Ten Years Later by Alexandre Dumas (suggested reading TXT) 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“Look at my grey hair, and my forehead, full of anxious thought,” he continued: “look at the lines in my face, by which I reckon up the trials I have undergone; I am a Jesuit of the eleventh year, Monsieur Grisart.” The physician started, for, in fact, a Jesuit of the eleventh year was one of those men who had been initiated in all the secrets of the order, one of those for whom science has no more secrets, the society no further barriers to present—temporal obedience, no more trammels.
“In that case,” said Grisart, saluting him with respect, “I am in the presence of a master?”
“Yes; act, therefore, accordingly.”
“And you wish to know?”
“My real state.”
“Well,” said the physician, “it is a brain fever, which has reached its highest degree of intensity.”
“There is no hope, then?” inquired the Franciscan, in a quick tone of voice.
“I do not say that,” replied the doctor; “yet, considering the disordered state of the brain, the hurried respiration, the rapidity of the pulse, and the burning nature of the fever which is devouring you—”
“And which has thrice prostrated me since this morning,” said the monk.
“All things considered, I shall call it a terrible attack. But why did you not stop on your road?”
“I was expected here, and I was obliged to come.”
“Even at the risk of your life?”
“Yes, at the risk of dying on the way.”
“Very well. Considering all the symptoms of your case, I must tell you that your condition is almost desperate.”
The Franciscan smiled in a strange manner.
“What you have just told me is, perhaps, sufficient for what is due to an affiliated member, even of the eleventh year; but for what is due to me, Monsieur Grisart, it is too little, and I have a right to demand more. Come, then, let us be more candid still, and as frank as if you were making your own confession to Heaven. Besides, I have already sent for a confessor.”
“Oh! I have hopes, however,” murmured the doctor.
“Answer me,” said the sick man, displaying with a dignified gesture a golden ring, the stone of which had until that moment been turned inside, and which bore engraved thereon the distinguishing mark of the Society of Jesus.
Grisart uttered loud exclamation. “The general!” he cried.
“Silence,” said the Franciscan., “you can now understand that the whole truth is all important.”
“Monseigneur, monseigneur,” murmured Grisart, “send for the confessor, for in two hours, at the next seizure, you will be attacked by delirium, and will pass away in its course.”
“Very well,” said the patient, for a moment contracting his eyebrows, “I have still two hours to live then?”
“Yes; particularly if you take the potion I will send you presently.”
“And that will give me two hours of life?”
“Two hours.”
“I would take it, were it poison, for those two hours are necessary not only for myself, but for the glory of the order.”
“What a loss, what a catastrophe for us all!” murmured the physician.
“It is the loss of one man—nothing more,” replied the Franciscan, “for Heaven will enable the poor monk, who is about to leave you, to find a worthy successor. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; already even, through the goodness of Heaven, I have met with you. A physician who had not been one of our holy order, would have left me in ignorance of my condition; and, confident that existence would be prolonged a few days further, I should not have taken the necessary precautions. You are a learned man, Monsieur Grisart, and that confers an honor upon us all; it would have been repugnant to my feelings to have found one of our order of little standing in his profession. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; send me the cordial immediately.”
“Give me your blessing, at least, monseigneur.”
“In my mind, I do; go, go; in my mind, I do so, I tell you—animo, Maitre Grisart, viribus impossibile.” And he again fell back on the armchair, in an almost senseless state. M. Grisart hesitated, whether he should give him immediate assistance, or should run to prepare the cordial he had promised. He decided in favor of the cordial, for he darted out of the room and disappeared down the staircase. 6
Chapter LIII. The State Secret.
A few moments after the doctor’s departure, the confessor arrived. He had hardly crossed the threshold of the door when the Franciscan fixed a penetrating look upon him, and, shaking his head, murmured—“A weak mind, I see; may Heaven forgive me if I die without the help of this living piece of human infirmity.” The confessor, on his side, regarded the dying man with astonishment, almost with terror. He had never beheld eyes so burningly bright at the very moment they were about to close, nor looks so terrible at the moment they were about to be quenched in death. The Franciscan made a rapid and imperious movement of his hand. “Sit down, there, my father,” he said, “and listen to me.” The Jesuit confessor, a good priest, a recently initiated member of the order, who had merely seen the beginning of its mysteries, yielded to the superiority assumed by the penitent.
“There are several persons staying in this hotel,” continued the Franciscan.
“But,” inquired the Jesuit, “I thought I had been summoned to listen to a confession. Is your remark, then, a confession?”
“Why do you ask?”
“In order to know whether I am to keep your words secret.”
“My remarks are part of my confession; I confide them to you in your character of a confessor.”
“Very well,” said the priest, seating himself on the chair which the Franciscan had, with great difficulty, just left, to lie down on the bed.
The Franciscan continued,—“I repeat, there are several persons staying in this inn.”
“So I have heard.”
“They ought to be eight in number.”
The Jesuit made a sign that he understood him. “The first to whom I wish to speak,” said the dying man, “is a German from Vienna, whose name is Baron de Wostpur. Be kind enough to go to him, and tell him the person he expected has arrived.” The confessor, astounded, looked at his penitent; the confession seemed a singular one.
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