CHAPTER XXII
MADAME DE BONMONT dismissed her carriage, and, hailing a cab, drove to the street where, amid the rumble of drays and the whistle of engines, she carried on her love affair. She would have preferred to see her Rara in a region adorned with gardens, but love is sometimes shy under the myrtles or by the murmuring fountains. Madame de Bonmont’s thoughts were sad as she drove along the streets where the lamps were just beginning to glimmer through the misty evening light. Guitrel had indeed been appointed Bishop of Tourcoing, and she rejoiced thereat, but joy did not possess her soul completely. Rara, with his black humour and ferocious desires, worried her terribly. Now she went in fear and trembling to the rendezvous, to which in former times she had so eagerly looked forward. Confiding and retiring by nature, she dreaded, on his account as well as her own, anything in the nature of danger, catastrophe, or scandal. Her lover’s mental attitude, which had never been satisfactory, had quite suddenly grown worse. Since the suicide of Colonel Henry he had become dreadful to look upon. The bitterness in his blood had acted like vitriol upon his countenance, as it were searing his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, with marks of fire and brimstone. For the last fortnight mysterious causes had kept her dear one absent from the flat which he rented opposite the Moulin-Rouge, and which was his legal domicile. He had his letters forwarded to him, and received visitors in the little suite which Madame de Bonmont had taken for quite a different use.
Slowly and sadly she went up the stairs, but even on the very threshold of the door the hope of finding the delightful Rara of former days stirred her heart. Alas, her hope was vain, she was greeted with bitter words:
“What do you come here for? You despise me like all the rest.”
She protested at such cruelty.
She did not despise him — on the contrary, her loving animal nature led her to admire him. She put her painted, yet youthful, lips to her lover’s mouth, and kissed him sobbingly; but, pushing her away, he began to pace furiously up and down the two blue-tapestried rooms.
Noiselessly she untied the little parcel of cakes she had brought with her, and said in a hopeless, toneless voice:
“Will you have a baba? It is kirsch, just as you like them,” and she handed him the cake between two dainty sugary fingers. But he refused to see or hear her, and continued his fierce, monotonous promenade.
Then, with tear-dimmed eyes and bosom that: heaved with sighs, she lifted the thick black veil which, mask-like, covered the upper part of her face, and silently commenced to eat a chocolate éclair.
At last, however, not knowing what to do or to say, she took a jewel-case from her pocket, and opening it, displayed for Rara the bishop’s ring; which it contained, saying in a timid voice:
“Look at M. Guitrel’s ring. It is a pretty stone, isn’t it? It is an Hungarian amethyst. Do you think M. Guitrel will like it?”
“I don’t care a damn!”
She put the case down on the toilet table in despair, while he, resuming the usual current of his thoughts, growled out:
“There’s no mistake about it! I will do for one of them!”
She looked at him doubtfully, for she had noticed that he was always threatening to kill everybody, and that he killed no one. He divined her hidden thought. It was dreadful.
“I knew that you despised me too,” he said.
He nearly struck her, and she wept bitterly; eventually he calmed down, however, and drew her a terrible picture of his financial embarrassments.
She wept at the picture, but did not promise to give him much, because it was against her principles to give money to a lover, and, besides, she feared he might go away altogether if he had the means to do so.
When she left the little blue rooms she was so upset that she quite forgot the amethyst ring lying on the toilet table.
CHAPTER XXIII
“ARE you working, dear Master, do I disturb you?” asked M. Goubin, entering M. Bergeret’s study.
“Not at all,” replied the professor. “I was amusing myself by translating a Greek text of the Alexandrine period, discovered in a tomb at Philæ.”
“I should be very glad if you would read me your translation, dear Master,” said M. Goubin.
“With pleasure,” replied M. Bergeret, and he began:
CONCERNING HERCULES ATIMOS.
