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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Look at my grey hair, and my forehead, full of anxious thought," he continued: "look at the lines in my face, by which I reckon up the trials I have undergone; I am a Jesuit of the eleventh year, Monsieur Grisart."
The cardinal withdrew. "Call Grisart, and desire the Venetian Marini to come," said the sick man. While the confessor obeyed, the Franciscan, instead of striking out the cardinal's name, as he had done the baron's, made a cross at the side of it. Then, exhausted by the effort, he fell back on his bed, murmuring the name of Dr. Grisart.
I have hopes, however," murmured the doctor. "Answer me," said the sick man, displaying with a dignified gesture a golden ring, the stone of which had until that moment been turned inside, and which bore engraved thereon the distinguishing mark of the Society of Jesus. Grisart uttered loud exclamation. "The general!" he cried.
Go and prepare what is necessary for a simple interment, such as a poor monk only would require. Go." The Jesuit left the room. Then, turning towards the physician, and observing his pale and anxious face, he said, in a low tone of voice: "Monsieur Grisart, empty and clean this glass; there is too much left in it of what the grand council desired you to put in."
"Luiniguet first." "The next one?" "A brother of the Carmelite order, named Brother Hubert." "The next?" "A secular member, named Grisart." "Ah! Grisart?" murmured the monk, "send for M. Grisart immediately." The landlord moved in prompt obedience to the direction. "Tell me what priests are there here?" "What priests?" "Yes; belonging to what orders?"
He hurriedly seized hold of the papers which were lying about, and with his long and bony hand concealed them under the cushions of the chair. The landlord went out of the room, leaving patient and physician together. "Come here, Monsieur Grisart," said the Franciscan to the doctor; "approach closer, for there is no time to lose. Try, by touch and sound, and consider and pronounce your sentence."
Grisart approached the dying monk, and made him swallow a few drops, not of the potion which was still left in the glass, but of the contents of a small bottle he had upon his person. "Call the Scotchman!" exclaimed the Franciscan; "call the Bremen merchant. Call, call quickly. I am dying. I am suffocated."
Suddenly the Franciscan recovered himself. "Let us finish this," he said; "death is approaching. Oh! just now I was dying resignedly, for I hoped... while now I sink in despair, unless those who remain... Grisart, Grisart, give me to live a single hour longer."
"In my mind, I do; go, go; in my mind, I do so, I tell you animo, Maitre Grisart, viribus impossibile." And he again fell back on the armchair, in an almost senseless state. M. Grisart hesitated, whether he should give him immediate assistance, or should run to prepare the cordial he had promised. He decided in favor of the cordial, for he darted out of the room and disappeared down the staircase.
Raising his head, he perceived the confessor, who was awaiting his orders as respectfully as a school-boy. "Ah, ah!" he said, noticing his submissive air, "you have been talking with the landlord." "Yes, monseigneur; and to the physician." "To Grisart?" "Yes." "He is here, then?" "He is waiting with the potion he promised."
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