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“Blessed be God!” exclaimed Gabriel, suddenly. “His heart beats.”
“His heart beats,” repeated the quarryman, turning his head towards the crowd, to inform them of the good news.
“Oh! his heart beats!” repeated the others, in whispers.
“There is hope. We may yet save him,” added Gabriel with an expression of indescribable happiness.
“We may yet save him,” repeated the quarryman, mechanically.
“We may yet save him,” muttered the crowd.
“Quick, quick,” resumed Gabriel, addressing the quarryman; “help me, brother. Let us carry him to a neighboring house, where he can have immediate aid.”
The quarryman obeyed with readiness. Whilst the missionary lifted Father d’Aigrigny by holding him under the arms, the quarryman took the legs of the almost inanimate body. Together, they carried him outside of the choir. At sight of the formidable quarryman, aiding the young priest to render assistance to the man whom he had just before pursued with menaces of death, the multitude felt a sudden thrill of compassion. Yielding to the powerful influence of the words and example of Gabriel, they felt themselves deeply moved, and each became anxious to offer services.
“Mr. Curate, he would perhaps be better on a chair, that one could carry upright,” said Ciboule.
“Shall I go and fetch a stretcher from the hospital?” asked another.
“Mr. Curate, let me take your place; the body is too heavy for you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said a powerful man, approaching the missionary respectfully; “I can carry him alone.”
“Shall I run and fetch a coach, Mr. Curate?” said a young vagabond, taking off his red cap.
“Right,” said the quarryman; “run away, my buck!”
“But first, ask Mr. Curate if you are to go for a coach,” said Ciboule, stopping the impatient messenger.
“True,” added one of the bystanders; “we are here in a church, and Mr. Curate has the command. He is at home.”
“Yes, yes; go at once, my child,” said Gabriel to the obliging young vagabond.
Whilst the latter was making his way through the crowd, a voice said: “I’ve a little wicker-bottle of brandy; will that be of any use?”
“No doubt,” answered Gabriel, hastily; “pray give it here. We can rub his temples with the spirit, and make him inhale a little.”
“Pass the bottle,” cried Ciboule; “but don’t put your noses in it!” And, passed with caution from hand to hand, the flask reached Gabriel in safety.
Whilst waiting for the coming of the coach, Father d’Aigrigny had been seated on a chair. Whilst several good-natured people carefully supported the abbe, the missionary made him inhale a little brandy. In a few minutes, the spirit had a powerful influence on the Jesuit; he made some slight movements, and his oppressed bosom heaved with a deep sigh.
“He is saved—he will live,” cried Gabriel, in a triumphant voice; “he will live, my brothers!”
“Oh! glad to hear it!” exclaimed many voices.
“Oh, yes! be glad, my brothers!” repeated Gabriel; “for, instead of being weighed down with the remorse of crime, you will have a just and charitable action to remember. Let us thank God, that he has changed your blind fury into a sentiment of compassion! Let us pray to Him, that neither you, nor those you love, may ever be exposed to such frightful danger as this unfortunate man has just escaped. Oh, my brothers!” added Gabriel, as he pointed to the image of Christ with touching emotion, which communicated itself the more easily to others from the expression of his angelic countenance; “oh, my brothers! let us never forget, that HE, who died upon that cross for the defence of the oppressed, for the obscure children of the people like to ourselves, pronounced those affectionate words so sweet to the heart; ‘Love ye one another!’—Let us never forget it; let us love and help one another, and we poor people shall then become better, happier, just. Love—yes, love ye one another—and fall prostrate before that Saviour, who is the God of all that are weak, oppressed, and suffering in this world!”
