THE DESPATCHES.
When we read, in the rules of the order of the Jesuits, under the title
De formula scribendi (Institut. 2, 11, p. 125, 129), the development of
the 8th part of the constitutions, we are appalled by the number of
letters, narratives, registers, and writings of all kinds, preserved in
the archives of the society.
It is a police infinitely more exact and better informed than has ever
been that of any state. Even the government of Venice found itself
surpassed by the Jesuits: when it drove them out in 1606, it seized all
their papers, and reproached them for their great and laborious
curiosity. This police, this secret inquisition, carried to such a degree
of perfection, may give some idea of the strength of a government, so
well-informed so persevering in its projects, so powerful by its unity,
and, as the constitutions have it, by the union of its members. It is not
hard to understand, what immense force must belong to the heads of this
society, and how the general of the Jesuits could say to the Duke de
Brissac: "From this room, your grace, I govern not only Paris, but
China--not only China, but the whole world--and all without any one
knowing how it is done:" (Constitution of the Jesuits, edited by Paulin,
Paris, 1843.)
Morok, the lion-tamer, seeing Dagobert deprived of his horse, and
stripped of his money and papers, and thinking it was thus out of his
power to continue his journey, had, previous to the arrival of the
burgomaster, despatched Karl to Leipsic, as the bearer of a letter which
he was to put immediately into the post. The address of this letter was
as follows: "A Monsieur Rodin, Rue du Milieu des Ursins, Paris."
About the middle of this obscure and solitary street, situate below the
level of the Quai Napoleon, which it joins not far from the Rue Saint
Landry, there stood a house of unpretentious appearance, at the bottom of
a dark and narrow court-yard, separated from the street by a low building
in front, with arched doorway, and two windows protected by thick iron
bars. Nothing could be more simple than the interior of this quiet
dwelling, as was sufficiently shown by the furniture of a pretty large
room on the ground floor. The walls of this apartment were lined with old
gray wainscot; the tiled floor was painted red, and carefully polished;
curtains of white calico shaded the windows.
A sphere of about four feet in diameter, raised on a pedestal of massive
oak, stood at one end of the room, opposite to the fireplace. Upon this
globe, which was painted on a large scale, a host of little red crosses
appeared scattered over all parts of the world--from the North to the
South, from the rising to the setting sun, from the most barbarous
countries, from the most distant isles, to the centres of civilization,
to France itself. There was not a single country which did not present
some spots marked with these red crosses, evidently indicative of
stations, or serving as points of reference.
Before a table of black wood, loaded with papers, and resting against the
wall near the chimney, a chair stood empty. Further on, between the two
windows, was a large walnut-wood desk, surmounted by shelves full of
pasteboard boxes.
At the end of the month of October, 1831, about eight o'clock in the
morning, a man sat writing at this desk. This was M. Rodin, the
correspondent of Morok, the brute-tamer.
About fifty years of age, he wore an old, shabby, olive greatcoat, with a
greasy collar, a snuff-powdered cotton handkerchief for a cravat, and
waistcoat and trousers of threadbare black cloth. His feet, buried in
loose varnished shoes, rested on a petty piece of green baize upon the
red, polished floor. His gray hair lay flat on his temples, and encircled
his bald forehead; his eyebrows were scarcely marked; his upper eyelid,
flabby and overhanging, like the membrane which shades the eyes of
reptiles, half concealed his small, sharp, black eye. His thin lips,
absolutely colorless, were hardly distinguishable from the wan hue of his
lean visage, with its pointed nose and chin; and this livid mask
(deprived as it were of lips) appeared only the more singular, from its
maintaining a death-like immobility. Had it not been for the rapid
movement of his fingers, as, bending over the desk, he scratched along
with his pen, M. Rodin might have been mistaken for a corpse.
By the aid of a cipher (or secret alphabet) placed before him he was
copying certain passages from a long sheet full of writing, in a manner
quite unintelligible to those who did not possess the key to the system.
Whilst the darkness of the day increased the gloom of the large, cold,
naked-looking apartment, there was something awful in the chilling aspect
of this man, tracing his mysterious characters in the midst of profound
silence.
