Complete Works of Anatole France

by Anatole France

  He gained on him, and at the corner of the Rue Saint Guillaume we saw him stretch his arm out and seize him by the collar.

  But my good master, who knew more than a trick or two, doubled sharply, and passing by his man tripped him up against a milestone where he cracked his head. This occurred whilst we were running, Monsieur d’Anquetil and I, to the assistance of Monsieur l’Abbé Coignard, whom it was not seemly to desert in this pressing danger.

  “L’Abbé,” said Monsieur d’Anquetil, “give me your hand, you are a brave man.”

  “In truth I think I was more or less murderous,” said my good master. “But I am not unnatural enough to glory in it. It suffices me if I do not incur too much blame. These violent ways are scarcely mine, and such as you see me, Monsieur, I am better fitted to teach the liberal arts from a college chair than to fight with lackeys on the roadside.”

  “Oh!” continued Monsieur d’Anquetil, “that is not the worst part of the business. But I think you have nearly killed a Farmer-general.”

  “Is that really so?” asked Monsieur l’Abbé.

  “As true as I stuck my sword through the tripes of some of this dirty crew.”

  “At this juncture,” said the Abbé, “it is first necessary to ask forgiveness of God, towards Whom alone we are answerable for spilt blood; secondly, to hasten our steps to the nearest fountain, so as to wash ourselves. For I think I am bleeding from the nose.”

  “You are right, l’Abbé,” said Monsieur d’Anquetil, “for the fool who lies cut open in the gutter has broken my head. What impertinence!”

  “Forgive him,” said the Abbé, “so that you may be forgiven for what you have done unto him.”

  We found at the right moment in the wall of a hospital where the Rue du Bac loses itself in the fields, a little bronze Triton throwing a spray of water into a stone basin. We stopped to wash ourselves and drink, for our throats were dry.

  “What have we done?” said my good master, “and how comes it I have been so unlike my real pacific self? It is indeed true one must not judge men from their actions, which depend on circumstances, but rather as God our Father does, by their secret thoughts and inward intentions.”

  “And Catherine,” I asked— “what has become of her in this terrible adventure?”

  “I left her,” replied Monsieur d’Anquetil, “blowing into her financier’s mouth to put life into him. But she might spare her pains. I know la Guéritaude. He is pitiless. He will send her to the reformatory and perchance to America. I am sorry for her. She was a pretty girl. I did not love her. But she was mad about me. And extraordinary to relate, here I am without a mistress.”

  “Do not be troubled,” said my good master, “you will find another no different from that one, or at least not essentially different. And it seems to me that what you look for in a woman is common to all.”

  “It is quite clear that we are in danger,” said Monsieur d’Anquetil, “I — of being put in the Bastille, and you, l’Abbé, of being hung with your pupil, Tournebroche, who nevertheless has killed no one.”

  “It is only too true,” replied my good master, “we must think of our safety. It may be necessary to quit Paris where they will not fail to look for us, and even to fly to Holland. Alas! I foresee that I shall write scurrilous papers for women of the theatre, with this very hand which illustrated with such ample notes the alchemistic treatise of Zozimus the Panopolitan.”

  “Listen to me, l’Abbé,” said Monsieur d’Anquetil, “I have a friend who will hide us on his estate as long as may be necessary. He lives four leagues from Lyons, in a wild and horrid part of the country where there is nothing to be seen but poplars, grass and woods. That’s where we must go, and wait till the storm has past over. We will turn our attention to the chase. But we must find a post-chaise as quickly as possible or, better still, a berline.”

  “I know the very thing, Monsieur,” said the Abbé. “The Hôtel du Cheval Rouge, at the cross roads of Bergères will supply you with good horses and every kind of carriage. I knew the landlord in the days when I was secretary to Madame de St. Ernest. He was willing to oblige people of quality; I believe he is dead since, but he ought to have a son who takes after him. Have you any money?”

