Lost Illusions: Ève and David — Chapter 17
“What a Tartar!
” thought Lucien, scanning the protector thus sent to him by Heaven.
There was no sign of the Jesuit, nor even of the ecclesiastic, about the Abbé Carlos Herrera.
His hands were large, he was thick-set and broad-chested, evidently he possessed the strength of a Hercules; his terrific expression was softened by benignity assumed at will; but a complexion of impenetrable bronze inspired feelings of repulsion rather than attachment for the man.
The strange diplomatist looked somewhat like a bishop, for he wore powder on his long, thick hair, after the fashion of the Prince de Talleyrand; a gold cross, hanging from a strip of blue ribbon with a white border, indicated an ecclesiastical dignitary.
The outlines beneath the black silk stockings would not have disgraced an athlete.
The exquisite neatness of his clothes and person revealed an amount of care which a simple priest, and, above all, a Spanish priest, does not always take with his appearance.
A three-cornered hat lay on the front seat of the carriage, which bore the arms of Spain.
In spite of the sense of repulsion, the effect made by the man’s appearance was weakened by his manner, fierce and yet winning as it was;
he evidently laid himself out to please Lucien, and the winning manner became almost coaxing.
Yet Lucien noticed the smallest trifles uneasily.
He felt that the moment of decision had come; they had reached the second stage beyond Ruffec, and the decision meant life or death.
The Spaniard’s last words vibrated through many chords in his heart, and, to the shame of both, it must be said that all that was worst in Lucien responded to an appeal deliberately made to his evil impulses, and the eyes that studied the poet’s beautiful face had read him very clearly.
Lucien beheld Paris once more; in imagination he caught again at the reins of power let fall from his unskilled hands, and he avenged himself!
The comparisons which he himself had drawn so lately between the life of Paris and life in the provinces faded from his mind with the more painful motives for suicide; he was about to return to his natural sphere, and this time with a protector, a political intriguer unscrupulous as Cromwell.
“I was alone, now there will be two of us,” he told himself.
And then this priest had been more and more interested as he told of his sins one after another.
The man’s charity had grown with the extent of his misdoings; nothing had astonished this confessor.
And yet, what could be the motive of a mover in the intrigues of kings?
Lucien at first was fain to be content with the banal answer--the Spanish are a generous race.
The Spaniard is generous!
even so the Italian is jealous and a poisoner, the Frenchman fickle, the German frank, the Jew ignoble, and the Englishman noble.
Reverse these verdicts and you shall arrive within a reasonable distance of the truth!
The Jews have monopolized the gold of the world; they compose _Robert the Devil_, act _Phèdre_, sing _William Tell_, give commissions for pictures and build palaces, write _Reisebilder_ and wonderful verse; they are more powerful than ever, their religion is accepted, they have lent money to the Holy Father himself!
As for Germany, a foreigner is often asked whether he has a contract in writing, and this is in the smallest matters, so tricky are they in their dealings.
In France the spectacle of national blunders has never lacked national applause for the past fifty years; we continue to wear hats which no mortal can explain, and every change of government is made on the express condition that things shall remain exactly as they were before.
England flaunts her perfidy in the face of the world, and her abominable treachery is only equaled by her greed.
All the gold of two Indies passed through the hands of Spain, and now she has nothing left.
There is no country in the world where poison is so little in request as in Italy, no country where manners are easier or more gentle.
As for the Spaniard, he has traded largely on the reputation of the Moor.
As the Canon of Toledo returned to the calèche, he had spoken a word to the post-boy.
“Drive post-haste,” he said, “and there will be three francs for drink-money for you.
” Then, seeing that Lucien hesitated, “Come!
come!
” he exclaimed, and Lucien took his place again, telling himself that he meant to try the effect of the _argumentum ad hominem_.
“Father,” he began, “after pouring out, with all the coolness in the world, a series of maxims which the vulgar would consider profoundly immoral----” “And so they are,” said the priest; “that is why Jesus Christ said that it must needs be that offences come, my son; and that is why the world displays such horror of offences.
” “A man of your stamp will not be surprised by the question which I am about to ask?
” “Indeed, my son, you do not know me,” said Carlos Herrera.
“Do you suppose that I should engage a secretary unless I knew that I could depend upon his principles sufficiently to be sure that he would not rob me?
I like you.
