“Eh, my God! You, who are one of the greatest philanthropists I ever knew in all modern times and in antiquity, should be aware of an axiom, honoured in all times, ‘Money does not bring happiness.’ I have seen you comparatively rich.”

  “Yes, it is true. I had a hundred thousand francs. But what are a hundred thousand francs to the huge sums you expend?”

  “Now tell me,” said Cagliostro, “would you change your position, even though you have not one louis, except that you took from the unfortunate Toussaint?”

  “Monsieur!” said the old bailiff.

  “Do not let us quarrel, M. de Beausire; we did so once, and you had to look on the other side of the window for your sword. You remember? See what a thing it is to have memory. Well, I ask you now, would you change your position, though you have only the unfortunate louis you took from poor Toussaint,” on this occasion the allegation passed without any recrimination, “for the precarious position from which I have sought to extricate you?”

  “Indeed, count, you are right: I would not change. Alas, at that time I was separated from my dear Nicole.”

  “And slightly pursued by the police, on account of your Portugal affair, M. de Beausire. It was a bad affair, as far as I can recollect.”

  “It is forgotten, count,” said Beausire.

  “Ah! so much the better, for it must have made you uneasy. Do not, however, be too confident that such is the case. Rude divers are found in the police, and it matters not how deep the waters of oblivion be, some of them might reach the bottom; a great crime is found as easy as a rich pearl.”

  “But, count, for the misery to which we are reduced —

  “You would be happy. You only need a thousand louis to be completely happy.”

  The eyes of Nicole glittered; those of Beausire seemed a jet of flame.

  Beausire said, “With the half we would buy, that is to say, had we twenty-four thousand livres, we would buy a farm, with the other, some little rent, and I would become a labourer.”

  “Like Cincinnatus.”

  “While Nicole would devote herself entirely to the education of her child.”

  “Like Cornelia. Monsieur de Beausire, this would be beautiful; but you do not expect to earn that money in the affair you are at present engaged in.”

  Beausire trembled. “What affair?”

  “That in which you are to figure as a sergeant of the guards — the affair for which you have a rendezvous to-night under the arches of the Place Royale?”

  Beausire became pale as death. “Count,” said he, clasping his hands in a supplicating manner.

  “What?” — ”Do not ruin me.”

  “Good! you digress already; am I a policeman?”

  “Now I told you,” said Nicole, “that you were engaged in some wicked business.”

  “Then you too, Mdlle. Legay, know about this business?”

  “No, count, only this: whenever he conceals anything from me, the reason is, that it is bad, and I cannot be quiet.”

  “Everything has a good and a bad side; good for some, bad for others; any operation cannot be good for all or bad for all. Well, it is important to be on the right side.”

  “Well, and it appears that I am not to be on the right side?”

  “Not at all, M. de Beausire, not at all; I will add even, that if you engage in it on this occasion, not your honour, but your life will be in danger; besides risking your fortune, you will certainly be hung.”

  “Monsieur,” said De Beausire, trying to keep his countenance, but wiping away the sweat on his brow, “noblemen are not hung.”

  “That is true; but to obtain the honour of decollation, it will be necessary to prove your pedigree, which probably is so long, that the court would become weary, and order you to be hung. But perhaps you will say, when the cause is good the mode matters little:

  ‘Tis not the axe that brings disgrace, but crime!’

  as a great poet has said.”

  Yet more and more terrified, De Beausire said: “Yes; one is not so much devoted to his opinions as to shed one’s life for them.”

  “Diable, ‘one can live but once,’ as a great poet said, not so great as the first, however, but who yet had something of reason about him.”

  “Count, in the course of the little intercourse I have had with you. I have observed that you have a way of talking which makes a man’s hair stand erect, especially if he be a timid man.”

  “Diable, that is not my intention,” said Cagliostro: “besides, you are not a timid man.”

  “No,” said Beausire, “not if it be necessary to be otherwise, but under certain circumstances.”

