under his arm.”
“The devil take him on the road! don’t let us see his green visage
here.”
“They say he’s at London.”
“A pleasant journey to him.”
“Come, let us talk of something else; it may be a weakness, if you
please, but I call this a dull subject.”
“I believe you.”
“Oh! gentlemen--I am not mistaken--no--it is she!”
“Who, then?”
“Mdlle. de Cardoville! She is coming into the stage-box with Morinval
and his wife. It is a complete resuscitation: this morning on the
Champs-Elysees; in the evening here.”
“Faith, you are right! It is Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“Good heaven! how lovely she is!”
“Lend me your eyeglass.”
“Well, what do you think of her?”
“Exquisite--dazzling.”
“And in addition to her beauty, an inexhaustible flow of wit, three
hundred thousand francs a year, high birth, eighteen years of age,
and--free as air.”
“Yes, that is to say, that, provided it pleased her, I might be to
morrow--or even to-day--the happiest of men.”
“It is enough to turn one’s brain.”
“I am told that her mansion, Rue d’Anjou, is like an enchanted palace; a
great deal is said about a bath-room and bedroom, worthy of the Arabian
Nights.”
“And free as air--I come back to that.”
“Ah! if I were in her place!”
“My levity would be quite shocking.”
“Oh! gentlemen, what a happy man will he be who is loved first!”
“You think, then, that she will have many lovers?”
“Being as free as air--”
“All the boxes are full, except the stage-box opposite to that in which
Mdlle. de Cardoville is seated. Happy the occupiers of that box!”
“Did you see the English ambassador’s lady in the dress circle?”
“And the Princess d’Alvimar--what an enormous bouquet!”
“I should like to know the name--of that nosegay.”
“Oh!--it’s Germigny.”
“How flattering for the lions and tigers, to attract so fashionable an
audience.”
“Do you notice, gentlemen, how all the women are eye-glassing Mdlle. de
Cardoville?”
“She makes a sensation.”
“She is right to show herself; they gave her out as mad.”
“Oh! gentlemen, what a capital phiz!”
“Where--where?”
“There--in the omnibus-box beneath Mdlle. de Cardoville’s.”
“It’s a Nuremburg nutcracker.”
“An ourang-outang!”
“Did you ever see such round, staring eyes?”
“And the nose!”
“And the forehead!”
“It’s a caricature.”
“Order, order! the curtain rises.”
And, in fact, the curtain rose. Some explanation is necessary for the
clear understanding of what follows. In the lower stage-box, to the left
of the audience, were several persons, who had been referred to by the
young men in the stalls. The omnibus-box was occupied by the Englishman,
the eccentric and portentous bettor, whose presence inspired Morok with
so much dread.
It would require Hoffman’s rare and fantastic genius to describe
worthily that countenance, at once grotesque and frightful, as it stood
out from the dark background of the box. This Englishman was about fifty
years old; his forehead was quite bald, and of a conical shape; beneath
this forehead, surmounted by eyebrows like parenthesis marks, glittered
large, green eyes, remarkably round and staring, and set very close to a
hooked nose, extremely sharp and prominent; a chin like that on the old
fashioned nutcrackers was half-hidden in a broad and ample white cravat,
as stiffly-starched as the round-cornered shirt-collar, which nearly
touched his ears. The face was exceedingly thin and bony, and yet the
complexion was high-colored, approaching to purple, which made the
bright green of the pupils, and the white of the other part of the
eyes, still more conspicuous. The mouth, which was very wide, sometimes
whistled inaudibly the tune of a Scotch jig (always the same tune),
sometimes was slightly curled with a sardonic smite. The Englishman was
dressed with extreme care; his blue coat, with brass buttons, displayed
his spotless waistcoat, snowy, white as his ample cravat; his shirt was
fastened with two magnificent ruby studs, and his patrician hands were
carefully kid gloved.
To any one who knew the eccentric and cruel desire which attracted this
man to every representation, his grotesque face became almost terrific,
instead of exciting ridicule; and it was easy to understand the dread
experience by Morok at sight of those great, staring round eyes, which
appeared to watch for the death of the lion-tamer (what a horrible
death!) with unshaken confidence. Above the dark box of the Englishman,
affording a graceful contrast, were seated the Morinvals and Mdlle.
de Cardoville. The latter was placed nearest the stage. Her head was
uncovered, and she wore a dress of sky-blue China crepe, ornamented at
the bosom with a brooch of the finest Oriental pearls--nothing more; yet
Adrienne, thus attired, was charming. She held in her hand an enormous
bouquet, composed of the rarest flowers of India: the stephanotis and
the gardenia mingled the dead white of their blossoms with the purple
hibiscus and Java amaryllis.
Madame de Morinval, seated on the opposite side of the box, was dressed
with equal taste and simplicity; Morinval, a fair and very handsome
young man, of elegant appearance, was behind the two ladies. M. de
Montbron was expected to arrive every moment. The reader will please
to recollect that the stage-box to the right of the audience, opposite
Adrienne’s, had remained till then quite empty. The stage represented
one of the gigantic forests of India. In the background, tall exotic
trees rose in spiral or spreading forms, among rugged masses of
perpendicular rocks, with here and there glimpses of a tropical sky. The
side-scenes formed tufts of trees, interspersed with rocks; and at the
side which was immediately beneath Adrienne’s box appeared the irregular
opening of a deep and gloomy cavern, round which were heaped huge blocks
of granite, as if thrown together by some convulsion of nature. This
scenery, full of a wild and savage grandeur, was wonderfully “built up,”
so as to make the illusion as complete as possible; the footlights
were lowered, and being covered with a purple shade, threw over this
landscape a subdued reddish light, which increased the gloomy and
startling effect of the whole. Adrienne, leaning forward from the box,
with cheeks slightly flushed, sparkling eyes, and throbbing heart,
sought to trace in this scene the solitary forest described by the
traveller who had eulogized Djalma’s generosity and courage, when he
threw himself upon a ferocious tigress to save the life of a poor black
slave. Chance coincided wonderfully indeed with her recollections.
Absorbed in the contemplation of the scenery and the thoughts it
awakened in her heart, she paid no attention to what was passing in the
house. And yet something calculated to excite curiosity was taking place
in the opposite stage-box.
The door of this box opened. A man about forty years of age, of a yellow
complexion, entered; he was clothed after the East Indian fashion, in a
long robe of orange silk, bound round the waist with a green sash, and
he wore a small white turban. He placed two chairs at the front of the
box; and, having glanced round the house for a moment, he started, his
black eyes sparkled, and he went out quickly. That man was Faringhea.
His apparition caused surprise and curiosity in the theatre; the
majority of the spectators not having, like Adrienne, a thousand reasons
for being absorbed in the contemplation of a picturesque set scene.
The public attention was still more excited when they saw the box which
Faringhea had just left, entered by a youth of rare beauty, also dressed
Oriental fashion, in a long robe of white Cashmere with flowing sleeves,
with a scarlet turban striped with gold on his head, and a sash to
correspond, in which was stuck a long dagger, glittering with precious
stones. This young man was Prince Djalma. For an instant he remained
standing at the door, and cast a look of indifference upon the immense
theatre, crowded with people; then, stepping forward with a majestic
and tranquil air, the prince seated himself negligently on one of the
chairs, and, turning his head in a few moments towards the entrance,
appeared surprised at not seeing some person whom he doubtless expected.
This person appeared at length; the boxkeeper had been assisting her to
take off her cloak. She was a charming, fair-haired girl, attired
with more show than taste, in a dress of white silk, with broad
cherry-colored stripes, made ultra fashionably low, and with short
sleeves; a large bow of cherry-colored ribbon was placed on each side
of her light hair, and set off the prettiest, sprightliest, most wilful
little face in the world.
It was Rose-Pompon. Her pretty arms were partly covered by long white
gloves, and ridiculously loaded with bracelets: in her hand she carried
an enormous bouquet of roses.
Far from imitating the calm demeanor of Djalma, Rose-Pompon skipped into
the box, moved the chairs about noisily, and fidgeted on her seat for
some time, to display her fine dress; then, without being in the least
intimidated by the presence of the brilliant assembly, she, with a
little coquettish air, held her bouquet towards Djalma, that he might
smell it, and appeared finally to establish herself on her seat.
Faringhea came in, shut the door of the box, and seated himself behind
the prince. Adrienne, still completely absorbed in the contemplation of
the Indian forest, and in her own sweet thoughts, had not observed the
newcomers. As she was turning her head completely towards the stage, and
Djalma could not, for the moment, see even her profile, he, on his side,
had not recognized Mdlle. de Cardoville.
CHAPTER XIV. DEATH.
The pantomime opening, by which was introduced the combat of Morok with
the black panther, was so unmeaning, that the majority of the audience
paid no attention to it, reserving all their interest for the scene in
which the lion-tamer was to make his appearance.
This indifference of the public explains the curiosity excited in
the theatre by the arrival of Faringhea and Djalma--a curiosity which
expressed itself (as at this day, when uncommon foreigners appear in
public) by a slight murmur and general movement amongst the crowd. The
sprightly, pretty face of Rose-Pompon, always charming, in spite of her
singularly staring dress, in style so ridiculous for such a theatre,
and her light and familiar manner towards the handsome Indian who
accompanied her, increased and animated the general surprise; for, at
this moment, Rose-Pompon, yielding without reserve to a movement of
teasing coquetry, had held up, as we have already stated, her large
bunch of roses to Djalma. But the prince, at sight of the landscape
which reminded him of his country, instead of appearing sensible to this
pretty, provocation, remained for some minutes as in a dream, with his
eyes fixed upon the stage. Then Rose-Pompon began to beat time on the
front of the box with her bouquet, whilst the somewhat too visible
movement of her pretty shoulders showed that this devoted dancer was
thinking of fast-life dances, as the orchestra struck up a more lively
strain.
Placed directly opposite the box in which Faringhea, Djalma, and Rose
Pompon had just taken their seats, Lady Morinval soon perceived
the arrival of these two personages, and particularly the eccentric
coquetries of Rose-Pompon. Immediately, the young marchioness, leaning
over towards Mdlle. de Cardoville, who was still absorbed in memories
ineffable, said to her, laughing: “My dear, the most amusing part of the
performance is not upon the stage. Look just opposite.”
“Just opposite?” repeated Adrienne, mechanically: and, turning towards
Lady Morinval with an air of surprise, she glanced in the direction
pointed out.
She looked--what did she see?--Djalma seated by the side of a young
woman, who was familiarly offering to his sense of smell the perfume
of her bouquet. Amazed, struck almost literally to the heart, as by an
electric shock, swift, sharp, and painful, Adrienne became deadly pale.
From instinct, she shut her eyes for a second, in order not to see--as
men try to ward off the dagger, which, having once dealt the blow,
threatens to strike again. Then suddenly, to this feeling of grief
succeeded a reflection, terrible both to her love and to her wounded
pride.
“Djalma is present with this woman, though he must have received my
letter,” she said to herself,--“wherein he was informed of the happiness
that awaited him.”
At the idea of so cruel an insult, a blush of shame and indignation
displaced Adrienne’s paleness, who overwhelmed by this sad reality, said
to herself: “Rodin did not deceive me.”
We abandon all idea of picturing the lightning-like rapidity of certain
emotions which in a moment may torture--may kill you in the space of a
minute. Thus Adrienne was precipitated from the most radiant happiness
to the lowest depths of an abyss of the most heart-rending grief, in
less than a second; for a second had hardly elapsed before she replied
to Lady Morinval: “What is there, then, so curious, opposite to us, my
dear Julia?”
This evasive question gave Adrienne time to recover her self-possession.
Fortunately, thanks to the thick folds of hair which almost entirely
concealed her cheeks, the rapid and sudden changes from pallor to blush
escaped the notice of Lady Morinval, who gayly replied: “What, my dear,
do you not perceive those East Indians, who have just entered the box
immediately opposite to ours? There, just before us!”
“Yes, I see them; but what then?” replied Adrienne, in a firm tone.
“And don’t you observe anything remarkable?” said the marchioness.
“Don’t be too hard, ladies,” laughingly interposed the marquis; “we
ought to allow the poor foreigners some little indulgence. They are
ignorant of our manners and customs; were it not for that, they would
never appear in the face of all Paris in such dubious company.”
“Indeed,” said Adrienne, with a bitter smile, “their simplicity is
touching; we must pity them.”
“And, unfortunately, the girl is charming, spite of her low dress and
bare arms,” said the marchioness; “she cannot be more than sixteen or
seventeen at most. Look at her, my dear Adrienne; what a pity!”
“It is one of your charitable days, my dear Julia,” answered Adrienne;
“we are to pity the Indians, to pity this creature, and--pray, whom else
are we to pity?”
“We will not pity that handsome Indian, in his red-and-gold turban,”
said the marquis, laughing, “for, if this goes on, the girl with the
cherry colored ribbons will be giving him a kiss. See how she leans
towards her sultan.”
