I. THE REVEREND FATHERS AGARIC AND CORNEMUSE
Every system of government produces people who are dissatisfied. The
Republic or Public Thing produced them at first from among the nobles
who had been despoiled of their ancient privileges. These looked with
regret and hope to Prince Crucho, the last of the Draconides, a prince
adorned both with the grace of youth and the melancholy of exile. It
also produced them from among the smaller traders, who, owing to
profound economic causes, no longer gained a livelihood. They believed
that this was the fault of the republic which they had at first adored
and from which each day they were now becoming more detached. The
financiers, both Christians and Jews, became by their insolence and
their cupidity the scourge of the country, which they plundered and
degraded, as well as the scandal of a government which they never
troubled either to destroy or preserve, so confident were they that
they could operate without hindrance under all governments.
Nevertheless, their sympathies inclined to absolute power as the best
protection against the socialists, their puny but ardent adversaries.
And just as they imitated the habits of the aristocrats, so they
imitated their political and religious sentiments. Their women, in
particular, loved the Prince and had dreams of appearing one day at his
Court.
However, the Republic retained some partisans and defenders. If it was
not in a position to believe in the fidelity of its own officials it
could at least still count on the devotion of the manual labourers,
although it had never relieved their misery. These came forth in crowds
from their quarries and their factories to defend it, and marched in
long processions, gloomy, emaciated, and sinister. They would have died
for it because it had given them hope.
Now, under the Presidency of Theodore Formose, there lived in a
peaceable suburb of Alca a monk called Agaric, who kept a school and
assisted in arranging marriages. In his school he taught fencing and
riding to the sons of old families, illustrious by their birth, but now
as destitute of wealth as of privilege. And as soon as they were old
enough he married them to the daughters of the opulent and despised
caste of financiers.
Tall, thin, and dark, Agaric used to walk in deep thought, with his
breviary in his hand and his brow loaded with care, through the
corridors of the school and the alleys of the garden. His care was not
limited to inculcating in his pupils abstruse doctrines and mechanical
precepts and to endowing them afterwards with legitimate and rich
wives. He entertained political designs and pursued the realisation of
a gigantic plan. His thought of thoughts and labour of labours was to
overthrow the Republic. He was not moved to this by any personal
interest. He believed that a democratic state was opposed to the holy
society to which body and soul he belonged. And all the other monks,
his brethren, thought the same. The Republic was perpetually at strife
with the congregation of monks and the assembly of the faithful. True,
to plot the death of the new government was a difficult and perilous
enterprise. Still, Agaric was in a position to carry on a formidable
conspiracy. At that epoch, when the clergy guided the superior classes
of the Penguins, this monk exercised a tremendous influence over the
aristocracy of Alca.
All the young men whom he had brought up waited only for a favourable
moment to march against the popular power. The sons of the ancient
families did not practise the arts or engage in business. They were
almost all soldiers and served the Republic. They served it, but they
did not love it; they regretted the dragon’s crest. And the fair
Jewesses shared in these regrets in order that they might be taken for
Christians.
One July as he was walking in a suburban street which ended in some
dusty fields, Agaric heard groans coming from a moss-grown well that
had been abandoned by the gardeners. And almost immediately he was told
by a cobbler of the neighbourhood that a ragged man who had shouted out
“Hurrah for the Republic!” had been thrown into the well by some
cavalry officers who were passing, and had sunk up to his ears in the
mud. Agaric was quite ready to see a general significance in this
particular fact. He inferred a great fermentation in the whole
aristocratic and military caste, and concluded that it was the moment
to act.
The next day he went to the end of the Wood of Conils to visit the good
Father Cornemuse. He found the monk in his laboratory pouring a
golden-coloured liquor into a still. He was a short, fat, little man,
with vermilion-tinted cheeks and an elaborately polished bald head. His
eyes had ruby-coloured pupils like a guinea-pig’s. He graciously
saluted his visitor and offered him a glass of the St. Orberosian
_liqueur_, which he manufactured, and from the sale of which he gained
immense wealth.
Agaric made a gesture of refusal. Then, standing on his long feet and
pressing his melancholy hat against his stomach, he remained silent.
“Take a seat,” said Cornemuse to him.
Agaric sat down on a rickety stool, but continued mute.
Then the monk of Conils inquired:
“Tell me some news of your young pupils. Have the dear children sound
views?”
“I am very satisfied with them,” answered the teacher. “It is
everything to be nurtured in sound principles. It is necessary to have
sound views before having any views at all, for afterwards it is too
late. . . . Yes, I have great grounds for comfort. But we live in a sad
age.”
“Alas!” sighed Cornemuse.
“We are passing through evil days. . . .”
“Times of trial.”
“Yet, Cornemuse, the mind of the public is not so entirely corrupted as
it seems.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“The people are tired of a government that ruins them and does nothing
for them. Every day fresh scandals spring up. The Republic is sunk in
shame. It is ruined.”
“May God grant it!”
“Cornemuse, what do you think of Prince Crucho?”
“He is an amiable young man and, I dare say, a worthy scion of an
august stock. I pity him for having to endure the pains of exile at so
early an age. Spring has no flowers for the exile, and autumn no
fruits. Prince Crucho has sound views; he respects the clergy; he
practises our religion; besides, he consumes a good deal of my little
products.”
“Cornemuse, in many homes, both rich and poor, his return is hoped for.
Believe me, he will come back.”
“May I live to throw my mantle beneath his feet!” sighed Cornemuse.
Seeing that he held these sentiments, Agaric depicted to him the state
of people’s minds such as he himself imagined them. He showed him the
nobles and the rich exasperated against the popular government; the
army refusing to endure fresh insults; the officials willing to betray
their chiefs; the people discontented, riot ready to burst forth, and
the enemies of the monks, the agents of the constituted authority,
thrown into the wells of Alca. He concluded that it was the moment to
strike a great blow.
“We can,” he cried, “save the Penguin people, we can deliver it from
its tyrants, deliver it from itself, restore the Dragon’s crest,
re-establish the ancient State, the good State, for the honour of the
faith and the exaltation of the Church. We can do this if we will. We
possess great wealth and we exert secret influences; by our
evangelistic and outspoken journals we communicate with all the
ecclesiastics in towns and county alike, and we inspire them with our
own eager enthusiasm and our own burning faith. They will kindle their
penitents and their congregations. I can dispose of the chiefs of the
army; I have an understanding with the men of the people. Unknown to
them I sway the minds of umbrella sellers, publicans, shopmen, gutter
merchants, newspaper boys, women of the streets, and police agents. We
have more people on our side than we need. What are we waiting for? Let
us act!”
“What do you think of doing?” asked Cornemuse.
“Of forming a vast conspiracy and overthrowing the Republic, of
re-establishing Crucho on the throne of the Draconides.”
