by Howard Pyle
“Arnold de Villeneuve said nothing at all, but his face had grown all at once very white. By-and-by he drew a deep breath. ‘I will try to teach you the secrets of that book,’ said he, after a while; ‘but it will be a long and weary task, for I have first to learn very much myself.’
II.
“That morning at dinner-for they used in those days, Oliver, to dine at ten or eleven o’clock in the morning — Raymond Lulli saw for the first time Agnes de Villeneuve, who was then reputed the most beautiful woman in Paris. It was no wonder that, fresh from the ennui of the solitude of the mountains of Aranda, he should have fallen passionately in love with her. Neither was it strange that Agnes should love him. For this propinquity, Oliver, is a droll affair. It will cause a woman to fall in love with a ghoul, not to speak of one so tall and handsome as Raymond Lulli. So she loved him as passionately as he loved her. It was as natural as for steel and loadstone to come together.
“SUCH WAS THE WORKSHOP IN WHICH THE TWO LABORED TOGETHER.”
“In the days and weeks that followed, Arnold de Villeneuve saw nothing of what was passing between the two. In his eyes Raymond Lulli was but a fellow-student. It did not occur to him that passion might find place even in the bosom of such an ardent follower of alchemy as this new scholar of his. He beheld only the philosopher and student; he forgot the man. For months the two labored and toiled like slaves, striving to discover those two secrets contained in the great Geber’s book, and hidden beneath the strange formulas, the obscure words, and the mystic pictures. One day they seemed upon the very edge of success, the next day they failed, and had to begin again from the very beginning. The laboratory in which they conducted their great work was one in which Arnold de Villeneuve had already carried forward and completed some of his most secret, delicate, and successful operations. Within the wall of the garden back of his house he had had a hollow passage-way constructed, which ran for some little distance to the deep cellar-like vault that had, perhaps, at one time been the dungeon of some ancient fortress. Beneath this vault or dungeon were three rooms, opening one into another, that had in a far distant period been hewn out of the solid rock. They were the rooms from which you, Oliver, escaped only a little while ago. Two of those rooms were sumptuously and luxuriously furnished; the furthermost was the laboratory where the two great problems were solved — the problem of life and the problem of wealth. Such was the workshop in which the two labored together, occasionally for days at a time; the one sometimes sleeping while the other compounded new formulas or watched the progress of slow emulsions.
“It was, as Arnold de Villeneuve had predicted, a long and toilsome labor which they had undertaken; it was, as the great Geber had said, a tremendous task to climb the steep mountain of knowledge and to pluck the mystic flower of wisdom from the top. But at last the summit was reached. Suddenly, one morning, unexpected success fell upon them like a flash of lightning; for this, like many other successes, happened through an accident-the overturning of a phial (the contents of which it had taken months to prepare) into a mortar in which Raymond was mixing a powder. It all happened in a moment-the accidental brushing of a sleeve-but that one moment was sufficient; the secret of life was discovered. From the secret of life to the secret of wealth was but a step; the one hung upon the other. The very next day they discovered that which shall make us-you, Oliver, and me, whom you may henceforth call ‘master’-the richest men in France. Did you know that the diamond and the charcoal are the one and the same thing?”
“No,” said Oliver, “I did not; the one is black and the other is white.”
Oliver’s companion laughed. “There is less difference between black and white, Oliver, and between the charcoal and the diamond, than most people think. Later you will learn that for yourself; just now you must take my word for it. But to resume our narrative. The next morning Raymond and his master, as I have said, produced from the first formula a second, by means of one drop of which they created in a closed crucible, in which five pounds of charcoal had been volatilized, a half-score of diamond crystals of various sizes, and one fine blue-white crystal of nearly eight carats in size. Oliver,” cried the speaker, rising in his enthusiasm, and striding up and down the room, “that was, to my belief, the greatest discovery that the world ever saw! Other philosophers have approached the solution of the problem of life, and have prolonged their existence ten, twenty, yes, fifty years; still other philosophers have transmuted the baser metals into gold; but who ever heard of transmuting black charcoal into brilliant diamonds?” He stopped abruptly and turned towards the lad, and Oliver saw the eyes which looked into his blaze with excitement, like the diamonds of which he spoke. “Do you wonder,” he cried, “that Raymond Lulli and his master acted like madmen when they opened that retort, and found those sparkling crystals twinkling like stars upon the rough surface of the metal? Ha!”
