The Queen Pedauque by Anatole France

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"Luminary obscene, mischievous and libidinous, you never tire of
illuminating men's wickedness, and you deny a ray of your light to
him who searches for virtuous maxims!"

"The more so, abbe, as this bitch of a moon gives just light enough
to find our way along the streets, and not sufficient to play a game
of piquet. Let's go at once to the castle you spoke of, where I have
to slip in without being seen."

That was good advice, and after we had drunk the wine to the last
drop we took the road, all three of us, to the Cross of the Sablons.
I walked with M. d'Anquetil. My good tutor, hindered by the water
his breeches had soaked in, followed us, crying, moaning and
disgusted.

CHAPTER XVIII

Our Return--We smuggle M. d'Anquetil in--M. d'Asterac on Jealousy--
M. Jerome Coignard in Trouble--What happened while I was in the
Laboratory--Jahel persuaded to elope.

The morning light already pricked our jaded eyes when we reached the
green door to the park. We had not to use the knocker, as some time
ago the porter had given us the keys of his domain. It was agreed
that my good tutor, with d'Anquetil, should cautiously advance in
the shadow of the lane, and that I should remain behind on the
lookout for the faithful Criton, and the kitchen boys who might
perhaps see us coming along. This arrangement, which was nothing but
reasonable, was to turn out rather badly for me. My two companions
had gone up without being discovered, and reached my room, where we
had decided to hide M. d'Anquetil until the moment of escape in the
post-chaise, but as I was climbing the second flight of steps I met
M. d'Asterac, in a red damask gown, carrying a silver candlestick.
He put, as he habitually did, his hand on my shoulder.

"Hello! my son," he said, "are you not very happy, having broken off
all intercourse with women, and by that escaped all dangers of bad
company? With the august maidens of the air you need not be in fear
of quarrels, scuffles, injurious and violent rows which usually
occur with creatures following a loose life. In your solitude, which
delights the fairies, you enjoy a delicious peace."

I thought at first that he mocked me. But I soon found out that
nothing was further from his thoughts.

"I am pleased to have met you, my son," he continued, "and will
thank you to come with me to my studio for a moment."

I followed him. He unlocked, with a key nearly an ell long, that
confounded room where I had seen the glare of infernal fires. When
we were inside the laboratory he asked me to kindly make up the
smouldering fire. I threw some short logs into the furnace, where I
don't know what was steaming, exhaling a suffocating odour. While he
was occupied with his black cookery, cupellating and matrassing, I
remained seated on a settle, and, against my will, closed my eyes.
He made me reopen them to admire a green earthenware vessel, with a
glass top, which he had in his hand.

"You ought to know, my son," he said, "that this subliming pot is
called aludel. It contains a liquid to be looked at with the
greatest attention, as it is nothing less than the mercury of the
philosophers. Do not suppose that it is to keep its present dark
colour for ever. Soon it will change to white and in that state will
change all metals into silver. Hereafter, by my art and industry, it
will turn red, and acquire the virtue of transmuting silver into
gold. It certainly would be of advantage to you that, shut in this
laboratory, you should not leave it before these sublime operations
have fully taken place, a process which cannot require more than two
or three months. But as to ask you to do so would perhaps be
imposing too hard a restriction on your youth, be satisfied, for
this time, to observe the preludes of the work, while putting, if
you please, as much wood on the fire as possible."

Having said that he returned to his phials and retorts, and I could
not help thinking of the sad position wherein ill-luck and
imprudence had placed me.

"Alas!" I said to myself, and threw logs into the fire, "at this
very moment the constables are searching for my good tutor and
myself; perhaps we shall have to go to prison, certainly we have to
leave this castle. I have in default of money, at least board and an
honourable position. I shall never again dare to stand before M.
d'Asterac, who believes me to have passed the night in the silent
voluptuousness of magic, which perhaps would have been better for
me. Alas! I'll never more see Mosaide's niece, Mademoiselle Jahel,
who at night-time woke me in my room in such a charming way. No
doubt she will forget me. Perhaps she'll love someone else, and
bestow on him the same caresses as she gave to me." The idea of such
an infidelity became unbearable. But as the world goes, one has to
be ready for anything.

