Page:The Smart Set (Volume 1).djvu/408

ally believed that Flamel, amazingly young, outrageously rich, yet no longer philanthropic, was filling other cities with the uproar of his debauches. Whether or not it was he who, under the name of the Vicomte de Bellamye, erupted in Venice and, as the Duc de Betmar, entertained Baron Stoch at Lisbon, is a detail. Were we writing fiction we should assume it to be a fact. The point is that he really did have a secret which others succeeded in sharing. There was Talbot, for instance; there was Lascaris and, last and least, Cagliostro.

These people all know a little more than the rest of us. Among other things, Talbot knew how to forge. But not how to do so undetectedly. As a result, he hid in a Welsh hamlet. The innkeeper there showed him a bit of parchment and an ivory ball. Both had been taken from the tomb of a bishop. The latter had been suspected of being rich. He was suspected, too, of having concealed his riches in his shroud. As a result, the tomb was rifled. Only the parchment and the ball were found. This booty the innkeeper had acquired in exchange for a mug of ale. Talbot offered a guinea. Already he had discovered that the parchment was a recipe for the manufacture of money. The guinea accepted, Talbot, who had his reasons for avoiding London, got to Germany, got to work, and, what is more notable, got gold. He projected it as a hose projects water. He waded in it. Everyone who came near him did likewise. He turned pebbles into coin as readily as we turn paper into copy. But it was the contents of the ivory ball, a white powder, that did the trick. Though he could read the recipe, he could not compound it. When the powder gave out, so did his money.

But no matter. There was another and a more capable person about just then. Who he was and what he was never have been and, now, never will be known. He did not float. He was not fluid. But he appeared, disappeared, reappeared, changing in these changes everything, even to his appearance. Without age, without identity, his presence, more often suspected than perceived, persisted for a century. He had as many names as Vishnu, perhaps as many avatars. Of his names the most certain is Lascaris. Of his avatars the most palpable is prelacy. He entered history clothed with the dignities of a Lesbian Archimandrite. Whether he brought with him gusts of those songs which blew through Mitylene, one may surmise and never know. But this is clear: The multiple and sufficiently attested transmutations which he effected were accomplished either through the medium of previously trained adepts, or, when personally conducted, were produced for purposes entirely altruistic.

In a village at nightfall a stranger appears. He has come unawaited, as death and thieves do. He enters the poorest home, asks for old iron, turns it into gold, and evaporates. It was his custom and his poetry. Someone who knew what poetry was said: "On the morrow he was sought, but he had vanished like the holy apparitions which sometimes visit the heart of man."

The apparition that succeeded him was more tangible, more brilliant, more real. Carlyle used his worst ink to dirty it. But Time has its revenges. Carlyle is handsomely bound and never read. The memory of Cagliostro is immortal. Born without scruples, he omitted to acquire any. A cheerful disdain of righteousness is highly conducive to fame. People more censorious than ourselves regard that disdain as conducive to infamy. It may be so. But in the spaciousness of the perspectives of history you can't tell t'other from which. In lieu of scruples Cagliostro had charms, which is more than can be said of Carlyle. He knew all languages, including the latter's dialect, which was a feat in itself, and including silence, too, for silence is a language also. He had other accomplishments more surprising still. He knew how to make his clients believe anything they wished. He knew how to make