"What physicians have you at Fontainebleau?" he inquired, after a long pause.
"We have three, holy father."
"What are their names?"
"Luiniguet first."
"The next one?"
"A brother of the Carmelite order, named Brother Hubert."
"The next?"
"A secular member, named Grisart."
"Ah! Grisart?" murmured the monk, "send for M. Grisart immediately."
The landlord moved in prompt obedience to the direction.
"Tell me what priests are there here?"
"What priests?"
"Yes; belonging to what orders?"
"There are Jesuits, Augustines, and Cordeliers; but the Jesuits are the closest at hand. Shall I send for a confessor belonging to the order of Jesuits?"
"Yes, immediately."
It will be imagined that, at the sign of the cross which they had exchanged, the landlord and the invalid monk had recognized each other as two affiliated members of the well-known Society of Jesus. Left to himself, the Franciscan drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, some of which he read over with the most careful attention. The violence of his disorder, however, overcame his courage; his eyes rolled in their sockets, a cold sweat poured down his face, and he nearly fainted, and lay with his head thrown backwards and his arms hanging down on both sides of his chair. For more than five minutes he remained without any movement, when the landlord returned, bringing with him the physician, whom he hardly allowed time to dress himself. The noise they made in entering the room, the current of air, which the opening of the door occasioned, restored the Franciscan to his senses. He hurriedly seized hold of the papers which were lying about, and with his long and bony hand concealed them under the cushions of the chair. The landlord went out of the room, leaving patient and physician together.
"Come here, Monsieur Grisart," said the Franciscan to the doctor; "approach closer, for there is no time to lose. Try, by touch and sound, and consider and p.r.o.nounce your sentence."
"The landlord," replied the doctor, "told me I had the honor of attending an affiliated brother."
"Yes," replied the Franciscan, "it is so. Tell me the truth, then; I feel very ill, and I think I am about to die."
The physician took the monk"s hand, and felt his pulse. "Oh, oh," he said, "a dangerous fever."
"What do you call a dangerous fever?" inquired the Franciscan, with an imperious look.
"To an affiliated member of the first or second year," replied the physician, looking inquiringly at the monk, "I should say-a fever that may be cured."
"But to me?" said the Franciscan. The physician hesitated.
"Look at my grey hair, and my forehead, full of anxious thought," he continued: "look at the lines in my face, by which I reckon up the trials I have undergone; I am a Jesuit of the eleventh year, Monsieur Grisart." The physician started, for, in fact, a Jesuit of the eleventh year was one of those men who had been initiated in all the secrets of the order, one of those for whom science has no more secrets, the society no further barriers to present-temporal obedience, no more trammels.
"In that case," said Grisart, saluting him with respect, "I am in the presence of a master?"
"Yes; act, therefore, accordingly."
"And you wish to know?"
"My real state."
"Well," said the physician, "it is a brain fever, which has reached its highest degree of intensity."
"There is no hope, then?" inquired the Franciscan, in a quick tone of voice.
"I do not say that," replied the doctor; "yet, considering the disordered state of the brain, the hurried respiration, the rapidity of the pulse, and the burning nature of the fever which is devouring you-"
"And which has thrice prostrated me since this morning," said the monk.
"All things considered, I shall call it a terrible attack. But why did you not stop on your road?"
"I was expected here, and I was obliged to come."
"Even at the risk of your life?"
"Yes, at the risk of dying on the way."
"Very well. Considering all the symptoms of your case, I must tell you that your condition is almost desperate."
The Franciscan smiled in a strange manner.
"What you have just told me is, perhaps, sufficient for what is due to an affiliated member, even of the eleventh year; but for what is due to me, Monsieur Grisart, it is too little, and I have a right to demand more. Come, then, let us be more candid still, and as frank as if you were making your own confession to Heaven. Besides, I have already sent for a confessor."
"Oh! I have hopes, however," murmured the doctor.
"Answer me," said the sick man, displaying with a dignified gesture a golden ring, the stone of which had until that moment been turned inside, and which bore engraved thereon the distinguishing mark of the Society of Jesus.
Grisart uttered loud exclamation. "The general!" he cried.
"Silence," said the Franciscan., "you can now understand that the whole truth is all important."
"Monseigneur, monseigneur," murmured Grisart, "send for the confessor, for in two hours, at the next seizure, you will be attacked by delirium, and will pa.s.s away in its course."
"Very well," said the patient, for a moment contracting his eyebrows, "I have still two hours to live then?"
"Yes; particularly if you take the potion I will send you presently."
"And that will give me two hours of life?"
"Two hours."
"I would take it, were it poison, for those two hours are necessary not only for myself, but for the glory of the order."
"What a loss, what a catastrophe for us all!" murmured the physician.
"It is the loss of one man-nothing more," replied the Franciscan, "for Heaven will enable the poor monk, who is about to leave you, to find a worthy successor. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; already even, through the goodness of Heaven, I have met with you. A physician who had not been one of our holy order, would have left me in ignorance of my condition; and, confident that existence would be prolonged a few days further, I should not have taken the necessary precautions. You are a learned man, Monsieur Grisart, and that confers an honor upon us all; it would have been repugnant to my feelings to have found one of our order of little standing in his profession. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; send me the cordial immediately."
"Give me your blessing, at least, monseigneur."
"In my mind, I do; go, go; in my mind, I do so, I tell you-animo, Maitre Grisart, viribus impossibile." And he again fell back on the armchair, in an almost senseless state. M. Grisart hesitated, whether he should give him immediate a.s.sistance, or should run to prepare the cordial he had promised. He decided in favor of the cordial, for he darted out of the room and disappeared down the staircase. 6
Chapter LIII. The State Secret.
