WE SHALL NOW introduce the reader to the masonic lodge in the Rue Platriere.
A low door was surmounted by three letters in red chalk, which doubtless indicated the place of a meeting, and which before morning will be effaced.
These three letters are L. P. D.
The low door seems an alley-way: a few steps are descended, and a dark passage threaded.
Certainly, the second indication would confirm the first, for after having looked at the three letters, Farmer Billot descended the steps, counting them as he went, and at last stepped from the eighth; he then went boldly down the alley.
At the extremity of this alley burned a pale light, before which sat a man pretending to read a paper.
Billot advanced, and as he did so, the man arose, and with one finger pressed on his chest, waited for him to speak.
Billot made the same answer, and then placed his finger on his lip.
This was probably the passport expected by the mysterious porter, who at once opened a perfectly invisible door, and when it was shut, showed Billot a stairway with narrow, coarse steps, leading yet farther below the ground.
Billot entered, and the door rapidly but silently closed behind him.
On this occasion the farmer counted seventeen steps, and when he had reached the eighteenth, in spite of the dumbness to which he seemed to have condemned himself, he said, “Good! here I am.”
A curtain hung a few steps before the door, and Billot, going straight to it, lifted it up and found himself in a vast circular hall, in which some fifty persons were already collected. The nulls were hung with red and white curtains, on which were worked the square and compass and level. A platform, which was ascended by four steps, was prepared for the orators and recipiendaries, and on this platform, in the part nearest the wall, was a solitary desk and chair for the president.
In a few moments the hall was so filled as to make motion impossible. The crowd was composed of men of every rank and condition, from the peasant to the prince, who came one by one, as Billot had done, and who, without knowing each other, took their places as chance dictated or according to their sympathies.
Each of these men bore under his coat his ovat, the apron of the craft, if he was a simple mason, or if he was one of the illuminati also, both the apron and the scarf of the higher order.
A single lamp hung from the roof cast a circle of light around, but not sufficient to render visible those who wished to remain unknown.
Three men alone did not wear the scarf of the illuminati, but only the masonic apron.
One was Billot, the other a young man scarcely twenty, and the third a man about forty-five, who from his manners appeared to belong to the higher classes of society.
A few seconds after the last had entered, no more attention being paid to him than to the simplest member of the association, a masked door was opened, and the president appeared, bearing the insignia of the Grand Orient and the Grand Copht.
He slowly ascended the platform, and turning towards the assembly, said: “Brethren, to-day we have two things to do. We have to receive three new members, and I have to render you an account of my work, from the day I began to the present time. That work becomes every hour more difficult, and you must know if I am yet worthy of your confidence. Only by receiving light from you, and diffusing it, can I march on the dark and terrible journey I have undertaken. Let, then, the chiefs of the order alone remain in this hall, that we may proceed to the reception or rejection of the three new members who present themselves before us. These three members being accepted or rejected, all will enter the hall, from the first to the last, for to all, not alone to the supreme circle, do I wish to exhibit my conduct and receive praise or censure.”
At these words, a door opposite to the one already unmasked opened. Vast vaulted rooms, like the crypts of an ancient basilica, became open, and the crowd passed into them, like a procession of spectres, through dimly lighted arcades, in which lamps of copper were placed here and there, barely sufficient, as the poet says, “to make darkness visible.”
Three men alone remained—the recipiendaries. It chanced that they leaned against the wall at almost equal distances apart. They looked curiously at each other, but did not discover who and what they were.
At that moment the door through which the president had entered again re-opened, and six masked men appeared and placed themselves three on each side of the president.
“Let numbers two and three disappear for a moment. None but the supreme chiefs may know the secrets of the reception or rejection of a masonic brother into the order of the illuminati.”
The young man and the man of aristocratic bearing withdrew to the corridor whence they had entered.
“Approach,” said the president, after a brief silence, during which the others had withdrawn. Billot drew near.
“How are you known among the profane?”
“In the Lodge of the Friends of Truth of Soissons.”
Billot made a sign to show that he was a master of his order.
