“Yes, monsieur,” chimed in the Frenchman, “you will not take it ill of us if we refuse your invitation. With you we should only intoxicate ourselves, there we shall be entranced! It is a delight which we have enjoyed once a year since we arrived in Stamboul. To-day, the Reis-Effendi has procured us this opportunity—who knows when it will come again? Come with us, M. Mostert, and inhale rapture, bliss, enchantment. Yes, M. Mostert, no champagne can procure for us that bliss to which I now invite you. I am a butler, and you know how much what I say must mean. I surely know all the joys which the grapes of Constantinople, Canary, or Vesuvius can yield. But what are they to the rapture that awaits us? Does empire please you—a kingdom is yours the instant you think of it. Would you be Grand Vizier, Kapudin Pacha, or minister plenipotentiary—in a flash it is as you wish. Come with us, and you will thank your friends, the fat cook and the lean butler, for procuring for you an unknown, but incomparable delight. I have determined to-day to be Henry the Fourth, but only until the moment when the rascal Ravaillac murders the excellent monarch; then I change myself into the Count St. Germain, who, it is well known, was three hundred years old when he visited the royal court of Versailles, and probably is still living somewhere, under a feigned name, in the fullness of youth and strength. Vive, Henri Quatre,” cried M. Fleury, while my brain whirled, and I allowed myself to be drawn toward the house with the red flag.
I knew Fleury, and could rely upon what he said. I might be a king, a sultan, or a Rothschild. There I paused—it was a grand idea—a poetical excitement made my heart beat faster in my breast. But prosaically enough came the change of faith between me and my wishes.
“No,” I said, “I must always remain a good Christian, according to the Augsburg confession; a different happiness awaits me in the little red house—money, plenty of money, and little Kate, in Gelnhaus.”
“You are, and always will be an enthusiast, Fleury,” replied Van Delpt to the Frenchman’s invitation. “You are, in spite of your employment for so many years in the diplomatic line, a true Frenchman, devoted to the fair. For my part I hold a middle course. I must have something solid. I will to-day be no happier than my renowned countryman, William Benkels, after he had discovered the salting of the herring. I aspire to the delight only of one moment, but that moment shall last—the great moment in which William Benkels stood before the first cask of successfully-salted herrings. It was in the year 1416. Imagine the man to yourselves, when he stood at last before the completed work, over which his mind had brooded for so many years, and which brought such a blessing upon his Fatherland. He foresaw in this moment, a thousand inventions to which this one must give birth; soused fish, pickles, sardines—every thing which can gain immortality through salt. He saw, by means of his invention, tons of gold pouring into the coffers of his Fatherland, and he heard his name lauded by posterity. Yes, thou immortal William Benkels, to-day I will be thou, and enjoy the rapture of that moment, when, standing before that cask, thine own greatness and the happy future thou hadst prepared for thy country was revealed to thee.”
These representations were not without their effect. My curiosity was excited. We now stood before the little house with the red flag. I saw some Turks staggering out, pale, hollow-eyed, and trembling in every limb. “Are those the devotees of your temple of bliss?” said, I to my companions. “They seem to me far more like the inmates of a hospital than men who have just succeeded in a speculation in rapture.”
Van Delpt pushed me in, and Fleury pressed forward eagerly. “Those are stupid Turks,” he said, “who wish to be always happy, and when one bliss ends they desire always another, which is contrary to the whole order of nature. But forward, Gabriel Mostert! you shall learn every thing within; light shall spring up for you there like the conflagration of Moscow. Vive Henri Quatre,” he shouted, and pushed me on.
“William Benkels forever!” cried the cook, who passed his arm around me and swung me into the little house. I stood, giddy from the sudden movement, in a large, darkened room. Although without it was perfectly light, here all illumination proceeded from a dimly burning lamp, hung in the middle of the apartment. Windows I could see none, and a strange, bewildering perfume filled the room. My friends bore me on, and before I could observe distinctly the objects which surrounded me, I felt myself seated upon a cushion, and Van Delpt and Fleury took their places beside me. I could not collect my ideas, I only saw a grinning Turk, dressed in red, who stepped forth from the darkness and approached with a silver plate, upon which were a number of little, reddish-brown balls, while a crystal goblet of water stood in the middle of it. My friends seized the balls and swallowed several of them.
“Now eat, Gabriel,” cried Van Delpt, while his left arm encircled me powerfully. “Feast upon delight. It is opium—the manna of immortality.”
His eyes started from his head—I seemed to gaze upon a madman. I tried to extricate myself from him but in vain. He endeavored, in the meanwhile, with his right hand to slip some opium balls into my mouth, but I set my teeth firmly, and shook my head.
“Bon appetit, Monsieur,” said the Frenchman, who seized me upon the other side. Two hands with the horrible little balls, hovered before my eyes ready to force me to partake. “You must eat like us, you must be blessed as we shall be. Vive Henri Quatre!”