Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  The abbé approached the canon with compunction, and said to him, gently:

  “Come, my brother, be reasonable, calm yourself, perhaps we ought to see in what has happened the punishment of Heaven.”

  “I think with you, abbé, this tempter came from hell. It is not given to any human being to be such a cook. Ah, abbé, I must be a great sinner, for my punishment is terrible!”

  “You have indeed surrendered yourself, without measure, without restraint, to one of the foulest of the capital sins, — gluttony, my dear brother, — and I repeat to you Heaven punishes you, as is its law, in the very thing by which you have sinned.”

  “But after all, what is my crime? I have simply used the admirable gifts of the Creator, for in fact it is not I who, in order to enjoy them, have created pheasants, ortolans, fat livers, salmon trout, truffles, oysters, lobsters, wines, and—”

  “My brother, my brother!” cried the abbé, interrupting this appetising enumeration, “your words savour of materialism, pantheism, heresy! You are not in a state of mind to listen to me as I refute these impious, abominable systems which lead directly to paganism. But there is one indisputable fact, which is, that you suffer, my brother, you suffer cruelly; it is for us to bind up your wounds, my tender brother, it is for us to comfort them with balm and honey.”

  At these words the canon made an involuntary grimace, because, in his gastronomic monomania, the idea of honey and balm was especially distasteful.

  The abbé continued:

  “Let us see, my dear brother, let us return to the cause of all your ills.”

  “Alas! abbé, it is the loss of my appetite.”

  “Be it so, my brother, and who has caused the loss of your appetite?”

  “That wretch!” cried the canon, irritated, “that infamous Captain Horace.”

  “That is true; well, I will always preach to you the forgiveness of injuries, my dear brother; but, too, I must recommend to you an inexorable severity against sacrilege.”

  “What sacrilege, abbé?”

  “Have not Captain Horace and one of his sailors dared to leap over the sacred walls of the convent where you had shut up your niece? Have they not had the audacity to carry away the miserable girl, whom happily we have recaptured? This enormity in other times might have been punished with fire, and one day it will be punished with eternal fire.”

  “And this villain of a captain will only have what he deserves,” cried Dom Diégo, ferociously; “yes, he will cook — he will roast on Satan’s spit by a slow fire, all eternity, where he will be moistened with gravy of melted lead, after having been larded with red-hot iron. Such will be his punishment, I earnestly hope.”

  “So may it be, but while waiting this eternal expiation, why not punish him here below? Why have you had the culpable weakness to give up your demand for the arrest of this miscreant? I need not remind you that this man is the first cause of all that you call your ills, — that is, the loss of your appetite.”

  “That is true, he is a great criminal.”

  “Then, my brother, why, I ask again, have you been so weak as to renounce your pursuit of him? You do not reply, you seem to be embarrassed.”

  “It is that—”

  “It is what?”

  “Alas, abbé, you are going to scold me, to lecture me again.”

  “Explain yourself, my brother.”

  “What shall I say? It is his fault, for, since he has disappeared, all my thoughts come from him and return to him.”

  “Who, he?”

  “This angel or this demon.”

  “What angel — what demon?”

  “The cook.”

  “Again the cook?”

  “Always!”

  “Come,” said the abbé, shrugging his shoulders, “do explain yourself, my brother.”

  “Well, then, abbé, know that the day after the fatal day when I breakfasted as I shall never breakfast again, alas! when my despair was at its height, I received a mysterious note.”

  “And what did this contain, my brother?”

  “Here it is.”

  “You have kept it.”

  “It is perhaps his cherished handwriting,” murmured the canon, with a melancholy accent.

  And he handed the note to Abbé Ledoux, who read as follows:

  “My Lord Canon: — There remains perhaps one means of seeing me again.

  “You now know the delights with which I am able to surfeit you.

  “You also know the terrible torments which my absence inflicts.

  “Before yesterday, not having felt these torments in all their anguish, you presumed to refuse what I expected of you.