So saying, Gabriel knelt down. All present respectfully followed his example, such power was there in his simple and persuasive words. At this moment, a singular incident added to the grandeur of the scene. We have said that a few seconds before the quarryman and his band entered the body of the church, several persons had fled from it. Two of these had taken refuge in the organ-loft, from which retreat they had viewed the preceding scene, themselves remaining invisible. One of these persons was a young man charged with the care of the organ, and quite musician enough to play on it. Deeply moved by the unexpected turn of an event which at first appeared so tragical, and yielding to an artistical inspiration, this young man, at the moment when he saw the people kneeling with Gabriel, could not forbear striking the notes. Then a sort of harmonious sigh, at first almost insensible, seemed to rise from the midst of this immense cathedral, like a divine aspiration. As soft and aerial as the balmy vapor of incense, it mounted and spread through the lofty arches. Little by little the faint, sweet sounds, though still as it were covered, changed to an exquisite melody, religious, melancholy, and affectionate, which rose to heaven like a song of ineffable gratitude and love. And the notes were at first so faint, so covered, that the kneeling multitude had scarcely felt surprise, and had yielded insensibly to the irresistible influence of that enchanting harmony.
Then many an eye, until now dry and ferocious, became wet with tears—many hard hearts beat gently, as they remembered the words pronounced by Gabriel with so tender an accent: “Love ye one another!” It was at this moment that Father d’Aigrigny came to himself—and opened his eyes. He thought himself under the influence of a dream. He had lost his senses in sight of a furious populace, who, with insult and blasphemy on their lips, pursued him with cries of death even to the sanctuary of the temple. He opened his eyes—and, by the pale light of the sacred lamps, to the solemn music of the organ, he saw that crowd, just now so menacing and implacable, kneeling in mute and reverential emotion, and humbly bowing their heads before the majesty of the shrine.
Some minutes after, Gabriel, carried almost in triumph on the shoulders of the crowd, entered the coach, in which Father d’Aigrigny, who by degrees had completely recovered his senses, was already reclining. By the order of the Jesuit, the coach stopped before the door of a house in the Rue de Vaugirard; he had the strength and courage to enter this dwelling alone; Gabriel was not admitted, but we shall conduct the reader thither.
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CHAPTER XXVI. THE PATIENT.
At the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, there was then a very high wall, with only one small doorway in all its length. On opening this door, you entered a yard surrounded by a railing, with screens like Venetian blinds, to prevent your seeing between the rails. Crossing this courtyard, you come to a fine large garden, symmetrically planted, at the end of which stood a building two stories high, looking perfectly comfortable, without luxury, but with all that cozy simplicity which betokens discreet opulence. A few days had elapsed since Father d’Aigrigny had been so courageously rescued by Gabriel from the popular fury. Three ecclesiastics, wearing black gowns, white bands, and square caps, were walking in the garden with a slow and measured step. The youngest seemed to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was pale, hollow, and impressed with a certain ascetic austerity. His two companions, aged between fifty or sixty, had, on the contrary, faces at once hypocritical and cunning; their round, rosy cheeks shone brightly in the sunshine, whilst their triple chins, buried in fat, descended in soft folds over the fine cambric of their bands. According to the rules of their order (they belonged to the Society of Jesus), which forbade their walking only two together, these three members of the brotherhood never quitted each other a moment.
“I fear,” said one of the two, continuing a conversation already begun, and speaking of an absent person, “I fear, that the continual agitation to which the reverend father has been a prey, ever since he was attacked with the cholera, has exhausted his strength, and caused the dangerous relapse which now makes us fear for his life.”
“They say,” resumed the other, “that never was there seen anxiety like to his.”
“And moreover,” remarked the young priest, bitterly, “it is painful to think, that his reverence Father Rodin has given cause for scandal, by obstinately refusing to make a public confession, the day before yesterday when his situation appeared so desperate, that, between two fits of a delirium, it was thought right to propose to him to receive the last sacraments.”
“His reverence declared that he was not so ill as they supposed,” answered one of the fathers, “and that he would have the last duties performed when he thought necessary.”
“The fact is, that for the last ten days, ever since he was brought here dying, his life has been, as it were, only a long and painful agony; and yet he continues to live.”
“I watched by him during the first three days of his malady, with M. Rousselet, the pupil of Dr. Baleinier,” resumed the youngest father; “he had hardly a moment’s consciousness, and when the Lord did grant him a lucid interval, he employed it in detestable execrations against the fate which had confined him to his bed.”
