EXPELLED FROM SPAIN - Chapter IX
My Stay at Aix; I Fall Ill--I am Cared for By an Unknown Lady--
The Marquis d'Argens--Cagliostro
My room was only separated from his Castilian eminence's by a light
partition, and I could hear him quite plainly reprimanding his chief
servant for being too economical.
"My lord, I do my best, but it is really impossible to spend more, unless
I compel the inn-keepers to take double the amount of their bills; and
your eminence will admit that nothing in the way of rich and expensive
dishes has been spared."
"That may be, but you ought to use your wits a little; you might for
example order meals when we shall not require any. Take care that there
are always three tables--one for us, one for my officers, and the third
for the servants. Why I see that you only give the postillions a franc
over the legal charge, I really blush for you; you must give them a crown
extra at least. When they give you change for a louis, leave it on the
table; to put back one's change in one's pocket is an action only worthy
of a beggar. They will be saying at Versailles and Madrid, and maybe at
Rome itself, that the Cardinal de la Cerda is a miser. I am no such
thing, and I do not want to be thought one. You must really cease to
dishonour me, or leave my service."
A year before this speech would have astonished me beyond measure, but
now I was not surprised, for I had acquired some knowledge of Spanish
manners. I might admire the Senor de la Cerda's prodigality, but I could
not help deploring such ostentation on the part of a Prince of the Church
about to participate in such a solemn function.
What I had heard him say made me curious to see him, and I kept on the
watch for the moment of his departure. What a man! He was not only ill
made, short and sun-burnt; but his face was so ugly and so low that I
concluded that AEsop himself must have been a little Love beside his
eminence. I understood now why he was so profuse in his generosity and
decorations, for otherwise he might well have been taken for a stableboy.
If the conclave took the eccentric whim of making him pope, Christ would
never have an uglier vicar.
I enquired about the Marquis d'Argens soon after the departure of his
eminence, and was told that he was in the country with his brother, the
Marquis d'Eguille, President of the Parliament, so I went there.
This marquis, famous for his friendship for Frederick II. rather than for
his writings (which are no longer read), was an old man when I saw him.
He was a worthy man, fond of pleasure, a thorough-paced Epicurean, and
had married an actress named Cochois, who had proved worthy of the honour
he had laid on her. He was deeply learned and had a thorough knowledge
of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew literature. His memory was prodigious.
He received me very well, and recalled what his friend the marshal had
written about me. He introduced me to his wife and to his brother, a
distinguished jurist, a man of letters, and a strictly moral man by
temperament as much as religion. Though a highly intellectual man, he
was deeply and sincerely religious.
He was very fond of his brother, and grieved for his irreligion, but
hoped that grace would eventually bring him back to the fold of the
Church. His brother encouraged him in his hopes, while laughing at them
in private, but as they were both sensible men they never discussed
religion together.
I was introduced to a numerous company of both sexes, chiefly consisting
of relations. All were amiable and highly polished, like all the
Provencal nobility.
Plays were performed on the miniature stage, good cheer prevailed, and at
intervals we walked in the garden, in spite of the weather. In Province,
however, the winter is only severe when the wind blows from the north,
which unfortunately often happens.
Among the company were a Berlin lady (widow of the marquis's nephew) and
her brother. This young gentleman, who was gay and free from care,
enjoyed all the pleasures of the house without paying any attention to
the religious services which were held every day. If he thought on the
matter at all, he was a heretic; and when the Jesuit chaplain was saying
mass he amused himself by playing on the flute; he laughed at everything.
He was unlike his sister, who had not only become a Catholic, but was a
very devout one. She was only twenty-two.
Her brother told me that her husband, who had died of consumption, and
whose mind was perfectly clear to the last, as is usually the case in
phthisis, had told her that he could not entertain any hopes of seeing
her in the other world unless she became a Catholic.
These words were engraved on her heart; she had adored her husband, and
she resolved to leave Berlin to live with his relations. No one ventured
to oppose this design, her brother accompanying her, and she was welcomed
joyfully by all her husband's kinsfolk.
This budding saint was decidedly plain.