“Why do you wish to ascend a degree, and to be received among us?”
“Because I have been told that it is a step towards universal light.”
“I have none but him who came to me alone, and unsolicited, and offered to receive me.” Billot looked fixedly at the president.
“With what feeling will you tread the path that shall be opened to you?”
“Hatred to the powerful and love of equality.”
“Who will answer to us for your love of equality and hatred of oppression?”
“The word of a man who never has broken his word.”
“What inspires you with this love of equality?”'
“The inferior condition of my birth.”
“What inspires you with hatred of the powerful?”
“That is my secret: that secret you know. Why make me utter aloud what I would not even whisper?”
“Will you advance according to your power, and make all around you advance towards equality?”
The president turned towards the chiefs in masks. “Brothers,” said he, “this man speaks the truth. A great sorrow unites him to our cause, by the fraternity of hatred. Already he has contributed much to the revolution, and may do much more. I am his sponsor, and will be answerable for him in the present, past and future.”
“Let him be received,” said the six unanimously.
“You hear? Are you ready to take the oath?”
“Dictate, and I will repeat it.”
The president lifted up his hand, and with a slow solemn voice said:
“In the name of the crucified Son, I swear to break the carnal bonds which unite me yet to father, mother, brothers, sisters, wife, kindred, friends, mistresses, kings, benefactors, or any one else, or to any being to whom I have promised faith, obedience, gratitude, or service.”
Billot repeated in a voice firmer even than that of the president, the same words.
“Good!”said the president. “Henceforth you are freed from oaths to your country and its laws. Swear to reveal to the new chief you have recognised all you shall hear, learn or guess, and even to seek and spy out what may not come before your eyes.”
“Swear,” continued the president, “to honour and respect poison, steel, and fire, as prompt, pure, and necessary means to purge the globe by the death of those who seek to defile truth and wrest it from our hands.”
“Swear to avoid Naples, Rome, Spain, and every accursed land. Swear to avoid the temptation to reveal aught you may hear in our assemblies, for thunder is not more prompt than the invisible knife to reach and slay you wherever you may be.”
“Now,” said the president, “live in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
A brother hidden in the dark opened the door of the crypt, where, until the conclusion of the triple reception, the brothers waited. The president made a sign to Billot, who bowed and joined those to whom the oath he had taken had assimilated him.
“Number 2!” said the president in a loud voice, and the closed door opened again, and the young man appeared.
“Draw near,” said the president.
We have already said that he was a young man of twenty or twenty-two, who, thanks to his fine white skin, might have passed for a woman. The huge cravat worn at that time might induce one to believe that the dazzling transparency of that skin was not to be attributed to purity of blood, but, on the contrary, to some secret and concealed malady.
In spite of his high stature and great cravat, his neck was short, his forehead low, and the whole front of the head depressed.
The result was that his hair, without being longer than it was usually worn at that time, touched the shoulders behind, and in front hung over his forehead. There was in the whole bearing of this man, as yet on the threshold of life, something of automatic harshness which made him look like an envoy of the other world—a deputy from the tomb.
The president looked for a moment at him with attention, and then began to question him. His glance, though exceedingly fixed, could not make the young man look away. He waited and listened.
“Your name among the profane?”
“In the Lodge of the Humanitarians of Laon.”
The president made a sign to show that he was a free and accepted mason.
“Why do you wish to ascend a degree and to be one of us?”
“Because it is man's nature to aspire to elevations, and that on the heights the air is purer and the light more brilliant.”
“The philosopher of Genera, the man of nature, the immortal Rousseau.”
“With what feeling will you march in the path we open to you?”
“Whither will that faith conduct France and the world?”
“France to liberty, the world to freedom.”
“What would you give to have France and the world reach that liberty?”
“My life is all I have, my fortune I have already given.”
“Then, if received, you will advance with all your force and power, and cause all around you to advance in the path that leads to liberty and freedom?”
“I will, and will urge all others.”
“Then in proportion to your power you will overturn every obstacle you meet with in your journey?”
