“To him!... to him!... Strike home!... He’s a tough brute!”
When he was near me:
“Ah Monsieur,” I said, “you have no pity!”
“Monsieur,” he replied, “obviously it is not your mistress this capuchin has caressed, and it was not you who surprised Madame here in the arms of this malodorous beast. Her financier is all very well — there are things that are understood. But a monk is not to be endured. Look at the bold impudent hussy.”
And he showed me Catherine in her night-dress in the doorway, her eyes glittering with tears, dishevelled, wringing her hands, more beautiful than I had ever seen her, and murmuring in a languishing voice which cut me to the heart:
“Do not kill him! It is brother Ange, it is the little brother.”
The ruffianly lackeys came back announcing they had given up the chase on seeing the watch, but not without having first felt their pikes half a finger deep in the back of the holy man. The night-caps disappeared from the windows, which shut again, and while the young lord talked with his men I approached Catherine whose tears were drying on her cheeks in the pretty creases of her smile.
“The poor brother has escaped,” she said. “But I trembled for him. Men are terrible. When they love you they will listen to nothing.”
“Catherine,” I replied rather piqued, “did you ask me to come here merely to assist at your friends’ quarrels? Alas! I have no right to take part in them.”
“You would have, Monsieur Jacques, you would have, if you wished.”
“But,” said I again, “you are the most sought-after person in all Paris. You have never spoken to me of this young gentleman.”
“Neither did I think of him. He came by surprise.”
“And he surprised you with brother Ange.”
“He thought he saw what did not exist. He is so hot-headed and will not listen to reason.”
Her night-dress, half open, showed amid its lace a bosom full as a ripe fruit and flowering to a rosebud. I took her in my arms and covered her breast with kisses.
“Heavens!” she cried, “and in the street too, before Monsieur d’Anquetil, who is looking at us!”
“Who is he? Monsieur d’Anquetil?”
“The murderer of brother Ange, pardi! Who else do you suppose?”
“Truly, Catherine, others are not needful; your friends are gathered round you in sufficient force.”
“Monsieur Jacques, I pray you do not insult me!”
“I am not insulting you, Catherine, I acknowledge your attractions, to which I do but wish to pay the same homage as do so many others.”
“Monsieur Jacques, what you say smells odiously of your good father’s cook-shop.”
“You were formerly well content Mam’selle Catherine, to smell that smoke.”
“Fie, you villain! You mean wretch! To insult a woman!”
As she began to screech and to get excited, Monsieur d’Anquetil left his men and came to us, pushed her into the house calling her a shameless hussy and a good-for-nothing, followed her into the passage and shut the door in my face.
XIV
THE thought of Catherine filled my mind during the whole week following this unlucky adventure. Her likeness shone on the leaves of the folios over which I bent in the library beside my good master; so much so that Photius, Olympiodorus, Fabricius and Vossius, spoke to me but of a little lady in a lace night-gown. These visions inclined me to idleness. But indulgent to others as to himself Monsieur Jérôme Coignard smiled benevolently on my trouble and distraction.
“Jacques Tournebroche,” the good man said to me one day, “are you not struck by the variations of the moral law throughout the ages? The books gathered together in this admirable Astaracian library bear witness to man’s uncertainty on this subject. If I offer some reflections thereon, my son, it is to fix in your mind this sound and salutary thought, that there is no good conduct outside religion, and that the maxims of the philosophers who pretend to set up a code of natural morals are but whim-whams and crotchets. The wherefore for right conduct is not to be found in nature, who, of herself, is indifferent, ignoring evil as well as good. It is written in the Holy Scriptures that one must not transgress, at least not without suitably repenting afterwards. Human laws are founded on utility, and that can be but apparent and illusive utility, for one does not know instinctively what is of use to man or what really befits him. And again, in our Code of Usage a good part of the articles are born of prejudice alone. Upheld by the threat of punishment human laws may be eluded by ruse and dissimulation. Every man capable of thought is above them. They are in fact but snares for the foolish.
“Such is not the case my son, with divine laws. These latter are imprescriptible, ineluctable, and stable. Their absurdity is but apparent, and hides a wisdom we cannot grasp. If they offend our reason it is because they are superior to it and because they accord with the true ends of man and not with the ends which are apparent to him. It is well to observe them when one is fortunate enough to recognise them. At the same time I make no difficulty about confessing that the observation of these laws contained in the Decalogue and in the commandments of the church, is difficult at most times, and even impossible without grace, which is often delayed, since it is our duty to long for it. Hence we are all miserable sinners.
“And here it is indeed that we should admire the system of the Christian faith, which bases salvation principally upon repentance. It is to be observed, my son, that the greatest saints were the penitents, and as repentance is in proportion to the fault, in the greatest sinners is found the stuff of the greatest saints. I could illustrate this doctrine with a great number of admirable examples, but I have said enough to make you understand that the primary substance of saintliness is concupiscence, incontinence, every impurity of the flesh and spirit. It needs but, having collected your material together, to work it up according to the theological art, to shape it, so to speak, into the form of repentance, which is the affair of years, of days, and sometimes even of a single moment, as may be seen in the case of perfect contrition. Jacques Tournebroche, if you have well understood me, you will not wear yourself out in wretched efforts to become an honest man according to the way of the world, but you will apply yourself solely to the satisfying of divine justice.”
