Cousin Pons

In the time of the Empire, when men paid considerable attention to their hair, one of the first coiffeurs of the day came out of a house where he had just been dressing a pretty woman’s head.  This artist in question enjoyed the custom of all the lower floor inmates of the house; and among these, there flourished an elderly bachelor guarded by a housekeeper who detested her master’s next-of-kin.  The ci-devant young man, falling seriously ill, the most famous of doctors of the day (they were not as yet styled the “princes of science”) had been called in to consult upon his case; and it so chanced that the learned gentlemen were taking leave of one another in the gateway just as the hairdresser came out.  They were talking as doctors usually talk among themselves when the farce of a consultation is over.  “He is a dead man,” quoth Dr. Haudry.—­“He had not a month to live,” added Desplein, “unless a miracle takes place.”—­These were the words overheard by the hairdresser.

Like all hairdressers, he kept up a good understanding with his customers’ servants.  Prodigious greed sent the man upstairs again; he mounted to the ci-devant young man’s apartment, and promised the servant-mistress a tolerably handsome commission to persuade her master to sink a large portion of his money in an annuity.  The dying bachelor, fifty-six by count of years, and twice as old as his age by reason of amorous campaigns, owned, among other property, a splendid house in the Rue de Richelieu, worth at that time about two hundred and fifty thousand francs.  It was this house that the hairdresser coveted; and on agreement to pay an annuity of thirty thousand francs so long as the bachelor lived, it passed into his hands.  This happened in 1806.  And in this year 1846 the hairdresser is still paying that annuity.  He has retired from business, he is seventy years old; the ci-devant young man is in his dotage; and as he has married his Mme. Evrard, he may last for a long while yet.  As the hairdresser gave the woman thirty thousand francs, his bit of real estate has cost him, first and last, more than a million, and the house at this day is worth eight or nine hundred thousand francs.

Like the hairdresser, Remonencq the Auvergnat had overheard Brunner’s parting remark in the gateway on the day of Cecile’s first interview with that phoenix of eligible men.  Remonencq at once longed to gain a sight of Pons’ museum; and as he lived on good terms with his neighbors the Cibots, it was not very long before the opportunity came one day when the friends were out.  The sight of such treasures dazzled him; he saw a “good haul,” in dealers’ phrase, which being interpreted means a chance to steal a fortune.  He had been meditating this for five or six days.

“I am sho far from joking,” he said, in reply to Mme. Cibot’s remark, “that we will talk the thing over; and if the good shentleman will take an annuity, of fifty thousand francsh, I will shtand a hamper of wine, if—­”

“Fifty thousand francs!” interrupted the doctor; “what are you thinking about?  Why, if the good man is so well off as that, with me in attendance, and Mme. Cibot to nurse him, he may get better—­for liver complaint is a disease that attacks strong constitutions.”

“Fifty, did I shay?  Why, a shentleman here, on your very doorshtep, offered him sheven hundred thoushand francsh, shimply for the pictursh, fouchtra!”

While Remonencq made this announcement, Mme. Cibot was looking at Dr. Poulain.  There was a strange expression in her eyes; the devil might have kindled that sinister glitter in their tawny depths.

“Oh, come! we must not pay any attention to such idle tales,” said the doctor, well pleased, however, to find that his patient could afford to pay for his visits.

“If my dear Mme. Cibot, here, would let me come and bring an ekshpert (shinsh the shentleman upshtairs ish in bed), I will shertainly find the money in a couple of hoursh, even if sheven hundred thousand francsh ish in queshtion—­”

“All right, my friend,” said the doctor.  “Now, Mme. Cibot, be careful never to contradict the invalid.  You must be prepared to be very patient with him, for he will find everything irritating and wearisome, even your services; nothing will please him; you must expect grumbling—­”

“He will be uncommonly hard to please,” said La Cibot.

“Look here, mind what I tell you,” the doctor said in a tone of authority, “M.  Pons’ life is in the hands of those that nurse him; I shall come perhaps twice a day.  I shall take him first on my round.”

The doctor’s profound indifference to the fate of a poor patient had suddenly given place to a most tender solicitude when he saw that the speculator was serious, and that there was a possible fortune in question.

“He will be nursed like a king,” said Madame Cibot, forcing up enthusiasm.  She waited till the doctor turned the corner into the Rue Charlot; then she fell to talking again with the dealer in old iron.  Remonencq had finished smoking his pipe, and stood in the doorway of his shop, leaning against the frame; he had purposely taken this position; he meant the portress to come to him.