  “To-day, as past sufferings will be a guarantee for the sufferings to come, listen to me.

  “You can put an end to these sufferings.

  “For that, you must grant me three things.

  “I demand the first to-day; in eight days the second; in fifteen days the third.

  “I proportion the importance of my demands to the progress of your suffering, because the more you suffer, the more you will regret me and show yourself docile.

  “Here is my first demand:

  “Send back by the bearer of this note, your nonsuit of all complaint against Captain Horace.

  “Give me by this act a proof of your desire to satisfy me, and then you will be able to hope that you may find again

  Appetite.”

  CHAPTER X.

  WHEN ABBÉ LEDOUX had finished reading this note, he reflected a moment in silence, while the canon, repeating the last words of the letter, said, bitterly:

  “‘And you will be able to hope to find Appetite!’ What cruel irony in this pitiless pun!”

  “That is singular,” said the abbé, thoughtfully. “Did you see the bearer of this note, Dom Diégo?”

  “Did I see him? Could I lose this opportunity to speak of him?”

  “Well?”

  “Ah, well, one would have thought I was speaking Hebrew to this animal. To my most pressing questions, he responded with a stupid air. I was not able to draw from him either the address or the name of the person who had sent me the note.”

  “And so, canon, it is in obedience to this letter that you have renounced your complaint against this renegade Captain Horace.”

  “Yes, because I hoped, by my deference to the desires of him who holds my life in his hands, to soften his heart of stone, but alas! this concession has not touched him.”

  “But what relations can exist between this accursed cook and Captain Horace?” said Abbé Ledoux, still absorbed in thought. “Some intrigue is hidden there.”

  Then after another silence he added:

  “Dom Diégo, listen to me; I will not tell you to abandon the hope that some day you may have in your service this cook whom you prize so highly. I shall not insist upon the dangers which threaten your eternal salvation in consequence of your persistent and abominable gluttony; you are at this moment in such a state of excitement that you would not comprehend it.”

  “I fear so, abbé”

  “I am sure of it, canon. I will deal then with you as we deal, permit me to say it, with monomaniacs. I will for the present put myself in your place, extraordinary as it may seem, and I must tell you that you have done exactly the contrary of what you ought to have done, if you wish to gain power over this man, who, as you say, controls your destiny.”

  “Explain yourself, my dear abbé.”

  “After all you have confided to me, evidently this cook has no need of a position; having learned of your favourite vice, he has only sought a pretext for introducing himself into your house; his connivance with Captain Horace only proves, do you not see, that their plan was arranged beforehand, and they proposed to use your love of eating as a means of gaining influence over you.”

  “Great God!” cried Dom Diégo, “that is a ray of light!”

  “Do you confess your blindness now?”

  “What an infernal plot! What atrocious Machiavellism
!” murmured the canon, thoroughly frightened.

  Then he added, with a sigh of dejection, full of bitterness:

  “Such dissimulation! Such perfidy united to such beautiful genius! Oh, humanity! Oh, humanity!”

  “Let me continue,” replied the abbé. “You have already, by your unworthy weakness, deprived yourself of one of the three means by which you might have controlled this great cook, since, as he has had the effrontery to warn you beforehand, there are yet two others he intends to exact from you, and he counts on your deplorable readiness to yield, to obtain them. Now, this end once attained, he will laugh at you, and you will see him no more.”

  “Abbé, that is impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “I tell you, abbé, such treason is impossible. You surely do not believe that men are ferocious beasts, — monsters.”

  “I believe, canon,” replied the abbé, with a shrug of the shoulders, “I believe that a cook who gives gratis wines at one or two louis a bottle—”

  “Wait, pray,” interrupted Dom Diégo. “Neither one, nor two, nor six louis would pay the cost of such wines. They were nectar, abbé, they were ambrosia, I tell you!”

  “All the more reason, canon; a cook who is so prodigal of such costly ambrosia has no need of hiring himself for wages, I imagine.”

