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Programming for
Absolute Beginners
Using the JavaScript
Programming Language
Jonathan Bartlett
Programming for Absolute Beginners: Using the JavaScript Programming Language
Jonathan Bartlett
Tulsa, OK, USA
—Linus Torvalds
Table of Contents
About the Author����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� xi
Acknowledgments���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xv
Chapter 1: Introduction�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1
1.1 What You Will Learn����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1
1.2 How to Use This Book������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 3
1.3 For Younger Programmers������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 4
v
Table of Contents
vii
Table of Contents
Chapter 11: Grouping Values Together with Objects and Arrays�������������������������� 145
11.1 A Basic Introduction to Objects����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 146
11.2 Simplifying Object Creation����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 149
11.3 Storing Sequences of Values Using Arrays����������������������������������������������������������������������� 150
11.4 Using Arrays in Programs�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 151
11.5 Mixing Objects and Arrays������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 154
11.6 Object Methods����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 156
11.6.1 Review���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 159
11.6.2 Apply What You Have Learned���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 160
viii
Table of Contents
ix
Table of Contents
Index��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 323
x
About the Author
Jonathan Bartlett is a software developer, researcher, and
writer. His first book, Programming from the Ground Up, has
been required reading in computer science programs from
DeVry to Princeton. He has been the sole or lead author for
eight books on topics ranging from computer programming
to calculus. He is a senior software developer for McElroy
Manufacturing, spearheading projects in web, mobile, and
embedded software. He is now the author of several Apress
books including Electronics for Beginners and more.
xi
About the Technical Reviewer
Germán González-Morris is a polyglot software architect/engineer with more than 20
years in the field, with knowledge in Java(EE), Spring, Haskell, C, Python, and JavaScript,
among others. He works with web-distributed applications. Germán loves math
puzzles (including reading Knuth) and swimming. He has tech-reviewed several books,
including an application container book (Weblogic), as well as titles covering various
programming languages (Haskell, Typescript, WebAssembly, Math for coders, and
regexp). You can find more details at his blog site (https://devwebcl.blogspot.com/)
or Twitter account (@devwebcl).
xiii
Acknowledgments
I want to take a moment and thank everyone who helped me write this book. First, I want
to thank those who read and appreciated my first programming book, Programming
from the Ground Up. The encouragement I received from that book has given me the
encouragement to continue writing and educating throughout the years.
Next, I want to thank my homeschool summer co-op class for being guinea pigs
for this material. Your questions, your successes, and your difficulties all informed the
writing of this book. You were both my motivation to write in the first place and the first
proving ground for the material.
I would also like to thank my family, my friends, and my church, all of whom are
essential parts of my life. Thanks especially to my wife who puts up with me when I am
too focused on my writing to notice what the kids have been up to or to put a stop to
whatever trouble they have found themselves in!
xv
CHAPTER 1
Introduction
The modern world is filled with computers. Computers run our phones, our cars, and
even our refrigerators. Computers manage our businesses, our calendars, and our social
lives. With the world relying on computers for so many functions, it is important to know
how these devices work. Even if you never need to program a computer yourself, chances
are that, at some point in your life, you will be involved with software development.
You may be an accountant who needs to tell a computer programmer how you want
your purchasing system set up. You may be an engineer who needs to describe your
engineering process so that a programmer can automate it. In all such tasks as these, it
is important to know something about how computers are programmed, even if you are
not personally writing the software.
1
© Jonathan Bartlett 2023
J. Bartlett, Programming for Absolute Beginners, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-8751-4_1
Chapter 1 Introduction
hired people for my development team who already knew the programming language
that my team uses. If someone learns one programming language and practices until
they are good at it, then the effort to learn a new language is fairly minimal.
