“Is the woman a prostitute?” Dupin asked.
“Presumably,” Chapelain confirmed. “She appears to be her late forties, and undoubtedly contracted the disease long ago. It has now progressed to its tertiary stage—which, as you know, often generates symptoms of madness by itself. It is obvious, too, that she has been subjected in the past to the mercury treatment, which I have always considered to be more likely to do further harm than good. If the disease itself were insufficient to explain her tendency to hallucination, the mercury vapor to which she has been exposed is undoubtedly capable of making up the margin—but the particular hallucination that I assisted her to fabricate seems entirely benign to me. She imagines herself to be the queen of some enchanted underworld, whose king is Oberon—I think she might be English by birth, so that is probably an echo of Shakespeare rather than Huon of Bordeaux—and whose personnel is drawn syncretically from various traditional tales and romances.”
“Leuret would not approve of that,” Dupin observed. So far as I knew, he had never met Leuret, but he had definitely read one of the so-called sage of Bicêtre’s books, Fragmens psychologiques sur la folie. He had been very interested in its case-studies of hallucination and delusion—especially those in the final section on “terror and damnation.”
“Indeed he does not,” Chapelain said, with a heartfelt sigh. “I know that you’re an admirer of his work, Monsieur Dupin, as I am myself, but I feel that his attitudes are hardening, unnecessarily and undesirably, in the face of criticism from the dogmatic physiologists at the Saltpêtrière. He disapproves of the preservation of fantastic folklore, especially its use to amuse children. He considers the substance of romance as a species of hallucination, and hence as a species of madness, which would be best eliminated from our society. I had a patient once—a deputé from the Loire valley, a journalist and historian of some repute—who had a very similar view, lumping together all the enemies of progress under the heading “poetic” or “anti-prosaic.” Dr. Leuret has a similar distaste for the imaginative in art and literature, regarding Monsieur Nodier’s Smarra and Monsieur Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris as works direly dangerous to public health. He once looked after Monsieur Hugo’s younger brother when he was in Charenton, and considers the great poet no less mad than his unfortunate relative. Indeed, he suspects the elder Hugo of being a noxious source of infection, by virtue of his celebrity. Like Plato, I think Leuret would expel all poets from his ideal Republic, or put them all to death, for the crime of nourishing the excitement of the mind rather than sternly promoting the calm of reason. I was always sure, personally, that Plato had his tongue in his cheek when he wrote that—he was an accomplished romancer himself, after all—but Dr. Leuret seems to be serious now that he is becoming more cantankerous. That, too, is a factor in his reaction to this particular case.”
“There is no genius without a hint of madness,” I observed, quoting Aristotle. “Modern psychologists and artists seem to be in agreement about that—Joseph Moreau did not lack for volunteers when he started to conduct experiments in hallucination using Oriental drugs. Hugo’s acolyte Gautier was one of the most enthusiastic, I believe.”
“Indeed,” said Chapelain, with a sigh. “Actually, Monsieur Dupin, there is one aspect of the present case with which you might be able to help me. At the very least, it might be of some slight interest to you.”
So saying, he reached into the inside pocket of his frock-coat and brought out a piece of paper, which he showed to Dupin and myself. Inscribed on the paper was an array of forty-nine characters, symmetrically arrayed in seven groups of seven to form a square. If the characters were letters, they did not belong to any alphabet that I could recognize.
After a preliminary glance, Dupin took hold of the paper and studied it more attentively. There was a frown on his face that I assumed to be a frown of puzzlement and concentration.
After fifteen or twenty seconds of profound silence, Chapelian said: “Well, Monsieur Dupin—do you know what it means?”
“No,” Dupin admitted—but he was quick to add: “But I know, in a general sense, what it is.”
“And what is it?” Chapelain asked.
“A cryptogram.”
“You mean, a coded message of some kind,” I put in. “Those symbols stand for letters of the alphabet, which, when the correct substitutions are made, spell out a text in Latin, French or whatever?”
