Lost Illusions (Penguin Classics) (81 page)

‘I don’t know what title you would give to this educational digest, my son – I’m going to adopt you and make you my heir – but it’s the code for ambitious people. God’s elect are few in number. There’s no choice: either one must bury oneself in a monastery – and there too the world is often to be found in miniature – or one must accept this code.’

‘Perhaps it’s better not to know all that,’ said Lucien in an attempt to sound the spiritual depths of this formidable priest.

‘What!’ the Canon rejoindered. ‘After playing your game without knowing the rules, you would give it up just when you’re holding strong cards, with a dependable sponsor to back you? And don’t you even want to take your revenge? Have you no desire to climb on the backs of the people who chased you from Paris?’

Lucien shuddered, as if these terrible, nerve-shattering sounds came from some bronze instrument or a Chinese gong.

‘I’m only a humble priest,’ the man continued, and a malignant expression appeared on his sun-tanned face. ‘But if I had been humiliated, vexed, tortured, betrayed and sold as you have been by the rogues you told me about, I should feel like an Arab of the desert!… Yes, I would give myself over body and soul to vengeance. I wouldn’t care whether I ended my life on a gibbet, under the rack, impaled or guillotined as they do it in your country. But I wouldn’t let them cut off my head until I’d trampled my enemies underfoot.’

Lucien remained silent. He was no longer anxious to ‘bring the priest out’.

‘Some men descend from Abel, some from Cain,’ said the priest by way of conclusion. ‘I’m a mixture of both: Cain to my enemies, Abel to my friends, and woe to him who awakens the Cain in me!… After all, you’re a Frenchman. I’m a Spaniard and a canon into the bargain!’

‘He’s more of an Arab than anything!’ thought Lucien, scrutinizing the protector that Heaven had just sent him.

The Abbé Carlos Herrera had nothing about him that betokened the Jesuit or any member of a religious order. He was stout and short, with broad hands and broad chest, herculean strength and a glance that terrified, though it could be softened into mildness at will. His bronzed complexion, which allowed nothing to show of what went on inside him, inspired repulsion rather than attachment. A head of fine, long hair, powdered in the Talleyrand style, gave this strange diplomat the appearance of a bishop; moreover his blue ribbon, fringed with white, from which hung a cross of gold, was indicative of an ecclesiastical dignitary. His black silk stockings set off the curve of his athlete’s legs. His exquisitely
spotless clothes bespoke a personal fastidiousness which one does not always find in priests, particularly in Spain. A tricorne figured on the front of his carriage, which was blazoned with the arms of Spain. Although there was much that was repulsive in his physiognomy, this effect was attenuated by his manners which were at once brusque and ingratiating; and it was evident that for Lucien the priest was doing his best to be seductive, wheedling, almost feline. Lucien noted all these details with an anxious air. He felt that this instant must settle the question of life or death for him, for they had come to the second relay stage after Ruffec. The Spanish priest’s latest words had set many chords in his heart vibrating; and, be it said to Lucien’s shame and that of the priest who, with perspicacious eye, was studying the poet’s handsome face, they were the most harshly resonant since they responded to sentiments of depravity. Lucien could see himself in Paris once more, snatching again at the reins of domination which his unskilled hands had let fall, and taking his revenge! The comparisons he had recently been making between provincial and Parisian life – his most urgent motive for suicide – were fading from his mind. He would be back again in congenial surroundings, but this time under the aegis of as deep and wicked a schemer as Cromwell.

‘I was alone before: now there will be two of us,’ he was thinking.

The more he had laid bare his past misdeeds, the more interest the cleric had shown. His indulgence had increased in proportion to Lucien’s misfortunes, and he had shown no astonishment. None the less Lucien wondered about the motives of this conductor of royal intrigues. He first of all took refuge in a commonplace explanation: the generosity of Spaniards! A Spaniard is generous, an Italian will poison you out of jealousy, a Frenchman is frivolous, a German is ingenuous, a Jew is despicable, an Englishman is noble-hearted! Reverse these propositions and you will come nearer to the truth. The Jews have cornered the supply of gold, but they are great composers, great actors, great singers. They build palaces, write works like the
Reisebilder,
they are admirable
poets. They are more powerful now than ever they were; their religion is accepted, and finally they lend money to the Pope! Germans are so given to hair-splitting that in their most trivial dealings with a foreigner they stipulate for a contract. Frenchmen have been clapping their hands for fifty years at the stupidities proffered by their National Theatre; they go on wearing inconceivable hats and only accept a change of government on condition that it remains the same! The English flaunt their perfidiousness in the face of the whole world, and their rapacity is equally horrible. The Spaniards, who once possessed the gold of the two Indies, are penniless. There’s no country in the world where less poisoning takes place than in Italy and where manners are so easy and so courteous. Spaniards have lived much on the reputation of the Moors.

