“During that strange period,” he went on, “when the teeming Time was great with the revolution that was speedily to be born, I was on a mission in Paris with my excellent, my maligned friend, Cagliostro.  Mesmer was one of our band.  I seemed to occupy but an obscure rank in it:  though, as you know, in secret societies the humble man may be a chief and director—­the ostensible leader but a puppet moved by unseen hands.  Never mind who was chief, or who was second.  Never mind my age.  It boots not to tell it:  why shall I expose myself to your scornful incredulity—­or reply to your questions in words that are familiar to you, but which you cannot understand?  Words are symbols of things which you know, or of things which you don’t know.  If you don’t know them, to speak is idle.” (Here I confess Mr. P. spoke for exactly thirty-eight minutes, about physics, metaphysics, language, the origin and destiny of man, during which time I was rather bored, and to relieve my ennui, drank a half glass or so of wine.) “Love, friend, is the fountain of youth!  It may not happen to me once—­ once in an age:  but when I love then I am young.  I loved when I was in Paris.  Bathilde, Bathilde, I loved thee—­ah, how fondly!  Wine, I say, more wine!  Love is ever young.  I was a boy at the little feet of Bathilde de Bechamel—­the fair, the fond, the fickle, ah, the false!” The strange old man’s agony was here really terrific, and he showed himself much more agitated than when he had been speaking about my gr-ndm-th-r.

“I thought Blanche might love me.  I could speak to her in the language of all countries, and tell her the lore of all ages.  I could trace the nursery legends which she loved up to their Sanscrit source, and whisper to her the darkling mysteries of the Egyptian Magi.  I could chant for her the wild chorus that rang in the disheveled Eleusinian revel:  I could tell her and I would, the watchword never known but to one woman, the Saban Queen, which Hiram breathed in the abysmal ear of Solomon—­You don’t attend.  Psha! you have drunk too much wine!” Perhaps I may as well own that I was not attending, for he had been carrying on for about fifty-seven minutes; and I don’t like a man to have all the talk to himself.

“Blanche de Bechamel was wild, then, about this secret of Masonry.  In early, early days I loved, I married a girl fair as Blanche, who, too, was tormented by curiosity, who, too, would peep into my closet, into the only secret guarded from her.  A dreadful fate befell poor Fatima.  An accident shortened her life.  Poor thing! she had a foolish sister who urged her on.  I always told her to beware of Ann.  She died.  They said her brothers killed me.  A gross falsehood.  Am I dead?  If I were, could I pledge you in this wine?”

“Was your name,” I asked, quite bewildered, “was your name, pray, then, ever Blueb——?”

“Hush! the waiter will overhear you.  Methought we were speaking of Blanche de Bechamel.  I loved her, young man.  My pearls, and diamonds, and treasure, my wit, my wisdom, my passion, I flung them all into the child’s lap.  I was a fool.  Was strong Samson not as weak as I?  Was Solomon the Wise much better when Balkis wheedled him?  I said to the king—­But enough of that, I spake of Blanche de Bechamel.