.
“Not so! I reply, for they are sustained by the comets that they draw to them and which fall into them. They are the habitation of the real life. The planets and this earth in which we live are but the dwelling-places of larvae. Such are the truths which you must first absorb.
“Now that you understand, my son, that fire excels every other element, you will better grasp what I am about to explain to you, which is of more importance than anything you have learnt up to now and even more than was ever known to Erasmus, Turnebus, and Scaliger. I will not refer to theologians like Quesnel or Bossuet, who, between our selves, are but of the dregs of humanity’s intelligence, and have scarcely more understanding than a captain of horse. We will not lose time in despising such brains comparable in size and contents to wren’s eggs, and we will come at once to the subject of my talk.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 61