I
The Countess Guy de Saint-Prix, Julius’s younger sister, who had been
suddenly summoned to Paris by Count Juste-Agénor’s death, had not long
since returned to Pezac (an elegant country residence, four miles out of
Pau, which she had scarcely ever left since her widowhood, and to which
she had become more than ever attached now that her children were all
married and settled), when she received a singular visit.
She had just come in from her drive (she was in the habit of going out
every morning in a light dog-cart which she drove herself), when she was
informed that there was a priest in the drawing-room who had been
waiting for over an hour to see her. The stranger came with an
introduction from Cardinal André, as was shown by the card which was
handed to the Countess; the card was in an envelope; under the
Cardinal’s name, in his fine and almost feminine handwriting, were
written the following words:
“Recommends Father J. P. Salus, canon of Virmontal, to the Countess
de Saint-Prix’s very particular attention.”
That was all--and it was enough. The Countess was always glad to receive
members of the clergy; Cardinal André, moreover, held the Countess’s
soul in the hollow of his hand. Without a second’s delay, she hurried
to the drawing-room and excused herself for having kept the visitor
waiting.
The canon of Virmontal was a fine figure of a man. His noble countenance
shone with a manly energy which conflicted strangely with the hesitating
caution of his voice and gestures; and in like manner his hair, which
was almost white, formed a surprising contrast to the bright and
youthful freshness of his complexion.
Notwithstanding the Countess’s affability, the conversation at the
outset was laborious, lagging, in conventional phrases, round about the
lady’s recent bereavement, Cardinal André’s health and Julius’s renewed
failure to enter the Academy. All this while the Abbé’s utterance was
becoming slower and more muffled and the expression of his countenance
more and more harrowing. At last he rose, but instead of taking leave:
“Madame la comtesse,” he said, “I should like to speak to you--on behalf
of the Cardinal--about an important matter. But our voices sound very
loud in this room and the number of doors alarms me; I am afraid of
being overheard.”
The Countess adored confidences and mysteries; she showed the canon into
a small boudoir, which could be entered only from the drawing-room, and
shut the door.
“We are alone here,” she said. “Speak freely.”
But instead of speaking, the abbé, who had seated himself on an
arm-chair opposite the Countess, pulled a silk handkerchief out of his
pocket and buried his face in it, sobbing convulsively. The Countess, in
some perplexity, stretched out her hand for her work basket, which was
standing on a small table beside her, took out a bottle of salts,
hesitated whether she should offer them to the abbé, and finally solved
the difficulty by smelling them herself.
“Forgive me,” said the abbé at last, disinterring an apoplectic face
from his handkerchief. “I know you are too good a Catholic, Madame la
comtesse, not to understand and share my emotion, when you hear....”
The Countess could not abide lack of control; her propriety took refuge
behind a lorgnette. The abbé quickly recovered himself and, drawing his
chair nearer:
“It required the Cardinal’s solemn assurance, Madame la comtesse, before
I could bring myself to come and see you--his assurance that your faith
was something more than worldly conventionality--not a mere cloak for
indifference.”
“Let’s get to the point, Monsieur l’abbé.”
“The Cardinal assured me, then, that I might have perfect confidence in
your discretion--the discretion of the confessional, if I may say
so....”
“Excuse me, Monsieur l’abbé, but if the secret is one with which the
Cardinal is acquainted--a secret of such importance--how is it that he
has not told me of it himself?”
The abbé’s smile alone would have sufficed to show the Countess the
futility of her question.
“In a letter! But, my dear Madam, the post nowadays opens all cardinals’
letters.”
“He might have confided one to you.”
“Yes, Madam, but who knows what may happen to a paper, with the
surveillance to which we are subjected? More than that--the Cardinal
prefers to ignore what I am about to tell you--to have nothing to do
with it.... Ah! Madam, at the last moment my courage fails me and I can
hardly....”
“Monsieur l’abbé, as you are a stranger to me; I cannot feel offended
that your confidence in me is no greater,” said the Countess very
gently, turning her head aside and letting her lorgnette fall. “I have
the utmost respect for the secrets which are confided to me. God knows I
have never betrayed the smallest. But I have never been a person to
solicit confidences.”
She made a slight movement as though to rise; the abbé stretched out his
hand toward her.
“You will excuse me, Madame la comtesse, when you condescend to reflect
that you are the first woman to have been judged worthy by the persons
who have entrusted me with the fearful task of enlightening you--the
first, I say, worthy to hear and keep this secret. I am alarmed, I
confess, when I consider that this revelation is of a nature to weigh
heavily--crushingly--on a woman’s intelligence.”
“There are very mistaken opinions held about the feebleness of women’s
intelligence,” said the Countess almost dryly; then, with her hands
slightly raised, she sat concealing her curiosity beneath an air which
was a mixture of absent-mindedness, resignation and ecstatic
vagueness--an air which she thought would be appropriate for receiving
an important and confidential communication from the Church. The abbé
drew his chair still nearer.
But the secret which Father Salus prepared to confide to the Countess
seems to me even now so disconcertingly peculiar that I cannot venture
to relate it without further precautions.
Fiction there is--and history. Certain critics of no little discernment
have considered that fiction is history which _might_ have taken place,
and history fiction which _has_ taken place. We are, indeed, forced to
acknowledge that the novelist’s art often compels belief, just as
reality sometimes defies it. Alas! there exists an order of minds so
sceptical that they deny the possibility of any fact as soon as it
diverges from the commonplace. It is not for them that I write.
Whether the representative of God upon earth was actually snatched from
the Holy See and by the machinations of the Quirinal stolen, so to
speak, from the whole body of Christendom, is an exceedingly thorny
problem, and one which I have not the temerity to raise here. But it is
an _historical_ fact that towards the end of the year 1893 a rumour to
that effect was in circulation. Certain newspapers mentioned it timidly;
they were silenced. A pamphlet on the subject appeared at St. Malo[D]
and was suppressed. For, on the one hand, the freemasons were as little
anxious that the report of such an abominable outrage should be spread
abroad, as, on the other, the Catholic leaders were afraid to
support--or could not resign themselves to countenance--the
extraordinary collections which were immediately started in this
connection. There is no doubt that innumerable pious souls bled
themselves freely (the sums which were collected--or dispersed--on this
occasion are reckoned at close upon half a million francs), but what
remained doubtful was whether all those who received the funds were
really the devout persons they pretended to be, or whether some of them
were not mere swindlers. At any rate, for the successful accomplishment
of this scheme there was necessary, in the absence of religious
conviction, an audacity, a skilfulness, a tact, an eloquence, a
knowledge of facts and characters, a vigour of constitution, such as
fall to the lot of few only in this world--strapping fellows, like
Protos, for instance, Lafcadio’s old school-mate. I honestly warn the
reader that it is he I am now introducing, under the appearance and
borrowed name of the canon of Virmontal.
