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Luxury - Gluttony: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins
CHAPTER V
The abbé's housekeeper, having entered the chamber, handed a letter to her master, and, exchanging with him a look of intelligence, said:
"It is very urgent, M. abbé."
"Permit me, doctor?" said the holy man, before breaking the seal of the letter he held in his hand.
"At your convenience, my dear abbé," replied the doctor, rising from his seat; "I must leave you now."
"I pray you, just a word!" cried the abbé, who seemed especially anxious that the doctor should not depart so soon. "Give me time to glance over this letter, and I am at your service."
"But, abbé, we have nothing more to say to each other. I have an urgent consultation, and the hour is — "
"I implore you, doctor," insisted the abbé, breaking the seal and running his eyes over the letter he had just received, "in the name of Heaven, give me only five minutes, not more."
Surprised at this singular persistence on the part of the abbé, the doctor hesitated to go out, when the invalid, discontinuing his reading of the letter, raised his eyes to heaven and exclaimed:
"Ah, my God, my God!"
"What is the matter?"
"Ah, my poor doctor!"
"Finish what you have to say."
"Ah, doctor, it was Providence that sent you here."
"Providence!"
"Yes, because I find it in my power to render you a great service, perhaps."
The physician appeared to be a little doubtful of the good-will of Abbé Ledoux, and accepted his words not without a secret distrust.
"Let us see, my dear abbé," replied he, "what service can you render me?"
"You have sometimes spoken to me of your sister's numerous children, whom you have raised (notwithstanding your faults, wicked man) with paternal tenderness, after the early death of their parents."
"Go on, abbé," said the doctor, fixing a penetrating gaze on the saintly man, "go on."
"I was altogether ignorant that one of your nephews served in the navy, and had been made captain. His name is Horace Brémont, is it not?"
At the name of Horace, the doctor started, imperceptibly; his gaze seemed to penetrate to the depth of the abbé's heart, and he replied, coldly:
"I have a nephew who is captain in the navy and his name is Horace."
"And he is now in Paris?"
"Or elsewhere, abbé."
"For God's sake, let us talk seriously, my dear doctor, the time is precious. See here what has been written to me and you will judge of the importance of the letter.
"'M. Abbé: — I know that you are very intimate with the celebrated Doctor Gasterini; you can render him a great service. His nephew, Captain Horace, is compromised in a very disagreeable affair; although he has succeeded in hiding himself up to this time, his retreat has been discovered and perhaps, at the moment that I am writing to you, his person has been seized.'"
The abbé stopped and looked attentively at the doctor.
The doctor remained impassible.
Surprised at this indifference, the abbé said, in a pathetic tone:
"Ah, my poor doctor, what cruel suffering for you! But what has this unfortunate captain done?"
"I know nothing about it, abbé, continue."
Evidently the saintly man expected another result of the reading of his letter. However, not allowing himself to be disconcerted, he continued:
"'Perhaps at this moment his person has been seized,'" repeated he, laying stress on these words, and going on with the letter. "'But there remains one chance of saving this young man who is more thoughtless than culpable; you must, upon the reception of this letter, send some one immediately to Doctor Gasterini.'"
And, stopping again, the abbé added:
"As I told you, doctor, Providence sent you here."
"It has never done anything else for my sake," coldly replied the doctor. "Go on, abbé."
"'You must, upon the reception of this letter, send immediately to Doctor Gasterini,'" repeated the abbé, more and more surprised at the impassibility of the physician, and his indifference to the misfortune which threatened his nephew. "'The doctor must send some person in whom he has confidence, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat. Perhaps in this way he may get the start of the officers about to arrest this unfortunate young man.'
"I need not say more to you, my dear doctor," hastily added the abbé, throwing the letter on the bed. "A minute's delay may lose all. Run, quick, save this unhappy young man! What! You do not move; you do not reply! What are you thinking of, my poor doctor? Why do you look at me with such a strange expression? Did you not hear what has been written to me? And it is underlined, too. 'He must go instantly, without losing a minute, to warn Captain Horace to leave his retreat.' Really, doctor, I do not understand you."
