To the left of Jacques was Morok, whose fatal influence was ever on the

increase, and to his right the girl disguised as PLEASURE. She was named

Mariette. By her side sat Ninny Moulin, in all his majestic bulk, who

often pretended to be looking for his napkin under the table, in order

to have the opportunity of pressing the knees of his other neighbor,

Modeste, the representative of LOVE. Most of the guests were grouped

according to their several tastes, each tender pair together, and the

bachelors where they could. They had reached the second course, and the

excellence of the wine, the good cheer, the gay speeches, and even the

singularity of the occasion, had raised their spirits to a high degree

of excitement, as may be gathered from the extraordinary incidents of

the following scene.

(39) We read in the Constitutionnel, Saturday March 31st, 1832: “The

Parisians readily conform to that part of the official instructions

with regard to the cholera, which prescribes, as a preservation from the

disease, not to be afraid, to amuse one’s self, etc. The pleasures of

Mid-Lent have been as brilliant and as mad as those of the carnival

itself. For a long time past there had not been so many balls at this

period of the year. Even the cholera has been made the subject of an

itinerant caricature.”

CHAPTER XX. THE DEFIANCE.

Two or three times, without being remarked by the guests, one of the

waiters had come to whisper to his fellows, and point with expressive

gesture to the ceiling. But his comrades had taken small account of his

observations or fears, not wishing, doubtless, to disturb the guests,

whose mad gayety seemed ever on the increase.

“Who can doubt now of the superiority of our manner of treating this

impertinent Cholera? Has he dared even to touch our sacred battalion?”

said a magnificent mountebank-Turk, one of the standard-bearers of the

masquerade.

“Here is all the mystery,” answered another. “It is very simple. Only

laugh in the face of the plague, and it will run away from you.”

“And right enough too, for very stupid work it does,” added a pretty

little Columbine, emptying her glass.

“You are right, my darling; it is intolerably stupid work,” answered

the Clown belonging to the Columbine; “here you are very quiet, enjoying

life, and all on a sudden you die with an atrocious grimace. Well! what

then? Clever, isn’t it? I ask you, what does it prove?”

“It proves,” replied an illustrious painter of the romantic school,

disguised like a Roman out of one of David’s pictures, “it proves that

the Cholera is a wretched colorist, for he has nothing but a dirty

green on his pallet. Evidently he is a pupil of Jacobus, that king of

classical painters, who are another species of plagues.”

“And yet, master,” added respectfully a pupil of the great painter, “I

have seen some cholera patients whose convulsions were rather fine, and

their dying looks first-rate!”

“Gentlemen,” cried a sculptor of no less celebrity, “the question

lies in a nutshell. The Cholera is a detestable colorist, but a good

draughtsman. He shows you the skeleton in no time. By heaven! how he

strips off the flesh!--Michael Angelo would be nothing to him.”

“True,” cried they all, with one voice; “the Cholera is a bad colorist,

but a good draughtsman.”

“Moreover, gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with comic gravity, “this

plague brings with it a providential lesson, as the great Bossuet would

have said.”

“The lesson! the lesson!”

“Yes, gentlemen; I seem to hear a voice from above, proclaiming: ‘Drink

of the best, empty your purse, and kiss your neighbor’s wife; for your

hours are perhaps numbered, unhappy wretch!’”

So saying, the orthodox Silenus took advantage of a momentary absence

of mind on the part of Modeste, his neighbor, to imprint on the blooming

cheek of LOVE a long, loud kiss. The example was contagious, and a storm

of kisses was mingled with bursts of laughter.

“Ha! blood and thunder!” cried the great painter as he gayly threatened

Ninny Moulin; “you are very lucky that to-morrow will perhaps be the end

of the world, or else I should pick a quarrel with you for having kissed

my lovely LOVE.”

“Which proves to you, O Rubens! O Raphael! the thousand advantages of

the Cholera, whom I declare to be essentially sociable and caressing.”

“And philanthropic,” said one of the guests; “thanks to him, creditors

take care of the health of their debtors. This morning a usurer, who

feels a particular interest in my existence, brought me all sorts of

anti-choleraic drugs, and begged me to make use of them.”

“And I!” said the pupil of the great painter. “My tailor wished to force

me to wear a flannel band next to the skin, because I owe him a thousand

crowns. But I answered ‘Oh, tailor, give me a receipt in full, and I

will wrap myself up in flannel, to preserve you my custom!’”

“O Cholera, I drink to thee!” said Ninny Moulin, by way of grotesque

invocation. “You are not Despair; on the contrary, you are the emblem

of Hope--yes, of hope. How many husbands, how many wives, longed for

a number (alas! too uncertain chance) in the lottery of widowhood! You

appear, and their hearts are gladdened. Thanks to you, benevolent pest!

their chances of liberty are increased a hundredfold.”

“And how grateful heirs ought to be! A cold--a heat--a trifle--and

there, in an hour, some old uncle becomes a revered benefactor!”

“And those who are always looking out for other people’s places--what an

ally they must find in the Cholera!”

“And how true it will make many vows of constancy!” said Modeste,

sentimentally. “How many villains have sworn to a poor, weak woman, to

love her all their lives, who never meant (the wretches!) to keep their

word so well!”

“Gentlemen,” cried Ninny Moulin, “since we are now, perhaps, at the eve

of the end of the world, as yonder celebrated painter has expressed

it, I propose to play the world topsy-turvy: I beg these ladies to make

advances to us, to tease us, to excite us, to steal kisses from us, to

take all sorts of liberties with us, and (we shall not die of it) even

to insult us. Yes, I declare that I will allow myself to be insulted.

So, LOVE, you may offer me the greatest insult that can be offered to a

virtuous and modest bachelor,” added the religious writer, leaning over

towards his neighbor, who repulsed him with peals of laughter; and the

proposal of Ninny Moulin being received with general hilarity, a new

impulse was given to the mirth and riot.

In the midst of the uproar, the waiter, who had before entered the room

several times, to whisper uneasily to his comrades, whilst he pointed

to the ceiling, again appeared with a pale and agitated countenance;

approaching the man who performed the office of butler, he said to him,

in a low voice, tremulous with emotion: “They are come!”

“Who?”

“You know--up there”; and he pointed to the ceiling.

“Oh!” said the butler, becoming thoughtful; “where are they?”

“They have just gone upstairs; they are there now,” answered the waiter,

shaking his head with an air of alarm; “yes, they are there!”

“What does master say?”

“He is very vexed, because--” and the waiter glanced round at the

guests. “He does not know what to do; he has sent me to you.”

“What the devil have I to do with it?” said the other; wiping his

forehead. “It was to be expected, and cannot be helped.”

“I will not remain here till they begin.”

“You may as well go, for your long face already attracts attention. Tell

master we must wait for the upshot.”

The above incident was scarcely perceived in the midst of the growing

tumult of the joyous feast. But, among the guests, one alone laughed

not, drank not. This was Jacques. With fixed and lurid eye, he gazed

upon vacancy. A stranger to what was passing around him, the unhappy man

thought of the Bacchanal Queen, who had been so gay and brilliant in the

midst of similar saturnalia. The remembrance of that one being, whom

he still loved with an extravagant love, was the only thought that from

time to time roused him from his besotted state.

It is strange, but Jacques had only consented to join this masquerade

because the mad scene reminded him of the merry day he had spent with

Cephyse--that famous breakfast, after a night of dancing, in which the

Bacchanal Queen, from some extraordinary presentiment, had proposed a

lugubrious toast with regard to this very pestilence, which was then

reported to be approaching France. “To the Cholera!” had she said. “Let

him spare those who wish to live, and kill at the same moment those who

dread to part!”

And now, at this time, remembering those mournful words, Jacques was

absorbed in painful thought. Morok perceived his absence of mind, and

said aloud to him, “You have given over drinking, Jacques. Have you had

enough wine? Then you will want brandy. I will send for some.”

“I want neither wine nor brandy,” answered Jacques, abruptly, and he

fell back into a sombre reverie.

“Well, you may be right,” resumed Morok, in a sardonic tone, and raising

his voice still higher. “You do well to take care of yourself. I was

wrong to name brandy in these times. There would be as much temerity in

facing a bottle of brandy as the barrel of a loaded pistol.”

On hearing his courage as a toper called in question, Sleepinbuff looked

angrily at Morok. “You think it is from cowardice that I will not drink

brandy!” cried the unfortunate man, whose half-extinguished intellect

was roused to defend what he called his dignity. “Is it from cowardice

that I refuse, d’ye think, Morok? Answer me!”

“Come, my good fellow, we have all shown our pluck today,” said one of

the guests to Jacques; “you, above all, who, being rather indisposed,

yet had the courage to take the part of Goodman Cholera.”

“Gentlemen,” resumed Morok, seeing the general attention fixed upon

himself and Sleepinbuff, “I was only joking; for if my comrade (pointing

to Jacques) had the imprudence to accept my offer, it would be an act,

not of courage, but of foolhardiness. Luckily, he has sense enough to

renounce a piece of boasting so dangerous at this time, and I--”

“Waiter!” cried Jacques, interrupting Morok with angry impatience, “two

bottles of brandy, and two glasses!”

“What are you going to do?” said Morok, with pretended uneasiness. “Why

do you order two bottles of brandy?”

“For a duel,” said Jacques, in a cool, resolute tone.

“A duel!” cried the spectators, in surprise.

“Yes,” resumed Jacques, “a duel with brandy. You pretend there is as

much danger in facing a bottle of brandy as a loaded pistol; let us each

take a full bottle, and see who will be the first to cry quarter.”

This strange proposition was received by some with shouts of joy, and by

others with genuine uneasiness.

“Bravo! the champions of the bottle!” cried the first.

“No, no; there would be too much danger in such a contest,” said the

others.

“Just now,” added one of the guests; “this challenge is as serious as an

invitation to fight to the death.”

“You hear,” said Morok, with a diabolical smile, “you hear, Jacques?

Will you now retreat before the danger?”

At these words, which reminded him of the peril to which he was about

to expose himself, Jacques started, as if a sudden idea had occurred to

him. He raised his head proudly, his cheeks were slightly flushed, his

eye shone with a kind of gloomy satisfaction, and he exclaimed in a firm

voice: “Hang it, waiter! are you deaf? I asked you for two bottles of

brandy.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, going to fetch them, although himself

frightened at what might be the result of this bacchanalian struggle.

But the mad and perilous resolution of Jacques was applauded by the

majority.

Ninny Moulin moved about on his chair, stamped his feet, and shouted

with all his might: “Bacchus and drink! bottles and glasses! the throats

are dry! brandy to the rescue! Largess! largess!”

And, like a true champion of the tournament, he embraced Modeste,

adding, to excuse the liberty: “Love, you shall be the Queen of Beauty,

and I am only anticipating the victor’s happiness!”

“Brandy to the rescue!” repeated they all, in chorus. “Largess!”

“Gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with enthusiasm, “shall we remain

indifferent to the noble example set us by Goodman Cholera? He said in

his pride, ‘brandy!’ Let us gloriously answer, ‘punch!’”

“Yes, yes! punch!”

“Punch to the rescue!”

“Waiter!” shouted the religious writer, with the voice of a Stentor,

“waiter! have you a pan, a caldron, a hogshead, or any other immensity,

in which we can brew a monster punch?”

“A Babylonian punch!”

“A lake of punch!”

“An ocean of punch!”

Such was the ambitious crescendo that followed the proposition of Ninny

Moulin.

“Sir,” answered the waiter, with an air of triumph, “we just happen to

have a large copper caldron, quite new. It has been used, and would hold

at least thirty bottles.”

“Bring the caldron!” said Ninny Moulin, majestically.

“The caldron forever!” shouted the chorus.

“Put in twenty bottles of brandy, six loaves of sugar, a dozen lemons, a

pound of cinnamon, and then--fire! fire!” shouted the religious writer,

with the most vociferous exclamations.

“Yes, yes! fire!” repeated the chorus!

The proposition of Ninny Moulin gave a new impetus to the general

gayety; the most extravagant remarks were mingled with the sound of

kisses, taken or given under the pretext that perhaps there would be

no to-morrow, that one must make the most of the present, etc., etc.

Suddenly, in one of the moments of silence which sometimes occur in the

midst of the greatest tumult, a succession of slow and measured taps

sounded above the ceiling of the banqueting-room. All remained silent,

and listened.

CHAPTER XXI. BRANDY TO THE RESCUE.

After the lapse of some seconds, the singular rapping which had so much

surprised the guests, was again heard, but this time louder and longer.

“Waiter!” cried one of the party, “what in the devil’s name is

knocking?”

The waiter, exchanging with his comrades a look of uneasiness and alarm,

stammered Out in reply: “Sir--it is--it is--”

“Well! I suppose it is some crabbed, cross-grained lodger, some animal,

the enemy of joy, who is pounding on the floor of his room to warn us to

sing less loud,” said Ninny Moulin.