The Countess, firmly determined neither to open her lips nor change her
attitude, nor even her expression, before getting to the very roots of
the secret, listened imperturbably to the bogus priest, whose assurance
was gradually becoming more and more confident. He had risen and begun
striding up and down. To make his explanations clearer, he traced the
affair back--not exactly to its sources (since the conflict between the
Church and the Lodge--inherent in their very essence--may be said to
date from all time) but to certain incidents in which their hostility
had openly declared itself. He first of all begged the Countess to
remember that in December,’92, the Pope had published two letters,
addressed, one to the Italian people, and the other more particularly to
the bishops, warning Catholics against the machinations of the
freemasons; then, as the Countess’s memory failed her, he was obliged to
go further back and recall the erection of Giordano Bruno’s statue,
which had been planned and presided over by Crispi, behind whom the
Lodge had still then concealed itself. He told of Crispi’s fury that the
Pope should have repulsed his advances, should have refused to
negotiate with him--and in this instance, what could negotiation mean
but submission? He traced the history of that tragic day and told how
the two camps had taken up their positions: how the freemasons had at
last lifted their mask, and--while the whole diplomatic corps accredited
to the Holy See were calling at the Vatican and thus showing their
contempt for Crispi and their veneration for the Holy Father in his
grievous affliction--how the Lodge, flags flying and bands playing, had
acclaimed the illustrious blasphemer in the Campo dei Fiori, on the spot
where the insulting and idolatrous effigy had been raised.
“In the consistory which followed shortly after, on June 30, 1889,” he
continued (he was still standing, leaning now across the table, his arms
in front of him, his face bent down towards the Countess), “Leo XIII
gave vent to his vehement indignation. His protestations were heard by
the entire universe, and all Christendom shuddered to hear him speak of
leaving Rome! Leaving Rome! Those were my words!... All this, Madame la
Comtesse, you know already--you grieved for it--you remember it--as well
as I.”
He again began his pacing to and fro.
“At last Crispi fell from power. Would the Church be able to breathe
again? In December, 1892, you remember, the Pope wrote those two
letters. Madam....”
He sat down again abruptly, drew his arm-chair nearer to the sofa, and,
seizing the Countess’s arm:
“A month later the Pope was imprisoned!”
As the Countess remained obstinately impassive, the canon let go her arm
and continued in a calmer tone:
“I shall not attempt, Madam, to arouse your pity for the sufferings of a
captive. Women’s hearts are, I know, always moved by misfortune. It is
to your intelligence that I appeal, Countess, and I beg you to consider
the state of miserable confusion into which the disappearance of our
spiritual leader plunged us Christians.”
A slight shade passed over the Countess’s pale brow.
“No Pope is a frightful thing, but--God save us--a false Pope is more
frightful still. For the Lodge, in order to cover up its crime--nay,
more, in the hopes of inducing the Church to compromise herself
fatally--the Lodge, I say, has installed on the pontifical throne, in
the place of Leo XIII, some cat’s-paw or other of the Quirinal’s, some
vile impostor! And it is to him that we must pretend submission so as
not to injure the real one--and oh! shame upon shame! it was to him that
all Christendom bowed down at the Jubilee!”
At these words the handkerchief he was wringing in his hands tore
across.
“The first act of the false Pope was that too famous encyclical--the
encyclical to France--at the thought of which the heart of every
Frenchman worthy of the name still bleeds. Yes, yes, Madam, I know how
your great lady’s generous heart must have suffered at hearing Holy
Church deny the holy cause of royalty, and the Vatican such is the
fact--give its approval to the Republic. Alas! Be comforted, Madam! You
were right in your amazement. Be comforted, Madame la Comtesse. But
think of the sufferings of the Holy Father in his captivity at hearing
the cat’s-paw--the impostor proclaim him a Republican!”
Then, flinging himself back with a laugh that was half a sob:
“And what did you think, Comtesse de Saint-Prix, what did you think,
when as a corollary to that cruel encyclical our Holy Father granted an
audience to the editor of the _Petit Journal_! You realize the
impossibility of such a thing. Your generous heart has already cried
aloud to you that it is false!”
“But,” exclaimed the Countess, no longer able to contain herself, “it
must be cried aloud to the whole world!”
“No, Madam! It must be kept silent!” thundered the abbé, towering
formidably above her. “It must first be kept silent; we must keep silent
so as to be able to act.”
Then apologetically, with a voice turned suddenly piteous:
“You see I am speaking to you as if you were a man.”
“Quite right, Monsieur l’abbé. To act, you said. Quick! What have you
decided on?”
“Ah! I knew I should find in you a noble, virile impatience, worthy the
blood of the Baragliouls! But, alas! nothing is more dangerous in the
present circumstances than untimely zeal. Certain of the elect, it is
true, have been apprised of these abominable crimes, but it is
indispensable, Madam, that we should be able to count on their absolute
discretion, on their total and ungrudging obedience to the instructions
which they will in due time receive. To act without us is to act against
us. And in addition to the Church’s disapproval, which--God save
us!--may even go so far as to entail excommunication, all private
initiative will be met with the most explicit and categorical denials
from our party. This is a crusade, Madame la comtesse, yes! but a
secret crusade. Forgive me for insisting on this point, but I am
specially commissioned by the Cardinal to impress it on you; it is his
firm intention, moreover, to know absolutely nothing of what is going
on, and if he is spoken to on the subject he will fail to understand a
single word. The Cardinal will not have seen me; and if, later on,
circumstances throw us together again, let it be thoroughly understood
there too that you and I have never spoken to each other. Our Holy
Father will recognise his true servants in good time.”
Somewhat disappointed, the Countess asked timidly:
“But then ...?”
“We are at work, Madame la comtesse, we are at work; have no fear. And I
am even authorised to reveal to you a portion of our plan of campaign.”
He settled himself squarely in his arm-chair, well opposite the
Countess, who was now leaning forward, her hands up to her face, her
elbows on her knees, and her chin resting between her palms.
