“I couldn’t very well ask old Traviès, who goes out helping Rivoire the poacher. There is General Cartier de Chalmot; he’d only have to open his mouth — but the old crock hates me.”
These were Private Bonmont’s opinions, and they were not altogether unfounded. General Cartier de Chalmot did not like him. “If little Bonmont were under me I’d make him sit up,” he was in the habit of saying. As for the General’s wife, her indignation regarding him knew no bounds since the day she had heard him say at a ball: “Putting all sentiment aside, mother is too damned lazy.” No, young Bonmont was not mistaken, it was no good looking for help either from the General or his wife.
He searched his memory to try and discover some one to render him the service which Guitrel had refused him. M. Lerond? He was too cautious. Jacques de Courtrai? He was in Madagascar.
Young Bonmont heaved a deep sigh. As he peeled his last potato a sudden inspiration came to him.
“Supposing I made Guitrel a bishop! That would be rich!”
As this idea flashed through his brain a torrent of curses sounded in his ears.
“Nom de Dieu! Nam de Dieu,! Misère de misère!” yelled Briqueballe and Cocot, as a shower of soot fell suddenly upon them, around them, and into the cauldron, soiling their wet fingers, and blackening the potatoes, which a moment before had been ivory white.
Looking up to seek the cause of their trouble, they espied through the black shower some of their comrades upon the roof removing a long chimney flue, and shaking out the soot with which it was filled. As they caught sight of them, Cocot and Briqueballe cried as with one voice:
“Hi! you up there! what the devil are you doing?”
And they hurled at their comrades all the curses their simple souls could conjure up. They were innocent curses, full of genuine anger, and they filled the barrack yard with echoes in the accents of Picardy and Burgundy. Then the face of Sergeant Lafile, with its slight moustache, appeared over the edge of the roof, and, amid the sudden silence, a sarcastic voice rasped out these words: — .
“Three days for you two down there. Do you understand?”
Briqueballe and Cocot stood overwhelmed by the hard blows of fate and discipline, while their companion, Private Bonmont, reflected:
“I can make a bishop right enough. I’ve only got to speak to Huguet, and it’s done!”
Huguet was then president of the council. His cabinet was a moderate one, supported by the Conservatives. When forming it, Huguet had been careful to safeguard capital, gaining thereby a calm self-confidence and not a little pride. He was Minister of Finance, and was supposed to have given stability to the public credit, which had been shaken by his Radical predecessor.
He had not always been so clever a statesman. He had been a Radical in his hard-working youth, a Radical, and a revolutionary even. He had been private secretary to the late Baron de Bonmont, for whom he wrote books and edited papers. In those days he was a democrat, and a dreamer in matters of finance. That was the baron’s wish, for the great man was anxious to conciliate the progressive factions of Parliament, and therefore liked to appear generous and even something of a dreamer too. This was what he called “giving himself room.” It was he who made his secretary member for Montil; Huguet owed everything to him, and young Bonmont realised all this.
“I shall only have to say the word to Huguet,” he thought. That was how he put it to himself, at any rate. But he was not really sure of it, for he knew that M. Huguet, President of the Council, was careful to avoid any encounter with Private Bonmont, and did not like to be reminded of the old ties that had associated him with the great baron, who had died so opportunely, amid dawning rumours of scandal. So, on second thoughts, Private Bonmont sagely decided that it would be necessary to find some one else.
He sat down upon the ground beside the pump, that he might be able to think more at his ease, and was soon lost in meditation. In his imagination every person who might, he thought, prove capable of disposing of the episcopal crozier and mitre filed in a long procession before him. Monseignor Chariot, M. de Goulet, Worms-Clavelin, the préfet, Madame Worms-Clavelin, and M. Lacarelle crossed his mental vision, and many others beside. He was awakened from his reverie by Private Jouvencie, licentiate in law, pumping water down his back.
“Jouvencie,” said Bonmont solemnly, wiping his neck, “what is Loyer minister of?”
