Title: The Wandering Jew — Volume 03
Author: Sue, Eugène, 1804-1857
Language: English
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THE WANDERING JEW

By Eugene Sue



BOOK III.


XXXVI.    A Female Jesuit
XXXVII.   The Plot
XXXVIII.  Adrienne's  Enemies
XXXIX.    The Skirmish
XL.       The Revolt
XLI.      Treachery
XLII.     The Snare
XLIII.    A False Friend
XLIV.     The Minister's Cabinet
XLV.      The Visit
XLVI.     Presentiments
XLVII.    The Letter
XLVIII.   The Confessional
XLIX.     My Lord and Spoil-sport
L.        Appearances
LI.       The Convent
LII.      The Influence of a Confessor
LIII.     The Examination



CHAPTER XXXVI.

A FEMALE JESUIT.

During the preceding scenes which occurred in the Pompadour rotunda,
occupied by Miss de Cardoville, other events took place in the residence
of the Princess Saint-Dizier. The elegance and sumptuousness of the
former dwelling presented a strong contrast to the gloomy interior of the
latter, the first floor of which was inhabited by the princess, for the
plan of the ground floor rendered it only fit for giving parties; and,
for a long time past, Madame de Saint-Dizier had renounced all worldly
splendors. The gravity of her domestics, all aged and dressed in black;
the profound silence which reigned in her abode, where everything was
spoken, if it could be called speaking, in an undertone; and the almost
monastic regularity and order of this immense mansion, communicated to
everything around the princess a sad and chilling character. A man of the
world, who joined great courage to rare independence of spirit, speaking
of the princess (to whom Adrienne de Cardoville went, according to her
expression, to fight a pitched battle), said of her as follows: "In order
to avoid having Madame de Saint-Dizier for an enemy, I, who am neither
bashful nor cowardly, have, for the first time in my life, been both a
noodle and a coward." This man spoke sincerely. But Madame de
Saint-Dizier had not all at once arrived at this high degree of
importance.

Some words are necessary for the purpose of exhibiting distinctly some
phases in the life of this dangerous and implacable woman who, by her
affiliation with the Order of Jesuits, had acquired an occult and
formidable power. For there is something even more menacing than a
Jesuit: it is a Jesuits; and, when one has seen certain circles, it
becomes evident that there exist, unhappily, many of those affiliated,
who, more or less, uniformly dress (for the lay members of the Order call
themselves "Jesuits of the short robe").

Madame de Saint-Dizier, once very beautiful, had been, during the last
years of the Empire, and the early years of the Restoration, one of the
most fashionable women of Paris, of a stirring, active, adventurous, and
commanding spirit, of cold heart, but lively imagination. She was greatly
given to amorous adventures, not from tenderness of heart, but from a
passion for intrigue, which she loved as men love play--for the sake of
the emotions it excites. Unhappily, such had always been the blindness or
the carelessness of her husband, the Prince of Saint-Dizier (eldest
brother of the Count of Rennepont and Duke of Cardoville, father of
Adrienne), that during his life he had never said one word that could
make it be thought that he suspected the actions of his wife. Attaching
herself to Napoleon, to dig a mine under the feet of the Colossus, that
design at least afforded emotions sufficient to gratify the humor of the
most insatiable. During some time, all went well. The princess was
beautiful and spirited, dexterous and false, perfidious and seductive.
She was surrounded by fanatical adorers, upon whom she played off a kind
of ferocious coquetry, to induce them to run their heads into grave
conspiracies. They hoped to resuscitate the Fonder party, and carried on
a very active secret correspondence with some influential personages
abroad, well known for their hatred against the emperor and France. Hence
arose her first epistolary relations with the Marquis d'Aigrigny, then
colonel in the Russian service and aide-de-camp to General Moreau. But
one day all these petty intrigues were discovered. Many knights of Madame
de Saint-Dizier were sent to Vincennes; but the emperor, who might have
punished her terribly, contented himself with exiling the princess to one
of her estates near Dunkirk.

Upon the Restoration, the persecutions which Madame de Saint-Dizier had
suffered for the Good Cause were entered to her credit, and she acquired
even then very considerable influence, in spite of the lightness of her
behavior. The Marquis d'Aigrigny, having entered the military service of
France, remained there. He was handsome, and of fashionable manners and
address. He had corresponded and conspired with the princess, without
knowing her; and these circumstances necessarily led to a close
connection between them.

Excessive self-love, a taste for exciting pleasures, aspirations of
hatred, pride, and lordliness, a species of evil sympathy, the perfidious
attraction of which brings together perverse natures without mingling
them, had made of the princess and the Marquis accomplices rather than
lovers. This connection, based upon selfish and bitter feelings, and upon
the support which two characters of this dangerous temper could lend to
each other against a world in which their spirit of intrigue, of
gallantry, and of contempt had made them many enemies, this connection
endured till the moment when, after his duel with General Simon, the
Marquis entered a religious house, without any one understanding the
cause of his unexpected and sudden resolution.

The princess, having not yet heard the hour of her conversion strike,
continued to whirl round the vortex of the world with a greedy, jealous,
and hateful ardor, for she saw that the last years of her beauty were
dying out.

An estimate of the character of this woman may be formed from the
following fact:

Still very agreeable, she wished to close her worldly and volatile career
with some brilliant and final triumph, as a great actress knows the
proper time to withdraw from the stage so as to leave regrets behind.
Desirous of offering up this final incense to her own vanity, the
princess skillfully selected her victims. She spied out in the world a
young couple who idolized each other; and, by dint of cunning and
address, she succeeded in taking away the lover from his mistress, a
charming woman of eighteen, by whom he was adored. This triumph being
achieved, Madame Saint-Dizier retired from the fashionable world in the
full blaze of her exploit. After many long conversations with the Abbe
Marquis d'Aigrigny, who had become a renowned preacher, she departed
suddenly from Paris, and spent two years upon her estate near Dunkirk, to
which she took only one of her female attendants, viz., Mrs. Grivois.

When the princess afterwards returned to Paris, it was impossible to
recognize the frivolous, intriguing, and dissipated woman she had
formerly been. The metamorphosis was as complete as it was extraordinary
and even startling. Saint-Dizier House, heretofore open to the banquets
and festivals of every kind of pleasure, became gloomily silent and
austere. Instead of the world of elegance and fashion, the princess now
received in her mansion only women of ostentatious piety, and men of
consequence, who were remarkably exemplary by the extravagant rigor of
their religious and monarchial principles. Above all, she drew around her
several noted members of the higher orders of the clergy. She was
appointed patroness of a body of religious females. She had her own
confessor, chaplin, almoner, and even spiritual director; but this last
performed his functions in partibus. The Marquis-Abbe d'Aigrigny
continued in reality to be her spiritual guide; and it is almost
unnecessary to say that for a long time past their mutual relations as to
flirting had entirely ceased.

This sudden and complete conversion of a gay and distinguished woman,
especially as it was loudly trumpeted forth, struck the greater number of
persons with wonder and respect. Others, more discerning, only smiled.

A single anecdote, from amongst a thousand, will suffice to show the
alarming influence and power which the princess had acquired since her
affiliation with the Jesuits. This anecdote will also exhibit the deep,
vindictive, and pitiless character of this woman, whom Adrienne de
Cardoville had so imprudently made herself ready to brave.

Amongst the persons who smiled more or less at the conversion of Madame
de Saint-Dizier were the young and charming couple whom she had so
cruelly disunited before she quitted forever the scenes of revelry in
which she had lived. The young couple became more impassioned and devoted
to each other than ever; they were reconciled and married, after the
passing storm which had hurled them asunder; and they indulged in no
other vengeance against the author of their temporary infelicity than
that of mildly jesting at the pious conversion of the woman who had done
them so much injury.

Some time after, a terrible fatality overtook the loving pair. The
husband, until then blindly unsuspicious, was suddenly inflamed by
anonymous communications. A dreadful rupture ensued, and the young wife
perished.

As for the husband, certain vague rumors, far from distinct, yet pregnant
with secret meanings, perfidiously contrived, and a thousand times more
detestable than formal accusations, which can, at least, be met and
destroyed, were strewn about him with so much perseverance, with a skill
so diabolical, and by means and ways so very various, that his best
friends, by little and little, withdrew themselves from him, thus
yielding to the slow, irresistible influence of that incessant whispering
and buzzing, confused as indistinct, amounting to some such results as
this-"Well! you know!" says one.

"No!" replies another.

"People say very vile things about him."

"Do they? really! What then?"

"I don't know! Bad reports! Rumors grievously affecting his honor!"

"The deuce! That's very serious. It accounts for the coldness with which
he is now everywhere received!"

"I shall avoid him in future!"

"So will I," etc.

Such is the world, that very often nothing more than groundless surmises
are necessary to brand a man whose very, happiness may have incurred
envy. So it was with the gentleman of whom we speak. The unfortunate man,
seeing the void around him extending itself,--feeling (so to speak) the
earth crumbling from beneath his feet, knew not where to find or grasp
the impalpable enemy whose blows he felt; for not once had the idea
occurred to him of suspecting the princess, whom he had not seen since
his adventure with her. Anxiously desiring to learn why he was so much
shunned and despised, he at length sought an explanation from an old
friend; but he received only a disdainfully evasive answer; at which,
being exasperated, he demanded satisfaction. His adversary replied--"If
you can find two persons of our acquaintance, I will fight you!" The
unhappy man could not find one!

Finally, forsaken by all, without having ever obtained an explanation of
the reason for forsaking him--suffering keenly for the fate of the wife
whom he had lost, he became mad with grief, rage, and despair, and killed
himself.

On the day of his death, Madame de Saint-Dizier remarked that it was fit
and necessary that one who had lived so shamefully should come to an
equally shameful end, and that he who had so long jested at all laws,
human and divine, could not seemly otherwise terminate his wretched life
than by perpetrating a last crime--suicide! And the friends of Madame de
Saint-Dizier hawked about and everywhere repeated these terrible words
with a contrite air, as if beatified and convinced! But this was not all.
Along with chastisements there were rewards.

Observant people remarked that the favorites of the religious clan of
Madame de Saint-Dizier rose to high distinction with singular rapidity.
The virtuous young men, such as were religiously attentive to tiresome
sermons, were married to rich orphans of the Sacred Heart Convents, who
were held in reserve for the purpose; poor young girls, who, learning too
late what it is to have a pious husband selected and imposed upon them by
a set of devotees, often expiated by very bitter tears the deceitful
favor of thus being admitted into a world of hypocrisy and falsehood, in
which they found themselves strangers without support, crushed by it if
they dared to complain of the marriages to which they had been condemned.

In the parlor of Madame de Saint-Dizier were appointed prefects,
colonels, treasurers, deputies, academicians, bishops and peers of the
realm, from whom nothing more was required in return for the all-powerful
support bestowed upon them, but to wear a pious gloss, sometimes publicly
take the communion, swear furious war against everything impious or
revolutionary,--and above all, correspond confidentially upon "different
subjects of his choosing" with the Abbe d'Aigrigny,--an amusement,
moreover, which was very agreeable; for the abbe was the most amiable man
in the world, the most witty, and above all, the most obliging. The
following is an historical fact, which requires the bitter and vengeful
irony of Moliere or Pascal to do it justice.

During the last year of the Restoration, there was one of the mighty
dignitaries of the court a firm and independent man, who did not make
profession (as the holy fathers call it), that is, who did not
communicate at the altar. The splendor amid which he moved was calculated
to give the weight of a very injurious example to his indifference. The
Abbe-Marquis d'Aigrigny was therefore despatched to him; and he knowing
the honorable and elevated character of the non communicant, thought that
if he could only bring him to profess by any means (whatever the means
might be) the effect would be what was desired. Like a man of intellect,
the abbe prized the dogma but cheaply himself. He only spoke of the
suitableness of the step, and of the highly salutary example which the
resolution to adopt it would afford to the public.

"M. Abbe," replied the person sought to be influenced, "I have a greater
respect for religion than you have. I should consider it an infamous
mockery to go to the communion table without feeling the proper
conviction."

"Nonsense! you inflexible man! you frowning Alcestes," said the Marquis
Abbe, smiling slyly. "Your profits and your scruples will go together,
believe me, by listening to me. In short, we shall manage to make it a
BLANK COMMUNION for you; for after all, what is it that we ask?--only the
APPEARANCE!"

Now, a BLANK COMMUNION means breaking an unconsecrated wafer!

The Abbe-Marquis retired with his offers, which were rejected with
indignation;--but then, the refractory man was dismissed from his place
at court. This was but a single isolated fact. Woe to all who found
themselves opposed to the interest and principles of Madame de Saint
Dizier or her friends! Sooner or later, directly or indirectly, they felt
themselves cruelly stabbed, generally immediately--some in their dearest
connections, others in their credit, some in their honor; others in their
official functions; and all by secret action, noiseless, continuous, and
latent, in time becoming a terrible and mysterious dissolvent, which
invisibly undermined reputations, fortunes, positions the most solidly
established, until the moment when all sunk forever into the abyss, amid
the surprise and terror of the beholders.

It will now be conceived how under the Restoration the Princess de Saint
Dizier had become singularly influential and formidable. At the time of
the Revolution of July (1830) she had "rallied," and, strangely enough,
by preserving some relation of family and of society with persons
faithful to the worship of decayed monarchy, people still attributed to
the princess much influence and power. Let us mention, at last, that the
Prince of Saint-Dizier, having died many years since, his very large
personal fortune had descended to his younger brother, the father of
Adrienne de Cardoville; and he, having died eighteen months ago, that
young lady found herself to be the last and only representative of that
branch of the family of the Renneponts.

The Princess of Saint-Dizier awaited her niece in a very large room,
rendered dismal by its gloomy green damask. The chairs, etc., covered
with similar stuff, were of carved ebony. Paintings of scriptural and
other religious subjects, and an ivory crucifix thrown up from a
background of black velvet, contributed to give the apartment a
lugubrious and austere aspect.

Madame de Saint-Dizier, seated before a large desk, has just finished
putting the seals on numerous letters; for she had a very extensive and
very diversified correspondence. Though then aged about forty-five she
was still fair. Advancing years had somewhat thickened her shape, which
formerly of distinguished elegance, was still sufficiently handsome to be
seen to advantage under the straight folds of her black dress. Her
headdress, very simple, decorated with gray ribbons, allowed her fair
sleek hair to be seen arranged in broad bands. At first look, people were
struck with her dignified though unassuming appearance; and would have
vainly tried to discover in her physiognomy, now marked with repentant
calmness, any trace of the agitations of her past life. So naturally
grave and reserved was she, that people could not believe her the heroine
of so many intrigues and adventures and gallantry. Moreover, if by chance
she ever heard any lightness of conversation, her countenance, since she
had come to believe herself a kind of "mother in the Church," immediately
expressed candid but grieved astonishment, which soon changed into an air
of offended chastity and disdainful pity.

For the rest, her smile, when requisite, was still full of grace, and
even of the seducing and resistless sweetness of seeming good-nature. Her
large blue eyes, on fit occasions, became affectionate and caressing. But
if any one dared to wound or ruffle her pride, gainsay her orders or harm
her interests, her countenance, usually placid and serene, betrayed a
cold but implacable malignity. Mrs. Grivois entered the cabinet, holding
in her hand Florine's report of the manner in which Adrienne de
Cardoville had spent the morning.

Mrs. Grivois had been about twenty years in the service of Madame de
Saint-Dizier. She knew everything that a lady's-maid could or ought to
have known of her mistress in the days of her sowing of wild (being a
lady) flowers. Was it from choice that the princess had still retained
about her person this so-well-informed witness of the numerous follies of
her youth? The world was kept in ignorance of the motive; but one thing
was evident, viz., that Mrs. Grivois enjoyed great privileges under the
princess, and was treated by her rather as a companion than as a tiring
woman.

"Here are Florine's notes, madame," said Mrs. Grivois, giving the paper
to the princess.

"I will examine them presently," said the princess; "but tell me, is my
niece coming? Pending the conference at which she is to be present, you
will conduct into her house a person who will soon be here, to inquire
for you by my desire."

"Well, madame?"

"This man will make an exact inventory of everything contained in
Adrienne's residence. You will take care that nothing is omitted; for
that is of very great importance."

"Yes, madame. But should Georgette or Hebe make any opposition?"

"There is no fear; the man charged with taking the inventory is of such a
stamp, that when they know him, they will not dare to oppose either his
making the inventory, or his other steps. It will be necessary not to
fail, as you go along with him, to be careful to obtain certain
peculiarities destined to confirm the reports which you have spread for
some time past."

"Do not have the slightest doubt, madame. The reports have all the
consistency of truth."

"Very soon, then, this Adrienne, so insolent and so haughty, will be
crushed and compelled to pray for pardon; and from me!"

An old footman opened both of the folding doors, and announced the
Marquis-Abbe d'Aigrigny.

"If Miss de Cardoville present herself," said the princess to Mrs.
Grivois, "you will request her to wait an instant."

"Yes, madame," said the duenna, going out with the servant.

Madame de Saint-Dizier and D'Aigrigny remained alone.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE PLOT.

The Abbe-Marquis d'Aigrigny, as the reader has easily divined, was the
person already seen in the Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins; whence he had
departed from Rome, in which city he had remained about three months. The
marquis was dressed in deep mourning, but with his usual elegance. His
was not a priestly robe; his black coat, and his waistcoat, tightly
gathered in at the waist, set off to great advantage the elegance of his
figure: his black cassimere pantaloons disguised his feet, exactly fitted
with lace boots, brilliantly polished. And all traces of his tonsure
disappeared in the midst of the slight baldness which whitened slightly
the back part of his head. There was nothing in his entire costume, or
aspect, that revealed the priest, except, perhaps, the entire absence of
beard, the more remarkable upon so manly a countenance. His chin, newly
shaved, rested on a large and elevated black cravat, tied with a military
ostentation which reminded the beholder, that this abbe-marquis this
celebrated preacher--now one of the most active and influential chiefs of
his order, had commanded a regiment of hussars upon the Restoration, and
had fought in aid of the Russians against France.

Returned to Paris only this morning, the marquis had not seen the
princess since his mother, the Dowager Marchioness d'Aigrigny, had died
near Dunkirk, upon an estate belonging to Madame de Saint-Dizier, while
vainly calling for her son to alleviate her last moments; but the order
to which M. d'Aigrigny had thought fit to sacrifice the most sacred
feeling and duties of nature, having been suddenly transmitted to him
from Rome, he had immediately set out for that city; though not without
hesitation, which was remarked and denounced by Rodin; for the love of M.
d'Aigrigny for his mother had been the only pure feeling that had
invariably distinguished his life.

When the servant had discreetly withdrawn with Mrs. Grivois, the marquis
quickly approached the princess, held out his hand to her, and said with
a voice of emotion:

"Herminia, have you not concealed something in your letters. In her last
moments did not my mother curse me?"

"No, no, Frederick, compose yourself. She had anxiously desired your
presence. Her ideas soon became confused. But in her delirium it was
still for you that she called."

"Yes," said the marquis, bitterly; "her maternal instinct doubtless
assured her that my presence could have saved her life."

"I entreat you to banish these sad recollections," said the princess,
"this misfortune is irreparable."

"Tell me for the last time, truly, did not my absence cruelly affect my
mother? Had she no suspicion that a more imperious duty called me
elsewhere?"

"No, no, I assure you. Even when her reason was shaken, she believed that
you had not yet had time to come to her. All the sad details which I
wrote to you upon this painful subject are strictly true. Again, I beg of
you to compose yourself."

"Yes, my conscience ought to be easy; for I have fulfilled my duty in
sacrificing my mother. Yet I have never been able to arrive at that
complete detachment from natural affection, which is commanded to us by
those awful words: 'He who hates not his father and his mother, even with
the soul, cannot be my disciple.'"[9]

"Doubtless, Frederick," said the princess, "these renunciations are
painful. But, in return, what influence, what power!"

"It is true," said the marquis, after a moment's silence. "What ought not
to be sacrificed in order to reign in secret over the all-powerful of the
earth, who lord it in full day? This journey to Rome, from which I have
just returned, has given me a new idea of our formidable power. For,
Herminia, it is Rome which is the culminating point, overlooking the
fairest and broadest quarters of the globe, made so by custom, by
tradition, or by faith. Thence can our workings be embraced in their full
extent. It is an uncommon view to see from its height the myriad tools,
whose personality is continually absorbed into the immovable personality
of our Order. What a might we possess! Verily, I am always swayed with
admiration, aye, almost frightened, that man once thinks, wishes,
believes, and acts as he alone lists, until, soon ours, he becomes but a
human shell; its kernel of intelligence, mind, reason, conscience, and
free will, shrivelled within him, dry and withered by the habit of
mutely, fearingly bowing under mysterious tasks, which shatter and slay
everything spontaneous in the human soul! Then do we infuse in such
spiritless clay, speechless, cold, and motionless as corpses, the breath
of our Order, and, lo! the dry bones stand up and walk, acting and
executing, though only within the limits which are circled round them
evermore. Thus do they become mere limbs of the gigantic trunk, whose
impulses they mechanically carry out, while ignorant of the design, like
the stonecutter who shapes out a stone, unaware if it be for cathedral or
bagnio."

In so speaking, the marquis's features wore an incredible air of proud
and domineering haughtiness.

"Oh, yes! this power is great, most great," observed the princess; "and
the more formidable because it moves in a mysterious way over minds and
consciences."