You may wonder why, if the languages are so similar, there are so many
programming languages to choose from. The fact is, when engineering anything, trade-
offs have to be made. Sometimes in order to make one type of task easier, another type
of task has to be made harder. In my kitchen I have both a mixer and a blender. Both of
them operate on the same basic principles—you put food into the main container area,
an electric motor turns, and some attachment combines the food together. While these
tasks are very similar and operate on the same principles, there are many types of food
in the world and many ways that they need to be mixed, such that the mixer works better
for some tasks and the blender for others. Similarly, with programming languages, some
of them are better suited to different tasks. Also, the choice of programming language
is dependent on the programmer. Just as different types of cars suit the preferences and
tendencies of different types of drivers, so do different programming languages suit the
preferences and tendencies of different types of programmers. Because of these reasons,
there are numerous programming languages available for nearly any task you might
want to perform.
The programming language covered in this book is called JavaScript. I like to teach
JavaScript as a first language for several reasons. First of all, JavaScript was developed
to be a first language. One of the goals of the language was to make it easy for new
programmers to get started quickly. Even though JavaScript was designed to make
programming easier for new programmers, it is not any less powerful as a language.
Second, JavaScript has become the de facto programming language for website
interfaces. If you use a website that does anything besides link to other web pages,
JavaScript is probably involved. Therefore, learning JavaScript will have immediate
practical benefits in learning how the Web operates. Third, the tools for programming
JavaScript are available on every computer. You don’t need to download any special tools
to program JavaScript. If you have a computer with a web browser, you can program
JavaScript! Finally, JavaScript is very similar to other popular programming languages
such as C#, Java, and Swift. Therefore, knowing JavaScript will not only be immediately
beneficial for programming websites, it is also a language that makes it easy to transition
to other popular systems.
This book is for the first-time programmer. No prior programming experience is
assumed. This book does assume that you have a basic understanding of how to use your
computer and browse the Internet. That is all that you need!
2
Other documents randomly have
different content
up no visions of English parvenus, vulgar tourists, and Meurice’s
Table d’Hôte; you would not find a Galignani’s Messenger, or a cake
of Windsor soap throughout its entire range. No; all your thoughts
would be of doublets and pointed shoes—of rapiers and scholars of
Cluny; of anything, in fact, the reverse to what would suggest itself
on the other side of the river.
But our hobby is fairly running away with us over a course we
have before traversed; we must return once more to that which has
long past. In 1665 there stood at the corner of the Rue des
Mathurins and Rue de la Harpe, in the very heart of this venerable
division of Paris, the shop of ‘Maître Picard, chapelier.’ It was a
modest edifice, with one large window, in which were displayed hats
and caps of every age and style. For the students then, as now, held
prevalent fashions in great contempt, and dressed according to their
whims and finances, or in whatever they contrived to capture in
night skirmishes from the persons of the bourgeoisie.
To advertise his calling Maître Picard had erected a sign in front of
his house, over and above the intimation just mentioned. It was a
huge hat of red tin, gaily adorned with gilt edges, from which, on
certain festivals, bright ribbons floated in the draughts of wind that
whisked round the corner of the streets, to the great admiration of
the passers-by in general, coupled with wonder that it had remained
so long unmolested in such a precarious locality as the
neighbourhood of the Hôtel Dieu and Sorbonne. But this was
because it was a little too high up for them to clutch it; a few feet
lower, and long ago, Maître Picard would have been horrified some
fine morning at perceiving his sign had vanished: for, as we have
seen, the rotund little patrol was one of the marching watch; and
the same antipathie vouée which the student of the Quartier Latin at
the present time exhibits towards the Sergent de ville, existed quite
as forcibly two hundred years ago between the scholar of Cluny and
the Garde Bourgeois.
Since the rude treatment which Maître Picard had received from
the hands of his sworn persecutors at the ‘Lanterne,’ in the Rue
Mouffetard, he had neglected no opportunity of interfering with their
enjoyments, and various had been the schemes which Camille Theria
and Phillipe Glazer had planned for revenge. But they had all failed;
especially every enterprise against the hat, to which their designs
were principally directed. For they knew that the gigantic metal sign
was the pride of Maître Picard’s heart, and the glory of the Rue des
Mathurins—that its abstraction would crush his public spirit; and that
as such, no stone should be left unturned in effecting its destruction.