I had, of course, read my American correspondent’s excellent tale “The Gold Bug,” in which a coded message of that kind leads to treasure buried by the infamous pirate Captain Kidd. Tales of pirate treasure were very much in vogue in Paris in 1846, because the second phase of the rivalry between Monsieur Sue and Monsieur Dumas had spawned Dumas’ relentlessly melodramatic tale of the Comte de Monte Cristo, who had set out to take revenge upon the enemies that had confined him to the Château d’If after enriching himself fabulously with such a treasure.
“That is the vulgar understanding of a cryptogram,” Dupin confirmed, with such naked contempt in his voice that I felt momentarily ashamed for having innocently suggested it.
“That’s my understanding too,” Chapelain put in, loyally. “If there’s a more sophisticated one, it has escaped my notice.”
“That might well be to your credit,” Dupin admitted, “for the other meaning is one that is more likely to recommend itself to the Baron Du Potet, now that he is haunting the bookshops of Paris for esoteric tomes of all sorts.” The edge in his voice suggested that he did not appreciate the extra competition, give that there were more than enough bibliomaniacs in Paris already—not to mention those in the provinces, who occasionally mounted voracious raids on the bookshops of Paris.
“So tell us,” I said, a trifle sharply. “What is a cryptogram, to intellectuals of a less vulgar stripe?”
“Originally,” Dupin said, “a cryptogram was a particular kind of magic spell. The format has been cheapened by overmuch imitation, of course—you can see magical squares of this sort, almost invariably manifesting the same seven-by-seven formation—in numerous alchemical texts and so-called grimoires. Many of those attempt to adapt the format to a Christian context to which it is ill-fitted, while others pretend—always falsely, so far as I can tell—to be the most celebrated legendary original.”
“What legendary original is that?” Chapelain queried, the hint of impatience in his voice not entirely due to his heavy day at Bicêtre.
“The so-called Key, or Seal, of Solomon—the instrument with which the great king is said to have bound the demons that once supposedly ravaged the earth: the djinn, as Arab folklore calls them.”
“Ah!” said Chapelain. He seemed slightly disappointed. I could understand why: the Clavicule Salomonis was one of the so-called “forbidden books” on Dupin’s shelves—or, to be perfectly accurate, two of them, for he had two entirely distinct tomes bearing that title, both of them printed in the sixteenth century. The mere fact of their having been printed robbed them of any real claim they had to be considered esoteric, while the fact that various distinct versions existed illustrated the sad truth that the occult monde in which the likes of the Comte de Saint-Germain and Mademoiselle Valdemar moved was awash with such optimistic fakes.
“Perhaps that’s the real one,” I quipped, nodding my head in the direction of the piece of paper that Dupin was holding.
“Perhaps it is,” he said, sarcastically. “But it has been scribbled on modern note-paper with a steel-nibbed pen, in a rather slapdash manner, so I would beg leave to doubt it, even if Dr. Chapelain had not found it in the possession of a mercury-addled syphilitic whore who suffers from bizarre hallucinations.”
Chapelain took some slight offence at that, presumably on behalf of his patient. He was a good and humane man, who did his best for all his patients, whether they came to consult him from the aristocratic houses of Faubourg Saint-Germain or somehow came to his attention in the dire wards of Bicêtre.
“That’s not the original,” of course,” h
e said, mildly. “That’s a copy made this afternoon by Dr. Leuret—but you’re correct about the steel nib. Fine detective work, that.”
Dupin smiled, wryly. “You should have brought the original,” he said, in a tone of mild reproof, “but I accept the rebuke.”
“That would have been somewhat impractical, although not actually impossible,” Chapelain countered. I could tell from his tone that he had a revelation up his sleeve with which he hoped to put Dupin’s nose ever so slightly out of joint.
“Is it hewn in stone then?” Dupin asked, lightly.