“It is said,” resumed the other, “that Father Rodin made answer to his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, who came to persuade him to die in an exemplary manner, worthy of a son of Loyola, our blessed founder”—at these words, the three Jesuits bowed their heads together, as if they had been all moved by the same spring—“it is said, that Father Rodin made answer to his eminence: ‘I do not need to confess publicly; I WANT TO LIVE, AND I WILL LIVE.’”
“I did not hear that,” said the young priest, with an indignant air; “but if Father Rodin really made use of such expressions, it is—”
Here, no doubt, reflection came to him just in time, for he stole a sidelong glance at his two silent, impassible companions, and added: “It is a great misfortune for his soul; but I am certain, his reverence has been slandered.”
“It was only as a calumnious report, that I mentioned those words,” said the other priest, exchanging a glance with his companion.
One of the garden gates opened, and one of the three reverend fathers exclaimed, at the sight of the personage who now entered: “Oh! here is his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, coming to pay a visit to Father Rodin.”
“May this visit of his eminence,” said the young priest, calmly, “be more profitable to Father Rodin than the last!”
Cardinal Malipieri was crossing the garden, on his way to the apartment occupied by Rodin.
Cardinal Malipieri, whom we saw assisting at the sort of council held at the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s, now on his way to Rodin’s apartment, was dressed as a layman, but enveloped in an ample pelisse of puce-colored satin, which exhaled a strong odor of camphor, for the prelate had taken care to surround himself with all sorts of anti-cholera specifics. Having reached the second story of the house, the cardinal knocked at a little gray door. Nobody answering, he opened it, and, like a man to whom the locality was well known, passed through a sort of antechamber, and entered a room in which was a turn-up bed. On a black wood table were many phials, which had contained different medicines. The prelate’s countenance seemed uneasy and morose; his complexion was still yellow and bilious; the brown circle which surrounded his black, squinting eyes appeared still darker than usual.
Pausing a moment, he looked round him almost in fear, and several times stopped to smell at his anti-cholera bottle. Then, seeing he was alone, he approached a glass over the chimney-piece, and examined with much attention the color of his tongue; after some minutes spent in this careful investigation, with the result of which he appeared tolerably satisfied, he took some preservative lozenges out of a golden box, and allowed them to melt in his mouth, whilst he closed his eyes with a sanctified air. Having taken these sanitary precautions, and again pressed his bottle to his nose, the prelate prepared to enter the third room, when he heard a tolerably loud noise through the thin partition which separated him from it, and, stopping to listen, all that was said in the next apartment easily reached his ear.
“Now that my wounds are dressed, I will get up,” said weak, but sharp and imperious voice.
“Do not think of it, reverend father,” was answered in a stronger tone; “it is impossible.”
“You shall see if it is impossible,” replied the other voice.
“But, reverend father, you will kill yourself. You are not in a state to get up. You will expose yourself to a mortal relapse. I cannot consent to it.”
To these words succeeded the noise of a faint struggle, mingled with groans more angry than plaintive, and the voice resumed: “No, no, father; for your own safety, I will not leave your clothes within your reach. It is almost time for your medicine; I will go and prepare it for you.”
Almost immediately after, the door opened, and the prelate saw enter a man of about twenty-five years of age, carrying on his arm an old olive great-coat and threadbare black trousers, which he threw down upon a chair.
This personage was Ange Modeste Rousselet, chief pupil of Dr. Baleinier; the countenance of the young practitioner was mild, humble, and reserved; his hair, very short in front, flowed down upon his neck behind. He made a slight start in surprise on perceiving the cardinal, and bowed twice very low, without raising his eyes.
“Before anything else,” said the prelate, with his marked Italian accent, still holding to his nose his bottle of camphor, “have any choleraic symptoms returned?”
“No, my lord; the pernicious fever, which succeeded the attack of cholera, still continues.”
“Very good. But will not the reverend father be reasonable? What was the noise that I just heard?”
“His reverence wished absolutely to get up and dress himself; but his weakness is so great, that he could not have taken two steps from the bed. He is devoured by impatience, and we fear that this agitation will cause a mortal relapse.”
“Has Dr. Baleinier been here this morning?”
“He has just left, my lord.”
“What does he think of the patient?”
