Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Some minutes after, Gabriel, carried almost in triumph on the shoulders of the crowd, entered the coach, in which Father d’Aigrigny, who by degrees had completely recovered his senses, was already reclining. By the order of the Jesuit, the coach stopped before the door of a house in the Rue de Vaugirard; he had the strength and courage to enter this dwelling alone; Gabriel was not admitted, but we shall conduct the reader thither.

  CHAPTER XXVI. THE PATIENT.

  AT THE END of the Rue de Vaugirard, there was then a very high wall, with only one small doorway in all its length. On opening this door, you entered a yard surrounded by a railing, with screens like Venetian blinds, to prevent your seeing between the rails. Crossing this courtyard, you come to a fine large garden, symmetrically planted, at the end of which stood a building two stories high, looking perfectly comfortable, without luxury, but with all that cozy simplicity which betokens discreet opulence. A few days had elapsed since Father d’Aigrigny had been so courageously rescued by Gabriel from the popular fury. Three ecclesiastics, wearing black gowns, white bands, and square caps, were walking in the garden with a slow and measured step. The youngest seemed to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was pale, hollow, and impressed with a certain ascetic austerity. His two companions, aged between fifty or sixty, had, on the contrary, faces at once hypocritical and cunning; their round, rosy cheeks shone brightly in the sunshine, whilst their triple chins, buried in fat, descended in soft folds over the fine cambric of their bands. According to the rules of their order (they belonged to the Society of Jesus), which forbade their walking only two together, these three members of the brotherhood never quitted each other a moment.

  “I fear,” said one of the two, continuing a conversation already begun, and speaking of an absent person, “I fear, that the continual agitation to which the reverend father has been a prey, ever since he was attacked with the cholera, has exhausted his strength, and caused the dangerous relapse which now makes us fear for his life.”

  “They say,” resumed the other, “that never was there seen anxiety like to his.”

  “And moreover,” remarked the young priest, bitterly, “it is painful to think, that his reverence Father Rodin has given cause for scandal, by obstinately refusing to make a public confession, the day before yesterday when his situation appeared so desperate, that, between two fits of a delirium, it was thought right to propose to him to receive the last sacraments.”

  “His reverence declared that he was not so ill as they supposed,” answered one of the fathers, “and that he would have the last duties performed when he thought necessary.”

  “The fact is, that for the last ten days, ever since he was brought here dying, his life has been, as it were, only a long and painful agony; and yet he continues to live.”

  “I watched by him during the first three days of his malady, with M. Rousselet, the pupil of Dr. Baleinier,” resumed the youngest father; “he had hardly a moment’s consciousness, and when the Lord did grant him a lucid interval, he employed it in detestable execrations against the fate which had confined him to his bed.”

  “It is said,” resumed the other, “that Father Rodin made answer to his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, who came to persuade him to die in an exemplary manner, worthy of a son of Loyola, our blessed founder” — at these words, the three Jesuits bowed their heads together, as if they had been all moved by the same spring— “it is said, that Father Rodin made answer to his eminence: ‘I do not need to confess publicly; I WANT TO LIVE, AND I WILL LIVE.’”

  “I did not hear that,” said the young priest, with an indignant air; “but if Father Rodin really made use of such expressions, it is—”

  Here, no doubt, reflection came to him just in time, for he stole a sidelong glance at his two silent, impassible companions, and added: “It is a great misfortune for his soul; but I am certain, his reverence has been slandered.”

  “It was only as a calumnious report, that I mentioned those words,” said the other priest, exchanging a glance with his companion.

  One of the garden gates opened, and one of the three reverend fathers exclaimed, at the sight of the personage who now entered: “Oh! here is his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, coming to pay a visit to Father Rodin.”

  “May this visit of his eminence,” said the young priest, calmly, “be more profitable to Father Rodin than the last!”

  Cardinal Malipieri was crossing the garden, on his way to the apartment occupied by Rodin.

