BOOK III: AMÉDÉE FLEURISSOIRE

I

The Countess Guy de Saint-Prix, Julius’s younger sister, who had been suddenly summoned to Paris by Count Juste-Agénor’s death, had not long since returned to Pezac (an elegant country residence, four miles out of Pau, which she had scarcely ever left since her widowhood, and to which she had become more than ever attached now that her children were all married and settled), when she received a singular visit.

She had just come in from her drive (she was in the habit of going out every morning in a light dog-cart which she drove herself), when she was informed that there was a priest in the drawing-room who had been waiting for over an hour to see her. The stranger came with an introduction from Cardinal André, as was shown by the card which was handed to the Countess; the card was in an envelope; under the Cardinal’s name, in his fine and almost feminine handwriting, were written the following words:

“Recommends Father J. P. Salus, canon of Virmontal, to the Countess de Saint-Prix’s very particular attention.”

That was all--and it was enough. The Countess was always glad to receive members of the clergy; Cardinal André, moreover, held the Countess’s soul in the hollow of his hand. Without a second’s delay, she hurried to the drawing-room and excused herself for having kept the visitor waiting.

The canon of Virmontal was a fine figure of a man. His noble countenance shone with a manly energy which conflicted strangely with the hesitating caution of his voice and gestures; and in like manner his hair, which was almost white, formed a surprising contrast to the bright and youthful freshness of his complexion.

Notwithstanding the Countess’s affability, the conversation at the outset was laborious, lagging, in conventional phrases, round about the lady’s recent bereavement, Cardinal André’s health and Julius’s renewed failure to enter the Academy. All this while the Abbé’s utterance was becoming slower and more muffled and the expression of his countenance more and more harrowing. At last he rose, but instead of taking leave:

“Madame la comtesse,” he said, “I should like to speak to you--on behalf of the Cardinal--about an important matter. But our voices sound very loud in this room and the number of doors alarms me; I am afraid of being overheard.”

The Countess adored confidences and mysteries; she showed the canon into a small boudoir, which could be entered only from the drawing-room, and shut the door.

“We are alone here,” she said. “Speak freely.”

But instead of speaking, the abbé, who had seated himself on an arm-chair opposite the Countess, pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, sobbing convulsively. The Countess, in some perplexity, stretched out her hand for her work basket, which was standing on a small table beside her, took out a bottle of salts, hesitated whether she should offer them to the abbé, and finally solved the difficulty by smelling them herself.

“Forgive me,” said the abbé at last, disinterring an apoplectic face from his handkerchief. “I know you are too good a Catholic, Madame la comtesse, not to understand and share my emotion, when you hear....”

The Countess could not abide lack of control; her propriety took refuge behind a lorgnette. The abbé quickly recovered himself and, drawing his chair nearer:

“It required the Cardinal’s solemn assurance, Madame la comtesse, before I could bring myself to come and see you--his assurance that your faith was something more than worldly conventionality--not a mere cloak for indifference.”

“Let’s get to the point, Monsieur l’abbé.”

“The Cardinal assured me, then, that I might have perfect confidence in your discretion--the discretion of the confessional, if I may say so....”

“Excuse me, Monsieur l’abbé, but if the secret is one with which the Cardinal is acquainted--a secret of such importance--how is it that he has not told me of it himself?”

The abbé’s smile alone would have sufficed to show the Countess the futility of her question.

“In a letter! But, my dear Madam, the post nowadays opens all cardinals’ letters.”

“He might have confided one to you.”

“Yes, Madam, but who knows what may happen to a paper, with the surveillance to which we are subjected? More than that--the Cardinal prefers to ignore what I am about to tell you--to have nothing to do with it.... Ah! Madam, at the last moment my courage fails me and I can hardly....”

“Monsieur l’abbé, as you are a stranger to me; I cannot feel offended that your confidence in me is no greater,” said the Countess very gently, turning her head aside and letting her lorgnette fall. “I have the utmost respect for the secrets which are confided to me. God knows I have never betrayed the smallest. But I have never been a person to solicit confidences.”

She made a slight movement as though to rise; the abbé stretched out his hand toward her.

“You will excuse me, Madame la comtesse, when you condescend to reflect that you are the first woman to have been judged worthy by the persons who have entrusted me with the fearful task of enlightening you--the first, I say, worthy to hear and keep this secret. I am alarmed, I confess, when I consider that this revelation is of a nature to weigh heavily--crushingly--on a woman’s intelligence.”

“There are very mistaken opinions held about the feebleness of women’s intelligence,” said the Countess almost dryly; then, with her hands slightly raised, she sat concealing her curiosity beneath an air which was a mixture of absent-mindedness, resignation and ecstatic vagueness--an air which she thought would be appropriate for receiving an important and confidential communication from the Church. The abbé drew his chair still nearer.

But the secret which Father Salus prepared to confide to the Countess seems to me even now so disconcertingly peculiar that I cannot venture to relate it without further precautions.

Fiction there is--and history. Certain critics of no little discernment have considered that fiction is history which _might_ have taken place, and history fiction which _has_ taken place. We are, indeed, forced to acknowledge that the novelist’s art often compels belief, just as reality sometimes defies it. Alas! there exists an order of minds so sceptical that they deny the possibility of any fact as soon as it diverges from the commonplace. It is not for them that I write.

Whether the representative of God upon earth was actually snatched from the Holy See and by the machinations of the Quirinal stolen, so to speak, from the whole body of Christendom, is an exceedingly thorny problem, and one which I have not the temerity to raise here. But it is an _historical_ fact that towards the end of the year 1893 a rumour to that effect was in circulation. Certain newspapers mentioned it timidly; they were silenced. A pamphlet on the subject appeared at St. Malo[D] and was suppressed. For, on the one hand, the freemasons were as little anxious that the report of such an abominable outrage should be spread abroad, as, on the other, the Catholic leaders were afraid to support--or could not resign themselves to countenance--the extraordinary collections which were immediately started in this connection. There is no doubt that innumerable pious souls bled themselves freely (the sums which were collected--or dispersed--on this occasion are reckoned at close upon half a million francs), but what remained doubtful was whether all those who received the funds were really the devout persons they pretended to be, or whether some of them were not mere swindlers. At any rate, for the successful accomplishment of this scheme there was necessary, in the absence of religious conviction, an audacity, a skilfulness, a tact, an eloquence, a knowledge of facts and characters, a vigour of constitution, such as fall to the lot of few only in this world--strapping fellows, like Protos, for instance, Lafcadio’s old school-mate. I honestly warn the reader that it is he I am now introducing, under the appearance and borrowed name of the canon of Virmontal.