And indeed, as far as that went, they tried to carry out their
intentions in a very literal spirit, as the broken state of the rude
pavement below, and several large dents in the enormous hat
above, fully testified.
At last, by what appeared to be a fortunate chance for the
marauders, Jean Blacquart, the Gascon, took a lodging on the upper
floor of the house; being principally led to such a step by a feeling of
gratitude for the timely intercession of Maître Picard, when his
fellow-students were about to hang him. The instant this became
known, it was resolved that advantage should be taken of his
occupancy to carry off the hat. Blacquart, at first, plumply refused to
assist in such an irregular proceeding; but after Theria had assured
him that in the event of his non-compliance he would be dropped in
the Bièvre, or slowly roasted before the fire of the cabaret in the Rue
Mouffetard, the Gascon assented. A particular night was fixed upon
for the attempt, and a meeting of the ‘Gens de la Courte Epée’ called
at a tavern in the Rue des Cordeliers—the site of the present Rue de
l’École de Médecine—to effect this object.
That night Maître Picard, not being on guard, resolved upon
indulging in potent drinks and toothsome viands in his little parlour
behind the shop. He had closed his wareroom at an early hour; and
having invited Jean Blacquart to join him—for the Gascon was not of
the marauding party, although he had an indirect part to perform in
the outrage—was discussing hot wine with his lodger a little after
curfew, and listening to his rhodomontades connected with his
profession and deeds and actions generally.
Jean had told a great many narratives about encounters he had
won (which had never taken place) and enemies he had killed (who
were still alive), increasing the marvels of each with each cup of
wine, until the fulness of his heart, coupled with his fear of being
mixed up in the affair, led him to inform Maître Picard of the
intended attempt upon his hat to be made that very evening. The
apartment occupied by the Gascon was at the top of the house; it
had formerly been a granary—such as may still be seen in Paris—
and outside a small but strong wooden crane was fixed, hanging
over the doomed sign. To the rope of this a loop was to be made,
and then Camille Theria, who had taken the danger and the glory of
the enterprise to himself, was to be hauled up until he came within
reach of the hat, which he was to take from its fixings and bear off
in triumph.
The first feelings inspired in the breast of Maître Picard, as he
heard this bold scheme unfolded, were those of fright; the next
partook largely of revenge.
‘How many will there be?’ he asked.
‘Oh! a hundred,’ replied Blacquart. It was the ‘Gascon’ for twenty.
‘Bless me!’ said Maître Picard; ‘a great number—an awful number.
You have told me to-night that you once fought a score yourself; but
I don’t think you could face so many.’
‘I don’t think I could,’ said Blacquart. ‘I will try, if you please; only
if my courage led me into any rash attack, I might be fatally
wounded, and then what a scrape you would get into.’
‘True—true,’ said Maître Picard, wiping his face, and taking a long
draught of wine; ‘and it is the same with me. My frame is rather
round than large; but there is a great spirit at work within it, which I
cannot always command. I will call together the Garde Bourgeois.’
‘Will not their assembling alarm the others,’ said Blacquart.
‘Not at all—not at all,’ returned the chapelier. ‘We will have them
come by twos and threes, and hide in my shop.’
‘Excellent!’ said the Gascon.
‘Will you summons them, then?’ asked Maître Picard.
‘I think not,’ said Blacquart; ‘although they know me as a daring
and gallant coadjutor. My appearance in the streets might provoke
suspicion with any of the students I might meet.’
To the joy of the Gascon, who thought inside the house the safest
position with such an event about to come off, Maître Picard rose,
with some trouble, from his settle, and, puffing and blowing, started
out to summons his brother-guards. The Gascon remained to finish
the wine; which, having done, he felt so nerved that he sang bold
and warlike songs to himself, and then drawing his sword fought
imaginary duels with nobody, and slaughtered many chimerical
adversaries, concluding from mere want of breath, in high good
humour with himself and his prowess. He was yet panting from his
late courageous exertions, when his landlord returned with a few of
his brethren in the guard, and these were speedily followed by
others, who were stationed in the shop and parlour. Their presence
increased the Gascon’s valour to such a pitch that, when he saw
they had all arrived, he even offered to go and fight the students
himself. And had it not been for one of the guard, who, from sheer
wickedness, recommended Jean to do so, to his extreme terror,
there is no knowing to what lengths he might have gone, or what
wonderful actions he might have committed.
