by Eugène Sue
“This, doctor, may be very witty, but it does not convince me in the least that gluttony is, in you or any other person, a quality.”
“I will convince you of it.”
“You?”
“I, my dear abbé.”
“That would be rather difficult. And how?”
“Give me your evening on the twentieth of November and I will prove that—”
But interrupting himself, the doctor added:
“Come now, my dear abbé, what are you constantly looking at there by the side of that door?”
The holy man, thus taken unawares, blushed to his ears, for he had listened to the doctor with distraction, impatiently turning his eyes toward the door as if he expected a person who had not arrived; but after the first moment of surprise the abbé did not seem disconcerted, and replied:
“What door do you speak of, doctor? I do not know what you mean.”
“I mean that you frequently look on this side as if you expected the appearance of some one.”
“There is no one in the world, dear doctor, except you, who could have such ideas. I was entirely absorbed in your sophistical but intelligent conversation.”
“Ah, abbé, abbé, you overwhelm me!”
“You wish, in a word, doctor, to prove to me that gluttony is a noble, sublime passion, do you not?”
“Sublime, abbé, that is the word, sublime, — if not in itself at least in its consequences; above all, in the interest of agriculture and commerce.”
“Come, doctor, that is a paradox. Agriculture and commerce are sustained as other things are.”
“It is not a paradox, it is a fact, yes, a fact, and if it is demonstrated to you positively, mathematically, practically, and economically, what can you say? Will you still doubt it?”
“I will doubt, or rather I will believe this abomination less than ever.”
“How, in spite of evidence, abbé?”
“Because of evidence, if so be that this evidence can ever exist, for it is by just such means of these pretended evidences, these perfidious appearances, that the bad spirit leads us into the most dangerous snares.”
“What, abbé, the devil! I am not a seminarian whom you are preparing to take the bands. You are a man of mind and of knowledge. When I talk reason to you, talk reason to me, and not of the devil and his horns.”
“But, pagan, idolater that you are, do you not know that gluttony is perhaps the most abominable of the seven capital sins?”
“In the first place, abbé, I pray you do not calumninate like that the seven capital sins, but speak of them with the deference which is their due. I have found them profoundly respected in general and in particular.”
“Indeed, it is not only gluttony that he glorifies, — he pushes his paradox to the glorification of the seven capital sins!”
“Yes, dear abbé, all the seven, considered from a certain point of view.”
“That is monomania.”
“Will you be convinced, abbé?”
“Of what?”
“Of the possible excellence, — of the conditional existence of the worldly and philosophical excellence of the seven capital sins.”
“Really, doctor, do you take me for a child?”
“Give me your evening on the twentieth of November; you will be convinced.”
“Come now, doctor, why always the twentieth of November?”
“That is for me a prophetic day, and more, it is the anniversary of my birth, my dear abbé, so give me your evening on that day and you will not regret having come.”
“Very well, then, the twentieth of November, if my health—”
“Permits you, — well understood, my dear abbé; but my experience tells me that you will be able to drag yourself to see me on that day.”
“What a man. He is capable of giving me a perfect example, in his big own damned person, of the seven capital sins.”
At this moment the door opened.
It was on this door, more than once, that the glances of Abbé Ledoux had been turned with secret and growing impatience, during his conversation with the doctor.
CHAPTER V.
THE ABBÉ’S HOUSEKEEPER, having entered the chamber, handed a letter to her master, and, exchanging with him a look of intelligence, said:
“It is very urgent, M. abbé.”
“Permit me, doctor?” said the holy man, before breaking the seal of the letter he held in his hand.
“At your convenience, my dear abbé,” replied the doctor, rising from his seat; “I must leave you now.”
“I pray you, just a word!” cried the abbé, who seemed especially anxious that the doctor should not depart so soon. “Give me time to glance over this letter, and I am at your service.”
