“What gibberish is that? the cabalistic?” queried Richelieu to appear cool.
“Yes, my lord, used in invocations of the demons. You will understand the Voice but not what I conjure it with.”
“Demons? is it the devil?”
“A superior being may invoke a superior spirit. This spirit is now in direct communication with us,” he said as he pointed to the wall which seemed to end the house and had not a perceptible break in it.
“I am afraid, duke—and are not you?”
“To tell the truth I would rather be back in the battles of Mahon or before Philipsburg.”
“Lady and lord, listen for you would hear,” said Balsamo sternly. In the midst of solemn silence, he proceeded in French:
“Are you there?”
“I am here,” replied a pure and silvery voice which penetrated the wall and tapestry so muffled as to seem a sweet-toned bell sounded at an incalculable distance, rather than a human voice.
“Plague on it! this is growing exciting,” said the duke; “and yet without red fire, the trombone, and the gong.”