* * * * *
He began by saying that the Pope was probably not confined in the
Vatican, but in the Castle of St. Angelo, which, as the Countess
certainly knew, communicated with the Vatican by an underground passage;
that doubtless it would not be very difficult to rescue him from this
prison, were it not for the semi-superstitious fear that all his
attendants had of the freemasons, though in their inmost hearts with and
of the Church. The kidnapping of the Holy Father was an example which
had struck terror into their souls. Not one of the attendants would
agree to give his assistance until means had been afforded him to leave
the country and live out of the persecutors’ reach. Important sums had
been contributed for this purpose by a few persons of noteworthy piety
and discretion. There remained but one single obstacle to overcome, but
it was one which necessitated more than all the others put together. For
this obstacle was a prince--Leo XIII’s jailer-in-chief.
“You remember, Madame la comtesse, the mystery which still shrouds the
double death of the Archduke Rudolph, the Austrian Crown Prince, and of
his young bride, Maria Wettsyera, Princess Grazioli’s niece, who was
found in a dying condition beside him.... Suicide, it was said. But the
pistol was put there merely as a blind to public opinion; the truth is
they were both poisoned. A cousin of the Archduke’s--an Archduke
himself--who, alas! was madly in love with Maria Wettsyera, had been
unable to bear seeing her the bride of another.... After this abominable
crime, Jean-Salvador de Lorraine, son of Marie-Antoinette, Grand-Duchess
of Tuscany, left the court of his cousin, the Emperor Francis Joseph.
Knowing that he was discovered at Vienna, he went to Rome to confess his
guilt to the Pope--to throw himself at his feet--to implore his pardon.
He obtained it. Monaco, however--Cardinal Monaco-la-Valette--alleging
the necessity of penance, had him confined in the Castle of St. Angelo,
where he has been languishing for the last three years.”
The canon delivered the whole of this speech in a voice that was
perfectly level; at this point he paused for a moment; then, emphasising
his words with a slight tap of his foot:
“This is the man,” he cried, “that Monaco has made jailer-in-chief to
Leo XIII.”
“What, the Cardinal!” exclaimed the Countess. “Can a cardinal be a
freemason?”
“Alas!” said the canon pensively, “the Church has suffered sad inroads
from the Lodge. You can easily see, Madame la comtesse, that if the
Church had defended herself better, none of this would have happened.
The Lodge was enabled to seize the person of the Holy Father only
through the connivance of a few highly placed accomplices.”
“But it’s appalling!”
“What more is there to tell you, Madame la comtesse? Jean-Salvador
imagined he was the prisoner of the Church, when in reality he was the
prisoner of the freemasons. He will not consent to work for the
liberation of our Holy Father unless he is at the same time enabled to
flee himself. And he can flee only to a very distant country, where
there is no extradition. He demands two hundred thousand francs.”
Valentine de Saint-Prix had sunk back in her chair and let her arms drop
beside her; at these words she flung her head back, uttered a feeble
moan and lost consciousness. The canon darted forward.
“Courage, Madame la comtesse”--he patted her hands briskly--“it’s not so
bad as all that, God save us!”--he put the smelling-salts to her nose.
“A hundred and forty of the two hundred thousand have been subscribed
already”--and as the Countess opened one eye: “The duchesse de Lectoure
has not promised more than fifty; there remain sixty to be found.”
“You shall have them,” murmured the Countess, almost inaudibly.
“Countess, the Church never doubted you.”
He rose very gravely--almost solemnly--paused a moment, and then:
“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, I have the most absolute confidence in your
generous promise; but reflect for a moment on the innumerable
difficulties which will accompany, hamper, and possibly prevent the
handing over of this sum; a sum, which as I told you, it will be your
duty to forget ever having given me, which I myself must deny ever
having received; for which I am not even permitted to give you a
receipt.... The only prudent method is for you to hand it over to me
personally. We are watched. My presence in your house may have been
observed. Can we ever be sure of the servants? Think of the Comte de
Baraglioul’s election! I must not be seen here again.”
But as after these words he stood rooted to the ground without stirring
or speaking, the Countess understood.
“But, Monsieur l’abbé, it stands to reason I haven’t got such an
enormous sum as that about me. And even....”
The abbé showed signs of impatience, so that she did not dare to add
that she wanted time (for she had great hopes that she would not have to
provide the whole sum herself).
“What is to be done?” she murmured.
Then, as the canon’s eyebrows grew more and more menacing:
“It’s true I have a few jewels upstairs....”
“Oh, fie! Madam! Jewels are keepsakes. Can you fancy me as a bagman? And
do you suppose I can afford to arouse suspicion by trying to get a good
price for them? Why, I should run the risk of compromising you and our
undertaking into the bargain.”
His deep voice had grown harsh and violent. The Countess trembled
slightly.
“Wait a minute, Monsieur le chanoine, I will go and see what I have got
upstairs.”
She came down again in a moment or two, nervously crumpling a bundle of
bank-notes in her hand.
“Fortunately I have just collected my rents. I can give you six
thousand, five hundred francs at once.”
The canon shrugged his shoulders:
“What do you suppose I can do with that?”
And with an air of sorrowful contempt he loftily waved the Countess
away.
“No, Madam, no! I will not take those notes. I will take them with the
others or not at all. Only petty souls can consent to petty dealings.
When can you give me the whole amount?”
“How much time can you let me have?... a week ...?” asked the Countess,
who was thinking how she could make a collection.
“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, has the Church been deceived in you? A week! I
will say but one word--the Pope is waiting.”
Then, raising his arms to Heaven:
“What! the incomparable honour of delivering him lies in your hands and
you delay! Have a fear, Madam, have a fear that the Lord in the day of
your own deliverance may keep your niggardly soul waiting and
languishing in just such a manner outside the gates of Paradise!”
He became menacing--terrible; then, suddenly and swiftly raising the
cross of a rosary to his lips, he absented himself in a rapid prayer.
“Surely there’s time for me to write to Paris?” moaned the Countess
wildly.
“Telegraph! Tell your banker to deposit the sixty thousand francs at the
Crédit Foncier in Paris and tell them to telegraph to the Crédit Foncier
at Pau to remit the sum immediately. It’s rudimentary.”
“I have some money on deposit at Pau,” she stammered.
Then his indignation knew no bounds.
“Ah, Madam! All this beating about the bush before you tell me so? Is
this your eagerness? What would you say now if I were to refuse your
assistance?...”