  Cardinal Malipieri, whom we saw assisting at the sort of council held at the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s, now on his way to Rodin’s apartment, was dressed as a layman, but enveloped in an ample pelisse of puce-colored satin, which exhaled a strong odor of camphor, for the prelate had taken care to surround himself with all sorts of anti-cholera specifics. Having reached the second story of the house, the cardinal knocked at a little gray door. Nobody answering, he opened it, and, like a man to whom the locality was well known, passed through a sort of antechamber, and entered a room in which was a turn-up bed. On a black wood table were many phials, which had contained different medicines. The prelate’s countenance seemed uneasy and morose; his complexion was still yellow and bilious; the brown circle which surrounded his black, squinting eyes appeared still darker than usual.

  Pausing a moment, he looked round him almost in fear, and several times stopped to smell at his anti-cholera bottle. Then, seeing he was alone, he approached a glass over the chimney-piece, and examined with much attention the color of his tongue; after some minutes spent in this careful investigation, with the result of which he appeared tolerably satisfied, he took some preservative lozenges out of a golden box, and allowed them to melt in his mouth, whilst he closed his eyes with a sanctified air. Having taken these sanitary precautions, and again pressed his bottle to his nose, the prelate prepared to enter the third room, when he heard a tolerably loud noise through the thin partition which separated him from it, and, stopping to listen, all that was said in the next apartment easily reached his ear.

  “Now that my wounds are dressed, I will get up,” said weak, but sharp and imperious voice.

  “Do not think of it, reverend father,” was answered in a stronger tone; “it is impossible.”

  “You shall see if it is impossible,” replied the other voice.

  “But, reverend father, you will kill yourself. You are not in a state to get up. You will expose yourself to a mortal relapse. I cannot consent to it.”

  To these words succeeded the noise of a faint struggle, mingled with groans more angry than plaintive, and the voice resumed: “No, no, father; for your own safety, I will not leave your clothes within your reach. It is almost time for your medicine; I will go and prepare it for you.”

  Almost immediately after, the door opened, and the prelate saw enter a man of about twenty-five years of age, carrying on his arm an old olive great-coat and threadbare black trousers, which he threw down upon a chair.

  This personage was Ange Modeste Rousselet, chief pupil of Dr. Baleinier; the countenance of the young practitioner was mild, humble, and reserved; his hair, very short in front, flowed down upon his neck behind. He made a slight start in surprise on perceiving the cardinal, and bowed twice very low, without raising his eyes.

  “Before anything else,” said the prelate, with his marked Italian accent, still holding to his nose his bottle of camphor, “have any choleraic symptoms returned?”

  “No, my lord; the pernicious fever, which succeeded the attack of cholera, still continues.”

  “Very good. But will not the reverend father be reasonable? What was the noise that I just heard?”

  “His reverence wished absolutely to get up and dress himself; but his weakness is so great, that he could not have taken two steps from the bed. He is devoured by impatience, and we fear that this agitation will cause a mortal relapse.”

  “Has Dr. Baleinier been here this morning?”

  “He has just left, my lord.”

>   “What does he think of the patient?”

  “He finds him in the most alarming state, my lord. The night was so bad, that he was extremely uneasy this morning. Father Rodin is at one of those critical junctures, when a few hours may decide the life or death of the patient. Dr. Baleinier is now gone to fetch what is necessary for a very painful operation, which he is about to perform on the reverend father.”

  “Has Father d’Aigrigny been told of this?”

  “Father d’Aigrigny is himself very unwell, as your eminence knows; he has not been able to leave his bed for the last three days.”

  “I inquired about him as I came up,” answered the prelate, “and I shall see him directly. But, to return to Father Rodin, have you sent for his confessor, since he is in a desperate state, and about to undergo a serious operation?”

  “Dr. Baleinier spoke a word to him about it, as well as about the last sacraments; but Father Rodin exclaimed, with great irritation, that they did not leave him a moment’s peace, that he had as much care as any one for his salvation, and that—”

  “Per Bacco! I am not thinking of him,” cried the cardinal, interrupting Ange Modeste Rousselet with his pagan oath, and raising his sharp voice to a still higher key; “I am not thinking of him, but of the interests of the Company. It is indispensable that the reverend father should receive the sacraments with the most splendid solemnity, and that his end should not only be Christian, but exemplary. All the people in the house, and even strangers, should be invited to the spectacle, so that his edifying death may produce an excellent sensation.”