"But I understand you perfectly, my dear abbé," said the doctor, with sardonic calmness. "But, upon honour, this expedient is really not up to the height of your usual inventions; you have done better than that, abbé, much better."
"An expedient! My inventions!" replied the abbé, feigning amazement. "Come, doctor, you surely are not speaking seriously?"
"You have forgotten, dear abbé, that an old fox like me discovers a snare from afar."
"Doctor," replied the abbé, no longer able to conceal his violent anger, "you are at liberty to jest, — at liberty to let the time pass, and lose the opportunity of saving your nephew. I have warned you as a friend. Now, do as you please, I wash my hands of it."
"So then, my dear abbé, you were and you are in the plot of those sanctimonious persons who desired to make a nun of Dolores Salcedo, for the purpose of getting possession of the property she would one day inherit from her uncle, the canon?"
"Dolores Salcedo! Her uncle, the canon! Really, doctor, I do not know what you mean."
"Ah! ah! you are in that pious plot! It is well to know it; it is always useful to recognise your adversaries, above all, when they are as clever as you are, dear abbé."
"But, hear me, doctor, I swear to you — "
"Stop, abbé, let us play an open game. You sent for me this morning, that the pathetic epistle you have just read to me might arrive in my presence."
"Doctor!" cried the abbé, "that is carrying distrust, suspicion, to a point which becomes — which becomes — permit me to say it to you — "
"Oh, by all means, — I permit you."
"Well, which becomes outrageous in the last degree, doctor. Ah, truly," added the abbé, with bitterness, "I was far from expecting that my eagerness to do you a kindness would be rewarded in such a manner."
"Zounds! I know very well, my poor abbé, that you hoped your ingenious stratagem would have an entirely different result."
"Doctor, this is too much!"
"No, abbé, it is not enough. Now, listen to me. This is what you hoped, I say, from your ingenious stratagem: Frightened by the danger to which my nephew was exposed, I would thank you effusively for the means you offered me to save him, and would fly like an arrow to warn this poor fellow to leave his place of concealment."
"So, in fact, any other person in your place, doctor, would have done, but you take care not to act so reasonably. Surely, to speak the truth, you must be struck with frenzy and blindness."
"Alas! abbé, it is the beginning of the punishment for my sins. But let us return to the consequences of your ingenious stratagem. According to your hope, then, I would fly like an arrow to save, as you advise, my nephew. My carriage is below. I would get in it, and have myself conveyed as rapidly as possible to the mysterious retreat of Captain Horace."
"Eh, without doubt, doctor, that is what you should have done some time ago."
"Now, do you know what would have happened, my poor abbé?"
"You would have saved your nephew."
"I would have lost him, I would have betrayed him, I would have delivered him to his enemies, — and see how. I wager that at this very hour, while I am talking to you, there is, not far from here in the street, and even in sight of this house, a cab, to which a strong horse is hitched, and by a strange chance (unless you countermand your order) this cab would follow my carriage wherever it might go."
The abbé turned scarlet, but replied:
"I do not know what cab you are speaking of, doctor."
"In other words, my dear abbé, you have been seeking traces of my nephew in vain. In order to discover his retreat, you have had me followed in vain. Now, you hoped, by the sudden announcement of the danger he was running, to push me to the extremity of warning the captain. Your emissary below would have followed my carriage, so that, without knowing it, I, myself, would have disclosed the secret of my nephew's hiding-place. Again, abbé, for any other than yourself, the invention was not a bad one, but you have accustomed your admirers — and permit me to include myself among them — to higher and bolder conceptions. Let us hope, then, that another time you will show yourself more worthy of yourself. Good-bye, and without bearing you any grudge, my dear abbé, I count on you for our pleasant evening the twentieth of November. Otherwise, I will come to remind you of your promise. Good-bye, again, my poor, dear abbé. Come, do not look so vexed, — so out of countenance; console yourself for this little defeat by recalling your past triumphs."
And with this derisive conclusion to his remarks, Doctor Gasterini left Abbé Ledoux.