III.
“But, as I said, it was a long time before those experiments were concluded — before the great problems of life and wealth were solved. Nine months had passed since Raymond had come, dusty and travel-stained, like a beggar to the master’s door, asking for crumbs of knowledge. It was the consummation of their life’s success. The very next morning after that consummation came ruin. A blow, sharp and terrible, fell upon the house.
“It was late, and the master had not yet made his appearance. Raymond Lulli, passing along the hall-way with a book under his arm, met Agnes at a door-way.
“‘My father,’ said she, ‘has not yet come down from his room.’
“‘I will call him, Agnes,’ said Raymond, and then she noticed that his face was as pale as ashes.
“‘Are you ill, Raymond?’ she asked.
“‘No — yes, I am ill,’ he shuddered. ‘I will go and call your father.’ And he turned away.
“Agnes stood watching him as he, with slow, heavy steps, climbed the steep stairs that led to the master’s room above. She watched him as he reached the door and knocked; and then, after a pause, knocked again, and then again; she watched him as he laid his hand hesitatingly upon the latch, and then raised it, and pushed open the door.
“The next moment the heavy book slipped from under his arm, and fell with a crash to the floor. ‘Agnes!’ he cried, ‘your father!’ And then his voice rang through the house: ‘Jean! Franquois! Joseph! The master, help! — the master!’
“THEY SAW ARNOLD DE VILLENEUVE, THE GREAT MASTER, UPON THE FLOOR.”
“There was a shriek; it was Agnes; there was a confusion of voices and of running feet, and when the people of the house crowded into and around the door-way, they saw Arnold de Villeneuve, the great master, lying upon the floor, his eyes closed, and his head resting upon his daughter’s lap, as she kneeled beside him. His face was white and drawn, and every now and then he shook with a hiccough. It was not a pleasant sight, Oliver, and there was no need to ask the question — the awful gray veil of death rested upon the great doctor’s face.
“At a little distance from the father and the daughter stood Raymond Lulli, with a face almost as ashen white as that of the dying man. He turned to the frightened servants.
“‘Why do you stand there like fools?’ he cried. ‘Come, lift the master upon his bed.’
“They approached at Raymond’s bidding, and, raising the dying physician, laid him back upon the bed, from which he had apparently just risen when the stroke of death fell upon him.
“Minute after minute passed in dead silence, broken only now and then by a suppressed sob from one of the servants who stood around. Agnes sat upon the bedside, silently holding her dying father’s hand in hers. Half an hour went by — an hour — the end was very near. Then suddenly Arnold opened his eyes; they were sightless to this world; they were gazing straight into the shadow of eternity that hung like a curtain before him. His lips moved, and at last a struggling sound passed them.
“‘Agnes!’ said he, in a thick, guttural voice. “‘Agnes!’
“‘Here I am, father,’ sai
d she, and she leaned forward, bringing her face before his eyes; a gleam of intelligence flickered faintly in them. He beckoned stiffly, and Agnes drew still nearer. The dying man raised his hand and touched her face; he felt blindly for a moment, passing his cold, leaden fingers over her brows, and at last, as though finding her eyes, pressed his palm upon them. He held his hand there for a few seconds, and then let it fall heavily beside him, and those who looked saw Agnes’s eyes were now closed. For a moment or two there was a pause of dead silence.
“It was Arnold’s voice, thick, guttural, inarticulate, that broke the hush: ‘Look!’
“Agnes opened her eyes.