"Aye, Herminia," said the marquis: "I have had under my command a
magnificent regiment. Very often have I experienced the energetic and
exquisite enjoyment of command! At my word my squadrons put themselves in
action; bugles blared, my officers, glittering in golden embroidery,
galloped everywhere to repeat my orders: all my brave soldiers, burning
with courage, and cicatrized by battles, obeyed my signal; and I felt
proud and strong, holding as I did (so to speak) in my hands, the force
and valor of each and all combined into one being of resistless strength
and invincible intrepidity,--of all of which I was as much the master, as
I mastered the rage and fire of my war-horse! Aye! that was greatness.
But now, in spite of the misfortunes which have befallen our Order, I
feel myself a thousand times more ready for action, more authoritative,
more strong and more daring, at the head of our mute and black-robed
militia, who only think and wish, or move and obey, mechanically,
according to my will. On a sign they scatter over the surface of the
globe, gliding stealthily into households under the guise of confessing
the wife or teaching the children, into family affairs by hearing the
dying avowals,--up to the throne through the quaking conscience of a
credulous crowned coward;--aye, even to the chair of the Pope himself,
living manifesto of the Godhead though he is, by the services rendered
him or imposed by him. Is not this secret rule, made to kindle or glut
the wildest ambition, as it reaches from the cradle to the grave, from
the laborer's hovel to the royal palace, from palace to the papal chair?
What career in all the world presents such splendid openings? what
unutterable scorn ought I not feel for the bright butterfly life of early
days, when we made so many envy us? Don't you remember, Herminia?" he
added, with a bitter smile.

"You are right, perfectly right, Frederick!" replied the princess
quickly. "How little soever we may reflect, with what contempt do we not
think upon the past! I, like you, often compare it with the present; and
then what satisfaction I feel at having followed your counsels! For,
indeed, without you, I should have played the miserable and ridiculous
part which a woman always plays in her decline from having been beautiful
and surrounded by admirers. What could I have done at this hour? I should
have vainly striven to retain around me a selfish and ungrateful world of
gross and shameful men, who court women only that they may turn them to
the service of their passions, or to the gratification of their vanity.
It is true that there would have remained to me the resource of what is
called keeping an agreeable house for all others,--yes, in order to
entertain them, be visited by a crowd of the indifferent, to afford
opportunities of meeting to amorous young couples, who, following each
other from parlor to parlor, come not to your house but for the purpose
of being together; a very pretty pleasure, truly, that of harboring those
blooming, laughing, amorous youths, who look upon the luxury and
brilliancy with which one surrounds them, as if they were their due upon
bonds to minister to their pleasure, and to their impudent amours!"

Her words were so stinging, and such hateful envy sat upon her face, that
she betrayed the intense bitterness of her regrets in spite of herself.

"NO, no; thanks to you, Frederick," she continued, "After a last and
brilliant triumph, I broke forever with the world, which would soon have
abandoned me, though I was so long its idol and its queen. And I have
only changed my queendom. Instead of the dissipated men whom I ruled with
a frivolity superior to their own, I now find myself surrounded by men of
high consideration, of redoubtable character, and all-powerful, many of
whom have governed the state; to them I have devoted myself, as they have
devoted themselves to me! It is now only that I really enjoy that
happiness, of which I ever dreamt. I have taken an active part and have
exercised a powerful influence over the greatest interests of the world;
I have been initiated into the most important secrets; I have been able
to strike, surely, whosoever scoffed at or hated me; and I have been able
to elevate beyond their hopes those who have served or respected and
obeyed me."

"There are some madmen, and some so blind, that they imagine that we are
struck down, because we ourselves have had to struggle against some
misfortunes," said M. d'Aigrigny, disdainfully, "as if we were not, above
all others, securely founded, organized for every struggle, and drew not
from our very struggles a new and more vigorous activity. Doubtless the
times are bad. But they will become better; and, as you know, it is
nearly certain that in a few days (the 13th of February), we shall have
at our disposal a means of action sufficiently powerful for re
establishing our influence which has been temporarily shaken."

"Yes, doubtless this affair of the medals is most important," said the
princess.

"I should not have made so much haste to return hither," resumed the
abbe, "were it not to act in what will be, perhaps, for us, a very great
event."

"But you are aware of the fatality which has once again overthrown
projects the most laboriously conceived and matured?"

"Yes; immediately on arriving I saw Rodin."

"And he told you--?"

"The inconceivable arrival of the Indian, and of General Simon's
daughters at Cardoville Castle, after a double shipwreck, which threw
them upon the coast of Picardy; though it was deemed certain that the
young girls were at Leipsic, and the Indian in Java. Precautions were so
well taken, indeed," added the marquis in vexation, "that one would think
an invisible power protects this family."

"Happily, Rodin is a man of resources and activity," resumed the princess.
"He came here last night, and we had a long conversation."

"And the result of your consultation is excellent," added the marquis:
"the old soldier is to be kept out of the way for two days; and his
wife's confessor has been posted; the rest will proceed of itself. To
morrow, the girls need no longer be feared; and the Indian remains at
Cardoville, wounded dangerously. We have plenty of time for action."

"But that is not all," continued the princess: "there are still, without
reckoning my niece, two persons, who, for our interests, ought not to be
found in Paris on the 13th of February."

"Yes, M. Hardy: but his most dear and intimate friend has betrayed him;
for, by means of that friend, we have drawn M. Hardy into the South,
whence it is impossible for him to return before a month. As for that
miserable vagabond workman, surnamed 'Sleepinbuff!'"

"Fie!" exclaimed the princess, with an expression of outraged modesty.

"That man," resumed the marquis, "is no longer an object of inquietude.
Lastly, Gabriel, upon whom our vast and certain hope reposes, will not be
left by himself for a single minute until the great day. Everything
seems, you see, to promise success; indeed, more so than ever; and it is
necessary to obtain this success at any price. It is for us a question of
life or death; for, in returning, I stopped at Forli, and there saw the
Duke d'Orbano. His influence over the mind of the king is all
powerful--indeed, absolute; and he has completely prepossessed the royal
mind. It is with the duke alone, then, that it is possible to treat."

"Well?"

"D'Orbano has gained strength; and he can, I know it, assure to us a
legal existence, highly protected, in the dominions of his master, with
full charge of popular education. Thanks to such advantages, after two or
three years in that country we shall become so deeply rooted, that this
very Duke d'Orbano, in his turn, will have to solicit support and
protection from us. But at present he has everything in his power; and he
puts an absolute condition upon his services."

"What is the condition?"

"Five millions down; and an annual pension of a hundred thousand francs."

"It is very much."

"Nay, but little if it be considered that our foot once planted in that
country, we shall promptly repossess ourselves of that sum, which, after
all, is scarcely an eighth part of what the affair of the medals, if
happily brought to an issue, ought to assure to the Order."

"Yes, nearly forty millions," said the princess, thoughtfully.

"And again: these five millions that Orbano demands will be but an
advance. They will be returned to us in voluntary gifts, by reason even
of the increase of influence that we shall acquire from the education of
children; through whom we have their families. And yet, the fools
hesitate! those who govern see not, that in doing our own business, we do
theirs also;--that in abandoning education to us (which is what we wish
for above all things) we mold the people into that mute and quiet
obedience, that servile and brutal submission, which assures the repose
of states by the immobility of the mind. They don't reflect that most of
the upper and middle classes fear and hate us; don't understand that
(when we have persuaded the mass that their wretchedness is an eternal
law, that sufferers must give up hope of relief, that it is a crime to
sigh for welfare in this world, since the crown of glory on high is the
only reward for misery here), then the stupefied people will resignedly
wallow in the mire, all their impatient aspirations for better days
smothered, and the volcano-blasts blown aside, which made the future of
rulers so horrid and so dark? They see not, in truth, that this blind and
passive faith which we demand from the mass, furnishes their rulers with
a bridle with which both to conduct and curb them; whilst we ask from the
happy of the world only some appearances which ought, if they had only
the knowledge of their own corruption, to give an increased stimulant to
their pleasures.

"It signifies not," resumed the princess; "since, as you say, a great day
is at hand, bringing nearly forty millions, of which the Order can become
possessed by the happy success of the affair of the medals. We certainly
can attempt very great things. Like a lever in your hands, such a means
of action would be of incalculable power, in times during which all men
buy and sell one another."

"And then," resumed M. d'Aigrigny, with a thoughtful air, "here the
reaction continues: the example of France is everything. In Austria and
Holland we can rarely maintain ourselves; while the resources of the
Order diminish from day to day. We have arrived at a crisis; but it can
be made to prolong itself. Thus, thanks to the immense resource of the
affair of the medals, we can not only brave all eventualities, but we can
again powerfully establish ourselves, thanks to the offer of the Duke
d'Orbano, which we accept; and then, from that inassailable centre, our
radiations will be incalculable. Ah! the 13th of February!" added M.
d'Aigrigny, after a moment of silence, and shaking his head: "the 13th of
February, a date perhaps fortunate and famous for our power as that of
the council which gave to us (so to say) a new life!"

"And nothing must be spared." resumed the princess, "in order to succeed
at any price. Of the six persons whom we have to fear, five are or will
be out of any condition to hurt us. There remains then only my niece; and
you know that I have waited but for your arrival in order to take my last
resolution. All my preparations are completed; and this very morning we
will begin to act."

"Have your suspicions increased since your last letter?"

"Yes, I am certain that she is more instructed than she wishes to appear;
and if so, we shall not have a more dangerous enemy."

"Such has always been my opinion. Thus it is six month: since I advised
you to take in all cases the measures which you have adopted, in order to
provoke, on her part, that demand of emancipation, the consequences of
which now render quite easy that which would have been impossible without
it."

"At last," said the princess, with an expression of joy, hateful and
bitter, "this indomitable spirit will be broken. I am at length about to
be avenged of the many insolent sarcasms which I have been compelled to
swallow, lest I should awaken her suspicions. I! I to have borne so much
till now! for this Adrienne has made it her business (imprudent as she
is!) to irritate me against herself!"

"Whosoever offends you, offends me; you know it," said D'Aigrigny, "my
hatreds are yours."

"And you yourself!" said the princess, "how many times have you been the
butt of her poignant irony!"

"My instincts seldom deceive me. I am certain that this young girl may
become a dangerous enemy for us," said the marquis, with a voice
painfully broken into short monosyllables.

"And, therefore, it is necessary that she may be rendered incapable of
exciting further fear," responded Madame de Saint-Dizier, fixedly
regarding the marquis.

"Have you seen Dr. Baleinier, and the sub-guardian, M. Tripeaud?" asked
he.

"They will be here this morning. I have informed them of everything."

"Did you find them well disposed to act against her?"

"Perfectly so--and the best is, Adrienne does not at all suspect the
doctor, who has known how, up to a certain point, to preserve her
confidence. Moreover, a circumstance which appears to me inexplicable has
come to our aid."

"What do you allude to?"

"This morning, Mrs. Grivois went, according to my orders, to remind
Adrienne that I expected her at noon, upon important business. As she
approached the pavilion, Mrs. Grivois saw, or thought she saw, Adrienne
come in by the little garden-gate."

"What do you tell me? Is it possible? Is there any positive proof of it?"
cried the marquis.

"Till now, there is no other proof than the spontaneous declaration of
Mrs. Grivois: but whilst I think of it," said the Princess, taking up a
paper that lay before her, "here is the report, which, every day, one of
Adrienne's women makes to me."

"The one that Rodin succeeded in introducing into your niece's service?"

"The same; as this creature is entirely in Rodin's hands, she has
hitherto answered our purpose very well. In this report, we shall perhaps
find the confirmation of what Mrs. Grivois affirms she saw."

Hardly had the Princess glanced at the note, than she exclaimed almost in
terror: "What do I see? Why, Adrienne is a very demon!"

"What now?"

"The bailiff at Cardoville, having written to my niece to ask her
recommendation, informed her at the same time of the stay of the Indian
prince at the castle. She knows that he is her relation, and has just
written to her old drawing-master, Norval, to set out post with Eastern
dresses, and bring Prince Djalma hither--the man that must be kept away
from Paris at any cost."

The marquis grew pale, and said to Mme. de Saint-Dizier: "If this be not
merely one of her whims, the eagerness she displays in sending for this
relation hither, proves that she knows more than you even suspected. She
is 'posted' on the affair of the medals. Have a care--she may ruin all."

"In that case," said the princess, resolutely, "there is no room to
hesitate. We must carry things further than we thought, and make an end
this very morning."

"Yes, though it is almost impossible."

"Nay, all is possible. The doctor and M. Tripeaud are ours," said the
princess, hastily.

"Though I am as sure as you are of the doctor, or of M. Tripeaud, under
present circumstances, we must not touch on the question of acting--which
will be sure to frighten them at first--until after our interview with
your niece. It will be easy, notwithstanding her cleverness, to find out
her armor's defect. If our suspicions should be realized--if she is
really informed of what it would be so dangerous for her to know--then we
must have no scruples, and above all no delay. This very day must see all
set at rest. The time for wavering is past."

"Have you been able to send for the person agreed on?" asked the
princess, after a moment's silence.

"He was to be here at noon. He cannot be long."

"I thought this room would do very well for our purpose. It is separated
from the smaller parlor by a curtain only behind which your man may be
stationed."

"Capital!"

"Is he a man to be depended on?"

"Quite so--we have often employed him in similar matters. He is as
skillful as discreet."

At this moment a low knock was heard at the door.

"Come in," said the princess.

"Dr. Baleinier wishes to know if her Highness the Princess can receive
him," asked the valet-de-chambre.

"Certainly. Beg him to walk in."

"There is also a gentleman that M. l'Abbe appointed to be here at noon,
by whose orders I have left him waiting in the oratory."

"'Tis the person in question," said the marquis to the princess. "We must
have him in first. 'Twould be useless for Dr. Baleinier to see him at
present."

"Show this person in first," said the princess; "next when I ring the
bell, you will beg Dr. Baleinier to walk this way: and, if Baron Tripeaud
should call, you will bring him here also. After that, I am at home to no
one, except Mdlle. Adrienne." The servant went out.

[9] With regard to this text, a commentary upon it will be found in the
Constitutions of the Jesuits, as follows: "In order that the habit of
language may come to the help of the sentiments, it is wise not to say,
'I have parents, or I have brothers;' but to say, 'I had parents; I had
brothers.'"--General Examination, p. 29; Constitutions.--Paulin; 1843.
Paris.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ADRIENNE'S ENEMIES.

The Princess de Saint-Dizier's valet soon returned, showing in a little,
pale man, dressed in black, and wearing spectacles. He carried under his
left arm a long black morocco writing-case.

The princess said to this man: "M. l'Abbe, I suppose, has already
informed you of what is to be done?"

"Yes, your highness," said the man in a faint, shrill, piping voice,
making at the same time a low bow.

"Shall you be conveniently placed in this room?" asked the princess,
conducting him to the adjoining apartment, which was only separated from
the other by a curtain hung before a doorway.

"I shall do nicely here, your highness," answered the man in spectacles,
with a second and still lower bow.

"In that case, sir, please to step in here; I will let you know when it
is time."

"I shall wait your highness's order."

"And pray remember my instructions," added the marquis, as he unfastened
the loops of the curtain.

"You may be perfectly tranquil, M. l'Abbe." The heavy drapery, as it
fell, completely concealed the man in spectacles.

The princess touched the bell; some moments after, the door opened, and
the servant announced a very important personage in this work.

Dr. Baleinier was about fifty years of age, middling size, rather plump,
with a full shining, ruddy countenance. His gray hair, very smooth and
rather long, parted by a straight line in the middle, fell flat over his
temples. He had retained the fashion of wearing short, black silk
breeches, perhaps because he had a well-formed leg; his garters were
fastened with small, golden buckles, as were his shoes of polished
morocco leather; his coat, waistcoat, and cravat were black, which gave
him rather a clerical appearance; his sleek, white hand was half hidden
beneath a cambric ruffle, very closely plaited; on the whole, the gravity
of his costume did not seem to exclude a shade of foppery.

His face was acute and smiling; his small gray eye announced rare
penetration and sagacity. A man of the world and a man of pleasure, a
delicate epicure, witty in conversation, polite to obsequiousness,
supple, adroit, insinuating, Baleinier was one of the oldest favorites of
the congregational set of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. Thanks to this
powerful support, its cause unknown, the doctor, who had been long
neglected, in spite of real skill and incontestable merit, found himself,
under the Restoration, suddenly provided with two medical sinecures most
valuable, and soon after with numerous patients. We must add, that, once
under the patronage of the princess, the doctor began scrupulously to
observe his religious duties; he communicated once a week, with great
publicity, at the high mass in Saint Thomas Aquinas Church.

At the year's end, a certain class of patients, led by the example and
enthusiasm of Madame de Saint-Dizier's followers, would have no other
physician than Doctor Baleinier, and his practice was now increased to an
extraordinary degree. It may be conceived how important it was for the
order, to have amongst its "plain clothes members" one of the most
popular practitioners of Paris.

A doctor has in some sort a priesthood of his own. Admitted at all hours
to the most secret intimacy of families, he knows, guesses, and is able
to effect much. Like the priest, in short, he has the ear of the sick and
the dying. Now, when he who cares for the health of the body, and he who
takes charge of the health of the soul, understands each other, and
render mutual aid for the advancement of a common interest, there is
nothing (with certain exceptions), which they may not extract from the
weakness and fears of a sick man at the last gasp--not for themselves
(the laws forbid it)--but for third parties belonging more or less to the
very convenient class of men of straw. Doctor Baleinier was therefore one
of the most active and valuable assistant members of the Paris Jesuits.

When he entered the room, he hastened to kiss the princess's hand with
the most finished gallantry.

"Always punctual, my dear M. Baleinier."

"Always eager and happy to attend to your highness's orders." Then
turning towards the marquis, whose hand he pressed cordially, he added:
"Here we have you then at last. Do you know, that three months' absence
appears very long to your friends?"

"The time is as long to the absent as to those who remain, my dear
doctor. Well! here is the great day, Mdlle. de Cardoville is coming."

"I am not quite easy," said the princess; "suppose she had any suspicion?"

"That's impossible," said M. Baleinier; "we are the best friends in the
world. You know, that Mdlle. Adrienne has always had great confidence in
me. The day before yesterday, we laughed a good deal, and as I made some
observations to her, as usual, on her eccentric mode of life, and on the
singular state of excitement in which I sometimes found her--"

"M. Baleinier never fails to insist on these circumstances, in appearance
so insignificant," said Madame de Saint-Dizier to the marquis with a
meaning look.

"They are indeed very essential," replied the other.

"Mdlle. Adrienne answered my observations," resumed the doctor, "by
laughing at me in the gayest and most witty manner; for I must confess,
that this young lady has one of the aptest and most accomplished minds I
know."

"Doctor, doctor!" said Madame de Saint-Dizier, "no weakness!"

Instead of answering immediately, M. Baleinier drew his gold snuff-box
from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, and took slowly a pinch of snuff,
looking all the time at the princess with so significant an air, that she
appeared quite reassured. "Weakness, madame?" observed he at last,
brushing some grains of snuff from his shirt-front with his plump white
hand; "did I not have the honor of volunteering to extricate you from
this embarrassment?"

"And you are the only person in the world that could render us this
important service," said D'Aigrigny.

"Your highness sees, therefore," resumed the doctor, "that I am not
likely to show any weakness. I perfectly understand the responsibility of
what I undertake; but such immense interests, you told me, were at
stake--"

"Yes," said D'Aigrigny, "interests of the first consequence."

"Therefore I did not hesitate," proceeded M. Baleinier; "and you need not
be at all uneasy. As a man of taste, accustomed to good society, allow me
to render homage to the charming qualities of Mdlle. Adrienne; when the
time for action comes, you will find me quite as willing to do my work."

"Perhaps, that moment may be nearer than we thought," said Madame de
Saint-Dizier, exchanging a glance with D'Aigrigny.

"I am, and will be, always ready," said the doctor. "I answer for
everything that concerns myself. I wish I could be as tranquil on every
other point."

"Is not your asylum still as fashionable--as an asylum can well be?"
asked Madame de Saint-Dizier, with a half smile.

"On the contrary. I might almost complain of having too many boarders. It
is not that. But, whilst we are waiting for Mdlle. Adrienne, I will
mention another subject, which only relates to her indirectly, for it
concerns the person who, bought Cardoville Manor, one Madame de la
Sainte-Colombe, who has taken me for a doctor, thanks to Rodin's able
management."

"True," said D'Aigrigny; "Rodin wrote to me on the subject--but without
entering into details."

"These are the facts," resumed the doctor. "This Madame de la Sainte
Colombe, who was at first considered easy enough to lead, has shown
herself very refractory on the head of her conversion. Two spiritual
directors have already renounced the task of saving her soul. In despair,
Rodin unslipped little Philippon on her. He is adroit, tenacious, and
above all patient in the extreme--the very man that was wanted. When I
got Madame de la Sainte-Colombe for a patient, Philippon asked my aid,
which he was naturally entitled to. We agreed upon our plan. I was not to
appear to know him the least in the world; and he was to keep me informed
of the variations in the moral state of his penitent, so that I might be
able, by the use of very inoffensive medicines--for there was nothing
dangerous in the illness--to keep my patient in alternate states of
improvement or the reverse, according as her director had reason to be
satisfied or displeased--so that he might say to her: 'You see, madame,
you are in the good way! Spiritual grace acts upon your bodily health,
and you are already better. If, on the contrary, you fall back into evil
courses, you feel immediately some physical ail, which is a certain proof
of the powerful influence of faith, not only on the soul, but on the body
also?'"

