Where, then, had he acquired that pure distilled malignance, that hatred? For the Cardinal knew that it was the very essence of poison and refined cruelty. For a long time the Cardinal, who still licked old and aching wounds in secret, refused to believe that some men are born like this, silent, brilliant-eyed, malignant, learned and endowed with gifts of the mind, without human emotions but appallingly aware of all human storms and darkness, spectators of mankind without cynicism. Had the Baron de Pacilli been cynical, the Cardinal might have felt some mysterious relief. But he was not. He had no bitter comments to make about the viciousness and dangerousness and stupidity of other men. He accepted them, without revulsion or detestation. In that, the Cardinal realized, he was the most dangerous of evil things.
He was a natural enemy of mankind; he was soulless. He had no cause for enmity, either imagined or real. It lived in him like a foul and glittering joy, cold as death and as detached.
The Cardinal did not like puzzles. When he had finally reached the conclusion that this man was a natural evil, he was filled with wonder. Never had he known a man who was naturally evil, as some men are naturally passionate or bellicose, tender or weak.
There is a reason for everything, the Cardinal had protested, before his surrender. But now he knew that the reason for some things in some men was only that they were. Another fatuity of the Cardinal’s had been that he believed that only in the measure of a man’s own experience and passions could he understand other men. Now he knew he had been humiliatingly mistaken. De Pacilli understood men as even the Cardinal did not understand them, for the Cardinal was often astonished.
In all things he had served the Church faithfully and with that dazzling cold brilliance which distinguished him. Had he become an adherent of any other organization, government or prince, he would have served it as well, not out of loyalty, but only if it contained large possibilities for his evil temperament. And all this, without animosity, without even human ruthlessness, but only with deadly inimical purpose.
In his mission to Chantilly, he was once again fully satisfied, for his temperament was delighted over the possibilities extended to it in this field. He had no enmity or dislike for Paul de Vitry. He hardly remembered his actual features, since Madame duPres had induced Paul to return to Paris with her. Not for a single moment did he remember Paul with hatred or vengefulness or anticipated triumph. Paul was not even a symbol for him of the grave and portentous winds of thought which were now sweeping over a tormented Europe. He cared, in truth, for none of these. His joy lay in the accomplishment of an evil thing only.
At the present time, during isolated midnight hours in the little house of Père Lovelle, he was writing a large book on the Inquisition. It was exceedingly learned, precise, icily and brilliantly written, and full of that lifeless abstract philosophy to which his mind was naturally bent.
He proceeded now, in the early evening, to a large copse of trees that gave shelter from the sun, standing as they were, at the border of the grain fields. Paul had placed long tables here, stools and benches, where the men could gather and refresh themselves with big pitchers of milk or wine, and bread and cheese. Though it was not yet time for vespers, the men were already seated at the tables, or standing in the cool purple shade, wiping sun-dark faces and looking with idle contentment over the glittering golden sea of the grain. They watched the approach of the priest with that wide open look one sees in the eyes of serene cattle. But some were not serene. These, seated about the table, drinking and chewing voraciously, were in the midst of heated argument. Worn books were scattered on the bare board, and one young man in particular kept beating an open book with his fists and haranguing his audience with much fierceness. When he perceived the priest, he thrust the book aside with an angry gesture, and glowered. His companions rose respectfully, but he sat still, impudently, scowling.
This was Jean Dumont, of whom Crequy had spoken with such ferocity and hating contempt. The priest saw everything about the young man, without appearing to do so. Though he had seen him often, though not in the Church, he was familiar with that short and muscular form in white cotton shirt and woolen britches, and the brown corded throat which rose from the broad and twitching shoulders. The square and bellicose face was almost black from the sun, and the large nervous hands were stained with the juices from the grapevines, which he tended. In that face were set glistening and active black eyes, humorless yet fiercely shining, a broad distended nose and full red lips, always pouting, rarely smiling, and broad peasant cheekbones, glistening with sweat. Over his brown brow thin black locks of hair fell in disordered tongues, and longer tongues lay on his neck and reached to his shoulders.
It was a wild, disorderly but intelligent face, that of Jean Dumont, who was the bastard son of a kitchen wench and an unknown father. It betrayed his vehement and quarrelsome temperament, savage and impatient, astute and intolerant. Paul had not needed to educate him. Jean had shown such quickness of mind that Père Lovelle had long ago undertaken his education, and the young peasant had absorbed much disjointed knowledge. From the first, he had been skeptical and ribald, much to the old priest’s sorrow. Nothing had gentled him. In that undisciplined mind lived only suspicion, ambition and a strange uncontrolled passion for justice.
Monseigneur de Pacilli greeted the peasants with much sweetness and softness. They were shy of him, and wary, missing their old priest exceedingly. But they had the uncouth politeness of their class, and they made a place for him opposite Jean Dumont at the table. Some one poured a mug of milk for him. Milk was no less distasteful to him than Crequy’s wine, but he drank it with every appearance of humble and simple pleasure. As he drank, he was aware that Jean Dumont was watching him with suspicious sullenness and dark open derision, for the young man instinctively hated priests, and despised them. He affected to ignore the priest, and when he glanced at him fleetingly, his eyes gleamed with contempt and elaborate derision.
