CHAPTER XXIII.

The conversation of Madeleine and Sophie was interrupted by the arrival

of Antonine, who, impetuous as joy, youth, and happiness, entered the

room, saying:

"Sophie, I knew yesterday that Madeleine would be here this morning, and

I ran in to tell you that--"

"Not a word more, little girl!" gaily replied the marquise, kissing

Antonine on the forehead; "we have not a moment to lose; we must be

to-day as we used to be in school, waiting-maids for Sophie."

"What do you mean?" said the young woman.

"But, Madeleine," replied Antonine, "I have come to inform you that my

contract has been signed by the prince and my uncle, and that--"

"Your contract is signed, my child! That is important and I expected it.

You can tell me the rest when we have made our dear Sophie the prettiest

and most captivating toilet in the world. It is very important and very

urgent."

Then the marquise whispered in the ear of Madame Dutertre:

"Your husband may come at any moment; he must be charmed, fascinated,

and he will be."

Then turning to Antonine, Madeleine added:

"Quick, quick, my child; help me to place this table before the window,

and we will first arrange Sophie's hair."

"But really, Madeleine," said Madame Dutertre, smiling, for she was

awakening in spite of herself to hope and happiness, "you are silly."

"Not so silly," replied the marquise, making Sophie sit down before the

toilet-table.

Uncoiling her friend's magnificent hair, she said:

"With such hair, if I were as ugly as a monster, I would make myself

attractive in the highest degree; judge for yourself, Sophie. Here, help

me, Antonine, this hair is so long and so thick, I cannot hold it all in

my hand."

It was a charming sight to see the three friends of such diverse beauty,

thus grouped together. The pure face of Antonine expressed an innocent

astonishment at this improvised toilet; Sophie, touched, and distressed

by the tender recollections of other days, felt under her veil of brown

hair her lovely face, sad and pale up to that moment, colour with an

involuntary blush; while Madeleine, handling her friend's superb hair

with marvellous skill, was making a ravishing coiffure.

"Now," said the marquise to Sophie, "what gown are you going to wear?

But now I think of it, they all fit you horribly, and all of them are

cut on the same pattern."

"They are, unfortunately," said Sophie, smiling.

"Very well," replied the marquise, "and all are high-necked, I warrant."

"Yes, all are high-necked," replied poor Sophie.

"Better and better," said Madeleine, "so that these dimpled shoulders,

these beautiful arms are condemned to perpetual burial! it is

deplorable! Let us see, you have at least some elegant morning

gown,--some coquettish dressing-gown,--have you not?"

"My morning gowns are all very simple. It is true that formerly--"

"Formerly?"

"I did have some beautiful ones."

"Well, where are they?"

"I thought they were too young for the mother of a family like me," said

Sophie, smiling. "So I relegated them, I believe, to a shelf in that

wardrobe with the glass door."

The marquise waited to hear no more; she ran to the wardrobe, which she

ransacked, and found two or three very pretty morning gowns of striped

taffeta of great beauty. She selected one of deep blue, with

straw-coloured stripes; the sleeves open and floating exposed the arms

to the elbow, and although it lapped over in front, the gown opened

enough to show the neck in the most graceful manner possible.

"Admirable!" exclaimed Madeleine, "this gown is as fresh and beautiful

as when it was new. Now I must have some white silk stockings to match

these Cendrillon slippers I found in this wardrobe where you have buried

your arms, Sophie, as they say of warriors who do not go to battle any

more."

"But, my dear Madeleine," said Sophie, "I--"

"There are no 'buts,'" said the marquise, impatiently. "I wish and

expect, when your husband enters here, he will think he has gone back

five years."

In spite of a feeble resistance, Sophie Dutertre was docile and obedient

to the advice and pretty attentions of her friend. Soon, half recumbent

on an easy chair, in a languishing attitude, she consented that the

marquise should give the finishing touch to the living picture. Finally

Madeleine arranged a few curls of the rich brown hair around the neck of

dazzling whiteness, lifted the sleeves so as to show the dimpled elbows,

opened somewhat the neck of the gown, notwithstanding the chaste

scruples of Sophie, and draped the skirt with provoking premeditation,

so as to reveal the neatest ankle and prettiest little foot in the

world.

It must be said that Sophie was charming,--emotion, hope, expectation,

and a vague disquietude, colouring her sweet and attractive face,

animated her appearance, and gave a bewitching expression to her

features.

Antonine, struck with the wonderful metamorphosis, exclaimed,

innocently, clapping her little hands:

"Why, Sophie, I did not know you were as pretty as that!"

"Nor did Sophie know it," replied Madeleine, shrugging her shoulders, "I

have exhumed so many attractions."

Just then Madame Dutertre's servant, having knocked at the door,

entered, and said to her mistress:

"Monsieur desires to speak to madame. He is in the shop, and wishes to

know if madame is at home."

"He knows you are here," whispered Sophie to Madeleine, with a sigh.

"Make him come up," replied the marquise, softly.

"Tell M. Dutertre that I am at home," said Sophie to the servant, who

went out.

Madeleine, addressing her friend in a voice full of emotion, as she

extended her arms to her, said:

"And now, good-bye, Sophie; tell your husband that he is delivered from

M. Pascal."

"You are going already?" said Sophie, with sadness; "when shall I see

you again?"

"I do not know,--some day, perhaps. But I hear your husband's step. I

leave you."

Then she added, smiling:

"Only I would like to hide behind that curtain and enjoy your triumph."

And making a sign to Antonine to accompany her, she retired behind the

curtain which separated the room from the next chamber, just as M.

Dutertre entered. For some moments the eyes of Charles wandered as if he

were looking for some one he expected to meet; he had not discovered the

change in Sophie, who said to him:

"Charles, we are saved, here is the non-suit of M. Pascal."

"Great God! can it be true?" cried Dutertre, looking over the paper his

wife had just delivered to him; then, raising his eyes, he beheld

Sophie in her bewitching, coquettish toilet. After a short silence

produced by surprise and admiration, he exclaimed:

"Sophie! what do I see? This toilet so charming, so new! Is it to

celebrate our day of deliverance?"

"Charles," replied Sophie, smiling and blushing by turns, "this toilet

is not new; some years ago, if you remember, you admired me in it."

"If I remember!" cried Dutertre, feeling a thousand tender memories

awaken in his mind. "Ah, it was the beautiful time of our ardent love,

and this happy time is born again, it exists. I see you again as in the

past; your beauty shines in my eyes with a new brilliancy. I do not know

what this enchantment is; but this elegance, this grace, this coquetry,

your blushes and the sweet perfume of the iris we used to love so

much,--all transport me and intoxicate me! Never, no, never, have I seen

you more beautiful!" added Dutertre, in a passionate voice, as he kissed

Sophie's little hands. "Oh, yes, it is you, it is you, I have found you

again, adored mistress of my first love!"

"Now, little girl, I think it is altogether proper that we should

retire," whispered Madeleine to Antonine, unable to keep from laughing.

And both, stealing away on tiptoe, left the parlour, the door of which

the marquise discreetly closed, and went into the study of M. Dutertre,

which opened into the garden.

"Just now, Madeleine," said Antonine to the marquise, "you did not let

me finish what I came to tell you."

"Very well, speak, my child."

"Count Frantz is here."

"He here!" said the marquise, starting with a feeling of sudden

disappointment. "And why and how is Count Frantz here?"

"Knowing from me that you would be here this morning," said Antonine,

"he has come to thank you for all your kindness to us. He is waiting in

the garden,--wait,--there he is!" With these words the young girl

pointed to Frantz, who was seated on a bench in the garden.

Madeleine threw a long and last look on her blond archangel, nor could

she restrain the tears which rose to her eyes; then, kissing Antonine on

the brow, she said, in a slightly altered voice:

"Good-bye, my child."

"Why, Madeleine," exclaimed the young girl, astounded at so abrupt a

departure, "will you go away without wishing to see Frantz? Why, that is

impossible--but you will--"

The marquise put her finger on her lips as a sign to Antonine to keep

silence; then walking away, turning her eyes only once to that side of

the garden, she disappeared.

* * * * *

Two hours after, the Marquise de Miranda quit Paris, leaving this note

for the archduke:

* * * * *

"MONSEIGNEUR:--I am going to wait for you in Vienna; come and complete

your capture of me.

"MADELEINE."

THE END.

THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS

GLUTTONY

DOCTOR GASTERINI

GLUTTONY.

CHAPTER I.

Toward the end of the month of October, 18--, the following conversation

occurred in the convent of St. Rosalie, between the mother superior,

whose name was Sister Prudence, and a certain Abbé Ledoux, whom perhaps

the readers of these recitals will remember.

The abbé had just entered the private parlour of Sister Prudence, a

woman about fifty years old, with a pale and serious face and a sharp,

penetrating eye.

"Well, dear abbé," said she, "what news from Dom Diégo? When will he

arrive?"

"The canon has arrived, my dear sister."

"With his niece?"

"With his niece."

"God be praised! Now, my dear abbé, let us pray Heaven to bless our

plans."

"Without doubt, my dear sister, we will pray, but, above all, let us

play a sure game, for it will not be easy to win."

"What do you say?"

"The truth. This truth I have learned only this morning, and here it is;

give me, I pray you, all your attention."

"I am listening, my dear brother."

"Moreover, that we may better agree, and clearly understand our

position, let us first settle the condition of things in our minds. Two

months ago, Rev. Father Benoit, who is engaged in foreign missions, and

at present is in Cadiz, wrote to me recommending to my especial

consideration Lord Dom Diégo, Canon of Alcantara, who was to sail from

Cadiz to France with his niece, Dolores Salcedo."

"Very well, my brother."

"Father Benoit added that he was sufficiently acquainted with the

character and disposition of Dolores Salcedo to feel sure that she could

be easily persuaded to take the veil, a resolution which would have the

approval of her uncle, Dom Diégo."

"And, as she is the only heir of the rich canon, the house which she

will enter will be greatly benefited by the fortune she inherits."

"Exactly so, my dear sister. Naturally, I have thought of our convent of

Ste. Rosalie for Senora Dolores, and I have spoken to you of these

intentions."

"I have adopted them, my dear brother, because, having some experience

with young girls, I feel almost sure that I can, by persuasion, guard

this innocent dove from the snares of a seductive and corrupt world, and

decide her to take the veil in our house. I shall be doing two good

works: save a young girl, and turn to the good of the poor riches which,

in other hands, would be used for evil; I cannot hesitate."

"Without doubt; but, now, my dear sister, the inconvenient thing is,

that this innocent dove has a lover."

"What do you tell me, my brother? What horror! But then, our plans."

"I have just warned you that we must play a sure game."

"And how have you learned this shocking thing, my dear brother?"

"By the majordomo of Dom Diégo, a modest servant who keeps me informed

of everything he can learn about the canon and his niece."

"These instructions are indispensable, my brother, because they enable

us to act with intelligence and security. But what ideas has this

majordomo given you concerning this unfortunate love, my dear brother?"

"Hear, now, how things have happened. The canon and his niece embarked

at Cadiz, on a three-master coming from the Indies, and sailing for

Bordeaux. Really, now, how many strange fatalities do occur!"

"What fatalities?"

"In the first place, the name of this vessel on which they embarked was

named _Gastronome._"

"Why, what a singular name for a vessel!"

"Less singular than it appears at first, my dear sister, because this

vessel, after having carried to the Indies the best unfermented wines of

Bordeaux and the south, hams from Bayonne, smoked tongues from Troyes,

pastry from Amiens and Strasbourg, tunnies and olives from Marseilles,

cheese from Switzerland, preserved fruits from Touraine and Montpellier,

etc., came back by the Cape of Good Hope with a cargo of wines from

Constance, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, tea, salted meats of Hachar, and

other comestibles of the Indies. She was to add to her cargo by taking

on at Cadiz a large quantity of Spanish wine, and afterward return to

Bordeaux."