“They are very amusing,” said the marchioness, sharing the hilarity
of her husband, and looking at Rose-Pompom through her glass; then she
resumed, in about a minute, addressing herself to Adrienne: “I am quite
certain of one thing. Notwithstanding her giddy airs, that girl is very
fond of her Indian. I just saw a look that expresses a great deal.”
“Why so much penetration, my dear Julia?” said Adrienne, mildly; “what
interest have we to read the heart of that girl?”
“Why, if she loves her sultan, she is quite in the right,” said the
marquis, looking through his opera-glass in turn; “for, in my whole
life, I never saw a more handsome fellow than that Indian. I can only
catch his side-face, but the profile is pure and fine as an antique
cameo. Do you not think so?” added the marquis, leaning towards
Adrienne. “Of course, it is only as a matter of art, that I permit
myself to ask you the question.”
“As a work of art,” answered Adrienne, “it is certainly very fine.”
“But see!” said the marchioness; “how impertinent the little creature
is!--She is actually staring at us.”
“Well!” said the marquis; “and she is actually laying her hand quite
unceremoniously on her sultan’s shoulder, to make him share, no doubt,
in her admiration of you ladies.”
In fact, Djalma, until now occupied with the contemplation of the
scene which reminded him of his country, had remained insensible to the
enticements of Rose-Pompon, and had not yet perceived Adrienne.
“Well, now!” said Rose-Pompon, bustling herself about in front of the
box, and continuing to stare at Mdlle. de Cardoville, for it was she,
and not the marchioness, who now drew her attention; “that is something
quite out of the common way--a pretty woman, with red hair; but such
sweet red, it must be owned. Look, Prince Charming!”
And so saying, she tapped Djalma lightly on the shoulder; he started at
these words, turned round, and for the first time perceived Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
Though he had been almost prepared for this meeting, the prince was so
violently affected by it, that he was about involuntarily to rise, in
a state of the utmost confusion; but he felt the iron hand of Faringhea
laid heavily on his shoulder, and heard him whisper in Hindostanee:
“Courage! and by to-morrow she will be at your feet.”
As Djalma still struggled to rise, the half-caste added to restrain him:
“Just now, she grew pale and red with jealousy. No weakness, or all is
lost!”
“So! there you are again, talking your dreadful gibberish,” said Rose
Pompon, turning round towards Faringhea. “First of all, it is not
polite; and then the language is so odd, that one might suppose you were
cracking nuts.”
“I spoke of you to my master,” said the half-caste; “he is preparing a
surprise for you.”
“A surprise? oh! that is different. Only make haste--do you hear, Prince
Charming!” added she, looking tenderly at Djalma.
“My heart is breaking,” said Djalma, in a hollow voice to Faringhea,
still using the language of India.
“But to-morrow it will bound with joy and love,” answered the
half-caste. “It is only by disdain that you can conquer a proud woman.
To-morrow, I tell you, she will be trembling, confused, supplicating, at
your feet!”
“To-morrow, she will hate me like death!” replied the prince,
mournfully.
“Yes, were she now to see you weak and cowardly. It is now too late to
draw back; look full at her, take the nosegay from this girl, and raise
it to your lips. Instantly, you will see yonder woman, proud as she is,
grow pale and red, as just now. Then will you believe me?”
Reduced by despair to make almost any attempt, and fascinated, in spite
of himself, by the diabolical hints of Faringhea, Djalma looked for a
second full at Mdlle. de Cardoville; then, with a trembling hand he took
the bouquet from Rose-Pompon, and, again looking at Adrienne, pressed it
to his lips.
Upon this insolent bravado, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not restrain so
sudden and visible a pang, that the prince was struck by it.
“She is yours,” said the half-caste, to him. “Did you see, my lord, how
she trembled with jealousy?--Only have courage! and she is yours. She
will soon prefer you to that handsome young man behind her--for it is he
whom she has hitherto fancied herself in love with.”
As if the half-caste had guessed the movement of rage and hatred, which
this revelation would excite in the heart of the prince, he hastily
added: “Calmness and disdain! Is it not his turn now to hate you?”
The prince restrained himself, and drew his hand across his forehead
which glowed with anger.
“There now! what are you telling him, that vexes him so?” said Rose
Pompon to Faringhea, with pouting lip. Then, addressing Djalma, she
continued: “Come, Prince Charming, as they say in the fairy-tale, give
me back my flowers.”
As she took it again, she added: “You have kissed it, and I could almost
eat it.” Then, with a sigh, and a passionate glance at Djalma, she said
softly to herself: “That monster Ninny Moulin did not deceive me. All
this is quite proper; I have not even that to reproach myself with.” And
with her little white teeth, she bit at a rosy nail of her right hand,
from which she had just drawn the glove.
It is hardly necessary to say, that Adrienne’s letter had not been
delivered to the prince, and that he had not gone to pass the day in the
country with Marshal Simon. During the three days in which Montbron had
not seen Djalma, Faringhea had persuaded him, that, by affecting another
passion, he would bring Mdlle. de Cardoville to terms. With regard
to Djalma’s presence at the theatre, Rodin had learned from her maid,
Florine, that her mistress was to go in the evening to the Porte-Saint
Martin. Before Djalma had recognized her, Adrienne, who felt her
strength failing her, was on the point of quitting the theatre; the man,
whom she had hitherto placed so high, whom she had regarded as a hero
and a demi-god and whom she had imagined plunged in such dreadful
despair, that, led by the most tender pity, she had written to him with
simple frankness, that a sweet hope might calm his grief--replied to
a generous mark of sincerity and love, by making himself a ridiculous
spectacle with a creature unworthy of him. What incurable wounds for
Adrienne’s pride! It mattered little, whether Djalma knew or not, that
she would be a spectator of the indignity. But when she saw herself
recognized by the prince, when he carried the insult so far as to look
full at her, and, at the same time, raise to his lips the creature’s
bouquet who accompanied him, Adrienne was seized with noble indignation,
and felt sufficient courage to remain: instead of closing her eyes to
evidence, she found a sort of barbarous pleasure in assisting at the
agony and death of her pure and divine love. With head erect, proud and
flashing eye, flushed cheek, and curling lip, she looked in her turn at
the prince with disdainful steadiness. It was with a sardonic smile that
she said to the marchioness, who, like many others of the spectators
was occupied with what was passing in the stage-box: “This revolting
exhibition of savage manners is at least in accordance with the rest of
the performance.”
“Certainly,” said the marchioness; “and my dear uncle will have lost,
perhaps, the most amusing part.”
“Montbron?” said Adrienne, hastily, with hardly repressed bitterness;
“yes, he will regret not having seen all. I am impatient for his
arrival. Is it not to him that I am indebted for his charming evening?”
Perhaps Madame de Morinval would have remarked the expression of bitter
irony, that Adrienne could not altogether dissemble, if suddenly a
hoarse and prolonged roar had net attracted her attention, as well
as that of the rest of the audience, who had hitherto been quite
indifferent to the scenes intended for an introduction to the appearance
of Morok. Every eye was now turned instinctively towards the cavern
situated to the left of the stage, just below Mdlle. de Cardoville’s
box; a thrill of curiosity ran through the house. A second roar, deeper
and more sonorous, and apparently expressive of more irritation than
the first, now rose from the cave, the mouth of which was half-hidden
by artificial brambles, made so as to be easily put on one side. At this
sound, the Englishman stood up in his little box, leaned half over the
front, and began to rub his hands with great energy; then, remaining
perfectly motionless, he fixed his large, green, glittering eyes on the
mouth of the cavern.
At these ferocious howlings, Djalma also had started, notwithstanding
the frenzy of love, hate, and jealousy, to which he was a prey. The
sight of this forest, and the roarings of the panther, filled him with
deep emotion, for they recalled the remembrance of his country, and of
those great hunts which, like war, have their own terrible excitement.
Had he suddenly heard the horns and gongs of his father’s army sounding
to the charge, he could not have been transported with more savage
ardor. And now deep growls, like distant thunder, almost drowned the
roar of the panther. The lion and tiger, Judas and Cain answered her
from their dens at the back of the stage. On this frightful concert,
with which his ears had been familiar in the midst of the solitudes of
India, when he lay encamped, for the purposes of the chase or of war,
Djalma’s blood boiled in his veins. His eyes sparkled with a wild ardor.
Leaning a little forward, with both hands pressed on the front of the
box, his whole body trembled with a convulsive shudder. The audience,
the theatre, Adrienne herself no longer existed for him; he was in a
forest of his own lands, tracking the tiger.
Then there mingled with his beauty so intrepid and ferocious an
expression, that Rose-Pompon looked at him with a sort of terror and
passionate admiration. For the first time in her life, perhaps, her
pretty blue eyes, generally so gay and mischievous; expressed a serious
emotion. She could not explain what she felt; but her heart seemed
frightened, and beat violently, as though some calamity were at hand.
Yielding to a movement of involuntary fear, she seized Djalma by the
arm, and said to him: “Do not stare so into that cavern; you frighten
me.”
Djalma did not hear what she said.
“Here he is! here he is!” murmured the crowd, almost with one voice, as
Morok appeared at the back of the stage.
Dressed as we have described, Morok now carried in addition a bow and
a long quiver full of arrows. He slowly descended the line of painted
rocks, which came sloping down towards the centre of the stage. From
time to time, he stopped as if to listen, and appeared to advance with
caution. Looking from one side to the other, his eyes involuntarily
encountered the large, green eyes of the Englishman, whose box was close
to the cavern. Instantly the lion-tamer’s countenance was contracted in
so frightful a manner, that Lady Morinval, who was examining him closely
with the aid of an excellent glass, said hastily to Adrienne: “My dear,
the man is afraid. Some misfortune will happen.”
“How can accidents happen,” said Adrienne, with a sardonic smile,
“in the midst of this brilliant crowd, so well dressed and full of
animation! Misfortunes here, this evening! why, dear Julia, you do not
think it. It is in darkness and solitude that misfortunes come--never in
the midst of a joyous crowd, and in all this blaze of light.”
“Good gracious, Adrienne! take care!” cried the marchioness, unable to
repress an exclamation of alarm, and seizing her arm, as if to draw her
closer; “do you not see it?” And with a trembling hand, she pointed to
the cavern’s mouth. Adrienne hastily bent forward, and looked in that
direction. “Take care, do not lean so forward!” exclaimed Lady Morinval.
“Your terrors are nonsensical, my dear,” said the marquis to his wife.
“The panther is securely chained; and even were it to break its chains
(which is impossible), we are here beyond its reach.”
A long murmur of trembling curiosity here ran through the house, and
every eye was intently fixed on the cavern. From amongst the artificial
brambles, which she abruptly pushed aside with her broad chest, the
black panther suddenly appeared. Twice she stretched forth her flat
head, illumined by yellow, flaming eyes; then, half-opening her
blood-red jaws, she uttered another roar, and exhibited two rows of
formidable fangs. A double iron chain, and a collar also of iron,
painted black, blended with the ebon shades of her hide, and with the
darkness of the cavern. The illusion was complete, and the terrible
animal seemed to be at liberty in her den.
“Ladies,” said the marquis, suddenly, “look at those Indians. Their
emotion makes them superb!”
In fact, the sight of the panther had raised the wild ardor of Djalma
to its utmost pitch. His eyes sparkled in their pearly orbits like two
black diamonds; his upper lip was curled convulsively with an expression
of animal ferocity, as if he were in a violent paroxysm of rage.
Faringhea, now leaning on the front of the box, was also greatly
excited, by reason of a strange coincidence. “That black panther of so
rare a breed,” thought he, “which I see here at Paris, upon the stage,
must be the very one that the Malay”--the Thug who had tatooed Djalma
at Java during his sleep--“took quite young from his den, and sold to a
European captain. Bowanee’s power is everywhere!” added the Thug, in his
sanguinary superstition.
“Do you not think,” resumed the marquis, addressing Adrienne, “that
those Indians are really splendid in their present attitude?”
“Perhaps they may have seen such a hunt in their own country,” said
Adrienne, as if she would recall and brave the most cruel remembrances.
“Adrienne,” said the marchioness, suddenly, in an agitated voice, “the
lion-tamer has now come nearer--is not his countenance fearful to look
at?--I tell you he is afraid.”
“In truth,” observed the marquis, this time very seriously, “he is
dreadfully pale, and seems to grow worse every minute, the nearer he
approaches this side. It is said that, were he to lose his presence of
mind for a single moment, he would run the greatest danger.”
“O! it would be horrible!” cried the marchioness, addressing Adrienne,
“if he were wounded--there--under our eyes!”
“Every wound does not kill,” replied her friend, with an accent of such
cold indifference, that the marchioness looked at her with surprise, and
said to her: “My dear girl, what you say there is cruel!”
“It is the air of the place that acts on me,” answered Adrienne, with an
icy smile.
“Look! look! the lion-tamer is about to shoot his arrow at the panther,”
said the marquis, suddenly. “No doubt, he will next perform the hand to
hand grapple.”