“He finds him in the most alarming state, my lord. The night was so bad, that he was extremely uneasy this morning. Father Rodin is at one of those critical junctures, when a few hours may decide the life or death of the patient. Dr. Baleinier is now gone to fetch what is necessary for a very painful operation, which he is about to perform on the reverend father.”
“Has Father d’Aigrigny been told of this?”
“Father d’Aigrigny is himself very unwell, as your eminence knows; he has not been able to leave his bed for the last three days.”
“I inquired about him as I came up,” answered the prelate, “and I shall see him directly. But, to return to Father Rodin, have you sent for his confessor, since he is in a desperate state, and about to undergo a serious operation?”
“Dr. Baleinier spoke a word to him about it, as well as about the last sacraments; but Father Rodin exclaimed, with great irritation, that they did not leave him a moment’s peace, that he had as much care as any one for his salvation, and that—”
“Per Bacco! I am not thinking of him,” cried the cardinal, interrupting Ange Modeste Rousselet with his pagan oath, and raising his sharp voice to a still higher key; “I am not thinking of him, but of the interests of the Company. It is indispensable that the reverend father should receive the sacraments with the most splendid solemnity, and that his end should not only be Christian, but exemplary. All the people in the house, and even strangers, should be invited to the spectacle, so that his edifying death may produce an excellent sensation.”
“That is what Fathers Grison and Brunet have already endeavored to persuade his reverence, my lord; but your Eminence knows with what impatience Father Rodin received this advice, and Dr. Baleinier did not venture to persist, for fear of advancing a fatal crisis.”
“Well, I will venture to do it; for in these times of revolutionary impiety, a solemnly Christian death would produce a very salutary effect on the public. It would indeed be proper to make the necessary preparations to embalm the reverend father: he might then lie in state for some days, with lighted tapers, according to Romish custom. My secretary would furnish the design for the bier; it would be very splendid and imposing; from his position in the Order, Father Rodin is entitled to have everything in the most sumptuous style. He must have at least six hundred tapers, and a dozen funeral lamps, burning spirits of wine, to hang just over the body, and light it from above: the effect would be excellent. We must also distribute little tracts to the people, concerning the pious and ascetic life of his reverence—”
Here a sudden noise, like that of some piece of metal thrown angrily on the floor, was heard from the next room, in which was the sick man, and interrupted the prelate in his description.
“I hope Father Rodin has not heard you talk of embalming him, my lord,” said Rousselet, in a whisper: “his bed touches the partition, and almost everything is audible through it.”
“If Father Rodin has heard me,” answered the cardinal, sinking his voice, and retiring to the other end of the room, “this circumstance will enable me to enter at once on the business; but, in any case, I persist in believing that the embalming and the lying in state are required to make a good effect upon the public. The people are already frightened at the cholera, and such funeral pomp would have no small influence on the imagination.”
“I would venture to observe to your Eminence, that here the laws are opposed to such exhibitions.”
“The laws—already the laws!” said the cardinal, angrily; “has not Rome also her laws? And is not every priest a subject of Rome? Is it not time—”
But, not choosing, doubtless, to begin a more explicit conversation with the young doctor, the prelate resumed, “We will talk of this hereafter. But, tell me, since my last visit, has the reverend father had any fresh attacks of delirium?”
“Yes, my lord; here is the note, as your Eminence commanded.” So saying Rousselet delivered a paper to the prelate. We will inform the reader that this part of the conversation between Rousselet and the cardinal was carried on at a distance from the partition, so that Rodin could hear nothing of it, whilst that which related to the embalming had been perfectly audible to him.
The cardinal, having received the note from Rousselet, perused it with an expression of lively curiosity. When he had finished, he crumpled it in his hand, and said, without attempting to dissemble his vexation, “Always nothing but incoherent expression. Not two words together, from which you can draw any reasonable conclusion. One would really think this man had the power to control himself even in his delirium, and to rave about insignificant matters only.”
Then, addressing Rousselet, “You are sure that you have reported everything that escaped from him during his delirium?”
“With the exception of the same phrases, that he repeated over and over again, your Eminence may be assured that I have not omitted a single word, however unmeaning.”
“Show me into Father Rodin’s room,” said the prelate, after a moment’s silence.
