Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  He stopped; for, at the sight of the great emotion in the faces of the two poor nuns, he was afraid that he had gone too far. They were trembling, and the tears stood in their eyes.

  “Do not fear,” he said frankly. “I know your names and the name of your guest. Three days ago I heard of your distress and devotion to the venerable Abbe de — — ”

  “Hush!” Sister Agathe cried, in the simplicity of her heart, as she laid her finger on her lips.

  “You see, Sisters, that if I had conceived the horrible idea of betraying you, I could have given you up already, more than once — — ”

  At the words the priest came out of his hiding-place and stood in their midst.

  “I cannot believe, monsieur, that you can be one of our persecutors,” he said, addressing the stranger, “and I trust you. What do you want with me?”

  The priest’s holy confidence, the nobleness expressed in every line in his face, would have disarmed a murderer. For a moment the mysterious stranger, who had brought an element of excitement into lives of misery and resignation, gazed at the little group; then he turned to the priest and said, as if making a confidence, “Father, I came to beg you to celebrate a mass for the repose of the soul of — of — of an august personage whose body will never rest in consecrated earth — — ”

  Involuntarily the abbe shivered. As yet, neither of the Sisters understood of whom the stranger was speaking; they sat with their heads stretched out and faces turned towards the speaker, curiosity in their whole attitude. The priest meanwhile, was scrutinizing the stranger; there was no mistaking the anxiety in the man’s face, the ardent entreaty in his eyes.

  “Very well,” returned the abbe. “Come back at midnight. I shall be ready to celebrate the only funeral service that it is in our power to offer in expiation of the crime of which you speak.”

  A quiver ran through the stranger, but a sweet yet sober satisfaction seemed to prevail over a hidden anguish. He took his leave respectfully, and the three generous souls felt his unspoken gratitude.

  Two hours later, he came back and tapped at the garret door. Mademoiselle de Beauseant showed the way into the second room of their humble lodging. Everything had been made ready. The Sisters had moved the old chest of drawers between the two chimneys, and covered its quaint outlines over with a splendid altar cloth of green watered silk.

  The bare walls looked all the barer, because the one thing that hung there was the great ivory and ebony crucifix, which of necessity attracted the eyes. Four slender little altar candles, which the Sisters had contrived to fasten into their places with sealing-wax, gave a faint, pale light, almost absorbed by the walls; the rest of the room lay well-nigh in the dark. But the dim brightness, concentrated upon the holy things, looked like a ray from Heaven shining down upon the unadorned shrine. The floor was reeking with damp. An icy wind swept in through the chinks here and there, in a roof that rose sharply on either side, after the fashion of attic roofs. Nothing could be less imposing; yet perhaps, too, nothing could be more solemn than this mournful ceremony. A silence so deep that they could have heard the faintest sound of a voice on the Route d’Allemagne, invested the night-piece with a kind of sombre majesty; while the grandeur of the service — all the grander for the strong contrast with the poor surroundings — produced a feeling of reverent awe.

  The Sisters kneeling on each side of the altar, regardless of the deadly chill from the wet brick floor, were engaged in prayer, while the priest, arrayed in pontifical vestments, brought out a golden chalice set with gems; doubtless one of the sacred vessels saved from the pillage of the Abbaye de Chelles. Beside a ciborium, the gift of royal munificence, the wine and water for the holy sacrifice of the mass stood ready in two glasses such as could scarcely be found in the meanest tavern. For want of a missal, the priest had laid his breviary on the altar, and a common earthenware plate was set for the washing of hands that were pure and undefiled with blood. It was all so infinitely great, yet so little, poverty-stricken yet noble, a mingling of sacred and profane.

  The stranger came forward reverently to kneel between the two nuns. But the priest had tied crape round the chalice of the crucifix, having no other way of marking the mass as a funeral service; it was as if God himself had been in mourning. The man suddenly noticed this, and the sight appeared to call up some overwhelming memory, for great drops of sweat stood out on his broad forehead.