Morok was at this moment in front of the stage, but he had yet to
traverse its entire breadth to reach the cavern’s mouth. He stopped an
instant, adjusted an arrow to the string, knelt down behind a mass of
rock, took deliberate aim--and then the arrow hissed across the stage,
and was lost in the depths of the cavern, into which the panther
had retired, after showing for a moment her threatening head to the
audience. Hardly had the arrow disappeared, than Death, purposely
irritated by Goliath (who was invisible) sent forth a howl of rage, as
if she had been really wounded. Morok’s actions became so expressive,
he evinced so naturally his joy at having hit the wild beast, that
a tempest of applause burst from every quarter of the house. Then,
throwing away his bow, he drew a dagger from his girdle, took it between
his teeth, and began to crawl forward on hands and knees, as though he
meant to surprise the wounded panther in his den. To render the illusion
perfect, Death, again excited by Goliath, who struck him with an iron
bar, sent forth frightful howlings from the depths of the cavern.
The gloomy aspect of the forest, only half-lighted with a reddish glare,
was so effective--the howlings of the panther were so furious--the
gestures, attitude, and countenance of Morok were so expressive of
terror, that the audience, attentive and trembling, now maintained a
profound silence. Every one held his breath, and a kind of shudder came
over the spectators, as though they expected some horrible event. What
gave such a fearful air of truth to the pantomime of Morok, was that,
as he approached the cavern step by step, he approached also the
Englishman’s box. In spite of himself, the lion-tamer, fascinated by
terror, could not take his eyes from the large green eyes of this man,
and it seemed as if every one of the abrupt movements which he made in
crawling along, was produced by a species of magnetic attraction, caused
by the fixed gaze of the fatal wagerer. Therefore, the nearer Morok
approached, the more ghastly and livid he became. At sight of this
pantomime, which was no longer acting, but the real expression of
intense fear, the deep and trembling silence which had reigned in the
theatre was once more interrupted by acclamations, with which were
mingled the roarings of the panther, and the distant growls of the lion
and tiger.
The Englishman leaned almost out of his box, with a frightful sardonic
smile on his lip, and with his large eyes still fixed, panted for
breath. The perspiration ran down his bald red forehead, as if he had
really expended an incredible amount of magnetic power in attracting
Morok, whom he now saw close to the cavern entrance. The moment was
decisive. Crouching down with his dagger in his hand, following with eye
and gesture Death’s every movement, who, roaring furiously, and opening
wide her enormous jaws, seemed determined to guard the entrance of
her den, Morok waited for the moment to rush upon her. There is such
fascination in danger, that Adrienne shared, in spite of herself, the
feeling of painful curiosity, mixed with terror, that thrilled through
all the spectators. Leaning forward like the marchioness, and gazing
upon this scene of fearful interest, the lady still held mechanically in
her hand the Indian bouquet preserved since the morning. Suddenly,
Morok raised a wild shout, as he rushed towards Death, who answered this
exclamation by a dreadful roar, and threw herself upon her master with
so much fury, that Adrienne, in alarm, believing the man lost, drew
herself back, and covered her fact with her hands. Her flowers slipped
from her grasp, and, falling upon the stage, rolled into the cavern in
which Morok was struggling with the panther.
Quick as lightning, supple and agile as a tiger, yielding to the
intoxication of his love, and to the wild ardor excited in him by the
roaring of the panther, Djalma sprang at one bound upon the stage, drew
his dagger, and rushed into the cavern to recover Adrienne’s nosegay. At
that instant, Morok, being wounded, uttered a dreadful cry for help; the
panther, rendered still more furious at sight of Djalma, make the most
desperate efforts to break her chain. Unable to succeed in doing so, she
rose upon her hind legs, in order to seize Djalma, then within reach of
her sharp claws. It was only by bending down his head, throwing himself
on his knees, and twice plunging his dagger into her belly with the
rapidity of lightning, that Djalma escaped certain death. The panther
gave a howl, and fell with her whole weight upon the prince. For a
second, during which lasted her terrible agony, nothing was seen but a
confused and convulsive mass of black limbs, and white garments
stained with blood--and then Djalma rose, pale, bleeding, for he was
wounded--and standing erect, his eye flashing with savage pride, his
foot on the body of the panther, he held in his hand Adrienne’s bouquet,
and cast towards her a glance which told the intensity of his love.
Then only did Adrienne feel her strength fail her--for only superhuman
courage had enabled her to watch all the terrible incidents of the
struggle.
BOOK IX.
XV. The Constant Wanderer XVI. The Luncheon XVII. Rendering
the Account XVIII. The Square of Notre Dame XIX. The Cholera
Masquerade XX. The Defiance XXI. Brandy to the Rescue XXII.
Memories XXIII. The Poisoner XXIV. In the Cathedral XXV. The
Murderers XXVI. The Patient XXVII. The Lure XXVIII. Good
News XXIX. The Operation XXX. The Torture XXXI. Vice and
Virtue XXXII. Suicide
CHAPTER XV. THE CONSTANT WANDERER.
It is night. The moon shines and the stars glimmer in the midst of a
serene but cheerless sky; the sharp whistlings of the north wind, that
fatal, dry, and icy breeze, ever and anon burst forth in violent gusts.
With its harsh and cutting breath, it sweeps Montmartre’s Heights. On
the highest point of the hills, a man is standing. His long shadow is
cast upon the stony, moon-lit ground. He gazes on the immense city,
which lies outspread beneath his feet. PARIS--with the dark outline of
its towers, cupolas, domes, and steeples, standing out from the limpid
blue of the horizon, while from the midst of the ocean of masonry, rises
a luminous vapor, that reddens the starry azure of the sky. It is the
distant reflection of the thousand fires, which at night, the hour of
pleasures, light up so joyously the noisy capital.
“No,” said the wayfarer; “it is not to be. The Lord will not exact it.
Is not twice enough?
“Five centuries ago, the avenging hand of the Almighty drove me hither
from the uttermost confines of Asia. A solitary traveller, I had left
behind me more grief, despair, disaster, and death, than the innumerable
armies of a hundred devastating conquerors. I entered this town, and it
too was decimated.
“Again, two centuries ago, the inexorable hand, which leads me through
the world, brought me once more hither; and then, as the time before,
the plague, which the Almighty attaches to my steps, again ravaged this
city, and fell first on my brethren, already worn out with labor and
misery.
“My brethren--mine?--the cobbler of Jerusalem, the artisan accursed by
the Lord, who, in my person, condemned the whole race of workmen,
ever suffering, ever disinherited, ever in slavery, toiling on like me
without rest or pause, without recompense or hope, till men, women,
and children, young and old, all die beneath the same iron yoke--that
murderous yoke, which others take in their turn, thus to be borne from
age to age on the submissive and bruised shoulders of the masses.
“And now, for the third time in five centuries, I reach the summit of
one of the hills that overlook the city. And perhaps I again bring with
me fear, desolation, and death.
“Yet this city, intoxicated with the sounds of its joys and its
nocturnal revelries, does not know--oh! does not know that I am at its
gates.
“But no, no! my presence will not be a new calamity. The Lord, in his
impenetrable views, has hitherto led me through France, so as to
avoid the humblest hamlet; and the sound of the funeral knell has not
accompanied my passage.
“And, moreover, the spectre has left me--the green, livid spectre, with
its hollow, bloodshot eyes. When I touched the soil of France, its damp
and icy hands was no longer clasped in mine--and it disappeared.
“And yet--I feel that the atmosphere of death is around me.
“The sharp whistlings of that fatal wind cease not, which, catching me
in their whirl, seem to propagate blasting and mildew as they blow.
“But perhaps the wrath of the Lord is appeased, and my presence here is
only a threat--to be communicated in some way to those whom it should
intimidate.
“Yes; for otherwise he would smite with a fearful blow, by first
scattering terror and death here in the heart of the country, in the
bosom of this immense city!
“Oh! no, no! the Lord will be merciful. No! he will not condemn me to
this new torture.
“Alas! in this city, my brethren are more numerous and miserable than
elsewhere. And should I be their messenger of death?”
“No! the Lord will have pity. For, alas! the seven descendants of my
sister have at length met in this town. And to them likewise should I be
the messenger of death, instead of the help they so much need?
“For that woman, who like me wanders from one border of the earth to the
other, after having once more rent asunder the nets of their enemies,
has gone forth upon her endless journey.
“In vain she foresaw that new misfortunes threatened my sister’s family.
The invisible hand, that drives me on, drives her on also.
“Carried away, as of old, by the irresistible whirlwind, at the moment
of leaving my kindred to their fate, she in vain cried with supplicating
tone: ‘Let me at least, O Lord, complete my task!’--‘GO ON!--‘A few
days, in mercy, only a few poor days!’--‘GO ON’--‘I leave those I love
on the brink of the abyss!’--‘GO ON! GO ON!’
“And the wandering star--again started on its eternal round. And her
voice, passing through space, called me to the assistance of mine own.
“When that voice readied me, I knew that the descendants of my sister
were still exposed to frightful perils. Those perils are even now on the
increase.
“Tell me, O Lord! will they escape the scourge, which for so many
centuries has weighed down our race?
“Wilt thou pardon me in them? wilt thou punish me in them? Oh, that they
might obey the last will of their ancestor!
“Oh, that they might join together their charitable hearts, their valor
and their strength, their noble intelligence, and their great riches!
“They would then labor for the future happiness of humanity--they would
thus, perhaps, redeem me from my eternal punishment!
“The words of the Son of Man, LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER, will be their only
end, their only means.
“By the help of those all-powerful words, they will fight and conquer
the false priests, who have renounced the precepts of love, peace, and
hope, for lessons of hatred, violence, and despair.
“Those false priests, who, kept in pay by the powerful and happy of this
world, their accomplices in every age, instead of asking here below for
some slight share of well-being for my unfortunate brethren, dare in
thy name, O Lord God, to assert that the poor are condemned to endless
suffering in this world--and that the desire or the hope to suffer less
is a crime in thine eyes--because the happiness of the few, and the
misery of nearly the whole human race, is (O blasphemy!) according to
thy will. Is not the very contrary of those murderous words alone worthy
of divinity!
“In mercy, hear me, Lord! Rescue from their enemies the descendants of
my sister--the artisan as the king’s son. Do not let them destroy the
germ of so mighty and fruitful an association, which, with thy blessing,
would make an epoch in the annals of human happiness!
“Let me unite them, O Lord, since others would divide them--defend them,
since others attack; let me give hope to those who have ceased to hope,
courage to those who are brought low with fear--let me raise up the
falling, and sustain those who persevere in the way of the righteous!
“And, peradventure, their struggles, devotion, virtue, and grief, may
expiate my fault--that of a man, whom misfortune alone rendered unjust
and wicked.
“Oh! since Thy Almighty hand hath led me hither--to what end I know
not--lay aside Thy wrath, I beseech Thee--let me be no longer the
instrument of Thy vengeance!
“Enough of woe upon the earth! for the last two years, Thy creatures
have fallen by thousands upon my track. The world is decimated. A veil
of mourning extends over all the globe.
“From Asia to the icy Pole, they died upon the path of the wanderer.
Dost Thou not hear the long-drawn sigh that rises from the earth unto
Thee, O Lord?
“Mercy for all! mercy for me!--Let me but unite the descendants of my
sister for a single day, and they will be saved!”
As he pronounced these words, the wayfarer sank upon his knees, and
raised to heaven, his supplicating hands. Suddenly, the wind blew with
redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings were changed into the roar of a
tempest.
The traveller shuddered; in a voice of terror he exclaimed: “The blast
of death rises in its fury--the whirlwind carries me on--Lord! Thou art
then deaf to my prayer?”
“The spectre! oh, the spectre! it is again here! its green face
twitching with convulsive spasms--its red eyes rolling in their orbits.
Begone! begone!--its hand, oh! its icy hand has again laid hold of mine.
Have mercy, heaven!”
“GO ON!”
“Oh, Lord! the pestilence--the terrible plague--must I carry it into
this city?--And my brethren will perish the first--they, who are so
sorely smitten even now! Mercy!”
“GO ON!”
“And the descendants of my sister. Mercy! Mercy!”
“GO ON!”
“Oh, Lord, have pity!--I can no longer keep my ground; the spectre drags
me to the slope of the hill; my walk is rapid as the deadly blast that
rages behind me; already do I behold the city gates. Have mercy, Lord,
on the descendants of my sister! Spare them; do not make me their
executioner; let them triumph over their enemies!”
“GO ON! GO ON!”
“The ground flies beneath my feet; there is the city gate. Lord, it is
yet time! Oh, mercy for that sleeping town! Let it not waken to cries
of terror, despair, and death! Lord, I am on the threshold. Must it
be?--Yes, it is done. Paris, the plague is in thy bosom. The curse--oh,
the eternal curse!”
“GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!”
CHAPTER XVI. THE LUNCHEON.
The morning after the doomed traveller, descending the heights of
Montmartre, had entered the walls of Paris, great activity reigned in
St. Dizier House. Though it was hardly noon, the Princess de St. Dizier,
without being exactly in full dress (she had too much taste for that),
was yet arrayed with more care than usual. Her light hair, instead of
being merely banded, was arranged in two bunches of curls, which suited
very well with her full and florid cheeks. Her cap was trimmed with
bright rose-colored ribbon, and whoever had seen the lady in her tight
fitting dress of gray-watered silk would have easily guessed that
Mrs. Grivois, her tirewoman, must have required the assistance and the
efforts of another of the princess’s women to achieve so remarkable a
reduction in the ample figure of their mistress.
