“If you can imagine that the sometime secretary had been cured of his depraved taste by a sentence of death, you do not know the grip that a man’s failings have upon him; let a man discover some satisfaction for himself, and the headsman will not keep him from it.—How is it that the vice has this power? Is it inherent strength in the vice, or inherent weakness in human nature? Are there certain tastes that should be regarded as verging on insanity? For myself, I cannot help laughing at the moralists who try to expel such diseases by fine phrases.—Well, it so fell out that the steward refused a demand for money; and the Duke taking fright at this, called for an audit. Sheer imbecility! Nothing easier than to make out a balance-sheet; the difficulty never lies there. The steward gave his secretary all the necessary documents for compiling a schedule of the civil list of Courland. He had nearly finished it when, in the dead of night, the unhappy paper-eater discovered that he was chewing up one of the Duke’s discharges for a considerable sum. He had eaten half the signature! Horror seized upon him; he fled to the Duchess, flung himself at her feet, told her of his craze, and implored the aid of his sovereign lady, implored her in the middle of the night. The handsome young face made such an impression on the Duchess that she married him as soon as she was left a widow. And so in the mid-eighteenth century, in a land where the king-at-arms is king, the goldsmith’s son became a prince, and something more. On the death of Catherine I he was regent; he ruled the Empress Anne, and tried to be the Richelieu of Russia. Very well, young man; now know this—if you are handsomer than Biron, I, simple canon that I am, am worth more than a Baron Goërtz. So get in; we will find a duchy of Courland for you in Paris, or failing the duchy, we shall certainly find the duchess.”
The Spanish priest laid a hand on Lucien’s arm, and literally forced him into the traveling carriage. The postilion shut the door.
“Now speak; I am listening,” said the canon of Toledo, to Lucien’s bewilderment. “I am an old priest; you can tell me everything, there is nothing to fear. So far we have only run through our patrimony or squandered mamma’s money. We have made a flitting from our creditors, and we are honor personified down to the tips of our elegant little boots. … Come, confess, boldly; it will be just as if you were talking to yourself.”
Lucien felt like that hero of an Eastern tale, the fisher who tried to drown himself in mid-ocean, and sank down to find himself a king of countries under the sea. The Spanish priest seemed so really affectionate, that the poet hesitated no longer; between Angoulême and Ruffec he told the story of his whole life, omitting none of his misdeeds, and ended with the final catastrophe which he had brought about. The tale only gained in poetic charm because this was the third time he had told it in the past fortnight. Just as he made an end they passed the house of the Rastignac family.
“Young Rastignac left that place for Paris,” said Lucien; “he is certainly not my equal, but he has had better luck.”
The Spaniard started at the name. “Oh!” he said.
“Yes. That shy little place belongs to his father. As I was telling you just now, he was the lover of Mme. de Nucingen, the famous banker’s wife. I drifted into poetry; he was cleverer, he took the practical side.”
The priest stopped the calèche; and was so far curious as to walk down the little avenue that led to the house, showing more interest in the place than Lucien expected from a Spanish ecclesiastic.
“Then, do you know the Rastignacs?” asked Lucien.
“I know everyone in Paris,” said the Spaniard, taking his place again in the carriage. “And so for want of ten or twelve thousand francs, you were about to take your life; you are a child, you know neither men nor things. A man’s future is worth the value that he chooses to set upon it, and you value yours at twelve thousand francs! Well, I will give more than that for you any time. As for your brother-in-law’s imprisonment, it is the merest trifle. If this dear M. Séchard has made a discovery, he will be a rich man some day, and a rich man has never been imprisoned for debt. You do not seem to me to be strong in history. History is of two kinds—there is the official history taught in schools, a lying compilation ad usum delphini; and there is the secret history which deals with the real causes of events—a scandalous chronicle. Let me tell you briefly a little story which you have not heard. There was, once upon a time, a man, young and ambitious, and a priest to boot. He wanted to enter upon a political career, so he fawned on the Queen’s favorite; the favorite took an interest in him, gave him the rank of minister, and a seat at the council board. One evening somebody wrote to the young aspirant, thinking
