Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Try it,” the astrologer answered curtly.

  M. de Vidoche did, and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “All the same, I will get out of this, Give me the stuff, will you?”

  The man in black raised the lamp in one hand, and with the other selected from the crucible two tiny yellow packets. He stood a moment, weighing them in his hand and looking lovingly at them, and seemed unwilling to part with them. “They are power,” he said, in a voice that was little above a whisper. The alarm had tried even his nerves, and he was not quite himself. “The greatest power of all — death. They are the key of the Upper Portal — the true Pulvis Olympicus. Take one to-day, one to-morrow, in liquid, and you will feel neither hunger, nor cold, nor want, nor desire any more for ever. The late King of England took one; but there, it is yours, my friend.”

  “Is it painful?” the young man whispered, shuddering, and with eyes averted.

  The tempter grinned horribly. “What is that to you?” he said. “It will not bring her mouth to the back of her neck. That is enough for you to know.”

  “It will not be detected?”

  “Not by the bunglers they call doctors,” the astrologer answered scornfully. “Blind bats! You may trust me for that. Of what did the King of England die? A tertian ague. So will madame. But if you think — —”

  He stopped on a sudden, his hand in the air, and the two stood gazing at one another with alarm printed on their faces. The loud clanging note of a bell, harshly struck in the house, came dolefully to their ears “What is it?” M. de Vidoche muttered uneasily.

  “A client,” the astrologer answered quietly. “I will see. Do not stir until I come back to you.”

  M. de Vidoche made an impatient movement towards the door in the Rue Touchet: and doubtless he would much have preferred to be gone at once, since he had now got what he wanted. But the man in black was already unlocking the door at the head of the little staircase, and uttering a querulous oath M. de Vidoche resigned himself to wait. With a dark look he hid the powders on his person.

  * * * * *

  He thought himself alone. But all the same a white-faced boy lay within a few feet of him, watching his every movement, and listening to his breathing — a small boy, instinct with hate and loathing. Impunity renders people careless, or M. Nôtredame would not have been so ready to set down the noise his confederate made to the toad. The Judas-hole and the spying-place would have come to mind, and in a trice he would have caught the listener in the act, and this history would never have been written.

  For Jehan, though his master’s first entrance and appearance had sent him fleeing, breathless and panic-stricken, from his post, had not been able to keep aloof long. The house was dull, silent, dark; only in the closet was amusement to be found. So while terror dragged him one way, curiosity haled him the other, and at last had the victory. He listened and shivered at the head of the stairs until that shrill eldritch peal of laughter in which the astrologer indulged, and for which he was destined to pay dearly, penetrated even the thick door. Then he could hold out no longer. His curiosity grew intolerable. Laughter! Laughter in that house! Slowly and stealthily the boy opened the door of the dark closet, and crept in. Just across the threshold he stumbled over the extinguished taper, and this it was which caused M. de Vidoche’s alarm.

  Jehan fancied himself discovered, and lay sweating and trembling until the search for the toad was over. Then he sat up, and, finding himself safe, began to listen. What he heard was not clear, nor perfectly intelligible; but gradually there stole even into his boyish mind a perception of something horrible. The speakers’ looks of fear, their low tones and dark glances, the panic which seized them when they fancied themselves overheard, and their relief when nothing came of it, did more to bring the conviction home to his mind than their words. Even of these he caught enough to assure him that someone was to be poisoned — to be put out of the world. Only the name of the victim — that escaped him.

  * * * * *

  Probably M. de Vidoche, left to himself, found, his thoughts poor company, for by-and-by he grew restless. He walked across the room and listened, and walked again and listened. The latter movement brought him by chance to the foot of the little flight of six steps by which the astrologer had retired, and he looked up and saw that the door at the top was ajar. Impelled by curiosity, or suspicion, or the mere desire to escape from himself, he stole up, and, opening it farther, thrust his head through and listened.