The shop had once been a cafe.  Nothing had been changed there since the Auvergnat discovered it and took over the lease; you could still read “Cafe de Normandie” on the strip left above the windows in all modern shops.  Remonencq had found somebody, probably a housepainter’s apprentice, who did the work for nothing, to paint another inscription in the remaining space below—­“REMONENCQ,” it ran, “DEALER IN MARINE STORES, FURNITURE BOUGHT”—­painted in small black letters.  All the mirrors, tables, seats, shelves, and fittings of the Cafe de Normandie had been sold, as might have been expected, before Remonencq took possession of the shop as it stood, paying a yearly rent of six hundred francs for the place, with a back shop, a kitchen, and a single room above, where the head-waiter used to sleep, for the house belonging to the Cafe de Normandie was let separately.  Of the former splendor of the cafe, nothing now remained save the plain light green paper on the walls, and the strong iron bolts and bars of the shop-front.

When Remonencq came hither in 1831, after the Revolution of July, he began by displaying a selection of broken doorbells, cracked plates, old iron, and the obsolete scales and weights abolished by a Government which alone fails to carry out its own regulations, for pence and half pence of the time of Louis XVI. are still in circulation.  After a time this Auvergnat, a match for five ordinary Auvergnats, bought up old saucepans and kettles, old picture-frames, old copper, and chipped china.  Gradually, as the shop was emptied and filled, the quality of the stock-in-trade improved, like Nicolet’s farces.  Remonencq persisted in an unfailing and prodigiously profitable martingale, a “system” which any philosophical idler may study as he watches the increasing value of the stock kept by this intelligent class of trader.  Picture-frames and copper succeed to tin-ware, argand lamps, and damaged crockery; china marks the next transition; and after no long tarriance in the “omnium gatherum” stage, the shop becomes a museum.  Some day or other the dusty windows are cleaned, the interior is restored, the Auvergnat relinquishes velveteen and jackets for a great-coat, and there he sits like a dragon guarding his treasure, surrounded by masterpieces!  He is a cunning connoisseur by this time; he has increased his capital tenfold; he is not to be cheated; he knows the tricks of the trade.  The monster among his treasures looks like some old hag among a score of young girls that she offers to the public.  Beauty and miracles of art are alike indifferent to him; subtle and dense as he is, he has a keen eye to profits, he talks roughly to those who know less than he does; he has learned to act a part, he pretends to love his pictures, or again he lets you know the price he himself gave for the things, he offers to let you see the memoranda of the sale.  He is a Proteus; in one hour he can be Jocrisse, Janot, Queue-rouge, Mondor, Hapagon, or Nicodeme.

The third year found armor, and old pictures, and some tolerably fine clocks in Remonencq’s shop.  He sent for his sister, and La Remonencq came on foot all the way from Auvergne to take charge of the shop while her brother was away.  A big and very ugly woman, dressed like a Japanese idol, a half-idiotic creature with a vague, staring gaze she would not bate a centime of the prices fixed by her brother.  In the intervals of business she did the work of the house, and solved the apparently insoluble problem—­how to live on “the mists of the Seine.”  The Remonencqs’ diet consisted of bread and herrings, with the outside leaves of lettuce or vegetable refuse selected from the heaps deposited in the kennel before the doors of eating-houses.  The two between them did not spend more than fivepence a day on food (bread included), and La Remonencq earned the money by sewing or spinning.

Remonencq came to Paris in the first instance to work as an errand-boy.  Between the years 1825 and 1831 he ran errands for dealers in curiosities in the Boulevard Beaumarchais or coppersmiths in the Rue de Lappe.  It is the usual start in life in his line of business.  Jews, Normans, Auvergnats, and Savoyards, those four different races of men all have the same instincts, and make their fortunes in the same way; they spend nothing, make small profits, and let them accumulate at compound interest.  Such is their trading charter, and that charter is no delusion.

Remonencq at this moment had made it up with his old master Monistrol; he did business with wholesale dealers, he was a chineur (the technical word), plying his trade in the banlieue, which, as everybody knows, extends for some forty leagues round Paris.

After fourteen years of business, he had sixty thousand francs in hand and a well-stocked shop.  He lived in the Rue de Normandie because the rent was low, but casual customers were scarce, most of his goods were sold to other dealers, and he was content with moderate gains.  All his business transactions were carried on in the Auvergue dialect or charabia, as people call it.

