The International Monthly, Volume 5, No. 4, April, 1852 Part 4

"What a long night it was. The morning dawned at last, but it brought no change to poor Dervilly. I had sent for his nearest relative, who lived over on the _Boulevard Poissonniere_, and was awaiting his arrival with considerable anxiety. It was not later than nine. Stabb, the good fellow, had relieved me from my watch, and I was in the sitting-room, in my large arm-chair, still anxious and fearful, when there came a slight tap at the door; it opened--and Emilie de Coigny stood before me. Ah, how beautiful she was, yet how terrified! It was not terror of excitement--mere surface pa.s.sion--but from the depths of her soul. She was stirred by intense emotion. 'Tell me,' she said, coming earnestly up to me, 'tell me where he is, and what has happened to him!' I put my finger on my lips to prevent her from saying more, and led her to the further corner of the room; but she would not sit down; she begged to be told every thing at once; and I, in a low voice, gave Mademoiselle do Coigny a minute account of all I had witnessed. When I came to Dervilly's exclamation, '_La Morgue--La Morgue_,' the young girl became suddenly very pale, her fort.i.tude forsook her, and she murmured faintly, 'He saw me go in--he saw me go in.' I must admit I was, for the moment, not a little tremulous. I recollected stories of devils taking possession of the dead bodies of virgins, in order to lure young men to perdition. I thought of the tale of the German student, who, on retiring with his bride, beheld her head roll from her body (she had been guillotined that morning), leaving him wedded to the foul fiend. In spite of me, I looked on the pale stricken creature before me as in one way or another connected with the adversary, and holding a commission from the Prince of the Power of the Air. I had little time for thought on the subject, for Mademoiselle de Coigny insisted on seeing Dervilly.

I hesitated, but she was decided. She threw aside her pretty straw hat, and a light shawl, and stepped toward the apartment where her lover lay.

She pa.s.sed the threshold before he saw her. She called him by his name, 'Alfred.' He turned, and as his eyes fell on her, he uttered mad exclamations; crouching frantically in the furthest corner of the bed.

'Avaunt,' he screamed; 'vampyre--devil--owl of h.e.l.l--come no nearer, (she still advanced, calling to him tenderly); I know that syren voice; it has d.a.m.ned and double d.a.m.ned me.--Partridge! Stabb! take her away, or,' he continued, in a fierce tone, 'I will do second execution on her.'

"Poor girl--it was too much--she swooned away....

"You may imagine that it was a terrible scene," continued Partridge. "I set to work immediately for her recovery, having first carried her out of the room where Dervilly lay. She opened her eyes at last, but what a look of anguish was in them! 'Is he better?' she asked in a faint tone.

I shook my head. 'Tell me,' she exclaimed, 'will he die? oh, will he, _must_ he die?'

"'He is very sick, Mademoiselle.'

"'I have killed him, I have killed him,' she cried.

"'Pardon me', said I, 'Monsieur Dervilly is in great danger; still if we knew the cause of this dreadful attack we might gain some advantage by it.'

"'Ah, it is my work,' murmured the fair mystery to herself, without heeding my observation; 'I have done it, and if he dies, I am a murderer--_his_ murderer.' She appeared no way disposed to betray her secret, and I did not press the subject. Presently Louis came in. He made his inquiries of me, and then went to the patient. There was no change, except in the increase of fatal symptoms. The delirium was more furious, the pulse hard, full, frequent, and vibrating. The most vigorous course was adopted; two other students were called in to a.s.sist Stabb and myself, and every means used to give effect to the prescribed treatment.

"As for Mademoiselle de Coigny, she remained in the sitting-room, the picture of intense anguish. I urged her to retire, but she shook her head. I now begged her to tell me what had caused this strange attack, but she was silent. At length I went and called Madame Lecomte--you recollect what a kind-hearted creature she was--and told her briefly the little I knew of the unfortunate girl. She answered the summons at once, and in the most gentle manner endeavored to persuade Mademoiselle de Coigny to go with her. It was in vain. She would not leave the room.

