Chapter XXVI

Leaving the Old Home—“Wrinkles”—Young Years and Old Friends—“A
Bad Cook and a Little Bit of Hot Coal”—Voltaire—_Irène_—Making a
Library—“Adieu, Mes Amis”—The Man in Black.

The dawn of the new century did not find Mademoiselle de L’Enclos in the old home of the rue des Tournelles. One by one the relentless scythe of Death had cut down all the illustrious men and women of Ninon’s time. The _cercle_ had narrowed, the music and wit and joyousness the walls of that salon had so long echoed with, were silent. If Ninon touched her lute now, it could but stir regret and sadness for the void. At last, she tells, her beauty had faded, leaving no traces of it; yet much of the old animation, and even not a little of the _gaieté du cœur_, were with her still. The empty salon, and the “yellow chamber” and the Place Royale itself, once echoing with the footsteps of her best friends, must have only deepened her regrets. Of all the friends left her in Paris, there were but two as old, one indeed older than herself—Mademoiselle de Scudéri. The other lady, Madame de Sandwich, somewhere of the same age, ever _grande dame_, sweet and amiable, and coquette to the last, in the beautiful old _point de Venise_ and paduasoy silks she adorned herself with.

Both these ladies occupied apartments in the faubourg St Germain, and, desiring to be nearer to them, Mademoiselle de L’Enclos disposed of her house in the rue des Tournelles, and took up her residence upon the quay, in a house facing the Tuileries. The trio, enjoying their old terms of friendship, interchanged visits, and dined together, and chatted, sometimes sighing in unison over the irrevocable delights of the past. Mademoiselle de Scudéri best preserved her cheery outlook upon the world; but, to be sure, as Ninon says, never having been beautiful, she had had the least to lose; for age could not rob her of her mental charms and delightful wit and fancy. “Time is a coward,” she said one day; “he only flings his wrinkles, as the Parthians flung their arrows, as they flew by.”

One day, as the three were together, the message of the gentle lady’s recall came; and they laid her on a couch, and sent for the medical aid which was not likely to avail much for the ninety-four years. “Dry your tears,” she murmured on the last breath. “Soon it will be your turn, and in a better world we shall find again our young years, and our old friends.”

Yet another pleasant acquaintance shared those twilight days for Mademoiselle de L’Enclos, never weary of kindly interest and well-doing where she could bestow it. Fortunately for posterity, Ninon was afflicted with an atrociously bad cook, and she was often obliged to go into her kitchen and attend personally to the sauces and the _rôtis_, and the rest. One day she was busily engaged in putting together a partridge pasty for the entertainment of her two friends, who were coming to _déjeuner_ with her.

Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and a little boy of some seven to eight years old entered, with intelligent eyes, and a bright smile on his clean-cut features. Taking off his cap, he said in the politest of tones—“Will you please give me a few cinders, Madame, since your fire is alight? Our servant upstairs there has let our fire go out, and papa forbids me to go to school until I have eaten my soup.”

Ninon wondered who this little son of a most wise papa might be. He was a small child for going to college, as he told her on further question, was that of the Jesuit College of Clermont. Then, putting facts together, she had scarcely need to ask his name; though on questioning him further still, he told her it was François Marie Arouet.

“The son of the treasurer Arouet, of the Court of Accounts—and you live on the floor above mine, do you not?”

“That is so, Madame,” nodded the boy, repeating his request, for he was in fear of the professor’s wrath if he should be late.

“But you have nothing to put your fire in,” said Ninon.

“Ah! how stupid of me,” said the child, as he stooped down, and gathered a handful of the cold ashes. “Please put the hot coals on this,” he went on, holding out the cinder-shielded palms.

So that was the little lad of whom her friend, the Abbé de Châteauneuf had spoken as the unusually intelligent child of nobly-born, but poor parents, who were great friends of his. “Bravo!” Ninon had said to him, as he departed with the fire in his hands, “you will be a clever man one of these days,”—and the sparks of that fire kindled to a flame of celebrity which is not likely to die out while the French language or any modern tongue finds expression.

“You will stifle me with roses,” said he, when, on the representation of his _Irène_ in the winter-time, seventy-eight years later, the acclaiming crowds did him homage. The excitement was too great for him, and in the following May he died. A long life full of literary activity and of extremes of malice and generosity, stirred by the environment of the ferment of bigotry and philosophy seething in the society of the eighteenth century. Very early in his career the young pupil of Clermont, taking his family name of Voltaire, showed signs of being no model Jesuit. For the rest, it needs to recall only the memory of Ninon’s youthful protégé by his fatherly care of the grand-niece of Corneille, when he heard she was in dire need, or his defence of the unhappy Calvinist Calas, accused of the murder of his son, prompted by religious conviction, and judicially murdered by being broken on the wheel. In the face of this terrible injustice, Voltaire never rested till he had obtained such reparation for Calas’ afflicted family as money could bestow, from the public treasury of Toulouse, through the influence of the Duc de Choiseul.

