CHAPTER IX
The Portrait
DAY broke over the city. A cloudy day, with a mist that enveloped everything in a sinister manner. The sun tried in vain to penetrate that sombre atmosphere.
Mid-day showed a dark red ball, rolling ingloriously in a sulphurous light. Such was the picture of the heavens that day.
Théophraste sprang out of bed early, and awoke Marceline suddenly by an excess of foolish hilarity. Marceline inquired the reason for such strange joyfulness. He said that he could not help laughing at the idea of M. Milfroid, the Commissioner of Police, receiving back the stolen goods which had been pickpocketed right before his very eyes. “My dear Marceline,” he said, “it is foolish, the way people carry the money in their pockets. If you cannot put your hand in, slip a straw, filled with glue, in. It is an excellent scheme for extricating money from people’s pockets.”
Marceline sat up and gazed at him. She could not understand, as he never looked more natural in his life, and yet he was saying peculiar things, and his words were most unnatural.
“Théophraste, you frighten me,” she cried, and in her fear, groaned, “My poor child.”
Théophraste grew terribly angry. He threw himself at his wife, and threatened to strike her. “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to be called a child since the death of Jeanneton-Venes. I am no child.”
Marceline swore that she would never do it again, and in the depths of her soul regretted the unlucky moment which had given her husband proprietorship of a document which had brought into the household such fears and such follies. She knew neither Marie Antoinette, nor Jeanneton-Venes, although he continually referred to them. He had a familiar way of expressing himself about these women which made her uneasy, and finally the unexpected sentences, spoken by Théophraste, and his actions, made her dread the incomprehensible Théophraste of two hundred years ago. It made her long for the former Théophraste, so kind, so easy to understand. Then she gave herself up to bitter reflections upon the theory of reincarnation.
Théophraste finished dressing, and then announcing that he would not breakfast at home, said that he had a rendezvous with his friend Va-de-Bon Cour, at the corner of the Rue Mazarin and Rue Guinegaud, to do a good turn for M. de Francouse, but as that rendezvous was after breakfast, he intended enjoying the air in the Moulin de Chopinette.
“You will leave my green umbrella here,” he said, “and I will take my black feather.” Then, putting the final touches to his cravat, he went out. On the landing he met Signor Petito, the Italian professor, who was also going downstairs. Signor Petito bowed very low, complained of the state of the weather, and complimented Théophraste on his appearance.
Théophraste answered in a less amiable tone, as he was not desiring the Signor’s company, and he demanded of him if Madame Petito could not be induced to learn another air on the piano than “Carnival de Venice.” But Signor Petito replied, smiling, that she was already studying “Love’s Destiny,” but in future she would study only the pieces which would please M. Longuet. He then asked, “Which way are you going?”
“For a turn in the Moulin de Chopinette; but the weather is too bad, so I will have to go down to the Porcherons.”
“To the Porcherons?” Signor Petito was going to ask, but he changed his mind. “Where is the Porcherons?” he asked. “I will go, too.”
“Aha, indeed!” said M. Longuet, glancing curiously at Signor Petito. “You too will go to the Porcherons?”
“Go there or somewhere else,” said Signor Petito, pleasantly, and he followed Théophraste.
At the end of a short silence Signor Petito ventured to ask, “Where are your treasures, M. Longuet?”
Théophraste faced about suddenly. “What has put such an idea into your head?” he exclaimed.
“Do you not remember the day that you brought the specimen of your handwriting and asked for my opinion?”
“I remember, and you were wrong,” said Théophraste drily, as he opened his umbrella.
Signor Petito, in nowise discouraged, placed himself under the shelter of Théophraste’s umbrella. “Oh! M. Longuet, I did not say that to annoy you.”
They arrived at the corner of the Avenue Tre-daine. Théophraste was in very bad humor.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I have an appointment at the tavern of the Veau-qui-telle, by the side of the Chapel Porcherons, here, you see.”
“But we are at the Chapel Notre Dame de Lor-rete, and not the Porcherons, at all.”
Théophraste disregarded Petito’s remark, and suddenly said to him, “Do you know that there is a price on my head?”
Signor Petito seemed taken aback by this sudden change of tone.