"You sing victory, old serpent!" cried the abbé, purple with anger and shaking his fist at the door by which the doctor went out. "You are very arrogant, but you do not know that this morning even we have recaptured Dolores Salcedo, and your miserable nephew shall not escape us, for I am as cunning as you are, infernal doctor, and, as you say, I have more than one trick in my bag."
The doctor, the subject of this imprecatory monologue, had concealed the disquietude he felt by the discovery he had just made. He knew Abbé Ledoux capable of taking a brilliant revenge, so as he descended the steps of the saintly man's house, the doctor, before entering his carriage, looked cautiously on both sides of the street. As he expected, he saw a public cab about twenty steps from where he was standing. In this cab was a large man, wearing a brown overcoat. Walking up to the cab, the doctor, with a confidential air, said in a low voice to the large man:
"My friend, you are posted there, are you not, to follow this open carriage with two horses, standing before the door, Number 17?"
"Sir," said the man, hesitating, "I do not know who you are, or why you — "
"Hush! my friend," replied the doctor, in a tone full of mystery, "I have just left Abbé Ledoux; the order of proceeding is changed; the abbé expects you at once, to give you new orders, — quick, go, go!"
The fat man, reassured by the explicit directions given by the doctor, hesitated no longer, descended from his cab, and went in haste to see the Abbé Ledoux. When the doctor saw the door close upon the emissary of the abbé, feeling certain that he was not followed, he ordered his coachman to drive in haste to the Faubourg Poissonnière, for if he feared nothing for his nephew, he had reason enough for uneasiness since he had learned that Abbé Ledoux was concerned in this intrigue.
The doctor's carriage had just entered one of the less frequented streets of the Faubourg Poissonnière, not far from the gate of the same name, when he perceived at a short distance quite a large assemblage in front of a modest-looking house. The doctor ordered his carriage to stop, descended from it, mingled with the crowd, and said to one of the men:
"What is the matter there, sir?"
"It seems, sir, they are taking back a stray dove to the dove-cote."
"A dove!"
"Yes, or if you like it better, a young girl who escaped from a convent. The commissary of police arrived with his deputies, and a very fat man in a blue overcoat, who looked like a priest. He had the house opened. The fugitive was found there, and put into a carriage with the fat man in a blue overcoat. I have never seen any citizen ornamented with such a stomach."
Doctor Gasterini did not wait to hear more, but rushed through the crowd and imperatively rang the bell at the door of the little house of which we have spoken. A young servant, still pale with emotion, came to open it.
"Where is Madame Dupont?" asked the physician, impatiently.
"She is at home, sir. Oh, sir, if you only knew!"
The doctor made no reply; went through two apartments, and entered a bedchamber, where he found an aged woman, with a venerable-looking face full of sweetness.
"Ah, doctor, doctor!" cried Madame Dupont, bursting into tears, "what a misfortune, what a scandal, poor young girl!"
"I am grieved, my poor Madame Dupont, that the service you rendered me should have been followed by such disagreeable consequences."
"Oh, do not think it is that which afflicts, doctor. I owe you more than my life, since I owe you the life of my son; I do not think of complaining of a transient vexation, and I know you too well, in other things, to raise the least doubt as to the intentions which led you to ask me to give a temporary asylum to this young girl."
"By this time, my dear Madame Dupont, I can and I ought to tell you all. Here is the whole story in two words: I have a nephew, an indiscreet boy, but the bravest fellow in the world; he is captain in the marine service. In his last voyage from Cadiz to Bordeaux he took as passengers a Spanish canon and his niece. My nephew fell desperately in love with the niece, but by a series of events too long and too ridiculous to relate to you, the canon took the greatest aversion to my nephew, and informed him that he should never marry Dolores. The opposition exasperated the lovers; my devil of a nephew followed the canon to Paris, discovered the convent where the uncle had placed the young girl, put himself in correspondence with her, and eloped with her. Horace — that is his name — is an honest fellow, and, the elopement accomplished, he introduced Dolores to me and confessed all to me. While the marriage was pending, he besought me to place this young girl in a suitable house, since, for a thousand reasons, it was impossible for me to keep the child in my house after such an uproar. Then I thought of you, my good Madame Dupont."
