Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Saying this, and followed by his friend, Justin stepped into a narrow space left between the natural wall and the boulder. Suddenly they heard the noise of footsteps and the voices of several persons drawing near from the side of the opening through which they had themselves shortly before entered the cavern. As much surprised as alarmed, the first motion of Justin was to extinguish the candle, and approaching his lips to the ear of Christian he whispered: “Let us not budge from this spot. We may here remain unseen, should these people come this way.”

  The two artisans held their breath and remained motionless in their hiding place, wondering with as much astonishment as anxiety who it might be that was resorting at so late an hour to so solitary a spot.

  The personages who penetrated into the quarry had also equipped themselves with lighting materials. One of them lighted a large wax candle, the reddish glare of which illuminated the features of the new arrivals, seven in number. The one who came in last, cast around him soon as the torch was lighted, looks indicative of the retreat being familiar to him. He walked with difficulty, and he stooped low as he leaned upon a heavy staff much resembling a crutch. Yet he seemed to be a man in the maturity of life. Black, threadbare and shabby clothes outlined his tall and robust stature. A Spanish ruff of doubtful white set off his long and olive-hued visage that terminated in a pointed beard. His head was almost bare of hair. His dominating eyes, his imperious brow, the haughty carriage of his head — all imparted to his strongly marked physiognomy the impression of absolute inflexibility. That personage stepped forward. It was Ignatius Loyola.

  His six companions were James Lainez, a Spaniard; Alfonso Salmeron, Inigo of Bobadilla, and Rodriguez of Azevedo, Portuguese; Francis Xavier, a French nobleman; and lastly, Peter Lefevre, a native of the mountains of Savoy, the same who, for ten years, had been the intimate friend of Christian Lebrenn.

  Francis Xavier held the lighted wax candle. Lefevre carried on his shoulder a large bundle. Motionless and mute the six disciples of Loyola fixed their eyes upon their master, not in order to discover his thoughts — they were incapable of such audacity — but in order to forestall his will, whatever it might be.

  Looking around in silent contemplation of the interior of the grotto, Loyola broke the silence in a solemn voice: “I greet thee, secret retreat, where, as formerly in the cavern of Manres, I have often meditated, and matured my purposes!” He then sat down upon a nearby stone, crossed his hands over his staff, leaned his chin upon his hands, let his eyes travel slowly over his disciples, who, impassive as statues stood beside him, and, after an instant of silent meditation resumed: “My children, I said to you this evening: ‘Come!’ You came, ignorant of whither I was leading you. Why did you follow me? Answer, Xavier. To hear one of my disciples is to hear them all — to hear one of them to-day, is to hear all those who are to follow them from age to age — all will be but the distant echoes of my thought.”

  “Master, you said to us: ‘Come!’ We came. Command, and you shall be obeyed.”

  “Without inquiring whither I led you; without even seeking to ascertain what I might demand of you? Answer, Lefevre.”

  “Master, we followed you without reflecting — without inquiring.”

  “Why without reflecting, without inquiring? Answer, Lainez.”

  “The members of the body obey the will that directs them; they do not interrogate that will; they obey.”

  “Xavier,” resumed Loyola, “plant your candle in some interstice of that boulder. Lefevre, deposit your bundle at your feet. It contains your sacerdotal vestments and the articles necessary to celebrate the holy sacrifice of the mass.”

  Francis Xavier planted the lighted candle firmly between two stones. Lefevre deposited his bundle on the ground. The other disciples remained standing, their eyes lowered. Still keeping his seat, and with his chin resting on the handle of his staff, Loyola resumed:

  “Francis Xavier, when I first met you on the benches of the University — what was then your nature? What were your habits?”

  “Master, I was passionately given to the pleasures of life.”

  “And you, Inigo of Bobadilla?”

  “Master, all obstacles upset me. I was weak and pusillanimous. My spirit lacked energy. My nature was cowardly and springless.”

