by Howard Pyle
He crouched there for a while, weak and trembling in the reaction from his terror. At last he heaved a great sigh and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Then, rousing himself and feeling about him, he found that the passage-way continued at right angles with the bottom of the shaft. It seemed to Oliver that he could distinguish a faint gray light in the gloom with which he was enveloped. Nor was he mistaken, for, crawling slowly and painfully forward, he found that the light grew brighter and brighter.
Presently the passage took an upward turn, and by-and-by became so steep that Oliver could hardly struggle forward. At last it again became level and easy to traverse; and still the light grew brighter and brighter.
Suddenly the passage-way became horizontal again, and Oliver stopped in his forward scrambling, and, sitting helplessly down, began crying; for there in front of him, a few yards distant, the gray light of the fading evening shone in at a square window-like hole, and into it swept the sweet fresh open air, fragrant as violets after the close, dank smell of the rooms he had left.
It was through this passage-way that the silent rooms behind must have been supplied with pure air. At last Oliver roused himself, and scrambled forward and through the hole. He found that he had come through a blank wall and upon a little brick ledge or shelf that ran along it.
Not far away sat the cat by means of whose aid he had come forth thus to freedom — the end of the silken cord was still around its neck. It was a black and white mangy-looking creature, but Oliver could have kissed it in his joy. He reached out his hand towards it and called to it, but instead of answering it leaped from the brick ledge to the pavement beneath, and the next moment had disappeared into a blind alley across the narrow court upon which Oliver had come through the hole in the wall.
Oliver sat for a moment or two upon the brick ledge, looking about him. Across the way was a high windowless wall of a house, and below that, at a considerable distance, a low building with a double row of windows extending along the length of it. Close to him was a narrow door-way — the only other opening in the wall through which he had just come. The ledge upon which he sat ended abruptly at that door-way. Above him, and at the end of the alley-way, was another blind windowless wall. All this Oliver observed as he sat upon the ledge, swinging his heels. Then he turned and dropped lightly to the pavement beneath. Something chinked in his pocket as he did so; it was the two bottles of water.
“Thank Heaven!” said Oliver, heaving a sigh. “I am safe at last.”
There was a sharp click of the latch of the door near to where he stood, and then it opened. “Good-day, monsieur,” said a familiar voice. “Your uncle waits supper for you.” It was Gaspard, the servant, who stood in the door-way, bowing and grimacing respectfully as he held it open.
Oliver staggered back against the wall behind him, and there leaned, sick and dizzy. Presently he groaned, sick at heart, and looked up and down the length of the narrow street, but not another soul was in sight; there was nothing for him to do but to enter the door that Gaspard held open for him.
“Straight ahead, monsieur,” said Gaspard, bowing as Oliver passed him. “I will show you to your uncle, who is waiting for you.” He closed the door as he spoke, and, as Oliver stood aside, he passed him with another respectful bow, and led the way down the long, gloomy passage-way, lit only by a narrow window at the farther end.
Scene Sixth. — The master’s house.
At the end of the passage-way Gaspard opened another door, and then, motioning with his hand, bowed respectfully for the third time.
Oliver passed through the door-way, and it was as though he had stepped from the threshhold of one world into another. Never in his life had he seen anything like that world. He turned his head this way and that, looking about him in dumb bewilderment. In confused perception he saw white and gold panels, twinkling lights, tapestried furniture, inlaid cabinets glittering with glass and china, painted screens whereon shepherds and shepherdesses piped and danced, and white-wigged ladies and gentlemen bowed and postured. A black satin mask, a painted fan, and a slender glove lay upon the blue damask upholstery of a white and gold sofa that stood against the wall — the mask, the fan, and the glove of a fine lady. But all these things Oliver saw only in the moment of passing, for Gaspard led the way directly up the long room with a step silent as that of a cat. A heavy green silk curtain hung in the door-way. Gaspard drew it aside, and Oliver, still as in a dream, passed through and found himself in a small room crowded with rare books, porcelains, crystals, and what not.
