BOOK IV: THE MILLIPEDE (continued 2)

“You ought to take sulphur baths,” said Baraglioul.

“It’s not what you think,” protested Fleurissoire.

“I’m glad to hear it,” answered Baraglioul, who, for that matter, hadn’t thought anything; “I just offered the suggestion in passing.” Then, throwing himself back in his chair, he went on in a professorial manner:

“Now this is how it is, my dear Amédée. I contend that ever since the days of La Rochefoucauld we have all followed in his footsteps like blundering idiots; I contend that self-advantage is not man’s guiding principle—that there are such things as disinterested actions....”

“I should hope so,” interrupted Fleurissoire, naïvely.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, I beg. By disinterested I mean gratuitous. Also that evil actions—what are commonly called evil—may be just as gratuitous as good ones.”

“In that case, why commit them?”

“Exactly! Out of sheer wantonness—or from love of sport. My contention is that the most disinterested souls are not necessarily the best—in the Catholic meaning of the word; on the contrary, from the Catholic point of view, the best-trained soul is the one that keeps the strictest accounts.”

“The one that ever feels its debt towards God,” added Fleurissoire seraphically, in an attempt to keep up to the mark.

Julius was obviously irritated by his brother-in-law’s interruptions; he thought them ludicrous.

“A contempt for what may serve is no doubt the stamp of a certain aristocracy of nature.... So once a man has shaken free from orthodoxy, from self-indulgence and from calculation, we may grant that his soul may keep no accounts at all?”

“No! No! Never! We may not grant it!” exclaimed Fleurissoire vehemently; then suddenly frightened by the sound of his own voice, he bent towards Baraglioul and whispered:

“Let’s speak lower; we shall be overheard.”

“Pooh! How could anyone be interested in what we are saying?”

“Oh, my dear Julius, I see you have no conception what the people of this country are like. I’ve spent only four days here, but during those four days the adventures I’ve had have been endless, and of a kind to teach me caution—pretty forcibly too—though it wasn’t in my nature, I swear. I am being tracked!”

“It’s your imagination.”

“I only wish it were! But what’s to be done? When falsehood takes the place of truth, truth must needs dissemble. As for me, with this mission that has been entrusted to me (I’ll tell you about it presently), placed as I am between the Lodge and the Society of Jesus, it’s all up with me. I am an object of suspicion to everyone; everything is an object of suspicion to me. Suppose I were to confess to you, my dear Julius, that just now when you met my distress with mockery, I actually doubted whether it was really you to whom I was talking—whether you weren’t an imitation Julius.... Suppose I were to tell you that this morning before I met you, I actually doubted my own reality—doubted whether I was really here in Rome—whether I wasn’t just dreaming—and whether I shouldn’t wake up presently at Pau, lying peacefully beside Arnica, back again in my everyday life.”

“My dear fellow, you’ve got fever.”

Fleurissoire seized his hand and in a voice trembling with emotion:

“Fever!” he cried. “You’re right! It’s fever I’ve got—a fever that cannot—that must not be cured; a fever which I hoped would take you too when you heard what I had to reveal—which I hoped—yes, I own it—you too would catch from me, my brother, so that we might burn together in its consuming fires.... But no! I see only too clearly now that the path I follow—the dark and dangerous path I am called upon to follow—must needs be solitary too; your own words have proved it to me. What, Julius? Can it be true? He is not to be seen? No one succeeds in seeing him?”

“My dear fellow,” said Julius, disengaging himself from his clasp and in his turn laying a hand on the excited Amédée’s arm, “my dear fellow, I will now confess something I didn’t dare tell you just now. When I found myself in the Holy Father’s presence ... well, I was seized with a fit of absent-mindedness....”

“Absent-mindedness?” repeated Fleurissoire, aghast.

“Yes. I suddenly caught myself thinking of something else.”

“Am I really to believe you?”

“For it was precisely at that very moment that I had my revelation. ‘Well, but,’ said I to myself, pursuing my first idea, ‘supposing the evil action—the crime—is gratuitous, it will be impossible to impute it to its perpetrator and impossible, therefore, to convict him.’”

“Oh!” sighed Amédée, “are you at it again?”

“For the motive of the crime is the handle by which we lay hold of the criminal. And if, as the judge will point out, is fecit cui prodest.... You’ve studied law, haven’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Amédée, with the beads of perspiration standing on his brow.

But at that moment the dialogue was suddenly interrupted; the restaurant page-boy came up to them holding a plate on which lay an envelope inscribed with Fleurissoire’s name. Petrified with astonishment, he opened the envelope and found inside it these words:

“You have not a moment to lose. The train for Naples starts at three o’clock. Ask Monsieur de Baraglioul to go with you to the Crédit Industriel, where he is known and where he will be able to testify to your identity.”

“There! What did I tell you?” whispered Amédée, to whom this incident was a relief rather than otherwise.

“Yes. I admit it’s very odd. How on earth do they know my name and that I have an account at the Crédit Industriel?”

“I tell you they know everything.”

“I don’t much fancy the tone of the note. The writer might have at any rate apologised for interrupting us.”

“What would have been the use? He knows well enough that everything must give way to my mission. I’ve a cheque to cash.... No, it’s impossible to tell you about it here; you can see for yourself that we are being watched.” Then, taking out his watch: “Yes, there’s only just time.”

He rang for the waiter.

“No, no,” said Julius. “You’re my guest. The Crédit’s not far off; we can take a cab if necessary. Don’t be flurried. Oh, I wanted to say that if you’re going to Naples this evening you can make use of this circular ticket of mine. It’s in my name, but it doesn’t matter.” (For Julius liked to be obliging.) “I took it in Paris, thinking that I should be going further south; but I’m kept here by this congress. How long do you think of staying?”

“As short a time as possible. I hope to be back to-morrow.”

“Then I’ll expect you to dinner.”

At the Crédit Industriel, thanks to the Comte de Baraglioul’s introduction, Fleurissoire had no difficulty in cashing his cheque for six bank-notes, which he slipped into the inner pocket of his coat. In the meantime he had told his brother-in-law, more or less coherently, the tale of the cheque, the Cardinal and the abbé. Baraglioul, who went with him to the station, listened with only half an ear.

On their way, Fleurissoire went into a shirtmaker’s to buy himself a collar, but he didn’t put it on at once, so as not to keep Julius waiting outside the shop.

“Haven’t you got a bag?” he asked as Fleurissoire joined him.

Fleurissoire would have been only too glad to go and fetch his shawl and his night things; but own up to the Via dei Vecchierelli before Baraglioul? It couldn’t be thought of.

“Oh, only for one night!” he said brightly. “Besides, there isn’t time to go round by my hotel.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Oh, behind the Coliseum,” replied Amédée at a venture.

It was as if he had said: “Oh, under a bridge!”

Julius looked at him again:

“What a funny fellow you are!”

Did he really seem so queer? Fleurissoire mopped his brow. For a few moments they paced backwards and forwards in front of the station in silence.

“Well, we must say good-bye now,” said Baraglioul, holding out his hand.

“Couldn’t you ... couldn’t you come with me?” stammered Fleurissoire timidly. “I don’t exactly know why, but I’m a little nervous about going by myself.”

“You came to Rome by yourself. What can happen to you? Excuse me for not going with you on to the platform, but the sight of a train going off always gives me an inexpressible feeling of sadness. Good-bye. Good luck! And bring back my return ticket to Paris with you when you come to the Grand Hotel to-morrow.”