‘She—in fact, I may say we,’ continued Benoit, ‘were most anxious to know what has become of a fellow-countrywoman, one Louise Gauthier, who has, we fear, fallen into bad hands. She was living with Madame Scarron, but has not been heard of since the fete at Versailles.’
‘What fee can you pay to learn?’ asked Lachaussée. ‘At this season the rulers of the planets require to be propitiated, and the sacrifices are expensive.’
‘There are two good livres,’ said Benoit, laying the pieces down on the table. ‘You should have more if I had earned them; but times are bad for us poor workpeople.’
‘You have no more than this?’ inquired Lachaussée.
‘Not a sou; and Bathilde will have to go without her lace cap against her fete day as it is. If I had more I would give it to you, so long as you tell me of Louise Gauthier.’
Lachaussée perceived the Languedocian spoke honestly. Convinced that he saw the extent of his wealth before him, he made some preparations for his pretended incantation; and taking a bottle of spirit from Exili’s table, he poured it on the expiring flame in the tripod, which was leaping up in intermittent flashes, as if about to go out altogether.
But as he bent over the lamp, in the carelessness of the moment he used more of the medicated alcohol than was needed. It fired up, and catching the vapour from the bottle, communicated with the contents, causing the flask to explode violently. Lachaussée started back, as a cloud of flame rose almost in his face. As it was, it laid hold of his cowl, which was immediately on fire. Heedless of being on his guard, in the fright and danger of the moment he threw it off, and his well known features met the astonished gaze of Benoit, who was in no less a state of alarm than the pretended sorcerer. But as he recognised the ex-superintendent of the Gobelins, his common sense came back in great strength, to the discomfiture of his belief in the supernatural. The alarm finished with the explosion; but Benoit immediately exclaimed—
‘I think we have met before—in the catacombs of the Bièvre!’
Lachaussée had been so taken by surprise that for a few seconds he made no reply; whilst Benoit’s fingers were working as though he clutched an imaginary stick, and intended to use it. All his respect for the magician had vanished in his desire to chastise Lachaussée.
‘Concealment is no longer needful,’ at length he observed.