“‘GOOD-DAY, MONSIEUR,’ SAID A FAMILIAR VOICE.”
But he had no sight for them; for in front of a glowing fire, protected by a square screen exquisitely painted, and reclining in the midst of cushions on a tapestried sofa, clad in a loose, richly-embroidered, quilted dressing-robe, his white hand holding a book, between the leaves of which his finger was thrust, his smiling face turned towards Oliver — sat the master.
As Oliver entered past the bowing Gaspard, he tossed the book aside upon the table, and sprang to his feet.
“Ah, Oliver, my dear child!” he cried. “Is it then thou again? Embrace me!” and he took the limp Oliver into his arms. “Where hast thou been?” And he drew back and looked into Oliver’s face.
“I do not know,” croaked Oliver, helplessly.
“Ah! Thou hast been gone a long time. Thou art hungry?”
“I was,” said Oliver, wretchedly; “but I am not hungry now.”
“Nay,” said the other; “thou must be hungry. See! Another little supper;” and he motioned with his hand.
Oliver had not noticed it before, but there was a table spread with a white damask cloth, and with chairs placed for two.
“Let Gaspard show you to your apartment, where you may wash and refresh yourself, and by that time the little supper will be ready.”
Oliver wondered what all this meant. He could scarcely believe that the smooth-spoken master and the quiet and well-trained serving-man were the same two as those white-faced demons who had grinned and gnashed at him across the blood-red line drawn around the door-way yonder, and yet he could not doubt it.
The supper was over, and the master, with his fingers locked around his glass, leaned across the table towards Oliver, who, after all, had made a good meal of it.
“THE QUESTION WAS SO SUDDEN AND SO STARTLING THAT OLIVER SANK BACK IN HIS SEAT.”
“And those bottles of water,” said he. “Did we then bring them with us from that place down yonder?” He jerked his head over his shoulder.
The question was so sudden and so startling that Oliver sank back in his seat, with all the strength gone out of his back — and he was just beginning to feel more easy. He could not speak a word in answer, but he nodded his head.
“Then give them to me,” said the other, sharply. And Oliver saw the delicate pointed fingers hook in spite of themselves.
But Oliver was no longer the Oliver that had sat on the bench in front of the inn at Flourens that little while ago; he had passed through much of late, he had gained wisdom, shrewdness, cunning. Instead of helplessly handing the two phials over to the other, as he might have done a few hours before, he suddenly pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet. Not far from him was a window that looked out upon the street; he stepped quickly to it, and flung it open. “Look!” he cried, in a ringing voice. “I know you now — you and your servant. You are devils! You are stronger than I, but I have some power.” He drew forth the two bottles from his pocket. “See!” said he, “here is what you have set your soul upon, and for which you desired to kill me. Without you promise me all that I ask, I will fling them both out upon the pavement beneath. And what then? They will be broken, and the water will run down into the gutter and be gone.”
There was a moment of dead silence, during which Oliver stood by the open window with the two phials in his hand, and the master sat looking smilingly at him. After a while the smile broke into a laugh.
“Come, Oliver,” said he, “you have learned much since I first saw you at Flourens. You are grand in your heroics. What, then, would you have of me, that you thus threaten?”
Oliver thought for a moment. “I would have you let me go from here safe and sound,” said he.
“Very good,” said the other. “And what else?”
“That you promise I shall suffer no harm either from you or your servant Gaspard.”
“Very good. And what else?”
“That you tell me the secret of that dreadful place where I have been.”
“Very good. And what else?”
“That you show me the virtue of this water.”
“Very good. And what else?”
“That you let me have half the gain that is to be had from it.”
“Very good. And what else?”
Oliver thought for a moment or two. “Why this!” said he; “that you tell me why you sought me out at Flourens, and how you knew that I had escaped from that pit into which you had locked me.”
“Very good. And what else?”
Oliver thought for another little while. “Nothing else,” said he at last.
Once more the other laughed. “If I refuse,” said he, “you throw those bottles out of the window?”
