‘It’s a scandal.’
‘There must be a reply. The Académie cannot be silent under the attack.’
‘What are you thinking of? On the contrary, the dignity of the Académie
demands----’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, the real feeling of the Académie is----’
In their private assembly room, in front of the great chimney-piece
and the full-length portrait of Cardinal Richelieu, the ‘deities’
were engaged in a discussion preliminary to the meeting. The cold
smoke-stained light of a Parisian winter’s day, falling through the
great lantern overhead, gave effect to the chill solemnity of the marble
busts ranged in row along the walls; and the huge fire in the chimney,
nearly as red as the Cardinal’s robe, was not enough to warm the little
council-chamber or court-house, furnished with green leather seats, long
horse-shoe table in front of the desk, and chain-bedecked usher, keeping
the entrance near the place of Picheral, the Secretary.
Generally the best part of the meeting is the quarter of an hour’s grace
allowed to late-comers. The Academicians gather in groups with their
backs to the fire and their coat tails turned up, chatting familiarly in
undertones. But on this afternoon the conversation was general and had
risen to the utmost violence of public debate, each new comer joining in
from the far end of the room, while he signed the attendance list.
Some even before entering, while they were still depositing their great
coats, comforters, and overshoes in the empty room of the Académie
des Sciences, opened the door to join in the cries of ‘Shame!’ and
‘Scandalous!’
The cause of all the commotion was this. There had appeared in a morning
paper a reprint of a highly disrespectful report made to the Académie of
Florence upon Astier-Réhu’s ‘Galileo’ and the manifestly apocryphal
and absurd (sic) historical documents which were published with it. The
report had been sent with the greatest privacy to the President of
the Académie Française, and for some days there had been considerable
excitement at the Institute, where Astier-Réhu’s decision was eagerly
awaited. He had said nothing but, ‘I know, I know; I am taking the
necessary steps.’ And now suddenly here was this report which they
believed to be known only to themselves, hurled at them like a
bomb-shell from the outer sheet of one of the most widely circulated
of the Parisian newspapers, and accompanied by remarks insulting to the
Permanent Secretary and to the whole Society.
Furious was the indignant outcry against the impudence of the journalist
and the folly of Astier-Réhu, which had brought this upon them. The
Académie has not been accustomed to such attacks, since it has prudently
opened its doors to ‘gentlemen of the Press.’ The fiery Laniboire,
familiar with every kind of ‘sport.’ talked of cutting off the
gentleman’s ears, and it took two or three colleagues to restrain his
ardour.
‘Come, Laniboire; we wear the sword, but we do not draw it Why, it’s
your own epigram, confound you, though adopted by the Institute.’
‘Gentlemen, you remember that Pliny the Elder, in the thirteenth book of
his “Natural History”’--here arrived Gazan, who came in puffing with his
elephantine trot--‘is one of the first writers who mentions counterfeit
autographs; amongst others, a false letter of Priam’s on papyrus’--
‘Monsieur Gazan has not signed the list,’ cried Picheral’s sharp
falsetto.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ And the fat man went off to sign, still
discoursing about papyrus and King Priam, though unheard for the hubbub
of angry voices, in which the only word that could be distinguished was
‘Académie.’ They all talked about the Académie as if it were an actual
live person, whose real view each man believed himself alone to know and
to express. Suddenly the exclamations ceased, as Astier-Réhu entered,
signed his name, and quietly deposited at his place as Permanent
Secretary the ensign of his office, carried under his arm. Then moving
towards his colleagues he said:
‘Gentlemen, I have bad news for you. I sent to the Library to be tested
the twelve or fifteen thousand documents which made what I called my
collection. Well, gentlemen, all are forgeries. The Académie of Florence
stated the truth. I am the victim of a stupendous hoax.’
As he wiped from his brow the great drops of sweat wrung out by the
strain of his confession, some one asked in an insolent tone:
‘Well, and _so_, Mr. Secretary’--
‘So, M. Danjou, I had no other choice but to bring an action--which
is what I have done. There was a general protest, all declaring that a
lawsuit was out of the question and would bring ridicule upon the whole
Society, to which he answered that he was exceedingly sorry to disoblige
his colleagues, but his mind was made up. ‘Besides, the man is in prison
and the proceedings have commenced.’