“No,” said Chapelain. “It’s inscribed on the woman’s back—that’s the pattern of the inflammation to which I referred, although the version you’re holding is considerably larger than the original, which is no more than five centimetres across. As I said, Leuret thinks that it was tattooed a long time ago, but it certainly wasn’t done in any inking parlor in Paris or Le Havre, and I beg leave to doubt that it was contrived with a steel needle.”
“Ah!” said Dupin thoughtfully. “That is intriguing, as further complications go. It’s far more intricate, is it not, than the growths and birthmarks that are usually identified as the Devil’s marks? Have you asked her what it is?”
“No—I’m not even sure that she was aware of its presence until the wretched orderlies drew attention to it. I dare say, though, that she would me more likely to attributed it to King Oberon’s magic than the Devil’s…or Merlin’s.” His voice seemed slightly strangled as he pronounced the last name. He did not wait to be asked a question before adding: “She calls me Merlin, having adapted me into her fantasy.”
“Of course,” Dupin observed, in a tranquil tone. “What does she call Leuret?”
“She calls him the Mahatma—but she refuses to associate him with a character in her consolatory Underworld. As I said, I think she might be English by birth, but possibly born in India. That would probably have made tales of ancient Britain and Britanny seem even more exotic when they were old to her as a child. Her favorite character seems to be Tristan de Léonais, and that’s reflected in what she claims to be her own name. She calls herself Ysolde—Ysolde Leonys. That’s L-E-O-N-Y-S, with the stress on the second syllable rather than the first: another clue to her English origin….” He trailed off, having belatedly noticed Dupin’s expression, to which puzzlement had returned in full force. “Do you recognize that name?” he added, belatedly.
“Yes,” Dupin said. “As it happens, I’ve heard it mentioned quite recently.”
“By whom?” I prompted, when he did not seem inclined to continue—but he was studying the cryptogram again, with a new intensity. “You don’t really think it might be the Key of Solomon, do you?” I said, although I felt foolish as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
For once there was no hint of mockery in his response, even though the question was so obviously fatuous. “There’s no such thing, strictly speaking,” he said. “It’s a legend, perverted as well as preserved by virtue of its incorporation into three religions…but it’s a legend that might well have some foundation in fact. I can’t believe for a moment that this might be a copy of one of the cryptograms that gave rise to the legend, but it just might be one of those spun off from it…which are not without interest in more than one antiquarian sense. She was born in India, you said?” The last sentence was couched in a much sharper tone, and addressed to Chapelain.
“I suspect so,” Chapelain confirmed, his tone now wary. “Those characters aren’t Sanskrit, thought…not, at least, any representation of Sanskrit that I’ve ever seen.”
“No,” Dupin agreed,” they’re not Sanskrit. They’re almost certainly improvised to represent phonemes, but if this really is a serious attempt to reproduce, synthesize or fake a cryptogram, it’s futile to try to solve it by trying to translate the symbols in such a way that they spell out a message, in Sanskrit, English, Latin, French or any other known language. I’d like to see your Ysolde, Dr. Chapelain, if that’s possible.”
“She’s not really my Ysolde,” Chapelain said, his tone still very wary. “If she’s anyone’s, she’s Leuret’s—but she came to the hospital voluntarily; she wasn’t committed by the law. In theory, she’s a free agent, although she’s in no condition to exercise her freedom.”
“So much the better,” said Dupin. “If she’s free, then she’s free to receive visitors. Will Leuret raise any objection?”
“I don’t think so. I told him that I would show you the design, and he seemed glad—he knows you by reputation, and not solely on the basis of my remarks. I’m sure that he’ll be very interested to know what you make of the design…and what you make of the patient, if you can make anything out of her at all.”
“How is it that you recognized her name, Dupin?” I asked my friend, bluntly, when I could get a word in.