“Loyer? Minister of Public Instruction and Public Worship,” replied Jouvencie.
“Does he appoint the bishops?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied Bonmont.
But to himself he said:
“I’ve got it — Madame de Gromancel.”
CHAPTER XII
THAT same evening M. Leterrier came to see M. Bergeret.
At the sound of the bell Riquet leapt down from the couch he was sharing with his master, and, with one eye on the door, set up a terrific barking. When M. Leterrier came into the room, the dog received him with hostile growls; the portly form and full, grave countenance fringed with grey beard, were not familiar to him.
“You too!” murmured the rector gently.
“Please excuse him,” said M. Bergeret. “He is a domesticated animal. When men undertook the training of his forefathers, and, in so doing, formed the characteristics he has inherited, they themselves regarded a stranger as an enemy. They did not inculcate in dogs charity towards the human race. Thoughts of universal brotherhood have not entered the soul of Riquet; he stands for the old order of things.”
“And a very ancient one,” replied the rector, “for it is, of course, clear that nowadays we live in unity, peace and concord, with one another!”
He spoke these words with a bitterness not natural to him, but for some time past his thoughts and speech had changed.
However, Riquet continued to bark and growl; he was evidently doing his best to scare away the stranger by his voice and fearsome appearance, but, as fast as the enemy advanced, he retreated. He was a faithful house-dog, but cautious withal.
At last his master, growing impatient, picked him up by the scruff of the neck, and gave him two or three taps on his nose, whereupon Riquet immediately stopped barking, wriggled, and put out a pink, curling tongue to lick the hand that had chastised him, his beautiful eyes full of gentle sadness the while.
“Poor Riquet,” sighed M. Leterrier, “that is all you get for your zeal.”
“I must drive things into his head,” replied M. Bergeret, pushing him behind him at the back of his chair. “Now he knows he was wrong to greet you in such fashion. Riquet conceives of one evil only, physical suffering, and of but one happiness, the absence of suffering. He identifies crime and punishment, inasmuch as for him a misdeed is a deed that is punished. If by accident I step on his paw, he feels himself to be the guilty party, and begs my pardon; justice and injustice do not trouble his infallible wisdom.”
“Such philosophy spares him the mental anguish some of us are experiencing to-day,” said M. Leterrier.
Since the day he had signed the protest of the “Intellectuals” M. Leterrier lived in a state of perpetual astonishment. He had set forth his reasons in a letter to the local newspapers, and could not understand his opponents who called him a Jew, a Prussian, an “Intellectual,” and said that he had been bought. What also surprised him was that Eusèbe Boulet, the editor of the Phare, referred to him daily as a disloyal citizen and an opponent of the Army.
“Would you believe it?” he cried. “They have dared to put in the Phare that I insult the Army! I insult the Army! I who have a son serving with the colours!”
The two professors spoke at length of the Affair, and M. Leterrier, of the still guileless soul, repeated:
“I cannot understand why political considerations and party passions should be brought into the affair at all. It is a question of moral right, and far above such things!”
“Exactly!” replied
M. Bergeret. “But you would not be in a state of perpetual astonishment if you would only remember that the passions of the mob are simple and violent, and that it is impossible to reason with such people. Few men are clever enough to keep control of their minds during difficult investigations, and it has required sustained attention on our part to discover the truth of the matter. It has required sustained attention, and the force of minds trained to the examination of facts with method and sagacity. Advantages such as these, and the satisfaction of knowing oneself in possession of them are well worth a few contemptible insults.”
“When will it all end?” asked M. Leterrier.
“In six months, perhaps, or twenty years — or never,” replied M. Bergeret.
“Where will they draw the line?” asked M. Leterrier. “Scelere velandum est scelus. It is killing me, my friend, it is killing me!”
It was true. His sense of right and wrong had gone awry, he was feverish and his liver was out of order.
For the hundredth time he expounded the proofs which he had amassed, with all the prudence of his mind and all the zeal of his heart. He exposed the first causes of the error, which slowly but surely appeared behind the masses of untruth which had veiled it. Then, strong in the conviction of right, he vigorously demanded:
“What answer can they give?”
