i
met him the first time in a low cabaret in the rivola, the cheapest quarter of paris. how did i come there? perhaps i am a student of the lower classes, and was pursuing my study there. perhaps—but never mind, it makes no difference how i came there or who or what i am. this is not my story, it concerns the prophet only.
as i sat watching the changing crowd i heard some men at the next table talking of a man sitting over in a corner who once had a fortune that he had won by forecasting events, but whose gift had left him suddenly, and now his money was gone and he was without a friend.
i looked over toward the corner curiously. leaning against one of the supporting pillars of the low-studded room, i saw a pale, weary-looking man. i did not need to look at the glass on the table to learn what he was drinking. i[104] recognized by that sallow skin, the frequent convulsive starts, and the little catch in his breathing, an habitual absintheur.
he sat apart from the others, and no one spoke to him during the evening. occasionally he ordered drink, and then sat for several minutes watching lovingly the green, opalescent lights in the liquid before him.
i had forgotten all about him, when, chancing to glance in his direction a few minutes later, i saw that an altercation was taking place. the prophet was having an argument with the waiter over the payment of his bill. i saw him thrust his hand in his pockets, searching desperately for a coin, but in vain.
hoping that perhaps i might learn something of the man’s story, i arose, and, sitting down opposite him, i threw out a few coins, telling the waiter to take out the payment of my friend’s bill, and to bring us a bottle of vie de anise.
do you think he was offended? you do not know the action of that insidious poison. honor, ambition, everything, are but as baubles to the devotee of absinthe.
“vie de anise, did you say?” he asked, eagerly, leaning over the table. “it is years since i have tasted any of that.”
i sat with him until nearly midnight; but try as i would i could not draw the man out. several times i skillfully directed the conversation[105] in the desired channel, but each time he as skillfully eluded me.
he was in terrible condition. his nerves were completely shattered. he could scarcely sit still for a minute; and his hand shook so, as he raised the glass to his lips, that the green liquor spilled and ran over on to the sawdust floor. at last, as it was nearly time for the place to close, i asked him point-blank to tell me the story of his life.
he looked at me strangely. i do not know, it may have been the drink, but someway he did not look like the man i had sat down with a few hours before. the tired, weary look had completely disappeared, his face was flushed, and his eyes were as bright as a child’s.
“not to-night,” he said, in answer to my request, “but sometime. sometime when i can prove to you my right to the title, i will tell you why they used to call me the prophet. for, sometime, the gift will come back to me again.” he leaned over the table and looked me full in the face with those unnaturally bright eyes as he whispered: “it is coming back soon, i can feel it. the false prophet shall redeem himself.”
i did not see the man again for many weeks, for i was busy with other things. one night, however, i dropped into the place and seated myself in a corner. i had scarcely taken off my gloves when i felt some one touch me on the[106] shoulder, and, as i looked up, i saw the prophet standing near. i scarcely recognized him, he was so changed. his cheeks had great sunken places in them, and the skin had a waxy and corpse-like appearance. but his eyes were brighter than ever before as he said, eagerly:
“it has come back again, as i told you it would. to-night i will tell you the story you wished to know before. where have you been so long?”
i told him that i had been very busy since i last saw him, and, ordering a bottle of his favorite drink, i waited with interest for what i felt must prove a strange and interesting tale. he waited till the liquor came, and, after taking a deep draught, he told me the following story:
“you have probably heard the men here telling how i used to be a prophet and could foretell events, and that once i failed. what you have not heard, though, is how i came to fail; but i will tell you to-night. i did not always have the gift, neither did i study and cultivate it. it came to me as an inspiration,—and i abused that gift,” he added, sadly.
“the first time was just before de arnault was killed. as i sat at this very table drinking, a peculiar feeling came over me, a kind of exaltation. i seemed to be drifting out of myself and to have no part with my surroundings. then, gradually, i began to see a great crowd in a public square. a man was sitting in a[107] carriage near the arch of triumph, reviewing some troops. i could not see his face, for there was a mist about it. suddenly, out of the crowd, i saw a man working his way toward the carriage. he reached it, and, drawing a revolver from his pocket, he fired three shots full at the breast of the man in the carriage. then the mist which had been about his face cleared, and i recognized the count de arnault.
“when i came to myself the waiter was standing by my chair asking if i were ill. i must have been acting queerly, for as i went out everyone looked at me curiously.
“someway, strange as it probably seems to you, i did not pay much attention to the vision, for my brain is not exactly right, and i see many things after i have been drinking which would frighten most men. imagine my horror a week later, however, when, as the count was reviewing the imperial troops at the place de la concorde, i saw enacted in reality what i had seen in my vision.