  “I have a fairly large sum on me,” said Monsieur d’Anquetil, “and very glad I am of it, for I cannot think of going back to my house, where the police will not fail to search for me to take me to the Châtelet. I have forgotten my men left in Catherine’s house — God knows what has become of them; but I care little. I beat them and I never paid them, and yet I am not sure of their fidelity; on whom can one rely? Let us go to the cross roads of Bergères at once.”

  “Monsieur” said the Abbé, “I am going to make you a proposition, hoping that it may prove agreeable to you. Tournebroche and I are living in an alchemist’s workshop, in a tumble-down old château at the Cross of Les Sablons, where you can easily spend twelve hours without being seen. We will take you with us there, and we will wait until our carriage be ready. There is much advantage that Les Sablons is not far from the cross roads of Bergères.”

  Monsieur d’Anquetil did not gainsay these arrangements, and we decided — standing before the little Triton blowing water from his full cheeks — to go first to the Cross of Les Sablons and then to take a berline at the Hôtel du Cheval Rouge to drive us to Lyons.

  “I will confide to you, Monsieur,” said my good master, “that of the three bottles I took care to carry off with me one was unluckily broken on the head of Monsieur de la Guéritaude, the second broke in my pocket during my flight. They are both much to be regretted. The third was preserved intact against all hope — and here it is!”

  And drawing it from under his coat he placed it on the edge of the fountain.

  “That is one good thing,” said Monsieur d’Anquetil, “you have wine, I have dice and cards in my pocket. We can play.”

  “It is indeed excellent entertainment,” said my good master. “A game of cards, Monsieur, is a book of adventures of the kind we call romance, and it has this superiority over other books of its kind that one composes it even while one reads it, and one need not have wit to compose it, nor know one’s letters to read it. And it is furthermore a marvellous work, in that it makes sense and has a new meaning each time that one turns over the leaves. It is of such cunning design one cannot admire it sufficiently, for from mathematical laws it draws thousands and thousands of curious combinations and so many singular juxtapositions that people have been led to think, contrary to truth, that they could discover therein secrets of the heart, the mystery of fate, and the hidden things of the future. What I say is particularly applicable to the tarot of the Bohemians, which is the best of card games, but also may apply to the game of piquet. The invention of cards may be referred to the ancients, and for my part, although truth to tell, I know no text which positively supports me here, I believe them to be of Chaldean origin. But in its present form the game of piquet does not go further back than the time of Charles VII, and, if it is true, as is said in a learned dissertation which I remember to have read at Séez, that the Queen of Hearts represents in an emblematical manner the beautiful Agnes Sorel, and that the Queen of Spades is no other than Jeanne Dulys, also called Jeanne Darc, who by her bravery re-established the affairs of the monarchy, and was then boiled at Rouen by the English, in a cauldron they show one for two liards, and which I have seen in passing through that town. Certain historians pretend that this maiden was burnt alive at the stake. One reads in Nicole Gilles and in Pasquier, that Saint Catherine and Saint Marguerite appeared to her. But certainly it was not God who sent them, for there is no one, however little learned or pious, but knows that Marguerite and Catherine were invented by the Byzantine monks whose extravagant and barbarous imaginings have defiled the Martyrology. There is a ridiculous impiety in pretending that God made saints, who never existed, appear to Jeanne Dulys, but the old chroniclers were not afraid of giving us to understand this. Why did they not say that G
od sent to this maiden Yseulte the fair, Melusina, Bertha Big-Foot and all the heroines of the romances of chivalry whose existence is no more fabulous than that of the Virgin Catherine and the Virgin Marguerite? —

  “Monsieur de Valois in the last century rightly set himself against these gross fables, which are as much opposed to religion as error is contrary to truth. It is to be wished that some religious, instructed in history, should make the distinction between the real saints, whom it is fitting to venerate, and saints such as Marguerite, Luce or Lucie, and Eustace who are imaginary, and even St. George, of whom I have my doubts.

  “If ever some day I may retire to a fair abbey provided with a rich library, I will consecrate to this task the remainder of a life nearly worn out by tempest and shipwreck. I long for port and desire to taste the sweets of repose befitting my age and condition.”