"Good God, my brother! what a quantity of wine and food! It is enough to

make one shudder. I understand now why the vessel was named the

_Gastronome._"

"And you understand at the same time, my sister, why I spoke to you of

strange fatalities, and why the Canon Dom Diégo preferred to embark on

the _Gastronome_, rather than on any other vessel, without any regard to

her destination."

"Please explain yourself, my brother."

"As for that, I ought first to inform you that I myself was in

ignorance before my secret conference with the majordomo on the subject

of the canon; the fact is, he is a fabulous, unheard-of glutton."

"Oh, my brother, what a horrible sin!"

"Horrible sin it may be, but do not abuse this sin too much, my dear

sister, for, thanks to it, we may perhaps be able to compass our

praiseworthy end and win our game."

"And how is that, my brother?"

"I am going to tell you. The canon is an ideal glutton. All his

faculties, all his thoughts, are concentrated upon one sole

pleasure,--the table; and it seems that at Madrid and at Cadiz his table

was absolutely marvellous, because now I remember that my physician,

Doctor Gasterini--"

"An abominable atheist! a Sardanapalus!" exclaimed Sister Prudence,

interrupting Abbé Ledoux, and raising both hands to heaven. "I have

never understood why you receive the medical attentions of such a

miscreant!"

"I will tell you that some day, my dear sister, but, believe me, I know

what I am doing. Besides, notwithstanding his great age, Doctor

Gasterini is still the first physician in Paris, as he is the first

glutton in the world; but, as I was saying to you, my sister, I now

remember having heard him speak of a Spanish canon's table,--a table

which, according to one of the doctor's correspondents in Madrid, was

truly remarkable. At that time I was far from suspecting that it was Dom

Diégo who was the subject of their correspondence. However, the poor man

is a fool,--a man of small ability, and influenced by all those absurd

Southern superstitions. So, upon the authority of the majordomo, it will

be easy to make this gluttonous canon see the devil in flesh and bones!"

"One moment, my brother. I am not altogether displeased with the canon's

foolish superstition."

"Nor I, my sister; on the contrary, it suits me exactly. That is not

all. The canon, thanks to his religion, is not deceived about the

grossness of his ruling passion. He knows that gluttony is one of the

seven deadly sins. He believes that his sin will send him to hell, yet

he has not the courage to resist it; he eats with voluptuousness, and

remorse comes only when he is no longer hungry."

"Instead of remorse, he ought to have indigestion, unhappy man!" said

Sister Prudence. "That, perhaps, might cure him."

"True, my sister, but that is not the case. However, the canon's life is

passed in enjoying and regretting that he has enjoyed; sometimes

remorse, aided by superstition, leads him to expect some sudden and

terrible punishment from heaven, but when appetite returns remorse is

forgotten, and thus has it been a long time with the canon."

"After all, my brother, I think him far less culpable than this

Sardanapalus, your Doctor Gasterini, who impudently indulges his

appetite without compunction. The canon is, at least, conscious of his

sin, and that is something."

"Since the character of the canon is now understood, you will not be

astonished that, finding himself at Cadiz, and learning that a ship

named the _Gastronome_ was about to sail for France, Dom Diégo seized

the opportunity to embark on a vessel so happily named, so as to be

able, on his arrival at Bordeaux, to purchase several tons of the

choicest wines."

"Certainly. I understand that, my dear brother."

"Well, then, Dom Diégo embarked with his niece on board the

_Gastronome._ It is impossible to imagine--so the majordomo told me--the

quantity of stores, provisions, and refreshments of all sorts with which

the canon encumbered the deck of this vessel,--obstructions invariably

forbidden by all rules of navigation,--but the commander of this ship, a

certain Captain Horace, miscreant that he is, had only too good reason

for ignoring discipline and making himself agreeable to the canon."

"And this reason, my brother?"

"Fascinated by the beauty of the niece, when Dom Diégo came with her to

stipulate the terms of his passage, this contemptible captain, suddenly

enamoured of Dolores Salcedo, and expecting to profit by opportunities

the voyage would offer, granted all that Dom Diégo demanded, in the hope

of seeing him embark with his niece."

"What villainy on the part of this captain, my brother!"

"Fortunately, Heaven has punished him for it, and that can save us.

Well, the canon and his niece embarked on board the _Gastronome_, laden

with all that could tempt or satisfy appetite. Just as they left port a

terrible tempest arose, and the safety of the vessel required everything

to be thrown into the sea, not only the canon's provisions, but cages of

birds and beasts taken aboard for the sustenance of the passengers. This

squall, which drove the vessel far from the coast of Bordeaux, lasted so

long and with such fury that almost the entire voyage it was impossible

to do any cooking, and passengers, sailors, and officers were reduced to

the fare of dry biscuit and salt meat."

"Oh, the unhappy canon! what became of him?"

"He became furious, my sister, because this passage actually cost him

his appetite."

"Ah, my brother, the finger of Providence was there!"

"In a word, whether by reason of the terror caused by the tempest, or a

long deprivation of choice food, or whether the detestable nourishment

he was compelled to take impaired his health, the canon, since he

disembarked from the _Gastronome_, has completely lost his appetite. The

little that he eats to sustain him, the majordomo tells me, is insipid

and unpalatable, no matter how well prepared it may be; and more, he is

tormented by the idea or superstition that Heaven has justly punished

him for his inordinate indulgence. And, as Captain Horace is in his eyes

the chief instrument of Heaven's anger, the canon has taken an

unconquerable dislike to the miscreant, not forgetting, too, that all

his luxuries were thrown into the sea by order of the captain. In vain

has the captain tried to make him comprehend that his own salvation, as

well as that of many others, depended on this sacrifice; Dom Diégo

remains inflexible in his hatred. Well, my dear sister, would you

believe that, notwithstanding that, the captain, upon his arrival at

Bordeaux, had the audacity to ask of Dom Diégo the hand of his niece in

marriage, assuming that this unhappy young girl was in love with him.

You appreciate the fact, my sister, that two lovers do not remember bad

cheer or terrible tempests, and that this miscreant has bewildered the

innocent creature. I need not tell you of the fury of Dom Diégo at this

insolent proposal from the captain, whom he regards as his mortal enemy,

as the bad spirit sent to him by the anger of Heaven. So the canon has

informed Dolores that, as a punishment for having dared to fall in love

with such a scoundrel, he would put her in a convent upon his arrival in

Paris, and that she should there take the veil."

"But, my brother, so far I see only success for our plans. Everything

seems to favour them."

"Yes, my sister; but you are counting without the love of Dolores, and

the resolute character of this damned captain."

"What audacity!"

"He followed on horseback, relay after relay, the carriage of the canon,

galloping from Bordeaux to Paris like a state messenger. He must have a

constitution of iron. He stopped at every inn where Dom Diégo stopped,

and during the journey Dolores and the captain were ogling each other,

in spite of the rage and resistance of Dom Diégo. Could he prevent this

love-sick girl looking out of the window? Could he prevent this

miscreant riding on the highway by the side of his carriage?"

"Such audacity seems incredible, does it not, my brother?"

"Which is the reason I tell you we must be on guard everywhere from this

madman. He is not alone; one of his sailors, a veritable blackguard,

accompanied him, riding behind in his train, and holding on to his horse

like a monkey on a donkey, so the majordomo told me. But that did not

matter, this demon of a sailor is capable of anything to help his

captain, to whom he is devoted. And that is not all. Twenty times on the

route Dolores positively told her uncle that she did not wish to become

a religious, that she wished to marry the captain, and that he would

know how to come to her if they constrained her,--he and his sailor

would deliver her if they had to set fire to the convent."

"What a bandit!" cried Sister Prudence. "What a desperate villain!"

"You see, dear sister, how things were yesterday, when Dom Diégo took

possession of the apartment I had previously engaged for him. This

morning he desired me to visit him. I found him in bed and very much

depressed. He told me that a sudden revolution had taken place in the

mind of his niece; that now she seemed as submissive and resigned as she

had been rebellious, that she had at last consented to go to the

convent, and to-day if it was required."

"My brother, my brother, this is a very sudden and timely change."

"Such is my opinion, my sister, and, if I am not mistaken, this sudden

change hides some snare. I have told you we must play a sure game. It is

a great deal, no doubt, to have this love-sick girl in our hands; but

we must not forget the enemy, this detestable Captain Horace, who,

accompanied by his sailor, will no doubt be prowling around the house,

like the ravening wolf spoken of in the Scriptures."

"_Quærens quem devoret,_" said Sister Prudence, who prided herself upon

her Latin.

"Just so, my sister, seeking whom he may devour, but, fortunately,

there's a good watch-dog for every good wolf, and we have intelligent

and courageous servants. The strictest watchfulness must be established

without and within. We will soon know where this miscreant of a captain

lives; he will not take a step without being followed by one of our men.

He will be very clever and very brave if he accomplishes anything."

"This watchfulness seems to me very necessary, my dear brother."

"Now my carriage is below, let us go to the canon's apartments, and in

an hour his niece will be here."

"Never to go out of this house, if it pleases Heaven, my brother,

because it is for the eternal happiness of this poor foolish girl."

* * * * *

Two hours after this conversation Senora Dolores Salcedo entered the

Convent of Ste. Rosalie.

CHAPTER II.

A few days after the entrance of Senora Dolores Salcedo in the house of

Ste. Rosalie, and just at the close of the day, two men were slowly

walking along the Boulevard de l'Hopital, one of the most deserted

places in Paris.

The younger of these two individuals seemed to be about twenty-five or

thirty years old. His face was frank and resolute, his complexion

sunburnt, his figure tall and robust, his step decided, and his dress

simple and of military severity.

His companion, a little shorter, but unusually square and thick-set,

seemed to be about fifty-five years old, and presented that type of the

sailor familiar to the eyes of Parisians. An oilcloth hat, low in shape,

with a wide brim, placed on the back of his head, revealed a brow

ornamented with five or six corkscrew curls, known as heart-catchers,

while the rest of his hair was cut very close. This manner of wearing

the hair, called the sailor style, was, if traditions are true, quite

popular in 1825 among crews of the line sailing from the port of Brest.

A white shirt with a blue collar, embroidered in red, falling over his

broad shoulders, permitted a view of the bull like neck of our sailor,

whose skin was tanned until it resembled parchment, the colour of brick.

A round vest of blue cloth, with buttons marked with an anchor, and wide

trousers bound to his hips by a red woollen girdle, completed our man's

apparel. Side-whiskers of brown, shaded with fawn colour, encased his

square face, which expressed both good humour and decision of

character. A superficial observer might have supposed the left cheek of

the sailor to be considerably inflamed, but a more attentive examination

would have disclosed the fact that an enormous quid of tobacco produced

this one-sided tumefaction. Let us add, lastly, that the sailor carried

on his back a bag, whose contents seemed quite bulky.

The two men had just reached a place in front of a high wall surrounding

a garden. The top of the trees could scarcely be distinguished, for the

night had fallen.

The young man said to his companion, as he stopped and turned his ear

eastward:

"Sans-Plume, listen."

"Please God, what is it, captain?" said the man with the tobacco quid,

in reply to this singular surname.

"I am not mistaken, it is certainly here."

"Yes, captain, it is in this made land between these two large trees.

Here is the place where the wall is a little damaged. I noticed it

yesterday evening at dusk, when we picked up the stone and the letter."

