Books: Cosmopolis, v2
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Paul Bourget >> Cosmopolis, v2
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The monk who came at his ring to open the door of the inclosure
contiguous to St. Calixtus, informed him that he of whom he was in
search had left half an hour before.
"You will find him at the Basilica of Saint Neree and Saint Achilles,"
added the Trappist; "it is the fete of those two saints, and at five
o'clock there will be a procession in their catacombs.... It is a
fifteen minutes' ride from here, near the tower Marancia, on the Via
Ardeatina."
"Shall I miss him a third time?" thought Dorsenne, alighting from the
carriage finally, and proceeding on foot to the opening which leads to
the subterranean Necropolis dedicated to the two saints who were the
eunuchs of Domitilla, the niece of Emperor Vespasian. A few ruins and a
dilapidated house alone mark the spot where once stood the pious
Princess's magnificent villa. The gate was open, and, meeting no one who
could direct him, the young man took several steps in the subterranean
passage. He perceived that the long gallery was lighted. He entered
there, saying to himself that the row of tapers, lighted every ten paces,
assuredly marked the line which the procession would follow, and which
led to the central basilica. Although his anxiety as to the issue of his
undertaking was extreme, he could not help being impressed by the
grandeur of the sight presented by the catacomb thus illuminated. The
uneven niches reserved for the dead, asleep in the peace of the Lord for
so many centuries, made recesses in the corridors and gave them a solemn
and tragical aspect. Inscriptions were to be seen there, traced on the
stone, and all spoke of the great hope which those first Christians had
cherished, the same which believers of our day cherish.
Julien knew enough of symbols to understand the significance of the
images between which the persecuted of the primitive church had laid
their fathers. They are so touching and so simple! The anchor
represents safety in the storm; the gentle dove and the ewe, symbols of
the soul, which flies away and seeks its shepherd; the phoenix, whose
wings announce the resurrection. Then there were the bread and the wine,
the branches of the olive and the palm. The silent cemetery was filled
with a faint aroma of incense, noticed by Dorsenne on entering. High
mass, celebrated in the morning, left the sacred perfume diffused among
those bones, once the forms of human beings who kneeled there amid the
same holy aroma. The contrast was strong between that spot, where
everything spoke of things eternal, and the drama of passion, worldly and
culpable, the progress of which agitated even Dorsenne. At that moment
he appeared to himself in the light of a profaner, although he was
obeying generous and humane instincts. He experienced a sense of relief
when, at a bend in one of the corridors which he had selected from among
many others, he found himself face to face with a priest, who held in his
hand a basket filled with the petals of flowers, destined, no doubt, for
the procession. Dorsenne inquired of him the way to the Basilica in
Italian, while the reply was given in perfect French.
"Perhaps you know the Marquis de Montfanon, father?" asked the novelist.
"I am one of the chaplains of Saint Louis," said the priest, with a
smile, adding: "You will find him in the Basilica."
"Now, the moment has come," thought Dorsenne, "I must be subtle....
After all, it is charity I am about to ask him to do.... Here I am.
I recognize the staircase and the opening above."
A corner of the sky, indeed, was to be seen, and a ray of light entered
which permitted the writer to distinguish him whom he was seeking among
the few persons assembled in the ruined chapel, the most venerable of all
those which encircle Rome with a hidden girdle of sanctuaries.
Montfanon, too recognizable, alas! by the empty sleeve of his black
redingote, was seated on a chair, not very far from the altar, on which
burned enormous tapers. Priests and monks were arranging baskets filled
with petals, like those of the chaplain, whom Dorsenne had just met. A
group of three curious visitors commented in whispers upon the paintings,
scarcely visible on the discolored stucco of the ceiling. Montfanon was
entirely absorbed in the book which he held in his one hand. The large
features of his face, ennobled and almost transfigured by the ardor of
devotion, gave him the admirable expression of an old Christian soldier.
'Bonus miles Christi'--a good soldier of Christ--had been inscribed upon
the tomb of the chief under whom he had been wounded at Patay. One would
have taken him for a guardian layman of the tombs of the martyrs, capable
of confessing his faith like them, even to the death. And when Julien
determined to approach and to touch him lightly on the shoulder, he saw
that, in the nobleman's clear, blue eyes, ordinarily so gay, and
sometimes so choleric, sparkled unshed tears. His voice, too, naturally
sharp, was softened by the emotion of the thought which his reading, the
place, the time, the occupation of his day had awakened within him.