Her brother, finding me less strict than the others, soon constituted
himself my friend. He came over to Aix every day, and took me to the
houses of all the best people.
We were at least thirty at table every day, the dishes were delicate
without undue profusion, the conversation gay and animated without any
improprieties. I noticed that whenever the Marquis d'Argens chanced to
let slip any equivocal expressions, all the ladies made wry faces, and
the chaplain hastened to turn the conversation. This chaplain had
nothing jesuitical in his appearance; he dressed in the costume of an
ordinary priest, and I should never had known him if the Marquis d'Argens
had not warned me. However, I did not allow his presence to act as a wet
blanket.
I told, in the most decent manner possible, the story of the picture of
the Virgin suckling her Divine Child, and how the Spaniards deserted the
chapel after a stupid priest had covered the beautiful breast with a
kerchief. I do not know how it was, but all the ladies began to laugh.
The disciple of Loyola was so displeased at their mirth, that he took
upon himself to tell me that it was unbecoming to tell such equivocal
stories in public. I thanked him by an inclination of the head, and the
Marquis d'Argens, by way of turning the conversation, asked me what was
the Italian for a splendid dish of stewed veal, which Madame d'Argens was
helping.
"Una crostata," I replied, "but I really do not know the Italian for the
'beatilles' with which it is stuffed."
These 'beatilles' were balls of rice, veal, champignons, artichoke, foie
gras, etc.
The Jesuit declared that in calling them 'beatilles' I was making a mock
of the glories of hereafter.
I could not help roaring with laughter at this, and the Marquis d'Eguille
took my part, and said that 'beatilles' was the proper French for these
balls.
After this daring difference of opinion with his director, the worthy man
thought it would be best to talk of something else. Unhappily, however,
he fell out of the frying-pan into the fire by asking me my opinion as to
the election of the next pope.
"I believe it will be Ganganelli," I replied, "as he is the only monk in
the conclave."
"Why should it be necessary to choose a monk?"
"Because none but a monk would dare to commit the excess which the
Spaniards will demand of the new pope."
"You mean the suppression of the Jesuits."
"Exactly."
"They will never obtain such a demand."
"I hope not, for the Jesuits were my masters, and I love them
accordingly. But all the same Ganganelli will be elected, for an amusing
and yet a weighty reason."
"Tell us the reason."
"He is the only cardinal who does not wear a wig; and you must consider
that since the foundation of the Holy See the Pope has never been
bewigged."
This reason created a great deal of amusement; but the conversation was
brought back to the suppression of the Jesuits, and when I told the
company that I had heard from the Abbe Pinzi I saw the Jesuit turn pale.
"The Pope could never suppress the order," he said.
"It seems that you have never been at a Jesuit seminary," I replied, "for
the dogma of the order is that the Pope can do everything, 'et aliquid
pluris'."
This answer made everybody suppose me to be unaware that I was speaking
to a Jesuit, and as he gave me no answer the topic was abandoned.
After dinner I was asked to stay and see 'Polieucte' played; but I
excused myself, and returned to Aix with the young Berliner, who told me
the story of his sister, and made me acquainted with the character of the
society to which the Marquis d'Eguille was chiefly addicted. I felt that
I could never adapt myself to their prejudices, and if it had not been
for my young friend, who introduced me to some charming people, I should
have gone on to Marseilles.
What with assemblies, balls, suppers, and the society of the handsome
Provenqal ladies, I managed to spend the whole of the carnival and a part
of Lent at Aix.
I had made a present of a copy of the "Iliad" to the learned Marquis
d'Argens; to his daughter, who was also a good scholar, I gave a Latin
tragedy.
The "Iliad" had Porphyry's comment; it was a copy of a rare edition, and
was richly bound.
As the marquis came to Aix to thank me, I had to pay another visit to the
country house.
In the evening I drove back in an open carriage. I had no cloak, and a
cold north wind was blowing; I was perishing with cold, but instead of
going to bed at once I accompanied the Berliner to the house of a woman
who had a daughter of the utmost beauty. Though the girl was only
fourteen, she had all the indications of the marriageable age, and yet
none of the Provencal amateurs had succeeded in making her see daylight.
