WHICH IN ITS FORCEFUL BREVITY PROJECTS US TO THE LIMITS OF
THE ACTUAL WORLD
Two months elapsed; the domestic upheaval did not subside, and Monsieur
Sariette's thoughts turned to the Freemasons. The papers he read were
full of their crimes. Abbé Patouille deemed them capable of the darkest
deeds, and believed them to be in league with the Jews and meditating
the total overthrow of Christendom.
Having now arrived at the acme of power, they wielded a dominating
influence in all the principal departments of State, they ruled the
Chambers, there were five of them in the Ministry, and they filled the
Élysée. Having some time since assassinated a President of the Republic
because he was a patriot, they were getting rid of the accomplices and
witnesses of their execrable crime. Few days passed without Paris being
terror-stricken at some mysterious murder hatched in their Lodges. These
were facts concerning which no doubt was possible. By what means did
they gain access to the library? Monsieur Sariette could not imagine.
What task had they come to fulfil? Why did they attack sacred antiquity
and the origins of the Church? What impious designs were they forming? A
heavy shadow hung over these terrible undertakings. The Catholic
archivist feeling himself under the eye of the sons of Hiram was
terrified and fell ill.
Scarcely had he recovered, when he resolved to pass the night in the
very spot where these terrible mysteries were enacted, and to take the
subtle and dangerous visitors by surprise. It was an enterprise that
demanded all his slender courage. Being a man of delicate physique and
of nervous temperament, Monsieur Sariette was naturally inclined to be
fearful. On the 8th of January at nine o'clock in the evening, while the
city lay asleep under a whirling snowstorm, he built up a good fire in
the room containing the busts of the ancient poets and philosophers, and
ensconced himself in an arm-chair at the chimney corner, a rug over his
knees. On a small stand within reach of his hand were a lamp, a bowl of
black coffee, and a revolver borrowed from the youthful Maurice. He
tried to read his paper, _La Croix_, but the letters danced beneath his
eyes. So he stared hard in front of him, saw nothing but the shadows,
heard nothing but the wind, and fell asleep.
When he awoke the fire was out, the lamp was extinguished, leaving an
acrid smell behind. But all around, the darkness was filled with milky
brightness and phosphorescent lights. He thought he saw something
flutter on the table. Stricken to the marrow with cold and terror, but
upheld by a resolve stronger than any fear, he rose, approached the
table, and passed his hands over the cloth. He saw nothing; even the
lights faded, but under his fingers he felt a folio wide open; he tried
to close it, the book resisted, jumped up and hit the imprudent
librarian three blows on the head.
Monsieur Sariette fell down unconscious....
Since then things had gone from bad to worse. Books left their allotted
shelves in greater profusion than ever, and sometimes it was impossible
to replace them; they disappeared. Monsieur Sariette discovered fresh
losses daily. The Bollandists were now an imperfect set, thirty volumes
of exegesis were missing. He himself had become unrecognisable. His face
had shrunk to the size of one's fist and grown yellow as a lemon, his
neck was elongated out of all proportion, his shoulders drooped, the
clothes he wore hung on him as on a peg. He ate nothing, and at the
_Crèmerie des Quatre Évêques_ he would sit with dull eyes and bowed
head, staring fixedly and vacantly at the saucer where, in a muddy
juice, floated his stewed prunes. He did not hear old Guinardon relate
how he had at last begun to restore the Delacroix paintings at St.
Sulpice.
Monsieur René d'Esparvieu, when he heard the unhappy curator's alarming
reports, used to answer drily:
"These books have been mislaid, they are not lost; look carefully,
Monsieur Sariette, look carefully and you will find them."
And he murmured behind the old man's back:
"Poor old Sariette is in a bad way."
"I think," replied Abbé Patouille, "that his brain is going."