Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Ah, sir, I was certain that you acted nobly in that as you have always, and, besides, the short time that she was here Mlle. Dolores interested me exceedingly, — indeed I was already attached to her, and you can judge of my distress this morning when—”

  “The commissary of police ordered the house to be opened; I know it. And the canon, Dom Diégo, accompanied him.”

  “Yes, sir, he was furious; he declared that he was acquainted with the French law; that it would not permit such things; that it was abduction of a minor, and that they were searching on all sides for your nephew.”

  “That is what I expected, and I exacted from my nephew, not only that he would not see Dolores again until all was arranged, but that he would keep himself concealed in order to escape the pursuit which I hoped to quiet. Now I do not know if I can succeed; the situation is grave. I have told Horace so, but the deed was done, and I confess I revolted against the thought of placing this poor Dolores myself in the hands of the canon, a kind of gluttonous, superstitious brute, from whom there is nothing to hope.”

  “Ah, doctor, I am now well enough acquainted with Mlle. Dolores to be sure that she will die of grief if she is left in that convent, and believe me, sir, in the scene of this morning, that which most distresses me is not the scandal of which my poor house has been the theatre, but the thought of the sad future which is perhaps reserved for that unhappy child. And now that I know all, doctor, I am all the more troubled in thinking of the grave consequences that this abduction may entail upon your nephew.”

  “I share your fears most keenly, my dear Madame Dupont. After a discovery that I have this morning made, I am afraid that a complaint has already been instituted against Horace; if it has not been it will be, to-day perhaps, for now that Dolores is again in the power of her uncle, if he can have my nephew arrested he will have nothing to fear from his love for Dolores. Ah, this arrest would be dreadful! Law is inflexible. My nephew went by night to a convent and abducted a minor. It is liable to infamous punishment, and for him that would be worse than death!”

  “Great God!”

  “And his brothers and sisters who love him so much! What sorrow for me, — for our family!” added the old man, with sadness.

  “But, sir, there ought to be something we can do to put a stop to this pursuit.”

  “Ah, madame, dear Madame Dupont,” replied the doctor, overcome with emotion, “I lose my head when I think of the terrible consequences which may result from this foolish adventure of a young man.”

  “But what shall we do, doctor, what shall we do?”

  “Ah, do I know myself what to do, my poor Madame Dupont? I am going to reflect on the best course to pursue, but I am dealing with such a powerful adversary that I dare not hope for success.” And Doctor Gasterini left the Faubourg Poissonnière in a state of inexpressible anxiety.

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE DAY AFTER Dolores Salcedo had been taken back to the convent, the following scene took place in the home of the canon, Dom Diégo, who lodged in a comfortable apartment engaged for him before his arrival by Abbé Ledoux.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning.

  Dom Diégo, reclining in a large armchair, seemed to be assailed by gloomy thoughts. He was a large man of fifty years, and of enormous obesity; his fat, bloated cheeks mingled with his quadruple chin, his dingy skin was rough and flabby, and revealed the weakness of the inert mass. His features were not wanting in a kind of good-humour, when they were not under the domination of some disagreeable idea. His large mouth and thick, hanging under-lip denoted sensuality. With half-closed eyes under his heavy gray eyebrows, and hands crossed upon his Falstaff stomach, whose vast rotundity was outlined beneath a violet-coloured morning-gown, the canon sighed from time to time in a mournful and despondent tone.

  “More appetite, alas! more appetite!” murmured he. “Too many tossings of the sea have upset me. My stomach, so stout, so regular in its habits, is distracted like a watch out of order. This morning, at breakfast, ordinarily my most enjoyable meal, I have hardly eaten at all. Everything seemed insipid or bitter. What will it be at dinner, oh, what will it be at dinner, a repast which I make almost always without hunger in order to take and taste the delicate flower of the best things? Ah, may that infernal Captain Horace be cursed and damned! The horrible regimen to which I was subjected during that long voyage cost me my appetite; my stomach was irritated and revolted against those execrable salt meats and abominable dry vegetables. So, since this injury done to the delicacy of its habits, my stomach pouts and treats me badly, as if it were my fault, alas! It has a grudge against me, it punishes me, it looks big before the best dishes!