The curfew sounded; the lights disappeared in the Quartier Latin,
as the shops were closed, and the glimmer of the lanterns alone
illumined the thoroughfares. Maître Picard disposed the Garde
Bourgeois for a proper sortie, and then went up to Blacquart’s room,
accompanied by the student, whom he placed to keep a look out at
the window.
‘I think I hear them coming,’ said Jean, after he had been a short
time at his post.
‘They are marching in order,’ observed Maître Picard, with
breathless attention; ‘the students have mustered strongly.’
‘No; it is the Guet Royal,’ returned the Gascon, as the night-patrol
came round the corner of the Rue de la Harpe.
‘I think we had better call them in, too,’ said the affrighted little
hatter.
‘No—no,’ answered Jean; ‘the disturbance and the clank of their
arms will alarm the others. Beside, is there not enough to protect
you? You have me.’
‘Very true,’ said Maître Picard. But he said it as if he did not think it
was. However, he was resigned to his fate, and the Guet Royal
passed along the Rue des Mathurins, turning off towards the
Sorbonne.
‘They will not be back for half an hour,’ murmured Maître Picard,
as the last cresset disappeared round the corner.
‘Then they will be too late for our gentlemen,’ said the Gascon; ‘for
I hear them now coming in reality.’
In effect he was right. The students had evidently waited until the
patrol had passed, knowing they would thus be for a certain time
uninterrupted, and they now came quietly in front of the house. One
of them, whom Blacquart knew to be Camille Theria, clapped his
hands, and the Gascon replied to the signal.
‘They wanted to hang me the other night,’ said he; ‘but I mean to
succeed better with them than they did with me. And yet,’ he added
as he looked below, ‘there seems to be a great many of them.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked the chapelier.
‘Me? oh! nothing—nothing,’ said the Gascon. His blood was ebbing
down rapidly every instant. ‘Only I was thinking if you were to make
a speech from the window, and forgive them, how they would
esteem you; and perhaps it would save bloodshed.’
Theria, who was below, repeated the signal.
‘Lower down your rope,’ said Maître Picard, who was peeping over
the parapet.
‘Upon my honour, I don’t much like to do so,’ said Blacquart, as his
last atom of heroism evaporated.
‘If you don’t let the line down immediately, I will give you into
custody below as an accomplice,’ said the bourgeois, in wrathful
accents.
Another impatient signal from Theria was heard; and poor Jean, in
a terrible fright, proceeded to unwind the cord from its winch; whilst
the hatter kept looking just over the parapet to see what was going
on.
‘It is almost close to the ground,’ he said. ‘Now it touches it; and
that rascal Theria has got hold of the end. He puts his foot in it.
Huzza! huzza! now wind away; he is ours.’
And the rotund little man delivered himself up to the performance
of such joyful gymnastics, that at last his hat fell off and tumbled
into the street. A student, who saw it fall, thought it was Theria’s,
and cramming his casquette into his cloak-pocket, put it on, until the
other should come down.
‘Now, stop! for your life!’ said Maître Picard to the Gascon, who
kept winding away in great trepidation, but saying through it all that
he was easily accomplishing the work of six men. ‘Now stop! he is
on a level with the sign; let him remain there.’
Jean implicitly obeyed; the catch fell into the toothed wheel, and
he came to the window, whilst Maître Picard hurried down stairs very
rapidly, by reason of his gravity, and told his fellow police that it was
time to make their charge. They accordingly rushed into the street,
and were face to face with the students.
‘Trapped!’ ejaculated Theria, as he felt his progress stopped, and
saw the tumult below. ‘Oh, Master Blacquart, you shall pay for this.’