The Countess, firmly determined neither to open her lips nor change her attitude, nor even her expression, before getting to the very roots of the secret, listened imperturbably to the bogus priest, whose assurance was gradually becoming more and more confident. He had risen and begun striding up and down. To make his explanations clearer, he traced the affair back--not exactly to its sources (since the conflict between the Church and the Lodge--inherent in their very essence--may be said to date from all time) but to certain incidents in which their hostility had openly declared itself. He first of all begged the Countess to remember that in December,’92, the Pope had published two letters, addressed, one to the Italian people, and the other more particularly to the bishops, warning Catholics against the machinations of the freemasons; then, as the Countess’s memory failed her, he was obliged to go further back and recall the erection of Giordano Bruno’s statue, which had been planned and presided over by Crispi, behind whom the Lodge had still then concealed itself. He told of Crispi’s fury that the Pope should have repulsed his advances, should have refused to negotiate with him--and in this instance, what could negotiation mean but submission? He traced the history of that tragic day and told how the two camps had taken up their positions: how the freemasons had at last lifted their mask, and--while the whole diplomatic corps accredited to the Holy See were calling at the Vatican and thus showing their contempt for Crispi and their veneration for the Holy Father in his grievous affliction--how the Lodge, flags flying and bands playing, had acclaimed the illustrious blasphemer in the Campo dei Fiori, on the spot where the insulting and idolatrous effigy had been raised.

“In the consistory which followed shortly after, on June 30, 1889,” he continued (he was still standing, leaning now across the table, his arms in front of him, his face bent down towards the Countess), “Leo XIII gave vent to his vehement indignation. His protestations were heard by the entire universe, and all Christendom shuddered to hear him speak of leaving Rome! Leaving Rome! Those were my words!... All this, Madame la Comtesse, you know already--you grieved for it--you remember it--as well as I.”

He again began his pacing to and fro.

“At last Crispi fell from power. Would the Church be able to breathe again? In December, 1892, you remember, the Pope wrote those two letters. Madam....”

He sat down again abruptly, drew his arm-chair nearer to the sofa, and, seizing the Countess’s arm:

“A month later the Pope was imprisoned!”

As the Countess remained obstinately impassive, the canon let go her arm and continued in a calmer tone:

“I shall not attempt, Madam, to arouse your pity for the sufferings of a captive. Women’s hearts are, I know, always moved by misfortune. It is to your intelligence that I appeal, Countess, and I beg you to consider the state of miserable confusion into which the disappearance of our spiritual leader plunged us Christians.”

A slight shade passed over the Countess’s pale brow.

“No Pope is a frightful thing, but--God save us--a false Pope is more frightful still. For the Lodge, in order to cover up its crime--nay, more, in the hopes of inducing the Church to compromise herself fatally--the Lodge, I say, has installed on the pontifical throne, in the place of Leo XIII, some cat’s-paw or other of the Quirinal’s, some vile impostor! And it is to him that we must pretend submission so as not to injure the real one--and oh! shame upon shame! it was to him that all Christendom bowed down at the Jubilee!”

At these words the handkerchief he was wringing in his hands tore across.

“The first act of the false Pope was that too famous encyclical--the encyclical to France--at the thought of which the heart of every Frenchman worthy of the name still bleeds. Yes, yes, Madam, I know how your great lady’s generous heart must have suffered at hearing Holy Church deny the holy cause of royalty, and the Vatican such is the fact--give its approval to the Republic. Alas! Be comforted, Madam! You were right in your amazement. Be comforted, Madame la Comtesse. But think of the sufferings of the Holy Father in his captivity at hearing the cat’s-paw--the impostor proclaim him a Republican!”

Then, flinging himself back with a laugh that was half a sob:

“And what did you think, Comtesse de Saint-Prix, what did you think, when as a corollary to that cruel encyclical our Holy Father granted an audience to the editor of the _Petit Journal_! You realize the impossibility of such a thing. Your generous heart has already cried aloud to you that it is false!”

“But,” exclaimed the Countess, no longer able to contain herself, “it must be cried aloud to the whole world!”

“No, Madam! It must be kept silent!” thundered the abbé, towering formidably above her. “It must first be kept silent; we must keep silent so as to be able to act.”

Then apologetically, with a voice turned suddenly piteous:

“You see I am speaking to you as if you were a man.”

“Quite right, Monsieur l’abbé. To act, you said. Quick! What have you decided on?”

“Ah! I knew I should find in you a noble, virile impatience, worthy the blood of the Baragliouls! But, alas! nothing is more dangerous in the present circumstances than untimely zeal. Certain of the elect, it is true, have been apprised of these abominable crimes, but it is indispensable, Madam, that we should be able to count on their absolute discretion, on their total and ungrudging obedience to the instructions which they will in due time receive. To act without us is to act against us. And in addition to the Church’s disapproval, which--God save us!--may even go so far as to entail excommunication, all private initiative will be met with the most explicit and categorical denials from our party. This is a crusade, Madame la comtesse, yes! but a secret crusade. Forgive me for insisting on this point, but I am specially commissioned by the Cardinal to impress it on you; it is his firm intention, moreover, to know absolutely nothing of what is going on, and if he is spoken to on the subject he will fail to understand a single word. The Cardinal will not have seen me; and if, later on, circumstances throw us together again, let it be thoroughly understood there too that you and I have never spoken to each other. Our Holy Father will recognise his true servants in good time.”

Somewhat disappointed, the Countess asked timidly:

“But then ...?”

“We are at work, Madame la comtesse, we are at work; have no fear. And I am even authorised to reveal to you a portion of our plan of campaign.”

He settled himself squarely in his arm-chair, well opposite the Countess, who was now leaning forward, her hands up to her face, her elbows on her knees, and her chin resting between her palms.

