The International Monthly, Volume 2, No. 4, March, 1851

"Not so, not so," said Taddeo, kissing the ring. "To us it cannot but be a precious treasure."

Perhaps while he acted thus, Taddeo thought not only of his friend, but of the woman who had preserved him from death.

Taddeo left.

Fifteen days after his reaching home, all Sorrento put on its holiday attire. The church of the town, splendidly decorated, the lighted torches, the people in their gala dresses, all announced that some remarkable event was about to take place in the village. The bells rung loud peals, and young girls dressed in white, with flowers in their hands, stood on the church portico. Certainly a great event was about to take place. The White Rose of Sorrento was about to be married to a French nobleman of high rank, Henri Marquis de Maulear.

About noon there was a rumor among the crowd in front of the church that the bridal party were near. All hurried to meet them, and Aminta was seen leaning on her brother's arm, while the Marquis escorted Signora Rovero.

The appearance of the beautiful young girl, whiter than her veil, paler than the flowers which adorned her brow, produced a general sensation of admiration. Mingled with this, however, was a kind of sadness, when the melancholy on her brow was observed. The Marquis seemed also to be ill at ease, and to suffer under the influence of feelings which on such a day were strange indeed. All care, all anxiety should be lost in the intoxication of love. Maulear had purchased his happiness by an error, and this oppressed him. After the noble decision of Aminta, and the preference she had so heroically expressed at the time of his purposed duel with Monte-Leone, Maulear had not dared to mention the letter of his father. He had simply told Signora Rovero, that he was master of his own actions, and sure of his father's consent and approbation to the marriage he was about to contract. The Signora, who was credulous, was confident that a brilliant match was secured for Aminta, and suffered herself to be easily persuaded. Maulear, too, became daily more infatuated; and, listening to passion alone, had informed his father, not that he was about to marry, but that when the letter reached him he would be married. Yet when he had sent the letter, and the time was come, all his fears were aroused, and he shuddered at the apprehension of the consequences of what he was about to do. In this state of mind he went to the altar, and nothing but the beauty of his bride and the solemnity of the ceremony could efface the sombre clouds which obscured his brow. The priest blessed the pair, and a few minutes after the young Marquis of Maulear, with his beautiful Marquise, left the village.

Just when the venerable village priest, in God's name, placed Aminta's hand in Henri's, the terrible cry we have already heard twice echoed through the arches of the church, and a man was seen to rush towards the sea. The shout, though it filled the church, was uttered in the portico, and had not interrupted the service. Thenceforth Scorpione was never seen at Sorrento.

From Frazer's Magazine

THE ABBÉ DE VOISENON AND HIS TIMES

The province of Brie, in France, divided and subdivided since the Revolution of 1789, into departments, arondissements, and cantons, is filled with châteaux, which, in the reign of Louis XV., were inhabited by those gold-be-spangled marquises, those idle, godless abbés, and those obese financiers, whom the secret memoirs of Grimm and Bachaumont, and the letters of the Marquis de Lauraguais, have held up to such unsparing ridicule and contempt. This milky and cheese-producing Brie, this inexhaustible Io, was, at the epoch of the regent Orleans and his deplorable successor, a literal cavern of pleasures, in the most impure acceptation of the term; every château which the Black Band has not demolished is, as it were, a half-volume of memoirs in which may be read the entire history of the times. Here is the spot where formerly stood the château of Samuel Bernard, the prodigal, it is true, of an anterior age, but worthy of the succeeding one; there is the pavilion of Bourei, another financier, another Jupiter of all the Danaës of the Théâtre Italien: on this side we see Vaux, the residence of that most princely of finance ministers, whose suddenly acquired power and wealth, and as sudden downfall, may surely point a moral for all ministers present and to come; on that side we have the château of Law, the trigonometrical thief; and Brunoy, the residence of the greatest eccentric perhaps in the annals of French history: in a word, wherever the foot is placed, there arises a sort of lamentation of the eighteenth century—that celebrated century, whose limits we do not pretend to circumscribe as the astronomers would, but whose beginning may be dated from the decline of the reign of Louis XIV., its career closing with Barras, whose immodest château still displays at the present day its restored foundations on the soil upon which Vaux, Brunoy, and Voisenon, shone so fatally.