  Then the four silent actors in the scene looked mysteriously at one another; and their souls in emulation seemed to stir and communicate the thoughts within them until all were melted into one feeling of awe and pity. It seemed to them that the royal martyr whose remains had been consumed with quicklime, had been called up by their yearning and now stood, a shadow in their midst, in all the majesty of a king. They were celebrating an anniversary service for the dead whose body lay elsewhere. Under the disjointed laths and tiles, four Christians were holding a funeral service without a coffin, and putting up prayers to God for the soul of a King of France. No devotion could be purer than this. It was a wonderful act of faith achieved without an afterthought. Surely in the sight of God it was like the cup of cold water which counterbalances the loftiest virtues. The prayers put up by two feeble nuns and a priest represented the whole Monarchy, and possibly at the same time, the Revolution found expression in the stranger, for the remorse in his face was so great that it was impossible not to think that he was fulfilling the vows of a boundless repentance.

  When the priest came to the Latin words, Introibo ad altare Dei, a sudden divine inspiration flashed upon him; he looked at the three kneeling figures, the representatives of Christian France, and said instead, as though to blot out the poverty of the garret, “We are about to enter the Sanctuary of God!”

  These words, uttered with thrilling earnestness, struck reverent awe into the nuns and the stranger. Under the vaulted roof of St. Peter’s at Rome, God would not have revealed Himself in greater majesty than here for the eyes of the Christians in that poor refuge; so true is it that all intermediaries between God and the soul of man are superfluous, and all the grandeur of God proceeds from Himself alone.

  The stranger’s fervor was sincere. One emotion blended the prayers of the four servants of God and the King in a single supplication. The holy words rang like the music of heaven through the silence. At one moment, tears gathered in the stranger’s eyes. This was during the Pater Noster; for the priest added a petition in Latin, and his audience doubtless understood him when he said: “Et remitte scelus regicidis sicut Ludovicus eis remisit semetipse” — forgive the regicides as Louis himself forgave them.

  The Sisters saw two great tears trace a channel down the stranger’s manly checks and fall to the floor. Then the office for the dead was recited; the Domine salvum fac regem chanted in an undertone that went to the hearts of the faithful Royalists, for they thought how the child-King for whom they were praying was even then a captive in the hands of his enemies; and a shudder ran through the stranger, as he thought that a new crime might be committed, and that he could not choose but take his part in it.

  The service came to an end. The priest made a sign to the sisters, and they withdrew. As soon as he was left alone with the stranger, he went towards him with a grave, gentle face, and said in fatherly tones:

  “My son, if your hands are stained with the blood of the royal martyr, confide in me. There is no sin that may not be blotted out in the sight of God by penitence as sincere and touching as yours appears to be.”

  At the first words the man started with terror, in spite of himself. Then he recovered composure, and looked quietly at the astonished priest.

  “Father,” he said, and the other could not miss the tremor in his voice, “no one is more guiltless than I of the blood shed — — ”

  “I am bound to believe you,” said the priest. He paused a moment, and again he scrutinized his penitent. But, persisting in the idea that the man before him was one of the members of the Convention, one of the voters
who betrayed an inviolable and anointed head to save their own, he began again gravely:

  “Remember, my son, that it is not enough to have taken no active part in the great crime; that fact does not absolve you. The men who might have defended the King and left their swords in their scabbards, will have a very heavy account to render to the King of Heaven — Ah! yes,” he added, with an eloquent shake of the head, “heavy indeed! — for by doing nothing they became accomplices in the awful wickedness — — ”

  “But do you think that an indirect participation will be punished?” the stranger asked with a bewildered look. “There is the private soldier commanded to fall into line — is he actually responsible?”