"That is so. Come quick, my old seaman," said the captain to his sailor,

indicating with his eye one of the large trees of the boulevard, several

of whose branches hung over the garden wall. "Up, Sans-Plume, while we

are waiting the hour let us see if we can rig the thing."

"Captain, there is still a bit of twilight, and I see below a man who is

coming this way."

"Then let us wait. Hide first your bag behind the trunk of this

tree,--you have forgotten nothing?"

"No, captain, all my rigging is in there."

"Come, then, let us go. This man is coming; we must not look as if we

were lying to before these walls."

"That's it, captain, we'll stand upon another tack so as to put him out

of his way."

And the two sailors began, as Sans-Plume had said in his picturesque

language, to stand the other tack in the path parallel to the public

walk, after the sailor had prudently picked up the bag he had hidden

between the trees of the boulevard and the wall.

"Sans-Plume," said the young man, as they walked along, "are you sure

you recognise the spot where the hackney-coach awaits us?"

"Yes, captain--But, I say, captain."

"What?"

"That man looks as if he were following us."

"Bah!"

"And spying on us."

"Come along, Sans-Plume, you are foolish!"

"Captain, let us set the prow larboard and you go and see."

"So be it," replied the captain.

And, followed by his sailor, he left the walk on the right of the

boulevard, crossed the pavement, and took the walk on the left.

"Well, captain," said Sans-Plume, in a low voice, "you see this lascar

navigates in our waters."

"That is true, we are followed."

"It is not the first time it has happened to me," said Sans-Plume, with

a shade of conceit, hiding one-half of his mouth with the back of his

hand in order to eject the excess of tobacco juice produced by the

mastication of his enormous quid. "One day, in Senegal, Gorée, I was

followed a whole league, bowsprit on stern, captain, till I came to a

plantation of sugar-cane, and--"

"The devil! that man is surely following us," said the captain,

interrupting the indiscreet confidences of the sailor. "That annoys me!"

"Captain, do you wish me to drop my bag and flank this lascar with

tobacco, in order to teach him to ply to our windward in spite of us?"

"Fine thing! but do you keep still and follow me."

The captain and his sailor, again crossing the pavement, regained the

walk on the right.

"See, captain," said Sans-Plume, "he turns tack with us."

"Let him go, and let us watch his steps."

The man who followed the two sailors, a large, jolly-looking fellow in a

blue blouse and cap, went beyond them a few steps, then stopped and

looked up at the stars, for the night had fully come.

The captain, after saying a few words in a low tone to the sailor who

had hidden himself behind the trunk of one of the large trees of the

boulevard, advanced alone to meet his disagreeable observer, and said to

him:

"Comrade, it is a fine evening."

"Very fine."

"You are waiting for some one here?"

"Yes."

"I, also."

"Ah!"

"Comrade, have you been waiting long?"

"For three hours at least."

"Comrade," replied the captain, after a moment's silence, "would you

like to make double the sum they give you for following me and spying

me?"

"I do not know what you mean. I do not follow you, sir. I am not spying

you."

"Yes."

"No."

"Let us end this. I will give you what you want if you will go on your

way,--stop, I have the gold in my pocket."

And the captain tingled the gold in his vest pocket, and said:

"I have twenty-five or thirty louis--"

"_Hein!_" said the man, with a singularly insinuating manner,

"twenty-five or thirty louis?"

At this moment a distant clock sounded half-past seven o'clock. Almost

at the same instant a guttural cry, resembling a call or a signal, was

heard in the direction that the man in the blouse had first taken to

join the two sailors. The spy made a movement as if he understood the

significance of this cry, and for a moment seemed undecided.

"Half-past seven o'clock," said the captain to himself. "That beggar

there is not alone."

Having made this reflection, he coughed.

Scarcely had the captain coughed, when the spy felt himself seized

vigorously at the ankles by some one who had thrown himself suddenly

between his legs. He fell backwards, but in falling he had time to cry

with a loud voice:

"Here, John, run to the--"

He was not able to finish. Sans-Plume, after having thrown him down, had

unceremoniously taken a seat on the breast of the spy, and, holding him

by the throat, prevented his speaking.

"The devil! do not strangle him," said the captain, who, kneeling down,

was binding securely with his silk handkerchief the two legs of the

indiscreet busybody.

"The bag, captain," said Sans-Plume, keeping his grip on the throat of

the spy, "the bag! it is large enough to wrap his head and arms; we will

bind him tight around the loins and he will not budge any more than a

roll of old canvas."

No sooner said than done. In a few seconds the spy, cowled like a monk

in the bag to the middle of his body, with his legs bound, found himself

unable to move. Sans-Plume had the courtesy to push his victim into one

of the wide verdant slopes which separated the trees, and nothing more

was heard from that quarter but an interrupted series of smothered

bellowings.

"The alarm will be given at the convent! Half-past seven has just

struck," said the captain to his sailor. "We must risk all now or all is

lost!"

"In twice three movements the thing is ready, captain," replied

Sans-Plume, running with his companion toward the large trees which hung

over the wall near which they had at first stood.

CHAPTER III.

While these events were transpiring on the boulevard, and a little

before half after seven had sounded, another scene was taking place in

the interior of the convent garden. Sister Prudence, the mother

superior, and Dolores Salcedo were walking in the garden,

notwithstanding the advanced hour of the evening.

Dolores, a brunette of charming appearance, united in herself the rare

and bewitching perfections of Spanish beauty. Hair of a blue black,

which, when uncoiled, dragged upon the floor; a pale complexion warmed

by the sun of the South; large eyes, by turns full of fire and languid

sweetness; a little mouth as red as the bud of the pomegranate steeped

in dew; a delicate and voluptuous form, tapering fingers, and an

Andalusian foot and ankle, completed her list of charms. As to the

exquisite grace of her figure and gait, one must, to have any idea of

it, have seen the undulating movements of the beautiful senoras of

Seville or Cadiz, when, speaking with their eyes or playing with their

fans, they slowly promenade, a beautiful summer evening, on the marble

floor of the Alameda.

Dolores accompanied Sister Prudence. Walking and talking, the two women

approached the wall behind which Captain Horace and his sailor had

stopped.

"You see, my dear daughter," said the mother superior to Dolores, "I

grant you all you desire, and, although the rules of the house forbid

promenades in the garden after nightfall, I have consented to stay here

until half-past seven o'clock, our supper hour, which will soon sound."

"I thank you, madame," said Dolores, with a slight Spanish accent, and

in a voice deliciously resonant. "I feel that this promenade will do me

good."

"You must call me mother and not madame, my dear daughter, I have

already told you that it is the custom here."

"I will conform to it, if I can, madame."

"Again!"

"It is difficult to call a person mother who is not your mother," said

Dolores, with a sigh.

"I am your spiritual mother, my dear daughter; your mother in God, as

you are, as you will be, my daughter in God; because you will leave us

no more, you will renounce the deceitful pleasures of a perverse and

corrupt world, you will have here a heavenly foretaste of eternal

peace."

"I begin to discover it, madame."

"You will live in prayer, silence, and meditation."

"I have no other desire, madame."

"Well, well, my dear daughter, after all, what will you sacrifice?"

"Oh, nothing, absolutely nothing!"

"I like that response, my dear daughter; really, it is nothing, less

than nothing, these wicked and worldly passions which cause us so much

sorrow and throw us in the way of perdition."

"Just Heaven! it makes me tremble to think of it, madame."

"The Lord inspires you to answer thus, my dear daughter, and I am sure

now that you can hardly understand how you have been able to love this

miscreant captain."

"It is true, madame, I was stupid enough to dream of happiness and the

joys of family affection; criminal enough to find this happiness in

mutual love and hope to become, like many others, a devoted wife and

tender mother; it was, as you have told me, an offence to Heaven. I

repent my impious vows, I comprehend all that is odious in them; you

must pardon me, madame, for having been wicked and silly to such a

degree."

"It is not necessary to exaggerate, my dear daughter," said Sister

Prudence, struck with the slightly ironical accent with which Dolores

had uttered these last words. "But," added she, observing the direction

taken by the young girl, "what is the good of returning to this walk? It

will soon be the hour for supper; come, my dear daughter, let us go back

to the house."

"Oh, madame, do you not perceive that sweet odour on this side of the

grove?"

"Those are a few clusters of mignonette. But come, it is getting cool; I

am not sixteen like you, my dear daughter, and I am afraid of catching

cold."

"Just one moment, please, that I may gather a few of these flowers."

"Go on, then, you must do everything you wish, my dear daughter; stop,

the night is clear enough for you to see this mignonette ten steps away;

go and gather a few sprigs and return."

Dolores, letting go the arm of the mother superior, went rapidly toward

the clusters of flowers.

At this moment half-past seven o'clock sounded.

"Half-past seven," murmured Dolores, trembling and turning her ear to

listen, "he is there, he will come!"

"My dear daughter, it is the hour for supper," said the mother superior,

walking on ahead of the canon's niece. "Stop, do you not hear the clock?

Quick! quick! come, it will take ten minutes to reach the house, for we

are at the bottom of the garden."

"Here I am, madame," replied the young girl, running before the mother

superior, who said to her, with affected sweetness:

"Oh, you foolish little thing, you run like a frightened fawn."

Suddenly Dolores shrieked, and fell on her knees.

"Great God!" cried Sister Prudence, running up to her, "what is the

matter, dear daughter? Why did you scream? What are you on your knees

for?"

"Ah, madame!"

"But what is it?"

"What pain!"

"Where?"

"In my foot, madame, I have sprained my ankle. Oh, how I suffer! My God,

how I suffer!"

"Try to get up, my dear child," said the mother, approaching Dolores

with a vague distrust, for this sprain seemed to her quite unnatural.

"Oh, impossible, madame, I cannot make a movement."

"But try, at least."

"I wish I could."

And the young girl made a show of wishing to stand up, but she fell

again on her knees, with a shriek that could be heard on the other side

of the garden wall.

Then Dolores said, with a groan:

"You see, madame, it is impossible for me to move. I pray you return to

the house, and tell some one to come for me with a chair or a litter.

Oh, how I suffer! My God, how I suffer! For pity's sake, madame, go back

quick to the house; it is so far, I shall never be able to drag myself

there."

"Mademoiselle," cried the mother superior, "I am not your dupe! You have

no more of a sprain than I have, it is an abominable falsehood! You

wish, I know not for what reason, to send me away, and remain alone in

the garden. Ah, indeed you make me repent of my condescension."

The light noise of a few pebbles falling across the boughs of the trees

attracted the attention of the mother superior and Dolores, who,

radiant with delight, leaped up with a bound, exclaiming:

"There he is!"

"Of whom are you speaking, unhappy girl?"

"Of Captain Horace, madame," said Dolores, curtseying with mock

reverence. "He is coming to carry me away."

"What impudence! Ah, you think that in spite of me--"

"We are at the bottom of the garden, madame; cry, call, nobody will hear

you."

"Oh, what horrible treason!" cried the mother superior. "But it is

impossible! The men on guard have not dared leave the boulevard since

nightfall."

"Horatio!" cried Dolores, in a clear, silvery voice. "My Horatio!"

"Shameless creature!" cried Sister Prudence, in desperation, rushing

forward to seize Dolores by the arm. But the Spanish girl, nimble as a

gazelle, with two bounds was out of the reach of Sister Prudence, whose

limbs, stiffened by age, refused to lend themselves to gymnastic

exercise; and already overcome, she cried, wringing her hands:

"Oh, those miserable patrols! They have not been on guard. I would cry,

but they would not hear me at the convent. To run there is to leave this

wretched girl here alone! Ah, I understand too late why this serpent

wished to prolong our walk."

"Horatio," cried Dolores a second time, holding herself at a distance

from the mother superior, "my dear Horatio!"