"It is doubtless painful," said D'Aigrigny, with perfect coolness, "to be
obliged to have recourse to such means, to rescue perverse souls from
perdition--but we must needs proportion our modes of action to the
intelligence and the character of the individual."

"By-the-bye, the princess knows," resumed the doctor, "that I have often
pursued this plan at St. Mary's Convent, to the great advantage of the
soul's peace and health of some of our patients, being extremely
innocent. These alternations never exceed the difference between 'pretty
well,' and 'not quite so well.' Yet small as are the variations, they act
most efficaciously on certain minds. It was thus with Madame de la
Sainte-Colombe. She was in such a fair way of recovery, both moral and
physical, that Rodin thought he might get Philippon to advise the country
for his penitent, fearing that Paris air might occasion a relapse. This
advice, added to the desire the woman had to play 'lady of the parish,'
induced her to buy Cardoville Manor, a good investment in any respect.
But yesterday, unfortunate Philippon came to tell me, that Madame de la
Sainte-Colombe was about to have an awful relapse--moral, of course--for
her physical health is now desperately good. The said relapse appears to
have been occasioned by an interview she has had with one Jacques
Dumoulin, whom they tell me you know, my dear abbe; he has introduced
himself to her, nobody can guess how."

"This Jacques Dumoulin," said the marquis, with disgust, "is one of those
men, that we employ while we despise. He is a writer full of gall, envy,
and hate, qualities that give him a certain unmercifully cutting
eloquence. We pay him largely to attack our enemies, though it is often
painful to see principles we respect defended by such a pen. For this
wretch lives like a vagabond--is constantly in taverns--almost always
intoxicated--but, I must own, his power of abuse is inexhaustible, and he
is well versed in the most abstruse theological controversies, so that he
is sometimes very useful to us."

"Well! though Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is hard upon sixty, it appears
that Dumoulin has matrimonial views on her large fortune. You will do
well to inform Rodin, so that he may be on his guard against the dark
designs of this rascal. I really beg a thousand pardons for having so
long occupied you with such a paltry affair--but, talking of St. Mary's
Convent," added the doctor, addressing the princess, "may I take the
liberty of asking if your highness has been there lately?"

The princess exchanged a rapid glance with D'Aigrigny, and answered: "Oh,
let me see! Yes, I was there about a week ago."

"You will find great changes then. The wall that was next to my asylum
has been taken down, for they are going to build anew wing and a chapel,
the old one being too small. I must say in praise of Mdlle. Adrienne"
continued the doctor with a singular smile aside, "that she promised me a
copy of one of Raphael's Madonnas for this chapel."

"Really? very appropriate!" said the princess. "But here it is almost
noon, and M. Tripeaud has not come."

"He is the deputy-guardian of Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose property he has
managed, as former agent of the count-duke," said the marquis, with
evident anxiety, "and his presence here is absolutely indispensable. It
is greatly to be desired that his coming should precede that of Mdlle. de
Cardoville, who may be here at any moment."

"It is unlucky that his portrait will not do as well," said the doctor,
smiling maliciously, and drawing a small pamphlet from his pocket.

"What is that, doctor?" asked the princess.

"One of those anonymous sheets, which are published from time to time. It
is called the 'Scourge,' and Baron Tripeaud's portrait is drawn with such
faithfulness, that it ceases to be satire. It is really quite life like;
you have only to listen. The sketch is entitled: 'TYPE OF THE LYNX
SPECIES.'

"'The Baron Tripeaud.--This man, who is as basely humble towards his
social superiors, as he is insolent and coarse to those who depend upon
him--is the living, frightful incarnation of the worst pardon of the
moneyed and commercial aristocracy--one of the rich and cynical
speculators, without heart, faith or conscience, who would speculate for
a rise or fall on the death of his mother, if the death of his mother
could influence the price of stocks.

"'Such persons have all the odious vices of men suddenly elevated, not
like those whom honest and patient labor has nobly enriched, but like
those who owe their wealth to some blind caprice of fortune, or some
lucky cast of the net in the miry waters of stock-jobbing.

"'Once up in the world, they hate the people--because the people remind
them of a mushroom origin of which they are ashamed. Without pity for the
dreadful misery of the masses, they ascribe it wholly to idleness or
debauchery because this calumny forms an excuse for their barbarous
selfishness.

"'And this is not all. On the strength of his well-filled safe, mounted
on his right of the candidate, Baron Tripeaud insults the poverty and
political disfranchisement--of the officer, who, after forty years of
wars and hard service, is just able to live on a scanty pension--Of the
magistrate, who has consumed his strength in the discharge of stern and
sad duties, and who is not better remunerated in his litter days--Of the
learned man who has made his country illustrious by useful labors; or the
professor who has initiated entire generations in the various branches of
human knowledge--Of the modest and virtuous country curate, the pure
representative of the gospel, in its charitable, fraternal, and
democratic tendencies, etc.

"'In such a state of things, how should our shoddy baron of in-dust-ry
not feel the most sovereign contempt for all that stupid mob of honest
folk, who, having given to their country their youth, their mature age,
their blood, their intelligence, their learning, see themselves deprived
of the rights which he enjoys, because he has gained a million by unfair
and illegal transactions?

"'It is true, that your optimists say to these pariahs of civilization,
whose proud and noble poverty cannot be too much revered and honored:
"Buy an estate and you too may be electors and candidates!"

"'But to come to the biography of our worthy baron--Andrew Tripeaud, the
son of an ostler, at a roadside inn.'"

At this instant the folding-doors were thrown open, and the valet
announced: "The Baron Tripeaud!"

Dr. Baleinier put his pamphlet into his pocket, made the most cordial bow
to the financier, and even rose to give him his hand. The baron entered
the room, overwhelming every one with salutations. "I have the honor to
attend the orders of your highness the princess. She knows that she may
always count upon me."

"I do indeed rely upon you, M. Tripeaud, and particularly under present
circumstances."

"If the intentions of your highness the princess are still the same with
regard to Mdlle. de Cardoville--"

"They are still the same, M. Tripeaud, and we meet to-day on that
subject."

"Your highness may be assured of my concurrence, as, indeed, I have
already promised. I think that the greatest severity must at length be
employed, and that even if it were necessary."

"That is also our opinion," said the marquis, hastily making a sign to
the princess, and glancing at the place where the man in spectacles was
hidden; "we are all perfectly in harmony. Still, we must not leave any
point doubtful, for the sake of the young lady herself, whose interests
alone guides us in this affair. We must draw out her sincerity by every
possible means."

"Mademoiselle has just arrived from the summer-house and wishes to see
your highness," said the valet, again entering, after having knocked at
the door.

"Say that I wait for her," answered the princess; "and now I am at home
to no one--without exception. You understand me; absolutely to no one."

Thereupon, approaching the curtain behind which the man was concealed,
Mme. de Saint-Dizier gave him the cue--after which she returned to her
seat.

It is singular, but during the short space which preceded Adrienne's
arrival, the different actors in this scene appeared uneasy and
embarrassed, as if they had a vague fear of her coming. In about a
minute, Mdlle. de Cardoville entered the presence of her aunt.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE SKIRMISH.

On entering, Mdlle. de Cardoville threw down upon a chair the gray beaver
hat she had worn to cross the garden, and displayed her fine golden hair,
falling on either side of her face in long, light ringlets, and twisted
in a broad knot behind her head. She presented herself without boldness,
but with perfect ease: her countenance was gay and smiling; her large
black eyes appeared even more brilliant than usual. When she perceived
Abbe d'Aigrigny, she started in surprise, and her rosy lips were just
touched with a mocking smile.

After nodding graciously to the doctor, she passed Baron Tripeaud by
without looking at him, and saluted the princess with stately obeisance,
in the most fashionable style.

Though the walk and bearing of Mdlle. de Cardoville were extremely
elegant, and full of propriety and truly feminine grace, there was about
her an air of resolution and independence by no means common in women,
and particularly in girls of her age. Her movements, without being
abrupt, bore no traces of restraint, stiffness, or formality. They were
frank and free as her character, full of life, youth, and freshness; and
one could easily divine that so buoyant, straightforward, and decided a
nature had never been able to conform itself to the rules of an affected
rigor.

Strangely enough, though he was a man of the world, a man of great
talent, a churchman distinguished for his eloquence, and, above all, a
person of influence and authority. Marquis d'Aigrigny experienced an
involuntary, incredible, almost painful uneasiness, in presence of
Adrienne de Cardoville. He--generally so much the master of himself, so
accustomed to exercise great power--who (in the name of his Order) had
often treated with crowned heads on the footing of an equal, felt himself
abashed and lowered in the presence of this girl, as remarkable for her
frankness as for her biting irony. Now, as men who are accustomed to
impose their will upon others generally hate those who, far from
submitting to their influence, hamper it and make sport of them, it was
no great degree of affection that the marquis bore towards the Princess
de Saint-Dizier's niece.

For a long time past, contrary to his usual habit, he had ceased to try
upon Adrienne that fascinating address to which he had often owed an
irresistible charm; towards her he had become dry, curt, serious, taking
refuge in that icy sphere of haughty dignity and rigid austerity which
completely hid all those amiable qualities with which he was endowed and
of which, in general, he made such efficient use. Adrienne was much
amused at all this, and thereby showed her imprudence--for the most
vulgar motives often engender the most implacable hatreds.

From these preliminary observations, the reader will understand the
divers sentiments and interests which animated the different actors in
the following scene.

Madame de Saint-Dizier was seated in a large arm-chair by one side of the
hearth. Marquis d'Aigrigny was standing before the fire. Dr. Baleinier
seated near a bureau, was again turning over the leaves of Baron
Tripeaud's biography, whilst the baron appeared to be very attentively
examining one of the pictures of sacred subjects suspended from the wall.

"You sent for me, aunt, to talk upon matters of importance?" said
Adrienne, breaking the silence which had reigned in the reception-room
since her entrance.

"Yes, madame," answered the princess, with a cold and severe mien; "upon
matters of the gravest importance."

"I am at your service, aunt. Perhaps we had better walk into your
library?"

"It is not necessary. We can talk here." Then, addressing the marquis,
the doctor, and the baron, she said to them, "Pray, be seated,
gentlemen," and they all took their places round the table.

"How can the subject of our interview interest these gentlemen, aunt?"
asked Mdlle. de Cardoville, with surprise.

"These gentlemen are old family friends; all that concerns you must
interest them, and their advice ought to be heard and accepted by you
with respect."

"I have no doubt, aunt, of the bosom friendship of M. d'Aigrigny for our
family: I have still less of the profound and disinterested devotion of
M. Tripeaud; M. Baleinier is one of my old friends; still, before
accepting these gentlemen as spectators, or, if you will, as confidants
of our interview, I wish to know what we are going to talk of before
them."

"I thought that, among your many singular pretensions, you had at least
those of frankness and courage."

"Really, aunt," said Adrienne, smiling with mock humility, "I have no
more pretensions to frankness and courage than you have to sincerity and
goodness. Let us admit, once for all, that we are what we are--without
pretension."

"Be it so," said Madame de Saint-Dizier, in a dry tone; "I have long been
accustomed to the freaks of your independent spirit. I suppose, then,
that, courageous and frank as you say you are, you will not be afraid to
speak before such grave and respectable persons as these gentlemen what
you would speak to me alone?"

"Is it a formal examination that I am to submit to? if so, upon what
subject?"

"It is not an examination: but, as I have a right to watch over you, and
as you take advantage of my weak compliance with your caprices, I mean to
put an end to what has lasted too long, and tell you my irrevocable
resolutions for the future, in presence of friends of the family. And,
first, you have hitherto had a very false and imperfect notion of my
power over you."

"I assure you, aunt, that I have never had any notion, true or false, on
the subject--for I have never even dreamt about it."

"That is my own fault; for, instead of yielding to your fancies, I should
have made you sooner feel my authority; but the moment has come to submit
yourself; the severe censures of my friends have enlightened me in time.
Your character is self-willed, independent, stubborn; it must
change--either by fair means or by force, understand me, it shall
change."

At these words, pronounced harshly before strangers, with a severity
which did not seem at all justified by circumstances, Adrienne tossed her
head proudly; but, restraining herself, she answered with a smile: "You
say, aunt, that I shall change. I should not be astonished at it. We hear
of such odd conversions."

The princess bit her lips.

"A sincere conversion can never be called odd, as you term it, madame,"
said Abbe d'Aigrigny, coldly. "It is, on the contrary, meritorious, and
forms an excellent example."

"Excellent?" answered Adrienne: "that depends! For instance, what if one
converts defects into vices?"

"What do you mean, madame?" cried the princess.

"I am speaking of myself, aunt; you reproach me of being independent and
resolute--suppose I were to become hypocritical and wicked? In truth, I
prefer keeping my dear little faults, which I love like spoiled children.
I know what I am; I do not know what I might be."

"But you must acknowledge, Mdlle. Adrienne," said Baron Tripeaud, with a
self-conceited and sententious air, "that a conversion--"

"I believe," said Adrienne, disdainfully, "that M. Tripeaud is well
versed in the conversion of all sorts of property into all sorts of
profit, by all sorts of means--but he knows nothing of this matter."

"But, madame," resumed the financier, gathering courage from a glance of
the princess, "you forget that I have the honor to be your deputy
guardian, and that--"

"It is true that M. Tripeaud has that honor," said Adrienne, with still
more haughtiness, and not even looking at the baron; "I could never tell
exactly why. But as it is not now the time to guess enigmas, I wish to
know, aunt, the object and the end of this meeting?"

"You shall be satisfied, madame. I will explain myself in a very clear
and precise manner. You shall know the plan of conduct that you will have
henceforth to pursue; and if you refuse to submit thereto, with the
obedience and respect that is due to my orders, I shall at once see what
course to take."

It is impossible to give an idea of the imperious tone and stern look of
the princess, as she pronounced these words which were calculated to
startle a girl, until now accustomed to live in a great measure as she
pleased: yet, contrary perhaps to the expectation of Madame de Saint
Dizier, instead of answering impetuously, Adrienne looked her full in the
face, and said, laughing: "This is a perfect declaration of war. It's
becoming very amusing."

"We are not talking of declarations of war," said the Abbe d'Aigrigny,
harshly, as if offended by the expressions of Mdlle. de Cardoville.

"Now, M. l'Abbe!" returned Adrienne, "for an old colonel, you are really
too severe upon a jest!--you are so much indebted to 'war,' which gave
you a French regiment after fighting so long against France--in order to
learn, of course, the strength and the weakness of her enemies."

On these words, which recalled painful remembrances, the marquis colored;
he was going to answer, but the princess exclaimed: "Really, madame, your
behavior is quite intolerable!"

"Well, aunt, I acknowledge I was wrong. I ought not to have said this is
very amusing--for it is not so, at all; but it is at least very
curious--and perhaps," added the young girl, after a moment's silence,
"perhaps very audacious and audacity pleases me. As we are upon this
subject, and you talk of a plan of conduct to which I must conform
myself, under pain of (interrupting herself)--under pain of what, I
should like to know, aunt?"

"You shall know. Proceed."

"I will, in the presence of these gentlemen, also declare, in a very
plain and precise manner, the determination that I have come to. As it
required some time to prepare for its execution, I have not spoken of it
sooner, for you know I am not in the habit of saying, 'I will do so and
so!' but I do it."

"Certainly; and it is just this habit of culpable independence of which
you must break yourself."

"Well, I had intended only to inform you of my determination at a later
period; but I cannot resist the pleasure of doing so to-day, you seem so
well disposed to hear and receive it. Still, I would beg of you to speak
first: it may just so happen, that our views are precisely the same."

"I like better to see you thus," said the princess. "I acknowledge at
least the courage of your pride, and your defiance of all authority. You
speak of audacity--yours is indeed great."

"I am at least decided to do that which others in their weakness dare
not--but which I dare. This, I hope, is clear and precise."

"Very clear, very precise," said the princess, exchanging a glance of
satisfaction with the other actors in this scene. "The positions being
thus established, matters will be much simplified. I have only to give
you notice, in your own interest, that this is a very serious
affair--much more so than you imagine--and that the only way to dispose
me to indulgence, is to substitute, for the habitual arrogance and irony
of your language, the modesty and respect becoming a young lady."

Adrienne smiled, but made no reply. Some moments of silence, and some
rapid glances exchanged between the princess and her three friends,
showed that these encounters, more or less brilliant in themselves, were
to be followed by a serious combat.

Mdlle. de Cardoville had too much penetration and sagacity, not to
remark, that the Princess de Saint-Dizier attached the greatest
importance to this decisive interview. But she could not understand how
her aunt could hope to impose her absolute will upon her: the threat of
coercive measures appearing with reason a mere ridiculous menace. Yet,
knowing the vindictive character of her aunt, the secret power at her
disposal, and the terrible vengeance she had sometimes exacted
--reflecting, moreover, that men in the position of the marquis and the
doctor would not have come to attend this interview without some weighty
motive--the young lady paused for a moment before she plunged into the
strife.

But soon, the very presentiment of some vague danger, far from weakening
her, gave her new courage to brave the worst, to exaggerate, if that were
possible, the independence of her ideas, and uphold, come what might, the
determination that she was about to signify to the Princess de Saint
Dizier.



CHAPTER XL.

THE REVOLT.

"Madame," said the princess to Adrienne de Cardoville, in a cold, severe
tone, "I owe it to myself, as well as to these gentlemen, to
recapitulate, in a few words, the events that have taken place for some
time past. Six months ago, at the end of the mourning for your father,
you, being eighteen years old, asked for the management of your fortune,
and for emancipation from control. Unfortunately, I had the weakness to
consent. You quitted the house, and established yourself in the
extension, far from all superintendence. Then began a train of
expenditures, each one more extravagant than the last. Instead of being
satisfied with one or two waiting-women, taken from that class from which
they are generally selected, you chose governesses for lady-companions,
whom you dressed in the most ridiculous and costly fashion. It is true,
that, in the solitude of your pavilion, you yourself chose to wear, one
after another, costumes of different ages. Your foolish fancies and
unreasonable whims have been without end and without limit: not only have
you never fulfilled your religious duties, but you have actually had the
audacity to profane one of your rooms, by rearing in the centre of it a
species of pagan altar, on which is a group in marble representing a
youth and a girl"--the princess uttered these words as if they would burn
her lips--"a work of art, if you will, but a work in the highest degree
unsuitable to a person of your age. You pass whole days entirely secluded
in your pavilion, refusing to see any one; and Dr. Baleinier, the only
one of my friends in whom you seem to have retained some confidence,
having succeeded by much persuasion in gaining admittance, has frequently
found you in so very excited a state, that he has felt seriously uneasy
with regard to your health. You have always insisted on going out alone,
without rendering any account of your actions to any one. You have taken
delight in opposing, in every possible way, your will to my authority. Is
all this true?"

"The picture of my past is not much flattered," said Adrienne; smiling,
"but it is not altogether unlike."

"So you admit, madame," said Abbe d'Aigrigny, laying stress on his words,
"that all the facts stated by your aunt are scrupulously true?"

Every eye was turned towards Adrienne, as if her answer would be of
extreme importance.

"Yes, M. l'Abbe," said she; "I live openly enough to render this question
superfluous."

"These facts are therefore admitted," said Abbe d'Aigrigny, turning
towards the doctor and the baron.

"These facts are completely established," said M. Tripeaud, in a pompous
voice.

"Will you tell me, aunt," asked Adrienne, "what is the good of this long
preamble?"

"This long preamble, madame," resumed the princess with dignity, "exposes
the past in order to justify the future."

"Really, aunt, such mysterious proceedings are a little in the style of
the answers of the Cumaean Sybil. They must be intended to cover
something formidable."

"Perhaps, mademoiselle--for to certain characters nothing is so
formidable as duty and obedience. Your character is one of those inclined
to revolt--"

"I freely acknowledge it, aunt--and it will always be so, until duty and
obedience come to me in a shape that I can respect and love."

"Whether you respect and love my orders or not, madame," said the
princess, in a curt, harsh voice, "you will, from to-day, from this
moment, learn to submit blindly and absolutely to my will. In one word,
you will do nothing without my permission: it is necessary, I insist upon
it, and so I am determined it shall be."

Adrienne looked at her aunt for a second, and then burst into so free and
sonorous a laugh, that it rang for quite a time through the vast
apartment. D'Aigrigny and Baron Tripeaud started in indignation. The
princess looked angrily at her niece. The doctor raised his eyes to
heaven, and clasped his hands over his waistcoat with a sanctimonious
sigh.

"Madame," said Abbe d'Aigrigny, "such fits of laughter are highly
unbecoming. Your aunt's words are serious, and deserve a different
reception."

"Oh, sir!" said Adrienne, recovering herself, "it is not my fault if I
laugh. How can I maintain my gravity, when I hear my aunt talking of
blind submission to her orders? Is the swallow, accustomed to fly upwards
and enjoy the sunshine, fledged to live with the mole in darkness?"

At this answer, D'Aigrigny affected to stare at the other members of this
kind of family council with blank astonishment.

"A swallow? what does she mean?" asked the abbe of the baron making a
sign, which the latter understood.