It was in this last named little château that was born and educated the celebrated abbé, the friend of Voltaire, of Madame Favart, and of the Duc de la Valliére; and here it was, also, that in manhood its possessor would occasionally resort, though not the least in the world a man who could appreciate rural enjoyments, for the purpose of reposing from the fatigues of some of his epicurean pilgrimages to his friends at Paris or Montrouge, and which was his final sojourn when age and infirmities rendered it imperatively necessary for him to breathe the pure air of his native place, far away from the heating petits soupers of the capital, and the various other dearly cherished scenes of his earlier years.

Claude Henri Fusée de Voisenon, Abbé of Jard, and Minister Plenipotentiary of the Prince-Bishop of Spire, was born at Voisenon on the 8th of June, 1708. Biographers have, perhaps, laid too much stress on the debility of constitution which he brought with him into the world, inherited, they say, from his mother, an exceedingly delicate woman. Since the examples of longevity given by Fontenelle and Voltaire, of whom the first lived to the use of a hundred, and the second to upwards of four-score years, and yet both of whom came into the world with very doubtful chances of existence, it is become a very hazardous task to determine, or even to foretell, length of days by the state of health at birth. They add, that an unhealthy nurse, aggravating the hereditary weakness of the child, infused with her milk into his blood the germs of that asthma from which he suffered all his life, and of which he eventually died. These facts accepted—a delicate mother, an unhealthy nurse, an asthma, and constant spittings of blood—it follows that, even with these serious disadvantages to contend with, a man may live and even enjoy life up to the age of sixty-eight. How many healthy men there are who would be content to attain this age! And if the Abbé de Voisenon did not exceed the bounds of an age of very fair proportions, we must bear in mind that, though even an invalid, he constantly trifled with his health with the imprudence of a man of vigorous constitution; eating beyond measure, drinking freely, presiding at all the petits soupers—petit only in name—of the capital, passing the nights in running from salon to salon, and seldom retiring to rest before morning: a worthy pupil of that Hercules of debauchery, Richelieu, his master and his executioner. Terrified at the delicate appearance of his child, his father dared not send him to school, but had him brought up under his own eye, with all the patience of an indulgent parent and the solicitude of a physician. Five years' cares were sufficient to develop the intellectual capacities of a mind at once lively and clear, and marvellously fitted by nature to receive and retain the lessons of preceptors. At eleven years of age he addressed a rhyming epistle to Voltaire, who replied,—

"You love verses, and I predict that you will make charming ones. Come and see me, and be my pupil."

If Voisenon justified the prediction, he scarcely surpassed the favorable sense which it incloses. Verbose, incorrect, poor in form, pale and washy as diluted Indian ink, his verses occasionally display witty touches, because every one was witty in the eighteenth century; but to class them with the works of the poets of his day as poetry is impossible—they merit only being considered in the light of lemonade made from Voltaire's well-squeezed lemons.

In many respects the prose of the eighteenth century, not being an art, but rather the resource of unsuccessful poets, lent itself better than did the muse to the idle fantasies of the Abbé de Voisenon. His facetiæ, his historiettes, his Oriental tales, reunited later (at least in part) with the works of the Comte de Caylus, and with the libertine tales of Duclos and the younger Crébillon, prove the facility with which he could imitate Voltaire, while his lucubrations must be considered as far inferior to the short tales of the latter author. For the most part too free, too indecent, in short, to show their faces beside some elaborately serious fragments which form what are called his works, they figure in the work we have just named under the title of Recueil de ces Messieurs; Aventures des Bals des Bois; Etrennes de la St. Jean; Les Ecosseuses; les Œufs de Pàques, &c. We know, by the memoirs of the time, that a society of men of letters, formed by Mademoiselle Quinaut du Frêne, and composed of fourteen members chosen by her, had proposed to itself the high and difficult mission of supping well at stated intervals, and of being immensely witty and extravagantly gay. At the end of the half-year these effusions of wit and gayety were printed by the society at the mutual expense of its members, and given to the world under the title of Recueil de ces Messieurs.[17 - This was the celebrated society called the Académie de ces Messieurs: it numbered among its members all the more celebrated wits of the day.] Deprived of the illusive accompaniments of the lights, the sparkling eyes, the tinkling glasses, and the indulgent good-nature engendered by an excellent dinner, good wines, and an ample dessert, these table libertinages, when read nearly a century afterwards, lose all their piquancy of flavor and become simply nauseous. The readings, and consequently the dinners, took place sometimes at the house of Mademoiselle Quinaut, sometimes at that of the Comte de Caylus.

