Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “I must tell you, reverend father, so as not to take you by surprise,” added Dr. Baleinier, “that this operation is cruelly painful.”

  Rodin shrugged his shoulders and wrote with a firm hand: “Leave me my head; you may take all the rest.”

  The doctor read these words aloud, and the cardinal and Father d’Aigrigny looked at each other in admiration of this dauntless courage.

  “Reverend father,” said Dr. Baleinier, “you must lie down.”

  Rodin wrote: “Get everything ready. I have still some orders to write. Let me know when it is time.”

  Then folding up a paper, which he had sealed with a wafer, Rodin gave these words to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send this note instantly to the agent who addressed the anonymous letters to Marshal Simon.”

  “Instantly, reverend father,” replied the abbe; “I will employ a sure messenger.”

  “Reverend father,” said Baleinier to Rodin, “since you must write, lie down in bed, and write there, during our little preparations.”

  Rodin made an affirmative gesture, and rose. But already the prognostics of the doctor were realized. The Jesuit could hardly remain standing for a second; he fell back into a chair, and looked at Dr. Baleinier with anguish, whilst his breathing became more and more difficult.

  The doctor said to him: “Do not be uneasy. But we must make haste. Lean upon me and Father d’Aigrigny.”

  Aided by these two supporters, Rodin was able to regain the bed. Once there, he made signs that they should bring him pen, ink, and paper. Then he continued to write upon his knees, pausing from time to time, to breathe with great difficulty.

  “Reverend father,” said Baleinier to d’Aigrigny, “are you capable of acting as one of my assistants in the operation? Have you that sort of courage?”

  “No,” said the reverend father; “in the army I could never assist at an amputation. The sight of blood is too much for me.”

  “There will be no blood,” said the doctor, “but it will be worse. Please send me three of our reverend fathers to assist me, and ask M. Rousselet to bring in the apparatus.”

  Father d’Aigrigny went out. The prelate approached the doctor, and whispered, pointing to Rodin: “Is he out of danger?”

  “If he stands the operation — yes, my lord.”

  “Are you sure that he can stand it?”

  “To him I should say ‘yes,’ to you ‘I hope so.’”

  “And were he to die, would there be time to administer the sacraments in public, with a certain pomp, which always causes some little delay?”

  “His dying may continue, my lord — a quarter of an hour.”

  “It is short, but we must be satisfied with that,” said the prelate.

  And, going to one of the windows, he began to tap with his fingers on the glass, while he thought of the illumination effects, in the event of Rodin’s lying in state. At this moment, Rousselet entered, with a large square box under his arm. He placed it on the drawers, and began to arrange his apparatus.

  “How many have you prepared?” said the doctor.

  “Six, sir.”

  “Four will do, but it is well to be fully provided. The cotton is not too thick?”

  “Look, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  “And how is the reverend father?” asked the pupil.

  “Humph!” answered the doctor, in a whisper. “The chest is terribly clogged, the respiration hissing, the voice gone — still there is a change.”

  “All my fear is, sir, that the reverend father will not be able to stand the dreadful pain.”

  “It is another chance; but, under the circumstances, we must risk all. Come, my dear boy, light the — taper; I hear our assistants.”

  Just then Father d’Aigrigny entered the room, accompanied by the three Jesuits, who, in the morning, had walked in the garden. The two old men, with their rosy cheeks, and the young one, with the ascetic countenance, all three dressed in black, with their square caps and white bands, appeared perfectly ready to assist Dr. Baleinier in his formidable operation.

  CHAPTER XXX. THE TORTURE.

  “REVEREND FATHERS,” SAID Dr. Baleinier, graciously, to the three, “I thank you for your kind aid. What you have to do is very simple, and, by the blessing of heaven, this operation will save the life of our dear Father Rodin.”

  The three black-gowns cast up their eyes piously, and then bowed altogether, like one man. Rodin, indifferent to what was passing around him, never ceased an instant to write or reflect. Nevertheless, in spite of his apparent calmness, he felt such difficulty in breathing, that more than once Dr. Baleinier had turned round uneasily, as he heard the stifled rattling in the throat of the sick man. Making a sign to his pupil, the doctor approached Rodin and said to him: “Come, reverend father; this is the important moment. Courage!”

