His left hand leaned on a clubhandled whip while with his right he made signs which Balsamo understood, for he tapped his forehead with his forefinger to imply the same. The postilion’s hand then flew to his breast where he made a new sign which the uninitiated would have taken for undoing a button. To this the count responded by showing a ring on his finger.
“The Grand Master,” muttered the envoy, bending the knee to this redoubtable token.
“Whence come you?” asked Balsamo.
“From Rouen last. I am courier to the Duchess of Grammont, in whose service the Great Copt placed me with the order to have no secrets from the Master.”
“Whither go you?”
“To Versailles with a letter for the First Minister.”
“Hand it to me.”
The messenger gave Balsamo a letter from a leather bag strapped to his back.
“Wait, Fritz!” The German who had withdrawn, came to take “Sebastian” to the servant’ hall, and he went away, amazed that the Chief knew his name.
“He knows all,” remarked the servant.
Remaining alone Balsamo looked at the clear impression of the seal on the wax which the courier’s glance had seemed to beg him to respect. Slowly and thoughtfully, he went upstairs to the room where he had left Lorenza in the mesmeric slumber. She had not stirred, but she was fatigued and unnerved by the inaction. She grasped his hand convulsively when offered. He took her by the hand which squeezed his convulsively and on her heart laid the letter.
“Do you see – what do I hold in my hand – can you read this letter?”
With her eyes closed, her bosom heaving, Lorenza recited the following words which the mesmerist wrote down by this wonderful dictation.
“DEAR BROTHER: As I foresaw, my exile has brought me some good. I saw the President of the Parliament at Rouen who is on our side but timid. I pressed him in your name and, deciding, he will send the remonstrances of his friends before the week is out, to Versailles. I am off at once to Rennes, to stir up Karadeuc and Lachalotais who have gone to sleep. Our Caudebec agent was at Rouen, and I saw him. England will not pause on the road, but is preparing a smart advice for the Versailles Cabinet. X asked me if it should go and I authorized it. You will receive the very latest lampoons against Dubarry’s squibs, but they will raise a town. An evil rumor has reached me that you were in disgrace but I laugh at it since you have not written me to that effect. Still do not leave me in doubt, but write me by return of courier. Your next will find me at Caen, where I have some of our adherents to warm up. Farewell, with kisses, Your loving
Balsamo’s forehead had cleared as the clairvoyante proceeded. “A curious document,” he commented, “which would be paid for dearly. How can they write such damning things? It is always women who ruin superior men. This Choiseul could not be overthrown by an army of enemies or a multitude of intrigues, and lo! the breath of a woman crushes him while caressing. If we have a heart, and a sensitive cord in that heart, we are lost.”
So saying he looked tenderly towards Lorenza who palpitated under his regard.
“Is what I think true?” he asked her.
“No,” she answered, ardently; “You see that I love you too well to destroy you as a senseless and heartless woman would do.”
Alas! in her mesmeric trance she spoke and felt just the contrary to what swayed her in her waking mood.
He let the arms of his enchantress interlace him till the warning bell of Fritz sounded twice.
“Two visits,” he interpreted.
A violent peal finished the telegraphed phrase.
Disengaging himself from Lorenza’s clasp, Balsamo left the room, the woman being still in the magnetic sleep. On the way he met the courier.
“Here is the letter. Bear it to the address. That is all.”
The adept of the Order looked at the envelope and the seal, and seeing that both were intact, he manifested his joy, and disappeared in the shadows.
“What a pity I could not keep such an autograph,” sighed the magician “and what a pity it cannot be placed by sure hands before the King.”
“Who is there?” he asked of Fritz who appeared.
“A young and pretty lady with an old gentleman whom I do not know as they have never called before.”
“Where are they?”
“In the parlor.”
Balsamo walked into the room where the countess had concealed her face completely in her cloak hood; she looked like a woman of the lower middle class. The marshal, more shrinking than she, was garbed in grey like an upper servant in a good house.
“My lord count,” began Dubarry, “do you know me?”
“Perfectly, my lady the countess. Will you please take a seat, and also your companion.”
“My steward,” said the lady.
“You are in error,” said the host bowing; “this is the Duke of Richelieu, whom I readily recognize and who would be very ungrateful if he did not recall one who saved his life – I might say drew him back from among the dead.”
“Oh, do you hear that, duke?” exclaimed the lady laughing.
“You, saved my life, count?” questioned Richelieu, in consternation.
“Yes, in Vienna, in 1725, when your grace was Ambassador there.”
“You were not born at that date!”
“I must have been, my lord,” replied Balsamo smiling, “for I met you dying, say dead, on a handbarrow with a fine swordthrust right through your midriff. By the same token, I dropped a little of my elixir on the gash – there, at the very place where you wear lace rather too rich for a steward!”
“But you are scarce over thirty, count,” expostulated the duke.
“But you must see that you are facing a wizard,” said the countess bursting into laughter.
“I am stupefied. In that case you would be – ”
“Oh, we wizards change our names for every generation, my lord. In 1725, the fashion for us was to end in us, os or as, and there is no ground for astonishment that I should have worn a name either in Greek or Latin. But, Althotas or Balsamo, or Fenix, I am at your orders, countess – and at yours, duke.”
“Count, the marshal and I have come to consult you.”
“It is doing me much honor, but it is natural that you should apply to me.”
“Most naturally, for your prediction that I should become a queen is always trotting in my brain: still I doubt its coming true.”
“Never doubt what science says, lady.”
“But the kingdom is in a sore way – it would want more than three drops of the elixir which sets a duellist on his legs.”
“Ay, but three words may knock a minister off his!” retorted the magician. “There, have I hit it? Speak!”
“Perfectly,” replied the fair visitress trembling. “Truly, my lord duke, what do you say to all this?”
“Oh, do not be wonderstricken for so little,” observed Balsamo, who could divine what troubled so the favorite and the court conspirator without any witchcraft.
“The fact is I shall think highly of you if you suggest the remedy we want,” went on the marshal.
“You wish to be cured of the attacks of Choiseul?”
“Yes, great soothsayer, yes.”
“Do not leave us in the plight, my lord; your honor is at stake,” added the lovely woman.
“I