“Dear Madame Fleurissoire,“I shall be coming to see you this afternoon. Please expect me at about two o’clock. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you. Will you arrange for us to be alone?”
“Dear Madame Fleurissoire,
“I shall be coming to see you this afternoon. Please expect me at about two o’clock. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you. Will you arrange for us to be alone?”
She signed the note, then sealed the envelope and handed it to Amélie.
Madame Amédée Fleurissorie,néePéterat, the youngest sister of Veronica Armand-Dubois and Marguerite de Baraglioul, answered to the outlandish name of Arnica. Philibert Péterat, a botanist, who had acquired some celebrity under the Second Empire on account of his conjugal misfortunes, had as a young man determined to give the names of flowers to any children he might happen to have. Some of his friends considered the name of Veronica which he gave to his first-born, somewhat peculiar; but when it was followed by the name of Marguerite and people insinuated that he had climbed down—given in to public opinion—conformed to the commonplace, he determined in a cantankerous moment to bestow upon his third product a name so resolutely botanical as to stop the mouths of all back-biters.
Shortly after Arnica’s birth, Philibert, whose temperhad become soured, separated from his wife, left the capital and settled at Pau. His wife would linger on in Paris during the winter months, but every spring, at the beginning of the fine weather, she would return to Tarbes, her native town, and invite her two elder daughters to stay with her there in the old family mansion which she occupied.
Veronica and Marguerite divided the year between Tarbes and Pau. As for little Arnica, whom her mother and sisters looked down upon (it is true she was rather foolish and more pathetic than pretty), she spent the whole time, summer as well as winter, with her father.
The child’s greatest joy was to go botanising in the country; but the eccentric old man would often give way to his morose temper and leave her in the lurch; he would go off by himself on an inordinately long expedition, come home dog-tired and immediately after the evening meal take to his bed, without giving his daughter the charity of a word or a smile. When he was in a poetical mood he would play the flute and insatiably repeat the same tune over and over again. The rest of his time he spent drawing portraits of flowers in minute detail.
An old servant, nicknamed Réséda, who was both cook and housemaid, looked after the child and taught her what little she knew herself. With this education, Arnica reached the age of ten hardly knowing how to read. Fear of his neighbour’s tongues at last brought Philibert to a better sense of his duty. Arnica was sent to a school kept by a Madame Semène, a widow lady who instilled the rudiments of learning into a dozen or so little girls and a very few small boys.
Arnica Péterat—guileless and helpless creature—had never until that moment suspected that there might be anything laughable[E]in her name; on her first day at school its ridicule came upon her as a sudden revelation; she bowed her head, like some sluggish water-weed, to the stream of jeers that flowed over her; she turned red; she turned pale; she wept; and Madame Semène, by injudiciously punishing the whole class for its indecorous conduct, added a spice of animosity to what had before been a boisterous but not unkindly merriment.
Long, limp, anæmic and dull-eyed, Arnica stood with dangling arms, staring stupidly, in the middle of the little schoolroom, and when Madame Semène pointed out “the third bench on the left, Mademoiselle Péterat,” the whole class, in spite of reprimands, burst out again louder than ever.
Poor Arnica! Life seemed nothing but a dreary avenue stretching interminably before her and bordered on either side by sniggers and bullyings. Fortunately for her, Madame Semène was not impervious to the little girl’s misery, and she soon found a refuge in the widow’s charitable bosom.
When lessons were over, Arnica was glad enough to stay behind at school, rather than go home to find her father absent; Madame Semène had a daughter, a girl who was seven years older than Arnica and slightly hump-backed, but good-natured; in the hopes of catching a husband for her, Madame Semène used to have Sunday evening “at homes,” and on two Sundays a year shewould even get up a little party with recitations and dancing; these parties were attended by some of her old pupils, who came out of gratitude, escorted by their parents, and by a few youths without either means or prospects, who came out of idleness. Arnica was always present—a flower that lacked lustre—so modest as to be almost indistinguishable—but yet destined not to go altogether unperceived.
When, at fourteen, Arnica lost her father, it was Madame Semène who took in the orphan. Her two sisters, who were considerably older than she was, visited her only rarely. It was in the course of one of these visits, however, that Marguerite first met the young man who was to become her husband. Julius de Baraglioul was then aged twenty-eight and was on a visit to his grandfather, who, as we have already said, had settled in the neighbourhood of Pau shortly after the annexation of the Duchy of Parma by France.
Marguerite’s brilliant marriage (as a matter of fact, the Misses Péterat were not absolutely without fortune) made her appear more distant than ever to Arnica’s dazzled eyes; she had a shrewd suspicion that no Count—no Julius—would ever stoop to breathe her perfume. She envied her sister for having at last succeeded in escaping from the ill-sounding name of Péterat. The name ofMargueritewas charming. How well it went withde Baraglioul! Alas! Was there any name wedded to whichArnicawould cease to seem ridiculous?
Repelled by the world of fact, her soul, in its soreness and immaturity, tried to take refuge in poetry. At sixteen, she wore two drooping ringlets on each side of her sallow face, and her dreamy blue eyes looked out theirastonishment beside the blackness of her hair. Her toneless voice was not ungentle; she read verses and made strenuous efforts to write them. She considered everything that helped her to escape from life, poetical.
Two young men, who since their early childhood had been friends and partners in affection, used to frequent Madame Semène’s evening parties. One, weedy without being tall, scraggy rather than thin, with hair that was not so much fair as faded, with an aggressive nose and timid eyes, was Amédée Fleurissoire. The other was fat and stumpy, with stiff black hair growing low on his forehead, and the odd habit of holding his head on one side, his mouth open and his right hand stretched out in front of him: such is the portrait of Gaston Blafaphas. Amédée was the son of a stonecutter with a business in tombstones and funeral wreaths; Gaston’s father had an important chemist’s shop.
(However strange the name of Blafaphas may seem, it is very common in the villages of the lower slopes of the Pyrenees, though it is sometimes spelt in slightly different ways. Thus, for instance, in the single small town of Sta ..., where the writer of these lines was once called on some business connected with an examination, he saw a notary Blaphaphas, a hairdresser Blafafaz, and a pork-butcher Blaphaface, who, on being questioned, disclaimed any common origin, while each one of them expressed considerable contempt for the name of the other two and its inelegant orthography.—But these philological remarks will be of interest only to a somewhat restricted class of reader.)
What would Fleurissoire and Blafaphas have been without each other? It is hard to imagine such a thing. Atschool, during their recreation time they were continually together; constantly teased and tormented by the other boys, they gave each other patience, comfort and support. They were nicknamed the Blafafoires. To each of them their friendship seemed the ark of salvation—the single oasis in life’s pitiless desert. Neither of them tasted a joy that he did not immediately wish to share with the other—or, to speak more truly, there were no joys for either of them save those which could be tasted together.