At this point of the conversation the two professors heard a great clamour rising from the, street. Riquet lifted up his head and listened anxiously.
“What is it now?” asked M. Leterrier.
“It is nothing,” replied M. Bergeret, “only Pecus!”
It was, indeed, as he had said a crowd of people uttering loud cries.
“I think I hear ‘Conspuez Leterrier!” said the rector. “They must have heard that I am here!”
“I think so too,” said M. Bergeret, “and I believe that they’ll soon be shouting ‘Conspuez Bergeret!’ Pecus is fed on ancient ideas, and his aptitude for error is considerable. Feeling himself incapable of bringing reason to bear upon hereditary prejudices, he prudently sticks to the heritage of nursery tales, handed down by his forefathers. This particular kind of wisdom preserves him from errors that would otherwise do him harm. He keeps to the old and tried errors. He is imitative, and would be more so, were it not that he involuntarily deforms everything he imitates, such deformations going by the name of Progress. Pecus never thinks, and it is unjust to stay that he deceives himself. To his unhappiness, be it said, everything combines to deceive him. He knows not the meaning of doubt, for doubt springs from thought. Yet his ideas are ever changing, and at times his stupidity turns to violence. He excels in nothing, for everything that is in any way excellent flies before him, and ceases to be his. He wanders and languishes and suffers. We must give him deep, sorrowful sympathy; we must even venerate him, for it is from him that all virtue, all beauty, and all human glory spring. Poor Pecus!”
As M. Bergeret was pronouncing these words, a stone came hurtling through the window and fell upon the floor.
“There is an argument!” said the rector, picking up the stone.
“And rhomboid in shape,” said M. Bergeret.
“It bears no inscription,” said the rector.
“That is a pity!” answered M. Bergeret. “Commander Aspertini found at Modena some sling stones used by the soldiers of Hirtius and of Pansa against the followers of Octavius, in the year 43 B.C. These stones bore inscriptions, indicating whom they were intended to strike. M. Aspertini showed me one destined for Livy. I leave you to guess in what form the soldier’s humour couched the terms of the inscription.”
His voice was drowned at this point by cries of “Conspuez Bergeret! Mort aux juifs!” which rose from the square.
Taking the stone from the hands of the rector, M. Bergeret placed it upon his table to serve as a letter-weight, and as soon as he could hear himself speak, went on with his remarks:
“Horrible cruelties were committed after the defeat of the two consuls at Modena. It cannot be denied that society has improved since then.”
The crowd went on yelling, however, and Riquet replied to it with heroic barks.
CHAPTER XIII
BEING in Paris on sick leave, young Bonmont went to see the Automobile Exhibition that was being held near the Terrasse des Feuillants, in the Jardin des Tuileries. As he walked down one of the side galleries reserved for parts and accessories, he examined the Pluto Carburettor, the Abeille Motor, and the Alphonse Lubricator, with an unenthusiastic eye and a weary curiosity. With a curt nod or wave of the hand he returned the greetings of timid young men and obsequious old ones. He was neither proud nor triumphant, but simple, rather common-looking, and armed only with the undeviating and tranquil air of malevolence that stood him in such good stead in his dealings with men; he went his way, a short, hunched-up, rather hump-backed little figure, broad shouldered, strong and vigorous enough, although already attacked by disease.
He went down the steps of the terrace, and while examining the trade-marks distinguishing the different lubricating oils, he came upon one of the statues of the gardens, which had been shut in the tent enclosure; it was a classical study in the French style, a bronze hero whose academic nudity displayed the sculptor’s skill, and who in a fine gymnastic attitude was felling a monster to the ground. Misled, no doubt, by the apparently sporting air of the group, and never reflecting that the statue had probably been in the garden long before the Exhibition, Bonmont instinctively began to wonder what connexion it could have with motoring. He thought that the monster, a serpent, which, as a matter of fact, did look like a tube, was intended to represent a pneumatic tyre, but his thoughts were very hazy and confused. He turned aside his lack-lustre gaze almost immediately, and entered the great hall where the cars on platforms complacently displayed the clumsy, imperfectly developed, and still ill-balanced forms which at the same time struck the onlooker with an irritating impression of self-satisfaction and conceit.