I did not fail to recognise the great wisdom enshrined in the maxims of my good master. I only feared that this morality, were it followed without discrimination would bring upon men the worst disorders. I shared my doubts with Monsieur Jérôme Coignard who reassured me as follows:
“Jacobus Tournebroche, you take no notice of what I have just particularly told you, to wit, that what you call disorders are such in fact only in the opinion of lawyers and judges whether civil or ecclesiastical, and in reference to human laws which are arbitrary and transitory, and, in a word, that to live according to these laws is the mark of a sheepish intelligence. A man of parts does not pride himself on acting according to the laws in force at the Châtelet and under the eye of the judge. He only concerns himself with the salvation of his soul, and he does not think himself dishonoured if he gets to heaven by some one of the crooked paths followed by the greatest saints. If the blessed Pelagia had not practiced the profession by which you know Jeannette the viol-player gains her livelihood under the porch of St. Benôit-le-Bétournê, that saint would not have had occasion for her full and ample repentance, and it is extremely probable that, after having lived as a matron in average and commonplace goodness, she would not at this moment be playing the psaltery before the tabernacle where the Holy of Holies rests in glory. Do you call so beautiful a dispensation of a predestinated life, disorder? Not so. Let us leave such base figures of speech to Monsieur the lieutenant of police, who after death will not perhaps find the meanest place behind the wretched women he drags ignominiously to-day to the reformatory. Save the loss of one’s soul and eternal damnation, there should be no disorder nor crime nor any evil in this perishable world, where everything should be adj
usted and governed with an eye to the world to come. Admit, then, Tournebroche my son, that acts the most reprehensible in man’s opinion may lead to a good end, and do not try to reconcile the justice of men with that of God, which alone is just, not indeed to our perceptions but in very surety. For the moment you will oblige me, my son, by looking up in Vossius the meaning of five or six obscure terms employed by the Panopolitan with whom one must wrestle in the darkness, in the insidious manner which dismayed even the great heart of Ajax, according to Homer, prince of poets and historians. These old alchemists had a rough-hewn style; Manilius, if Monsieur d’Astarac does not mind my saying so, wrote on these same subjects with more elegance.”
My good master had scarcely uttered these last words when a shadow rose between us. It was that of Monsieur d’Astarac, or rather it was Monsieur d’Astarac himself, thin and black as a shadow.
Whether he had not overheard the conversation, or whether he disdained to notice it, he showed no resentment; on the contrary, he congratulated Monsieur Jérôme Coignard on his zeal and knowledge, and he added that he counted on his insight for the completion of the greatest work ever undertaken by man. Then turning to me, he said:
“My son, I beg you to come down to my study for a moment, where I wish to communicate to you a secret of some importance.”
I followed him into the room where he had first received us, my good master and me, the day he took us into his service. I found once again the old Egyptians with their gilded faces standing against the walls. A glass globe the size of a pumpkin stood on the table. Monsieur d’Astarac let himself drop on to a sofa and signed to me to sit down in front of him, and having passed his hand, laden with precious stones and amulets, across his brow, said:
“My son, I do not do you the injustice of thinking that after our interview on the Isle of Swans any doubt can remain to you as to the existence of Sylphs and Salamanders, which is just as real as that of men, and even much more so if one counts its reality by the duration of the apparitions through which it shows itself, for their life is far longer than ours. Salamanders carry their unchangeable youth from century to century; some of them have seen Noah, Menes and Pythagoras. The plenitude of their remembrances and the freshness of their memory make their conversation extremely attractive. It has been imagined that they acquired their immortality in the arms of mortals, and that the hope of avoiding death drew them to the couch of philosophers. But these are falsehoods which cannot deceive a reflective mind. Every union of the sexes, far from assuring immortality to lovers, is an evidence of death, and we should never know love were we destined to live for ever. It cannot be otherwise for the Salamanders, who seek in the arms of the sages but one kind of immortality — that of the race. It is also the only one that it is reasonable to hope for. And although I have promised myself, with the help of science, notably to prolong human life, and to spread it over five or six centuries at least, I have never flattered myself that I could ensure its duration indefinitely. It would be insensate to combat the natural law. Reject, my son, as vain tales, the idea of immortality drawn from a kiss. It is the shame of various cabalists ever to have thought such a thing. It is none the less true that Salamanders are inclined to the love of man. You will have experience of it without delay. I have sufficiently prepared you for their visit and since you have had, from the night of your initiation, no impure dealings with women, you shall now receive the reward of your continence.”
My candid nature suffered uneasily a praise I merited only in spite of myself, and I thought of owning my culpable desires to Monsieur d’Astarac. But he left me not time to confess, and continued with vivacity:
“There only remains to give you the key, my son, which will open to you the kingdom of the Genii. And I will do it straight away.”
And getting up he put his hand on the globe which occupied half the table.