Occasionally, through the day, she would step to Dervilly's bedside, and in the softest, sweetest, gentlest tone I ever heard, say, 'Alfred.' The effect was always the same as at first--exciting the poor fellow to still deeper paroxysms, and more violent exclamations. On the fourth day he died; the symptoms becoming more and more aggravating, until _coma_ supervened to delirium. During the whole period of his sickness Mademoiselle de Coigny never left the house--scarcely the room--Madame Lecomte on two or three occasions almost forcing the wretched girl away to her own apartments. When poor Dervilly sunk into that deep lethargic slumber, so much dreaded by the physician, because so fatal, she came almost joyfully into his chamber, and threw her arms tenderly around him, 'He sleeps at last,' she said, 'is it not well?'

"I would have given the world for the freedom of bursting into tears, so deeply was I affected by that hopeful, trustful question. What could I do, but shake my head mournfully and hasten out of the place.... He died, and made no sign; not a word, not a look, not the slightest pressure of the hand, for the one he loved so tenderly, and who watched so anxiously for some slight token. 'Oh,' I exclaimed to myself, as the hardness of such a fate was impressed on me, 'G.o.d is just, there is a hereafter, these two _must_ meet again.' ... Emilie de Coigny left the room where her dead lover lay, only when he himself was borne to his last resting-place. She followed him to the spot where he was buried in _Pere la Chaise_, and remained standing by it after every one else had come away. In this position she was found--standing over the grave--late at night by her friends--some members of the family I have mentioned--who sought her out. She left that splendid city of the dead bereft of reason, and so she has ever since continued. When the day is fine, she invariably keeps her fancied engagement with her lover at the appointed place in the _Jardin des Plants_; she patiently sits the hour, and retires sadly, as you saw her. When the weather is forbidding, she goes to her friend's house and waits the same period, never showing the least symptom of impatience, but, on the contrary, evincing the signs of a bruised but most gentle spirit." ...

Here Partridge paused, as if at the end of his story.

"Is that all?" said I.

"That is all," he responded.

"Surely not," I continued; "you have said nothing about the strange mystery which killed our poor friend, and which, as it seems to me, is the main point, in the story."

"True enough--it is singular I should have left it out, but it is explained in a word. These same friends of Mademoiselle de Coigny gave me the information. It appears that on one inclement night, as the _keeper of the Morgue_ was returning from an official visit to the Chief of Police, toward his own quarters, which are adjoining and over the _dead room_--he stumbled over something which a flash of lightning at the instant showed to be the body of a man. He was quite dead, but, nestled down close by his side, with one of her little hands on his face, was a child, about two years of age. Jean Maurice Sorel, although long inured to repulsive sights, had not grown callous to misery. By birth he was considerably above his somewhat ignominious office; he had narrowly escaped with his life when Louis XVI. was brought to the scaffold, for some indiscreet expressions that savored too much of royalty; but in the tumults which succeeded, he had, he scarcely knew how, through some influence with the chief of one of the departments, been appointed to this repulsive duty. But as I have said, his heart was just as kind as ever, after many years discharge of it; and Jean Maurice Sorel, instead of repining at his lot, blessed G.o.d daily that he had the means of supporting a wife and children, while so many of his old friends had literally starved to death. Such was the person who stumbled over the body of the dead man, and discovered the living child beside it. He called at once for a.s.sistance, and had the corpse conveyed to his house, while he carried the little girl in his arms. She was too young to give any information about herself, but on searching the pockets of the deceased, several papers were found which disclosed enough to satisfy Jean Maurice Sorel that in the wasted, attenuated form before him, he beheld his once friend and benefactor the Marquis de Coigny, who, he supposed, had perished by the guillotine in the revolution. The papers permitted no doubt of the fact that the little girl was his granddaughter and only descendant, and she was commended to the care of the kind-hearted when death should overtake him.

"The old Marquis was buried, and the little Emilie adopted into the family of the good Jean Maurice. Her education was conducted in a manner far superior to that of his own children, and the choicest garments of those which fell to him were selected to be made over for her. Perhaps unwisely, her history was explained to her, so that she lived all her life with the sense that she belonged in a different sphere--not that she was ungrateful or unamiable--quite the contrary--she was sweet tempered, affectionate and gentle, and loved by Jean Maurice and all his family with a devoted fondness: but the world had charms for her which the world withheld; she felt that she never could become an object of love where she could love in return, and so she repined at her destiny.

By accident she made the acquaintance of the family where Dervilly first met her. They had known her father and her grandfather, and she loved them for that. She resisted for a long time the feeling for her lover which she perceived was taking strong hold of her, and when she could resist no longer, she yet delayed to tell him what a home she inhabited.