Indifferent scholars—in spite of their disarming industry—and fundamentally refractory to any sort of culture, the Blafafoires would always have been at the bottom of their form if it had not been for the assistance of Eudoxe Lévichon, who, in return for a small consideration, corrected and even wrote their exercises for them. This Lévichon was the son of one of the chief jewellers of the town. (Albert Lévy, shortly after his marriage twenty years earlier with the only daughter of the jeweller Cohen, had found his business so prosperous that he had quitted the lower quarters of the town in order to establish himself not far from the Casino, and at the same time he had judged it a favourable opportunity to unite and agglutinate the two names as he had united the two businesses.)
Blafaphas had a wiry constitution, but Fleurissoire was delicate. At the approach of puberty Gaston’s superficies had turned dusky—one would have thought that the sap was going to burst forth into hair over the whole of his body; while Amédée’s more sensitive epidermis resisted, grew fiery—grew pimply, as if the hair were bashful at making its appearance. Old Monsieur Blafaphas advised the use of detergents and every Monday Gaston used to bring over in his bag a bottle of anti-scorbutic mixture, which he surreptitiously handed to his friend. They used ointments as well.
About this time Amédée caught his first cold—a cold which, notwithstanding the salubrious climate of Pau, lasted all the winter and left behind an unfortunate bronchial delicacy. This gave Gaston the opportunity for renewed attentions; he overwhelmed his friend with liquorice, with jujubes, with cough mixtures and with eucalyptus pectoral lozenges, specially prepared by Monsieur Blafaphaspèrefrom a receipt which had been given him by an oldcuré. Amédée became subject to constant catarrh and had to resign himself to never going out without a comforter.
The highest flight of Amédée’s ambition was to succeed to his father’s business. Gaston, however, notwithstanding his indolent appearance, was not without initiative; even at school he amused himself with devising small inventions, chiefly, it must be confessed, of a somewhat trifling nature—a fly-trap, a weighing-machine for marbles, a safety lock for his desk—which, for that matter, had no more secrets in it than his heart. Innocent as these first applications of his industry were, they nevertheless led him on to the more serious labours which afterwards engaged him, and the first result of which was the invention of a “hygienic, fumivorous [or smoke-consuming] pipe for weak-chested and other smokers,” which for a long time occupied a prominent place in the chemist’s shop window.
Amédée Fleurissoire and Gaston Blafaphas both fell in love with Arnica at the same moment—it was as inevitable as fate. The admirable thing was that this budding passion, which each hastened to confess to the other, instead of dividing them, only welded them together more closely than ever. And, indeed, Arnica did not at first give either of them any great cause for jealousy. Neither the one nor the other, moreover, had declared himself; and it would never have occurred to Arnica to imagine their flame, notwithstanding their trembling voices when, at Madame Semène’s Sunday evenings, she offered them raspberry vinegar, or camomile ... or cowslip tea. And both of them, as they went home in the evening, praised her grace, and the modesty of her behaviour—grew concerned for her paleness—gathered boldness.
They agreed to propose together on the same evening and then submit to her choice. Arnica, young to love, thanked Heaven in the surprise and simplicity of her heart. She begged her two admirers to give her time to reflect.
Truth to tell, she was not more attracted by the one than the other, and was interested in them only because they were interested in her, at a time when she had given up all hopes of interesting anyone. During six whole weeks, growing the while more and more perplexed, Arnica relished with a mild intoxication her two suitors’ parallel wooing. And while, during their midnight walks, the Blafafoires calculated together the rate of their respective progress, describing to each other lengthily and undisguisedly every word, look and smileshehad bestowed on them, Arnica, in the seclusion of her bedroom, spent the time writing on bits of paper (which she afterwards carefully burnt in the flame of the candle) or elsein repeating indefatigably, turn and turn about: Arnica Blafaphas?... Arnica Fleurissoire?—incapable of deciding between the equal horror of these two atrocious names.
Then, suddenly, on the evening of a little dance, she had chosen Fleurissoire; had not Amédée just called her Arnica, putting the accent on the penultimate in a way that seemed to her Italian? (As a matter of fact, he had done it without reflection, carried away, no doubt, by Mademoiselle Semène’s piano, with whose rhythm the atmosphere was throbbing.) And this name of Arnica—her own name—had there and then seemed to her fraught with unexpected music—as capable as any other of expressing poetry and love.... They were alone together in a little sitting-room next-door to the drawing-room, and so close to each other that when Arnica, almost swooning with emotion and gratitude, let fall her drooping head, it touched Amédée’s shoulder; and then, very gravely, he had taken Arnica’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers.
When, during their walk home that night, Amédée had announced his happiness to his friend, Gaston, contrary to his custom, had said nothing, and as they were passing a street lamp, Fleurissoire thought he saw him crying. Could Amédée really have been simple enough to suppose that his friend would share his happiness to this last degree? Abashed and remorseful, he took Blafaphas in his arms (the street was empty) and swore that however great his love might be, his friendship was greater still, that he had no intention of letting his marriage interfere with it, and, finally, that rather than feel that Blafaphas was suffering from jealousy, he was ready to promiseon his honour never to claim his conjugal rights.
Neither Blafaphas nor Fleurissoire possessed a very ardent temperament; Gaston, however, whose manhood troubled him a little more, kept silence and allowed Amédée to promise.
Shortly after Amédée’s marriage, Gaston, who, in order to console himself, had plunged over head and ears into work, discovered his Plastic Plaster. The first consequence of this invention, which, to begin with, had seemed of very little importance, was that it brought about the revival of Lévichon’s friendship for the Blafafoires—a friendship which for some time past had been allowed to lapse. Eudoxe Lévichon immediately divined the services which this composition would render to religious statuary. With a remarkable eye to contingencies, he at once christened it Roman Plaster.[F]The firm of Blafaphas, Fleurissoire and Lévichon was founded.
The undertaking was launched with a capital of sixty thousand francs, of which the Blafafoires modestly subscribed ten thousand. Lévichon, unwilling that his two friends should be pressed, generously provided the other fifty thousand. It is true that of these fifty thousand, forty were advanced by Fleurissoire out of Arnica’s marriage portion; the sum was repayable in ten years with compound interest at 4½ per cent—which was more than Arnica had ever hoped for—and Amédée’s small fortune was thus guaranteed from the risks which such an undertaking must necessarily incur. The Blafafoires, on their side, brought as an asset their family connexions and those of the Baragliouls, which meant, when once Roman Plaster had proved its reliability, the patronage of several influential members of the clergy; these latter (besides giving one or two important orders themselves) persuaded several small parishes to supply the growing needs of the faithful from the firm of B., F. & L., the increasing improvement of artistic education having created a demand for works of more exquisite finish than those which satisfied the ruder faith of our ancestors. To supply this demand a few artists of acknowledged value in the Church’s eyes, were enlisted by the firm of Roman Plaster, and were at last placed in the position of seeing their works accepted by the jury of the Salon. Leaving the Blafafoires at Pau, Lévichon established himself in Paris, where, with his social facility, the business soon developed considerably.