Cornemuse moistened his lips with his tongue several times. Then he
said with unction:
“Certainly the restoration of the Draconides is desirable; it is
eminently desirable; and for my part, desire it with all my heart. As
for the Republic, you know what I think of it. . . . But would it not
be better to abandon it to its fate and let it die of the vices of its
own constitution? Doubtless, Agaric, what you propose is noble and
generous. It would be a fine thing to save this great and unhappy
country, to re-establish it in its ancient splendour. But reflect on
it, we are Christians before we are Penguins. And we must take heed not
to compromise religion in political enterprises.”
Agaric replied eagerly:
“Fear nothing. We shall hold all the threads of the plot, but we
ourselves shall remain in the background. We shall not be seen.”
“Like flies in milk,” murmured the monk of Conils.
And turning his keen ruby-coloured eyes towards his brother monk:
“Take care. Perhaps the Republic is stronger than it seems. Possibly,
too, by dragging it out of the nerveless inertia in which it now rests
we may only consolidate its forces. Its malice is great; if we attack
it, it will defend itself. It makes bad laws which hardly affect us; if
it is frightened it will make terrible ones against us. Let us not
lightly engage in an adventure in which we may get fleeced. You think
the opportunity a good one. I don’t, and I am going to tell you why.
The present government is not yet known by everybody, that is to say,
it is known by nobody. It proclaims that it is the Public Thing, the
common thing. The populace believes it and remains democratic and
Republican. But patience! This same people will one day demand that the
public thing be the people’s thing. I need not tell you how insolent,
unregulated, and contrary to Scriptural polity such claims seem to me.
But the people will make them, and enforce them, and then there will be
an end of the present government. The moment cannot now be far distant;
and it is then that we ought to act in the interests of our august
body. Let us wait. What hurries us? Our existence is not in peril. It
has not been rendered absolutely intolerable to us. The Republic fails
in respect and submission to us; it does not give the priests the
honours it owes them. But it lets us live. And such is the excellence
of our position that with us to live is to prosper. The Republic is
hostile to us, but women revere us. President Formose does not assist
at the celebration of our mysteries, but I have seen his wife and
daughters at my feet. They buy my phials by the gross. I have no better
clients even among the aristocracy. Let us say what there is to be said
for it. There is no country in the world as good for priests and monks
as Penguinia. In what other country would you find our virgin wax, our
virile incense, our rosaries, our scapulars, our holy water, and our
St. Orberosian liqueur sold in such great quantities? What other people
would, like the Penguins, give a hundred golden crowns for a wave of
our hands, a sound from our mouths, a movement of our lips? For my
part, I gain a thousand times more, in this pleasant, faithful, and
docile Penguinia, by extracting the essence from a bundle of thyme,
than I could make by tiring my lungs with preaching the remission of
sins in the most populous states of Europe and America. Honestly, would
Penguinia be better off if a police officer came to take me away from
here and put me on a steamboat bound for the Islands of Night?”
Having thus spoken, the monk of Conils got up and led his guest into a
huge shed where hundreds of orphans clothed in blue were packing
bottles, nailing up cases, and gumming tickets. The ear was deafened by
the noise of hammers mingled with the dull rumbling of bales being
placed upon the rails.
“It is from here that consignments are forwarded,” said Cornemuse. “I
have obtained from the government a railway through the Wood and a
station at my door. Every three days I fill a truck with my own
products. You see that the Republic has not killed all beliefs.”
Agaric made a last effort to engage the wise distiller in his
enterprise. He pointed him to a prompt, certain, dazzling success.
“Don’t you wish to share in it?” he added. “Don’t you wish to bring
back your king from exile?”
“Exile is pleasant to men of good will,” answered the monk of Conils.
“If you are guided by me, my dear Brother Agaric, you will give up your
project for the present. For my own part I have no illusions. Whether
or not I belong to your party, if you lose, I shall have to pay like
you.”
Father Agaric took leave of his friend and went back satisfied to his
school. “Cornemuse,” thought he, “not being able to prevent the plot,
would like to make it succeed and he will give money.” Agaric was not
deceived. Such, indeed, was the solidarity among priests and monks that
the acts of a single one bound them all. That was at once both their
strength and their weakness.
II. PRINCE CRUCHO
Agaric resolved to proceed without delay to Prince Crucho, who honoured
him with his familiarity. In the dusk of the evening he went out of his
school by the side door, disguised as a cattle merchant and took
passage on board the St. Maël.
The next day he landed in Porpoisea, for it was at Chitterlings Castle
on this hospitable soil that Crucho ate the bitter bread of exile.
Agaric met the Prince on the road driving in a motor-car with two young
ladies at the rate of a hundred miles an hour. When the monk saw him he
shook his red umbrella and the prince stopped his car.
“Is it you, Agaric? Get in! There are already three of us, but we can
make room for you. You can take one of these young ladies on your
knee.”
The pious Agaric got in.
“What news, worthy father?” asked the young prince.
“Great news,” answered Agaric. “Can I speak?”
“You can. I have nothing secret from these two ladies.”
“Sire, Penguinia claims you. You will not be deaf to her call.”
Agaric described the state of feeling and outlined a vast plot.
“On my first signal,” said he, “all your partisans will rise at once.
With cross in hand and habits girded up, your venerable clergy will
lead the armed crowd into Formose’s palace. We shall carry terror and
death among your enemies. For a reward of our efforts we only ask of
you, Sire, that you will not render them useless. We entreat you to
come and seat yourself on the throne that we shall prepare.”
The prince returned a simple answer:
“I shall enter Alca on a green horse.”
Agaric declared that he accepted this manly response. Although,
contrary to his custom, he had a lady on his knee, he adjured the young
prince, with a sublime loftiness of soul, to be faithful to his royal
duties.
“Sire,” he cried, with tears in his eyes, “you will live to remember
the day on which you have been restored from exile, given back to your
people, reestablished on the throne of your ancestors by the hands of
your monks, and crowned by them with the august crest of the Dragon.
King Crucho, may you equal the glory of your ancestor Draco the Great!”
The young prince threw himself with emotion on his restorer and
attempted to embrace him, but he was prevented from reaching him by the
girth of the two ladies, so tightly packed were they all in that
historic carriage.
“Worthy father,” said he, “I would like all Penguinia to witness this
embrace.”
“It would be a cheering spectacle,” said Agaric.
In the mean time the motor-car rushed like a tornado through hamlets
and villages, crushing hens, geese, turkeys, ducks, guinea-fowls, cats,
dogs, pigs, children, labourers, and women beneath its insatiable
tyres. And the pious Agaric turned over his great designs in his mind.
His voice, coming from behind one of the ladies, expressed this
thought:
“We must have money, a great deal of money.”
“That is your business,” answered the prince.
But already the park gates were opening to the formidable motor-car.