“It will cost them dear, though, to get my head,” said Théophraste. “Do you know how much it will cost, Signor, the head of L’Enfant? No? Very well. I am going to tell you, since the occasion has presented itself, and I am going to tell you the whole story, which may be profitable to you.”
Then, without any preparation, he related in the most natural way possible, his existence previous to his present one.
“My head is worth 20,000 pounds,” said he, “and you know it very well.” And as he pronounced these words he struck the table such a blow that Signor Petito recoiled instinctively.
“Here is the history of it all. I was walking, two hundred years ago, in the Rue de Vauregard, with my hands in my pocket, without arms, without even a sword, with the most honest intentions in the world, when a man met me. He bowed almost to the ground, and told me that my face reminded him so much of some one he knew. He was called ‘Old Man Bidel,’ or ‘Bidel the Good-natured,’ and he said that he had a secret to confide to me.
I encouraged him by a friendly tap on the shoulder, and he confided his secret to me. He whispered in my ear that the Regent had promised twenty thousand pounds to whoever would arrest the Enfant, and he knew where the Enfant was hiding. That I looked to him like a man of courage, and that he, with my aid, would do anything to get the 20,000 pounds. He said that he would divide the reward.
“The old man Bidel was on the wrong track, Signor Petito, for I also knew where to find L’Enfant, seeing that I was that person.”
Signor Petito did not wish to believe any of this, as he could see for himself that M. Longuet had been out of infancy a good many years. However, he dared not say anything. Théophraste continued, “I replied to the old man Bidel, that it was a happy chance and that I thanked Heaven for putting him in my path, and I made him conduct me to the place where he could find the Enfaut. He said to me, ‘To-night, the Enfant sleeps at the Capucine, in the Tavern Suite, which bears as a sign the Cross of the St. Hester.’
“It was true, Signor Petito, the old man Bidel was very well informed. I congratulated him, and we passed just then a cutlery shop, and I bought a small knife, much to the astonishment of Bidel, who asked me what I planned to do with such a weapon. I replied to him that with a small knife like this one could kill a fly, and I plunged it into his heart. He sank down, raised his arms wildly for a few moments, and died.”
Signor Petito, who at first had moved away from Théophraste, now rose and ran to the door, and was glad to get out of sight.
M. Longuet drank his wine, got up and went to the Bousset Brewery, where Mme. Barth was standing, making up her books. He said to her, “Mme. Taconet–”
Mme. Barth demanded why he called her Mine. Taconet, but he disregarded her question, and continued, “If Signor Petito comes here again, you will tell him for me that the first time I find him in my way, I will cut his ears off.” Saying this, Théophraste fondled the handle of his umbrella as one grasps the handle of a dagger.
There was no doubt about it, he had his black plume. He had become the Other entirely.
The fog was still thick and he did not think of breakfasting yet. He walked into the sulphurous mist like one in a dream. He crossed the whole of the Quarter of An tin, and that which was formerly the Avenue L’Enrique, until he came under the shadows of the towers of Trinity, which he called the Chateau du Coq. On his arrival at the St. Lazare, he believed that he was at the Petite Pologue.
But little by little the fog cleared away, and his dream disappeared with it. He had the most exact idea of things when he crossed the Point Royale, and by the time he had set foot on the left bank, he was again the honest Théophraste, and had only the vaguest idea of that which had happened on the right bank. But he could remember this, and when he questioned himself thoroughly, he began to experience the different conditions or states of the soul. He discovered in himself three distinct states. First, that which resulted from his life as an actuality, the honest merchant; second, that which resulted from the sudden and momentary resurrection of the Other; and third, that which resulted from memory. The recollection was to him like a third Théophraste, who related to the first what he had known of the second. This resurrection of Théophraste’s was a terrible thing.
On crossing the Bridge he hurried beyond the Rue Guinegaud. He did not care to pass by the corner of the Rue Mazarin, he knew not why. He turned the corner by the Hotel Monniare, and almost ran into Adolphe, who was waiting for him there.
“Have you ever heard of a person called L’Enfant, my dear Adolphe?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Aldolphe, “I have heard of him. I even know his real name, his family name.”
“Ah, what is it?” anxiously inquired Théophraste.
Adolphe for reply pushed Théophraste into the hallway of an old house, in the Rue Guinegard, a few steps from the Hotel de la Monniare. They climbed a tottering staircase, and entered a room in which the curtains were drawn. Somebody had spent the night in the room.