“I heard it from Père France,” Dupin told us. Père France, whose real name was Thibault, was one on the book-sellers with whom he had regular dealings—a man known to and greatly respected by every bibliophile in Paris. “He asked me whether I knew of any documents signed with that name, or referring to it, perhaps in connection with the name Taylor. He was asking on behalf of one of his provincial customers, a renowned bibliotaph who calls himself Breisz. The collector in question has a keen interest in the Levasseur cryptogram, as well as many other occult matters, and Père France thinks that his enquiry regarding the name Leonys was connected to his interest in that crytogram.”
I did not have to ask what a bibliotaph was—it was one of Père France’s favourite sarcasms. A bibliotaph is the kind of bibliomaniac who hides his collection away, as if in a tomb. There is, according to the worthy bookseller, no species of miser more secretive or avaricious, and no kind of bibliomaniac less sane—although I doubt that men of that sort frequently end up in the care of men like François Leuret, for it’s the kind of eccentricity that requires considerable wealth. Nor did I have to ask why the bibliotaph in question merely “called himself” Breisz; Breisz was the Breton word for Breton—a far more likely pseudonym than surname. I contented myself, therefore, by asking: “What’s the Levasseur cryptogram?”
“I’m surprised that you don’t know,” Dupin retorted, reverting to type. “Your friend Poe certainly does—he based a story on his legend, although, as a good American, he naturally substituted an American pirate for the French one.”
“Captain Kidd, you mean,” I said. “In ‘The Gold Bug’?”
“Precisely. The idea of coming into possession of a cipher offering directions to a pirate’s treasure is hackneyed now, but it was relatively fresh once, and it was in connection with Olivier Levasseur that it was first popularized in France.”
“But you can see such clichés any night of the week in the cheap theaters of the Boulevard du Temple,” Chapelain interjected. “If poor Ysolde has been a streetwalker for twenty years and more, she’s bound to be exceedingly familiar with such fare—but there’s nothing about pirates in her fantasies, which are of an altogether more fabulous stripe.”
“Pirates are fabulous enough in their own right,” Dupin assured him. “Especially Olivier Levasseur. You must have heard of him in your youth, although the name has clearly slipped your memory now.”
“You’d better remind me, then,” said Chapelain, “if you really think it’s relevant.”
“I don’t know whether it is relevant,” Dupin confessed, “but the mere possibility….” He left that sentence hanging, and told us the story instead.
CHAPTER TWO
OUR LADY OF THE CAPE
“Olivier Levasseur,” Dupin said, settling into oratorical mode, “was a seaman who obtained a lettre de marque from Louis XIV in order that he might serve as a privateer during the War of the Spanish Succession. When the war ended in 1714 he was ordered to return to France, but, like numerous other privateers, he elected to continue his new way of life instead, originally joining a Caribbean pirate fleet commanded by the Englishman Benjamin Hornigold. Hornigold
was soon recruited by the English government to hunt down his former peers, however, and Levasseur found it diplomatic to remove himself from his treacherous ally’s reach.
“Levasseur took his ship to the east coast of Africa, where there were moderately rich pickings by virtue of the booming slave trade. His attention was soon diverted further eastwards, because the increasing British activity in India and thriving trade with the Far East were making the Indian Ocean much busier. The area was dangerous for European pirates, however, because a native pirate fleet based in India had a virtual monopoly. It was commanded by a warlord named Angria, who had a fortress in Callaba, not far from Bombay, and the support of the Mogul. When the British East India Company lost patience and became determined to put a stop to Angria’s activities he seems to have made some kind of clandestine treaty with them, whereby he was licensed to plunder Portuguese, French and Dutch ships to his heart’s content, with a ready market for his prizes. In order to find a measure of safety in numbers, Levasseur joined forced with the English pirate Edward England—who has a chapter dedicated to him in Captain Johnson’s famous history of piracy—and the two of them established a base on an island near Madagascar early in 1721. Whether they made any kind of agreement with Angria, no one knows—but he does not seem to have attacked them, as he surely could have done.
The Cthulhu Encryption Page 2