“But, my lord,” answered the young doctor, with some hesitation, “the fit has only left him about an hour, and the reverend father is still very weak.”
“The more the reason,” replied the prelate, somewhat indiscreetly. Then, recollecting himself, he added, “He will the better appreciate the consolations I have to offer. Should he be asleep, awake him, and announce my visit.”
“I have only orders to receive from your Eminence,” said Rousselet, bowing, and entering the next room.
Left alone, the cardinal said to himself, with a pensive air, “I always come back to that. When he was suddenly attacked by the cholera, Father Rodin believed himself poisoned by order of the Holy See. He must then have been plotting something very formidable against Rome, to entertain so abominable a fear. Can our suspicions be well founded? Is he acting secretly and powerfully on the Sacred College? But then for what end? This it has been impossible to penetrate, so faithfully has the secret been kept by his accomplices. I had hoped that, during his delirium, he would let slip some word that would put us on the trace of what we are so much interested to discover. With so restless and active a mind, delirium is often the exaggeration of some dominant idea; yet here I have the report of five different fits—and nothing—no, nothing but vague, unconnected phrases.”
The return of Rousselet put an end to these reflections. “I am sorry to inform my lord that the reverend father obstinately refuses to see any one. He says that he requires absolute repose. Though very weak, he has a savage and angry look, and I should not be surprised if he overheard your Eminence talk about embalming him.”
The cardinal, interrupting Rousselet, said to him, “Did Father Rodin have his last fit of delirium in the night?”
“Between three and half-past five this morning, my lord.”
“Between three and half-past five,” repeated the prelate, as if he wished to impress this circumstance on his memory, “the attack presented no particular symptoms?”
“No, my lord; it consisted of rambling, incoherent talk, as your Eminence may see by this note.”
Then, as he perceived the prelate approaching Father Rodin’s door, Rousselet added, “The reverend father will positively see no one, my lord; he requires rest, to prepare for the operation; it might be dangerous—”
Without attending to these observations, the cardinal entered Rodin’s chamber. It was a tolerably large room, lighted by two windows, and simply but commodiously furnished. Two logs were burning slowly in the fireplace, in which stood a coffee-pot, a vessel containing mustard poultice, etc. On the chimney-piece were several pieces of rag, and some linen bandages. The room was full of that faint chemical odor peculiar to the chambers of the sick, mingled with so putrid a stench, that the cardinal stopped at the door a moment, before he ventured to advance further. As the three reverend fathers had mentioned in their walk, Rodin lived because he had said to himself, “I want to live, and I will live.”
For, as men of timid imaginations and cowardly minds often die from the mere dread of dying, so a thousand facts prove that vigor of character and moral energy may often struggle successfully against disease, and triumph over the most desperate symptoms.
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It was thus with the Jesuit. The unshaken firmness of his character, the formidable tenacity of his will (for the will has sometimes a mysterious and almost terrific power), aiding the skillful treatment of Dr. Baleinier, had saved him from the pestilence with which he had been so suddenly attacked. But the shock had been succeeded by a violent fever, which placed Rodin’s life in the utmost peril. This increased danger had caused the greatest alarm to Father d’Aigrigny, who felt, in spite of his rivalry and jealousy, that Rodin was the master-spirit of the plot in which they were engaged, and could alone conduct it to a successful issue.
The curtains of the room was half closed, and admitted only a doubtful light to the bed on which Rodin was lying. The Jesuit’s features had lost the greenish hue peculiar to cholera patients, but remained perfectly livid and cadaverous, and so thin, that the dry, rugged skin appeared to cling to the smallest prominence of bone. The muscles and veins of the long, lean, vulture-like neck resembled a bundle of cords. The head, covered with an old, black, filthy nightcap, from beneath which strayed a few thin, gray hairs, rested upon a dirty pillow; for Rodin would not allow them to change his linen. His iron-gray beard had not been shaved for some time, and stood out like the hairs of a brush. Under his shirt he wore an old flannel waistcoat full of holes. He had one of his arms out of bed, and his bony hairy hand, with its bluish nails, held fast a cotton handkerchief of indescribable color.
