THE PATIENT.
At the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, there was then a very high wall, with
only one small doorway in all its length. On opening this door, you
entered a yard surrounded by a railing, with screens like Venetian
blinds, to prevent your seeing between the rails. Crossing this
courtyard, you come to a fine large garden, symmetrically planted, at the
end of which stood a building two stories high, looking perfectly
comfortable, without luxury, but with all that cozy simplicity which
betokens discreet opulence. A few days had elapsed since Father
d'Aigrigny had been so courageously rescued by Gabriel from the popular
fury. Three ecclesiastics, wearing black gowns, white bands, and square
caps, were walking in the garden with a slow and measured step. The
youngest seemed to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was
pale, hollow, and impressed with a certain ascetic austerity. His two
companions, aged between fifty or sixty, had, on the contrary, faces at
once hypocritical and cunning; their round, rosy cheeks shone brightly in
the sunshine, whilst their triple chins, buried in fat, descended in soft
folds over the fine cambric of their bands. According to the rules of
their order (they belonged to the Society of Jesus), which forbade their
walking only two together, these three members of the brotherhood never
quitted each other a moment.
"I fear," said one of the two, continuing a conversation already begun,
and speaking of an absent person, "I fear, that the continual agitation
to which the reverend father has been a prey, ever since he was attacked
with the cholera, has exhausted his strength, and caused the dangerous
relapse which now makes us fear for his life."
"They say," resumed the other, "that never was there seen anxiety like to
his."
"And moreover," remarked the young priest, bitterly, "it is painful to
think, that his reverence Father Rodin has given cause for scandal, by
obstinately refusing to make a public confession, the day before
yesterday when his situation appeared so desperate, that, between two
fits of a delirium, it was thought right to propose to him to receive the
last sacraments."
"His reverence declared that he was not so ill as they supposed,"
answered one of the fathers, "and that he would have the last duties
performed when he thought necessary."
"The fact is, that for the last ten days, ever since he was brought here
dying, his life has been, as it were, only a long and painful agony; and
yet he continues to live."
"I watched by him during the first three days of his malady, with M.
Rousselet, the pupil of Dr. Baleinier," resumed the youngest father; "he
had hardly a moment's consciousness, and when the Lord did grant him a
lucid interval, he employed it in detestable execrations against the fate
which had confined him to his bed."
"It is said," resumed the other, "that Father Rodin made answer to his
Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, who came to persuade him to die in an
exemplary manner, worthy of a son of Loyola, our blessed founder"--at
these words, the three Jesuits bowed their heads together, as if they had
been all moved by the same spring--"it is said, that Father Rodin made
answer to his eminence: 'I do not need to confess publicly; I WANT TO
LIVE, AND I WILL LIVE.'"
"I did not hear that," said the young priest, with an indignant air; "but
if Father Rodin really made use of such expressions, it is--"
Here, no doubt, reflection came to him just in time, for he stole a
sidelong glance at his two silent, impassible companions, and added: "It
is a great misfortune for his soul; but I am certain, his reverence has
been slandered."
"It was only as a calumnious report, that I mentioned those words," said
the other priest, exchanging a glance with his companion.
One of the garden gates opened, and one of the three reverend fathers
exclaimed, at the sight of the personage who now entered: "Oh! here is
his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, coming to pay a visit to Father Rodin."
"May this visit of his eminence," said the young priest, calmly, "be more
profitable to Father Rodin than the last!"
Cardinal Malipieri was crossing the garden, on his way to the apartment
occupied by Rodin.
Cardinal Malipieri, whom we saw assisting at the sort of council held at
the Princess de Saint-Dizier's, now on his way to Rodin's apartment, was
dressed as a layman, but enveloped in an ample pelisse of puce-colored
satin, which exhaled a strong odor of camphor, for the prelate had taken
care to surround himself with all sorts of anti-cholera specifics. Having
reached the second story of the house, the cardinal knocked at a little
gray door. Nobody answering, he opened it, and, like a man to whom the
locality was well known, passed through a sort of antechamber, and
entered a room in which was a turn-up bed. On a black wood table were
many phials, which had contained different medicines. The prelate's
countenance seemed uneasy and morose; his complexion was still yellow and
bilious; the brown circle which surrounded his black, squinting eyes
appeared still darker than usual.