The clock struck eight. The dull sound of the knocker at the outer door
was heard, then a bell tinkled twice, several doors opened and shut, and
a new personage entered the chamber. On seeing him, M. Rodin rose from
the desk, stuck his pen between his teeth, bowed with a deeply submissive
air, and sat down again to his work without uttering a word.
The two formed a striking contrast to one another. The newcomer, though
really older than he seemed, would have passed for thirty-six or thirty
eight years of age at most. His figure was tall and shapely, and few
could have encountered the brightness of his large gray eye, brilliant as
polished steel. His nose, broad at the commencement, formed a well-cut
square at its termination; his chin was prominent, and the bluish tints
of his close-shaved beard were contrasted with the bright carnation of
his lips, and the whiteness of his fine teeth. When he took off his hat
to change it for a black velvet cap which he found on the small table, he
displayed a quantity of light chestnut hair, not yet silvered by time. He
was dressed in a long frock-coat, buttoned up to the neck in military
fashion.
The piercing glance and broad forehead of this man revealed a powerful
intellect, even as the development of his chest and shoulders announced a
vigorous physical organization; whilst his gentlemanly appearance, the
perfection of his gloves and boots, the light perfume which hung about
his hair and person, the grace and ease of his least movements, betrayed
what is called the man of the world, and left the impression that he had
sought or might still seek every kind of success, from the most frivolous
to the most serious. This rare combination of strength of mind, strength
of body, and extreme elegance of manners, was in this instance rendered
still more striking by the circumstance, that whatever there might be of
haughtiness or command in the upper part of that energetic countenance,
was softened down, and tempered by a constant but not uniform smile--for,
as occasion served, this smile became either kind or sly, cordial or gay,
discreet or prepossessing, and thus augmented the insinuating charm of
this man, who, once seen, was never again forgotten. But, in yielding to
this involuntary sympathy, the doubt occurred if the influence was for
good--or for evil.
M. Rodin, the secretary of the newcomer, continued to write.
"Are there any letters from Dunkirk, Rodin?" inquired his master.
"Post not yet in."
"Without being positively uneasy as to my mother's health, since she was
already convalescent," resumed the other, "I shall only be quite
reassured by a letter from my excellent friend, the Princess de Saint
Dizier. I shall have good news this morning, I hope."
"It is to be desired," said the secretary, as humble and submissive as he
was laconic and impassible.
"Certainly it is to be desired," resumed his master; "for one of the
brightest days of my life was when the Princess de Saint-Dizier announced
to me that this sudden and dangerous illness had yielded to the care and
attention with which she surrounds my mother. Had it not been for that I
must have gone down to her instantly, though my presence here is very
necessary."
Then, approaching the desk, he added: "Is the summary of the foreign
correspondence complete?"
"Here is the analysis."
"The letters are still sent under envelope to the places named, and are
then brought here as I directed?"
"Always."
"Read to me the notes of this correspondence; if there are any letters
for me to answer, I will tell you." And Rodin's master began to walk up
and down the room, with his hands crossed behind his back, dictating
observations of which Rodin took careful note.
The secretary turned to a pretty large pile of papers, and thus began:
"Don Raymond Olivarez acknowledges from Cadiz receipt of letter No.19; he
will conform to it, and deny all share in the abduction."
"Very well; file it."
"Count Romanoff, of Riga, finds himself in a position of pecuniary
embarrassment."
"Let Duplessis send him fifty louis; I formerly served as captain in his
regiment, and he has since given us good information."
"They have received at Philadelphia the last cargo of Histories of
France, expurgated for the use of the faithful they require some more of
the same sort."
"Take note of it, and write to Duplessis. Go on."
"M. Spindler sends from Namur the secret report on M. Ardouin."
"To be examined."
"M. Ardouin sends from the same town the secret report on M. Spindler."
"To be examined."
"Doctor Van Ostadt, of the same town, sends a confidential note on the
subject of Messrs. Spindler and Ardouin."
"To be compared. Go on!"
"Count Malipierri, of Turin, announces that the donation of 300,000
francs is signed."
"Inform Duplessis. What next?"