“Are you free from all obligation, or if any obligation contrary to our laws has been assumed by you, will you break it?”
“Brothers, have you heard him?”
“Are you ready to take the oath?”
And the president repeated the same oaths he had administered to Billot.
When the door of the crypt had closed on St. Just, in a loud tone the president called, “Number 3!”
This was, as we hare said, a man of forty or forty-two, flushed in his face, almost bloated, but very tall, and in every lineament showing an aristocratic air, which at the first glance revealed Anglomania. His dress, though elegant, bore something of that simplicity just begun to be adopted in France, the true origin of which was the relations of Prance with America.
His step, though it did not tremble, was not firm like St. Just's, nor heavy like Billot's.
“Draw near.” The candidate obeyed.
“Your name among the profane?”
“Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans.”
“In the Lodge of the Freemen of Paris.”
“I have no age,”—and the duke made a masonic sign, showing that he had reached the dignity of rose cross.
“Why do you wish to be received by us?”
“Because, having till now lived with the great, I now wish to live with men. Because, having ever lived with my enemies, I would now live with my brothers.”
“With what feeling will you walk the path we will open to you?”
“The desire to avenge myself.”
“Him who mistook; and on her who humiliated me.”
“Are you free from all engagement, or will you renounce any engagement contrary to our laws?”
“Every engagement was broken yesterday.”
“Brothers, have you heard?” said the president, turning to the masked men.
“You know him who presents himself to finish the work with us.”
“And knowing, will you receive him in our ranks?”
“Do you know the oath you have to take?”
“No; but repeat it, and I will pronounce it.”
“It is terrible, especially to you!”
“Not more terrible than the outrages I have received.”
“So terrible, that when you shall have heard it, we declare you at liberty to depart, if you feel unable to keep it rigidly.”
The president fixed his piercing eye on the recipiendary; then, as if he wished to prepare him for the bloody promise, inverted the order of the paragraphs, and began by the second instead of the first:
“Swear,” said he, “to honour poison, steel and fire, as sure means to purge the earth, by the death of those who seek to defile truth, or wrest it from our hands.”
“I swear,” said the prince firmly.
“Swear to break the carnal links which bind you yet to father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends, wife, mistress, kings, benefactors, and all persons whatever, to whom you have promised faith, obedience, and gratitude.”
For a moment the duke was silent, and a pearly sweat stood on his brow.
“I told you the oath,” said the president.
Instead of simply saying “I swear,” the duke repeated every word of the oath.
The president looked towards the masked men, who looked at each other, and the twinkling of their eyes was seen behind their masks.
Then, speaking to the prince, he said. “Louis Philippe Joseph, Duke of Orleans, from this moment you are freed from every obligation you have taken to your country and to the law. Forget not, though, one thing, that if you betray us, thunder will not be so quick to strike, than will be, wherever you be concealed, the inevitable and invisible knife; now live in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
The president pointed to the crypt, which opened before the prince.
He, like a man who has thrown down a burden too heavy for him, passed his hand over his brow, breathed deeply, and moved away.
“Ah!” said he, as he rushed into the crypt, “how I will avenge myself!”
When alone, the president and six masked men exchanged a few words.
He then said aloud, “Admit all; I am ready, as I promised, to receive my account.”
The door opened—the members of the association who were in the crypt, walking and talking, entered the hall, filling it again.
Scarcely was the door shut behind the last of the affiliated, than Cagliostro, reaching forth his hand like a man who knows the value of time, and is unwilling to lose a second, said aloud:
“Brothers! some of you, perhaps, were present at the reunion which took place just twenty years ago, five miles from the Rhine, two miles from the village of Danenfels, in one of the caverns of Donnensberg: if any were there, let those venerable supporters of the great cause we have embraced lift up their hands and say, 'I was there.'”
Five or six hands were lifted. Five or six voices repeated, as the president had asked: “I was there!”