"Descend!" cried a ringing male voice which seemed to come from the sky.

This celestial voice was no other than that of Captain Horace, giving

the signal to his faithful Sans-Plume to descend something.

The mother superior and Dolores, notwithstanding the difference of the

emotions which agitated them, raised their eyes simultaneously when they

heard the voice of Captain Horace.

But let us recall the situation of the walk and garden in order to

explain the miracle about to be manifested to the sight of the recluse.

Two of the largest branches of the trees on the boulevard outside

extended like a gibbet, so to speak, above and beyond the coping of the

convent wall. The night was so clear that Dolores and the mother

superior saw, slowly descending, sustained by cords, an Indian hammock

in the bottom of which Captain Horace was extended, throwing with his

hand a shower of kisses to Dolores.

When the hammock was within two feet of the earth, the captain called,

in a ringing voice: "Stop!"

The hammock rested motionless. The captain leaped out of it, and said to

the young girl:

"Quick, we have not a moment to lose! Dear Dolores, get into this

hammock at once and do not be afraid."

"You will kill me first, villain!" cried the mother superior, throwing

herself upon the young girl, whom she held within her arms, at the same

time crying out, "Help! help!"

At this moment lights could be seen coming and going at a distance from

the bottom of the garden.

"Here comes somebody at last!" screamed Sister Prudence, redoubling her

cries of "Help! help!"

"Madame," said the captain, "let loose Dolores immediately!" And he

forcibly withdrew the young girl from the obstinate embrace, holding

Sister Prudence until Dolores could spring into the hammock. Seeing her

safely seated there, the captain called:

"Ho there! Hoist."

And the hammock rose rapidly, so light was the weight of the young girl.

[Illustration: "_'You shall not escape me.'_"

Original etching by Adrian Marcel.]

Sister Prudence, thoroughly enraged, and thinking that help would

come perhaps too late, for the lights were still distant, screamed

louder than ever, and threw herself on the hammock, to hold it down; but

the captain drew her arm familiarly within his own, and, in spite of her

struggles, held her like a vice.

"Dolores," said the captain, "do not be afraid, my love. When you reach

the large branches, yield yourself without fear to the motion which will

draw the hammock outside the wall. Sans-Plume is on the other side, and

he is watching everything. Tell him, as soon as you reach the earth, to

throw me the knotted rope, and hold it well on the outside."

"Yes, my Horatio," said Dolores, who was already eight or ten feet above

the earth; "be calm, our love doubles my courage."

And the young mocker, leaning out of the hammock, said, with a laugh;

"Good evening, Sister Prudence, good evening!"

"You will be damned, accursed creature," said the mother superior.

"But you, you wretch! you shall not escape me," added she, holding on

with desperate and convulsive anger to the captain's arm.

"They are coming, and you will be taken."

In fact, the lights were becoming more and more visible, and the captain

could distinctly hear the voices of persons calling:

"Sister Prudence! Sister Prudence!"

The arrival of this aid increased the strength of the mother superior,

who still clinched the arm of Horace. She was beginning to embarrass the

sailor quite seriously; he could not resort to violence to escape this

aged woman. In the meanwhile, the lights and the voices came nearer and

nearer, and Sans-Plume, occupied, no doubt, in assuring the safe descent

of Dolores on the other side of the wall, had not yet thrown the rope,

his only means of flight. Then wishing, at any cost, to extricate

himself from the grasp of the sister, the captain said to her:

"I pray you, madame, release me."

"Never, villain. Help, help!"

"Then pardon me, madame, because you force me to it. I am going to dance

with you an infernal waltz, a riotous polka."

"A polka with me! You dare!"

"Come, madame, since you insist upon it we must. Keep time to the air.

Tra, la, la, la."

And joining the act to the words, the merry sailor passed the arm that

was free around the bony waist of Sister Prudence, and carried her with

him, singing his refrain and whirling her around with such rapidity

that, at the end of a few seconds, bewildered, dizzy, and suffocated,

she could only gasp the syllables:

"Ah, help--help--you--wretch! He--takes--my--breath! Help--help!"

And soon overcome by the rapid whirling, Sister Prudence felt her

strength failing. The captain saw her about to faint on his arms, and

only had time to lay her gently on the grass.

"Ho!" at this moment cried Sans-Plume on the other side of the wall, as

he threw over the knotted rope to the captain.

"The devil, it is high time!" said the captain, rushing after the rope,

for the lights and the persons who carried them were no more than fifty

steps distant.

Armed with pitchforks and guns, they approached the mother superior, who

had recovered sufficiently to point over the wall as she said:

"There he is getting away!"

One of the men, armed with a gun, guided by her gesture, saw the

captain, who, thanks to his agility as a sailor, had just gained the

crest of the wall.

The man fired his gun, but missed his aim.

"You! You!" cried he to another man armed like himself. "There he is on

the top of the wall reaching for the branches of that tree,--fire!"

The second shot was fired just at the moment when Captain Horace,

astride one of the branches projecting over the garden, was approaching

the trunk of the tree, by means of which he meant to descend on the

outside. Scarcely had the second shot been fired, when Horace made a

sudden leap, stopped a moment, and then disappeared in the thick foliage

of the trees.

"Run! run outside!" cried Sister Prudence, still panting for breath.

"There is still time to catch them!"

The orders of the mother superior were executed, but when they arrived

on the boulevard outside, Dolores, the captain, and Sans-Plume had

disappeared. They found nothing but the hammock, which was lying a few

steps from the spy, who, enveloped in his bag, dolefully uttering

smothered groans at the bottom of the ditch.

CHAPTER IV.

Eight days after the abduction of Dolores Salcedo by Captain Horace,

Abbé Ledoux, in bed, received the visit of his physician.

The invalid, lying in a soft bed standing in the alcove of a comfortable

apartment, had always a fat and ruddy face; his triple chin descended to

the collar of a fine shirt made of Holland cloth, and the purple

brilliancy of the holy man's complexion contrasted with the immaculate

whiteness of his cotton cap, bound, according to the ancient custom,

with an orange-coloured ribbon. Notwithstanding these indications of

plethoric health, the abbé, his head propped on his pillow in a doleful

manner, uttered from time to time the most plaintive groans, while his

hand, small and effeminate, was given to his physician, who was gravely

feeling his pulse.

Doctor Gasterini,--such was the name of the physician,--although

seventy-five years old, did not look sixty. Tall and erect, as well as

lean and nervous, with a clear complexion and rosy lips, the doctor,

when he smiled with his pleasant, elegant air, disclosed thirty-two

teeth of irreproachable whiteness, which seemed to combine the polish of

ivory with the sharp durability of steel; a forest of white hair,

naturally curled, encircled the amiable and intelligent face of the

doctor. Dressed always in black, with a certain affectation, he remained

faithful to the tradition of small-clothes made of silk cloth, with shoe

buckles of gold, and silk stockings, which clearly delineated his

strong, sinewy legs.

Doctor Gasterini was holding delicately between his thumb and his index

finger--whose rosy polished nails might have been the envy of a pretty

woman--the wrist of his patient, who religiously awaited the decision of

his physician.

"My dear abbé," said the doctor, "you are not at all sick."

"But, doctor--"

"You have a soft, pliant skin, and sixty-five pulsations to the minute.

It would be impossible to find conditions of better health."

"But, again, doctor, I--"

"But, again, abbé, you are not sick. I am a good judge, perhaps."

"And I tell you, doctor, that I have not closed my eyes the whole night.

Madame Siboulet, my housekeeper, has been on her feet constantly,--she

gave me several times some drops made by the good sisters."

"Stuff!"

"And orange flower distilled at the Sacred Heart."

"The devil!"

"Yes, doctor, you may laugh; none of these remedies have given me

relief. I have done nothing but turn over and over all night long in my

bed. Alas, alas! I am not well. I have an excitement, an insupportable

weariness."

"Perhaps, my dear abbé, you experienced yesterday some annoyance, some

contradiction, and as you are very obstinate, very conceited, very

spiteful--"

"I?"

"You."

"Doctor, I assure you--"

"This annoyance, I tell you, might have put you in a diabolical humour;

for I know no remedy which can prevent these vexations. As to being ill,

or even indisposed, you are not the least so in the world, my dear

abbé."

"Then why did I ask you to come to see me this morning?"

"You ought to know that better than I, my dear abbé; nevertheless, I

suspect the unusual motive which has made you desire my visit."

"That is rather hard."

"No, not very hard, for we are old acquaintances, and I know all your

tricks, my dear abbé."

"My tricks!--you know my tricks?"

"You contrive excellent ones, sometimes,--but to return to our subject,

I believe that, under a pretext of sickness which really does not exist,

you have sent for me to learn from me, directly or indirectly, something

which is of interest to you."

"Come, doctor, that is rather a disagreeable pleasantry."

"Wait, my dear abbé. In my youth I was physician to the Duke d'Otrante,

when he was minister of police. He enjoyed, like you, perfect health,

yet there was scarcely a day that he did not exact a visit from me. I

was unsophisticated then, and, although well equipped in my profession,

I had need of patrons, so, notwithstanding my visits to his Excellency

seemed unnecessary, I went to his house regularly every day, about the

hour he made his toilet, and we conversed. The minister was very

inquisitive, and as I was professionally thrown with persons of all

conditions, he, with charming good nature, plied me with questions

concerning my patients. I responded with all the sincerity of my soul.

One day I arrived, as I have told you, at the minister's house, when he

had just completed his toilet, the very moment when a journeyman barber,

the most uncleanly-looking knave I had ever seen in my life, had

finished shaving him.

"'M. duke,' said I to the minister, after the barber had departed, 'how

is it that, instead of being shaved by one of your valets, you prefer

the services of these frightful journeyman barbers whom you change

almost every fortnight?'

"'My dear,' replied the duke in a confidential tone, "'you cannot

imagine how much one can learn about all sorts of people and things,

when one knows how to set such fellows as that prattling.' Was this

confession an amusement or a blunder on the part of this great man, or,

rather, did he think me too silly to comprehend the full significance of

his words? I do not know; but I do know that this avowal enlightened me

as to the real intention of his Excellency in having me chat with him so

freely every morning. After that, I responded with much circumspection

to the questions of the cunning chief, who knew so well how to put in

practice the transcendent maxim, 'The best spies are those who are spies

without knowing it.'"

"The anecdote is interesting, as are all that you tell, my dear doctor,"

replied the abbé, with repressed anger, "but I swear to you that your

allusion is entirely inapplicable, and that, alas! I am very sick."

"Forty years yet of such illness, and you will become a centenarian, my

dear abbé," said the doctor, rising and preparing to take his leave.

"Oh, what a man! what a man!" cried the abbé. "Do listen to me, doctor,

you have a heart of bronze; can you abandon a poor sick man in this

manner? Give me five minutes!"

"So be it; let us chat if you wish it, my dear abbé. I have a quarter of

an hour at your disposal; you are a man of mind, I cannot better employ

the time given to this visit."

"Ah, doctor, you are cruel!"

"If you wish a more agreeable physician, address some others of my

fraternity. You will find them eager to give their attention to the

celebrated preacher, Abbé Ledoux, the most fashionable director of the

Faubourg St. Germain--for, in spite of the Republic, or, for reason of

the Republic, there is more than ever a Faubourg St. Germain, and, under

every possible administration, the protection of Abbé Ledoux would be a

lofty one."

"No, doctor, I want no other physician than you, terrible man that you

are! Just see the confidence you inspire in me. It seems to me your

presence has already done me good,--it calms me."

"Poor dear abbé, what confidence! It is touching; that certainly proves

that it is only faith which saves."

"Do not speak of faith," said the abbé, affecting anger pleasantly. "Be

silent, you pagan, materialist, atheist, republican, for you are and

have been all, at your pleasure."

