The Revolt of the Angels - 13

did not arm him, like Archilochus, with lyrical vengeance. He merely
applied an offensive epithet to his unfaithful one.
Meanwhile she had recovered her dignified bearing. She rose, full of
modesty and grace, and gave her accuser a look which expressed both
offended virtue and loving forgiveness.
But as young d'Esparvieu continued to shower coarse and monotonous
insults on her, she grew angry in her turn.
"You are a pretty sort of person, are you not?" she said. "Did I run
after this Arcade of yours? It was you who brought him here, and in what
a state, too! You had only one idea: to give me up to your friend. Well,
Monsieur, you can do as you like--I am not going to oblige you."
Maurice d'Esparvieu replied simply, "Get out of it, you trollop!" And he
made a motion as if to push her out. It pained Arcade to see his
mistress treated so disrespectfully, but he thought he lacked the
necessary authority to interfere with Maurice. Madame des Aubels, who
had lost none of her dignity, fixed young d'Esparvieu with her imperious
gaze, and said:
"Go and get me a carriage."
And so great is the power of woman over a well-bred soul, in a gallant
nation, that the young Frenchman went immediately and told the concierge
to call a taxi. Madame des Aubels, with a studied exhibition of charm in
every movement, took leave of them, throwing Maurice the contemptuous
look that a woman owes to him whom she has deceived. Maurice witnessed
her departure with an outward expression of indifference he was far from
feeling. Then he turned to the angel clad in the flowered pyjamas which
Maurice himself had worn the day of the apparition; and this
circumstance, trifling in itself, added fuel to the anger of the host
who had been thus shamefully deceived.
"Well," he said, "you may pride yourself on being a despicable
individual. You have behaved basely, and all for nothing. If the woman
took your fancy, you had but to tell me. I was tired of her. I had had
enough of her. I would have willingly left her to you."
He spoke thus to hide his pain, for he loved Gilberte more than ever,
and the creature's treachery caused him great suffering. He pursued:
"I was about to ask you to take her off my hands. But you have followed
your lower nature--you have behaved like a sweep."
If at this solemn moment Arcade had but spoken one word from his heart,
Maurice would have burst into tears, and forgiven his friend and his
mistress, and all three would have become content and happy once again.
But Arcade had not been nourished on the milk of human kindness. He had
never suffered, and did not know how to sympathise with suffering. He
replied with frigid wisdom:
"My dear Maurice, that same necessity which orders and constrains the
actions of living beings, produces effects that are often unexpected,
and sometimes absurd. Thus it is that I have been led to displease you.
You would not reproach me if you had a good philosophical understanding
of nature; for you would then know that free-will is but an illusion,
and that physiological affinities are as exactly determined as are
chemical combinations, and, like them, may be summed up in a formula. I
think that, in your case, it might be possible to inculcate these
truths, but it would be a difficult task, and maybe they would not bring
you the serenity which eludes you. It is fitting, therefore, that I
should leave this spot, and----"
"Stay," said Maurice.
Maurice had a very clear sense of social obligations. He put honour,
when he thought about it, above everything. So now he told himself very
forcibly that the outrage he had suffered could only be wiped out with
blood. This traditional idea instantly lent an unexpected nobility to
his speech and bearing.
"It is I, Monsieur," said he, "who will quit this place, never to
return. You will remain here, since you are a refugee. My seconds will
wait upon you."
The angel smiled.
"I will receive them, if it gives you pleasure, but, bethink you, my
dear Maurice, I am invulnerable. Celestial spirits even when they are
materialised cannot be touched by point of sword or pistol shot.
Consider, my dear Maurice, the awkward situation in which this fatal
inequality puts me, and realise that in refusing to appoint seconds I
cannot give as a reason my celestial nature,--it would be
unprecedented."
"Monsieur," replied the heir of the Bussart d'Esparvieu, "you should
have thought of that before you insulted me."
Out he marched haughtily; but no sooner was he in the street than he
staggered like a drunken man. The rain was still falling. He walked
unseeing, unhearing, at haphazard, dragging his feet in the gutters
through pools of water, through heaps of mud. He followed the outer
boulevards for a long time, and at length, fordone with weariness, lay
down on the edge of a piece of waste land. He was muddied up to the
eyes, mud and tears smeared his face, the brim of his hat was dripping
with rain. A passer-by, taking him for a beggar, tossed him a copper. He
picked it up, put it carefully in his waistcoat pocket, and set off to
find his seconds.