On a little table in the corner, the trembling flame of a wax candle lit up a portrait. It was the picture of a man about thirty years of age. He had a robust figure, high forehead, strong nose, a smooth chin, and large mouth and moustache. His thick hair was covered by a coarse woolen cap, and he wore a coat over a coarse linen shirt, which appeared to be a prison garb.
“Wait,” said Théophraste, without raising his tone, “how is it that my portrait is in this house?”
“Your picture?” asked Adolphe. “Are you sure?”
“Who could be more sure of it than I?” said Théophraste again, without being excited.
“Very well,” said M. Lecamus, with emotions that it would be hard to describe. “That portrait, which is your portrait, is the portrait of Cartouche.” When M. Lecamus turned to see the effect his words would produce on his friend, he saw Théophraste stretched on the floor in a dead swoon.
For a long time he worked to bring him to. He blew out the candle and opened the windows, allowing the good air to come in. Théophraste came to himself, and his first words were, “Adolphe, above all things do not speak of this to my wife.”
CHAPTER X
Cartouche’s Past
THE following day Théophraste and Marceline returned to the quiet life of the Villa Flots-d’Azure. Théophraste had not mentioned a word of the discovery, and his wife refrained from questioning him. Marceline knew nothing yet of the terrible discovery. Théophraste’s face was full of consternation, and it was evident to Marceline that he had terrible things on his mind.
Adolphe was to join them in a few days; two days passed very quietly in the villa. Marceline attended to her household duties, and Théophraste silently prepared his fishing tackle, as he had promised Adolphe a few days’ fishing in the Marne. On the third day, Théophraste, who had passed a good night, showed a less agitated countenance, and began to smile and was cheered at the prospect of Adolphe’s coming. M. Lecamus arrived before noon, and they both received him with delight.
Taking their places at lunch their conversation turned on angling, but nothing was said of the mysterious proceedings of the week before. After lunch they prepared for their fishing expedition; Théophraste took care of the lines, the rods and the bait, and Adolphe took the nets.
Going down to the water’s edge, Théophraste turned to Adolphe and said, “Tell me, have you any news? While we are fishing I will listen to you. I have prepared a lot of sport, but I don’t think we will do very much to-day, if you have important news for me.”
Adolphe replied, “There is some good, and some bad news. But I must tell you that there is more bad than good. No doubt many stories have been invented about you, but the real truth is not entirely pleasant.”
“Are you well informed, and is your information authentic?”
“I have been to the very fountain-head, I have seen the authentic documents. I am going to tell you what I know. If I am mistaken, correct me.”
Théophraste threw his half-prepared bait into the water, and said, “Go on. I must have a full explanation.”
“First,” said Adolphe, “you were born in the month of October, 1693. You were called Louis Dominique Cartouche.”
“But it is needless to call me Cartouche, no one need know that. Call me L’Enfant. I like it much better and no one will understand.”
“Yes,” insisted Adolphe, “but you know that your name is Cartouche. It is not an assumed name. It is said that you studied hard in Clermont College. That you were the schoolfellow of Voltaire, and there is a legend that while you learned to read, in the course of time, thanks to the gypsies who taught you reading, you were never able to write.”
“Well, that’s funny,” cried Théophraste, “for if I never learned to write, how could I have drawn up the document in the dungeon of the Conciergerie?”
“At the time of your trial, you declared that you did not know how to write. You signed your depositions with a cross and you have never written a line to show who it was.”
“But,” Théophraste said, “it was never necessary to write. In my position I should have dreaded to compromise myself. But the document is there.”
“Evidently. Let us return to your eleventh year. One day you were in the Saint Laurent Faire, with some comrades, when you fell in with a band of gypsies. The gypsies carried you away. They stole you. They taught you the play of the cudgel, the sword, to shoot a pistol, to jump, and to rob the pockets of the bourgeoisie without being discovered. At your twelfth year you were an adept at this, and without an equal for bringing back handkerchiefs, snuff boxes, and watches. The band of gypsies found themselves at Rouen, when little Louis Dominique fell ill. He was taken to a hospital in Rouen, and it was there that an uncle discovered him. He recognized him, and swore to restore him to his parents.”