  He remained in this position about a minute. Then he turned, and crept down again, and stood, thinking, at the foot of the stairs, with an expression of such utter and complete amazement on his face as almost transformed the man. Something he had heard or seen which he could not understand! Something incredible, something almost miraculous! For all else, even his guilty purpose, seemed swallowed up in sheer astonishment.

  The stupor held him until he heard the astrologer’s steps. Even then he only turned and looked. But if ever dumb lips asked a question, his did then.

  The man in black nodded silently. He seemed not at all surprised that the other had heard or seen what he had. Even in him the thing, whatever it was, had worked a change. His eyes shone, his eyebrows were raised, his face wore a pale smile of triumph and conceit.

  M. de Vidoche found his voice at last “My wife!” he whispered.

  The astrologer’s shoulders went up to his ears. He spread out his hands. He nodded — once, twice. “Mais oui, Madame!” he said.

  “Here? — now?” M. de Vidoche stammered, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  “She is in the chamber of the astrolabe.”

  “Mon Dieu!” the husband exclaimed. “Mon Dieu!” And then for a moment he shook, as if someone were passing over his grave. His face was pale. There was dread mingled with his surprise. “I do not understand,” he muttered at last. “What does it mean? What is she doing here?”

  “She has come for a love-philtre,” M. Nôtredame answered, with a sphinx-like smile.

  “For whom?”

  “For you.”

  The husband drew a deep breath. “For me?” he exclaimed. “Impossible!”

  “Possible,” the man in black answered quietly; “and true.”

  “Then what shall you do?”

  “Give her one,” the astrologer answered. The enigmatical smile, which had been all along playing on his face, grew deeper, keener, more cruel. His eyes gleamed with triumph — and evil. “I shall give her one,” he said again.

  “But — what will she do with it?” M. de Vidoche muttered.

  “Take it! You fool, cannot you understand?” the man in black answered sharply. “Give me back the powders. I shall give them to her. She will take them — herself. You will be saved — all!”

  M. de Vidoche reeled. “My God!” he cried. “I think you are the devil!”

  “Perhaps,” the man in black answered “but give me the powders.”

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE POWDER OF ATTRACTION.

  Meanwhile, a few yards away, in the room of the astrolabe, Madame de Vidoche sat, waiting and trembling, afraid to move from the spot where the astrologer had placed her, and longing for his return. The minutes seemed endless, the house a grave. The silence and mystery which wrapped her round, the sombre hangings, the burning candles, the cabalistic figures filled her with awe and apprehension. She was a timid woman; nothing but that last and fiercest hunger of all, the hunger for love, could have driven her to this desperate step or brought her here. But she was here, it had brought her; and though fear blanched her cheek, and her limbs shook under her, and she dared not pray — for what was this she was doing? — she did not repent, or wish the step untaken, or go back on her desire.

  The place was dreadful to her; but not so dreadful as the cold home, the harsh words, the mockery of love, the slowly growing knowledge that there never had been love, from which she was here to escape. She was alone, but not more lonely than she had been for months in her own house. The man who daily met her
with gibes and taunts, and seldom spoke without reminding her how pale and colourless she showed beside the florid witty beauties of the Court — his friends — was still her all, and had been her idol. If he failed her, the world was empty indeed. Only one thing remained therefore; by hook or crook, by all a woman might do or dare, by submission, by courage, to win back his love. She had tried. God knows she had tried! She had knelt to him, and he had struck her. She had dressed and been gay, and striven to jest as his friends jested: he had scourged her with a cutting sneer. She had prayed, and Heaven had not answered. She had turned from Heaven — a white-faced, pining woman, little more than a girl — and she was here.

  Only let the man be quick! Let him be quick and give her what she sought; and then scarcely any price he could ask should strain her gratitude. At last she heard his step, and in a moment he came in. Against the black background, and seen by the gloomy light of the candles, he looked taller, leaner, paler, more sombre than life. His eyes glowed with unnatural lustre. Madame shuddered as he came towards her; and he saw it, and grinned behind his cadaverous mask.