Remonencq cherished a dream!  He wished to establish himself on a boulevard, to be a rich dealer in curiosities, and do a direct trade with amateurs some day.  And, indeed, within him there was a formidable man of business.  His countenance was the more inscrutable because it was glazed over by a deposit of dust and particles of metal glued together by the sweat of his brow; for he did everything himself, and the use and wont of bodily labor had given him something of the stoical impassibility of the old soldiers of 1799.

In personal appearance Remonencq was short and thin; his little eyes were set in his head in porcine fashion; a Jew’s slyness and concentrated greed looked out of those dull blue circles, though in his case the false humility that masks the Hebrew’s unfathomed contempt for the Gentile was lacking.

The relations between the Cibots and the Remonencqs were those of benefactors and recipients.  Mme. Cibot, convinced that the Auvergnats were wretchedly poor, used to let them have the remainder of “her gentlemen’s” dinners at ridiculous prices.  The Remonencqs would buy a pound of broken bread, crusts and crumbs, for a farthing, a porringer-full of cold potatoes for something less, and other scraps in proportion.  Remonencq shrewdly allowed them to believe that he was not in business on his own account, he worked for Monistrol, the rich shopkeepers preyed upon him, he said, and the Cibots felt sincerely sorry for Remonencq.  The velveteen jacket, waistcoat, and trousers, particularly affected by Auvergnats, were covered with patches of Cibot’s making, and not a penny had the little tailor charged for repairs which kept the three garments together after eleven years of wear.

Thus we see that all Jews are not in Israel.

“You are not laughing at me, Remonencq, are you?” asked the portress.  “Is it possible that M. Pons has such a fortune, living as he does?  There is not a hundred francs in the place—­”

“Amateursh are all like that,” Remonencq remarked sententiously.

“Then do you think that my gentleman has worth of seven hundred thousand francs, eh?—­”

“In pictures alone,” continued Remonencq (it is needless, for the sake of clearness in the story, to give any further specimens of his frightful dialect).  “If he would take fifty thousand francs for one up there that I know of, I would find the money if I had to hang myself.  Do you remember those little frames full of enameled copper on crimson velvet, hanging among the portraits? . . .  Well, those are Petitot’s enamels; and there is a cabinet minister as used to be a druggist that will give three thousand francs apiece for them.”

La Cibot’s eyes opened wide.  “There are thirty of them in the pair of frames!” she said.

“Very well, you can judge for yourself how much he is worth.”

Mme. Cibot’s head was swimming; she wheeled round.  In a moment came the thought that she would have a legacy, she would sleep sound on old Pons’ will, like the other servant-mistresses whose annuities had aroused such envy in the Marais.  Her thoughts flew to some commune in the neighborhood of Paris; she saw herself strutting proudly about her house in the country, looking after her garden and poultry yard, ending her days, served like a queen, along with her poor dear Cibot, who deserved such good fortune, like all angelic creatures whom nobody knows nor appreciates.

Her abrupt, unthinking movement told Remonencq that success was sure.  In the chineur’s way of business—­the chineur, be it explained, goes about the country picking up bargains at the expense of the ignorant—­in the chineur’s way of business, the one real difficulty is the problem of gaining an entrance to a house.  No one can imagine the Scapin’s roguery, the tricks of a Sganarelle, the wiles of a Dorine by which the chineur contrives to make a footing for himself.  These comedies are as good as a play, and founded indeed on the old stock theme of the dishonesty of servants.  For thirty francs in money or goods, servants, and especially country servants, will sometimes conclude a bargain on which the chineur makes a profit of a thousand or two thousand francs.  If we could but know the history of such and such a service of Sevres porcelain, pate tendre, we should find that all the intellect, all the diplomatic subtlety displayed at Munster, Nimeguen, Utrecht, Ryswick, and Vienna was surpassed by the chineur.  His is the more frank comedy; his methods of action fathom depths of personal interest quite as profound as any that plenipotentiaries can explore in their difficult search for any means of breaking up the best cemented alliances.

“I have set La Cibot nicely on fire,” Remonencq told his sister, when she came to take up her position again on the ramshackle chair.  “And now,” he continued, “I shall go to consult the only man that knows, our Jew, a good sort of Jew that did not ask more than fifteen per cent of us for his money.”