Here Théophraste interrupted with a word as to his uncle, and Lecamus becoming impatient, begged him to cease his continual interruptions, declaring it would take some time to tell the story of Cartouche if he would not listen to it silently.
“I would like to see you in my place,” said Théophraste.
Adolphe continued: “In a while Cartouche became the chief of a band of brigands. He commanded about three thousand men, had more than fifty lieutenants; it was their habit to dress exactly alike, in cinnamon-colored coats, and doublets of silk and amaranthine, showing a piece of black taffeta underneath the left eye. They brought against him more than one hundred and fifty personal assassinations, and put a price upon his head. He was tried and broken on the wheel.” “Upon hearing this Théophraste showed evident signs of alarm. He dropped his fishing tackle, losing it in the swift current of the river. He could not give his mind to fishing any more that day, and so they resolved to give up the attempt. They did not wait for sundown, to return to the Villa Flots-d’Azure. Swinging their meagre spoils lightly in their nets they sadly retraced their steps. Cartouche filled their minds, and their return journey was occupied in thoughts of this dual personality.
CHAPTER XI
Signor Petito Appears
WHILE waiting for the stage from Crecy to stop for them, they called at the wayside inn, and had some refreshment, while Adolphe took up the story of L’Enfant at the point where he had left off.
“That good uncle,” said he, “had fellow-feeling for one of his family, and he rescued young Cartouche from his miserable lot and made him return to his parents. His father was a cooper by trade, and young Louis, having profited by his youthful misfortunes, swore that henceforth he would be a good son and a diligent apprentice. He helped his father to make casks, working from daybreak to sunset.
“He was frequently seen, during lunch hour, amusing his companions with pretty tricks of sleight-of-hand which he had learned during the few months he had been with the gypsies. He had become so adept at this science that on special occasions little Louis and his family were invited to dinners and suppers before friends, for they looked forward to the enjoyment of these tricks of Louis’, and he became a great success in the quarter, and he, on his part, was proud of his growing renown.
“In the meantime he had attained that happy period where the least sensitive of human beings feel the beating of their hearts awaken to the most tender sentiments. Louis Dominique was in love. The object of his affections was a charming needlewoman of the Rue Porte Foin, coquettish, with blue eyes, golden hair, and a fine figure. I have said that this needlewoman was a coquette. She loved dress, jewels and laces, and it was her desire always to be better clothed than her companions. The modest income of Louis Dominique did not permit of his paying for the extravagant fancies of his poor seamstress, and so Cartouche stole from his father. The latter soon found out and took steps by which he could have his boy placed in the Convent of the Lazaretto, in the Faubourg St. Denis.”
“Ah,” said Théophraste, “instead of combating with kindness the wickedness of this child, they drive him to despair by incarcerating him where he only meets with bad examples, and where the feeling of revolt increases, and boils over, stifling all other feelings in his inexperienced mind. I wager that if they had not put Louis in the House of Correction, that all the trouble would never have happened.”
“Reassure yourself,” said Adolphe. “Cartouche was never shut up in the Convent of the Lazaretto, for while his father had discovered this crime of Louis’, he did not tell him of it; but one Sunday morning, he asked his son to take a walk with him. Dominique readily acquiesced, and they were soon seen walking down the street together.
“‘Where are we going, father?’ asked Louis. ‘No matter where. By way of the Faubourg St. Denis.’ Louis pricked up his ears. He knew that at the end of the Faubourg St. Denis was the Lazaretto, and he also knew that sometimes fathers escorted their boys to the Lazaretto.
“He at once felt suspicious, for his conscience was not altogether tranquil, and when they arrived at the corner of the Faubourg St. Denis, and the battlement of the St. Lazaretto rose before them, it seemed to him that his father looked unnatural, and he felt uncomfortable at once. He told his father to continue his walk, slowly, without hurrying, as he wished to stop at the corner.
When his father returned, the son had disappeared, and he never saw him again.”
About this time the coach had arrived, and Adolphe discontinued his tale while they mounted to the top. Théophraste recognized M. Bache, and Mme. Froude, and he at once bowed to them, but they did not respond. He called them by name, but they remained mute. Théophraste could not understand this, and turned to ask Adolphe what he thought of it, and why they did not recognize him.