  No sign of alarm was expressed in the Jesuit’s countenance. His features remained impassible as those of a corpse. Only, his little reptile eyes sparkled still more brightly in their dark cavities. For a moment, he looked round at the spectators of this scene; then, taking his pen between his teeth, he folded and wafered another letter, placed it on the table beside the bed, and nodded to Dr. Baleinier, as if to say: “I am ready.”

  “You must take off your flannel waistcoat, and your shirt, father.” Rodin hesitated an instant, and the doctor resumed: “It is absolutely necessary, father.”

  Aided by Baleinier, Rodin obeyed, whilst the doctor added, no doubt to spare his modesty: “We shall only require the chest, right and left, my dear father.”

  And now, Rodin, stretched upon his back, with his dirty night-cap still on his head, exposed the upper part of a livid trunk, or rather, the bony cage of a skeleton, for the shadows of the ribs and cartilages encircled the skin with deep, black lines. As for the arms, they resembled bones twisted with cord and covered with tanned parchment.

  “Come, M. Rousselet, the apparatus!” said Baleinier.

  Then addressing the three Jesuits, he added: “Please draw near, gentlemen; what you have to do is very simple, as you will see.”

  It was indeed very simple. The doctor gave to each of his four assistants a sort of little steel tripod about two inches in diameter and three in height; the circular centre of this tripod was filled with cotton; the instrument was held in the left hand by means of a wooden handle. In the right hand each assistant held a small tin tube about eighteen inches long; at one end was a mouthpiece to receive the lips of the operator, and the other spread out so as to form a cover to the little tripod. These preparations had nothing alarming in them. Father d’Aigrigny and the prelate, who looked on from a little distance, could not understand how this operation should be so painful. They soon understood it.

  Dr. Baleinier, having thus provided his four assistants, made them approach Rodin, whose bed had been rolled into the middle of the room. Two of them were placed on one side, two on the other.

  “Now, gentlemen,” said Dr. Baleinier, “set light to the cotton; place the lighted part on the skin of his reverence, by means of the tripod which contains the wick; cover the tripod with the broad part of the tube, and then blow through the other end to keep up the fire. It is very simple, as you see.”

  It was, in fact, full of the most patriarchal and primitive ingenuity. Four lighted cotton rocks, so disposed as to burn very slowly, were applied to the two sides of Rodin’s chest. This is vulgarly called the moxa. The trick is done, when the whole thickness of the skin has been burnt slowly through. It lasts seven or eight minutes. They say that an amputation is nothing to it. Rodin had watched the preparations with intrepid curiosity. But, at the first touch of the four fires, he writhed like a serpent, without being able to utter a cry. Even the expression of pain was denied him. The four assistants being disturbed by, the sudden start of Rodin, it was necessary to begin again.

  “Courage, my dear father! offer these sufferings to the Lord!” said Dr. Baleinier, in a sanctified tone. “I told you the operation would be
very painful; but then it is salutary in proportion. Come; you that have shown such decisive resolution, do not fail at the last movement!”

  Rodin had closed his eyes, conquered by the first agony of pain. He now opened them, and looked at the doctor as if ashamed of such weakness. And yet on the sides of his chest were four large, bleeding wounds — so violent had been the first singe. As he again extended himself on the bed of torture, Rodin made a sign that he wished to write. The doctor gave him the pen, and he wrote as follows, by way of memorandum; “It is better not to lose any time. Inform Baron Tripeaud of the warrant issued against Leonard, so that he may be on his guard.”

  Having written this note, the Jesuit gave it to Dr. Baleinier, to hand it to Father d’Aigrigny, who was as much amazed as the doctor and the cardinal, at such extraordinary presence of mind in the midst of such horrible pain. Rodin, with his eyes fixed on the reverend father, seemed to wait with impatience for him to leave the room to execute his orders. Guessing the thought of Rodin, the doctor whispered Father d’Aigrigny, who went out.