  “And you, John Lainez?”

  “Master, I had excessive confidence in myself. Extreme vanity—”

  “And you, Rodriguez of Azevedo?”

  “Master, my heart ran over with tenderness. A touching act, an affectionate word, was enough to bring the tears to my eyes. I was kind to all, was ever eager to run to the help of our fellow men. I was of a confiding and accessible nature.”

  “And you, Alfonso Salmeron?”

  “Master, pride dominated me. I was proud of my vigor of bone and of my intelligence. I deemed myself a superior man.”

  “And you, John Lefevre?”

  “Master, my mountaineer tenacity never looked upon any obstruction but to overcome it. I brooked no contradiction.”

  “Aye! Such were you. And what are you now? Answer, John Lefevre. To hear one of you is to hear all the rest.”

  “Master, we are no longer ourselves. Your soul has absorbed ours. We are now the instruments of your will. We are the body, you the spirit. We are submissive slaves, you the inflexible master. We are the clubs, you the hand. Without your animating breath we are but corpses.”

  “How did you arrive at this complete self-effacement? In what manner was the absorption of your personalities in mine effected?”

  “Master, the study of your Spiritual Exercises effected the miracle.”

  Loyola seemed satisfied. With his chin resting upon his two hands crossed over the head of his heavy staff, he remained silent for a moment. Presently he resumed: “Yes, that you were; now you are this. And I myself, what was I, and what have I become? I shall tell you. I was a haughty Grandee of Viscaya, a handsome cavalier, a valiant captain, a daring seducer, and lucky swordsman. The hand of God suddenly smote me in war and rendered me a cripple. Great was my despair! To renounce women, dueling, horses, the battle, the command of my regiment, which I had broken in, drilled and fashioned by military discipline! Nailed to a couch of tortures, which I welcomed in the hope of removing my deformity, I was seized by Grace! I felt myself full of strength and of energy. I was possessed of an invincible craving for dominion. At that juncture the Holy Ghost said to me: ‘Devote thyself to the triumph of the Catholic Church. Thy dominion shall extend in the measure of thy faith.’ I then asked myself what services could I render the Catholic Church. I looked around me. What did I see? The spirit of Liberty, that pestilential emanation of a fallen humanity, everywhere at war with Authority, that sacred emanation of Divinity. I promised to myself to curb the spirit of Liberty with the inflexible curb of Authority, identically as I had formerly subjugated indomitable horses. The goal being set, what were the means to reach it? I looked for them. I wished first to experiment upon myself, to determine upon myself the extent to which, sustained by faith in the idea a man pursues, he can shake off his former self. Rich by birth, I begged my bread; a haughty Grandee, I exposed myself to outrage; a skilful swordsman, I submitted to insult; sumptuous in my habits of dress, careful of my personal appearance, I have lived in rags and in the gutter. Ignorant of letters, I took my seat at the age of thirty among children on the benches of the Montaigu College, where any slight inattention was visited upon me with the whip. Some of my purposes, being detected by orthodox priests, earned for me their persecution and I was ostracised. I stood it all without a murmur. From that time, certain that I could demand from my disciples the sacrifices I imposed upon myself, I made you that which you are required to be. You have said it. You are the members, I the spirit; you are the instrument, I the will. The hour for action has come; our work calls us. What work is that?”

  “That work is the insurance of the reign of authority upon earth.”

  “What authority?”

  “Mas
ter, there is but one. The authority of God, visibly incarnated in His vicar, the Pope, who is in Rome.”

  “Do you understand by that the spiritual or the temporal authority?”

  “Master, he who has authority over the soul must have authority over the body also. He who dictates the Divine law must dictate the human law also.”

  “What must the Pope be?”

  “Pontiff and Emperor of the Catholic world.”

  “Who, under him, is to govern the nations?”

  “The clergy.”

  “Must temporal authority, accordingly, also belong to the Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church?”