"My son," M. d'Asterac began to say again, "you do not sufficiently
feed the athanor. I see that you are still not fully convinced of
the excellency of fire, which is capable of ripening this mercury
and transforming it into the wonderful fruit I expect to gather very
soon. More wood! The fire, my son, is the superior element; I have
told you enough, and now I'll show you an example. On a very cold
day last winter, visiting Mosaide in his lodge, I found him sitting,
his feet on a warming pan. I observed that the subtle particles of
fire escaping from the pan had power enough to inflate and lift up
the folds of his gown, wherefrom I inferred, that had the fire been
hotter, it would have raised Mosaide himself into the air, of which
he is certainly worthy, and that, if it should be possible to close
into some kind of a vessel a very large quantity of such fire
particles, it would be possible to sail on the clouds as easily as
we sail on the sea, and to visit the Salamanders in their aerial
abodes, a problem I shall keep in mind. I do not despair of
constructing such a fireship. But let us go back to our work of
putting wood on the fire."

He kept me for some time in the glow of the laboratory whence I
wanted to escape as quickly as possible, to join Jahel, whom I was
anxious to inform of my misfortune. At last he left me, and I
thought myself free, a hope shortly to be disappointed by his
return.

"It is rather mild this morning," he said, "but the sky is somewhat
cloudy. Would it please you to go for a walk in the park with me
before returning to the translation of Zosimus the Panopolitan,
which will be a great honour to you and your tutor if you finish it
as you have begun?"

With much regret I followed him into the park, where he said to me:

"I am not sorry, my son, to be alone with you, to warn you, as it is
high time to do, against a great danger by which you may be
threatened one day; I reproach myself not to have thought of warning
you before, as what I shall communicate to you is of the utmost
consequence."

And speaking in this way, he led me through the grand avenue which
leads down to the marshes of the Seine, whence Rueil is to be seen
and Mont Valerien with its calvary. It was his usual walk. The alley
was practicable in spite of some dead trees which had fallen across
it.

"It is important for you to know to what you expose yourself by
betraying your Salamander. I do not want to interrogate you as to
what intercourse you have had with that superhuman person I have
been fortunate enough to make you acquainted with. I dare say you
feel somewhat reluctant to discuss it. Possibly you deserve praise
for that. If the Salamanders have not, m what concerns the
discretion of their lovers, the same ideas that court ladies and
tradeswomen have, it is not less true that it is the special quality
of beautiful amours to be unutterable, and that it would profane a
grand sentiment to spread it abroad.

"But your Salamander (of which I could easily find the name if I had
any idle curiosity) has perhaps omitted to give you information
about one of the most violent passions--jealousy; this character is
common to them. Know well, my son, Salamanders are not to be
betrayed without punishment awaiting you. Their vengeance on the
perjurer is of the cruelest. The divine Paracelsus gives one
example, which will suffice to inspire in you a salutary fear.

"There was in the German town of Staufen a spagyric philosopher who
had, like yourself, connection with a Salamander. He was depraved
enough to deceive her with a woman, certainly pretty, but not more
beautiful than a woman can be. One evening, having supper with his
new mistress in company with some friends, they saw a thigh of
marvellous beauty shining over their heads. The Salamander exposed
it to impress on them all, that she did not deserve the wrong
inflicted by her lover; after that the outraged celestial struck
down the unfaithful lover with apoplexy. The vulgar, who are made to
be deceived, believed his to be a natural death; the initiated knew
by whose hand he was slain. I owed you this advice, my son, and this
example."

They were less useful to me than M. d'Asterac thought. Listening to
them I mused on other subjects of alarm. Without doubt my face must
have betrayed the state of anxiety I was in; because the great
cabalist, having looked at me, asked me if I was not afraid that an
engagement, guarded by conditions so severe, would be troublesome to
my youth.

"I am able to reassure you," he added. "The jealousy of a Salamander
is awakened only by rivalry with women, and to speak truly it is
more resentment, indignation, disgust, than real jealousy. The souls
of the Salamanders are too noble, their intelligence too subtle, to
envy one another, and to give way to a sentiment pertaining to the
barbarity wherein humanity is still half plunged. On the contrary
they delight to share with their playmates the joys they taste
beside a sage, and are pleased to bring to their lovers the most
beautiful of their sisters. Very soon you'll experience that, as a
fact, they push politeness to the point I mentioned, and not a year,
nay not six months, will pass before your room will be the trysting
place of five or six daughters of the light, who will untie before
you their sparkling girdles. Do not be afraid, my son, to answer
their caresses. Your own fairy love will not take umbrage. How could
she be offended, wise as she is? And on your side, do not get
irritated if your Salamander leaves you for a moment to visit
another philosopher. Consider that the proud jealousy men bring into
the union of the sexes is but a savage sentiment, founded on the
most ridiculous of illusions. It rests on the idea that a woman
belongs to you because she has given herself to you, which is
nothing but a play on words."