Pausing a moment, he looked round him almost in fear, and several times
stopped to smell at his anti-cholera bottle. Then, seeing he was alone,
he approached a glass over the chimney-piece, and examined with much
attention the color of his tongue; after some minutes spent in this
careful investigation, with the result of which he appeared tolerably
satisfied, he took some preservative lozenges out of a golden box, and
allowed them to melt in his mouth, whilst he closed his eyes with a
sanctified air. Having taken these sanitary precautions, and again
pressed his bottle to his nose, the prelate prepared to enter the third
room, when he heard a tolerably loud noise through the thin partition
which separated him from it, and, stopping to listen, all that was said
in the next apartment easily reached his ear.
"Now that my wounds are dressed, I will get up," said weak, but sharp and
imperious voice.
"Do not think of it, reverend father," was answered in a stronger tone;
"it is impossible."
"You shall see if it is impossible," replied the other voice.
"But, reverend father, you will kill yourself. You are not in a state to
get up. You will expose yourself to a mortal relapse. I cannot consent to
it."
To these words succeeded the noise of a faint struggle, mingled with
groans more angry than plaintive, and the voice resumed: "No, no, father;
for your own safety, I will not leave your clothes within your reach. It
is almost time for your medicine; I will go and prepare it for you."
Almost immediately after, the door opened, and the prelate saw enter a
man of about twenty-five years of age, carrying on his arm an old olive
great-coat and threadbare black trousers, which he threw down upon a
chair.
This personage was Ange Modeste Rousselet, chief pupil of Dr. Baleinier;
the countenance of the young practitioner was mild, humble, and reserved;
his hair, very short in front, flowed down upon his neck behind. He made
a slight start in surprise on perceiving the cardinal, and bowed twice
very low, without raising his eyes.
"Before anything else," said the prelate, with his marked Italian accent,
still holding to his nose his bottle of camphor, "have any choleraic
symptoms returned?"
"No, my lord; the pernicious fever, which succeeded the attack of
cholera, still continues."
"Very good. But will not the reverend father be reasonable? What was the
noise that I just heard?"
"His reverence wished absolutely to get up and dress himself; but his
weakness is so great, that he could not have taken two steps from the
bed. He is devoured by impatience, and we fear that this agitation will
cause a mortal relapse."
"Has Dr. Baleinier been here this morning?"
"He has just left, my lord."
"What does he think of the patient?"
"He finds him in the most alarming state, my lord. The night was so bad,
that he was extremely uneasy this morning. Father Rodin is at one of
those critical junctures, when a few hours may decide the life or death
of the patient. Dr. Baleinier is now gone to fetch what is necessary for
a very painful operation, which he is about to perform on the reverend
father."
"Has Father d'Aigrigny been told of this?"
"Father d'Aigrigny is himself very unwell, as your eminence knows; he has
not been able to leave his bed for the last three days."
"I inquired about him as I came up," answered the prelate, "and I shall
see him directly. But, to return to Father Rodin, have you sent for his
confessor, since he is in a desperate state, and about to undergo a
serious operation?"
"Dr. Baleinier spoke a word to him about it, as well as about the last
sacraments; but Father Rodin exclaimed, with great irritation, that they
did not leave him a moment's peace, that he had as much care as any one
for his salvation, and that--"
"Per Bacco! I am not thinking of him," cried the cardinal, interrupting
Ange Modeste Rousselet with his pagan oath, and raising his sharp voice
to a still higher key; "I am not thinking of him, but of the interests of
the Company. It is indispensable that the reverend father should receive
the sacraments with the most splendid solemnity, and that his end should
not only be Christian, but exemplary. All the people in the house, and
even strangers, should be invited to the spectacle, so that his edifying
death may produce an excellent sensation."