“Then, by a general rule,” answered sententiously the pupil of the great

painter, “if lodger or landlord ask for silence, tradition bids us reply

by an infernal uproar, destined to drown all his remonstrances. Such, at

least,” added the scapegrace, modestly, “are the foreign relations that

I have always seen observed between neighboring powers.”

This remark was received with general laughter and applause. During the

tumult, Morok questioned one of the waiters, and then exclaimed in a

shrill tone, which rose above the clamor: “I demand a hearing!”

“Granted!” cried the others, gayly. During the silence which followed

the exclamation of Morok, the noise was again heard; it was this time

quicker than before.

“The lodger is innocent,” said Morok, with a strange smile, “and would

be quite incapable of interfering with your enjoyment.”

“Then why does he keep up that knocking?” said Ninny Moulin, emptying

his glass.

“Like a deaf man who has lost his ear-horn?” added the young artist.

“It is not the lodger who is knocking” said Morok, in a sharp, quick

tone; “for they are nailing him down in his coffin.” A sudden and

mournful silence followed these words.

“His coffin no, I am wrong,” resumed Morok; “her coffin, I should say,

or more properly their coffin; for, in these pressing times, they put

mother and child together.”

“A woman!” cried PLEASURE, addressing the writer; “is it a woman that is

dead?”

“Yes, ma’am; a poor young woman about twenty years of age,” answered the

waiter in a sorrowful tone. “Her little girl, that she was nursing, died

soon after--all in less than two hours. My master is very sorry that

you ladies and gents should be disturbed in this way; but he could not

foresee this misfortune, as yesterday morning the young woman was quite

well, and singing with all her might--no one could have been gayer than

she was.”

Upon these words, it was as if a funeral pall had been suddenly thrown

over a scene lately so full of joy; all the rubicund and jovial faces

took an expression of sadness; no one had the hardihood to make a

jest of mother and child, nailed down together in the same coffin. The

silence became so profound, that one could hear each breath oppressed by

terror: the last blows of the hammer seemed to strike painfully on every

heart; it appeared as if each sad feeling, until now repressed,

was about to replace that animation and gayety, which had been more

factitious than sincere. The moment was decisive. It was necessary to

strike an immediate blow, and to raise the spirits of the guests, for

many pretty rosy faces began to grow pale, many scarlet ears became

suddenly white; Ninny Moulin’s were of the number.

On the contrary, Sleepinbuff exhibited an increase of audacity; he drew

up his figure, bent down from the effects of exhaustion, and, with a

cheek slightly flushed, he exclaimed: “Well, waiter? are those bottles

of brandy coming? And the punch? Devil and all! are the dead to frighten

the living?”

“He’s right! Down with sorrow, and let’s have the punch!” cried several

of the guests, who felt the necessity of reviving their courage.

“Forward, punch!”

“Begone, dull care!”

“Jollity forever!”

“Gentlemen, here is the punch,” said a waiter, opening the door. At

sight of the flaming beverage, which was to reanimate their enfeebled

spirits, the room rang with the loudest applause.

The sun had just set. The room was large, being capable of dining a

hundred guests; and the windows were few, narrow, and half veiled by red

cotton curtains. Though it was not yet night, some portions of this vast

saloon were almost entirely dark. Two waiters brought the monster-punch,

in an immense brass kettle, brilliant as gold, suspended from an iron

bar, and crowned with flames of changing color. The burning beverage was

then placed upon the table, to the great joy of the guests, who began to

forget their past alarms.

“Now,” said Jacques to Morok, in a taunting tone, “while the punch is

burning, we will have our duel. The company shall judge.” Then, pointing

to the two bottles of brandy, which the waiter had brought, Jacques

added: “Choose your weapon!”

“Do you choose,” answered Morok.

“Well! here’s your bottle--and here’s your glass. Ninny Moulin shall be

umpire.”

“I do not refuse to be judge of the field,” answered the religious

writer, “only I must warn you, comrade, that you are playing a desperate

game, and that just now, as one of these gentlemen has said, the neck

of a bottle of brandy in one’s mouth, is perhaps more dangerous than the

barrel of a loaded pistol.”

“Give the word, old fellow!” said Jacques, interrupting Ninny Moulin,

“or I will give it myself.”

“Since you will have it so--so be it!”

“The first who gives in is conquered,” said Jacques.

“Agreed!” answered Morok.

“Come, gentlemen, attention! we must follow every movement,” resumed

Ninny Moulin. “Let us first see if the bottles are of the same

size--equality of weapons being the foremost condition.”

During these preparations, profound silence reigned in the room. The

courage of the majority of those present, animated for a moment by the

arrival of the punch, was soon again depressed by gloomy thoughts,

as they vaguely foresaw the danger of the contest between Morok and

Jacques. This impression joined to the sad thoughts occasioned by the

incident of the coffin, darkened by degrees many a countenance. Some

of the guests, indeed, continued to make a show of rejoicing, but their

gayety appeared forced. Under certain circumstances, the smallest things

will have the most powerful effect. We have said that, after sunset,

a portion of this large room was plunged in obscurity; therefore, the

guests who sat in the remote corners of the apartment, had no other

light than the reflection of the flaming punch. Now it is well known,

that the flame of burning spirit throws a livid, bluish tint over the

countenance; it was therefore a strange, almost frightful spectacle, to

see a number of the guests, who happened to be at a distance from the

windows, in this ghastly and fantastic light.

The painter, more struck than all the rest by this effect of color,

exclaimed: “Look! at this end of the table, we might fancy ourselves

feasting with cholera-patients, we are such fine blues and greens.”

This jest was not much relished. Fortunately, the loud voice of Ninny

Moulin demanded attention, and for a moment turned the thoughts of the

company.

“The lists are open,” cried the religious writer, really more frightened

than he chose to appear. “Are you ready, brave champions?” he added.

“We are ready,” said Morok and Jacques.

“Present! fire!” cried Ninny Moulin, clapping his hands. And the two

drinkers each emptied a tumbler full of brandy at a draught.

Morok did not even knit his brow; his marble face remained impassible;

with a steady hand he replaced his glass upon the table. But Jacques, as

he put down his glass, could not conceal a slight convulsive trembling,

caused by internal suffering.

“Bravely done!” cried Ninny Moulin. “The quarter of a bottle of brandy

at a draught--it is glorious! No one else here would be capable of such

prowess. And now, worthy champions, if you believe me, you will stop

where you are.”

“Give the word!” answered Jacques, intrepidly. And, with feverish and

shaking hand, he seized the bottle; then suddenly, instead of filling

his glass, he said to Morok: “Bah! we want no glasses. It is braver to

drink from the bottle. I dare you to it!”

Morok’s only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neck

of the bottle to his lips. Jacques hastened to imitate him. The thin,

yellowish, transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressive

diminution of the liquor. The stony countenance of Morok, and the pale

thin face of Jacques, on which already stood large drops of cold sweat,

were now, as well as the features of the other guests, illuminated

by the bluish light of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok and

Jacques, with that barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seem

involuntarily to inspire.

Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand;

suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand with

a convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and his

countenance revealed an agony of pain. Yet he continued to drink; only,

without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it for

an instant, as if to recover breath. Just then, Jacques met the sardonic

look of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility.

Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok’s

glance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a few

drops more. But his strength was exhausted. A quenchless fire devoured

his vitals. His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bear

up against them. His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively,

he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grew

rigid, his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almost

senseless.

“Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing,” cried Morok, whose ferocious

glance now sparkled with diabolical joy. Then, replacing his bottle

on the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainly

endeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.

This sudden attack had none of the symptoms of cholera. Yet terror

seized upon all present; one of the women was taken with hysterics, and

another uttered piercing cries and fainted away. Ninny Moulin, leaving

Jacques in the hands of Morok, ran towards the door to seek for

help,--when that door was suddenly opened, and the religious writer drew

back in alarm, at the sight of the unexpected personage who appeared on

the threshold.

CHAPTER XXII. MEMORIES.

The person before whom Ninny Moulin stopped in such extreme astonishment

was the Bacchanal Queen.

Pale and wan, with, hair in disorder, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and

clothed almost in rags, this brilliant and joyous heroine of so many mad

orgies was now only the shadow of her former self. Misery and grief were

impressed on that countenance, once so charming. Hardly had she entered

the room, when Cephyse paused; her mournful and unquiet gaze strove

to penetrate the half-obscurity of the apartment, in search of him she

longed to see. Suddenly the girl started, and uttered a loud scream.

She had just perceived, at the other side of a long table, by the bluish

light of the punch, Jacques struggling with Morok and one of the guests,

who were hardly able to restrain his convulsive movements.

At this sight Cephyse, in her first alarm, carried away by her

affection, did what she had so often done in the intoxication of joy and

pleasure. Light and agile, instead of losing precious time in making a

long circuit, she sprang at once upon the table, passed nimbly through

the array of plates and bottles, and with one spring was by the side of

the sufferer.

“Jacques!” she exclaimed, without yet remarking the lion-tamer, and

throwing herself on the neck of her lover. “Jacques! it is I--Cephyse!”

That well-known voice, that heart-piercing cry, which came from the

bottom of the soul, seemed not unheard by Sleepinbuff. He turned his

head mechanically towards the Bacchanal Queen, without opening his eyes,

and heaved a deep sigh; his stiffened limbs relaxed, a slight trembling

succeeded to the convulsions, and in a few seconds his heavy eyelids

were raised with an effort, so as to uncover his dull and wandering

gaze. Mute with astonishment, the spectators of this scene felt an

uneasy curiosity. Cephyse, kneeling beside her lover, bathed his hands

in her tears, covered them with kisses, and exclaimed, in a voice broken

by sobs, “It is I--Cephyse--I have found you again--it was not my fault

that I abandoned you! Forgive me, forgive--”

“Wretched woman!” cried Morok, irritated at this meeting, which might,

perhaps, be fatal to his projects; “do you wish to kill him? In his

present state, this agitation is death. Begone!” So saying, he seized

Cephyse suddenly by the arm, just as Jacques, waking, as it were, from a

painful dream, began to distinguish what was passing around him.

“You! It is you!” cried the Bacchanal Queen, in amazement, as she

recognized Morok, “who separated me from Jacques!”

She paused; for the dim eye of the victim, as it rested upon her, grew

suddenly bright.

“Cephyse!” murmured Jacques; “is it you?”

“Yes, it is I,” answered she, in a voice of deep emotion; “who have

come--I will tell you--”

She was unable to continue, and, as she clasped her hands together,

her pale, agitated, tearful countenance expressed her astonishment and

despair at the mortal change which had taken place in the features

of Jacques. He understood the cause of her surprise, and as he

contemplated, in his turn, the suffering and emaciated countenance of

Cephyse, he said to her, “Poor girl! you also have had to bear much

grief, much misery--I should hardly have known you.”

“Yes,” replied Cephyse, “much grief--much misery--and worse than

misery,” she added, trembling, whilst a deep blush overspread her pale

features.

“Worse than misery?” said Jacques, astonished.

“But it is you who have suffered,” hastily resumed Cephyse, without

answering her lover.

“Just now, I was going to make an end of it--your voice has recalled me

for an instant--but I feel something here,” and he laid his hand upon

his breast, “which never gives quarter. It is all the same now--I have

seen you--I shall die happy.”

“You shall not die, Jacques; I am here--”

“Listen to one, my girl. If I had a bushel of live coal in my stomach,

it could hardly burn me more. For more than a month, I have been

consuming my body by a slow fire. This gentleman,” he added, glancing at

Morok, “this dear friend, always undertook to feed the flame. I do not

regret life; I have lost the habit of work, and taken to drink and riot;

I should have finished by becoming a thorough blackguard: I preferred

that my friend here should amuse himself with lighting a furnace in my

inside. Since what I drank just now, I am certain that it fumes like

yonder punch.”

“You are both foolish and ungrateful,” said Morok, shrugging his

shoulders; “you held out your glass, and I filled it--and, faith, we

shall drink long and often together yet.”

For some moments, Cephyse had not withdrawn her eyes from Morok. “I tell

you, that you have long blown the fire, in which I have burnt my skin,”

resumed Jacques, addressing Morok in a feeble voice, “so that they may

not think I die of cholera. It would look as if I had been frightened

by the part I played. I do not therefore reproach you, my affectionate

friend,” added he, with a sardonic smile; “you dug my grave gayly--and

sometimes, when, seeing the great dark hole, into which I was about to

fall, I drew back a step--but you, my excellent friend, still pushed

me forward, saying, ‘Go on, my boy, go on!’--and I went on--and here I

am--”

So saying, Sleepinbuff burst into a bitter laugh, which sent an icy

shudder through the spectators of this scene.