Then pacing up and down the room, his hands crossed behind his back, and
as though nothing she could say now could placate him:
“This is worse than lukewarmness,” and he made little clicks with his
tongue to show his disgust, “this is almost duplicity.”
“Monsieur l’abbé, I implore you....”
For a few moments the abbé, with frowning brows, inflexibly continued
his pacing. Then at last:
“You are acquainted, I know, with Father Boudin, with whom I am lunching
this very morning--” (he pulled out his watch) “I shall be late. Make
out a cheque in his name; he will be able to cash the sixty thousand at
once and hand it over to me. When you see him again, just say that it
was ‘for the expiatory chapel’; he is a man of discretion and tact--he
will not insist further. Well! What are you waiting for?”
The Countess, prostrate on the sofa, rose, dragged herself towards a
small bureau, which she opened, and took out from it an olive-green
cheque-book, a leaf of which she filled in with her long pointed
handwriting.
“Excuse me for having been a little severe with you just now, Madame la
comtesse,” said the abbé in a softened voice as he took the cheque she
held out to him, “but such interests are at stake!”
Then, slipping the cheque into an inner pocket:
“It would be impious to thank you, would it not?--even in the name of
Him in whose hands I am but an unworthy instrument.”
He was overcome by a brief fit of sobbing, which he stifled in his
handkerchief; but recovering himself in a moment, with a sharp stamp of
his heel on the ground, he rapidly murmured a few words in a foreign
language.
“Are you Italian?” asked the Countess.
“Spanish! The sincerity of my emotions betrays me.”
“Your accent doesn’t. Really your French is so perfect....”
“You are very kind, Madame la comtesse. Excuse me for leaving you a
little abruptly. Now that we have come to an arrangement, I shall be
able to get to Narbonne this very evening; the archbishop is expecting
me there impatiently. Good-bye!”
He took both the Countess’s hands in his and, with his head thrown back,
looked at her fixedly:
“Good-bye, Countess de Saint-Prix!” Then, with a finger on his lips:
“Remember that a word of yours may ruin everything.”
He had no sooner left the house than the Countess flew to the
bell-pull.
“Amélie, tell Pierre that I shall want the barouche directly after lunch
to drive into Pau. Oh, and wait a minute!... Tell Germain to get his
bicycle at once and take a note to Madame Fleurissoire. I’ll write it
now.”
And leaning on the bureau which she had not shut, she wrote as follows:
NIND
“Dear Madame Fleurissoire,
“I shall be coming to see you this afternoon. Please expect me at
about two o’clock. I have something of the greatest importance to
tell you. Will you arrange for us to be alone?”
She signed the note, then sealed the envelope and handed it to Amélie.
II
Madame Amédée Fleurissorie, _née_ Péterat, the youngest sister of
Veronica Armand-Dubois and Marguerite de Baraglioul, answered to the
outlandish name of Arnica. Philibert Péterat, a botanist, who had
acquired some celebrity under the Second Empire on account of his
conjugal misfortunes, had as a young man determined to give the names of
flowers to any children he might happen to have. Some of his friends
considered the name of Veronica which he gave to his first-born,
somewhat peculiar; but when it was followed by the name of Marguerite
and people insinuated that he had climbed down--given in to public
opinion--conformed to the commonplace, he determined in a cantankerous
moment to bestow upon his third product a name so resolutely botanical
as to stop the mouths of all back-biters.
Shortly after Arnica’s birth, Philibert, whose temper had become
soured, separated from his wife, left the capital and settled at Pau.
His wife would linger on in Paris during the winter months, but every
spring, at the beginning of the fine weather, she would return to
Tarbes, her native town, and invite her two elder daughters to stay with
her there in the old family mansion which she occupied.
Veronica and Marguerite divided the year between Tarbes and Pau. As for
little Arnica, whom her mother and sisters looked down upon (it is true
she was rather foolish and more pathetic than pretty), she spent the
whole time, summer as well as winter, with her father.
The child’s greatest joy was to go botanising in the country; but the
eccentric old man would often give way to his morose temper and leave
her in the lurch; he would go off by himself on an inordinately long
expedition, come home dog-tired and immediately after the evening meal
take to his bed, without giving his daughter the charity of a word or a
smile. When he was in a poetical mood he would play the flute and
insatiably repeat the same tune over and over again. The rest of his
time he spent drawing portraits of flowers in minute detail.
An old servant, nicknamed Réséda, who was both cook and housemaid,
looked after the child and taught her what little she knew herself. With
this education, Arnica reached the age of ten hardly knowing how to
read. Fear of his neighbour’s tongues at last brought Philibert to a
better sense of his duty. Arnica was sent to a school kept by a Madame
Semène, a widow lady who instilled the rudiments of learning into a
dozen or so little girls and a very few small boys.
Arnica Péterat--guileless and helpless creature--had never until that
moment suspected that there might be anything laughable[E] in her name;
on her first day at school its ridicule came upon her as a sudden
revelation; she bowed her head, like some sluggish water-weed, to the
stream of jeers that flowed over her; she turned red; she turned pale;
she wept; and Madame Semène, by injudiciously punishing the whole class
for its indecorous conduct, added a spice of animosity to what had
before been a boisterous but not unkindly merriment.
Long, limp, anæmic and dull-eyed, Arnica stood with dangling arms,
staring stupidly, in the middle of the little schoolroom, and when
Madame Semène pointed out “the third bench on the left, Mademoiselle
Péterat,” the whole class, in spite of reprimands, burst out again
louder than ever.
Poor Arnica! Life seemed nothing but a dreary avenue stretching
interminably before her and bordered on either side by sniggers and
bullyings. Fortunately for her, Madame Semène was not impervious to the
little girl’s misery, and she soon found a refuge in the widow’s
charitable bosom.
When lessons were over, Arnica was glad enough to stay behind at school,
rather than go home to find her father absent; Madame Semène had a
daughter, a girl who was seven years older than Arnica and slightly
hump-backed, but good-natured; in the hopes of catching a husband for
her, Madame Semène used to have Sunday evening “at homes,” and on two
Sundays a year she would even get up a little party with recitations
and dancing; these parties were attended by some of her old pupils, who
came out of gratitude, escorted by their parents, and by a few youths
without either means or prospects, who came out of idleness. Arnica was
always present--a flower that lacked lustre--so modest as to be almost
indistinguishable--but yet destined not to go altogether unperceived.