  “Come, reverend father,” said the doctor, “we must begin again. This time do not move.”

  Rodin did not answer, but clasped his hands over his head, closed his eyes, and presented his chest. It was a strange, lugubrious, almost fantastic spectacle. The three priests, in their long black gowns, leaned over this body, which almost resembled a corpse, and blowing through their tubes into the chest of the patient, seemed as if pumping up his blood by some magic charm. A sickening odor of burnt flesh began to spread through the silent chamber, and each assistant heard a slight crackling beneath the smoking trivet; it was the skin of Rodin giving way to the action of fire, and splitting open in four different parts of his chest. The sweat poured from his livid face, which it made to shine; a few locks of his gray hair stood up stiff and moist from his temples. Sometimes the spasms were so violent, that the veins swelled on his stiffened arms, and were stretched like cords ready to break.

  Enduring this frightful torture with as much intrepid resignation as the savage whose glory consists in despising pain, Rodin gathered his strength and courage from the hope — we had almost said the certainty — of life. Such was the make of this dauntless character, such the energy of this powerful mind, that, in the midst of indescribable torments, his one fixed idea never left him. During the rare intervals of suffering — for pain is equal even at this degree of intensity — Rodin still thought of the Rennepont inheritance, and calculated his chances, and combined his measures, feeling that he had not a minute to lose. Dr. Baleinier watched him with extreme attention, waiting for the effects of the reaction of pain upon the patient, who seemed already to breathe with less difficulty.

  Suddenly Rodin placed his hand on his forehead, as if struck with some new idea, and turning his head towards Dr. Baleinier, made a sign to him to suspend the operation.

  “I must tell you, reverend father,” answered the doctor, “that it is not half finished, and, if we leave off, the renewal will be more painful—”

  Rodin made a sign that he did not care, and that he wanted to write.

  “Gentlemen, stop a moment,” said Dr. Baleinier; “keep down your moxas, but do not blow the fire.”

  So the fire was to burn slowly, instead of fiercely, but still upon the skin of the patient. In spite of this pain, less intense, but still sharp and keen, Rodin, stretched upon his back, began to write, holding the paper above his head. On the first sheet he traced some alphabetic signs, part of a cipher known to himself alone. In the midst of the torture, a luminous idea had crossed his mind; fearful of forgetting it amidst his sufferings, he now took note of it. On another paper he wrote the following, which was instantly delivered to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send B. immediately to Faringhea, for the report of the last few days with regard to Djalma, and let B. bring it hither on the instant.” Father d’Aigrigny went out to execute this new order. The cardinal approached a little nearer to the scene of the operation, for, in spite of the bad odor of the room, he took delight in seeing the Jesuit half roasted, having long cherished against him the rancor of an Italian and a priest.

  “Come, reverend father,” said the doctor to Rodin, “continue to be admirably courageous, and your chest will free itself. You have still a bitter moment to go through — and then I have good hope.”

  The patient resumed his former position. The moment Father d’Aigrigny returned, Rodin questioned him with a look, to which the reverend father replied by a nod. At a sign from the doctor, the four assistants began to blow through the tubes with all their might. This increase of torture was so horrible, that, in spite of his self-control, Rodin gnashed his teeth, started convulsively, and so expanded his palpitating chest, that, after a violent spasm, there rose from his throat and lungs a scream of terrific pain — but it was free, loud, sonorous.

  “The chest is free!” cried the doctor, in triumph. “The lungs have play — the voice returns — he is saved! — Blow, gentlemen, blow; and, reverend father, cry out as much as you please: I shall be delighted to hear you, for it will give you relief. Courage! I answer for the result. It is a wonderful cure. I will publish it by sound of trumpet.”

  “Allow me, doctor,” whispered Father d’Aigrigny, as he approached Dr. Baleinier; “the cardinal can witness, that I claimed beforehand the publication of this affair — as a miraculous fact.”

  “Let it be miraculous then,” answered Dr. Baleinier, disappointed — for he set some value on his own work.