“My good fellow,” said Morok, coolly, “listen to me, and follow my

advice.”

“Thank you! I know your advice--and, instead of listening to you, I

prefer speaking to my poor Cephyse. Before I go down to the moles, I

should like to tell her what weighs on my heart.”

“Jacques,” replied Cephyse, “do not talk so. I tell you, you shall not

die.”

“Why, then, my brave Cephyse, I shall owe my life to you,” returned

Jacques, in a tone of serious feeling, which surprised the spectators.

“Yes,” resumed he, “when I came to myself, and saw you so poorly clad,

I felt something good about my heart--do you know why?--it was because

I said to myself, ‘Poor girl! she has kept her word bravely; she has

chosen to toil, and want, and suffer--rather than take another love--who

would have given her what I gave her as long as I could’--and that

thought, Cephyse, refreshed my soul. I needed it, for I was burning--and

I burn still,” added he, clinching his fists with pain; “but that made

me happy--it did me good--thanks, my good, brave Cephyse--yes, you are

good and brave--and you were right; for I never loved any but you in the

wide world; and if, in my degradation, I had one thought that raised me

a little above the filth, and made me regret that I was not better--the

thought was of you! Thanks then, my poor, dear love,” said Jacques,

whose hot and shining eyes were becoming moist; “thanks once again,” and

he reached his cold hand to Cephyse; “if I die, I shall die happy--if I

live, I shall live happy also. Give me your hand, my brave Cephyse!--you

have acted like a good and honest creature.”

Instead of taking the hand which Jacques offered her, Cephyse, still

kneeling, bowed her head, and dared not raise her eyes to her lover.

“You don’t answer,” said he, leaning over towards the young girl; “you

don’t take my hand--why is this?”

The unfortunate creature only answered by stifled sobs. Borne down with

shame, she held herself in so humble, so supplicating an attitude, that

her forehead almost touched the feet of her lover.

Amazed at the silence and conduct of the Bacchanal Queen, Jacques

looked at her with increasing agitation; suddenly he stammered out with

trembling lips, “Cephyse, I know you. If you do not take my hand, it is

because--”

Then, his voice failing, he added, in a dull tone, after a moment’s

silence, “When, six weeks ago, I was taken to prison, did you not say to

me, ‘Jacques, I swear that I will work--and if need be, live in horrible

misery--but I will live true!’ That was your promise. Now, I know you

never speak false; tell me you have kept your word, and I shall believe

you.”

Cephyse only answered by a heart-rending sob, as she pressed the knees

of Jacques against her heaving bosom. By a strange contradiction, more

common than is generally thought--this man, degraded by intoxication

and debauchery, who, since he came out of prison, had plunged in every

excess, and tamely yielded to all the fatal incitements of Morok, yet

received a fearful blow, when he learned, by the mute avowal of

Cephyse, the infidelity, of this creature, whom he had loved in spite of

degradation. The first impulse of Jacques was terrible. Notwithstanding

his weakness and exhaustion, he succeeded in rising from his seat, and,

with a countenance contracted by rage and despair, he seized a knife,

before they had time to prevent him, and turned it upon Cephyse. But at

the moment he was about to strike, shrinking from an act of murder, he

hurled the knife far away from him, and falling back into the chair,

covered his face with his hands.

At the cry of Ninny Moulin, who had, though late, thrown himself upon

Jacques to take away the knife, Cephyse raised her head: Jacques’s

woeful dejection wrung her heart; she rose, and fell upon his neck,

notwithstanding his resistance, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs,

“Jacques, if you knew! if you only knew--listen--do not condemn me

without hearing me--I will tell you all, I swear to you--without

falsehood--this man,” and she pointed to Morok, “will not dare deny what

I say; he came, and told me to have the courage to--”

“I do not reproach you. I have no right to reproach you. Let me die

in peace. I ask nothing but that now,” said Jacques, in a still weaker

voice, as he repulsed Cephyse. Then he added, with a grievous and

bitter smile, “Luckily, I have my dose. I knew--what I was doing--when I

accepted the duel with brandy.”

“No, you shall not die, and you shall hear me,” cried Cephyse, with a

bewildered air; “you shall hear me, and everybody else shall hear me.

They shall see that it is not my fault. Is it not so, gentlemen? Do I

not deserve pity? You will entreat Jacques to forgive me; for if driven

by misery--finding no work--I was forced to this--not for the sake of

any luxury--you see the rags I wear--but to get bread and shelter for my

poor, sick sister--dying, and even more miserable than myself--would you

not have pity upon me? Do you think one finds pleasure in one’s infamy?”

cried the unfortunate, with a burst of frightful laughter; then she

added, in a low voice, and with a shudder, “Oh, if you knew, Jacques! it

is so infamous, so horrible, that I preferred death to falling so low

a second time. I should have killed myself, had I not heard you were

here.” Then, seeing that Jacques did not answer her, but shook his

head mournfully as he sank down though still supported by Ninny

Moulin, Cephyse exclaimed, as she lifted her clasped hands towards him,

“Jacques! one word--for pity’s sake--forgive me!”

“Gentlemen, pray remove this woman,” cried Morok; “the sight of her

causes my friend too painful emotions.”

“Come, my dear child, be reasonable,” said several of the guests, who,

deeply moved by this scene, were endeavoring to withdraw Cephyse from

it; “leave him, and come with us; he is not in any danger.”

“Gentlemen! oh, gentlemen!” cried the unfortunate creature, bursting

into tears, and raising her hands in supplication; “listen to me--I

will do all that you wish me--I will go--but, in heaven’s name, send

for help, and do not let him die thus. Look, what pain he suffers! what

horrible convulsions!”

“She is right,” said one of the guests, hastening towards the door; “we

must send for a doctor.”

“There is no doctor to be found,” said another; “they are all too busy.”

“We will do better than that,” cried a third; “the Hospital is just

opposite, and we can carry the poor fellow thither. They will give him

instant help. A leaf of the table will make a litter, and the table

cloth a covering.”

“Yes, yes, that is it,” said several voices; “let us carry him over at

once.”

Jacques, burnt up with brandy, and overcome by his interview with

Cephyse, had again fallen into violent convulsions. It was the dying

paroxysm of the unfortunate man. They were obliged to tie him with the

ends of the cloth, so as to secure him to the leaf which was to serve

for a litter, which two of the guests hastened to carry away. They

yielded to the supplication of Cephyse, who asked, as a last favor, to

accompany Jacques to the Hospital. When the mournful procession quitted

the great room of the eating-house, there was a general flight among the

guests. Men and women made haste to wrap themselves in their cloaks, in

order to conceal their costumes. The coaches, which had been ordered in

tolerable number for the return of the masquerade, had luckily

arrived. The defiance had been fully carried out, the audacious bravado

accomplished, and they could now retire with the honors of war. Whilst a

part of the guests were still in the room, an uproar, at first distant,

but which soon drew nearer, broke out with incredible fury in the square

of Notre Dame.

Jacques had been carried to the outer door of the tavern. Morok and

Ninny Moulin, striving to open a passage through the crowd in the

direction of the Hospital, preceded the litter. A violent reflux of

the multitude soon forced them to stop, whilst a new storm of savage

outcries burst from the other extremity of the square, near the angle of

the church.

“What is it then?” asked Ninny Moulin of one of those ignoble figures

that was leaping up before him. “What are those cries?”

“They are making mince-meat of a poisoner, like him they have thrown

into the river,” replied the man. “If you want to see the fun, follow me

close,” added he, “and peg away with your elbows, for fear you should be

too late.”

Hardly had the wretch pronounced these words than a dreadful shriek

sounded above the roar of the crowd, through which the bearers of the

litter, preceded by Morok, were with difficulty making their way. It

was Cephyse who uttered that cry. Jacques (one of the seven heirs of the

Rennepont family) had just expired in her arms! By a strange fatality,

at the very moment that the despairing exclamation of Cephyse announced

that death, another cry rose from that part of the square where they

were attacking the poisoner. That distant, supplicating cry, tremulous

with horrible alarm, like the last appeal of a man staggering beneath

the blows of his murderers, chilled the soul of Morok in the midst of

his execrable triumph.

“Damnation!” cried the skillful assassin, who had selected drunkenness

and debauchery for his murderous but legal weapons; “it is the voice of

the Abbe d’Aigrigny, whom they have in their clutches!”

CHAPTER XXIII. THE POISONER.

It is necessary to go back a little before relating the adventure of

Father d’Aigrigny, whose cry of distress made so deep an impression upon

Morok just at the moment of Jacques Rennepont’s death. We have said that

the most absurd and alarming reports were circulating in Paris; not only

did people talk of poison given to the sick or thrown into the public

fountains, but it was also said that wretches had been surprised in the

act of putting arsenic into the pots which are usually kept all ready

on the counters of wine-shops. Goliath was on his way to rejoin Morok,

after delivering a message to Father d’Aigrigny, who was waiting in a

house on the Place de l’Archeveche. He entered a wine-shop in the Rue

de la Calandre, to get some refreshment, and having drunk two glasses

of wine, he proceeded to pay for them. Whilst the woman of the house was

looking for change, Goliath, mechanically and very innocently, rested

his hand on the mouth of one of the pots that happened to be within his

reach.

The tall stature of this man and his repulsive and savage countenance

had already alarmed the good woman, whose fears and prejudices had

previously been roused by the public rumors on the subject of poisoning;

but when she saw Goliath place his hand over the mouth of one of her

pots, she cried out in dismay: “Oh! my gracious! what are you throwing

into that pot?” At these words, spoken in a loud voice, and with the

accent of terror, two or three of the drinkers at one of the tables

rose precipitately, and ran to the counter, while one of them rashly

exclaimed: “It is a poisoner!”

Goliath, not aware of the reports circulated in the neighborhood, did

not at first understand of what he was accused. The men raised their

voices as they called on him to answer the charge; but he, trusting to

his strength, shrugged his shoulders in disdain, and roughly demanded

the change, which the pale and frightened hostess no longer thought of

giving him.

“Rascal!” cried one of the men, with so much violence that several of

the passers-by stopped to listen; “you shall have your change when you

tell us what you threw in the pot!”

“Ha! did he throw anything into the wine-pot?” said one of the passers

by.

“It is, perhaps, a poisoner,” said another.

“He ought to be taken up,” added a third.

“Yes, yes,” cried those in the house--honest people perhaps, but under

the influence of the general panic; “he must be taken up, for he has

been throwing poison into the wine-pots.”

The words “He is a poisoner” soon spread through the group, which, at

first composed of three or four persons, increased every instant around

the door of the wine-shop. A dull, menacing clamor began to rise from

the crowd; the first accuser, seeing his fears thus shared and almost

justified, thought he was acting like a good and courageous citizen

in taking Goliath by the collar, and saying to him: “Come and explain

yourself at the guard-house, villain!”

The giant, already provoked at insults of which he did not perceive the

real meaning, was exasperated at this sudden attack; yielding to his

natural brutality, he knocked his adversary down upon the counter,

and began to hammer him with his fists. During this collision, several

bottles and two or three panes of glass were broken with much noise,

whilst the woman of the house, more and more frightened, cried out with

all her might; “Help! a poisoner! Help! murder!”

At the sound of the breaking windows and these cries of distress, the

passers-by, of whom the greater number believed in the stories about

the poisoners, rushed into the shop to aid in securing Goliath. But

the latter, thanks to his herculean strength, after struggling for

some moments with seven or eight persons, knocked down two of his most

furious assailants, disengaged himself from the others, drew near the

counter, and, taking a vigorous spring, rushed head-foremost, like

a bull about to butt, upon the crowd that blocked up the door; then,

forcing a passage, by the help of his enormous shoulders and athletic

arms, he made his way into the street, and ran with all speed in the

direction of the square of Notre-Dame, his garments torn, his head bare,

and his countenance pale and full of rage. Immediately, a number of

persons from amongst the crowd started in pursuit of Goliath, and a

hundred voices exclaimed: “Stop--stop the poisoner!”

Hearing these cries, and seeing a man draw near with a wild and troubled

look, a butcher, who happened to be passing with his large, empty tray

on his head, threw it against Goliath’s shins, and taken by surprise, he

stumbled and fell. The butcher, thinking he had performed as heroic an

action as if he had encountered a mad dog, flung himself on Goliath,

and rolled over with him on the pavement, exclaiming: “Help! it is a

poisoner! Help! help!” This scene took place not far from the Cathedral,

but at some distance from the crowd which was pressing round the

hospital gate, as well as from the eating-house in which the masquerade

of the cholera then was. The day was now drawing to a close. On the

piercing call of the butcher, several groups, at the head of which were

Ciboule and the quarryman, flew towards the scene of the struggle,

while those who had pursued the pretended poisoner from the Rue de la

Calandre, reached the square on their side.