"Ah, you here?" said he to his young friend, without any astonishment.
"You have come for the procession. That is well. You will hear sung the
lovely lines: 'Hi sunt quos fatue mundus abhorruit." He pronounced ou as
u, 'a l'Italienne'; for his liturgic training had been received in Rome.
"The season is favorable for the ceremonies. The tourists have gone.
There will only be people here who pray and who feel, like you.... And
to feel is half of prayer. The other half is to believe. You will
become one of us. I have always predicted it. There is no peace but
here."
"I would gladly have come only for the procession," replied Dorsenne,
"but my visit has another motive, dear friend," said he, in a still lower
tone. "I have been seeking for you for more than an hour, that you might
aid me in rendering a great service to several people, in preventing a
very great misfortune, perhaps."
"I can help you to prevent a very great misfortune?" repeated Montfanon.
"Yes," replied Dorsenne, "but this is not the place in which to explain
to you the details of the long and terrible adventure.... At what hour
is the ceremony? I will wait for you, and tell it to you on leaving
here."
"It does not begin until five o'clock-five-thirty," said Montfanon,
looking at his watch, "and it is now fifteen minutes past four. Let us
leave the catacomb, if you wish, and you can repeat your story to me up
above. A very great misfortune? Well," he added, pressing the hand of
the young man whom, personally, he liked as much as he detested his
views, "rest assured, my dear child, we will prevent it!"
There was in the manner in which he uttered those words the tranquillity
of a mind which knows not uneasiness, that of a believer who feels sure
of always accomplishing all that he wishes to do. It would not have been
Montfanon, that is to say, a species of visionary, who loved to argue
with Dorsenne, because he knew that in spite of all he was understood,
if he had not continued, as they walked along the lighted corridor,
while remounting toward daylight:
"If it is all the same to you, sir apologist of the modern world, I
should like to pause here and ask you frankly: Do you not feel yourself
more contemporary with all the dead who slumber within these walls than
with a radical elector or a free-mason deputy? Do you not feel that if
these martyrs had not come to pray beneath these vaults eighteen hundred
years ago, the best part of your soul would not exist? Where will you
find a poetry more touching than that of these symbols and of these
epitaphs? That admirable De Rossi showed me one at Saint Calixtus last
year. My tears flow as I recall it. 'Pete pro Phoebe et pro virginio
ejus'. Pray for Phoebus and for--How do you translate the word
'virginius', the husband who has known only one wife, the virgin husband
of a virgin spouse? Your youth will pass, Dorsenne. You will one day
feel what I feel, the happiness which is wanting on account of bygone
errors, and you will comprehend that it is only to be found in Christian
marriage, whose entire sublimity is summed up in thus prayer: 'Pro
virginio ejus'.... You will be like me then, and you will find in this
book," he held up 'l'Eucologe', which he clasped in his hand, "something
through which to offer up to God your remorse and your regrets. Do you
know the hymn of the Holy Sacrament, 'Adoro te, devote'? No. Yet you
are capable of feeling what is contained in these lines. Listen. It is
this idea: That on the cross one sees only the man, not the God; that in
the host one does not even see the man, and that yet one believes in the
real presence.
In cruce latebat sola Deitas.
At hic latet simul et humanitas.
Ambo tamen credens atque confitens....
"And now this last verse:
Peto quod petivit latro poenitens!
[I ask that which the penitent thief asked.]
"What a cry! Ah, but it is beautiful! It is beautiful! What words to
say in dying! And what did the poor thief ask, that Dixmas of whom the
church has made a saint for that one appeal: 'Remember me, Lord, in Thy
kingdom!' But we have arrived. Stoop, that you may not spoil your hat.
Now, what do you want with me? You know the motto of the Montfanons:
'Excelsior et firmior'--Always higher and always firmer.... One can never
do too many good deeds. If it be possible, 'present', as we said to the
rollcall."
A singular mixture of fervor and of good-nature, of enthusiastic
eloquence and of political or religious fanaticism, was Montfanon. But
the good-nature rapidly vanished from his face, at once so haughty and so
simple, in proportion as Dorsenne's story proceeded. The writer, indeed,
did not make the error of at once formulating his proposition. He felt
that he could not argue with the pontifical zouave of bygone days.