"That is what Fathers Grison and Brunet have already endeavored to
persuade his reverence, my lord; but your Eminence knows with what
impatience Father Rodin received this advice, and Dr. Baleinier did not
venture to persist, for fear of advancing a fatal crisis."
"Well, I will venture to do it; for in these times of revolutionary
impiety, a solemnly Christian death would produce a very salutary effect
on the public. It would indeed be proper to make the necessary
preparations to embalm the reverend father: he might then lie in state
for some days, with lighted tapers, according to Romish custom. My
secretary would furnish the design for the bier; it would be very
splendid and imposing; from his position in the Order, Father Rodin is
entitled to have everything in the most sumptuous style. He must have at
least six hundred tapers, and a dozen funeral lamps, burning spirits of
wine, to hang just over the body, and light it from above: the effect
would be excellent. We must also distribute little tracts to the people,
concerning the pious and ascetic life of his reverence--"
Here a sudden noise, like that of some piece of metal thrown angrily on
the floor, was heard from the next room, in which was the sick man, and
interrupted the prelate in his description.
"I hope Father Rodin has not heard you talk of embalming him, my lord,"
said Rousselet, in a whisper: "his bed touches the partition, and almost
everything is audible through it."
"If Father Rodin has heard me," answered the cardinal, sinking his voice,
and retiring to the other end of the room, "this circumstance will enable
me to enter at once on the business; but, in any case, I persist in
believing that the embalming and the lying in state are required to make
a good effect upon the public. The people are already frightened at the
cholera, and such funeral pomp would have no small influence on the
imagination."
"I would venture to observe to your Eminence, that here the laws are
opposed to such exhibitions."
"The laws--already the laws!" said the cardinal, angrily; "has not Rome
also her laws? And is not every priest a subject of Rome? Is it not
time--"
But, not choosing, doubtless, to begin a more explicit conversation with
the young doctor, the prelate resumed, "We will talk of this hereafter.
But, tell me, since my last visit, has the reverend father had any fresh
attacks of delirium?"
"Yes, my lord; here is the note, as your Eminence commanded." So saying
Rousselet delivered a paper to the prelate. We will inform the reader
that this part of the conversation between Rousselet and the cardinal was
carried on at a distance from the partition, so that Rodin could hear
nothing of it, whilst that which related to the embalming had been
perfectly audible to him.
The cardinal, having received the note from Rousselet, perused it with an
expression of lively curiosity. When he had finished, he crumpled it in
his hand, and said, without attempting to dissemble his vexation, "Always
nothing but incoherent expression. Not two words together, from which you
can draw any reasonable conclusion. One would really think this man had
the power to control himself even in his delirium, and to rave about
insignificant matters only."
Then, addressing Rousselet, "You are sure that you have reported
everything that escaped from him during his delirium?"
"With the exception of the same phrases, that he repeated over and over
again, your Eminence may be assured that I have not omitted a single
word, however unmeaning."
"Show me into Father Rodin's room," said the prelate, after a moment's
silence.
"But, my lord," answered the young doctor, with some hesitation, "the fit
has only left him about an hour, and the reverend father is still very
weak."
"The more the reason," replied the prelate, somewhat indiscreetly. Then,
recollecting himself, he added, "He will the better appreciate the
consolations I have to offer. Should he be asleep, awake him, and
announce my visit."
"I have only orders to receive from your Eminence," said Rousselet,
bowing, and entering the next room.
Left alone, the cardinal said to himself, with a pensive air, "I always
come back to that. When he was suddenly attacked by the cholera, Father
Rodin believed himself poisoned by order of the Holy See. He must then
have been plotting something very formidable against Rome, to entertain
so abominable a fear. Can our suspicions be well founded? Is he acting
secretly and powerfully on the Sacred College? But then for what end?
This it has been impossible to penetrate, so faithfully has the secret
been kept by his accomplices. I had hoped that, during his delirium, he
would let slip some word that would put us on the trace of what we are so
much interested to discover. With so restless and active a mind, delirium
is often the exaggeration of some dominant idea; yet here I have the
report of five different fits--and nothing--no, nothing but vague,
unconnected phrases."