This was her pride--her weakness--and how terribly did she pay the penalty! Day after day (so I was told), she resolved to explain all, but she procrastinated, till her lover, no longer able to restrain his anxiety, and full of excitements and fears and perturbations, followed her at some little distance, just at twilight, and saw or fancied he saw her enter _La Morgue_. It was too much for his nervous temperament. His brain caught fire--he came home raving with delirium--and DIED! Now you have the whole."

A LEGEND.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL FROM THE SPANISH,

BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT.

"Sin vos, y sin Dios y mi."

The motto that with trembling hand I write, And deep is traced upon this heart of mine, In olden time a loyal Christian knight Bore graven on his shield to Palestine.

"_Sin vos_," it saith, "if I am without thee,"

Beloved! whose thought surrounds me every where-- "_Sin Dios_," I am without G.o.d, "_y mi_,"

And in myself I have no longer share.

Where pealed the clash of war, the mighty din, Where trump and cymbal crashed along the sky; High o'er the "Il Allah!" of the Moslemin, "G.o.d and my lady!" rang his battle-cry.

His white plume waved where fiercest raged the flight, His arm was strong the Paynim's course to stem: His foot was foremost on the sacred height, To plant the Cross above Jerusalem.

False proved the lady, and thenceforth the knight, Casting aside the buckler and the brand, Lived, an austere and lonely anchorite, In a drear mountain-cave in Holy Land.

There, bowed before the Crucifix in prayer, He would dash madly down his rosary, And cry "Beloved!" in tones of wild despair, "I have lost G.o.d, and self, in losing thee!"

And I, if thus my life's sweet hope were o'er, An echo of the knight's despair must be; Thus I were lost, if loved by thee no more, For, ah! myself and heaven are merged in thee.

CAGLIOSTRO, THE MAGICIAN.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY CHARLES WYLLYS ELLIOT.

"Know, then, that in the year 1743, in the city of Palermo, the family of Signor Pietro Balsamo, a shopkeeper, were exhilarated by the birth of a boy. Such occurrences have now become so frequent, that, miraculous as they are, they occasion little astonishment;" and, it may be well to add, that, except in some curious cases, there is no longer that exhilaration now felt, but, as in Ireland, a leaden sense of future woe.

We are not told by the parents that any strange or miraculous appearance attended or preceded this advent, though one cannot but believe that the future Archimagus and his followers must have had a more or less distinct opinion upon this point. Not to lose time in speculation, we learn that "we have here found in the Count Alessandro di Cagliostro (the above-named boy), pupil of the sage, Altholas--foster-child of the Scherif of Mecca--probable son of the last king of Trebizond; named also Acharat, and unfortunate child of nature; by profession, healer of diseases, abolisher of wrinkles, friend of the poor and impotent, grand-master of the Egyptian Mason lodge of High Science, spirit summoner, gold cork, grand cophta, prophet, priest, and thaurmaturgic moralist and swindler; really a LIAR of the first magnitude; thorough-paced in all provinces of lying, what one may call their king."

Under the common tent, the great canopy of life, it would not be fair to prejudge the mind of the reader upon so grave a thing as character, which we are now considering--it might be best to let each come to an after-thought respecting it--upon our caustic and n.o.ble author let the blame, if any, hang, while we now proceed to dip in, here and there, to his magic page.

As the boy grows, we learn, that "as he skulks about there, plundering, pilfering, playing dog's-tricks, with his finger in every mischief, he already gains character. Shrill housewives of the neighborhood, whose sausages he has filched, whose weaker sons maltreated, name him Beppo Maldetto, and indignantly prophecy that he will be hanged--a prediction which the issue has signally falsified." We also may learn, what, in the treatment of our whole subject it is extremely important to remember, that, in the "boy," a "brazen impudence developes itself, the crowning gift," &c. "To his astonishment," though, "he finds that even here he is in a conditional world, and if he will employ his capability of eating (or enjoying) must first, in some measure, work and suffer. Contention enough hereupon; but now dimly arises, or reproduces itself, the question. Whether there were not a _shorter_ road--that of stealing!"

