by Eugène Sue
The piercing glance and broad forehead of this man revealed a powerful intellect, even as the development of his chest and shoulders announced a vigorous physical organization; whilst his gentlemanly appearance, the perfection of his gloves and boots, the light perfume which hung about his hair and person, the grace and ease of his least movements, betrayed what is called the man of the world, and left the impression that he had sought or might still seek every kind of success, from the most frivolous to the most serious. This rare combination of strength of mind, strength of body, and extreme elegance of manners, was in this instance rendered still more striking by the circumstance, that whatever there might be of haughtiness or command in the upper part of that energetic countenance, was softened down, and tempered by a constant but not uniform smile — for, as occasion served, this smile became either kind or sly, cordial or gay, discreet or prepossessing, and thus augmented the insinuating charm of this man, who, once seen, was never again forgotten. But, in yielding to this involuntary sympathy, the doubt occurred if the influence was for good — or for evil.
M. Rodin, the secretary of the newcomer, continued to write.
“Are there any letters from Dunkirk, Rodin?” inquired his master.
“Post not yet in.”
“Without being positively uneasy as to my mother’s health, since she was already convalescent,” resumed the other, “I shall only be quite reassured by a letter from my excellent friend, the Princess de Saint Dizier. I shall have good news this morning, I hope.”
“It is to be desired,” said the secretary, as humble and submissive as he was laconic and impassible.
“Certainly it is to be desired,” resumed his master; “for one of the brightest days of my life was when the Princess de Saint-Dizier announced to me that this sudden and dangerous illness had yielded to the care and attention with which she surrounds my mother. Had it not been for that I must have gone down to her instantly, though my presence here is very necessary.”
Then, approaching the desk, he added: “Is the summary of the foreign correspondence complete?”
“Here is the analysis.”
“The letters are still sent under envelope to the places named, and are then brought here as I directed?”
“Always.”
“Read to me the notes of this correspondence; if there are any letters for me to answer, I will tell you.” And Rodin’s master began to walk up and down the room, with his hands crossed behind his back, dictating observations of which Rodin took careful note.
The secretary turned to a pretty large pile of papers, and thus began:
“Don Raymond Olivarez acknowledges from Cadiz receipt of letter No.19; he will conform to it, and deny all share in the abduction.”
“Very well; file it.”
“Count Romanoff, of Riga, finds himself in a position of pecuniary embarrassment.”
“Let Duplessis send him fifty louis; I formerly served as captain in his regiment, and he has since given us good information.”
“They have received at Philadelphia the last cargo of Histories of France, expurgated for the use of the faithful they require some more of the same sort.”
“Take note of it, and write to Duplessis. Go on.”
“M. Spindler sends from Namur the secret report on M. Ardouin.”
“To be examined.”
“M. Ardouin sends from the same town the secret report on M. Spindler.”
“To be examined.”
“Doctor Van Ostadt, of the same town, sends a confidential note on the subject of Messrs. Spindler and Ardouin.”
“To be compared. Go on!”
“Count Malipierri, of Turin, announces that the donation of 300,000 francs is signed.”
“Inform Duplessis. What next?”
“Don Stanislaus has just quitted the waters of Baden with Queen Marie Ernestine. He informs us that her majesty will receive with gratitude the promised advices, and will answer them with her own hand.”
“Make a note of it. I will myself write to the queen.”
Whilst Rodin was inscribing a few remarks on the margin of the paper, his master, continuing to walk up and down the room, found himself opposite to the globe marked with little red crosses, and stood contemplating it for a moment with a pensive air.
Rodin continued: “In consequence of the state of the public mind in certain parts of Italy, where sundry agitators have turned their eyes in the direction of France, Father Arsenio writes from Milan, that it would be of importance to distribute profusely in that country, some little book, in which the French would be represented as impious and debauched, rapacious and bloody.”
“The idea is excellent. We might turn to good account the excesses committed by our troops in Italy during the wars of the Republic. You must employ Jacques Dumoulin to write it. He is full of gall, spite, and venom: the pamphlet will be scorching. Besides, I may furnish a few notes; but you must not pay Dumoulin till after delivery of the manuscript.”
“That is well understood: for, if we were to pay him beforehand, he would be drunk for a week in some low den. It was thus we had to pay him twice over for his virulent attack on the pantheistic tendencies of Professor Martin’s philosophy.”
“Take note of it — and go on!”
“The merchant announces that the clerk is about to send the banker to give in his accounts. You understand?’ added Rodin, after pronouncing these words with a marked emphasis.
“Perfectly,” said the other, with a start; “they are but the expressions agreed on. What next?”
“But the clerk,” continued the secretary, “is restrained by a last scruple.”
After a moment’s silence, during which the features of Rodin’s master worked strongly, he thus resumed: “They must continue to act on the clerk’s mind by silence and solitude; then, let him read once more the list of cases in which regicide is authorized and absolved. Go on!”
