The Deputy of Arcis by Honoré de Balzac (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

and perseverance, for that is how justice should be followed up."

"But," persisted the voter, "there are various ways of doing justice; witness the suit I was made to lose against Jean Remy, with whom I had trouble about a boundary--"

Colonel Giguet, interrupting,--

"Come, come, you are not going, I hope to talk about your private affairs, and speak disrespectfully of magistrates?"

The voter resumed,--

"Magistrates, colonel, I respect, for I was one myself for six months in '93, and I know the law. But, returning to my point, I ask monsieur, who is here to answer questions, to me as well as to others, what he thinks about tobacco licenses."

"My opinion on tobacco licenses! That is rather difficult to formulate; I can, however, say that, if my information is correct, they are usually very well distributed."

"Hey! hey! you're a man, you!" cried the inebriate elector, "and I'll vote for you, for they can't fool you,--no! But they do give those licenses all wrong! Look at that daughter of Jean Remy. Bad neighbor. Never owned anything but his cart, and fights every day with his wife--"

"But, my good fellow," said the chairman, interposing, "you are abusing the patience of this assembly."

"No, no! let him talk!" cried voices from all parts of the room.

The voter was amusing, and Sallenauve himself seemed to let the chairman know he would like to see what the man was driving at.

The elector, being allowed to continue, went on:--

"I was going to say, with due respect to you, colonel, about that daughter of Jean Remy's,--a man I'll pursue to hell, for my bounds were in their right place, and them experts was all wrong. Well! what did that slut do? Left her father and mother and went to Paris! What did she do there? I didn't go to see, but I'm told she made acquaintance with a deputy, and has got the tobacco license for the rue Mouffetard, the longest street in Paris. But I'd like to see my wife, widow of an honest man, doubled up with rheumatism for having slept in the woods during that terror in 1815,--I'd like to see my poor widow get a license!"

"But you are not dead yet," they shouted to him from all parts of the room. The colonel, meantime, to put an end to the burlesque scene, nodded to a little confectioner who was waiting for the floor, a well-known Republican. The new questioner, in a falsetto voice, put the following insidious question to the candidate,--a question which might, by the way, be called national in Arcis,--

"What does Monsieur think of Danton?"

"Monsieur Dauphin," said the chairman, "I have the honor to remind you that Danton belongs to history."

"To the Pantheon of history, monsieur; that is the proper expression."

"Well, history, or the Pantheon of history, as you please; but Danton is irrelevant here."

"Permit me, Mr. Chairman," said Sallenauve, "though the question does not seem to have much purpose on the bearing of this meeting, I cannot forego the opportunity thus given me to give proof of the impartiality and independence with which I can judge that great memory, the fame of which still echoes in this town."

"Hear! hear!" cried the assembly, almost unanimously.

"I am firmly convinced," resumed Sallenauve, "that if Danton had been born in a calm and peaceful epoch like our own, he would have shown himself, what in fact he was, a good father, a good husband, a warm and faithful friend, a man of kindly temper, who, by the force of his great talents, would have risen to some eminent place in the State and in society."

"Yes, yes! bravo! very good!"

"Born, on the contrary, in troublesome times, and amid the storm of unchained passions, Danton was better constituted than others to kindle the flame of that atmosphere of fire. Danton was the torch that fired; his scarlet glare lent itself only too readily to scenes of blood and horror which I must not recall. But, they said, the national independence was at stake, traitors and dissemblers must be awed,--in a word, a cruel and awful sacrifice was necessary for the public weal. Messieurs, I do not accept that theory. To kill, without the necessity demonstrated a score of times of legitimate defence, to kill women, children, prisoners, unarmed men, was a crime,--a crime, look at it how you will, that was execrable; those who ordered it, those who consented to it, those who executed it are, to my mind, deserving of the same reprobation."

I wish I could give you an idea, madame, of the tone and expression of Sallenauve as he uttered this anathema. You know how his face is transfigured when an ardent thought comes into his mind. The assemblage was mute and gloomy. Evidently he had wounded their sensibilities; but, under the curb of his powerful hand, it dared not throw up its head.

"But," he continued, "to all consummated and irreparable crimes there are two issues,--repentance and expiation. His repentance Danton did not utter,--he was too proud a man,--but he _acted_ it. He was the first, to the sound of that axe falling without pity and without respite,--the first, at the risk of his own head being the next victim,--to call for a 'committee of mercy.' It was the sure, the infallible means of bringing him to expiation; and you all know whether, when that day of expiation came, he quailed before it. Passing through death,--won by his courageous effort to stop the effusion of blood,--it may be truly said that the face and the memory of Danton have washed off the bloody stain which September put upon them. Committed, at the age of thirty-five, to the judgment of posterity, Danton has left us the memory of a great intellect, a strong and powerful character, noble private qualities, more than one generous action,--all derived from his own being; whereas the bloody errors he committed were the contagion of his epoch. In a word, with men of his quality, unjust would be the justice which does not temper itself with mercy. And here, messieurs, you have in your midst--better than you, better than I, better than all orators and historians--a woman who has weighed and understood Danton, and who says to the pitiless, with the impulse of her charity, 'He has gone to God; let us pray for him.'"

