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

other hand.

      The three walls—for this old man had called the sides of the living-wagon "walls"—held bookcases, with shelves of bottles, jars and brass-bound boxes, set in wooden cases like utensils on shipboard so as to stand up without upsetting. The old man could reach these articles by rolling the easy chair to them; a crank enabled him to screw up the seat to the level of the highest. The compartment was, in feet, eight by six and six in height. Facing the door was a furnace with hood and bellows. It was now boiling a crucible at a white heat, whence issued the smoke by the pipe overhead exciting the mystery of the villagers wherever the wagon went through.

      The whole emitted an odor which in a less grotesque laboratory would have been called a perfume.

      The occupant seemed to be in bad humor, for he grumbled:

      "The cursed animal is frightened: but what has he got to disturb him, I want to know? He has shaken my door, cracked my furnace, and spilt a quarter of my elixir in the fire. Acharat, in heaven's name, drop the beast in the first desert we cross."

      "In the first place, master," returned the other smiling, "we are not crossing deserts, for we are in France; and next, I would not abandon a horse worth a thousand louis, or rather priceless, as he is of the breed of Al Borach."

      "I will give you a thousand over and over again. He has lost me more than a million, to say nothing of the days he has robbed me of. The liquor would have boiled up without loss of a drop, in a little longer, which neither Zoroaster nor Paracelsus stated, but it is positively advised by Borri."

      "Never mind, it will soon be boiling again."

      "But that is not all—something is dropping down my chimney."

      "Merely water—it is raining."

      "Water? Then my elixir is spoilt. I must renew the work—as if I had any time to spare!"

      "It is pure water from above. It was pouring, as you might have noticed."

      "Do I notice anything when busy? On my poor soul, Acharat, this is exasperating. For six months I have been begging for a cowl to my chimney—I mean this year. You never think of it, though you are young and have lots of leisure. What will your negligence bring about? The rain to-day or the wind to-morrow confound my calculations and ruin all my operations. Yet I must hurry, by Jove! for my hundredth year commences on the fifteenth of July, at eleven at night precisely, and if my elixir of life is not then ready, good-night to the Sage Althotas."

      "But you are getting on well with it, my dear master, I think."

      "Yes, by my tests by absorption, I have restored vitality to my paralyzed arm. I only want the plant mentioned by Pliny, which we have perhaps passed a hundred times or crushed under the wheels. By the way, what rumbling is that? Are we still going?"

      "No; that is thunder. The lightning has been playing the mischief with us, but I was safe enough, being clothed in silk."

      "Lightning? Pooh! wait till I renew my life and can attend to other matters. I will put a steel bridle on your electric fluid and make it light this study and cook my meals. I wish I were as sure of making my elixir perfect——"

      "And our great work—how comes it on?"

      "Making diamonds? That is done. Look there in the glass dish."

      Joseph Balsamo greedily caught up the crystal saucer, and saw a small brilliant amid some dust.

      "Small, and with flaws," he said, disappointed.

      "Because the fire was put out, Acharat, from there being no cowl to the chimney."

      "You shall have it; but do take some food."

      "I took some elixir a couple of hours ago."

      "Nay, that was at six this morning, and it is now the afternoon."

      "Another day gone, fled and lost," moaned the alchemist, wringing his hands; "are they not growing shorter? Have they less than four-and-twenty hours?"

      "If you will not eat, at least take a nap."

      "When I sleep, I am afraid I shall never wake. If I lie down for two hours, you will come and call me, Acharat," said the old man in a coaxing voice.

      "I swear I will, master."

      At this point they heard the gallop of a horse and a scream of astonishment and disquiet.

      "What does that mean?" questioned the traveler, quickly opening the door, and leaping out on the road without using the steps.

CHAPTER III.

       THE LOVELY LORENZA.

       Table of Contents

      The woman who was in the fore part of the coach, in the cab, remained for a time deprived of sense. As fear alone had caused the swoon, she came to consciousness.

      "Heavens!" she cried, "am I abandoned helpless here, with no human being to take pity upon me?"

      "Lady," said a timid voice at hand, "I am here, and I may be some help to you."

      Passing her head and both arms out of the cab by the leather curtains, the young woman, rising, faced a youth who stood on the steps.

      "Is it you offered me help? What has happened?"

      "The thunderbolt nearly struck you, and the traces were broken of the leading pair, which have run off with the postboy."

      "What has become of the person who was riding the other pair?" she asked, with an anxious look round.

      "He got off the horses as if all right and went inside the other part of this coach."

      "Heaven be praised," said she, breathing more freely. "But who are you to offer me assistance so timely?"

      "Surprised by the storm, I was in that dark hole which is a quarry outlet, when I suddenly saw a large wagon coming down at a gallop. I thought it a runaway, but soon saw it was guided by a mighty hand, but the lightning fell with such an uproar that I feared I was struck and was stunned. All seemed to have happened in a dream."

      The lady nodded as if this satisfied her, but rested her head on her hand in deep thought. He had time to examine her. She was in her twenty-third year, and of dark complexion, but richly colored with the loveliest pink. Her blue eyes sparkled like stars as she appealed to heaven, and her hair fell in curls of jet, unpowdered contrary to the fashion, on her opal neck.

      "Where are we?" she suddenly inquired.

      "On the Strasburg to Paris highway, near Pierrefittes, a village. Bar-le-Duc is the next town, with some five thousand population."

      "Is there a short cut to it?"

      "None I ever heard of."

      "What a pity!" she said in Italian.

      As she kept silent toward him, the youth was going away, when this drew her from her reverie, for she called him for another question.

      "Is there a horse still attached to the coach?"

      "The gentleman who entered, tied it to the wheel."

      "It is a valuable animal, and I should like to be sure it is unhurt; but how can I go through this mud?"

      "I can bring it here," proposed the stripling.

      "Do so, I prithee, and I shall be most grateful to you."

      But the barb reared and neighed when he went up.

      "Do not be afraid," said the lady: "it is gentle as a lamb. Djerid," she called in a low voice.

      The steed recognized the mistress's voice, for it extended its intelligent head toward the speaker, while the youth unfastened it. But it was scarcely loose before it jerked the reins away and bounded up to the vehicle.