A terrible riot ensued. What the students wanted in numbers, they
made up in strength and daring. They wrested the partisans from
their opponents to turn against them, and in all probability would
have come off the conquerors, had not Maître Picard opened one of
his upper windows and discharged a blunderbus therefrom—not to
injure his enemies, but to give the alarm by the report of this novel
weapon, not long imported from Holland.9 It had the desired effect,
and in a few minutes brought back the Guet Royal.
Some of the students fled at once as they saw the night-patrol
advance, for they were men with whom there was no trifling. Those
who remained, being a small number, were now captured by the
bourgeois; and then Maître Picard emerged from his house, and
Theria was let down and seized.
‘Huzza!’ cried the little chapelier, giving way to fresh antics. ‘We
have caught you—eh? Take him away; to the guard-house with such
a brawler. Stop—no—the glory shall be with me. Gentlemen of the
Guet Royal, march on with your other prisoners; the Garde
Bourgeois will take charge of the ringleader. Mauvais sujet—ugh!’
Camille took no notice of Maître Picard’s address. He was,
however, chafing with anger inwardly at being thus caught.
‘To the guard-house!’ continued Maître Picard, ‘without loss of
time. I have rid Paris of a brigand—a cut-purse. En avant!’
Drawing his sword as well as his short arms and fat little body
permitted, Maître Picard placed himself before the prisoner, and two
of the others followed. In this state they started off, the hatter
leaving Blacquart in charge of his shop, and proceeded towards the
nearest corps du garde. But, as they were passing down the Rue de
la Harpe, Camille, who had been watching his opportunity, suddenly
tripped up the chapelier, and sent him rolling into the kennel that
rushed down the middle of the street, before he had time to save
himself. He then as rapidly dealt a couple of heavy blows to his
followers, and whilst they were aghast at the unexpected attack,
rushed down the Rue du Foin, in the obscurity of which he was
immediately lost. But we must follow him along it, leaving the two
guards, first to recover themselves and then to pick up Maître Picard,
in as sorry a plight as might well be.
Flying along the narrow thoroughfare, a few minutes brought
Camille to his abode in the Place Maubert. He went directly to the
apartment of Philippe Glazer, who was at home, and briefly told him
what had happened.
‘It will not stop here,’ said Theria. ‘That wretched bourgeois can
make a nasty business of it if he likes, and I must leave Paris at
once.’
‘Immediately?’ asked Glazer.
‘Directly. My studies, such as they have been, are nearly finished,
and Liège will do for me to settle at as well as anywhere else.
Besides, it is my home.’
‘Can I assist you in anything?’ asked Philippe.
‘In one thing only—a little money, for I am quite cleaned out by
mes camarades. In return, Philippe, I leave you everything—my
books, my rapier, and my Estelle—poor Estelle! Don’t ever part with
my rapier whatever you do.’
Glazer smiled at his friend’s speech, as he collected what little
money he had by him, and gave to the other.
‘Ten thousand thanks, Philippe,’ said Camille, ‘it shall be repaid
some day; we do not cheat one another.’
‘I will trust you,’ said Glazer; ‘is there anything else I can do for
you?’
‘One thing,’ said Camille, more seriously. ‘I am not one to boast of
favours bestowed, or even hint at them, but you will find a packet of
love-letters in my old escriban. Burn them all—they are from
Madame de Brinvilliers.’
Glazer uttered an exclamation of mingled incredulity and surprise.
‘It is true,’ said Camille; ‘she wrote them to me, telling me that I
was the only one she ever loved—that all the other attachments had
been madness—folly. Pshaw! each avowal was stereotyped, and did
for others as well as it will again do for the next. Burn them all.
Adieu! and tell Estelle to console herself.’
And, warmly shaking his friend by the hand, Theria flew down
stairs, leaving Glazer almost bewildered at the rapidity of the
interview and the avowal he had just heard.
CHAPTER XII.
