“Hostilities between the Americans and the Spanish have not yet started in earnest,” he said. “What do you anticipate will be the outcome of it all, General? I should be very glad to have the opinion of so eminent a military authority as yourself.”
“It would certainly be very instructive if you would tell us what you think about the forces that are about to try their strength in the Antilles and in the China seas, General,” put in M. Lerond.
General Cartier de Chalmot passed his hand over his forehead, opened his mouth some time before he spoke, and then said in an authoritative manner:
“The Americans have committed a very imprudent act in declaring war on Spain, and it may well cost them dear. Having no army and no navy, it would be a difficult matter for them to keep up a struggle against an efficient army and a well-trained navy. They have their stokers and their enginemen, but stokers and enginemen do not make a battle fleet.”
“Do you think the Spaniards will win, General?” asked M. Lerond.
“Generally speaking, the success of a campaign depends upon circumstances impossible to prophesy,” replied the General. “But it may at once be stated that the Americans are not ready for war, and war necessitates long and careful preparation.”
“Come, General,” cried Madame de Courtrai, “tell us that these American wretches will be beaten!”
“Their success is doubtful,” replied the General. “I might even go so far as to say that it would be paradoxical, and an insolent contradiction of every system employed by those nations which are essentially military nations. As a matter of fact, the victory of the United States would constitute a condemnation of the principles adopted throughout Europe by the most competent soldiers, and such a result is neither likely nor desirable.”
“Good!” cried Madame de Courtrai, smacking her withered sides with her bony hands, and shaking her head, with its rough, grey locks that looked like a fur cap. “Good! our friends the Spaniards will be victorious! Vive le roi!”
“General,” said M. Lerond, “I am most interested in what you say. The success of our friends would be well received in France, and who knows if they might not be the means of stirring up a Royalist and clerical movement in this country!”
“Pardon me,” said the General. “I make no prophecy regarding the future. As I have said before, the success of a campaign depends upon circumstances impossible to foresee. All I can do is to take into consideration the quality of the conflicting elements, and from this point of view the advantage is certainly with Spain, although her fleet does not include a sufficiency of naval units.”
“Certain symptoms,” said the Duke, “would point to the fact that the Americans have already begun to repent of their temerity. I have heard it positively stated that they are panic-stricken. They live in daily dread of seeing the Spanish ironclads appear on their coasts. The inhabitants of Boston, New York, and Philadelphia are fleeing inland en masse; in fact, a general panic exists.”
“Vive le roi!” repeated Madame de Courtrai, with fierce delight.
“What about little Honorine?” asked M. Lerond. “Is she still favoured with the visitations of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles?”
“Yes,” replied the dowager duchess, with some embarrassment.
“It would be a good idea,” ventured the ex-deputy, “to make an official report of the child’s statements of what she sees and hears when in her trances.” — .
No reply was forthcoming to this remark, the reason being that, having undertaken to note down the words attributed by Honorine to the Blessed Virgin, Madame de Brécé very soon stopped doing so: the child’s expressions were not nice. Besides, M. le Curé Traviès, who was in the habit of shooting rabbits every evening in the woods of Lénonville, had too often surprised Isidore and Honorine lying among the dead leaves to be any longer in doubt as to why they were there. M. Traviès was something of a poacher, but both his morals and his doctrine were sound. He gathered from repeated observations that it was hardly likely the Blessed Virgin would appear to Honorine.
He had spoken on the matter to the ladies of the castle, who were, if not convinced, at least somewhat perplexed. So when M. Lerond asked them for details of the latest ecstasies, they changed the subject.
“If you care to hear news from Lourdes,” said the dowager duchess, “we have some.”
“My nephew writes me that many miracles take place in the grotto,” said M. de Brécé.
“I have heard the same thing from one of my officers,” replied the General. “He is a promising young fellow, and has come back amazed at the wonderful things he saw there.”