  “But who knows if the hand of Providence is not there? Now that I do not feel the least hunger I realise that I have abandoned myself to a sin as detestable as — delectable. Alas! gluttony! Perhaps Providence meant to punish me by sending this miserable Captain Horace on my route. Ah, the scoundrel, what evil has he done! And this was not enough; he abducted my niece, he plunged me in new tribulations; he upset my life, my repose. I, who only asked to eat with meditation and tranquillity! Oh, this brigand captain! I will have my revenge. But whatever may be my revenge, double traitor, I cannot return to you the twentieth part of the evil that I owe you. Because here are two months that I have lost my appetite, and if I should live one hundred years, I should never catch up with those two months of enforced abstinence!”

  This dolorous monologue was interrupted by the entrance of the canon’s majordomo, an old servant with gray hair.

  “Well, Pablo,” said Dom Diégo to him, “you come from the convent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And my unworthy niece?”

  “Sir, she is in a sort of delirium, she has a hot fever; sometimes she calls for Captain Horace with heartrending cries, sometimes she invokes death, weeping and sobbing. I assure you, sir, it is enough to break your heart.”

  Dom Diégo, in spite of his selfish sensuality, seemed at first touched by the majordomo’s words, but soon he cried:

  “So much the better! Dolores only has what she deserves. This will teach her to fall in love with the most detestable of men. She will remain in the convent, she shall take the veil there. My excellent friend and companion, Abbé Ledoux, is perfectly right; by this sample of my niece’s tricks I shall know what to expect, if I keep her near me, — perpetual alarms and insults until I had her married, well or ill. Now to cut short all this the Senora Dolores will take the veil, and accomplish her salvation; my wealth will some day enrich the house, where they will pray for the repose of my soul, and I will be relieved of this she-devil of a niece, — three benefits for one.”

  “But, my lord, if the condition of the senora requires—”

  “Not a word more, Pablo!” cried the canon, fearing he might be moved to pity in spite of himself. “Not a word more. Have I not, alas! enough personal troubles without your coming to torture me, to irritate me, with contradictions?”

  “Pardon, sir, then, I wish to speak to you of another thing.”

  “Of what?”

  “There is a man in the antechamber who desires to speak with you.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “An old man, well dressed.”

  “And what does this man want?”

  “To talk with you, sir, upon a very important affair. He has brought with him a large box that a porter has just delivered. It seems very heavy.”

  “And what is this box, Pablo?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  “And the name of this man?”

  “Oh, a very strange name.”

  “What?”

  “Appetite, sir.”

  “What! this man’s name is Appetite?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must have misunderstood him.”

  “No, sir, I made him repeat his name twice. It is certainly Appetite.”

  “Alas, alas! what a cruelly ironical name!” murmured the canon, with bittern
ess. “But no matter, for the rarity of the name, send this man in to me.”

  An instant after the man announced by the majordomo entered, respectfully saluted Dom Diégo, and said to him:

  “It is Lord Dom Diégo whom I have the honour of addressing?”

  “Yes, what do you wish of me?”

  “First, sir, to pay you the tribute of my profound admiration; then, to offer you my services.”

  “But, monsieur, what is your name?”

  “Appetite, sir.”

  “Do you write your name as appetite, the desire for food, is written?”

  “Yes, sir, but I confess that it is not my name, but my surname.”

  “To deserve such a surname you ought to be eminently well endowed by nature, M. Appetite; you ought to enjoy an eternal hunger,” said the canon, with a sigh of regretful envy.

  “On the contrary, I eat very little, sir, as almost all those who have the sacred mission of making others eat.”

  “How? What, then, is your profession?”

  “Cook, sir, and would like the honour of serving you, if I can merit that felicity.”