  “That is what Fathers Grison and Brunet have already endeavored to persuade his reverence, my lord; but your Eminence knows with what impatience Father Rodin received this advice, and Dr. Baleinier did not venture to persist, for fear of advancing a fatal crisis.”

  “Well, I will venture to do it; for in these times of revolutionary impiety, a solemnly Christian death would produce a very salutary effect on the public. It would indeed be proper to make the necessary preparations to embalm the reverend father: he might then lie in state for some days, with lighted tapers, according to Romish custom. My secretary would furnish the design for the bier; it would be very splendid and imposing; from his position in the Order, Father Rodin is entitled to have everything in the most sumptuous style. He must have at least six hundred tapers, and a dozen funeral lamps, burning spirits of wine, to hang just over the body, and light it from above: the effect would be excellent. We must also distribute little tracts to the people, concerning the pious and ascetic life of his reverence—”

  Here a sudden noise, like that of some piece of metal thrown angrily on the floor, was heard from the next room, in which was the sick man, and interrupted the prelate in his description.

  “I hope Father Rodin has not heard you talk of embalming him, my lord,” said Rousselet, in a whisper: “his bed touches the partition, and almost everything is audible through it.”

  “If Father Rodin has heard me,” answered the cardinal, sinking his voice, and retiring to the other end of the room, “this circumstance will enable me to enter at once on the business; but, in any case, I persist in believing that the embalming and the lying in state are required to make a good effect upon the public. The people are already frightened at the cholera, and such funeral pomp would have no small influence on the imagination.”

  “I would venture to observe to your Eminence, that here the laws are opposed to such exhibitions.”

  “The laws — already the laws!” said the cardinal, angrily; “has not Rome also her laws? And is not every priest a subject of Rome? Is it not time—”

  But, not choosing, doubtless, to begin a more explicit conversation with the young doctor, the prelate resumed, “We will talk of this hereafter. But, tell me, since my last visit, has the reverend father had any fresh attacks of delirium?”

  “Yes, my lord; here is the note, as your Eminence commanded.” So saying Rousselet delivered a paper to the prelate. We will inform the reader that this part of the conversation between Rousselet and the cardinal was carried on at a distance from the partition, so that Rodin could hear nothing of it, whilst that which related to the embalming had been perfectly audible to him.

  The cardinal, having received the note from Rousselet, perused it with an expression of lively curiosity. When he had finished, he crumpled it in his hand, and said, without attempting to dissemble his vexation, “Always nothing but incoherent expression. Not two words together, from which you can draw any reasonable conclusion. One would really think this man had the power to control himself even in his delirium, and to rave about insignificant matters only.”

  Then, addressing Rousselet, “You are sure that you have reported everything that escaped from him during his delirium?”

  “With the exception of the same phrases, that he repeated over and over again, your Eminence may be assured that I have not omitted a single word, however unmeaning.”

  “Show me into Father Rodin’s room,” said the prelate, after a moment’s silence.

  “But, my lord,” answered the young doctor, with some hesitation, “the fit has only left him about an hour, and the reverend father is still very weak.”

  “The more the reason,” replied the prelate, somewhat indiscreetly. Then, recollecting himself, he added, “He will the better appreciate the consolations I have to offer. Should he be asleep, awake him, and announce my visit.”

  “I have only orders to receive from your Eminence,” said Rousselet, bowing, and entering the next room.

  Left alone, the cardinal said to himself, with a pensive air, “I always come back to that. When he was suddenly attacked by the cholera, Father Rodin believed himself poisoned by order of the Holy See. He must then have been plotting something very formidable against Rome, to entertain so abominable a fear. Can our suspicions be well founded? Is he acting secretly and powerfully on the Sacred College? But then for what end? This it has been impossible to penetrate, so faithfully has the secret been kept by his accomplices. I had hoped that, during his delirium, he would let slip some word that would put us on the trace of what we are so much interested to discover. With so restless and active a mind, delirium is often the exaggeration of some dominant idea; yet here I have the report of five different fits — and nothing — no, nothing but vague, unconnected phrases.”