  On hearing he was saved, Rodin though his sufferings were perhaps worse than ever, for the fire had now pierced the scarf-skin, assumed almost an infernal beauty. Through the painful contraction of his features shone the pride of savage triumph; the monster felt that he was becoming once more strong and powerful, and he seemed conscious the evils that his fatal resurrection was to cause. And so, of still writhing beneath the flames, he pronounced these words, the first that struggled from his chest: “I told you I should live!”

  “You told us true,” cried the doctor, feeling his pulse; “the circulation is now full and regular, the lungs are free. The reaction is complete. You are saved.”

  At this moment, the last shreds of cotton had burnt out. The trivets were withdrawn, and on the skeleton trunk of Rodin were seen four large round blisters. The skin still smoked, and the raw flesh was visible beneath. In one of his sudden movements, a lamp had been misplaced, and one of these burns was larger than the other, presenting as it were to the eye a double circle. Rodin looked down upon his wounds. After some seconds of silent contemplation, a strange smile curled his lips. Without changing his position, he glanced at Father d’Aigrigny with an expression impossible to describe, and said to him, as he slowly counted the wounds touching them with his flat and dirty nail: “Father d’Aigrigny, what an omen! — Look here! one Rennepont — two Renneponts — three Renneponts — four Renneponts — where is then the fifth! — Ah! here — this wound will count for two. They are twins.”(41) And he emitted a little dry, bitter laugh. Father d’Aigrigny, the cardinal, and Dr. Baleinier, alone understood the sense of these mysterious and fatal words, which Rodin soon completed by a terrible allusion, as he exclaimed, with prophetic voice, and almost inspired air: “Yes, I say it. The impious race will be reduced to ashes, like the fragments of this poor flesh. I say it, and it will be so. I said I would live — and I do live!”

  (41) Jacques Rennepont being dead, and Gabriel out of the field, in consequence of his donation, there remained only five persons of the family — Rose and Blanche, Djalma, Adrienne, and Hardy.

  CHAPTER XXXI. VICE AND VIRTUE.

  TWO DAYS HAVE elapsed since Rodin was miraculously restored to life. The reader will not have forgotten the house in the Rue Clovis, where the reverend father had an apartment, and where also was the lodging of Philemon, inhabited by Rose-Pompon. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon. A bright ray of light, penetrating through a round hole in the door Mother Arsene’s subterraneous shop, forms a striki
ng contrast with the darkness of this cavern. The ray streams full upon a melancholy object. In the midst of fagots and faded vegetables, and close to a great heap of charcoal, stands a wretched bed; beneath the sheet, which covers it, can be traced the stiff and angular proportions of a corpse. It is the body of Mother Arsene herself, who died two days before, of the cholera. The burials have been so numerous, that there has been no time to remove her remains. The Rue Clovis is almost deserted. A mournful silence reigns without, often broken by the sharp whistling of the north wind. Between the squalls, one hears a sort of pattering. It is the noise of the large rats, running to and fro across the heap of charcoal.

  Suddenly, another sound is heard, and these unclean animals fly to hide themselves in their holes. Some one is trying to force open the door, which communicates between the shop and the passage. It offers but little resistance, and, in a few seconds, the worn-out lock gives way, and a woman enters. For a short time she stands motionless in the obscurity of the damp and icy cave. After a minute’s hesitation, the woman advances and the ray of light illumines the features of the Bacchanal Queen. Slowly, she approached the funeral couch. Since the death of Jacques, the alteration in the countenance of Cephyse had gone on increasing. Fearfully pale, with her fine black hair in disorder, her legs and feet naked, she was barely covered with an old patched petticoat and a very ragged handkerchief.

  When she came near the bed, she cast a glance of almost savage assurance at the shroud. Suddenly she drew back, with a low cry of involuntary terror. The sheet moved with a rapid undulation, extending from the feet to the head of the corpse. But soon the sight of a rat, flying along the side of the worm-eaten bedstead, explained the movement of the shroud. Recovering from her fright, Cephyse began to look for several things, and collected them in haste, as though she dreaded being surprised in the miserable shop. First, she seized a basket, and filled it with charcoal; then, looking from side to side, she discovered in a corner an earthen pot, which she took with a burst of ominous joy.