  The priest hesitated. The stranger was glad; he had put the Royalist precisian in a dilemma, between the dogma of passive obedience on the one hand (for the upholders of the Monarchy maintained that obedience was the first principle of military law), and the equally important dogma which turns respect for the person of a King into a matter of religion. In the priest’s indecision he was eager to see a favorable solution of the doubts which seemed to torment him. To prevent too prolonged reflection on the part of the reverend Jansenist, he added:

  “I should blush to offer remuneration of any kind for the funeral service which you have just performed for the repose of the King’s soul and the relief of my conscience. The only possible return for something of inestimable value is an offering likewise beyond price. Will you deign, monsieur, to take my gift of a holy relic? A day will perhaps come when you will understand its value.”

  As he spoke the stranger held out a box; it was very small and exceedingly light. The priest took it mechanically, as it were, so astonished was he by the man’s solemn words, the tones of his voice, and the reverence with which he held out the gift.

  The two men went back together into the first room. The Sisters were waiting for them.

  “This house that you are living in belongs to Mucius Scaevola, the plasterer on the first floor,” he said. “He is well known in the Section for his patriotism, but in reality he is an adherent of the Bourbons. He used to be a huntsman in the service of his Highness the Prince de Conti, and he owes everything to him. So long as you stay in the house, you are safer here than anywhere else in France. Do not go out. Pious souls will minister to your necessities, and you can wait in safety for better times. Next year, on the 21st of January,” — he could not hide an involuntary shudder as he spoke, — ”next year, if you are still in this dreary refuge, I will come back again to celebrate the expiatory mass with you — — ”

  He broke off, bowed to the three, who answered not a word, gave a last look at the garret with its signs of poverty, and vanished.

  Such an adventure possessed all the interest of a romance in the lives of the innocent nuns. So, as soon as the venerable abbe told them the story of the mysterious gift, it was placed upon the table, and by the feeble light of the tallow dip an indescribable curiosity appeared in the three anxious faces. Mademoiselle de Langeais opened the box, and found a very fine lawn handkerchief, soiled with sweat; darker stains appeared as they unfolded it.

  “That is blood!” exclaimed the priest.

  “It is marked with a royal crown!” cried Sister Agathe.

  The women, aghast, allowed the precious relic to fall. For their simple souls the mystery that hung about the stranger grew inexplicable; as for the priest, from that day forth he did not even try to understand it.

  Before very long the prisoners knew that, in spite of the Terror, some powerful hand was extended over them. It began when they received firewood and provisions; and next the Sisters knew that a woman had lent counsel to their protector, for linen was sent to them, and clothes in which they could leave the house without causing remark upon the aristocrat’s dress that they had been forced to wear. After awhile Mucius Scaevola gave them two civic cards; and often tidings necessary for the priest’s safety came to them in roundabout ways. Warnings and advice reached them so opportunely that they could only have been sent by some person in the possession of state secrets. And, at a time when famine threatened Paris, invisible hands brought rations of “white bread” for the proscribed women in the wretched garret. Still they fancied that Citizen Mucius Scaevola was only the mysterious instrument of a kindness always ingenious, and no less intelligent.

  The noble ladies in the garret could no longer doubt that their protector was the stranger of the expiatory mass on the night of the 22nd of January, 1793; and a kind of cult of him sprung up among them. Their one hope was in him; they lived through him. They added special petitions for him to their prayers; night and morning the pious souls prayed for his happiness, his prosperity, his safety; entreating God to remove all snares far from his path, to deliver him from his enemies, to grant him a long and peaceful life. And with this daily renewed gratitude, as it may be called, there blended a feeling of curiosity which grew more lively day by day. They talked over the circumstances of his first sudden appearance, their conjectures were endless; the stranger had conferred one more benefit upon them by diverting their minds. Again, and again, they said, when he next came to see them as he promised, to celebrate the sad anniversary of the death of Louis XVI., he could not escape their friendship.

  The night so impatiently awaited came at last. At midnight the old wooden staircase echoed with the stranger’s heavy footsteps. They had made the best of their room for his coming; the altar was ready, and this time the door stood open, and the two Sisters were out at the stairhead, eager to light the way. Mademoiselle de Langeais even came down a few steps, to meet their benefactor the sooner.