When, at fourteen, Arnica lost her father, it was Madame Semène who took
in the orphan. Her two sisters, who were considerably older than she
was, visited her only rarely. It was in the course of one of these
visits, however, that Marguerite first met the young man who was to
become her husband. Julius de Baraglioul was then aged twenty-eight and
was on a visit to his grandfather, who, as we have already said, had
settled in the neighbourhood of Pau shortly after the annexation of the
Duchy of Parma by France.
Marguerite’s brilliant marriage (as a matter of fact, the Misses Péterat
were not absolutely without fortune) made her appear more distant than
ever to Arnica’s dazzled eyes; she had a shrewd suspicion that no
Count--no Julius--would ever stoop to breathe her perfume. She envied
her sister for having at last succeeded in escaping from the
ill-sounding name of Péterat. The name of _Marguerite_ was charming. How
well it went with _de Baraglioul_! Alas! Was there any name wedded to
which _Arnica_ would cease to seem ridiculous?
Repelled by the world of fact, her soul, in its soreness and immaturity,
tried to take refuge in poetry. At sixteen, she wore two drooping
ringlets on each side of her sallow face, and her dreamy blue eyes
looked out their astonishment beside the blackness of her hair. Her
toneless voice was not ungentle; she read verses and made strenuous
efforts to write them. She considered everything that helped her to
escape from life, poetical.
Two young men, who since their early childhood had been friends and
partners in affection, used to frequent Madame Semène’s evening parties.
One, weedy without being tall, scraggy rather than thin, with hair that
was not so much fair as faded, with an aggressive nose and timid eyes,
was Amédée Fleurissoire. The other was fat and stumpy, with stiff black
hair growing low on his forehead, and the odd habit of holding his head
on one side, his mouth open and his right hand stretched out in front of
him: such is the portrait of Gaston Blafaphas. Amédée was the son of a
stonecutter with a business in tombstones and funeral wreaths; Gaston’s
father had an important chemist’s shop.
(However strange the name of Blafaphas may seem, it is very common in
the villages of the lower slopes of the Pyrenees, though it is sometimes
spelt in slightly different ways. Thus, for instance, in the single
small town of Sta ..., where the writer of these lines was once called
on some business connected with an examination, he saw a notary
Blaphaphas, a hairdresser Blafafaz, and a pork-butcher Blaphaface, who,
on being questioned, disclaimed any common origin, while each one of
them expressed considerable contempt for the name of the other two and
its inelegant orthography.--But these philological remarks will be of
interest only to a somewhat restricted class of reader.)
What would Fleurissoire and Blafaphas have been without each other? It
is hard to imagine such a thing. At school, during their recreation
time they were continually together; constantly teased and tormented by
the other boys, they gave each other patience, comfort and support. They
were nicknamed the Blafafoires. To each of them their friendship seemed
the ark of salvation--the single oasis in life’s pitiless desert.
Neither of them tasted a joy that he did not immediately wish to share
with the other--or, to speak more truly, there were no joys for either
of them save those which could be tasted together.
Indifferent scholars--in spite of their disarming industry--and
fundamentally refractory to any sort of culture, the Blafafoires would
always have been at the bottom of their form if it had not been for the
assistance of Eudoxe Lévichon, who, in return for a small consideration,
corrected and even wrote their exercises for them. This Lévichon was the
son of one of the chief jewellers of the town. (Albert Lévy, shortly
after his marriage twenty years earlier with the only daughter of the
jeweller Cohen, had found his business so prosperous that he had quitted
the lower quarters of the town in order to establish himself not far
from the Casino, and at the same time he had judged it a favourable
opportunity to unite and agglutinate the two names as he had united the
two businesses.)
Blafaphas had a wiry constitution, but Fleurissoire was delicate. At the
approach of puberty Gaston’s superficies had turned dusky--one would
have thought that the sap was going to burst forth into hair over the
whole of his body; while Amédée’s more sensitive epidermis resisted,
grew fiery--grew pimply, as if the hair were bashful at making its
appearance. Old Monsieur Blafaphas advised the use of detergents and
every Monday Gaston used to bring over in his bag a bottle of
anti-scorbutic mixture, which he surreptitiously handed to his friend.
They used ointments as well.
About this time Amédée caught his first cold--a cold which,
notwithstanding the salubrious climate of Pau, lasted all the winter and
left behind an unfortunate bronchial delicacy. This gave Gaston the
opportunity for renewed attentions; he overwhelmed his friend with
liquorice, with jujubes, with cough mixtures and with eucalyptus
pectoral lozenges, specially prepared by Monsieur Blafaphas _père_ from
a receipt which had been given him by an old _curé_. Amédée became
subject to constant catarrh and had to resign himself to never going out
without a comforter.
The highest flight of Amédée’s ambition was to succeed to his father’s
business. Gaston, however, notwithstanding his indolent appearance, was
not without initiative; even at school he amused himself with devising
small inventions, chiefly, it must be confessed, of a somewhat trifling
nature--a fly-trap, a weighing-machine for marbles, a safety lock for
his desk--which, for that matter, had no more secrets in it than his
heart. Innocent as these first applications of his industry were, they
nevertheless led him on to the more serious labours which afterwards
engaged him, and the first result of which was the invention of a
“hygienic, fumivorous [or smoke-consuming] pipe for weak-chested and
other smokers,” which for a long time occupied a prominent place in the
chemist’s shop window.
* * * * *
Amédée Fleurissoire and Gaston Blafaphas both fell in love with Arnica
at the same moment--it was as inevitable as fate. The admirable thing
was that this budding passion, which each hastened to confess to the
other, instead of dividing them, only welded them together more closely
than ever. And, indeed, Arnica did not at first give either of them any
great cause for jealousy. Neither the one nor the other, moreover, had
declared himself; and it would never have occurred to Arnica to imagine
their flame, notwithstanding their trembling voices when, at Madame
Semène’s Sunday evenings, she offered them raspberry vinegar, or
camomile ... or cowslip tea. And both of them, as they went home in the
evening, praised her grace, and the modesty of her behaviour--grew
concerned for her paleness--gathered boldness.
They agreed to propose together on the same evening and then submit to
her choice. Arnica, young to love, thanked Heaven in the surprise and
simplicity of her heart. She begged her two admirers to give her time to
reflect.