  The canon shook his head sadly, and hid his face in his hands; he felt all his griefs revive at the proposition of M. Appetite, who went on to say:

  “My second master, Lord Wilmot, whose stomach was so debilitated that for almost a year he ate without pleasure, and even without knowing the taste of different dishes, literally devoured food the first day I had the honour of serving him. It was he who, through gratitude, gave me the name of Appetite, which I have kept ever since.”

  The canon looked at his visitor attentively, and replied:

  “Ah, you are a cook? But tell me, you have spoken to me of paying me the tribute of your admiration and of offering me your services, where were you acquainted with me?”

  “You have, sir, during your sojourn in Madrid, often dined with the ambassador of France.”

  “Oh, yes, that was my good time,” replied Dom Diégo, with sadness. “I rendered ample justice to the table of the ambassador of France, and I have proclaimed the fact that I knew of no better practitioner than his chef.”

  “And this illustrious practitioner, with whom, my lord, I am in correspondence, that we may mutually keep pace with the progress of the science, has written to me to express his joy at having been so worthily appreciated by a connoisseur like yourself. I had taken note of your name, and yesterday, learning by chance that you were in search of a cook, I come to have the honour of offering you my services.”

  “And from whom do you come, my friend?”

  “For ten years, my lord, I have worked only for myself, that is to say, for art. I have a modest fortune, but enough, so it is not a mercenary motive which brings me to you, sir.”

  “But why do you offer your services to me, rather than to some one else?”

  “Because, being free to choose, I consult my convenience; because I am very jealous, my lord, horribly jealous.”

  “Jealous; and of what?”

  “Of my master’s fidelity.”

  “What, the fidelity of your master?”

  “Yes, my lord; and I am sure you will be faithful, because you live alone, without family, and, by condition as well as character, you have not, like so many others, all sorts of inclinations which always bore or annoy one; as a serious and convinced man, you have only one passion, but profound, absolute, and that is gluttony. Well, this passion, I offer, my lord, to satisfy, as you have never been satisfied in your life.”

  “You talk of gold, my dear friend, but do you know that, to make good your claims, in the use of such extravagant language, you must have great talent, — prodigious talent?”

  “This great, this prodigious talent I have, my lord.”

  “Your avowal is not modest.”

  “It is sincere, and you know, sir, that one may employ a legitimate assurance, from the consciousness of his power.”

  “I like this noble pride, my dear friend, and if your acts respond to your words, you are a superior person.”

  “Sir, put me to trial to-day, this hour.”

  “To-day, this hour!” cried the canon, shrugging his shoulders. “You do not know, then, that for two accursed months I have been in this deplorable state; that there is nothing I can taste; that this morning I have left untouched a breakfast ordered from Chevet, who supplies me until my kitchen is well appointed. Ah, if you did not have the appearance of an honest man, I would think you came to insult my misery, — proposing to cook for me when I am never the least hungry.”

  “Sir, my name is Appetite.”

  “But I repeat to you, my dear friend, that only an hour ago I refused the choicest things.”

  “So much the better, my lord, I could not present myself to you at a more favourable juncture; my triumph will be great.”

  “Listen, my dear friend, I cannot tell you if it is the influence of your name, or the learned and exalted manner with which you speak of your art, which gives me confidence in you, in spite of myself; but I experience, I will not say, a desire to eat, because I would challenge you to make me swallow the wing of an ortolan; but indeed I experience, in hearing you reason upon cooking, a pleasure which makes me hope that perhaps, later, if appetite returns to me, I—”

  “My lord, pardon me if I interrupt you; you have a kitchen here?”

  “Certainly, with every appointment. A fire has just been kindled there to keep warm what was brought already prepared from Chevet, but, alas! utterly useless.”

  “Will you give me, sir, a half-hour?”

  “What to do?”

  “To prepare a breakfast for you, sir.”

  “With what?”

  “I have brought all that is necessary.”

  “But what is the good of this breakfast, my dear friend? Go, believe me, and do not compromise a talent in which I am pleased to believe, by engaging in a foolish, impossible undertaking.”

  “Sir, will you give me a half-hour?”

  “But I ask again, for what good?”