When the Spaniard climbed back into his barouche, he whispered to the postilion: ‘You must go as fast as the mail-coach: three francs for you if you make good speed.’

As Lucien was hesitating to climb in, the priest said: ‘Come along.’ Lucien got in on the pretext of trying an
argumentum ad hominem
on him.

‘Father,’ he said. ‘A man who has just, in the coolest way in the world, reeled off maxims which most middle-class people would regard as profoundly immoral…’

‘They
are
immoral,’ said the priest. ‘That, my son, is what Jesus Christ said: “It must needs be that offences come.” And that is why society shows such great horror at them.’

‘A man of your calibre will not be astonished at the question I am going to put.’

‘Go ahead, my son!’ said Carlos Herrera. ‘You don’t know me. Do you think I would take a secretary before I knew that he was principled enough not to rob me? I’m quite happy about you. You still have all the innocence of a man who’s capable of committing suicide at twenty. What’s your question?’

‘Why are you interested in me? What price are you asking for my obedience? Why are you offering me so much? What do you expect to get out of it?’

The Spaniard looked at Lucien and began to smile.

‘Let’s wait until we get to a hill. We’ll walk up it and talk in the open. In this carriage we might be overheard.’

Silence reigned for some time between the two travellers, and the speed at which they tore along contributed to what we might call Lucien’s moral intoxication.

‘Father, here’s a hill,’ said Lucien, awakening as from a dream.

‘Right! Let’s walk,’ said the priest, shouting to the postilion to halt.

And they both of them jumped down.

‘The Canon knows something about drama too,’ Lucien thought to himself. ‘Have you read Voltaire?’ he asked.

‘I’ve done better than that,’ said the Canon. ‘I put him into practice.’

‘Don’t you believe in God?…’

‘So now I’m the atheist!’ said the priest with a smile. ‘Let’s get down to facts, my boy,’ he went on, putting his arm round Lucien’s waist. ‘I’m forty-six. I’m a nobleman’s natural child, and so I have no family; and yet I have a heart. But learn this, write it down in your impressionable brain: man is terrified of solitude. And of all solitudes, moral solitude is what terrifies him most. The early anchorites lived with God and were inhabitants of the most populous world of all, the spiritual world. Misers live in a world of fantasy and self-gratification. A miser stores everything, even his sex, in his brain. Man’s first thought, whether he’s a leper or a convict, infamous or diseased, is to have someone whose destinies are
wrapped up in his. To satisfy this urge, a vital one, he brings all his strength, all his might, all his energy into play. Without this over-ruling desire, would Satan have found any companions? – One might write a whole poem which would be a curtain-raiser to
Paradise Lost,
itself an apologia for rebellion.’

‘Such a poem would be the
Iliad
of corruption,’ said Lucien.

‘Well now, I am alone and I live alone. Though I wear the habit I have not the heart of a priest. My weakness is self-devotion. I live by self-devotion, and that’s why I’m a priest. I’m not afraid of ingratitude, but I myself am a grateful man. The Church means nothing to me: it’s just an idea. I have devoted myself to the King of Spain; but one cannot love the King of Spain: he’s my protector and lives on a higher plane. I want to love a creation of my own, shape it, mould it to my purposes so that I may love it as a father loves his progeny. I shall ride about in your two-wheeler, my boy, I shall enjoy your successes with women, I shall say: “This handsome young man is myself! This Marquis de Rubempré, I made him and set him in the aristocratic world. His greatness is my work; he speaks or keeps silent at my prompting and consults me on every matter.” That is what the Abbé de Vermont was for Marie-Antoinette.’

‘He brought her to the scaffold!’

‘That’s because he didn’t love the Queen!’ the priest retorted. ‘He only loved the Abbé de Vermont.’

‘Must I leave a trail of desolation behind me?’ said Lucien.

‘I have plenty of money. You can draw on it.’