While making this speech, M. d'Asterac had turned into the lane of
the mandrakes, where we could see Mosaide's cottage, half hidden by
foliage, when suddenly an appalling voice burst upon us and made my
heart beat faster--hoarse sounds, accompanied by a sharp gnashing,
and on getting nearer the sounds seemed to be modulated, and each
phrase ended in a sort of very feeble melody, which could not be
listened to without shuddering.

Advancing a few paces we could, by listening closely, understand the
sense of the strange words. The voice said:

"Hear the malediction with which Elisha cursed the insolent and
mirthful children. Listen to the anathema Barak flung on Meros.

"I curse thee in the name of Archithuriel, who is also called the
lord of battles, and holds the flaming sword. I doom thee to
perdition in the name of Sardaliphonos, who presents to his master
the flowers and garlands of merit offered by the children of Israel.

"Be cursed, hound! Anathema, swine!"

Looking from whence the voice came, we could see Mosaide on the
threshold of his house, standing erect, his arms raised, his hands
in the form of fangs, with nails crooked, appearing inflamed by the
fiery light of the sun. His head was covered with his dirty tiara,
and he was enveloped in his gorgeous gown, showing when flying open
his meagre bow-legs in ragged breeches. He looked like some begging
magician, immortal, and very old. His eyes glared, and he said:

"Be cursed in the name of all globes, be cursed in the name of all
wheels, be cursed in the name of the mysterious beasts Ezekiel saw."

Out he stretched his long arms, ending in claws, and continued:

"In the name of the globes, in the name of the wheels, in the name
of the mysterious beasts, descend among those who are no more."

We advanced a few paces between the half-grown trees to see the
object over which Mosaide extended his arms and his anger, and
discovered, to our great surprise, M. Jerome Coignard, hanging by a
lapel of his gown on an evergreen thorn bush. The night's disorder
was visible all over his body; his collar and his shoes torn, his
stockings smeared with mud, his shirt open, all reminded me of our
common misadventures, and, worse than all, the swelling of his nose
spoilt entirely the noble and smiling expression which never left
his features.

I ran up to him and unhooked him so luckily off the thorns that only
a small piece of his breeches stuck to them. Mosaide, having had his
say, re-entered the cottage. As he wore only slippers I could
observe that his legs fitted right into the middle of his feet, so
that the heel stuck out behind pretty nearly as much as the forefoot
in front, a singular deformation, rendering his walking uncouth,
which otherwise would have been noble and full of dignity.

"Jacques Tournebroche! my dear boy," said my tutor, with a sigh,
"that Jew must be Isaac Laquedem in person, so to blaspheme in all
languages. He vowed me to a death near and violent with an enormous
abundance of metaphors, and he called me a pig in fourteen distinct
languages, if I counted them correctly. I could believe him to be
the Antichrist, and he does not want some of the signs by which that
enemy of God is to be recognised. Under any circumstances he is a
dirty Jew, and never has the wheel as a brand of infamy been exposed
on the vestments of a worse or more rabid miscreant. As for himself,
he not only deserves the wheel formerly attached to the garments of
Jews, but also that other wheel on which scoundrels have their bones
broken."

And my good master, mightily angry in his turn, shook his fist in
the direction where Mosaide had disappeared, and accused him of
crucifying children and devouring the flesh of new-born babes.

M. d'Asterac went up to him and touched his breast with the ruby he
used to wear on his finger.

"It is useful," said the great cabalist, "to know the peculiar
qualities of precious stones. Rubies soothe resentments, and you'll
soon see the Abbe Coignard regain his natural suavity."

My dear tutor smiled already, less by virtue of the stone than by
the influence of a philosophy which raised this admirable man above
all human passions, for I feel it my duty to say, at the very moment
my narrative becomes clouded and sad, that M. Jerome Coignard has
given me examples of wisdom under circumstances in which it is but
rarely met with.