"Ah, sir, I was certain that you acted nobly in that as you have always, and, besides, the short time that she was here Mlle. Dolores interested me exceedingly, — indeed I was already attached to her, and you can judge of my distress this morning when — "
"The commissary of police ordered the house to be opened; I know it. And the canon, Dom Diégo, accompanied him."
"Yes, sir, he was furious; he declared that he was acquainted with the French law; that it would not permit such things; that it was abduction of a minor, and that they were searching on all sides for your nephew."
"That is what I expected, and I exacted from my nephew, not only that he would not see Dolores again until all was arranged, but that he would keep himself concealed in order to escape the pursuit which I hoped to quiet. Now I do not know if I can succeed; the situation is grave. I have told Horace so, but the deed was done, and I confess I revolted against the thought of placing this poor Dolores myself in the hands of the canon, a kind of gluttonous, superstitious brute, from whom there is nothing to hope."
"Ah, doctor, I am now well enough acquainted with Mlle. Dolores to be sure that she will die of grief if she is left in that convent, and believe me, sir, in the scene of this morning, that which most distresses me is not the scandal of which my poor house has been the theatre, but the thought of the sad future which is perhaps reserved for that unhappy child. And now that I know all, doctor, I am all the more troubled in thinking of the grave consequences that this abduction may entail upon your nephew."
"I share your fears most keenly, my dear Madame Dupont. After a discovery that I have this morning made, I am afraid that a complaint has already been instituted against Horace; if it has not been it will be, to-day perhaps, for now that Dolores is again in the power of her uncle, if he can have my nephew arrested he will have nothing to fear from his love for Dolores. Ah, this arrest would be dreadful! Law is inflexible. My nephew went by night to a convent and abducted a minor. It is liable to infamous punishment, and for him that would be worse than death!"
"Great God!"
"And his brothers and sisters who love him so much! What sorrow for me, — for our family!" added the old man, with sadness.
"But, sir, there ought to be something we can do to put a stop to this pursuit."
"Ah, madame, dear Madame Dupont," replied the doctor, overcome with emotion, "I lose my head when I think of the terrible consequences which may result from this foolish adventure of a young man."
"But what shall we do, doctor, what shall we do?"
"Ah, do I know myself what to do, my poor Madame Dupont? I am going to reflect on the best course to pursue, but I am dealing with such a powerful adversary that I dare not hope for success." And Doctor Gasterini left the Faubourg Poissonnière in a state of inexpressible anxiety.
CHAPTER VI
The day after Dolores Salcedo had been taken back to the convent, the following scene took place in the home of the canon, Dom Diégo, who lodged in a comfortable apartment engaged for him before his arrival by Abbé Ledoux.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning.
Dom Diégo, reclining in a large armchair, seemed to be assailed by gloomy thoughts. He was a large man of fifty years, and of enormous obesity; his fat, bloated cheeks mingled with his quadruple chin, his dingy skin was rough and flabby, and revealed the weakness of the inert mass. His features were not wanting in a kind of good-humour, when they were not under the domination of some disagreeable idea. His large mouth and thick, hanging under-lip denoted sensuality. With half-closed eyes under his heavy gray eyebrows, and hands crossed upon his Falstaff stomach, whose vast rotundity was outlined beneath a violet-coloured morning-gown, the canon sighed from time to time in a mournful and despondent tone.
"More appetite, alas! more appetite!" murmured he. "Too many tossings of the sea have upset me. My stomach, so stout, so regular in its habits, is distracted like a watch out of order. This morning, at breakfast, ordinarily my most enjoyable meal, I have hardly eaten at all. Everything seemed insipid or bitter. What will it be at dinner, oh, what will it be at dinner, a repast which I make almost always without hunger in order to take and taste the delicate flower of the best things? Ah, may that infernal Captain Horace be cursed and damned! The horrible regimen to which I was subjected during that long voyage cost me my appetite; my stomach was irritated and revolted against those execrable salt meats and abominable dry vegetables. So, since this injury done to the delicacy of its habits, my stomach pouts and treats me badly, as if it were my fault, alas! It has a grudge against me, it punishes me, it looks big before the best dishes!