A few moments after the doctor"s departure, the confessor arrived. He had hardly crossed the threshold of the door when the Franciscan fixed a penetrating look upon him, and, shaking his head, murmured-"A weak mind, I see; may Heaven forgive me if I die without the help of this living piece of human infirmity." The confessor, on his side, regarded the dying man with astonishment, almost with terror. He had never beheld eyes so burningly bright at the very moment they were about to close, nor looks so terrible at the moment they were about to be quenched in death. The Franciscan made a rapid and imperious movement of his hand. "Sit down, there, my father," he said, "and listen to me." The Jesuit confessor, a good priest, a recently initiated member of the order, who had merely seen the beginning of its mysteries, yielded to the superiority a.s.sumed by the penitent.
"There are several persons staying in this hotel," continued the Franciscan.
"But," inquired the Jesuit, "I thought I had been summoned to listen to a confession. Is your remark, then, a confession?"
"Why do you ask?"
"In order to know whether I am to keep your words secret."
"My remarks are part of my confession; I confide them to you in your character of a confessor."
"Very well," said the priest, seating himself on the chair which the Franciscan had, with great difficulty, just left, to lie down on the bed.
The Franciscan continued,-"I repeat, there are several persons staying in this inn."
"So I have heard."
"They ought to be eight in number."
The Jesuit made a sign that he understood him. "The first to whom I wish to speak," said the dying man, "is a German from Vienna, whose name is Baron de Wostpur. Be kind enough to go to him, and tell him the person he expected has arrived." The confessor, astounded, looked at his penitent; the confession seemed a singular one.
"Obey," said the Franciscan, in a tone of command impossible to resist. The good Jesuit, completely subdued, rose and left the room. As soon as he had gone, the Franciscan again took up the papers which a crisis of the fever had already, once before, obliged him to put aside.
"The Baron de Wostpur? Good!" he said; "ambitious, a fool, and straitened in means."
He folded up the papers, which he thrust under his pillow. Rapid footsteps were heard at the end of the corridor. The confessor returned, followed by the Baron de Wostpur, who walked along with his head raised, as if he were discussing with himself the possibility of touching the ceiling with the feather in his hat. Therefore, at the appearance of the Franciscan, at his melancholy look, and seeing the plainness of the room, he stopped, and inquired,-"Who has summoned me?"
"I," said the Franciscan, who turned towards the confessor, saying, "My good father, leave us for a moment together; when this gentleman leaves, you will return here." The Jesuit left the room, and, doubtless, availed himself of this momentary exile from the presence of the dying man to ask the host for some explanation about this strange penitent, who treated his confessor no better than he would a man servant. The baron approached the bed, and wished to speak, but the hand of the Franciscan imposed silence upon him.
"Every moment is precious," said the latter, hurriedly. "You have come here for the compet.i.tion, have you not?"
"Yes, my father."
"You hope to be elected general of the order?"
"I hope so."
"You know on what conditions only you can possibly attain this high position, which makes one man the master of monarchs, the equal of popes?"
"Who are you," inquired the baron, "to subject me to these interrogations?"
"I am he whom you expected."
"The elector-general?"
"I am the elected."
"You are-"
The Franciscan did not give him time to reply; he extended his shrunken hand, on which glittered the ring of the general of the order. The baron drew back in surprise; and then, immediately afterwards, bowing with the profoundest respect, he exclaimed,-"Is it possible that you are here, monseigneur; you, in this wretched room; you, upon this miserable bed; you, in search of and selecting the future general, that is, your own successor?"
"Do not distress yourself about that, monsieur, but fulfil immediately the princ.i.p.al condition, of furnishing the order with a secret of importance, of such importance that one of the greatest courts of Europe will, by your instrumentality, forever be subjected to the order. Well! do you possess the secret which you promised, in your request, addressed to the grand council?"
"Monseigneur-"
"Let us proceed, however, in due order," said the monk. "You are the Baron de Wostpur?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And this letter is from you?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
The general of the Jesuits drew a paper from his bundle, and presented it to the baron, who glanced at it, and made a sign in the affirmative, saying, "Yes, monseigneur, this letter is mine."
"Can you show me the reply which the secretary of the grand council returned to you?"
"Here it is," said the baron, holding towards the Franciscan a letter bearing simply the address, "To his excellency the Baron de Wostpur," and containing only this phrase, "From the 15th to the 22nd May, Fontainebleau, the hotel of the Beau Paon.-A. M. D. G." 7 "Right," said the Franciscan, "and now speak."
"I have a body of troops, composed of 50,000 men; all the officers are gained over. I am encamped on the Danube. I four days I can overthrow the emperor, who is, as you are aware, opposed to the progress of our order, and can replace him by whichever of the princes of his family the order may determine upon." The Franciscan listened, unmoved.
"Is that all?" he said.
"A revolution throughout Europe is included in my plan," said the baron.
"Very well, Monsieur de Wostpur, you will receive a reply; return to your room, and leave Fontainebleau within a quarter of an hour." The baron withdrew backwards, as obsequiously as if he were taking leave of the emperor he was ready to betray.
"There is no secret there," murmured the Franciscan, "it is a plot. Besides," he added, after a moment"s reflection, "the future of Europe is no longer in the hands of the House of Austria."
And with a pencil he held in his hand, he struck the Baron de Wostpur"s name from the list.