At sight of this threatening crowd advancing towards him, Goliath,

whilst he continued to defend himself against the butcher, who held him

with the tenacity of a bull-dog, felt that he was lost unless he could

rid himself of this adversary before the arrival of the rest; with a

furious blow of the fist, therefore, he broke the jaw of the butcher,

who just then was above him, and disengaging himself from his hold, he

rose, and staggered a few steps forward. Suddenly he stopped. He saw

that he was surrounded. Behind him rose the walls of the cathedral; to

the right and left, and in front of him, advanced a hostile multitude.

The groans uttered by the butcher, who had just been lifted from the

ground covered with blood, augmented the fury of the populace.

This was a terrible moment for Goliath: still standing alone in the

centre of a ring that grew smaller every second, he saw on all sides

angry enemies rushing towards him, and uttering cries of death. As the

wild boar turns round once or twice, before resolving to stand at bay

and face the devouring pack, Goliath, struck with terror, made one or

two abrupt and wavering movements. Then, as he abandoned the possibility

of flight, instinct told him that he had no mercy to expect from a crowd

given up to blind and savage fury--a fury the more pitiless as it was

believed to be legitimate. Goliath determined, therefore, at least to

sell his life dearly; he sought for a knife in his pocket, but, not

finding it, he threw out his left leg in an athletic posture, and

holding up his muscular arms, hard and stiff as bars of iron, waited

with intrepidity for the shock.

The first who approached Goliath was Ciboule. The hag, heated and out

of breath, instead of rushing upon him, paused, stooped down, and

taking off one of the large wooden shoes that she wore, hurled it at the

giant’s head with so much force and with so true an aim that it struck

him right in the eye, which hung half out of its socket. Goliath pressed

his hands to his face, and uttered a cry of excruciating pain.

“I’ve made him squint!” said Ciboule, with a burst of laughter.

Goliath, maddened by the pain, instead of waiting for the attack, which

the mob still hesitated to begin, so greatly were they awed by his

appearance of herculean strength--the only adversary worthy to cope with

him being the quarryman, who had been borne to a distance by the surging

of the crowd--Goliath, in his rage, rushed headlong upon the nearest.

Such a struggle was too unequal to last long; but despair redoubled

the Colossus’s strength, and the combat was for a moment terrible. The

unfortunate man did not fall at once. For some seconds, almost buried

amid a swarm of furious assailants, one saw now his mighty arm rise and

fall like a sledge hammer, beating upon skulls and faces, and now his

enormous head, livid and bloody, drawn back by some of the combatants

hanging to his tangled hair. Here and there sudden openings and violent

oscillations of the crowd bore witness to the incredible energy of

Goliath’s defence. But when the quarryman succeeded in reaching him,

Goliath was overpowered and thrown down. A long, savage cheer in triumph

announced this fall; for, under such circumstances, to “go under” is “to

die.” Instantly a thousand breathless and angry voices repeated the cry

of “Death to the poisoner!”

Then began one of those scenes of massacre and torture, worthy of

cannibals, horrible to relate, and the more incredible, that they happen

almost always in the presence, and often with the aid, of honest and

humane people, who, blinded by false notions and stupid prejudices,

allow themselves to be led into all sorts of barbarity, under the idea

of performing an act of inexorable justice. As it frequently happens,

the sight of the blood which flowed in torrents from Goliath’s wounds

inflamed to madness the rage of his assailants. A hundred fists struck

at the unhappy man; he was stamped under foot, his face and chest were

beaten in. Ever and anon, in the midst of furious cries of “Death to the

poisoner!” heavy blows were audible, followed by stifled groans. It was

a frightful butchery. Each individual, yielding to a sanguinary frenzy,

came in turn to strike his blow; or to tear off his morsel of flesh.

Women--yes, women--mothers!--came to spend their rage on this mutilated

form.

There was one moment of frightful terror. With his face all bruised and

covered with mud, his garments in rags, his chest bare, red, gaping with

wounds--Goliath, availing himself of a moment’s weariness on the part of

his assassins, who believed him already, finished, succeeded, by one of

those convulsive starts frequent in the last agony, in raising himself

to his feet for a few seconds; then, blind with wounds and loss of

blood, striking about his arms in the air as if to parry blows that were

no longer struck, he muttered these words, which came from his mouth,

accompanied by a crimson torrent: “Mercy! I am no poisoner. Mercy!” This

sort of resurrection produced so great an effect on the crowd, that for

an instant they fell hack affrighted. The clamor ceased, and a small

space was left around the victim. Some hearts began even to feel pity;

when the quarryman, seeing Goliath blinded with blood, groping before

him with his hands, exclaimed in ferocious allusion to a well-known

game: “Now for blind-man’s-bluff.”

Then, with a violent kick, he again threw down the victim, whose head

struck twice heavily on the pavement.

Just as the giant fell a voice from amongst the crowd exclaimed: “It is

Goliath! stop! he is innocent.”

It was Father d’Aigrigny, who, yielding to a generous impulse, was

making violent efforts to reach the foremost rank of the actors in this

scene, and who cried out, as he came nearer, pale, indignant, menacing:

“You are cowards and murderers! This man is innocent. I know him. You

shall answer for his life.”

These vehement words were received with loud murmurs.

“You know that poisoner,” cried the quarryman, seizing the Jesuit by the

collar; “then perhaps you are a poisoner too.

“Wretch,” exclaimed Father d’Aigrigny, endeavoring to shake himself

loose from the grasp, “do you dare to lay hand upon me?”

“Yes, I dare do anything,” answered the quarryman.

“He knows him: he’s a poisoner like the other,” cried the crowd,

pressing round the two adversaries; whilst Goliath, who had fractured

his skull in the fall, uttered a long death-rattle.

At a sudden movement of Father d’Aigrigny, who disengaged himself from

the quarryman, a large glass phial of peculiar form, very thick, and

filled with a greenish liquor, fell from his pocket, and rolled close

to the dying Goliath. At sight of this phial, many voices exclaimed

together: “It is poison! Only see! He had poison upon him.”

The clamor redoubled at this accusation, and they pressed so close to

Abbe d’Aigrigny, that he exclaimed: “Do not touch me! do not approach

me!”

“If he is a poisoner,” said a voice, “no more mercy for him than for the

other.”

“I a poisoner?” said the abbe, struck with horror.

Ciboule had darted upon the phial; the quarryman seized it from her,

uncorked it and presenting it to Father d’Aigrigny, said to him: “Now

tell us what is that?”

“It is not poison,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.

“Then drink it!” returned the quarryman.

“Yes, yes! let him drink it!” cried the mob.

“Never,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, in extreme alarm. And he drew back

as he spoke, pushing away the phial with his hand.

“Do you see? It is poison. He dares not drink it,” they exclaimed.

Hemmed in on every side, Father d’Aigrigny stumbled against the body of

Goliath.

“My friends,” cried the Jesuit, who, without being a poisoner, found

himself exposed to a terrible alternative, for his phial contained

aromatic salts of extraordinary strength, designed for a preservative

against the cholera, and as dangerous to swallow as any poison, “my good

friends, you are in error. I conjure you, in the name of heaven--”

“If that is not poison, drink it!” interrupted the quarryman, as he

again offered the bottle to the Jesuit.

“If he does not drink it, death to the poisoner of the poor!”

“Yes!--death to him! death to him!”

“Unhappy men!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, whilst his hair stood on end

with terror; “do you mean to murder me?”

“What about all those, that you and your mate have killed, you wretch?”

“But it is not true--and--”

“Drink, then!” repeated the inflexible quarryman; “I ask you for the

last time.”

“To drink that would be death,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.

“Oh! only hear the wretch!” cried the mob, pressing closer to him; “he

has confessed--he has confessed!”

“He has betrayed himself!”(40)

“He said, ‘to drink that would be death!’”

“But listen to me,” cried the abbe, clasping his hands together; “this

phial is--”

Furious cries interrupted Father d’Aigrigny. “Ciboule, make an end of

that one!” cried the quarryman, spurning Goliath with his foot. “I will

begin this one!” And he seized Father d’Aigrigny by the throat.

At these words, two different groups formed themselves. One, led by

Ciboule, “made an end” of Goliath, with kicks and blows, stones and

wooden shoes; his body was soon reduced to a horrible thing, mutilated,

nameless, formless--a mere inert mass of filth and mangled flesh.

Ciboule gave her cloak, which they tied to one of the dislocated ankles

of the body, and thus dragged it to the parapet of the quay. There, with

shouts of ferocious joy, they precipitated the bloody remains into

the river. Now who does not shudder at the thought that, in a time of

popular commotion, a word, a single word, spoken imprudently, even by

an honest man, and without hatred, will suffice to provoke so horrible a

murder.

“Perhaps it is a poisoner!” said one of the drinkers in the tavern of

the Rue de la Calandre--nothing more--and Goliath had been pitilessly

murdered.

What imperious reasons for penetrating the lowest depths of the masses

with instruction and with light--to enable unfortunate creatures

to defend themselves from so many stupid prejudices, so many fatal

superstitions, so much implacable fanaticism!--How can we ask for

calmness, reflection, self-control, or the sentiment of justice from

abandoned beings, whom ignorance has brutalized, and misery depraved,

and suffering made ferocious, and of whom society takes no thought,

except when it chains them to the galleys, or binds them ready for the

executioner! The terrible cry which had so startled Morok was uttered

by Father d’Aigrigny as the quarryman laid his formidable hand upon him,

saying to Ciboule: “Make an end of that one--I will begin this one!”

(40) This fact is historical. A man was murdered because a phial full

of ammonia was found upon him. On his refusal to drink it, the populace,

persuaded that the bottle contained poison, tore him to pieces.

CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE CATHEDRAL.

Night was almost come, as the mutilated body of Goliath was thrown into

the river. The oscillations of the mob had carried into the street,

which runs along the left side of the cathedral, the group into whose

power Father d’Aigrigny had fallen. Having succeeded in freeing himself

from the grasp of the quarryman, but still closely pressed by the

multitude that surrounded him, crying, “Death to the poisoner!” he

retreated step by step, trying to parry the blows that were dealt him.

By presence of mind, address, and courage, recovering at that critical

moment his old military energy, he had hitherto been able to resist and

to remain firm on his feet--knowing, by the example of Goliath, that

to fall was to die. Though he had little hope of being heard to any

purpose, the abbe continued to call for help with all his might.

Disputing the ground inch by inch, he manoeuvred so as to draw near

one of the lateral walls of the church, and at length succeeded in

ensconcing himself in a corner formed by the projection of a buttress,

and close by a little door.

This position was rather favorable. Leaning with his back against the

wall, Father d’Aigrigny was sheltered from the attacks of a portion of

his assailants. But the quarryman, wishing to deprive him of this last

chance of safety, rushed upon him, with the intention of dragging him

out into the circle where he would have been trampled under foot. The

fear of death gave Father d’Aigrigny extraordinary strength, and he was

able once more to repulse the quarryman, and remain entrenched in the

corner where he had taken refuge. The resistance of the victim redoubled

the rage of the assailants. Cries of murderous import resounded with

new violence. The quarryman again rushed upon Father d’Aigrigny, saying,

“Follow me, friends! this lasts too long. Let us make an end of it.”

Father d’Aigrigny saw that he was lost. His strength was exhausted,

and he felt himself sinking; his legs trembled under him, and a cloud

obscured his sight; the howling of the furious mob began to sound dull

upon his ear. The effects of violent contusions, received during the

struggle, both on the head and chest, were now very perceptible. Two or

three times, a mixture of blood and foam rose to the lips of the abbe;

his position was a desperate one.

“To be slaughtered by these brutes, after escaping death so often in

war!” Such was the thought of Father d’Aigrigny, as the quarryman rushed

upon him.

Suddenly, at the very moment when the abbe, yielding to the instinct of

self-preservation, uttered one last call for help, in a heart-piercing

voice, the door against which he leaned opened behind him, and a firm

hand caught hold of him, and pulled him into the church. Thanks to

this movement, performed with the rapidity of lightning, the quarryman,

thrown forward in his attempt to seize Father d’Aigrigny, could not

check his progress, and found himself just opposite to the person who

had come, as it were, to take the place of the victim.

The quarryman stopped short, and then fell back a couple of paces, so

much was he amazed at this sudden apparition, and impressed, like the

rest of the crowd, with a vague feeling of admiration and respect

at sight of him who had come so miraculously to the aid of Father

d’Aigrigny. It was Gabriel. The young missionary remained standing on

the threshold of the door. His long black cassock was half lost in

the shadows of the cathedral; whilst his angelic countenance, with its

border of long light hair, now pale and agitated by pity and grief, was

illumined by the last faint rays of twilight. This countenance shone

with so divine a beauty, and expressed such touching and tender

compassion, that the crowd felt awed as, with his large blue eyes full

of tears, and his hands clasped together, he exclaimed, in a sonorous

voice: “Have mercy, my brethren! Be humane--be just!”