"Don Stanislaus has just quitted the waters of Baden with Queen Marie
Ernestine. He informs us that her majesty will receive with gratitude the
promised advices, and will answer them with her own hand."
"Make a note of it. I will myself write to the queen."
Whilst Rodin was inscribing a few remarks on the margin of the paper, his
master, continuing to walk up and down the room, found himself opposite
to the globe marked with little red crosses, and stood contemplating it
for a moment with a pensive air.
Rodin continued: "In consequence of the state of the public mind in
certain parts of Italy, where sundry agitators have turned their eyes in
the direction of France, Father Arsenio writes from Milan, that it would
be of importance to distribute profusely in that country, some little
book, in which the French would be represented as impious and debauched,
rapacious and bloody."
"The idea is excellent. We might turn to good account the excesses
committed by our troops in Italy during the wars of the Republic. You
must employ Jacques Dumoulin to write it. He is full of gall, spite, and
venom: the pamphlet will be scorching. Besides, I may furnish a few
notes; but you must not pay Dumoulin till after delivery of the
manuscript."
"That is well understood: for, if we were to pay him beforehand, he would
be drunk for a week in some low den. It was thus we had to pay him twice
over for his virulent attack on the pantheistic tendencies of Professor
Martin's philosophy."
"Take note of it--and go on!"
"The merchant announces that the clerk is about to send the banker to
give in his accounts. You understand?' added Rodin, after pronouncing
these words with a marked emphasis.
"Perfectly," said the other, with a start; "they are but the expressions
agreed on. What next?"
"But the clerk," continued the secretary, "is restrained by a last
scruple."
After a moment's silence, during which the features of Rodin's master
worked strongly, he thus resumed: "They must continue to act on the
clerk's mind by silence and solitude; then, let him read once more the
list of cases in which regicide is authorized and absolved. Go on!"
"The woman Sydney writes from Dresden, that she waits for instructions.
Violent scenes of jealousy on her account have again taken place between
the father and son; but neither from these new bursts of mutual hatred,
nor from the confidential communications which each has made to her
against his rival, has she yet been able to glean the information
required. Hitherto, she has avoided giving the preference to one or the
other; but, should this situation be prolonged, she fears it may rouse
their suspicion. Which ought she then to choose--the father or the son?"
"The son--for jealous resentment will be much more violent and cruel in
the old man, and, to revenge himself for the preference bestowed upon his
son, he will perhaps tell what they have both such an interest to
conceal. The next?"
"Within the last three years, two maid-servants of Ambrosius whom we
placed in that little parish in the mountains of the Valais, have
disappeared, without any one knowing what has become of them. A third has
just met with the same fate. The Protestants of the country are
roused--talk of murder with frightful attendant circumstances--"
"Until there is proof positive and complete of the fact, Ambrosius must
be defended against these infamous calumnies, the work of a party that
never shrinks from; monstrous inventions. Go on!"
"Thompson, of Liverpool, has at length succeeded in procuring for Justin
the place of agent or manager to Lord Stewart, a rich Irish Catholic,
whose head grows daily weaker."
"Let the fact be once verified, and Thompson shall have a premium of
fifty louis. Make a note of it for Duplessis. Proceed."
"Frantz Dichstein, of Vienna," resumed Rodin, "announces that his father
has just died of the cholera, in a little village at some leagues from
that city: for the epidemic continues to advance slowly, coming from the
north of Russia by way of Poland."
"It is true," said Rodin's master, interrupting him; "may its terrible
march be stayed, and France be spared."
"Frantz Dichstein," resumed Rodin, "says that his two brothers are
determined to contest the donation made by his father, but that he is of
an opposite opinion."
"Consult the two persons that are charged with all matters of litigation.
What next?"
"The Cardinal Prince d'Amalfi will conform to the three first points of
the proposal: he demands to make a reservation upon the fourth point."
"No reserve!--Either full and absolute acceptance--or else war--and (mark
me well) war without mercy--on him and his creatures. Go on!"
"Fra Paolo announces that the Prince Boccari, chief of a redoubtable
secret society, in despair at seeing his friends accuse him of treachery,
in consequence of suspicions excited in their minds by Fra Paolo himself,
has committed suicide."