The acquaintance begun in Ninon’s kitchen continued on a very pleasant footing, and in her will she bequeathed him two thousand francs with which to begin forming himself a library.

And so, in serenity and calm enjoyment of the society of the few friends time had left her of the old years, and of those the present had brought her, and in acts of generous charity among her poorer neighbours and to those who should live after, Ninon de L’Enclos passed away. “It is almost sweet to die,” she said, re-echoing the sentiment of those dear to her who had gone before, “for there in the other world we shall meet again those we have loved.”

And watching by her couch, they heard her murmur—“Adieu, my friends, adieu,” and the faint breath ceased.

“Qu’un vain espoir ne vienne pas s’offrir
Que puisse ébranler mon courage,
Je suis en age de mourir,
Que-ferais-je davantage!”

So, in his own poetic fancy, St Evrémond seemed to hear her say; for heart and soul he knew her, and understood her. It was in one of her letters to him, towards the close of her life, that she expresses regret for what it had pleased her to designate her “philosophy.” “Had anyone told me in those young days of mine I should live such a life, I should have hanged myself sooner,” she writes.

One distinguished biographer, prefacing her letters to the Marquis de Sévigné, testifies to the consideration in which she was regarded by the personages of high merit and rank, who held themselves honoured to be admitted to her intimacy and friendship.

And the same biographer goes on to tell of the wonderful tale of such sort as is apt to cling to persons of celebrity, or more or less apart from the rank and file of people—the tale of the “_Noctambule_,” Ninon’s nocturnal visitant, the little “Man in Black”; but this is confirmed and best told in the vivid description of his last visit, as it is handed down to us—

“PARIS, _9th April 1701_.

* * * * *

“Ah! my friend, what a terrible fright I have had! Truly I am not
recovered from it yet, and my limbs still tremble at the thought of
it. Oh, these cruel things that return from the past at intervals,
to stare you in the face, and poison the tranquillity of the
present!

“I have seen my Man in Black! Do you understand? My Man in Black
of the Louvre ball, the man with the red tablets, and the dozen
bottles; the man who appeared to me seventy years ago. Or, rather,
no, it was not he, since I am living still. But great Heaven! what
a resemblance! He wore, as the first did, a black velvet coat, and
breeches, carried an ebony cane, and had the great black moustache.
Oh, I was ready to faint with terror. You may think me crazed, I
daresay, but it is no laughing matter. Wait while I get my wits
together to tell you properly.

“Madeleine de Scudéri, as you know, was taken ill at my house. When
a woman is ninety-four years of age, there is no great chance of
her getting better. Nevertheless, Madame de Sandwich took a coach,
and drove at full speed to a quack doctor, who is very fashionable,
and who is said to have performed many wonderful cures. Presently
she returned with this man. I looked up, to drop back into my
chair, crying in amazement: ‘It is he!—it is the devil! Oh,
Heaven!—Heaven! protect me!’

“He turned to the countess.

“‘What is the matter with her? Is it your invalid?’ he inquired.

“‘Mercy!’ I cried, casting myself on my knees, ‘I signed on your
tablets, certainly; but I did not understand that I was selling my
soul.’

“‘Ah! Ah!’ said he, ‘you should be Mademoiselle de L’Enclos?’

“‘Yes,’ murmured I, in half-suffocated tones.

“‘You regret having given your signature?’

“‘Alas!’

“‘Calm yourself; I am not the devil I seem to be; and we will come
to an understanding.’

“He approached the couch of the sick woman; but during what had
passed, Madeleine had breathed her last.

“‘I should not have saved her,’ said the Man in Black. ‘Let us go
into another room,’ he added, turning to me; ‘we will settle our
little affair.’

“‘Oh, dearest Countess, I implore you do not forsake me!’ I cried,
lifting my trembling hands to Madame de Sandwich.

“‘Excuse me, what I have to say must not be heard by anyone but
yourself, Mademoiselle; for in that case, it would be impossible
for me to arrange the bargain,’ said the Man in Black.

“I was frozen with fear, and I could not put faith in his
assurances. Suddenly remembering that the night before, I had
received from my confessor a reliquary containing a bit of the true
cross, I went for it to my cabinet, and slipped it carefully into
my bosom. ‘Be it so, sir,’ I said to him. ‘Come, I am ready to
listen to you.’ Be just to me, my friend. You have never known me
to be a coward. I retain all my faculties; very well, I swear to
you that to be there, alone with such a companion, I had to summon
all my powers of body and soul. After carefully closing the door,
the Man in Black said to me: ‘Mademoiselle, it is the work of an
honest man I am about to accomplish. I do but ask of you to be
secret upon the disclosure I am about to make to you, and I believe
you to be too entirely a woman of honour to do harm to a person
whose sole desire is to make things agreeable to you.’

“This preamble was sufficiently reassuring; but my horror of him
was hardly less intense, and I kept the holy relic close pressed
against my bosom, to ward off the influences of the spirit of evil.
The Man in Black drew forward a chair for me, and seated himself on
a stool beside me.