* * * * *

He began by saying that the Pope was probably not confined in the Vatican, but in the Castle of St. Angelo, which, as the Countess certainly knew, communicated with the Vatican by an underground passage; that doubtless it would not be very difficult to rescue him from this prison, were it not for the semi-superstitious fear that all his attendants had of the freemasons, though in their inmost hearts with and of the Church. The kidnapping of the Holy Father was an example which had struck terror into their souls. Not one of the attendants would agree to give his assistance until means had been afforded him to leave the country and live out of the persecutors’ reach. Important sums had been contributed for this purpose by a few persons of noteworthy piety and discretion. There remained but one single obstacle to overcome, but it was one which necessitated more than all the others put together. For this obstacle was a prince--Leo XIII’s jailer-in-chief.

“You remember, Madame la comtesse, the mystery which still shrouds the double death of the Archduke Rudolph, the Austrian Crown Prince, and of his young bride, Maria Wettsyera, Princess Grazioli’s niece, who was found in a dying condition beside him.... Suicide, it was said. But the pistol was put there merely as a blind to public opinion; the truth is they were both poisoned. A cousin of the Archduke’s--an Archduke himself--who, alas! was madly in love with Maria Wettsyera, had been unable to bear seeing her the bride of another.... After this abominable crime, Jean-Salvador de Lorraine, son of Marie-Antoinette, Grand-Duchess of Tuscany, left the court of his cousin, the Emperor Francis Joseph. Knowing that he was discovered at Vienna, he went to Rome to confess his guilt to the Pope--to throw himself at his feet--to implore his pardon. He obtained it. Monaco, however--Cardinal Monaco-la-Valette--alleging the necessity of penance, had him confined in the Castle of St. Angelo, where he has been languishing for the last three years.”

The canon delivered the whole of this speech in a voice that was perfectly level; at this point he paused for a moment; then, emphasising his words with a slight tap of his foot:

“This is the man,” he cried, “that Monaco has made jailer-in-chief to Leo XIII.”

“What, the Cardinal!” exclaimed the Countess. “Can a cardinal be a freemason?”

“Alas!” said the canon pensively, “the Church has suffered sad inroads from the Lodge. You can easily see, Madame la comtesse, that if the Church had defended herself better, none of this would have happened. The Lodge was enabled to seize the person of the Holy Father only through the connivance of a few highly placed accomplices.”

“But it’s appalling!”

“What more is there to tell you, Madame la comtesse? Jean-Salvador imagined he was the prisoner of the Church, when in reality he was the prisoner of the freemasons. He will not consent to work for the liberation of our Holy Father unless he is at the same time enabled to flee himself. And he can flee only to a very distant country, where there is no extradition. He demands two hundred thousand francs.”

Valentine de Saint-Prix had sunk back in her chair and let her arms drop beside her; at these words she flung her head back, uttered a feeble moan and lost consciousness. The canon darted forward.

“Courage, Madame la comtesse”--he patted her hands briskly--“it’s not so bad as all that, God save us!”--he put the smelling-salts to her nose. “A hundred and forty of the two hundred thousand have been subscribed already”--and as the Countess opened one eye: “The duchesse de Lectoure has not promised more than fifty; there remain sixty to be found.”

“You shall have them,” murmured the Countess, almost inaudibly.

“Countess, the Church never doubted you.”

He rose very gravely--almost solemnly--paused a moment, and then:

“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, I have the most absolute confidence in your generous promise; but reflect for a moment on the innumerable difficulties which will accompany, hamper, and possibly prevent the handing over of this sum; a sum, which as I told you, it will be your duty to forget ever having given me, which I myself must deny ever having received; for which I am not even permitted to give you a receipt.... The only prudent method is for you to hand it over to me personally. We are watched. My presence in your house may have been observed. Can we ever be sure of the servants? Think of the Comte de Baraglioul’s election! I must not be seen here again.”

But as after these words he stood rooted to the ground without stirring or speaking, the Countess understood.

“But, Monsieur l’abbé, it stands to reason I haven’t got such an enormous sum as that about me. And even....”

The abbé showed signs of impatience, so that she did not dare to add that she wanted time (for she had great hopes that she would not have to provide the whole sum herself).

“What is to be done?” she murmured.

Then, as the canon’s eyebrows grew more and more menacing:

“It’s true I have a few jewels upstairs....”

“Oh, fie! Madam! Jewels are keepsakes. Can you fancy me as a bagman? And do you suppose I can afford to arouse suspicion by trying to get a good price for them? Why, I should run the risk of compromising you and our undertaking into the bargain.”

His deep voice had grown harsh and violent. The Countess trembled slightly.

“Wait a minute, Monsieur le chanoine, I will go and see what I have got upstairs.”

She came down again in a moment or two, nervously crumpling a bundle of bank-notes in her hand.

“Fortunately I have just collected my rents. I can give you six thousand, five hundred francs at once.”

The canon shrugged his shoulders:

“What do you suppose I can do with that?”

And with an air of sorrowful contempt he loftily waved the Countess away.

“No, Madam, no! I will not take those notes. I will take them with the others or not at all. Only petty souls can consent to petty dealings. When can you give me the whole amount?”

“How much time can you let me have?... a week ...?” asked the Countess, who was thinking how she could make a collection.

“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, has the Church been deceived in you? A week! I will say but one word--the Pope is waiting.”

Then, raising his arms to Heaven:

“What! the incomparable honour of delivering him lies in your hands and you delay! Have a fear, Madam, have a fear that the Lord in the day of your own deliverance may keep your niggardly soul waiting and languishing in just such a manner outside the gates of Paradise!”

He became menacing--terrible; then, suddenly and swiftly raising the cross of a rosary to his lips, he absented himself in a rapid prayer.

“Surely there’s time for me to write to Paris?” moaned the Countess wildly.

“Telegraph! Tell your banker to deposit the sixty thousand francs at the Crédit Foncier in Paris and tell them to telegraph to the Crédit Foncier at Pau to remit the sum immediately. It’s rudimentary.”

“I have some money on deposit at Pau,” she stammered.

Then his indignation knew no bounds.

“Ah, Madam! All this beating about the bush before you tell me so? Is this your eagerness? What would you say now if I were to refuse your assistance?...”