You might have taken him for a corpse, had it not been for the two brilliant sparks which still burned in the depths of his eyes. In that look, in which seemed concentrated all the remaining life and energy of the man, you might read the most restless anxiety. Sometimes his features revealed the sharpest pangs; sometimes the twisting of his hands, and his sudden starts, proclaimed his despair at being thus fettered to a bed of pain, whilst the serious interests which he had in charge required all the activity of his mind. Thus, with thoughts continually on the stretch, his mind often wandered, and he had fits of delirium, from which he woke as from a painful dream. By the prudent advice of Dr. Baleinier, who considered him not in a state to attend to matters of—importance, Father d’Aigrigny had hitherto evaded Rodin’s questions with regard to the Rennepont affair, which he dreaded to see lost and ruined in consequence of his forced inaction. The silence of Father d’Aigrigny on this head, and the ignorance in which they kept him, only augmented the sick man’s exasperation. Such was the moral and physical state of Rodin, when Cardinal Malipieri entered his chamber against his will.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE LURE.
To understand fully the tortures of Rodin, reduced to inactivity by sickness, and to explain the importance of Cardinal Malipieri’s visit, we must remember the audacious views of the ambitious Jesuit, who believed himself following in the steps of Sixtus V., and expected to become his equal. By the success of the Rennepont affair, to attain to the generalship of his Order, by the corruption of the Sacred College to ascend the pontifical throne, and then, by means of a change in the statutes of the Company, to incorporate the Society of Jesus with the Holy See, instead of leaving it independent, to equal and almost always rule the Papacy—such were the secret projects of Rodin.
Their possibility was sanctioned by numerous precedents, for many mere monks and priests had been suddenly raised to the pontifical dignity. And as for their morality, the accession of the Borgias, of Julius II., and other dubious Vicars of Christ, might excuse and authorize the pretensions of the Jesuits.
Though the object of his secret intrigues at Rome had hitherto been enveloped in the greatest mystery, suspicions had been excited in regard to his private communications with many members of the Sacred College. A portion of that college, Cardinal Malipieri at the head of them, had become very uneasy on the subject, and, profiting by his journey to France, the cardinal had resolved to penetrate the Jesuit’s dark designs. If, in the scene we have just painted, the cardinal showed himself so obstinately bent on having a conference with Rodin, in spite of the refusal of the latter, it was because the prelate hoped, as we shall soon see, to get by cunning at the secret, which had hitherto been so well concealed. It was, therefore, in the midst of all these extraordinary circumstances, that Rodin saw himself the victim of a malady, which paralyzed his strength, at the moment when he had need of all his activity, and of all the resources of his mind. After remaining for some seconds motionless near the door, the cardinal, still holding his bottle under his nose, slowly approached the bed where Rodin lay.
The latter, enraged at this perseverance, and wishing to avoid an interview which for many reasons was singularly odious to him, turned his face towards the wall, and pretended to be asleep. Caring little for this feint, and determined to profit by Rodin’s state of weakness, the prelate took a chair, and, conquering his repugnance, sat down close to the Jesuit’s bed.
“My reverend and very dear father, how do you find yourself?” said he to him, in a honeyed tone, which his Italian accent seemed to render still more hypocritical. Rodin pretended not to hear, breathed hard, and made no answer. But the cardinal, not without disgust, shook with his gloved hand the arm of the Jesuit, and repeated in a louder voice: “My reverend and very dear father, answer me, I conjure you!”
Rodin could not restrain a movement of angry impatience, but he continued silent. The cardinal was not a man to be discouraged by so little; he again shook the arm of the Jesuit, somewhat more roughly, repeating, with a passionless tenacity that would have incensed the most patient person in the world: “My reverend and very dear father, since you are not asleep, listen to me, I entreat of you.”
Irritable with pain, exasperated by the obstinacy of the prelate, Rodin abruptly turned his head, fixed on the Roman his hollow eyes, shining with lurid fire, and, with lips contracted by a sardonic smile, said to him, bitterly: “You must be very anxious, my lord, to see me embalmed, and lie in state with tapers, as you were saying just now, for you thus to come to torment me in my last moments, and hasten my end!”
