IV
About this time an important sociological congress summoned Count Julius de Baraglioul back to Rome. He was not perhaps specially invited (his opinions on such subjects being founded more on conviction than knowledge), but he was glad to have this opportunity of getting into touch with one or two illustrious personages. And as Milan lay conveniently on his road—Milan where, as we know, the Armand-Dubois had gone to live on the advice of Father Anselm—he determined to take advantage of the circumstance in order to see his brother-in-law.
On the same day that Fleurissoire left Pau, Julius knocked at Anthime’s door. He was shown into a wretched apartment consisting of three rooms—if the dark closet where Veronica herself cooked the few vegetables which formed their chief diet, may be counted as a room. The little light there was came from a narrow court-yard and shone down dismally from a hideous metal reflector; Julius preferred to keep his hat in his hand rather than set it down on the oval table with its covering of doubtfully clean oilcloth, and remained standing because of the horror with which the horsehair chairs inspired him.
He seized Anthime by the arm and exclaimed:
“My poor fellow, you can’t stay here.”
“What are you pitying me for?” asked Anthime.
Veronica came hurrying up at the sound of their voices.
“Would you believe it, my dear Julius?—that is the only thing he finds to say in spite of the grossly unjust and unfair way in which we have been treated.”
“Who suggested your coming to Milan?”
“Father Anselm; but in any case we couldn’t have kept on the Via in Lucina apartment.”
“There was no need for us to keep it on,” said Anthime.
“That’s not the point. Father Anselm promised you compensation. Is he aware of your distress?”
“He pretends not to be,” said Veronica.
“You must complain to the Bishop of Tarbes.”
“Anthime has done so.”
“What did he say?”
“He is a worthy man; he earnestly encouraged me in my faith.”
“But since you have been here, haven’t you complained to anyone?”
“I just missed seeing Cardinal Pazzi, who had shown some interest in my case and to whom I had written; he did come to Milan, but he sent me word by his footman....”
“That a fit of the gout unfortunately kept him to his room.”
“But it’s abominable! Rampolla must be told!” cried Julius.
“Told what, my dear friend? It is true that I am somewhat reduced—but what need have we of more? In the time of my prosperity I was astray; I was a sinner; I was ill. Now, you see, I am cured. Formerly you had good cause to pity me. And yet you know well enough that worldly goods turn us aside from God.”
“Yes, but those worldly goods were yours by rights. It’s all very well that the Church should teach you to despise them, but not that she should cheat you of them.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Veronica. “What a relief it is to hear you, Julius! His resignation makes me boil with rage; it’s impossible to get him to defend himself. He has let himself be plucked like a goose and said ‘thank you’ to everyone who robbed him, as long as they did it in the Lord’s name.”
“Veronica! it grieves me to hear you talk like that. Whatever is done in the Lord’s name is well done.”
“If you think it’s agreeable to be made a fool of!” said Julius.
“God’s fool, dear Julius!”
“Just listen to him! That’s what he’s like the whole time! Nothing but Scripture texts in his mouth from morning to night! And after I’ve toiled and slaved and done the marketing and the cooking and the housemaiding, my good gentleman quotes the Gospel and says I’m being busy about many things and tells me to look at the lilies of the field.”
“I help you to the best of my power, dear,” said Anthime in a seraphic voice. “Now that I’ve got the use of my legs again, I’ve many a time offered to do the marketing or the housework for you.”
“That’s not a man’s business. Content yourself with writing your homilies, only try to get a little better pay for them.” And then, her voice getting more and more querulous (hers, who used to be so smiling!): “Isn’t it a disgrace?” she exclaimed. “When one thinks of what he used to get for his infidel articles in the Dépêche! And now when the Pilgrim pays him a miserable two-pence halfpenny for his religious meditations, he somehow or other contrives to give three quarters of it to the poor!”
“Then he’s a complete saint!” cried Julius, aghast.
“Oh! how he irritates me with his saintliness!... Look here! Do you know what this is?” and she fetched a small wicker cage from a dark corner of the room. “These are the two rats whose eyes my scientific friend put out in the old days.”
“Oh, Veronica, why will you harp on it? You used to feed them yourself when I was experimenting on them—and then I blamed you for it.... Yes, Julius, in my unregenerate days I blinded those poor creatures, out of vain scientific curiosity; it’s only natural I should look after them now.”
“I wish the Church thought it equally natural to do for you what you do for these rats—after having blinded you in the same way.”
“Blinded, do you say! Such words from you? Illumined, my dear brother, illumined!”
“My words were plain matter-of-fact. It seems to me inadmissible that you should be abandoned in such a state as this. The Church entered into an engagement with you; she must keep it—for her own honour—for our faith’s sake.” Then, turning to Veronica: “If you have obtained nothing so far, you must appeal higher still—and still higher. Rampolla, did I say? It’s to the Pope himself that I shall present a petition—to the Pope. He is acquainted with your story. He ought to be informed of such a miscarriage of justice. I am returning to Rome to-morrow.”
“You’ll stop to dinner, won’t you?” asked Veronica, somewhat apprehensively.
“Please excuse me—but really my digestion is so poor....” (and Julius, whose nails were very carefully kept, glanced at Anthime’s large, stumpy, square-tipped fingers). “On my way back from Rome I shall be able to stop longer, and then I want to tell you about the new book I’m now at work on, my dear Anthime.”
“I have just been re-reading On the Heights and it seems to me better than I thought it at first.”
“I am sorry for you! It’s a failure. I’ll explain why when you’re in a fit state to listen and to appreciate the strange preoccupations which beset me now. But there’s too much to say. Mum’s the word for the present!”
He bade the Armand-Dubois keep up their spirits, and left them.
BOOK IV: THE MILLIPEDE
“Et je ne puis approuver que ceux qui cherchent en gémissant.”
—Pascal, 3421.