  “I not only offered him wages, I offered him, also, my friendship, — think of it, abbé, I said to this perfidious monster, ‘Friend, I will not be your master, I will be your admirer.’”

  “You see that he cared as little for your friendship as for your admiration.”

  “Ah, that would be an ingrate, indeed!”

  “That may be; but if you wish, in your turn, to put this ingrate at your feet, there is a way for you to do so.”

  “To put him at my feet! Oh, abbé, if you could work this miracle! but, no, no, you are without pity, you play upon my credulity.”

  “The miracle is very simple; refuse absolutely all that this man demands of you, because if he has no need of your friendship or your admiration, he has evidently great need of your leaving off your suit against this Captain Horace. Refuse that, and you will hold your man. I do not know for how long a time you will hold him, but you will hold him. We will see afterward how to prolong your power. I am, you see, a man of wise counsel.”

  “Abbé, you open my eyes, you are right; in refusing his demands, I shall force him to return to me.”

  “Well, do you agree to it?”

  “I was blind, silly! But what do you want, abbé? Despair, inanition! The stomach reacts so terribly on the brain. Ah, why was I so weak as to sign this nonsuit?”

  “It is time to recall it.”

  “You think so, abbé?”

  “I am certain of it. I know persons who are very influential with the magistracy.”

  “What an opportunity, abbé, what an opportunity!”

  “We have friends everywhere. Now, listen to what is necessary for you to do. You go at once and present your complaint in legal form; we will attest it immediately at the bar of the king’s attorney. We will say to him that the other day when you were in a condition of suffering and wholly irresponsible, you signed the nonsuit, but reflecting upon the sacrilegious crime of Captain Horace, you would fail in your double character of canon and guardian if you did not deliver this criminal to the rigour of the law. Begin by this act of decision and you will soon see this insolent cook, who dictates his orders to you, humble and submissive to your will.”

  “Abbé, dear abbé, you have saved my life.”

  “Wait, that is not all. This mysterious unknown, who interests himself so much in Captain Horace, must also interest himself in the captain’s marriage with your niece. Evidently this intrigue concerns that, because, understand me, I wager a hundred to one that one of the two things which this impertinent cook reserves to ask of you is your consent to this marriage.”

  “What a depth of villainy!” cried the canon. “What diabolical plotting! There is no longer room for doubt, abbé, such was the plan of this miserable creature. Oh, if in my turn I could only get him in my power!”

  “The way is very easy, and whatever may be the cause of it, after the various ramifications of this dark intrigue, of which your niece is the end, you must see that there would be grave dangers in leaving her in Paris, and whatever course you may take in regard to this—”

  “She shall enter a convent,” interrupted the canon, “that is my intention at all hazards; she has already caused me enough worry, enough care. I do not like to play the rôle of a guardian in a comedy.”

  “Your niece, then, will enter a convent; but to leave her in Paris is to expose her to the plotting of Captain Horace and his friends, and you know their audacity. Perhaps they will abduct her a second time. Imagine what new sorrow that would bring to you.”

  “But where shall I send this accursed girl?”

  “Let her depart for Lyons to-day, even; we have an excellent house in that city, once entered there it would be impossible for her to communicate with the outside. Now, see what we are going to do. The first thing is to go at once to the Palais de Justice; there I shall find an influential person who will recommend me to the king’s attorney, in whose hands you will lodge your complaint. After that we will hasten to the convent; among the livery hacks there is always a carriage ready for an emergency; one of our sisters and a steady and resolute man will accompany your niece; you will give your orders to them; in two hours she will be on the route to Lyons, and before the end of the day Captain Horace will be locked in jail, because, as he believes your complaint is withdrawn, he will come out of the retreat which we have not been able to discover. Once this miscreant arrested, and your niece out of Paris, you will see my Lord Appetite run to you, and with a little address — I will help you if you wish it — you will have him at your mercy, and can do with him as you please.”