Recovering from his first feeling of surprise and involuntary emotion,

the quarryman advanced a step towards Gabriel, and said to him: “No

mercy for the poisoner! we must have him! Give him up to us, or we go

and take him!”

“You cannot think of it, my brethren,” answered Gabriel; “the church is

a sacred place--a place of refuge for the persecuted.”

“We would drag our prisoner from the altar!” answered the quarryman,

roughly; “so give him up to us.”

“Listen to me, my brethren,” said Gabriel, extending his arms towards

them.

“Down with the shaveling!” cried the quarryman; “let us go in and hunt

him up in the church!”

“Yes, yes!” cried the mob, again led away by the violence of this

wretch, “down with the black gown!”

“They are all of a piece!”

“Down with them!”

“Let us do as we did at the archbishop’s!”

“Or at Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois!”

“What do our likes care for a church?”

“If the priests defend the poisoners, we’ll pitch them into the water

too!”

“Yes, yes!”

“I’ll show you the lead!” cried the quarryman; and followed by Ciboule,

and a good number of determined men, he rushed towards Gabriel.

The missionary, who for some moments had watched the increasing fury

of the crowd, had foreseen this movement; hastily retreating into the

church, he succeeded, in spite of the efforts of the assailants, in

nearly closing the door, and in barricading it by the help of a wooden

bar, which he held in such a manner as would enable the door to resist

for a few minutes.

Whilst he thus defended the entrance, Gabriel shouted to Father

d’Aigrigny: “Fly, father! fly through the vestry! the other doors are

fastened.”

The Jesuit, overpowered by fatigue, covered with contusions, bathed in

cold sweat, feeling his strength altogether fail, and too soon fancying

himself in safety, had sunk, half fainting, into a chair. At the

voice of Gabriel, he rose with difficulty, and, with a trembling step,

endeavored to reach the choir, separated from the rest of the church by

an iron railing.

“Quick, father!” added Gabriel, in alarm, using every effort to maintain

the door, which was now vigorously assailed. “Make haste! In a few

minutes it will be too late. All alone!” continued the missionary, in

despair, “alone, to arrest the progress of these madmen!”

He was indeed alone. At the first outbreak of the attack, three or four

sacristans and other members of the establishment were in the church;

but, struck with terror, and remembering the sack of the archbishop’s

palace, and of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, they had immediately taken

flight. Some of them had concealed themselves in the organ-loft and

others fled into the vestry, the doors of which they locked after them,

thus cutting off the retreat of Gabriel and Father d’Aigrigny. The

latter, bent double by pain, yet roused by the missionary’s portentive

warning, helping himself on by means of the chairs he met with on his

passage, made vain efforts to reach the choir railing. After advancing

a few steps, vanquished by his suffering, he staggered and fell upon the

pavement, deprived of sense and motion. At the same moment, Gabriel,

in spite of the incredible energy with which the desire to save Father

d’Aigrigny had inspired him, felt the door giving way beneath the

formidable pressure from without.

Turning his head, to see if the Jesuit had at least quitted the church,

Gabriel, to his great alarm, perceived that he was lying motionless at

a few steps from the choir. To abandon the half-broken door, to run

to Father d’Aigrigny, to lift him in his arms, and drag him within

the railing of the choir, was for the young priest an action rapid as

thought; for he closed the gate of the choir just at the instant that

the quarryman and his band, having finished breaking down the door,

rushed in a body into the church.

Standing in front of the choir, with his arms crossed upon his

breast, Gabriel waited calmly and intrepidly for this mob, still more

exasperated by such unexpected resistance.

The door once forced, the assailants rushed in with great violence. But

hardly had they entered the church, than a strange scene took place. It

was nearly dark; only a few silver lamps shed their pale light round

the sanctuary, whose far outlines disappeared in the shadow. On suddenly

entering the immense cathedral, dark, silent, and deserted, the most

audacious were struck with awe, almost with fear in presence of the

imposing grandeur of that stony solitude. Outcries and threats died away

on the lips of the most furious. They seemed to dread awaking the

echoes of those enormous arches, those black vaults, from which oozed a

sepulchral dampness, which chilled their brows, inflamed with anger, and

fell upon their shoulders like a mantle of ice.

Religious tradition, routine, habit, the memories of childhood, have so

much influence upon men, that hardly had they entered the church, than

several of the quarryman’s followers respectfully took off their hats,

bowed their bare heads, and walked along cautiously, as if to check the

noise of their footsteps on the sounding stones. Then they exchanged a

few words in a low and fearful whisper. Others timidly raised their eyes

to the far heights of the topmost arches of that gigantic building,

now lost in obscurity, and felt almost frightened to see themselves so

little in the midst of that immensity of darkness. But at the first joke

of the quarryman, who broke this respectful silence, the emotion soon

passed away.

“Blood and thunder!” cried he; “are you fetching breath to sing vespers?

If they had wine in the font, well and good!”

These words were received with a burst of savage laughter. “All this

time the villain will escape!” said one.

“And we shall be done,” added Ciboule.

“One would think we had cowards here, who are afraid of the sacristans!”

cried the quarryman.

“Never!” replied the others in chorus; “we fear nobody.”

“Forward!”

“Yes, yes--forward!” was repeated on all sides. And the animation, which

had been calmed down for a moment, was redoubled in the midst of

renewed tumult. Some moments after, the eyes of the assailants, becoming

accustomed to the twilight, were able to distinguish in the midst of

the faint halo shed around by a silver lamp, the imposing countenance of

Gabriel, as he stood before the iron railing of the choir.

“The poisoner is here, hid in some corner,” cried the quarryman. “We

must force this parson to give us back the villain.”

“He shall answer for him!”

“He took him into the church.”

“He shall pay for both, if we do not find the other!”

As the first impression of involuntary respect was effaced from the

minds of the crowd, their voices rose the louder, and their faces became

the more savage and threatening, because they all felt ashamed of their

momentary hesitation and weakness.

“Yes, yes!” cried many voices, trembling with rage, “we must have the

life of one or the other!”

“Or of both!”

“So much the worse for this priest, if he wants to prevent us from

serving out our poisoner!”

“Death to him! death to him!”

With this burst of ferocious yells, which were fearfully re-echoed from

the groined arches of the cathedral, the mob, maddened by rage, rushed

towards the choir, at the door of which Gabriel was standing. The young

missionary, who, when placed on the cross by the savages of the Rocky

Mountains, yet entreated heaven to spare his executioners, had too much

courage in his heart, too much charity in his soul, not to risk his life

a thousand times over to save Father d’Aigrigny’s--the very man who had

betrayed hire by such cowardly and cruel hypocrisy.

CHAPTER XXV. THE MURDERERS.

The quarryman, followed by his gang, ran towards Gabriel, who had

advanced a few paces from the choir-railing, and exclaimed, his eyes

sparkling with rage: “Where is the poisoner? We will have him!”

“Who has told you, my brethren, that he is a poisoner?” replied

Gabriel, with his deep, sonorous voice. “A poisoner! Where are the

proofs--witnesses or victims?”

“Enough of that stuff! we are not here for confession,” brutally

answered the quarryman, advancing towards him in a threatening manner.

“Give up the man to us; he shall be forthcoming, unless you choose to

stand in his shoes?”

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed several voices; “they are ‘in’ with one another!

One or the other we will have!”

“Very well, then; since it is so,” said Gabriel, raising his head, and

advancing with calmness, resignation; and fearlessness; “he or me,”

added he;--“it seems to make no difference to you--you are determined

to have blood--take mine, and I will pardon you, my friends; for a fatal

delusion has unsettled your reason.”

These words of Gabriel, his courage, the nobleness of his attitude,

the beauty of his countenance, had made an impression on some of

the assailants, when suddenly a voice exclaimed: “Look! there is the

poisoner, behind the railing!”

“Where--where?” cried they.

“There--don’t you see?--stretched on the floor.”

On hearing this, the mob, which had hitherto formed a compact mass, in

the sort of passage separating the two sides of the nave, between the

rows of chairs, dispersed in every direction, to reach the railing

of the choir, the last and only barrier that now sheltered Father

d’Aigrigny. During this manoeuvre the quarryman, Ciboule, and others,

advanced towards Gabriel, exclaiming, with ferocious joy: “This time we

have him. Death to the poisoner!”

To save Father d’Aigrigny, Gabriel would have allowed himself to be

massacred at the entrance of the choir; but, a little further on, the

railing, not above four feet in height, would in another instant be

scaled or broken through. The Missionary lost all hope of saving the

Jesuit from a frightful death. Yet he exclaimed: “Stop, poor deluded

people!”--and, extending his arms, he threw himself in front of the

crowd.

His words, gesture, and countenance, were expressive of an authority

at once so affectionate and so fraternal, that there was a momentary

hesitation amongst the mob. But to this hesitation soon succeeded the

most furious cries of “Death; death!”

“You cry for his death?” cried Gabriel, growing still paler.

“Yes! yes!”

“Well, let him die,” cried the missionary, inspired with a sudden

thought; “let him die on the instant!”

These words of the young priest struck the crowd with amazement. For a

few moments, they all stood mute, motionless, and as it were, paralyzed,

looking at Gabriel in stupid astonishment.

“This man is guilty, you say,” resumed the young missionary, in a voice

trembling with emotion. “You have condemned him without proof, without

witnesses--no matter, he must die. You reproach him with being a

poisoner; where are his victims? You cannot tell--but no matter; he is

condemned. You refuse to hear his defense, the sacred right of every

accused person--no matter; the sentence is pronounced. You are at once

his accusers, judges, and executioners. Be it so!--You have never seen

till now this unfortunate man, he has done you no harm, he has perhaps

not done harm to any one--yet you take upon yourselves the terrible

responsibility of his death--understand me well--of his death. Be it so

then! your conscience will absolve you--I will believe it. He must die;

the sacredness of God’s house will not save him--”

“No, no!” cried many furious voices.

“No,” resumed Gabriel, with increasing warmth; “no you have determined

to shed his blood, and you will shed it, even in the Lord’s temple. It

is, you say, your right. You are doing an act of terrible justice. But

why then, so many vigorous arms to make an end of one dying man? Why

these outcries? this fury? this violence? Is it thus that the people,

the strong and equitable people, are wont to execute their judgments?

No, no; when sure of their right, they strike their enemies, it is

with the calmness of the judge, who, in freedom of soul and conscience,

passes sentence. No, the strong and equitable people do not deal their

blows like men blind or mad, uttering cries of rage, as if to drown the

sense of some cowardly and horrible murder. No, it is not thus that they

exercise the formidable right, to which you now lay claim--for you will

have it--”

“Yes, we will have it!” shouted the quarryman, Ciboule, and others of

the more pitiless portion of the mob; whilst a great number remained

silent, struck with the words of Gabriel, who had just painted to them,

in such lively colors, the frightful act they were about to commit.

“Yes,” resumed the quarryman, “it is our right; we have determined to

kill the poisoner!”

So saying, and with bloodshot eyes, and flushed cheek, the wretch

advanced at the head of a resolute group, making a gesture as though he

would have pushed aside Gabriel, who was still standing in front of the

railing. But instead of resisting the bandit, the missionary advanced

a couple of steps to meet him, took him by the arm, and said in a firm

voice: “Come!”

And dragging, as it were, with him the stupefied quarryman, whose

companions did not venture to follow at the moment, struck dumb as they

were by this new incident, Gabriel rapidly traversed the space which

separated him from the choir, opened the iron gate, and, still holding

the quarryman by the arm, led him up to the prostrate form of Father

d’Aigrigny, and said to him: “There is the victim. He is condemned.

Strike!”

“I” cried the quarryman, hesitating; “I--all alone!”

“Oh!” replied Gabriel, with bitterness, “there is no danger. You can

easily finish him. Look! he is broken down with suffering; he has hardly

a breath of life left; he will make no resistance. Do not be afraid!”

The quarryman remained motionless, whilst the crowd, strangely impressed

with this incident, approached a little nearer the railing, without

daring to come within the gate.

“Strike then!” resumed Gabriel, addressing the quarryman, whilst he

pointed to the crowd with a solemn gesture; “there are the judges; you

are the executioner.”

“No!” cried the quarryman, drawing back, and turning away his eyes; “I’m

not the executioner--not I!”