CHAPTER XXX
WHICH TREATS OF AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR, AND WHICH WILL AFFORD
THE READER AN OPPORTUNITY OF JUDGING WHETHER, AS ARCADE
AFFIRMS, THE EXPERIENCE OF OUR FAULTS MAKES BETTER MEN AND
WOMEN OF US

The ground chosen for the combat was Colonel Manchon's garden, on the
Boulevard de la Reine at Versailles. Messieurs de la Verdelière and Le
Truc de Ruffec, who had both of them constant practice in affairs of
honour and knew the rules with great exactness, assisted Maurice
d'Esparvieu. No duel was ever fought in the Catholic world without
Monsieur de la Verdelière being present; and, in making application to
this swordsman, Maurice had conformed to custom, though not without a
certain reluctance, for he had been notorious as the lover of Madame de
la Verdelière; but Monsieur de la Verdelière was not to be looked upon
as a husband. He was an institution. As to Monsieur Le Truc de Ruffec,
honour was his only known profession and avowedly his sole resource, and
when the matter was made the subject of ill-natured comment in Society,
the question was asked what finer career than that of honour Monsieur Le
Truc de Ruffec could possibly have adopted. Arcade's seconds were Prince
Istar and Théophile. The celestial musician had not voluntarily nor with
a good grace taken a hand in this affair. He had a horror of every kind
of violence and disapproved of single combat. The report of pistols and
the clash of swords were intolerable to him, and the sight of blood made
him faint. This gentle son of Heaven had obstinately refused to act as
second to his brother Arcade, and to bring him to the starting-point the
Kerûb had had to threaten to break a bottle of panclastite over his
head.
Besides the combatants, the seconds, and the doctors, the only people in
the garden were a few officers from the barracks at Versailles and
several reporters. Although young d'Esparvieu was known merely as a
young man of family, and Arcade had never been heard of at all, the duel
had attracted quite a large crowd of inquisitive individuals, and the
windows of the adjoining houses were crammed with photographers,
reporters, and Society people. What had aroused much curiosity was that
a woman was known to be the cause of the quarrel. Many mentioned
Bouchotte, but the majority said it was Madame des Aubels. It had been
remarked upon, moreover, that duels in which Monsieur de la Verdelière
acted as second drew all Paris.
The sky was a soft blue, the garden all a-bloom with roses, a blackbird
was piping in a tree. Monsieur de la Verdelière, who, stick in hand,
conducted the affair, laid the points of the swords together, and said:
"_Allez, Messieurs._"
Maurice d'Esparvieu attacked by doubling and beating the blade. Arcade
retired, keeping his sword in line. The first engagement was without
result. The seconds were under the impression that Monsieur d'Esparvieu
was in a grievous state of nervous irritability, and that his adversary
would wear him down. In the second encounter Maurice attacked wildly,
spread out his arms, and exposed his breast. He attacked as he advanced,
gave a straight thrust, and the point of his sword grazed Arcade on the
shoulder. The latter was thought to be wounded. But the seconds
ascertained with surprise that it was Maurice who had received a scratch
on the wrist. Maurice asserted that he felt nothing, and Dr. Quille
declared, after examination, that his client might continue the fight.
After the regulation quarter of an hour the duel was resumed. Maurice
attacked with fury. His adversary was obviously nursing him, and, what
disturbed Monsieur de la Verdelière, seemed to be paying very little
attention to his own defence. At the opening of the fifth bout, a black
spaniel that had got into the garden no one knew how rushed out from a
clump of rose-bushes, made its way on to the space reserved for the
combatants, and, in spite of sticks and cries, ran in between Maurice's
legs. The latter seemed as though his arm were benumbed, merely gave a
shoulder-thrust at his invulnerable opponent. He then delivered a
straight lunge and impaled his arm on his adversary's sword, which made
a deep wound just below the elbow.