We inquired the cause of the quarrel, but easily understood by the
vagueness of his embarrassed replies that he did not intend to
satisfy our curiosity. I surmised at once that Jahel was mixed up
with it in some way, when I heard with the gnashing of Mosaide's
voice the grating of locks and bolts, and later on the noise, in the
lodge, of a violent dispute between uncle and niece. When we tried
again to bring my tutor to some explanation, he said:

"Hate for Christians is deeply rooted in every Jew's heart, and
yonder Mosaide is an execrable example of it. I fancy I discovered
in his horrible yelpings some parts of the imprecations the
Amsterdam synagogue vomited in the last century on a little Dutch
Jew called Baruch or Benedict, but better known under the name of
Spinoza, for having framed a philosophy which has been perfectly
refuted, as soon as it was brought to public knowledge, by excellent
theologians. But this old Mordecai has added to it, so it seems to
me, many and much more horrible imprecations, and I confess to
having somewhat resented them. For a moment I thought of escaping by
flight this torrent of abuse, when to my dismay I found myself
entangled in yonder thorn, and sticking to it by different parts of
my clothes and skin so fast that I really expected to have to leave
the one or the other behind me. I should still be there, in smarting
agony, if Tournebroche, my dear pupil, had not freed me."

"The thorns count for nothing," said M. d'Asterac, "but I'm afraid,
Monsieur l'Abbe, that you have trodden on a mandrake."

"Mandrakes," replied the abbe, "are certainly the least of my
cares."

"You're wrong," said M. d'Asterac. "It suffices to tread on a
mandrake to become involved in a love crime, and perish by it
miserably."

"Ah! sir," my dear tutor replied, "here are all sorts of dangers,
and I become aware that it was necessary to be closely shut in
between the eloquent walls of the 'Asteracian,' which is the queen
of libraries. For having left it for a moment only, I get the beasts
of Ezekiel thrown at my head, not to speak of anything else."

"Would you kindly give me news of Zosimus the Panopolitan?" inquired
M. d'Asterac.

"He goes on," replied my master; "goes on nicely, though slowly at
the moment."

"Do not forget, abbe," said the cabalist, "that possession of the
greatest secrets is attached to the knowledge of those ancient
texts."

"I think of it, sir, with solicitude," said the abbe.

M. d'Asterac, after this assurance, left us standing at the statue
of the faun, who continued to play the flute without taking any
notice of his head, fallen into the grass. He disappeared rapidly
between the trees, looking for Salamanders.

My tutor linked his arm in mine with the air of one who can at last
speak freely.

"Jacques Tournebroche, my son, I must not conceal from you that this
very morning, in the attics of the castle, a rather peculiar chance
meeting has taken place, while you were kept in the room of yonder
mad fire-blower. I plainly heard him ask you to assist him for a
moment in his cooking, which is a great deal less savoury and
Christian than that of Master Leonard your father. Alas! when shall
I be lucky enough to see again the cookshop of the _Queen
Pedauque_ and the bookshop of M. Blaizot, with the sign of
_Saint Catherine_, where I enjoyed myself so heartily thumbing
the books newly arrived from The Hague and Amsterdam!"

"Alas!" I exclaimed, the tears coming into my eyes, "when shall I
return to it again? When shall I return to the Rue St Jacques again,
where I was born, and see my dear parents, who'll feel burning shame
when they hear of our misfortunes? But do be so good, my dear tutor,
as to explain that strange encounter you said you had this very
morning, and also the events of the day."

M. Jerome Coignard willingly consented to give me all the
enlightenment I wished for. He did it in the following words:

"Know then, my dear boy, that I reached the upper storey of the
castle without hindrance in company with M. d'Anquetil, whom I like
well enough, although rude and uncultured. His mind is possessed
neither of fine knowledge nor deep curiosity. But youth's vivacity
sparkleth pleasantly with him, and the ardour of his blood results
in amusing sallies. He knows the world as well as he knows women,
because he is above them, and without any kind of philosophy. It's a
great frankness on his part to call himself an atheist. His
ungodliness is without malice, and will disappear with the
exuberance of his sensuality. In his soul God has no other enemies
than horses, cards and women. In the mind of a real libertine, like
M. Bayle for example, truth has to meet more formidable and
malicious adversaries. But, my dear boy, I give you a character
sketch instead of the plain narrative you wish to have of me.