EXILI SPREADS THE SNARE FOR SAINTE-CROIX, WHO FALLS INTO IT
It was not until Galouchet, the gaoler, entered the chamber of the
Tour de la Liberté the next morning that Sainte-Croix awoke from his
slumbers—from one of those bright dreams of freedom, triumph,
and happiness, albeit always tempered with some vague mistrust,
which haunt our sleeping existence; the fairer in their visioned
prospects, the more gloomy and hopeless the reality.
Exili had already risen. He was looking over the contents of a
small chest of carved wood, placed on the table before him. The
gaoler was apparently making preparations for breakfast, clattering
some metal plates upon the undraped and rude table; and in the
fireplace the dense smoke was creeping through some hissing pieces
of damp wood, as the sap sputtered and bubbled from their ends.
Gaudin stared about him confusedly. The last impression of his
dreams was mingled with his waking sensations, and he remained
silent for a few moments, after some incoherent words, to collect his
senses. Exili muttered some conventional salute, and then went on
with his scrutiny, whilst Galouchet, having put the table in order,
according to his own notions, offered his assistance towards
completing Sainte-Croix’s toilet.
‘What charge will monsieur choose to defray for his nourishment?’
asked the gaoler, as Gaudin rose from his pallet.
‘What do you expect?’ inquired Sainte-Croix.
‘Parbleu! we have all prices. You may live like a prince for fifty
livres a-day, or starve like a valet for two. This will include your
washing, if you are not over-fond of clean linen, and a candle a-
night. The firewood you must pay for separately.’
Gaudin looked towards the fireplace, and the struggling flame.
‘Ah!’ said Galouchet, divining his thoughts; ‘the wood is rather
damp, to be sure, but that makes it last the longer; and as you and
Monsieur Exili occupy the same room, it will come cheaper.’
‘Is there news in the city this morning, Galouchet?’ asked Exili.
‘But little,’ returned the functionary. ‘Pierre, the scullion, sleeps out
of the fortress, and tells me that an eboulement took place last
night, and the Bièvre burst into some of the carrières of St. Marcel;
and fell so rapidly, in consequence, that all the mills this side of St.
Medard were stopped for three hours.’
‘Was anybody lost?’ inquired the physician.
‘It is believed so. A party of Bras d’Acier’s gang were hunted out of
the vaults between the Cordelières and Montrouge, like rats in our
cachots, when the rains come; and one of the superintendents at
the Gobelins was fished up, half-drowned, from a shaft in the Rue
Mouffetard.’
‘Do you know his name?’ asked Sainte-Croix eagerly.
‘I can’t say I do,’ returned Galouchet. ‘What rate will you fix your
nourriture at, monsieur?’ he continued.
‘I care not,’ said Gaudin; ‘only let it be something that I can eat.’
The day passed on, but the hours lagged so tediously that Time
himself appeared to be a prisoner. Little conversation passed
between the two inmates of the cell. Exili was occupied in writing
nearly the whole day; and Gaudin, who could ill bear the
confinement, with his restless and excitable spirit, after the hour’s
exercise in the great court allowed to all the prisoners, obtained
permission to walk on the ramparts in front of the sentinels. This
position commanded a view along the Rue St. Antoine, as well as of
the houses in the Rue St. Paul. Towards this point were Gaudin’s
eyes constantly directed. He beheld people moving in the streets,
and over the plains in the immediate vicinity of the city walls—the
coup d’œil was alive with commerce—and the buzz of their voices
plainly reached his ear; but he envied them not, nor drew one
comparison between their freedom and his state of durance, except
when he saw them turn from the great thoroughfare into the small
street wherein the Hôtel d’Aubray was situated. He fancied he could
pick out the pointed roof of the mansion from amongst the others,
and once he imagined that he saw the delicate figure of the
Marchioness emerge from the Rue St. Paul, and pass towards the
city, without so much as throwing back a glance towards the fortress
in which she knew he was confined. And then the hell of jealousy
raged in his veins, and he felt the bitterness of captivity. He thought
of the circumstances under which he had found her with Theria the
preceding evening; then came back the recollection of the
impassioned interview, and her apparent devotion to him, until the
struggle of his conflicting feelings to establish what he hoped for,
over what he dreaded, nearly maddened him.
