by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER LXI. AMBITION.
A few days after the interview of Djalma and Adrienne, just described,Rodin was alone in his bed-chamber, in the house in the Rue deVaugirard, walking up and down the room where he had so valiantlyundergone the moxas of Dr. Baleinier. With his hands thrust into thehind-pockets of his greatcoat, and his head bowed upon his breast, theJesuit seemed to be reflecting profoundly, and his varying walk, nowslow, now quick, betrayed the agitation of his mind.
"On the side of Rome," said Rodin to himself, "I am tranquil. All isgoing well. The abdication is as good as settled, and if I can pay themthe price agreed, the Prince Cardinal can secure me a majority of ninevoices in the conclave. Our General is with me; the doubts of CardinalMalipieri are at an end, or have found no echo. Yet I am not quite easy,with regard to the reported correspondence between Father d'Aigrigny andMalipieri. I have not been able to intercept any of it. No matter; thatsoldier's business is settled. A little patience and he will be wipedout."
Here the pale lips were contracted by one of those frightful smiles,which gave to Rodin's countenance so diabolical an expression.
After a pause, he resumed: "The funeral of the freethinker, thephilanthropist, the workman's friend, took place yesterday at St.Herem. Francis Hardy went off in a fit of ecstatic delirium. I hadhis donation, it is true; but this is more certain. Everything may bedisputed in this world; the dead dispute nothing."
Rodin remained in thought for some moments; then he added, in a gravetone: "There remain this red-haired wench and her mulatto. This is thetwenty-seventh of May; the first of June approaches, and these turtledoves still seem invulnerable. The princess thought she had hit upona good plan, and I should have thought so too. It was a good idea tomention the discovery of Agricola Baudoin in the madcap's room, for itmade the Indian tiger roar with savage jealousy. Yes: but then thedove began to coo, and hold out her pretty beak, and the foolish tigersheathed his claws, and rolled on the ground before her. It's a pity,for there was some sense in the scheme."
The walk of Rodin became more and more agitated. "Nothing is moreextraordinary," continued he, "than the generative succession of ideas.In comparing this red-haired jade to a dove (colombe), I could nothelp thinking of that infamous old woman, Sainte-Colombe, whom that bigrascal Jacques Dumoulin pays his court to, and whom the Abbe Corbinetwill finish, I hope, by turning to good account. I have often remarked,that, as a poet may find an excellent rhyme by mere chance, so thegerm of the best ideas is sometimes found in a word, or in some absurdresemblance like the present. That abominable hag, Sainte-Colombo, andthe pretty Adrienne de Cardoville, go as well together, as a ring wouldsuit a cat, or a necklace a fish. Well, there is nothing in it."
Hardly had Rodin pronounced these words, than he started suddenly,and his face shone with a fatal joy. Then it assumed an expression ofmeditative astonishment, as happens when chance reveals some unexpecteddiscovery to the surprised and charmed inquirer after knowledge.
Soon, with raised head and sparkling eye, his hollow cheeks swellingwith joy and pride, Rodin folded his arms in triumph on his breast,and exclaimed: "Oh! how admirable and marvellous are these mysteriousevolutions of the mind; how incomprehensible is the chain of humanthought, which, starting from an absurd jingle of words, arrives ata splendid or luminous idea! Is it weakness? or is it strength?Strange--very strange! I compare the red-haired girl to a dove--acolombe. That makes me think of the hag, who traded in the bodies andsouls of so many creatures. Vulgar proverbs occur to me, about a ringand a cat, a fish and a necklace--and suddenly, at the word NECKLACE,a new light dawns upon me. Yes: that one word NECKLACE shall be to me agolden key, to open the portals of my brain, so long foolishly closed."
And, after again walking hastily up and down, Rodin continued: "Yes, itis worth attempting. The more I reflect upon it, the more feasible itappears. Only how to get at that wretch, Saint-Colombe? Well, thereis Jacques Dumoulin, and the other--where to find her? That is thestumbling-block. I must not shout before I am out of the wood."