Then pacing up and down the room, his hands crossed behind his back, and as though nothing she could say now could placate him:

“This is worse than lukewarmness,” and he made little clicks with his tongue to show his disgust, “this is almost duplicity.”

“Monsieur l’abbé, I implore you....”

For a few moments the abbé, with frowning brows, inflexibly continued his pacing. Then at last:

“You are acquainted, I know, with Father Boudin, with whom I am lunching this very morning--” (he pulled out his watch) “I shall be late. Make out a cheque in his name; he will be able to cash the sixty thousand at once and hand it over to me. When you see him again, just say that it was ‘for the expiatory chapel’; he is a man of discretion and tact--he will not insist further. Well! What are you waiting for?”

The Countess, prostrate on the sofa, rose, dragged herself towards a small bureau, which she opened, and took out from it an olive-green cheque-book, a leaf of which she filled in with her long pointed handwriting.

“Excuse me for having been a little severe with you just now, Madame la comtesse,” said the abbé in a softened voice as he took the cheque she held out to him, “but such interests are at stake!”

Then, slipping the cheque into an inner pocket:

“It would be impious to thank you, would it not?--even in the name of Him in whose hands I am but an unworthy instrument.”

He was overcome by a brief fit of sobbing, which he stifled in his handkerchief; but recovering himself in a moment, with a sharp stamp of his heel on the ground, he rapidly murmured a few words in a foreign language.

“Are you Italian?” asked the Countess.

“Spanish! The sincerity of my emotions betrays me.”

“Your accent doesn’t. Really your French is so perfect....”

“You are very kind, Madame la comtesse. Excuse me for leaving you a little abruptly. Now that we have come to an arrangement, I shall be able to get to Narbonne this very evening; the archbishop is expecting me there impatiently. Good-bye!”

He took both the Countess’s hands in his and, with his head thrown back, looked at her fixedly:

“Good-bye, Countess de Saint-Prix!” Then, with a finger on his lips:

“Remember that a word of yours may ruin everything.”

He had no sooner left the house than the Countess flew to the bell-pull.

“Amélie, tell Pierre that I shall want the barouche directly after lunch to drive into Pau. Oh, and wait a minute!... Tell Germain to get his bicycle at once and take a note to Madame Fleurissoire. I’ll write it now.”

And leaning on the bureau which she had not shut, she wrote as follows:

NIND “Dear Madame Fleurissoire,

“I shall be coming to see you this afternoon. Please expect me at about two o’clock. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you. Will you arrange for us to be alone?”

She signed the note, then sealed the envelope and handed it to Amélie.

II

Madame Amédée Fleurissorie, _née_ Péterat, the youngest sister of Veronica Armand-Dubois and Marguerite de Baraglioul, answered to the outlandish name of Arnica. Philibert Péterat, a botanist, who had acquired some celebrity under the Second Empire on account of his conjugal misfortunes, had as a young man determined to give the names of flowers to any children he might happen to have. Some of his friends considered the name of Veronica which he gave to his first-born, somewhat peculiar; but when it was followed by the name of Marguerite and people insinuated that he had climbed down--given in to public opinion--conformed to the commonplace, he determined in a cantankerous moment to bestow upon his third product a name so resolutely botanical as to stop the mouths of all back-biters.

Shortly after Arnica’s birth, Philibert, whose temper had become soured, separated from his wife, left the capital and settled at Pau. His wife would linger on in Paris during the winter months, but every spring, at the beginning of the fine weather, she would return to Tarbes, her native town, and invite her two elder daughters to stay with her there in the old family mansion which she occupied.

Veronica and Marguerite divided the year between Tarbes and Pau. As for little Arnica, whom her mother and sisters looked down upon (it is true she was rather foolish and more pathetic than pretty), she spent the whole time, summer as well as winter, with her father.

The child’s greatest joy was to go botanising in the country; but the eccentric old man would often give way to his morose temper and leave her in the lurch; he would go off by himself on an inordinately long expedition, come home dog-tired and immediately after the evening meal take to his bed, without giving his daughter the charity of a word or a smile. When he was in a poetical mood he would play the flute and insatiably repeat the same tune over and over again. The rest of his time he spent drawing portraits of flowers in minute detail.

An old servant, nicknamed Réséda, who was both cook and housemaid, looked after the child and taught her what little she knew herself. With this education, Arnica reached the age of ten hardly knowing how to read. Fear of his neighbour’s tongues at last brought Philibert to a better sense of his duty. Arnica was sent to a school kept by a Madame Semène, a widow lady who instilled the rudiments of learning into a dozen or so little girls and a very few small boys.

Arnica Péterat--guileless and helpless creature--had never until that moment suspected that there might be anything laughable[E] in her name; on her first day at school its ridicule came upon her as a sudden revelation; she bowed her head, like some sluggish water-weed, to the stream of jeers that flowed over her; she turned red; she turned pale; she wept; and Madame Semène, by injudiciously punishing the whole class for its indecorous conduct, added a spice of animosity to what had before been a boisterous but not unkindly merriment.

Long, limp, anæmic and dull-eyed, Arnica stood with dangling arms, staring stupidly, in the middle of the little schoolroom, and when Madame Semène pointed out “the third bench on the left, Mademoiselle Péterat,” the whole class, in spite of reprimands, burst out again louder than ever.

Poor Arnica! Life seemed nothing but a dreary avenue stretching interminably before her and bordered on either side by sniggers and bullyings. Fortunately for her, Madame Semène was not impervious to the little girl’s misery, and she soon found a refuge in the widow’s charitable bosom.

When lessons were over, Arnica was glad enough to stay behind at school, rather than go home to find her father absent; Madame Semène had a daughter, a girl who was seven years older than Arnica and slightly hump-backed, but good-natured; in the hopes of catching a husband for her, Madame Semène used to have Sunday evening “at homes,” and on two Sundays a year she would even get up a little party with recitations and dancing; these parties were attended by some of her old pupils, who came out of gratitude, escorted by their parents, and by a few youths without either means or prospects, who came out of idleness. Arnica was always present--a flower that lacked lustre--so modest as to be almost indistinguishable--but yet destined not to go altogether unperceived.

