“Yes,” said I, “I have deciphered it, and consequently read it, and I now beg to return it you with my word of honour that I have not made a copy; in fact, I found nothing in it that I did not know before.”

“Without the key you mean, but of course you could never find out that.”

“Shall I tell you the key?”

“Pray do so.”

I gave her the word, which belonged to no language that I know of, and the marchioness was quite thunderstruck.

“This is too amazing,” said she; “I thought myself the sole possessor of that mysterious word—­for I had never written it down, laying it up in my memory—­and I am sure I have never told anyone of it.”

I might have informed her that the calculation which enabled me to decipher the manuscript furnished me also with the key, but the whim took me to tell her that a spirit had revealed it to me.  This foolish tale completed my mastery over this truly learned and sensible woman on everything but her hobby.  This false confidence gave me an immense ascendancy over Madame d’Urfe, and I often abused my power over her.  Now that I am no longer the victim of those illusions which pursued me throughout my life, I blush at the remembrance of my conduct, and the penance I impose on myself is to tell the whole truth, and to extenuate nothing in these Memoirs.

The wildest notion in the good marchioness’s brain was a firm belief in the possibility of communication between mortals and elementary spirits.  She would have given all her goods to attain to such communication, and she had several times been deceived by impostors who made her believe that she attained her aim.

“I did not think,” said she, sadly, “that your spirit would have been able to force mine to reveal my secrets.”

“There was no need to force your spirit, madam, as mine knows all things of his own power.”

“Does he know the inmost secrets of my soul?”

“Certainly, and if I ask him he is forced to disclose all to me.”

“Can you ask him when you like?”

“Oh, yes! provided I have paper and ink.  I can even ask him questions through you by telling you his name.”

“And will you tell it me?”

“I can do what I say; and, to convince you, his name is Paralis.  Ask him a simple question in writing, as you would ask a common mortal.  Ask him, for instance, how I deciphered your manuscript, and you shall see I will compel him to answer you.”

Trembling with joy, Madame d’Urfe put her question, expressed it in numbers, then following my method in pyramid shape; and I made her extract the answer, which she wrote down in letters.  At first she only obtained consonants, but by a second process which supplied the vowels she received a clear and sufficient answer.  Her every feature expressed astonishment, for she had drawn from the pyramid the word which was the key to her manuscript.  I left her, carrying with me her heart, her soul, her mind, and all the common sense which she had left.