At length it got dusk, and he could see no more. The murmur of
the peopled city died away; the lights appeared in the embrasures of
the Bastille, and the night-wind chilled him. He descended once
more to his cell, and found his gaoler there.
‘I was coming to seek you, monsieur,’ he said, ‘for the curfew will
soon ring. Mass! your supper is nearly cold. Here is a slice of rôti, a
plate of eggs, and a salad; you could not fare better at home.’
‘Have any of my things come?’ asked Gaudin.
‘They are being overlooked in the corps du garde,’ replied the
man. ‘By the way, monsieur, my sweetheart, Françoise Roussel, gave
me this note for you, when I met her without the walls this
afternoon. She did not care that it should be read by the governor.’
Gaudin snatched the note, and discerned the handwriting of the
Marchioness. Hastily tearing it open, he read—
‘Be true and patient; all may yet be well, and you will be
revenged. Rely on me to aid you; we have gone too far to
retract. In life, and after it, yours only,
‘Marie.’
‘I must put out your light,’ said Galouchet. ‘Last night you were
brought in late, and nothing was said; but neither fire nor lamp can
be allowed between curfew and sunrise.’
‘You can have it, my good fellow,’ said Gaudin, still quivering with
the emotion which the letter had called up. ‘Here—here is some
money for you. I will keep your secret. You may retire.’
The man raked out the embers on the grate, and departed. As
soon as the clanking of the three doors that shut in the cell had
ceased, Exili, who till now had remained quiet, arose from his table,
and approaching Sainte-Croix in the darkness, said rapidly—
‘I will now show you some of the mysteries by which my career
has, up to yesterday, thriven. But, first—precaution!’
He took his cloak, and by the aid of the forks on the table fixed it
so that it covered the window, the position of which could be plainly
ascertained by the faint moonlight from without, and then he
returned towards the table at which he had been sitting.
‘The clods without think that our light and darkness is subservient
to their will alone; but the elements obey not such idiots. The ether
which percolates all things—vitalised and inorganic—setting up a
communion between them, reveals not itself to the uninitiated. With
me, the various elements are as abject slaves, whom I can summons
at my bidding.’
As he spoke, he dashed a small rod he held against the wall, and
a flame, so bright that Gaudin could hardly look upon it, burst from
its extremity. In another moment he had relighted the lamp, and he
then shook the blaze amongst the embers on the hearth, which
were presently rekindled. Sainte-Croix looked upon his companion
with the gaze of one bewildered. Exili read the expression of the
other’s features and continued, perceiving his advantage—
‘Life and death are equally within my grasp. Whom shall I call up?
Will you see the ghastly corpse of the Croce Bianca, at Milan?’
‘No! No!’ cried Gaudin, covering his eyes with his hand, as if he
dreaded to meet the horrid sight.
‘Will that serve to recall its memory as well?’ asked Exili, throwing
a phial upon the table.
A glance sufficed to show its nature to Sainte-Croix. It was a small
bottle of the terrible Aqua Tofana—the ‘Manna of St. Nicholas de
Barri.’
‘That menstruum is powerless, compared to what I am about to
show you. But first, look here.’
He stooped beneath the table, and pulled out a species of cage, in
which several rats were huddled together, fighting, and scrambling
over their fellows.
‘Where did you get those vermin from?’ inquired Gaudin.
‘There are more in the Bastille than are wanted,’ replied Exili.
‘They have been willingly granted by some poor wretch at the base
of our tower. Galouchet bought them. I told him they were to study
anatomy from.’
He plunged his hand fearlessly amongst them, and drew forth one
of the shrieking animals. Then squeezing its throat, he poured a
drop or two of the fluid down the mouth. The rat gave a few
convulsive throes, and he threw it down, dead, upon the table.
‘You see the effect of the potion,’ he continued. ‘Now, look here.’