We shall explain the edifying cause of this partial return to the
vanities of the world. The princess, attended by Mrs. Grivois, who
acted as housekeeper, was giving her final orders with regard to some
preparations that were going on in a vast parlor. In the midst of this
room was a large round table, covered with crimson velvet, and near it
stood several chairs, amongst which, in the place of honor, was an arm
chair of gilded wood. In one corner, not far from the chimney, in which
burned an excellent fire, was a buffet. On it were the divers materials
for a most dainty and exquisite collation. Upon silver dishes were piled
pyramids of sandwiches composed of the roes of carp and anchovy paste,
with slices of pickled tunny-fish and Lenigord truffles (it was in
Lent); on silver dishes, placed over burning spirits of wine, so as to
keep them very hot, tails of Meuse crawfish boiled in cream, smoked in
golden colored pastry, and seemed to challenge comparison with delicious
little Marennes oyster-patties, stewed in Madeira, and flavored with a
seasoning of spiced sturgeon. By the side of these substantial
dishes were some of a lighter character, such as pineapple tarts,
strawberry-creams (it was early for such fruit), and orange-jelly served
in the peel, which had been artistically emptied for that purpose.
Bordeaux, Madeira, and Alicant sparkled like rubies and topazes in large
glass decanters, while two Sevres ewers were filled, one with coffee
a la creme, the other with vanilla chocolate, almost in the state of
sherbet, from being plunged in a large cooler of chiselled silver,
containing ice.
But what gave to this dainty collation a singularly apostolic and
papal character were sundry symbols of religious worship carefully
represented. Thus there were charming little Calvaries in apricot paste,
sacerdotal mitres in burnt almonds, episcopal croziers in sweet cake,
to which the princess added, as a mark of delicate attention, a little
cardinal’s hat in cherry sweetmeat, ornamented with bands in burnt
sugar. The most important, however, of these Catholic delicacies, the
masterpiece of the cook, was a superb crucifix in angelica, with a crown
of candied berries. These are strange profanations, which scandalize
even the least devout. But, from the impudent juggle of the coat of
Triers, down to the shameless jest of the shrine at Argenteuil, people,
who are pious after the fashion of the princess, seem to take delight in
bringing ridicule upon the most respectable traditions.
After glancing with an air of satisfaction at these preparations for the
collation, the lady said to Mrs. Grivois, as she pointed to the gilded
arm-chair, which seemed destined for the president of the meeting: “Is
there a cushion under the table, for his Eminence to rest his feet on?
He always complains of cold.”
“Yes, your highness,” said Mrs. Grivois, when she had looked under the
table; “the cushion is there.”
“Let also a pewter bottle be filled with boiling water, in case his
Eminence should not find the cushion enough to keep his feet warm.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And put some more wood on the fire.”
“But, my lady, it is already a very furnace. And if his Eminence is
always too cold, my lord the Bishop of Halfagen is always too hot. He
perspires dreadfully.”
The princess shrugged her shoulders, and said to Mrs. Grivois: “Is not
his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri the superior of his Lordship the Bishop
of Halfagen?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Then, according to the rules of the hierarchy, it is for his Lordship
to suffer from the heat, rather than his Eminence from the cold.
Therefore, do as I tell you, and put more wood on the fire. Nothing is
more natural; his Eminence being an Italian, and his Lordship
coming from the north of Belgium, they are accustomed to different
temperatures.”
“Just as your highness pleases,” said Mrs. Grivois, as she placed two
enormous logs on the fire; “but in such a heat as there is here his
Lordship might really be suffocated.”
“I also find it too warm; but does not our holy religion teach us
lessons of self-sacrifice and mortification?” said the princess, with a
touching expression of devotion.
We have now explained the cause of the rather gay attire of the
princess. She was preparing for a reception of prelates, who, along with
Father d’Aigrigny and other dignitaries of the Church, had already held
at the princely house a sort of council on a small scale. A young bride
who gives her first ball, an emancipated minor who gives his first
bachelor’s dinner, a woman of talent who reads aloud for the first time
her first unpublished work, are not more joyous and proud, and, at the
same time, more attentive to their guests, than was this lady with her
prelates. To behold great interests discussed in her house, and in
her presence, to hear men of acknowledged ability ask her advice
upon certain practical matters relating to the influence of female
congregations, filled the princess with pride, as her claims to
consideration were thus sanctioned by Lordships and Eminences, and she
took the position, as it were, of a mother of the Church. Therefore, to
win these prelates, whether native or foreign, she had recourse to no
end of saintly flatteries and sanctified coaxing. Nor could anything be
more logical than these successive transfigurations of this heartless
woman, who only loved sincerely and passionately the pursuit of intrigue
and domination. With the progress of age, she passed naturally from the
intrigues of love to those of politics, and from the latter to those of
religion.
At the moment she finished inspecting her preparations, the sound of
coaches was heard in the courtyard, apprising her of the arrival of the
persons she had been expecting. Doubtless, these persons were of the
highest rank, for contrary to all custom, she went to receive them at
the door of her outer saloon. It was, indeed, Cardinal Malipieri, who
was always cold, with the Belgian Bishop of Halfagen, who was always
hot. They were accompanied by Father d’Aigrigny. The Roman cardinal was
a tall man, rather bony than thin, with a yellowish puffy countenance,
haughty and full of craft; he squinted a good deal, and his black eyes
were surrounded by a deep brown circle. The Belgian Bishop was short,
thick, and fat, with a prominent abdomen, an apoplectic complexion, a
slow, deliberate look, and a soft, dimpled, delicate hand.
The company soon assembled in the great saloon. The cardinal instantly
crept close to the fire, whilst the bishop, beginning to sweat and blow,
cast longing glances at the iced chocolate and coffee, which were to aid
him in sustaining the oppressive heat of the artificial dog-day. Father
d’Aigrigny, approaching the princess, said to her in a low voice: “Will
you give orders for the admittance of Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont, when he
arrives?”
“Is that young priest then here?” asked the princess, with extreme
surprise.
“Since the day before yesterday. We had him sent for to Paris, by his
superiors. You shall know all. As for Father Rodin, let Mrs. Grivois
admit him, as the other day, by the little door of the back stairs.”
“He will come to-day?”
“He has very important matters to communicate. He desires that both the
cardinal and the bishop should be present for they have been informed
of everything at Rome by the Superior General, in their quality of
associates.”
The princess rang the bell, gave the necessary orders, and, returning
towards the cardinal, said to him, in a tone of the most earnest
solicitude: “Does your Eminence begin to feel a little warmer? Would
your Eminence like a bottle of hot water to your feet? Shall we make a
larger fire for your Eminence?”
At this proposition, the Belgian bishop, who was wiping the perspiration
from his forehead, heaved a despairing sigh.
“A thousand thanks, princess,” answered the cardinal to her, in very
good French, but with an intolerable Italian accent; “I am really
overcome with so much kindness.”
“Will not your Lordship take some refreshment?” said the princess to the
bishop, as she turned towards the sideboard.
“With your permission, madame, I will take a little iced coffee,” said
the prelate, making a prudent circuit to approach the dishes without
passing before the fire.
“And will not your Eminence try one of these little oyster-patties? They
are quite hot,” said the princess.
“I know them already, princess,” said the cardinal, with the air
and look of an epicure; “they are delicious, and I cannot resist the
temptation.”
“What wine shall I have the honor to offer your Eminence?” resumed the
princess, graciously.
“A little claret, if you please, madame;” and as Father d’Aigrigny
prepared to fill the cardinal’s glass, the princess disputed with him
that pleasure.
“Your Eminence will doubtless approve what I have done,” said Father
d’Aigrigny to the cardinal, whilst the latter was gravely despatching
the oyster-patties, “in not summoning for to-day the Bishop of
Mogador, the Archbishop of Nanterre, and our holy Mother Perpetue, the
lady-superior of St. Mary Convent, the interview we are about to have
with his Reverence Father Rodin and Abbe Gabriel being altogether
private and confidential.”
“Our good father was perfectly right,” said the cardinal; “for, though
the possible consequences of this Rennepont affair may interest the
whole Church, there are some things that are as well kept secret.”
“Then I must seize this opportunity to thank your Eminence for having
deigned to make an exception in favor of a very obscure and humble
servant of the Church,” said the princess to the cardinal, with a very
deep and respectful curtsey.
“It is only just and right, madame,” replied the cardinal, bowing as he
replaced his empty glass upon the table; “we know how much the Church
is indebted to you for the salutary direction you give to the religious
institutions of which you are the patroness.”
“With regard to that, your Eminence may be assured that I always refuse
assistance to any poor person who cannot produce a certificate from the
confessional.”
“And it is only thus, madame,” resumed the cardinal, this time allowing
himself to be tempted by the attractions of the crawfish’s tails, “it
is only thus that charity has any meaning. I care little that the
irreligious should feel hunger, but with the pious it is different;” and
the prelate gayly swallowed a mouthful. “Moreover,” resumed he, “it is
well known with what ardent zeal you pursue the impious, and those who
are rebels against the authority of our Holy Father.”
“Your Eminence may feel convinced that I am Roman in heart and soul;
I see no difference between a Gallican and a Turk,” said the princess,
bravely.
“The princess is right,” said the Belgian bishop: “I will go further,
and assert that a Gallican should be more odious to the church than a
pagan. In this respect I am of the opinion of Louis XIV. They asked him
a favor for a man about the court. ‘Never,’ said the great king; ‘this
person is a Jansenist.’--‘No, sire; he is an atheist.’--‘Oh! that is
different; I will grant what he asks,’ said the King.”
This little episcopal jest made them all laugh. After which Father
d’Aigrigny resumed seriously, addressing the cardinal: “Unfortunately,
as I was about to observe to your Eminence with regard to the Abbe
Gabriel, unless they are very narrowly watched, the lower clergy have
a tendency to become infected with dissenting views, and with ideas of
rebellion against what they call the despotism of the bishops.”
“This young man must be a Catholic Luther!” said the bishop. And,
walking on tip-toe, he went to pour himself out a glorious glass of
Madeira, in which he soaked some sweet cake, made in the form of a
crozier.
Led by his example, the Cardinal, under pretence of warming his feet by
drawing still closer to the fire, helped himself to an excellent glass
of old Malaga, which he swallowed by mouthfuls, with an air of profound
meditation; after which he resumed: “So this Abbe Gabriel starts as a
reformer. He must be an ambitious man. Is he dangerous?”
“By our advice his superiors have judged him to be so. They have ordered
him to come hither. He will soon be here, and I will tell your Eminence
why I have sent for him. But first, I have a note on the dangerous
tendencies of the Abbe Gabriel. Certain questions were addressed to
him, with regard to some of his acts, and it was in consequence of his
answers that his superiors recalled him.”
So saying, Father d’Aigrigny, took from his pocket-book a paper, which
he read as follows:
“‘Question.--Is it true that you performed religious rites for an
inhabitant of your parish who died in final impenitence of the most
detestable kind, since he had committed suicide?
“‘Answer of Abbe Gabriel.--I paid him the last duties, because, more
than any one else, because of his guilty end, he required the prayers of
the church. During the night which followed his interment I continually
implored for him the divine mercy.
“‘Q.--Is it true that you refused a set of silver-gilt sacramental
vessels, and other ornaments, with which one of the faithful, in pious
zeal, wished to endow your parish?
“‘A.--I refused the vessels and embellishments, because the house of the
Lord should be plain and without ornament, so as to remind the faithful
that the divine Saviour was born in a stable. I advised the person who
wished to make these useless presents to my parish to employ the money
in judicious almsgiving, assuring him it would be more agreeable to the
Lord.’”
“What a bitter and violent declamation against the adorning of our
temples!” cried the cardinal. “This young priest is most dangerous.
Continue, my good father.”
And, in his indignation, his Eminence swallowed several mouthfuls of
strawberry-cream. Father d’Aigrigny continued.
“‘Q.--Is it true that you received in your parsonage, and kept there for
some days, an inhabitant of the village, by birth a Swiss, belonging to
the Protestant communion? Is it true that not only you did not attempt
to convert him to the one Catholic and Apostolic faith, but that you
carried so far the neglect of your sacred duties as to inter this
heretic in the ground consecrated for the repose of true believers?
“‘A.--One of my brethren was houseless. His life had been honest and
laborious. In his old age his strength had failed him, and sickness had
come at the back of it; almost in a dying state, he had been driven from
his humble dwelling by a pitiless landlord, to whom he owed a year’s
rent. I received the old man in my house, and soothed his last days. The
poor creature had toiled and suffered all his life; dying, he uttered no
word of bitterness at his hard fate; he recommended his soul to God and
piously kissed the crucifix. His pure and simple spirit returned to the
bosom of its Creator. I closed his eyes with respect, I buried him, I
prayed for him; and, though he died in the Protestant faith, I thought
him worthy of a place in consecrated ground.’”
