Chapter 53

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.

"Obey," said the Franciscan, in a tone of command impossible to resist.
The good Jesuit, completely subdued, rose and left the room. As soon as
he had gone, the Franciscan again took up the papers which a crisis of
the fever had already, once before, obliged him to put aside.

"The Baron de Wostpur? Good!" he said; "ambitious, a fool, and
straitened in means."

He folded up the papers, which he thrust under his pillow. Rapid
footsteps were heard at the end of the corridor. The confessor returned,
followed by the Baron de Wostpur, who walked along with his head raised,
as if he were discussing with himself the possibility of touching the
ceiling with the feather in his hat. Therefore, at the appearance of the
Franciscan, at his melancholy look, and seeing