Having conceived a disgust for the profession of arms—for which he had been originally intended—in consequence of having fought with and wounded a young officer in a duel, he determined upon embracing the ecclesiastical state; and shortly after taking orders was inducted by Cardinal Fleury to the royal abbey of Jard—an easy government, the seat of which was his own château of Voisenon.

As soon as he was actually a dignitary of the Church, he turned his thoughts entirely to the stage! In compliance with the request of Mademoiselle Quinaut, the new Abbé of Jard wrote a series of dramatic pieces, among which may be cited, La Coquette fixée, Le Reveil de Thalie, Les Mariages assortis, and Le Jeune Grecque, little drawing-room comedies, which have not kept possession of the stage, and to which French literature knows not where to give a place at the present day, so far are they from offering a single recommendable quality. The only style of composition in which the Abbé de Voisenon might have, perhaps, distinguished himself, had he been seconded by an intelligent musician, was the operatic. In this baladin talent of his there was something of the freedom and sparkle of the Italian abbés; and yet the Abbé de Voisenon enjoyed during his life-time a high degree of celebrity. Seeing the utter impossibility of justifying this celebrity by his works, we must presume that it proceeded chiefly from his amiable character, his pointed epigrammatical conversation, and in a great measure, also, from his brilliant position in the world. And, after all, did celebrity require other causes at a time when a man's success was established, not by the publicity of the press, but from the words dropped from his lips in the "world," and from the occasional enunciation of a sparkling bon mot quickly caught up and for a length of time repeated? Were we to protest against this species of illustration, as the French call it, we should be in the wrong: each epoch has its own; since then times are altered: now-a-days, in France, a man obtains celebrity through the medium of the press, formerly it was by the salons. In general, the French littérateurs, especially the journalists, may be said to write better now than they did then; but where, we should like to know, is there now to be found a young writer of thirty capable of creating and sustaining a conversation in a society consisting of upwards of a hundred distinguished persons? The lackeys of M. de Boufflers were, in all probability, more in their place in a salon than would be the most learned or witty writers of the present day.

If the Abbé de Voisenon was not exactly an eagle as regards common sense and intellectual attainments, what are we to think of M. de Choiseul, who wished to appoint him minister of France at some foreign court? The Abbé de Voisenon a minister! that man whom M. de Lauraguais called a handful of fleas! But if he became not minister of France, it was decreed by fate that he should be minister of somebody or other; he was too incapable to escape this honor. Some years after the failure of this ridiculous project of M. de Choiseul, the Prince-bishop of Spire appointed him his minister plenipotentiary at the Court of France. His admission into the bosom of the French Academy was all that was now required to complete his happiness, and this honor was shortly afterwards conferred upon him, for he was duly elected to the chair vacated by the death of Crébillon.

At the age of fifty-two, with the intention of getting rid of his asthma, his constant companion through life, he determined to try the effect of mineral waters upon his enfeebled constitution. His journey from Paris to Cautarets, and his sojourn in this head-quarters of bitumen and sulphur, as related by himself in his letters to his friends, may be considered as an historical portraiture of the method of travelling, as pursued by the grandees of the time, as well as being the truest pages of the idle, epicurean, pleasure-loving, yet infirm, existence of the narrator.

