“Ah! Monferrand now,” little Massot was saying, “there’s a rascal who trims his sails! I knew him as an anti-clerical, a devourer of priests, Monsieur l’Abbé, if you will allow me so to express myself; however, I don’t say this to be agreeable to you, but I think I may tell you for certain that he has become reconciled to religion. At least, I have been told that Monseigneur Martha, who is a great converter, now seldom leaves him. This is calculated to please one in these new times, when science has become bankrupt, and religion blooms afresh with delicious mysticism on all sides, whether in art, literature, or society itself.”
Massot was jesting, according to his wont; but he spoke so amiably that the priest could not do otherwise than bow. However, a great stir had set in before them; it was announced that Mège was about to ascend the tribune, and thereupon all the deputies hastened into the assembly hall, leaving only the inquisitive visitors and a few journalists in the Salle des Pas Perdus.
“It’s astonishing that Fonsègue hasn’t yet arrived,” resumed Massot; “he’s interested in what’s going on. However, he’s so cunning, that when he doesn’t behave as others do, one may be sure that he has his reasons for it. Do you know him?” And as Pierre gave a negative answer, Massot went on: “Oh! he’s a man of brains and real power—I speak with all freedom, you know, for I don’t possess the bump of veneration; and, as for my editors, well, they’re the very puppets that I know the best and pick to pieces with the most enjoyment. Fonsègue, also, is clearly designated in Sagnier’s article. Moreover, he’s one of Duvillard’s usual clients. There can be no doubt that he took money, for he takes money in everything. Only he always protects himself, and takes it for reasons which may be acknowledged—as payment or commission on account of advertising, and so forth. And if I left him just now, looking, as it seemed to me, rather disturbed, and if he delays his arrival here to establish, as it were, a moral alibi, the truth must be that he has committed the first imprudent action in his life.”
Then Massot rattled on, telling all there was to tell about Fonsègue. He, too, came from the department of La Corrèze, and had quarrelled for life with Monferrand after some unknown underhand affairs. Formerly an advocate at Tulle, his ambition had been to conquer Paris; and he had really conquered it, thanks to his big morning newspaper, “Le Globe,” of which he was both founder and director. He now resided in a luxurious mansion in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and no enterprise was launched but he carved himself a princely share in it. He had a genius for “business,” and employed his newspaper as a weapon to enable him to reign over the market. But how very carefully he had behaved, what long and skilful patience he had shown, before attaining to the reputation of a really serious man, who guided authoritatively the most virtuous and respected of the organs of the press! Though in reality he believed neither in God nor in Devil, he had made this newspaper the supporter of order, property, and family ties; and though he had become a Conservative Republican, since it was to his interest to be such, he had remained outwardly religious, affecting a Spiritualism which reassured the bourgeoisie. And amidst all his accepted power, to which others bowed, he nevertheless had one hand deep in every available money-bag.
“Ah! Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Massot, “see to what journalism may lead a man. There you have Sagnier and Fonsègue: just compare them a bit. In reality they are birds of the same feather: each has a quill and uses it. But how different the systems and the results. Sagnier’s print is really a sewer which rolls him along and carries him to the cesspool; while the other’s paper is certainly an example of the best journalism one can have, most carefully written, with a real literary flavour, a treat for readers of delicate minds, and an honour to the man who directs it. But at the bottom, good heavens! in both cases the farce is precisely the same!”
Massot burst out laughing, well pleased with this final thrust. Then all at once: “Ah! here’s Fonsègue at last!” said he.
Quite at his ease, and still laughing, he forthwith introduced the priest. “This is Monsieur l’Abbé Froment, my dear patron, who has been waiting more than twenty minutes for you—I’m just going to see what is happening inside. You know that Mège is interpellating the government.”
The new comer started slightly: “An interpellation!” said he. “All right, all right, I’ll go to it.”
Pierre was looking at him. He was about fifty years of age, short of stature, thin and active, still looking young without a grey hair in his black beard. He had sparkling eyes, too, but his mouth, said to be a terrible one, was hidden by his moustaches. And withal he looked a pleasant companion, full of wit to the tip of his little pointed nose, the nose of a sporting dog that is ever scenting game. “What can I do for you, Monsieur l’Abbé?” he inquired.
Then Pierre briefly presented his request, recounting his visit to Laveuve that morning, giving every heart-rending particular, and asking for the poor wretch’s immediate admittance to the Asylum.