I had finished my déjeûner, sent in from a neighbouring restaurant, seasoning my meal with some such melancholy thoughts as these; and while lingering over my coffee and cognac I took out my instructions and read them over for the hundredth time. What was the use of it, come to a deadlock as I was? I thrust them impatiently into my pocketbook, and made up my mind to sit chez moi no longer, debating uselessly: I would go out and see if there were any letters awaiting me at the post office, and chance should arrange the rest of the day for me: perhaps I would dine on the other side of the river: perhaps I would go as far as the Bois – cela dépend!
I descended the Boulevard and walked along the Quai Voltaire, spending some pleasant minutes at the secondhand bookstalls which line the river parapet, turning over the books and quaint prints displayed, and looking into all the curio shops I passed, as was my wont.
One window displayed a show of battered brooches, rings, and a hundred small and doubtful objects of ‘bigotry and virtue.’ There was only one thing worth looking at twice in the whole window, and at first I passed it over: my second glance, however, showed me a very uncommon ring.
It was undoubtedly a genuine antique; a large cameo cut in sard and curiously set in thick, dark gold: the cameo itself – a head, full face – delicately cut, and the setting uncommon. I could see that some characters were cut in the gold on the inner side, characters such as are written on the Incantation Bowls in the Louvre, that were dug up by M. Botta from the stone-heaps marking the site of long-forgotten Chaldean cities, cities of the Sun and Moon and the Fish. I was so impressed with the look of the ring that I entered the shop to enquire its price. A frowsy little old woman, wrapped apparently in a bedgown of some dark printed stuff, with a red and yellow handkerchief worn turban-wise on her head, shuffled forward, and, peering up at me through her spectacles, demanded, in no civil manner, what I wanted. ‘How much do you ask for that ring? The third in that tray.’ ‘Ring?’ helping herself copiously to snuff. ‘All in that tray 65 francs 50, except the turquoise, that’s 80; and the pearl ring in the next tray is 100, and worth 125.’ ‘This one is 65.50, then?’ I said, taking up the one I coveted and slipping it on my finger.
‘Yes; but the pearl one is the best: worth 125’; more graciously, ‘Monsieur should have it for 100, for 95 even,’ snuffing vigorously the while. ‘Yes, no doubt the pearl ring is bon marché; but this one takes my fancy, so I will have it.’ ‘Eh bien, chacun à son goût; mais Monsieur se trompe – merci!’ sweeping up the 65.50, with a hand that, with the help of age, dirt and snuff, resembled more the claw of some bird of prey than the hand of a human being.
I went on my way rejoicing, crossed the Pont des Tuilleries, strolled through the Gardens, out by the Golden Gates, into the Place de la Concorde and up the Rue Royale, determining as I went that I would dine at Duval’s, opposite the Madeleine.
Being early, I hoped to get a table by the window, at the corner of the boulevard, but I found the best place occupied. Still, there was room for two, and the second seat was not to be scorned; and before I had taken two more steps I knew that fortune was friends with me still, for the other diner was my old comrade, Adolphe. The recognition and the pleasure of it were mutual, and in another second Adolphe was on his feet, shaking both my hands in the hearty British fashion I had taught him years ago. We wondered at the happy chance that had reunited us, and congratulated ourselves upon it, and then fell to discussing our dinner together, what time we talked of old days in the Quartier. ‘How long have you been in Paris? Where are you living? What are you doing? How has fate used you?’ from Adolphe, as he ate.
‘In the old Hotel; in the Place St Antoine des Cochons.’
‘No? But how droll!’
‘And you, Adolphe?’
‘Oh, I am at Barbizon. You remember Emile: he and I and Pierre – you do not know him – rent a cottage there. Pierre is Pierre Esme Vouard, the poet, thou knowest,’ tutoring me in the old fashion. ‘And you remember Mère Charcot?’
‘I should think so.’
‘Aie! the life we led her. Well, she keeps house and looks after us, and we get on famously – but famously! And Emile has a picture in the salon, a fine thing – “Le Philosophe et le Cupidon”; and I,’ with a shrug, ‘Oh, I do well. I have sold several sketches to Maupas – he is an old thief, bien entendu, but what would you? He has sent me a rich American, who has commissioned a large landscape. It is as broad as it is long: that was one of your sayings.’