“But, abbé, we have nothing more to say to each other. I have an urgent consultation, and the hour is—”
“I implore you, doctor,” insisted the abbé, breaking the seal and running his eyes over the letter he had just received, “in the name of Heaven, give me only five minutes, not more.”
Surprised at this singular persistence on the part of the abbé, the doctor hesitated to go out, when the invalid, discontinuing his reading of the letter, raised his eyes to heaven and exclaimed:
“Ah, my God, my God!”
“What is the matter?”
“Ah, my poor doctor!”
“Finish what you have to say.”
“Ah, doctor, it was Providence that sent you here.”
“Providence!”
“Yes, because I find it in my power to render you a great service, perhaps.”
The physician appeared to be a little doubtful of the good-will of Abbé Ledoux, and accepted his words not without a secret distrust.
“Let us see, my dear abbé,” replied he, “what service can you render me?”
“You have sometimes spoken to me of your sister’s numerous children, whom you have raised (notwithstanding your faults, wicked man) with paternal tenderness, after the early death of their parents.”
“Go on, abbé,” said the doctor, fixing a penetrating gaze on the saintly man, “go on.”
“I was altogether ignorant that one of your nephews served in the navy, and had been made captain. His name is Horace Brémont, is it not?”
At the name of Horace, the doctor started, imperceptibly; his gaze seemed to penetrate to the depth of the abbé’s heart, and he replied, coldly:
“I have a nephew who is captain in the navy and his name is Horace.”
“And he is now in Paris?”
“Or elsewhere, abbé.”
“For God’s sake, let us talk seriously, my dear doctor, the time is precious. See here what has been written to me and you will judge of the importance of the letter.
“‘M. Abbé: — I know that you are very intimate with the celebrated Doctor Gasterini; you can render him a great service. His nephew, Captain Horace, is compromised in a very disagreeable affair; although he has succeeded in hiding himself up to this time, his retreat has been discovered and perhaps, at the moment that I am writing to you, his person has been seized.’”
The abbé stopped and looked attentively at the doctor.
The doctor remained impassible.
Surprised at this indifference, the abbé said, in a pathetic tone:
“Ah, my poor doctor, what cruel suffering for you! But what has this unfortunate captain done?”
“I know nothing about it, abbé, continue.”
Evidently the saintly man expected another result of the reading of his letter. However, not allowing himself to be disconcerted, he continued:
“‘Perhaps at this moment his person has been seized,’” repeated he, laying stress on these words, and going on with the letter. “‘But there remains one chance of saving this young man who is more thoughtless than culpable; you must, upon the reception of this letter, send some one immediately to Doctor Gasterini.’”
And, stopping again, the abbé added:
“As I t
old you, doctor, Providence sent you here.”
“It has never done anything else for my sake,” coldly replied the doctor. “Go on, abbé.”
“‘You must, upon the reception of this letter, send immediately to Doctor Gasterini,’” repeated the abbé, more and more surprised at the impassibility of the physician, and his indifference to the misfortune which threatened his nephew. “‘The doctor must send some person in whom he has confidence, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat. Perhaps in this way he may get the start of the officers about to arrest this unfortunate young man.’
“I need not say more to you, my dear doctor,” hastily added the abbé, throwing the letter on the bed. “A minute’s delay may lose all. Run, quick, save this unhappy young man! What! You do not move; you do not reply! What are you thinking of, my poor doctor? Why do you look at me with such a strange expression? Did you not hear what has been written to me? And it is underlined, too. ‘He must go instantly, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat.’ Really, doctor, I do not understand you.”
“But I understand you perfectly, my dear abbé,” said the doctor, with sardonic calmness. “But, upon honour, this expedient is really not up to the height of your usual inventions; you have done better than that, abbé, much better.”
“An expedient! My inventions!” replied the abbé, feigning amazement. “Come, doctor, you surely are not speaking seriously?”
“You have forgotten, dear abbé, that an old fox like me discovers a snare from afar.”