The priest questioned the men gently about their day’s work, and listened to their replies with gentle absorption, indicating his affection for them, and his interest in their hard pursuits. This flattered them. He was no simple Père Lovelle, of peasant stock, himself. Instinctively, they had recognized the aristocrat, for all the deprecating manner, the soft voice, the tender glance. They were not entirely at ease with him, and their voices were boisterous and rough, though uneasily polite. They laughed too much, and poked each other with embarrassed elbows, chuckling hoarsely as they did so. They were like rude schoolboys in the presence of an attentive teacher who appeared to like them, but of whose character they were none too sure. One of them ventured some obscenity, and a score of watchful and furtive eyes fixed themselves on the priest to study his reaction to this. But he merely smiled serenely, as though thoughtfully and indulgently amused.
He spoke of Père Lovelle, and suggested that they were eagerly awaiting his return. They were silent at this, only nodding briefly. But their expressions became surlily fond. He remarked that he, himself, was so enjoying his sojourn in this pleasant and tranquil spot that he would regret leaving. They were pleased at this, and glanced over the fields and behind the trees towards the château with important looks, as though they agreed with the priest that this was an excellent place and they were entirely responsible for it, and that he had reason for his regret. Their manner became somewhat condescending, and less uneasy.
During all this amiable conversation, Jean Dumont had sat, a derisive half smile upon his saturnine but wild countenance. His eyes had narrowed; they glittered watchfully. Sometimes he tried to catch the eyes of his companions, to communicate his ill-tempered opinion of the priest to them, but they were too intent on de Pacilli’s soft words and beaming fragile smiles. The priest appeared still unaware of his pointed animosity, and when his eye touched the young man its tranquillity and fondness did not decrease.
“It was not until I came to these lovely estates that I understood completely how some men can bear within themselves nob
ility and true Christian generosity,” said the priest, sighing a little. “How blessed are you all, my children, in possessing a lord such as the Comte de Vitry.”
The others murmured awkwardly, but the priest, his watchful ear cocked, heard the contemptuous snort of Jean Dumont, and saw his rude movement on the bench.
“I must correct myself. I have seen another such a spot,” continued the priest.
The peasants were vaguely interested. Some of them recalled poignantly the former conditions under which they had dwelt. One of them shyly asked the priest the location of this spot and the name of the lord. But he shook his head.
“It would be presumptuous and insolent of me to tell you this,” he said, pleading with them for their indulgence. “It is a long way from this spot, however. One would not have expected such behavior from the lord. I knew him personally. A somewhat brutal and greedy man in all other things. At one time, not so long ago, his people cringed under the lashes of his stewards and his overseers, and knew starvation and misery and disease and suffering. But now, this has recently, and most spectacularly, changed—”
“A priest prevailed upon him,” suggested Jean Dumont, speaking for the first time, and in a tone supremely insolent and mocking.
Monseigneur de Pacilli looked at him with bland gentleness, and with a slightly startled air. Then he smiled, subtly, but not so obscurely that the young peasant’s attention was not immediately caught.
“No, that was not the reason,” said the priest, in a hesitating voice, as though faintly saddened.
He began to speak of something else, but Jean Dumont struck the table with his pewter mug, and broke in on the gentle conversation.
“What was the reason?” he shouted. “What changed this animal lord of yours, Monsieur le Curé?
Again the priest hesitated. He seemed distressed. He murmured, imploringly: “It would be ungenerous of me, and most impudent, if I ventured an opinion, my dear son. I beg of you not to press me, my son, for it might instil erroneous thoughts about your own dear lord, the Comte de Vitry. And that would be unpardonable. There was no resemblance between Monsieur le Comte and the Marquis—” he stopped abruptly, apparently more distressed than ever.
“I insist!” bellowed Dumont, and furiously caught the eyes of the others, for he was a stronger character than they, and was their leader even when they argued with him, and disagreed with him violently. The others, who were not too interested, finally felt deep curiosity stirring in them, for there was something portentous and peremptory in Dumont’s fierce glances at them, as though he commanded them to listen.
The priest sighed and bent his head. He imparted to them all, including Dumont, that he was a somewhat feeble and complaisant character, though harmless.
“My opinions are nothing, less than nothing,” murmured the priest. “I am only a humble curé, with no great learning, and no ambitions. How, then, can such as I dare to form conclusions, or presume to question the reasons behind the acts of great and powerful magnates?”
“We forgive you, Monsieur le Curé,” said Jean Dumont, with ferocious humor, and still holding his companions’ eyes. They laughed uneasily at this rude jest, and scratched their heads. Many were bewildered at this strange conversation.
The priest closed his eyes as though unable to contemplate the iniquity of others without pain. He seemed to become exceedingly weary.