“Worse and worse!” said the cardinal. “This tolerance is monstrous. It
is a horrible attack on that maxim of Catholicism: ‘Out of the pale of
the Church there is no salvation.’”
“And all this is the more serious, my lord,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny,
“because the mildness, charity, and Christian devotion of Abbe Gabriel
have excited, not only in his parish, but in all the surrounding
districts, the greatest enthusiasm. The priests of the neighboring
parishes have yielded to the general impulse, and it must be confessed
that but for his moderation a wide-spread schism would have commenced.”
“But what do you hope will result from bringing him here?” said the
prelate.
“The position of Abbe Gabriel is complicated; first of all, he is the
heir of the Rennepont family.”
“But has he not ceded his rights?” asked the cardinal.
“Yes, my lord; and this cession, which was at first informal, has
lately, with his free consent, been made perfectly regular in law; for
he had sworn, happen what might, to renounce his part of the inheritance
in favor of the Society of Jesus. Nevertheless, his Reverence Father
Rodin thinks, that if your Eminence, after explaining to Abbe Gabriel
that he was about to be recalled by his superiors, were to propose to
him some eminent position at Rome, he might be induced to leave France,
and we might succeed in arousing within him those sentiments of ambition
which are doubtless only sleeping for the present; your Eminence, having
observed, very judiciously, that every reformer must be ambitious.”
“I approve of this idea,” said the cardinal, after a moment’s
reflection; “with his merit and power of acting on other men, Abbe
Gabriel may rise very high, if he is docile; and if he should not be so,
it is better for the safety of the Church that he should be at Rome
than here--for you know, my good father, we have securities that are
unfortunately wanting in France.” (36)
After some moments of silence, the cardinal said suddenly to Father
d’Aigrigny: “As we were talking of Father Rodin, tell me frankly what
you think of him.”
“Your Eminence knows his capacity,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with a
constrained and suspicious air; “our reverend Father-General--”
“Commissioned him to take your place,” said the cardinal; “I know that.
He told me so at Rome. But what do you think of the character of Father
Rodin? Can one have full confidence in him?”
“He has so complete, so original, so secret, and so impenetrable a
mind,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with hesitation, “that it is difficult to
form any certain judgment with respect to him.”
“Do you think him ambitious?” said the cardinal, after another moment’s
pause. “Do you not suppose him capable of having other views than those
of the greater glory of his Order?--Come, I have reasons for speaking
thus,” added the prelate, with emphasis.
“Why,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, not without suspicion, for the game
is played cautiously between people of the same craft, “what should your
Eminence think of him, either from your own observation, or from the
report of the Father-General?”
“I think--that if his apparent devotion to his Order really concealed
some after-thought--it would be well to discover it--for, with the
influence that he has obtained at Rome (as I have found out), he might
one day, and that shortly, become very formidable.”
“Well!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, impelled by his jealousy of Rodin; “I
am, in this respect, of the same opinion as your Eminence; for I have
sometimes perceived in him flashes of ambition, that were as alarming as
they were extraordinary--and since I must tell all to your Eminence--”
Father d’Aigrigny was unable to continue; at this moment Mrs. Grivois,
who had been knocking at the door, half-opened it, and made a sign to
her mistress. The princess answered by bowing her head, and Mrs. Grivois
again withdrew. A second afterwards Rodin entered the room.
(36) It is known that, in 1845, the Inquisition, solitary confinement,
etc., still existed at Rome.
CHAPTER XVII. RENDERING THE ACCOUNT.
At sight of Rodin, the two prelates and Father d’Aigrigny rose
spontaneously, so much were they overawed by the real superiority
of this man; their faces, just before contracted with suspicion and
jealousy, suddenly brightened up, and seemed to smile on the reverend
father with affectionate deference. The princess advanced some steps to
meet him.
Rodin, badly dressed as ever, leaving on the soft carpet the muddy track
of his clumsy shoes, put his umbrella into one corner, and advanced
towards the table--not with his accustomed humility, but with slow step,
uplifted head, and steady glance; not only did he feel himself in the
midst of his partisans, but he knew that he could rule them all by the
power of his intellect.
“We were speaking of your reverence, my dear, good father,” said the
cardinal, with charming affability.
“Ah!” said Rodin, looking fixedly at the prelate; “and what were you
saying?”
“Why,” replied the Belgian bishop, wiping his forehead, “all the good
that can be said of your reverence.”
“Will you not take something, my good father?” said the princess to
Rodin, as she pointed to the splendid sideboard.
“Thank you, madame, I have eaten my radish already this morning.”
“My secretary, Abbe Berlini, who was present at your repast, was,
indeed, much astonished at your reverence’s frugality,” said the
prelate: “it is worthy of an anchorite.”
“Suppose we talk of business,” said Rodin, abruptly, like a man
accustomed to lead and control the discussion.
“We shall always be most happy to hear you,” said the prelate. “Your
reverence yourself fixed to-day to talk over this great Rennepont
affair. It is of such importance, that it was partly the cause of my
journey to France; for to support the interests of the glorious Company
of Jesus, with which I have the honor of being associated, is to support
the interests of Rome itself, and I promised the reverend Father-General
that I would place myself entirely at your orders.”
“I can only repeat what his Eminence has just said,” added the bishop.
“We set out from Rome together, and our ideas are just the same.”
“Certainly,” said Rodin, addressing the cardinal, “your Eminence may
serve our cause, and that materially. I will tell you how presently.”
Then, addressing the princess, he continued: “I have desired Dr.
Baleinier to come here, madame, for it will be well to inform him of
certain things.”
“He will be admitted as usual,” said the princess.
Since Rodin’s arrival Father d’Aigrigny had remained silent; he seemed
occupied with bitter thoughts, and with some violent internal struggle.
At last, half rising, he said to the prelate, in a forced tone of voice:
“I will not ask your Eminence to judge between the reverend Father Rodin
and myself. Our General has pronounced, and I have obeyed. But, as your
Eminence will soon see our superior, I should wish that you would grant
me the favor to report faithfully the answers of Father Rodin to one or
two questions I am about to put to him.”
The prelate bowed. Rodin looked at Father d’Aigrigny with an air of
surprise, and said to him, dryly: “The thing is decided. What is the use
of questions?”
“Not to justify myself,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, “but to place
matters in their true light before his Eminence.”
“Speak, then; but let us have no useless speeches,” said Rodin, drawing
out his large silver watch, and looking at it. “By two o’clock I must be
at Saint-Sulpice.”
“I will be as brief as possible,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with repressed
resentment. Then, addressing Rodin, he resumed: “When your reverence
thought fit to take my place, and to blame, very severely perhaps,
the manner in which I had managed the interests confided to my care, I
confess honestly that these interests were gravely compromised.”
“Compromised?” said Rodin, ironically; “you mean lost. Did you not order
me to write to Rome, to bid them renounce all hope?”
“That is true,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“It was then a desperate case, given up by the best doctors,” continued
Rodin, with irony, “and yet I have undertaken to restore it to life. Go
on.”
And, plunging both hands into the pockets of his trousers, he looked
Father d’Aigrigny full in the face.
“Your reverence blamed me harshly,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “not for
having sought, by every possible means, to recover the property odiously
diverted from our society--”
“All your casuists authorize you to do so,” said the cardinal; “the
texts are clear and positive; you have a right to recover; per fas aut
nefas what has been treacherously taken from you.”
“And therefore,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “Father Rodin only
reproached me with the military roughness of my means. ‘Their violence,’
he said, ‘was in dangerous opposition to the manners of the age.’ Be it
so; but first of all, I could not be exposed to any legal proceedings,
and, but for one fatal circumstance, success would have crowned the
course I had taken, however rough and brutal it may appear. Now, may I
ask your reverence what--”
“What I have done more than you?” said Rodin to Father d’Aigrigny,
giving way to his impertinent habit of interrupting people; “what I have
done better than you?--what step I have taken in the Rennepont affair,
since I received it from you in a desperate condition? Is that what you
wish to know?”
“Precisely,” said Father d’Aigrigny, dryly.
“Well, I confess,” resumed Rodin, in a sardonic tone, “just as you did
great things, coarse things, turbulent things, I have been doing little,
puerile, secret things. Oh, heaven! you cannot imagine what a foolish
part I, who passed for a man of enlarged views, have been acting for the
last six weeks.”
“I should never have allowed myself to address such a reproach to your
reverence, however deserved it may appear,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with
a bitter smile.
“A reproach?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders; “a reproach? You
shall be the judge. Do you know what I wrote about you, some six weeks
ago? Here it is: ‘Father d’Aigrigny has excellent qualities. He will
be of much service to me’--and from to-morrow I shall employ you very
actively, added Rodin, by way of parenthesis--‘but he is not great
enough to know how to make himself little on occasion.’ Do you
understand?”
“Not very well,” said Father d’Aigrigny, blushing.
“So much the worse for you,” answered Rodin; “it only proves that I was
right. Well, since I must tell you, I have been wise enough to play the
most foolish part for six whole weeks. Yes, I have chatted nonsense with
a grisette--have talked of liberty, progress, humanity, emancipation of
women, with a young, excited girl; of Napoleon the Great, and all sorts
of Bonapartist idolatry, with an old, imbecile soldier; of imperial
glory, humiliation of France, hopes in the King of Rome, with a certain
marshal of France, who, with a heart full of adoration for the robber of
thrones, that was transported to Saint-Helena, has a head as hollow and
sonorous as a trumpet, into which you have only to blow some warlike or
patriotic notes, and it will flourish away of itself, without knowing
why or how. More than all this, I have talked of love affairs with
a young tiger. When I told you it was lamentable to see a man of
any intelligence descend, as I have done, to all such petty ways of
connecting the thousand threads of this dark web, was I not right? Is it
not a fine spectacle to see the spider obstinately weaving its net?--to
see the ugly little black animal crossing thread upon thread, fastening
it here, strengthening it there, and again lengthening it in some
other place? You shrug your shoulders in pity; but return two hours
after--what will you find? The little black animal eating its fill, and
in its web a dozen of the foolish flies, bound so securely, that the
little black animal has only to choose the moment of its repast.”
As he uttered those words, Rodin smiled strangely; his eyes, gradually
half closed, opened to their full width, and seemed to shine more
than usual. The Jesuit felt a sort of feverish excitement, which he
attributed to the contest in which he had engaged before these eminent
personages, who already felt the influence of his original and cutting
speech.
Father d’Aigrigny began to regret having entered on the contest. He
resumed, however, with ill-repressed irony: “I do not dispute the
smallness of your means. I agree with you, they are very puerile--they
are even very vulgar. But that is not quite sufficient to give an
exalted notion of your merit. May I be allowed to ask--”
“What these means have produced?” resumed Rodin, with an excitement that
was not usual with him. “Look into my spider’s web, and you will see
there the beautiful and insolent young girl, so proud, six weeks ago, of
her grace, mind, and audacity--now pale, trembling, mortally wounded at
the heart.”
“But the act of chivalrous intrepidity of the Indian prince, with which
all Paris is ringing,” said the princess, “must surely have touched
Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“Yes; but I have paralyzed the effect of that stupid and savage
devotion, by demonstrating to the young lady that it is not sufficient
to kill black panthers to prove one’s self a susceptible, delicate, and
faithful lover.”
“Be it so,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “we will admit the fact that Mdlle.
de Cardoville is wounded to the heart.”
“But what does this prove with regard to the Rennepont affair?” asked
the cardinal, with curiosity, as he leaned his elbows on the table.
“There results from it,” said Rodin, “that when our most dangerous enemy
is mortally wounded, she abandons the battlefield. That is something, I
should imagine.”
“Indeed,” said the princess, “the talents and audacity of Mdlle. de
Cardoville would make her the soul of the coalition formed against us.”
“Be it so,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, obstinately; “she may be no
longer formidable in that respect. But the wound in her heart will not
prevent her from inheriting.”
“Who tells you so?” asked Rodin, coldly, and with assurance. “Do you
know why I have taken such pains, first to bring her in contact with
Djalma, and then to separate her from him?”
“That is what I ask you,” said Father D’Aigrigny; “how can this storm of
passion prevent Mdlle. de Cardoville and the prince from inheriting?”
“Is it from the serene, or from the stormy sky, that darts the
destroying thunderbolt?” said Rodin, disdainfully. “Be satisfied; I
shall know where to place the conductor. As for M. Hardy, the man lived
for three things: his workmen, his friend, his mistress. He has been
thrice wounded in the heart. I always take aim at the heart; it is legal
and sure.”
“It is legal, and sure, and praiseworthy,” said the bishop; “for, if
I understand you rightly, this manufacturer had a concubine; now it is
well to make use of an evil passion for the punishment of the wicked.”
“True, quite true,” added the cardinal; “if they have evil passion for
us to make use of it, it is their own fault.”
“Our holy Mother Perpetue,” said the princess, “took every means to
discover this abominable adultery.”