“This ball,” he said, “is full of star dust which escapes your sight by its very purity. For it is far too rare to be palpable to the gross sense of man. So it is, my son, that the more beautiful side of the universe hides itself from our vision, and only reveals itself to the savant who is furnished with the apparatus proper to discover it. The rivers and the plains of the air, for instance, remain invisible to you, though in reality they are a thousand times more rich and varied in aspect than those of the most beautiful of earthly landscapes.
“Know then that in this globe there is a star dust of sovereign property to exalt the fire that is within us. And the effect of the exaltation makes itself felt at once. It consists in a sublety of the senses which allows us to see and to touch the aërial shapes floating round about us. As soon as you have broken the seal which closes the opening of this globe, and inhaled the star dust which will escape therefrom, you will find in this room one or more creatures like to women in the system of curved lines which form their bodies, but far more beautiful than ever woman was, and who are, in truth, Salamanders. There is no doubt that the one which I saw last year in your father’s cook-shop will appear to you first, for she has a liking for you, and I would advise you to satisfy her desires as soon as possible. So sit down comfortably in this armchair before the table, unseal the globe, and inhale its contents gently. You will soon see all that I have described to you take shape by degrees. I will now leave you. Farewell.”
And he disappeared after his fashion, which was strangely sudden. I remained alone, before this globe of glass, hesitating to uncork it for fear that some stupefying exhalation should escape. I thought that perhaps Monsieur d’Astarac might have introduced therein, according to his art, some vapour which should send to sleep those who breathed it and set them dreaming of Salamanders. I was not yet philosopher enough to care to be happy in such fashion. Perhaps, I said to myself, these fumes induce madness. In fact I was distrustful enough to think for a moment of going to the library to ask advice of my good master, Monsieur l’Abbé Coignard. But I recognised immediately that it would be taking useless trouble. As soon as he heard me speak, I told myself, of star dust and Genii of the air, he would reply, “Jacques Tournebroche, my son, be mindful never to put faith in absurdities, but to bring everything to the test of your reason save in the matter of our holy religion. Let be these globes and powders along with all the other follies of the cabala and the spagyric art.”
I thought I could hear him making this little speech between two pinches of snuff, and I knew not what to reply to such Christian language. On the other hand, I foresaw and considered in what embarrassment I should find myself before Monsieur d’Astarac when he should ask me what news of the Salamander? What should I reply to him? How could I confess my reserve and my abstention, without at the same time betraying my suspicion and my fear? And then again, in spite of myself, I was curious to try such an adventure. I am not credulous. On the contrary, I have a prodigious leaning to doubt, and this propensity induces me to defy common sense and even evidence along with it. To everything that is told me I say to myself why not? Before the crystal globe this “why not?” did insult to my natural intelligence. This “why not” inclines me to credulity and, it is worthy of note here, that to believe nothing is to believe everything, and one must not keep too open and free a mind lest perchance it should become a storehouse for adventure, and stuff should lodge there of extravagant form and weight which could find no place in minds sensibly and commonplacedly furnished with beliefs. While with my hand on the waxen seal I remembered what my mother had told me of magic bottles my “why not?” whispered to me that perchance after all one might see in this astral dust aerial sprites. But as soon as this notion, having set foot in my mind, inclined to lodge there and recline upon itself, I found it odd, absurd and grotesque. Ideas, when they lay hold of one soon become impertinent. Few of them are capable of being anything but passing fancies, and certainly this one had an air of folly. While I still asked myself, Shall I open it? Shall I not open it? the seal, which I had not ceased to press between my fingers, broke suddenly in my hand, and behold
the bottle was uncorked!
I waited and I watched. I saw nothing and I felt nothing. I felt cheated, so facile and prompt to slip into our minds is the hope of over-reaching nature! Nothing! Not even a vague or confused illusion, or uncertain image. What I had foreseen had happened. What a deception! I felt a kind of chagrin. Lying back in my arm-chair I swore to myself before the surrounding Egyptians with their long black eyes to shut my mind closer in future against the lies of cabalists. Once again I acknowledged the wisdom of my good master and I resolved on his example to guide myself by reason in all matters not relating to the Christian and Catholic faith. To have expected the visit of a Salamander-lady, what a simpleton! Could there possibly be Salamanders? But what does one know of such things? and “why not?”
The atmosphere, heavy since mid-day, was become overpowering. Torpid from long, peaceful, and secluded days I felt a weight on my brow and on my eyelids. The coming storm quite bore me down. I let my arms fall, and with head thrown back and closed eyes I slid into a half-slumber full of gilded Egyptians and lascivious shades. This uncertain condition, during which the feeling of love burnt in me as a fire in the night, lasted for I know not how long, when I was awakened by a light sound of steps and of rustling material. I opened my eyes and gave a loud cry.
A marvellous creature stood before me, robed in black satin, her hair decked with lace, dark, with blue eyes, well-marked features, a young pure skin, rounded cheeks and a mouth breathing an invisible kiss. Her short dress showed little feet, light and instinct with gaiety and movement. She held herself erect, rounded, and a trifle thickset in her voluptuous perfection. One could see a small square of her neck under the velvet band tied round her throat, and it was dark but dazzling. She looked at me with an air of curiosity.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 63