III
“Dear Madame de Saint-Prix, what is the matter? Your letter frightened me.”
The Countess dropped into the arm-chair which Arnica pushed towards her.
“Oh, Madame Fleurissoire!... Oh! mayn’t I call you Arnica?... this trouble—it is yours as well as mine—will draw us together. Oh! if you only knew!...”
“Speak! Speak! don’t leave me in suspense!”
“I’ve only just heard it myself. I’ll tell you directly, but mind, it must be a secret between you and me.”
“I have never betrayed anyone’s confidence,” said Arnica, plaintively—not that anyone had ever confided in her.
“You’ll not believe it.”
“Yes, yes,” wailed Arnica.
“Ah!” wailed the Countess. “Oh, would you be kind enough to get me a cup of ... anything ... it doesn’t matter what.... I feel as if I were fainting.”
“What would you like? Cowslip? Lime-flower? Camomile?”
“It doesn’t matter.... Tea, I think.... I wouldn’t believe it myself at first.”
“There’s some boiling water in the kitchen. It won’t take a minute.”
While Arnica busied herself about the tea, the Countess appraised the drawing-room and its contents with a calculating eye. They were depressingly modest. A few green rep chairs; one red velvet arm-chair; one other arm-chair (in which she was seated) in common tapestry; one table; one mahogany console; in front of the fire-place, a woolwork rug; on the chimney-piece, on each side of the alabaster clock (which was in a glass case), two large vases in alabaster fretwork, also in glass cases; on the table, a photograph album for the family photographs; on the console, a figure of Our Lady of Lourdes in her grotto, in Roman Plaster (a small-sized model)—there was not a thing in the room that was not discouraging, and the Countess felt her heart sink within her.
But after all they were perhaps only shamming poverty—perhaps they were merely miserly....
Arnica came back with the tea-pot, the sugar and a cup on a tray.
“I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, not at all!... I’d rather do it now—before; afterwards, I mightn’t be able to.”
“Well, then, listen!” began Valentine, after Arnica had sat down. “The Pope——”
“No, no, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!” exclaimed Madame Fleurissoire instantly, stretching out her hand in front of her; then, uttering a faint cry, she fell back with her eyes closed.
“My poor dear! My poor dear!” said the Countess, patting her on the wrist. “I felt sure it would be too much for you.”
Arnica at last feebly opened half an eye and murmured sadly:
“Dead?”
Then Valentine, bending towards her, slipped into her ear the single word:
“Imprisoned!”
Sheer stupefaction brought Madame Fleurissoire back to her senses; and Valentine began her long story, stumbling over the dates, mixing up the names and muddling the chronology; one fact, however, stood out, certain and indisputable—our Holy Father had fallen into the hands of the infidel—a crusade was being secretly organised to deliver him, and in order to conduct it successfully a large sum of money was necessary.
“What will Amédée say?” moaned Arnica in dismay.
He was not expected home before evening, having gone out for a walk with his friend Blafaphas....
“Mind you impress on him the necessity of secrecy,” repeated Valentine several times over as she took her leave of Arnica. “Give me a kiss, my dear, and courage!”
Arnica nervously presented her damp forehead to the Countess.
“I will look in to-morrow to hear what you think of doing. Consult Monsieur Fleurissoire, but remember that the Church is at stake!... It’s agreed, then—only to your husband! You promise, don’t you? Not a word! Not a word!”
The Comtesse de Saint-Prix left Arnica in a state of depression bordering on faintness. When Amédée came in from his walk:
“My dear,” she said to him at once, “I have just heard something extremely sad. The Holy Father has been imprisoned.”
“No, not really?” said Amédée, as if he were saying “pooh!”
Arnica burst into sobs:
“I knew, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Come, come, darling,” went on Amédée, taking off his overcoat, without which he never went out for fear of a sudden change of temperature. “Just think! Everyone would know if anything had happened to the Holy Father. It would be in all the papers. And who could have imprisoned him?”
“Valentine says it’s the Lodge.”
Amédée looked at Arnica under the impression that she had taken leave of her senses. He said, however:
“The Lodge? What Lodge?”
“How can I tell? Valentine has promised not to say anything about it.”
“Who told her?”