"I do not know," answered Tripeaud, staring in his turn at the doctor.
"She spoke too of a mole. It 'is quite unheard-of--incomprehensible."

"And so, madame," said the princess, appearing to share in the surprise
of the others, "this is the reply that you make to me?"

"Certainly," answered Adrienne, astonished herself that they should
pretend not to understand the simile of which she had made use,
accustomed as she was to speak in figurative language.

"Come, come, madame," said Dr. Baleinier, smiling good-humoredly, "we
must be indulgent. My dear Mdlle. Adrienne has naturally so uncommon and
excitable a nature! She is really the most charming mad woman I know; I
have told her so a hundred times, in my position of an old friend, which
allows such freedom."

"I can conceive that your attachment makes you indulgent--but it is not
the less true, doctor," said D'Aigrigny, as if reproaching him for taking
the part of Mdlle. de Cardoville, "that such answers to serious questions
are most extravagant."

"The evil is, that mademoiselle does not seem to comprehend the serious
nature of this conference," said the princess, harshly. "She will perhaps
understand it better when I have given her my orders."

"Let us hear these orders, aunt," replied Adrienne as, seated on the
other side of the table, opposite to the princess, she leaned her small,
dimpled chin in the hollow of her pretty hand, with an air of graceful
mockery, charming to behold.

"From to-morrow forward," resumed the princess, "you will quit the
summer-house which you at present inhabit, you will discharge your women,
and come and occupy two rooms in this house, to which there will be no
access except through my apartment. You will never go out alone. You will
accompany me to the services of the church. Your emancipation terminates,
in consequence of your prodigality duly proven. I will take charge of all
your expenses, even to the ordering of your clothes, so that you may be
properly and modestly dressed. Until your majority (which will be
indefinitely postponed, by means of the intervention of a
family-council), you will have no money at your own disposal. Such is my
resolution."

"And certainly your resolution can only be applauded, madame," said Baron
Tripeaud; "we can but encourage you to show the greatest firmness, for
such disorders must have an end."

"It is more than time to put a stop to such scandal," added the abbe.

"Eccentricity and exaltation of temperament--may excuse many things,"
ventured to observe the smooth-tongued doctor.

"No doubt," replied the princess dryly to Baleinier, who played his part
to perfection; "but then, doctor, the requisite measures must be taken
with such characters."

Madame de Saint-Dizier had expressed herself in a firm and precise
manner; she appeared convinced of the possibility of putting her threats
into execution. M. Tripeaud and D'Aigrigny had just now given their full
consent to the words of the princess. Adrienne began to perceive that
something very serious was in contemplation, and her gayety was at once
replaced by an air of bitter irony and offended independence.

She rose abruptly, and colored a little; her rosy nostrils dilated, her
eyes flashed fire, and, as she raised her head, she gently shook the
fine, wavy golden hair, with a movement of pride that was natural to her.
After a moment's silence, she said to her aunt in a cutting tone: "You
have spoken of the past, madame; I also will speak a few words concerning
it, since you force me to do so, though I may regret the necessity. I
quitted your dwelling, because it was impossible for me to live longer in
this atmosphere of dark hypocrisy and black treachery."

"Madame," said D'Aigrigny, "such words are as violent as they are
unreasonable."

"Since you interrupt me, sir," said Adrienne, hastily, as she fixed her
eyes on the abbe, "tell me what examples did I meet with in my aunt's
house?"

"Excellent, examples, madame."

"Excellent, sir? Was it because I saw there, every day, her conversion
keep pace with your own?"

"Madame, you forget yourself!" cried the princess, becoming pale with
rage.

"Madame, I do not forget--I remember, like other people; that is all. I
had no relation of whom I could ask an asylum. I wished to live alone. I
wished to enjoy my revenues--because I chose rather to spend them myself,
than to see them wasted by M. Tripeaud."

"Madame," cried the baron, "I cannot imagine how you can presume--"

"Sir!" said Adrienne, reducing him to silence by a gesture of
overwhelming lordliness, "I speak of you--not to you. I wished to spend
my income," she continued, "according to my own tastes. I embellished the
retreat that I had chosen. Instead of ugly, ill-taught servants, I
selected girls, pretty and well brought up, though poor. Their education
forbade their being subjected to any humiliating servitude, though I have
endeavored to make their situation easy and agreeable. They do not serve
me, but render me service--I pay them, but I am obliged to them--nice
distinctions that your highness will not understand, I know. Instead of
seeing them badly or ungracefully dressed, I have given them clothes that
suit their charming faces well, because I like whatever is young and
fair. Whether I dress myself one way or the other, concerns only my
looking-glass. I go out alone, because I like to follow my fancy. I do
not go to mass--but, if I had still a mother, I would explain to her my
devotions, and she would kiss me none the less tenderly. It is true, that
I have raised a pagan altar to youth and beauty, because I adore God in
all that He has made fair and good, noble and grand--because, morn and
evening, my heart repeats the fervent and sincere prayer: 'Thanks, my
Creator! thanks!'--Your highness says that M. Baleinier has often found
me in my solitude, a prey to a strange excitement: yes, it is true; for
it is then that, escaping in thought from all that renders the present
odious and painful to me, I find refuge in the future--it is then that
magical horizons spread far before me--it is then that such splendid
visions appear to me, as make me feel myself rapt in a sublime and
heavenly ecstasy, as if I no longer appertained to earth!"

As Adrienne pronounced these last words with enthusiasm, her countenance
appeared transfigured, so resplendent did it become. In that moment, she
had lost sight of all that surrounded her.

"It is then," she resumed, with spirit soaring higher and higher, "that I
breathe a pure air, reviving and free--yes, free--above all, free--and so
salubrious, so grateful to the soul!--Yes, instead of seeing my sisters
painfully submit to a selfish, humiliating, brutal dominion, which
entails upon them the seductive vices of slavery, the graceful fraud, the
enchanting perfidy, the caressing falsehood, the contemptuous
resignation, the hateful obedience--I behold them, my noble sisters!
worthy and sincere because they are free, faithful and devoted because
they have liberty to choose--neither imperious not base, because they
have no master to govern or to flatter--cherished and respected, because
they can withdraw from a disloyal hand their hand, loyally bestowed. Oh,
my sisters! my sisters! I feel it. These are not merely consoling
visions--they are sacred hopes."

Carried away, in spite of herself, by the excitement of her feelings,
Adrienne paused for a moment, in order to return to earth; she did not
perceive that the other actors in this scene were looking at each other
with an air of delight.

"What she says there is excellent," murmured the doctor in the princess's
ear, next to whom he was seated; "were she in league with us, she would
not speak differently."

"It is only by excessive harshness," added D'Aigrigny, "that we shall
bring her to the desired point."

But it seemed as if the vexed emotion of Adrienne had been dissipated by
the contact of the generous sentiments she had just uttered. Addressing
Baleinier with a smile, she said: "I must own, doctor, that there is
nothing more ridiculous, than to yield to the current of certain
thoughts, in the presence of persons incapable of understanding them.
This would give you a fine opportunity to make game of that exaltation of
mind for which you sometimes reproach me. To let myself be carried away
by transports at so serious a moment!--for, verily, the matter in hand
seems to be serious. But you see, good M. Baleinier, when an idea comes
into my head, I can no more help following it out, than I could refrain
from running after butterflies when I was a little girl."

"And heaven only knows whither these brilliant butterflies of all
colors," said M. Baleinier, smiling with an air of paternal indulgence,
"that are passing through your brain, are likely to lead you. Oh, madcap,
when will she be as reasonable as she is charming?"

"This very instant, my good doctor," replied Adrienne. "I am about to
cast off my reveries for realities, and speak plain and positive
language, as you shall hear."

Upon which, addressing her aunt, she continued: "You have imparted to me
your resolution, madame; I will now tell you mine. Within a week, I shall
quit the pavilion that I inhabit, for a house which I have arranged to my
taste, where I shall live after my own fashion. I have neither father nor
mother, and I owe no account of my actions to any but myself."

"Upon my word, mademoiselle," said the princess, shrugging her shoulders,
"you talk nonsense. You forget that society has inalienable moral rights,
which we are bound to enforce. And we shall not neglect them, depend upon
it."

"So madame, it is you, and M. d'Aigrigny, and M. Tripeaud, that represent
the morality of society! This appears to me very fine. Is it because M.
Tripeaud has considered (I must acknowledge it) my fortune as his own? Is
it because--"

"Now, really, madame," began Tripeaud.

"In good time, madame," said Adrienne to her aunt, without noticing the
baron, "as the occasion offers, I shall have to ask you for explanations
with regard to certain interests, which have hitherto, I think, been
concealed from me."

These words of Adrienne made D'Aigrigny and the princess start, and then
rapidly exchange a glance of uneasiness and anxiety. Adrienne did not
seem to perceive it, but thus continued: "To have done with your demands,
madame, here is my final resolve. I shall live where and how I please. I
think that, if I were a man, no one would impose on me, at my age, the
harsh and humiliating guardianship you have in view, for living as I have
lived till now--honestly, freely, and generously, in the sight of all."

"This idea is absurd! is madness!" cried the princess. "To wish to live
thus alone, is to carry immorality and immodesty to their utmost limits."

"If so, madame," said Adrienne, "what opinion must you entertain of so
many poor girls, orphans like myself, who live alone and free, as I wish
to live? They have not received, as I have, a refined education,
calculated to raise the soul, and purify the heart. They have not wealth,
as I have, to protect them from the evil temptations of misery; and yet
they live honestly and proudly in their distress."

"Vice and virtue do not exist for such tag-rag vermin!" cried Baron
Tripeaud, with an expression of anger and hideous disdain.

"Madame, you would turn away a lackey, that would venture to speak thus
before you," said Adrienne to her aunt, unable to conceal her disgust,
"and yet you oblige me to listen to such speeches!"

The Marquis d'Aigrigny touched M. Tripeaud with his knee under the table,
to remind him that he must not express himself in the princess's parlors
in the same manner as he would in the lobbies of the Exchange. To repair
the baron's coarseness, the abbe thus continued: "There is no comparison,
mademoiselle, between people of the class you name, and a young lady of
your rank."

"For a Catholic priest, M. l'Abbe, that distinction is not very
Christian," replied Adrienne.

"I know the purport of my words, madame," answered the abbe, dryly;
"besides the independent life that you wish to lead, in opposition to all
reason, may tend to very serious consequences for you. Your family may
one day wish to see you married--"

"I will spare my family that trouble, sir, if I marry at all, I will
choose for myself, which also appears to me reasonable enough. But, in
truth, I am very little tempted by that heavy chain, which selfishness
and brutality rivet for ever about our necks."

"It is indecent, madame," said the princess, "to speak so lightly of such
an institution."

"Before you, especially, madame, I beg pardon for having shocked your
highness! You fear that my independent planner of living will frighten
away all wooers; but that is another reason for persisting in my
independence, for I detest wooers. I only hope that they may have the
very worst opinion of me, and there is no better means of effecting that
object, than to appear to live as they live themselves. I rely upon my
whims, my follies, my sweet faults, to preserve me from the annoyance of
any matrimonial hunting."

"You will be quite satisfied on that head," resumed Madame de Saint
Dizier, "if unfortunately the report should gain credit, that you have
carried the forgetfulness of all duty and decency, to such a height, as
to return home at eight o'clock in the morning. So I am told is the case
but I cannot bring myself to believe such an enormity."

"You are wrong, madame, for it is quite true."

"So you confess it?" cried the princess.

"I confess all that I do, madame. I came home this morning at eight
o'clock."

"You hear Gentlemen?" ejaculated the princess.

"Oh!" said M. d'Aigrigny, in a bass voice.

"Ah!" said the baron, in a treble key.

"Oh!" muttered the doctor, with a deep sigh.

On hearing these lamentable exclamations, Adrienne seemed about to speak,
perhaps to justify herself; but her lip speedily assumed a curl of
contempt, which showed that she disdained to stoop to any explanation.

"So it is true," said the princess. "Oh, wretched girl, you had
accustomed me to be astonished at nothing; but, nevertheless, I doubted
the possibility of such conduct. It required your impudent and audacious
reply to convince the of the fact."

"Madame, lying has always appeared to be more impudent than to speak the
truth."

"And where had you been, madame? and for what?"

"Madame," said Adrienne, interrupting her aunt, "I never speak false--but
neither do I speak more than I choose; and then again, it were cowardice
to defend myself from a revolting accusation. Let us say no more about
it: your importunities on this head will be altogether vain. To resume:
you wish to impose upon me a harsh and humiliating restraint; I wish to
quit the house I inhabit, to go and live where I please, at my own fancy.
Which of us two will yield, remains to be seen. Now for another matter:
this mansion belongs to me! As I am about to leave it, I am indifferent
whether you continue to live here or not; but the ground floor is
uninhabited. It contains, besides the reception-rooms, two complete sets
of apartments; I have let them for some time."

"Indeed!" said the princess, looking at D'Aigrigny with intense surprise.
"And to whom," she added ironically, "have you disposed of them?"

"To three members of my family."

"What does all this mean?" said Mme. de Saint-Dizier, more and more
astonished.

"It means, madame, that I wish to offer a generous hospitality to a young
Indian prince, my kinsman on my mother's side. He will arrive in two or
three days, and I wish to have the rooms ready to receive him."

"You hear, gentlemen?" said D'Aigrigny to the doctor and Tripeaud, with
an affectation of profound stupor.

"It surpasses all one could imagine!" exclaimed the baron.

"Alas!" observed the doctor, benignantly, "the impulse is generous in
itself--but the mad little head crops out?"

"Excellent!" said the princes. "I cannot prevent you madame, from
announcing the most extravagant designs but it is presumable that you
will not stop short in so fair a path. Is that all?"

"Not quite, your highness. I learned this morning, that two of my female
relations, also on my mother's side--poor children of fifteen--orphan
daughters of Marshal Simon arrived yesterday from a long journey, and are
now with the wife of the brave soldier who brought them to France from
the depths of Siberia."

At these words from Adrienne, D'Aigrigny and the princess could not help
starting suddenly, and staring at each other with affright, so far were
they from expecting that Mdlle. de Cardoville was informed of the coming
of Marshal Simon's daughters. This discovery was like a thunder-clap to
them.

"You are no doubt astonished at seeing me so well informed," said
Adrienne; "fortunately, before I have done, I hope to astonish you still
more. But to return to these daughters of Marshal Simon: your highness
will understand, that it is impossible for me to leave them in charge of
the good people who have afforded them a temporary asylum. Though this
family is honest, and hard-working, it is not the place for them. I shall
go and fetch them hither, and lodge them in apartments on the
ground-floor, along with the soldier's wife, who will do very well to
take care of them."

Upon these words, D'Aigrigny and the baron looked at each other, and the
baron exclaimed: "Decidedly, she's out of her head."

Without a word to Tripeaud, Adrienne continued: "Marshal Simon cannot
fail to arrive at Paris shortly. Your highness perceives how pleasant it
will he, to be able to present his daughters to him, and prove that they
have been treated as they deserve. To-morrow morning I shall send for
milliners and mantua makers, so that they may want for nothing. I desire
their surprised father, on his return, to find them every way beautiful.
They are pretty, I am told, as angels--but I will endeavor to make little
Cupids of them."

"At last, madame, you must have finished?" said the princess, in a
sardonic and deeply irritated tone, whilst D'Aigrigny, calm and cold in
appearance, could hardly dissemble his mental anguish.

"Try again!" continued the princess, addressing Adrienne. "Are there no
more relations that you wish to add to this interesting family-group?
Really a queen could not act with more magnificence."

"Right! I wish to give my family a royal reception--such as is due to the
son of a king, and the daughters of the Duke de Ligny. It is well to
unite other luxuries of life with the luxury of the hospitable heart."

"The maxim is assuredly generous," said the princess, becoming more and
more agitated; "it is only a pity that you do not possess the mines of El
Dorado to make it practicable."

"It was on the subject of a mine, said to be a rich one, that I also
wished to speak to your highness. Could I find a better opportunity?
Though my fortune is already considerable, it is nothing to what may come
to our family at any moment. You will perhaps excuse, therefore, what you
are pleased to call my royal prodigalities."

D'Aigrigny's dilemma became momentarily more and more thorny. The affair
of the medals was so important, that he had concealed it even from Dr.
Baleinier, though he had called in his services to forward immense
interests. Neither had Tripeaud been informed of it, for the princess
believed that she had destroyed every vestige of those papers of
Adrienne's father, which might have put him on the scent of this
discovery. The abbe, therefore was not only greatly alarmed that Mdlle.
de Cardoville might be informed of this secret, but he trembled lest she
should divulge it.

The princess, sharing the alarms of D'Aigrigny, interrupted her niece by
exclaiming: "Madame, there are certain family affairs which ought to be
kept secret, and, without exactly understanding to what you allude, I
must request you to change the subject."

"What, madame! are we not here a family party? Is that not sufficiently
evident by the somewhat ungracious things that have been here said?"

"No matter, madame! when affairs of interest are concerned, which are
more or less disputable, it is perfectly useless to speak of them without
the documents laid before every one."

"And of what have we been speaking this hour, madame, if not of affairs
of interest? I really do not understand your surprise and embarrassment."

"I am neither surprised nor embarrassed, madame; but for the last two
hours, you have obliged me to listen to so many new and extravagant
things, that a little amaze is very permissible."

"I beg your highness's pardon, but you are very much embarrassed," said
Adrienne, looking fixedly at her aunt, "and M. d'Aigrigny also--which
confirms certain suspicions that I have not had the time to clear up.
Have I then guessed rightly?" she added, after a pause. "We will see--"

"Madame, I command you to be silent," cried the princess, no longer
mistress of herself.

"Oh, madame!" said Adrienne, "for a person who has in general so much
command of her feelings, you compromise yourself strangely."

Providence (as some will have it) came to the aid of the princess and the
Abbe d'Aigrigny at this critical juncture. A valet entered the room; his
countenance bore such marks of fright and agitation, that the princess
exclaimed as soon as she saw him: "Why, Dubois! what is the matter?"

"I have to beg pardon, your highness, for interrupting you against your
express orders, but a police inspector demands to speak with you
instantly. He is below stairs, and the yard is full of policemen and
soldiers."

Notwithstanding the profound surprise which this new incident occasioned
her, the princess, determining to profit by the opportunity thus
afforded, to concert prompt measures with D'Aigrigny on the subject of
Adrienne's threatened revelations, rose, and said to the abbe: "Will you
be so obliging as to accompany me, M. d'Aigrigny, for I do not know what
the presence of this commissary of police may signify."

D'Aigrigny followed the speaker into the next room.



CHAPTER XLI.

TREACHERY.

The Princess de Saint-Dizier, accompanied by D'Aigrigny, and followed by
the servants, stopped short in the next room to that in which had
remained Adrienne, Tripeaud and the doctor.

"Where is the commissary?" asked the princess of the servant, who had
just before announced to her the arrival of that magistrate.

"In the blue saloon, madame."

"My compliments, and beg him to wait for me a few moments."

The man bowed and withdrew. As soon as he was gone Madame de Saint Dizier
approached hastily M. d'Aigrigny, whose countenance, usually firm and
haughty, was now pale and agitated.

"You see," cried the princess in a hurried voice, "Adrienne knows all.
What shall we do?--what?"

"I cannot tell," said the abbe, with a fixed and absent look. "This
disclosure is a terrible blow to us."

"Is all, then, lost?"

"There is only one means of safety," said M. d'Aigrigny;--"the doctor."

"But how?" cried the princess. "So, sudden? this very day?"

"Two hours hence, it will be too late; ere then, this infernal girl will
have seen Marshal Simon's daughters."

"But--Frederick!--it is impossible! M. Baleinier will never consent. I
ought to have been prepared before hand as we intended, after to-day's
examination."

"No matter," replied the abbe, quickly; "the doctor must try at any
hazard."

"But under what pretext?"

"I will try and find one."

"Suppose you were to find a pretext, Frederick, and we could act
immediately--nothing would be ready down there."

"Be satisfied: they are always ready there, by habitual foresight."

"How instruct the doctor on the instant?" resumed the princess.

"To send for him would be to rouse the suspicions of your niece," said M.
d'Aigrigny, thoughtfully; "and we must avoid that before everything."

"Of course," answered the princess; "her confidence in the doctor is one
of our greatest resources."

"There is a way," said the abbe quickly; "I will write a few words in
haste to Baleinier: one of your people can take the note to him, as if it
came from without--from a patient dangerously ill."

"An excellent idea!" cried the princess. "You are right. Here--upon this
table--there is everything necessary for writing. Quick! quick--But will
the doctor succeed?"

"In truth, I scarcely dare to hope it," said the marquis, sitting down at
the table with repressed rage. "Thanks to this examination, going beyond
our hopes, which our man, hidden behind the curtain, has faithfully taken
down in shorthand--thanks to the violent scenes, which would necessarily
have occurred to-morrow and the day after--the doctor, by fencing himself
round with all sorts of clever precautions, would have been able to act
with the most complete certainty. But to ask this of him to-day, on the
instant!--Herminia--it is folly to think of!"--The marquis threw down the
pen which he held in his hand; then he added, in a tone of bitter and
profound irritation: "At the very moment of success--to see all our hopes
destroyed!--Oh, the consequences of all this are incalculable. Your niece
will be the cause of the greatest mischief--oh! the greatest injury to
us."