“Arnold raised his hand, and with his forefinger began feebly drawing strange figures in the air; at first stiffly, then gradually more freely as he gathered his dying powers into one last effort.
“At first Agnes gazed at the slow-moving hand intently, wonderingly. Raymond sat near by, with his chin resting upon his palm and his eyes fixed upon the floor, brooding darkly. By-and-by those who watched saw the color fade slowly out of her cheeks; they saw her face grow pinched and her eyes dilate. At last she reached out her hand and laid it upon her father’s, holding it fast in spite of his stiff and feeble efforts to release it.
“‘Stop, father!’ she cried. ‘Oh, God! Stop, I can bear no more.’
“‘Look,’ said Arnold, thickly.
“He had released his hand, and now again began drawing figures in the air. All were looking at him wonderingly, excepting Raymond Lulli, who never once raised his eyes, fixed broodingly upon the floor. At last the motions ceased, and the hand fell heavily upon the bed beside the dying man. Agnes sat silent, looking into his face with a face as white. At last she spoke, in an unsteady, constrained voice.
“‘Father,’ said she, ’is there nothing else? Must I do that?’
“No answer.
“‘Father,’ said she again, ‘must I do that?’
“Agnes waited for a little while, then again said:
“‘Father, must I do that? Is there nothing else? Must I do that?’
“‘Yes.’
“There was another space of breathless silence, and then one of the women began to cry; the others joined in with her. Arnold de Villeneuve was dead.
“Agnes arose from the side of the bed where she sat, and, without saying a word, walked slowly and stiffly out of the room.
“That same afternoon her waiting-woman came to Raymond Lulli, and told him that her mistress wished to speak with him. He followed the woman up the long flight of steps to the door of Agnes’s chamber. He knocked, and heard a faint voice within bid him enter. Agnes was standing in the centre of the room, clad in a dark rich dress, heavily embroidered with seed-pearls. Her dark hair was gathered loosely behind by a golden serpent which held the locks together. There were no signs of tears upon her pale face, but her eyes were encircled by dark rings.
“Raymond stood for a moment looking at her. ‘Agnes!’ he cried, and then came forward into the room, and took her into his arms. She neither yielded nor resisted, but stood passive and motionless. There was something about her that struck a chill through him; he drew back, and looked into her face. ‘Agnes,’ he said, ‘what is it? Are you ill? Do you not love me?’
“There was a moment’s pause. ‘Yes,’ said Agnes, ‘I love you.’
“Again Raymond took her in his arms, but still there was no response.
“Suddenly she laid her hand upon his breast, and drew a little back. ‘Tell me,’ said she— ‘tell me, Raymond, is there in this house a little crystal globe in a silver box?’
“Raymond hesitated. ‘Yes,’ said he.
“Agnes’s lips moved as though she said something to herself. Then she spoke again: ‘And tell me one thing more, did not you and my father discover a clear liquor by means of which you could become richer than any one in France or in the world?’
“‘Yes,’ said Raymond. Again he saw Agnes’s lips move.
“‘And tell me,’ said she; ‘have you not a book written in strange characters, and illuminated with two strange pictures?’
“‘Yes,’ said Raymond.
“Again, for the third time, Agnes moved her lips, and this time Raymond heard the words which she whispered to herself: ‘Then it is true.’
“‘What is true, Agnes?’ said he.
“She did not seem to hear his question. ‘Tell me this, Raymond,’ said she, ‘did not you and my father work together in a dark vaulted place under the ground?’
“‘Yes,’ said Raymond.
“Agnes paused for an instant. ‘Then take me there, Raymond,’ said she.
“For a moment or two Raymond could not speak for surprise. ‘What?’ he cried. ‘Take you there? Take you there now, at this time?’
“‘Yes, now.’
“‘Agnes, I do not understand.’
“‘It is of no importance that you should understand,’ said she; ‘only I have something to show you there that you have not yet seen, and of which you know nothing.’