“You know that the doctors in attendance at the piscina report the most miraculous cures?” said the Duke.
“We do not need the opinion of learned men to make us believe in miracles,” said Madame de Brécé with a limpid smile. “I have far more confidence in the Blessed Virgin than in any doctors.”
They then began to talk of the Affair, amazed, so they said, that the “syndicate of treachery” should continue its audacious manifestations unpunished. With much emphasis the Duke expressed himself as follows:
“When two courts martial have given their verdict, the smallest doubt can no longer exist.”
“Have you heard,” said Madame Jean, “that Mademoiselle Deniseau, the local prophetess, has learned from the mouth of St. Radegonde herself that Zola is going to become a naturalised Italian, and will not return to France?”
This prophecy was received with much favour A servant entered, bringing the letters.
“Perhaps there will be some news of the war,” said the Duke, opening a paper.
And in dead silence he read the following:
“Commodore Dewey has destroyed the Spanish fleet in the port of Manilla. The Americans have not lost a man.”
This telegram caused much depression in the drawing-room. The only person who continued to look confident was Madame de Courtrai, who cried:
“It’s not true!”
“The telegram,” said M. Lerond, “is an American one.”
“Yes,” said M. de Brécé, “we must beware of false news.”
All endorsed this prudent view of things, and yet were aghast at the sudden vision of a fleet, blessed by the Pope, bearing the flag of His Catholic Majesty, and carrying on the prow of her vessels the names of the Virgin and the saints, disabled, shattered, and sunk by the guns of bacon merchants, sewing-machine manufacturers, and heretics, by a nation without kings, without princes, without a history, without national traditions, and without an army.
CHAPTER X
BERGERET’S affairs were worrying him; he was beginning to fear he might be asked to resign his position at the Faculté, when, to his surprise he received the intimation that he had been appointed honorary professor there.
The news came to him one day, after his removal to his new rooms in the Place Saint-Exupère, at the very moment when he least expected it. His joy at the event was greater than his progress in ataraxy should have allowed. Vague and flattering hopes arose within him, and when M. Goubin, who had become his favourite pupil since the betrayal of M. Roux, came that same evening to take him for their usual stroll to the Café de la Comédie, he found him beaming all over with smiles.
The night was bright with stars, and as he went along the uneven pavements, M. Bergeret studied the sky. He was interested in the lighter side of astronomy, and pointed out to M. Goubin a beautiful red star over against Gemini.
“That is Mars,” he said. “I wish there were such things as glasses strong enough to see its inhabitants and their industries.”
“But, dear Master,” said M. Goubin, “were you not telling me some short time ago that the planet Mars was not inhabited, that none of the celestial bodies were inhabited, and that life, such as we conceive it, was a disease confined to our planet alone, a kind of decay spread over the surface of our rotting world?”
“Did I say that?” asked M. Bergeret.
“As far as
I can remember that is what you said, dear Master,” replied M. Goubin.
And his memory had not played him false. After the betrayal of M. Roux, M. Bergeret had asserted that organic life was but decay eating into the surface of our diseased world. He had also added that he hoped for the greater glory of the heavens that life in the distant worlds produced itself normally, by means of the geometrical forms of crystallisation. “Otherwise,” he had added, “I could derive no pleasure from the contemplation of the star-spangled sky.” Now, however, he was of a different opinion.
“You surprise me,” he said to M. Goubin. “There are several reasons for concluding that all those stars now sparkling overhead contain life and thought. Even on this earth of ours, life occasionally has its pleasant side, and thought is divine. I should much like to know something about you sister star floating in thin ether in the face of the sun. She is our neighbour, and only separated from us by fourteen millions of leagues, which, astronomically speaking, is a very small distance indeed. I should like to know if the living beings upon the planet Mars are more beautiful than we humans are, and whether their intellect is vaster than our own.”
“That is a thing we shall never know,” replied M. Goubin, wiping his glasses.
