Balsamo, the Magician; or, The Memoirs of a Physician. Dumas Alexandre

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      Balsamo, the Magician; or, The Memoirs of a Physician

      CHAPTER I

      THE GRAND MASTER OF THE SECRET SOCIETY

      On the left bank of the Rhine, near the spot where the Selz rivulet springs forth, the foothill ranges rise of many mountains, of which the bristling humps seem to rush northerly like herds of frightened buffaloes, disappearing in the haze. These mountains tower over a deserted region, forming a guard around one more lofty than the rest, whose granite brow, crowned with a ruined monastery, defies the skies. It is Thunder Mount.

      On the sixth of May, 1770, as the great river wavelets were dyed in the rainbow hues of the setting sun, a man who had ridden from Maintz, after a journey through Poland, followed the path out of Danenfels Village until it ended, and, then, alighting and leading his steed, tied it up in the pine woods.

      "Be quiet, my good Djerid (javelin)," said the horseman to the animal with this Arabian name which bespoke its blood, and its speed; "and good-bye, if we never meet again."

      He cast a glance round him as if he suspected he were overheard.

      The barb neighed and pawed with one foot.

      "Right, Djerid, the danger is around us."

      But as if he had made up his mind not to struggle with it, the venturesome stranger drew the charges from a pair of splendid pistols and cast the powder and bullets on the sward before replacing them in the holsters. He wore a steel-hilted sword which he took off with the belt, and fastened it to the stirrup leather so as to hang from the saddle-horn point down.

      These odd formalities being done, he ungloved, and searching his pockets produced nail-scissors and pocket-knife, which he flung over his shoulder without looking to see whither they went.

      Drawing the longest possible breath, he plunged at random into the thicket, for there was no trace of a path.

      He was a man about thirty, taller than the average, but so wonderfully well built that the utmost strength and skill seemed to circulate in his supple and nervy limbs. He wore a black velvet overcoat with gilt buttons; the flaps of an embroidered waistcoat showed below its lowest buttons, and the buckskin riding breeches defined legs worthy to be a sculptor's models; the elegant feet were cased in patent leather boots.

      His countenance was a notable mixture of power and intelligence, with all the play of Southern races; his glance, able to display any emotion, seemed to pierce any one on whom it fell with beams that sounded the very soul. His cheeks had been browned by a sun hotter than that of France. His mouth was large but finely shaped, and parted to reveal magnificent teeth, all the whiter from his dark complexion. His hand was small but muscular; his foot long but fine.

      Scarcely had he taken a dozen steps within the glade before he heard faint footsteps. He rose on tiptoe and perceived that unseen hands had unhitched Djerid and were leading him away. He frowned slightly, and a faint smile curled his full cheeks and choicely chiseled lips.

      He continued into the heart of the forest.

      For a space the twilight guided him, but soon that died out, and he stood in gloom so dense that he had to stop lest he blundered blindly.

      "I reached Danenfels from Maintz," he said, aloud, "as there was a road. I reached this forest as there was a path: I am here as there was some light: but I must stop now as I have no sight."

      Scarcely had he spoken, in a dialect part French, part Sicilian, than a light flashed out only fifty paces off.

      "Thanks! I will follow the light as long as it leads."

      The light at once moved onward, regularly and steadily, like a stage lamp managed by the lime-light operator.

      At a hundred paces, a breath in the adventurer's ear made him wince.

      "Turn and you die!" came this whisper.

      "All right," answered the stranger.

      "Speak, and you die!" whispered a voice on the left-hand.

      He bowed without speaking.

      "But," said a voice seeming to issue from the bowels of the earth, "if you are afraid, go back to the plain, by which it will be clear that you are daunted, and renounce your errand."

      The traveler waved his hand to imply that he was going ahead, and ahead he went.

      But it was so late and the shade so deep that he stumbled during the hour the magic light preceded him, but he did not murmur or show any tremor in fear, while he heard not a breath.

      All of a sudden, the light went out!

      He had passed through the woodland, for on lifting his eyes, he could see a few stars glitter on the darksome sky.

      He kept on in the same direction till he saw loom up the somber mass of the ruins of a castle – its spectre. At the same time his foot met its fallen stones.

      A clammy thing wound itself round his forehead and sealed his eyes. He could no longer see even the shadows. It was a wet linen cloth. It must have been an expected thing, for he made no resistance to being blindfolded. But he put forth his hand silently as a blinded man naturally does to grope. The gesture was understood, for on the instant a cold, dry, bony hand clutched his fingers. He knew it was a skeleton's, but had it possessed feeling, it must have owned that his own hand no more trembled.

      For a hundred yards the seeker was dragged forward rapidly.

      All at once the bandage was plucked aloof, and he stopped; he had reached the top of the Thunder Mount.

      Before him rose the moldy, mossy steps of the portico of the old Castle of Donnerberg. On the first slab stood the phantom with the osseous hand which had guided him thither. From head to foot a long shroud enwrapped it; through a slit the dead eyes peered without luster. The fleshless hand pointed into the ruins where the goal seemed to be a hall too high up to be viewed, but with the collapsed ceiling flickering with a fickle light.

      The traveler nodded in consent. Slowly the ghost mounted the steps one by one, till amid the ruins. The man followed with the same solemn and tranquil pace regulating his walk, and he also entered.

      Behind him slammed the principal door as noisily as a ringing bronze gate.

      The phantom guide had paused on the threshold of a round hall hung with black and illumined with greenish hues of three lamps.

      "Open your eyes," said the ghastly guide.

      "I see," replied the other, stopping ten paces from him.

      Drawing a double-edged sword from his shroud with a swift and haughty gesture, the phantom smote with it a brazen column which boomed a note like a gong.

      Immediately, all around, the slabs of the hall floor rose up, and countless ghosts like the guide, stole in with drawn swords and took posts on steps where they stood like statues on their pedestals, cold and motionless. They stood out against the sable drapery.

      Higher than the steps was a dais for seven chairs; on these six ghosts took place, leaving one seat vacant; they were chiefs.

      "What is our number, brothers?" challenged one of the six rising in the middle.

      "Three hundred is the right tally," answered the spectres, with one voice thundering through the hall and dying amid the black hangings.

      "Three hundred," said the presiding chief, "representing each ten thousand associates; three hundred swords worth three millions of daggers. What do you want, stranger?" he demanded, turning to the intruder.

      "To see the Light," was the rejoinder.

      "The paths leading to the Mountain of Fire are hard and toilsome – fear you not to tread them?"

      "I fear nothing."

      "You can not turn back once you start. Bear this in mind."

      "I mean to stop only at the goal."

      "Are you ready to take the oath?"

      "Say it and I will repeat."

      The president lifted his hand and slowly and solemnly uttered these