What could be more natural than that the Countess Valentine de Saint-Prix should endeavour, through Arnica, to interest the firm of Blafaphas & Co. in the secret cause of the Pope’s deliverance, and that she should confidently hope that the Fleurissoires’ extreme piety would reimburse her a portion of what she had subscribed? Unfortunately, the Blafafoires, owing to the minuteness of the amount which they had originally invested in the business, got very little out of it—two-twelfths of the disclosed profits and none at all of the others. The Countess could not be aware of this, for Arnica, like Amédée, was modestly shy of talking about their money matters.
“Dear Madame de Saint-Prix, what is the matter? Your letter frightened me.”
The Countess dropped into the arm-chair which Arnica pushed towards her.
“Oh, Madame Fleurissoire!... Oh! mayn’t I call you Arnica?... this trouble—it is yours as well as mine—will draw us together. Oh! if you only knew!...”
“Speak! Speak! don’t leave me in suspense!”
“I’ve only just heard it myself. I’ll tell you directly, but mind, it must be a secret between you and me.”
“I have never betrayed anyone’s confidence,” said Arnica, plaintively—not that anyone had ever confided in her.
“You’ll not believe it.”
“Yes, yes,” wailed Arnica.
“Ah!” wailed the Countess. “Oh, would you be kind enough to get me a cup of ... anything ... it doesn’t matter what.... I feel as if I were fainting.”
“What would you like? Cowslip? Lime-flower? Camomile?”
“It doesn’t matter.... Tea, I think.... I wouldn’t believe it myself at first.”
“There’s some boiling water in the kitchen. It won’t take a minute.”
While Arnica busied herself about the tea, the Countess appraised the drawing-room and its contents with a calculating eye. They were depressingly modest. A few green rep chairs; one red velvet arm-chair; one other arm-chair (in which she was seated) in common tapestry;one table; one mahogany console; in front of the fire-place, a woolwork rug; on the chimney-piece, on each side of the alabaster clock (which was in a glass case), two large vases in alabaster fretwork, also in glass cases; on the table, a photograph album for the family photographs; on the console, a figure of Our Lady of Lourdes in her grotto, in Roman Plaster (a small-sized model)—there was not a thing in the room that was not discouraging, and the Countess felt her heart sink within her.
But after all they were perhaps only shamming poverty—perhaps they were merely miserly....
Arnica came back with the tea-pot, the sugar and a cup on a tray.
“I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, not at all!... I’d rather do it now—before; afterwards, I mightn’t be able to.”
“Well, then, listen!” began Valentine, after Arnica had sat down. “The Pope——”
“No, no, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!” exclaimed Madame Fleurissoire instantly, stretching out her hand in front of her; then, uttering a faint cry, she fell back with her eyes closed.
“My poor dear! My poor dear!” said the Countess, patting her on the wrist. “I felt sure it would be too much for you.”
Arnica at last feebly opened half an eye and murmured sadly:
“Dead?”
Then Valentine, bending towards her, slipped into her ear the single word:
“Imprisoned!”
Sheer stupefaction brought Madame Fleurissoire backto her senses; and Valentine began her long story, stumbling over the dates, mixing up the names and muddling the chronology; one fact, however, stood out, certain and indisputable—our Holy Father had fallen into the hands of the infidel—a crusade was being secretly organised to deliver him, and in order to conduct it successfully a large sum of money was necessary.
“What will Amédée say?” moaned Arnica in dismay.
He was not expected home before evening, having gone out for a walk with his friend Blafaphas....
“Mind you impress on him the necessity of secrecy,” repeated Valentine several times over as she took her leave of Arnica. “Give me a kiss, my dear, and courage!”
Arnica nervously presented her damp forehead to the Countess.
“I will look in to-morrow to hear what you think of doing. Consult Monsieur Fleurissoire, but remember that the Church is at stake!... It’s agreed, then—only to your husband! You promise, don’t you? Not a word! Not a word!”
The Comtesse de Saint-Prix left Arnica in a state of depression bordering on faintness. When Amédée came in from his walk:
“My dear,” she said to him at once, “I have just heard something extremely sad. The Holy Father has been imprisoned.”
“No, not really?” said Amédée, as if he were saying “pooh!”
Arnica burst into sobs:
“I knew, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Come, come, darling,” went on Amédée, taking off hisovercoat, without which he never went out for fear of a sudden change of temperature. “Just think! Everyone would know if anything had happened to the Holy Father. It would be in all the papers. And who could have imprisoned him?”
“Valentine says it’s the Lodge.”
Amédée looked at Arnica under the impression that she had taken leave of her senses. He said, however:
“The Lodge? What Lodge?”
“How can I tell? Valentine has promised not to say anything about it.”
“Who told her?”
“She forbade me to say.... A canon, who was sent by a cardinal, with his card——”
Arnica understood nothing of public affairs and Madame de Saint-Prix’s story had left but a confused impression on her. The words “captivity” and “imprisonment” conjured up before her eyes dark and semi-romantic images; the word “crusade” thrilled her unspeakably, and when, at last, Amédée’s disbelief wavered and he talked of setting out at once, she suddenly saw him on horseback, in a helmet and breastplate.... As for him, he had begun by now to pace up and down the room.
“In the first place,” he said, “it’s no use talking about money—we haven’t got any. And do you think I could be satisfied with merely giving money? Do you think I should be able to sleep in peace merely because I had sacrificed a few bank-notes?... Why, my dear, if this is true that you’ve been telling me, it’s an appalling thing and we mustn’t rest till we’ve done something. Appalling, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I quite understand, appalling!... But all the same, do explain why.”
“Oh, if now I’ve got to explain!” and Amédée raised discouraged arms to Heaven.
“No, no,” he went on, “this isn’t an occasion for giving money; it’s oneself that one must give. I’ll consult Blafaphas; we’ll see what he says.”
“Valentine de Saint-Prix made me promise not to tell anyone,” put in Arnica, timidly.
“Blafaphas isn’t anyone; and we’ll impress on him that he must keep it strictly to himself.”
Then, turning towards her, he implored pathetically:
“Arnica, my dearest, let me go!”
She was sobbing. It was she now who insisted on Blafaphas coming to the rescue. Amédée was starting to fetch him, when he turned up of his own accord, knocking first at the drawing-room window, as was his habit.