“Oh, my good father! how can you talk so?” cried the cardinal, raising his hands as if to call heaven to witness to the sincerity of the tender interest he felt for the Jesuit.
“I tell you that I heard all just now, my lord; for the partition is thin,” added Rodin, with redoubled bitterness.
“If you mean that, from the bottom of my soul, I desired that you should make an exemplary and Christian end, you are perfectly right, my dear father. I did say so; for, after a life so well employed, it would be sweet to see you an object of adoration for the faithful!”
“I tell you, my lord,” cried Rodin, in a weak and broken voice, “that it is ferocious to express such wishes in the presence of a dying man. Yes,” he added, with growing animation, that contrasted strongly with his weakness, “take care what you do; for if I am too much plagued and pestered—if I am not allowed to breathe my last breath quietly—I give you notice that you will force me to die in anything but a Christian manner, and if you mean to profit by an edifying spectacle, you will be deceived.”
This burst of anger having greatly fatigued Rodin, his head fell back upon the pillow, and he wiped his cracked and bleeding lips with his old cotton handkerchief.
“Come, come, be calm, my very dear father,” resumed the cardinal, with a patronizing air; “do not give way to such gloomy ideas. Doubtless, Providence reserves you for great designs, since you have been already delivered from so much peril. Let us hope that you will be likewise saved from your present danger.”
Rodin answered by a hoarse growl, and turned his face towards the wall.
The imperturbable prelate continued: “The views of Providence are not confined to your salvation, my very dear father. Its power has been manifested in another way. What I am about to tell you is of the highest importance. Listen attentively.”
Without turning his head, Rodin muttered in a tone of angry bitterness, which betrayed his intense sufferings: “They desire my death. My chest is on fire, my head racked with pain, and they have no pity. Oh, I suffer the tortures of the damned!”
“What! already” thought the Roman, with a smile of sarcastic malice; then he said aloud: “Let me persuade you, my very dear father—make an effort to listen to me; you will not regret it.”
Still stretched upon the bed, Rodin lifted his hands clasped upon his cotton handkerchief with a gesture of despair, and then let them fall again by his side.
The cardinal slightly shrugged his shoulders, and laid great stress on what follows, so that Rodin might not lose a word of it: “My dear father, it has pleased Providence that, during your fit of raving, you have made, without knowing it, the most important revelations.”
The prelate waited with anxious curiosity for the effect of the pious trap he had laid for the Jesuit’s weakened faculties. But the latter, still turned towards the wall, did not appear to have heard him and remained silent.
“You are, no doubt, reflecting on my words, my dear father,” resumed the cardinal; “you are right, for it concerns a very serious affair. I repeat to you that Providence has allowed you, during your delirium, to betray your most secret thoughts—happily, to me alone. They are such as would compromise you in the highest degree. In short, during your delirium of last night, which lasted nearly two hours, you unveiled the secret objects of your intrigues at Rome with many of the members of the Sacred College.”
The cardinal, rising softly, stooped over the bed to watch the expression of Rodin’s countenance. But the latter did not give him time. As a galvanized corpse starts into strange and sudden motion, Rodin sprang into a sitting posture at the last words of the prelate.
“He has betrayed himself,” said the cardinal, in a low voice, in Italian. Then, resuming his seat, he fixed on the Jesuit his eyes, that sparkled with triumphant joy.
Though he did not hear the exclamation of Malipieri, nor remark the expression of his countenance, Rodin, notwithstanding his state of weakness, instantly felt the imprudence of his start. He pressed his hand to his forehead, as though he had been seized with a giddiness; then, looking wildly round him, he pressed to his trembling lips his old cotton handkerchief, and gnawed it mechanically for some seconds.
“Your emotion and alarm confirm the sad discoveries I have made,” resumed the cardinal, still more rejoicing at the success of his trick; “and now, my dear father,” added he, “you will understand that it is for your best interest to enter into the most minute detail as to your projects and accomplices at Rome. You may then hope, my dear father, for the indulgence of the Holy See—that is, if your avowals are sufficiently explicit to fill up the chasms necessarily left in a confession made during delirium.”