Rodin began again to walk, biting his nails with an air of deep thought.For some moments, such was the tension of his mind, large drops of sweatstood on his yellow brow. He walked up and down, stopped, stamped withhis foot, now raised his eyes as if in search of an inspiration, and nowscratched his head violently with his left hand, whilst he continuedto gnaw the nails of the right. Finally, from time to time, he utteredexclamations of rage, despondency, or hope, as by turns they tookpossession of his mind. If the cause of this monster's agitation had notbeen horrible, it would have been a curious and interesting spectacle towatch the labors of that powerful brain--to follow, as it were, on thatshifting countenance, the progress and development of the project,on which he was now concentrating all the resources of his strongintellect. At length, the work appeared to be near completion, for Rodinresumed: "Yes, yes! it is bold, hazardous--but then it is prompt, andthe consequences may be incalculable. Who can foresee the effects of theexplosion of a mine?"
Then, yielding to a movement of enthusiasm, which was hardly naturalto him, the Jesuit exclaimed, with rapture: "Oh, the passions! thepassions! what a magical instrument do they form, if you do but touchthe keys with a light, skillful, and vigorous hand! How beautiful toois the power of thought! Talk of the acorn that becomes an oak, the seedthat grows up to the corn--the seed takes months, the acorn centuries,to unfold its splendors--but here is a little word in eight letters,necklace and this word, falling into my brain but a few minutes ago, hasgrown and grown till it has become larger than any oak. Yes, that wordis the germ of an idea, that, like the oak, lifts itself up towardsheaven, for the greater glory of the Lord--such as they call Him,and such as I would assert Him to be, should I attain--and I shallattain--for these miserable Renneponts will pass away like a shadow. Andwhat matters it, after all, to the moral order I am reserved to guide,whether these people live or die? What do such lives weigh in thebalance of the great destinies of the world? while this inheritancewhich I shall boldly fling into the scale, will lift me to a sphere,from which one commands many kings, many nations--let them say and makewhat noise they will. The idiots--the stupid idiots! or rather, thekind, blessed, adorable idiots! They think they have crushed us, whenthey say to us men of the church: 'You take the spiritual, but we willkeep the temporal!'--Oh, their conscience or their modesty inspires themwell, when it bids them not meddle with spiritual things! They abandonthe spiritual! they despise it, they will have nothing to do withit--oh, the venerable asses! they do not see, that, even as they gostraight to the mill, it is by the spiritual that we go straight tothe temporal. As if the mind did not govern the body! They leave usthe spiritual--that is, command of the conscience, soul, heart, andjudgment--the spiritual--that is, the distribution of heaven's rewards,and punishments, and pardons--without check, without control, in thesecrecy of the confessional--and that dolt, the temporal, has nothingbut brute matter for his portion, and yet rubs his paunch for joy. Only,from time to time, he perceives, too late, that, if he has the body, wehave the soul, and that the soul governs the body, and so the body endsby coming with us also--to the great surprise of Master Temporal, whostands staring with his hands on his paunch, and says: 'Dear me! is itpossible?'"
Then, with a laugh of savage contempt, Rodin began to walk with greatstrides, and thus continued: "Oh! let me reach it--let me but reach theplace of SIXTUS V.--and the world shall see (one day, when it awakes)what it is to have the spiritual power in hands like mine--in the handsof a priest, who, for fifty years, has lived hardly, frugally, chastely,and who, were he pope, would continue to live hardly, frugally,chastely!"