The trap thus avoided by this happy allusion to Mother Marie-des-Anges, and the assembly evidently satisfied, it might be supposed that the candidate had come to the end of his baiting. The colonel was even preparing to pass to the vote, when several electors sprang up, declaring that two important explanations were still required from the candidate. He had said that he should ever be found an obstacle to all attempts of the royal power to subvert our institutions. What did he mean by such resistance? Was it armed resistance, the resistance of riots and barricades?

"Barricades," replied Sallenauve, "have nearly always seemed to me machines which turned of themselves and crushed the men who raised them. We must believe that in the nature of riots there is something which serves the interests of the government, for I have invariably heard the police accused of inciting them. My resistance, that which I spoke of, will ever be a legal resistance, pursued by legal means, by the press, by the tribune, and with patience,--that great force granted to the oppressed and to the vanquished."

If you knew Latin, madame, I should say to you, _In cauda venenum_; which means, "In the tail of the serpent is its venom,"--a remark of antiquity which modern science does not admit. Monsieur de l'Estorade was not mistaken; Sallenauve's private life was destined to be ransacked, and, no doubt under the inspiration of the virtuous Maxime de Trailles, the second question put to our friend was about the handsome Italian woman said to be _hidden_ by him in his house in Paris.

Sallenauve showed no embarrassment at being thus interpellated. He merely asked whether the assembly would think proper to spend its time in listening to a romantic story in which there was no scandal.

But here comes Sallenauve himself; he tells me that the electoral college is formed in a manner that leaves little doubt of his election. I leave my pen to him, to tell you the romantic tale, already, I believe, interrupted on several occasions. He will close this letter.


XVIII. CHARLES DE SALLENAUVE TO THE COMTESSE DE L'ESTORADE

7 P.M.

Madame,--The rather abrupt manner in which I parted from you and Monsieur de l'Estorade the evening of our visit to Armand's school, has been explained to you by the preoccupations of all sorts to which at that moment I was a victim. Marie-Gaston tells me that he has kept you informed of the subsequent events.

I acknowledge that in the restless and agitated state of mind in which I then was, the sort of belief which Monsieur de l'Estorade appeared to give to the scandal which he mentioned caused me great displeasure and some surprise. How, thought I, is it possible that a man of Monsieur de l'Estorade's morality and intellect can _a priori_ suppose me capable of such disorder, when he sees me anxious to give to my life all the weight and consideration which the respect of others alone can bestow? Only a few moments before this painful conversation I had been on the point of making you a confidence which would, I presume, have protected me against the unfortunate impression which Monsieur de l'Estorade conveyed to your mind. As for Monsieur de l'Estorade himself, I was, I confess, so annoyed at seeing the careless manner in which he made himself the echo of a calumny against which I felt he ought rather to have defended me that I did not _deign_ to make any explanation to him. I now withdraw that word, but it was then the true expression of a displeasure keenly felt.

In the course of my electoral contest, I have been obliged to make public the justification I did not make to you; and I have had the satisfaction of finding that men in masses are more capable than individuals of understanding generous impulses and of distinguishing the honest language of truth. Here are the facts which I related, but more briefly and with less detail, to my electors.

A few months before my departure from Rome, I was in a cafe frequented by the pupils of the Academy, when an Italian musician, named Benedetto, came in, as he usually did every evening. Nominally he was a musician and a tolerable one; but we had been warned that he was also a spy of the Roman police. However that might be, he was very amusing; and as we cared nothing for the police, we not only endured but we encouraged his visits,--which was not hard to do in view of his passion for _poncio spongato_ and _spuma di latte_.

On his entrance one evening, a member of our party asked him who was the woman with whom he had met him that morning.

"My wife, signore," answered the Italian.

"Yours, Benedetto!--you the husband of such a beauty!"

"Si, signore."

"Nonsense! you are ugly and drunken, and people say you are police spy; but she, on the contrary, is as handsome as Diana the huntress."

"I charmed her with my talent; she adores me."

"Well, if she is your wife, make her pose to our friend here, Dorlange, who wants a model for his Pandora. He can't get a finer one."

"That can be managed," replied the Italian.