My friend had already made several unsuccessful efforts. I laughed at
him, as I knew it was all a cheat, and I followed him to the house with
the idea of making the young imposter dismount from her high horse, as I
had done in similar cases in England and Metz.
We set to work; and, far from resisting, the girl said she would be only
too glad to get rid of the troublesome burden.
I saw that the difficulty only proceeded from the way she held herself,
and I ought to have whipped her, as I had done in Venice twenty-five
years ago, but I was foolish enough to try to take the citadel by storm.
But my age of miracles was gone.
I wearied myself to no purpose for a couple of hours, and then went to my
inn, leaving the young Prussian to do his best.
I went to bed with a pain in my side, and after six hours' sleep awoke
feeling thoroughly ill. I had pleurisy. My landlord called in an old
doctor, who refused to let me blood. A severe cough came on, and the
next day I began to spit blood. In six or seven days the malady became
so serious that I was confessed and received the last sacraments.
On the tenth day, the disease having abated for three days, my clever old
doctor answered for my life, but I continued to spit blood till the
eighteenth day.
My convalescence lasted for three weeks, and I found it more trying than
the actual illness, for a man in pain has no time to grow weary.
Throughout the whole case I was tended day and night by a strange woman,
of whom I knew nothing. She nursed me with the tenderest care, and I
awaited my recovery to give her my sincere thanks.
She was not an old woman, neither was she attractive looking. She had
slept in my room all the time. After Eastertide, feeling I was well
enough to venture out, I thanked her to the best of my ability, and asked
who had sent her to me. She told me it was the doctor, and so bade me
farewell.
A few days later I was thanking my old doctor for having procured me such
a capital nurse, but he stared at me and said he knew nothing about the
woman.
I was puzzled, and asked my landlord if she could throw any light on the
strange nurse's identity; but she knew nothing, and her ignorance seemed
universal. I could not discover whence or how she came to attend me.
After my convalescence I took care to get all the letters which had been
awaiting me, and amongst them was a letter from my brother in Paris, in
answer to the epistle I wrote him from Perpignan. He acknowledged my
letter, and told me how delighted he had been to receive it, after
hearing the dreadful news that I had been assassinated on the borders of
Catalonia at the beginning of January.
"The person who gave me the news," my brother added, "was one of your
best friends, Count Manucci, an attache at the Venetian embassy. He said
there could be no doubt as to the truth of the report."
This letter was like a flash of lightning to me. This friend of mine had
pushed his vengeance so far as to pay assassins to deprive me of my life.
Manucci had gone a little too far.
He must have been pretty well qualified to prophesy, as he was so certain
of my death. He might have known that in thus proclaiming in advance the
manner of my death, he was also proclaiming himself as my murderer.
I met him at Rome, two years later, and when I would have made him
confess his guilt, he denied everything, saying he had received the news
from Barcelona; however, we will speak of this in its proper place.
I dined and supped every day at the table d'hote, and one day I heard the
company talking of a male and female pilgrim who had recently arrived.
They were Italians, and were returning from St. James of Compostella.
They were said to be high-born folks, as they had distributed large alms
on their entry into the town.
It was said that the female pilgrim, who had gone to bed on her arrival,
was charming. They were staying at the same inn as I was, and we all got
very curious about them.
As an Italian, I put myself at the head of the band who proceeded to call
on the pilgrims, who, in my opinion, must either be fanatics or rogues.
We found the lady sitting in an arm-chair, looking very tired. She was
young, beautiful, and melancholy-looking, and in her hands she held a
brass crucifix some six inches long. She laid it down when we came in,
and got up and received us most graciously. Her companion, who was
arranging cockle-shells on his black mantle, did not stir; he seemed to
say, by glancing at his wife, that we must confine our attentions to her.
He seemed a man of twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. He was short
and badly hung, and his face bore all the indications of daring,
impudence, scarcasm, and imposture. His wife, on the other hand, was all
meekness and simplicity, and had that modesty which adds so much to the
charm of feminine beauty. They only spoke just enough French to make
themselves understood on their journey, and when they heard me addressing
them in Italian they seemed much relieved.