"Oh, oh, abbé, what an array of fine words!"

"You deserve them, wicked man; you will be damned, do you hear?--more

than damned!"

"God may will it that we may meet each other some day, my poor abbé."

"I, damned?"

"Eh, eh."

"Do I abandon myself as you do to the brutality of all my appetites?

Go,--you are a perfect Sardanapalus!"

"Flatterer! but then it is your manner. You reproach an old Lovelace for

the enormities of which he would like to be guilty, and in the meantime

you know that he has none of them; but it is all the same, your

reproaches delight him, they render him cheerful; then he confesses all

sorts of sins, of which, alas! he is incapable, poor man, and you have

the air of giving a last pretext to his decaying imbecility."

"Fie! fie! doctor, the serpent had no more malignity than you."

"You reproach the broken-down politician, the powerless man of state,

not less furiously, for his dark intrigues to overthrow the political

world,--Europe, perhaps. Then with what unction the poor man relishes

your reproaches! Everybody flies him like a pest when he opens his mouth

to bore them with his politics; but what good fortune for him to unveil

to you his Machiavellian projects for the advantage of the destinies of

Europe, and to find a patient listener to the ravings of his old age."

"Yes, yes, jest, jeer, ridicule, you rascally doctor! You wish to excuse

yourself by reviling others."

"Let us see, abbé, let us make an examination of conscience. Our

professions will be inverted; I, the physician for the body, am going to

ask a consultation with you, the physician for the soul."

"And you will have precious need of this consultation."

"Of what do you accuse me, abbé?"

"In the first place, you are a glutton, like Vitellius, Lucullus, the

Prince of Soubise, Talleyrand, D'Aigrefeuille, Cambacérès, and

Brillat-Savarin all together."

"A flatterer always! You reproach me for my only great and lofty

quality."

"Ah, come now, doctor, do you take me for an oyster with your frivolous

talk?"

"Take you for an oyster? How conceited you are! Unfortunately, I cannot

make a comparison so advantageous to you, abbé. It would be a heresy, an

anachronism. Good oysters (and others are not counted as existing) do

not give the right to discuss them until about the middle of November,

and we are by no means there."

"This, doctor, may be very witty, but it does not convince me in the

least that gluttony is, in you or any other person, a quality."

"I will convince you of it."

"You?"

"I, my dear abbé."

"That would be rather difficult. And how?"

"Give me your evening on the twentieth of November and I will prove

that--"

But interrupting himself, the doctor added:

"Come now, my dear abbé, what are you constantly looking at there by the

side of that door?"

The holy man, thus taken unawares, blushed to his ears, for he had

listened to the doctor with distraction, impatiently turning his eyes

toward the door as if he expected a person who had not arrived; but

after the first moment of surprise the abbé did not seem disconcerted,

and replied:

"What door do you speak of, doctor? I do not know what you mean."

"I mean that you frequently look on this side as if you expected the

appearance of some one."

"There is no one in the world, dear doctor, except you, who could have

such ideas. I was entirely absorbed in your sophistical but intelligent

conversation."

"Ah, abbé, abbé, you overwhelm me!"

"You wish, in a word, doctor, to prove to me that gluttony is a noble,

sublime passion, do you not?"

"Sublime, abbé, that is the word, sublime,--if not in itself at least in

its consequences; above all, in the interest of agriculture and

commerce."

"Come, doctor, that is a paradox. Agriculture and commerce are sustained

as other things are."

"It is not a paradox, it is a fact, yes, a fact, and if it is

demonstrated to you positively, mathematically, practically, and

economically, what can you say? Will you still doubt it?"

"I will doubt, or rather I will believe this abomination less than

ever."

"How, in spite of evidence, abbé?"

"Because of evidence, if so be that this evidence can ever exist, for it

is by just such means of these pretended evidences, these perfidious

appearances, that the bad spirit leads us into the most dangerous

snares."

"What, abbé, the devil! I am not a seminarian whom you are preparing to

take the bands. You are a man of mind and of knowledge. When I talk

reason to you, talk reason to me, and not of the devil and his horns."

"But, pagan, idolater that you are, do you not know that gluttony is

perhaps the most abominable of the seven capital sins?"

"In the first place, abbé, I pray you do not calumninate like that the

seven capital sins, but speak of them with the deference which is their

due. I have found them profoundly respected in general and in

particular."

"Indeed, it is not only gluttony that he glorifies,--he pushes his

paradox to the glorification of the seven capital sins!"

"Yes, dear abbé, all the seven, considered from a certain point of

view."

"That is monomania."

"Will you be convinced, abbé?"

"Of what?"

"Of the possible excellence,--of the conditional existence of the

worldly and philosophical excellence of the seven capital sins."

"Really, doctor, do you take me for a child?"

"Give me your evening on the twentieth of November; you will be

convinced."

"Come now, doctor, why always the twentieth of November?"

"That is for me a prophetic day, and more, it is the anniversary of my

birth, my dear abbé, so give me your evening on that day and you will

not regret having come."

"Very well, then, the twentieth of November, if my health--"

"Permits you,--well understood, my dear abbé; but my experience tells me

that you will be able to drag yourself to see me on that day."

"What a man. He is capable of giving me a perfect example, in his big

own damned person, of the seven capital sins."

At this moment the door opened.

It was on this door, more than once, that the glances of Abbé Ledoux had

been turned with secret and growing impatience, during his conversation

with the doctor.

CHAPTER V.

The abbé's housekeeper, having entered the chamber, handed a letter to

her master, and, exchanging with him a look of intelligence, said:

"It is very urgent, M. abbé."

"Permit me, doctor?" said the holy man, before breaking the seal of the

letter he held in his hand.

"At your convenience, my dear abbé," replied the doctor, rising from his

seat; "I must leave you now."

"I pray you, just a word!" cried the abbé, who seemed especially anxious

that the doctor should not depart so soon. "Give me time to glance over

this letter, and I am at your service."

"But, abbé, we have nothing more to say to each other. I have an urgent

consultation, and the hour is--"

"I implore you, doctor," insisted the abbé, breaking the seal and

running his eyes over the letter he had just received, "in the name of

Heaven, give me only five minutes, not more."

Surprised at this singular persistence on the part of the abbé, the

doctor hesitated to go out, when the invalid, discontinuing his reading

of the letter, raised his eyes to heaven and exclaimed:

"Ah, my God, my God!"

"What is the matter?"

"Ah, my poor doctor!"

"Finish what you have to say."

"Ah, doctor, it was Providence that sent you here."

"Providence!"

"Yes, because I find it in my power to render you a great service,

perhaps."

The physician appeared to be a little doubtful of the good-will of Abbé

Ledoux, and accepted his words not without a secret distrust.

"Let us see, my dear abbé," replied he, "what service can you render

me?"

"You have sometimes spoken to me of your sister's numerous children,

whom you have raised (notwithstanding your faults, wicked man) with

paternal tenderness, after the early death of their parents."

"Go on, abbé," said the doctor, fixing a penetrating gaze on the saintly

man, "go on."

"I was altogether ignorant that one of your nephews served in the navy,

and had been made captain. His name is Horace Brémont, is it not?"

At the name of Horace, the doctor started, imperceptibly; his gaze

seemed to penetrate to the depth of the abbé's heart, and he replied,

coldly:

"I have a nephew who is captain in the navy and his name is Horace."

"And he is now in Paris?"

"Or elsewhere, abbé."

"For God's sake, let us talk seriously, my dear doctor, the time is

precious. See here what has been written to me and you will judge of the

importance of the letter.

* * * * *

"'M. ABBÉ:--I know that you are very intimate with the celebrated Doctor

Gasterini; you can render him a great service. His nephew, Captain

Horace, is compromised in a very disagreeable affair; although he has

succeeded in hiding himself up to this time, his retreat has been

discovered and perhaps, at the moment that I am writing to you, his

person has been seized.'"

* * * * *

The abbé stopped and looked attentively at the doctor.

The doctor remained impassible.

Surprised at this indifference, the abbé said, in a pathetic tone:

"Ah, my poor doctor, what cruel suffering for you! But what has this

unfortunate captain done?"

"I know nothing about it, abbé, continue."

Evidently the saintly man expected another result of the reading of his

letter. However, not allowing himself to be disconcerted, he continued:

"'Perhaps at this moment his person has been seized,'" repeated he,

laying stress on these words, and going on with the letter. "'But there

remains one chance of saving this young man who is more thoughtless than

culpable; you must, upon the reception of this letter, send some one

immediately to Doctor Gasterini.'"

And, stopping again, the abbé added:

"As I told you, doctor, Providence sent you here."

"It has never done anything else for my sake," coldly replied the

doctor. "Go on, abbé."

"'You must, upon the reception of this letter, send immediately to

Doctor Gasterini,'" repeated the abbé, more and more surprised at the

impassibility of the physician, and his indifference to the misfortune

which threatened his nephew. "'The doctor must send some person in whom

he has confidence, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to

leave his retreat. Perhaps in this way he may get the start of the

officers about to arrest this unfortunate young man.'

"I need not say more to you, my dear doctor," hastily added the abbé,

throwing the letter on the bed. "A minute's delay may lose all. Run,

quick, save this unhappy young man! What! You do not move; you do not

reply! What are you thinking of, my poor doctor? Why do you look at me

with such a strange expression? Did you not hear what has been written

to me? And it is underlined, too. 'He must go instantly, without losing

a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat.' Really, doctor,

I do not understand you."

"But I understand you perfectly, my dear abbé," said the doctor, with

sardonic calmness. "But, upon honour, this expedient is really not up to

the height of your usual inventions; you have done better than that,

abbé, much better."

"An expedient! My inventions!" replied the abbé, feigning amazement.

"Come, doctor, you surely are not speaking seriously?"

"You have forgotten, dear abbé, that an old fox like me discovers a

snare from afar."

"Doctor," replied the abbé, no longer able to conceal his violent anger,

"you are at liberty to jest,--at liberty to let the time pass, and lose

the opportunity of saving your nephew. I have warned you as a friend.

Now, do as you please, I wash my hands of it."

"So then, my dear abbé, you were and you are in the plot of those

sanctimonious persons who desired to make a nun of Dolores Salcedo, for

the purpose of getting possession of the property she would one day

inherit from her uncle, the canon?"

"Dolores Salcedo! Her uncle, the canon! Really, doctor, I do not know

what you mean."

"Ah! ah! you are in that pious plot! It is well to know it; it is always

useful to recognise your adversaries, above all, when they are as clever

as you are, dear abbé."

"But, hear me, doctor, I swear to you--"

"Stop, abbé, let us play an open game. You sent for me this morning,

that the pathetic epistle you have just read to me might arrive in my

presence."

"Doctor!" cried the abbé, "that is carrying distrust, suspicion, to a

point which becomes--which becomes--permit me to say it to you--"

"Oh, by all means,--I permit you."

"Well, which becomes outrageous in the last degree, doctor. Ah, truly,"

added the abbé, with bitterness, "I was far from expecting that my

eagerness to do you a kindness would be rewarded in such a manner."

"Zounds! I know very well, my poor abbé, that you hoped your ingenious

stratagem would have an entirely different result."

"Doctor, this is too much!"

"No, abbé, it is not enough. Now, listen to me. This is what you hoped,

I say, from your ingenious stratagem: Frightened by the danger to which

my nephew was exposed, I would thank you effusively for the means you

offered me to save him, and would fly like an arrow to warn this poor

fellow to leave his place of concealment."

"So, in fact, any other person in your place, doctor, would have done,

but you take care not to act so reasonably. Surely, to speak the truth,

you must be struck with frenzy and blindness."

