“The canal which we call Orcus is very wonderful. Its course lies through a number of little round lakes, set at equal distances from one another, which give it the appearance of a rosary. We cannot doubt but that the canals of Mars have been constructed by intelligent beings.”
Thus did M. Bergeret people the universe with seductive forms and sublime thoughts. He filled the empty spaces of the boundless heavens because he had been made an honorary professor. He was very wise, but also very human.
When he returned home, he found the following letter awaiting him:
“Milan.
“Dear Friend,
“You have relied too much upon my knowledge. I am sorry not to be able to satisfy the curiosity which you tell me stirred you during the funeral of M. Cassignol.
“The only interest I have taken in the old Church liturgies lies in their connection in one way and another with the writings of Dante, and I can tell you nothing upon the subject that you do not already know.
“The oldest mention of the chant is made about 1401 by Bartolommeo Pisano. Maroni attributes the Dies Iræ to Frangipani Malabranca Orsini, who was cardinal in 1278. Wadding, the biographer of the Franciscan Order Séraphique, ascribes it to Fra Tomaso da Celano, qui floruit sub anno 1250. Such attributions are altogether destitute of proof, but it is at any rate probable that it was composed in Italy during the twelfth century.
“In the seventeenth century the defective text of the Roman Missal was further impaired. A marble tablet preserved in the church of San Francesco at Mantua offers an older and more perfect version of the poem. If you would like me to do so, I will have the Marmor Mantuanum copied for you. I shall be delighted if you will make use of me in this as in other ways; nothing would give me more pleasure than to be able to serve you.
“In return, please be good enough to copy for me a letter, written by Mabillon and preserved in the town library; it is one of the Joliette bequest, collection B, No. 37158, folio 70. The passage that particularly interests me refers to the Anecdota of Muratori. Coming from you I shall value it still more.
“It is my opinion, by the way, that Muratori did not believe in God. It has always been my wish to write a book on the atheist-theologians, the number of whom is considerable. Forgive me for the trouble to which I am putting you by asking you to visit the public library; I trust that you may be rewarded by a meeting with the golden-haired fairy who guards the entrance, and whose dainty ears listen to your flattering remarks the while she swings in her fingers the huge keys that lock away the ancient treasures of your town. Speaking of this fairy reminds me that my days of love are over, and that it is high time for me to cultivate some favourite vice. Life would be sad indeed if the rosy swarm of errant thoughts did not come sometimes to console the old age of the most respectable folk. I am safe in sharing such sound wisdom with a mind as rare and capable of comprehension as your own.
“When you come to Florence I will introduce you to a nymph who guards the house of Dante, and who is well worth your fairy. You will admire her chestnut hair, her black eyes, her full bust, and her nose you will consider a miracle of loveliness. It is of medium size, straight and fine, with delicate nostrils. I mention this particularly because you know that nature is not good at noses, and too often spoils a pretty face by her clumsiness in that direction.
“Mabillon’s letter, which I have asked you to copy for me, commences thus: ‘Ni les fatigues de l’âge, monsieur....’ Forgive me for worrying you, and believe me to be your sincere friend,
“Carlo Aspertini.
“P.S.—Why will the French persist in upholding an error of justice which is now beyond all question, and which they could quite easily set right without harming anyone? I can find no solution to their conduct in this matter. All my countrymen, all Europe, and the whole world share my amazement. I should very much like to have your opinion regarding this extraordinary affair.”
“C. A.”
CHAPTER XI
In the clear light of early morning the quarters were full of the passing to and fro of the men on duty, sweeping the cobbles, or grooming down the horses. At the far end of the yard, clothed in his canvas trousers and dirty blouse, stood Private Bonmont, with his comrades, Privates Cocot and Briqueballe, peeling potatoes in front of a cauldron full of water. Now and then a squad, under the conduct of a non-commissioned officer, rushed down the stairs like a torrent, scattering on its way the invincible gaiety of the young.
The most characteristic feature of these men who had been taught to march was their step, a heavy, laboured step, crushing and sonorous. Important-looking pay-sergeants continually passed by with account-books of all sizes under their arms. Privates Bonmont, Cocot and Briqueballe were peeling potatoes and throwing them into the cauldron, and as they did so they gave vent to the most harmless of thoughts in words that were few but of an exceeding coarseness. Private Bonmont was thinking deeply.
In front of him, beyond the barrack gates that closed in the courtyard of the huge building, stretched a circle of hills with villas nestling in the purple branches of the trees, and sparkling in the morning sun. There resided the actresses and light women brought to the town by the presence of Private Bonmont. A whole swarm of women, bookmakers, journalists belonging to sporting and military papers, jockeys, procurers, male and female, and swindlers of all descriptions, had settled down in the vicinity of the barracks where the rich conscript was serving his time. As he peeled the potatoes, he might have congratulated himself on being able to bring together so Parisian a society at so great a distance from Paris. But he knew life well and men better, so his pride was in no way flattered by the achievement. He was worried and morose. Life held only one ambition for him, and that was the badge of the Brécé Hunt. He longed for it with inherited tenacity, with the forcefulness that his father, the great Baron, had shown in his conquest of souls, bodies, and things, but not with the deep, clear-sighted thought or genius of his stupendous parent. He felt himself inferior to his wealth; this made him unhappy, and, in consequence, spiteful.