“What are you trying to come to, monsieur?” asked the lawyer.
“To adultery!—For thus, monsieur, a Buddhist as he smokes his pipe may very well assert that the Christian religion is founded in adultery; as we believe that Muhammad is an impostor; that his Koran is an epitome of the Old Testament and the Gospels; and that God never had the least intention of constituting that camel-driver His Prophet.”
“If there were many men like you in France—and there are more than enough, unfortunately—all government would be impossible.”
“And there would be no religion at all,” said Madame Piédefer, who had been making strangely wry faces all through this discussion.
“You are paining them very much,” said Bianchon to Lousteau in an undertone. “Do not talk of religion; you are saying things that are enough to upset them.”
“If I were a writer or a romancer,” said Monsieur Gravier, “I should take the side of the luckless husbands. I, who have seen many things, and strange things too, know that among the ranks of deceived husbands there are some whose attitude is not devoid of energy, men who, at a crisis, can be very dramatic, to use one of your words, monsieur,” he said, addressing Étienne.
“You are very right, my dear Monsieur Gravier,” said Lousteau. “I never thought that deceived husbands were ridiculous; on the contrary, I think highly of them—”
“Do you not think a husband’s confidence a sublime thing?” said Bianchon. “He believes in his wife, he does not suspect her, he trusts her implicitly. But if he is so weak as to trust her, you make game of him; if he is jealous and suspicious, you hate him; what, then, I ask you, is the happy medium for a man of spirit?”
“If Monsieur de Clagny had not just expressed such vehement disapproval of the immorality of stories in which the matrimonial compact is violated, I could tell you of a husband’s revenge,” said Lousteau.
Monsieur de Clagny threw the dice with a convulsive jerk, and dared not look up at the journalist.
“A story, from you!” cried Madame de la Baudraye. “I should hardly have dared to hope for such a treat—”
“It is not my story, madame; I am not clever enough to invent such a tragedy. It was told me—and how delightfully!—by one of our greatest writers, the finest literary musician of our day, Charles Nodier.”
“Well, tell it,” said Dinah. “I never met Monsieur Nodier, so you have no comparison to fear.”
“Not long after the 18th Brumaire,” Étienne began, “there was, as you know, a call to arms in Brittany and la Vendée. The First Consul, anxious before all things for peace in France, opened negotiations with the rebel chiefs, and took energetic military measures; but, while combining his plans of campaign with the insinuating charm of Italian diplomacy, he also set the Machiavelian springs of the police in movement, Fouché then being at its head. And none of these means were superfluous to stifle the fire of war then blaring in the West.
“At this time a young man of the Maillé family was despatched by the Chouans from Brittany to Saumur, to open communications between certain magnates of that town and its environs and the leaders of the Royalist party. The envoy was, in fact, arrested on the very day he landed—for he traveled by boat, disguised as a master mariner. However, as a man of practical intelligence, he had calculated all the risks of the undertaking; his passport and papers were all in order, and the men told off to take him were afraid of blundering.
“The Chevalier de Beauvoir—I now remember his name—had studied his part well; he appealed to the family whose name he had borrowed, persisted in his false address, and stood his examination so boldly that he would have been set at large but for the blind belief that the spies had in their instructions, which were unfortunately only too minute. In this dilemma the authorities were more ready to risk an arbitrary act than to let a man escape to whose capture the Minister attached great importance. In those days of liberty the agents of the powers in authority cared little enough for what we now regard as legal. The Chevalier was therefore imprisoned provisionally, until the superior officials should come to some decision as to his identity. He had not long to wait for it; orders were given to guard the prisoner closely in spite of his denials.
“The Chevalier de Beauvoir was next transferred, in obedience to further orders, to the Castle of l’Escarpe, a name which sufficiently indicates its situation. This fortress, perched on very high rocks, has precipices for its trenches; it is reached on all sides by steep and dangerous paths; and, like every ancient castle, its principal gate has a drawbridge over a wide moat. The commandant of this prison, delighted to have charge of a man of family whose manners were most agreeable, who expressed himself well, and seemed highly educated, received the Chevalier as a godsend; he offered him the freedom