“It has been rumored to me—for who am I that any one of importance should convey direct facts to me?—that our most benevolent and gracious King has, for a long time, contemplated great changes affecting the powerful lords of France. It has been told him that conditions upon the large estates are untenable and most dreadful, and his heart has been moved in consequence.”
“Excessively noble!” exclaimed Dumont derisively. “This touches our hearts to hear that his Majesty has turned his attention from tin soldiers and the intrigues of Madame long enough to perceive the general misery of the people!”
At this audacious remark, the others muttered in fear, and half turned away. But the younger men were fascinated, and grinned uneasily. They had heard these remarks often from Dumont, and were much intrigued by his daring. As for the priest, he was not shocked, angered or outraged. He merely regarded the young man with grave and eager earnestness.
“I assure you, my son, that the King is not insensible to the misery of the people. But until recently, he has been impotent. But only a few years ago he began to give much thought and study to this dolorous question. I have it on the highest authority that he has repeatedly discussed this with the Duc de Richelieu and hinted that he would soon bring about vast changes.”
He paused a moment, as though hesitatingly choosing his words, and then continued: “The magnates have begun to see the writing on the wall. Again, I have it on the highest authority that at the next meeting of the States General, His Majesty is to demand a revocation of the supreme rights of the magnates, and that their power shall be taken out of their hands and relegated to the Throne.”
“The King, then, or rather, his mind and soul and master, Richelieu, is fearful of the power of the princes and the magnates,” said Dumont, with an exaggerated wink at his companions. “They would seize it for themselves.”
The priest shut his eyes for a moment, once again, and a look of tired sadness passed over his features. “You are wrong, my son,” he said, wanly. “I am not a cardinalist, myself,” and now he smiled with faint and confidential humor, “and, therefore, am not influenced by his Eminence’s plausibility. While it is true that the Duc de Richelieu might harbor motives of personal expediency, this is not the case with His Majesty, who is sincerely distressed over the vast multitudes of the French people who are helpless in the power of their lords. He remembers, only too well, his own oppression under those who wielded limitless power, and now his heart beats in sympathy for his people.
“You must reflect how true this is from the following: The magnates are greatly alarmed, and the most ominous rumors fly among them. Many of them have scrutinized their immense estates, and have callously admitted to themselves that the King has much logic on his side. They have come to the conclusion that they must, to retain their power, change conditions on their estates beyond reproach. In this, they believe that they can avert the seizing of their power by the King.”
Jean Dumont did not, now, exclaim impudently and mockingly. He leaned across the table and regarded the priest with breathless and savage interest, lifting his hand to attract the attention of his companions. But he did not speak. His black eyes glittered intensely.
The priest smiled darkly to himself. He gazed at Dumont with limpid eyes and a tender, abashed smile. “And now, my son, you can perceive what has changed that brutal lord of whom I spoke. It is expediency.”
The face of Dumont became black and vicious, and his nostrils distended. His fists clenched on the table. He turned to his companions with a triumphant and portentous expression.
De Pacilli then appeared distressed and alarmed. “But, my dear sons, you must not deduce from this that your own dear lord is moved by ulterior motives, and that he, too, hastens to improve your condition in order to avert the seizing of his power by the Throne!”
A horrible and guttural sound rose like a snarl from the throat of Dumont. Now the other peasants were no longer indifferent, vague or bored. They understood all that the priest had said, and their slow minds turned it over and over, as dull tongues turn over and over a strange but pungent morsel. They gazed at each other uneasily; their brows darkened sullenly and unwillingly.
The priest raised his pale and aristocratic hand, and his mouth and eyes were stern. “But, his Majesty is not deceived! That is what I hope, and pray. However, who can be certain of this? Who can be certain that this hypocritical behavior will not have its destined effect, that when the King is reassured and lulled, and has turned to more momentous things, that the lords will not revert to their old horror, seize once more the power of life and death over their p
easants, and plunge them into worse slavery?
“I have it on excellent authority that the King had planned to dissolve the great estates, to divide them among the hapless people, lower their disastrous taxes, and guarantee to every man individual dignity, peace, plenty and comfort. This is what the lords fear. Therefore, it does not take the mind of a Jesuit to understand that to avert this disaster, the lords will make an appearance of magnanimity until the King is placated, and his plans forgotten.”
Dumont rose from his seat as if propelled by an explosive force. He flung wide his arms and turned to his companions. His face was wild and terrible, and his eyes glittered upon them like the eyes of a madman.
“Have I not whispered this to you, myself, you cattle, you obstinate, dull-witted fools? Have I not told you to examine the tender ‘mercy’ of Monsieur le Comte, and endeavor to discover for yourselves what nefarious plot lay behind that benign countenance and soft words? Have I not said to you: ‘When a great and powerful lord stoops to shine upon the helpless and distressed and the exploited, that he has only greedy evil in his heart?’ Have I not said that no man is merciful and benevolent except from evil and avaricious motives? But you have not listened, you fools and eattle! You have fawned on Monsieur le Comte and allowed him to lull your wits, without a single question in your minds!”
He flung up his arms and shook his clenched fists in the air.
The Arm and the Darkness Page 43