“That does not astonish me at all,” said Adolphe. “It is no wonder to me, since the dinner the other day, that nobody bows to you. Your extraordinary behavior was enough to upset them all. Do you not remember how you were mounted on the table and sang that vulgar song? There were some young ladies present, Miles. Froude and Tabouret.”
“Ah,” said Théophraste, “that accounts for Mme. Bache’s pretending not to see me the other day in Paris, when she called at the Pharmacy Crecy and I happened to meet her there. Never mind, Adolphe, continue where you left off about my father. What happened to him?”
“Well, you forgot about your seamstress at the Rue Point Foin, and you thought of her no more.
She worried over your disappearance about a fortnight, and then got somebody else, as is done under similar circumstances to-day. The necessity to make your way in the world recalled your old talents, and soon you were robbing passers-by of the things in their pockets. You operated so adroitly, that you incurred the admiration of a great sharper, who having seen you work, stopped you at the corner of the Rue Gallaud, and demanded of you your money or your life. ‘You shall have my purse only when you have my life,’ said you to him, and you drew your sword, a small sword that you had taken the day before from a French Guardsman. The great sharper flattered you upon your courage, and then upon your dexterity, and he begged you to accompany him home to the Rue Bout du Monde. He told you on the way that he sought an associate, and you could do the business. He also told you that he had a wife, and the wife had a very pretty sister. After a while you married this sister, though neither notary nor priest was sent for. The attachment did not last over six months, because the sharper, his wife, and his sister-in-law were sent to the gallows. You had already left them by this time, and had joined the army. You were caught one day, drunk, by a recruiting officer, and he took you to the barracks, and made you sign on.”
By this time it was seven o’clock, and Adolphe interrupted the course of his recital at that point, as they had to alight from the coach.
“Tell me,” said Théophraste, “I am curious to know how I was built. Was I a handsome man, a tall man?”
“They represent you thus at the theater, in M. d’Ennury’s play, but on the contrary, according to the poet Granvel, you were a conceited man, and always fond of singing your own praises. You were dark, lean, small, but of great courage. You were enterprising and bold, and very alert.”
“You have not told me,” said Théophraste, “how you got that picture in the house on the Rue Guinegaud.”
“It is a copy of a photograph by Nedar. He photographed a wax mask, which ought to resemble you, as that mask was made from your face by the order of the Regent. Nedar photographed that mask in 1859. The mask was found in the Chateau de St. Germain.”
“Oh! I want to see it,” cried Théophraste-“to touch it. We must go to St. Germain to-morrow.”
By this time they had reached the house, and Marceline, in neat dishabille, smilingly opened the door and greeted them.
Théophraste had a great desire to see and touch that waxen mask that had been made from his face, and the desire was still greater when Adolphe entered into the details of it. He told him that it had been in the Chateau de St. Germain en Laye, since the 24th of April, 1849.
“It appears that the portrait was given by an abbot, one Viallier, to be inherited by one Richot, an old officer of the Hussars of King Louis XVI. M. Richot died at St. Germain. He owned the portrait for many years, one most precious, especially as it had belonged to the royal family. The wax mask was moulded by a Florentine artist some days before Cartouche’s punishment. The head-dress was a woolen or coarse felt cap, his clothing was a shirt of very coarse linen, a waistcoat, and another vest, and a doublet of black camelot. But the most remarkable thing of all was that Cartouche’s hair was cut off of his corpse and pasted on the waxen mask. The whole was shut up in a gilded wooden chest, large and deep, of beautiful workmanship. A Venetian glass protected the portrait, and one could still see the escutcheon of the arms of France on the chest.”
Théophraste asked Adolphe where he had found such precise details, and was told that they were the result of two days’ searching in the forgotten archives of the most noted libraries and museums of Paris. There he found his hair, his moustache, and his clothes, two hundred years old.