“This is all that is needed. The rest are dead or dispersed over the surface of the globe, toiling at the common work, which is made holy by the fact that it is the work of humanity. Twenty years ago this work, the different periods of which we are about to trace, was scarcely begun. Then the day which illumines us had scarcely broken, and the firmest eyes could not see through the clouds which enwrapped the future. At this meeting I will explain by what miracle death, which to man is only an oblivion of past times and ages, does not exist for me—or rather, how it is that thirty-two times I have slept in the tomb during twenty centuries, without the ephemeral heirs of my immortal soul having known Lethe, the only death.
“I have, then, been able to follow through centuries the development of Christ's word, and seen people pass slowly, but surely, from savage life to serfdom, and thence to that state of aspiration which is the forerunner of liberty. Like the stars of the night which hurry even before the setting of the sun, to shine in the sky, we have seen at various times various small people of Europe attempt liberty. Rome, Venice. Florence, Switzerland, Genoa, Pisa, Lucca and Arezzo—these cities of the south, where the flowers open first, and the fruits ripen soonest, at an earlier day established republics, one or two of which yet exist, and brave the line of kings; but all were so sullied with original sin that some were aristocratic, others oligarchic, and others despotic. Genoa, for instance, one of those which survive, is a marquisate, and the inhabitants, though simple citizens within the walls, are all noble beyond them. Switzerland alone has democratic institutions, but its imperceptible cantons, lost amid the Alps, are neither an example nor an assistance to humanity. This was not what we needed. We required a great country, not to receive but to give an impulse, which should so rotate that, like a blazing planet, it might light up the world.”
A murmur of approbation pervaded the whole crowd.
“I asked of God, Creator of earth, Author of all motion, for that country, and he showed me France. In France, which from the second century had been Catholic, national from the eleventh, Unitarian from the sixteenth. France, which the Lord himself called his eldest daughter, doubtless had the right in this Hue of great devotion to place herself at the foot of the cross of humanity, as she did at that of Christ. In fact, France, having used every form of monarchical, feudal, seigneurial, and aristocratic government, seemed most apt to feel and submit to our government, and we decided, conducted like the Jews of old by the celestial ray, that France should first be free. Consider what France was twenty years ago, and you will see the sublime audacity, or rather sublime faith, which induced us to undertake so much. France twenty years ago was within the weak hands of Louis XV. The France of Louis XIV., that is to say, the great aristocratic kingdom, where all rights belonged to the noble, all privileges to the rich. At its head was a man who at one and the same time was the exponent of all that was lofty and base, great and petty—of God and the people. A word of this man could make you rich or poor, happy or miserable, free or captive, living or dead. He had three grandsons called to succeed him. Chance decided that he whom nature called to the throne was the one the people prayed for he was said to be good, just, disinterested, well-informed, and almost a philosopher. To crush forever the disastrous wars kindled in Europe by the fatal succession of Charles II., the daughter of Maria Theresa was selected for his wife. The two great nations which are the counterpoise of Europe, France on the Atlantic, and Austria on the Black Sea, were indissolubly united. This had been foreseen by Maria Theresa, the deepest politician of Europe. At that time France, sustained by Austria, Spain, and Italy, was about entering into a new reign, and we selected it not to make it the first of kingdoms but the first of nations. The only question asked was who would enter the lion's den? What Christian Theseus, guided by the light of faith, would thread the Daedalian labyrinth and face the Minotaur? I said, 'I will.' Then, as some ardent minds, some uneasy organizations, asked me how much time would be required to complete the first portion of my work, I replied, 'Twenty years.' They objected. Listen to me. These men had for twenty centuries been serfs, but objected when I proposed to free them in twenty years.”
Cagliostro glanced for a moment round the Assembly, whom his last words had provoked into an ironical smile.
He continued: “At last I obtained these twenty years. I gave my followers the famous device: Lilia pedibus destrue, and set to work, advising all to follow my example. I entered France in the midst of a triumph. Laurels and roses made one long pathway of flowers from Strasbourg to Paris. All cried, 'Long live the dauphiness!' 'Long live our future queen!' The hopes of the kingdom hung on the fecundity of the marriage. I do not wish to take to myself the credit of the attempt, nor the glory of the effect—God was with me, and I saw that his divine hand held the reins of his car of fire. God be praised. I removed the stones from its road—I bridged the rivers—I levelled precipices, and the car rolled on. That was all. Now, brethren, see what has been accomplished in twenty years.