“Well! that’s the most singular story I ever heard in my life!” he cried when they had told him all about it. “No, really! Who would ever have thought of such a thing?” And then, before Fleurissoire had said anything of his intentions, he went on abruptly:
“My dear fellow, there’s only one thing for us to do—set out at once.”
“You see,” said Amédée, “it’s his first thought.”
“Unfortunately I’m kept at home by my poor father’s health,” was his second.
“After all, it’s better that I should go by myself,” went on Amédée. “Two of us together would attract attention.”
“But will you know how to manage?”
At this, Amédée raised his shoulders and eyebrows, as much as to say: “I can but do my best!”
“Will you know whom to appeal to?... where to go?... And, as a matter of fact, what exactly do you mean to do when you get there?”
“First of all, find out the facts.”
“Supposing, after all, there were no truth in the story?”
“Exactly! I can’t rest till I know.”
And Gaston immediately exclaimed: “No more can I!”
“Do take a little more time to think it over, dear,” protested Arnica feebly.
“I have thought it over. I shall go—secretly—but I shall go.”
“When? Nothing is ready.”
“This evening. What do I need so much?”
“But you haven’t ever travelled. You won’t know how to.”
“You’ll see, my love, you’ll see! When I come back, I’ll tell you my adventures,” said he, with an engaging little chuckle which set his Adam’s apple shaking.
“You’re certain to catch cold.”
“I’ll wear your comforter.” He stopped in his pacing to raise Arnica’s chin with the tip of his forefinger, as one does a baby’s, when one wants to make it smile. Gaston’s attitude was one of reserve. Amédée went up to him:
“I count upon you to look up my trains. Find me a good train to Marseilles with thirds. Yes, yes, I insist upon travelling third. Anyhow, make me out a time-table in detail and mark the places where I shall have tochange—and where I can get refreshments—at any rate, as far as the frontier; after that, when I’ve got a start, I shall be able to look after myself, and with God’s guidance I shall get to Rome. You must write to me there poste restante.”
The importance of his mission was exciting his brain dangerously. After Gaston had gone, he continued to pace the room; from time to time he murmured, his heart melting with wonder and gratitude:
“To think that such a thing should be reserved forme!” So at last he had hisraison d’être. Ah! for pity’s sake, dear lady, let him go! To how many beings on God’s earth is it given to find their function?
All that Arnica obtained was that he should pass this one night with her, Gaston, indeed, having pointed out in the time-table which he brought round in the evening, that the most convenient train was the one that left at 8A.M.
The next morning it poured with rain. Amédée would not allow Arnica or Gaston to go with him to the station; so that the quaint traveller with his cod-fish eyes, his neck muffled in a dark crimson comforter, holding in his right hand a grey canvas portmanteau, on to which his visiting-card had been nailed, in his left an old umbrella, and on his arm a brown and green check shawl, was carried off by the train to Marseilles, without a farewell glance from anyone.
About this time an important sociological congress summoned Count Julius de Baraglioul back to Rome.He was not perhaps specially invited (his opinions on such subjects being founded more on conviction than knowledge), but he was glad to have this opportunity of getting into touch with one or two illustrious personages. And as Milan lay conveniently on his road—Milan where, as we know, the Armand-Dubois had gone to live on the advice of Father Anselm—he determined to take advantage of the circumstance in order to see his brother-in-law.
On the same day that Fleurissoire left Pau, Julius knocked at Anthime’s door. He was shown into a wretched apartment consisting of three rooms—if the dark closet where Veronica herself cooked the few vegetables which formed their chief diet, may be counted as a room. The little light there was came from a narrow court-yard and shone down dismally from a hideous metal reflector; Julius preferred to keep his hat in his hand rather than set it down on the oval table with its covering of doubtfully clean oilcloth, and remained standing because of the horror with which the horsehair chairs inspired him.
He seized Anthime by the arm and exclaimed:
“My poor fellow, you can’t stay here.”
“What are you pitying me for?” asked Anthime.
Veronica came hurrying up at the sound of their voices.
“Would you believe it, my dear Julius?—that is the only thing he finds to say in spite of the grossly unjust and unfair way in which we have been treated.”
“Who suggested your coming to Milan?”
“Father Anselm; but in any case we couldn’t have kept on the Via in Lucina apartment.”
“There was no need for us to keep it on,” said Anthime.
“That’s not the point. Father Anselm promised you compensation. Is he aware of your distress?”
“He pretends not to be,” said Veronica.
“You must complain to the Bishop of Tarbes.”
“Anthime has done so.”
“What did he say?”
“He is a worthy man; he earnestly encouraged me in my faith.”
“But since you have been here, haven’t you complained to anyone?”
“I just missed seeing Cardinal Pazzi, who had shown some interest in my case and to whom I had written; he did come to Milan, but he sent me word by his footman....”
“That a fit of the gout unfortunately kept him to his room.”
“But it’s abominable! Rampolla must be told!” cried Julius.
“Told what, my dear friend? It is true that I am somewhat reduced—but what need have we of more? In the time of my prosperity I was astray; I was a sinner; I was ill. Now, you see, I am cured. Formerly you had good cause to pity me. And yet you know well enough that worldly goods turn us aside from God.”
“Yes, but those worldly goods were yours by rights. It’s all very well that the Church should teach you to despise them, but not that she should cheat you of them.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Veronica. “What a relief it is to hear you, Julius! His resignation makes me boil with rage; it’s impossible to get him to defend himself. He has let himself be plucked like a goose andsaid ‘thank you’ to everyone who robbed him, as long as they did it in the Lord’s name.”
“Veronica! it grieves me to hear you talk like that. Whatever is done in the Lord’s name is well done.”
“If you think it’s agreeable to be made a fool of!” said Julius.
“God’s fool, dear Julius!”
“Just listen to him! That’s what he’s like the whole time! Nothing but Scripture texts in his mouth from morning to night! And after I’ve toiled and slaved and done the marketing and the cooking and the housemaiding, my good gentleman quotes the Gospel and says I’m being busy about many things and tells me to look at the lilies of the field.”
“I help you to the best of my power, dear,” said Anthime in a seraphic voice. “Now that I’ve got the use of my legs again, I’ve many a time offered to do the marketing or the housework for you.”
“That’s not a man’s business. Content yourself with writing your homilies, only try to get a little better pay for them.” And then, her voice getting more and more querulous (hers, who used to be so smiling!): “Isn’t it a disgrace?” she exclaimed. “When one thinks of what he used to get for his infidel articles in theDépêche! And now when thePilgrimpays him a miserable two-pence halfpenny for his religious meditations, he somehow or other contrives to give three quarters of it to the poor!”
“Then he’s a complete saint!” cried Julius, aghast.