“The woman Sydney writes from Dresden, that she waits for instructions. Violent scenes of jealousy on her account have again taken place between the father and son; but neither from these new bursts of mutual hatred, nor from the confidential communications which each has made to her against his rival, has she yet been able to glean the information required. Hitherto, she has avoided giving the preference to one or the other; but, should this situation be prolonged, she fears it may rouse their suspicion. Which ought she then to choose — the father or the son?”
“The son — for jealous resentment will be much more violent and cruel in the old man, and, to revenge himself for the preference bestowed upon his son, he will perhaps tell what they have both such an interest to conceal. The next?”
“Within the last three years, two maid-servants of Ambrosius whom we placed in that little parish in the mountains of the Valais, have disappeared, without any one knowing what has become of them. A third has just met with the same fate. The Protestants of the country are roused — talk of murder with frightful attendant circumstances—”
“Until there is proof positive and complete of the fact, Ambrosius must be defended against these infamous calumnies, the work of a party that never shrinks from; monstrous inventions. Go on!”
“Thompson, of Liverpool, has at length succeeded in procuring for Justin the place of agent or manager to Lord Stewart, a rich Irish Catholic, whose head grows daily weaker.”
“Let the fact be once verified, and Thompson shall have a premium of fifty louis. Make a note of it for Duplessis. Proceed.”
“Frantz Dichstein, of Vienna,” resumed Rodin, “announces that his father has just died of the cholera, in a little village at some leagues from that city: for the epidemic continues to advance slowly, coming from the north of Russia by way of Poland.”
“It is true,” said Rodin’s master, interrupting him; “may its terrible march be stayed, and France be spared.”
“Frantz Dichstein,” resumed Rodin, “says that his two brothers are determined to contest the donation made by his fat
her, but that he is of an opposite opinion.”
“Consult the two persons that are charged with all matters of litigation. What next?”
“The Cardinal Prince d’Amalfi will conform to the three first points of the proposal: he demands to make a reservation upon the fourth point.”
“No reserve! — Either full and absolute acceptance — or else war — and (mark me well) war without mercy — on him and his creatures. Go on!”
“Fra Paolo announces that the Prince Boccari, chief of a redoubtable secret society, in despair at seeing his friends accuse him of treachery, in consequence of suspicions excited in their minds by Fra Paolo himself, has committed suicide.”
“Boccari! is it possible?” cried Rodin’s master. “Boccari! the patriot Boccari! so dangerous a person!”
“The patriot Boccari,” repeated the impassible secretary.
“Tell Duplessis to send an order for five-and-twenty louis to Fra Paolo. Make a note of it.”
“Hausman informs us that the French dancer, Albertine Ducornet, is the mistress of the reigning prince; she has the most complete influence over him, and it would be easy through her means to arrive at the end proposed, but that she is herself governed by her lover (condemned in France as a forger), and that she does nothing without consulting him.”
“Let Hausman get hold of this man — if his claims are reasonable, accede to them — and learn if the girl has any relations in Paris.”
“The Duke d’Orbano announces, that the king his master will authorize the new establishment, but on the conditions previously stated.”
“No condition! — either a frank adhesion or a positive refusal. Let us know our friends from our enemies. The more unfavorable the circumstances, the more we must show firmness, and overbear opposition by confidence in ourselves.”
“The same also announces, that the whole of the corps diplomatique continues to support the claims of the father of that young Protestant girl, who refuses to quit the convent where she has taken refuge, unless it be to marry her lover against her father’s will.”
“Ah! the corps diplomatique continues to remonstrate in the father’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Then, continue to answer, that the spiritual power has nothing to do with the temporal.”
At this moment, the bell of the outer door again sounded twice. “See who it is,” said Rodin’s master; and the secretary rose and left the room. The other continued to walk thoughtfully up and down, till, coming near to the huge globe, he stopped short before it.
For some time he contemplated, in profound silence, the innumerable little red crosses, which appeared to cover, as with an immense net, all the countries of the earth. Reflecting doubtless on the invisible action of his power, which seemed to extend over the whole world, the features of this man became animated, his large gray eye sparkled, his nostrils swelled, and his manly countenance assumed an indescribable expression of pride, energy, and daring. With haughty brow and scornful lip, he drew still nearer to the globe, and leaned his strong hand upon the pole.
This powerful pressure, an imperious movement, as of one taking possession, seemed to indicate, that he felt sure of governing this globe, on which he looked down from the height of his tall figure, and on which he rested his hand with so lofty and audacious an air of sovereignty.
But now he no longer smiled. His eye threatened, and his large forehead was clad with a formidable scowl. The artist, who had wished to paint the demon of craft and pride, the infernal genius of insatiable domination, could not have chosen a more suitable model.
When Rodin returned, the face of his master had recovered its ordinary expression. “It is the postman,” said Rodin, showing the letters which he held in his hand; “there is nothing from Dunkirk.”
“Nothing?” cried his master — and his painful emotion formed a strange contrast to his late haughty and implacable expression of countenance— “nothing? no news of my mother? — Thirty-six hours more, then, of anxiety.”
