“And if we lose?” asked the other wistfully.
Malletort smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, making, at the same time, a significant gesture with his hand under his ear.
“A leap from a ladder would finish it,” he remarked abruptly. “For that matter we are all in the same boat. If a plank starts, it is simply, Bon soir la compagnie!”
Florian could control himself no longer. “Are you a man?” he burst out. “A man? Are you anything less devilish than the arch-fiend himself, to bid me take part in such a scheme? And what a part! To lure my only friend, my comrade, whose bread has fed me in want, whose hand has kept me in danger, down, down, step by step, to crime, ruin, and a shameful death. What am I? What have I done, that you should ask me to join in such a plot as this?”
“What you are, is a novice of the Society of Jesus,” answered Malletort coldly, “degraded to that rank for what you have done, which I need hardly remind you. Florian, it is well that you have to deal with me, who am a man of the world no less than a priest, instead of some stern provincial who would report your disobedience to the Order, even before he referred you to its statutes. Look your task firmly in the face. What is it? To make your friend, the man for whom you profess this ludicrous attachment, one of the first subjects in England. To raise his charming wife—they tell me she has grown more charming than ever—to a station for which she is eminently fitted; and all this at a certain risk of course, but what risk?—that the best organised movement Europe has seen for a hundred years, should fail at the moment of success, and that Sir George should be selected for a victim, amongst a score of names nobler, richer, more obnoxious to the Government than his own. And even then. If worst came to worst, what would be Lady Hamilton’s position? An heiress in her own right, a widow further enriched by marriage, beautiful, unencumbered, and free. I cannot see why you should hesitate a moment.”
Florian groaned. “Have mercy on me!” he muttered hoarsely, writhing his hands in despair. “Can you not spare me this one trial, remit this one penance? Send me anywhere—Tartary, Morocco, Japan. Let me starve in a desert, pine in a dungeon, suffer martyrdom at the stake; anything but this, and I submit myself cheerfully, willingly, nay, thankfully. Malletort, you must have a human heart. You are talented, respected, powerful. You have influence with the Order. You have known me since I was a boy. For the love of Heaven have pity on me, and spare me this!”
The Abbé was not one of those abnormal specimens of humanity who take pleasure in the sufferings of their fellow-creatures. It could not be said of him that his heart was cruel or malicious. He had simply no heart at all. But it was a peculiarity he shared with many governing spirits, that he grew cooler and cooler in proportion to the agitation with which he came in contact. He took a pinch of snuff, pausing for the refreshment of a sneeze before he replied:
“And with the next report I furnish to the Order send in your refusal to obey? Your refusal, Florian; you know what that means? Well, be it so. The promotion to a coadjutor’s rank is revoked, the former novice is recalled, and returns to St. Omer at once, where I will not enlarge on his reception. Riding post to the seaboard he meets another traveller, young, handsome, well provided, and unscrupulous, hurrying northward on a mission which seems to afford him considerable satisfaction. It is Brother Jerome, we will say, or Brother Boniface! the one known in the world as Beauty Adolphe of the King’s Musketeers, the other as Count Victor de Rosny, whose boast it is that love and credit are universally forced on him, though he has never paid a tradesman nor kept faith with a woman in his life. Either of these would be an agreeable addition to the family party up there on the hill. Either would labour hard to obtain influence over Sir George, and do his best or worst to be agreeable to Lady Hamilton. Shall I forward your refusal by to-morrow’s courier, Florian, or will you think better of it, and at least take a night to consider the subject in all its bearings?”
Florian pondered, passed his hand across his brow, and looked wildly in his adviser’s face.
“Not a moment!” said he, “not a moment! I was wrong—I was impatient—I was a fool—I was wicked, mea culpa, mea culpa. What am I that I should oppose the will of the Order—that I should hesitate in anything they think fit to command? What is a Jesuit priest, what is any one, after all, but a leaf blown before the wind—a bubble floating down the stream? There is no free agency—Destiny rules the game. The Moslem is not far wrong when he refuses to stir out of the destroyer’s way, and says, ‘It is ordained!’ I am wiser now—I seem to have woke up from a dream. What is it you would have me do? Am I to put poison in his wine, or cut Sir George’s throat to-night when he is asleep? You have only to say the word—are you not my superior? Am I not a Jesuit? I must obey!”