The dinner was sumptuous. They toasted the Dragon’s crest. Everybody
knows that a closed goblet is a sign of sovereignty; so Prince Crucho
and Princess Gudrune, his wife, drank out of goblets that were
covered-over like ciboriums. The prince had his filled several times
with the wines of Penguinia, both white and red.
Crucho had received a truly princely education, and he excelled in
motoring, but was not ignorant of history either. He was said to be
well versed in the antiquities and famous deeds of his family; and,
indeed, he gave a notable proof of his knowledge in this respect. As
they were speaking of the various remarkable peculiarities that had
been noticed in famous women.
“It is perfectly true,” said he, “that Queen Crucha, whose name I bear,
had the mark of a little monkey’s head upon her body.”
During the evening Agaric had a decisive interview with three of the
prince’s oldest councillors. It was decided to ask for funds from
Crucho’s father-in-law, as he was anxious to have a king for
son-in-law, from several Jewish ladies, who were impatient to become
ennobled, and, finally, from the Prince Regent of the Porpoises, who
had promised his aid to the Draconides, thinking that by Crucho’s
restoration he would weaken the Penguins, the hereditary enemies of his
people. The three old councillors divided among themselves the three
chief offices of the Court, those of Chamberlain, Seneschal, and High
Steward, and authorised the monk to distribute the other places to the
prince’s best advantage.
“Devotion has to be rewarded,” said the three old councillors.
“And treachery also,” said Agaric.
“It is but too true,” replied one of them, the Marquis of Sevenwounds,
who had experience of revolutions.
There was dancing, and after the ball Princess Gudrune tore up her
green robe to make cockades. With her own hands she sewed a piece of it
on the monk’s breast, upon which he shed tears of sensibility and
gratitude.
M. de Plume, the prince’s equerry, set out the same evening to look for
a green horse.
III. THE CABAL
After his return to the capital of Penguinia, the Reverend Father
Agaric disclosed his projects to Prince Adélestan des Boscénos, of
whose Draconian sentiments he was well aware.
The prince belonged to the highest nobility. The Torticol des Boscénos
went back to Brian the Good, and under the Draconides had held the
highest offices in the kingdom. In 1179, Philip Torticol, High Admiral
of Penguinia, a brave, faithful, and generous, but vindictive man,
delivered over the port of La Crique and the Penguin fleet to the
enemies of the kingdom, because he suspected that Queen Crucha, whose
lover he was, had been unfaithful to him and loved a stable-boy. It was
that great queen who gave to the Boscénos the silver warming-pan which
they bear in their arms. As for their motto, it only goes back to the
sixteenth century. The story of its origin is as follows: One gala
night, as he mingled with the crowd of courtiers who were watching the
fire-works in the king’s garden, Duke John des Boscénos approached the
Duchess of Skull and put his hand under the petticoat of that lady, who
made no complaint at the gesture. The king, happening to pass,
surprised them and contented himself with saying, “And thus I find
you.” These four words became the motto of the Boscénos.
Prince Adélestan had not degenerated from his ancestors. He preserved
an unalterable fidelity for the race of the Draconides and desired
nothing so much as the restoration of Prince Crucho, an event which was
in his eyes to be the fore-runner of the restoration of his own
fortune. He therefore readily entered into the Reverend Father Agaric’s
plans. He joined himself at once to the monk’s projects, and hastened
to put him into communication with the most loyal Royalists of his
acquaintance, Count Cléna, M. de La Trumelle, Viscount Olive, and M.
Bigourd. They met together one night in the Duke of Ampoule’s country
house, six miles eastward of Alca, to consider ways and means.
M. de La Trumelle was in favour of legal action.
“We ought to keep within the law,” said he in substance. “We are for
order. It is by an untiring propaganda that we shall best pursue the
realisation of our hopes. We must change the feeling of the country.
Our cause will conquer because it is just.”
The Prince des Boscénos expressed a contrary opinion. He thought that,
in order to triumph, just causes need force quite as much and even more
than unjust causes require it.
“In the present situation,” said he tranquilly, “three methods of
action present themselves: to hire the butcher boys, to corrupt the
ministers, and to kidnap President Formose.”
“It would be a mistake to kidnap Formose,” objected M. de La Trumelle.
“The President is on our side.”
The attitude and sentiments of the President of the Republic are
explained by the fact that one Dracophil proposed to seize Formose
while another Dracophil regarded him as a friend. Formose showed
himself favourable to the Royalists, whose habits he admired and
imitated. If he smiled at the mention of the Dragon’s crest it was at
the thought of putting it on his own head. He was envious of sovereign
power, not because he felt himself capable of exercising it, but
because he loved to appear so. According to the expression of a Penguin
chronicler, “he was a goose.”
Prince des Boscénos maintained his proposal to march against Formose’s
palace and the House of Parliament.
Count Cléna was even still more energetic.
“Let us begin,” said he, “by slaughtering, disembowelling, and braining
the Republicans and all partisans of the government. Afterwards we
shall see what more need be done.”
M. de La Trumelle was a moderate, and moderates are always moderately
opposed to violence. He recognised that Count Cléna’s policy was
inspired by a noble feeling and that it was high-minded, but he timidly
objected that perhaps it was not conformable to principle, and that it
presented certain dangers. At last he consented to discuss it.
“I propose,” added he, “to draw up an appeal to the people. Let us show
who we are. For my own part I can assure you that I shall not hide my
flag in my pocket.”
M. Bigourd began to speak.
“Gentlemen, the Penguins are dissatisfied with the new order because it
exists, and it is natural for men to complain of their condition. But
at the same time the Penguins are afraid to change their government
because new things alarm them. They have not known the Dragon’s crest
and, although they sometimes say that they regret it, we must not
believe them. It is easy to see that they speak in this way either
without thought or because they are in an ill-temper. Let us not have
any illusions about their feelings towards ourselves. They do not like
us. They hate the aristocracy both from a base envy and from a generous
love of equality. And these two united feelings are very strong in a
people. Public opinion is not against us, because it knows nothing
about us. But when it knows what we want it will not follow us. If we
let it be seen that we wish to destroy democratic government and
restore the Dragon’s crest, who will be our partisans? Only the
butcher-boys and the little shopkeepers of Alca. And could we even
count on them to the end? They are dissatisfied, but at the bottom of
their hearts they are Republicans. They are more anxious to sell their
cursed wares than to see Crucho again. If we act openly we shall only
cause alarm.
“To make people sympathise with us and follow us we must make them
believe that we want, not to overthrow the Republic, but, on the
contrary, to restore it, to cleanse, to purify, to embellish, to adorn,
to beautify, and to ornament it, to render it, in a word, glorious and
attractive. Therefore, we ought not to act openly ourselves. It is
known that we are not favourable to the present order. We must have
recourse to a friend of the Republic, and, if we are to do what is
best, to a defender of this government. We have plenty to choose from.