‘And Marie?’
‘Is married, pretty as ever, and keeps a restaurant out by the Porte Maillot,’ Adolphe said, succinctly.
‘And Jules has gone to Rome,’ I said, passing him my cigarette-case. ‘Poor Jules! I was sorry to hear that he had thrown up painting and gone in for being dévot. Were not you, Adolphe? He was good company, Jules, in the old times.’
‘Mais oui,’ Adolphe said, vaguely, with his eyes on my ring. He had always been a dabbler in all sorts of out-of-the-way lore and antiquities, I remembered, and, seeing that my new acquisition had attracted his interest, it struck me that he might be able to decipher the letters engraved on the gold.
‘Oh, Adolphe!’ I said; ‘can you tell me the meaning of this—,’ trying to take the ring off my finger, but to my great surprise I was unable to remove it, although it slipped on with the greatest ease. ‘I can’t get it off!’ I continued, holding out my hand. ‘I suppose my finger must have swollen, the result of our good dinner,’ laughingly. ‘But it is a quaint old ring, is it not?’
‘Yes, very old,’ Adolphe said, with emphasis. ‘I suppose you know the sort of superstition attached to that ring?’
‘Indeed I don’t. What is it?’
‘No! Is it possible that you don’t know the history of your find? I believe there never existed but seven of them, and of these all but three were supposed to have been destroyed. They were called the Thirsty Rings.’
‘What an extraordinary name!’
‘The Thirsty Rings, or the Rings of Knowledge, which you will, had extraordinary histories,’ Adolphe said, drily. ‘Whoever owned one had only to let his blood drop on it and in some unexplained way it would tell him whatever of the past or future he desired to know.’
‘Extraordinary!’ I said again, looking at my ring with double interest and excitement. ‘Go on.’
‘Catherine de Medicis had one, and it foretold to her the death of all her sons and the accession of Henri Quatre, and in her rage at the unwelcome prophecy she threw it into the fire. To come to our own time, Josephine had one, and it showed her her divorce and Napoleon’s downfall. Old Pio Nono had another, taken from the sarcophagus of Augustus, on dit, and it foretold him the loss of the Temporal Power. The third ring is in the Sultan’s treasury.’
‘Then this must be Josephine’s, for I picked it up today at a curio shop in the Quai Voltaire,’ I said, as we called for our account and settled it. ‘I got it for a song, too.’
‘Ah! it is better to be born lucky than rich. Take good care of that ring; the Thirsty Rings are famous for unaccountable disappearances,’ Adolphe said, as we went down into the Place de la Madeleine, and arranging a day whereon to meet at Barbizon, we parted, Adolphe going towards the Gare St Lazare, and I turning down the Rue Royale, on my way homewards.
I don’t know what I had done to tire me, but, soon after I reached my rooms I fell into a sound sleep, and never woke until some time past sunset. The room was already full of shadows, though there was a little afterglow in the sky, and I lighted my lamp and closed the windows, and settled myself at my desk, grudgingly enough, for I hated to report another failure to the chief. It had to be done, however, so I did it: and then I threw my pen down, and gave myself up to discontented thought. I fell to idly turning the ring round and round on my finger. It slipped off quite easily now, to my surprise, for I remembered that I had tried in vain to remove it from my finger at the restaurant; and in spite of myself, I began to recall the story Adolphe had told me, and I examined the ring
more minutely, turning it this way and that, and finally holding it up to the lamp. The cameo was a very large one, seven-eighths of an inch long, at least, by five-eighths, and the carving of the head was masterly. The face was that of a youth, in the first flush of manhood, the lips parted, and the head set in a kind of cloud. ‘Why should I not work the charm; at least, I could try, and if it failed—. It would fail, of course: it could do nothing but fail. It was all ridiculous rubbish, and the day had gone by for such superstitious notions. Still—’ I took up the ring again, looked at the parted lips, and made up my mind to try. I opened my penknife and pricked my wrist, letting the drops of crimson blood fall exactly on the open mouth. ‘One, two, three! No change. Of course, what else did I expect? Four, five, six. Merciful Heavens! were the old tales true, after all?’ I threw the ring on the table as if it had burnt me, and stared at it aghast. The face was growing, growing, and the cloud which framed it was moving – swirling and circling slowly like the vapour in a retort, changing its colour like an opal: now white, now blue, now faintly rosy, while points of brilliant light seemed constantly to thread their way through the vapour.