"We passed through Tours yesterday (writes he to his friend Favart, in his first letter, dated from Chatelherault the 8th day of June, 1761), where Madame la Duchess de Choiseul received all the honors due to the gouvernante of the province: we entered by the Mall, which is planted with trees as beautiful as those of the Parisian Boulevards. Here we found a mayor, who came to harangue the duchess. It happened that M. Sainfrais, during the harangue, had posted himself directly behind the speaker, so that every now and then his horse, which kept constantly tossing its head, as horses will do, would give him a little tap on the back—a circumstance which cut his phrases in half in the most ludicrous manner possible; because at every blow the orator would turn round to see what was the matter, after which he would gravely resume his discourse, while I was ready to burst with laughter the whole time. Two leagues further on we had another rich scene; an ecclesiastic stopped the carriage, and commenced a pompous harangue addressed to M. Poisonnier, whom he kept calling mon Prince. M. Poisonnier replied, that he was more than a prince, and that in fact the lives of all princes depended upon him, for he was a physician. 'What!' exclaimed the priest, 'you are not M. le Prince de Talmont?' 'He has been dead these two years,' replied the Duchesse de Choiseul. 'But who, then, is in this carriage?' 'It is Madame la Duchesse de Choiseul,' replied some one. Forthwith, not a whit disconcerted, he commenced another harangue, in which he lauded to the skies the excellent education she had bestowed on her son. 'But I have no son, monsieur,' replied the duchess quietly. 'Ah! you have no son; I am very sorry for that;' and so saying his reverence put his harangue in his pocket, and walked off.

"Adieu, my worthy friend. We shall reach Bordeaux on Thursday. I intend to feed well when I get there."

What an edifying picture of the state of the high and low clergy of France at this epoch is presented to us! The Abbé de Voisenon rolling along in his carriage, indulging in the anticipatory delights of some good 'feeds' when he shall get to Bordeaux; and a hungry priest haranguing right and left the first comers who may present themselves, in order to obtain the wherewithal to procure a dinner.

It is to Madame Favart that Voisenon writes from Bordeaux:—

"We arrived here at ten o'clock yesterday evening, and found Marshal de Richelieu, who had crossed the Garonne to meet the Duchesse de Choiseul. This city is beautiful viewed at a distance—all that appertains to the exterior is of the best; but what afflicts me most of all, is the sad fact that there are no sardines to be had on account of the war. I was not aware that the sardines had taken part against; however, I revenged myself upon two ortolans, which I devoured for supper, along with a paté of red partridges aux truffes, which, though made as long back as November last—as Marshal de Richelieu assured me—was as fresh and as parfumé as if it had been made but the night before."

If the reader should feel astonished that an asthmatical patient could eat partridges and truffles without being horribly ill, his astonishment will not be of long continuance. The following day Voisenon wrote to Favart:—

"Oh, my dear friend, I have passed a frightful night. I was obliged to smoke and take my kermès. I shall not be able to see any of the 'lions' of the place. If I am three days following in this state after I get to Cauterets, you will have me back again with you by the end of the month."

One would suppose that after this gentle hint our abbé would be more prudent; not a bit of it. In the same letter he adds:—

"The dinner-table yesterday was covered with sardines. At the very first start I eat six in as many mouthfuls—a truly delicious morceau; despite my kermès, I reckon upon eating as many to-day, along with my two ortolans. We leave to-morrow, and on Wednesday we shall reach Cauterets."

Thus, ill on the 11th in consequence of a monstrous supper taken on the 10th, we find him, for all that, on the following day devouring sardines by the half-dozen, and ortolans again! On the 18th he writes from Cauterets to his friend Favart:—

"I arrived yesterday in good health, but have slept badly, because the house in which I lodge is situated over a torrent, which makes a frightful noise. This country I can only compare to an icy horror, like the tragedy of Terée."

Twelve days afterwards, Voisenon writes to Madame Favart:—

"Madame de Choiseul's uncle, who paid you so many compliments in the green-room, arrived yesterday: he lodges in the same house with me.... I introduced him this morning into one of the best houses in Cauterets—indeed the very best house—where, I must confess, I myself spend three parts of the entire day; in a word, it is the pastry-cook's. This learned individual compounds admirable tartlets, as well as some little cakes of singular lightness; but above all, certain delicious little puffs composed of cream and millet-flour, which he calls millassons. I stuff them all day long. This makes the waters turn sour on my stomach, and myself turn very yellow; but I am tolerably well notwithstanding."