The crowd remained silent. For a few moments, not a word, not a cry,

disturbed the stillness of the solemn cathedral. In a desperate case,

Gabriel had acted with a profound knowledge of the human heart. When the

multitude, inflamed with blind rage, rushes with ferocious clamor upon

a single victim, and each man strikes his blow, this dreadful species of

combined murder appears less horrible to each, because they all share in

the common crime; and then the shouts, the sight of blood, the desperate

defence of the man they massacre, finish by producing a sort of

ferocious intoxication; but, amongst all those furious madmen, who take

part in the homicide, select one, and place him face to face with the

victim, no longer capable of resistance, and say to him, “Strike!”--he

will hardly ever dare to do so.

It was thus with the quarryman; the wretch trembled at the idea of

committing a murder in cold blood, “all alone.” The preceding scene had

passed very rapidly; amongst the companions of the quarryman, nearest

to the railing, some did not understand an impression, which they would

themselves have felt as strongly as this bold man, if it had been said

to them: “Do the office of executioner!” These, therefore, began to

murmur aloud at his weakness. “He dares not finish the poisoner,” said

one.

“The coward!”

“He is afraid.”

“He draws back.” Hearing these words, the quarryman ran to the gate,

threw it wide open, and, pointing to Father d’Aigrigny, exclaimed: “If

there is one here braver than I am, let him go and finish the job--let

him be, the executioner--come!”

On this proposal the murmurs ceased. A deep silence reigned once more in

the cathedral. All those countenances, but now so furious, became sad,

confused, almost frightened.

The deluded mob began to appreciate the ferocious cowardice of the

action it had been about to commit. Not one durst go alone to strike the

half expiring man. Suddenly, Father d’Aigrigny uttered a dying rattle,

his head and one of his arms stirred with a convulsive movement, and

then fell back upon the stones as if he had just expired.

Gabriel uttered a cry of anguish, and threw himself on his knees close

to Father d’Aigrigny, exclaiming: “Great Heaven! he is dead!”

There is a singular variableness in the mind of a crowd, susceptible

alike to good or evil impressions. At the heart-piercing cry of Gabriel,

all these people, who, a moment before, had demanded, with loud uproar,

the massacre of this man, felt touched with a sudden pity. The words:

“He is dead!” circulated in low whispers through the crowd accompanied

by a slight shudder, whilst Gabriel raised with one hand the victim’s

heavy head, and with the other sought to feel if the pulse still beat

beneath the ice-cold skin.

“Mr. Curate,” said the quarryman, bending towards Gabriel, “is there

really no hope?”

The answer was waited for with anxiety, in the midst of deep silence.

The people hardly ventured to exchange a few words in whispers.

“Blessed be God!” exclaimed Gabriel, suddenly. “His heart beats.”

“His heart beats,” repeated the quarryman, turning his head towards the

crowd, to inform them of the good news.

“Oh! his heart beats!” repeated the others, in whispers.

“There is hope. We may yet save him,” added Gabriel with an expression

of indescribable happiness.

“We may yet save him,” repeated the quarryman, mechanically.

“We may yet save him,” muttered the crowd.

“Quick, quick,” resumed Gabriel, addressing the quarryman; “help me,

brother. Let us carry him to a neighboring house, where he can have

immediate aid.”

The quarryman obeyed with readiness. Whilst the missionary lifted Father

d’Aigrigny by holding him under the arms, the quarryman took the legs

of the almost inanimate body. Together, they carried him outside of the

choir. At sight of the formidable quarryman, aiding the young priest

to render assistance to the man whom he had just before pursued with

menaces of death, the multitude felt a sudden thrill of compassion.

Yielding to the powerful influence of the words and example of Gabriel,

they felt themselves deeply moved, and each became anxious to offer

services.

“Mr. Curate, he would perhaps be better on a chair, that one could carry

upright,” said Ciboule.

“Shall I go and fetch a stretcher from the hospital?” asked another.

“Mr. Curate, let me take your place; the body is too heavy for you.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said a powerful man, approaching the

missionary respectfully; “I can carry him alone.”

“Shall I run and fetch a coach, Mr. Curate?” said a young vagabond,

taking off his red cap.

“Right,” said the quarryman; “run away, my buck!”

“But first, ask Mr. Curate if you are to go for a coach,” said Ciboule,

stopping the impatient messenger.

“True,” added one of the bystanders; “we are here in a church, and Mr.

Curate has the command. He is at home.”

“Yes, yes; go at once, my child,” said Gabriel to the obliging young

vagabond.

Whilst the latter was making his way through the crowd, a voice said:

“I’ve a little wicker-bottle of brandy; will that be of any use?”

“No doubt,” answered Gabriel, hastily; “pray give it here. We can rub

his temples with the spirit, and make him inhale a little.”

“Pass the bottle,” cried Ciboule; “but don’t put your noses in it!”

And, passed with caution from hand to hand, the flask reached Gabriel in

safety.

Whilst waiting for the coming of the coach, Father d’Aigrigny had

been seated on a chair. Whilst several good-natured people carefully

supported the abbe, the missionary made him inhale a little brandy. In a

few minutes, the spirit had a powerful influence on the Jesuit; he made

some slight movements, and his oppressed bosom heaved with a deep sigh.

“He is saved--he will live,” cried Gabriel, in a triumphant voice; “he

will live, my brothers!”

“Oh! glad to hear it!” exclaimed many voices.

“Oh, yes! be glad, my brothers!” repeated Gabriel; “for, instead of

being weighed down with the remorse of crime, you will have a just and

charitable action to remember. Let us thank God, that he has changed

your blind fury into a sentiment of compassion! Let us pray to Him, that

neither you, nor those you love, may ever be exposed to such frightful

danger as this unfortunate man has just escaped. Oh, my brothers!” added

Gabriel, as he pointed to the image of Christ with touching emotion,

which communicated itself the more easily to others from the expression

of his angelic countenance; “oh, my brothers! let us never forget, that

HE, who died upon that cross for the defence of the oppressed, for

the obscure children of the people like to ourselves, pronounced those

affectionate words so sweet to the heart; ‘Love ye one another!’--Let

us never forget it; let us love and help one another, and we poor

people shall then become better, happier, just. Love--yes, love ye one

another--and fall prostrate before that Saviour, who is the God of all

that are weak, oppressed, and suffering in this world!”

So saying, Gabriel knelt down. All present respectfully followed his

example, such power was there in his simple and persuasive words. At

this moment, a singular incident added to the grandeur of the scene. We

have said that a few seconds before the quarryman and his band entered

the body of the church, several persons had fled from it. Two of these

had taken refuge in the organ-loft, from which retreat they had viewed

the preceding scene, themselves remaining invisible. One of these

persons was a young man charged with the care of the organ, and quite

musician enough to play on it. Deeply moved by the unexpected turn of an

event which at first appeared so tragical, and yielding to an artistical

inspiration, this young man, at the moment when he saw the people

kneeling with Gabriel, could not forbear striking the notes. Then a sort

of harmonious sigh, at first almost insensible, seemed to rise from the

midst of this immense cathedral, like a divine aspiration. As soft and

aerial as the balmy vapor of incense, it mounted and spread through the

lofty arches. Little by little the faint, sweet sounds, though still as

it were covered, changed to an exquisite melody, religious, melancholy,

and affectionate, which rose to heaven like a song of ineffable

gratitude and love. And the notes were at first so faint, so covered,

that the kneeling multitude had scarcely felt surprise, and had yielded

insensibly to the irresistible influence of that enchanting harmony.

Then many an eye, until now dry and ferocious, became wet with

tears--many hard hearts beat gently, as they remembered the words

pronounced by Gabriel with so tender an accent: “Love ye one another!”

It was at this moment that Father d’Aigrigny came to himself--and opened

his eyes. He thought himself under the influence of a dream. He had

lost his senses in sight of a furious populace, who, with insult and

blasphemy on their lips, pursued him with cries of death even to the

sanctuary of the temple. He opened his eyes--and, by the pale light of

the sacred lamps, to the solemn music of the organ, he saw that crowd,

just now so menacing and implacable, kneeling in mute and reverential

emotion, and humbly bowing their heads before the majesty of the shrine.

Some minutes after, Gabriel, carried almost in triumph on the shoulders

of the crowd, entered the coach, in which Father d’Aigrigny, who by

degrees had completely recovered his senses, was already reclining. By

the order of the Jesuit, the coach stopped before the door of a house

in the Rue de Vaugirard; he had the strength and courage to enter this

dwelling alone; Gabriel was not admitted, but we shall conduct the

reader thither.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE PATIENT.

At the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, there was then a very high wall,

with only one small doorway in all its length. On opening this door,

you entered a yard surrounded by a railing, with screens like Venetian

blinds, to prevent your seeing between the rails. Crossing this

courtyard, you come to a fine large garden, symmetrically planted, at

the end of which stood a building two stories high, looking perfectly

comfortable, without luxury, but with all that cozy simplicity which

betokens discreet opulence. A few days had elapsed since Father

d’Aigrigny had been so courageously rescued by Gabriel from the popular

fury. Three ecclesiastics, wearing black gowns, white bands, and square

caps, were walking in the garden with a slow and measured step. The

youngest seemed to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was

pale, hollow, and impressed with a certain ascetic austerity. His two

companions, aged between fifty or sixty, had, on the contrary, faces at

once hypocritical and cunning; their round, rosy cheeks shone brightly

in the sunshine, whilst their triple chins, buried in fat, descended in

soft folds over the fine cambric of their bands. According to the rules

of their order (they belonged to the Society of Jesus), which forbade

their walking only two together, these three members of the brotherhood

never quitted each other a moment.

“I fear,” said one of the two, continuing a conversation already begun,

and speaking of an absent person, “I fear, that the continual agitation

to which the reverend father has been a prey, ever since he was attacked

with the cholera, has exhausted his strength, and caused the dangerous

relapse which now makes us fear for his life.”

“They say,” resumed the other, “that never was there seen anxiety like

to his.”

“And moreover,” remarked the young priest, bitterly, “it is painful to

think, that his reverence Father Rodin has given cause for scandal,

by obstinately refusing to make a public confession, the day before

yesterday when his situation appeared so desperate, that, between two

fits of a delirium, it was thought right to propose to him to receive

the last sacraments.”

“His reverence declared that he was not so ill as they supposed,”

answered one of the fathers, “and that he would have the last duties

performed when he thought necessary.”

“The fact is, that for the last ten days, ever since he was brought here

dying, his life has been, as it were, only a long and painful agony; and

yet he continues to live.”

“I watched by him during the first three days of his malady, with M.

Rousselet, the pupil of Dr. Baleinier,” resumed the youngest father; “he

had hardly a moment’s consciousness, and when the Lord did grant him

a lucid interval, he employed it in detestable execrations against the

fate which had confined him to his bed.”

“It is said,” resumed the other, “that Father Rodin made answer to

his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, who came to persuade him to die in an

exemplary manner, worthy of a son of Loyola, our blessed founder”--at

these words, the three Jesuits bowed their heads together, as if they

had been all moved by the same spring--“it is said, that Father Rodin

made answer to his eminence: ‘I do not need to confess publicly; I WANT

TO LIVE, AND I WILL LIVE.’”

“I did not hear that,” said the young priest, with an indignant air;

“but if Father Rodin really made use of such expressions, it is--”

Here, no doubt, reflection came to him just in time, for he stole a

sidelong glance at his two silent, impassible companions, and added: “It

is a great misfortune for his soul; but I am certain, his reverence has

been slandered.”

“It was only as a calumnious report, that I mentioned those words,” said

the other priest, exchanging a glance with his companion.

One of the garden gates opened, and one of the three reverend fathers

exclaimed, at the sight of the personage who now entered: “Oh! here is

his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, coming to pay a visit to Father Rodin.”

“May this visit of his eminence,” said the young priest, calmly, “be

more profitable to Father Rodin than the last!”

Cardinal Malipieri was crossing the garden, on his way to the apartment

occupied by Rodin.

Cardinal Malipieri, whom we saw assisting at the sort of council held at

the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s, now on his way to Rodin’s apartment, was

dressed as a layman, but enveloped in an ample pelisse of puce-colored

satin, which exhaled a strong odor of camphor, for the prelate had

taken care to surround himself with all sorts of anti-cholera specifics.

Having reached the second story of the house, the cardinal knocked at

a little gray door. Nobody answering, he opened it, and, like a man to

whom the locality was well known, passed through a sort of antechamber,

and entered a room in which was a turn-up bed. On a black wood table

were many phials, which had contained different medicines. The prelate’s

countenance seemed uneasy and morose; his complexion was still yellow

and bilious; the brown circle which surrounded his black, squinting eyes

appeared still darker than usual.