Truth to tell, she was not more attracted by the one than the other, and
was interested in them only because they were interested in her, at a
time when she had given up all hopes of interesting anyone. During six
whole weeks, growing the while more and more perplexed, Arnica relished
with a mild intoxication her two suitors’ parallel wooing. And while,
during their midnight walks, the Blafafoires calculated together the
rate of their respective progress, describing to each other lengthily
and undisguisedly every word, look and smile _she_ had bestowed on them,
Arnica, in the seclusion of her bedroom, spent the time writing on bits
of paper (which she afterwards carefully burnt in the flame of the
candle) or else in repeating indefatigably, turn and turn about: Arnica
Blafaphas?... Arnica Fleurissoire?--incapable of deciding between the
equal horror of these two atrocious names.
Then, suddenly, on the evening of a little dance, she had chosen
Fleurissoire; had not Amédée just called her Arn_i_ca, putting the
accent on the penultimate in a way that seemed to her Italian? (As a
matter of fact, he had done it without reflection, carried away, no
doubt, by Mademoiselle Semène’s piano, with whose rhythm the atmosphere
was throbbing.) And this name of Arnica--her own name--had there and
then seemed to her fraught with unexpected music--as capable as any
other of expressing poetry and love.... They were alone together in a
little sitting-room next-door to the drawing-room, and so close to each
other that when Arnica, almost swooning with emotion and gratitude, let
fall her drooping head, it touched Amédée’s shoulder; and then, very
gravely, he had taken Arnica’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers.
When, during their walk home that night, Amédée had announced his
happiness to his friend, Gaston, contrary to his custom, had said
nothing, and as they were passing a street lamp, Fleurissoire thought he
saw him crying. Could Amédée really have been simple enough to suppose
that his friend would share his happiness to this last degree? Abashed
and remorseful, he took Blafaphas in his arms (the street was empty) and
swore that however great his love might be, his friendship was greater
still, that he had no intention of letting his marriage interfere with
it, and, finally, that rather than feel that Blafaphas was suffering
from jealousy, he was ready to promise on his honour never to claim his
conjugal rights.
Neither Blafaphas nor Fleurissoire possessed a very ardent temperament;
Gaston, however, whose manhood troubled him a little more, kept silence
and allowed Amédée to promise.
Shortly after Amédée’s marriage, Gaston, who, in order to console
himself, had plunged over head and ears into work, discovered his
Plastic Plaster. The first consequence of this invention, which, to
begin with, had seemed of very little importance, was that it brought
about the revival of Lévichon’s friendship for the Blafafoires--a
friendship which for some time past had been allowed to lapse. Eudoxe
Lévichon immediately divined the services which this composition would
render to religious statuary. With a remarkable eye to contingencies, he
at once christened it Roman Plaster.[F] The firm of Blafaphas,
Fleurissoire and Lévichon was founded.
The undertaking was launched with a capital of sixty thousand francs, of
which the Blafafoires modestly subscribed ten thousand. Lévichon,
unwilling that his two friends should be pressed, generously provided
the other fifty thousand. It is true that of these fifty thousand, forty
were advanced by Fleurissoire out of Arnica’s marriage portion; the sum
was repayable in ten years with compound interest at 4½ per cent--which
was more than Arnica had ever hoped for--and Amédée’s small fortune was
thus guaranteed from the risks which such an undertaking must
necessarily incur. The Blafafoires, on their side, brought as an asset
their family connexions and those of the Baragliouls, which meant, when
once Roman Plaster had proved its reliability, the patronage of several
influential members of the clergy; these latter (besides giving one or
two important orders themselves) persuaded several small parishes to
supply the growing needs of the faithful from the firm of B., F. & L.,
the increasing improvement of artistic education having created a demand
for works of more exquisite finish than those which satisfied the ruder
faith of our ancestors. To supply this demand a few artists of
acknowledged value in the Church’s eyes, were enlisted by the firm of
Roman Plaster, and were at last placed in the position of seeing their
works accepted by the jury of the Salon. Leaving the Blafafoires at Pau,
Lévichon established himself in Paris, where, with his social facility,
the business soon developed considerably.
What could be more natural than that the Countess Valentine de
Saint-Prix should endeavour, through Arnica, to interest the firm of
Blafaphas & Co. in the secret cause of the Pope’s deliverance, and that
she should confidently hope that the Fleurissoires’ extreme piety would
reimburse her a portion of what she had subscribed? Unfortunately, the
Blafafoires, owing to the minuteness of the amount which they had
originally invested in the business, got very little out of
it--two-twelfths of the disclosed profits and none at all of the others.
The Countess could not be aware of this, for Arnica, like Amédée, was
modestly shy of talking about their money matters.
III
“Dear Madame de Saint-Prix, what is the matter? Your letter frightened
me.”
The Countess dropped into the arm-chair which Arnica pushed towards her.
“Oh, Madame Fleurissoire!... Oh! mayn’t I call you Arnica?... this
trouble--it is yours as well as mine--will draw us together. Oh! if you
only knew!...”
“Speak! Speak! don’t leave me in suspense!”
“I’ve only just heard it myself. I’ll tell you directly, but mind, it
must be a secret between you and me.”
“I have never betrayed anyone’s confidence,” said Arnica,
plaintively--not that anyone had ever confided in her.
“You’ll not believe it.”
“Yes, yes,” wailed Arnica.
“Ah!” wailed the Countess. “Oh, would you be kind enough to get me a cup
of ... anything ... it doesn’t matter what.... I feel as if I were
fainting.”
“What would you like? Cowslip? Lime-flower? Camomile?”
“It doesn’t matter.... Tea, I think.... I wouldn’t believe it myself at
first.”
“There’s some boiling water in the kitchen. It won’t take a minute.”
While Arnica busied herself about the tea, the Countess appraised the
drawing-room and its contents with a calculating eye. They were
depressingly modest. A few green rep chairs; one red velvet arm-chair;
one other arm-chair (in which she was seated) in common tapestry; one
table; one mahogany console; in front of the fire-place, a woolwork rug;
on the chimney-piece, on each side of the alabaster clock (which was in
a glass case), two large vases in alabaster fretwork, also in glass
cases; on the table, a photograph album for the family photographs; on
the console, a figure of Our Lady of Lourdes in her grotto, in Roman
Plaster (a small-sized model)--there was not a thing in the room that
was not discouraging, and the Countess felt her heart sink within her.
But after all they were perhaps only shamming poverty--perhaps they were
merely miserly....
Arnica came back with the tea-pot, the sugar and a cup on a tray.