  “All authority flows from God. His ministers are by divine right the masters of the nations, and must be invested with full authority.”

  “Is that, then, the work in hand?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Are there any obstacles to its accomplishment?”

  “Enormous ones.”

  “What are they?”

  “First of all, the Kings.”

  “Next?” queried Loyola impatiently. “Next?”

  “The indocility of the bourgeois classes.”

  “Next?”

  “The new heresy known by the name of the Reformation.”

  “Next?”

  “The printing press, that scourge that every day and everywhere spreads its ravages.”

  “Next?”

  “The too publicly scandalous habits of the ecclesiastics.”

  “And lastly?”

  “Often the ineptness, the feebleness, the insatiable cupidity and the excesses of the papacy.”

  “These, then, are the obstacles to the absolute rule of the Catholic world by her Church?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Is it possible to overcome these obstacles?”

  “We can, master, provided your spirit speaks through our mouths, and your will dictates our actions.”

  “All honor to the Lord — let’s begin with the Kings. What are they with regard to the Popes?”

  “Their rivals.”

  “What should they be?”

  “Their first subjects.”

  “Would it not be preferable for the greater glory and security of the Catholic Church that royalty were abolished?”

  “That would be preferable.”

  “How are Kings to be absolutely subordinated to the Popes? Or, rather, how is royalty to be destroyed?”

  “By causing all its subjects to rise against it.”

  “By what process?”

  “By unchaining the passions of an ignorant populace; by exploiting the old commune spirit of the bourgeoisie; by fanning the hatred of the seigneurs, once the peers of Kings in feudal days; by setting the people against one another.”

  “Is there a last resort for the riddance of Kings?”

  “The dagger, or poison.”

  “Do you understand by that that a member of the Church may and has the right to stab a King; may and has the right to poison a King?”

  “Master, it is not the part of a monk to kill a King, whether openly or covertly. The King should first be paternally admonished, then excommunicated, then declared forfeit of royal authority. After that his execution falls to others.”

  “And who is it that declares Kings forfeit of royal authority, and thus places them under the ban of mankind, and outside the pale of human and divine law?”

  “Either the people’s voice, or an assembly of priests and theologians, or the decision of men of sense.”

  “Suppose royal authority is overthrown by murder, or otherwise, will not the power thereby fall either into the hands of the nobility and the seigneurs, or into those of the bourgeoisie, or into the hands of the populace?”

  “Yes, but only for a short interval. If the power falls into the hands of the populace, the seigneurs, that is, the nobility and the bourgeoisie, are to be turned against the populace. If the power should fall into the hands of the bourgeoisie, then the populace and the nobility are to be turned against the bourgeoisie; finally, in case the power falls into the hands of the nobility, the bourgeoisie and the populace are to be turned against the nobility.”

  “Civil war being over, what will be the state of things?”

  “All powers being annihilated, the one destroyed by the other, only the Catholic Church will remain standing, imperishable.”

  “You spoke of operating upon the populace, upon the bourgeoisie, upon the nobility, to the end of using these several classes for the overthrow of royal power, and subsequently of letting them loose against one another. What lever will you operate upon them?”

  “The direction of their conscience, especially that of their wives, through the confessional.”

  “In what manner do you expect to be able to direct their conscience?”

  “By establishing maxims so sweet, so flexible, so comfortable, so complaisant to men’s passions, vices and sins that the larger number of men and women will choose us for their confessors, and will thereby hand over to us the direction of their souls. To direct the souls of the living is to secure the empire of the world.”

  “Let us consider the application of this doctrine,” said Loyola. “Suppose I am a monk, you, I suppose,” he added addressing his disciples successively, “are my confessor. I say to you: ‘Father, it is forbidden, under penalty of excommunication, to doff, even for an instant, the garb of our Order. I accuse myself of having put on lay vestments.’”