  While Monsieur l’Abbé Coignard was making these memorable remarks, Monsieur d’Anquetil, without hearing him, seated on the edge of the basin — shuffled the cards and swore like a fiend, because one could not see to play a game of piquet.

  “You are right Monsieur,” said my good master, “one cannot see very well, and I feel some annoyance, less by thought of the cards which I can very easily do without, than for the wish I have to read some pages of the Consolations of Boethius, a copy of which in a small edition I always carry in my coat-pocket, that I may have it under my hand and open it directly I fall into misfortune, as happens to me to-day. For it is a cruel mischance, Monsieur, for a man of my kind to be a homicide and menaced with the ecclesiastical prisons. I feel that one single page of this admirable book would keep up my heart, which sinks at the very notion of the police.”

  Pronouncing these words he let himself sink over the inner side of the basin, and that so deeply, that he dipped the greater part of his person in the water — but he was not concerned, and seemed not even to perceive it, and drawing from his pocket his Boethius which was really there and donning his spectacles which had but one glass left and that broken in three places, he set himself to look in the little book for the page most appropriate to his situation. He would have found it no doubt, and would have drawn fresh strength from it if the ill-condition of his spectacles, the tears that rose to his eyes and the feeble light that fell from the sky had allowed the search. But he had soon to confess that he saw nothing and he fell out with the moon who showed her sharp horn from the edge of a cloud. He addressed her with vivacity and overwhelmed her with invective.

  “Thou obscene Star, mischievous and libidinous!” said he. “Thou never weariest of holding the candle to the wicked ways of men, and thou grudgest a ray of light to him who seeks a virtuous maxim!”

  “Well, well, l’Abbé,” said Monsieur d’Anquetil, “since this trollop of a moon gives us enough light to guide us through the street and not enough to play piquet, let us go straight to the château you spoke of and where I must enter without being seen.”

  The advice was good, and having drained the bottle by the neck we all three took the road to the Cross of Les Sablons, Monsieur d’Anquetil and I walked on ahead, my good master, hindered by all the water his breeches had absorbed, followed us weeping, groaning, and dripping.

  XVII

  OUR eyes were smarting in the early dawn when we reached the green door opening into the park of Les Sablons. We were under no necessity of knocking. For some time past the master of the house had given us the keys of his domain. We had planned that my good master should go forward cautiously with d’Anquetil in the shadow of the alley, and that I should remain behind a little to look out if necessary for the faithful Criton, and for any of the kitchen varlets who might catch sight of the intruder. This arrangement, which was only reasonable, was to cost me much anxiety. For at the moment when my two companions had already climbed the stairs, and gained without being seen my own room, where we had decided to hide Monsieur d’Anquetil till the time for our flight in the post-chaise, I had scarcely reached the second floor, and there I came upon Monsieur d’Astarac himself, clad in a robe of red damask, and bearing a silver torch. He put his hand on my shoulder as his habit was, and said to me:

  “Well, my son, are you not well content to have broken off all dealings with women, and so escaped all the dangers of bad company? You have no need to fear from these daughters of the air those quarrels and fights and violent and harmful scenes which commonly break out among creatures who lead an evil life. In your solitude, which the fairies make charming to you, you enjoy a delicious tranquillity.”

  At first I thought he spoke mockingly. But I soon recognised that he had no such intention.

  “Our meeting is very opportune, my son, and I should be much obliged to you if you would come to my workshop for a few moments.”

  I followed him. With a key at least an ell in length, he opened the door of that cursed room whence I had formerly seen the infernal flames dart forth. And when we had both entered the laboratory he asked me to make up the fire, which was dying out. I threw some logs of wood in the furnace, where something was cooking which gave forth a suffocating smell. While he shifted crucibles and retorts and compounded his unholy messes, I sat back on the bench where I had sunk down, and in spite of myself closed my eyes. He forced me to open them again to admire a vessel of green pottery capped with a glass top, which he held in his hand.