It would be well to prefer the most popular and, if I dare say so, the
most republican of them. We shall win him over to us by flattery, by
presents, and above all by promises. Promises cost less than presents,
and are worth more. No one gives as much as he who gives hopes. It is
not necessary for the man we choose to be of brilliant intellect. I
would even prefer him to be of no great ability. Stupid people show an
inimitable grace in roguery. Be guided by me, gentlemen, and overthrow
the Republic by the agency of a Republican. Let us be prudent. But
prudence does not exclude energy. If you need me you will find me at
your disposal.”
This speech made a great impression upon those who heard it. The mind
of the pious Agaric was particularly impressed. But each of them was
anxious to appoint himself to a position of honour and profit. A secret
government was organised of which all those present were elected active
members. The Duke of Ampoule, who was the great financier of the party,
was chosen treasurer and charged with organising funds for the
propaganda.
The meeting was on the point of coming to an end when a rough voice was
heard singing an old air:
Boscénos est un gros cochon;
On en va faire des andouilles
Des saucisses et du jambon
Pour le réveillon des pauv’ bougres.
It had, for two hundred years, been a well-known song in the slums of
Alca. Prince Boscénos did not like to hear it. He went down into the
street, and, perceiving that the singer was a workman who was placing
some slates on the roof of a church, he politely asked him to sing
something else.
“I will sing what I like,” answered the man.
“My friend, to please me. . . .”
“I don’t want to please you.”
Prince Boscénos was as a rule good-tempered, but he was easily angered
and a man of great strength.
“Fellow, come down or I will go up to you,” cried he, in a terrible
voice.
As the workman, astride on his coping, showed no sign of budging, the
prince climbed quickly up the staircase of the tower and attacked the
singer. He gave him a blow that broke his jaw-bone and sent him rolling
into a water-spout. At that moment seven or eight carpenters, who were
working on the rafters, heard their companion’s cry and looked through
the window. Seeing the prince on the coping they climbed along a ladder
that was leaning on the slates and reached him just as he was slipping
into the tower. They sent him, head foremost, down the one hundred and
thirty-seven steps of the spiral staircase.
IV. VISCOUNTESS OLIVE
The Penguins had the finest army in the world. So had the Porpoises.
And it was the same with the other nations of Europe. The smallest
amount of thought will prevent any surprise at this. For all armies are
the finest in the world. The second finest army, if one could exist,
would be in a notoriously inferior position; it would be certain to be
beaten. It ought to be disbanded at once. Therefore, all armies are the
finest in the world. In France the illustrious Colonel Marchand
understood this when, before the passage of the Yalou, being questioned
by some journalists about the Russo-Japanese war, he did not hesitate
to describe the Russian army as the finest in the world, and also the
Japanese. And it should be noticed that even after suffering the most
terrible reverses an army does not fall from its position of being the
finest in the world. For if nations ascribe their victories to the
ability of their generals and the courage of their soldiers, they
always attribute their defeats to an inexplicable fatality. On the
other hand, navies are classed according to the number of their ships.
There is a first, a second, a third, and so on. So that there exists no
doubt as to the result of naval wars.
The Penguins had the finest army and the second navy in the world. This
navy was commanded by the famous Chatillon, who bore the title of
Emiralbahr, and by abbreviation Emiral. It is the same word which,
unfortunately in a corrupt form, is used to-day among several European
nations to designate the highest grade in the naval service. But as
there was but one Emiral among the Penguins, a singular prestige, if I
dare say so, was attached to that rank.
The Emiral did not belong to the nobility. A child of the people, he
was loved by the people. They were flattered to see a man who sprang
from their own ranks holding a position of honour. Chatillon was
good-looking and fortune favoured him. He was not over-addicted to
thought. No event ever disturbed his serene outlook.
The Reverend Father Agaric, surrendering to M. Bigourd’s reasons and
recognising that the existing government could only be destroyed by one
of its defenders, cast his eyes upon Emiral Chatillon. He asked a large
sum of money from his friend, the Reverend Father Cornemuse, which the
latter handed him with a sigh. And with this sum he hired six hundred
butcher boys of Alca to run behind Chatillon’s horse and shout, “Hurrah
for the Emiral!” Henceforth Chatillon could not take a single step
without being cheered.
Viscountess Olive asked him for a private interview. He received her at
the Admiralty[9] in a room decorated with anchors, shells, and
grenades.
[9] Or better, _Emiralty_.
She was discreetly dressed in greyish blue. A hat trimmed with roses
covered her pretty, fair hair. Behind her veil her eyes shone like
sapphires. Although she came of Jewish origin there was no more
fashionable woman in the whole nobility. She was tall and well shaped;
her form was that of the year, her figure that of the season.
“Emiral,” said she, in a delightful voice, “I cannot conceal my emotion
from you. . . . It is very natural . . . before a hero.”
“You are too kind. But tell me, Viscountess, what brings me the honour
of your visit.”
“For a long time I have been anxious to see you, to speak to you. . . .
So I very willingly undertook to convey a message to you.”
“Please take a seat.”
“How still it is here.”
“Yes, it is quiet enough.”
“You can hear the birds singing.”
“Sit down, then, dear lady.”
And he drew up an arm-chair for her.
She took a seat with her back to the light.
“Emiral, I came to bring you a very important message, a message. . .”
“Explain.”
“Emiral, have you ever seen Prince Crucho?”
“Never.”
She sighed.
“It is a great pity. He would be so delighted to see you! He esteems
and appreciates you. He has your portrait on his desk beside his
mother’s. What a pity it is he is not better known! He is a charming
prince and so grateful for what is done for him! He will be a great
king. For he will be king without doubt. He will come back and sooner
than people think. . . . What I have to tell you, the message with
which I am entrusted, refers precisely to. . .”
The Emiral stood up.
“Not a word more, dear lady. I have the esteem, the confidence of the
Republic. I will not betray it. And why should I betray it? I am loaded
honours and dignities.”
“Allow me to tell you, my dear Emiral, that your honours and dignities
are far from equalling what you deserve. If your services were properly
rewarded, you would be Emiralissimo and Generalissimo,
Commander-in-chief of the troops both on land and sea. The Republic is
very ungrateful to you.”
“All governments are more or less ungrateful.”
“Yes, but the Republicans are jealous of you. That class of person is
always afraid of his superiors. They cannot endure the Services.
Everything that has to do with the navy and the army is odious to them.
They are afraid of you.”
“That is possible.”
“They are wretches; they are ruining the country. Don’t you wish to
save Penguinia?
“In what way?”
“By sweeping away all the rascals of the Republic, all the
Republicans.”
“What a proposal to make to me, dear lady!”
“It is what will certainly be done, if not by you, then by some one
else. The Generalissimo, to mention him alone, is ready to throw all
the ministers, deputies, and senators into the sea, and to recall
Prince Crucho.”