"I'll satisfy you. Let's see. Having arrived at the top storey of
the castle in company with M. d'Anquetil, I made the young gentleman
enter your room, and wished him, in accordance with the promise we
made him at the Triton fountain, to use the room as his own. He did
so willingly, undressed, and, keeping nothing on but his boots, went
into your bed, the curtains of which he closed so as not to be
incommoded by the bright morning light, and was not long before he
was sound asleep.

"As to myself, my dear boy, having reached my room, tired as I was,
I did not want to go to rest before I had looked up in my Boethius
one or two sentences appropriate to my state of mind. I could not
find the very one fit for it. It must not be forgotten that this
great thinker had not had occasion to meditate on the disgrace of
having broken the head of a Farmer-general with a bottle out of his
own cellar. But I was able to pick up here and there, in his
admirable treatise, some maxims applicable to present conjunctures.
Having done so, I drew the night-cap over my eyes, recommended my
soul to God, and quietly went to sleep. After what seemed to me,
without being able to measure it, a very short space of time--be
mindful, my son, that our actions are the only measure for time,
which, if I may say so, is suspended for us by sleep--I felt my arm
pulled, and heard a voice shouting in my ear: 'Eh! Abbe! Eh! Abbe,
wake up!' Half dozing as I was, I believed it was a constable
wanting to conduct me to the officer, and I deliberated with myself
the easiest way in which I could break his head, and rapidly came to
the conclusion that the candlestick would be the handiest weapon. It
is unhappily, too true, my dear boy, that having once stepped aside
from the road of kindness and equity, where the wise man walks with
a firm and prudent step, one becomes compelled to sustain violence
by violence and cruelty by cruelty, thereby proving that a first
fault leads invariably to other faults--evil always follows evil
done. One has to be reminded of this if one wants to fully
understand the lives of the Roman emperors, of whom M. Crevier has
given such an exact account. Those princes were not born more evilly
disposed than other men. Caius, surnamed Caligula, was wanting
neither in natural spirit nor in judgment, and was quite capable of
friendship. Nero had an inborn liking for virtue, and his
temperament disposed him towards all that is grand and sublime. Both
of them were led by a first fault on the nefarious, villainous road
whereon they walked to their miserable end. Their history is
cleverly treated in M. Crevier's book. I knew that remarkable writer
when he was a teacher of literature and history at the College of
Beauvais, as I might be teaching to-day, had my life not been
crossed by a thousand impediments, and if the natural easiness of my
spirit had not drawn me into the manifold snares laid in my way. M.
Crevier, my boy, led a pure life; his morals were severe, and I have
myself heard him say that a woman who had broken her conjugal vows
was capable of the crimes of murder and incendiarism. I repeat this
saying of his, to impress you with the saintly austerity of that
model priest.

"But, once more, I digress, and I must hasten to return to my
narrative. Well, as I have said, I thought a constable had come to
arrest me, and I could see myself in one of the archbishop's
dungeons, when I opened my eyes and recognised the features and
voice of M. d'Anquetil. 'Abbe,' said that young gentleman to me, 'I
have just had a singular adventure in Tournebroche's room. During my
sleep a woman entered my room, glided into my bed, and awoke me with
a shower of caresses, tender epithets, sweet murmurings, and
passionate kisses. I pushed the curtains back to see the features of
my good luck. She was dark and had ardent eyes, one of the finest
women I have ever held in my arms. But all at once she screamed and
jumped out, violently angry, but not quick enough to prevent me
catching her in the passage and pressing her closely in my arms. She
began by striking me and scratching my face. After having lacerated
it sufficiently to satisfy her outraged womanly honour, we began to
explain ourselves. She was well pleased to learn that I am a
gentleman, and none of the poorest, and sooner than I might have
expected I ceased to be odious to her, and she began to be tender
with me, when a scullion appeared in the passage; his appearance put
her to flight at once.

"'I am quite aware,' said M. d'Anquetil, 'that that admirable girl
had come for another than myself; she must have entered the wrong
room, and the surprise frightened her. I did my best to reassure
her, and should doubtless have won her amity had not that sot of a
scullion come between us.'

"I confirmed him in that supposition. We put our heads together to
get an idea of the man for whom that beautiful woman had ventured on
such an early morning visit, and were easily agreed that it could be
no other but that old fool d'Asterac--you know, Tournebroche, I
suspected him before--who awaits her intimacy in an adjoining room,
if not, and without your knowledge, in your own. Are you not of the
same opinion?"

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