  The return of Rousselet put an end to these reflections. “I am sorry to inform my lord that the reverend father obstinately refuses to see any one. He says that he requires absolute repose. Though very weak, he has a savage and angry look, and I should not be surprised if he overheard your Eminence talk about embalming him.”

  The cardinal, interrupting Rousselet, said to him, “Did Father Rodin have his last fit of delirium in the night?”

  “Between three and half-past five this morning, my lord.”

  “Between three and half-past five,” repeated the prelate, as if he wished to impress this circumstance on his memory, “the attack presented no particular symptoms?”

  “No, my lord; it consisted of rambling, incoherent talk, as your Eminence may see by this note.”

  Then, as he perceived the prelate approaching Father Rodin’s door, Rousselet added, “The reverend father will positively see no one, my lord; he requires rest, to prepare for the operation; it might be dangerous—”

  Without attending to these observations, the cardinal entered Rodin’s chamber. It was a tolerably large room, lighted by two windows, and simply but commodiously furnished. Two logs were burning slowly in the fireplace, in which stood a coffee-pot, a vessel containing mustard poultice, etc. On the chimney-piece were several pieces of rag, and some linen bandages. The room was full of that faint chemical odor peculiar to the chambers of the sick, mingled with so putrid a stench, that the cardinal stopped at the door a moment, before he ventured to advance further. As the three reverend fathers had mentioned in their walk, Rodin lived because he had said to himself, “I want to live, and I will li
ve.”

  For, as men of timid imaginations and cowardly minds often die from the mere dread of dying, so a thousand facts prove that vigor of character and moral energy may often struggle successfully against disease, and triumph over the most desperate symptoms.

  It was thus with the Jesuit. The unshaken firmness of his character, the formidable tenacity of his will (for the will has sometimes a mysterious and almost terrific power), aiding the skillful treatment of Dr. Baleinier, had saved him from the pestilence with which he had been so suddenly attacked. But the shock had been succeeded by a violent fever, which placed Rodin’s life in the utmost peril. This increased danger had caused the greatest alarm to Father d’Aigrigny, who felt, in spite of his rivalry and jealousy, that Rodin was the master-spirit of the plot in which they were engaged, and could alone conduct it to a successful issue.

  The curtains of the room was half closed, and admitted only a doubtful light to the bed on which Rodin was lying. The Jesuit’s features had lost the greenish hue peculiar to cholera patients, but remained perfectly livid and cadaverous, and so thin, that the dry, rugged skin appeared to cling to the smallest prominence of bone. The muscles and veins of the long, lean, vulture-like neck resembled a bundle of cords. The head, covered with an old, black, filthy nightcap, from beneath which strayed a few thin, gray hairs, rested upon a dirty pillow; for Rodin would not allow them to change his linen. His iron-gray beard had not been shaved for some time, and stood out like the hairs of a brush. Under his shirt he wore an old flannel waistcoat full of holes. He had one of his arms out of bed, and his bony hairy hand, with its bluish nails, held fast a cotton handkerchief of indescribable color.

  You might have taken him for a corpse, had it not been for the two brilliant sparks which still burned in the depths of his eyes. In that look, in which seemed concentrated all the remaining life and energy of the man, you might read the most restless anxiety. Sometimes his features revealed the sharpest pangs; sometimes the twisting of his hands, and his sudden starts, proclaimed his despair at being thus fettered to a bed of pain, whilst the serious interests which he had in charge required all the activity of his mind. Thus, with thoughts continually on the stretch, his mind often wandered, and he had fits of delirium, from which he woke as from a painful dream. By the prudent advice of Dr. Baleinier, who considered him not in a state to attend to matters of — importance, Father d’Aigrigny had hitherto evaded Rodin’s questions with regard to the Rennepont affair, which he dreaded to see lost and ruined in consequence of his forced inaction. The silence of Father d’Aigrigny on this head, and the ignorance in which they kept him, only augmented the sick man’s exasperation. Such was the moral and physical state of Rodin, when Cardinal Malipieri entered his chamber against his will.