“Come,” he said to me, “I’ll introduce you.”
I followed, you may suppose, readily enough.
The Marquis presented me, with a very prettily-turned allusion to my fortunate intervention in his favour at the Belle Étoile; and the Count overwhelmed me with polite speeches, and ended by saying, what pleased me better still:
“The Countess is near us, in the next salon but one, chatting with her old friend the Duchesse d’Argensaque; I shall go for her in a few minutes; and when I bring her here, she shall make your acquaintance; and thank you, also, for your assistance, rendered with so much courage when we were so very disagreeably interrupted.”
“You must, positively, speak with the magician,” said the Marquis to the Count de St. Alyre, “you will be so much amused. I did so; and, I assure you, I could not have anticipated such answers! I don’t know what to believe.”
“Really! Then, by all means, let us try,” he replied.
We three approached, together, the side of the palanquin, at which the black-bearded magician stood.
A young man, in a Spanish dress, who, with a friend at his side, had just conferred with the conjuror, was saying, as he passed us by:
“Ingenious mystification! Who is that in the palanquin. He seems to know everybody.”
The Count, in his mask and domino, moved along, stiffly, with us, toward the palanquin. A clear circle was maintained by the Chinese attendants, and the spectators crowded round in a ring.
One of these men—he who with a gilded wand had preceded the procession—advanced, extending his empty hand, palm upward.
“Money?” inquired the Count.
“Gold,” replied the usher.
The Count placed a piece of money in his hand; and I and the Marquis were each called on in turn to do likewise as we entered the circle. We paid accordingly.
The conjuror stood beside the palanquin, its silk curtain in his hand; his chin sunk, with its long, jet-black beard, on his chest; the outer hand grasping the black wand, on which he leaned; his eyes were lowered, as before, to the ground; his face looked absolutely lifeless. Indeed, I never saw face or figure so moveless, except in death.
The first question the Count put, was—
“Am I married, or unmarried?”
The conjuror drew back the curtain quickly, and placed his ear toward a richly-dressed Chinese, who sat in the litter; withdrew his head, and closed the curtain again; and then answered—
“Yes.”
The same preliminary was observed each time, so that the man with the black wand presented himself, not as a prophet, but as a medium; and answered, as it seemed, in the words of a greater than himself.
Two or three questions followed, the answers to which seemed to amuse the Marquis very much; but the point of which I could not see, for I knew next to nothing of the Count’s peculiarities and adventures.
“Does my wife love me?” asked he, playfully.
“As well as you deserve.”
“Whom do I love best in the world?”
“Self.”
“Oh! That I fancy is pretty much the case with everyone. But, putting myself out of the question, do I love anything on earth better than my wife?”
“Her diamonds.”
“Oh!” said the Count.
The Marquis, I could see, laughed.
“Is it true,” said the Count, changing the conversation peremptorily, “that there has been a battle in Naples?”
“No; in France.”
“Indeed,” said the Count, satirically, with a glance round. “And may I inquire between what powers, and on what particular quarrel?”
“Between the Count and Countess de St. Alyre, and about a document they subscribed on the 25th July, 1811.”
The Marquis afterwards told me that this was the date of their marriage settlement.
The Count stood stock-still for a minute or so; and one could fancy that they saw his face flushing through his mask.
Nobody, but we two, knew that the inquirer was the Count de St. Alyre.
I thought he was puzzled to find a subject for his next question; and, perhaps, repented having entangled himself in such a colloquy. If so, he was relieved; for the Marquis, touching his arm, whispered—
“Look to your right, and see who is coming.”
I looked in the direction indicated by the Marquis, and I saw a gaunt figure stalking toward us. It was not a masque. The face was broad, scarred, and white. In a word, it was the ugly face of Colonel Gaillarde, who, in the costume of a corporal of the Imperial Guard, with his left arm so adjusted as to look like a stump, leaving the lower part of the coat-sleeve empty, and pinned up to the breast. There were strips of very real sticking-plaster across his eyebrow and temple, where my stick had left its mark, to score, hereafter, among the more honourable scars of war.
XIII
The Oracle Tells Me Wonders
I forgot for a moment how impervious my mask and domino were to the hard stare of the old campaigner, and was preparing for an animated scuffle. It was only for a moment, of course; but the Count cautiously drew a little back as the gasconading corporal, in blue uniform, white vest, and white gaiters—for my friend Gaillarde was as loud and swaggering in his assumed character as in his real one of a colonel of dragoons—drew near. He had already twice all but got himself turned out of doors for vaunting the exploits of Napoleon le Grand, in terrific mock-heroics, and had very nearly come to handgrips with a Prussian hussar. In fact, he would have been involved in several sanguinary rows already, had not his discretion reminded him that the object of his coming there at all, namely, to arrange a meeting with an affluent widow, on whom he believed he had made a tender impression, would not have been promoted by his premature removal from the festive scene, of which he was an ornament, in charge of a couple of gendarmes.
“Money! Gold! Bah! What money can a wounded soldier like your humble servant have amassed, with but his sword-hand left, which, being necessarily occupied, places