The lady told me she was a Roman, but I could have guessed as much from
her accent. I judged the man to be a Neapolitan or Sicilian. Their
passport, dated Rome, called him Balsamo, while she bore the names of
Serafina Feliciani, which she still retains. Ten years later we shall
hear more of this couple under the name of Cagliostro.
"We are going back to Rome," said she, "well pleased with our devotions
to St. James of Compostella and to Our Lady del Pilar. We have walked
the whole way on foot, living on alms, so as to more surely win the mercy
of the God whom I have offended so grievously. We have had silver, and
even gold money given us, and in every town we came to we gave what
remained to the poor, so as not to offend God by lack of faith.
"My husband is strong, and has not suffered much, but I have found so
much walking very fatiguing. We have slept on straw or bad beds, always
with our clothes on, to avoid contracting diseases it would be hard to
rid one's self of."
It seemed to me that this last circumstance was added to make us wish to
find out whether the rest of her body could compare with her hands and
arms in whiteness.
"Do you think of making any stay?"
"My weariness will oblige us to stay here for three days; then we shall
go to Rome by the way of Turin, where we shall pay our devotion to the
Holy Sudary."
"You know, of course, that there are several of them in Europe."
"So we have heard, but we are assured that the Sudary of Turin is the
true one. It is the kerchief with which St. Veronica wiped the face of
Our Lord, who left the imprint of His divine face upon it."
We left them, well pleased with the appearance and manners of the lady
pilgrim, but placing very little trust in her devotion. I was still weak
from my illness, and she inspired me with no desires, but the rest would
have gladly supped with her if they had thought there was anything to
follow.
Next day her husband asked me if I would come up and breakfast with them,
or if they should come down and breakfast with me. It would have been
impolite to have replied neither, so I said that I should be delighted to
see them in my room.
At breakfast I asked the pilgrim what he did, and he replied that he was
an artist.
He could not design a picture, but he could copy it, and he assured me
that he could copy an engraving so exactly that none could tell the copy
from the original.
"I congratulate you. If you are not a rich man, you are, at least,
certain of earning a living with this talent."
"Everybody says the same, but it is a mistake. I have pursued this craft
at Rome and at Naples, and found I had to work all day to make half a
tester, and that's not enough to live on."
He then shewed me some fans he had done, and I thought them most
beautiful. They were done in pen and ink, and the finest copper-plate
could not have surpassed them.
Next he showed me a copy from a Rembrandt, which if anything, was finer
than the original. In spite of all he swore that the work he got barely
supported him, but I did not believe what he said. He was a weak genius
who preferred a vagabond life to methodical labour.
I offered a Louis for one of his fans, but he refused to take it, begging
me to accept the fan as a gift, and to make a collection for him at the
table d'hote, as he wanted to start the day after next.
I accepted the present and promised to do as he desired, and succeeded in
making up a purse of two hundred francs for them.
The woman had the most virtuous air. She was asked to write her name on
a lottery ticket, but refused, saying that no honest girls were taught to
write at Rome.
Everybody laughed at this excuse except myself, and I pitied her, as I
could see that she was of very low origin.
Next day she came and asked me to give her a letter of introduction for
Avignon. I wrote her out two; one to M. Audifret the banker, and the
other to the landlady of the inn. In the evening she returned me the
letter to the banker, saying that it was not necessary for their
purposes. At the same time she asked me to examine the letter closely,
to see if it was really the same document I had given her. I did so, and
said I was sure it was my letter.
She laughed, and told me I was mistaken as it was only a copy.
"Impossible!"
She called her husband, who came with the letter in his hand.
I could doubt no longer, and said to him,--
"You are a man of talents, for it is much harder to imitate a handwriting
than an engraving. You ought to make this talent serve you in good
stead; but be careful, or it may cost you your life."
The next day the couple left Aix. In ten years I saw them again under
the name of Count and Countess Pellegrini.
At the present period he is in a prison which he will probably never
leave, and his wife is happy, maybe, in a convent.