This gormandizing Abbé de Voisenon, ever hanging, as it were, between pâtés and his grave, becomes now a rather interesting subject of study. We begin to speculate upon what it is that will finally carry him off: his asthma, or the confectionary he daily swallows.

He writes to Favart:—

"I bathe every morning, and during this operation I bear a striking resemblance to a match dipped in sulphur. I keep my health, however, tolerably well, though still suffering from my asthma, of which I fear I shall never be cured."

It would be a wonder if he should be cured, with his unfortunate table excesses, which would have killed half-a-dozen healthy men. In vain do we seek in his correspondence with Favart and his wife, a single thought unconnected with the pleasures of the stomach. We have read with what delight he sings the praises of a pastry-cook established at Cauterets, famous for his millet-cakes and cream-puffs. His happiness did not stop here:—

"A second pastry-cook (he cries), upon my reputation, has set up here. There is a daily trial of skill between the two artists; I eat and judge, and it is my stomach that pays the cost. I go to the bath, and return to the oven. I shall come here again in the thrush season. We have red partridges, which are brought here from all parts; they are delicious."

In short, he remained so long stuffing confectionary at Cauterets, where he had gone solely to take care of himself, and to live with the strictest regularity, that on the eve of his departure he wrote sadly to Madame Favart:—'I am just the same as when you saw me last: sometimes asthmatical, and always gormandizing.' The sufferings which he experienced during his sojourn at, Barèges, previous to his final return to Paris, are proofs of the deplorable effects of the mineral waters upon his health:—

"I am suffering dreadfully; and am now, while I write, laboring under so violent an attack of asthma, that I cannot doubt but that the air of this country is as bad for me as that of Montrouge. If I am as bad to-morrow, I shall return to pass the week at Cauterets, and on Saturday go on to Pau, where I shall wait for the ladies who are to pass through on Monday, on their way to Bayonne. I know I shall be in a miserable state during the journey."

Such were the benefits derived by the Abbé de Voisenon from his four months' sojourn at the baths of Cauterets and Barèges. He returned to Voisenon infinitely worse than when he left it. On the eve of his departure for home, where, as he said some time afterwards, he wished to be on the same floor with the tombs of his ancestors, he devoured a monstrous dinner on the Barèges mountains.

Finding that the mineral waters of the Pyrenees had failed in reëstablishing his health—that is, if he ever had health—the Abbé de Voisenon abandoned physicians and their fruitless prescriptions, to seek elsewhere remedies for the cure of his asthma, which became more and more troublesome as he began to get into years. As he was constantly speaking of his disease to everybody, and as everybody—at least all those who wished to get into his good graces—spoke of it to him, he learned one day that there existed in some garret of Paris a certain abbé deeply learned in all the mysteries of occult chemistry, an adept of the great Albert, the master of masters in empirical art. Like all sorcerers, and all savants of the eighteenth century, this abbé was represented as being in a state of frightful misery and destitution. He who possessed the secrets of plants and minerals, of fire and light, of the generation of beings, had not the wherewithal to procure himself a decent soutane, nor even a morsel of bread. Though, by the efforts of his magic, he had reached a dizzy height on the paths of knowledge, it was, alas! a fact but too true, that he was unable to maintain himself more than a month in the same apartment—perhaps on account of his indifference to the interests of his landlords. For all that he was a marvellous being, inventing specifics for the cure of all diseases, and consequently of asthma among the rest. It was even whispered, but secretly and mysteriously, and with a sort of awe—for they were very superstitious, though very atheistical, in the eighteenth century—that all these specifics were comprised in one remedy, namely, the celebrated Aurum Potabile, or fluid gold. Now every one knows, or at least ought to know, that potable gold, that is, gold in a cold and fluid state, like wine, triumphs over every malady to which the human frame is subject: it is health itself, perpetual youth, and would be no less than immortality had not Paracelsus, who, they say, also possessed the secret of potable gold, unfortunately died at the age of thirty-three, or thirty-five: thus establishing a fatal argument against its virtues in this respect. But one thought now possessed Voisenon—that of getting hold, somehow or other, of this magic abbé, and of enticing him to his château; but an insensate and monstrous desire was this—a desire almost impossible to be satisfied, for it was stated that this Prometheus repelled all advances. Persecuted by the faculty, censured by the ecclesiastical tribunal, maltreated by the police, who would not suffer anything in the shape of gold-making, he had, in his savage misanthropy, renounced all further thoughts of alleviating the pains of humanity at the cost of his repose and safety. Here was a terrible state of perplexity for our asthmatical abbé, who, for all that, did not lose courage, but set to work with all his might to discover the great physician.