Deeds are commonly ascribed to the one and only Hercules which in reality have been accomplished by other heroes bearing the same name. That which Orpheus teaches us concerning the Thracian Hercules relates to the god rather than to the hero. I will not dwell upon this. The Tyrians tell of another Hercules to whom they attribute labours so prodigious that they are difficult to accept. What is less known is that Alcmena gave birth to twins who were exactly alike, and who each received the name of Hercules. The one was the son of Jupiter and the other of Amphitryon. On account of his great deeds, the former attained the right to drink from the cup of Hebe at the table of the gods, and we look upon him as a god. The second was unworthy, that is why he was called Hercules Atimos.
What I know of him I have learned from an inhabitant of Eleuis, a wise and prudent man who has collected together many ancient legends. This is what he told me:
Hercules Atimos, the son of Amphitryon, when nearing manhood, received from his father a bow and arrows, forged by Vulcan, which dealt certain death to any creature whom they struck.
Now one day, when shooting wild cranes on the slopes of Cithæron, he met a herdsman who addressed him thus:
“Son of Amphitryon, there is an evil man who daily steals some of our cattle. Thou art full of youth and vigour. If thou canst find the thief and strike him with one of thy magic arrows, thou wilt gain great praise. But he is not easy of approach, for his feet are larger than the feet of other men, and he is very fleet.”
Atimos promised the herdsman that he would punish the brigand, and went upon his way. Hiding in the mountain gorges, he saw at a distance the figure of a man who appeared to him evil. Thinking it was the cattle-stealer, he killed him with his arrows. But while the man’s blood was still fresh upon the wild anemones, Pallas Athene, the brighteyed goddess, descended from Olympus, and came to meet Atimos, who did not recognise her, for she was disguised as an old servant of King Amphitryon. And the goddess spoke to him thus:
“Divine son of Amphitryon, the man thou hast killed was not a stealer of cattle, but a good man. The guilty man is easily recognised by the print of his feet in the dust, for they are larger than those of other men. The dead man’s conduct was irreproachable, and his life a life of innocence. Therefore shalt thou pray with tears to the divine Apollo to restore him to life. Apollo will not refuse thy request if thou pleadest with outstretched supplicating hands.”
Full of anger, however, Atimos replied:
“I have punished this man for his wickedness. Dost thou think, old man, that I know not what I do and strike at random? Peace! Get thee gone, thou madman, or thou shalt repent thy audacity.”
Some young shepherds who were gambolling with their goats upon the slopes of Cithæron hearing the words of Atimos, received them with such shouts of praise that the mountain resounded and the ancient pine trees stirred and quivered. And Pallas Athene, the bright-eyed goddess, returned to snowy Olympus.
Atimos, however, had resumed his journey, and soon found himself upon the tracks of the cattle-thief, whom he could see at a little distance ahead. He recognised him quite easily by his footprints in the sand, for they were much greater than those of other men.
Then thought the hero to himself, “It is necessary that men believe in the innocence of this man, so that they may believe I have slain the guilty one, and that my glory be made known among men.” With this thought in his mind, he called the man and said to him: “Friend, I honour thee because thou art good and thy thoughts just.” Then, drawing from his quiver one of the arrows made by Vulcan, he gave it to the man with these words, “Take this arrow made by Vulcan. All those who see thee with it will honour thee, and thou
wilt be judged worthy of the friendship of a hero.”
Thus spoke he. The thief took the arrow and went away. And divine Athene, the bright-eyed goddess, descended from snowy Olympus. She disguised herself as a gentle shepherd, and, coming up to Atimos, said: “Son of Amphitryon, in absolving the guilty man thou hast killed the innocent a second time. And this action shall not bring thee glory among men.”
But Atimos did not recognise the goddess, and believing her to be a shepherd, he cried in fury:
“Chicken-heart, vain babbler, dog, I will tear out thy soul!” And he lifted against Pallas Athene his bow, the wood of which was harder than the iron of the arrows forged by Vulcan.
“The rest is missing,” said M. Bergeret, replacing the papers upon his table.
“What a pity!” said M. Goubin.
“It is a pity,” said M. Bergeret. “I have been much interested in translating this Greek text; one must have a change sometimes from everyday affairs.”