Monsieur de la Verdelière stopped the fight, which had lasted an hour
and a half. Maurice was conscious of a painful shock. They laid him down
on a grassy bank against a wall covered with wistaria. While the surgeon
was dressing the wound Maurice called Arcade and offered him his wounded
hand. And when the victor, saddened with his victory, advanced, Maurice
embraced him tenderly, saying:
"Be generous, Arcade; forgive my treachery. Now that we have fought, I
can ask you to be reconciled with me."
He embraced his friend, weeping, and whispered in his ear:
"Come and see me, and bring Gilberte."
Maurice, who was still unreconciled with his parents, was taken to the
little flat in the Rue de Rome. No sooner was he stretched on the bed at
the far end of the bedroom where the curtains were drawn as on the day
of the apparition, than he saw Arcade and Gilberte appear. He began to
suffer greatly from his wound; his temperature was rising, but he was at
peace, happy and contented. Angel and woman, both in tears, threw
themselves at the foot of the bed. He took both their hands with his
left, smiled on them, and kissed them tenderly.
"I am sure now that I shall never quarrel with either of you again; you
will deceive me no more. I now know you are capable of anything."
Gilberte, weeping, swore that Maurice had been misled by appearances,
that she had never betrayed him with Arcade, that she had never betrayed
him at all. And in a great gush of sincerity she persuaded herself that
this was so.
"You wrong yourself, Gilberte," replied the wounded man. "It did happen;
it had to. And it is well. Gilberte, you were basely false to me with my
best friend in this very room, and you were right. If you had not been
we should not be here, reunited, all three of us, and I should not be at
your side tasting the greatest happiness of my life. Oh, Gilberte, how
wrong of you to deny a perfect and accomplished fact!"
"If you wish, my friend," replied Gilberte, a little acidly, "I will not
deny it. But it will only be to please you."
Maurice made her sit down on the bed, and begged Arcade to be seated in
the arm-chair.
"My friend," said Arcade, "I was innocent. I became man. Straightway I
did evil. Then I became better."
"Do not let us exaggerate things," said Maurice. "Let's have a game of
bridge."
Scarcely, however, had the patient seen three aces in his hand and
called "no trumps," than his eyes began to swim, the cards slipped from
his fingers, head fell heavily back on the pillow, and he complained of
a violent headache. Almost immediately, Madame des Aubels went off to
pay some calls, for she made a point of appearing in Society, in order
that the calmness and confidence of her demeanour might give the lie to
the various rumours that were current concerning her. Arcade saw her to
the door, and, with a kiss, inhaled from her a delicate perfume which he
brought back with him into the room where Maurice lay dozing.
"I am perfectly content," murmured the latter, "that things should have
happened as they have."
"It was bound to be so," answered the Spirit. "All the other angels in
revolt would have done as I did with Gilberte. 'Women,' saith the
Apostle, 'should pray with their heads covered, because of the angels,'
and the Apostle speaks thus because he knows that the angels are
disturbed when they look upon them and see that they are beautiful. No
sooner do they touch the earth than they desire to embrace mortal women
and fulfil their desire. Their clasp is full of strength and sweetness,
they hold the secret of those ineffable caresses which plunge the
daughters of men into unfathomable depths of delight. Laying upon the
lips of their happy victims a honey that burns like fire, making their
veins flow with torrents of refreshing flames, they leave them raptured
and undone."
"Stop your clatter, you unclean beast," cried the wounded one.
"One word more!" said the angel; "just one other word, my dear Maurice,
to bear out what I say, and I will let you rest quietly. There's nothing
like having sound references. In order to assure yourself that I am not
deceiving you, Maurice, on this subject of the amorous embraces of
angels and women, look up Justin, _Apologies_, I and II; Flavius
Josephus, _Jewish Antiquities_, Book I, Chapter III; Athenagoras,
_Concerning the Resurrection_; Lactantius, Book II, Chapter XV;
Tertullian, _On the Veil of the Virgins_; Marcus of Ephesus in
_Psellus_; Eusebius, _Præparatio Evangelica_, Book V, Chapter IV; Saint
Ambrose, in his book on _Noah and the Ark_, Chapter V; Saint Augustine,
in his _City of God_, Book XV, Chapter XXIII; Father Meldonat, the
Jesuit, _Treatise on Demons_, page 248; Pierre Lebyer the King's
Counsellor----"
"Arcade, please, for pity's sake, be quiet; do, please do, and send this
dog away," cried Maurice, whose face was burning, and whose eyes were
starting from his head; for in his delirium he thought he saw a black
spaniel on his bed.