  “Dear abbé, you are my saviour!” cried the canon, rising from his seat, his face radiant with hope. “You are a superior man; Father Benoit told me so in Cadiz. Let us go, let us go. I abandon myself blindly to your counsels; everything tells me they are excellent, and that they will place him, who is an angel and a demon to me, in my power for ever.”

  “Let us go, then, my dear Dom Diégo,” said the abbé, hastily putting on his hat, and dragging the canon by the arm.

  The moment the canon opened the door of the parlour, he found himself face to face with Doctor Gasterini, who familiarly entered the saintly man’s house without announcement.

  The abbé was just going to address a word to the doctor, when at a cry from the canon he turned abruptly and saw Dom Diégo, pale, motionless, his gaze fixed, and his hands clasped, and his face expressing all the contradictions of stupor, doubt, anguish, and hope. Finally, addressing the abbé, who comprehended nothing of this sudden emotion, the canon pointed to the doctor and stammered, in a broken voice, “It — is — he.”

  But Dom Diégo was not able to say more, and overcome by emotion he sat down heavily in a chair, closed his eyes, and fell over in utter weakness.

  “The devil! the canon here!” said Doctor Gasterini to himself. “Cursed accident!”

  Abbé Ledoux, at the sight of Dom Diégo’s collapse, — a pathetic picture, — turned to the doctor, and said:

  “I think, really, the canon must be ill. What is the matter with him? Your arrival is fortunate, my dear doctor; wait, — here is a vial of salts, it will assist his breathing.”

  Hardly was the bottle placed to the nostrils of the canon when he sneezed violently, with a cavernous bellowing, then coming out of his fainting fit, but not having the strength to rise, he turned his languid eyes, suffused with tears, to the doctor, and said, with an accent which he wished to be stern, but which was only tender:

  “Ah, cruel man!”

  “Cruel!” said the abbé, bewildered, “why do you call the doctor cruel, Dom Diégo?”

  “Yes,” interposed the physician, perfectly calm and smiling, “what cr
uelty can you accuse me of, sir?”

  “You ask that, you ingrate!” said the canon. “You dare ask that!”

  “What! you call the doctor an ingrate!” said the abbé.

  “The doctor!” said the canon, “what doctor?”

  “Why, my friend, the man to whom you are speaking,” said the abbé, “my friend standing there, Doctor Gasterini.”

  “He!” cried the canon, rising abruptly. “I tell you that is my tempter, my seducer!”

  “The devil! he sees him everywhere,” said the abbé, impatiently. “I repeat it to you that the gentleman is Doctor Gasterini, my friend.”

  “And I repeat to you, abbé,” cried Dom Diégo, “that the gentleman is the great cook of whom I have spoken to you!”

  “Doctor,” said the abbé, earnestly, “in the name of Heaven, do explain this blunder.”

  “There is no blunder at all, my dear abbé.”

  “What?”

  “The canon speaks the truth,” replied Doctor Gasterini. “Day before yesterday I had the pleasure of preparing a dish for him; for, in order to have the honour of calling yourself a glutton, you must have a practical acquaintance with the culinary art.”

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE ABBÉ, AMAZED, looked at Doctor Gasterini, unable to believe what he had heard; at last he said:

  “What! you, doctor, have cooked dishes for Dom Diégo? You! you?”

  “Yes, I, my dear abbé.”

  “A doctor,” exclaimed the canon, in his turn amazed, “a physician?”

  “Yes, canon,” replied Doctor Gasterini, “I am a physician, which does not prevent my being a passable cook.”

  “Passable!” cried the canon, “say rather, divine! But what means this—”

  “I comprehend all!” replied Abbé Ledoux, after having remained silent and thoughtful a moment, “the plot was skilfully contrived.”

  “What is it that you comprehend, abbé? Of what plot are you talking?” said the canon, who, after his first astonishment, began to wonder how a physician could be such an extraordinary cook. “I pray you explain yourself, abbé!”