When, at fourteen, Arnica lost her father, it was Madame Semène who took in the orphan. Her two sisters, who were considerably older than she was, visited her only rarely. It was in the course of one of these visits, however, that Marguerite first met the young man who was to become her husband. Julius de Baraglioul was then aged twenty-eight and was on a visit to his grandfather, who, as we have already said, had settled in the neighbourhood of Pau shortly after the annexation of the Duchy of Parma by France.

Marguerite’s brilliant marriage (as a matter of fact, the Misses Péterat were not absolutely without fortune) made her appear more distant than ever to Arnica’s dazzled eyes; she had a shrewd suspicion that no Count--no Julius--would ever stoop to breathe her perfume. She envied her sister for having at last succeeded in escaping from the ill-sounding name of Péterat. The name of _Marguerite_ was charming. How well it went with _de Baraglioul_! Alas! Was there any name wedded to which _Arnica_ would cease to seem ridiculous?

Repelled by the world of fact, her soul, in its soreness and immaturity, tried to take refuge in poetry. At sixteen, she wore two drooping ringlets on each side of her sallow face, and her dreamy blue eyes looked out their astonishment beside the blackness of her hair. Her toneless voice was not ungentle; she read verses and made strenuous efforts to write them. She considered everything that helped her to escape from life, poetical.

Two young men, who since their early childhood had been friends and partners in affection, used to frequent Madame Semène’s evening parties. One, weedy without being tall, scraggy rather than thin, with hair that was not so much fair as faded, with an aggressive nose and timid eyes, was Amédée Fleurissoire. The other was fat and stumpy, with stiff black hair growing low on his forehead, and the odd habit of holding his head on one side, his mouth open and his right hand stretched out in front of him: such is the portrait of Gaston Blafaphas. Amédée was the son of a stonecutter with a business in tombstones and funeral wreaths; Gaston’s father had an important chemist’s shop.

(However strange the name of Blafaphas may seem, it is very common in the villages of the lower slopes of the Pyrenees, though it is sometimes spelt in slightly different ways. Thus, for instance, in the single small town of Sta ..., where the writer of these lines was once called on some business connected with an examination, he saw a notary Blaphaphas, a hairdresser Blafafaz, and a pork-butcher Blaphaface, who, on being questioned, disclaimed any common origin, while each one of them expressed considerable contempt for the name of the other two and its inelegant orthography.--But these philological remarks will be of interest only to a somewhat restricted class of reader.)

What would Fleurissoire and Blafaphas have been without each other? It is hard to imagine such a thing. At school, during their recreation time they were continually together; constantly teased and tormented by the other boys, they gave each other patience, comfort and support. They were nicknamed the Blafafoires. To each of them their friendship seemed the ark of salvation--the single oasis in life’s pitiless desert. Neither of them tasted a joy that he did not immediately wish to share with the other--or, to speak more truly, there were no joys for either of them save those which could be tasted together.

Indifferent scholars--in spite of their disarming industry--and fundamentally refractory to any sort of culture, the Blafafoires would always have been at the bottom of their form if it had not been for the assistance of Eudoxe Lévichon, who, in return for a small consideration, corrected and even wrote their exercises for them. This Lévichon was the son of one of the chief jewellers of the town. (Albert Lévy, shortly after his marriage twenty years earlier with the only daughter of the jeweller Cohen, had found his business so prosperous that he had quitted the lower quarters of the town in order to establish himself not far from the Casino, and at the same time he had judged it a favourable opportunity to unite and agglutinate the two names as he had united the two businesses.)

Blafaphas had a wiry constitution, but Fleurissoire was delicate. At the approach of puberty Gaston’s superficies had turned dusky--one would have thought that the sap was going to burst forth into hair over the whole of his body; while Amédée’s more sensitive epidermis resisted, grew fiery--grew pimply, as if the hair were bashful at making its appearance. Old Monsieur Blafaphas advised the use of detergents and every Monday Gaston used to bring over in his bag a bottle of anti-scorbutic mixture, which he surreptitiously handed to his friend. They used ointments as well.

About this time Amédée caught his first cold--a cold which, notwithstanding the salubrious climate of Pau, lasted all the winter and left behind an unfortunate bronchial delicacy. This gave Gaston the opportunity for renewed attentions; he overwhelmed his friend with liquorice, with jujubes, with cough mixtures and with eucalyptus pectoral lozenges, specially prepared by Monsieur Blafaphas _père_ from a receipt which had been given him by an old _curé_. Amédée became subject to constant catarrh and had to resign himself to never going out without a comforter.

The highest flight of Amédée’s ambition was to succeed to his father’s business. Gaston, however, notwithstanding his indolent appearance, was not without initiative; even at school he amused himself with devising small inventions, chiefly, it must be confessed, of a somewhat trifling nature--a fly-trap, a weighing-machine for marbles, a safety lock for his desk--which, for that matter, had no more secrets in it than his heart. Innocent as these first applications of his industry were, they nevertheless led him on to the more serious labours which afterwards engaged him, and the first result of which was the invention of a “hygienic, fumivorous [or smoke-consuming] pipe for weak-chested and other smokers,” which for a long time occupied a prominent place in the chemist’s shop window.

* * * * *

Amédée Fleurissoire and Gaston Blafaphas both fell in love with Arnica at the same moment--it was as inevitable as fate. The admirable thing was that this budding passion, which each hastened to confess to the other, instead of dividing them, only welded them together more closely than ever. And, indeed, Arnica did not at first give either of them any great cause for jealousy. Neither the one nor the other, moreover, had declared himself; and it would never have occurred to Arnica to imagine their flame, notwithstanding their trembling voices when, at Madame Semène’s Sunday evenings, she offered them raspberry vinegar, or camomile ... or cowslip tea. And both of them, as they went home in the evening, praised her grace, and the modesty of her behaviour--grew concerned for her paleness--gathered boldness.

They agreed to propose together on the same evening and then submit to her choice. Arnica, young to love, thanked Heaven in the surprise and simplicity of her heart. She begged her two admirers to give her time to reflect.