  “Yes, I understand: where the galleys for theft are behind a man, and before him a gallows for high treason, lese-nation now, as it used to be called lese-majeste. It would be now lese-nation to carry away the king.”

  “Monsieur!” said Beausire, with terror.

  “Unfortunate man!” said Oliva: “was it on this carrying away that you built all your hopes of gold?”

  “And he was not altogether wrong, my dear, except as I had the honour just now to tell you, everything has a good and a bad side. Beausire was stupid enough to kiss the bad faces, to side with the wrong parties; he has but to change, and all will be right.”

  “Has he time?” — ”Certainly.”

  “Count,” cried Beausire, “what must I do?”

  “Fancy one thing, my dear sir,” said Cagliostro.

  “What?”

  “Suppose your plot fails; suppose the accomplices of the masked man, the man with the brown cloak, be arrested and condemned to death. Suppose — do not be offended by supposition; after supposition we will ultimately arrive at a fact — suppose yourself one of those accomplices — suppose the rope around your neck, and in reply to your lamentations you were told — for in such a situation a man always laments, more or less, be he ever so brave — ”

  “Go on, count, go on, for mercy’s sake. It seems to me I am already strangled.”

  “Pardieu, it is not surprising, I suppose, to you to feel the rope around your neck, eh? Well, suppose they were to reply to all your lamentations, my dear M. de Beausire, ‘It is your own fault’?”

  “How so?” said Beausire.

  “‘How is this?’ the voice will say; ‘you might not only have escaped from the unpleasant fix in which you are, but also have gained a thousand louis, with which you could have bought the pretty house in which you were to have lived with Mademoiselle Oliva and little Toussaint, with the income of five hundred livres, derived from the twelve thousand not expended in the purchase of the house, you might live, as you say, like a farmer, wearing slippers in summer and wooden shoes in winter. Instead of this charming picture, however, we have before our eyes the Place de Greve, planted with two or three ugly-looking scaffolds, from the arm of the highest of which you hang. Pah! De Beausire, the prospect is bad.’“

  “How, though, could I escape this evil exit? How else could I have gained the thousand louis, and assured the tranquillity of Nicole and Toussaint?”

  “You still will ask questions. ‘Nothing will be more facile,’ the voice will reply. ‘You had Count Cagliostro within two feet of you.’ ‘I know him,’ you will say; ‘a foreign nobleman living in Paris, and who is wearied to death when news is scarce.’ ‘That is it; well, you had only to go to him, and say, “Count.”‘“

  “‘I did not, though, know where he lived — I did not know that he was in Paris — I did not even know that he was alive.’

  “‘Then, my dear M. de Beausire,’ the voice will answer, ‘he came to you for the very purpose, and from that time confess that you had no excuse. Well, you had only to say to him: “Count, I know you are always anxious for news.” “I am.” “I have something rare: Monsieur, the brother of the king, conspires.” — ”Bah! yes.” — ”With the Marquis de Favras.” — ”Not possible!” — ”Yes, I speak advisedly, for I am one of his agents.” “Indeed! what is the object of the plot?” “To carry away the king, and carry him to Peronne. Well, count, to amuse you, I will come every day and every hour to inform you of the-state of affairs.” Then the count, who is a generous nobleman, would have answered: “M. de Beausire, will you really do this?” “Yes.” “Well, as every trouble deserves a salary, if you keep the promise you have made, I have in a certain place twenty-four thousand livres, which will be at your service: I will put them on this risk, that if you inform me of the day when the king is to be taken away by M. de Favras, when you come to tell me, on my honour as a gentleman, the twenty-four thousand livres will be given you, as are these ten louis, not as a loan to he repaid, but as a simple gift.”‘“

  At these words, Cagliostro took the heavy purse from his pocket, and took ten louis, which, to tell the truth, Beausire advanced an open hand to receive.

  Cagliostro put aside his hand.

  “Excuse me, M. de Beausire, but I suppose we can return to suppositions?”

  “Yes; but,” said M. de Beausire, whose eyes shone like two pieces of burning coal, “did you not say, count, that from supposition to supposition, we would gradually reach the fact?”