Remonencq had read La Cibot’s heart.  To will is to act with women of her stamp.  Let them see the end in view; they will stick at nothing to gain it, and pass from scrupulous honesty to the last degree of scoundrelism in the twinkling of an eye.  Honesty, like most dispositions of mind, is divided into two classes—­negative and positive.  La Cibot’s honesty was of the negative order; she and her like are honest until they see their way clear to gain money belonging to somebody else.  Positive honesty, the honesty of the bank collector, can wade knee-deep through temptations.

A torrent of evil thoughts invaded La Cibot’s heart and brain so soon as Remonencq’s diabolical suggestion opened the flood-gates of self-interest.  La Cibot climbed, or, to be more accurate, fled up the stairs, opened the door on the landing, and showed a face disguised in false solicitude in the doorway of the room where Pons and Schmucke were bemoaning themselves.  As soon as she came in, Schmucke made her a warning sign; for, true friend and sublime German that he was, he too had read the doctor’s eyes, and he was afraid that Mme. Cibot might repeat the verdict.  Mme. Cibot answered by a shake of the head indicative of deep woe.

“Well, my dear monsieur,” asked she, “how are you feeling?” She sat down on the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and fixed her eyes lovingly upon the patient; but what a glitter of metal there was in them, a terrible, tiger-like gleam if any one had watched her.

“I feel very ill,” answered poor Pons.  “I have not the slightest appetite left.—­Oh! the world, the world!” he groaned, squeezing Schmucke’s hand.  Schmucke was sitting by his bedside, and doubtless the sick man was talking of the causes of his illness.—­“I should have done far better to follow your advice, my good Schmucke, and dined here every day, and given up going into this society, that has fallen on me with all its weight, like a tumbril cart crushing an egg!  And why?”

“Come, come, don’t complain, M. Pons,” said La Cibot; “the doctor told me just how it is—­”

Schmucke tugged at her gown.—­“And you will pull through,” she continued, “only we must take great care of you.  Be easy, you have a good friend beside you, and without boasting, a woman as will nurse you like a mother nurses her first child.  I nursed Cibot round once when Dr. Poulain had given him over; he had the shroud up to his eyes, as the saying is, and they gave him up for dead.  Well, well, you have not come to that yet, God be thanked, ill though you may be.  Count on me; I would pull you through all by myself, I would!  Keep still, don’t you fidget like that.”

She pulled the coverlet over the patient’s hands as she spoke.

“There, sonny!  M. Schmucke and I will sit up with you of nights.  A prince won’t be no better nursed . . . and besides, you needn’t refuse yourself nothing that’s necessary, you can afford it.—­I have just been talking things over with Cibot, for what would he do without me, poor dear?—­Well, and I talked him round; we are both so fond of you, that he will let me stop up with you of a night.  And that is a good deal to ask of a man like him, for he is as fond of me as ever he was the day we were married.  I don’t know how it is.  It is the lodge, you see; we are always there together!  Don’t you throw off the things like that!” she cried, making a dash for the bedhead to draw the coverlet over Pons’ chest.  “If you are not good, and don’t do just as Dr. Poulain says—­and Dr. Poulain is the image of Providence on earth—­I will have no more to do with you.  You must do as I tell you—­”

“Yes, Montame Zipod, he vill do vat you dell him,” put in Schmucke; “he vants to lif for his boor friend Schmucke’s sake, I’ll pe pound.”

“And of all things, don’t fidget yourself,” continued La Cibot, “for your illness makes you quite bad enough without your making it worse for want of patience.  God sends us our troubles, my dear good gentlemen; He punishes us for our sins.  Haven’t you nothing to reproach yourself with? some poor little bit of a fault or other?”

The invalid shook his head.

“Oh! go on!  You were young once, you had your fling, there is some love-child of yours somewhere—­cold, and starving, and homeless. . . .  What monsters men are!  Their love doesn’t last only for a day, and then in a jiffy they forget, they don’t so much as think of the child at the breast for months. . . .  Poor women!”

“But no one has ever loved me except Schmucke and my mother,” poor Pons broke in sadly.

“Oh! come, you aren’t no saint!  You were young in your time, and a fine-looking young fellow you must have been at twenty.  I should have fallen in love with you myself, so nice as you are—­”

“I always was as ugly as a toad,” Pons put in desperately.

“You say that because you are modest; nobody can’t say that you aren’t modest.”