“Well, then, M. Hardy is wounded in his dearest affections, I admit,”
said Father d’Aigrigny, still disputing every inch of ground; “ruined
too in his fortune, which will only make him the more eager after this
inheritance.”
The argument appeared of weight to the two prelates and the princess;
all looked at Rodin with anxious curiosity. Instead of answering he
walked up to the sideboard, and, contrary to his habits of stoical
sobriety, and in spite of his repugnance for wine, he examined the
decanters, and said: “What is there in them?”
“Claret and sherry,” said the hostess, much astonished at the sudden
taste of Rodin, “and--”
The latter took a decanter at hazard, and poured out a glass of Madeira,
which he drank off at a draught. Just be fore he had felt a strange kind
of shivering; to this had succeeded a sort of weakness. He hoped the
wine would revive him.
After wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, he returned to
the table, and said to Father d’Aigrigny: “What did you tell me about M.
Hardy?”
“That being ruined in fortune, he would be the more eager to obtain this
immense inheritance,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, inwardly much offended
at the imperious tone.
“M. Hardy think of money?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. “He is
indifferent to life, plunged in a stupor from which he only starts to
burst into tears. Then he speaks with mechanical kindness to those about
him. I have placed him in good hands. He begins, however, to be sensible
to the attentions shown him, for he is good, excellent, weak; and ii is
to this excellence, Father d’Aigrigny, that you must appeal to finish
the work in hand.”
“I?” said Father d’Aigrigny, much surprised.
“Yes; and then you will find that the result I have obtained is
considerable, and--”
Rodin paused, and, pressing his hand to his forehead, said to himself:
“It is strange!”
“What is the matter?” said the princess, with interest.
“Nothing, madame,” answered Rodin, with a shiver; “it is doubtless the
wine I drank; I am not accustomed to it. I feel a slight headache; but
it will pass.”
“Your eyes are very bloodshot, my good father, said the princess.
“I have looked too closely into my web,” answered the Jesuit, with a
sinister smile; “and I must look again, to make Father d’Aigrigny,
who pretends to be blind, catch a glimpse of my other flies. The two
daughters of Marshal Simon, for instance, growing sadder and more
dejected every day, at the icy barrier raised between them and their
father; and the latter thinking himself one day dishonored if he does
this, another if he does that; so that the hero of the Empire has become
weaker and more irresolute than a child. What more remains of this
impious family? Jacques Rennepont? Ask Morok, to what a state of
debasement intemperance has reduced him, and towards what an abyss he is
rushing!--There is my occurrence-sheet; you see to what are reduced all
the members of this family, who, six weeks ago, had each elements of
strength and union! Behold these Renneponts, who, by the will of their
heretical ancestor, were to unite their forces to combat and crush our
Society!--There was good reason to fear them; but what did I say? That I
would act upon their passions. What have I done? I have acted upon their
passions. At this hour they are vainly struggling in my web--they are
mine--they are mine--”
As he was speaking, Rodin’s countenance and voice had undergone a
singular alteration; his complexion, generally so cadaverous, had become
flushed, but unequally, and in patches; then, strange phenomenon! his
eyes grew both more brilliant and more sunken, and his voice sharper
and louder. The change in the countenance of Rodin, of which he did not
appear to be conscious, was so remarkable, that the other actors in this
scene looked at him with a sort of terror.
Deceived as to the cause of this impression, Rodin exclaimed with
indignation, in a voice interrupted by deep gaspings for breath: “It is
pity for this impious race, that I read upon your faces? Pity for the
young girl, who never enters a church, and erects pagan altars in
her habitation? Pity for Hardy, the sentimental blasphemer, the
philanthropic atheist, who had no chapel in his factory, and dared
to blend the names of Socrates, Marcus, Aurelius, and Plato, with our
Savior’s? Pity for the Indian worshipper of Brahma? Pity for the two
sisters, who have never even been baptized? Pity for that brute, Jacques
Rennepont? Pity for the stupid imperial soldier, who has Napoleon for
his god, and the bulletins of the Grand Army for his gospel? Pity
for this family of renegades, whose ancestor, a relapsed heretic, not
content with robbing us of our property, excites from his tomb, at the
end of a century and a half, his cursed race to lift their heads against
us? What! to defend ourselves from these vipers, we shall not have the
right to crush them in their own venom?--I tell you, that it is to
serve heaven, and to give a salutary example to the world, to devote, by
unchaining their own passions, this impious family to grief and despair
and death!”
As he spoke thus, Rodin was dreadful in his ferocity; the fire of his
eyes became still more brilliant; his lips were dry and burning, a cold
sweat bathed his temples, which could be seen throbbing; an icy shudder
ran through his frame. Attributing these symptoms to fatigue from
writing through a portion of the night, and wishing to avoid fainting,
he went to the sideboard, filled another glass with wine, which he drank
off at a draught, and returned as the cardinal said to him: “If your
course with regard to this family needed justification, my good father,
your last word would have victoriously justified it. Not only are you
right, according to your own casuists, but there is nothing in your
proceedings contrary to human laws. As for the divine law, it is
pleasing to the Lord to destroy impiety with its own weapons.”
Conquered, as well as the others, by Rodin’s diabolical assurance, and
brought back to a kind of fearful admiration, Father d’Aigrigny said to
him: “I confess I was wrong in doubting the judgment of your reverence.
Deceived by the appearance of the means employed, I could not judge
of their connection, and above all, of their results. I now see, that,
thanks to you, success is no longer doubtful.”
“This is an exaggeration,” replied Rodin, with feverish impatience; “all
these passions are at work, but the moment is critical. As the alchemist
bends over the crucible, which may give him either treasures or sudden
death--I alone at this moment--”
Rodin did not finish the sentence. He pressed both his hands to his
forehead, with a stifled cry of pain.
“What is the matter?” said Father d’Aigrigny. “For some moments you have
been growing fearfully pale.”
“I do not know ‘what is the matter,” said Rodin, in an altered voice;
“my headache increases--I am seized with a sort of giddiness.”
“Sit down,” said the princess, with interest.
“Take something,” said the bishop.
“It will be nothing,” said Rodin, with an effort; “I am no milksop,
thank heaven!--I had little sleep last night; it is fatigue--nothing
more. I was saying, that I alone could now direct this affair: but I
cannot execute the plan myself. I must keep out of the way, and watch
in the shade: I must hold the threads, which I alone can manage,” added
Rodin, in a faint voice.
“My good father,” said the cardinal uneasily, “I assure you that you are
very unwell. Your paleness is becoming livid.”
“It is possible,” answered Rodin, courageously; “but I am not to be so
soon conquered. To return to our affair--this is the time, in which your
qualities, Father d’Aigrigny, will turn to good account. I have never
denied them, and they may now be of the greatest use. You have the power
of charming--grace--eloquence--you must--”
Rodin paused again. A cold sweat poured from his forehead. He felt his
legs give way under him, notwithstanding his obstinate energy.
“I confess, I am not well,” he said; “yet, this morning, I was as well
as ever. I shiver. I am icy cold.”
“Draw near the fire--it is a sudden indisposition,” said the bishop,
offering his arm with heroic devotion; “it will not be anything of
consequence.”
“If you were to take something warm, a cup of tea,” said the princess;
“Dr. Baleinier will be here directly--he will reassure us as to
this--indisposition.”
“It is really inexplicable,” said the prelate.
At these words of the cardinal, Rodin, who had advanced with difficulty
towards the fire, turned his eyes upon the prelate, and looked at him
fixedly in a strange manner, for about a second; then, strong in his
unconquerable energy, notwithstanding the change in his features, which
were now visibly disfigured, Rodin said, in a broken voice, which he
tried to make firm: “The fire has warmed me; it will be nothing. I have
no time to coddle myself. It would be a pretty thing to fall ill just as
the Rennepont affair can only succeed by my exertions! Let us return to
business. I told you, Father d’Aigrigny, that you might serve us a good
deal; and you also, princess, who have espoused this cause as if it were
your own--”
Rodin again paused. This time he uttered a piercing cry, sank upon
a chair placed near him, and throwing himself back convulsively, he
pressed his hands to his chest, and exclaimed: “Oh! what pain!”
Then (dreadful sight!) a cadaverous decomposition, rapid as thought,
took place in Rodin’s features. His hollow eyes were filled with blood,
and seemed to shrink back in their orbits, which formed, as it were,
two dark holes, in the centre of which blazed points of fire; nervous
convulsions drew the flabby, damp, and icy skin tight over the bony
prominences of the face, which was becoming rapidly green. From the
lips, writhing with pain, issued the struggling breath, mingled with the
words: “Oh! I suffer! I burn!”
Then, yielding to a transport of fury. Rodin tore with his nails his
naked chest, for he had twisted off the buttons of his waistcoat, and
rent his black and filthy shirt-front, as if the pressure of those
garments augmented the violence of the pain under which he was writhing.
The bishop, the cardinal, and Father d’Aigrigny, hastily approached
Rodin, to try and hold him; he was seized with horrible convulsions;
but, suddenly, collecting all his strength, he rose upon his feet stiff
as a corpse. Then, with his garments in disorder, his thin, gray hair
standing up all around his greenish face, fixing his red and flaming
eyes upon the cardinal, he seized him with convulsive grasp, and
exclaimed in a terrible voice, half stifled in his throat: “Cardinal
Malipieri--this illness is too sudden--they suspect me at Rome--you
are of the race of the Borgias--and your secretary was with me this
morning!”
“Unhappy man! what does he dare insinuate?” cried the prelate, as amazed
as he was indignant at the accusation. So saying, the cardinal strove to
free himself from the grasp of Rodin, whose fingers were now as stiff as
iron.
“I am poisoned!” muttered Rodin, and sinking back, he fell into the arms
of Father d’Aigrigny.
Notwithstanding his alarm, the cardinal had time to whisper to the
latter: “He thinks himself poisoned. He must therefore be plotting
something very dangerous.”
The door of the room opened. It was Dr. Baleinier.
“Oh, doctor!” cried the princess, as she ran pale and frightened towards
him; “Father Rodin has been suddenly attacked with terrible convulsions.
Quick! quick!”
“Convulsions? oh! it will be nothing, madame,” said the doctor, throwing
down his hat upon a chair, and hastily approaching the group which
surrounded the sick man.
“Here is the doctor!” cried the princess. All stepped aside, except
Father d’Aigrigny, who continued to support Rodin, leaning against a
chair.
“Heavens! what symptoms!” cried Dr. Baleinier, examining with growing
terror the countenance of Rodin, which from green was turning blue.
“What is it?” asked all the spectators, with one voice.
“What is it?” repeated the doctor, drawing back as if he had trodden
upon a serpent. “It is the cholera! and contagious!”
On this frightful, magic word, Father d’Aigrigny abandoned his hold of
Rodin, who rolled upon the floor.
“He is lost!” cried Dr. Baleinier. “But I will run to fetch the means
for a last effort.” And he rushed towards the door.
The Princess de Saint-Dizier, Father d’Aigrigny, the bishop, and the
cardinal followed in terror the flight of Dr. Baleinier. They all
pressed to the door, which, in their consternation, they could not
open. It opened at last but from without--and Gabriel appeared upon
the threshold. Gabriel, the type of the true priest, the holy, the
evangelical minister, to whom we can never pay enough of respect and
ardent sympathy, and tender admiration. His angelic countenance, in its
mild serenity, offered a striking contrast of these faces, all disturbed
and contracted with terror.
The young priest was nearly thrown down by the fugitives, who rushed
through the now open doorway, exclaiming: “Do not go in! he is dying of
the cholera. Fly!”
On these words, pushing back the bishop, who, being the last, was
trying to force a passage, Gabriel ran towards Rodin, while the prelate
succeeded in making his escape. Rodin, stretched upon the carpet, his
limbs twisted with fearful cramps, was writhing in the extremity
of pain. The violence of his fall had, no doubt, roused him to
consciousness, for he moaned, in a sepulchral voice: “They leave me to
die--like a dog--the cowards!--Help!--no one--”
And the dying man, rolling on his back with a convulsive movement,
turned towards the ceiling a face on which was branded the infernal
despair of the damned, as he once more repeated: “No one!--not one!”
His eyes, which suddenly flamed with fury, just then met the large blue
eyes of the angelic and mild countenance of Gabriel who, kneeling beside
him, said to him, in his soft, grave tones: “I am here, father--to help
you, if help be possible--to pray for you, if God calls you to him.”
“Gabriel!” murmured Rodin, with failing voice; “forgive me for the evil
I have done you--do not leave me--do not--”
Rodin could not finish; he had succeeded in raising himself into a
sitting posture; he now uttered a loud cry, and fell back without sense
or motion.
The same day it was announced in the evening papers: “The cholera has
broken out in Paris. The first case declared itself this day, at half
past three, P.M. in the Rue de Babylone, at Saint-Dizier House.”
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SQUARE OF NOTRE DAME.
A week had passed since Rodin was seized with the cholera, and its
ravages had continually increased. That was an awful time! A funeral
pall was spread over Paris, once so gay. And yet, never had the sky been
of a more settled, purer blue; never had the sun shone more brilliantly.