Rodin, recovered from his first surprise, perceived, but too late, that he had fallen into a snare, not by any words he had spoken, but by his too significant movements. In fact, the Jesuit had feared for a moment that he might have betrayed himself during his delirium, when he heard himself accused of dark intrigues with Rome; but, after some minutes of reflection, his common sense suggested: “If this crafty Roman knew my secret, he would take care not to tell me so. He has only suspicions, confirmed by my involuntary start just now.”
Rodin wiped the cold sweat from his burning forehead. The emotion of this scene augmented his sufferings, and aggravated the danger of his condition. Worn out with fatigue, he could not remain long in a sitting posture, and soon fell back upon the bed.
“Per Bacco!” said the cardinal to himself, alarmed at the expression of the Jesuit’s face; “if he were to die before he had spoken, and so escape the snare!”
Then, leaning over the bed, the prelate asked: “What is the matter, my very dear father?”
“I am weak, my lord—I am in pain—I cannot express what I suffer.”
“Let us hope, my very dear father, that this crisis will have no fatal results; but the contrary may happen, and it behooves the salvation of your soul to make instantly the fullest confession. Were it even to exhaust your strength, what is this perishable body compared to eternal life?”
“Of what confession do you speak, my lord?” said Rodin, in a feeble and yet sarcastic tone.
“What confession!” cried the amazed cardinal; “why, with regard to your dangerous intrigues at Rome.”
“What intrigues?” asked Rodin.
“The intrigues you revealed during your delirium,” replied the prelate, with still more angry impatience. “Were not your avowals sufficiently explicit? Why, then, this culpable hesitation to complete them?”
“My avowals—were explicit—you assure me?” said Rodin, pausing after each word for want of breath, but without losing his energy and presence of mind.
“Yes, I repeat it,” resumed the cardinal; “with the exception of a few chasms, they were most explicit.”
“Then why repeat them?” said Rodin, with the same sardonic smile on his violet lips.
“Why repeat them?” cried the angry prelate. “In order to gain pardon; for if there is indulgence and mercy for the repentant sinner, there must be condemnation and curses for the hardened criminal!”
“Oh, what torture! I am dying by slow fire!” murmured Rodin. “Since I have told all,” he resumed, “I have nothing more to tell. You know it already.”
“I know all—doubtless, I know all,” replied the prelate, in a voice of thunder; “but how have I learned it? By confessions made in a state of unconsciousness. Do you think they will avail you anything? No; the moment is solemn—death is at hand, tremble to die with a sacrilegious falsehood on your lips,” cried the prelate, shaking Rodin violently by the arm; “dread the eternal flames, if you dare deny what you know to be the truth. Do you deny it?”
“I deny nothing,” murmured Rodin, with difficulty. “Only leave me alone!”
“Then heaven inspires you,” said the cardinal, with a sigh of satisfaction; and, thinking he had nearly attained his object, he resumed, “Listen to the divine word, that will guide you, father. You deny nothing?”
“I was—delirious—and cannot—(oh! how I suffer!)” added Rodin, by way of parenthesis; “and cannot therefore—deny—the nonsense—I may have uttered!”
“But when this nonsense agrees with the truth,” cried the prelate, furious at being again deceived in his expectation; “but when raving is an involuntary, providential revelation—”
Original
“Cardinal Malipieri—your craft is no match—for my agony,” answered Rodin, in a failing voice. “The proof—that I have not told my secret—if I have a secret—is—that you want to make me tell it!” In spite of his pain and weakness, the Jesuit had courage to raise himself in the bed, and look the cardinal full in the face, with a smile of bitter irony. After which he fell back on the pillow, and pressed his hands to his chest, with a long sigh of anguish.
“Damnation! the infernal Jesuit has found me out!” said the cardinal to himself, as he stamped his foot with rage. “He sees that he was compromised by his first movement; he is now upon his guard; I shall get nothing more from him—unless indeed, profiting by the state of weakness in which he is, I can, by entreaties, by threats, by terror—”
The prelate was unable to finish. The door opened abruptly, and Father d’Aigrigny entered the room, exclaiming with an explosion of joy: “Excellent news!”