It is impossible to describe the expression of deep rage and implacable
hatred with which D'Aigrigny uttered these last words.

"Frederick," cried the princess with anxiety, as she clasped her hands
strongly around the abbe's, "I conjure you, do not despair!--The doctor
is fertile in resources, and he is so devoted to us. Let us at least,
make the attempt."

"Well--it is at least a chance," said the abbe, taking up the pen again.

"Should it come to the worst." said the princess, "and Adrienne go this
evening to fetch General Simon's daughters, she may perhaps no longer
find them.

"We cannot hope for that. It is impossible that Rodin's orders should
have been so quickly executed. We should have been informed of it."

"It is true. Write then to the doctor; I will send you Dubois, to carry
your letter. Courage, Frederick! we shall yet be too much for that
ungovernable girl." Madame de Saint-Dizier added, with concentrated rage:
"Oh, Adrienne! Adrienne! you shall pay dearly for your insolent sarcasms,
and the anxiety you have caused us."

As she went out, the princess turned towards M. d'Aigrigny, and said to
him: "Wait for me here. I will tell you the meaning of this visit of the
police, and we will go in together."

The princess disappeared. D'Aigrigny dashed off a few words, with a
trembling hand.



CHAPTER XLII.

THE SNARE.

After the departure of Madame de Saint-Dizier and the marquis, Adrienne
had remained in her aunt's apartment with M. Baleinier and Baron
Tripeaud.

On hearing of the commissary's arrival, Mdlle. de Cardoville had felt
considerable uneasiness; for there could be no doubt that, as Agricola
had apprehended, this magistrate was come to search the hotel and
extension, in order to find the smith, whom he believed to be concealed
there.

Though she looked upon Agricola's hiding-place as a very safe one,
Adrienne was not quite tranquil on his account; so in the event of any
unfortunate accident, she thought it a good opportunity to recommend the
refugee to the doctor, an intimate friend, as we have said, of one of the
most influential ministers of the day. So, drawing near to the physician,
who was conversing in a low voice with the baron, she said to him in her
softest and most coaxing manner: "My good M. Baleinier, I wish to speak a
few words with you." She pointed to the deep recess of one of the
windows.

"I am at your orders, madame," answered the doctor, as he rose to follow
Adrienne to the recess.

M. Tripeaud, who, no longer sustained by the abbe's presence, dreaded the
young lady as he did fire, was not sorry for this diversion. To keep up
appearances, he stationed himself before one of the sacred pictures, and
began again to contemplate it, as if there were no bounds to his
admiration.

When Mdlle. de Cardoville was far enough from the baron, not to be
overheard by him, she said to the physician, who, all smiles and
benevolence, waited for her to explain: "My good doctor, you are my
friend, as you were my father's. Just now, notwithstanding the difficulty
of your position, you had the courage to show yourself my only partisan."

"Not at all, madame; do not go and say such things!" cried the doctor,
affecting a pleasant kind of anger. "Plague on't! you would get me into a
pretty scrape; so pray be silent on that subject. Vade retro
Satanas!--which means: Get thee behind me, charming little demon that you
are!"

"Do not be afraid," answered Adrienne, with a smile; "I will not
compromise you. Only allow me to remind you, that you have often made me
offers of service, and spoken to me of your devotion."

"Put me to the test--and you will see if I do not keep my promises."

"Well, then! give me a proof on the instant," said Adrienne, quickly.

"Capital! this is how I like to be taken at my word. What can I do for
you?"

"Are you still very intimate with your friend the minister?"

"Yes; I am just treating him for a loss of voice, which he always has,
the day they put questions to him in the house. He likes it better."

"I want you to obtain from him something very important for me."

"For you? pray, what is it?"

At this instant, the valet entered the room, delivered a letter to M.
Baleinier, and said to him: "A footman has just brought this letter for
you, sir; it is very pressing."

The physician took the letter, and the servant went out.

"This is one of the inconveniences of merit," said Adrienne, smiling;
"they do not leave you a moment's rest, my poor doctor."

"Do not speak of it, madame," said the physician, who could not conceal a
start of amazement, as he recognized the writing of D'Aigrigny; "these
patients think we are made of iron, and have monopolized the health which
they so much need. They have really no mercy. With your permission,
madame," added M. Baleinier, looking at Adrienne before he unsealed the
letter.

Mdlle. de Cardoville answered by a graceful nod. Marquis d'Aigrigny's
letter was not long; the doctor read it at a single glance, and,
notwithstanding his habitual prudence, he shrugged his shoulders, and
said hastily: "Today! why, it's impossible. He is mad."

"You speak no doubt of some poor patient, who has placed all his hopes in
you--who waits and calls for you at this moment. Come, my dear M.
Baleinier, do not reject his prayer. It is so sweet to justify the
confidence we inspire."

There was at once so much analogy, and such contradiction, between the
object of this letter, written just before by Adrienne's most implacable
enemy, and these words of commiseration which she spoke in a touching
voice, that Dr. Baleinier himself could not help being struck with it. He
looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with an almost embarrassed air, as he
replied: "I am indeed speaking of one of my patients, who counts much
upon me--a great deal too much--for he asks me to do an impossibility.
But why do you feel so interested in an unknown person?"

"If he is unfortunate, I know enough to interest me. The person for whom
I ask your assistance with the minister, was quite as little known to me;
and now I take the deepest interest in him. I must tell you, that he is
the son of the worthy soldier who brought Marshal Simon's daughters from
the heart of Siberia."

"What! he is--"

"An honest workman, the support of his family; but I must tell you all
about it--this is how the affair took place."

The confidential communication which Adrienne was going to make to the
doctor, was cut short by Madame Saint-Dizier, who, followed by M.
d'Aigrigny, opened abruptly the door. An expression of infernal joy,
hardly concealed beneath a semblance of extreme indignation, was visible
in her countenance.

M. d'Aigrigny threw rapidly, as he entered the apartment, an inquiring
and anxious glance at M. Baleinier. The doctor answered by a shake of the
head. The abbe bit his lips with silent rage; he had built his last hopes
upon the doctor, and his projects seemed now forever annihilated,
notwithstanding the new blow which the princess had in reserve for
Adrienne.

"Gentlemen," said Madame de Saint-Dizier, in a sharp, hurried voice, for
she was nearly choking with wicked pleasure, "gentlemen, pray be seated!
I have some new and curious things to tell you, on the subject of this
young lady." She pointed to her niece, with a look of ineffable hatred
and disdain.

"My poor child, what is the matter now?" said M. Baleinier, in a soft,
wheedling tone, before he left the window where he was standing with
Adrienne. "Whatever happens, count upon me!"--And the physician went to
seat himself between M. d'Aigrigny and M. Tripeaud.

At her aunt's insolent address, Mdlle. de Cardoville had proudly lined
her head. The blood rushed to her face, and irritated at the new attacks
with which she was menaced, she advanced to the table where the princess
was seated, and said in an agitated voice to M. Baleinier: "I shall
expect you to call on me as soon as possible, my dear doctor. You know
that I wish particularly to speak with you."

Adrienne made one step towards the arm-chair, on which she had left her
hat. The princess rose abruptly, and exclaimed: "What are you doing,
madame?"

"I am about to retire. Your highness has expressed to me your will, and I
have told you mine. It is enough."

She took her hat. Madame de Saint-Dizier, seeing her prey about to
escape, hastened towards her niece, and, in defiance of all propriety,
seized her violently by the arm with a convulsive grasp, and bade her,
"Remain!"

"Fie, madame!" exclaimed Adrienne, with an accent of painful contempt,
"have we sunk so low?"

"You wish to escape--you are afraid!" resumed Madame de Saint-Dizier,
looking at her disdainfully from head to foot.

With these words "you are afraid," you could have made Adrienne de
Cardoville walk into a fiery furnace. Disengaging her arm from her aunt's
grasp, with a gesture full of nobleness and pride, she threw down the hat
upon the chair, and returning to the table, said imperiously to the
princess: "There is something even stronger than the disgust with which
all this inspires me--the fear of being accused of cowardice. Go on,
madame! I am listening!"

With her head raised, her color somewhat heightened, her glance half
veiled by a tear of indignation, her arms folded over her bosom, which
heaved in spite of herself with deep emotion, and her little foot beating
convulsively on the carpet, Adrienne looked steadily at her aunt. The
princess wished to infuse drop by drop, the poison with which she was
swelling, and make her victim suffer as long as possible, feeling certain
that she could not escape. "Gentlemen," said Madame de Saint-Dizier, in a
forced voice, "this has occurred: I was told that the commissary of
police wished to speak with me: I went to receive this magistrate; he
excused himself, with a troubled air, for the nature of the duty he had
to perform. A man, against whom a warrant was out, had been seen to enter
the garden-house."

Adrienne started, there could be no doubt that Agricola was meant. But
she recovered her tranquillity, when she thought of the security of the
hiding-place she had given him.

"The magistrate," continued the princess, "asked my consent to search the
hotel and extension, to discover this man. It was his right. I begged him
to commence with the garden-house, and accompanied him. Notwithstanding
the improper conduct of Mademoiselle, it never, I confess, entered my
head for a moment, that she was in any way mixed up with this police
business. I was deceived."

"What do you mean, madame?" cried Adrienne.

"You shall know all, madame," said the princess, with a triumphant air,
"in good time. You were in rather too great a hurry just now, to show
yourself so proud and satirical. Well! I accompanied the commissary in
his search; we came to the summer-house; I leave you to imagine the
stupor and astonishment of the magistrate, on seeing three creatures
dressed up like actresses. At my request, the fact was noted in the
official report; for it is well to reveal such extravagances to all whom
it may concern."

"The princess acted very wisely," said Tripeaud, bowing; "it is well that
the authorities should be informed of such matters."

Adrienne, too much interested in the fate of the workman to think of
answering Tripeaud or the princess, listened in silence, and strove to
conceal her uneasiness.

"The magistrate," resumed Madame de Saint-Dizier, "began by a severe
examination of these young girls; to learn if any man had, with their
knowledge, been introduced into the house; with incredible effrontery,
they answered that they had seen nobody enter."

"The true-hearted, honest girls!" thought Mademoiselle de Cardoville,
full of joy; "the poor workman is safe! the protection of Dr. Baleinier
will do the rest."

"Fortunately," continued the princess, "one of my women, Mrs. Grivois,
had accompanied me. This excellent person, remembering to have seen
Mademoiselle return home at eight o'clock in the morning, remarked with
much simplicity to the magistrate, that the man, whom they sought, might
probably have entered by the little garden gate, left open, accidentally,
by Mademoiselle."

"It would have been well, madame," said Tripeaud, "to have caused to be
noted also in the report, that Mademoiselle had returned home at eight
o'clock in the morning."

"I do not see the necessity for this," said the doctor, faithful to his
part: "it would have been quite foreign to the search carried on by the
commissary."

"But, doctor," said Tripeaud.

"But, baron," resumed M. Baleinier, in a firm voice, "that is my
opinion."

"It was not mine, doctor," said the princess; "like M. Tripeaud, I
considered it important to establish the fact by an entry in the report,
and I saw, by the confused and troubled countenance of the magistrate,
how painful it was to register the scandalous conduct of a young person
placed in so high a position in society."

"Certainly, madame," said Adrienne, losing patience, "I believe your
modesty to be about equal to that of this candid commissary of police;
but it seems to me, that your mutual innocence was alarmed a little too
soon. You might, and ought to have reflected, that there was nothing
extraordinary in my coming home at eight o'clock, if I had gone out at
six."

"The excuse, though somewhat tardy, is at least cunning," said the
princess, spitefully.

"I do not excuse myself, madame," said Adrienne; "but as M. Baleinier has
been kind enough to speak a word in my favor, I give the possible
interpretation of a fact, which it would not become me to explain in your
presence."

"The fact will stand, however, in the report," said Tripeaud, "until the
explanation is given."

Abbe d'Aigrigny, his forehead resting on his hand, remained as if a
stranger to this scene; he was too much occupied with his fears at the
consequences of the approaching interview between Mdlle. de Cardoville
and Marshal Simon's daughters--for there seemed no possibility of using
force to prevent Adrienne from going out that evening.

Madame de Saint-Dizier went on: "The fact which so greatly scandalized
the commissary is nothing compared to what I yet have to tell you,
gentlemen. We had searched all parts of the pavilion without finding any
one, and were just about to quit the bed-chamber, for we had taken this
room the last, when Mrs. Grivois pointed out to us that one of the golden
mouldings of a panel did not appear to come quite home to the wall. We
drew the attention of the magistrate to this circumstance; his men
examined, touched, felt--the panel flew open!--and then--can you guess
what we discovered? But, no! it is too odious, too revolting; I dare not
even--"

"Then I dare, madame," said Adrienne, resolutely, though she saw with the
utmost grief the retreat of Agricola was discovered; "I will spare your
highness's candor the recital of this new scandal, and yet what I am
about to say is in nowise intended as a justification."

"It requires one, however," said Madame de Saint-Dizier, with a
disdainful smile; "a man concealed by you in your own bedroom."

"A man concealed in her bedroom!" cried the Marquis d'Aigrigny, raising
his head with apparent indignation, which only covered a cruel joy.

"A man! in the bedroom of Mademoiselle!" added Baron Tripeaud. "I hope
this also was inserted in the report."

"Yes, yes, baron," said the princess with a triumphant air.

"But this man," said the doctor, in a hypocritical tone, "must have been
a robber? Any other supposition would be in the highest degree
improbable. This explains itself."

"Your indulgence deceives you, M. Baleinier," answered the princess,
dryly.

"We knew the sort of thieves," said Tripeaud; "they are generally young
men, handsome, and very rich."

"You are wrong, sir," resumed Madame de Saint-Dizier. "Mademoiselle does
not raise her views so high. She proves that a dereliction from duty may
be ignoble as well as criminal. I am no longer astonished at the sympathy
which was just now professed for the lower orders. It is the more
touching and affecting, as the man concealed by her was dressed in a
blouse."

"A blouse!" cried the baron, with an air of extreme disgust; "then he is
one of the common people? It really makes one's hair stand on end."

"The man is a working smith--he confessed it," said the princess; "but
not to be unjust--he is really a good-looking fellow. It was doubtless
that singular worship which Mademoiselle pays to the beautiful--"

"Enough, madame, enough!" said Adrienne suddenly, for, hitherto
disdaining to answer, she had listened to her aunt with growing and
painful indignation; "I was just now on the point of defending myself
against one of your odious insinuations--but I will not a second time
descend to any such weakness. One word only, madame; has this honest and
worthy artisan been arrested?"

"To be sure, he has been arrested and taken to prison, under a strong
escort. Does not that pierce your heart?" sneered the princess, with a
triumphant air. "Your tender pity for this interesting smith must indeed
be very great, since it deprives you of your sarcastic assurance."

"Yes, madame; for I have something better to do than to satirize that
which is utterly odious and ridiculous," replied Adrienne, whose eyes
grew dim with tears at the thought of the cruel hurt to Agricola's
family. Then, putting her hat on, and tying the strings, she said to the
doctor: "M. Baleinier, I asked you just now for your interest with the
minister."

"Yes, madame; and it will give me great pleasure to act on your behalf."

"Is your carriage below?"

"Yes, madame," said the doctor, much surprised.

"You will be good enough to accompany me immediately to the minister's.
Introduced by you, he will not refuse me the favor, or rather the act of
justice, that I have to solicit."

"What, mademoiselle," said the princess; "do you dare take such a course,
without my orders, after what has just passed? It is really quite
unheard-of."

"It confounds one," added Tripeaud; "but we must not be surprised at
anything."

The moment Adrienne asked the doctor if his carriage was below,
D'Aigrigny started. A look of intense satisfaction flashed across his
countenance, and he could hardly repress the violence of his delight,
when, darting, a rapid and significant glance at the doctor, he saw the
latter respond to it by trace closing his eyelids in token of
comprehension and assent.

When therefore the princess resumed, in an angry tone, addressing herself
to Adrienne: "Madame, I forbid you leaving the house!"--D'Aigrigny said
to the speaker, with a peculiar inflection of the voice: "I think, your
highness, we may trust the lady to the doctor's care."

The marquis pronounced these words in so significant a manner, that the
princess, having looked by turns at the physician and D'Aigrigny,
understood it all, and her countenance grew radiant with joy.

Not only did this pass with extreme rapidity, but the night was already
almost come, so that Adrienne, absorbed in painful thoughts with regard
to Agricola, did not perceive the different signals exchanged between the
princess, the doctor, and the abbe. Even had she done so, they would have
been incomprehensible to her.

Not wishing to have the appearance of yielding too readily, to the
suggestion of the marquis, Madame de Saint-Dizier resumed: "Though the
doctor seems to me to be far too indulgent to mademoiselle, I might not
see any great objection to trusting her with him; but that I do not wish
to establish such a precedent, for hence forward she must have no will
but mine."

"Madame," said the physician gravely, feigning to be somewhat shocked by
the words of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, "I do not think I have been
too indulgent to mademoiselle--but only just. I am at her orders, to take
her to the minister if she wishes it. I do not know what she intends to
solicit, but I believe her incapable of abusing the confidence I repose
in her, or making me support a recommendation undeserved."

Adrienne, much moved, extended her hand cordially to the doctor, and said
to him: "Rest assured, my excellent friend, that you will thank me for
the step I am taking, for you will assist in a noble action."

Tripeaud, who was not in the secret of the new plans of the doctor and
the abbe in a low voice faltered to the latter, with a stupefied air,
"What! will you let her go?"

"Yes, yes," answered D'Aigrigny abruptly, making a sign that he should
listen to the princess, who was about to speak. Advancing towards her
niece, she said to her in a slow and measured tone, laying a peculiar
emphasis on every word: "One moment more, mademoiselle--one last word in
presence of these gentlemen. Answer me! Notwithstanding the heavy charges
impending over you, are you still determined to resist my formal
commands?"

"Yes, madame."

"Notwithstanding the scandalous exposure which has just taken place, you
still persist in withdrawing yourself from my authority?"

"Yes, madame."

"You refuse positively to submit to the regular and decent mode of life
which I would impose upon you?"

"I have already told you, madame, that I am about to quit this dwelling
in order to live alone and after my own fashion."

"Is that your final decision?"

"It is my last word."

"Reflect! the matter is serious. Beware!"

"I have given your highness my last word, and I never speak it twice."

"Gentlemen, you hear all this?" resumed the princess; "I have tried in
vain all that was possible to conciliate. Mademoiselle will have only
herself to thank for the measures to which this audacious revolt will
oblige me to have recourse."

"Be it so, madame," replied Adrienne. Then, addressing M. Baleinier, she
said quickly to him: "Come, my dear doctor; I am dying with impatience.
Let us set out immediately. Every minute lost may occasion bitter tears
to an honest family."

So saying, Adrienne left the room precipitately with the physician. One
of the servants called for M. Baleinier's carriage. Assisted by the
doctor, Adrienne mounted the step, without perceiving that he said
something in a low whisper to the footman that opened the coach-door.

When, however, he was seated by the side of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and the
door was closed upon them, he waited for about a second, and then called
out in a loud voice to the coachman: "To the house of the minister, by
the private entrance!" The horses started at a gallop.



CHAPTER XLIII.

A FALSE FRIEND.

Night had set in dark and cold. The sky, which had been clear till the
sun went down, was now covered with gray and lurid clouds; a strong wind
raised here and there, in circling eddies, the snow that was beginning to
fall thick and fast.

The lamps threw a dubious light into the interior of Dr. Baleinier's
carriage, in which he was seated alone with Adrienne de Cardoville. The
charming countenance of the latter, faintly illumined by the lamps
beneath the shade of her little gray hat, looked doubly white and pure in
contrast with the dark lining of the carriage, which was now filled with
that, sweet, delicious, and almost voluptuous perfume which hangs about
the garments of young women of taste. The attitude of the girl, seated
next to the doctor, was full of grace. Her slight and elegant figure,
imprisoned in her high-necked dress of blue cloth, imprinted its wavy
outline on the soft cushion against which she leaned; her little feet,
crossed one upon the other, and stretched rather forward, rested upon a
thick bear-skin, which carpeted the bottom of the carriage. In her hand,
which was ungloved and dazzlingly white, she held a magnificently
embroidered handkerchief, with which, to the great astonishment of M.
Baleinier, she dried her eyes, now filled with tears.

Yes; Adrienne wept, for she now felt the reaction from the painful scenes
through which she had passed at Saint-Dizier House; to the feverish and
nervous excitement, which had till then sustained her, had succeeded a
sorrowful dejection. Resolute in her independence, proud in her disdain,
implacable in her irony, audacious in her resistance to unjust
oppression, Adrienne was yet endowed with the most acute sensibility,
which she always dissembled, however, in the presence of her aunt and
those who surrounded her.

Notwithstanding her courage, no one could have been less masculine, less
of a virago, than Mdlle. Cardoville. She was essentially womanly, but as
a woman, she knew how to exercise great empire over herself, the moment
that the least mark of weakness on her part would have rejoiced or
emboldened her enemies.

The carriage had rolled onwards for some minutes; but Adrienne, drying
her tears in silence, to the doctor's great astonishment, had not yet
uttered a word.

"What, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne?" said M. Baleinier, truly surprised at
her emotion; "what! you, that were just now so courageous, weeping?"

"Yes," answered Adrienne, in an agitated voice; "I weep in presence of a
friend; but, before my aunt--oh! never."