But where, or how, was he to discover a sorcerer in Paris? To whom could he decently address himself? To what professional class? There are so many people in the world ready to ridicule even the most respectable things. Every time that Voisenon elbowed at the Tuileries, or in the Palais Royal, an individual in a seedy cassock, he fancied that he had discovered his man. Forthwith he would enter into conversation with him, his heart fluttering with hope, until the moment came which would convince him that he had been deceived. Though for the moment cast into despair, he did not lose hope, but would the next day recommence his voyages of discovery in search of potable gold. One morning he had a sudden illumination:—"Since the archbishop," thought he, "has censured the conduct of the abbé I have been so long in search of, the archbishop must know where he lodges." Just as if sorcerers had lodgings! That very day he repaired to the archbishop's court. If the reader wonders why our abbé did not give the clerks whom he interrogated the name of his mysterious priest, the answer is easy: it is simply because he did not know his name; magicians seldom make themselves known but by their works. This name, however, to his great and inexpressible joy, he was soon to learn. After some researches made in the register of the episcopal court, the clerk informed him that this abbé (a deplorable subject by all accounts) was called Boiviel, and, at the period when the acts of censure were passed upon him, lodged in the Rue de Versailles, Faubourg Saint Marceau. Voisenon was there almost as soon as the words were out of the clerk's mouth.

Voisenon knocked at every kennel of this deplorable street; not even a bark replied to the name of the Abbé Boiviel. At length, at a seventh floor above the mud, an old woman, who resided in a loft, to which access was obtained by means of a rope-ladder, informed him that the Abbé Boiviel had quitted the apartment about six months before, with the avowed intention of going to lodge at Menilmontant; she added, that this delay gave fair grounds for supposing that he must necessarily have changed his quarters at least five or six times in the course of these six months. Disappointed, but not discouraged, Voisenon descended from the dizzy height, reflecting upon the sad distress to which a man might be reduced, although possessing the secret of potable gold.

An almost incredible chance had so willed it, that the Abbé Boiviel had changed his abode but three times since his descent from the garret of the Rue de Versailles. From Menilmontant he had removed to Passy, and from Passy to La Chapelle, where he now resided.

At length the two abbés met; but to what delicate manœuvres the seigneur of Voisenon was obliged to have recourse in accosting his rugged comfrére, who was at that moment engaged in eating his breakfast off a chair. He had sense enough to put off as long as possible the true subject of his visit; besides, what cared he for delays? He had found him at last, he was face to face with the mysterious, infallible physician, the successor of the great Albert. Boiviel was even more savage and morose than the Abbé de Voisenon had anticipated. He spoke of offering his services to the Missionary Society in order to get appointed to preach the Gospel in Japan, although, to tell the truth, he did not believe over-much in Christianity. "And I do not believe in Japan," might have perhaps replied the Abbé de Voisenon, had he been in a joking humor: but the fact is, he was thunderstruck at the enunciation of such a project. It was too provoking, when he, had at length found the Abbé Boiviel, to hear that the Abbé Boiviel was going to immolate himself in Japan.