Madame de la Verdelière, who was assiduous in every modish and patriotic
practice, was reckoned, in the best French society, as one of the most
gracious of the great ladies interested in good works. She came herself
to ask for news of Maurice, and offered to nurse the wounded man. But at
the vehement instigation of Madame des Aubels, Arcade shut the door in
her face. Expressions of sympathy were showered upon Maurice. Piled on
the salver, visiting cards displayed their innumerable little dogs'
ears. Monsieur Le Truc de Ruffec was one of the first to show his manly
sympathy at the flat in the Rue de Rome, and, holding out his loyal
hand, asked young d'Esparvieu as one honourable man to another for
twenty-five louis to pay a debt of honour.
"Of course, my dear Maurice, that is the sort of thing one could not ask
of everybody."
The same day Monsieur Gaétan came to press his nephew's hand. The latter
introduced Arcade.
"This is my guardian angel, whose foot you thought so beautiful when you
saw the print it had made on the tell-tale powder, uncle. He appeared to
me last year in this very room. You don't believe it? Well, it is true,
nevertheless."
Then turning towards the Spirit he said:
"What say you, Arcade? The Abbé Patouille, who is a great theologian and
a good priest, does not believe that you are an angel; and Uncle Gaétan,
who doesn't know his catechism and hasn't a scrap of religion in him,
doesn't think so either. They deny you, the pair of them; the one
because he has faith, the other because he hasn't. After that you may be
sure that your history, if ever it comes to be narrated, will scarcely
appear credible. Moreover, the man that took it into his head to tell
your story would not be a man of taste, and would not come in for much
approval. For your story is not a pretty one. I love you, but I sit in
judgment upon you, too. Since you fell into atheism, you have become an
abominable scoundrel. A bad angel, a bad friend, a traitor, and a
homicide, for I suppose it was to bring about my death that you sent
that black spaniel between my legs on the duelling-ground."
The angel shrugged his shoulders and, addressing Gaétan, said:
"Alas! Monsieur, I am not surprised at finding little credit in your
eyes. I have been told that you have fallen out with the Judæo-Christian
heaven, which is where I came from."
"Monsieur," answered Gaétan, "my faith in Jehovah is not sufficiently
strong to enable me to believe in his angels."
"Monsieur, he whom you call Jehovah is really a coarse and ignorant
demiurge, and his name is Ialdabaoth."
"In that case, Monsieur, I am perfectly ready to believe in him. He is a
narrow-minded ignoramus, is he? Then belief in his existence offers me
no further difficulty. How is he getting on?"
"Badly! We are going to lay him low next month."
"Don't make too sure of that, Monsieur. You remind me of my
brother-in-law, Cuissart, who has been expecting to hear of the fall of
the Republic for the past thirty years."
"You see, Arcade," exclaimed Maurice, "Uncle Gaétan thinks as I do. He
knows you won't succeed."
"And, pray, Monsieur Gaétan, what makes you think I shall not succeed?"
"Your Ialdabaoth is still very powerful in this world, if he isn't in
the other. In days gone by he used to be upheld by his priests, by those
who believed in him. Now he is supported by those who do not believe in
him, by the philosophers. A pedant of a fellow called Picrochole has
recently come on the scene who wants to make a bankrupt of science in
order to do a good turn to the Church. And just lately Pragmatism has
been invented for the express purpose of gaining credit for religion in
the minds of rationalists."
"You have been studying Pragmatism?"
"Not I! I was frivolous once, and I went in for metaphysics. I read
Hegel and Kant. I have become serious with years, and now I only trouble
myself about things evident to the senses: what the eye can see or what
the ear can hear. Man is summed up in Art. All the rest is moonshine."
Thus the conversation went on until evening; it was marked by
obscenities that would have brought a blush--I will not say to a
cuirassier, for cuirassiers are frequently chaste, but even to a
Parisienne.