Either the latter would look upon it as monstrous and absurd, or he would
see in it a charitable duty to be accomplished, and then, whatever
annoyance the matter might occasion him, he would accept it, as he would
bestow alms. It was that chord of generosity which Julien, diplomatic
for once in his life, essayed to touch by his confidence. Gaining
authority by their conversation of a few days before, he related all he
could of Gorka's visit, concealing the fact of that word of honor so
falsely given, which still oppressed him with a mortal weight. He told
how he had soothed the madman, how he conducted him to the station, then
he described the meeting of the two rivals twenty-four hours later. He
dwelt upon Alba's manner that evening and the infamy of the anonymous
letters written to Madame Steno's discarded lover and to her daughter.
And after he had reported the mysterious quarrel which had suddenly
arisen between Gorka and Chapron:
"I, therefore, promised to be his second," he concluded, "because I
believe it my absolute duty to do all I can to prevent the duel from
taking place. Only think of it. If it should take place, and if one of
them is killed or wounded, how can the affair be kept secret in this
gossiping city of Rome? And what remarks it will call forth! It is
evident that these two boys have quarrelled only on account of the
relations between Madame Steno and Maitland. By what strange
coincidence? Of that I know nothing.
"But there will not be a doubt in public opinion. And can you not see
additional anonymous letters written to Alba, Madame Gorka, Madame
Maitland?.... The men I do not care for.... Two out of three merit all
that comes to them. But those innocent creatures--is it not frightful?"
"Frightful, indeed," replied Montfanon; "it is that which renders those
adulterous adventures so hideous. There are many people who are affected
by it besides the guilty ones.... You see that, you who thought that
society so pleasant, so refined, so interesting, the day before
yesterday? But it does no good to recriminate. I understand. You have
come to ask me to advise you in your role of second. My follies of youth
will enable me to direct you.... Correctness in the slightest detail and
no nerves, when one has to arrange a duel. Oh! You will have trouble.
Gorka is mad. I know the Poles. They have great faults, but they are
brave. Lord, but they are brave! And little Chapron, I know him, too;
he has one of those stubborn natures, which would allow their breasts to
be pierced without saying 'Ouf!' And 'amour propre'. He has good
soldier's blood in his veins, that child, notwithstanding the mixture.
And with that mixture, do you not see what a hero the first of the three
Dumas, the mulatto general, has been?.... Yes. You have there a hard
job, my good Dorsenne.... You will need another second to assist you,
who will have the same views as you and--pardon me--more experience,
perhaps."
"Marquis," replied Julien, whose voice trembled with anxiety, "there is
only one person in Rome who would be respected enough, venerated by all,
so that his intervention in that delicate and dangerous matter be
decisive, one person who could suggest excuses to Chapron, or obtain them
from the other.... In short, there is only one person who has the
authority of a hero before whom they will remain silent when he speaks of
honor, and that person is you."
"I," exclaimed Montfanon, "I, you wish me to be--"
"One of Chapron's seconds," interrupted Dorsenne. "Yes. It is true. I
come on his part and for that. Do not tell me what I already know, that
your position will not allow of such a step. It is because it is what it
is, that I thought of coming to you. Do not tell me that your religious
principles are opposed to duels. It is that there may be no duel that I
conjure you to accept.... It is essential that it does not take place.
I swear to you, that the peace of too many innocent persons is
concerned."
And he continued, calling into service at that moment all the
intelligence and all the eloquence of which he was capable. He could
follow on the face of the former duellist, who had become the most ardent
of Catholics and the most monomaniacal of old bachelors, twenty diverse
expressions. At length Montfanon laid his hand with veritable solemnity
on his interlocutor's arm and said to him:
"Listen, Dorsenne, do not tell me any more.... I consent to what you ask
of me, but on two conditions. They are these: The first is that Monsieur
Chapron will trust absolutely to my judgment, whatsoever it may be; the
second is that you will retire with me if these gentlemen persist in
their childishness.... I promise to aid you in fulfilling a mission of
charity, and not anything else; I repeat, not anything else. Before
bringing Monsieur Chapron to me you will repeat to him what I have said,
word for word."
"Word for word," replied the other, adding: "He is at home awaiting the
result of my undertaking."
"Then," said the Marquis, "I will return to Rome with you at once. He
has probably already received Gorka's seconds, and if they really wish to
arrange a duel the rule is not to put it off.... I shall not see my
procession, but to prevent misfortune is to do a good deed, and it is one
way of praying to God."