Truth to tell, she was not more attracted by the one than the other, and was interested in them only because they were interested in her, at a time when she had given up all hopes of interesting anyone. During six whole weeks, growing the while more and more perplexed, Arnica relished with a mild intoxication her two suitors’ parallel wooing. And while, during their midnight walks, the Blafafoires calculated together the rate of their respective progress, describing to each other lengthily and undisguisedly every word, look and smile _she_ had bestowed on them, Arnica, in the seclusion of her bedroom, spent the time writing on bits of paper (which she afterwards carefully burnt in the flame of the candle) or else in repeating indefatigably, turn and turn about: Arnica Blafaphas?... Arnica Fleurissoire?--incapable of deciding between the equal horror of these two atrocious names.

Then, suddenly, on the evening of a little dance, she had chosen Fleurissoire; had not Amédée just called her Arn_i_ca, putting the accent on the penultimate in a way that seemed to her Italian? (As a matter of fact, he had done it without reflection, carried away, no doubt, by Mademoiselle Semène’s piano, with whose rhythm the atmosphere was throbbing.) And this name of Arnica--her own name--had there and then seemed to her fraught with unexpected music--as capable as any other of expressing poetry and love.... They were alone together in a little sitting-room next-door to the drawing-room, and so close to each other that when Arnica, almost swooning with emotion and gratitude, let fall her drooping head, it touched Amédée’s shoulder; and then, very gravely, he had taken Arnica’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers.

When, during their walk home that night, Amédée had announced his happiness to his friend, Gaston, contrary to his custom, had said nothing, and as they were passing a street lamp, Fleurissoire thought he saw him crying. Could Amédée really have been simple enough to suppose that his friend would share his happiness to this last degree? Abashed and remorseful, he took Blafaphas in his arms (the street was empty) and swore that however great his love might be, his friendship was greater still, that he had no intention of letting his marriage interfere with it, and, finally, that rather than feel that Blafaphas was suffering from jealousy, he was ready to promise on his honour never to claim his conjugal rights.

Neither Blafaphas nor Fleurissoire possessed a very ardent temperament; Gaston, however, whose manhood troubled him a little more, kept silence and allowed Amédée to promise.

Shortly after Amédée’s marriage, Gaston, who, in order to console himself, had plunged over head and ears into work, discovered his Plastic Plaster. The first consequence of this invention, which, to begin with, had seemed of very little importance, was that it brought about the revival of Lévichon’s friendship for the Blafafoires--a friendship which for some time past had been allowed to lapse. Eudoxe Lévichon immediately divined the services which this composition would render to religious statuary. With a remarkable eye to contingencies, he at once christened it Roman Plaster.[F] The firm of Blafaphas, Fleurissoire and Lévichon was founded.

The undertaking was launched with a capital of sixty thousand francs, of which the Blafafoires modestly subscribed ten thousand. Lévichon, unwilling that his two friends should be pressed, generously provided the other fifty thousand. It is true that of these fifty thousand, forty were advanced by Fleurissoire out of Arnica’s marriage portion; the sum was repayable in ten years with compound interest at 4½ per cent--which was more than Arnica had ever hoped for--and Amédée’s small fortune was thus guaranteed from the risks which such an undertaking must necessarily incur. The Blafafoires, on their side, brought as an asset their family connexions and those of the Baragliouls, which meant, when once Roman Plaster had proved its reliability, the patronage of several influential members of the clergy; these latter (besides giving one or two important orders themselves) persuaded several small parishes to supply the growing needs of the faithful from the firm of B., F. & L., the increasing improvement of artistic education having created a demand for works of more exquisite finish than those which satisfied the ruder faith of our ancestors. To supply this demand a few artists of acknowledged value in the Church’s eyes, were enlisted by the firm of Roman Plaster, and were at last placed in the position of seeing their works accepted by the jury of the Salon. Leaving the Blafafoires at Pau, Lévichon established himself in Paris, where, with his social facility, the business soon developed considerably.

What could be more natural than that the Countess Valentine de Saint-Prix should endeavour, through Arnica, to interest the firm of Blafaphas & Co. in the secret cause of the Pope’s deliverance, and that she should confidently hope that the Fleurissoires’ extreme piety would reimburse her a portion of what she had subscribed? Unfortunately, the Blafafoires, owing to the minuteness of the amount which they had originally invested in the business, got very little out of it--two-twelfths of the disclosed profits and none at all of the others. The Countess could not be aware of this, for Arnica, like Amédée, was modestly shy of talking about their money matters.

III

“Dear Madame de Saint-Prix, what is the matter? Your letter frightened me.”

The Countess dropped into the arm-chair which Arnica pushed towards her.

“Oh, Madame Fleurissoire!... Oh! mayn’t I call you Arnica?... this trouble--it is yours as well as mine--will draw us together. Oh! if you only knew!...”

“Speak! Speak! don’t leave me in suspense!”

“I’ve only just heard it myself. I’ll tell you directly, but mind, it must be a secret between you and me.”

“I have never betrayed anyone’s confidence,” said Arnica, plaintively--not that anyone had ever confided in her.

“You’ll not believe it.”

“Yes, yes,” wailed Arnica.

“Ah!” wailed the Countess. “Oh, would you be kind enough to get me a cup of ... anything ... it doesn’t matter what.... I feel as if I were fainting.”

“What would you like? Cowslip? Lime-flower? Camomile?”

“It doesn’t matter.... Tea, I think.... I wouldn’t believe it myself at first.”

“There’s some boiling water in the kitchen. It won’t take a minute.”

While Arnica busied herself about the tea, the Countess appraised the drawing-room and its contents with a calculating eye. They were depressingly modest. A few green rep chairs; one red velvet arm-chair; one other arm-chair (in which she was seated) in common tapestry; one table; one mahogany console; in front of the fire-place, a woolwork rug; on the chimney-piece, on each side of the alabaster clock (which was in a glass case), two large vases in alabaster fretwork, also in glass cases; on the table, a photograph album for the family photographs; on the console, a figure of Our Lady of Lourdes in her grotto, in Roman Plaster (a small-sized model)--there was not a thing in the room that was not discouraging, and the Countess felt her heart sink within her.

But after all they were perhaps only shamming poverty--perhaps they were merely miserly....

Arnica came back with the tea-pot, the sugar and a cup on a tray.

“I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.”

“Oh, not at all!... I’d rather do it now--before; afterwards, I mightn’t be able to.”