‘Just now I would do much in order to extricate Séchard,’ Lucien replied in a voice which no longer suggested suicidal intentions.

‘Say one word, my son, and tomorrow he’ll get the money needed to set him free.’

‘What! You would give me twelve thousand francs?’

‘Child that you are! Don’t you see that we’re doing ten miles an hour? We shall dine in Poitiers. There, if you are willing to make this pact with me, to give me one single proof of obedience – I admit it’s asking a lot – well, the stage-coach to Bordeaux will take fifteen thousand francs to your sister.’

‘Where are these fifteen thousand francs?’

The Spanish priest gave no answer, and Lucien thought: ‘I’ve got him there! He was making fun of me.’

A minute later, the Spaniard and Lucien had silently climbed back into the carriage. Silently the priest put his hand into the pocket of his carriage, and drew out of it a leather bag, resembling a game-bag, of the kind divided into three compartments with which travellers are familiar. He pulled out a hundred Portuguese sovereigns, plunging his broad hand into it three times and each time bringing it out filled with gold coins.

‘Father, I’m yours!’ said Lucien, dazzled at the sight of this torrent of gold.

‘Child!’ said the priest, tenderly kissing Lucien on the forehead. ‘That’s only a third part of the money contained in this bag – thirty thousand francs, apart from travelling expenses.’

‘And you travel alone?’

‘What does that matter?’ said the Spaniard. ‘I have drafts on Paris for more than three hundred thousand francs. A diplomat without money is like what you were not so long ago: a poet with no will-power.’

To her question: ‘Has my brother gone out?’ Kolb replied: ‘Yes, Matame, pefore it vass taylight.’

‘Keep absolutely quiet about what I am telling you,’ said Eve to the two servants. ‘My brother has no doubt gone out to put an end to his life. Hurry off both of you, make cautious enquiries and look along the river bank.’

Eve remained alone, in a state of terrible stupefaction.

She was still in the same mental turmoil when Petit-Claud made his appearance, at about seven o’clock, to talk business with her. At such moments as these, one is ready to listen to anybody.

‘Madame,’ said the solicitor, ‘our poor David is in prison and he is coming to the predicament I foresaw at the beginning of this affair. I advised him then to go into partnership with his competitors the Cointets for the exploitation of his invention, since the Cointets are in a position to provide the means for carrying out an enterprise which, as far as your husband is concerned, is only a project as yet. And so, yesterday evening, as soon as I heard of your husband’s arrest, what did I do? I went to Messrs Cointet with the intention of obtaining concessions from them which you would find satisfactory. If you try to safeguard your invention, your life will go on as it is now: nothing but legal wrangles. You’ll lose your battle and in the end, worn-out and disappointed, you’ll come to an arrangement with some moneyed man – to your detriment perhaps – which I should like to see you make – to your advantage – with the Cointet brothers. Thus you will spare yourselves something of the privations and anguish an inventor suffers in his struggle against capitalist greed and the indifference of society. Let’s see now! If the Cointets settle your debts… if, once your debts are paid, they also give you a sum which will be well and duly yours whatever the merit or future prospects of the invention, allotting to you, which goes without saying, a certain share in the profits from exploitation, would you not be in a happy position?

‘You thus become, Madame, owner of the printing-office plant, which no doubt you will sell. It will certainly fetch twenty thousand francs: I can guarantee to find you a purchaser at that price. If by your deed of partnership with the Cointets you acquire fifteen thousand francs, your assets will come to thirty-five thousand francs, and at the present rate of interest that would bring you an income of two thousand francs a year. One can live on that in the provinces. And note also, Madame, that you would still have possible future returns
from the partnership in question. I say “possible”, for the venture might fail. Well then, this is what I am able to obtain: firstly, David’s complete deliverance, secondly fifteen thousand francs as an indemnification for his researches without the Cointets being able to make any sort of counterclaim even if the invention were unproductive, and thirdly a company formed by David and the Cointets for the exploitation of a patent which would be taken out after experiments had been made – jointly and in secret – on his process of manufacture. And it would be formed on the following basis: the Cointet brothers will incur all the expenses, David’s capital contribution will be the purchase of the patent, and he will have one quarter of the profits. You are a woman of good judgement and sound sense – not a usual thing with very beautiful women like you. Think over these proposals and you will find them very acceptable…’

‘Oh, Monsieur!’ poor Eve cried out in desperation, melting into tears. ‘Why did you not come to me yesterday evening to propose this compromise? We should have avoided dishonour and… something much worse besides.’