"Let me press your hand, my noble friend," said Dorsenne; "never have I
better understood what a truly brave man is."
When the writer alighted, three-quarters of an hour later, at the house
on the Rue Leopardi, after having seen Montfanon home, he felt sustained
by such moral support that was almost joyous. He found Florent in his
species of salon-smoking-room, arranging his papers with methodical
composure.
"He accepts," were the first words the young men uttered, almost
simultaneously, while Dorsenne repeated Montfanon's words.
"I depend absolutely on you two," replied the other. "I have no thirst
for Monsieur de Gorka's blood.... But that gentleman must not accuse the
grandson of Colonel Chapron of cowardice.... For that I rely upon the
relative of General Dorsenne and on the old soldier of Charette."
As he spoke, Florent handed a letter to Julien, who asked: "From whom is
this?"
"This," said Florent, "is a letter addressed to you, on this very table
half an hour ago by Baron Hafner.... There is some news. I have
received my adversary's seconds. The Baron is one, Ardea the other."
"Baron Hafner!" exclaimed Dorsenne. "What a singular choice!" He
paused, and he and Florent exchanged glances. They understood one
another without speaking. Boleslas could not have found a surer means of
informing Madame Steno as to the plan he intended to employ in his
vengeance. On the other hand, the known devotion of the Baron for the
Countess gave one chance more for a pacific solution, at the same time
that the fanaticism of Montfanon would be confronted with Fanny's father,
an episode of comedy suddenly cast across Gorka's drama of jealousy.
Julien resumed with a smile: "You must watch Montfanon's face when we
inform him of those two witnesses. He is a man of the fifteenth century,
you know, a Montluc, a Duc d'Alba, a Philippe II. I do not know which he
detests the most, the Freemasons, the Free-thinkers, the Protestants, the
Jews, or the Germans. And as this obscure and tortuous Hafner is a
little of everything, he has vowed hatred against him!.... Leaving that
out of the question, he suspects him of being a secret agent in the
service of the Triple Alliance! But let us see the letter."
He opened and glanced through it. "This craftiness serves for something,
it is equivalent almost to kindness. He, too, has felt that it is
necessary to end our affair, were it only to avoid scandal. He appoints
a meeting at his house between six and seven o'clock with me and your
second. Come, time is flying. You must come to the Marquis to make your
request officially. Begin this way. Obtain his promise before
mentioning Hafner's name. I know him. He will not retract his word.
But it is just."
The two friends found Montfanon awaiting them in his office, a large room
filled with books, from which could be obtained a fine view of the
panorama of the Forum, more majestic still on that afternoon when the
shadows of the columns and arches grew longer on the sidewalk. The room
with its brick floor had no other comfort than a carpet under the large
desk littered with papers--no doubt fragments of the famous work on the
relations of the French nobility and the Church. A crucifix stood upon
the desk. On the wall were two engravings, that of Monseigneur Pie, the
holy Bishop of Poitiers, and that of General de Sonis, on foot, with his
wooden leg, and a painting representing St. Francois, the patron of the
house. Those were the only artistic decorations of the modest
habitation. The nobleman often said: "I have freed myself from the
tyranny of objects." But with that marvellous background of grandiose
ruins and that sky, the simple spot was an incomparable retreat in which
to end in meditation and renouncement a life already shaken by the
tempests of the senses and of the world.
The hermit of that Thebaide rose to greet his two visitors, and pointing
out to Chapron an open volume on his table, he said to him:
"I was thinking of you. It is Chateauvillars's book on duelling. It
contains a code which is not very complete. I recommend it to you,
however, if ever you have to fulfil a mission like ours," and he pointed
to Dorsenne and himself, with a gesture which constituted the most
amicable of acceptations. "It seems you had too hasty a hand.... Ha!
ha! Do not defend yourself. Such as you see me, at twenty-one I threw
a plate in the face of a gentleman who bantered Comte de Chambord before
a number of Jacobins at a table d'hote in the provinces. See," continued
he, raising his white moustache and disclosing a scar, "this is the
souvenir. The fellow was once a dragoon; he proposed the sabre. I
accepted, and this is what I got, while he lost two fingers.... That
will not happen to us this time at least.... Dorsenne has told you our
conditions."