"Alas! abbé, it is the beginning of the punishment for my sins. But let

us return to the consequences of your ingenious stratagem. According to

your hope, then, I would fly like an arrow to save, as you advise, my

nephew. My carriage is below. I would get in it, and have myself

conveyed as rapidly as possible to the mysterious retreat of Captain

Horace."

"Eh, without doubt, doctor, that is what you should have done some time

ago."

"Now, do you know what would have happened, my poor abbé?"

"You would have saved your nephew."

"I would have lost him, I would have betrayed him, I would have

delivered him to his enemies,--and see how. I wager that at this very

hour, while I am talking to you, there is, not far from here in the

street, and even in sight of this house, a cab, to which a strong horse

is hitched, and by a strange chance (unless you countermand your order)

this cab would follow my carriage wherever it might go."

The abbé turned scarlet, but replied:

"I do not know what cab you are speaking of, doctor."

"In other words, my dear abbé, you have been seeking traces of my nephew

in vain. In order to discover his retreat, you have had me followed in

vain. Now, you hoped, by the sudden announcement of the danger he was

running, to push me to the extremity of warning the captain. Your

emissary below would have followed my carriage, so that, without knowing

it, I, myself, would have disclosed the secret of my nephew's

hiding-place. Again, abbé, for any other than yourself, the invention

was not a bad one, but you have accustomed your admirers--and permit me

to include myself among them--to higher and bolder conceptions. Let us

hope, then, that another time you will show yourself more worthy of

yourself. Good-bye, and without bearing you any grudge, my dear abbé, I

count on you for our pleasant evening the twentieth of November.

Otherwise, I will come to remind you of your promise. Good-bye, again,

my poor, dear abbé. Come, do not look so vexed,--so out of countenance;

console yourself for this little defeat by recalling your past

triumphs."

And with this derisive conclusion to his remarks, Doctor Gasterini left

Abbé Ledoux.

"You sing victory, old serpent!" cried the abbé, purple with anger and

shaking his fist at the door by which the doctor went out. "You are very

arrogant, but you do not know that this morning even we have recaptured

Dolores Salcedo, and your miserable nephew shall not escape us, for I am

as cunning as you are, infernal doctor, and, as you say, I have more

than one trick in my bag."

The doctor, the subject of this imprecatory monologue, had concealed the

disquietude he felt by the discovery he had just made. He knew Abbé

Ledoux capable of taking a brilliant revenge, so as he descended the

steps of the saintly man's house, the doctor, before entering his

carriage, looked cautiously on both sides of the street. As he expected,

he saw a public cab about twenty steps from where he was standing. In

this cab was a large man, wearing a brown overcoat. Walking up to the

cab, the doctor, with a confidential air, said in a low voice to the

large man:

"My friend, you are posted there, are you not, to follow this open

carriage with two horses, standing before the door, Number 17?"

"Sir," said the man, hesitating, "I do not know who you are, or why

you--"

"Hush! my friend," replied the doctor, in a tone full of mystery, "I

have just left Abbé Ledoux; the order of proceeding is changed; the abbé

expects you at once, to give you new orders,--quick, go, go!"

The fat man, reassured by the explicit directions given by the doctor,

hesitated no longer, descended from his cab, and went in haste to see

the Abbé Ledoux. When the doctor saw the door close upon the emissary of

the abbé, feeling certain that he was not followed, he ordered his

coachman to drive in haste to the Faubourg Poissonnière, for if he

feared nothing for his nephew, he had reason enough for uneasiness since

he had learned that Abbé Ledoux was concerned in this intrigue.

The doctor's carriage had just entered one of the less frequented

streets of the Faubourg Poissonnière, not far from the gate of the same

name, when he perceived at a short distance quite a large assemblage in

front of a modest-looking house. The doctor ordered his carriage to

stop, descended from it, mingled with the crowd, and said to one of the

men:

"What is the matter there, sir?"

"It seems, sir, they are taking back a stray dove to the dove-cote."

"A dove!"

"Yes, or if you like it better, a young girl who escaped from a convent.

The commissary of police arrived with his deputies, and a very fat man

in a blue overcoat, who looked like a priest. He had the house opened.

The fugitive was found there, and put into a carriage with the fat man

in a blue overcoat. I have never seen any citizen ornamented with such a

stomach."

Doctor Gasterini did not wait to hear more, but rushed through the crowd

and imperatively rang the bell at the door of the little house of which

we have spoken. A young servant, still pale with emotion, came to open

it.

"Where is Madame Dupont?" asked the physician, impatiently.

"She is at home, sir. Oh, sir, if you only knew!"

The doctor made no reply; went through two apartments, and entered a

bedchamber, where he found an aged woman, with a venerable-looking face

full of sweetness.

"Ah, doctor, doctor!" cried Madame Dupont, bursting into tears, "what a

misfortune, what a scandal, poor young girl!"

"I am grieved, my poor Madame Dupont, that the service you rendered me

should have been followed by such disagreeable consequences."

"Oh, do not think it is that which afflicts, doctor. I owe you more than

my life, since I owe you the life of my son; I do not think of

complaining of a transient vexation, and I know you too well, in other

things, to raise the least doubt as to the intentions which led you to

ask me to give a temporary asylum to this young girl."

"By this time, my dear Madame Dupont, I can and I ought to tell you all.

Here is the whole story in two words: I have a nephew, an indiscreet

boy, but the bravest fellow in the world; he is captain in the marine

service. In his last voyage from Cadiz to Bordeaux he took as passengers

a Spanish canon and his niece. My nephew fell desperately in love with

the niece, but by a series of events too long and too ridiculous to

relate to you, the canon took the greatest aversion to my nephew, and

informed him that he should never marry Dolores. The opposition

exasperated the lovers; my devil of a nephew followed the canon to

Paris, discovered the convent where the uncle had placed the young girl,

put himself in correspondence with her, and eloped with her.

Horace--that is his name--is an honest fellow, and, the elopement

accomplished, he introduced Dolores to me and confessed all to me. While

the marriage was pending, he besought me to place this young girl in a

suitable house, since, for a thousand reasons, it was impossible for me

to keep the child in my house after such an uproar. Then I thought of

you, my good Madame Dupont."

"Ah, sir, I was certain that you acted nobly in that as you have always,

and, besides, the short time that she was here Mlle. Dolores interested

me exceedingly,--indeed I was already attached to her, and you can judge

of my distress this morning when--"

"The commissary of police ordered the house to be opened; I know it. And

the canon, Dom Diégo, accompanied him."

"Yes, sir, he was furious; he declared that he was acquainted with the

French law; that it would not permit such things; that it was abduction

of a minor, and that they were searching on all sides for your nephew."

"That is what I expected, and I exacted from my nephew, not only that he

would not see Dolores again until all was arranged, but that he would

keep himself concealed in order to escape the pursuit which I hoped to

quiet. Now I do not know if I can succeed; the situation is grave. I

have told Horace so, but the deed was done, and I confess I revolted

against the thought of placing this poor Dolores myself in the hands of

the canon, a kind of gluttonous, superstitious brute, from whom there is

nothing to hope."

"Ah, doctor, I am now well enough acquainted with Mlle. Dolores to be

sure that she will die of grief if she is left in that convent, and

believe me, sir, in the scene of this morning, that which most

distresses me is not the scandal of which my poor house has been the

theatre, but the thought of the sad future which is perhaps reserved for

that unhappy child. And now that I know all, doctor, I am all the more

troubled in thinking of the grave consequences that this abduction may

entail upon your nephew."

"I share your fears most keenly, my dear Madame Dupont. After a

discovery that I have this morning made, I am afraid that a complaint

has already been instituted against Horace; if it has not been it will

be, to-day perhaps, for now that Dolores is again in the power of her

uncle, if he can have my nephew arrested he will have nothing to fear

from his love for Dolores. Ah, this arrest would be dreadful! Law is

inflexible. My nephew went by night to a convent and abducted a minor.

It is liable to infamous punishment, and for him that would be worse

than death!"

"Great God!"

"And his brothers and sisters who love him so much! What sorrow for

me,--for our family!" added the old man, with sadness.

"But, sir, there ought to be something we can do to put a stop to this

pursuit."

"Ah, madame, dear Madame Dupont," replied the doctor, overcome with

emotion, "I lose my head when I think of the terrible consequences which

may result from this foolish adventure of a young man."

"But what shall we do, doctor, what shall we do?"

"Ah, do I know myself what to do, my poor Madame Dupont? I am going to

reflect on the best course to pursue, but I am dealing with such a

powerful adversary that I dare not hope for success." And Doctor

Gasterini left the Faubourg Poissonnière in a state of inexpressible

anxiety.

CHAPTER VI.

The day after Dolores Salcedo had been taken back to the convent, the

following scene took place in the home of the canon, Dom Diégo, who

lodged in a comfortable apartment engaged for him before his arrival by

Abbé Ledoux.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning.

Dom Diégo, reclining in a large armchair, seemed to be assailed by

gloomy thoughts. He was a large man of fifty years, and of enormous

obesity; his fat, bloated cheeks mingled with his quadruple chin, his

dingy skin was rough and flabby, and revealed the weakness of the inert

mass. His features were not wanting in a kind of good-humour, when they

were not under the domination of some disagreeable idea. His large mouth

and thick, hanging under-lip denoted sensuality. With half-closed eyes

under his heavy gray eyebrows, and hands crossed upon his Falstaff

stomach, whose vast rotundity was outlined beneath a violet-coloured

morning-gown, the canon sighed from time to time in a mournful and

despondent tone.

"More appetite, alas! more appetite!" murmured he. "Too many tossings of

the sea have upset me. My stomach, so stout, so regular in its habits,

is distracted like a watch out of order. This morning, at breakfast,

ordinarily my most enjoyable meal, I have hardly eaten at all.

Everything seemed insipid or bitter. What will it be at dinner, oh, what

will it be at dinner, a repast which I make almost always without hunger

in order to take and taste the delicate flower of the best things? Ah,

may that infernal Captain Horace be cursed and damned! The horrible

regimen to which I was subjected during that long voyage cost me my

appetite; my stomach was irritated and revolted against those execrable

salt meats and abominable dry vegetables. So, since this injury done to

the delicacy of its habits, my stomach pouts and treats me badly, as if

it were my fault, alas! It has a grudge against me, it punishes me, it

looks big before the best dishes!

"But who knows if the hand of Providence is not there? Now that I do not

feel the least hunger I realise that I have abandoned myself to a sin as

detestable as--delectable. Alas! gluttony! Perhaps Providence meant to

punish me by sending this miserable Captain Horace on my route. Ah, the

scoundrel, what evil has he done! And this was not enough; he abducted

my niece, he plunged me in new tribulations; he upset my life, my

repose. I, who only asked to eat with meditation and tranquillity! Oh,

this brigand captain! I will have my revenge. But whatever may be my

revenge, double traitor, I cannot return to you the twentieth part of

the evil that I owe you. Because here are two months that I have lost my

appetite, and if I should live one hundred years, I should never catch

up with those two months of enforced abstinence!"

This dolorous monologue was interrupted by the entrance of the canon's

majordomo, an old servant with gray hair.

"Well, Pablo," said Dom Diégo to him, "you come from the convent?"

"Yes, sir."

"And my unworthy niece?"

"Sir, she is in a sort of delirium, she has a hot fever; sometimes she

calls for Captain Horace with heartrending cries, sometimes she invokes

death, weeping and sobbing. I assure you, sir, it is enough to break

your heart."