  “Madame,” he said gravely, bowing his head, “it is as I hoped. Venus is in the ascendant for nine days from to-day, and in fortunate conjunction with Mars. I am happy that you come to me at a time so propitious. A very little effort at this season will suffice. But it is necessary, if you would have the charm work, to preserve the most absolute silence and secrecy in regard to it.”

  Her lips were dry, her tongue seemed to cleave to her mouth. She felt shame as well as fear in this man’s presence. But she made an effort, and muttered, “It will work?”

  “I will answer for it!” he replied bluntly, a world of dubious meaning in his tone and eyes. “It is the powder of attraction, by the use of which Diane de Poitiers won the love of the king, though she surpassed him by twenty years; and Madame de Valentinois held the hearts of men till her seventieth winter. Madame de Hautefort uses it. It is made of liquid gold, etherealised and strengthened with secret drugs. I have made up two packets, but it will be safer if madame will take both at once, dissolved in good wine and before the expiration of the ninth day.”

  Madame de Vidoche took the packets, trembling. A little red dyed her pale cheeks. “Is that all?” she murmured, faintly.

  “All, madame; except that when you drink it, you must think of your husband,” he answered. As he said this he averted his face; for, try as he would, he could not check the evil smile that curled his lip. Dieu! Was ever so grim a jest known? Or so forlorn, so helpless, so infantine a fool? He could almost find it in his heart to pity her. As for her husband — ah, how he would bleed him when it was over!

  “How much am I to pay you, sir?” she asked timidly, when she had hidden away the precious packets in her bosom. She had got what she wanted; she was panting to be gone.

  “Twenty crowns,” he answered, coldly. “The charm avails for nine moons. After that — —”

  “I shall need more?” she asked; for he had paused.

  “Well, no, I think not,” he answered slowly — hesitating strangely, almost stammering. “I think in your case, madame, the effect will be lasting.”

  She had no clue to the fantastic impulse, the ghastly humour, which inspired the words; and she paid him gladly. He would not take the money in his hands, but bade her lay it on the great open book, “because the gold was alloyed, and not virgin.” In one or two other ways he played his part; directing her, for instance, if she would increase the strength of the charm, to gaze at the planet Venus for half an hour each evening, but not through glass or with any metal on her person. And then he let her out by the door which opened on the quiet street.

  “Madame has, doubtless, her woman, or some attendant?” he said, looking up and down. “Or I — —”

  “Oh, yes, yes!” she answered, gasping in the cold night air. “She is here. Goodnight, sir.”

  He muttered some words in a strange tongue, and, as Madame de Vidoche’s attendant came out of the shadow to meet her, turned and went in again.

  The night was dark as well as cold, but madame, in the first fervour of her spirits, did not heed it. She suffered her maid to wrap her up warmly, and draw the cloak more closely round her throat; but she was scarcely conscious of the attention, and bore it as a child might — in silence. Her eyes shone in the darkness; her heart beat with a soft subtle joy. She had the charm — the key to happiness! It was in her bosom; and every moment, under cover of the cloak and night, her fingers flew to it and assured her it was safe. The scruples with which she had contemplated the interview troubled her no longer. In her joy and relief that the ordeal was over and the philtre gained, she knew no doubt, no suspicion. She lived only for the moment when she might put the talisman to the test, and see love wake again in those eyes which, whether they smiled or scowled, fate had made the lodestones of her life.

  The streets, by reason of the cold, were quiet enough. No one remarked the two women as they flitted along under cover of the wall. Presently, however, the bell of a church close at hand began to ring for service, and the sound, startling madame, brought her suddenly, chillily, sharply, to earth again. She stopped. “What is that?” she said. “It cannot be compline. It wants three hours of midnight.”

  “It is St. Thomas’s Day,” the woman with her answered.