“Oh, the rascal, the scoundrel,” exclaimed the Emiral.
“Do to him what he would do to you. The prince will know how to
recognise your services, He will give you the Constable’s sword and a
magnificent grant. I am commissioned, in the mean time, to hand you a
pledge of his royal friendship.”
As she said these words she drew a green cockade from her bosom.
“What is that?” asked the Emiral.
“It is his colours which Crucho sends you.”
“Be good enough to take them back.”
“So that they may be offered to the Generalissimo who will accept them!
. . . No, Emiral, let me place them on your glorious breast.”
Chatillon gently repelled the lady. But for some minutes he thought her
extremely pretty, and he felt this impression still more when two bare
arms and the rosy palms of two delicate hands touched him lightly. He
yielded almost immediately. Olive was slow in fastening the ribbon.
Then when it was done she made a low courtesy and saluted Chatillon
with the title of Constable.
“I have been ambitious like my comrades,” answered the sailor, “I don’t
hide it, and perhaps I am so still; but upon my word of honour, when I
look at you, the only, desire I feel is for a cottage and a heart.”
She turned upon him the charming sapphire glances that flashed from
under her eyelids.
“That is to be had also . . . what are you doing, Emiral?”
“I am looking for the heart.”
When she left the Admiralty, the Viscountess went immediately to the
Reverend Father Agaric to give an account of her visit.
“You must go to him again, dear lady,” said that austere monk.
V. THE PRINCE DES BOSCÉNOS
Morning and evening the newspapers that had been bought by the
Dracophils proclaimed Chatillon’s praises and hurled shame and
opprobrium upon the Ministers of the Republic. Chatillon’s portrait was
sold through the streets of Alca. Those young descendants of Remus who
carry plaster figures on their heads, offered busts of Chatillon for
sale upon the bridges.
Every evening Chatillon rode upon his white horse round the Queen’s
Meadow, a place frequented by the people of fashion. The Dracophils
posted along the Emiral’s route a crowd of needy Penguins who kept
shouting: “It is Chatillon we want.” The middle classes of Alca
conceived a profound admiration for the Emiral. Shopwomen murmured: “He
is good-looking.” Women of fashion slackened the speed of their
motor-cars and kissed hands to him as they passed, amidst the hurrahs
of an enthusiastic populace.
One day, as he went into a tobacco shop, two Penguins who were putting
letters in the box recognized Chatillon and cried at the top of their
voices: “Hurrah for the Emiral! Down with the Republicans.” All those
who were passing stopped in front of the shop. Chatillon lighted his
cigar before the eyes of a dense crowd of frenzied citizens who waved
their hats and cheered. The crowd kept increasing, and the whole town,
singing and marching behind its hero, went back with him to the
Admiralty.
The Emiral had an old comrade in arms, Under-Emiral Vulcanmould, who
had served with great distinction, a man as true as gold and as loyal
as his sword. Vulcanmould plumed himself on his thoroughgoing
independence and he went among the partisans of Crucho and the Minister
of the Republic telling both parties what he thought of them. M.
Bigourd maliciously declared that he told each party what the other
party thought of it. In truth he had on several occasions been guilty
of regrettable indiscretions, which were overlooked as being the
freedoms of a soldier who knew nothing of intrigue. Every morning he
went to see Chatillon, whom he treated with the cordial roughness of a
brother in arms.
“Well, old buffer, so you are popular,” said he to him. “Your phiz is
sold on the heads of pipes and on liqueur bottles and every drunkard in
Alca spits out your name as he rolls in the gutter. . . . Chatillon,
the hero of the Penguins! Chatillon, defender of the Penguin glory! . .
. Who would have said it? Who would have thought it?”
And he laughed with his harsh laugh. Then changing his tone: “But,
joking aside, are you not a bit surprised at what is happening to you?”
“No, indeed,” answered Chatillon.
And out went the honest Vulcanmould, banging the door behind him.
In the mean time Chatillon had taken a little flat at number 18
Johannes-Talpa Street, so that he might receive Viscountess Olive. They
met there every day. He was desperately in love with her. During his
martial and neptunian life he had loved crowds of women, red, black,
yellow, and white, and some of them had been very beautiful. But before
he met the Viscountess he did not know what a woman really was. When
the Viscountess Olive called him her darling, her dear darling, he felt
in heaven and it seemed to him that the stars shone in her hair.
She would come a little late, and, as she put her bag on the table, she
would ask pensively:
“Let me sit on your knee.”
And then she would talk of subjects suggested by the pious Agaric,
interrupting the conversation with sighs and kisses. She would ask him
to dismiss such and such an officer, to give a command to another, to
send the squadron here or there. And at the right moment she would
exclaim:
“How young you are, my dear!”
And he did whatever she wished, for he was simple, he was anxious to
wear the Constable’s sword, and to receive a large grant; he did not
dislike playing a double part, he had a vague idea of saving Penguinia,
and he was in love.
This delightful woman induced him to remove the troops that were at La
Cirque, the port where Crucho was to land. By this means it was made
certain that there would be no obstacle to prevent the prince from
entering Penguinia.
The pious Agaric organised public meetings so as to keep up the
agitation. The Dracophils held one or two every day in some of the
thirty-six districts of Alca, and preferably in the poorer quarters.
They desired to win over the poor, for they are the most numerous. On
the fourth of May a particularly fine meeting was held in an old
cattle-market, situated in the centre of a populous suburb filled with
housewives sitting on the doorsteps and children playing in the
gutters. There were present about two thousand people, in the opinion
of the Republicans, and six thousand according to the reckoning of the
Dracophils. In the audience was to be seen the flower of Penguin
society, including Prince and Princess des Boscénos, Count Cléna, M. de
La Trumelle, M. Bigourd, and several rich Jewish ladies.
The Generalissimo of the national army had come in uniform. He was
cheered.
The committee had been carefully formed. A man of the people, a
workman, but a man of sound principles, M. Rauchin, the secretary of
the yellow syndicate, was asked to preside, supported by Count Cléna
and M. Michaud, a butcher.
The government which Penguinia had freely given itself was called by
such names as cesspool and drain in several eloquent speeches. But
President Formose was spared and no mention was made of Crucho or the
priests.
The meeting was not unanimous. A defender of the modern State and of
the Republic, a manual labourer, stood up.
“Gentlemen,” said M. Rauchin, the chairman, “we have told you that this
meeting would not be unanimous. We are not like our opponents, we are
honest men. I allow our opponent to speak. Heaven knows what you are
going to hear. Gentlemen, I beg of you to restrain as long as you can
the expression of your contempt, your disgust, and your indignation.”
“Gentlemen,” said the opponent. . . .
Immediately he was knocked down, trampled beneath the feet of the
indignant crowd, and his unrecognisable remains thrown out of the hall.
The tumult was still resounding when Count Cléna ascended the tribune.