  “‘My son,’ I would answer,” responded one of the disciples of Ignatius, “‘let us distinguish. If you doffed your religious garb in order not to soil it with some disgraceful act, such as going on a pickpocket expedition, or patronizing a gambling house, or indulging in debauchery, you obeyed a sentiment of shame, and you do not then deserve excommunication.’”

  “Now,” resumed Loyola, “I am a trustee, under obligation to pay a life annuity to someone or other, and I desire his death that I may be free of the obligation; or, say, I am the heir of a rich father, and am anxious to see his last day — I accuse myself of harboring these sentiments.”

  “‘My son,’ I would answer, ‘a trustee may, without sin, desire the death of those who receive a pension from his trust, for the reason that what he really desires is, not the death of his beneficiary, but the cancellation of the debt. My son,’ I would answer the penitent, ‘you would be committing an abominable sin were you, out of pure wickedness, to desire the death of your father; but you commit no manner of sin if you harbor the wish, not with parricidal intent, but solely out of impatience to enjoy his inheritance.’”

  “I am a valet, and have come to accuse myself of acting as go-between in the amours of my master, and, besides, of having robbed him.”

  “‘My son,’ I would answer, ‘to carry letters or presents to the concubine of your master, even to assist him in scaling her window by holding the ladder, are permissible and indifferent matters, because, in your quality of servant, it is not your will that you obey, but the will of another. As to the thefts that you have committed, it is clear that if, driven by necessity, you have been forced to accept wages that are too small, you are justified in recouping your legitimate salary in some other way.’”

  “I am a swordsman. I accuse myself before the penitential tribunal of having fought a duel.”

  “‘My son,’ I would answer, ‘if in fighting you yielded, not to a homicidal impulse, but to the legitimate call to avenge your honor, you have committed no sin.’”

  “I am a coward. I rid myself of my enemy by murdering him from ambush. I come to make the admission to you, my confessor, and to ask absolution.”

  “‘My son,’ I would answer, ‘if you committed the murder, not for the sake of the murder itself, but in order to escape the dangers which your enemy might have thrown you into, in that case you have not sinned at all. In such cases it is legitimate to kill one’s enemy in the absence of witnesses.’”

  “I am a judge. I accuse myself of having rendered a de
cision in favor of one of the litigants, in consideration of a present made to me by him.”

  “‘Where is the wrong in that, my son?’ I would ask. ‘In consideration of a present you rendered a decision favorable to the giver of the gift. Could you not, by virtue of your own will, have favored whom you pleased? You stand in no need of absolution.’”

  “I am a usurer. I accuse myself of having frequently derived large profits from my money. Have I sinned according to the law of the Church?”

  “‘My son,’ I would answer, ‘this is the way you should in future conduct yourself in such affairs: Someone asks a loan of you. You will answer: “I have no money to loan, but I have some ready to be honestly invested. If you will guarantee to reimburse me my capital, and, besides that, to pay me a certain profit, I shall entrust the sum in your hands so that you may turn it to use. But I shall not loan it to you.” For the rest, my son, you have not sinned, if, however large the interest you may have received from your money, the same was looked upon by you simply as a token of gratitude, and not a condition for the loan. Go in peace, my son.’”

  “I am a bankrupt. I accuse myself of having concealed a considerable sum from the knowledge of my creditors.”

  “‘My son,’ I would answer, ‘the sin is grave if you retained the sum out of base cupidity. But if your purpose was merely to insure to yourself and your family a comfortable existence, even some little luxury, you are absolved.’”

  “I am a woman. I accuse myself of having committed adultery, and of having in that way obtained considerable wealth from my paramour. May I enjoy that wealth with an easy conscience?”

  “‘My daughter,’ I would answer, ‘the wealth acquired through gallantry and adultery has, it is true, an illegitimate source. Nevertheless, its possession may be considered legitimate, seeing that no human or divine law pronounces against such possession.’”

  “I have stolen a large sum. I accuse myself of the theft, and ask for your absolution.”