  “My son,” said he, “you must know that this sublimatory apparatus is called an aludel. It holds a liquid which you must carefully observe, for I am about to reveal to you that this liquid is no other than the mercury of the philosophers. Do not think it is always of so dark a hue. Before long it will become white, and in that state it transforms metals into silver. Then, owing to my skill and cunning, it will turn red, and acquire the virtue of transmuting silver into gold. It would be greatly to your profit, doubtless, if, shut up in this laboratory, you did not leave it before these sublime operations were little by little accomplished, which cannot take more than two or three months. But perchance, that would be putting too great a strain on your youth, so content yourself this time in watching the preliminaries of the work, heaping plenty of wood in the furnace meanwhile, if you please.”

  Having spoken thus, he disappeared once more among his bottles and retorts. Meanwhile I meditated on the unlucky position my ill-luck and imprudence had brought me to.

  Alas! I said to myself, throwing logs on the fire, at this very moment the police are seeking us, my good master and me, and we shall have perhaps to go to prison — we certainly shall have to leave this château where I had, though lacking money, board and a certain position. I shall never dare to appear again before Monsieur d’Astarac, who believes that I spent the night in the noiseless delights of magic, and it were indeed better I had done so. Alas! never again shall I see Mosaïde’s niece, she who in my little room so agreeably interrupted my slumbers. And no doubt she will forget me. Perhaps she will love another on whom she will bestow the same caresses as on me. The very thought of such infidelity, is intolerable to me. But seeing how the world wags, one must expect anything and everything.

  “My son,” said Monsieur d’Astarac, “you do not feed the athanor sufficiently. I perceive that you are not imbued enough with the true love of fire, whose qualities are capable of ripening this mercury and thus forming the marvellous fruit I shall soon be allowed to pluck. More wood! Fire, my son, is the superior element; I have often told you so, and I will give you an example. On a very cold day last winter I went to call on Mosaïde in his cottage. I found him seated with his feet on a foot-warmer, and noticed that the subtle and essential particles of the fire that escaped from the stove were powerful enough to swell and puff out the learned man’s gathered robe; whence I concluded that had the fire been fiercer Mosaïde would, without any doubt about it, have been raised up into the air, as he is verily worthy of such up-raising, and that were it possible to enclose in some vessel a large enough quantity of these particles of fire we might thus navigate the clouds as easily as we do to-day
the sea and visit the Salamanders in their ethereal abode. I shall think over that in the time to come at leisure. And I do not despair of being able to build one of those fiery vessels myself. But let us return to our work, and put some wood in the stove.”

  He kept me for a considerable time longer in this glowing chamber, whence I thought to escape as quickly as I could to rejoin Jael, to whom I was anxious to impart my woes. At length he left the workshop and I thought I was at liberty. But he disappointed my hopes once again.

  “The weather,” said he, “is quite mild to-day, although somewhat cloudy. Would it not be pleasant to take a walk in the park with me before continuing your work on Zozimus the Panopolitan, which will do much honour to you and your good master if you finish as well as you have begun.”

  Regretfully I followed him to the park, when he addressed me as follows:

  “I am not sorry, my son, to find myself alone with you to warn you, while there is yet time, against a great danger which may one day threaten you, and I reproach myself for not having thought of warning you sooner, for what I have to tell you is of extreme importance.”

  Speaking thus he led me to the main alley which descends to the marshes of the Seine, whence one sees Rueil and Mount Valerian with its Calvary. It was his daily walk. The path was practicable, notwithstanding several tree trunks lying across it.

  “It is necessary to make you understand,” he pursued, “to what you may be exposed in betraying your Salamander. I shall not question you on your dealings with this supernatural person whom I was fortunate enough to introduce to you. As far as I can judge you seem yourself to feel a certain repugnance in discussing her. And perhaps it is praiseworthy on your part. If Salamanders have not the same ideas as have women of the court and of the town on the discretion of their lovers, it is none the less true that it is of the essence of the beauty of love to be inexpressible — and that to spread abroad a deep-seated feeling is to profane it. —