The face was now a human face, and it seemed to grow no more. It was still pallid, the face of one dead, slowly life seemed to pass into it. Colour came into the cheeks, and presently the closed eyelids opened to show eyes almost insupportably bright, and the full red lips were parted in a smile.
For some minutes I sat stupefied, nervously grasping the carved arms of my chair; then I took my courage in both hands and spoke, but my voice sounded low and far away, and utterly unfamiliar in my own ears.
‘Who are you? What are you?’
‘I am the shadow of the shade of That which men call knowledge, and gods another name – that for which men venture all; and which gained is bitterness of spirit and vexation of heart.’ I cannot say I heard, I rather seemed to understand than absolutely hear.
‘You speak my language well,’ I said, more taken aback than ever.
‘All tongues are but fragments of that great speech which all once knew in that which men call the past, and which all must speak again in that which mortals call eternity. But why have you enquired of me, oh child of the later time?
‘Ask, and I must answer thee. For now I am of thee, and thou of me, for evil or for good, blood of thy blood, and life of thy life.’
‘Well,’ I said, gathering courage, ‘I am in a difficulty, my reputation is at stake, and perhaps my future career. I have come to Paris to trace out a mysterious crime, and I am further from the light than ever. The Comte de Viroflay perished from poison, and I must find by whom it was administered. Can you tell me? If so, name your price?’ I added, rather bitterly, ‘for I suppose knowledge is not given for nothing?’
‘I ask no price,’ It said. ‘Said I not that, for a little season, thou art of me and I of thee? Blood of thy blood, and life of thy life? I can tell thee, or, better, show thee, all. Say, wilt thou see?’
‘Yes; I will see,’ I replied.
Slowly the face – I saw the ring no longer – raised itself till it was beside my face, and ever the opal-coloured cloud whirled and swirled and circled around it: and the ineffable sweetness of the immortal eyes looked into mine, but the smile that curved the full red lips was edged with bitter contempt. ‘Look,’ It said, and as It spoke a light mist gathered at the end of the room, towards which we were looking, It and I. As I looked the mist drew slowly right and left like parted curtains, and I saw a familiar scene. It was the garden of the Chateau de Viroflay. I knew it again in a moment: and where I sat motionless in my chair I saw the roses on the terrace nodding gently in the evening wind, and saw the green reaches of the garden sloping softly down to the lake below. Down the curving pathway a man and woman were walking. I had seen their painted presentments, and I knew them at once for the dead Comte and Madame la Comtesse. I rose from my chair to see them better, almost wondering that they did not see me: and still they came close and closer yet, until I could see the adoration in the Comte’s dark eyes, and the bored expression of Madame’s charming face. They turned when they were almost beside me, went slowly up the steps to the terrace, and so disappeared through an open window into the chateau. The mist dropped swiftly upon the garden, blotting out its light and colour, then rolled up again like a shrivelling leaf. ‘Look again,’ said the voice by my side. It was night this time, and though I could not see the moon there was a broad stream of light on the lake, darkened every now and again, I suppose, by a cloud passing over the moon. The window that was open on the terrace before was open still, and from its shadow a cloaked figure steals forth. The Comtesse! She descends the steps leading from the terrace to the garden. She seems to have some steady purpose in her mind, for she looks neither to right nor left of her as she goes. Had she done so she must have seen the figure that followed in her footsteps: closely and noiselessly as her shadow. I could not see the face, but the build and height helped me at once to guess that Madame’s shadow was no other than her husband. She went swiftly along the path between the Diane and Minerve fountains, and in a second she stood on the bank of the lake, watching – watching for some one. Ah! she has not long to wait, for almost immediately a boat came out of the shadow of the balustrade and pulled up close under Madame’s feet. I can see the rower; it is Madame’s cousin, le Capitaine de Vionville. He was standing on the bank beside Madame, when I looked again, and the boat was abandoned to her own devices, while he stood, talking eagerly, with Madame’s eyes fixed on his face.