Cheers took the place of groans and when silence was restored the
orator uttered these words:
“Comrades, we are going to see whether you have blood in your veins.
What we have got to do is to slaughter, disembowel, and brain all the
Republicans.”
This speech let loose such a thunder of applause that the old shed
rocked with it, and a cloud of acrid and thick dust fell from its
filthy walls and worm-eaten beams and enveloped the audience.
A resolution was carried vilifying the government and acclaiming
Chatillon. And the audience departed singing the hymn of the liberator:
“It is Chatillon we want.”
The only way out of the old market was through a muddy alley shut in by
omnibus stables and coal sheds. There was no moon and a cold drizzle
was coming down. The police, who were assembled in great numbers,
blocked the alley and compelled the Dracophils to disperse in little
groups. These were the instructions they had received from their chief,
who was anxious to check the enthusiasm of the excited crowd.
The Dracophils who were detained in the alley kept marking time and
singing, “It is Chatillon we want.” Soon, becoming impatient of the
delay, the cause of which they did not know, they began to push those
in front of them. This movement, propagated along the alley, threw
those in front against the broad chests of the police. The latter had
no hatred for the Dracophils. In the bottom of their hearts they liked
Chatillon. But it is natural to resist aggression and strong men are
inclined to make use of their strength. For these reasons the police
kicked the Dracophils with their hob-nailed boots. As a result there
were sudden rushes backwards and forwards. Threats and cries mingled
with the songs.
“Murder! Murder! . . . It is Chatillon we want! Murder! Murder!”
And in the gloomy alley the more prudent kept saying, “Don’t push.”
Among these latter, in the darkness, his lofty figure rising above the
moving crowd, his broad shoulders and robust body noticeable among the
trampled limbs and crushed sides of the rest, stood the Prince des
Boscénos, calm, immovable, and placid. Serenely and indulgently he
waited. In the mean time, as the exit was opened at regular intervals
between the ranks of the police, the pressure of elbows against the
chests of those around the prince diminished and people began to
breathe again.
“You see we shall soon be able to go out,” said that kindly giant, with
a pleasant smile. “Time and patience . . .”
He took a cigar from his case, raised it to his lips and struck a
match. Suddenly, in the light of the match, he saw Princess Anne, his
wife, clasped in Count Cléna’s arms. At this sight he rushed towards
them, striking both them and those around with his cane. He was
disarmed, though not without difficulty, but he could not be separated
from his opponent. And whilst the fainting princess was lifted from arm
to arm to her carriage over the excited and curious crowd, the two men
still fought furiously. Prince des Boscénos lost his hat, his
eye-glass, his cigar, his necktie, and his portfolio full of private
letters and political correspondence; he even lost the miraculous
medals that he had received from the good Father Cornemuse. But he gave
his opponent so terrible a kick in the stomach that the unfortunate
Count was knocked through an iron grating and went, head foremost,
through a glass door and into a coal-shed.
Attracted by the struggle and the cries of those around, the police
rushed towards the prince, who furiously resisted them. He stretched
three of them gasping at his feet and put seven others to flight, with,
respectively, a broken jaw, a split lip, a nose pouring blood, a
fractured skull, a torn ear, a dislocated collar-bone, and broken ribs.
He fell, however, and was dragged bleeding and disfigured, with his
clothes in rags, to the nearest police-station, where, jumping about
and bellowing, he spent the night.
At daybreak groups of demonstrators went about the town singing, “It is
Chatillon we want,” and breaking the windows of the houses in which the
Ministers of the Republic lived.
VI. THE EMIRAL’S FALL
That night marked the culmination of the Dracophil movement. The
Royalists had no longer any doubt of its triumph. Their chiefs sent
congratulations to Prince Crucho by wireless telegraphy. Their ladies
embroidered scarves and slippers for him. M. de Plume had found the
green horse.
The pious Agaric shared the common hope. But he still worked to win
partisans for the Pretender. They ought, he said, to lay their
foundations upon the bed-rock.
With this design he had an interview with three Trade Union workmen.
In these times the artisans no longer lived, as in the days of the
Draconides, under the government of corporations. They were free, but
they had no assured pay. After having remained isolated from each other
for a long time, without help and without support, they had formed
themselves into unions. The coffers of the unions were empty, as it was
not the habit of the unionists to pay their subscriptions. There were
unions numbering thirty thousand members, others with a thousand, five
hundred, two hundred, and so forth. Several numbered two or three
members only, or even a few less. But as the lists of adherents were
not published, it was not easy to distinguish the great unions from the
small ones.
After some dark and indirect steps the pious Agaric was put into
communication in a room in the Moulin de la Galette, with comrades
Dagobert, Tronc, and Balafille, the secretaries of three unions of
which the first numbered fourteen members, the second twenty-four, and
the third only one. Agaric showed extreme cleverness at this interview.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “you and I have not, in most respects, the same
political and social views, but there are points in which we may come
to an understanding. We have a common enemy. The government exploits
you and despises us. Help us to overthrow it; we will supply you with
the means so far as we are able, and you can in addition count on our
gratitude.”
“Fork out the tin,” said Dagobert.
The Reverend Father placed on the table a bag which the distiller of
Conils had given him with tears in his eyes.
“Done!” said the three companions.
Thus was the solemn compact sealed.
As soon as the monk had departed, carrying with him the joy of having
won over the masses to his cause, Dagobert, Tronc, and Balafille
whistled to their wives, Amelia, Queenie, and Matilda, who were waiting
in the street for the signal, and all six holding each other’s hands,
danced around the bag, singing:
J’ai du bon pognon,
Tu n’l’auras pas Chatillon!
Hou! Hou! la calotte!
And they ordered a salad-bowl full of warm wine.
In the evening all six went through the street from stall to stall
singing their new song. The song became popular, for the detectives
reported that every day showed an increase of the number of workpeople
who sang through the slums:
J’ai du bon pognon;
Tu n’l’auras pas Chatillon!
Hou! Hou! la calotte!
The Dracophil agitation made no progress in the provinces. The pious
Agaric sought to find the cause of this, but was unable to discover it
until old Cornemuse revealed it to him.
“I have proofs,” sighed the monk of Conils, “that the Duke of Ampoule,
the treasurer of the Dracophils, has brought property in Porpoisia with
the funds that he received for the propaganda.”
The party wanted money. Prince des Boscénos had lost his portfolio in a
brawl and he was reduced to painful expedients which were repugnant to
his impetuous character. The Viscountess Olive was expensive. Cornemuse
advised that the monthly allowance of that lady should be diminished.
“She is very useful to us,” objected the pious Agaric.
“Undoubtedly,” answered Cornemuse, “but she does us an injury by
ruining us.”
A schism divided the Dracophils. Misunderstandings reigned in their
councils. Some wished that in accordance with the policy of M. Bigourd
and the pious Agaric, they should carry on the design of reforming the
Republic. Others, wearied by their long constraint, had resolved to
proclaim the Dragon’s crest and swore to conquer beneath that sign.