  “Come,” she said, with a quaver in the affectionate tones, “come in; we are expecting you.”

  He raised his face, gave her a dark look, and made no answer. The sister felt as if an icy mantle had fallen over her, and said no more. At the sight of him, the glow of gratitude and curiosity died away in their hearts. Perhaps he was not so cold, not so taciturn, not so stern as he seemed to them, for in their highly wrought mood they were ready to pour out their feeling of friendship. But the three poor prisoners understood that he wished to be a stranger to them; and submitted. The priest fancied that he saw a smile on the man’s lips as he saw their preparations for his visit, but it was at once repressed. He heard mass, said his prayer, and then disappeared, declining, with a few polite words, Mademoiselle de Langeais’ invitation to partake of the little collation made ready for him.

  After the 9th Thermidor, the Sisters and the Abbe de Marolles could go about Paris without the least danger. The first time that the abbe went out he walked to a perfumer’s shop at the sign of The Queen of Roses, kept by the Citizen Ragon and his wife, court perfumers. The Ragons had been faithful adherents of the Royalist cause; it was through their means that the Vendean leaders kept up a correspondence with the Princes and the Royalist Committee in Paris. The abbe, in the ordinary dress of the time, was standing on the threshold of the shop — which stood between Saint Roch and the Rue des Frondeurs — when he saw that the Rue Saint Honore was filled with a crowd and he could not go out.

  “What is the matter?” he asked Madame Ragon.

  “Nothing,” she said; “it is only the tumbril cart and the executioner going to the Place Louis XV. Ah! we used to see it often enough last year; but to-day, four days after the anniversary of the twenty-first of January, one does not feel sorry to see the ghastly procession.”

  “Why not?” asked the abbe. “That is not said like a Christian.”

  “Eh! but it is the execution of Robespierre’s accomplices. They defended themselves as long as they could, but now it is their turn to go where they sent so many innocent people.”

  The crowd poured by like a flood. The abbe, yielding to an impulse of curiosity, looked up above the heads, and there in the tumbril stood the man who had heard mass in the garret three days ago.

  “Who is it?” he asked; “who is the man with — — ”

  “That is the headsman,�
�� answered M. Ragon, calling the executioner — the executeur des hautes oeuvres — by the name he had borne under the Monarchy.

  “Oh! my dear, my dear! M. l’Abbe is dying!” cried out old Madame Ragon. She caught up a flask of vinegar, and tried to restore the old priest to consciousness.

  “He must have given me the handkerchief that the King used to wipe his brow on the way to his martyrdom,” murmured he. “... Poor man!... There was a heart in the steel blade, when none was found in all France...”

  The perfumers thought that the poor abbe was raving.

  PARIS, January 183l.

  AN HISTORICAL MYSTERY

  Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

  Originally published in 1841, the novel Une ténébreuse affaire is set in 1803 and takes place in Gondreville, one of the finest estates in France. As the story opens, Michu, a short, stout man, is seen cleaning his rifle, although it appears he is not a hunter. Nervously watching him are his pretty young wife, Marthe, and his mother-in-law. The spaniel Couraut growls, prompting Michu to comment, “Spies! the country swarms with them.” Michu and his family, which also includes a ten year old son, Francois, have been living in the dilapidated lodge at the entrance to the Gondreville Estate since 1789. It is a huge circular area with a pond one hundred feet distant. There is also a young servant boy, Gaucher, and Marianne who is called the cook in one translation and a servant-girl in another. Marthe’s father forced her to marry Michu, but she knows he loves her and she has developed affection and much respect for him. The public opinion of Michu causes her much suffering.

  An original illustration

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  CHAPTER I. JUDAS

  CHAPTER II. A CRIME RELINQUISHED

  CHAPTER III. THE MASK THROWN OFF

  CHAPTER IV. LAURENCE DE CINQ-CYGNE

  CHAPTER V. ROYALIST HOMES AND PORTRAITS UNDER THE CONSULATE