“At any rate,” went on M. Bergeret, “astronomers have studied the shape of that red planet by means of powerful telescopes, and they all agree in saying that they are able to distinguish innumerable canals upon its surface. Now, the hypotheses taken as a whole, hypotheses that are closely interdependent and form a great cosmic system, lead us to believe that this near neighbour of ours is older than the earth, from which we may deduce that her inhabitants, with a longer experience behind them, are wiser than ourselves. The canals of which I was speaking give to the huge tracts of land they traverse the appearance of Lombardy. To be quite correct, we can see neither the water nor the banks, but only the vegetation that grows along them, and which, to the observer, appears as a thin scattered line, pale or dark according to the season of the year. It is especially to be remarked at the equator of the planet. We give the canals the earthly names of Ganges, Euripus, Phison, Nile, and Orcus. They appear to be irrigating canals, like those at which, it is said, Leonardo da Vinci worked with the skill of an excellent engineer. Their undeviating course, and the circular basins in which they terminate, are sufficient proof that they are both artificial and the result of mathematical calculation. Nature is mathematical, it is true, but not in the same manner.
“The canal which we call Orcus is very wonderful. Its course lies through a number of little round lakes, set at equal distances from one another, which give it the appearance of a rosary. We cannot doubt but that the canals of Mars have been constructed by intelligent beings.”
Thus did M. Bergeret people the universe with seductive forms and sublime thoughts. He filled the empty spaces of the boundless heavens because he had been made an honorary professor. He was very wise, but also very human.
When he returned home, he found the following letter awaiting him:
“MILAN.
“DEAR FRIEND,
“You have relied too much upon my knowledge. I am sorry not to be able to satisfy the curiosity which you tell me stirred you during the funeral of M. Cassignol.
“The only interest I have taken in the old Church liturgies lies in their connection in one way and another with the writings of Dante, and I can tell you nothing upon the subject that you do not already know.
“The oldest mention of the chant is made about 1401 by Bartolommeo Pisano. Maroni attributes the Dies Ira to Frangipani Malabranca Orsini, who was cardinal in 1278. Wadding, the biographer of the Franciscan Order Séraphique, ascribes it to Fra Tomaso da Celano, qui floruit sub anno 1250. Such attributions are altogether destitute of proof, but it is at any rate probable that it was composed in Italy during the twelfth century.
“In the seventeenth century the defective text of the Roman Missal was further impaired. A marble tablet preserved in the church of San Francesco at Mantua offers an older and more perfect version of the poem. If you would like me to do so, I will have the Marmor Mantuanum copied for you. I shall be delighted if you will make use of me in this as in other ways; nothing would give me more pleasure than to be able to serve you.
“In return, please be good enough to copy for me a letter, written by Mabillon and preserved in the town library; it is one of the Joliette bequest, collection B, No. 3715, folio 70. The passage that particularly interests me refers to the Anecdota of Muratori. Coming from you I shall value it still more.
“It is my opinion, by the way, that Muratori did not believe in God. It has always been my wish to write a book on the atheist-theologians, the number of whom is considerable. Forgive me for the trouble to which I am putting you by asking you to visit the public library; I trust that you may be rewarded by a meeting with the golden-haired fairy who guards the entrance, and whose dainty ears listen to your flattering remarks the while she swings in her fingers the huge keys that lock away the ancient treasures of your town. Speaking of this fairy reminds me that my days of love are over, and that it is high time for me to cultivate some favourite vice. Life would be sad indeed if the rosy swarm of errant thoughts did not come sometimes to console the old age of the most respectable folk. I am safe in sharing such sound wisdom with a mind as rare and capable of comprehension as your own.
“When you come to Florence I will introduce you to a nymph who guards the house of Dante, and who is well worth your fairy. You will admire her chestnut hair, her black eyes, her full bust, and her nose you will consider a miracle of loveliness. It is of medium size, straight and fine, with delicate nostrils. I mention this particularly because you know that nature is not good at noses, and too often spoils a pretty face by her clumsiness in that direction.