“My dear Mme. Cibot, no, I tell you.  I always was ugly, and I never was loved in my life.”

“You, indeed!” cried the portress.  “You want to make me believe at this time of day that you are as innocent as a young maid at your time of life.  Tell that to your granny!  A musician at a theatre too!  Why, if a woman told me that, I wouldn’t believe her.”

“Montame Zipod, you irritate him!” cried Schmucke, seeing that Pons was writhing under the bedclothes.

“You hold your tongue too!  You are a pair of old libertines.  If you were ugly, it don’t make no difference; there was never so ugly a saucepan-lid but it found a pot to match, as the saying is.  There is Cibot, he got one of the handsomest oyster-women in Paris to fall in love with him, and you are infinitely better looking than him!  You are a nice pair, you are!  Come, now, you have sown your wild oats, and God will punish you for deserting your children, like Abraham—­”

Exhausted though he was, the invalid gathered up all his strength to make a vehement gesture of denial.

“Do lie quiet; if you have, it won’t prevent you from living as long as Methuselah.”

“Then, pray let me be quiet!” groaned Pons.  “I have never known what it is to be loved.  I have had no child; I am alone in the world.”

“Really, eh?” returned the portress.  “You are so kind, and that is what women like, you see—­it draws them—­and it looked to me impossible that when you were in your prime—­”

“Take her away,” Pons whispered to Schmucke; “she sets my nerves on edge.”

“Then there’s M. Schmucke, he has children.  You old bachelors are not all like that—­”

“I!” cried Schmucke, springing to his feet, “vy!—­”

“Come, then, you have none to come after you either, eh?  You both sprung up out of the earth like mushrooms—­”

“Look here, komm mit me,” said Schmucke.  The good German manfully took Mme. Cibot by the waist and carried her off into the next room, in spite of her exclamations.

“At your age, you would not take advantage of a defenceless woman!” cried La Cibot, struggling in his arms.

“Don’t make a noise!”

“You too, the better one of the two!” returned La Cibot.  “Ah! it is my fault for talking about love to two old men who have never had nothing to do with women.  I have roused your passions,” cried she, as Schmucke’s eyes glittered with wrath.  “Help! help! police!”

“You are a stoopid!” said the German.  “Look here, vat tid de toctor say?”

“You are a ruffian to treat me so,” wept La Cibot, now released,—­“me that would go through fire and water for you both!  Ah! well, well, they say that that is the way with men—­and true it is!  There is my poor Cibot, he would not be rough with me like this. . . .  And I treated you like my children, for I have none of my own; and yesterday, yes, only yesterday I said to Cibot, ’God knew well what He was doing, dear,’ I said, ’when He refused us children, for I have two children there upstairs.’  By the holy crucifix and the soul of my mother, that was what I said to him—­”

“Eh! but vat did der doctor say?” Schmucke demanded furiously, stamping on the floor for the first time in his life.

“Well,” said Mme. Cibot, drawing Schmucke into the dining-room, “he just said this—­that our dear, darling love lying ill there would die if he wasn’t carefully nursed; but I am here, in spite of all your brutality, for brutal you were, you that I thought so gentle.  And you are one of that sort!  Ah! now, you would not abuse a woman at your age, great blackguard—­”

“Placard?  I?  Vill you not oonderstand that I lof nopody but Bons?”

“Well and good, you will let me alone, won’t you?” said she, smiling at Schmucke.  “You had better; for if Cibot knew that anybody had attempted his honor, he would break every bone in his skin.”

“Take crate care of him, dear Montame Zipod,” answered Schmucke, and he tried to take the portress’ hand.

“Oh! look here now, again.”

“Chust listen to me.  You shall haf all dot I haf, gif ve safe him.”

“Very well; I will go round to the chemist’s to get the things that are wanted; this illness is going to cost a lot, you see, sir, and what will you do?”

“I shall vork; Bons shall be nursed like ein brince.”

“So he shall, M. Schmucke; and look here, don’t you trouble about nothing.  Cibot and I, between us, have saved a couple of thousand francs; they are yours; I have been spending money on you this long time, I have.”

“Goot voman!” cried Schmucke, brushing the tears from his eyes.  “Vat ein heart!”

“Wipe your tears; they do me honor; this is my reward,” said La Cibot, melodramatically.  “There isn’t no more disinterested creature on earth than me; but don’t you go into the room with tears in your eyes, or M. Pons will be thinking himself worse than he is.”