  “Have we reached it?”

  Beausire hesitated; let us say that it was not poverty, fidelity to a promise, nor conscience, which caused this hesitation. No; he simply was afraid that the count would not keep his word.

  “My dear Beausire, I know what is passing in your mind.”

  “Yes, count, you do; I hesitate to betray a confidence reposed in me.”

  Looking up to heaven, he shook his head, like a man who says, “Ah, it is very hard!”

  “No, that is not it, and you are another proof of the truth of the proverb, ‘No one knows himself.’“

  “What then is it?” asked Beausire, a little put out by the facility with which the count read every heart.

  “You are afraid that after having promised, I will not give you the thousand louis.”

  “Oh, count!”

  “All is natural enough; but give me a security. For though I proposed the matter, I should be safe.”

  “Security; the count certainly needs none.”

  “A security, which satisfies me, body for body.”

  “What security?” asked De Beausire.

  “Mademoiselle Nicole Oliva Legay.”

  “Oh!” said Nicole, “if the count promises, it is enough; it is as certain as if we had it, Beausire.”

  “See, monsieur, the advantage of fulfilling our promises scrupulously. One day, when Mdlle. Legay was much sought after by the police, I made her an offer, to find a refuge in my house. She hesitated. I promised, and in spite of every temptation I had to undergo, and you, sir, can understand them better than any other, I kept my promise, M. de Beausire. Is not that so, mademoiselle?”

  “‘Yes, by our little Toussaint, I swear it.”

  “Do you think, then, Mdlle. Nicole, that I will keep my word to M. de Beausire, to give him a thousand louis, if he will inform me of the day of the king’s flight, or De Favras’ arrest, without taking into consideration that I now loose the knot being woven around his neck, and you be for ever removed from danger of the cord and gallows. Apropos of that old affair. I do not promise for the future; for one moment let us talk. There are vocations.”

  “For my part, monsieur,” said Nicole. “all is fixed as if the notary had already set his seal on it.”

  “Well, my dear lady,” said Cagliostro, as he arranged on the table the ten louis, which he had not parted with, “infuse your convictions into the heart of M. de Beausire, and all is decided.” He by a gesture bade her talk to Beausire.

  The conversation lasted only five minutes, but, it is proper to say, was very animated.

  In the interim, Cagliostro looked at the pierced card, and shook his head, as if he recognised an old acquaintance.

  “Ah, ah!” said he, “it is the famous martingale of M. Law, which you have discovered again. I have lost a million on it.”

  This observation seemed to give a new activity to the conversation between Beausire and Nicole. At last Beausire decided. He advanced to Cagliostro, open-handed, like a man who had just made an indissoluble contract.

  The count drew back his hand, and said, “Monsieur, among gentlemen, a word passes. I have given you mine, give me yours.”

  “By my faith, sir, it is settled.”

  “That is enough, sir,” said Cagliostro.

  Taking from his pocket a watch, enriched with diamonds, on which was the portrait of King Frederick of Prussia, he said:

  “It wants a quarter of nine, M. de Beausire; at nine exactly, you are expected under the arches of the Place Royale, on the side of Hotel Sully; take these louis, put them in your vest pocket, put on your coat, gird on your sword; you must not be waited for.”

  Beausire did not wait to be told twice. He took the money, put it in his pocket, put on his coat, and left.

  “Where shall I find you, count?”

  “At the cemetery of St. Jean, if you please. When one wishes to talk of such things, without being heard, it must not be among the living.”

  “And when?”

  “As soon as you be disengaged. The first will wait for the second.”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  Oedipus and Lot.

  IT WANTED BUT a few minutes of midnight, when a man coming from the Rue Royale into that of St. Antoine, followed the latter to the fountain of St. Catherine, and at last reached the gate of the Cemetery St. Jean.

  There, as if his eyes had feared to see some spectre start from the ground, he waited, and with the sleeve of his coat, the uniform of a sergeant of the guards, he wiped the heavy drops of sweat from his brow.