You are as innocent in every way as a twenty-year-old suicide.
Your question?
” “Why do you take an interest in me?
What price do you set on my obedience?
Why should you give me everything?
What is your share?
” The Spaniard looked at Lucien, and a smile came over his face.
“Let us wait till we come to the next hill; we can walk up and talk out in the open.
The back seat of a traveling carriage is not the place for confidences.
” They traveled in silence for sometime; the rapidity of the movement seemed to increase Lucien’s moral intoxication.
“Here is a hill, father,” he said at last awakening from a kind of dream.
“Very well, we will walk.
” The Abbé called to the postilion to stop, and the two sprang out upon the road.
“You child,” said the Spaniard, taking Lucien by the arm, “have you ever thought over Otway’s _Venice Preserved_?
Did you understand the profound friendship between man and man which binds Pierre and Jaffier each to each so closely that a woman is as nothing in comparison, and all social conditions are changed?
--Well, so much for the poet.
” “So the canon knows something of the drama,” thought Lucien.
“Have you read Voltaire?
” he asked.
“I have done better,” said the other; “I put his doctrine in practice.
” “You do not believe in God?
” “Come!
it is I who am the atheist, is it?
” the Abbé said, smiling.
“Let us come to practical matters, my child,” he added, putting an arm round Lucien’s waist.
“I am forty-six years old, I am the natural son of a great lord; consequently, I have no family, and I have a heart.
But, learn this, carve it on that still so soft brain of yours--man dreads to be alone.
And of all kinds of isolation, inward isolation is the most appalling.
The early anchorite lived with God; he dwelt in the spirit world, the most populous world of all.
The miser lives in a world of imagination and fruition; his whole life and all that he is, even his sex, lies in his brain.
A man’s first thought, be he leper or convict, hopelessly sick or degraded, is to find another with a like fate to share it with him.
He will exert the utmost that is in him, every power, all his vital energy, to satisfy that craving; it is his very life.
But for that tyrannous longing, would Satan have found companions?
There is a whole poem yet to be written, a first part of _Paradise Lost_;
Milton’s poem is only the apology for the revolt.
” “It would be the Iliad of Corruption,” said Lucien.
“Well, I am alone, I live alone.
If I wear the priest’s habit, I have not a priest’s heart.
I like to devote myself to some one; that is my weakness.
That is my life, that is how I came to be a priest.
I am not afraid of ingratitude, and I am grateful.
The Church is nothing to me;
it is an idea.
I am devoted to the King of Spain, but you cannot give affection to a King of Spain; he is my protector, he towers above me.
I
want to love my creature, to mould him, fashion him to my use, and love him as a father loves his child.
I shall drive in your tilbury, my boy, enjoy your success with women, and say to myself, ‘This fine young fellow, this Marquis de Rubempré, my creation whom I have brought into this great world, is my very Self; his greatness is my doing, he speaks or is silent with my voice, he consults me in everything.
’ The Abbé de Vermont felt thus for Marie-Antoinette.
” “He led her to the scaffold.
” “He did not love the Queen,” said the priest.
“HE only loved the Abbé de Vermont.
” “Must I leave desolation behind me?
” “I have money, you shall draw on me.
” “I would do a great deal just now to rescue David Séchard,” said Lucien, in the tone of one who has given up all idea of suicide.
“Say but one word, my son, and by to-morrow morning he shall have money enough to set him free.
” “What!
Would you give me twelve thousand francs?
” “Ah!
child, do you not see that we are traveling on at the rate of four leagues an hour?
We shall dine at Poitiers before long, and there, if you decide to sign the pact, to give me a single proof of obedience, a great proof that I shall require, then the Bordeaux coach shall carry fifteen thousand francs to your sister----” “Where is the money?
” The Spaniard made no answer, and Lucien said within himself, “There I had him; he was laughing at me.
” In another moment they took their places.
Neither of them said a word.
Silently the Abbé groped in the pocket of the coach, and drew out a traveler’s leather pouch with three divisions in it; thence he took a hundred Portuguese moidores, bringing out his large hand filled with gold three times.
“Father, I am yours,” said Lucien, dazzled by the stream of gold.
“Child!
” said the priest, and set a tender kiss on Lucien’s forehead.
“There is twice as much still left in the bag, besides the money for traveling expenses.
” “And you are traveling alone!
” cried Lucien.