The inexorable serenity of nature, during the ravages of the deadly
scourge, offered a strange and mysterious contrast. The flaunting light
of the dazzling sunshine fell full upon the features, contracted by a
thousand agonizing fears. Each trembled for himself, or for those dear
to him; every countenance was stamped with an expression of feverish
astonishment and dread. People walked with rapid steps, as if they would
escape from the fate which threatened them; besides, they were in haste
to return to their homes, for often they left life, health, happiness,
and, two hours later, they found agony, death, and despair.
At every moment, new dismal objects met the view. Sometimes carts passed
along, filled with coffins, symmetrically piled; they stopped before
every house. Men in black and gray garments were in waiting before the
door; they held out their hands, and to some, one coffin was thrown, to
some two, frequently three or four, from the same house. It sometimes
happened that the store was quickly exhausted, and the cart, which had
arrived full, went away empty, whilst many of the dead in the street
were still unserved. In nearly every dwelling, upstairs and down, from
the roof to the cellar, there was a stunning tapping of hammers: coffins
were being nailed down, and so many, so very many were nailed, that
sometimes those who worked stopped from sheer fatigue. Then broke forth
laments, heart-rending moans, despairing imprecations. They were uttered
by those from whom the men in black and gray had taken some one to fill
the coffins.
Unceasingly were the coffins filled, and day and night did those men
work, but by day more than by night, for, as soon as it was dusk, came
a gloomy file of vehicles of all kinds--the usual hearses were not
sufficient; but cars, carts, drays, hackney-coaches, and such like,
swelled the funeral procession; different to the other conveyances,
which entered the streets full and went away empty--these came empty but
soon returned full. During that period, the windows of many houses were
illuminated, and often the lights remained burning till the morning. It
was “the season.” These illuminations resembled the gleaming rays which
shine in the gay haunts of pleasure; but there were tapers instead
of wax candles, and the chanting of prayers for the dead replaced
the murmur of the ball-room. In the streets, instead of the facetious
transparencies which indicate the costumers, there swung at intervals
huge lanterns of a blood-red color, with these words in black letters:
“Assistance for those attacked with the cholera.” The true places for
revelry, during the night, were the churchyards; they ran riot--they,
usually so desolate and silent, during the dark, quiet hours, when the
cypress trees rustle in the breeze, so lonely, that no human step dared
to disturb the solemn silence which reigned there at night, became on
a sudden, animated, noisy, riotous, and resplendent with light. By
the smoky flames of torches, which threw a red glare upon the dark
fir-trees, and the white tombstones, many grave-diggers worked merrily,
humming snatches of some favorite tune. Their laborious and hazardous
industry then commanded a very high price; they were in such request
that it was necessary to humor them. They drank often and much; they
sang long and loud; and this to keep up their strength and spirits good,
absolute requisites in such an employment. If, by chance, any did not
finish the grave they had begun, some obliging comrade finished it for
them (fitting expression!), and placed them in it with friendly care.
Other distant sounds responded to the joyous strains of the grave
diggers; public-houses had sprung up in the neighborhood of the
churchyards, and the drivers of the dead, when they had “set down their
customers,” as they jocosely expressed themselves, enriched with their
unusual gratuities, feasted and made merry like lords; dawn often found
them with a glass in their hands, and a jest on their lips; and, strange
to say, among these funeral satellites, who breathed the very atmosphere
of the disease, the mortality was scarcely perceptible. In the
dark, squalid quarters of the town, where, surrounded by infectious
exhalations, the indigent population was crowded together, and miserable
beings, exhausted by severe privation, were “bespoke” by the cholera, as
it was energetically said at the time, not only individuals, but whole
families, were carried off in a few hours; and yet, sometimes, oh,
merciful Providence! one or two little children were left in the cold
and empty room, after the father and mother, brother and sister, had
been taken away in their shells.
Frequently, houses which had swarmed with hard working laborers, were
obliged to be shut up for want of tenants; in one day, they had been
completely cleared by this terrible visitation, from the cellars, where
little chimney-sweepers slept upon straw, to the garret, on whose cold
brick floor lay stretched some wan and half-naked being, without work
and without bread. But, of all the wards of Paris, that which perhaps
presented the most frightful spectacle during the progress of the
cholera, was the City; and in the City, the square before the cathedral
of Notre-Dame was almost every day the theatre of dreadful scenes: for
this locality was frequently thronged with those who conveyed the sick
from the neighboring streets to the Great Hospital. The cholera had
not one aspect, but a thousand. So that one week after Rodin had
been suddenly attacked, several events combining the horrible and the
grotesque occurred in the square of Notre Dame.
Instead of the Rue d’Arcole, which now leads directly to the square, it
was then approached on one side, by a mean, narrow lane, like all the
other streets of the City, and terminating in a dark, low archway. Upon
entering the square the principal door of the huge Cathedral was to the
left of the spectator, and facing him were the Hospital buildings.
A little beyond, was an opening which gave to view a portion of the
parapet of the Quay Notre-Dame. A placard had been recently stuck on
the discolored and sunken wail of the archway; it contained these words,
traced in large characters.(37)
“VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE!
“The Working-men carried to the hospitals are poisoned, because the
number of patients is too great; every night, Boats filled with corpses,
drop down the Seine.
“Vengeance and Death to the murderers of the People!”
Two men, enveloped in cloaks, and half-hidden in the deep shadow of the
vault, were listening with anxious curiosity to the threatening murmur,
which rose with increasing force from among a tumultuous assembly,
grouped around the Hospital. Soon, cries of “Death to the
doctors!--Vengeance!” reached the ears of the persons who were in ambush
under the arch.
“The posters are working,” said one; “the train is on fire. When once
the populace is roused, we can set them on whom we please.”
“I say,” replied the other man, “look over there. That Hercules, whose
athletic form towers above the mob, was cue of the most frantic leaders
when M. Hardy’s factory was destroyed.”
“To be sure he was; I know him again. Wherever mischief is to be done,
you are sure to find those vagabonds.
“Now, take my advice, do not let us remain under this archway,” said
the other man; “the wind is as cold as ice, and though I am cased in
flannel--”
“You are right, the cholera is confoundedly impolite. Besides,
everything is going on well here; I am likewise assured that the whole
of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine is ready to rise in the republican cause;
that will serve our ends, and our holy religion will triumph over
revolutionary impiety. Let us rejoin Father d’Aigrigny.”
“Where shall we find him?”
“Near here, come--come.”
The two hastily disappeared.
The sun, beginning to decline, shed its golden rays upon the blackened
sculptures of the porch of Notre-Dame, and upon its two massy towers,
rising in imposing majesty against a perfectly blue sky, for during
the fast few days, a north-east wind, dry and cold, had driven away
the lightest cloud. A considerable number of people, as we have already
stated, obstructed the approach to the Hospital; they crowded round the
iron railings that protect the front of the building, behind which was
stationed a detachment of infantry, the cries of “Death to the doctors!”
becoming every moment more threatening. The people who thus vociferated.
belonged to an idle, vagabond, and depraved populace--the dregs of the
Paris mob; and (terrible spectacle!) the unfortunate beings who were
forcibly carried through the midst of these hideous groups entered the
Hospital, whilst the air resounded with hoarse clamors, and cries of
“Death.” Every moment, fresh victims were brought along in litters,
and on stretchers; the litters were frequently furnished with coarse
curtains, and thus the sick occupants were concealed from the public
gaze; but the stretchers, having no covering, the convulsive movements
of the dying patients often thrust aside the sheet, and exposed to
view their faces, livid as corpses. Far from inspiring with terror the
wretches assembled round the Hospital, such spectacles became to them
the signal for savage jests, and atrocious predictions upon the fate of
these poor creatures, when once in the power of the doctors.
The big blaster and Ciboule, with a good many of their adherents, were
among the mob. After the destruction of Hardy’s factory, the quarryman
was formally expelled from the union of the Wolves, who would have
nothing more to do with this wretch; since then, he had plunged into
the grossest debauchery, and speculating on his herculean strength, had
hired himself as the officious champion of Ciboule and her compeers.
With the exception therefore of some chance passengers, the square of
Notre-Dame was filled with a ragged crowd, composed of the refuse of
the Parisian populace--wretches who call for pity as well as blame;
for misery, ignorance, and destitution, beget but too fatally vice and
crime. These savages of civilization felt neither pity, improvement, nor
terror, at the shocking sights with which they were surrounded; careless
of a life which was a daily struggle against hunger, or the allurements
of guilt, they braved the pestilence with infernal audacity, or sank
under it with blasphemy on their lips.
The tall form of the quarryman was conspicuous amongst the rest; with
inflamed eyes and swollen features, he yelled at the top of his voice:
“Death to the body-snatchers! they poison the people.”
“That is easier than to feed them,” added Ciboule. Then, addressing
herself to an old man, who was being carried with great difficulty
through the dense crowd, upon a chair, by two men, the hag continued:
“Hey? don’t go in there, old croaker; die here in the open air instead
of dying in that den, where you’ll be doctored like an old rat.”
“Yes,” added the quarryman; “and then they’ll throw you into the water
to feast the fishes, which you won’t swallow any more.”
At these atrocious cries, the old man looked wildly around, and uttered
faint groans. Ciboule wished to stop the persons who were carrying him,
and they had much difficulty in getting rid of the hag. The number
of cholera-patients arriving increased every moment, and soon neither
litters nor stretchers could be obtained, so that they were borne along
in the arms of the attendants. Several awful episodes bore witness
to the startling rapidity of the infection. Two men were carrying a
stretcher covered with a blood-stained sheet; one of them suddenly felt
himself attacked with the complaint; he stopped short, his powerless
arms let go the stretcher; he turned pale, staggered, fell upon the
patient, becoming as livid as him; the other man, struck with terror,
fled precipitately, leaving his companion and the dying man in the
midst of the crowd. Some drew back in horror, others burst into a savage
laugh.
“The horses have taken fright,” said the quarryman, “and have left the
turn-out in the lurch.”
“Help!” cried the dying man, with a despairing accent; “for pity’s sake
take me in.”
“There’s no more room in the pit,” said one, in a jeering tone.
“And you’ve no legs left to reach the gallery,” added another.
The sick man made an effort to rise; but his strength failed him; he
fell back exhausted on the mattress. A sudden movement took place among
the crowd, the stretcher was overturned, the old man and his companion
were trodden underfoot, and their groans were drowned in the cries of
“Death to the body-snatchers!” The yells were renewed with fresh fury,
but the ferocious band, who respected nothing in their savage fury,
were soon after obliged to open their ranks to several workmen, who
vigorously cleared the way for two of their friends carrying in their
arms a poor artisan. He was still young, but his heavy and already
livid head hung down upon the shoulder of one of them. A little child
followed, sobbing, and holding by one of the workmen’s coats. The
measured and sonorous sound of several drums was now heard at a distance
in the winding streets of the city: they were beating the call to
arms, for sedition was rife in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The drummers
emerged from under the archway, and were traversing the square, when one
of them, a gray-haired veteran, suddenly slackened the rolling of his
drum, and stood still: his companions turned round in surprise--he had
turned green; his legs gave way, he stammered some unintelligible words,
and had fallen upon the pavement before those in the front rank had time
to pause. The overwhelming rapidity of this attack startled for a moment
the most hardened among the surrounding spectators; for, wondering at
the interruption, a part of the crowd had rushed towards the soldiers.
At sight of the dying man, supported in the arms of two of his comrades,
one of the individuals, who, concealed under the arch, had watched the
beginning of the popular excitement, said to the drummers: “Your comrade
drank, perhaps, at some fountain on the road?”
“Yes, sir,” replied one; “he was very thirsty; he drank two mouthfuls of
water on the Place du Chatelet.”
“Then he is poisoned,” said the man.
“Poisoned?” cried several voices.
“It is not surprising,” replied the man, in a mysterious tone; “poison
is thrown into the public fountains; and this very morning a man was
massacred in the Rue Beaubourg who was discovered emptying a paper of
arsenic into a pot of wine at a public-house.” (38)
Having said these words, the man disappeared in the crowd. This report,
no less absurd than the tales about the poisoning of the Hospital
patients, was received with a general burst of indignation. Five or
six ragged beings, regular ruffians, seized the body of the expiring
drummer, hoisted it upon their shoulders, in spite of all the efforts
of his comrades to prevent them, and paraded the square exhibiting the
dismal trophy. Ciboule and the quarryman went before, crying: “Wake way
for the corpse! This is how they poison the people!”
A fresh incident now attracted the attention of the crowd. A travelling
carriage, which had not been able to pass along the Quai-Napoleon, the
pavement of which was up, had ventured among the intricate streets of
the city, and now arrived in the square of Notre-Dame on its way to the
other side of the Seine. Like many others, its owners were flying from
Paris, to escape the pestilence which decimated it. A man-servant and a
lady’s maid were in the rumble, and they exchanged a glance of alarm as
they passed the Hospital, whilst a young man seated in the front part
of the carriage let down the glass, and called to the postilions to go
slowly, for fear of accident, as the crowd was very dense at that part
of the square. This young man was Lord Morinval, and on the back seat
were Lord Montbron and his niece, Lady Morinval. The pale and anxious
countenance of the young lady showed the alarm which she felt; and
Montbron, notwithstanding his firmness of mind, appeared to be
very uneasy; he, as well as his niece, frequently had recourse to a
smelling-bottle filled with camphor.