“Oh! how he irritates me with his saintliness!... Look here! Do you know what this is?” and she fetched a small wicker cage from a dark corner of the room.“These are the two rats whose eyes my scientific friend put out in the old days.”
“Oh, Veronica, why will you harp on it? You used to feed them yourself when I was experimenting on them—and then I blamed you for it.... Yes, Julius, in my unregenerate days I blinded those poor creatures, out of vain scientific curiosity; it’s only natural I should look after them now.”
“I wish the Church thought it equally natural to do for you what you do for these rats—after having blinded you in the same way.”
“Blinded, do you say! Such words fromyou? Illumined, my dear brother, illumined!”
“My words were plain matter-of-fact. It seems to me inadmissible that you should be abandoned in such a state as this. The Church entered into an engagement with you; she must keep it—for her own honour—for our faith’s sake.” Then, turning to Veronica: “If you have obtained nothing so far, you must appeal higher still—and still higher. Rampolla, did I say? It’s to the Pope himself that I shall present a petition—to the Pope. He is acquainted with your story. He ought to be informed of such a miscarriage of justice. I am returning to Rome to-morrow.”
“You’ll stop to dinner, won’t you?” asked Veronica, somewhat apprehensively.
“Please excuse me—but really my digestion is so poor....” (and Julius, whose nails were very carefully kept, glanced at Anthime’s large, stumpy, square-tipped fingers). “On my way back from Rome I shall be able to stop longer, and then I want to tell you about the new book I’m now at work on, my dear Anthime.”
“I have just been re-readingOn the Heightsand it seems to me better than I thought it at first.”
“I am sorry for you! It’s a failure. I’ll explain why when you’re in a fit state to listen and to appreciate the strange preoccupations which beset me now. But there’s too much to say. Mum’s the word for the present!”
He bade the Armand-Dubois keep up their spirits, and left them.
“Et je ne puis approuver que ceux qui cherchent en gémissant.”—Pascal, 3421.
“Et je ne puis approuver que ceux qui cherchent en gémissant.”
—Pascal, 3421.
Amédée Fleurissoire had left Pau with five hundred francs in his pocket. This, he thought, would certainly suffice him for his journey, notwithstanding the extra expenses, to which the Lodge’s wickedness would no doubt put him. And if, after all, this amount proved insufficient—if he found himself obliged to prolong his stay, he would have recourse to Blafaphas, who was keeping a small sum in reserve for him.
As no one at Pau was to know where he was going, he had not taken his ticket further than Marseilles. From Marseilles to Rome a third-class ticket cost only thirty-eight francs, forty centimes, and left him free to break his journey if he chose—an option of which he took advantage, to satisfy, not his curiosity for foreign parts, which had never been lively, but his desire for sleep, which was inordinately strong. There was nothing he feared so much as insomnia, and as it was important to the Church that he should arrive at Rome in good trim, he would not consider the two days’ delay or the additional expense of the hotel bills.... What was that in comparison to spending a night in the train?—a night that would certainly be sleepless, and particularly dangerous to health on account of the other travellers’ breaths; and then if one of them wanted to renew the air and took it into his head to open a window, that meant catching a cold for certain.... He would therefore spend the first night at Marseilles and the second at Genoa, in one of those hotels that are found in the neighbourhood of the station, and are comfortable without being over-grand.
For the rest he was amused by the journey and at making it by himself—at last! For, at the age of forty-seven, he had never lived but in a state of tutelage, escorted everywhere by his wife and his friend Blafaphas. Tucked up in his corner of the carriage, he sat with a faint goat-like smile on his face, wishing himself Godspeed. All went well as far as Marseilles.
On the second day he made a false start. Absorbed in the perusal of the Baedeker for Central Italy which he had just bought, he got into the wrong train and headed straight for Lyons; it was only at Arles that he noticed his mistake, just as the train was starting, so that he was obliged to go on to Tarascon and come back over the same ground for the second time; then he took an evening train as far as Toulon rather than spend another night at Marseilles, where he had been pestered with bugs.
And yet the room which looked on to the Cannebière had not been uninviting, nor the bed either, for that matter; he had got into it without misgivings, after having folded his clothes, done his accounts and said his prayers. He was dropping with sleep and went off at once.
The manners and customs of bugs are peculiar; they wait till the candle is out, and then, as soon as it is dark, sally forth—not at random; they make straight for the neck, the place of their predilection; sometimes they select the wrists; a few rare ones prefer the ankles. It is not exactly known for what reason they inject into the sleeper’s skin an exquisitely irritating oily substance, the virulence of which is intensified by the slightest rubbing....
The irritation which awoke Fleurissoire was so violent that he lit his candle again and hurried to the looking-glass to gaze at his lower jaw, where there appeared an irregular patch of red dotted with little white spots; but the smoky dip gave a bad light; the silver of the glass was tarnished and his eyes were blurred with sleep.... He went back to bed still rubbing and put out his light; five minutes later he lit it again, for the itching had become intolerable, sprang to the wash-hand-stand, wetted his handkerchief in his water jug and applied it to the inflamed zone, which had greatly extended and now reached as far as his collar-bone. Amédée thought he was going to be ill and offered up a prayer; then he put out his candle once more. The respite which the cool compress had granted him lasted too short a time to permit the sufferer to go to sleep; and there was added now to the agony of the itching, the discomfort of having the collar of his night-shirt drenched with water; he drenched it, too, with his tears. And suddenly he started with horror—bugs! it was bugs!... He was surprised that he had not thought of them sooner; but he knew the insect only by name, and how was it possible to imagine that a definite bite could result in this indefinableburning? He shot out of his bed and for the third time lit his candle.
Being of a nervous and theoretical disposition, his ideas about bugs, like many other people’s, were all wrong; cold with disgust, he began by searching for them on himself—found ne’er a one—thought he had made a mistake—again believed that he must be falling ill. There was nothing on his sheets either; but nevertheless, before getting into bed again, it occurred to him to lift up his bolster. He then saw three tiny blackish pastilles, which tucked themselves nimbly away into a fold of the sheet. It was they, sure enough!
Setting his candle on the bed, he tracked them down, opened out the fold and discovered five of them. Not daring to squash them with his finger-nail, he flung them in disgust into his chamber-pot and watered them copiously. He watched them struggling for a few moments—pleased and ferocious. It soothed his feelings. Then he got back into bed and blew out his candle.
The bites began again almost immediately with redoubled violence. There were new ones now on the back of his neck. He lighted his candle once more in a rage and took his night-shirt right off this time so as to examine the collar at his leisure. At last he perceived four or five minute light red specks running along the edge of the seam; he crushed them on the linen, where they left a stain of blood—horrid little creatures, so tiny that he could hardly believe that they were bugs already; but a little later, on raising his bolster again, he unearthed an enormous one—their mother for certain; at that, encouraged, excited, amused almost, he took off the bolster, undid the sheets and began a methodical search.He fancied now that he saw them everywhere, but as a matter of fact caught only four; he went back to bed and enjoyed an hour’s peace.