"But who knows if the hand of Providence is not there? Now that I do not feel the least hunger I realise that I have abandoned myself to a sin as detestable as — delectable. Alas! gluttony! Perhaps Providence meant to punish me by sending this miserable Captain Horace on my route. Ah, the scoundrel, what evil has he done! And this was not enough; he abducted my niece, he plunged me in new tribulations; he upset my life, my repose. I, who only asked to eat with meditation and tranquillity! Oh, this brigand captain! I will have my revenge. But whatever may be my revenge, double traitor, I cannot return to you the twentieth part of the evil that I owe you. Because here are two months that I have lost my appetite, and if I should live one hundred years, I should never catch up with those two months of enforced abstinence!"
This dolorous monologue was interrupted by the entrance of the canon's majordomo, an old servant with gray hair.
"Well, Pablo," said Dom Diégo to him, "you come from the convent?"
"Yes, sir."
"And my unworthy niece?"
"Sir, she is in a sort of delirium, she has a hot fever; sometimes she calls for Captain Horace with heartrending cries, sometimes she invokes death, weeping and sobbing. I assure you, sir, it is enough to break your heart."
Dom Diégo, in spite of his selfish sensuality, seemed at first touched by the majordomo's words, but soon he cried:
"So much the better! Dolores only has what she deserves. This will teach her to fall in love with the most detestable of men. She will remain in the convent, she shall take the veil there. My excellent friend and companion, Abbé Ledoux, is perfectly right; by this sample of my niece's tricks I shall know what to expect, if I keep her near me, — perpetual alarms and insults until I had her married, well or ill. Now to cut short all this the Senora Dolores will take the veil, and accomplish her salvation; my wealth will some day enrich the house, where they will pray for the repose of my soul, and I will be relieved of this she-devil of a niece, — three benefits for one."
"But, my lord, if the condition of the senora requires — "
"Not a word more, Pablo!" cried the canon, fearing he might be moved to pity in spite of himself. "Not a word more. Have I not, alas! enough personal troubles without your coming to torture me, to irritate me, with contradictions?"
"Pardon, sir, then, I wish to speak to you of another thing."
"Of what?"
"There is a man in the antechamber who desires to speak with you."
"Who is this man?"
"An old man, well dressed."
"And what does this man want?"
"To talk with you, sir, upon a very important affair. He has brought with him a large box that a porter has just delivered. It seems very heavy."
"And what is this box, Pablo?"
"I do not know, sir."
"And the name of this man?"
"Oh, a very strange name."
"What?"
"Appetite, sir."
"What! this man's name is Appetite?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must have misunderstood him."
"No, sir, I made him repeat his name twice. It is certainly Appetite."
"Alas, alas! what a cruelly ironical name!" murmured the canon, with bitterness. "But no matter, for the rarity of the name, send this man in to me."
An instant after the man announced by the majordomo entered, respectfully saluted Dom Diégo, and said to him:
"It is Lord Dom Diégo whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"Yes, what do you wish of me?"
"First, sir, to pay you the tribute of my profound admiration; then, to offer you my services."
"But, monsieur, what is your name?"
"Appetite, sir."
"Do you write your name as appetite, the desire for food, is written?"
"Yes, sir, but I confess that it is not my name, but my surname."
"To deserve such a surname you ought to be eminently well endowed by nature, M. Appetite; you ought to enjoy an eternal hunger," said the canon, with a sigh of regretful envy.
"On the contrary, I eat very little, sir, as almost all those who have the sacred mission of making others eat."
"How? What, then, is your profession?"
"Cook, sir, and would like the honour of serving you, if I can merit that felicity."
The canon shook his head sadly, and hid his face in his hands; he felt all his griefs revive at the proposition of M. Appetite, who went on to say:
"My second master, Lord Wilmot, whose stomach was so debilitated that for almost a year he ate without pleasure, and even without knowing the taste of different dishes, literally devoured food the first day I had the honour of serving him. It was he who, through gratitude, gave me the name of Appetite, which I have kept ever since."
The canon looked at his visitor attentively, and replied:
"Ah, you are a cook? But tell me, you have spoken to me of paying me the tribute of your admiration and of offering me your services, where were you acquainted with me?"