“Louis XV., called the Well-beloved, is dead, amidst general contempt.
“The queen, after seven years of sterility, bore children, the birth of whom is contested. She was openly attacked by charges of the dauphin's illegitimacy, and was dishonoured as a mother on account of the diamond necklace.
“The king, under the title of Louis the Long-wished-for, is powerless in politics as in love, and has rushed from Utopia to Utopia, to bankruptcy, and from minister to minister, to M. de Calonne.
“The nobility and clergy have been overpowered by the third estate.
“The Bastille has been taken—the foreign troops driven from Paris and Versailles.
“The 14th of July, 1790, exhibited the unity of the world in France.
“The princes have been depopularised by emigration, and Monsieur by De Favras' trial.
“In fine, the constitution has been sworn to on the altar of the country. The President of the National Assembly sits on a throne high as that of the king; the law and the nation are above them. All Europe hangs over us with anxiety, and is silent and applauds, or if not, trembles.
“Brothers, was I not right when I said that France would be a glowing planet to illuminate the world?”
“Yes! yes!” cried every voice.
“Now, my brothers,” said Cagliostro, “do you think the work far enough advanced for us to leave it to itself? Do you think that we can trust in the oath taken by the king to maintain the constitution?”
“Then,” said Cagliostro, “the second revolutionary period of the great work is to come. In your eyes, as in mine, I see with joy that the federation of 1790 is not ended but halted. So be it. The halt is made, the rest is taken: the court has begun the work of counter revolution. Let us gird up our loins and set out again. Without doubt, timid hearts will have moments of misgiving and terror; the ray which lights us will often seem almost ready to fail, the hand which guides us will tremble and seem to desert us. More than once during the long period which remains for us to fulfil, the party will seem lost, almost destroyed; by some accident, unfavourable circumstances, the triumph of our enemies, the ingratitude of our fellow-citizens, all will appear to go wrong. Many, and perhaps the most conscientious of you, will ask yourselves, after so much real fatigue, and so much apparent impotence, if they have not followed the false road, and engaged in a bad way. No, brothers, no, no! I tell you now—and let my words sound eternally in your ears, in victory like a trumpet, in defeat like a tocsin of terror—no, the people who lead the way have a holy mission to fulfil—the accomplishment of which Providence watches over. The Lord who guides them, in his mysterious way, revealing himself only in the splendour of the fulfilment, is often by a cloud hidden from our sight, and thought absent. Often an idea draws back and seems to retreat, when, like the ancient knights in the tourneys of old, it simply gains ground to place its lance in rest, and rush again on the adversary, refreshed and more ardent. Brothers, brothers, the end to which we tend is a beacon lighted on a lofty mountain. Twenty times during every journey the inequalities of the ground hide it from our view, and we think it extinguished. Then the weak halt, murmur, and complain, saying, 'We have no guide, and will advance no more in the night; let us remain where we are; why lose ourselves?' The strong continue, smiling and confident, and the beacon reappears, to fade and vanish again, each time more bright and visible, because it is nearer. Striving and persevering thus, believing especially the elect of the world will reach the foot of the beacon, the light of which will some day not only light up France, but all other nations, let us swear then, brothers, for ourselves and our descendants—for sometimes the eternal principle uses many generations—let us swear, for ourselves and our descendants, not to pause until we shall have established on earth the holy device of Christ, of which we have already conquered the first part—liberty, equality, fraternity.”
The words of Cagliostro were followed by loud applause. Amid, however, all these cries and bravoes, falling on the general enthusiasm like drops of water dripping from a rock of ice on a sweating brow, these words were heard, pronounced by a harsh and piercing voice:
“Let us swear: but first tell us how you understand these words, that we, your apostles, may understand you!”