Then the burning and itching began again. Once more he started the hunt; then, worn out at last with disgust and fatigue, gave it up, and noticed that if he did not scratch, the itching subsided pretty quickly. At dawn the last of the creatures, presumably gorged, let him be. He was sleeping heavily when the waiter called him in time for his train.
At Toulon it was fleas.
He picked them up in the train, no doubt. All night long he scratched himself, turning from side to side without sleeping. He felt them creeping up and down his legs, tickling the small of his back, inoculating him with fever. As he had a sensitive skin, their bites rose in exuberant swellings, which he inflamed with unrestrained scratching. He lit his candle over and over again; he got up, took off his night-shirt and put it on again, without being able to kill a single one. He hardly caught a fleeting glimpse of them; they continually escaped him, and even when he succeeded in catching them, when he thought they were flattened dead beneath his finger-nail, they suddenly and instantaneously blew themselves out again and hopped away as safe and lively as ever. He was driven to regretting the bugs. His fury and exasperation of the useless chase effectually wrecked every possibility of sleep.
All next day the bites of the previous night itched horribly, while fresh creepings and ticklings showed him that he was still infested. The excessive heat considerably increased his discomfort. The carriage was packed to overflowing with workmen, who drank, smoked, spat, belched and ate such high-smelling victuals that more than once Fleurissoire thought he was going to be sick. And yet he did not dare leave the carriage before reaching the frontier, for fear that the workmen might see him get into another and imagine they were incommoding him; in the compartment into which he next got, there was a voluminous wet-nurse, who was changing her baby’s napkins. He tried nevertheless to sleep; but then his hat got in his way. It was one of those shallow, white straw hats with a black ribbon round it, of the kind commonly known as “sailor.” When Fleurissoire left it in its usual position, its stiff brim prevented him from leaning his head back against the partition of the carriage; if, in order to do this, he raised his hat a little, the partition bumped it forwards; when, on the contrary, he pressed his hat down behind, the brim was caught between the partition and the back of his neck, and the sailor rose up over his forehead like the lid of a valve. He decided at last to take it right off and to cover his head with his comforter, which he arranged to fall over his eyes so as to keep out the light. At any rate, he had taken precautions against the night; at Toulon that morning he had bought a box of insecticide and, even if he had to pay dear for it, he thought to himself that he would not hesitate to spend the night in one of the best hotels; for if he had no sleep that night, in what state of bodily wretchedness would he not be when he arrived at Rome?—at the mercy of the meanest freemason!
At Genoa he found the omnibuses of the principal hotels drawn up outside the station; he went straight upto one of the most comfortable-looking, without letting himself be intimidated by the haughtiness of the hotel servant, who seized hold of his miserable portmanteau; but Amédée refused to be parted from it; he would not allow it to be put on the roof of the carriage, but insisted that it should be placed next him—there—on the same seat. In the hall of the hotel the porter put him at his ease by talking French; then he let himself go and, not content with asking for “a very good room,” inquired the prices of those that were offered him, determined to find nothing to his liking for less than twelve francs.
The seventeen-franc room which he settled on after looking at several, was vast, clean, and elegant without ostentation; the bed stood out from the wall—a bright brass bed, which was certainly uninhabited, and to which his precautions would have been an insult. The washstand was concealed in a kind of enormous cupboard. Two large windows opened on to a garden; Amédée leant out into the night and gazed long at the indistinct mass of sombre foliage, letting the cool air calm his fever and invite him to sleep. From above the bed there hung down a cloudy veil of tulle, which exactly draped three sides of it, and which was looped up in a graceful festoon on the fourth by a few little cords, like those that take in the reefs of a sail. Fleurissoire recognised that this was what is known as a mosquito net—a device which he had always disdained to make use of.
After having washed, he stretched himself luxuriously in the cool sheets. He left the window open—not wide open, of course, for fear of cold in the head and ophthalmia, but with one side fixed in such a way as to prevent the night effluvia from striking him directly; did his accounts, said his prayers and put out the light. (This was electric and the current was cut off by turning down a switch.)
Fleurissoire was just going off to sleep when a faint humming reminded him that he had failed to take the precaution of putting out his light before opening his window; for light attracts mosquitoes. He remembered, too, that he had somewhere read praises of the Lord, who has bestowed on this winged insect a special musical instrument, designed to warn the sleeper the moment before he is going to be stung. Then he let down the impenetrable muslin barrier all round him. “After all,” thought he to himself as he was dropping off, “how much better this is than those little felt cones of dried hay, which old Blafaphas sells under the quaint name of ‘fidibus’; one lights them on a little metal saucer; as they burn they give out a quantity of narcotic fumes; but before they stupefy the mosquitoes, they half stifle the sleeper. Fidibus! What a funny name! Fidibus....” He was just going off, when suddenly a sharp sting on the left side of his nose awoke him. He put his hand to the place and as he was softly stroking the raised and burning flesh—another sting on his wrist. Then right against his ear there sounded the mock of an impertinent buzzing.... Horror! he had shut the enemy up within the citadel! He reached out to the switch and turned on the light.
Yes! the mosquito was there, settled high up on the net. Amédée was long-sighted and made him out distinctly; a creature that was wisp-like to absurdity, plantedon four legs, with the other pair sticking out insolently behind him, long and curly; Amédée sat up on his bed. But how could he crush the insect against such flimsy, yielding material? No matter! He gave a hit with the palm of his hand, so hard and so quick that he thought he had burst a hole in the net. Not the shadow of a doubt but the mosquito was done for; he glanced down to look for its corpse; there was nothing—but he felt a fresh sting on the calf of his leg.
At that, in order to get as much as possible of his person into shelter, he crept between the sheets and stayed there perhaps a quarter of an hour, without daring to turn out the light; then, all the same, somewhat reassured at catching neither sight nor sound of the enemy, he switched it off. And instantly the music began again.
Then he put out one arm, keeping his hand close to his face, and from time to time when he thought he felt one well settled on his forehead or cheek, he would give himself a huge smack. But the second after, he heard the insect’s sing-song once more.
After this it occurred to him to wrap his head round with his comforter, which considerably interfered with the pleasure of his respiratory organs, and did not prevent him from being stung on the chin.
Then the mosquito, gorged, no doubt, lay low; at any rate, Amédée, vanquished by slumber, ceased to hear it; he had taken off his comforter and was tossing in a feverish sleep; he scratched as he slept. The next morning, his nose, which was by nature aquiline, looked like the nose of a drunkard; the spot on the calf of his leg was budding like a boil and the one on his chin had developed an appearance that was volcanic—he recommendedit to the particular solicitude of the barber when, before leaving Genoa, he went to be shaved, so as to be respectable when he arrived in Rome.