"And yet, in that long interview, your stinging replies--"

"Ah me! do you think that I resigned myself with pleasure to that war of
sarcasm? Nothing is more painful to me than such combats of bitter irony,
to which I am forced by the necessity of defending myself from this woman
and her friends. You speak of my courage: it does not consist, I assure
you, in the display of wicked feelings--but in the power to repress and
hide all that I suffer, when I hear myself treated so grossly--in the
presence, too, of people that I hate and despise--when, after all, I have
never done them any harm, and have only asked to be allowed to live
alone, freely and quietly, and see those about me happy."

"That's where it is: they envy your happiness, and that which you bestow
upon others."

"And it is my aunt," cried Adrienne, with indignation, "my aunt, whose
whole life has been one long scandal that accuses me in this revolting
manner!--as if she did not know me proud and honest enough never to make
a choice of which I should be ashamed! Oh! if I ever love, I shall
proclaim it, I shall be proud of it: for love, as I understand it, is the
most glorious feeling in the world. But, alas!" continued Adrienne, with
redoubled bitterness, "of what use are truth and honor, if they do not
secure you from suspicions, which are as absurd as they are odious?" So
saying, she again pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Come, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne," said M. Baleinier, in a voice full of
the softest unction, "becalm--it is all over now. You have in me a
devoted friend." As he pronounced these last words, he blushed in spite
of his diabolical craft.

"I know you are my friend," said Adrienne: "I shall never forget that, by
taking my part to-day, you exposed yourself to the resentment of my
aunt--for I am not ignorant of her power, which is very great, alas! for
evil."

"As for that," said the doctor, affecting a profound indifference, "we
medical men are pretty safe from personal enmities."

"Nay, my dear M. Baleinier! Mme. de Saint-Dizier and her friends never
forgive," said the young girl, with a shudder. "It needed all my
invincible aversion, my innate horror for all that is base, cowardly, and
perfidious, to induce me to break so openly with her. But if death itself
were the penalty, I could not hesitate and yet," she added, with one of
those graceful smiles which gave such a charm to her beautiful
countenance, "yet I am fond of life: if I have to reproach myself with
anything, it is that I would have it too bright, too fair, too
harmonious; but then, you know, I am resigned to my faults."

"Well, come, I am more tranquil," said the doctor, gayly; "for you
smile--that is a good sign."

"It is often the wisest course; and yet, ought I smile, after the threats
that my aunt has held out to me? Still, what can she do? what is the
meaning of this kind of family council? Did she seriously think that the
advice of a M. D'Aigrigny or a M. Tripeaud could have influenced me? And
then she talked of rigorous measures. What measures can she take; do you
know?"

"I think, between ourselves, that the princess only wished to frighten
you, and hopes to succeed by persuasion. She has the misfortune to fancy
herself a mother of the Church, and dreams of your conversion," said the
doctor, maliciously, for he now wished to tranquillize Adrienne at any
cost; "but let us think no more about it. Your fire eyes must shine with
all their lustre, to fascinate the minister that we are going to see."

"You are right, dear doctor; we ought always avoid grief, for it has the
disadvantage of making us forget the sorrows of others. But here am I,
availing myself of your kindness, without even telling you what I
require."

"Luckily, we shall have plenty of time to talk over it, for our statesman
lives at some distance."

"In two words, here's the mystery," answered Adrienne. "I told you what
reasons I had to interest myself in that honest workman. This morning he
came to me in great grief, to inform me that he was compromised by some
songs he had written (for he is a poet), and that, though innocent, he
was threatened with an arrest; and if they put him into prison, his
family, whose sole support he is, would die of hunger. Therefore he came
to beg me to procure bail for him, so that he might be left at liberty to
work: I promised immediately, thinking of your interest with the
minister; for, as they were already in pursuit of the poor lad, I chose
to conceal him in my residence, and you know how my aunt has twisted that
action. Now tell me, do you think, that, by means of your recommendation,
the minister will grant me the freedom of this workman, bail being given
for the same?"

"No doubt of it. There will not be the shadow of a difficulty--especially
when you have explained the facts to him, with that eloquence of the
heart which you possess in perfection."

"Do you know, my dear Dr. Baleinier, why I have taken the resolution
(which is perhaps a strange one) to ask you to accompany me to the
minister's?"

"Why, doubtless, to recommend your friend in a more effective manner."

"Yes--but also to put an end, by a decisive step, to the calumnies which
my aunt will be sure to spread with regard to me, and which she has
already, you know, had inserted in the report of the commissary of
police. I have preferred to address myself at once, frankly and openly,
to a man placed in a high social position. I will explain all to him, who
will believe me, because truth has an accent of its own."

"All this, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne, is wisely planned. You will, as the
saw says, kill two birds with one stone--or rather, you will obtain by
one act of kindness two acts of justice; you will destroy a dangerous
calumny, and restore a worthy youth to liberty."

"Come," said Adrienne, laughing, "thanks to this pleasing prospect, my
light heart has returned."

"How true that in life," said the doctor, philosophically, "everything
depends on the point of view."

Adrienne was so completely ignorant of the forms of a constitutional
government, and had so blind a confidence in the doctor, that she did not
doubt for an instant what he told her. She therefore resumed with joy:
"What happiness it will be! when I go to fetch the daughters of Marshal
Simon, to be able to console this workman's mother, who is now perhaps in
a state of cruel anxiety, at not seeing her son return home!"

"Yes, you will have this pleasure," said M. Baleinier, with a smile; "for
we will solicit and intrigue to such purpose, that the good, mother may
learn from you the release of her son before she even knows that he has
been arrested."

"How kind, how obliging you are!" said Adrienne. "Really, if the motive
were not so serious, I should be ashamed of making you lose so much
precious time, my dear M. Baleinier. But I know your heart."

"I have no other wish, than to prove to you my profound devotion, my
sincere attachment," said the doctor inhaling a pinch of snuff. But at
the same time, he cast an uneasy glance through the window, for the
carriage was just crossing the Place de l'Odeon, and in spite of the
snow, he could see the front of the Odeon theatre brilliantly
illuminated. Now Adrienne, who had just turned her head towards that
side, might perhaps be astonished at the singular road they were taking.

In order to draw off her attention by a skillful diversion, the doctor
exclaimed suddenly: "Bless me! I had almost forgotten."

"What is the matter, M. Baleinier?" said Adrienne, turning hastily
towards him.

"I had forgotten a thing of the highest importance, in regard to the
success of our petition."

"What is it, please?" asked the young girl, anxiously.

M. Baleinier gave a cunning smile. "Every man," said he, "has his
weakness--ministers even more than others. The one we are going to visit
has the folly to attach the utmost importance to his title, and the first
impression would be unfavorable, if you did not lay great stress on the
Minister."

"Is that all, my dear M. Baleinier?" said Adrienne, smiling in her turn.
"I will even go so far as Your Excellency, which is, I believe, one of
his adopted titles."

"Not now--but that is no matter; if you could even slide in a My Lord or
two, our business would be done at once."

"Be satisfied! since there are upstart ministers as well as City-turned
gentlemen, I will remember Moliere's M. Jourdain, and feed full the
gluttonous vanity of your friend."

"I give him up to you, for I know he will be in good hands," replied the
physician, who rejoiced to see that the carriage had now entered those
dark streets which lead from the Place de l'Odeon to the Pantheon
district; "I do not wish to find fault with the minister for being proud,
since his pride may be of service to us on this occasion."

"These petty devices are innocent enough," said Mdlle. de Cardoville,
"and I confess that I do not scruple to have recourse to them." Then,
leaning towards the door-sash, she added: "Gracious! how sad and dark are
these streets. What wind! what snow! In which quarter are we?"

"What! are you so ungrateful, that you do not recognize by the absence of
shops, your dear quarter of the Faubourg Saint Germain?"

"I imagine we had quitted it long ago."

"I thought so too," said the physician, leaning forward as if to
ascertain where they were, "but we are still there. My poor coachman,
blinded by the snow, which is beating against his face, must have gone
wrong just now--but we are all right again. Yes, I perceive we are in the
Rue Saint Guillaume--not the gayest of streets by the way--but, in ten
minutes, we shall arrive at the minister's private entrance, for intimate
friends like myself enjoy the privilege of escaping the honors of a grand
reception."

Mdlle. de Cardoville, like most carriage-people, was so little acquainted
with certain streets of Paris, as well as with the customs of men in
office, that she did not doubt for a moment the statements of Baleinier,
in whom she reposed the utmost confidence.

When they left the Saint-Dizier House, the doctor had upon his lips a
question which he hesitated to put, for fear of endangering himself in
the eyes of Adrienne. The latter had spoken of important interests, the
existence of which had been concealed from her. The doctor, who was an
acute and skillful observer, had quite clearly remarked the embarrassment
and anxiety of the princess and D'Aigrigny. He no longer doubted, that
the plot directed against Adrienne--one in which he was the blind agent,
in submission to the will of the Order--related to interests which had
been concealed from him, and which, for that very reason, he burned to
discover; for every member of the dark conspiracy to which he belonged
had necessarily acquired the odious vices inherent to spies and
informers--envy, suspicion, and jealous curiosity.

It is easy to understand, therefore, that Dr. Baleinier, though quite
determined to serve the projects of D'Aigrigny, was yet very anxious to
learn what had been kept from him. Conquering his irresolution, and
finding the opportunity favorable, and no time to be lost, he said to
Adrienne, after a moment's silence: "I am going perhaps to ask you a very
indiscreet question. If you think it such, pray do not answer."

"Nay--go on, I entreat you."

"Just now--a few minutes before the arrival of the commissary of police
was announced to your aunt--you spoke, I think, of some great interests,
which had hitherto been concealed from you."

"Yes, I did so."

"These words," continued M. Baleinier, speaking slowly and emphatically,
"appeared to make a deep impression on the princess."

"An impression so deep," said Adrienne, "that sundry suspicions of mine
were changed to certainty."

"I need not tell you, my charming friend," resumed M. Baleinier, in a
bland tone, "that if I remind you of this circumstance, it is only to
offer you my services, in case they should be required. If not--and there
is the shadow of impropriety in letting me know more--forget that I have
said a word."

Adrienne became serious and pensive, and, after a silence of some
moments, she thus answered Dr. Baleinier: "On this subject, there are
some things that I do not know--others that I may tell you--others again
that I must keep from you: but you are so kind to-day, that I am happy to
be able to give you a new mark of confidence."

"Then I wish to know nothing," said the doctor, with an air of humble
deprecation, "for I should have the appearance of accepting a kind of
reward; whilst I am paid a thousand times over, by the pleasure I feel in
serving you."

"Listen," said Adrienne, without attending to the delicate scruples of
Dr. Baleinier; "I have powerful reasons for believing that an immense
inheritance must, at no very distant period, be divided between the
members of my family, all of whom I do not know--for, after the
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, those from whom we are descended were
dispersed in foreign countries, and experienced a great variety of
fortunes."

"Really!" cried the doctor, becoming extremely interested. "Where is this
inheritance, in whose hands?"

"I do not know."

"Now how will you assert your rights?"

"That I shall learn soon."

"Who will inform you of it?"

"That I may not tell you."

"But how did you find out the existence of this inheritance?"

"That also I may not tell you," returned Adrienne, in a soft and
melancholy tone, which remarkably contrasted with the habitual vivacity
of her conversation. "It is a secret--a strange secret--and in those
moments of excitement, in which you have sometimes surprised me, I have
been thinking of extraordinary circumstances connected with this secret,
which awakened within me lofty and magnificent ideas."

Adrienne paused and was silent, absorbed in her own reflections.
Baleinier did not seek to disturb her. In the first place, Mdlle. de
Cardoville did not perceive the direction the coach was taking; secondly,
the doctor was not sorry to ponder over what he had just heard. With his
usual perspicuity, he saw that the Abbe d'Aigrigny was concerned in this
inheritance, and he resolved instantly to make a secret report on the
subject; either M. d'Aigrigny was acting under the instructions of the
Order, or by his own impulse; in the one event, the report of the doctor
would confirm a fact; in the other, it would reveal one.

For some time, therefore, the lady and Dr. Baleinier remained perfectly
silent, no longer even disturbed by the noise of the wheels, for the
carriage now rolled over a thick carpet of snow, and the streets had
become more and more deserted. Notwithstanding his crafty treachery,
notwithstanding his audacity and the blindness of his dupe, the doctor
was not quite tranquil as to the result of his machinations. The critical
moment approached, and the least suspicion roused in the mind of Adrienne
by any inadvertence on his part, might ruin all his projects.

Adrienne, already fatigued by the painful emotions of the day, shuddered
from time to time, as the cold became more and more piercing; in her
haste to accompany Dr. Baleinier, she had neglected to take either shawl
or mantle.

For some minutes the coach had followed the line of a very high wall,
which, seen through the snow, looked white against a black sky. The
silence was deep and mournful. Suddenly the carriage stopped, and the
footman went to knock at a large gateway; he first gave two rapid knocks,
and then one other at a long interval. Adrienne did not notice the
circumstance, for the noise was not loud, and the doctor had immediately
begun to speak, to drown with his voice this species of signal.

"Here we are at last," said he gayly to Adrienne; "you must be very
winning--that is, you must be yourself."

"Be sure I will do my best," replied Adrienne, with a smile; then she
added, shivering in spite of herself: "How dreadfully cold it is! I must
confess, my dear Dr. Baleinier, that when I have been to fetch my poor
little relations from the house of our workman's mother, I shall be truly
glad to find myself once more in the warmth and light of my own cheerful
rooms, for you know my aversion to cold and darkness."

"It is quite natural," said the doctor, gallantly; "the most charming
flowers require the most light and heat."

Whilst the doctor and Mdlle. de Cardoville exchanged these few words, a
heavy gate had turned creaking upon its hinges, and the carriage had
entered a court-yard. The physician got down first, to offer his arm to
Adrienne.



CHAPTER XLIV.

THE MINISTER'S CABINET.

The carriage had stopped before some steps covered with snow, which led
to a vestibule lighted by a lamp. The better to ascend the steps, which
were somewhat slippery, Adrienne leaned upon the doctor's arm.

"Dear me! how you tremble," said he.

"Yes," replied she, shuddering, "I feel deadly cold. In my haste, I came
out without a shawl. But how gloomy this house appears," she added,
pointing to the entrance.

"It is what you call the minister's private house, the sanctum sanctorum,
whither our statesman retires far from the sound of the profane," said
Dr. Baleinier, with a smile. "Pray come in!" and he pushed open the door
of a large hall, completely empty.

"They are right in saying," resumed Dr. Baleinier, who covered his secret
agitation with an appearance of gayety, "that a minister's house is like
nobody else's. Not a footman--not a page, I should say--to be found in
the antechamber. Luckily," added he, opening the door of a room which
communicated with the vestibule,

"'In this seraglio reared, I know the secret ways.'"

Mdlle. de Cardoville was now introduced into an apartment hung with green
embossed paper, and very simply furnished with mahogany chairs, covered
with yellow velvet; the floor was carefully polished, and a globe lamp,
which gave at most a third of its proper light, was suspended (at a much
greater height than usual) from the ceiling. Finding the appearance of
this habitation singularly plain for the dwelling of a minister,
Adrienne, though she had no suspicion, could not suppress a movement of
surprise and paused a moment on the threshold of the door. M. Baleinier,
by whose arm she held, guessed the cause of her astonishment, and said to
her with a smile:

"This place appears to you very paltry for 'his excellency,' does it not?
If you knew what a thing constitutional economy is!--Moreover, you will
see a 'my lord,' who has almost as little pretension as his furniture.
But please to wait for me an instant. I will go and inform the minister
you are here, and return immediately."

Gently disengaging himself from the grasp of Adrienne, who had
involuntarily pressed close to him, the physician opened a small side
door, by which he instantly disappeared. Adrienne de Cardoville was left
alone.

Though she could not have explained the cause of her impression, there
was something awe-inspiring to the young lady in this large, cold, naked,
curtainless room; and as, by degrees, she noticed certain peculiarities
in the furniture, which she had not at first perceived, she was seized
with an indefinable feeling of uneasiness.

Approaching the cheerless hearth, she perceived with surprise that an
iron grating completely enclosed the opening of the chimney, and that the
tongs and shovel were fastened with iron chains. Already astonished by
this singularity, she was about mechanically to draw towards her an
armchair placed against the wall, when she found that it remained
motionless. She then discovered that the back of this piece of furniture,
as well as that of all the other chairs, was fastened to the wainscoting
by iron clamps. Unable to repress a smile, she exclaimed: "Have they so
little confidence in the statesman in whose house I am, that they are
obliged to fasten the furniture to the walls?"

Adrienne had recourse to this somewhat forced pleasantry as a kind of
effort to resist the painful feeling of apprehension that was gradually
creeping over her; for the most profound and mournful silence reigned in
this habitation, where nothing indicated the life, the movement and the
activity, which usually surround a great centre of business. Only, from
time to time, the young lady heard the violent gusts of wind from
without.

More than a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and M. Baleinier did not
return. In her impatient anxiety, Adrienne wished to call some one to
inquire about the doctor and the minister. She raised her eyes to look
for a bell-rope by the side of the chimney-glass; she found none, but she
perceived, that what she had hitherto taken for a glass, thanks to the
half obscurity of the room, was in reality a large sheet of shining tin.
Drawing nearer to it, she accidentally touched a bronzed candlestick; and
this, as well as a clock, was fixed to the marble of the chimney-piece.

In certain dispositions of mind, the most insignificant circumstances
often assume terrific proportions. This immovable candlestick, this
furniture fastened to the wainscot, this glass replaced by a tin sheet,
this profound silence, and the prolonged absence of M. Baleinier, had
such an effect upon Adrienne, that she was struck with a vague terror.
Yet such was her implicit confidence in the doctor, that she reproached
herself with her own fears, persuading herself that the causes of them
were after all of no real importance, and that it was unreasonable to
feel uneasy at such trifles.

Still, though she thus strove to regain courage, her anxiety induced her
to do what otherwise she would never have attempted. She approached the
little door by which the doctor had disappeared, and applied her ear to
it. She held her breath, and listened, but heard nothing.

Suddenly, a dull, heavy sound, like that of a falling body, was audible
just above her head; she thought she could even distinguish a stifled
moaning. Raising her eyes, hastily, she saw some particles of the plaster
fall from the ceiling, loosened, no doubt, by the shaking of the floor
above.

No longer able to resist the feeling of terror, Adrienne ran to the door
by which she had entered with the doctor, in order to call some one. To
her great surprise, she found it was fastened on the outside. Yet, since
her arrival, she had heard no sound of a key turning in the lock.

More and more alarmed, the young girl flew to the little door by which
the physician had disappeared, and at which she had just been listening.
This door also was fastened on the outside.

Still, wishing to struggle with the terror which was gaining invincibly
upon her, Adrienne called to her aid all the firmness of her character,
and tried to argue away her fears.

"I must have been deceived." she said; "it was only a fall that I heard.
The moaning had no existence, except in my imagination. There are a
thousand reasons for believing that it was not a person who fell down.
But, then, these locked doors? They, perhaps, do not know that I am here;
they may have thought that there was nobody in this room."

As she uttered these words, Adrienne looked round with anxiety; then she
added, in a firm voice: "No weakness! it is useless to try to blind
myself to my real situation. On the contrary, I must look it well in the
face. It is evident that I am not here at a minister's house; no end of
reasons prove it beyond a doubt; M. Baleinier has therefore deceived me.
But for what end? Why has he brought me hither? Where am I?"

The last two questions appeared to Adrienne both equally insoluble. It
only remained clear, that she was the victim of M. Baleinier's perfidy.
But this certainly seemed so horrible to the young girl's truthful and
generous soul, that she still tried to combat the idea by the
recollection of the confiding friendship which she had always shown this
man. She said to herself with bitterness: "See how weakness and fear may
lead one to unjust and odious suspicions! Yes; for until the last
extremity, it is not justifiable to believe in so infernal a
deception--and then only upon the clearest evidence. I will call some
one: it is the only way of completely satisfying these doubts." Then,
remembering that there was no bell, she added: "No matter; I will knock,
and some one will doubtless answer." With her little, delicate hand,
Adrienne struck the door several times.

The dull, heavy sound which came from the door showed that it was very
thick. No answer was returned to the young girl. She ran to the other
door. There was the same appeal on her part, the same profound silence
without--only interrupted from time to time by the howling of the wind.

"I am not more timid than other people," said Adrienne, shuddering; "I do
not know if it is the excessive cold, but I tremble in spite of myself. I
endeavor to guard against all weakness; yet I think that any one in my
position would find all this very strange and frightful."

At this instant, loud cries, or rather savage and dreadful howls, burst
furiously from the room just above, and soon after a sort of stamping of
feet, like the noise of a violent struggle, shook the ceiling of the
apartment. Struck with consternation, Adrienne uttered a loud cry of
terror became deadly pale, stood for a moment motionless with affright,
and then rushed to one of the windows, and abruptly threw it open.

A violent gust of wind, mixed with melted snow, beat against Adrienne's
face, swept roughly into the room, and soon extinguished the flickering
and smoky light of the lamp. Thus, plunged in profound darkness, with her
hands clinging to the bars that were placed across the window, Mdlle. de
Cardoville yielded at length to the full influence of her fears, so long
restrained, and was about to call aloud for help, when an unexpected
apparition rendered her for some minutes absolutely mute with terror.