A piercing glance from Cagliostro overran the whole crowd like a light refracted from a mirror, and lighted upon the pale face of the deputy from Arras.
“So be it,” said he. “Hear, Maximilien.”
Then, raising both his hand and voice, he said: “Listen all of you I”
Then a solemn silence pervaded the assembly—a silence which gauged the importance attached to the measures under discussion.
“Yes, you are right to ask what Liberty is, what Equality is, what Fraternity is. I will tell you. Let us begin with liberty. Above all, my brothers, do not confound liberty with independence. They are two sisters who resemble each other—they are two enemies who hate each other. Almost all nations inhabiting mountains are independent. I do not know one except Switzerland that is free. None will deny that the Corsican, the Calabrian, and the Scot are independent; none will dare to call them free. Let the Calabrian be wounded in his whims, the Corsican in his honour, and the Scot in his interests—the Calabrian, who cannot appeal to justice, for there is no justice in oppressed lauds, will appeal to his dagger, the Corsican to his stiletto, and the Scot to his dirk. He strikes, and his enemy falls! The mountains offer him a refuge, and instead of the liberty vainly invoked by the men of cities, he finds independence in the dark caverns, the deep woods and high places of the mountains—that is to say, the independence of the fox, chamois, and eagle. The eagle, chamois, and fox, however, are impassible, invariable, indifferent spectators of the great drama of life unfolded before them, and are animals devoted to instinct and to solitude. Primitive, ancient, and maternal civilization, such as that of India, Egypt, Etruria, Asia Minor, Greece, and Latium, by a union of their sciences, like a wreath of lights shining over the world to light in its cradle and development modern civilization, have left the foxes in their holes, the chamois on their cliffs, and the eagles in their clouds. To them time has passed, but been unmeasured: the sciences have nourished, but there has been no progress; to them nations have arisen, flourished and decayed, and taught nothing. Providence has restricted all their faculties to individual preservation, while God has given man the knowledge of good and evil, the sentiment of the just and unjust, a horror of isolation, and a love of society. Thus it is that man, born solitary like the fox, wild like the chamois, isolated like the eagle, has collected into families, agglomerated into tribes, and formed peoples. The individual who isolates himself, as I told you, my brethren, has only a right to independence—men in communities have a right to liberty.
“This is not a primitive and universal substance, like gold, but a fruit, an art, a production. Liberty is the right every one has to follow his own interests, satisfaction, amusement, glory, everything that does not injure another. It is the relinquishment of a portion of individual independence to establish a fund of general liberty, into which each one contributes an equal quota. Liberty, in fine, is more than all this: it is an obligation assumed, in the face of the world, not to close the paths of progress, light, or privilege to all but one egotistic circle of one race or nation, but, on the contrary, to spread them openly, either as individuals or as a society, to any who are needy and ask them of you. Pear not to exhaust this treasure, for liberty has this privilege, that it multiplies it-"If by prodigality, like to those immense streams which water the earth, and which are pure at the fountain in proportion to the volume they emit. Such is liberty, a heavenly manna in which all have a right, and which the chosen people to whom it falls must share with all nations who ask their portion. Such is liberty as I understand it,” said Cagliostro. “Now, let us pass to equality.”
A murmur of approbation filled the room, enwrapping the orator in that caress which is certainly most grateful to the pride, if not to the heart of the man—popularity.
Used, though, to orations of this kind, he reached forth his hand to command silence.
“Brothers, time passes! Time is valuable: every minute we lose is used by the enemies of our holy cause to dig an abyss for us or raise an obstacle in our way. Let me, then, tell you what equality is.”
At these words there were many cries for silence, amid which the voice of Cagliostro arose clearly and distinctly.
He began by stating that none would think that he promulgated the idea of absolute equality, but only social and legal. It would be as vain to seek by a decree to level Himalaya and Chimboraza to the grade of the Pontine Marshes, as to lift all men to the intellectual superiority of Dante, Shakespeare, and Homer. He would speak of social equality.