“Well, then, listen!” began Valentine, after Arnica had sat down. “The Pope----”

“No, no, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!” exclaimed Madame Fleurissoire instantly, stretching out her hand in front of her; then, uttering a faint cry, she fell back with her eyes closed.

“My poor dear! My poor dear!” said the Countess, patting her on the wrist. “I felt sure it would be too much for you.”

Arnica at last feebly opened half an eye and murmured sadly:

“Dead?”

Then Valentine, bending towards her, slipped into her ear the single word:

“Imprisoned!”

Sheer stupefaction brought Madame Fleurissoire back to her senses; and Valentine began her long story, stumbling over the dates, mixing up the names and muddling the chronology; one fact, however, stood out, certain and indisputable--our Holy Father had fallen into the hands of the infidel--a crusade was being secretly organised to deliver him, and in order to conduct it successfully a large sum of money was necessary.

“What will Amédée say?” moaned Arnica in dismay.

He was not expected home before evening, having gone out for a walk with his friend Blafaphas....

“Mind you impress on him the necessity of secrecy,” repeated Valentine several times over as she took her leave of Arnica. “Give me a kiss, my dear, and courage!”

Arnica nervously presented her damp forehead to the Countess.

“I will look in to-morrow to hear what you think of doing. Consult Monsieur Fleurissoire, but remember that the Church is at stake!... It’s agreed, then--only to your husband! You promise, don’t you? Not a word! Not a word!”

The Comtesse de Saint-Prix left Arnica in a state of depression bordering on faintness. When Amédée came in from his walk:

“My dear,” she said to him at once, “I have just heard something extremely sad. The Holy Father has been imprisoned.”

“No, not really?” said Amédée, as if he were saying “pooh!”

Arnica burst into sobs:

“I knew, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Come, come, darling,” went on Amédée, taking off his overcoat, without which he never went out for fear of a sudden change of temperature. “Just think! Everyone would know if anything had happened to the Holy Father. It would be in all the papers. And who could have imprisoned him?”

“Valentine says it’s the Lodge.”

Amédée looked at Arnica under the impression that she had taken leave of her senses. He said, however:

“The Lodge? What Lodge?”

“How can I tell? Valentine has promised not to say anything about it.”

“Who told her?”

“She forbade me to say.... A canon, who was sent by a cardinal, with his card----”

Arnica understood nothing of public affairs and Madame de Saint-Prix’s story had left but a confused impression on her. The words “captivity” and “imprisonment” conjured up before her eyes dark and semi-romantic images; the word “crusade” thrilled her unspeakably, and when, at last, Amédée’s disbelief wavered and he talked of setting out at once, she suddenly saw him on horseback, in a helmet and breastplate.... As for him, he had begun by now to pace up and down the room.

“In the first place,” he said, “it’s no use talking about money--we haven’t got any. And do you think I could be satisfied with merely giving money? Do you think I should be able to sleep in peace merely because I had sacrificed a few bank-notes?... Why, my dear, if this is true that you’ve been telling me, it’s an appalling thing and we mustn’t rest till we’ve done something. Appalling, do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes, I quite understand, appalling!... But all the same, do explain why.”

“Oh, if now I’ve got to explain!” and Amédée raised discouraged arms to Heaven.

“No, no,” he went on, “this isn’t an occasion for giving money; it’s oneself that one must give. I’ll consult Blafaphas; we’ll see what he says.”

“Valentine de Saint-Prix made me promise not to tell anyone,” put in Arnica, timidly.

“Blafaphas isn’t anyone; and we’ll impress on him that he must keep it strictly to himself.”

Then, turning towards her, he implored pathetically:

“Arnica, my dearest, let me go!”

She was sobbing. It was she now who insisted on Blafaphas coming to the rescue. Amédée was starting to fetch him, when he turned up of his own accord, knocking first at the drawing-room window, as was his habit.

“Well! that’s the most singular story I ever heard in my life!” he cried when they had told him all about it. “No, really! Who would ever have thought of such a thing?” And then, before Fleurissoire had said anything of his intentions, he went on abruptly:

“My dear fellow, there’s only one thing for us to do--set out at once.”

“You see,” said Amédée, “it’s his first thought.”

“Unfortunately I’m kept at home by my poor father’s health,” was his second.

“After all, it’s better that I should go by myself,” went on Amédée. “Two of us together would attract attention.”

“But will you know how to manage?”

At this, Amédée raised his shoulders and eyebrows, as much as to say: “I can but do my best!”

“Will you know whom to appeal to?... where to go?... And, as a matter of fact, what exactly do you mean to do when you get there?”

“First of all, find out the facts.”

“Supposing, after all, there were no truth in the story?”

“Exactly! I can’t rest till I know.”

And Gaston immediately exclaimed: “No more can I!”

“Do take a little more time to think it over, dear,” protested Arnica feebly.

“I have thought it over. I shall go--secretly--but I shall go.”

“When? Nothing is ready.”

“This evening. What do I need so much?”

“But you haven’t ever travelled. You won’t know how to.”

“You’ll see, my love, you’ll see! When I come back, I’ll tell you my adventures,” said he, with an engaging little chuckle which set his Adam’s apple shaking.

“You’re certain to catch cold.”

“I’ll wear your comforter.” He stopped in his pacing to raise Arnica’s chin with the tip of his forefinger, as one does a baby’s, when one wants to make it smile. Gaston’s attitude was one of reserve. Amédée went up to him:

“I count upon you to look up my trains. Find me a good train to Marseilles with thirds. Yes, yes, I insist upon travelling third. Anyhow, make me out a time-table in detail and mark the places where I shall have to change--and where I can get refreshments--at any rate, as far as the frontier; after that, when I’ve got a start, I shall be able to look after myself, and with God’s guidance I shall get to Rome. You must write to me there poste restante.”

The importance of his mission was exciting his brain dangerously. After Gaston had gone, he continued to pace the room; from time to time he murmured, his heart melting with wonder and gratitude:

“To think that such a thing should be reserved for _me_!” So at last he had his _raison d’être_. Ah! for pity’s sake, dear lady, let him go! To how many beings on God’s earth is it given to find their function?