Another wing of the building, opposite to that in which she was, stood at
no great distance. Through the midst of the black darkness, which filled
the space between, one large, lighted window was distinctly visible.
Through the curtainless panes, Adrienne perceived a white figure, gaunt
and ghastly, dragging after it a sort of shroud, and passing and
repassing continually before the window, with an abrupt and restless
motion. Her eyes fixed upon this window, shining through the darkness,
Adrienne remained as if fascinated by that fatal vision: and, as the
spectacle filled up the measure of her fears, she called for help with
all her might, without quitting the bars of the window to which she
clung. After a few seconds, whilst she was thus crying out, two tall
women entered the room in silence, unperceived by Mdlle. de Cardoville,
who was still clinging to the window.

These women, of about forty to fifty years of age, robust and masculine,
were negligently and shabbily dressed, like chambermaids of the lower
sort; over their clothes they wore large aprons of blue cotton, cut
sloping from their necks, and reaching down to their feet. One of them,
who held a lamp in her hand, had a broad, red, shining face, a large
pimpled nose, small green eyes, and tow hair, which straggled rough and
shaggy from beneath her dirty white cap. The other, sallow, withered, and
bony, wore a mourning-cap over a parchment visage, pitted with the
small-pox, and rendered still more repulsive by the thick black eyebrows,
and some long gray hairs that overshadowed the upper lip. This woman
carried, half unfolded in her hand, a garment of strange form, made of
thick gray stuff.

They both entered silently by the little door, at the moment when
Adrienne, in the excess of her terror, was grasping the bars of the
window, and crying out: "Help! help!"

Pointing out the young lady to each other, one of them went to place the
lamp on the chimney-piece, whilst the other (she who wore the mourning
cap) approached the window, and laid her great bony hand upon Mdlle. de
Cardoville's shoulder.

Turning round, Adrienne uttered a new cry of terror at the sight of this
grim figure. Then, the first moment of stupor over, she began to feel
less afraid; hideous as was this woman, it was at least some one to speak
to; she exclaimed, therefore, in an agitated voice: "Where is M.
Baleinier?"

The two women looked at each other, exchanged a leer of mutual
intelligence, but did not answer.

"I ask you, madame," resumed Adrienne, "where is M. Baleinier, who
brought me hither? I wish to see him instantly."

"He is gone," said the big woman.

"Gone!" cried Adrienne; "gone without me!--Gracious heaven! what can be
the meaning of all this?" Then, after a moment's reflection, she resumed,
"Please to fetch me a coach."

The two women looked at each other, and shrugged their shoulders. "I
entreat you, madame," continued Adrienne, with forced calmness in her
voice, "to fetch me a coach since M. Baleinier is gone without me. I wish
to leave this place."

"Come, come, madame," said the tall woman, who was called "Tomboy,"
without appearing to listen to what Adrienne asked, "it is time for you
to go to bed."

"To go to bed!" cried Mdlle. Cardoville, in alarm. "This is really enough
to drive one mad." Then, addressing the two women, she added: "What is
this house? where am I? answer!"

"You are in a house," said Tomboy, in a rough voice, "where you must not
make a row from the window, as you did just now."

"And where you must not put out the lamp as you have done," added the
other woman, who was called Gervaise, "or else we shall have a crow to
pick with you."

Adrienne, unable to utter a word, and trembling with fear, looked in a
kind of stupor from one to the other of these horrible women; her reason
strove in vain to comprehend what was passing around her. Suddenly she
thought she had guessed it, and exclaimed: "I see there is a mistake
here. I do not understand how, but there is a mistake. You take me for
some one else. Do you know who I am? My name is Adrienne de Cardoville
You see, therefore, that I am at liberty to leave this house; no one in
the world has the right to detain me. I command you, then, to fetch me a
coach immediately. If there are none in this quarter, let me have some
one to accompany me home to the Rue de Babylone, Saint-Dizier House. I
will reward such a person liberally, and you also."

"Well, have you finished?" said Tomboy. "What is the use of telling us
all this rubbish?"

"Take care," resumed Adrienne, who wished to try every means; "if you
detain me here by force, it will be very serious. You do not know to what
you expose yourselves."

"Will you come to bed; yes or no?" said Gervaise, in a tone of harsh
impatience.

"Listen to me, madame," resumed Adrienne, precipitately, "let me out this
place, and I will give each of you two thousand francs. It is not enough?
I will give you ten--twenty--whatever you ask. I am rich--only let me out
for heaven's sake, let me out!--I cannot remain here--I am afraid." As
she said this, the tone of the poor girl's voice was heartrending.

"Twenty thousand francs!--that's the usual figure, ain't it, Tomboy?"

"Let be, Gervaise! they all sing the same song."

"Well, then? since reasons, prayers, and menaces are all in vain," said
Adrienne gathering energy from her desperate position, "I declare to you
that I will go out and that instantly. We will see if you are bold enough
to employ force against me."

So saying, Adrienne advanced resolutely towards the door. But, at this
moment, the wild hoarse cries, which had preceded the noise of the
struggle that had so frightened her, again resounded; only, this time
they were not accompanied by the movement of feet.

"Oh! what screams!" said Adrienne, stopping short, and in her terror
drawing nigh to the two women. "Do you not hear those cries? What, then,
is this house, in which one hears such things? And over there, too,"
added she almost beside herself, as she pointed to the other wing where
the lighted windows shone through the darkness, and the white figure
continued to pass and repass before it; "over there! do you see? What is
it?"

"Oh! that 'un," said Tomboy; "one of the folks who, like you, have not
behaved well."

"What do you say?" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, clasping her hands in
terror. "Heavens! what is this house? What do they do to them?"

"What will be done to you, if you are naughty, and refuse to come to
bed," answered Gervaise.

"They put this on them," said Tomboy, showing the garment that she had
held under her arm, "they clap 'em into the strait-waistcoast."

"Oh!" cried Adrienne, hiding her face in her hands with horror. A
terrible discovery had flashed suddenly upon her. She understood it all.

Capping the violent emotions of the day, the effect of this last blow was
dreadful. The young girl felt her strength give way. Her hands fell
powerless, her face became fearfully pale, all her limbs trembled, and
sinking upon her knees, and casting a terrified glance at the strait
waistcoat she was just able to falter in a feeble voice, "Oh, no:--not
that--for pity's sake, madame. I will do--whatever you wish." And, her
strength quite failing, she would have fallen upon the ground if the two
women had not run towards her, and received her fainting into their arms.

"A fainting fit," said Tomboy; "that's not dangerous. Let us carry her to
bed. We can undress her, and this will be all nothing."

"Carry her, then," said Gervaise. "I will take the lamp."

The tall and robust Tomboy took up Mdlle. de Cardoville as if she had
been a sleeping child, carried her in her arms, and followed her
companion into the chamber through which M. Baleinier had made his exit.

This chamber, though perfectly clean, was cold and bare. A greenish paper
covered the walls, and a low, little iron bedstead, the head of which
formed a kind of shelf, stood in one corner; a stove, fixed in the
chimney-place, was surrounded by an iron grating, which forbade a near
approach; a table fastened to the wall, a chair placed before this table,
and also clamped to the floor, a mahogany chest of drawers, and a rush
bottomed armchair completed the scanty furniture. The curtainless window
was furnished on the inside with an iron grating, which served to protect
the panes from being broken.

It was into this gloomy retreat, which formed so painful a contrast with
the charming little summer-house in the Rue de Babylone, that Adrienne
was carried by Tomboy, who, with the assistance of Gervaise, placed the
inanimate form on the bed. The lamp was deposited on the shelf at the
head of the couch. Whilst one of the nurses held her up, the other
unfastened and took off the cloth dress of the young girl, whose head
drooped languidly on her bosom. Though in a swoon, large tears trickled
slowly from her closed eyes, whose long black lashes threw their shadows
on the transparent whiteness of her cheeks. Over her neck and breast of
ivory flowed the golden waves of her magnificent hair, which had come
down at the time of her fall. When, as they unlaced her satin corset,
less soft, less fresh, less white than the virgin form beneath, which lay
like a statue of alabaster in its covering of lace and lawn, one of the
horrible hags felt the arms and shoulders of the young girl with her
large, red, horny, and chapped hands. Though she did not completely
recover the use of her senses, she started involuntarily from the rude
and brutal touch.

"Hasn't she little feet?" said the nurse, who, kneeling down, was
employed in drawing off Adrienne's stockings. "I could hold them both in
the hollow of my hand." In fact, a small, rosy foot, smooth as a child's,
here and there veined with azure, was soon exposed to view, as was also a
leg with pink knee and ankle, of as pure and exquisite a form as that of
Diana Huntress.

"And what hair!" said Tomboy; "so long and soft!--She might almost walk
upon it. 'Twould be a pity to cut it off, to put ice upon her skull!" As
she spoke, she gathered up Adrienne's magnificent hair, and twisted it as
well as she could behind her head. Alas! it was no longer the fair, light
hand of Georgette, Florine, or Hebe that arranged the beauteous locks of
their mistress with so much love and pride!

And as she again felt the rude touch of the nurse's hand, the young girl
was once more seized with the same nervous trembling, only more
frequently and strongly than before. And soon, whether by a sort of
instinctive repulsion, magnetically excited during her swoon, or from the
effect of the cold night air, Adrienne again started and slowly came to
herself.

It is impossible to describe her alarm, horror, and chaste indignation,
as, thrusting aside with both her hands the numerous curls that covered
her face, bathed in tears, she saw herself half-naked between these
filthy hags. At first, she uttered a cry of shame and terror; then to
escape from the looks of the women, by a movement, rapid as thought, she
drew down the lamp placed on the shelf at the head of her bed, so that it
was extinguished and broken to pieces on the floor. After which, in the
midst of the darkness, the unfortunate girl, covering herself with the
bed-clothes, burst into passionate sobs.

The nurses attributed Adrienne's cry and violent actions to a fit of
furious madness. "Oh! you begin again to break the lamps--that's your
partickler fancy, is it?" cried Tomboy, angrily, as she felt her way in
the dark. "Well! I gave you fair warning. You shall have the strait
waistcoat on this very night, like the mad gal upstairs."

"That's it," said the other; "hold her fast, Tommy, while I go and fetch
a light. Between us, we'll soon master her."

"Make haste, for, in spite of her soft look, she must be a regular fury.
We shall have to sit up all night with her, I suppose."

Sad and painful contrast! That morning, Adrienne had risen free, smiling,
happy, in the midst of all the wonders of luxury and art, and surrounded
by the delicate attentions of the three charming girls whom she had
chosen to serve her. In her generous and fantastic mood, she had prepared
a magnificent and fairy-like surprise for the young Indian prince, her
relation; she had also taken a noble resolution with regard to the two
orphans brought home by Dagobert; in her interview with Mme. de
Saint-Dizier, she had shown herself by turns proud and sensitive,
melancholy and gay, ironical and serious, loyal and courageous; finally,
she had come to this accursed house to plead in favor of an honest and
laborious artisan.

And now, in the evening delivered over by an atrocious piece of treachery
to the ignoble hands of two coarse-minded muses in a madhouse--Mdlle. de
Cardoville felt her delicate limbs imprisoned in that abominable garment,
which is called a strait-waistcoat.

Mdlle. de Cardoville passed a horrible night in company with the two
hags. The next morning, at nine o'clock, what was the young lady's stupor
to see Dr. Baleinier enter the room, still smiling with an air at once
benevolent and paternal.

"Well, my dear child?" said he, in a bland, affectionate voice; "how have
we spent the night?"



CHAPTER XLV.

THE VISIT.

The keepers, yielding to Mdlle. de Cardoville's prayers, and, above all,
to her promises of good behavior, had only left on the canvas jacket a
portion of the time. Towards morning, they had allowed her to rise and
dress herself, without interfering.

Adrienne was seated on the edge of her bed. The alteration in her
features, her dreadful paleness, the lurid fire of fever shining in her
eyes, the convulsive trembling which ever and anon shook her frame,
showed already the fatal effects of this terrible night upon a
susceptible and high-strung organization. At sight of Dr. Baleinier, who,
with a sign, made Gervaise and her mate leave the room, Adrienne remained
petrified.

She felt a kind of giddiness at the thought of the audacity of the man,
who dared to present himself to her! But when the physician repeated, in
the softest tone of affectionate interest: "Well, my poor child! how have
we spent the night?" she pressed her hands to her burning forehead, as if
in doubt whether she was awake or sleeping. Then, staring at the doctor,
she half opened her lips; but they trembled so much that it was
impossible for her to utter a word. Anger, indignation, contempt, and,
above all, the bitter and acutely painful feeling of a generous heart,
whose confidence has been basely betrayed, so overpowered Adrienne that
she was unable to break the silence.

"Come, come! I see how it is," said the doctor, shaking his head
sorrowfully; "you are very much displeased with me--is it not so? Well! I
expected it, my dear child."

These words, pronounced with the most hypocritical effrontery, made
Adrienne start up. Her pale cheek flushed, her large eyes sparkled, she
lifted proudly her beautiful head, whilst her upper lip curled slightly
with a smile of disdainful bitterness; then, passing in angry silence
before M. Baleinier, who retained his seat, she directed her swift and
firm steps towards the door. This door, in which was a little wicket, was
fastened on the outside. Adrienne turned towards the doctor, and said to
him, with an imperious gesture; "Open that door for me!"

"Come, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne," said the physician, "be calm. Let us
talk like good friends--for you know I am your friend." And he inhaled
slowly a pinch of snuff.

"It appears, sir," said Adrienne, in a voice trembling with indignation,
"I am not to leave this place to-day?"

"Alas! no. In such a state of excitement--if you knew how inflamed your
face is, and your eyes so feverish, your pulse must be at least eighty to
the minute--I conjure you, my dear child, not to aggravate your symptoms
by this fatal agitation."

After looking fixedly at the doctor, Adrienne returned with a slow step,
and again took her seat on the edge of the bed. "That is right," resumed
M. Baleinier: "only be reasonable; and, as I said before, let us talk
together like good friends."

"You say well, sir," replied Adrienne, in a collected and perfectly calm
voice; "let us talk like friends. You wish to make me pass for mad--is it
not so?"

"I wish, my dear child, that one day you may feel towards me as much
gratitude as you now do aversion. The latter I had fully foreseen--but,
however painful may be the performance of certain duties, we must resign
ourselves to it."

M. Baleinier sighed, as he said this, with such a natural air of
conviction, that for a moment Adrienne could not repress a movement of
surprise; then, while her lip curled with a bitter laugh, she answered:
"Oh, it's very clear, you have done all this for my good?"

"Really, my dear young lady--have I ever had any other design than to be
useful to you?"

"I do not know, sir, if your impudence be not still more odious than your
cowardly treachery!"

"Treachery!" said M. Baleinier, shrugging his shoulders with a grieved
air; "treachery, indeed! Only reflect, my poor child--do you think, if I
were not acting with good faith, conscientiously, in your interest, I
should return this morning to meet your indignation, for which I was
fully prepared? I am the head physician of this asylum, which belongs to
me--but I have two of my pupils here, doctors, like myself--and might
have left them to take care of you but, no--I could not consent to it--I
knew your character, your nature, your previous history, and (leaving out
of the question the interest I feel for you) I can treat your case better
than any one."

Adrienne had heard M. Baleinier without interrupting him; she now looked
at him fixedly, and said: "Pray, sir, how much do they pay you to make me
pass for mad?"

"Madame!" cried M. Baleinier, who felt stung in spite of, himself.

"You know I am rich," continued Adrienne, with overwhelming disdain; "I
will double the sum that they give you. Come, sir--in the name of
friendship, as you call it, let me have the pleasure of outbidding them."

"Your keepers," said M. Baleinier, recovering all his coolness, "have
informed me, in their report of the night's proceedings, that you made
similar propositions to them."

"Pardon me, sir; I offered them what might be acceptable to poor women,
without education, whom misfortune has forced to undertake a painful
employment--but to you, sir a man of the world, a man of science, a man
of great abilities--that is quite different--the pay must be a great deal
higher. There is treachery at all prices; so do not found your refusal on
the smallness of my offer to those wretched women. Tell me--how much do
you want?"

"Your keepers, in their report of the night, have also spoken of
threats," resumed M. Baleinier, with the same coolness; "have you any of
those likewise to address me? Believe me, my poor child, you will do well
to exhaust at once your attempts at corruption, and your vain threats of
vengeance. We shall then come to the true state of the case."

"So you deem my threats vain!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, at length
giving way to the full tide of her indignation, till then restrained. "Do
you think, sir, that when I leave this place--for this outrage must have
an end--that I will not proclaim aloud your infamous treachery? Do you
think chat I will not denounce to the contempt and horror of all, your
base conspiracy with Madame de Saint-Dizier? Oh! do you think that I will
conceal the frightful treatment I have received! But, mad as I may be, I
know that there are laws in this country, by which I will demand a full
reparation for myself, and shame, disgrace, and punishment, for you, and
for those who have employed you! Henceforth, between you and me will be
hate and war to the death; and all my strength, all my intelligence--"

"Permit me to interrupt you, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne," said the doctor,
still perfectly calm and affectionate: "nothing can be more unfavorable
to your cure, than to cherish idle hopes: they will only tend to keep up
a state of deplorable excitement: it is best to put the facts fairly
before you, that you may understand clearly your position.

"1. It is impossible for you to leave this house. 2. You can have no
communication with any one beyond its walls. 3. No one enters here that I
cannot perfectly depend upon. 4. I am completely indifferent to your
threats of vengeance because law and reason are both in my favor."

"What! have you the right to shut me up here?"

"We should never have come to that determination, without a number of
reasons of the most serious kind."

"Oh! there are reasons for it, it seems."

"Unfortunately, too many."

"You will perhaps inform me of them?"

"Alas! they are only too conclusive; and if you should ever apply to the
protection of the laws, as you threatened me just now, we should be
obliged to state them. The fantastical eccentricity of your manner of
living, your whimsical mode of dressing up your maids, your extravagant
expenditure, the story of the Indian prince, to whom you offered a royal
hospitality, your unprecedented resolution of going to live by yourself,
like a young bachelor, the adventure of the man found concealed in your
bed-chamber; finally, the report of your yesterday's conversation, which
was faithfully taken down in shorthand, by a person employed for that
purpose."

"Yesterday?" cried Adrienne, with as much indignation as surprise.

"Oh, yes! to be prepared for every event, in case you should misinterpret
the interest we take in you, we had all your answers reported by a man
who was concealed behind a curtain in the next room; and really, one day,
in a calmer state of mind, when you come to read over quietly the
particulars of what took place, you will no longer be astonished at the
resolution we have been forced to adopt."

"Go on, sir," said Adrienne, with contempt.

"The facts I have cited being thus confirmed and acknowledged, you will
understand, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne, that your friends are perfectly free
from responsibility. It was their duty to endeavor to cure this
derangement of mind, which at present only shows itself in idle whims,
but which, were it to increase, might seriously compromise the happiness
of your future life. Now, in my opinion, we may hope to see a radical
cure, by means of a treatment at once physical and moral; but the first
condition of this attempt was to remove you from the scenes which so
dangerously excited your imagination; whilst a calm retreat, the repose
of a simple and solitary life combined with my anxious, I may say,
paternal care, will gradually bring about a complete recovery--"

"So, sir," said Adrienne, with a bitter laugh, "the love of a noble
independence, generosity, the worship of the beautiful, detestation of
what is base and odious, such are the maladies of which you wish to cure
me; I fear that my case is desperate, for my aunt has long ago tried to
effect that benevolent purpose."

"Well, we may perhaps not succeed; but at least we will attempt it. You
see, then, there is a mass of serious facts, quite enough to justify the
determination come to by the family-council, which puts me completely at
my ease with regard to your menaces. It is to that I wish to return; a
man of my age and condition never acts lightly--in such circumstances,
and you can readily understand what I was saying to you just now. In a
word, do not hope to leave this place before your complete recovery, and
rest assured, that I am and shall ever be safe from your resentment. This
being once admitted, let us talk of your actual state with all the
interest that you naturally inspire."

"I think, sir, that, considering I am mad, you speak to me very
reasonably."

"Mad! no, thank heaven, my poor child, you are not mad yet--and I hope
that, by my care, you will never be so. It is to prevent your becoming
mad, that one must take it in time; and believe me, it is full time. You
look at me with such an air of surprise--now tell me, what interest can I
have in talking to you thus? Is it the hatred of your aunt that I wish to
favor? To what end, I would ask? What can she do for me or against me? I
think of her at this moment neither more nor less than I thought
yesterday. Is it a new language that I hold to yourself? Did I not speak
to you yesterday many times, of the dangerous excitement of mind in which
you were, and of your singular whims and fancies? It is true, I made use
of stratagem to bring you hither. No doubt, I did so. I hastened to avail
myself of the opportunity, which you yourself offered, my poor, dear
child; for you would never have come hither with your own good will. One
day or the other, we must have found some pretext to get you here: and I
said to myself; 'Her interest before all! Do your duty, let whatever will
betide!'--"

Whilst M. Baleinier was speaking, Adrienne's countenance, which had
hitherto expressed alternately indignation and disdain, assumed an
indefinable look of anguish and horror. On hearing this man talk in such
a natural manner, and with such an appearance of sincerity, justice and
reason, she felt herself more alarmed than ever. An atrocious deception,
clothed in such forms, frightened her a hundred times more than the
avowed hatred of Madame de Saint-Dizier. This audacious hypocrisy seemed
to her so monstrous, that she believed it almost impossible.