Inspired by circumstance, that tenth muse which is worth all the nine put together, Voisenon said to Boiviel, that he was aware of all the persecutions which the clergy of Paris had made him endure for causes which he did not desire to know; he refrained also from entering on the subject of fluid gold. Touched by the exhibition of so much constancy in misfortune, he had come, he said, to propose to the Abbé Boiviel to inhabit his château of Voisenon, where, in the calm and repose of a peaceful existence, and with a mind freed from the harassing cares of the world, he would have leisure to meditate and write; that this proceeding of his, though strange in appearance, was excusable, and to be judged with an indulgent eye; he, the Abbé de Voisenon, was happy, rich, powerful even. The Abbé Boiviel would be quite at home at the château de Voisenon; his feelings of independence would not be outraged; when he should be tired of sojourning there, he might quit the château, remain absent as long as it pleased him, and return when it suited his fancy. It is hardly necessary to say that the wild boar allowed itself to be muzzled; that very evening a hired carriage conducted the chemist, the sorcerer, the magician Boiviel, to the Château de Voisenon. "I shall have my potable gold at last," thought the triumphant Abbé, radiant with hope and exultation.

Installed at the château, the Abbé Boiviel conformed himself with a very good grace to the monachal existence led by its inmates. The good regimen of the house tended also to considerably soften the former asperities of his demeanor; he spoke no more of Japan, but neither did he speak of the potable gold, although Voisenon on several occasions endeavored to obtain from him an explanation on this essential point. Whenever our asthmatical abbé would lead the conversation towards subjects relating to chemistry or alchemy, Boiviel would either avoid a direct reply or else fall into a state of profound taciturnity: and yet all his debts had been paid, including the various outstanding accounts due to his numerous landlords, and his dinners at the Croix de Lorraine—that memorable tavern, where all the abbés who received fifteen sous for every mass said at St. Sulpice were accustomed to feed daily. Several cassocks had also been purchased for him, several pairs of stockings, and many shirts.

After a three months' residence at the château he had become fat, fresh, and rosy, such as he had never before been at any previous epoch of his life. Emboldened by the friendship he had shown to his guest, Voisenon ventured one day to say to the Abbé Boiviel, that, skeptical and atheistical as they falsely imagined him to be in the world, he possessed, nevertheless, an absolute faith in alchemy; he denied neither the philosopher's stone, nor the universal panacea, nor even the potable gold. Now did he, or did he not, believe in potable gold? This was a home-thrust Boiviel could no longer recoil; he did believe in it; but according to his idea the audacious chemist committed a great sin in composing it: it was, so to speak, as though attacking the decrees of creation to change into liquid what had been ordained a metal. A sorcerer troubled with religious scruples appeared a strange spectacle to the Abbé de Voisenon and one, too, that rather embarrassed him. He did not, however, entirely renounce his conquest of the potable gold; he waited three months longer, and during these three months fresh favors were lavished on Boiviel, who habituated himself to these proceedings with praiseworthy resignation.

Treated as a friend, called also by that title, Boiviel justified the Abbé de Voisenon in saying to him one day, that he had no longer a hope in any remedy whatsoever, save the potable gold, for the cure of his asthma. Without the specific, as much above other remedies as the sun is above fire, the only course left him was to die. Boiviel was moved, his iron resolves were shaken, and his qualms of conscience ceded to the voice of friendship. He warned his friend, however, that in order to compose a little fluid gold much solid gold would be required. The first essay would cost ten thousand livres at the very least. Voisenon, who would have given twenty thousand to be cured, consented to the sacrifice, thanking heartily his future liberator, who, on the following day, commenced the great work. What sage deliberation did he bring to the task! and how slowly did the work proceed! Day followed day, month followed month, but as yet no gold, except that which the Abbé de Voisenon himself contributed in pieces of twenty-four livres each. The day at length arrived in which, the ten thousand livres being exhausted, Boiviel informed his patient that the fluid gold was in flasks, and would be ready for use in a month.

It was during this month that the alchemist Boiviel took leave of the Abbé de Voisenon, on the pretext of going to see his old father, who resided in Flanders. Before two months were out he would return to the château, in order to observe the beneficial effects of the liquified metal. Warmly embraced by his friend, overwhelmed with presents, solicited to return as speedily as possible, Boiviel quitted the Château de Voisenon, where he had lived for nearly a year, and in what manner we have seen.