Pouring the greater part of the remaining liquid of the phial into a
glass, he coolly drank it off before Gaudin could arrest his hand. But
no effect supervened. Instead of falling lifeless as Sainte-Croix had
anticipated, Exili gazed at him, and, with a short, hollow laugh,
threw the empty bottle amongst the embers.
‘Are you man or demon?’ asked Gaudin, scarcely trusting to his
senses.
‘Neither,’ said Exili. ‘I have lost the sympathies of the former; the
latter I may be hereafter. I have studied poisons, as you see; but I
have also studied their antidotes. Have you kept the small phial by
you, which you bought of me at Milan?’
‘It has never been out of my keeping until now,’ said Gaudin.
‘With that you could command twenty lives,’ said Exili; ‘and yet my
remedies could so blunt and weaken its malignity that I would take it
all at one draught. You shall learn more. Attend!’
From his box of carved wood he drew forth a series of test
glasses, and half-filled them with water from the prison cruche. He
next took a small flacon, and pinched a few atoms of the powder it
contained into the first glass, varying the addition in each. Then
dropping some colourless fluid into them, one after the other, a
precipitate fell down in all, in clouds of the brightest tints, but each
different.
‘See how completely these dull minerals do my bidding,’ he
exclaimed. ‘To you the potion offers no trace by which its nature
could be told; to me there is not an atom suspended in it, in its
invisible but imperishable form, which cannot be reproduced before
our eyes. Do you believe in me?’
‘I do—I do,’ returned Gaudin. ‘What price do you put upon the
revelation of these mysteries?’
‘Nothing—beyond your attention and secrecy.’
‘And yet you love revenge,’ said Sainte-Croix, eyeing him with
mistrust.
‘It is my life—my very blood,’ answered Exili. ‘And my revenge—
the deepest I can have—is to teach you all I know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply what I have said. You may call it good for evil if you
choose, but still it is my revenge. You have time and leisure before
you. Make the best of both.’
Again Exili gazed at Sainte-Croix with the expression of a vulture
hovering about its prey, as Gaudin advanced to the table, and, with
some curiosity, handled the apparatus which was spread about it.
The physician opened a drawer in the box, which was apparently
filled with sand. This, however, was but on a false top, which he
drew away, and discovered several small bottles, of the size of one’s
finger, which he took out.
‘These small messengers have worked great events in their time,’
he said. ‘This,’ taking up one, ‘was the terror of Rome, of Verona,
and Milan. I could add much to the records of the Scaliger and
Borromeo families, respecting its efficacy. This,’ he added, pointing
to another, ‘is so potent that a century and a half has not impaired
its power. It is the foam of a dying boar, slain by poison, collected as
you see, and was the scourge with which the Borgias swept away
their enemies.’
‘Why is one of the phials gilt?’ asked Gaudin.
‘Because its contents are the most precious,’ returned Exili. ‘Its
power baffled even the attempts at imitation of Spara and Tofana. It
was discovered by a monk in a convent at Palermo, and the secret
has remained with me alone.’
‘It is clear as water,’ observed Gaudin, holding it against the light.
‘And like water, without taste or odour. It aided many whose
hearts clung to one another,’ he continued, watching Sainte-Croix
with his eagle eyes; ‘by clearing away the obstacles that impeded
their union.’
Gaudin stretched out his hand, trembling with emotion, and
clutched the phial, which he regarded intently, his dilated pupil,
parted lips, and short, hurried breathing, showing the conflict of
passions that was going on within him. Exili passed a few more of
the phials in review before him. From one he let fall a few drops
upon the hearth; it hissed and boiled, and the stone remained black
where it had been; into another he dipped a piece of gold, and its
yellow and polished surface was changed to a dull gray by the
contact.
Then throwing out several of the allusions which he found had
most deeply stung his companion the night before, he placed himself
by the side of Gaudin, and proceeded to explain to him the rough
composition of the different articles the box contained. And as he
saw the intense attention, the almost gasping eagerness with which
Sainte-Croix followed his instructions, he exclaimed almost
unconsciously,
‘Mine—mine for ever!’
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CHATEAU IN THE COUNTRY—THE MEETING—LE PREMIER PAS