THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre Dumas

whether it would not be wise in them to do as their neighbors had done.

      It was, doubtless, owing to the privilege which the dread of him, widely circulated, had procured for him, that Maître Réné had ventured to keep up a light after the prescribed hour. No round or guard, moreover, would have dared to molest him, a man doubly dear to her majesty as her fellow-countryman and perfumer.

      As we suppose that the reader, panoplied by the philosophical wisdom of this century, no longer believes in magic or magicians, we will invite him to accompany us into this dwelling which, at that epoch of superstitious faith, shed around it such a profound terror.

      The shop on the ground floor is dark and deserted after eight o’clock in the evening — the hour at which it closes, not to open again until next morning; there it is that the daily sale of perfumery, unguents, and cosmetics of all kinds, such as a skilful chemist makes, takes place. Two apprentices aid him in the retail business, but do not sleep in the house; they lodge in the Rue de la Colandre.

      In the evening they take their departure an instant before the shop closes; in the morning they wait at the door until it opens.

      This ground-floor shop is therefore dark and deserted, as we have said.

      In this shop, which is large and deep, there are two doors, each leading to a staircase. One of these staircases is in the wall itself and is lateral, and the other is exterior and visible from the quay now called the Quai des Augustins, and from the riverbank, now called the Quai des Orfévres.

      Both lead to the principal room on the first floor. This room is of the same size as the ground floor, except that it is divided into two compartments by tapestry suspended in the centre and parallel to the bridge. At the end of the first compartment opens the door leading to the exterior staircase. On the side face of the second opens the door of the secret staircase. This door is invisible, being concealed by a large carved cupboard fastened to it by iron cramps, and moving with it when pushed open. Catharine alone, besides Réné, knows the secret of this door, and by it she comes and departs; and with eye or ear placed against the cupboard, in which are several small holes, she sees and hears all that occurs in the chamber.

      Two other doors, visible to all eyes, present themselves at the sides of the second compartment. One opens into a small chamber lighted from the roof, and having nothing in it but a large stove, some alembecs, retorts, and crucibles: it is the alchemist’s laboratory; the other opens into a cell more singular than the rest of the apartment, for it is not lighted at all — has neither carpet nor furniture, but only a kind of stone altar.

      The floor slopes from the centre to the ends, and from the ends to the base of the wall is a kind of gutter ending in a funnel, through whose orifice may be seen the dark waters of the Seine. On nails driven into the walls are hung singular-shaped instruments, all keen or pointed with points as fine as a needle and edges as sharp as a razor; some shine like mirrors; others, on the contrary, are of a dull gray or murky blue.

      In a corner are two black fowls struggling with each other and tied together by the claws. This is the soothsayer’s sanctuary.

      Let us return to the middle chamber, that with two compartments.

      Here the common herd of clients are introduced; here ibises from Egypt; mummies, with gilded bands; the crocodile, yawning from the ceiling; death’s-heads, with eyeless sockets and loose teeth; and old musty volumes, torn and rat-eaten, are presented to the visitor’s eye in pellmell confusion. Behind the curtain are phials, singularly shaped boxes, and weird-looking vases; all this is lighted up by two small silver lamps exactly alike, perhaps stolen from some altar of Santa Maria Novella or the Church Dei Lervi of Florence; these, supplied with perfumed oil, cast their yellow flames around the sombre vault from which each hangs by three blackened chains.

      Réné, alone, his arms crossed, is pacing up and down the second compartment with long strides, and shaking his head. After a lengthened and painful musing he pauses before an hour-glass:

      “Ah! ah!” says he, “I forget to turn it; and perhaps the sand has all run through a long time ago.”

      Then, looking at the moon as it struggled through a heavy black cloud which seemed to hang over Notre–Dame, he said: “It is nine o’clock. If she comes, she will come, as usual, in an hour or an hour and a half; then there will be time for all.”

      At this moment a noise was heard on the bridge. Réné applied his ear to the orifice of a long tube, the other end of which reached down the street, terminating in a heraldic viper-head.

      “No,” he said, “it is neither she nor they; it is men’s footsteps, and they stop at my door — they are coming here.”

      And three sharp knocks were heard at the door.

      Réné hurried downstairs and put his ear against the door, without opening it.

      The three sharp blows were repeated.

      “Who’s there?” asked Maître Réné.

      “Must we mention our names?” inquired a voice.

      “It is indispensable,” replied Réné.

      “Well, then, I am the Comte Annibal de Coconnas,” said the same voice.

      “And I am the Comte Lerac de la Mole,” said another voice, which had not as yet been heard.

      “Wait, wait, gentlemen, I am at your service.”

      And at the same moment Réné drew the bolts and, lifting the bars, opened the door to the two young men locking it after him. Then, conducting them by the exterior staircase, he introduced them into the second compartment.

      La Mole, as he entered, made the sign of the cross under his cloak. He was pale, and his hand trembled without his being able to repress this symptom of weakness.

      Coconnas looked at everything, one after the other; and seeing the door of the cell, was about to open it.

      “Allow me to observe, my dear young gentleman,” said Réné, in his deep voice, and placing his hand on Coconnas’s, “those that do me the honor of a visit have access only to this part of the room.”

      “Oh, very well,” replied Coconnas; “besides, I feel like sitting down.” And he took a seat.

      There was unbroken silence for a moment — Maître Réné was waiting for one or the other of the young men to open the conversation.

      “Maître Réné,” at length said Coconnas, “you are a skilful man, and I pray you tell me if I shall always remain a sufferer from my wound — that is, always experience this shortness of breath, which prevents me from riding on horseback, using my sword, and eating larded omelettes?”

      Réné put his ear to Coconnas’s chest and listened attentively to the play of the lungs.

      “No, Monsieur le Comte,” he replied, “you will get well.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes, I assure you.”

      “Well, you fill me with delight.”

      There was silence once more.

      “Is there nothing else you would desire to know, M. le Comte?”

      “I wish to know,” said Coconnas, “if I am really in love?”

      “You are,” replied Réné.

      “How do you know?”

      “Because you asked the question.”

      “By Heaven! you are right. But with whom?”

      “With her who now, on every occasion, uses the oath you have just uttered.”

      “Ah!” said Coconnas, amazed; “Maître Réné, you are a clever man! Now, La Mole, it is your turn.”

      La Mole reddened, and seemed embarrassed.

      “I, Monsieur Réné,” he stammered, and speaking more firmly