Schmucke was touched by this delicate feeling.  He took La Cibot’s hand and gave it a final squeeze.

“Spare me!” cried the ex-oysterseller, leering at Schmucke.

“Bons,” the good German said when he returned “Montame Zipod is an anchel; ’tis an anchel dat brattles, but an anchel all der same.”

“Do you think so?  I have grown suspicious in the past month,” said the invalid, shaking his head.  “After all I have been through, one comes to believe in nothing but God and my friend—­”

“Get bedder, and ve vill lif like kings, all tree of us,” exclaimed Schmucke.

“Cibot!” panted the portress as she entered the lodge.  “Oh, my dear, our fortune is made.  My two gentlemen haven’t nobody to come after them, no natural children, no nothing, in short!  Oh, I shall go round to Ma’am Fontaine’s and get her to tell my fortune on the cards, then we shall know how much we are going to have—­”

“Wife,” said the little tailor, “it’s ill counting on dead men’s shoes.”

“Oh, I say, are you going to worry me?” asked she, giving her spouse a playful tap.  “I know what I know!  Dr. Poulain has given up M. Pons.  And we are going to be rich!  My name will be down in the will. . . .  I’ll see to that.  Draw your needle in and out, and look after the lodge; you will not do it for long now.  We will retire, and go into the country, out at Batignolles.  A nice house and a fine garden; you will amuse yourself with gardening, and I shall keep a servant!”

“Well, neighbor, and how are things going on upstairs?” The words were spoken with the thick Auvergnat accent, and Remonencq put his head in at the door.  “Do you know what the collection is worth?”

“No, no, not yet.  One can’t go at that rate, my good man.  I have begun, myself, by finding out more important things—­”

“More important!” exclaimed Remonencq; “why, what things can be more important?”

“Come, let me do the steering, ragamuffin,” said La Cibot authoritatively.

“But thirty per cent on seven hundred thousand francs,” persisted the dealer in old iron; “you could be your own mistress for the rest of your days on that.”

“Be easy, Daddy Remonencq; when we want to know the value of the things that the old man has got together, then we will see.”

La Cibot went for the medicine ordered by Dr. Poulain, and put off her consultation with Mme. Fontaine until the morrow; the oracle’s faculties would be fresher and clearer in the morning, she thought; and she would go early, before everybody else came, for there was often a crowd at Mme. Fontaine’s.

Mme. Fontaine was at this time the oracle of the Marais; she had survived the rival of forty years, the celebrated Mlle. Lenormand.  No one imagines the part that fortune-tellers play among Parisians of the lower classes, nor the immense influence which they exert over the uneducated; general servants, portresses, kept women, workmen, all the many in Paris who live on hope, consult the privileged beings who possess the mysterious power of reading the future.

The belief of the occult science is far more widely spread than scholars, lawyers, doctors, magistrates, and philosophers imagine.  The instincts of the people are ineradicable.  One among those instincts, so foolishly styled “superstition,” runs in the blood of the populace, and tinges no less the intellects of better educated folk.  More than one French statesman has been known to consult the fortune-teller’s cards.  For sceptical minds, astrology, in French, so oddly termed astrologie judiciare, is nothing more than a cunning device for making a profit out of one of the strongest of all the instincts of human nature—­to wit, curiosity.  The sceptical mind consequently denies that there is any connection between human destiny and the prognostications obtained by the seven or eight principal methods known to astrology; and the occult sciences, like many natural phenomena, are passed over by the freethinker or the materialist philosopher, id est, by those who believe in nothing but visible and tangible facts, in the results given by the chemist’s retort and the scales of modern physical science.  The occult sciences still exist; they are at work, but they make no progress, for the greatest intellects of two centuries have abandoned the field.

If you only look at the practical side of divination, it seems absurd to imagine that events in a man’s past life and secrets known only to himself can be represented on the spur of the moment by a pack of cards which he shuffles and cuts for the fortune-teller to lay out in piles according to certain mysterious rules; but then the steam-engine was condemned as absurd, aerial navigation is still said to be absurd, so in their time were the inventions of gunpowder, printing, spectacles, engraving, and that latest discovery of all—­the daguerreotype.  If any man had come to Napoleon to tell him that a building or a figure is at all times and in all places represented by an image in the atmosphere, that every existing object has a spectral intangible double which may become visible, the Emperor would have sent his informant to Charenton for a lunatic, just as Richelieu before his day sent that Norman martyr, Salomon de Caux, to the Bicetre for announcing his immense triumph, the idea of navigation by steam.  Yet Daguerre’s discovery amounts to nothing more nor less than this.