Oliver nodded.
“And you know what would then happen?”
Oliver nodded again.
“And if I promise,” said he, “what then?”
“I will give to you those bottles that you seek,” said Oliver.
“But what shall I promise by? My honor?”
Oliver shook his head.
The other laughed. “Do you not trust that?” said he. “No? By what, then, shall I promise?”
A sudden flash of recollection passed through Oliver’s mind, a sudden inspiration came to him. “Promise by this,” he cried, in a ringing voice — .
and he drew the figure which he had seen depicted upon the red line around the door-way at the bottom of the stone steps — the line that had kept back Gaspard and his master like a wall of adamant. The other’s face grew as black as thunder. There was a sharp click — he had crushed the glass in his hand to fragments. A drop of blood fell from his palm upon the table-cloth, but he did not seem to notice it.
“Promise by that?” said he, a little hoarsely.
“Yes,” said Oliver; “by that sign.”
The other swallowed as though a hard lump were in his throat. “Very well,” said he; “I promise.”
Oliver saw that the promise would be kept. He closed the window near to which he stood. When he turned around, the other’s face was smooth and smiling again.
“And now sit down,” said he, “and let us finish our little supper, then I will tell you the story of those rooms yonder, and of the dead lady whom you found there.”
THE STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBERS. A MONOLOGUE BY THE MASTER.
I.
The master drew his chair a little more around towards the fire, and drawing a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket, settled himself comfortably. “Did you ever hear,” said he, “of a certain Spaniard, a very learned man, a great philosopher, and a renowned alchemist, named Raymond Lulli?”
“No,” said Oliver; “I never heard tell of him.”
“Or of Arnold de Villeneuve, the great French doctor, also a renowned alchemist?”
“No,” said Oliver, “nor of him either.”
“Well, that is not surprising; your attention has not been called to such matters, and they died more than four hundred years ago. Nevertheless, the history of the room you saw down yonder relates to them, and I am about to tell you the story of it as well as I know it.
“It was luck or chance or fate, or whatever you call it, that first turned Raymond Lulli’s attention to alchemy. At the time he was studying Arabic in the mountains of Aranda, at the shrine of St. James de Castello.
“When his mistress, the beautiful Ambrosia de Compastello died, Raymond Lulli took it into his head to follow a droll fashion sometimes practised in those musty old days. He made a vow — perhaps rather hastily — to devote the rest of his life to religion; to spend it in converting Mussulmans to what was called the true faith. So, to prepare himself, he began studying Arabic in the mountains of Aranda.
“One day the Father Superior sent to him a great chest of Arabian books which had just been received at the convent. Among them was a curious little volume, square and bulky, which was not written in Arabic, but in characters of a kind which Raymond had never seen before, and which somewhat resembled Hebrew. Upon the first page of the book was a picture, and upon the last page was another. The first represented a flower with a blue stalk, red and white blossoms, and leaves of pure gold, which stood upon a mountain-top, and was bent by a gust of wind which blew from a blood-red cloud. Around the flower was a circle of open eyes. Above this circle was a naked hand holding a sword transversely by the blade. Below was a heart transfixed by what appeared to be a long pointed nail or spike. The picture upon the last page of the book represented a king with a golden sword in the act of killing a naked child, and a beautiful winged figure catching the blood in a crystal vase. At the head of the first page of the text of the book were three rubricated Arabic words. Below the last page of the text were three Hebrew words, also in rubrics. All six words had a meaning, but it is not necessary to tell you what they were or what they were intended to signify.