“Doctor,” replied the abbé, no longer able to conceal his violent anger, “you are at liberty to jest, — at liberty to let the time pass, and lose the opportunity of saving your nephew. I have warned you as a friend. Now, do as you please, I wash my hands of it.”
“So then, my dear abbé, you were and you are in the plot of those sanctimonious persons who desired to make a nun of Dolores Salcedo, for the purpose of getting possession of the property she would one day inherit from her uncle, the canon?”
“Dolores Salcedo! Her uncle, the canon! Really, doctor, I do not know what you mean.”
“Ah! ah! you are in that pious plot! It is well to know it; it is always useful to recognise your adversaries, above all, when they are as clever as you are, dear abbé.”
“But, hear me, doctor, I swear to you—”
“Stop, abbé, let us play an open game. You sent for me this morning, that the pathetic epistle you have just read to me might arrive in my presence.”
“Doctor!” cried the abbé, “that is carrying distrust, suspicion, to a point which becomes — which becomes — permit me to say it to you—”
“Oh, by all means, — I permit you.”
“Well, which becomes outrageous in the last degree, doctor. Ah, truly,” added the abbé, with bitterness, “I was far from expecting that my eagerness to do you a kindness would be rewarded in such a manner.”
“Zounds! I know very well, my poor abbé, that you hoped your ingenious stratagem would have an entirely different result.”
“Doctor, this is too much!”
“No, abbé, it is not enough. Now, listen to me. This is what you hoped, I say, from your ingenious stratagem: Frightened by the danger to which my nephew was exposed, I would thank you effusively for the means you offered me to save him, and would fly like an arrow to warn this poor fellow to leave his place of concealment.”
“So, in fact, any other person in your place, doctor, would have done, but you take care not to act so reasonably. Surely, to speak the truth, you must be struck with frenzy and blindness.”
“Alas! abbé, it is the beginning of the punishment for my sins. But let us return to the consequences of your ingenious stratagem. According to your hope, then, I would fly like an arrow to save, as you advise, my nephew. My carriage is below. I would get in it, and have myself conveyed as rapidly as possible to the mysterious retreat of Captain Horace.”
“Eh, without doubt, doctor, that is what you should have done some time ago.”
“Now, do you know what would have happened, my poor abbé?”
“You would have saved your nephew.”
“I would have lost him, I would have betrayed him, I would have delivered him to his enemies, — and see how. I wager that at this very hour, while I am talking to you, there is, not far from here in the street, and even in sight of this house, a cab, to which a strong horse is hitched, and by a strange chance (unless you countermand your order) this cab would follow my carriage wherever it might go.”
The abbé turned scarlet, but replied:
“I do not know what cab you are speaking of, doctor.”
“In other words, my dear abbé, you have been seeking traces of my nephew in vain. In order to discover his retreat, you have had me followed in vain. Now, you hoped, by the sudden announcement of the danger he was running, to push me to the extremity of warning the captain. Your emissary below would have followed my carriage, so that, without knowing it, I, myself, would have disclosed the secret of my nephew’s hiding-place. Again, abbé, for any other than yourself, the invention was not a bad one, but you have accustomed your admirers — and permit me to include myself among them — to higher and bolder conceptions. Let us hope, then, that another time you will show yourself more worthy of yourself. Good-bye, and without bearing you any grudge, my dear abbé, I count on you for our pleasant evening the twentieth of November. Otherwise, I will come to remind you of your promise. Good-bye, again, my poor, dear abbé. Come, do not look so vexed, — so out of countenance; console yourself for this little defeat by recalling your past triumphs.”
And with this derisive conclusion to his remarks, Doctor Gasterini left Abbé Ledoux.
“You sing victory, old serpent!” cried the abbé, purple with anger and shaking his fist at the door by which the doctor went out. “You are very arrogant, but you do not know that this morning even we have recaptured Dolores Salcedo, and your miserable nephew shall not escape us, for I am as cunning as you are, infernal doctor, and, as you say, I have more than one trick in my bag.”