At Rome, as he was lingering outside the station, so tired, so lost, so perplexed that he could not decide what to do, and had only just strength enough left to repel the advances of the hotel porters, Fleurissoire was lucky enough to come upon a facchino who spoke French. Baptistin was a native of Marseilles, a young man with bright eyes and a chin that was still smooth; he recognised a fellow-countryman in Fleurissoire, and offered to guide him and carry his portmanteau.
Fleurissoire had spent the long journey mugging up his Baedeker. A kind of instinct—a presentiment—an inward warning—turned his pious solicitude aside from the Vatican to concentrate it on the Castle of St. Angelo (in ancient days Hadrian’s Mausoleum), the celebrated jail which had sheltered so many illustrious prisoners of yore, and which, it seems, is connected with the Vatican by an underground passage.
He gazed upon the map. “That is where I must find a lodging,” he had decided, setting his forefinger on the Tordinona quay, opposite the Castle of St. Angelo. And by a providential coincidence, that was the very place where Baptistin proposed to take him; not, that is, exactly on the quay, which is in reality nothing but an embankment, but quite near it—Via dei Vecchierelli (of the little old men), which is the third street after the Ponte Umberto, and leads straight on to the river bank;he knew of a quiet house (from the windows of the third floor, by craning forward a little, one can see the Mausoleum) where there were some very obliging ladies, who talked every language, and one in particular who knew French.
“If the gentleman is tired, we can take a carriage; yes, it’s a long way.... Yes, the air is cooler this evening; it’s been raining; a little walk after a long railway journey does one good.... No, the portmanteau is not too heavy; I can easily carry it so far.... The gentleman’s first visit to Rome? He comes from Toulouse, perhaps?... No; from Pau. I ought to have recognised the accent.”
Thus chatting, they walked along. They took the Via Viminale; then the Via Agostino Depretis, which runs into the Viminale at the Pincio; then by way of the Via Nazionale they got into the Corso, which they crossed; after this their way lay through a number of little streets without any names. The portmanteau was not so heavy as to prevent the facchino from stepping out briskly; and Fleurissoire could hardly keep up with him. He trotted along beside Baptistin, dropping with fatigue and dripping with heat.
“Here we are!” said Baptistin at last, just as Amédée was going to beg for quarter.
The street, or rather the alley of the Vecchierelli, was dark and narrow—so much so that Fleurissoire hesitated to enter it. Baptistin, in the meantime, had gone into the second house on the right, the door of which was only a few yards from the quay; at the same moment, Fleurissoire saw abersaglierecome out; the smart uniform which he had noticed at the frontier, reassured him—forhe had confidence in the army. He advanced a few steps. A lady appeared on the threshold (the landlady of the inn apparently) and smiled at him affably. She wore an apron of black satin, bracelets, and a sky-blue silk ribbon round her neck; her jet-black hair was piled in an edifice on the top of her head and sat heavily on an enormous tortoise-shell comb.
“Your portmanteau has been carried up to the third floor,” said she to Amédée in French, using the intimate “thou,” which he imagined must be an Italian custom, or must else be set down to want of familiarity with the language.
“Grazia!” he replied, smiling in his turn. “Grazia!—thank you!”—the only Italian word he could say, and which he considered it polite to put into the feminine when he was talking to a lady.
He went upstairs, stopping to gather breath and courage at every landing, for he was worn out with fatigue, and the sordidness of the staircase contributed to sink his spirits still lower. The landings succeeded each other every ten steps; the stairs hesitated, tacked, made three several attempts before they managed to reach a floor. From the ceiling of the first landing hung a canary cage which could be seen from the street. On to the second landing a mangy cat had dragged a haddock skin, which she was preparing to bolt. On the third landing the door of the closet stood wide open and revealed to view the seat, and beside it a yellow earthenware vase, shaped like a top-hat, from whose cup protruded the stick of a small mop; on this landing Amédée refrained from stopping.
On the first floor a smoky gasolene lamp was hangingbeside a large glass door, on which the wordSalonewas written in frosted letters; but the room was dark, and Amédée could barely make out through the glass panes of the door a mirror in a gold frame hanging on the wall opposite.
He was just reaching the seventh landing, when another soldier—an artillery man this time—who had come out of a room on the second floor, bumped up against him; he was running downstairs very fast and, after setting Amédée on his feet again, passed on, muttering a laughing excuse in Italian, for Fleurissoire was stumbling from fatigue and looked as if he were drunk. The first uniform had reassured him, but the second made him uneasy.
“These soldiers are a noisy lot,” thought he. “Fortunately my room is on the third floor. I prefer to have them below me.”
He had no sooner passed the second floor than a woman in a gaping dressing-gown, with her hair undone, came running from the other end of the passage and hailed him.
“She takes me for someone else,” thought he, and hurried on, turning his eyes away so as not to embarrass her by noticing the scantiness of her attire.
He arrived panting on the third floor, where he found Baptistin; he was talking Italian to a woman of uncertain age, who reminded him extraordinarily—though she was not so fat—of the Blafaphas’ cook.
“Your portmanteau is in No. sixteen—the third door. Take care as you pass of the pail which is in the passage.”
“I put it outside because it was leaking,” explained the woman in French.
The door of No. sixteen was open; outside No. fifteen a tin slop-pail was standing in the middle of a shiny repugnant-looking puddle, which Fleurissoire stepped across. An acrid odour emanated from it. The portmanteau was placed in full view on a chair. As soon as he got inside the stuffy room, Amédée felt his head swim, and flinging his umbrella, his shawl and his hat on to the bed, he sank into an arm-chair. His forehead was streaming; he thought he was going to faint.
“This is Madame Carola, the lady who talks French,” said Baptistin.
They had both come into the room.
“Open the window a little,” sighed Fleurissoire, who was incapable of movement.
“Goodness! how hot he is!” said Madame Carola, sponging his pallid and perspiring countenance with a little scented handkerchief, which she took out of her bodice.
“Let’s push him nearer the window.”
Both together lifted the arm-chair, in which Amédée swung helpless and half unconscious, and put it down where he was able to inhale—in exchange for the tainted atmosphere of the passage—the varied stenches of the street. The coolness, however, revived him. Feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out the screw of five lire which he had prepared for Baptistin:
“Thank you very much. Please leave me now.”
The facchino went out.
“You oughtn’t to have given him such a lot,” said Carola.
She too used the familiar “thou,” which Amédée accepted as a custom of the country; his one thought nowwas to go to bed; but Carola showed no signs of leaving; then, carried away by politeness, he began to talk.