Never had the private assembly-room heard a roar like that which greeted
this statement. Laniboire distinguished himself as usual among the most
excited by shouting that the Académie ought to get rid of so dangerous
a member. In the first heat of their anger some of the assembly began to
discuss the question aloud. Could it be done? Could the Académie say to
a member who had brought the whole body into an undignified position,
‘Go! I reverse my judgment. Deity as you are, I relegate you to the rank
of a mere mortal’? Suddenly, either having caught a few words of
the discussion, or by one of those strange intuitions which seem
occasionally to come as an inspiration to the most hopelessly deaf, old
Réhu, who had been keeping to himself, away from the fire for fear of
a fit, remarked in his loud unmodulated voice, ‘During the Restoration,
for reasons merely political, we turned out eleven members at once.’ The
patriarch gave the usual little attesting movement of the head, calling
to witness his contemporaries of the period, white busts with vacant
eyes standing in rows on pedestals round the room.
‘Eleven! whew!’ muttered Danjou amid a great silence. And Laniboire,
cynical as before, said ‘All societies are cowardly; it’s the natural
law of self-preservation.’ Here Epinchard, who had been busy near the
door with Picheral the Secretary, rejoined the rest, and observed in a
weak voice, between two fits of coughing, that the Permanent Secretary
was not the only person to blame in the matter, as would appear from the
minutes of the proceedings of July 8, 1879, which should now be read.
Picheral from his place, in his thin brisk voice, began at a great pace:
_On July 8, 1879, Léonard-Pierre-Alexandre Astier-Réhu presented to the
Académie Française a letter from Rotrou to Cardinal Richelieu respecting
the statutes of the Society. The Académie, after an examination of this
unpublished and interesting document, passed a vote of thanks to the
donor, and decided to enter the letter of Rotrou upon the minutes. The
letter is appended_ (at this point the Secretary slackened his delivery
and put a malicious stress upon each word) _with all the errors of the
original text, which, being such as occur in ordinary correspondence,
confirm the authenticity of the document_. All stood motionless in the
faded light that came through the glass, avoiding each other’s eyes and
listening in utter amazement.
‘Shall I read the letter too?’ asked Picheral with a smile. He was much
amused.
‘Yes, read the letter too,’ said Epinchard. But after a phrase or two
there were cries of ‘Enough, enough, that will do!’ They were ashamed
of such a letter of Rotrou. It was a crying forgery, a mere schoolboy’s
imitation, the sentences misshapen, and half the words not known at the
supposed date. How could they have been so blind?
‘You see, gentlemen, that we could scarcely throw the whole burden upon
our unfortunate colleague,’ said Epinchard; and turning to the Permanent
Secretary begged him to abandon proceedings which could bring nothing
but discredit upon the whole Society and the great Cardinal himself.
But neither the fervour of the appeal nor the magnificence of the
orator’s attitude, as he pointed to the insignia of the Sacred Founder,
could prevail over the stubborn resolution of Astier-Réhu. Standing firm
and upright before the little table in the middle of the room, which
was used as a desk for the reading of communications, with his fists
clenched, as if he feared that his decision might be wrung out of his
hands, he repeated that ‘Nothing, I assure you, nothing’ would alter his
determination. He struck the hard wood angrily with his big knuckles, as
he said, ‘Ah, gentlemen, I have waited, for reasons like these, too long
already! I tell you, my “Galileo” is a bone in my throat! I am not rich
enough to buy it up, and I see it in the shop windows, advertising me as
the accomplice of a forger.’ What was his object! Why, to tear out the
rotten pages with his own hand and burn them before all the world!
A trial would give him the opportunity. ‘You talk of ridicule? The
Académie is above the fear of it; and as for me, a butt and a beggar as
I must be, I shall have the proud satisfaction of having protected
my personal honour and the dignity of history. I ask no more.’ Honest
Crocodilus! In the beat of his rhetoric was a sound of pure probity,
which rang strangely where all around was padded with compromise and
concealment. Suddenly the usher announced, ‘Four o’clock, gentlemen.’
Four o’clock! and they had not finished the arrangements for
Ripault-Babin’s funeral.
‘Ah, we must remember Ripault-Babin!’ observed Danjou in a mocking
voice. ‘He has died at the right moment!’ said Laniboire with mournful
emphasis. But the point of his epigram was lost, for the usher was
crying, ‘Take your places’; and the President was ringing his bell On
his right was Desminières the Chancellor, and on his left the Permanent
Secretary, reading quietly with recovered self-possession the report
of the Funeral Committee, to an accompaniment of eager whispers and the
pattering of sleet on the glass.
‘How late you went on to-day!’ remarked Coren-tine, as she opened the
door to her master. Corentine was certainly to be reckoned with those
who had no great opinion of the Institute. ‘M. Paul is in your study
with Madame. You must go through the library; the drawing-room is full
of people waiting to see you.’