In spite of the horror which these relics of a man so monstrous ought to have inspired in him, Théophraste could not control his impatience to see them, to touch them. Here was Théophraste Longuet, whose name was synonymous with honor, who had always feared the shedding of blood, cherishing in his heart the coarse remains of the greatest brigand on earth. When he had again command of his senses, he did not find in the bottom of his soul a feeling of absolute despair, but of great pity, a pity so keenly felt that he did not weep only for himself, Théophraste, but also moved him to pity Cartouche. He asked himself which was the more dominant, honest Théophraste, carrying with him the brigand Cartouche, or the brigand Cartouche, shut up within honest Théophraste. “It is necessary that we should understand each other,” he said aloud. He felt that he should not have uttered that sentence which must have seemed odd, but which expressed so well the double and yet unique preoccupation of his soul that he could not restrain himself. A great light dawned upon him at the same time, that recalled the theory of reincarnation that had been explained to him by M. Lecamus. He connected reincarnation with the natural evolution of things, and of individuals, that which was no other than transformation. “Does it not point to the fact that souls reincarnate themselves in order to pass according to natural law to advancement to a better state? It is the progressive step of being. Well, the natural law which certain persons call God, did not find anything better on the earth than the body of Théophraste Longuet through which to make the criminal soul of Cartouche evolve to a better state.”
When that idea got a firm hold on him, in place of the deepest despair, which had led him to faint, he found himself prompted by a sentiment almost akin to pride. He was entrusted with the destiny of the world. He, the humble but honest Théophraste, entrusted with the regeneration in ideal splendor, of the soul of shadows and of the bloody Louis Dominique Cartouche, called L’Enfant. He accepted this unexpected task willingly, since he could not do otherwise, and he put himself at once on his guard. Instead of saying, “It is necessary for us to understand each other,” he immediately ordered Cartouche to obey Théophraste, and he promised himself to lead him a life so hard that he could not say without smiling, “Poor Cartouche.” He had charged M. Lecamus to write everything possible about Louis Dominique Cartouche in such a way that he could not be ignorant of anything that could be known of his life. With that and with what his black feather and his memory had taught him, he justly thought he could resist in spirit the Other One, which would allow him to act accordingly. He partly confided his reflections to Adolphe, who approved of them, but warned him against a tendency he had to separate Théophraste from Cartouche.
“You must not forget,” said he, “that they are one. You have the instincts of the gardeners of the Ferte-sous-Jonarre. Those instincts are good, but you have the soul of Cartouche, which is detestable. Take care. You are his declared enemy, the question is raised as to who will vanquish- the soul of former years, or the instincts of today.”
Théophraste asked Adolphe if the soul of Cartouche was really altogether detestable, and was happy to learn that it had some good points. Adolphe said that Cartouche had expressly forbidden to kill or even wound passers-by without cause. When he operated in Paris with some of his bands, and they brought victims to him, he spoke to them with so much politeness and kindness, that they always returned a part of the booty to him. Sometimes they would limit matters to a simple exchange of clothes. When he found letters or pictures in the pockets of the coats thus exchanged, he ran after the ex-proprietors to return them. It was a maxim of that extraordinary individual, that a man ought not to be robbed twice in the same night, nor were they to be too severely treated, so as not to prevent the Parisians from going out in the evening. Therefore he ordered his men to take the utmost care not to kill any one without good reason. At this time the man was not yet thoroughly wicked. Up to then he had always had a reason for every act. It is to be regretted, however, that he had had one hundred and fifty reasons to assassinate.
Let us return to the wax mask.
Théophraste and Adolphe were going down the stairs in the station of St. Germain-en-Laye, when suddenly Théophraste thought he saw a familiar figure ahead of him, among a group of travelers. Moved by a feeling over which he had no control, he ran rapidly towards the group, but the figure had disappeared. Where had he seen that figure before? It was so repulsive to him. Adolphe asked him the cause of his agitation, and he recovered himself at once.
“I would swear,” said Théophraste, “that it was Signor Petito, the Italian professor of the floor below. What did Signor Petito come to St. Germain for? I do not want to run foul of him.”
“Well, what has he done, then?” asked Adolphe.
“Oh, nothing. Only if he runs across my way, I swear I will cut off his ears, and you know I will do it if I say so.”
They then went, without any more thought of Signor Petito, to the castle. They entered the Museum, and asked to see the wax mask of Cartouche. Théophraste became enraged when he learned that it was not to be found there, and in his excitement he poked the handle of his green umbrella into the eye of a plaster cast of a member of the Legion of Honor. An old guard came up and told him that he knew well there had been a wax mask of Cartouche in St. Germain, and that it could be found, he thought, in the library. But the latter had been closed up for eight days for repairs. Théophraste gave that man a franc, and they turned their steps toward the terrace, promising themselves to come again at a later time, for the farther the wax mask seemed away, the more Théophraste burned to touch it.