“You speak French as well as a Frenchwoman.”
“No wonder. I come from Paris. And you?”
“I come from the south.”
“I guessed as much. When I saw you, I said to myself, that gentleman comes from the provinces. Is it your first visit to Italy?”
“My first.”
“Have you come on business?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a lovely place, Rome. There’s a lot to be seen.”
“Yes ... but this evening I’m rather tired,” he ventured; and as though excusing himself: “I’ve been travelling for three days.”
“It’s a long journey to get here.”
“And I haven’t slept for three nights.”
At those words, Madame Carola, with a sudden Italian familiarity, which Amédée still couldn’t help being astounded at, chucked him under the chin.
“Naughty!” said she.
This gesture brought a little blood back into Amédée’s face, and in his desire to repudiate the unfair insinuation, he at once began to expatiate on fleas, bugs and mosquitoes.
“You’ll have nothing of that kind here, dearie; you see how clean it is.”
“Yes; I hope I shall sleep well.”
But still she didn’t go. He rose with difficulty from his arm-chair, raised his hand to the top button of his waistcoat and said tentatively:
“I think I’ll go to bed.”
Madame Carola understood Fleurissoire’s embarrassment.
“You’d like me to leave you for a bit, I see,” said she tactfully.
As soon as she had gone, Fleurissoire turned the key in the lock, took his night-shirt out of his portmanteau and got into bed. But apparently the catch of the lock was not working, for before he had time to blow out his candle, Carola’s head reappeared in the half-opened door—behind the bed—close to the bed—smiling....
An hour later, when he came to himself, Carola was lying against him, in his arms, naked.
He disengaged his left arm, which had “fallen asleep,” and then drew away. She was asleep. A light from the alley below filled the room with its feeble glimmer, and not a sound was to be heard but the woman’s regular breathing. An unwonted languor lay heavy on Amédée’s body and soul; he drew out his thin legs from between the sheets; and sitting on the edge of the bed, he wept.
As first his sweat, so now his tears washed his face and mingled with the dust of the railway carriage; they welled up—silently, uninterruptedly, in a slow and steady stream, coming from his inmost depths, as from a hidden spring. He thought of Arnica, of Blafaphas, alas! Ah! if they could see him now! Never again would he dare to take his place beside them. Then he thought of his august mission, for ever compromised; he groaned below his breath:
“It’s over! I’m no longer worthy! Oh! it’s over! It’s all over!”
The strange sounds of his sobbing and sighing had inthe meantime awakened Carola. There he was, kneeling now, at the foot of the bed, hammering on his weakly chest with little blows of his fist; and Carola, lost in amazement, heard him repeat, as his teeth chattered and his sobs shook him:
“Save us! Save us! The Church is crumbling!”
At last, unable to contain herself any longer:
“You poor old dear, what’s wrong with you? Have you gone crazy?”
He turned towards her:
“Please, Madame Carola, leave me. I must—I absolutely must be alone. I’ll see you to-morrow morning.”
Then, as after all it was only himself that he blamed, he kissed her gently on the shoulder:
“Ah! you don’t know what a dreadful thing we’ve done. No, no! You don’t know. You can never know.”
The swindling concern that went under the pompous name ofCrusade for the Deliverance of the Pope, extended its shady ramifications through more than one of the French departments; Protos, the false monk of Virmontal, was not its only agent, nor the Comtesse de Saint-Prix its only victim. All its victims, however, were not equally accommodating, even if all the agents proved equally dexterous. Even Protos, Lafcadio’s old school-mate, was obliged, after this exploit of his, to keep the sharpest possible look-out; he lived in continual apprehension that the clergy (the real clergy) would get wind of the affair, and expended as much ingenuity in covering his rear as in pushing his attack; but hisversatility was great, and, moreover, he was admirably seconded; from one end to the other of the band (which went by the name of the Millipede) there reigned extraordinary harmony and discipline.
Protos was informed that same evening by Baptistin of the stranger’s arrival, and no little alarmed at hearing that he came from Pau, he hurried off at seven o’clock the next morning to see Carola. She was still in bed.
The information which he gathered from her, the confused account that she gave of the events of the previous night, the anguish of thepilgrim(this was what she called Amédée), his protestations, his tears, left no further doubt in his mind. Decidedly his Pau preachifying had brought forth fruit—but not precisely the kind of fruit which Protos might have wished for; he would have to keep an eye on this simple-minded crusader, whose clumsy blunderings might give the whole show away....
“Come! let me pass,” said he abruptly to Carola.
This expression might seem peculiar, because Carola was lying in bed; but Protos was never one to be stopped by the peculiar. He put one knee on the bed, passed the other over the woman’s body and pirouetted so cleverly that, with a slight push of the bed, he found himself between it and the wall. Carola was no doubt accustomed to this performance, for she asked simply:
“What are you going to do?”
“Make up as acuré,” answered Protos, no less simply.
“Will you come back this way?”
Protos hesitated a moment, and then:
“You’re right; it’s more natural.”
So saying, he stooped and touched the spring of asecret door, which was concealed in the thickness of the wall and was so low that the bed hid it completely. Just as he was passing through the door, Carola seized him by the shoulder.
“Listen,” she said with a kind of gravity, “you’re not to hurt this one. I won’t have it.”
“I tell you I’m going to make up as acuré.”
As soon as he had disappeared, Carola got up and began to dress.
I cannot exactly tell what to think of Carola Venitequa. This exclamation of hers leads me to suppose that her heart at that time was not altogether fundamentally corrupt. Thus sometimes, in the very midst of abjection, the strangest delicacies of feelings suddenly reveal themselves, just as an azure tinted flower will grow in the middle of a dung-heap. Essentially submissive and devoted, Carola, like so many other women, had need of guidance. When Lafcadio had abandoned her, she had immediately rushed off to find her old lover, Protos—out of spite—out of self-assertion—to revenge herself. She had once more gone through hard times—and Protos had no sooner recovered her than he had once more made her his tool. For Protos liked being master.
Another man than Protos might have raised, rehabilitated this woman. But first of all, he must have had the wish to. Protos, on the contrary, seemed bent on degrading her. We have seen what shameful services the ruffian demanded of her; it is true that she apparently submitted to them without much reluctance; but the first impulses of a soul in revolt against the ignominy of its lot, often pass unperceived by that very soul itself. It is only in the light of love that the secret kickingagainst the pricks is revealed. Was Carola falling in love with Amédée? It would be rash to affirm it; but, corrupt as she was, she had been touched to emotion by the contact of his purity, and the exclamation which I have recorded came indubitably from her heart.
Protos returned. He had not changed his dress. He carried in his hand a bundle of clothes, which he put down on a chair.
“Well! and now what?” she asked.