“It seems to me, that, if the princess had bad news to give, she would have written. Probably the improvement goes on.”
“You are doubtless right, Rodin — but no matter — I am far from easy. If, to-morrow, the news should not be completely satisfactory, I set out for the estate of the princess. Why would my mother pass the autumn in that part of the country? The environs of Dunkirk do not, I fear, agree with her.”
After a few moments’ silence, he added, as he continued to walk: “Well — these letters — whence are they?”
Rodin looked at the post-marks, and replied: “Out of the four there are three relative to the great and important affairs of the medals.”
“Thank heaven! — provided the news be favorable,” cried his master, with an expression of uneasiness, which showed how much importance he attached to this affair.
“One is from Charlestown, and no doubt relative to Gabriel, the missionary,” answered Rodin; “this other from Batavia, and no doubt concerns the Indian, Djalma. The third is from Leipsic, and will probably confirm that received yesterday, in which the lion-tamer, Morok, informed us, that, in accordance with his orders, and without his being compromised in any way, the daughters of General Simon would not be able to continue their journey.”
At the name of General Simon, a cloud passed over the features of Rodin’s master.
CHAPTER XVI. THE ORDERS.
THE PRINCIPAL HOUSES correspond with that in Paris; they are also in direct communication with the General, who resides at Rome. The correspondence of the Jesuits so active, various, and organized in so wonderful a manner, has for its object to supply the heads with all the information they can require. Every day, the General receives a host of reports, which serve to check one another. In the central house, at Rome, are immense registers, in which are inscribed the names of all the Jesuits, of their adherents, and of all the considerable persons, whether friends or enemies, with whom they have any connection. In these registers are reported, without alteration, hatred or passion the facts relating to the life of each individual. It is the most gigantic biographical collection that has ever been formed. The frailties of a woman, the secret errors of a statesman, are chronicled in this book with the same cold impartiality. Drawn up for the purpose of being useful, these biographies are necessarily exact. When the Jesuits wish to influence an individual, they have but to turn to this book, and they know immediately his life, his character, his parts, his faults, his projects, his family, his friends, his most sacred ties. Conceive, what a superior facility of action this immense police-register, which includes the whole world, must give to any one society! It is not lightly that I speak of these registers; I have my facts from a person who has seen this collection, and who is perfectly well acquainted with the Jesuits. Here then, is matter to reflect on for all those families, who admit freely into their houses the members of a community that carries its biographical researches to such a point. (Libri, Member of the Institute. Letters on the Clergy.)
When he had conquered the involuntary emotion which the name or remembrance of General Simon had occasioned, Rodin’s master said to the secretary: “Do not yet open the letters from Leipsic, Charlestown, and Batavia; the information they contain will doubtless find its place presently. It will save our going over the same ground twice.”
The secretary looked inquiringly at his master.
The latter continued— “Have you finished the note relating to the medals?”
“Here it is,” replied the secretary; “I was just finishing my interpretation of the cipher.”
“Read it to me, in the order of the facts. You can append to it the news contained in those three letters.”
“True,” said Rodin; “in that way the letters will find their right place.”
“I wish to see,” rejoined the other, “whether this note is clear and fully explanatory; you did not forget that the person it is intended for ought not to know all?”
“I bore it in mind, and dr
ew up the paper accordingly.”
“Read,” said the master.
M. Rodin read as follows, slowly and deliberately:
“‘A hundred and fifty years ago, a French Protestant family, foreseeing the speedy — revocation of the edict of Nantes, went into voluntary exile, in order to avoid the just and rigorous decrees already issued against the members of the reformed church — those indomitable foes of our holy religion.
“‘Some members of this family sought refuge in Holland, and afterwards in the Dutch colonies; others in Poland, others in Germany; some in England, and some in America.
“‘It is supposed that only seven descendants remain of this family, which underwent strange vicissitudes since; its present representatives are found in all ranks of society, from the sovereign to the mechanic.
“‘These descendants, direct or indirect, are:
“‘On the mother’s side,
“‘Rose and Blanche Simon — minors.
“‘General Simon married, at Warsaw, a descendant of the said family.
“‘Francois Hardy, manufacturer at Plessis, near Paris.
“‘Prince Djalma, son of Kadja-sing, King of Mondi.
“‘Kadja-sing, married, in 1802, a descendant of the said family, then settled at Batavia, in the Island of Java, a Dutch colony.
“‘On the father’s side — Jacques Rennepont, surnamed Sleepinbuff, mechanic.
“‘Adrienne de Cardoville, daughter of the Count of Rennepont, Duke of Cardoville.
“‘Gabriel Rennepont, priest of the foreign missions.
“‘All the members of this family possess, or should possess, a bronze medal bearing the following inscriptions:
Victim
of
L. C. D. J.
Pray for me!
Paris
February the 13th, 1682.
At Paris,
Rue Saint Francois, No. 3,
In a century and a half
you will be.