And if for some clairvoyant eyes God has written each man’s destiny over his whole outward and visible form, if a man’s body is the record of his fate, why should not the hand in a manner epitomize the body? —­since the hand represents the deed of man, and by his deeds he is known.

Herein lies the theory of palmistry.  Does not Society imitate God?  At the sight of a soldier we can predict that he will fight; of a lawyer, that he will talk; of a shoemaker, that he shall make shoes or boots; of a worker of the soil, that he shall dig the ground and dung it; and is it a more wonderful thing that such an one with the “seer’s” gift should foretell the events of a man’s life from his hand?

To take a striking example.  Genius is so visible in a man that a great artist cannot walk about the streets of Paris but the most ignorant people are conscious of his passing.  He is a sun, as it were, in the mental world, shedding light that colors everything in its path.  And who does not know an idiot at once by an impression the exact opposite of the sensation of the presence of genius?  Most observers of human nature in general, and Parisian nature in particular, can guess the profession or calling of the man in the street.

The mysteries of the witches’ Sabbath, so wonderfully painted in the sixteenth century, are no mysteries for us.  The Egyptian ancestors of that mysterious people of Indian origin, the gypsies of the present day, simply used to drug their clients with hashish, a practice that fully accounts for broomstick rides and flights up the chimney, the real-seeming visions, so to speak, of old crones transformed into young damsels, the frantic dances, the exquisite music, and all the fantastic tales of devil-worship.

So many proven facts have been first discovered by occult science, that some day we shall have professors of occult science, as we already have professors of chemistry and astronomy.  It is even singular that here in Paris, where we are founding chairs of Mantchu and Slave and literatures so little professable (to coin a word) as the literatures of the North (which, so far from providing lessons, stand very badly in need of them); when the curriculum is full of the everlasting lectures on Shakespeare and the sixteenth century,—­it is strange that some one has not restored the teaching of the occult philosophies, once the glory of the University of Paris, under the title of anthropology.  Germany, so childlike and so great, has outstripped France in this particular; in Germany they have professors of a science of far more use than a knowledge of the heterogeneous philosophies, which all come to the same thing at bottom.

Once admit that certain beings have the power of discerning the future in its germ-form of the Cause, as the great inventor sees a glimpse of the industry latent in his invention, or a science in something that happens every day unnoticed by ordinary eyes—­once allow this, and there is nothing to cause an outcry in such phenomena, no violent exception to nature’s laws, but the operation of a recognized faculty; possibly a kind of mental somnambulism, as it were.  If, therefore, the hypothesis upon which the various ways of divining the future are based seem absurd, the facts remain.  Remark that it is not really more wonderful that the seer should foretell the chief events of the future than that he should read the past.  Past and future, on the sceptic’s system, equally lie beyond the limits of knowledge.  If the past has left traces behind it, it is not improbable that future events have, as it were, their roots in the present.

If a fortune-teller gives you minute details of past facts known only to yourself, why should he not foresee the events to be produced by existing causes?  The world of ideas is cut out, so to speak, on the pattern of the physical world; the same phenomena should be discernible in both, allowing for the difference of the medium.  As, for instance, a corporeal body actually projects an image upon the atmosphere—­a spectral double detected and recorded by the daguerreotype; so also ideas, having a real and effective existence, leave an impression, as it were, upon the atmosphere of the spiritual world; they likewise produce effects, and exist spectrally (to coin a word to express phenomena for which no words exist), and certain human beings are endowed with the faculty of discerning these “forms” or traces of ideas.

As for the material means employed to assist the seer—­the objects arranged by the hands of the consultant that the accidents of his life may be revealed to him,—­this is the least inexplicable part of the process.  Everything in the material world is part of a series of causes and effects.  Nothing happens without a cause, every cause is a part of a whole, and consequently the whole leaves its impression on the slightest accident.  Rabelais, the greatest mind among moderns, resuming Pythagoras, Hippocrates, Aristophanes, and Dante, pronounced three centuries ago that “man is a microcosm”—­a little world.  Three hundred years later, the great seer Swedenborg declared that “the world was a man.”  The prophet and the precursor of incredulity meet thus in the greatest of all formulas.