‘It is not love,’ whispers the Thing beside me, in answer to my unspoken thoughts. ‘It has been love, and might be love again, if she were free. This meeting is not of her seeking, and she would but say farewell. The man who has her hand, has her truth, too.’ M. le Comte was too far away to hear what Madame said, or to see the unmistakable air of repulse with which she at last turned away from her cousin. ‘Had he done so he would live now, but this was not to be.’ Slowly the Comtesse turned and moved away, and softly her shadow followed her again: softly, too, the mist fell, blotting it all out. When it again clears it is a white and dusty road winding along between tall poplars which I see. There is a small town in the distance, and the gleam of water between the poplar trees, and along the dusty road some figures walking briskly, all dyed in the mellow light of sunset. The pictures passed before me like a panorama: the white and dusty road, the passing peasants, and presently, walking amid them, a spare and upright figure – the Comte again. Then the town: its narrow streets and little lighted shops: through the open doors sudden glimpses of crowded cabarets, or quiet rooms where white-capped women prepare the evening meal. We follow a narrow winding street: Rue St Louis le Grand, I notice it is named. Here there were many little shops of indifferent prosperity, among them a dingy-looking pharmacien’s opposite a fountain. The door was closed, and remained inhospitably shut heedless of the Comte’s summons; but he knocked again, this time with so peremptory a hand that the door opened grudgingly, and the shrivelled head of a little old man peeped out. Seeing M. le Comte, he opens wider the door and bids him enter, and we follow. I see the shop itself, with its outer door jealously barred and bolted, its dusty ill-furnished shelves and bottles, the old pharmacien standing behind the counter, and M. le Comte, pale and stern, whispering something, with his mouth on a level with the old man’s ear.
The pharmacien grinned, rather than smiled, drew back, and shook his head, gesticulating vigorously the while. Again the Comte whispered, and perhaps this time it was rather a threat than a request, for the pharmacien trembles violently. He seems to attempt to expostulate, but M. le Comte, with a vehement gesture, turns towards the door, and, afraid, perhaps, that the seigneur was really going to carry out his whispered threat, the little old man threw up his hands and, reluctantly shuffling away, proceeded to search for something among the bottles in a cupboard at the back of the shop. After much fumbling in its dark recesses he returns with a tiny phial in his hand, which he gave to Monsieur de
Viroflay, with a sinister smile. ‘’Tis not wide, nor deep, but ’twill serve,’ and M. le Comte seemed contented enough with his purchase as he put louis after louis into the pharmacien’s shaking hand. ‘I should know that sinister old face again anywhere, if only by a villainous-looking scar which runs right across his brow, from temple to eye.’ Then the mist engulfed all, the Comte, the evil-looking pharmacien, and the little dimly-lighted shop. When it again cleared, it was the ballroom at the chateau which I saw, brilliantly illuminated from end to end, its walls banked with flowers of the rarest kinds, its floor covered with guests dancing to the music of a band, stationed in the musicians’ gallery, at the far end. Madame la Comtesse I could easily distinguish, radiant with health and beauty, waltzing with her cousin de Vionville, a gallant figure in his gay uniform, and M. le Comte, dark and sad, dancing with his cousin, Madame des Greux. I could not tell if she complained of fatigue, or faintness, but I saw the Comte lead her to a seat in one of the window-recesses, and there leave her, after bowing with the courtliness for which all the de Viroflays had been distinguished. The scene shifted now to the supper-room, where every detail was perfect and everything ready, but for the moment it was empty. There were three supper-tables, exquisitely arranged with damask roses and stephanotis – Madame’s favourite flowers – the stephanotis massed in low glass troughs, the roses in tall silver vases, and trails of roses covering the delicate damask. The tables followed three sides of the room, the fourth end being the great folding-doors leading to the ballroom. Through these, as I looked, the Comte comes stealthily into the empty supper-room; and for a little while he stands still at the head of the first table, looking at the flowers with dreamy eyes. Here they were in even greater profusion: roses heaped up recklessly round the tall vases, and not an inch of cloth to be seen for the stephanotis showered upon it.
Dracula’s Brethren Page 28