“You know the path they took, Oliver; you yourself walked along it at my heels the other day. Agnes and Raymond traversed that same passage, descended the same stair that you descended, entered the vault that you entered. There Raymond Lulli unlocked the padlock and raised the trap-door as you saw Gaspard unlock the one and raise the other. He took the same lantern from the shelf within as Gaspard took it, and lit the candle as Gaspard lit it, then descending the stairs, they entered the first of the three rooms below.
“Raymond lit the lamp that you found hanging there from the ceiling, and Agnes stood for a moment looking around her. The tapestries and hangings and all that you saw were fresh and beautiful then.
“They entered the room beyond where were the remains of the supper that Raymond and his master had eaten the night before; the chairs by the table pushed carelessly back as they had left them, and as you, Oliver, found them.
“Thence they passed through the narrow passage, and entered the laboratory beyond, where Agnes saw the two sealed phials standing upon the stone table as you saw them.
“Agnes pointed with her finger towards them. ‘And that,’ said she— ‘that, then, is the precious liquor of wealth that you and my father discovered?’
“‘Yes,’ said Raymond.
“‘And it can transmute charcoal to diamonds?’
“Raymond hesitated. ‘Yes,’ said he.
“Agnes turned suddenly upon him. ‘And tell me, Raymond,’ she said, ‘have you not that little crystal globe in the silver casket?’ Raymond instinctively raised his hand to his breast. ‘I see you have,’ said she, smiling. ‘It contains the secret of life?’
“Raymond nodded his head.
“There was a pause; then Raymond said, in a hoarse voice, ‘Why do you question me thus, Agnes? Do you not love me?’
“Agnes looked upon him with the same strange smile that her lips had worn ever since she had begun questioning him. ‘Poor Raymond,’ said she, ‘do you, then, doubt my love? But tell me, have you not with you that book of knowledge, of which I spoke to you, containing the strange pictures?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Let me see it;’ and she held out her hand.
“Raymond hesitated. Agnes fixed her beautiful eyes upon him. ‘Do you not love me, then?’ said she.
“Raymond thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew from the pocket of an inner vest the little volume.
“Agnes took it, and look curiously at it. ‘Raymond,’ said she, ‘will you give me this book for my own, to do as I choose with it?’
“Raymond made no answer.
“‘You will not? Do you, then, love it more than me?’ She stood holding the book, waiting for his reply.
“‘I give it to you, Agnes,’ said he at last.
“‘And it is now mine to do with as I choose?’
“‘It is yours.’
“‘Give me the lantern.’
“Raymond reached it to her wonderingly. She to
ok it, raised the slide, opened the book, and held the parchment leaves over the flame within. Raymond gave a sharp cry, ‘Agnes!’ He would have snatched it from her, but she laid her hand upon his arm.
“‘Stop!’ said she. ‘Have you not all that man can desire in this world without this book? You have given it to me; it is mine, and I shall do as I choose with it. You cannot love it with all your heart and me also. Which do you choose?’
“She had held the book to the flames while talking, her eyes fixed intently upon it as the parchment leaves blackened and curled and wrinkled. Raymond groaned and turned away. The oppressive odor of the burning skin filled the air, and when Agnes cast the remains of the volume into the pit beneath the grate of the furnace, the wisdom of the great Geber, the learning that had taken him a lifetime to accumulate, was nothing but a blackened mass of stinking cinders.
“‘Come,’ said Agnes, ‘let us leave this dark and dismal place, and go back yonder into the other room.’ She led the way into the first apartment, and there sat down upon the couch, motioning Raymond to a seat beside her. ‘Are you happy, Raymond?’ said she.
“‘Yes,’ he whispered. He would have taken her into his arms, but she held up her hand.
“‘Wait,’ said she. ‘Have you, then, all that you desire?’
“‘Yes,’ he said, in a trembling voice; ‘with your love.’
“‘Poor Raymond!’
“There was a little space of silence. And then at last she turned to him with that same strange smile upon her face. ‘Do you know what my father did when he moved his hands as he did when you saw him?’ said she.