The latter urged the advantage of a clear situation and the
impossibility of making a pretence much longer, and in truth, the
public began to see whither the agitation was tending and that the
Emiral’s partisans wanted to destroy the very foundations of the
Republic.
A report was spread that the prince was to land at La Cirque and make
his entry into Alca on a green horse.
These rumours excited the fanatical monks, delighted the poor nobles,
satisfied the rich Jewish ladies, and put hope in the hearts of the
small traders. But very few of them were inclined to purchase these
benefits at the price of a social catastrophe and the overthrow of the
public credit; and there were fewer still who would have risked their
money, their peace, their liberty, or a single hour from their
pleasures in the business. On the other hand, the workmen held
themselves ready, as ever, to give a day’s work to the Republic, and a
strong resistance was being formed in the suburbs.
“The people are with us,” the pious Agaric used to say.
However, men, women, and children, when leaving their factories, used
to shout with one voice:
A bas Chatillon!
Hou! Hou! la calotte!
As for the government, it showed the weakness, indecision, flabbiness,
and heedlessness common to all governments, and from which none has
ever departed without falling into arbitrariness and violence. In three
words it knew nothing, wanted nothing, and would do nothing. Formose,
shut in his presidential palace, remained blind, dumb, deaf, huge,
invisible, wrapped up in his pride as in an eider-down.
Count Olive advised the Dracophils to make a last appeal for funds and
to attempt a great stroke while Alca was still in a ferment.
An executive committee, which he himself had chosen, decided to kidnap
the members of the Chamber of Deputies, and considered ways and means.
The affair was fixed for the twenty-eighth of July. On that day the sun
rose radiantly over the city. In front of the legislative palace women
passed to market with their baskets; hawkers cried their peaches,
pears, and grapes; cab horses with their noses in their bags munched
their hay. Nobody expected anything, not because the secret had been
kept but because it met with nothing but unbelievers. Nobody believed
in a revolution, and from this fact we may conclude that nobody desired
one. About two o’clock the deputies began to pass, few and unnoticed,
through the side-door of the palace. At three o’clock a few groups of
badly dressed men had formed. At half past three black masses coming
from the adjacent streets spread over Revolution Square. This vast
expanse was soon covered by an ocean of soft hats, and the crowd of
demonstrators, continually increased by sight-seers, having crossed the
bridge, struck its dark wave against the walls of the legislative
enclosure. Cries, murmurs, and songs went up to the impassive sky. “It
is Chatillon we want!” “Down with the Deputies!” “Down with the
Republicans!” “Death to the Republicans!” The devoted band of
Dracophils, led by Prince des Boscénos, struck up the august canticle:
Vive Crucho,
Vaillant et sage,
Plein de courage
Des le berceau!
Behind the wall silence alone replied.
This silence and the absence of guards encouraged and at the same time
frightened the crowd. Suddenly a formidable voice cried out:
“Attack!”
And Prince des Boscénos was seen raising his gigantic form to the top
of the wall, which was covered with barbs and iron spikes. Behind him
rushed his companions, and the people followed. Some hammered against
the wall to make holes in it; others endeavoured to tear down the
spikes and to pull out the barbs. These defences had given way in
places and some of the invaders had stripped the wall and were sitting
astride on the top. Prince des Boscénos was waving an immense green
flag. Suddenly the crowd wavered and from it came a long cry of terror.
The police and the Republican carabineers issuing out of all the
entrances of the palace formed themselves into a column beneath the
wall and in a moment it was cleared of its besiegers. After a long
moment of suspense the noise of arms was heard, and the police charged
the crowd with fixed bayonets. An instant afterwards and on the
deserted square strewn with hats and walking-sticks there reigned a
sinister silence. Twice again the Dracophils attempted to form, twice
they were repulsed. The rising was conquered. But Prince des Boscénos,
standing on the wall of the hostile palace, his flag in his hand, still
repelled the attack of a whole brigade. He knocked down all who
approached him. At last he, too, was thrown down, and fell on an iron
spike, to which he remained hooked, still clasping the standard of the
Draconides.
On the following day the Ministers of the Republic and the Members of
Parliament determined to take energetic measures. In vain, this time,
did President Formose attempt to evade his responsibilities. The
government discussed the question of depriving Chatillon of his rank
and dignities and of indicting him before the High Court as a
conspirator, an enemy of the public good, a traitor, etc.
At this news the Emiral’s old companions in arms, who the very evening
before had beset him with their adulations, made no effort to conceal
their joy. But Chatillon remained popular with the middle classes of
Alca and one still heard the hymn of the liberator sounding in the
streets, “It is Chatillon we want.”
The Ministers were embarrassed. They intended to indict Chatillon
before the High Court. But they knew nothing; they remained in that
total ignorance reserved for those who govern men. They were incapable
of advancing any grave charges against Chatillon. They could supply the
prosecution with nothing but the ridiculous lies of their spies.
Chatillon’s share in the plot and his relations with Prince Crucho
remained the secret of the thirty thousand Dracophils. The Ministers
and the Deputies had suspicions and even certainties, but they had no
proofs. The Public Prosecutor said to the Minister of justice: “Very
little is needed for a political prosecution! but I have nothing at all
and that is not enough.” The affair made no progress. The enemies of
the Republic were triumphant.
On the eighteenth of September the news ran in Alca that Chatillon had
taken flight. Everywhere there was surprise and astonishment. People
doubted, for they could not understand.
This is what had happened: One day as the brave Under-Emiral
Vulcanmould happened, as if by chance, to go into the office of M.
Barbotan, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, he remarked with his usual
frankness:
“M. Barbotan, your colleagues do not seem to me to be up to much; it is
evident that they have never commanded a ship. That fool Chatillon
gives them a deuced bad fit of the shivers.”
The Minister, in sign of denial, waved his paper-knife in the air above
his desk.
“Don’t deny it,” answered Vulcanmould. “You don’t know how to get rid
of Chatillon. You do not dare to indict him before the High Court
because you are not sure of being able to bring forward a strong enough
charge. Bigourd will defend him, and Bigourd is a clever advocate. . .
. You are right, M. Barbotan, you are right. It would be a dangerous
trial.”
“Ah! my friend,” said the Minister, in a careless tone, “if you knew
how satisfied we are. . . . I receive the most reassuring news from my
prefects. The good sense of the Penguins will do justice to the
intrigues of this mutinous soldier. Can you suppose for a moment that a
great people, an intelligent, laborious people, devoted to liberal
institutions which. . .”
Vulcanmould interrupted with a great sigh:
“Ah! If I had time to do it I would relieve you of your difficulty. I
would juggle away my Chatillon like a nutmeg out of a thimble. I would
fillip him off to Porpoisia.”