“It is the abolition of all privileges transmissible from father to son, free access of all grades, of all ranks, to all offices, a reward to merit, genius and virtue, and not the appanage of a caste. Thus the throne, supposing even the throne remain, is or rather will be, only an exalted position to be reached by the most worthy; while the inferior degrees, according to their merit, will hold secondary posts, without being in the least anxious for kings, ministers, councillors, judges, as far as the source whence they come is concerned. Thus royalty or magistracy, the monarchical throne or president's chair, will not be inherited as the appanage of a family. Election to the council, to the army, to the bench, will do away with family privilege; aptitude—thus science and art will no longer depend on patronage; rivalry—this is social equality. Slowly, with the advance of education, which shall not only be gratuitous and in every one's reach, but compulsory, ideas will increase and equality will advance with them. Equality, instead of remaining with its feet in the mud, will ascend the loftiest summits, and a great nation like France can recognise only an equality which exalts, not that which degrades. The latter is not that of the Titan, but of the bandit—it is the Procrustean bed, the Caucasian couch of Prometheus.”
Such a definition could not fail to excite approbation amid a society of men of exalted ideas, every one of whom, with a few exceptions, saw the degrees of his own elevation. Hurrahs, bravoes, and clappings followed, proving that even there and then were some in the assembly, who, when the time came, would put a different interpretation on equality from Cagliostro, yet as a theory accepted it as the powerful genius of the strange chief interpreted it.
Cagliostro, who was more ardent, more enlightened, and more resplendent, asked again for silence, in a voice which gave token of no fatigue or of any hesitation.
“Brothers,” said he, “we have now come to the third word of the device, to that which men will be the last to understand, and which for that reason has doubtless been placed last. We have come to
“Great word when understood! God keep me from saying that he who takes it in its narrow sense, and applies it to the citizens of a village, town, or kingdom, has a bad heart. No, brother, he has but a weak mind. Let us pity the poor soul, and try to strip his feet of the leaden sandals of mediocrity. Let us unfold our wings and sail above all vulgar ideas. When Satan wished to tempt Jesus, he transported him to the loftiest mountain (if the world, and showed him all the kingdoms of the earth, not to the mountain of Nazareth, whence he could see but the petty cities of Judea. Brothers, the word fraternity must not be applied to a kingdom, but to the world. Brothers, a day will come, when the word country, which now seems sacred to us, and nationality, which seems holy, will disappear like the canvas scenes which are let down for the time being to enable the carpenters and painters to prepare others. Brothers, the day will come when those who conquered the world will conquer fire and water, when the elements will be subjected to man's will, and when, thanks to rapidity of communication, all nations will be as brothers. Then, brethren, a magnificent sight will be unrolled in the face of God. Every ideal frontier will disappear; every limit of space will disappear; the rivers will be no longer an obstacle, the mountains a hindrance; people will clasp each other's hands across rivers, and on every mountaintop the altar of fraternity will arise. Brothers, brothers, I tell you, this is the true fraternity of the apostle.
“Christ died to ransom all the nations of the world. Do not therefore make these three words, liberty, equality, and fraternity, simply the device of France, but write them on the labarum of humanity as the device of the world.
“Now, my brethren, go. Your task is great—so great that through whatever valley of tears and blood you pass, your children will envy your holy mission, and like the crusaders, who always become more numerous and anxious to view the holy land, they will not pause, though they find their road by bleaching bones on the way-side. Courage then, apostles! pilgrims! soldiers! Apostles, make converts! pilgrims, onward! soldiers, fight!” Cagliostro paused, but not until general and universal applause had interrupted him.
Thrice hushed, thrice again this applause rose beneath the arches of the vault, like the sound of the tempest.
The six masked men then bowed before him, kissed his hand, and retired.
Each of the brothers then bowed before the platform, where, like another Peter the Hermit, this new apostle preached the crusade of liberty, and passed away uttering the words, “Lilia pedibus destrue!”
The last lamp went out, and Cagliostro remained alone, in silence and darkness, like those Indian gods in whose mysteries he pretended to have been initiated a thousand years before.