Monsieur Sariette came to see his old pupil. When he entered the room
the bust of Alexandre d'Esparvieu seemed to take shape behind the
librarian's bald head. He drew near the bed. In the place of blue
curtains, mirrored wardrobe, and chimney-piece, there straightway came
into view the heavy-laden bookcases of the room of the globes and busts,
and the air was heavy with piles of papers, records, and files. Monsieur
Sariette could not be dissociated from his library; one could not
conceive of him or even see him apart from it. He himself was paler,
more vague, more shadowy, and more a creature of the fancy than the
fancies he evoked.
Maurice, who had grown very quiet, was sensible of this mark of
friendship.
"Sit down, Monsieur Sariette,--you know Madame des Aubels. May I
introduce Arcade to you,--my guardian angel. It was he who, while yet
invisible, pillaged your library for two years, made you lose all desire
for food and drink, and drove you to the verge of madness. He it was who
moved piles of books from the room of the busts to my summer-house one
day; under your very nose, he took away I know not what precious
volumes; and was the cause of your falling on the staircase; another day
he took a volume of Salomon Reinach's, and, forced to go out with me
(for he never left me, as I have learnt later), he let the volume drop
in the gutter of the Rue Princesse. Forgive him, Monsieur Sariette,--he
had no pockets. He was invisible. I bitterly regret, Monsieur Sariette,
that all your old books were not devoured by fire or swallowed up by a
flood. They made my angel lose his head. He became man, and now knows
neither faith nor obedience to laws. It is I, now, who am his guardian
angel. God knows how it will all end."
While listening to this speech, Monsieur Sariette's face took on an
expression of infinite, irreparable, eternal sadness; the sadness of a
mummy. Rising to take his leave, the sorrowful librarian murmured in
Arcade's ear:
"The poor child is very ill. He is delirious."
Maurice called the old man back.
"Do stay, Monsieur Sariette. You shall have a game of bridge with us.
Monsieur Sariette, listen to my advice. Do not do as I did--do not keep
bad company. You will be lost. I shudder at the mere thought. Monsieur
Sariette, do not go yet. I have something very important to ask you.
When you come again, bring me a book on the truth of religion, so that I
may study it. I must restore to my guardian-angel the faith which he has
lost."


CHAPTER XXXI
WHEREIN WE ARE LED TO MARVEL AT THE READINESS WITH WHICH AN
HONEST MAN OF TIMID AND GENTLE NATURE CAN COMMIT A HORRIBLE
CRIME

Profoundly distressed by the dark utterances of young Maurice, Monsieur
Sariette took a motor-omnibus, and went to see Père Guinardon, his
friend, his only friend, the one person in the whole world whom it gave
him pleasure to see and hear. When Monsieur Sariette entered the shop in
the Rue de Courcelles, Guinardon was alone, dozing in the depths of an
antique arm-chair. His face, surrounded by his curly hair and luxuriant
beard, was crimson in hue. Little violet filaments spread a network
about the fleshy part of his nose, to which the wines of Burgundy had
imparted a purple tint; for there was no longer any disguising the fact,
Père Guinardon drank. Two feet away from him, on the fair Octavie's
work-table, a rose, all but withered, drooped in an empty vase, and in a
basket a piece of embroidery was lying unfinished and neglected. The
young Octavie's absences from the shop were growing more and more
frequent, and Monsieur Blancmesnil never called when she was not there.
The reason of this was that they were meeting three times a week at five
o'clock in a house close to the Champs Élysées. Père Guinardon knew
nothing of that. He did not know the full extent of his misfortune, but
he suffered.
Monsieur Sariette shook his old friend by the hand; but he did not
enquire for the young Octavie, for he refused to recognise the
connexion. He would sooner have talked about Zéphyrine, who had been so
cruelly deserted, and whom he hoped the old man would make his lawful
wife. But Monsieur Sariette was prudent. He contented himself with
asking Guinardon how he was.
"Perfectly well," was Guinardon's reply; but he felt ill, for either age
and love-making had undermined his sturdy constitution, or else young
Octavie's faithlessness had dealt her lover a fatal blow. "God be
praised," he went on, "I still retain my powers of mind and body. I am
chaste. Be chaste, Sariette. Chastity is strength."
