In a Glass Darkly J. Sheridan Le Fanu (intellectual books to read .TXT) 📖

and one could fancy that they saw his face flushing through his mask.

Nobody, but we two, knew that the inquirer was the Count de St. Alyre.

I thought he was puzzled to find a subject for his next question; and, perhaps, repented having entangled himself in such a colloquy. If so, he was relieved; for the Marquis, touching his arm, whispered⁠—

“Look to your right, and see who is coming.”

I looked in the direction indicated by the Marquis, and I saw a gaunt figure stalking toward us. It was not a masque. The face was broad, scarred, and white. In a word, it was the ugly face of Colonel Gaillarde, who, in the costume of a corporal of the Imperial Guard, with his left arm so adjusted as to look like a stump, leaving the lower part of the coat-sleeve empty, and pinned up to the breast. There were strips of very real sticking-plaster across his eyebrow and temple, where my stick had left its mark, to score, hereafter, among the more honourable scars of war.

XIII The Oracle Tells Me Wonders

I forgot for a moment how impervious my mask and domino were to the hard stare of the old campaigner, and was preparing for an animated scuffle. It was only for a moment, of course; but the Count cautiously drew a little back as the gasconading corporal, in blue uniform, white vest, and white gaiters⁠—for my friend Gaillarde was as loud and swaggering in his assumed character as in his real one of a colonel of dragoons⁠—drew near. He had already twice all but got himself turned out of doors for vaunting the exploits of Napoleon le Grand, in terrific mock-heroics, and had very nearly come to handgrips with a Prussian hussar. In fact, he would have been involved in several sanguinary rows already, had not his discretion reminded him that the object of his coming there at all, namely, to arrange a meeting with an affluent widow, on whom he believed he had made a tender impression, would not have been promoted by his premature removal from the festive scene, of which he was an ornament, in charge of a couple of gendarmes.

“Money! Gold! Bah! What money can a wounded soldier like your humble servant have amassed, with but his sword-hand left, which, being necessarily occupied, places not a finger at his command with which to scrape together the spoils of a routed enemy?”

“No gold from him,” said the magician. “His scars frank him.”

“Bravo, Monsieur le prophète! Bravissimo! Here I am. Shall I begin, mon sorcier, without further loss of time, to question your⁠—”

Without waiting for an answer, he commenced, in stentorian tones.

After half-a-dozen questions and answers, he asked⁠—

“Whom do I pursue at present?”

“Two persons.”

“Ha! Two? Well, who are they?”

“An Englishman, whom, if you catch, he will kill you; and a French widow, whom if you find, she will spit in your face.”

“Monsieur le magicien calls a spade a spade, and knows that his cloth protects him. No matter! Why do I pursue them?”

“The widow has inflicted a wound on your heart, and the Englishman a wound on your head. They are each separately too strong for you; take care your pursuit does not unite them.”

“Bah! How could that be?”

“The Englishman protects ladies. He has got that fact into your head. The widow, if she sees, will marry him. It takes some time, she will reflect, to become a colonel, and the Englishman is unquestionably young.”

“I will cut his cock’s-comb for him,” he ejaculated with an oath and a grin; and in a softer tone he asked, “Where is she?”

“Near enough to be offended if you fail.”

“So she ought, by my faith. You are right, Monsieur le prophète! A hundred thousand thanks! Farewell!” And staring about him, and stretching his lank neck as high as he could, he strode away with his scars, and white waistcoat and gaiters, and his bearskin shako.

I had been trying to see the person who sat in the palanquin. I had only once an opportunity of a tolerably steady peep. What I saw was singular. The oracle was dressed, as I have said, very richly, in the Chinese fashion. He was a figure altogether on a larger scale than the interpreter, who stood outside. The features seemed to me large and heavy, and the head was carried with a downward inclination! the eyes were closed, and the chin rested on the breast of his embroidered pelisse. The face seemed fixed, and the very image of apathy. Its character and pose seemed an exaggerated repetition of the immobility of the figure who communicated with the noisy outer world. This face looked blood-red; but that was caused, I concluded, by the light entering through the red silk curtains. All this struck me almost at a glance; I had not many seconds in which to make my observation. The ground was now clear, and the Marquis said, “Go forward, my friend.”

I did so. When I reached the magician, as we called the man with the black wand, I glanced over my shoulder to see whether the Count was near.

No, he was some yards behind; and he and the Marquis, whose curiosity seemed to be, by this time, satisfied, were now conversing generally upon some subject of course quite different.

I was relieved, for the sage seemed to blurt out secrets in an unexpected way; and some of mine might not have amused the Count.

I thought for a moment. I wished to test the prophet. A Church-of-England man was a rara avis in Paris.

“What is my religion?” I asked.

“A beautiful heresy,” answered the oracle instantly.

“A heresy?⁠—and pray how is it named?”

“Love.”

“Oh! Then I suppose I am a polytheist, and love a great many?”

“One.”

“But, seriously,” I asked, intending to turn the course of our colloquy a little out of an embarrassing channel, “have I ever learned any words of devotion by heart?”

“Yes.”

“Can you repeat them?”

“Approach.”

I did,