The library, where nothing was left but the frame of the pigeon-holes,
looked as if there had been a fire or a burglary. It depressed him, and
he generally avoided it But to-day he went through it proudly, supported
by the remembrance of his resolve, and of how he had declared it at
the meeting. After an effort, which had cost him so much courage and
determination, he felt a sweet sense of relief in the thought that his
son was waiting for him. He had not seen him since just after the duel,
when he had been overcome by the sight of his gallant boy, laid at full
length and whiter than the sheet. He was thinking with delight how he
would go up to him with open arms, and embrace him, and hold him tight,
a long while, and say nothing--nothing! But as soon as he came into the
room and saw the mother and son close together, whispering, with
their eyes on the carpet, and their everlasting air of conspiracy, the
affectionate impulse was gone.
‘Here you are at last!’ cried Madame Astier, who was dressed to go out.
And in a tone of mock solemnity, as if introducing the two, she said,
‘My dear--the Count Paul Astier.’
‘At your service, Master,’ said Paul, as he bowed.
Astier-Réhu knitted his thick brows as he looked at them. ‘_Count_ Paul
Astier?’ said he.
The young fellow, as charming as ever, in spite of the tanning of
six months spent in the open air, said he had just indulged in the
extravagance of a Roman title, not so much for his own sake as in honour
of the lady who was about to take his name.
‘So you are going to be married,’ said his father, whose suspicions
increased. ‘And who is the lady?’
‘The Duchess Padovani.’
‘You must have lost your senses! Why she is five-and-twenty years older
than you, and besides--and besides--’ He hesitated, trying to find a
respectful phrase, but at last blurted right out, ‘You can’t marry a
woman who to every one’s knowledge has belonged to another for years.’
‘A fact, however, which has never prevented our dining with her
regularly, and accepting from her all kinds of favours,’ hissed Madame
Astier, rearing her little head as to strike. Without bestowing on her a
word or a look, as holding her no judge in a question of honour, the man
went up to his son, and said in earnest tones, the muscles of his big
cheeks twitching with emotion, ‘Don’t do it, Paul. For the sake of the
name you bear, don’t do it, my boy, I beg you.’ He grasped his son’s
shoulder and shook him, voice and hand quivering together. But the
young fellow moved away, not liking such demonstrations, and objected
generally that ‘he didn’t see it; it was not his view.’ The father
felt the impassable distance between himself and his son, saw the
impenetrable face and the look askance, and instinctively lifted up his
voice in appeal to his rights as head of the family. A smile which he
caught passing between Paul and his mother, a fresh proof of their joint
share in this discreditable business, completed his exasperation. He
shouted and raved, threatening to make a public protest, to write to the
papers, to brand them both, mother and son, ‘in his history.’ This
last was his most appalling threat. When he had said of some historical
character, ‘I have branded him in my history,’ he thought no punishment
could be more severe. Madame Astier, almost as familiar with the
threat of branding as with the dragging of his trunk about the passage,
contented herself with saying as she buttoned her gloves: ‘You know
every word can be heard in the next room.’ In spite of the curtains over
the door, the murmur of conversation was audible from the drawing-room.
Then, repressing and swallowing his wrath, ‘Listen to me, Paul,’ said
Léonard Astier, shaking his forefinger in the young man’s face, ‘if ever
this thing you are talking of comes to pass, do not expect to look upon
me again. I will not be present on your wedding day; I will not have you
near me, not even at my death-bed; You are no longer a son of mine;
and you go with my curse upon you.’ Moving away instinctively from the
finger which almost touched him, Paul replied with great calmness, ‘Oh,
you know, my dear father, that sort of thing is never done now-a-days!
Even on the stage they have given up blessing and cursing.’
‘But not punishing, you scoundrel!’ growled the old man, lifting his
hand. There was an angry cry of ‘Léonard!’ from the mother, as with the
prompt parry of a boxer Paul turned the blow aside, quietly as if he
had been in Keyser’s gymnasium, and without letting go the wrist he had
twisted under, said beneath his breath, ‘No, no; I won’t have that.’
The tough old hillsman struggled violently, but, vigorous as he still
was, he had found his master. At this terrible moment, while father and
son stood face to face, breathing hate at one another, and exchanging
murderous glances, the door of the drawing-room opened a little and
showed the good-natured doll-like smile of a fat lady bedecked with
feathers and flowers. ‘Excuse me, dear master, I want just to say a
word--why, Adelaide is here, and M. Paul too. Charming! delightful!
Quite a family group!’ Madame Ancelin was right. A family group it was,
a picture of the modern family, spoilt by the crack which runs
through European society from top to bottom, endangering its essential
principles of authority and subordination, and nowhere more remarkable
than here, under the stately dome of the Institute, where the
traditional domestic virtues are judged and rewarded.