“Mabillon’s letter, which I have asked you to copy for me, commences thus:
‘Ni les fatigues de l’âge, monsieur.. Forgive me for worrying you, and believe me to be your sincere friend,
“CARLO ASPERTINI.
“P.S. — Why will the French persist in upholding an error of justice which is now beyond all question, and which they could quite easily set right without harming any one? I can find no solution to their conduct in this matter. All my countrymen, all Europe, and the whole world share my amazement. I should very much like to have your opinion regarding this extraordinary affair.
“C. A.”
CHAPTER XI
IN the clear light of early morning the quarters were full of the passing to and fro of the men on duty, sweeping the cobbles, or grooming down the horses. At the far end of the yard, clothed in his canvas trousers and dirty blouse, stood Private Bonmont, with his comrades, Privates Cocot and Briqueballe, peeling potatoes in front of a cauldron full of water. Now and then a squad, under the conduct of a non-commissioned officer, rushed down the stairs like a torrent, scattering on its way the invincible gaiety of the young.
The most characteristic feature of these men who had been taught to march was their step, a heavy, laboured step, crushing and sonorous. Important looking pay-sergeants continually passed by with account-books of all sizes under their arms. Privates Bonmont, Cocot and Briqueballe were peeling potatoes and throwing them into the cauldron, and as they did so they gave vent to the most harmless of thoughts in words that were few but of an exceeding coarseness. Private Bonmont was thinking deeply.
In front of him, beyond the barrack gates that closed in the courtyard of the huge building, stretched a circle of hills with villas nestling in the purple branches of the trees, and sparkling in the morning sun. There resided the actresses and light women brought to the town by the presence of Private Bonmont. A whole swarm of women, bookmakers, journalists belonging to sporting and military papers, jockeys, procurers, male and female, and swindlers of all descriptions, had settled down in the vicinity of the barracks where the rich conscript was serving his time. As he peeled the potatoes, he might have congratulated himself on being able
to bring together so Parisian a society at so great a distance from Paris. But he knew life well and men better, so his pride was in no way flattered by the achievement. He was worried and morose. Life held only one ambition for him, and that was the badge of the Brécé Hunt. He longed for it with inherited tenacity, with the forcefulness that his father, the great Baron, had shown in his conquest of souls, bodies, and things, but not with the deep, clear-sighted thought or genius of his stupendous parent. He felt himself inferior to his wealth; this made him unhappy, and, in consequence, spiteful.
“They only give their blessed badge to dukes and peers, I know,” he reflected. “The Brécés are overrun with Americans and Jewesses, and I’m as good as they any day!”
He threw his peeled potato angrily into the cauldron, at which Private Cocot, with a big laugh and a big oath, cried out:
“There he goes, upsetting the broth, damn him!”
And Briqueballe, who was a simple soul, and of the same year, made merry at the jest. He rejoiced, too, at the thought that he would soon see his father, who was a harness-maker at Cayeux, and his home again.
“That old hypocrite Guitrel will do nothing for me,” thought Private Bonmont. “He is a clever chap, is Guitrel, cleverer than I ever thought. He has made his own conditions. So long as he is not bishop he will not say anything to his friends, the Brécés. He is a deep beggar, and no mistake!”
“Bonmont,” said Briqueballe, “stop chucking the peelings into the pot!”
“It’s a dirty trick!” said Cocot.
“I’m not on duty this week,” objected Bonmont.
Thus spoke these three men because they were on an equal footing.
Bonmont went on thinking:
“I can do without Guitrel. There are plenty of others who will get the badge for me. Terremondre, for instance; he knows the Brécés well. His family is quite good, and he’s all right — but not to be relied upon; he’s a dodger, a regular dodger! He’ll promise everything and do nothing.”
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 156