The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 5

lips. His whole personality
seemed transformed. He appeared eager, fearful, credulous - a different
man to the cold, calculating despot who sent thousands to their death
with his measured oratory, the mere power of his presence. Indeed,
history has sought in vain for the probably motive which drove this
cynical tyrant into consulting this pitiable charlatan. That Catherine
Théot had certain psychic powers has never been gainsaid, and since
the philosophers of the eighteenth century had undermined the religious
superstitions of the Middle Ages, it was only to be expected that in the
great upheaval of this awful Revolution, men and women should turn to
the mystic and the supernatural as to a solace and respite from the
fathomless misery of their daily lives.
In this world of ours, the more stupendous the events, the more

abysmal the catastrophes, the more do men realize their own impotence
and the more eagerly do they look for the Hidden Hand that is powerful
enough to bring about such events and to hurl upon them such
devastating cataclysms. Indeed, never since the dawn of history had so
many theosophies, demonologies, occult arts, spiritualism, exorcism of
all sorts, flourished as they did now: the Theists, the Rosicrucians, the
Illuminat, Swedenborg, the Count of Saint Germain, Weishaupt, and
scores of others, avowed charlatans or earnest believers, had their
neophytes, their devotees, and their cults.
Catherine Théot was one of many: for the nonce, one of the most
noteworthy in Paris. She believed herself to be endowed with the gift of
prophecy, and her fetish was Robespierre. In this at least she was
genuine. She believed him now to be a new Messiah, the Elect of God.
Nay! she loudly proclaimed him as such, and one of her earliest
neophytes, an ex-Carthusian monk named Gerle, who sat in the
Convention next to the great man, had whispered in the latter's ear the
insidious flattery which had gradually led his footsteps to the witch's
lair.
Whether his own vanity - which was without limit and probably
without parallel - caused him to believe in his own heaven-sent mission,
or whether he only desire to strengthen his own popularity by
endowing it with supernatural prestige, is a matter of conjecture.
Certain it is that he did lend himself to Catherine Théot's cabalistic
practices and that he allowed himself to be flattered and worshipped by
the numerous nepohytes who flocked to this new temple of magic,
either from mystical fevour or merely to serve their own ends by
fawning on the most dreaded man in France.
2
Catherine Théot had remained rigidly still, in rapt contemplation. It
seemed as if she pondered over the Chosen One's last peremptory
demand.
"Which of us two," he had queried, in a dry, hard voice, "is in danger of
death now - now that I am warned - mine English enemy, or I?"

The next moment, as if moved by inspiration, she took another pinch of
powder out of the metal box. The nigger's bright black eyes followed
her every movement, as did the dictator's half-contemptuous gaze. The
girls had begun to intone a monotonous chant. As the seer dropped the
powder into the metal bowl, a highly scented smoke shot upwards and
the interior of the vessel was suffused with a golden glow. The smoke
rose in spirals. Its fumes spread through the airless room, rendering the
atmosphere insufferably heavy.
The dictator of France felt a strange exultation running through him, as
with deep breaths he inhaled the potent fumes. It seemed to him as if
his body had suddenly become etherealized, as if he were in truth the
Chosen of the Most High as well as the idol of France. Thus
disembodied, he felt in himself boundless strength! the power to rise
triumphant over all his enemies, whoever they may be. There was a
mighty buzzing in his ears like the reverberation of thousands of
trumpets and drums ringing and beating in unison to his exaltation and
to his might. His eyes appeared to see the whole of the people of France,
clad in white robes, with ropes round their necks, and bowing as slaves
to the ground before him. He was riding on a cloud. His throne was of
gold. In his hand he had a sceptre of flame, and beneath his feet lay,
crushed and mangled, a huge scarlet flower. The sybil's voice reached
his ears as if through a surpernal trumpet:
"Thus lie for ever crushed at the feet of the Chosen One, those who
have dared to defy his power!"
Greater and greater became his exultation. He felt himself uplifted high,
high above the clouds, until he could see the world as a mere crystal
ball at his feet. His head had touched the portals of heaven; his eyes