The return of Rousselet put an end to these reflections. "I am sorry to
inform my lord that the reverend father obstinately refuses to see any
one. He says that he requires absolute repose. Though very weak, he has a
savage and angry look, and I should not be surprised if he overheard your
Eminence talk about embalming him."
The cardinal, interrupting Rousselet, said to him, "Did Father Rodin have
his last fit of delirium in the night?"
"Between three and half-past five this morning, my lord."
"Between three and half-past five," repeated the prelate, as if he wished
to impress this circumstance on his memory, "the attack presented no
particular symptoms?"
"No, my lord; it consisted of rambling, incoherent talk, as your Eminence
may see by this note."
Then, as he perceived the prelate approaching Father Rodin's door,
Rousselet added, "The reverend father will positively see no one, my
lord; he requires rest, to prepare for the operation; it might be
dangerous--"
Without attending to these observations, the cardinal entered Rodin's
chamber. It was a tolerably large room, lighted by two windows, and
simply but commodiously furnished. Two logs were burning slowly in the
fireplace, in which stood a coffee-pot, a vessel containing mustard
poultice, etc. On the chimney-piece were several pieces of rag, and some
linen bandages. The room was full of that faint chemical odor peculiar to
the chambers of the sick, mingled with so putrid a stench, that the
cardinal stopped at the door a moment, before he ventured to advance
further. As the three reverend fathers had mentioned in their walk, Rodin
lived because he had said to himself, "I want to live, and I will live."
For, as men of timid imaginations and cowardly minds often die from the
mere dread of dying, so a thousand facts prove that vigor of character
and moral energy may often struggle successfully against disease, and
triumph over the most desperate symptoms.
It was thus with the Jesuit. The unshaken firmness of his character, the
formidable tenacity of his will (for the will has sometimes a mysterious
and almost terrific power), aiding the skillful treatment of Dr.
Baleinier, had saved him from the pestilence with which he had been so
suddenly attacked. But the shock had been succeeded by a violent fever,
which placed Rodin's life in the utmost peril. This increased danger had
caused the greatest alarm to Father d'Aigrigny, who felt, in spite of his
rivalry and jealousy, that Rodin was the master-spirit of the plot in
which they were engaged, and could alone conduct it to a successful
issue.
The curtains of the room was half closed, and admitted only a doubtful
light to the bed on which Rodin was lying. The Jesuit's features had lost
the greenish hue peculiar to cholera patients, but remained perfectly
livid and cadaverous, and so thin, that the dry, rugged skin appeared to
cling to the smallest prominence of bone. The muscles and veins of the
long, lean, vulture-like neck resembled a bundle of cords. The head,
covered with an old, black, filthy nightcap, from beneath which strayed a
few thin, gray hairs, rested upon a dirty pillow; for Rodin would not
allow them to change his linen. His iron-gray beard had not been shaved
for some time, and stood out like the hairs of a brush. Under his shirt
he wore an old flannel waistcoat full of holes. He had one of his arms
out of bed, and his bony hairy hand, with its bluish nails, held fast a
cotton handkerchief of indescribable color.
You might have taken him for a corpse, had it not been for the two
brilliant sparks which still burned in the depths of his eyes. In that
look, in which seemed concentrated all the remaining life and energy of
the man, you might read the most restless anxiety. Sometimes his features
revealed the sharpest pangs; sometimes the twisting of his hands, and his
sudden starts, proclaimed his despair at being thus fettered to a bed of
pain, whilst the serious interests which he had in charge required all
the activity of his mind. Thus, with thoughts continually on the stretch,
his mind often wandered, and he had fits of delirium, from which he woke
as from a painful dream. By the prudent advice of Dr. Baleinier, who
considered him not in a state to attend to matters of--importance, Father
d'Aigrigny had hitherto evaded Rodin's questions with regard to the
Rennepont affair, which he dreaded to see lost and ruined in consequence
of his forced inaction. The silence of Father d'Aigrigny on this head,
and the ignorance in which they kept him, only augmented the sick man's
exasperation. Such was the moral and physical state of Rodin, when
Cardinal Malipieri entered his chamber against his will.