“Now it chanced one day that Raymond was reading a volume written by one Abou Ben Hassan, surnamed Al Sofi, or the Wise. The manuscript had been sent to him by the Father Superior in the same case with the curious little volume of which I have first spoken. This work of the learned Ben Hassan was written upon the subject of hermetic philosophy. In it was one passage upon which Raymond Lulli happened, and which altered the whole course of his life. The author was descanting upon the learning and wisdom of Hermes Trismegistus, of whom, Oliver, it is altogether likely that you never heard. The passage itself ran somewhat thus (I have often read it myself): ‘Since that time, so the words ran, hath never a man lived so wise as Hermes Trismegistus, saving only the great Geber (so called by the Christians, but whom the learned among the faithful knew better as Abou Moussah Djafar), who was, indeed, the ripest apple from the flowery tree of learning. He it was who wrote that great thesis, which, did it now exist (for it is, alas! lost to the world), and did there live a being possessed with deep and sufficient knowledge to read the same, would more enrich him who could interpret it, both with knowledge and with wealth, than any one who hath ever lived since the days of King Solomon. It would, moreover, teach him a knowledge of that by means of which he might prolong his life to a thousand years, if he so chose to prolong it. For the great Geber had collected with infinite pains and ripest study the wisdom hidden in the tombs and mountains of farther Egypt, and had in his work explicated those two mysterious arcana which the wisdom of ages hath striven in vain to penetrate, to wit, the secret of life and the secret of wealth. Yea, not even the great Hermes Trismegistus himself was able to solve those two questions, which are, indeed, the fruition of all learning — the attainment of unfailing life and of infinite wealth.
“‘But even were that volume, in which lieth hidden those tremendous secrets, to fall into the hands of man at this day, who at present now liveth could read or interpret it, or could understand a single one of those mysterious sentences of his wherein lieth hidden the secrets of life and wealth? For hath not the great Geber himself said, “He who would understand must first climb the mountain of difficulty, and pluck from the blue stem the red and white blossoms?” Hath not he also said, “He must, last of all, drink the blood of the infant from the crystal cup of the king and the seraphim?” And who liveth now that could understand these words, much less accomplish that task which he hath set as a bar across the path-way of knowledge — to pluck that flower and to drink that blood?’
“Such, my dear Oliver, are, as near as I can recollect, the very words of the learned Abou
Ben Hassan. Conceive, if you can, their effect upon Raymond Lulli. It was as though a thunder-bolt had fallen at his feet, and as though he beheld a great truth by the flash of light that accompanied it. That volume of the wise Geber, that repository of the two great secrets of the world, had fallen into his, Raymond Lulli’s, hands as though blown there by the wind of fate.
“Now, at that time the most learned man in Europe, perhaps the most learned in the world, was Arnold de Villeneuve. He was the most skilful physician and the greatest scholar of his day, and was in the very height and prime of his powers. Raymond Lulli determined to apply to him for a solution of the mysteries of the little volume, and thereupon set out at once for Paris to accomplish his purpose.
“Accordingly, one morning, as Arnold sat in his cabinet engrossed in his studies, there came a rap upon the door. It was the servant, who announced a stranger below. The doctor bade the servant show him in. It was Raymond Lulli, dusty and travel-stained.
“As soon as the servant had quitted the room, he came close to the table at which Arnold sat, and addressed him in the grandiloquent way of the day, somewhat in this fashion: ‘I have come a long and weary way, I have taken a bitter and toilsome journey to seek you, and to beseech of you to give me one little measure from your great storehouse of wisdom and learning.’ So saying, he thrust his hand into his bosom and brought forth the little volume, wrapped carefully in the folds of a linen cloth. He opened it, and held it before the eyes of Arnold de Villeneuve. ‘Tell me, master,’ said he, ‘in what language and with what characters is this little volume written?’
“Arnold laughed. ‘It is written in ancient Chaldee, my son,’ said he. ‘And have you, then, sought me out to answer you such a question as that? There are many other scholars in Europe who could have told you as much.’
“‘No, master,’ said Raymond; ‘it was not alone for that that I sought you, for, as you say, there are others that could have told me as much; but who save you could unfold to me the meaning of this?’ And he opened the book at the first picture representing the flower upon the mountain-top. ‘And who but you, the great Arnold de Villeneuve, could teach me how to climb the mountain of knowledge and pluck the flower of wisdom? Will you teach me that, master?’