“then, for a year, i had those strange visitations, during which future events were revealed to me exactly as they were to occur. i gained a reputation here in the rivola, for during the franco-prussian war i foretold the defeat of the army at saarbruck, the retreats at weissenburg and worth, the capitulation of metz, and the fatal disaster at sedan. it was this war that[108] was my ruin. the money which before i could scarcely scrape together came to me now by the purse. i was consulted on every great occasion, and my prophecies were paid for in gold.
“do you realize what a gift i had?” he cried, becoming excited. “i could have done anything, been anything i wished. my fame extended beyond the humble rivola. i was sought after by all classes, from the lowest to the highest.”
he stopped and remained silent for several minutes, then he began again bitterly. “and because for two long years i never did one worthy thing with the money i earned so easily,—because i made that gift a curse instead of a blessing,—god took it from me. the money that i had saved melted away, and i was soon back again where i had been before, for i would not lie to the people. that is, at first i would not lie to them; but when for two more years i waited and not a vision came to me, i became desperate. i needed money terribly, and i thirsted for my former fame. so, just before the treaty of peace was laid before the national assembly by thiers, i told the people that it would not be accepted, and you know how it came out on march 1. my old patrons, who had taken my advice and staked much money on my prophecy, were furious. i was even in a worse position than i had been before. the[109] two years that i had foretold events correctly counted for nothing. i had failed once, and nobody would ever believe me again. i was a false prophet.
“you do not know how i have lived since then, and i will not tell you. the few sous i have picked up doing menial tasks have been spent here, you know how. sometimes i have been for days without food, but i could always manage to get a little liquor. but now at last it has come back again. i have a chance to redeem myself, and i shall make such a different use of the gift than i did before. i have had another vision. france is about to undergo another great change. she shall—”
he stopped abruptly, leaned forward against the table, and began to breathe heavily. his eyes lost their bright look, the pupils narrowed to needle points and took on the peculiar, dull appearance of a hypnotized man. then over his face there stole a look of fear. he turned and glanced toward the bar. involuntarily i followed his glance, but there were only a couple of sailors talking together. i turned again to my companion. the look of fear had given way to one of absolute horror, and he had thrown up his arm as if to ward off a blow.
“not that, my god, not that,” he muttered, “just when i was to have redeemed my honor!”
the prophet was having another vision, of that i was sure. but what could be the impending[110] disaster which could bring on such a look of horror as that?
then, without a word of warning, he was himself again, and turned to me.
“it is fate,” he said, sadly, “and it must be borne; but it is very hard.”
he waited several minutes, trying to collect himself, then he began again in a low tone:
“i have had my last vision. soon—i know not when—but i must die. and such a death!” he shuddered and threw up his hand again, involuntarily, as he had done before. “as you and i sit here together at this table, a man will come into the place. he will mistake you for an enemy of his, and will try to kill you; but do not fear, he will not succeed. promise me,” he pleaded, “that you will take care of me when it is all over.”
i tried to make him leave the place, to promise never to come back again if he thought there were any such danger; but he only shook his head.
“it is no use, it is fate; and who are we to try to interfere with the will of god? i tell you—”
he stopped. again that look of fear began to come over his face, and i turned to see the cause of his alarm, for he was not in any trance this time.
“for god’s sake, don’t turn round!” he cried.
[111]but it was too late. as i turned, i saw, standing by the bar, a man almost a giant in form. as i looked, he chanced to glance in the mirror behind the bar. he caught my eye, and, in a second, turned and started for our table. never have i seen such a look of hate on a human face. as he neared our table, he drew a huge knife from his belt.
“so i have found you at last!” he cried. he reached our table and raised that terrible knife, while i sat there, staring stupidly at him, paralyzed with fear.
the arm descended, but, before the knife could reach me, the prophet had leaped from his chair and thrown himself in the way. once more i saw that pitiful little gesture of defense. i tried to look away, but could not. i had not moved a muscle since i had first seen the murderer.
with a blow strong enough to have felled an ox, the cruel knife sank deep into the prophet’s neck, described a circular motion, and came out on the other side, severing the head completely from the body.
the brute, horrified at what he had done, dropped the knife and fled from the place. then, as if released from the spell which had held me, i came to myself.
i do not know how i did it, but, picking up that ghastly thing from the floor, i rose and told the men assembled of the prophecy which[112] the dead man had made to me a short time before. it may not seem much to you, but i felt that i owed it to the prophet, to give him back the place among those people which he had formerly held. and to-day, in the rivola, his name is honored as it was in the old days. it was an awful price to pay, but he paid it; and his reward was, that the stigma of false was forever removed from his name and memory.
the prophet had redeemed himself.