Dom Diégo, in spite of his selfish sensuality, seemed at first touched

by the majordomo's words, but soon he cried:

"So much the better! Dolores only has what she deserves. This will teach

her to fall in love with the most detestable of men. She will remain in

the convent, she shall take the veil there. My excellent friend and

companion, Abbé Ledoux, is perfectly right; by this sample of my niece's

tricks I shall know what to expect, if I keep her near me,--perpetual

alarms and insults until I had her married, well or ill. Now to cut

short all this the Senora Dolores will take the veil, and accomplish her

salvation; my wealth will some day enrich the house, where they will

pray for the repose of my soul, and I will be relieved of this she-devil

of a niece,--three benefits for one."

"But, my lord, if the condition of the senora requires--"

"Not a word more, Pablo!" cried the canon, fearing he might be moved to

pity in spite of himself. "Not a word more. Have I not, alas! enough

personal troubles without your coming to torture me, to irritate me,

with contradictions?"

"Pardon, sir, then, I wish to speak to you of another thing."

"Of what?"

"There is a man in the antechamber who desires to speak with you."

"Who is this man?"

"An old man, well dressed."

"And what does this man want?"

"To talk with you, sir, upon a very important affair. He has brought

with him a large box that a porter has just delivered. It seems very

heavy."

"And what is this box, Pablo?"

"I do not know, sir."

"And the name of this man?"

"Oh, a very strange name."

"What?"

"Appetite, sir."

"What! this man's name is Appetite?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must have misunderstood him."

"No, sir, I made him repeat his name twice. It is certainly Appetite."

"Alas, alas! what a cruelly ironical name!" murmured the canon, with

bitterness. "But no matter, for the rarity of the name, send this man in

to me."

An instant after the man announced by the majordomo entered,

respectfully saluted Dom Diégo, and said to him:

"It is Lord Dom Diégo whom I have the honour of addressing?"

"Yes, what do you wish of me?"

"First, sir, to pay you the tribute of my profound admiration; then, to

offer you my services."

"But, monsieur, what is your name?"

"Appetite, sir."

"Do you write your name as appetite, the desire for food, is written?"

"Yes, sir, but I confess that it is not my name, but my surname."

"To deserve such a surname you ought to be eminently well endowed by

nature, M. Appetite; you ought to enjoy an eternal hunger," said the

canon, with a sigh of regretful envy.

"On the contrary, I eat very little, sir, as almost all those who have

the sacred mission of making others eat."

"How? What, then, is your profession?"

"Cook, sir, and would like the honour of serving you, if I can merit

that felicity."

The canon shook his head sadly, and hid his face in his hands; he felt

all his griefs revive at the proposition of M. Appetite, who went on to

say:

"My second master, Lord Wilmot, whose stomach was so debilitated that

for almost a year he ate without pleasure, and even without knowing the

taste of different dishes, literally devoured food the first day I had

the honour of serving him. It was he who, through gratitude, gave me the

name of Appetite, which I have kept ever since."

The canon looked at his visitor attentively, and replied:

"Ah, you are a cook? But tell me, you have spoken to me of paying me the

tribute of your admiration and of offering me your services, where were

you acquainted with me?"

"You have, sir, during your sojourn in Madrid, often dined with the

ambassador of France."

"Oh, yes, that was my good time," replied Dom Diégo, with sadness. "I

rendered ample justice to the table of the ambassador of France, and I

have proclaimed the fact that I knew of no better practitioner than his

chef."

"And this illustrious practitioner, with whom, my lord, I am in

correspondence, that we may mutually keep pace with the progress of the

science, has written to me to express his joy at having been so worthily

appreciated by a connoisseur like yourself. I had taken note of your

name, and yesterday, learning by chance that you were in search of a

cook, I come to have the honour of offering you my services."

"And from whom do you come, my friend?"

"For ten years, my lord, I have worked only for myself, that is to say,

for art. I have a modest fortune, but enough, so it is not a mercenary

motive which brings me to you, sir."

"But why do you offer your services to me, rather than to some one

else?"

"Because, being free to choose, I consult my convenience; because I am

very jealous, my lord, horribly jealous."

"Jealous; and of what?"

"Of my master's fidelity."

"What, the fidelity of your master?"

"Yes, my lord; and I am sure you will be faithful, because you live

alone, without family, and, by condition as well as character, you have

not, like so many others, all sorts of inclinations which always bore or

annoy one; as a serious and convinced man, you have only one passion,

but profound, absolute, and that is gluttony. Well, this passion, I

offer, my lord, to satisfy, as you have never been satisfied in your

life."

"You talk of gold, my dear friend, but do you know that, to make good

your claims, in the use of such extravagant language, you must have

great talent,--prodigious talent?"

"This great, this prodigious talent I have, my lord."

"Your avowal is not modest."

"It is sincere, and you know, sir, that one may employ a legitimate

assurance, from the consciousness of his power."

"I like this noble pride, my dear friend, and if your acts respond to

your words, you are a superior person."

"Sir, put me to trial to-day, this hour."

"To-day, this hour!" cried the canon, shrugging his shoulders. "You do

not know, then, that for two accursed months I have been in this

deplorable state; that there is nothing I can taste; that this morning I

have left untouched a breakfast ordered from Chevet, who supplies me

until my kitchen is well appointed. Ah, if you did not have the

appearance of an honest man, I would think you came to insult my

misery,--proposing to cook for me when I am never the least hungry."

"Sir, my name is Appetite."

"But I repeat to you, my dear friend, that only an hour ago I refused

the choicest things."

"So much the better, my lord, I could not present myself to you at a

more favourable juncture; my triumph will be great."

"Listen, my dear friend, I cannot tell you if it is the influence of

your name, or the learned and exalted manner with which you speak of

your art, which gives me confidence in you, in spite of myself; but I

experience, I will not say, a desire to eat, because I would challenge

you to make me swallow the wing of an ortolan; but indeed I experience,

in hearing you reason upon cooking, a pleasure which makes me hope that

perhaps, later, if appetite returns to me, I--"

"My lord, pardon me if I interrupt you; you have a kitchen here?"

"Certainly, with every appointment. A fire has just been kindled there

to keep warm what was brought already prepared from Chevet, but, alas!

utterly useless."

"Will you give me, sir, a half-hour?"

"What to do?"

"To prepare a breakfast for you, sir."

"With what?"

"I have brought all that is necessary."

"But what is the good of this breakfast, my dear friend? Go, believe me,

and do not compromise a talent in which I am pleased to believe, by

engaging in a foolish, impossible undertaking."

"Sir, will you give me a half-hour?"

"But I ask again, for what good?"

"To make you eat an excellent breakfast, sir, which will predispose you

for a still better dinner."

"That is folly, I tell you; you are mad."

"Try, my lord; what do you risk?"

"Go on, then, you must be a magician."

"I am, sir, perhaps," replied the cook, with a strange smile.

"Very well, bear then the penalty of your own pride," cried Dom Diégo,

ringing violently. "If you are instantly overwhelmed with humiliation,

and are compelled to confess the impotence of your art, it is you who

would have it. Take care, take care."

"You will eat, my lord," replied the artist, in a professional tone;

"yes, you will eat, and much, and deliciously."

At the moment the cook pronounced these rash words the majordomo, called

by the sound of the bell, entered.

"Pablo," said the canon, "open the kitchen to this man, and lay a cover

for me. Justice must be done."

"But, sir, this morning--"

"Do as I tell you, conduct M. Appetite to the kitchen, and if he has

need of help, let some one help him."

"I have need of no one, sir, I am accustomed to work alone in my

laboratory. I ask of you permission to shut myself in."

"Have all that you wish, my dear friend, but may I be for ever damned

for my sins if I swallow a mouthful of what you are going to serve me. I

understand myself, I think, and there is really an overweening pride in

you--"

"It is half-past eleven, my lord," said the cook, interrupting Dom

Diégo, with majesty; "when the clock strikes noon you will breakfast."

And the artist went out, accompanied by the majordomo.

CHAPTER VII.

After the disappearance of M. Appetite, this strange cook who offered

his services with such superb assurance, the canon, left alone, said to

himself, as he rose painfully from his chair and walked to and fro with

agitation:

"The arrogant self-confidence of this cook confounds me and impresses me

in spite of myself. But if he thinks he is dealing with a novice in the

knowledge of dainty dishes, he has made a mistake, and I will make him

see it. Well, what a fool I am to be so much disturbed! Can any human

power give me in five minutes the hunger that has failed me for two

months? Ah, that accursed Captain Horace! What a pleasure it would be to

me to put him under lock and key! To think that the only nourishment he

would have would be the nauseous diet given to prisoners, watered by a

glass of blue wine, as rough to the throat as a rasp, and as sour as

spoiled vinegar. But bah! This scoundrel, accustomed, doubtless, to the

frequent privations endured by mariners, is capable of being indifferent

to such a martyrdom, and of preserving his insolent appetite, while

I--Ah, if this cook has not told me a lie! But, no, no, like all the

French he is braggart, he is full of pride! And yet his assurance seems

to me conscientious. He has something, too, in his look, in his

countenance, expressive of power. But, in fact, what is this man? Where

does he come from? Can I trust myself to his sincerity? I recall now

that, when I spoke to him of the impossibility of reviving my appetite,

he replied, with a significant bow: 'My lord, perhaps I am a magician.'

If there are magicians they are the sons of the evil spirit, and God

keep me from ever meeting them! This man must be a real magician if he

makes me eat. Alas, I am a great sinner! Satan takes all sorts of forms,

and if--Oh, no, no, I shudder at the very thought! I must turn away from

such doleful meditations!"

Then, after a moment's silence, the canon added, as he looked at his

watch:

"See, it will soon be noon. In spite of myself, the nearer the fatal

hour comes, the more my anxiety increases. I feel a strange emotion, I

can admit it to myself. I am almost afraid. It seems to me that this man

at this very hour is surrendering himself to a mysterious incantation,

that he is plotting something superhuman, because to resurrect the dead

and resurrect my appetite would be to work the same miracle. And this

wonderful man has undertaken to work this miracle. And if he does, must

I not recognise his supernatural power? Come, come, I am ashamed of this

weakness. Well, I am indifferent, I prefer not to be alone, because the

nearer the hour the more uncomfortable I am. I must ring for Pablo. (He

rings.) Yes, the silence of this dwelling, the thought that this strange

man is there in that subterranean kitchen, bending over his blazing

furnace, like some bad spirit occupied with his sorcery,--all that gives

me a strange sensation. Ah, so Pablo does not hear!" cried the canon,

now at the highest pitch of uneasiness.

And he rang the bell again, violently.

Pablo did not appear.

"What does that mean?" murmured Dom Diégo, looking around him in dismay.

"Pablo does not come! What a frightful and gloomy silence! Oh, something

wonderful is happening! I dare not take a step."

Turning his ear to listen, the canon added:

"What is that hollow sound? Nothing human. Some one is coming. Ah, I

have not a drop of blood in my veins!"

At this moment the door opened so violently that the canon screamed and

hid his face in his hands, as he gasped the words:

"_Vade--retro--Satanas!_"

It was not Satan by any means, but Pablo, the majordomo, who, not having

answered the two calls of the bell, was running precipitately, and thus

produced the noise that the superstitious imagination of the canon

transformed into something mysterious and supernatural.

The majordomo, struck with the attitude of the canon, approached him,

and said:

"Ah, my God, what is the matter with you, my lord?"

At the voice of Pablo, Dom Diégo dropped his fat hands, which covered

his face, and his servant saw the terror depicted in the master's

countenance.

"My lord, my lord, what has happened?"

"Nothing, poor Pablo,--a foolish idea, which I am ashamed of now. But

why are you so late?"

"Sir, it is not my fault."

"How is that?"

"I wished, sir, from curiosity, to enter this kitchen to see the work of

this famous cook."

"Very well, Pablo?"