"You have, sir, during your sojourn in Madrid, often dined with the ambassador of France."
"Oh, yes, that was my good time," replied Dom Diégo, with sadness. "I rendered ample justice to the table of the ambassador of France, and I have proclaimed the fact that I knew of no better practitioner than his chef."
"And this illustrious practitioner, with whom, my lord, I am in correspondence, that we may mutually keep pace with the progress of the science, has written to me to express his joy at having been so worthily appreciated by a connoisseur like yourself. I had taken note of your name, and yesterday, learning by chance that you were in search of a cook, I come to have the honour of offering you my services."
"And from whom do you come, my friend?"
"For ten years, my lord, I have worked only for myself, that is to say, for art. I have a modest fortune, but enough, so it is not a mercenary motive which brings me to you, sir."
"But why do you offer your services to me, rather than to some one else?"
"Because, being free to choose, I consult my convenience; because I am very jealous, my lord, horribly jealous."
"Jealous; and of what?"
"Of my master's fidelity."
"What, the fidelity of your master?"
"Yes, my lord; and I am sure you will be faithful, because you live alone, without family, and, by condition as well as character, you have not, like so many others, all sorts of inclinations which always bore or annoy one; as a serious and convinced man, you have only one passion, but profound, absolute, and that is gluttony. Well, this passion, I offer, my lord, to satisfy, as you have never been satisfied in your life."
"You talk of gold, my dear friend, but do you know that, to make good your claims, in the use of such extravagant language, you must have great talent, — prodigious talent?"
"This great, this prodigious talent I have, my lord."
"Your avowal is not modest."
"It is sincere, and you know, sir, that one may employ a legitimate assurance, from the consciousness of his power."
"I like this noble pride, my dear friend, and if your acts respond to your words, you are a superior person."
"Sir, put me to trial to-day, this hour."
"To-day, this hour!" cried the canon, shrugging his shoulders. "You do not know, then, that for two accursed months I have been in this deplorable state; that there is nothing I can taste; that this morning I have left untouched a breakfast ordered from Chevet, who supplies me until my kitchen is well appointed. Ah, if you did not have the appearance of an honest man, I would think you came to insult my misery, — proposing to cook for me when I am never the least hungry."
"Sir, my name is Appetite."
"But I repeat to you, my dear friend, that only an hour ago I refused the choicest things."
"So much the better, my lord, I could not present myself to you at a more favourable juncture; my triumph will be great."
"Listen, my dear friend, I cannot tell you if it is the influence of your name, or the learned and exalted manner with which you speak of your art, which gives me confidence in you, in spite of myself; but I experience, I will not say, a desire to eat, because I would challenge you to make me swallow the wing of an ortolan; but indeed I experience, in hearing you reason upon cooking, a pleasure which makes me hope that perhaps, later, if appetite returns to me, I — "
"My lord, pardon me if I interrupt you; you have a kitchen here?"
"Certainly, with every appointment. A fire has just been kindled there to keep warm what was brought already prepared from Chevet, but, alas! utterly useless."
"Will you give me, sir, a half-hour?"
"What to do?"
"To prepare a breakfast for you, sir."
"With what?"
"I have brought all that is necessary."
"But what is the good of this breakfast, my dear friend? Go, believe me, and do not compromise a talent in which I am pleased to believe, by engaging in a foolish, impossible undertaking."
"Sir, will you give me a half-hour?"
"But I ask again, for what good?"
"To make you eat an excellent breakfast, sir, which will predispose you for a still better dinner."
"That is folly, I tell you; you are mad."
"Try, my lord; what do you risk?"
"Go on, then, you must be a magician."
"I am, sir, perhaps," replied the cook, with a strange smile.
"Very well, bear then the penalty of your own pride," cried Dom Diégo, ringing violently. "If you are instantly overwhelmed with humiliation, and are compelled to confess the impotence of your art, it is you who would have it. Take care, take care."
"You will eat, my lord," replied the artist, in a professional tone; "yes, you will eat, and much, and deliciously."
At the moment the cook pronounced these rash words the majordomo, called by the sound of the bell, entered.