During the last few minutes, the carriage had advanced very slowly,
the postilions managing their horses with great caution, when a sudden
hubbub, at first distant and undefined, but soon more distinct, arose
among the throng, as it drew near, the ringing sound of chains and
metal, peculiar to the artillery-wagons, was plainly audible, and
presently one of these vehicles came towards the travelling-carriage,
from the direction of the Quai Notre-Dame. It seemed strange, that
though the crowd was so compact, yet at the rapid approach of this
wagon, the close ranks of human beings opened as if by enchantment, but
the following words which were passed from mouth to mouth soon accounted
for the prodigy: “A wagon full of dead! the wagon of the dead!” As
we have already stated, the usual funeral conveyances were no longer
sufficient for the removal of the corpses; a number of artillery wagons
had been put into requisition, and the coffins were hastily piled in
these novel hearses.
Many of the spectators regarded this gloomy vehicle with dismay, but the
quarryman and his band redoubled their horrible jokes.
“Make way for the omnibus of the departed!” cried Ciboule.
“No danger of having one’s toes crushed in that omnibus,” said the
quarryman.
“Doubtless they’re easy to please, the stiff-uns in there.”
“They never want to be set down, at all events.”
“I say, there’s only one reg’lar on duty as postilion!”
“That’s true, the leaders are driven by a man in a smock-frock.”
“Oh! I daresay the other soldier was tired, lazy fellow! and got into
the omnibus with the others--they’ll all get out at the same big hole.”
“Head foremost, you know.”
“Yes, they pitch them head first into a bed of lime.”
“Why, one might follow the dead-cart blind-fold, and no mistake. It’s
worse than Montfaucon knacker-yards!”
“Ha! ha! ha!--it’s rather gamey!” said the quarryman, alluding to the
infectious and cadaverous odor which this funeral conveyance left behind
it.
“Here’s sport!” exclaimed Ciboule: “the omnibus of the dead will run
against the fine coach. Hurrah! the rich folks will smell death.”
Indeed, the wagon was now directly in front of the carriage, and at a
very little distance from it. A man in a smock-frock and wooden shoes
drove the two leaders, and an artilleryman the other horses. The coffins
were so piled up within this wagon, that its semicircular top did
not shut down closely, so that, as it jolted heavily over the uneven
pavement, the biers could be seen chafing against each other. The fiery
eyes and inflamed countenance of the man in the smock-frock showed that
he was half intoxicated; urging on the horses with his voice, his heels,
and his whip, he paid no attention to the remonstrances of the soldier,
who had great difficulty in restraining his own animals, and was obliged
to follow the irregular movements of the carman. Advancing in this
disorderly manner, the wagon deviated from its course just as it should
have passed the travelling-carriage, and ran against it. The shock
forced open the top, one of the coffins was thrown out, and, after
damaging the panels of the carriage, fell upon the pavement with a dull
and heavy sound. The deal planks had been hastily nailed together, and
were shivered in the fall, and from the wreck of the coffin rolled a
livid corpse, half enveloped in a shroud.
At this horrible spectacle, Lady Morinval, who had mechanically leaned
forward, gave a loud scream, and fainted. The crowd fell back in dismay;
the postilions, no less alarmed, took advantage of the space left open
to them by the retreat of the multitude; they whipped their horses, and
the carriage dashed on towards the quay. As it disappeared behind
the furthermost buildings of the Hospital, the shrill joyous notes
of distant trumpets were heard, and repeated shouts proclaimed: “The
Cholera Masquerade!” The words announced one of those episodes combining
buffoonery with terror, which marked the period when the pestilence was
on the increase, though now they can with difficulty be credited. If
the evidence of eyewitnesses did not agree in every particular with the
accounts given in the public papers of this masquerade, they might be
regarded as the ravings of some diseased brain, and not as the notice of
a fact which really occurred.
“The Masquerade of the Cholera” appeared, we say, in the square of Notre
Dame, just as Morinval’s carriage gained the quay, after disengaging
itself from the death-wagon.
(37) It is well-known that at the time of the cholera, such placards
were numerous in Paris, and were alternately attributed to opposite
parties. Among others, to the priests, many of the bishops having
published mandatory letters, or stated openly in the churches of their
diocese, that the Almighty had sent the cholera as a punishment to
France for having driven away its lawful sovereign, and assimilated the
Catholic to other forms of worship.
(38) It is notorious, that at this unhappy period several persons were
massacred, under a false accusation of poisoning the fountains, etc.
CHAPTER XIX. THE CHOLERA MASQUERADE.(39)
A stream of people, who preceded the masquerade, made a sudden irruption
through the arch into the square, uttering loud cheers as they advanced.
Children were also there, blowing horns, whilst some hooted and others
hissed.
The quarryman, Ciboule, and their band, attracted by this new spectacle,
rushed tumultuously towards the arch. Instead of the two eating-houses,
which now (1845) stand on either side of the Rue d’Arcole, there was
then only one, situated to the left of the vaulted passage, and much
celebrated amongst the joyous community of students, for the excellence
both of its cookery and its wines. At the first blare of the trumpets,
sounded by the outriders in livery who preceded the masquerade, the
windows of the great room of the eating-house were thrown open, and
several waiters, with their napkins under their arms, leaned forward,
impatient to witness the arrival of the singular guests they were
expecting.
At length, the grotesque procession made its appearance in the thick of
an immense uproar. The train comprised a chariot, escorted by men and
women on horseback, clad in rich and elegant fancy dresses. Most of
these maskers belonged to the middle and easy classes of society. The
report had spread that masquerade was in preparation, for the purpose
of daring the cholera, and, by this joyous demonstration, to revive
the courage of the affrighted populace. Immediately, artists, young men
about town, students, and so on, responded to the appeal, and though
till now unknown one to the other, they easily fraternized together.
Many brought their mistresses, to complete the show. A subscription had
been opened to defray the expenses, and, that morning, after a splendid
breakfast at the other end of Paris, the joyous troop had started
bravely on their march, to finish the day by a dinner in the square of
Notre Dame.
We say bravely, for it required a singular turn of mind, a rare firmness
of character, in young women, to traverse, in this fashion, a great
city plunged in consternation and terror--to fall in at every step with
litters loaded with the dying, and carriages filled with the dead--to
defy, as it were, in a spirit of strange pleasantry, the plague that was
detonating the Parisians. It is certain that, in Paris alone, and
there only amongst a peculiar class, could such an idea have ever been
conceived or realized. Two men, grotesquely disguised as postilions at
a funeral, with formidable false noses, rose-colored crape hat-bands and
large favors of roses and crape bows at their buttonholes, rode before
the vehicle. Upon the platform of the car were groups of allegorical
personages, representing WINE, PLEASURE, LOVE, PLAY. The mission of
these symbolical beings was, by means of jokes, sarcasms, and mockeries,
to plague the life out of Goodman Cholera, a sort of funeral and
burlesque Cassander, whom they ridiculed and made game of in a hundred
ways. The moral of the play was this: “To brave Cholera in security, let
us drink, laugh, game, and make love!”
WINE was represented by a huge, lusty Silenus, thick-set, and with
swollen paunch, a crown of ivy on his brow, a panther’s skin across his
shoulder, and in his hand a large gilt goblet, wreathed with flowers.
None other than Ninny Moulin, the famous moral and religious writer,
could have exhibited to the astonished and delighted spectators an
ear of so deep a scarlet, so majestic an abdomen, and a face of such
triumphant and majestic fulness. Every moment, Ninny Moulin appeared to
empty his cup--after which he burst out laughing in the face of Goodman
Cholera. Goodman Cholera, a cadaverous pantaloon, was half-enveloped in
a shroud; his mask of greenish cardboard, with red, hollow eyes, seemed
every moment to grin as in mockery of death; from beneath his powdered
peruke, surmounted by a pyramidical cotton night-cap, appeared his neck
and arm, dyed of a bright green color; his lean hand, which shook almost
always with a feverish trembling (not feigned, but natural), rested upon
a crutch-handled cane; finally, as was becoming in a pantaloon, he wore
red stockings, with buckles at the knees, and high slippers of black
beaver. This grotesque representative of the cholera was Sleepinbuff.
Notwithstanding a slow and dangerous fever, caused by the excessive use
of brandy, and by constant debauchery, that was silently undermining his
constitution, Jacques Rennepont had been induced by Morok to join the
masquerade. The brute-tamer himself, dressed as the King of Diamonds,
represented PLAY. His forehead was adorned with a diadem of gilded
paper, his face was pale and impassible, and as his long, yellow beard
fell down the front of his parti-colored robe, Morok looked exactly
the character he personated. From time to time, with an air of grave
mockery, he shook close to the eyes of Goodman Cholera a large bag full
of sounding counters, and on this bag were painted all sorts of playing
cards. A certain stiffness in the right arm showed that the lion-tamer
had not yet quite recovered from the effects of the wound which the
panther had inflicted before being stabbed by Djalma.
PLEASURE, who also represented Laughter, classically shook her rattle,
with its sonorous gilded bells, close to the ears of Goodman Cholera.
She was a quick, lively young girl, and her fine black hair was crowned
with a scarlet cap of liberty. For Sleepinbuff’s sake, she had taken the
place of the poor Bacchanal queen, who would not have failed to attend
on such an occasion--she, who had been so valiant and gay, when she
bore her part in a less philosophical, but not less amusing masquerade.
Another pretty creature, Modeste Bornichoux, who served as a model to
a painter of renown (one of the cavaliers of the procession), was
eminently successful in her representation of LOVE. He could not have
had a more charming face, and more graceful form. Clad in a light blue
spangled tunic, with a blue and silver band across her chestnut hair,
and little transparent wings affixed to her white shoulders, she
placed one forefinger upon the other, and pointed with the prettiest
impertinence at Goodman Cholera. Around the principal group, other
maskers, more or less grotesque in appearance, waved each a banner, an
which were inscriptions of a very anacreontic character, considering the
circumstances:
“Down with the Cholera!” “Short and sweet!” “Laugh away, laugh always!”
“We’ll collar the Cholera!” “Love forever!” “Wine forever!” “Come if you
dare, old terror!”
There was really such audacious gayety in this masquerade, that the
greater number of the spectators, at the moment when it crossed the
square, in the direction of the eating-house, where dinner was waiting,
applauded it loudly and repeatedly. This sort of admiration, which
courage, however mad and blind, almost always inspires, appeared to
others (a small number, it must be confessed) a kind of defiance to the
wrath of heaven; and these received the procession with angry murmurs.
This extraordinary spectacle, and the different impressions it
produced, were too remote from all customary facts to admit of a just
appreciation. We hardly know if this daring bravado was deserving of
praise or blame.
Besides, the appearance of those plagues, which from age to age decimate
the population of whole countries, has almost always been accompanied by
a sort of mental excitement, which none of those who have been spared
by the contagion can hope to escape. It is a strange fever of the mind,
which sometimes rouses the most stupid prejudices and the most ferocious
passions, and sometimes inspires, on the contrary, the most magnificent
devotion, the most courageous actions--with some, driving the fear
of death to a point of the wildest terror--with others, exciting the
contempt of life to express itself in the most audacious bravadoes.
Caring little for the praise or blame it might deserve, the masquerade
arrived before the eating-house, and made its entry in the midst of
universal acclamations. Everything seemed to combine to give full effect
to this strange scene, by the opposition of the most singular contrasts.
Thus the tavern, in which was to be held this extraordinary feast, being
situated at no great distance from the antique cathedral, and the gloomy
hospital, the religious anthems of the ancient temple, the cries of the
dying, and the bacchanalian songs of the banqueteers, must needs mingle,
and by turns drown one another. The maskers now got down from their
chariot, and from their horses, and went to take their places at the
repast, which was waiting for them. The actors in the masquerade are
at table in the great room of the tavern. They are joyous, noisy, even
riotous. Yet their gayety has a strange tone, peculiar to itself.
Sometimes, the most resolute involuntarily remember that their life is
at stake in this mad and audacious game with destiny. That fatal thought
is rapid as the icy fever-shudder, which chills you in an instant;
therefore, from time to time, an abrupt silence, lasting indeed only for
a second, betrays these passing emotions which are almost immediately
effaced by new bursts of joyful acclamation, for each one says to
himself: “No weakness! my chum and my girl are looking at me!”
And all laugh, and knock glasses together, and challenge the next man,
and drink out of the glass of the nearest woman. Jacques had taken off
the mask and peruke of Goodman Cholera. His thin, leaden features, his
deadly paleness, the lurid brilliancy of his hollow eyes, showed
the incessant progress of the slow malady which was consuming this
unfortunate man, brought by excesses to the last extremity of weakness.
Though he felt the slow fire devouring his entrails, he concealed his
pain beneath a forced and nervous smile.