Rodin became terrible, as he spoke thus. All the sanguinary,sacrilegious, execrable ambition of the worst popes seemed written infiery characters on the brow of this son of Ignatius. A morbid desireof rule seemed to stir up the Jesuit's impure blood; he was bathed ina burning sweat, and a kind of nauseous vapor spread itself round abouthim. Suddenly, the noise of a travelling-carriage, which enteredthe courtyard o
f the house, attracted his attention. Regretting hismomentary excitement, he drew from his pocket his dirty white and redcotton handkerchief, and dipping it in a glass of water, he appliedit to his cheeks and temples, while he approached the window, to lookthrough the half-open blinds at the traveller who had just arrived.The projection of a portico, over the door at which the carriage hadstopped, intercepted Rodin's view.
"No matter," said he, recovering his coolness: "I shall know presentlywho is there. I must write at once to Jacques Dumoulin, to come hitherimmediately. He served me well, with regard to that little slut in theRue Clovis, who made my hair stand on end with her infernal Beranger.This time, Dumoulin may serve me again. I have him in my clutches, andhe will obey me."
Rodin sat down to his desk and wrote. A few seconds later, some oneknocked at the door, which was double-locked, quite contrary to therules of the order. But, sure of his own influence and importance,Rodin, who had obtained from the general permission to be rid for atime of the inconvenient company of a socius, often took upon himself tobreak through a number of the rules. A servant entered and delivereda letter to Rodin. Before opening it the latter said to the man: "Whatcarriage is that which just arrived?"
"It comes from Rome, father," answered the servant, bowing.
"From Rome!" said Rodin, hastily; and in spite of himself, a vagueuneasiness was expressed in his countenance. But, still holding theletter in his hands, he added: "Who comes in the carriage."
"A reverend father of our blessed Company."
Notwithstanding his ardent curiosity, for he knew that a reverendfather, travelling post, is always charged with some important mission,Rodin asked no more questions on the subject, but said, as he pointed tothe paper in his hand: "Whence comes this letter?"
"From our house at St. Herem, father."
Rodin looked more attentively at the writing, and recognized the hand ofFather d'Aigrigny, who had been commissioned to attend M. Hardy in hislast moments. The letter ran as follows:
"I send a despatch to inform your reverence of a fact which is, perhaps,more singular than important. After the funeral of M. Francis Hardy, thecoffin, which contained his remains, had been provisionally deposited ina vault beneath our chapel, until it could be removed to the cemetery ofthe neighboring town. This morning, when our people went down intothe vault, to make the necessary preparations for the removal of thebody--the coffin had disappeared.
"That is strange indeed," said Rodin with a start. Then, he continued toread:
"All search has hitherto been vain, to discover the authors of thesacrilegious deed. The chapel being, as you know, at a distance from thehouse, they were able to effect an entry without disturbing us. Wehave found traces of a four-wheeled carriage on the damp ground in theneighborhood; but, at some little distance from the chapel, these marksare lost in the sand, and it has been impossible to follow them anyfarther."
"Who can have carried away this body?" said Rodin, with a thoughtfulair. "Who could have any interest in doing so?"
He continued to read:
"Luckily, the certificate of death is quite correct. I sent for a doctorfrom Etampes, to prove the disease, and no question can be raised onthat point. The donation is therefore good and valid in every respect,but I think it best to inform your reverence of what has happened, thatyou may take measures accordingly, etc., etc."
After a moment's reflection, Rodin said to himself: "D'Aigrigny is rightin his remark; it is more singular than important. Still, it makes onethink. We must have an eye to this affair."
Turning towards the servant, who had brought him the letter, Rodin gavehim the note he had just written to Ninny Moulin, and said to him: "Letthis letter be taken instantly to its address, and let the bearer waitfor an answer."
"Yes, father."
At the moment the servant left the room, a reverend father entered,and said to Rodin, "Father Caboccini of Rome has just arrived, with amission from our general to your reverence."
At these words, Rodin's blood ran cold, but he maintained his immovablecalmness, and said simply: "Where is Father Caboccini?"
"In the next room, father."
"Beg him to walk in, and leave us," said the other.
A second after, Father Caboccini of Rome entered the room and was leftalone with Rodin.