  “So it is,” madame replied, moving on again, but more slowly. “Of course; it is four days to Christmas. Don’t they call him the Apostle of Faith, Margot?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “To be sure,” madame rejoined thoughtfully. “To be sure; yes, we should have faith — we should have faith.” And with that she buoyed herself up again (as people will in certain moods, using the strangest floats), and went on gaily, her feet tripping to the measure of her heart, and her hand on the precious packet that was to change the world for her. On the foullest mud gleams sometimes the brightest phosphorescence: otherwise it were not easy to conceive how even momentary happiness could come of the house in the Rue Touchet!

  The two women had nearly reached the Church of St. Gervais by the Grève, when the sound of a swift stealthy footstep coming along the street behind them caught the maid’s ear. It was not a reassuring sound at night and in that place. The dark square of the Grève, swept by the icy wind from the river, lay before them; and though a brazier, surrounded by a knot of men belonging to the watch, burned in the middle of the open, the two women were reluctant to show themselves where they might meet with rudeness. Margot laid her hand on her mistress’s arm, and for a few seconds the two stood listening, with thumping hearts. The step came on — a light, pattering step. Acting on a common impulse the women turned and looked at one another. Then slipping noiselessly into the shadow cast by the church porch, they pressed themselves against the wall, and stood scarcely daring to breathe.

  But fortune was against them, or their follower’s eye was keen beyond the ordinary. They had not been there many seconds before he came running up — a stooping figure, slight and short. He slackened speed abruptly, and stopped exactly opposite their lurking-place. A moment of suspense, and then a pale face, rendered visible by a gleam from the distant fire, looked in on them, and a thin, panting voice murmured timidly, “Madame! Madame de Vidoche, if you please!”

  “‘MADAME! MADAME DE VIDOCHE, IF YOU PLEASE!’” ()

  “Saint Siége!” madame’s woman gasped, in a voice of astonishment. “I declare it is a child!”

  Madame almost laughed in her relief. “Ah!” she said, “how you frightened us! I thought you were a man dogging us — a thief!”

  “I am not,” the boy said simply.

  This time Margot laughed. “Who are you, then?” she asked, briskly stepping out, “and why have you been following us? You seem to have my lady’s name pretty pat,” she added, sharply.

  “I want to speak to her,” the boy answered, his lip trembling. In truth, he was trembling all over with fear and excitement. But the darkness hid that.

  “Oh!
” Madame de Vidoche said graciously. “Well, you may speak. But tell me first who you are, and be quick about it. It is cold and late.”

  “I am from the house where you have been,” Jehan answered bravely. “You saw me at Les Andelys, too, when you were at supper, madame. I was the boy at the door. I want to speak to you alone, please.”

  “Alone!” madame exclaimed.

  The boy nodded firmly. “If you please,” he said.

  “Hoity-toity!” Margot exclaimed; and she was for demurring. “He only wants to beg,” she said.

  “I don’t!” the boy cried, with tears in his voice.

  “Then it is a present he wants!” she rejoined, scornfully. “They expect their vales at those places. And we are to freeze while he makes a tale.”

  But madame, out of pity or curiosity, would hear him. She bade the woman wait a few paces away. And when they were alone: “Now,” she said kindly, “what is it? You must be quick, for it is very cold.”

  “He sent me after you — with a message,” Jehan answered.

  Madame started, and her hand went to the packet. “Do you mean M. Nôtredame?” she murmured.

  The boy nodded. “He — he said he had forgotten one thing,” he continued, halting between his sentences and shivering. “He — he said you were to alter one thing, madame.”

  “Oh!” Madame answered frigidly, her heart sinking, her pride roused by this intervention of the boy, who seemed to know all. “What thing, if you please?”

  Jehan looked quickly and fearfully over his shoulder. But all was quiet. “He said he had forgotten that your husband was dark,” he stammered.

  “Dark!” madame muttered in astonishment.

  “Yes, dark-complexioned,” Jehan continued desperately. “And that being so, you were not to take the — the charm yourself.”

  Madame’s eyes flashed with anger. “Oh!” she said, “indeed! And is that all?”

  “But to give it to him, without telling him,” the boy rejoined, with sudden spirit and firmness.