That evening Père Guinardon had taken some specially valuable books out
of the king-wood cabinet to show to a distinguished bibliophile,
Monsieur Victor Meyer, and after the latter's departure he had dropped
off to sleep without putting them back in their places. Books had an
attraction for Monsieur Sariette, and seeing these particular volumes
on the marble top of the cabinet, he began to examine them with
interest. The first one he looked at was _La Pucelle_, in morocco, with
the English continuation. Doubtless it pained his patriotic and
Christian heart to admire its text and illustrations, but a good copy
was always virtuous and pure in his sight. Continuing to chat very
affectionately with Guinardon, he picked up, one by one, the books which
the antiquary had, for one reason or another--binding, illustrations,
distinguished ownership, or scarcity--added to his stock.
Suddenly a glorious shout of joy and love broke from his lips. He had
discovered the _Lucretius_ of the Prior de Vendôme, his _Lucretius_, and
he was clasping it to his bosom.
"Once again I behold you," he sighed, as he pressed it to his lips.
At first Père Guinardon could not quite make out what his old friend was
talking about; but when the latter declared to him that the volume was
from the d'Esparvieu collection, that it belonged to him, Sariette, and
that he was going to take it away without further ado, the antiquary
completely woke up, got on his legs, declared emphatically that the book
belonged to him, Guinardon, by right of true and lawful purchase, and
that he would not part with it unless he got five thousand francs for it
cash down.
"You don't take in what I am telling you," answered Sariette. "The book
belongs to the d'Esparvieu library; I must restore it to its place."
"_Pas de ça, Lisette_"---- hummed Guinardon.
"The book belongs to me, I tell you!"
"You are crazy, my good Sariette!"
And noticing that, as a matter of fact, the librarian had a wandering
look in his eye, he took the book from him, and tried to change the
conversation.
"Have you seen, Sariette, that the rascals are going to rip up the
Palais Mazarin, and cover up the very heart and centre of the Old Town,
the finest and most venerable place in the whole of Paris, with the
deuce knows what works of art of theirs? They are worse than the
Vandals, for the Vandals, although they destroyed the buildings of
antiquity, did not replace them with hideous and disgusting erections
and atrocious bridges like the Pont d'Alexandre. And your poor Rue
Garancière, Sariette, has fallen a prey to the barbarians. What have
they done with the pretty bronze mask of the Palace fountain?"
Monsieur Sariette never listened to a word of all this.
"Guinardon, you have not understood me. Now listen. This book belongs to
the d'Esparvieu library. It was taken away, how or by whom I know not.
Dreadful and mysterious things went on in that library. But, anyhow, the
book was stolen. I need scarcely appeal to your sentiments of scrupulous
probity, my dear friend. You would not like to be regarded as the
receiver of stolen goods. Give me the book. I will return it to Monsieur
d'Esparvieu, who will duly requite you; of that you may be sure. Rely on
his generosity, and you will be acting like the downright good fellow
that you are."
The antiquary smiled a bitter smile.
"Catch me relying on the generosity of that old curmudgeon of a
d'Esparvieu. Why, he'd skin a flea to get its coat. Look at me,
Sariette, old boy, and tell me if I look like a dunderhead. You know
perfectly well that d'Esparvieu refused to give fifty francs in a
second-hand shop for a portrait of Alexandre d'Esparvieu, the founder of
the family, by Hersent, and that consequently the founder of the family
has had to remain on the Boulevard Montparnasse, propped against a Jew
hawker's stall, just opposite the cemetery, where all the dogs of the
neighbourhood come and make water on him. Catch me trusting to Monsieur
d'Esparvieu's liberality! You've got some bright ideas in your head, you
have!"
"Very well, Guinardon, I myself will undertake to pay you any indemnity
that a board of arbitrators may fix upon. Do you hear?"
"Now don't go and do the handsome for people who won't give you so much
as a thank-you. This man, d'Esparvieu, has taken your knowledge, your
energies, your whole life for a salary that even a valet wouldn't
accept. So leave that idea alone. In any case it is too late. The book
is sold."
"Sold? To whom?" asked Sariette in agonized tones.
"What does that matter? You'll never see it again. You'll hear no more
about it; it's off to America."
"To America! The _Lucretius_ with the arms of Philippe de Vendôme and
marginalia in Voltaire's own hand! My _Lucretius_ off to America!"