Pausing a moment, he looked round him almost in fear, and several times

stopped to smell at his anti-cholera bottle. Then, seeing he was alone,

he approached a glass over the chimney-piece, and examined with much

attention the color of his tongue; after some minutes spent in this

careful investigation, with the result of which he appeared tolerably

satisfied, he took some preservative lozenges out of a golden box, and

allowed them to melt in his mouth, whilst he closed his eyes with a

sanctified air. Having taken these sanitary precautions, and again

pressed his bottle to his nose, the prelate prepared to enter the third

room, when he heard a tolerably loud noise through the thin partition

which separated him from it, and, stopping to listen, all that was said

in the next apartment easily reached his ear.

“Now that my wounds are dressed, I will get up,” said weak, but sharp

and imperious voice.

“Do not think of it, reverend father,” was answered in a stronger tone;

“it is impossible.”

“You shall see if it is impossible,” replied the other voice.

“But, reverend father, you will kill yourself. You are not in a state to

get up. You will expose yourself to a mortal relapse. I cannot consent

to it.”

To these words succeeded the noise of a faint struggle, mingled with

groans more angry than plaintive, and the voice resumed: “No, no,

father; for your own safety, I will not leave your clothes within your

reach. It is almost time for your medicine; I will go and prepare it for

you.”

Almost immediately after, the door opened, and the prelate saw enter a

man of about twenty-five years of age, carrying on his arm an old olive

great-coat and threadbare black trousers, which he threw down upon a

chair.

This personage was Ange Modeste Rousselet, chief pupil of Dr. Baleinier;

the countenance of the young practitioner was mild, humble, and

reserved; his hair, very short in front, flowed down upon his neck

behind. He made a slight start in surprise on perceiving the cardinal,

and bowed twice very low, without raising his eyes.

“Before anything else,” said the prelate, with his marked Italian

accent, still holding to his nose his bottle of camphor, “have any

choleraic symptoms returned?”

“No, my lord; the pernicious fever, which succeeded the attack of

cholera, still continues.”

“Very good. But will not the reverend father be reasonable? What was the

noise that I just heard?”

“His reverence wished absolutely to get up and dress himself; but his

weakness is so great, that he could not have taken two steps from the

bed. He is devoured by impatience, and we fear that this agitation will

cause a mortal relapse.”

“Has Dr. Baleinier been here this morning?”

“He has just left, my lord.”

“What does he think of the patient?”

“He finds him in the most alarming state, my lord. The night was so bad,

that he was extremely uneasy this morning. Father Rodin is at one of

those critical junctures, when a few hours may decide the life or death

of the patient. Dr. Baleinier is now gone to fetch what is necessary for

a very painful operation, which he is about to perform on the reverend

father.”

“Has Father d’Aigrigny been told of this?”

“Father d’Aigrigny is himself very unwell, as your eminence knows; he

has not been able to leave his bed for the last three days.”

“I inquired about him as I came up,” answered the prelate, “and I shall

see him directly. But, to return to Father Rodin, have you sent for

his confessor, since he is in a desperate state, and about to undergo a

serious operation?”

“Dr. Baleinier spoke a word to him about it, as well as about the last

sacraments; but Father Rodin exclaimed, with great irritation, that they

did not leave him a moment’s peace, that he had as much care as any one

for his salvation, and that--”

“Per Bacco! I am not thinking of him,” cried the cardinal, interrupting

Ange Modeste Rousselet with his pagan oath, and raising his sharp voice

to a still higher key; “I am not thinking of him, but of the interests

of the Company. It is indispensable that the reverend father should

receive the sacraments with the most splendid solemnity, and that his

end should not only be Christian, but exemplary. All the people in the

house, and even strangers, should be invited to the spectacle, so that

his edifying death may produce an excellent sensation.”

“That is what Fathers Grison and Brunet have already endeavored to

persuade his reverence, my lord; but your Eminence knows with what

impatience Father Rodin received this advice, and Dr. Baleinier did not

venture to persist, for fear of advancing a fatal crisis.”

“Well, I will venture to do it; for in these times of revolutionary

impiety, a solemnly Christian death would produce a very salutary

effect on the public. It would indeed be proper to make the necessary

preparations to embalm the reverend father: he might then lie in state

for some days, with lighted tapers, according to Romish custom. My

secretary would furnish the design for the bier; it would be very

splendid and imposing; from his position in the Order, Father Rodin is

entitled to have everything in the most sumptuous style. He must have at

least six hundred tapers, and a dozen funeral lamps, burning spirits of

wine, to hang just over the body, and light it from above: the effect

would be excellent. We must also distribute little tracts to the people,

concerning the pious and ascetic life of his reverence--”

Here a sudden noise, like that of some piece of metal thrown angrily on

the floor, was heard from the next room, in which was the sick man, and

interrupted the prelate in his description.

“I hope Father Rodin has not heard you talk of embalming him, my lord,”

said Rousselet, in a whisper: “his bed touches the partition, and almost

everything is audible through it.”

“If Father Rodin has heard me,” answered the cardinal, sinking his

voice, and retiring to the other end of the room, “this circumstance

will enable me to enter at once on the business; but, in any case,

I persist in believing that the embalming and the lying in state are

required to make a good effect upon the public. The people are already

frightened at the cholera, and such funeral pomp would have no small

influence on the imagination.”

“I would venture to observe to your Eminence, that here the laws are

opposed to such exhibitions.”

“The laws--already the laws!” said the cardinal, angrily; “has not Rome

also her laws? And is not every priest a subject of Rome? Is it not

time--”

But, not choosing, doubtless, to begin a more explicit conversation with

the young doctor, the prelate resumed, “We will talk of this hereafter.

But, tell me, since my last visit, has the reverend father had any fresh

attacks of delirium?”

“Yes, my lord; here is the note, as your Eminence commanded.” So saying

Rousselet delivered a paper to the prelate. We will inform the reader

that this part of the conversation between Rousselet and the cardinal

was carried on at a distance from the partition, so that Rodin could

hear nothing of it, whilst that which related to the embalming had been

perfectly audible to him.

The cardinal, having received the note from Rousselet, perused it with

an expression of lively curiosity. When he had finished, he crumpled

it in his hand, and said, without attempting to dissemble his vexation,

“Always nothing but incoherent expression. Not two words together, from

which you can draw any reasonable conclusion. One would really think

this man had the power to control himself even in his delirium, and to

rave about insignificant matters only.”

Then, addressing Rousselet, “You are sure that you have reported

everything that escaped from him during his delirium?”

“With the exception of the same phrases, that he repeated over and over

again, your Eminence may be assured that I have not omitted a single

word, however unmeaning.”

“Show me into Father Rodin’s room,” said the prelate, after a moment’s

silence.

“But, my lord,” answered the young doctor, with some hesitation, “the

fit has only left him about an hour, and the reverend father is still

very weak.”

“The more the reason,” replied the prelate, somewhat indiscreetly.

Then, recollecting himself, he added, “He will the better appreciate

the consolations I have to offer. Should he be asleep, awake him, and

announce my visit.”

“I have only orders to receive from your Eminence,” said Rousselet,

bowing, and entering the next room.

Left alone, the cardinal said to himself, with a pensive air, “I always

come back to that. When he was suddenly attacked by the cholera, Father

Rodin believed himself poisoned by order of the Holy See. He must then

have been plotting something very formidable against Rome, to entertain

so abominable a fear. Can our suspicions be well founded? Is he acting

secretly and powerfully on the Sacred College? But then for what end?

This it has been impossible to penetrate, so faithfully has the secret

been kept by his accomplices. I had hoped that, during his delirium, he

would let slip some word that would put us on the trace of what we are

so much interested to discover. With so restless and active a mind,

delirium is often the exaggeration of some dominant idea; yet here I

have the report of five different fits--and nothing--no, nothing but

vague, unconnected phrases.”

The return of Rousselet put an end to these reflections. “I am sorry to

inform my lord that the reverend father obstinately refuses to see any

one. He says that he requires absolute repose. Though very weak, he has

a savage and angry look, and I should not be surprised if he overheard

your Eminence talk about embalming him.”

The cardinal, interrupting Rousselet, said to him, “Did Father Rodin

have his last fit of delirium in the night?”

“Between three and half-past five this morning, my lord.”

“Between three and half-past five,” repeated the prelate, as if he

wished to impress this circumstance on his memory, “the attack presented

no particular symptoms?”

“No, my lord; it consisted of rambling, incoherent talk, as your

Eminence may see by this note.”

Then, as he perceived the prelate approaching Father Rodin’s door,

Rousselet added, “The reverend father will positively see no one,

my lord; he requires rest, to prepare for the operation; it might be

dangerous--”

Without attending to these observations, the cardinal entered Rodin’s

chamber. It was a tolerably large room, lighted by two windows, and

simply but commodiously furnished. Two logs were burning slowly in the

fireplace, in which stood a coffee-pot, a vessel containing mustard

poultice, etc. On the chimney-piece were several pieces of rag, and some

linen bandages. The room was full of that faint chemical odor peculiar

to the chambers of the sick, mingled with so putrid a stench, that the

cardinal stopped at the door a moment, before he ventured to advance

further. As the three reverend fathers had mentioned in their walk,

Rodin lived because he had said to himself, “I want to live, and I will

live.”

For, as men of timid imaginations and cowardly minds often die from the

mere dread of dying, so a thousand facts prove that vigor of character

and moral energy may often struggle successfully against disease, and

triumph over the most desperate symptoms.

It was thus with the Jesuit. The unshaken firmness of his character, the

formidable tenacity of his will (for the will has sometimes a mysterious

and almost terrific power), aiding the skillful treatment of Dr.

Baleinier, had saved him from the pestilence with which he had been so

suddenly attacked. But the shock had been succeeded by a violent fever,

which placed Rodin’s life in the utmost peril. This increased danger had

caused the greatest alarm to Father d’Aigrigny, who felt, in spite of

his rivalry and jealousy, that Rodin was the master-spirit of the plot

in which they were engaged, and could alone conduct it to a successful

issue.

The curtains of the room was half closed, and admitted only a doubtful

light to the bed on which Rodin was lying. The Jesuit’s features

had lost the greenish hue peculiar to cholera patients, but remained

perfectly livid and cadaverous, and so thin, that the dry, rugged skin

appeared to cling to the smallest prominence of bone. The muscles and

veins of the long, lean, vulture-like neck resembled a bundle of cords.

The head, covered with an old, black, filthy nightcap, from beneath

which strayed a few thin, gray hairs, rested upon a dirty pillow; for

Rodin would not allow them to change his linen. His iron-gray beard had

not been shaved for some time, and stood out like the hairs of a brush.

Under his shirt he wore an old flannel waistcoat full of holes. He had

one of his arms out of bed, and his bony hairy hand, with its bluish

nails, held fast a cotton handkerchief of indescribable color.

You might have taken him for a corpse, had it not been for the two

brilliant sparks which still burned in the depths of his eyes. In that

look, in which seemed concentrated all the remaining life and energy

of the man, you might read the most restless anxiety. Sometimes his

features revealed the sharpest pangs; sometimes the twisting of his

hands, and his sudden starts, proclaimed his despair at being thus

fettered to a bed of pain, whilst the serious interests which he had

in charge required all the activity of his mind. Thus, with thoughts

continually on the stretch, his mind often wandered, and he had fits

of delirium, from which he woke as from a painful dream. By the prudent

advice of Dr. Baleinier, who considered him not in a state to attend to

matters of--importance, Father d’Aigrigny had hitherto evaded Rodin’s

questions with regard to the Rennepont affair, which he dreaded to see

lost and ruined in consequence of his forced inaction. The silence of

Father d’Aigrigny on this head, and the ignorance in which they kept

him, only augmented the sick man’s exasperation. Such was the moral and

physical state of Rodin, when Cardinal Malipieri entered his chamber

against his will.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE LURE.

To understand fully the tortures of Rodin, reduced to inactivity by

sickness, and to explain the importance of Cardinal Malipieri’s visit,

we must remember the audacious views of the ambitious Jesuit, who

believed himself following in the steps of Sixtus V., and expected to

become his equal. By the success of the Rennepont affair, to attain to

the generalship of his Order, by the corruption of the Sacred College

to ascend the pontifical throne, and then, by means of a change in the

statutes of the Company, to incorporate the Society of Jesus with the

Holy See, instead of leaving it independent, to equal and almost always

rule the Papacy--such were the secret projects of Rodin.

Their possibility was sanctioned by numerous precedents, for many mere

monks and priests had been suddenly raised to the pontifical dignity.

And as for their morality, the accession of the Borgias, of Julius

II., and other dubious Vicars of Christ, might excuse and authorize the

pretensions of the Jesuits.

Though the object of his secret intrigues at Rome had hitherto been

enveloped in the greatest mystery, suspicions had been excited in regard

to his private communications with many members of the Sacred College.

