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.