  Just as the clock struck twelve, something like a shadow appeared to glide amid the ivies, box-trees, and cypresses. This shadow approached the gate, and by the grating of the key in the lock, one might see that the spectre, if such it was, not only had the privilege of leaving the tomb, but, when once out, of leaving the cemetery.

  When he heard the key turn, the soldier drew back.

  “Why, M. de Beausire,” said the mocking voice of Cagliostro, “do you not know me, or have you forgotten our rendezvous?”

  “Ah! is it you?” said Beausire, breathing like a man, the heart of whom is relieved from a heavy burden. “So much the better. These damned streets are so dark and deserted, that one does not know if it be better to travel alone, or to meet anybody.”

  “Bah!” said Cagliostro, “for you to fear anything, at any hour, either of the day or night! You cannot make me believe that of a brave man who travels with his sword by his side! There,” said Cagliostro, “follow this little path, and about twenty paces hence we will find a kind of ruined altar, on the steps of which we will be able to talk at ease of our affairs.”

  Beausire hurried to obey Cagliostro; but after a moment of hesitation, said:

  “Where the devil is the path? I see only briars which wound my elbows, and grass which reaches to my knees.”

  “The fact is, the cemetery is in worse order than any I know of, but that is not surprising. You know that none are buried here but criminals executed in the Greve, and nobody takes an interest in those poor devils. Yet, my dear M. de Beausire, we have many illustrious characters here. If it were day, I could show you where the Constable de Montmorency lies. He was executed for having fought a duel; the Chevalier de Rohan for having conspired against the government; the Count de Horn, who was broken on the wheel for having assassinated a Jew; Damiens, who was quartered because he sought to kill Louis XV.; and who knows who else? You are wrong to speak ill of the cemetery of St John. It is not kept well, but is very full. However,” said Cagliostro, pausing near a kind of ruin, “here we are!”

  Sitting on a broken stone, he pointed out to Beausire a stone which seemed designated by the first to spare Cinna the trouble of removing his seat to the side of that of Augustus.

  “Now we are at our ease and able to talk, my dear M. de Beausire,” said Cagliostro, “tell me what took place this evening under the arches of the Place Royale; was the meeting interesting?”

  “Ma foi,” said Beausire, “I own, count, that my head just now is a little bothered, and need I say each of us would gain if you adopted the system of questions and answers?”

  “So be it,” said Cagliostro; “I am easy, and provided I obtain ray end, do not care what means be adopted. How many were you, under the arches of the Place Royale?”

  “Six, with myself.”

  “Six with yourself, dear M. de Beausire; let me see if they are the men I think. In the first place, yourself?”

  Beausire uttered a sigh which indicated that he wished there was u possibility of doubt.

  “Then there was your friend Trocarty?”

  “Then a royalist, named Marquee, ci-devant sergeant in the Royal French Guards, and now sous-lieutenant of a company of the Centre?”

  “Yes, count, Marquee was there.”

  “And M. de Favras?”

  “And M. de Favras.”

  “Then the masked man?”

  “Then the masked man.”

  “Can you give me any information about this masked man, M. de Beausire?”

  “Well,” said Beausire, “I think it was Monsieur — ”

  “Monsieur who?” said Cagliostro, sharply.

  “Monsieur — Monsieur, the brother of the king.”

  “Ah! dear M. de Beausire, the Marquis de Favras has a deep interest in creating the impression that, in all this affair, he has touched the prince’s head. That may be so; but a man who cannot lie, cannot conspire. But that you and your friend Trocarty, two recruiting officers, used to measure men by the eye, by feet, inches, and lines, is very improbable. Monsieur is five feet three high, the masked man was five feet six.”

  “True, count, so I thought: but who was he?”

  “Pardieu, my dear M. de Beausire, will I not be prettily engaged in teaching you, when I expected to be taught by you?”

  “Then,” said Beausire, who gradually recovered his presence of mind, as he returned, little by little, to reality, “you know who this man is?”

  “Parbleu.”