The Minister paid close attention.
“It would not take long,” continued the sailor. “I would rid you in a
trice of the creature. . . . But just now I have other fish to fry. . .
. I am in a bad hole. I must find a pretty big sum. But, deuce take it,
honour before everything.”
The Minister and the Under-Emiral looked at each other for a moment in
silence. Then Barbotan said with authority:
“Under-Emiral Vulcanmould, get rid of this seditious soldier. You will
render a great service to Penguinia, and the Minister of Home Affairs
will see that your gambling debts are paid.”
The same evening Vulcanmould called on Chatillon and looked at him for
some time with an expression of grief and mystery.
“My do you look like that?” asked the Emiral in an uneasy tone.
Vulcanmould said to him sadly:
“Old brother in arms, all is discovered. For the past half-hour the
government knows everything.”
At these words Chatillon sank down overwhelmed.
Vulcanmould continued:
“You may be arrested any moment. I advise you to make off.”
And drawing out his watch:
“Not a minute to lose.”
“Have I time to call on the Viscountess Olive?”
“It would be mad,” said Vulcanmould, handing him a passport and a pair
of blue spectacles, and telling him to have courage.
“I will,” said Chatillon.
“Good-bye! old chum.”
“Good-bye and thanks! You have saved my life.”
“That is the least I could do.”
A quarter of an hour later the brave Emiral had left the city of Alca.
He embarked at night on an old cutter at La Cirque and set sail for
Porpoisia. But eight miles from the coast he was captured by a
despatch-boat which was sailing without lights and which was under, the
flag of the Queen of the Black Islands. That Queen had for a long time
nourished a fatal passion for Chatillon.
VII. CONCLUSION
_Nunc est bibendum_. Delivered from its fears and pleased at having
escaped from so great a danger, the government resolved to celebrate
the anniversary of the Penguin regeneration and the establishment of
the Republic by holding a general holiday.
President Formose, the Ministers, and the members of the Chamber and of
the Senate were present at the ceremony.
The Generalissimo of the Penguin army was present in uniform. He was
cheered.
Preceded by the black flag of misery and the red flag of revolt,
deputations of workmen walked in the procession, their aspect one of
grim protection.
President, Ministers, Deputies, officials, heads of the magistracy and
of the army, each, in their own names and in the name of the sovereign
people, renewed the ancient oath to live in freedom or to die. It was
an alternative upon which they were resolutely determined. But they
preferred to live in freedom. There were games, speeches, and songs.
After the departure of the representatives of the State the crowd of
citizens separated slowly and peaceably, shouting out, “Hurrah for the
Republic!” “Hurrah for liberty!” “Down with the shaven pates!”
The newspapers mentioned only one regrettable incident that happened on
that wonderful day. Prince des Boscénos was quietly smoking a cigar in
the Queen’s Meadow when the State procession passed by. The prince
approached the Minister’s carriage and said in a loud voice: “Death to
the Republicans!” He was immediately apprehended by the police, to whom
he offered a most desperate resistance. He knocked them down in crowds,
but he was conquered by numbers, and, bruised, scratched, swollen, and
unrecognisable even to the eyes of his wife, he was dragged through the
joyous streets into an obscure prison.
The magistrates carried on the case against Chatillon in a peculiar
style. Letters were found at the Admiralty which revealed the
complicity of the Reverend Father Agaric in the plot. Immediately
public opinion was inflamed against the monks, and Parliament voted,
one after the other, a dozen laws which restrained, diminished,
limited, prescribed, suppressed, determined, and curtailed, their
rights, immunities, exemptions, privileges, and benefits, and created
many invalidating disqualifications against them.
The Reverend Father Agaric steadfastly endured the rigour of the laws
which struck himself personally, as well as the terrible fall of the
Emiral of which he was the chief cause. Far from yielding to evil
fortune, he regarded it as but a bird of passage. He was planning new
political designs more audacious than the first.
When his projects were sufficiently ripe he went one day to the Wood of
Conils. A thrush sang in a tree and a little hedgehog crossed the stony
path in front of him with awkward steps. Agaric walked with great
strides, muttering fragments of sentences to himself.
When he reached the door of the laboratory in which, for so many years,
the pious manufacturer had distilled the golden liqueur of St.
Orberosia, he found the place deserted and the door shut. Having walked
around the building he saw in the backyard the venerable Cornemuse,
who, with his habit pinned up, was climbing a ladder that leant against
the wall.
“Is that you, my dear friend?” said he to him. “What are you doing
there?”
“You can see for yourself,” answered the monk of Conils in a feeble
voice, turning a sorrowful look upon Agaric. “I am going into my
house.”
The red pupils of his eyes no longer imitated the triumph and
brilliance of the ruby, they flashed mournful and troubled glances. His
countenance had lost its happy fulness. His shining head was no longer
pleasant to the sight; perspiration and inflamed blotches bad altered
its inestimable perfection.
“I don’t understand,” said Agaric.
“It is easy enough to understand. You see the consequences of your
plot. Although a multitude of laws are directed against me I have
managed to elude the greater number of them. Some, however, have struck
me. These vindictive men have closed my laboratories and my shops, and
confiscated my bottles, my stills, and my retorts. They have put seals
on my doors and now I am compelled to go in through the window. I am
barely able to extract in secret and from time to time the juice of a
few plants and that with an apparatus which the humblest labourer would
despise.”
“You suffer from the persecution,” said Agaric. “It strikes us all.”
The monk of Conils passed his hand over his afflicted brow:
“I told you so, Brother Agaric; I told you that your enterprise would
turn against ourselves.”
“Our defeat is only momentary,” replied Agaric eagerly. “It is due to
purely accidental causes; it results from mere contingencies. Chatillon
was a fool; he has drowned himself in his own ineptitude. Listen to me,
Brother Cornemuse. We have not a moment to lose. We must free the
Penguin people, we must deliver them from their tyrants, save them from
themselves, restore the Dragon’s crest, reestablish the ancient State,
the good State, for the honour of religion and the exaltation of the
Catholic faith. Chatillon was a bad instrument; he broke in our hands.
Let us take a better instrument to replace him. I have the man who will
destroy this impious democracy. He is a civil official; his name is
Gomoru. The Penguins worship him, He has already betrayed his party for
a plate of rice. There’s the man we want!”
At the beginning of this speech the monk of Conils had climbed into his
window and pulled up the ladder.
“I foresee,” answered he, with his nose through the sash, “that you
will not stop until you have us all expelled from this pleasant,
agreeable, and sweet land of Penguinia. Good night; God keep you!”
Agaric, standing before the wall, entreated his dearest brother to
listen to him for a moment:
“Understand your own interest better, Cornemuse! Penguinia is ours.
What do we need to conquer it? just one effort more . . . one more
little sacrifice of money and . . .”
But without listening further, the monk of Conils drew in his head and
closed his window.