“‘I am not the devil, Mademoiselle,’ he continued. ‘I am not even
the same who once had the honour of paying you a visit.’

“I trembled, but looked at him with a little less terror.

“‘What, sir, you are not—’

“‘No,’ said he, without permitting me to finish my sentence, ‘it
was my father.’

“‘Your father?’

“‘Yes, a Portuguese Jew, who profoundly studied the art of healing.
I bear him a very close resemblance, Mademoiselle.’

“‘It is terrible, sir.’

“‘All the more that I have been careful to wear the same clothes.
The resemblance is my fortune. Countless people have been deceived
as you have been; but your mistake might have grave consequences,
and that is why I disabuse you.’

“I began to breathe more freely. ‘But is this that you tell me
really true?’

“‘You still doubt? So much the better. If the most _spirituelle_
woman of the century has believed in the immortality of the man,
what of the others? I give myself, as you know better than anybody,
for some hundred years of age. My son, in fifty years’ time, will
be able to double that. I have only verbal traditions, he will have
written traditions. I shall bequeath him a great number of secrets,
and many family histories. It is certain that there will not be
wanting many persons who, having seen me in my early life, will
take him to be me, as you have taken me for my father. Only, our
fortune having accumulated very largely, I shall wish him to bear a
title. He will be called the Count de St Germain.’

“‘I am overwhelmed with astonishment,’ I said. ‘And what is the use
of this ruse? Why perpetuate such a resemblance from father to son?’

“‘You ask me that?’ he exclaimed. ‘Think what renown and prestige
it gives. Think of the blind confidence reposed in one who has
discovered for himself the secret of not dying. Do you not know
that the faith of a sick person in his physician is frequently the
cause of his cure? Have regard to the moral and mental powers, and
the physical ones will most surely feel the influence. You yourself
are a proof of this.’

“‘I?’

“‘Did you not remain beautiful till you were eighty years old?’

“‘That is true.’

“‘Do you know what was in those bottles which were to render your
beauty of such long duration? They contained pure water.’

“‘Is it possible?’

“‘Yes, Mademoiselle, pure water, mixed with a few drops of an
innocuous chemical drug to keep it incorruptible, and to slightly
colour it. The experiment succeeded. My father had no serious
intention of making you think you had made a compact with the
devil. Just now, in the idea that you recognised me, you received
a terrible shock. Did he not say that the hour when you should see
him again, you would not have three days to live?’

“‘He told me so!’ I replied, shuddering.

“‘How old are you?’

“‘Eighty-six years.’

“‘Your arm, if you please.’

“I stretched it out to him; he felt my pulse.

“‘Just so,’ he said; ‘not only will you not die in three days, but
I guarantee you at least five more years, before you need to be
thinking of the other world. Farewell, Mademoiselle. To complete
your tranquillity and peace of mind, I will look for, and send you
at once the leaf of my father’s tablets on which you wrote your
signature.’

“He kept his word. Before an hour had passed, I received the
hateful red leaf, and my heart glowed with satisfaction.

“Here, my friend, in deepest confidence, you have the conclusion of
my adventure with the devil—and of course I like it much better
that way; but, alas! I see things now in a different light from
those days.

“Adieu, my dear old friend. Reflect a little yourself, weigh the
pros and cons of it all, and in that other world let us hope we
shall not be separated.

NINON.”

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[1] De Mirecourt.

[2] De Mirecourt.

[3] This anecdote is attributed by St Simon to another source, and to a much later date; but it truly occurred as here recorded.

[4] “Est animal rubrum, callidum, rapax, et vorax omnium benificiorum. Mazarin is a misfortune to the queen, her evil genius, consequently ours. I hate him as I do the devil, and hold him for what he is, _morus nebule_, a creature destitute of honour, a mime in a red hat, and a long-robed charlatan.” GUY PATIN.

[5] Gayot de Pitaval, _Causes Celébres_.

[6] Du Tillet.

[7] St Simon.

[8] Maître Patelin.

[9] Leigh Hunt.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.

Some accents and hyphens in words have been silently removed, some
added, when a predominant preference was found in the original book.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg v: ‘a New Aquaintance’ replaced by ‘a New Acquaintance’.
Pg 28: ‘he never put’ replaced by ‘He never put’.
Pg 152: ‘clever women’ replaced by ‘clever woman’.
Pg 186: ‘and Hugenots’ replaced by ‘and Huguenots’.
Pg 214: ‘de Champvalon’ replaced by ‘de Champvallon’.
Pg 214: ‘he was not denied’ replaced by ‘he was denied’.
Pg 228: ‘ont he life of’ replaced by ‘on the life of’.
Pg 261: ‘de Chamvallon’ replaced by ‘de Champvallon’.
Pg 265: ‘shivered ’dAubigné’ replaced by ‘shivered d’Aubigné’.
Pg 293: ‘towards the de Montespan’ replaced by
‘towards de Montespan’.