"Boccari! is it possible?" cried Rodin's master. "Boccari! the patriot
Boccari! so dangerous a person!"
"The patriot Boccari," repeated the impassible secretary.
"Tell Duplessis to send an order for five-and-twenty louis to Fra Paolo.
Make a note of it."
"Hausman informs us that the French dancer, Albertine Ducornet, is the
mistress of the reigning prince; she has the most complete influence over
him, and it would be easy through her means to arrive at the end
proposed, but that she is herself governed by her lover (condemned in
France as a forger), and that she does nothing without consulting him."
"Let Hausman get hold of this man--if his claims are reasonable, accede to
them--and learn if the girl has any relations in Paris."
"The Duke d'Orbano announces, that the king his master will authorize the
new establishment, but on the conditions previously stated."
"No condition!--either a frank adhesion or a positive refusal. Let us
know our friends from our enemies. The more unfavorable the
circumstances, the more we must show firmness, and overbear opposition by
confidence in ourselves."
"The same also announces, that the whole of the corps diplomatique
continues to support the claims of the father of that young Protestant
girl, who refuses to quit the convent where she has taken refuge, unless
it be to marry her lover against her father's will."
"Ah! the corps diplomatique continues to remonstrate in the father's
name?"
"Yes."
"Then, continue to answer, that the spiritual power has nothing to do
with the temporal."
At this moment, the bell of the outer door again sounded twice. "See who
it is," said Rodin's master; and the secretary rose and left the room.
The other continued to walk thoughtfully up and down, till, coming near
to the huge globe, he stopped short before it.
For some time he contemplated, in profound silence, the innumerable
little red crosses, which appeared to cover, as with an immense net, all
the countries of the earth. Reflecting doubtless on the invisible action
of his power, which seemed to extend over the whole world, the features
of this man became animated, his large gray eye sparkled, his nostrils
swelled, and his manly countenance assumed an indescribable expression of
pride, energy, and daring. With haughty brow and scornful lip, he drew
still nearer to the globe, and leaned his strong hand upon the pole.
This powerful pressure, an imperious movement, as of one taking
possession, seemed to indicate, that he felt sure of governing this
globe, on which he looked down from the height of his tall figure, and on
which he rested his hand with so lofty and audacious an air of
sovereignty.
But now he no longer smiled. His eye threatened, and his large forehead
was clad with a formidable scowl. The artist, who had wished to paint the
demon of craft and pride, the infernal genius of insatiable domination,
could not have chosen a more suitable model.
When Rodin returned, the face of his master had recovered its ordinary
expression. "It is the postman," said Rodin, showing the letters which he
held in his hand; "there is nothing from Dunkirk."
"Nothing?" cried his master--and his painful emotion formed a strange
contrast to his late haughty and implacable expression of
countenance--"nothing? no news of my mother?--Thirty-six hours more,
then, of anxiety."
"It seems to me, that, if the princess had bad news to give, she would
have written. Probably the improvement goes on."
"You are doubtless right, Rodin--but no matter--I am far from easy. If,
to-morrow, the news should not be completely satisfactory, I set out for
the estate of the princess. Why would my mother pass the autumn in that
part of the country? The environs of Dunkirk do not, I fear, agree with
her."
After a few moments' silence, he added, as he continued to walk:
"Well--these letters--whence are they?"
Rodin looked at the post-marks, and replied: "Out of the four there are
three relative to the great and important affairs of the medals."
"Thank heaven!--provided the news be favorable," cried his master, with
an expression of uneasiness, which showed how much importance he attached
to this affair.
"One is from Charlestown, and no doubt relative to Gabriel, the
missionary," answered Rodin; "this other from Batavia, and no doubt
concerns the Indian, Djalma. The third is from Leipsic, and will probably
confirm that received yesterday, in which the lion-tamer, Morok, informed
us, that, in accordance with his orders, and without his being
compromised in any way, the daughters of General Simon would not be able
to continue their journey."
At the name of General Simon, a cloud passed over the features of Rodin's
master.