CHAPTER XXIV
AS evening fell, Madame de Bonmont with anxious heart hailed a cab and drove to Rara’s rooms, for she wished to see him again and to recover the amethyst ring. But she feared some disaster. When the cab crossed the Pont de l’Europe and stopped in front of her lover’s door she saw that the road was black with hats and coats. Something was going on that reminded her of a funeral or a removal. Men were heaping portfolios and piles of papers into a cab, others were bringing along a little box which Madame de Bonmont recognised as the old military trunk filled with stamped papers in which Rara had so often plunged his flushed arms and his furious, hairy visage.
As she stood there, frozen with terror, she heard the voice of the dishevelled concierge whisper in her ear:
“Don’t come in. Be off as fast as you can! The police are here with the magistrate and the commissioner. They have seized your gentleman’s papers and sealed up everything.”
The cab carried away a prostrate Madame de 283
Bonmont. In the depths of despair at her lost love she was, however, conscious of this thought:
“And Monseigneur Guitrel’s ring, which has been sealed with the rest!”
CHAPTER XXV
PEOPLE had been talking about it for three months. M. Bergeret learned that he had friends in Paris who had never seen him, and friends such as these are the surest; their actions are governed by sensible, masterly, positive reasons, and, if only their report is favourable, they are sure of a hearing. M. Bergeret’s friends thought that his place was in Paris, and suggested bringing him there. M. Leterrier did all he could to bring this about, and at last it was arranged.
M. Bergeret was appointed Professor at the Sorbonne. As he left the house of M. le Doyen Torquet, who had apprised him in the most formal terms of his nomination, M. Bergeret, finding himself in the street again, looked at the slate roofs, the familiar free-stone walls, the shaving basin that swung gently to and fro over the door of the hairdresser, the sign of the red cow over the milkman’s, and the little bronze Triton, with water streaming from his mouth, at the corner of the Faubourg de Josde; and all these familiar things appeared suddenly strange in his eyes. His feet had suddenly become unacquainted with the pavements on which he had so long and so often gone his way, with feet rendered heavy by sadness or fatigue, or made light by some slight happiness or amusement. The town, with its towers and steeples standing up against the grey sky, looked to him like some strange, far-away dream city, rather the picture of a city than the reality. And the picture grew smaller and smaller. People, as well as things, seemed faraway and diminished in his eyes. The postman, two women, and the clerk of the court whom he met, looked, to him, like people on a cinematograph screen, absolutely unreal and belonging to quite another world than his.
After a few minutes of this strange feeling, he pulled himself up, for he was both thoughtful and quick to read his own motives, thus providing himself with an inexhaustible subject for surprise, sarcasm, and pity.
“Come now,” he said to himself, “here is a town in which I have lived for fifteen years, and which suddenly becomes strange to me because I am about to leave it. More than that, it has, to a certain extent, already become unreal to me. Now that it is no longer my own town, it ceases to exist, and is nothing but a vain image. The reason is that the many interesting things it contains were only interesting in so far as they directly affected me. As soon as they cease to do that, they practically do not exist as far as I am concerned. And thus, this populous city, situated on the hills that border a great river, this ancient Gaulish town, this colony where the Romans built temples and a circus; this strong city that went through three memorable sieges, where two councils were held, which was enriched with a basilica, the crypt of which is still in existence, a cathedral, a college, sixteen parish churches, plus sixty chapels, a town hall, markets, hospitals, and palaces; this town which in very ancient times formed a part of the royal domain, became the capital of a vast province, and still bears on the fronton of the governor’s palace, now turned into barracks, the civic coat of farms surrounded by lions and the Virtues; this town which to-day contains an archbishop’s palace, a Faculty of Letters, a Faculty of Science, a Court of Appeal, and a Court of Justice; the chief town of a rich department only existed in reference to myself. It was peopled by myself alone; I was the only cause of its existence. It is high time for me to go; the town is fading away. I never knew that my mind was subjective to such a mad extent. A man never knows himself, and is a monster without realising it.”