The doctor, the subject of this imprecatory monologue, had concealed the disquietude he felt by the discovery he had just made. He knew Abbé Ledoux capable of taking a brilliant revenge, so as he descended the steps of the saintly man’s house, the doctor, before entering his carriage, looked cautiously on both sides of the street. As he expected, he saw a public cab about twenty steps from where he was standing. In this cab was a large man, wearing a brown overcoat. Walking up to the cab, the doctor, with a confidential air, said in a low voice to the large man:
“My friend, you are posted there, are you not, to follow this open carriage with two horses, standing before the door, Number 17?”
“Sir,” said the man, hesitating, “I do not know who you are, or why you—”
“Hush! my friend,” replied the doctor, in a tone full of mystery, “I have just left Abbé Ledoux; the order of proceeding is changed; the abbé expects you at once, to give you new orders, — quick, go, go!”
The fat man, reassured by the explicit directions given by the doctor, hesitated no longer, descended from his cab, and went in haste to see the Abbé Ledoux. When the doctor saw the door close upon the emissary of the abbé, feeling certain that he was not followed, he ordered his coachman to drive in haste to the Faubourg Poissonnière, for if he feared nothing for his nephew, he had reason enough for uneasiness since he had learned that Abbé Ledoux was concerned in this intrigue.
The doctor’s carriage had just entered one of the less frequented streets of the Faubourg Poissonnière, not far from the gate of the same name, when he perceived at a short distance quite a large assemblage in front of a modest-looking house. The doctor ordered his carriage to stop, descended from it, mingled with the crowd, and said to one of the men:
“What is the matter there, sir?”
“It seems, sir, they are taking back a stray dove to the dove-cote.”
&
nbsp; “A dove!”
“Yes, or if you like it better, a young girl who escaped from a convent. The commissary of police arrived with his deputies, and a very fat man in a blue overcoat, who looked like a priest. He had the house opened. The fugitive was found there, and put into a carriage with the fat man in a blue overcoat. I have never seen any citizen ornamented with such a stomach.”
Doctor Gasterini did not wait to hear more, but rushed through the crowd and imperatively rang the bell at the door of the little house of which we have spoken. A young servant, still pale with emotion, came to open it.
“Where is Madame Dupont?” asked the physician, impatiently.
“She is at home, sir. Oh, sir, if you only knew!”
The doctor made no reply; went through two apartments, and entered a bedchamber, where he found an aged woman, with a venerable-looking face full of sweetness.
“Ah, doctor, doctor!” cried Madame Dupont, bursting into tears, “what a misfortune, what a scandal, poor young girl!”
“I am grieved, my poor Madame Dupont, that the service you rendered me should have been followed by such disagreeable consequences.”
“Oh, do not think it is that which afflicts, doctor. I owe you more than my life, since I owe you the life of my son; I do not think of complaining of a transient vexation, and I know you too well, in other things, to raise the least doubt as to the intentions which led you to ask me to give a temporary asylum to this young girl.”
“By this time, my dear Madame Dupont, I can and I ought to tell you all. Here is the whole story in two words: I have a nephew, an indiscreet boy, but the bravest fellow in the world; he is captain in the marine service. In his last voyage from Cadiz to Bordeaux he took as passengers a Spanish canon and his niece. My nephew fell desperately in love with the niece, but by a series of events too long and too ridiculous to relate to you, the canon took the greatest aversion to my nephew, and informed him that he should never marry Dolores. The opposition exasperated the lovers; my devil of a nephew followed the canon to Paris, discovered the convent where the uncle had placed the young girl, put himself in correspondence with her, and eloped with her. Horace — that is his name — is an honest fellow, and, the elopement accomplished, he introduced Dolores to me and confessed all to me. While the marriage was pending, he besought me to place this young girl in a suitable house, since, for a thousand reasons, it was impossible for me to keep the child in my house after such an uproar. Then I thought of you, my good Madame Dupont.”