A portion of that college, Cardinal Malipieri at the head of them, had

become very uneasy on the subject, and, profiting by his journey

to France, the cardinal had resolved to penetrate the Jesuit’s dark

designs. If, in the scene we have just painted, the cardinal showed

himself so obstinately bent on having a conference with Rodin, in spite

of the refusal of the latter, it was because the prelate hoped, as we

shall soon see, to get by cunning at the secret, which had hitherto

been so well concealed. It was, therefore, in the midst of all these

extraordinary circumstances, that Rodin saw himself the victim of a

malady, which paralyzed his strength, at the moment when he had need of

all his activity, and of all the resources of his mind. After remaining

for some seconds motionless near the door, the cardinal, still holding

his bottle under his nose, slowly approached the bed where Rodin lay.

The latter, enraged at this perseverance, and wishing to avoid an

interview which for many reasons was singularly odious to him, turned

his face towards the wall, and pretended to be asleep. Caring little for

this feint, and determined to profit by Rodin’s state of weakness, the

prelate took a chair, and, conquering his repugnance, sat down close to

the Jesuit’s bed.

“My reverend and very dear father, how do you find yourself?” said he to

him, in a honeyed tone, which his Italian accent seemed to render still

more hypocritical. Rodin pretended not to hear, breathed hard, and made

no answer. But the cardinal, not without disgust, shook with his gloved

hand the arm of the Jesuit, and repeated in a louder voice: “My reverend

and very dear father, answer me, I conjure you!”

Rodin could not restrain a movement of angry impatience, but he

continued silent. The cardinal was not a man to be discouraged by so

little; he again shook the arm of the Jesuit, somewhat more roughly,

repeating, with a passionless tenacity that would have incensed the most

patient person in the world: “My reverend and very dear father, since

you are not asleep, listen to me, I entreat of you.”

Irritable with pain, exasperated by the obstinacy of the prelate, Rodin

abruptly turned his head, fixed on the Roman his hollow eyes, shining

with lurid fire, and, with lips contracted by a sardonic smile, said to

him, bitterly: “You must be very anxious, my lord, to see me embalmed,

and lie in state with tapers, as you were saying just now, for you thus

to come to torment me in my last moments, and hasten my end!”

“Oh, my good father! how can you talk so?” cried the cardinal, raising

his hands as if to call heaven to witness to the sincerity of the tender

interest he felt for the Jesuit.

“I tell you that I heard all just now, my lord; for the partition is

thin,” added Rodin, with redoubled bitterness.

“If you mean that, from the bottom of my soul, I desired that you should

make an exemplary and Christian end, you are perfectly right, my dear

father. I did say so; for, after a life so well employed, it would be

sweet to see you an object of adoration for the faithful!”

“I tell you, my lord,” cried Rodin, in a weak and broken voice, “that

it is ferocious to express such wishes in the presence of a dying man.

Yes,” he added, with growing animation, that contrasted strongly with

his weakness, “take care what you do; for if I am too much plagued and

pestered--if I am not allowed to breathe my last breath quietly--I give

you notice that you will force me to die in anything but a Christian

manner, and if you mean to profit by an edifying spectacle, you will be

deceived.”

This burst of anger having greatly fatigued Rodin, his head fell back

upon the pillow, and he wiped his cracked and bleeding lips with his old

cotton handkerchief.

“Come, come, be calm, my very dear father,” resumed the cardinal, with

a patronizing air; “do not give way to such gloomy ideas. Doubtless,

Providence reserves you for great designs, since you have been already

delivered from so much peril. Let us hope that you will be likewise

saved from your present danger.”

Rodin answered by a hoarse growl, and turned his face towards the wall.

The imperturbable prelate continued: “The views of Providence are not

confined to your salvation, my very dear father. Its power has been

manifested in another way. What I am about to tell you is of the highest

importance. Listen attentively.”

Without turning his head, Rodin muttered in a tone of angry bitterness,

which betrayed his intense sufferings: “They desire my death. My chest

is on fire, my head racked with pain, and they have no pity. Oh, I

suffer the tortures of the damned!”

“What! already” thought the Roman, with a smile of sarcastic malice;

then he said aloud: “Let me persuade you, my very dear father--make an

effort to listen to me; you will not regret it.”

Still stretched upon the bed, Rodin lifted his hands clasped upon his

cotton handkerchief with a gesture of despair, and then let them fall

again by his side.

The cardinal slightly shrugged his shoulders, and laid great stress

on what follows, so that Rodin might not lose a word of it: “My dear

father, it has pleased Providence that, during your fit of raving, you

have made, without knowing it, the most important revelations.”

The prelate waited with anxious curiosity for the effect of the pious

trap he had laid for the Jesuit’s weakened faculties. But the latter,

still turned towards the wall, did not appear to have heard him and

remained silent.

“You are, no doubt, reflecting on my words, my dear father,” resumed

the cardinal; “you are right, for it concerns a very serious affair. I

repeat to you that Providence has allowed you, during your delirium, to

betray your most secret thoughts--happily, to me alone. They are such

as would compromise you in the highest degree. In short, during your

delirium of last night, which lasted nearly two hours, you unveiled the

secret objects of your intrigues at Rome with many of the members of the

Sacred College.”

The cardinal, rising softly, stooped over the bed to watch the

expression of Rodin’s countenance. But the latter did not give him time.

As a galvanized corpse starts into strange and sudden motion, Rodin

sprang into a sitting posture at the last words of the prelate.

“He has betrayed himself,” said the cardinal, in a low voice, in

Italian. Then, resuming his seat, he fixed on the Jesuit his eyes, that

sparkled with triumphant joy.

Though he did not hear the exclamation of Malipieri, nor remark the

expression of his countenance, Rodin, notwithstanding his state of

weakness, instantly felt the imprudence of his start. He pressed his

hand to his forehead, as though he had been seized with a giddiness;

then, looking wildly round him, he pressed to his trembling lips his old

cotton handkerchief, and gnawed it mechanically for some seconds.

“Your emotion and alarm confirm the sad discoveries I have made,”

resumed the cardinal, still more rejoicing at the success of his trick;

“and now, my dear father,” added he, “you will understand that it is

for your best interest to enter into the most minute detail as to your

projects and accomplices at Rome. You may then hope, my dear father,

for the indulgence of the Holy See--that is, if your avowals are

sufficiently explicit to fill up the chasms necessarily left in a

confession made during delirium.”

Rodin, recovered from his first surprise, perceived, but too late, that

he had fallen into a snare, not by any words he had spoken, but by his

too significant movements. In fact, the Jesuit had feared for a moment

that he might have betrayed himself during his delirium, when he heard

himself accused of dark intrigues with Rome; but, after some minutes of

reflection, his common sense suggested: “If this crafty Roman knew my

secret, he would take care not to tell me so. He has only suspicions,

confirmed by my involuntary start just now.”

Rodin wiped the cold sweat from his burning forehead. The emotion of

this scene augmented his sufferings, and aggravated the danger of his

condition. Worn out with fatigue, he could not remain long in a sitting

posture, and soon fell back upon the bed.

“Per Bacco!” said the cardinal to himself, alarmed at the expression

of the Jesuit’s face; “if he were to die before he had spoken, and so

escape the snare!”

Then, leaning over the bed, the prelate asked: “What is the matter, my

very dear father?”

“I am weak, my lord--I am in pain--I cannot express what I suffer.”

“Let us hope, my very dear father, that this crisis will have no fatal

results; but the contrary may happen, and it behooves the salvation

of your soul to make instantly the fullest confession. Were it even to

exhaust your strength, what is this perishable body compared to eternal

life?”

“Of what confession do you speak, my lord?” said Rodin, in a feeble and

yet sarcastic tone.

“What confession!” cried the amazed cardinal; “why, with regard to your

dangerous intrigues at Rome.”

“What intrigues?” asked Rodin.

“The intrigues you revealed during your delirium,” replied the prelate,

with still more angry impatience. “Were not your avowals sufficiently

explicit? Why, then, this culpable hesitation to complete them?”

“My avowals--were explicit--you assure me?” said Rodin, pausing after

each word for want of breath, but without losing his energy and presence

of mind.

“Yes, I repeat it,” resumed the cardinal; “with the exception of a few

chasms, they were most explicit.”

“Then why repeat them?” said Rodin, with the same sardonic smile on his

violet lips.

“Why repeat them?” cried the angry prelate. “In order to gain pardon;

for if there is indulgence and mercy for the repentant sinner, there

must be condemnation and curses for the hardened criminal!”

“Oh, what torture! I am dying by slow fire!” murmured Rodin. “Since I

have told all,” he resumed, “I have nothing more to tell. You know it

already.”

“I know all--doubtless, I know all,” replied the prelate, in a voice of

thunder; “but how have I learned it? By confessions made in a state

of unconsciousness. Do you think they will avail you anything? No; the

moment is solemn--death is at hand, tremble to die with a sacrilegious

falsehood on your lips,” cried the prelate, shaking Rodin violently by

the arm; “dread the eternal flames, if you dare deny what you know to be

the truth. Do you deny it?”

“I deny nothing,” murmured Rodin, with difficulty. “Only leave me

alone!”

“Then heaven inspires you,” said the cardinal, with a sigh of

satisfaction; and, thinking he had nearly attained his object, he

resumed, “Listen to the divine word, that will guide you, father. You

deny nothing?”

“I was--delirious--and cannot--(oh! how I suffer!)” added Rodin, by way

of parenthesis; “and cannot therefore--deny--the nonsense--I may have

uttered!”

“But when this nonsense agrees with the truth,” cried the prelate,

furious at being again deceived in his expectation; “but when raving is

an involuntary, providential revelation--”

“Cardinal Malipieri--your craft is no match--for my agony,” answered

Rodin, in a failing voice. “The proof--that I have not told my

secret--if I have a secret--is--that you want to make me tell it!” In

spite of his pain and weakness, the Jesuit had courage to raise himself

in the bed, and look the cardinal full in the face, with a smile of

bitter irony. After which he fell back on the pillow, and pressed his

hands to his chest, with a long sigh of anguish.

“Damnation! the infernal Jesuit has found me out!” said the cardinal

to himself, as he stamped his foot with rage. “He sees that he was

compromised by his first movement; he is now upon his guard; I shall get

nothing more from him--unless indeed, profiting by the state of weakness

in which he is, I can, by entreaties, by threats, by terror--”

The prelate was unable to finish. The door opened abruptly, and Father

d’Aigrigny entered the room, exclaiming with an explosion of joy:

“Excellent news!”

CHAPTER XXVIII. GOOD NEWS.

By the alteration in the countenance of Father d’Aigrigny, his pale

cheek, and the feebleness of his walk, one might see that the terrible

scene in the square of Notre-Dame, had violently reacted upon his

health. Yet his face was radiant and triumphant, as he entered Rodin’s

chamber, exclaiming: “Excellent news!”

On these words, Rodin started. In spite of his weakness, he raised his

head, and his eyes shone with a curious, uneasy, piercing expression.

With his lean hand, he beckoned Father d’Aigrigny to approach the

bed, and said to him, in a broken voice, so weak that it was scarcely

audible: “I am very ill--the cardinal has nearly finished me--but if

this excellent news--relates to the Rennepont affair--of which I hear

nothing--it might save me yet!”

“Be saved then!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, forgetting the recommendations

of Dr. Baleinier; “read, rejoice! What you foretold is beginning to be

realized!”

So saying, he drew a paper from his pocket, and delivered it to Rodin,

who seized it with an eager and trembling hand. Some minutes before,

Rodin would have been really incapable of continuing his conversation

with the cardinal, even if prudence had allowed him to do so; nor could

he have read a single line, so dim had his sight become. But, at the

words of Father d’Aigrigny, he felt such a renewal of hope and vigor,

that, by a mighty effort of energy and will, he rose to a sitting

posture, and, with clear head, and look of intelligent animation, he

read rapidly the paper that Father d’Aigrigny had just delivered to him.

The cardinal, amazed at this sudden transfiguration, asked himself if he

beheld the same man, who, a few minutes before, had fallen back on

his bed, almost insensible. Hardly had Rodin finished reading, than

he uttered a cry of stifled joy, saying, with an accent impossible to

describe: “ONE gone! it works--‘tis well!” And, closing his eyes in

a kind of ecstatic transport, a smile of proud triumph overspread his

face, and rendered him still more hideous, by discovering his yellow and

gumless teeth. His emotion was so violent, that the paper fell from his

trembling hand.

“He has fainted,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with uneasiness, as he leaned

over Rodin. “It is my fault, I forgot that the doctor cautioned me not

to talk to him of serious matters.”

“No; do not reproach yourself,” said Rodin, in a low voice, half-raising

himself in the bed. “This unexpected joy may perhaps cure me. Yes--I

scarce know what I feel--but look at my cheeks--it seems to me, that,

for the first time since I have been stretched on this bed of pain, they

are a little warm.”