All that Arnica obtained was that he should pass this one night with her, Gaston, indeed, having pointed out in the time-table which he brought round in the evening, that the most convenient train was the one that left at 8 <small>A.M.</small>

* * * * *

The next morning it poured with rain. Amédée would not allow Arnica or Gaston to go with him to the station; so that the quaint traveller with his cod-fish eyes, his neck muffled in a dark crimson comforter, holding in his right hand a grey canvas portmanteau, on to which his visiting-card had been nailed, in his left an old umbrella, and on his arm a brown and green check shawl, was carried off by the train to Marseilles, without a farewell glance from anyone.

IV

About this time an important sociological congress summoned Count Julius de Baraglioul back to Rome. He was not perhaps specially invited (his opinions on such subjects being founded more on conviction than knowledge), but he was glad to have this opportunity of getting into touch with one or two illustrious personages. And as Milan lay conveniently on his road--Milan where, as we know, the Armand-Dubois had gone to live on the advice of Father Anselm--he determined to take advantage of the circumstance in order to see his brother-in-law.

On the same day that Fleurissoire left Pau, Julius knocked at Anthime’s door. He was shown into a wretched apartment consisting of three rooms--if the dark closet where Veronica herself cooked the few vegetables which formed their chief diet, may be counted as a room. The little light there was came from a narrow court-yard and shone down dismally from a hideous metal reflector; Julius preferred to keep his hat in his hand rather than set it down on the oval table with its covering of doubtfully clean oilcloth, and remained standing because of the horror with which the horsehair chairs inspired him.

He seized Anthime by the arm and exclaimed:

“My poor fellow, you can’t stay here.”

“What are you pitying me for?” asked Anthime.

Veronica came hurrying up at the sound of their voices.

“Would you believe it, my dear Julius?--that is the only thing he finds to say in spite of the grossly unjust and unfair way in which we have been treated.”

“Who suggested your coming to Milan?”

“Father Anselm; but in any case we couldn’t have kept on the Via in Lucina apartment.”

“There was no need for us to keep it on,” said Anthime.

“That’s not the point. Father Anselm promised you compensation. Is he aware of your distress?”

“He pretends not to be,” said Veronica.

“You must complain to the Bishop of Tarbes.”

“Anthime has done so.”

“What did he say?”

“He is a worthy man; he earnestly encouraged me in my faith.”

“But since you have been here, haven’t you complained to anyone?”

“I just missed seeing Cardinal Pazzi, who had shown some interest in my case and to whom I had written; he did come to Milan, but he sent me word by his footman....”

“That a fit of the gout unfortunately kept him to his room.”

“But it’s abominable! Rampolla must be told!” cried Julius.

“Told what, my dear friend? It is true that I am somewhat reduced--but what need have we of more? In the time of my prosperity I was astray; I was a sinner; I was ill. Now, you see, I am cured. Formerly you had good cause to pity me. And yet you know well enough that worldly goods turn us aside from God.”

“Yes, but those worldly goods were yours by rights. It’s all very well that the Church should teach you to despise them, but not that she should cheat you of them.”

“That’s the way to talk,” said Veronica. “What a relief it is to hear you, Julius! His resignation makes me boil with rage; it’s impossible to get him to defend himself. He has let himself be plucked like a goose and said ‘thank you’ to everyone who robbed him, as long as they did it in the Lord’s name.”

“Veronica! it grieves me to hear you talk like that. Whatever is done in the Lord’s name is well done.”

“If you think it’s agreeable to be made a fool of!” said Julius.

“God’s fool, dear Julius!”

“Just listen to him! That’s what he’s like the whole time! Nothing but Scripture texts in his mouth from morning to night! And after I’ve toiled and slaved and done the marketing and the cooking and the housemaiding, my good gentleman quotes the Gospel and says I’m being busy about many things and tells me to look at the lilies of the field.”

“I help you to the best of my power, dear,” said Anthime in a seraphic voice. “Now that I’ve got the use of my legs again, I’ve many a time offered to do the marketing or the housework for you.”

“That’s not a man’s business. Content yourself with writing your homilies, only try to get a little better pay for them.” And then, her voice getting more and more querulous (hers, who used to be so smiling!): “Isn’t it a disgrace?” she exclaimed. “When one thinks of what he used to get for his infidel articles in the _Dépêche_! And now when the _Pilgrim_ pays him a miserable two-pence halfpenny for his religious meditations, he somehow or other contrives to give three quarters of it to the poor!”

“Then he’s a complete saint!” cried Julius, aghast.

“Oh! how he irritates me with his saintliness!... Look here! Do you know what this is?” and she fetched a small wicker cage from a dark corner of the room. “These are the two rats whose eyes my scientific friend put out in the old days.”

“Oh, Veronica, why will you harp on it? You used to feed them yourself when I was experimenting on them--and then I blamed you for it.... Yes, Julius, in my unregenerate days I blinded those poor creatures, out of vain scientific curiosity; it’s only natural I should look after them now.”

“I wish the Church thought it equally natural to do for you what you do for these rats--after having blinded you in the same way.”

“Blinded, do you say! Such words from _you_? Illumined, my dear brother, illumined!”

“My words were plain matter-of-fact. It seems to me inadmissible that you should be abandoned in such a state as this. The Church entered into an engagement with you; she must keep it--for her own honour--for our faith’s sake.” Then, turning to Veronica: “If you have obtained nothing so far, you must appeal higher still--and still higher. Rampolla, did I say? It’s to the Pope himself that I shall present a petition--to the Pope. He is acquainted with your story. He ought to be informed of such a miscarriage of justice. I am returning to Rome to-morrow.”

“You’ll stop to dinner, won’t you?” asked Veronica, somewhat apprehensively.

“Please excuse me--but really my digestion is so poor....” (and Julius, whose nails were very carefully kept, glanced at Anthime’s large, stumpy, square-tipped fingers). “On my way back from Rome I shall be able to stop longer, and then I want to tell you about the new book I’m now at work on, my dear Anthime.”

“I have just been re-reading _On the Heights_ and it seems to me better than I thought it at first.”

“I am sorry for you! It’s a failure. I’ll explain why when you’re in a fit state to listen and to appreciate the strange preoccupations which beset me now. But there’s too much to say. Mum’s the word for the present!”

He bade the Armand-Dubois keep up their spirits, and left them.