  “To make you eat an excellent breakfast, sir, which will predispose you for a still better dinner.”

  “That is folly, I tell you; you are mad.”

  “Try, my lord; what do you risk?”

  “Go on, then, you must be a magician.”

  “I am, sir, perhaps,” replied the cook, with a strange smile.

  “Very well, bear then the penalty of your own pride,” cried Dom Diégo, ringing violently. “If you are instantly overwhelmed with humiliation, and are compelled to confess the impotence of your art, it is you who would have it. Take care, take care.”

  “You will eat, my lord,” replied the artist, in a professional tone; “yes, you will eat, and much, and deliciously.”

  At the moment the cook pronounced these rash words the majordomo, called by the sound of the bell, entered.

  “Pablo,” said the canon, “open the kitchen to this man, and lay a cover for me. Justice must be done.”

  “But, sir, this morning—”

  “Do as I tell you, conduct M. Appetite to the kitchen, and if he has need of help, let some one help him.”

  “I have need of no one, sir, I am accustomed to work alone in my laboratory. I ask of you permission to shut myself in.”

  “Have all that you wish, my dear friend, but may I be for ever damned for my sins if I swallow a mouthful of what you are going to serve me. I understand myself, I think, and there is really an overweening pride in you—”

  “It is half-past eleven, my lord,” said the cook, interrupting Dom Diégo, with majesty; “when the clock strikes noon you will breakfast.”

  And the artist went out, accompanied by the majordomo.

  CHAPTER VII.

  AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE of M. Appetite, this strange cook who offered his services with such superb assurance, the canon, left alone, said to himself, as he rose painfully from his chair and walked to and fro with agitation:

  “The arrogant self-confidence of
this cook confounds me and impresses me in spite of myself. But if he thinks he is dealing with a novice in the knowledge of dainty dishes, he has made a mistake, and I will make him see it. Well, what a fool I am to be so much disturbed! Can any human power give me in five minutes the hunger that has failed me for two months? Ah, that accursed Captain Horace! What a pleasure it would be to me to put him under lock and key! To think that the only nourishment he would have would be the nauseous diet given to prisoners, watered by a glass of blue wine, as rough to the throat as a rasp, and as sour as spoiled vinegar. But bah! This scoundrel, accustomed, doubtless, to the frequent privations endured by mariners, is capable of being indifferent to such a martyrdom, and of preserving his insolent appetite, while I — Ah, if this cook has not told me a lie! But, no, no, like all the French he is braggart, he is full of pride! And yet his assurance seems to me conscientious. He has something, too, in his look, in his countenance, expressive of power. But, in fact, what is this man? Where does he come from? Can I trust myself to his sincerity? I recall now that, when I spoke to him of the impossibility of reviving my appetite, he replied, with a significant bow: ‘My lord, perhaps I am a magician.’ If there are magicians they are the sons of the evil spirit, and God keep me from ever meeting them! This man must be a real magician if he makes me eat. Alas, I am a great sinner! Satan takes all sorts of forms, and if — Oh, no, no, I shudder at the very thought! I must turn away from such doleful meditations!”

  Then, after a moment’s silence, the canon added, as he looked at his watch:

  “See, it will soon be noon. In spite of myself, the nearer the fatal hour comes, the more my anxiety increases. I feel a strange emotion, I can admit it to myself. I am almost afraid. It seems to me that this man at this very hour is surrendering himself to a mysterious incantation, that he is plotting something superhuman, because to resurrect the dead and resurrect my appetite would be to work the same miracle. And this wonderful man has undertaken to work this miracle. And if he does, must I not recognise his supernatural power? Come, come, I am ashamed of this weakness. Well, I am indifferent, I prefer not to be alone, because the nearer the hour the more uncomfortable I am. I must ring for Pablo. (He rings.) Yes, the silence of this dwelling, the thought that this strange man is there in that subterranean kitchen, bending over his blazing furnace, like some bad spirit occupied with his sorcery, — all that gives me a strange sensation. Ah, so Pablo does not hear!” cried the canon, now at the highest pitch of uneasiness.