Everything in human life is predestined, so it is also with the existence of the planet.  The least event, the most futile phenomena, are all subordinate parts of a scheme.  Great things, therefore, great designs, and great thoughts are of necessity reflected in the smallest actions, and that so faithfully, that should a conspirator shuffle and cut a pack of playing-cards, he will write the history of his plot for the eyes of the seer styled gypsy, fortune-teller, charlatan, or what not.  If you once admit fate, which is to say, the chain of links of cause and effect, astrology has a locus standi, and becomes what it was of yore, a boundless science, requiring the same faculty of deduction by which Cuvier became so great, a faculty to be exercised spontaneously, however, and not merely in nights of study in the closet.

For seven centuries astrology and divination have exercised an influence not only (as at present) over the uneducated, but over the greatest minds, over kings and queens and wealthy people.  Animal magnetism, one of the great sciences of antiquity, had its origin in occult philosophy; chemistry is the outcome of alchemy; phrenology and neurology are no less the fruit of similar studies.  The first illustrious workers in these, to all appearance, untouched fields, made one mistake, the mistake of all inventors; that is to say, they erected an absolute system on a basis of isolated facts for which modern analysis as yet cannot account.  The Catholic Church, the law of the land, and modern philosophy, in agreement for once, combined to prescribe, persecute, and ridicule the mysteries of the Cabala as well as the adepts; the result is a lamentable interregnum of a century in occult philosophy.  But the uneducated classes, and not a few cultivated people (women especially), continue to pay a tribute to the mysterious power of those who can raise the veil of the future; they go to buy hope, strength, and courage of the fortune-teller; in other words, to ask of him all that religion alone can give.  So the art is still practised in spite of a certain amount of risk.  The eighteenth century encyclopaedists procured tolerance for the sorcerer; he is no longer amenable to a court of law, unless, indeed, he lends himself to fraudulent practices, and frightens his “clients” to extort money from them, in which case he may be prosecuted on a charge of obtaining money under false pretences.  Unluckily, the exercise of the sublime art is only too often used as a method of obtaining money under false pretences, and for the following reasons.

The seer’s wonderful gifts are usually bestowed upon those who are described by the epithets rough and uneducated.  The rough and uneducated are the chosen vessels into which God pours the elixirs at which we marvel.  From among the rough and uneducated, prophets arise —­an Apostle Peter, or St. Peter the Hermit.  Wherever mental power is imprisoned, and remains intact and entire for want of an outlet in conversation, in politics, in literature, in the imaginings of the scholar, in the efforts of the statesman, in the conceptions of the inventor, or the soldier’s toils of war; the fire within is apt to flash out in gleams of marvelously vivid light, like the sparks hidden in an unpolished diamond.  Let the occasion come, and the spirit within kindles and glows, finds wings to traverse space, and the god-like power of beholding all things.  The coal of yesterday under the play of some mysterious influence becomes a radiant diamond.  Better educated people, many-sided and highly polished, continually giving out all that is in them, can never exhibit this supreme power, save by one of the miracles which God sometimes vouchsafes to work.  For this reason the soothsayer is almost always a beggar, whose mind is virgin soil, a creature coarse to all appearance, a pebble borne along the torrent of misery and left in the ruts of life, where it spends nothing of itself save in mere physical suffering.

The prophet, the seer, in short, is some Martin le Laboureur making a Louis XVIII. tremble by telling him a secret known only to the king himself; or it is a Mlle. Lenormand, or a domestic servant like Mme. Fontaine, or again, perhaps it is some half-idiotic negress, some herdsman living among his cattle, who receives the gift of vision; some Hindoo fakir, seated by a pagoda, mortifying the flesh till the spirit gains the mysterious power of the somnambulist.

Asia, indeed, through all time, has been the home of the heroes of occult science.  Persons of this kind, recovering their normal state, are usually just as they were before.  They fulfil, in some sort, the chemical and physical functions of bodies which conduct electricity; at times inert metal, at other times a channel filled with a mysterious current.  In their normal condition they are given to practices which bring them before the magistrate, yea, verily, like the notorious Balthazar, even unto the criminal court, and so to the hulks.  You could hardly find a better proof of the immense influence of fortune-telling upon the working classes than the fact that poor Pons’ life and death hung upon the prediction that Mme. Fontaine was to make from the cards.