“She forbade me to say.... A canon, who was sent by a cardinal, with his card——”
Arnica understood nothing of public affairs and Madame de Saint-Prix’s story had left but a confused impression on her. The words “captivity” and “imprisonment” conjured up before her eyes dark and semi-romantic images; the word “crusade” thrilled her unspeakably, and when, at last, Amédée’s disbelief wavered and he talked of setting out at once, she suddenly saw him on horseback, in a helmet and breastplate.... As for him, he had begun by now to pace up and down the room.
“In the first place,” he said, “it’s no use talking about money—we haven’t got any. And do you think I could be satisfied with merely giving money? Do you think I should be able to sleep in peace merely because I had sacrificed a few bank-notes?... Why, my dear, if this is true that you’ve been telling me, it’s an appalling thing and we mustn’t rest till we’ve done something. Appalling, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I quite understand, appalling!... But all the same, do explain why.”
“Oh, if now I’ve got to explain!” and Amédée raised discouraged arms to Heaven.
“No, no,” he went on, “this isn’t an occasion for giving money; it’s oneself that one must give. I’ll consult Blafaphas; we’ll see what he says.”
“Valentine de Saint-Prix made me promise not to tell anyone,” put in Arnica, timidly.
“Blafaphas isn’t anyone; and we’ll impress on him that he must keep it strictly to himself.”
Then, turning towards her, he implored pathetically:
“Arnica, my dearest, let me go!”
She was sobbing. It was she now who insisted on Blafaphas coming to the rescue. Amédée was starting to fetch him, when he turned up of his own accord, knocking first at the drawing-room window, as was his habit.
“Well! that’s the most singular story I ever heard in my life!” he cried when they had told him all about it. “No, really! Who would ever have thought of such a thing?” And then, before Fleurissoire had said anything of his intentions, he went on abruptly:
“My dear fellow, there’s only one thing for us to do—set out at once.”
“You see,” said Amédée, “it’s his first thought.”
“Unfortunately I’m kept at home by my poor father’s health,” was his second.
“After all, it’s better that I should go by myself,” went on Amédée. “Two of us together would attract attention.”
“But will you know how to manage?”
At this, Amédée raised his shoulders and eyebrows, as much as to say: “I can but do my best!”
“Will you know whom to appeal to?... where to go?... And, as a matter of fact, what exactly do you mean to do when you get there?”
“First of all, find out the facts.”
“Supposing, after all, there were no truth in the story?”
“Exactly! I can’t rest till I know.”
And Gaston immediately exclaimed: “No more can I!”
“Do take a little more time to think it over, dear,” protested Arnica feebly.
“I have thought it over. I shall go—secretly—but I shall go.”
“When? Nothing is ready.”
“This evening. What do I need so much?”
“But you haven’t ever travelled. You won’t know how to.”
“You’ll see, my love, you’ll see! When I come back, I’ll tell you my adventures,” said he, with an engaging little chuckle which set his Adam’s apple shaking.
“You’re certain to catch cold.”
“I’ll wear your comforter.” He stopped in his pacing to raise Arnica’s chin with the tip of his forefinger, as one does a baby’s, when one wants to make it smile. Gaston’s attitude was one of reserve. Amédée went up to him:
“I count upon you to look up my trains. Find me a good train to Marseilles with thirds. Yes, yes, I insist upon travelling third. Anyhow, make me out a time-table in detail and mark the places where I shall have to change—and where I can get refreshments—at any rate, as far as the frontier; after that, when I’ve got a start, I shall be able to look after myself, and with God’s guidance I shall get to Rome. You must write to me there poste restante.”
The importance of his mission was exciting his brain dangerously. After Gaston had gone, he continued to pace the room; from time to time he murmured, his heart melting with wonder and gratitude:
“To think that such a thing should be reserved for me!” So at last he had his raison d’être. Ah! for pity’s sake, dear lady, let him go! To how many beings on God’s earth is it given to find their function?
All that Arnica obtained was that he should pass this one night with her, Gaston, indeed, having pointed out in the time-table which he brought round in the evening, that the most convenient train was the one that left at 8 A.M.
The next morning it poured with rain. Amédée would not allow Arnica or Gaston to go with him to the station; so that the quaint traveller with his cod-fish eyes, his neck muffled in a dark crimson comforter, holding in his right hand a grey canvas portmanteau, on to which his visiting-card had been nailed, in his left an old umbrella, and on his arm a brown and green check shawl, was carried off by the train to Marseilles, without a farewell glance from anyone.