‘My discussion with the Cointets who, as you must have suspected, are hiding behind Métivier, only ended at midnight. But what then has happened since yesterday evening that could be worse than our poor David’s arrest?’

‘This, is the appalling news I discovered when I got up,’ she replied, holding out Lucien’s letter to Petit-Claud. ‘You are now proving to me that you take an interest in us, that you are a friend to David and Lucien. I’ve no need to ask you to keep this secret.’

‘Don’t worry in the slightest,’ said Petit-Claud, reading and returning the letter. ‘Lucien won’t kill himself. After being the cause of his brother-in-law’s arrest, he had to have some reason for leaving you, and this strikes me as being merely an exit speech in theatrical style.’

The Cointets had achieved their ends. After persecuting the inventor and his family, they were seizing the moment when lassitude resulting from such persecution brings a longing for repose. Not all researchers have the tenacity of the bull-dog
who dies with his prey between his teeth, and the Cointets had methodically studied the characters of their victims. For tall Cointet David’s arrest was the final scene in the first act of this drama. The second act had begun with the proposition that Petit-Claud had just made. Like a skilful player in a game of chess, the solicitor regarded Lucien’s impulsive move as one of those unhoped-for chances which decide the issue. He saw that Eve was so completely put in check by this event that he resolved to make use of it to win her confidence, for now he fully realized the influence she had over her husband. Therefore, instead of plunging Madame Séchard into still deeper despair, he tried to reassure her, and he was clever enough to steer her towards the prison while she was in her present state of mind, believing that, once there, she would persuade David to agree to the partnership with the Cointets.

‘David told me, Madame, that he only wanted to make money for you and your brother, but it must be clear to you now that it would be madness to try and enrich Lucien. That young man would devour three fortunes.’

Eve’s attitude showed plainly enough that the last of her illusions about her brother had vanished, and so the solicitor made a pause in order to convert his client’s silence into a kind of assent.

‘Thus, in this question,’ he resumed, ‘you and your child are alone concerned. It’s for you to decide if an income of two thousand francs is enough to make you happy, without counting what you will inherit from old Séchard. Your father-in-law has long since been piling up an income of seven or eight thousand francs irrespective of the interest he draws from his capital. So after all you have a fine future before you. Why worry?’

The solicitor left Madame Séchard to reflect on this prospect, one which, on the previous evening, tall Cointet had quite skilfully prepared. ‘Go and dangle before their eyes the possibility of laying hands on a sum of money,’ the shark of Angoulême had said to the solicitor when he had come to tell him of David’s arrest. ‘When they have got used to the idea of pocketing some money, we shall have them. We’ll do some
bargaining, and bit by bit we’ll bring them down to the price we’re ready to pay for the invention.’ This remark to some extent conveys the gist of the second act in this financial drama.

When Madame Séchard, broken-hearted through her apprehensions over her brother’s fate, had dressed and gone downstairs to visit her husband in prison, she was full of anguish at the thought of passing through the streets of Angoulême by herself. Though he felt no concern for his client’s distress, Petit-Claud returned to the house to offer his arm: he had been brought back by a somewhat Machiavellian motive, that of winning credit for a tactful gesture which Eve very much appreciated. He accepted her thanks without undeceiving her. This little attention, coming from so hard and unyielding a man, and at such a moment, modified the judgements that Madame Séchard had made on Petit-Claud hitherto.

‘I’m taking you the longest way round,’ he said, ‘so that we shall not meet anybody.’

‘This is the first time, Monsieur, that I have not had the right to hold my head up as I walk along. That fact was harshly brought home to me yesterday…’

‘It’s the first and last time.’

‘Oh! I shall certainly not stay in this town.’

‘If your husband were to agree to the proposals which I have practically settled with the Cointets,’ Petit-Claud said to Eve as they arrived at the prison gate, ‘let me know. I should immediately come with Cachan’s authorization for David’s release. It’s not likely that he would have to go back to prison.’

This remark made in front of the gaol was what the Italians call a
combinazione.
This word expresses the indefinable act whose ingredients are a modicum of perfidy with a blend of legality, the choice of an opportune moment for a permissible fraud, a virtually lawful and well-planned piece of knavery. According to the Italians, the Saint Bartholomew massacre was a political ‘combinazione’.