Thus did M. Bergeret examine himself with praiseworthy sincerity. As he was passing the church of Saint-Exupère, however, he stopped under the porch of the Last Judgment. He had always loved the old legendary sculptures, and taken an interest in the stories graven upon the stone. One devil in particular, who had a dog’s head on his shoulders, and a man’s face on the nether portion of his anatomy, had a peculiar fascination for him. He was occupied in dragging a long file of damned souls chained together, and his two countenances expressed absolute contentment. There was also a little monk whom an angel was trying to draw up by his hands, while a devil dragged him down by the feet. M. Bergeret loved that one, but he had never before looked with so much interest at these objects which he was now on the point of leaving.
He could not take his eyes away from them. The naïve idea of the universe expressed in stone by men who had been dead for more than five hundred years touched him, and seemed to him lovable in its absurdity. He regretted never having studied it more closely or examined it more sympathetically. He remembered that this porch of the Last Judgment which he had seen gilded by the rays of the sun and whitened by the moonbeams, in the joyous summer time and the dark winter days, would be with him only a little longer, and then he would see it no more.
He realised then that he was attached to things by invisible links not to be broken asunder without pain, and his heart was suddenly filled with great veneration for his town. He loved her old walls and her old trees. He went out of his way to go up the Mall and look at a favourite elm that grew there, the one he always sat beneath at the close of the long summer days. The beautiful tree was now bare of foliage, and its strong, slender framework stood out naked and black against the sky. M. Bergeret gazed at it long. The tranquil giant was motionless and silent, and the mystery of its peaceful life gave rise to deep meditation on the part of the man who was about to enter upon a new phase of his destiny.
It was thus M. Bergeret learned that he loved his mother soil and the town where he had suffered tribulation and tasted quiet happiness.
CHAPTER XXVI
MONSEIGNEUR GUITREL, Bishop of Tourcoing, addressed to the President of the Republic the following letter, the text of which was published in extenso by the Semaine religieuse, the Vérité, the Étendard, the Études sérieuses, and several other diocesan papers:
“MONSIEUR LE PRESIDENT,
“Before bringing to your notice several just causes for complaint and divers claims which are only too well found
ed, allow me for one short instant to enjoy the keen delight of feeling that I am in perfect accord with you on a point which must affect us both; allow me, realising as I do the feelings that must have swayed you during these long days of trial and of consolation, to join with you in an outburst of patriotic gratitude. Oh, how your generous soul must have suffered when you saw that handful of misguided men cast insult at the Army under the pretext of defending justice and truth, as though justice and truth could exist in opposition to social order and the hierarchy of power established by God Himself upon this earth! And how that heart of yours must have rejoiced at the sight of the whole nation, without exception of party, rising as one man to acclaim our brave Army, the Army of Clovis, Charlemagne, and St. Louis, of Godefroy de Bouillon, Jeanne dArc and Bayard; to embrace her cause and avenge her wrongs. Oh, with what satisfaction must you have witnessed the watchful wisdom of the nation as it frustrated the devices of the proud and the evil-doer!
“Certainly one cannot deny that the honour of such praiseworthy conduct is due to France as a whole. But you are too clear-sighted, M. le Président, not to have recognised the Church and her faithful members in the van of the supporters of law and authority. They were in the front rank of the battle, saluting with confidence and respect the Army and her chiefs. And was it not the right place for the servants of Him Who has called Himself the God of Armies, and Who, to use the words of Bossuet, has sanctified them in calling Himself by that name? Thus you will always find in us the surest upholders of law and order, and the obedience which we have not refused even to princes that persecuted us will never tire. In return for this may your Government ever look peacefully upon us, and so make our obedience a joy! Our hearts must exult at sight of the warlike array which makes us feared by other nations, and at sight of you yourself in your place of honour, surrounded by your brilliant staff, like King Saul, that great and courageous man who always attached the bravest warriors to his person. Nam quemcumque viderat Saul virum fortem et aptum ad prœlium, sociabat eum sibi (I Kings xiv. 52).
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 163