But how he was entered into the convent, and under the convent apothecary proceeded to learn certain arts and mysteries of the retorts and alembics (which lucky knowledge, after that, came to use), while he was learning his other trade of monkery and ma.s.s-chanting, we will omit.

It is enough to know, that he would not answer for the convent, and was again afloat on the wide sea of existence. That he floated is certain; for "he has a fair cousin living in the house with him, and she again has a lover. Beppo stations himself as go-between; delivers letters; fails not to drop hints that a lady to be won or kept must be generously treated; that such and such a pair of ear-rings, watch, or sum of money, would work wonders: which valuables, adds the wooden Roman biographer, he then appropriated furtively." Slowly but certainly he makes his way: "tries his hand at forging" theatre tickets--a will even, "for the benefit of a certain religious house;" and, further on, can tell fortunes, and show visions in a small way--all these inspirations are vouchsafed him, or, rather, these things he is permitted to do, and others not to be mentioned here.

It is well to note, that in all times, and among all peoples, there is a deep and profound conviction that there _is_ not only a "short and certain" way of getting to heaven, and to know the eternal truths, but also that these earthly treasures do exist, in untold quant.i.ty, in the elements; and if one could only discover the secret by which the gases could be condensed into solid gold, or the gnomes be persuaded or compelled to give them up, ready solidified to hand, it would at least save time and be satisfactory. It is only curious, as a matter of speculation, to know what we shall eat when the lucky age arrives, and spirits will do our bidding in this matter of gold and diamonds. The "boy," as he grew, discovered this world-wide capacity; and who should have this power of setting the "spirits" to work but he?

"Walking one day in the fields with a certain ninny of a goldsmith, named Marano, Beppo begins in his oily voluble way to hint that treasures often lay hid; that a certain treasure lay hid there (as he knew by some p.r.i.c.king of his thumbs, divining rod, or other talismanic monition), which treasure might, by the aid of science, courage, secrecy, and a small judicious advance of money, be fortunately lifted.

The gudgeon takes--advances, by degrees, to the length of 'sixty gold ounces'--sees magic circles drawn in the wane or the full of the moon, blue (phosphorous) flames arise--split twigs auspiciously quiver--and at length demands, peremptorily, that the treasure be dug!"

Alas! why is it that the "spirits" so often fail us at our sorest need?

Do _they_ deceive us; and, if not, who does? The treasure vanishes, or does not appear, "the conditions are imperfect," and the "ninny of a goldsmith" being roughly handled by these spiritual visitants, threatens to stiletto the adept; who, overcome with the ingrat.i.tude of the world, concludes to quit;--at least, in the words of his Inquisition biographer, "he fled from Palermo, and overran the whole earth."

We may see how he has grown--how, as in ordinary mortals, he advances step by step--even he, the favorite son of the higher intelligences, learns as he goes. How is it, then, that we can have no full-grown inspiration; that we know of no perfection--that we only go on towards it? Can it be that prophets and priests really do _learn_, and that even now, men may grow into the future? Might not a more thorough and scientific seminary for this purpose be established than any we now have--theologic, thaumaturgic, theosophic, or other variety? It is a question easier asked than answered.

"The Beppic Hegira brings us down in European history to somewhere about the period of the peace of Paris"--(A.D. ----), supervening upon which is a portentous time--"the mult.i.tudinous variety of quacks that, along with Beppo, overran all Europe during that same period--the latter half of the last century. It was the very age of impostors, cut-purses, swindlers, double gaugers, enthusiasts, ambiguous persons, quacks simple, quacks compound, crack-brained or with deceit prepense, quacks and quackeries of all colors and kinds. How many mesmerists (so speaks this strange author), magicians, cabalists, Swedenborgians, illuminati, crucified nuns, and devils of Loudun! To which the Inquisition biographer adds vampyres, sylphs, rosicrucians, free-masons, and an _et cetera_. Consider your Schropfers, Cagliostros, Casanovas, Saint Germains, Dr. Grahams, the Chevalier d'Eon, Psalmanazar, Abbe Paris, and the Ghost of c.o.c.k-lane!--as if Bedlam had broken loose!"

The great, the inexplicable, the mysterious Beppo, being now fairly afloat, let us try to comprehend how he has begun to touch upon the edge of those trade winds, which shall drive him along toward the golden Indies, Ophir, and the land of promise, for which the men of this world do so hunger and thirst.