“I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, not at all!... I’d rather do it now--before; afterwards, I mightn’t
be able to.”
“Well, then, listen!” began Valentine, after Arnica had sat down. “The
Pope----”
“No, no, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!” exclaimed Madame Fleurissoire
instantly, stretching out her hand in front of her; then, uttering a
faint cry, she fell back with her eyes closed.
“My poor dear! My poor dear!” said the Countess, patting her on the
wrist. “I felt sure it would be too much for you.”
Arnica at last feebly opened half an eye and murmured sadly:
“Dead?”
Then Valentine, bending towards her, slipped into her ear the single
word:
“Imprisoned!”
Sheer stupefaction brought Madame Fleurissoire back to her senses; and
Valentine began her long story, stumbling over the dates, mixing up the
names and muddling the chronology; one fact, however, stood out, certain
and indisputable--our Holy Father had fallen into the hands of the
infidel--a crusade was being secretly organised to deliver him, and in
order to conduct it successfully a large sum of money was necessary.
“What will Amédée say?” moaned Arnica in dismay.
He was not expected home before evening, having gone out for a walk with
his friend Blafaphas....
“Mind you impress on him the necessity of secrecy,” repeated Valentine
several times over as she took her leave of Arnica. “Give me a kiss, my
dear, and courage!”
Arnica nervously presented her damp forehead to the Countess.
“I will look in to-morrow to hear what you think of doing. Consult
Monsieur Fleurissoire, but remember that the Church is at stake!... It’s
agreed, then--only to your husband! You promise, don’t you? Not a word!
Not a word!”
The Comtesse de Saint-Prix left Arnica in a state of depression
bordering on faintness. When Amédée came in from his walk:
“My dear,” she said to him at once, “I have just heard something
extremely sad. The Holy Father has been imprisoned.”
“No, not really?” said Amédée, as if he were saying “pooh!”
Arnica burst into sobs:
“I knew, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Come, come, darling,” went on Amédée, taking off his overcoat, without
which he never went out for fear of a sudden change of temperature.
“Just think! Everyone would know if anything had happened to the Holy
Father. It would be in all the papers. And who could have imprisoned
him?”
“Valentine says it’s the Lodge.”
Amédée looked at Arnica under the impression that she had taken leave of
her senses. He said, however:
“The Lodge? What Lodge?”
“How can I tell? Valentine has promised not to say anything about it.”
“Who told her?”
“She forbade me to say.... A canon, who was sent by a cardinal, with his
card----”
Arnica understood nothing of public affairs and Madame de Saint-Prix’s
story had left but a confused impression on her. The words “captivity”
and “imprisonment” conjured up before her eyes dark and semi-romantic
images; the word “crusade” thrilled her unspeakably, and when, at last,
Amédée’s disbelief wavered and he talked of setting out at once, she
suddenly saw him on horseback, in a helmet and breastplate.... As for
him, he had begun by now to pace up and down the room.
“In the first place,” he said, “it’s no use talking about money--we
haven’t got any. And do you think I could be satisfied with merely
giving money? Do you think I should be able to sleep in peace merely
because I had sacrificed a few bank-notes?... Why, my dear, if this is
true that you’ve been telling me, it’s an appalling thing and we mustn’t
rest till we’ve done something. Appalling, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I quite understand, appalling!... But all the same, do
explain why.”
“Oh, if now I’ve got to explain!” and Amédée raised discouraged arms to
Heaven.
“No, no,” he went on, “this isn’t an occasion for giving money; it’s
oneself that one must give. I’ll consult Blafaphas; we’ll see what he
says.”
“Valentine de Saint-Prix made me promise not to tell anyone,” put in
Arnica, timidly.
“Blafaphas isn’t anyone; and we’ll impress on him that he must keep it
strictly to himself.”
Then, turning towards her, he implored pathetically:
“Arnica, my dearest, let me go!”
She was sobbing. It was she now who insisted on Blafaphas coming to the
rescue. Amédée was starting to fetch him, when he turned up of his own
accord, knocking first at the drawing-room window, as was his habit.
“Well! that’s the most singular story I ever heard in my life!” he cried
when they had told him all about it. “No, really! Who would ever have
thought of such a thing?” And then, before Fleurissoire had said
anything of his intentions, he went on abruptly:
“My dear fellow, there’s only one thing for us to do--set out at once.”
“You see,” said Amédée, “it’s his first thought.”
“Unfortunately I’m kept at home by my poor father’s health,” was his
second.
“After all, it’s better that I should go by myself,” went on Amédée.
“Two of us together would attract attention.”
“But will you know how to manage?”
At this, Amédée raised his shoulders and eyebrows, as much as to say: “I
can but do my best!”
“Will you know whom to appeal to?... where to go?... And, as a matter of
fact, what exactly do you mean to do when you get there?”
“First of all, find out the facts.”
“Supposing, after all, there were no truth in the story?”
“Exactly! I can’t rest till I know.”
And Gaston immediately exclaimed: “No more can I!”
“Do take a little more time to think it over, dear,” protested Arnica
feebly.
“I have thought it over. I shall go--secretly--but I shall go.”
“When? Nothing is ready.”
“This evening. What do I need so much?”
“But you haven’t ever travelled. You won’t know how to.”
“You’ll see, my love, you’ll see! When I come back, I’ll tell you my
adventures,” said he, with an engaging little chuckle which set his
Adam’s apple shaking.
“You’re certain to catch cold.”
“I’ll wear your comforter.” He stopped in his pacing to raise Arnica’s
chin with the tip of his forefinger, as one does a baby’s, when one
wants to make it smile. Gaston’s attitude was one of reserve. Amédée
went up to him:
“I count upon you to look up my trains. Find me a good train to
Marseilles with thirds. Yes, yes, I insist upon travelling third.
Anyhow, make me out a time-table in detail and mark the places where I
shall have to change--and where I can get refreshments--at any rate, as
far as the frontier; after that, when I’ve got a start, I shall be able
to look after myself, and with God’s guidance I shall get to Rome. You
must write to me there poste restante.”
The importance of his mission was exciting his brain dangerously. After
Gaston had gone, he continued to pace the room; from time to time he
murmured, his heart melting with wonder and gratitude:
“To think that such a thing should be reserved for _me_!” So at last he
had his _raison d’être_. Ah! for pity’s sake, dear lady, let him go! To
how many beings on God’s earth is it given to find their function?