"After I assisted him in carrying his box, this strange man ordered me

out of the kitchen, where he wished, he said, to be absolutely alone."

"Ah, Pablo, how he surrounds himself with mystery!"

"I obeyed, my lord, but I could not resist the temptation to stay

outside at the door."

"To listen?"

"No, sir, to scent."

"Well, Pablo?"

"Ah, my lord, my lord!"

"What is it, Pablo?"

"Little by little an odour passed through the door, so delicious, so

exquisite, so tempting, so exciting, that it was impossible for me to go

away. If I had been nailed to the door I could not have been more

immovable. I was bewildered, fascinated, entranced!"

"Truly, Pablo?"

"You know, my lord, that you gave me the excellent breakfast they

brought to you this morning."

"Alas! yes."

"That breakfast I have eaten, my lord."

"Happy Pablo!"

"Well, sir, this odour of which I tell you was so appetising that I felt

myself seized with a furious hunger, and, without leaving the door, I

took from one of the shelves of the pantry a large piece of dry bread."

"And you ate it, Pablo?"

"I devoured it, my lord."

"Dry?"

"Dry," replied the majordomo, bowing his head.

"Dry!" cried the canon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven. "It is a

miracle! He breakfasted an hour ago like an ogre, and now he has just

bolted a piece of dry bread!"

"Yes, my lord, this dry bread, seasoned with that juicy odour, seemed to

me the most delicious of morsels."

At this moment the clock struck noon.

"Noon!" cried the majordomo. "This marvellous cook instructed me to

serve you, my lord, at noon precisely. The cover is already laid on the

little table. I am going to bring it."

"Go, Pablo," said the canon, with a meditative air. "My destiny is about

to be accomplished. The miracle, if it is a miracle, is going to be

performed,--if it is to be performed; for I swear, in spite of all you

have just told me, I have not the least appetite. I have a heavy

stomach and a clammy mouth. Go, Pablo, I am waiting."

There was a resignation full of doubt, of curiosity, of anguish, and of

vague hope, in the accent with which Dom Diégo uttered the words, "I am

waiting."

Soon the majordomo reappeared.

He walked with a solemn air, bearing on a tray a little chafing-dish of

silver, the size of a plate, surmounted with its stew-pan. On the side

of the tray was a small crystal flagon, filled with a limpid liquid, the

colour of burnt topaz.

Pablo, as he approached, several times held his nose to the edge of the

stew-pan to inhale the appetising exhalations which escaped from it;

finally, he placed on the table the little chafing-dish, the flagon, and

a small card.

"Pablo," asked the canon, pointing to the chafing-dish, surmounted with

its pan, "what is that silver plate?"

"It belongs to M. Appetite, sir; under this pan is a dish with a double

bottom, filled with boiling water, because this great man says the food

must be eaten burning hot."

"And that flagon, Pablo?"

"Its use is marked on the card, sir, which informs you of all the dishes

you are going to eat."

"Let me see this card," said the canon, and he read:

"'Guinea fowl eggs fried in the fat of quails, relieved with a gravy of

crabs.

"'N. B. Eat burning hot, make only one mouthful of each egg, after

having softened it well with the gravy.

"'Masticate _pianissimo._

"'Drink after each egg two fingers of Madeira wine of 1807, which has

made five voyages from Rio Janeiro to Calcutta. (It is needless to say

that certain wines are vastly improved by long voyages.)

"'Drink this wine with meditation.

"'It is impossible for me not to take the liberty to accompany each dish

which I have the honour of serving Lord Dom Diégo with a flagon of wine

appropriate to the particular character of the aforesaid dish.'"

"What a man!" exclaimed the majordomo, with an expression of profound

admiration, "he thinks of everything!"

The canon, whose agitation was increasing, lifted the top of the silver

dish with a trembling hand.

Suddenly a delicious odour spread itself through the atmosphere. Pablo

clasped his hands, dilating his wide nostrils and looking at the dish

with a greedy eye.

In the middle of the silver dish, half steeped in an unctuous, velvety

gravy of a beautiful rosy hue, the majordomo saw four little round soft

eggs, that seemed still to tremble with their smoking, golden frying.

The canon, struck like his majordomo with the delicious fragrance of the

dish, literally ate it with his eyes, and for the first time in two

months a sudden desire of appetite tickled his palate. Nevertheless, he

still doubted, believing in the deceitful illusion of a false hunger.

Taking in a spoon one of the little eggs, well impregnated with gravy,

he shovelled it into his large mouth.

"Masticate _pianissimo_, my lord!" cried Pablo, who followed every

motion of his master with a beating heart. "Masticate slowly, the

magician said, and afterward drink this, according to the directions."

And Pablo poured out two fingers of the Madeira wine of 1807, in a glass

as thin as the peel of an onion, and presented it to Dom Diégo.

Oh, wonder! Oh, marvel! Oh, miracle! The second movement of the

mastication _pianissimo_ was hardly accomplished when the canon threw

his head gently back, and, half shutting his eyes in a sort of ecstasy,

crossed his two hands on his breast, still holding in one hand the spoon

with which he had just served himself.

"Well, my lord?" said Pablo, with keen interest, as he presented the two

fingers of Madeira wine, "well?"

The canon did not reply, but took the glass eagerly and carried it to

his lips.

"Above all, sir, drink with meditation," cried Pablo, a scrupulous

observer of the cook's order.

The canon drank, indeed, with meditation, then clapped his tongue

against his palate, and, if that can be said, listened an instant to

relish the flower of the wine which mingled so marvellously with the

after-taste of the dish he had just tasted; then, without replying to

the interrogations of Pablo, he ate _pianissimo_ the three last Guinea

fowl eggs, with a pensive and increasing delectation, emptied the little

flagon of Madeira wine, and,--must we confess the dreadful

impropriety?--he actually dipped his bread so scrupulously into every

drop of the crab gravy in which the eggs were served that the bottom of

the silver dish soon shone with an immaculate lustre.

Then addressing his majordomo for the first time, Dom Diégo exclaimed,

in a tender voice, while tears glittered in his eyes:

"Ah, Pablo!"

"What is the matter, my lord? This emotion--"

"Pablo, I do not know who it is has said that great joys have something

melancholy in them; whoever did say it has not made a mistake, because,

from the infirmity of our nature, we often sink under the weight of the

greatest felicities. Now, for the first time in two months, I can really

say I eat, and I eat as I have never eaten in my life. No, no, human

language, you must see, my dear Pablo, cannot express the luxury, the

exquisite delicacy of this dish, so simple in appearance, Guinea fowl

eggs fried in the fat of quail, watered with gravy of crabs. No, for you

see, in proportion as I relish them I felt my appetite renew itself, and

at present I am much more hungry than before I ate. And this wine,

Pablo, this wine, how it melts in the mouth, hey?"

"Alas! my lord," said the majordomo, with a woeful face, "I do not know

even the taste of this wine, but I am glad to believe you."

"Oh, yes, believe me, my poor Pablo; it is dry and velvety at the same

time,--what shall I say? a nectar! and if you only knew, Pablo, how

admirably the flavour of this nectar mingles with the perfume of the

crab gravy! It is ideal, Pablo, ideal, I tell you, and I ought to be

radiant, crazy with joy in the recovery of my lost appetite,--well, no,

I feel myself overcome with an inexpressible tenderness; in fact, I weep

like a child! Pablo, do you see it? I am weeping, I am hungry!"

A bell sounded.

"What is that, Pablo?"

"It is he, my lord."

"Who?"

"The great man! he is ringing for us."

"He?"

"Yes, my lord," replied Pablo, removing the dish. "He declares that

those who eat should be at the call of those who prepare their food, for

only the latter know the hour, the minute, the instant each dish ought

to be served and tasted so as not to lose one atom of its worth."

"What he has said is very deep! He is right. Run, then, Pablo. My God!

he is ringing again! I hope he has not taken offence. Go quick, quick!"

The majordomo ran, and, let us confess the impropriety, the poor

creature, instigated by a consuming curiosity, dared to lick the dish he

carried with desperate greediness, although the canon had left it

absolutely clean. The ever increasing impatience with which the canon

looked for the different dishes, always unknown to him beforehand, can

be imagined.

Each service was accompanied with an "order," as Pablo called it, and a

new flagon of wine, drawn, no doubt, from the cellar of this wonderful

cook.

A collection of these culinary bulletins will give an idea of the varied

delights enjoyed by Dom Diégo.

After the note which announced the Guinea fowl eggs, the following menu

was served, in the order in which we present it:

"Trout from the lake of Geneva with Montpellier butter, preserved in

ice.

"Envelope each mouthful of this exquisite fish, hermetically, in a layer

of this highly spiced seasoning.

"Masticate _allegro._

"Drink two glasses of this Bordeaux wine, Sauterne of 1834, which has

made the voyage from the Indies three times.

"This wine should be _meditated._"

"A painter or a poet would have made an enchanting picture of this trout

with Montpellier butter preserved in ice," said the canon to Pablo. "See

there, this charming little trout, with flesh the colour of a rose, and

a head like mother-of-pearl, voluptuously lying on this bed of shining

green, composed of fresh butter and virgin oil congealed by ice, to

which tarragon, chive, parsley, and water-cresses have given this bright

emerald colour! And what perfume! How the freshness of this seasoning

contrasts with the pungency of the spices which relieve it! How

delicious! And this wine of Sauterne! As the great man of the kitchen

says, how admirably this ambrosia is suited to the character of this

divine trout which gives me a growing appetite!"

After the trout came another dish, accompanied with this bulletin:

"Fillets of grouse with white Piedmont truffles, minced raw.

"Enclose each mouthful of grouse between two slices of truffle, and

moisten the whole well with sauce à la Perigueux, with which black

truffles are mingled.

"Masticate _forte_, as the white truffles are raw.

"Drink two glasses of this wine of Château-Margaux 1834,--it also has

made a voyage from the Indies.

"This wine reveals itself in all its majesty only in the after-taste."

These fillets of grouse, far from appeasing the growing appetite of the

canon, excited it to violent hunger, and, in spite of the profound

respect which the orders of the great man had inspired in him, he sent

Pablo, before another ringing of the bell, in search of a new culinary

wonder.

Finally the bell sounded.

The majordomo returned with this note, which accompanied another dish:

"Salt marsh rails roasted on toast à la Sardanapalus.

"Eat only the legs and rump of the rails; do not cut the leg, take it by

the foot, sprinkle it lightly with salt, then cut it off just above the

foot, and chew the flesh and the bone.

"Masticate _largo_ and _fortissimo_; eat at the same time a mouthful of

the hot toast, coated over with an unctuous condiment made of the

combination of snipe liver and brains and fat livers of Strasburg,

roebuck marrow, pounded anchovy, and pungent spices.

"Drink two glasses of Clos Vougeot of 1817.

"Pour out this wine with emotion, drink it with religion."

After this roast, worthy of Lucullus or Trimaleyon, and enjoyed by the

canon with all the intensity of unsatisfied hunger, the majordomo

reappeared with two side-dishes that the menu announced thus:

"Mushrooms with delicate herbs and the essence of ham; let this divine

mushroom soften and dissolve in the mouth.

"Masticate _pianissimo._

"Drink a glass of the wine Côte-Rôtie 1829, and a glass of Johannisberg

of 1729, drawn from the municipal vats of the burgomasters of

Heidelberg.

"No recommendation to make for the advantage of the wine, Côte-Rôtie; it

is a proud, imperious wine, it asserts itself. As for the old

Johannisberg, one hundred and forty years old, approach it with the

veneration which a centenarian inspires; drink it with compunction.

"Two sweet side-dishes.

"Morsels à la duchesse with pineapple jelly.