Young Bonmont was not enjoying himself there; he never enjoyed himself anywhere. But he might have found a certain pleasure in inhaling the odour of rubber and oils that filled the air; he might have examined the autocars and autolettes with a little interest, but that for the moment he was possessed by one single idea. He was thinking of the Brécé Hunt, and the longing to obtain the badge filled his very soul. From his father he had inherited this tenacious will and the burning intensity with which he coveted the Brécé badge was mingled in his veins with the fever of incipient phthisis. He longed for it with all the impatience of a child — for his mind was still very childish — and he longed for it with the cunning tenacity of a calculating and ambitious man — for he knew human nature well, having in a few years learned many things.
He knew that, as far as the Duc de Brécé was concerned, he, with his French name and his Roman title, was still Gutenberg, the Jew. He also realised the power of his millions, and he knew more upon this subject than will ever be grasped by peoples or their rulers. So he was neither deluded nor discouraged. He took in the situation accurately, for he was clear-headed. True the anti-Jewish campaign had been conducted with the utmost vehemence in agricultural districts like his own, which contained no Jews, but a large number of clergy. Recent events and the newspaper articles had been a great strain upon the feeble head of the Duc de Brécé, the leader of the Catholic party in his Department. Doubtless, the Bonmonts were of the same way of thinking as the grandsons of émigrés, and were as full of Royalist devotion and quite as zealous Catholics as himself. But the Duke could not forget their origin — he was a simple, obstinate man, and young Bonmont was well aware of this. He reviewed the situation once again in front of the Dubos-Laquille motor omnibus, and came to the conclusion that the best way of obtaining the de Brécé badge was to procure the bishop’s crozier for M. l’Abbé Guitrel.
“I must have him nominated,” he reflected. “It is absolutely necessary. It will be easy enough once I know how to set about it.” And, full of regret, he added, “Father
would have advised me in the matter if he had lived. He must have made more than one bishop in Gambetta’s time.”
Although he was not quick at generalisation, he went on to remind himself that anything could be bought for money, a thought which imbued him with great confidence in the success of his enterprise. Reflecting thus, he looked up and saw young Gustave Dellion a little in front of him, looking at a yellowwheeled car.
Dellion caught sight of Bonmont at the same moment, but pretending he had not seen him, he beat a retreat behind the body of the vehicle. He was under long-standing financial obligations to Bonmont, and, for the present, was in no way prepared to discharge them. The mere sight of his friend’s blue eye gave him a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, for it was Bonmont’s habit to stare silently and terribly at those of his friends who owed him money. Dellion knew all about that, and was much surprised when the little bull, as he termed him, joined him in his retreat between the canvas wall of the tent and the yellow-wheeled car, holding out a friendly hand, and saying with a pleasant smile: “How are you? Nice car! A bit long in the body, but not so bad, is it? That’s what you want for Valcombe, my dear Gustave. Yes, indeed! There’s a pretty puff-puff that would rip along nicely between Valcombe and Montil.”
The mechanic who was standing by the motor thought good to intervene, and to point out to M. le Baron that the vehicle could be turned into an open six-seater, or a closed phaeton with seats for four. Seeing that he was dealing with connoisseurs, he launched out into technical explanations.
“The motor is composed of two horizontal cylinders; each piston works a crank inclined at 180 to its neighbour.”
In businesslike terms he demonstrated the advantages of such a combination. Then, in answer to a question by Gustave Dellion, he said that the carburettor was automatic, and to be regulated once for all at the moment of starting.
He stopped speaking, and the two young fellows stood there silent and attentive. At last, pushing his stick between the spokes of one of the wheels, Gustave Dellion remarked:
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 157