All that Arnica obtained was that he should pass this one night with
her, Gaston, indeed, having pointed out in the time-table which he
brought round in the evening, that the most convenient train was the one
that left at 8 <small>A.M.</small>
* * * * *
The next morning it poured with rain. Amédée would not allow Arnica or
Gaston to go with him to the station; so that the quaint traveller with
his cod-fish eyes, his neck muffled in a dark crimson comforter, holding
in his right hand a grey canvas portmanteau, on to which his
visiting-card had been nailed, in his left an old umbrella, and on his
arm a brown and green check shawl, was carried off by the train to
Marseilles, without a farewell glance from anyone.
IV
About this time an important sociological congress summoned Count Julius
de Baraglioul back to Rome. He was not perhaps specially invited (his
opinions on such subjects being founded more on conviction than
knowledge), but he was glad to have this opportunity of getting into
touch with one or two illustrious personages. And as Milan lay
conveniently on his road--Milan where, as we know, the Armand-Dubois had
gone to live on the advice of Father Anselm--he determined to take
advantage of the circumstance in order to see his brother-in-law.
On the same day that Fleurissoire left Pau, Julius knocked at Anthime’s
door. He was shown into a wretched apartment consisting of three
rooms--if the dark closet where Veronica herself cooked the few
vegetables which formed their chief diet, may be counted as a room. The
little light there was came from a narrow court-yard and shone down
dismally from a hideous metal reflector; Julius preferred to keep his
hat in his hand rather than set it down on the oval table with its
covering of doubtfully clean oilcloth, and remained standing because of
the horror with which the horsehair chairs inspired him.
He seized Anthime by the arm and exclaimed:
“My poor fellow, you can’t stay here.”
“What are you pitying me for?” asked Anthime.
Veronica came hurrying up at the sound of their voices.
“Would you believe it, my dear Julius?--that is the only thing he finds
to say in spite of the grossly unjust and unfair way in which we have
been treated.”
“Who suggested your coming to Milan?”
“Father Anselm; but in any case we couldn’t have kept on the Via in
Lucina apartment.”
“There was no need for us to keep it on,” said Anthime.
“That’s not the point. Father Anselm promised you compensation. Is he
aware of your distress?”
“He pretends not to be,” said Veronica.
“You must complain to the Bishop of Tarbes.”
“Anthime has done so.”
“What did he say?”
“He is a worthy man; he earnestly encouraged me in my faith.”
“But since you have been here, haven’t you complained to anyone?”
“I just missed seeing Cardinal Pazzi, who had shown some interest in my
case and to whom I had written; he did come to Milan, but he sent me
word by his footman....”
“That a fit of the gout unfortunately kept him to his room.”
“But it’s abominable! Rampolla must be told!” cried Julius.
“Told what, my dear friend? It is true that I am somewhat reduced--but
what need have we of more? In the time of my prosperity I was astray; I
was a sinner; I was ill. Now, you see, I am cured. Formerly you had good
cause to pity me. And yet you know well enough that worldly goods turn
us aside from God.”
“Yes, but those worldly goods were yours by rights. It’s all very well
that the Church should teach you to despise them, but not that she
should cheat you of them.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Veronica. “What a relief it is to hear
you, Julius! His resignation makes me boil with rage; it’s impossible to
get him to defend himself. He has let himself be plucked like a goose
and said ‘thank you’ to everyone who robbed him, as long as they did it
in the Lord’s name.”
“Veronica! it grieves me to hear you talk like that. Whatever is done in
the Lord’s name is well done.”
“If you think it’s agreeable to be made a fool of!” said Julius.
“God’s fool, dear Julius!”
“Just listen to him! That’s what he’s like the whole time! Nothing but
Scripture texts in his mouth from morning to night! And after I’ve
toiled and slaved and done the marketing and the cooking and the
housemaiding, my good gentleman quotes the Gospel and says I’m being
busy about many things and tells me to look at the lilies of the field.”
“I help you to the best of my power, dear,” said Anthime in a seraphic
voice. “Now that I’ve got the use of my legs again, I’ve many a time
offered to do the marketing or the housework for you.”
“That’s not a man’s business. Content yourself with writing your
homilies, only try to get a little better pay for them.” And then, her
voice getting more and more querulous (hers, who used to be so
smiling!): “Isn’t it a disgrace?” she exclaimed. “When one thinks of
what he used to get for his infidel articles in the _Dépêche_! And now
when the _Pilgrim_ pays him a miserable two-pence halfpenny for his
religious meditations, he somehow or other contrives to give three
quarters of it to the poor!”
“Then he’s a complete saint!” cried Julius, aghast.
“Oh! how he irritates me with his saintliness!... Look here! Do you know
what this is?” and she fetched a small wicker cage from a dark corner of
the room. “These are the two rats whose eyes my scientific friend put
out in the old days.”
“Oh, Veronica, why will you harp on it? You used to feed them yourself
when I was experimenting on them--and then I blamed you for it.... Yes,
Julius, in my unregenerate days I blinded those poor creatures, out of
vain scientific curiosity; it’s only natural I should look after them
now.”
“I wish the Church thought it equally natural to do for you what you do
for these rats--after having blinded you in the same way.”
“Blinded, do you say! Such words from _you_? Illumined, my dear brother,
illumined!”
“My words were plain matter-of-fact. It seems to me inadmissible that
you should be abandoned in such a state as this. The Church entered into
an engagement with you; she must keep it--for her own honour--for our
faith’s sake.” Then, turning to Veronica: “If you have obtained nothing
so far, you must appeal higher still--and still higher. Rampolla, did I
say? It’s to the Pope himself that I shall present a petition--to the
Pope. He is acquainted with your story. He ought to be informed of such
a miscarriage of justice. I am returning to Rome to-morrow.”
“You’ll stop to dinner, won’t you?” asked Veronica, somewhat
apprehensively.
“Please excuse me--but really my digestion is so poor....” (and Julius,
whose nails were very carefully kept, glanced at Anthime’s large,
stumpy, square-tipped fingers). “On my way back from Rome I shall be
able to stop longer, and then I want to tell you about the new book I’m
now at work on, my dear Anthime.”
“I have just been re-reading _On the Heights_ and it seems to me better
than I thought it at first.”
“I am sorry for you! It’s a failure. I’ll explain why when you’re in a
fit state to listen and to appreciate the strange preoccupations which
beset me now. But there’s too much to say. Mum’s the word for the
present!”
He bade the Armand-Dubois keep up their spirits, and left them.