"And I replied that I was sure I could not intrust my honor to better
hands," replied Florent.
"Cease!" replied Montfanon, with a gesture of satisfaction. "No more
phrases. It is well. Moreover, I judged you, sir, from the day on which
you spoke to me at Saint Louis. You honor your dead. That is why I
shall be happy, very happy, to be useful to you."
"Now tell me very clearly the recital you made to Dorsenne."
Then Florent related concisely that which had taken place between him and
Gorka--that is to say, their argument and his passion, carefully omitting
the details in which the name of his brother-in-law would be mixed.
"The deuce!" said Montfanon, familiarly, "the affair looks bad, very
bad.... You see, a second is a confessor. You have had a discussion in
the street with Monsieur Gorka, but about what? You can not reply? What
did he say to you to provoke you to the point of wishing to strike him?
That is the first key to the position."
"I can not reply," said Florent.
"Then," resumed the Marquis, after a silence, "there only remains to
assert that the gesture on your part was--how shall I say? Unmeditated
and unfinished. That is the second key to the position.... You have no
special grudge against Monsieur Gorka?"
"None."
"Nor he against you?"
"None."
"The affair looks better," said Montfanon, who was silent for a time, to
resume, in the voice of a man who is talking to himself, "Count Gorka
considers himself offended? But is there any offence? It is that which
we should discuss.... An assault or the threat of an assault would
afford occasion for an arrangement.... But a gesture restrained, since
it was not carried into effect.... Do not interrupt me," he continued.
"I am trying to understand it clearly.... We must arrive at a solution.
We shall have to express our regret, leaving the field open to another
reparation, if Gorka requires it.... And he will not require it. The
entire problem now rests on the choice of his seconds.... Whom will he
select?"
"I have already received visits from them," said Florent. "Half an hour
ago. One is Prince d'Ardea."
"He is a gentleman," replied Montfanon. "I shall not be sorry to see him
to tell him my feelings with regard to the public sale of his palace, to
which he should never have allowed himself to be driven.... And the
other?"
"The other?" interrupted Dorsenne. "Prepare yourself for a blow....
I swear to you I did not know his name when I went in search of you at
the catacomb. It is--in short--it is Baron Hafner."
"Baron Hafner!" exclaimed Montfanon. "Boleslas Gorka, the descendant of
the Gorkas, of that grand Luc Gorka who was Palatine of Posen and Bishop
of Cujavie, has chosen for his second Monsieur Justus Hafner, the thief,
the scoundrel, who had the disgraceful suit!.... No, Dorsenne, do not
tell me that; it is not possible." Then, with the air of a combatant:
"We will challenge him; that is all, for his lack of honor. I take it
upon myself, as well as to tell of his deeds to Boleslas. We will spend
an enjoyable quarter of an hour there, I promise you."
"You will not do that," said Dorsenne, quickly. "First, with regard to
official honor, there is only one law, is there not? Hafner was
acquitted and his adversaries condemned. You told me so the other
day.... And then, you forget the conversation we just had."
"Pardon," interrupted Florent, in his turn. "Monsieur de Montfanon, in
promising to assist me, has done me a great honor, which I shall never
forget. If there should result from it any annoyance to him I should be
deeply grieved, and I am ready to release him from his promise."
"No," said the Marquis, after another silence. "I will not take it
back.".... He was so magnanimous when his two or three hobbies were not
involved that the slightest delicacy awoke an echo in him. He again
extended his hand to Chapron and continued, but with an accent which
betrayed suppressed irritation: "After all, it does not concern us if
Monsieur Gorka has chosen to be represented in an affair of honor by one
whom he should not even salute.... You will, then, give our two names to
those two gentlemen.... and Dorsenne and I will await them, as is the
rule.... It is their place to come, since they are the proxies of the
person insulted."
"They have already arranged a meeting for this evening," replied
Chapron.
"What's arranged? With whom? For whom?" exclaimed Montfanon, a prey to
a fresh access of choler. "With you?.... For us?.... Ah, I do not like
such conduct where such grave matters are concerned.... The code is
absolute on that subject.... Their challenge once made, to which you,
Monsieur Chapron, have to reply by yes or no, these gentlemen should
withdraw immediately.... It is not your fault, it is Ardea's, who has
allowed that dabbler in spurious dividends to perform his part of
intriguer.... But we will rectify all in the right way, which is the
French.... And where is the rendezvous?"
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