Adrienne had so little the art of hiding her emotions, that the doctor, a
skillful and profound physiognomist, instantly perceived the impression
he had produced. "Come," said he to himself, "that is a great step.
Fright has succeeded to disdain and anger. Doubt will come next. I shall
not leave this place, till she has said to me: 'Return soon, my good M.
Baleinier!'" With a voice of sorrowful emotion, which seemed to come from
the very depths of his heart, the doctor thus continued: "I see, you are
still suspicious of me. All I can say to you is falsehood, fraud,
hypocrisy, hate--is it not so?--Hate you? why, in heaven's name, should I
hate you? What have you done to me? or rather--you will perhaps attach
more value to this reason from a man of my sort," added M. Baleinier,
bitterly, "or rather, what interest have I to hate you?--You, that have
only been reduced to the state in which you are by an over abundance of
the most generous instincts--you, that are suffering, as it were, from an
excess of good qualities--you can bring yourself coolly and deliberately
to accuse an honest man, who has never given you any but marks of
affection, of the basest, the blackest, the most abominable crime, of
which a human being could be guilty. Yes, I call it a crime; because the
audacious deception of which you accuse me would not deserve any other
name. Really, my poor child, it is hard--very hard--and I now see, that
an independent spirit may sometimes exhibit as much injustice and
intolerance as the most narrow mind. It does not incense me--no--it only
pains me: yes, I assure you--it pains me cruelly." And the doctor drew
his hand across his moist eyes.

It is impossible to give the accent, the look, the gesture of M.
Baleinier, as he thus expressed himself. The most able and practiced
lawyer, or the greatest actor in the world, could not have played this
scene with more effect than the doctor--or rather, no one could have
played it so well--M. Baleinier, carried away by the influence of the
situations, was himself half convinced of what he said.

In few words, he felt all the horror of his own perfidy but he felt also
that Adrienne could not believe it; for there are combinations of such
nefarious character, that pure and upright minds are unable to comprehend
them as possible. If a lofty spirit looks down into the abyss of evil,
beyond a certain depth it is seized with giddiness, and no longer able to
distinguish one object from the other.

And then the most perverse of men have a day, an hour, a moment, in which
the good instincts, planted in the heart of every creature, appear in
spite of themselves. Adrienne was too interesting, was in too cruel a
position, for the doctor mot to feel some pity for her in his heart; the
tone of sympathy, which for some time past he had been obliged to assume
towards her, and the sweet confidence of the young girl in return, had
become for this man habitual and necessary ratifications. But sympathy
and habit were now to yield to implacable necessity.

Thus the Marquis d'Aigrigny had idolized his mother; dying, she called
him to her--and he turned away from the last prayer of a parent in the
agony of death. After such an example, how could M. Baleinier hesitate to
sacrifice Adrienne? The members of the Order, of which he formed a part,
were bound to him--but he was perhaps still more strongly bound to them,
for a long partnership in evil creates terrible and indissoluble ties.

The moment M. Baleinier finished his fervid address to Mdlle. de
Cardoville, the slide of the wicket in the door was softly pushed back,
and a pair of eyes peered attentively into the chamber, unperceived by
the doctor.

Adrienne could not withdraw her gaze from the physician's, which seemed
to fascinate her. Mute, overpowered, seized with a vague terror, unable
to penetrate the dark depths of this man's soul, moved in spite of
herself by the accent of sorrow, half feigned and half real--the young
lady had a momentary feeling of doubt. For the first time, it came into
her mind, that M. Baleinier might perhaps be committing a frightful
error--committing it in good faith.

Besides, the anguish of the past night, the dangers of her position, her
feverish agitation, all concurred to fill her mind with trouble and
indecision. She looked at the physician with ever increasing surprise,
and making a violent effort not to yield to a weakness, of which she
partly foresaw the dreadful consequences, she exclaimed: "No, no, sir; I
will not, I cannot believe it. You have too much skill, too much
experience, to commit such an error."

"An error!" said M. Baleinier, in a grave and sorrowful tone. "Let me
speak to you in the name of that skill and experience, which you are
pleased to ascribe to me. Hear me but for a moment, my dear child; and
then I will appeal to yourself."

"To me!" replied the young girl, in a kind of stupor; "you wish to
persuade me, that--" Then, interrupting herself, she added, with a
convulsive laugh: "This only is wanting to your triumph--to bring me to
confess that I am mad--that my proper place is here--that I owe you--"

"Gratitude. Yes, you do owe it me, even as I told you at the commencement
of this conversation. Listen to me then; my words may be cruel, but there
are wounds which can only be cured with steel and fire. I conjure you, my
dear child--reflect--throw back one impartial glance at your past
life--weigh your own thoughts--and you will be afraid of yourself.
Remember those moments of strange excitement, during which, as you have
told me, you seemed to soar above the earth--and, above all, while it is
yet time--while you preserve enough clearness of mind to compare and
judge--compare, I entreat, your manner of living with that of other
ladies of your age? Is there a single one who acts as you act? who thinks
as you think? unless, indeed, you imagine yourself so superior to other
women, that, in virtue of that supremacy, you can justify a life and
habits that have no parallel in the world."

"I have never had such stupid pride, you know it well," said Adrienne,
looking at the doctor with growing terror.

"Then, my dear child, to what are we to attribute your strange and
inexplicable mode of life? Can you even persuade yourself that it is
founded on reason? Oh, my child! take care?--As yet, you only indulge in
charming originalities of conduct, poetical eccentricities, sweet and
vague reveries--but the tendency is fatal, the downward course
irresistible. Take care, take care!--the healthful, graceful, spiritual
portion of your intelligence has yet the upper hand, and imprints its
stamp upon all your extravagances; but you do not know, believe me, with
what frightful force the insane portion of the mind, at a given moment,
develops itself and strangles up the rest. Then we have no longer
graceful eccentricities, like yours, but ridiculous, sordid, hideous
delusions."

"Oh! you frighten me," said the unfortunate girl, as she passed her
trembling hands across her burning brow.

"Then," continued M. Baleinier, in an agitated voice, "then the last rays
of intelligence are extinguished; then madness--for we must pronounce the
dreaded word--gets the upper hand, and displays itself in furious and
savage transports."

"Like the woman upstairs," murmured Adrienne, as, with fixed and eager
look, she raised her finger towards the ceiling.

"Sometimes," continued the doctor, alarmed himself at the terrible
consequences of his own words, but yielding to the inexorable fatality of
his situation, "sometimes madness takes a stupid and brutal form; the
unfortunate creature, who is attacked by it, preserves nothing human but
the shape--has only the instincts of the lower animals--eats with
voracity, and moves ever backwards and forwards in the cell, in which
such a being is obliged to be confined. That is all its life--all."

"Like the woman yonder." cried Adrienne, with a still wilder look, as she
slowly raised her arm towards the window that was visible on the other
side of the building.

"Why--yes," said M. Baleinier. "Like you, unhappy child, those women were
young, fair, and sensible, but like you, alas! they had in them the fatal
germ of insanity, which, not having been destroyed in time, grew, and
grew, larger and ever larger, until it overspread and destroyed their
reason."

"Oh, mercy!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose head was getting confused
with terror; "mercy! do not tell me such things!--I am afraid. Take me
from this place--oh! take me from this place!" she added, with a
heartrending accent; "for, if I remain here, I shall end by going mad!
No," added she, struggling with the terrible agony which assailed her,
"no, do not hope it! I shall not become mad. I have all my reason. I am
not blind enough to believe what you tell me. Doubtless, I live
differently from others; think differently from others; am shocked by
things that do not offend others; but what does all this prove? Only that
I am different from others. Have I a bad heart? Am I envious or selfish?
My ideas are singular, I knew--yes, I confess it--but then, M. Baleinier,
is not their tendency good, generous, noble!--Oh!" cried Adrienne's
supplicating voice, while her tears flowed abundantly, "I have never in
my life done one malicious action; my worst errors have arisen from
excess of generosity. Is it madness to wish to see everybody about one
too happy? And again, if you are mad, you must feel it yourself--and I do
not feel it--and yet--I scarcely know--you tell me such terrible things
of those two women! You ought to know these things better than I. But
then," added Mdlle, de Cardoville, with an accent of the deepest despair,
"something ought to have been done. Why, if you felt an interest for me,
did you wait so long? Why did you not take pity on me sooner? But the
most frightful fact is, that I do not know whether I ought to believe
you--for all this may be a snare--but no, no! you weep--it is true,
then!--you weep!" She looked anxiously at M. Baleinier, who,
notwithstanding his cynical philosophy, could not restrain his tears at
the sight of these nameless tortures.

"You weep over me," she continued; "so it is true! But (good heaven!)
must there not be something done? I will do all that you wish--all--so
that I may not be like those women. But if it should be too late? no, it
is not too late--say it is not too late, my good M. Baleinier! Oh, now I
ask your pardon for what I said when you came in--but then I did not
know, you see--I did not know!"

To these few broken words, interrupted by sobs, and rushing forth in a
sort of feverish excitement, succeeded a silence of some minutes, during
which the deeply affected physician dried his tears. His resolution had
almost failed him. Adrienne hid her face in her hands. Suddenly she again
lifted her head; her countenance was calmer than before, though agitated
by a nervous trembling.

"M. Baleinier," she resumed, with touching dignity, "I hardly know what I
said to you just now. Terror, I think, made me wander; I have again
collected myself. Hear me! I know that I am in your power; I know that
nothing can deliver me from it. Are you an implacable enemy? or are you a
friend? I am not able to determine. Do you really apprehend, as you
assure me, that what is now eccentricity will hereafter become
madness--or are you rather the accomplice in some infernal machination?
You alone can answer. In spite of my boasted courage, I confess myself
conquered. Whatever is required of me--you understand, whatever it may
be, I will subscribe to, I give you my word and you know that I hold it
sacred--you have therefore no longer any interest to keep me here. If, on
the contrary, you really think my reason in danger--and I own that you
have awakened in my mind vague, but frightful doubts--tell it me, and I
will believe you. I am alone, at your mercy, without friends, without
counsel. I trust myself blindly to you. I know not whether I address
myself to a deliverer or a destroyer--but I say to you--here is my
happiness--here is my life--take it--I have no strength to dispute it
with you!"

These touching words, full of mournful resignation and almost hopeless
reliance, gave the finishing stroke to the indecision of M. Baleinier.
Already deeply moved by this scene, and without reflecting on the
consequences of what he was about to do, he determined at all events to
dissipate the terrible and unjust fears with which he had inspired
Adrienne. Sentiments of remorse and pity, which now animated the
physician, were visible in his countenance.

Alas! they were too visible. The moment he approached to take the hand of
Mdlle. de Cardoville, a low but sharp voice exclaimed from behind the
wicket: "M. Baleinier!"

"Rodin!" muttered the startled doctor to himself; "he's been spying on
me!"

"Who calls you?" asked the lady of the physician.

"A person that I promised to meet here this morning." replied he, with
the utmost depression, "to go with him to St. Mary's Convent, which is
close at hand."

"And what answer have you to give me?" said Adrienne with mortal anguish.

After a moment's solemn silence, during which he turned his face towards
the wicket, the doctor replied, in a voice of deep emotion: "I am--what I
have always been--a friend incapable of deceiving you."

Adrienne became deadly pale. Then, extending her hand to M. Baleinier,
she said to him in a voice that she endeavored to render calm: "Thank
you--I will have courage--but will it be very long?"

"Perhaps a month. Solitude, reflection, a proper regimen, my attentive
care, may do much. You will be allowed everything that is compatible with
your situation. Every attention will be paid you. If this room displeases
you, I will see you have another."

"No--this or another--it is of little consequence," answered Adrienne,
with an air of the deepest dejection.

"Come, come! be of good courage. There is no reason to despair."

"Perhaps you flatter me," said Adrienne with the shadow of a smile.
"Return soon," she added, "my dear M. Baleinier! my only hope rests in
you now."

Her head fell upon her bosom, her hands upon her knees and she remained
sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, motionless, overwhelmed with woe.

"Mad!" she said when M. Baleinier had disappeared. "Perhaps mad!"

We have enlarged upon this episode much less romantic than it may appear.
Many times have motives of interest or vengeance or perfidious
machination led to the abuse of the imprudent facility with which inmates
are received in certain private lunatic asylums from the hands of their
families or friends.

We shall subsequently explain our views, as to the establishment of a
system of inspection, by the crown or the civil magistrates, for the
periodical survey of these institutions, and others of no less
importance, at present placed beyond the reach of all superintendence.
These latter are the nunneries of which we will presently have an
example.



CHAPTER XLVI.

PRESENTIMENTS.

Whilst the preceding events took place in Dr. Baleinier's asylum, other
scenes were passing about the same hour, at Frances Baudoin's, in the Rue
Brise-Miche.

Seven o'clock in the morning had just struck at St. Mary church; the day
was dark and gloomy, and the sleet rattled against the windows of the
joyless chamber of Dagobert's wife.

As yet ignorant of her son's arrest, Frances had waited for him the whole
of the preceding evening, and a good part of the night, with the most
anxious uneasiness; yielding at length to fatigue and sleep, about three
o'clock in the morning, she had thrown herself on a mattress beside the
bed of Rose and Blanche. But she rose with the first dawn of day, to
ascend to Agricola's garret, in the very faint hope that he might have
returned home some hours before.

Rose and Blanche had just risen, and dressed themselves. They were alone
in the sad, chilly apartment. Spoil-sport, whom Dagobert had left in
Paris, was stretched at full length near the cold stove; with his long
muzzle resting on his forepaws, he kept his eye fixed on the sisters.

Having slept but little during the night, they had perceived the
agitation and anguish of Dagobert's wife. They had seen her walk up and
down, now talking to herself, now listening to the least noise that came
up the staircase, and now kneeling before the crucifix placed at one
extremity of the room. The orphans were not aware, that, whilst she
brayed with fervor on behalf of her son, this excellent woman was praying
for them also. For the state of their souls filled her with anxiety and
alarm.

The day before, when Dagobert had set out for Chartres, Frances, having
assisted Rose and Blanche to rise, had invited them to say their morning
prayer: they answered with the utmost simplicity, that they did not know
any, and that they never more than addressed their mother, who was in
heaven. When Frances, struck with painful surprise, spoke to them of
catechism, confirmation, communion, the sisters opened widely their large
eyes with astonishment, understanding nothing of such talk.

According to her simple faith, terrified at the ignorance of the young
girls in matters of religion, Dagobert's wife believed their souls to be
in the greatest peril, the more so as, having asked them if they had ever
been baptized (at the same time explaining to them the nature of that
sacrament), the orphans answered they did not think they had, since there
was neither church nor priest in the village where they were born, during
their mother's exile in Siberia.

Placing one's self in the position of Frances, you understand how much
she was grieved and alarmed; for, in her eyes, these young girls, whom
she already loved tenderly, so charmed was she with their sweet
disposition, were nothing but poor heathens, innocently doomed to eternal
damnation. So, unable to restrain her tears, or conceal her horrors, she
had clasped them in her arms, promising immediately to attend to their
salvation, and regretting that Dagobert had not thought of having them
baptized by the way. Now, it must be confessed, that this notion had
never once occurred to the ex-grenadier.

When she went to her usual Sunday devotions, Frances had not dared to
take Rose and Blanche with her, as their complete ignorance of sacred
things would have rendered their presence at church, if not useless,
scandalous; but, in her own fervent prayers she implored celestial mercy
for these orphans, who did not themselves know the desperate position of
their souls.

Rose and Blanche were now left alone, in the absence of Dagobert's wife.
They were still dressed in mourning, their charming faces seeming even
more pensive than usual. Though they were accustomed to a life of
misfortune, they had been struck, since their arrival in the Rue Brise
Miche, with the painful contrast between the poor dwelling which they had
come to inhabit, and the wonders which their young imagination had
conceived of Paris, that golden city of their dreams. But, soon this
natural astonishment was replaced by thoughts of singular gravity for
their age. The contemplation of such honest and laborious poverty made
the orphans have reflections no longer those of children, but of young
women. Assisted by their admirable spirit of justice and of sympathy for
all that is good, by their noble heart, by a character at once delicate
and courageous, they had observed and meditated much during the last
twenty-four hours.

"Sister," said Rose to Blanche, when Frances had quitted the room,
"Dagobert's poor wife is very uneasy. Did you remark in the night, how
agitated she was? how she wept and prayed?"

"I was grieved to see it, sister, and wondered what could be the cause."

"I am almost afraid to guess. Perhaps we may be the cause of her
uneasiness?"

"Why so, sister? Because we cannot say prayers, nor tell if we have ever
been baptized?"

"That seemed to give her a good deal of pain, it is true. I was quite
touched by it, for it proves that she loves us tenderly. But I could not
understand how we ran such terrible danger as she said we did."

"Nor I either, sister. We have always tried not to displease our mother,
who sees and hears us."

"We love those who love us; we are resigned to whatever may happen to us.
So, who can reproach us with any harm?"

"No one. But, perhaps, we may do some without meaning it."

"We?"

"Yes, and therefore I thought: We may perhaps be the cause of her
uneasiness."

"How so?"

"Listen, sister! yesterday Madame Baudoin tried to work at those sacks of
coarse cloth there on the table."

"Yes; but in about an half-hour, she told us sorrowfully, that she could
not go on, because her eyes failed her, and she could not see clearly."

"So that she is not able to earn her living."

"No--but her son, M. Agricola, works for her. He looks so good, so gay,
so frank, and so happy to devote himself for his mother. Oh, indeed! he
is the worthy brother of our angel Gabriel!"

"You will see my reason for speaking of this. Our good old Dagobert told
us, that, when we arrived here, he had only a few pieces of money left."

"That is true."

"Now both he and his wife are unable to earn their living; what can a
poor old soldier like him do?"

"You are right; he only knows how to love us, and take care of us, like
his children."

"It must then be M. Agricola who will have to support his father; for
Gabriel is a poor priest, who possesses nothing, and can render no
assistance to those who have brought him up. So M. Agricola will have to
support the whole family by himself."

"Doubtless--he owes it to father and mother--it is his duty, and he will
do it with a good will."

"Yes, sister--but he owes us nothing."

"What do you say, Blanche?"

"He is obliged to work for us also, as we possess nothing in the world."

"I had not thought of that. True."

"It is all very well, sister, for our father to be Duke and Marshal of
France, as Dagobert tells us, it is all very well for us to hope great
things from this medal, but as long as father is not here, and our hopes
are not realized, we shall be merely poor orphans, obliged to remain a
burden to this honest family, to whom we already owe so much, and who
find it so hard to live, that--"

"Why do you pause, sister?"

"What I am about to say would make other people laugh; but you will
understand it. Yesterday, when Dagobert's wife saw poor Spoil-sport at
his dinner, she said, sorrowfully: 'Alas! he eats as much as a man!'--so
that I could almost have cried to hear her. They must be very poor, and
yet we have come to increase their poverty."

The sisters looked sadly at each other, while Spoil-sport pretended not
to know they were talking of his voracity.

"Sister, I understand," said Rose, after a moment's silence. "Well, we
must not be at the charge of any one. We are young, and have courage.
Till our fate is decided, let us fancy ourselves daughters of workmen.
After all, is not our grandfather a workman? Let us find some employment,
and earn our own living. It must be so proud and happy to earn one's
living!"

"Good little sister," said Blanche, kissing Rose. "What happiness! You
have forestalled my thought; kiss me!"

"How so?"

"Your project is mine exactly. Yesterday, when I heard Dagobert's wife
complain so sadly that she had lost her sight. I looked into your large
eyes, which reminded me of my own, and said to myself: 'Well! this poor
old woman may have lost her sight, but Rose and Blanche Simon can see
pretty clearly'--which is a compensation," added Blanche, with a smile.

"And, after all," resumed Rose, smiling in her turn, "the young ladies in
question are not so very awkward, as not to be able to sew up great sacks
of coarse cloth--though it may chafe their fingers a little."

"So we had both the same thought, as usual; only I wished to surprise
you, and waited till we were alone, to tell you my plan."

"Yes, but there is something teases me."

"What is that?"

"First of all, Dagobert and his wife will be sure to say to us: 'Young
ladies, you are not fitted for such work. What, daughters of a Marshal of
France sewing up great ugly bags!' And then, if we insist upon it, they
will add: 'Well, we have no work to give you. If you want any, you must
hunt for it.' What would Misses Simon do then?"

"The fact is, that when Dagobert has made up his mind to anything--"

"Oh! even then, if we coax him well--"

"Yes, in certain things; but in others he is immovable. It is just as
when upon the journey, we wished to prevent his doing so much for us."

"Sister, an idea strikes me," cried Rose, "an excellent idea!"

"What is it? quick!"

"You know the young woman they call Mother Bunch, who appears to be so
serviceable and persevering?"

"Oh yes! and so timid and discreet. She seems always to be afraid of
giving offence, even if she looks at one. Yesterday, she did not perceive
that I saw her; but her eyes were fixed on you with so good and sweet an
expression, that tears came into mine at the very sight of it."

"Well, we must ask her how she gets work, for certainly she lives by her
labor."

"You are right. She will tell us all about it; and when we know, Dagobert
may scold us, or try to make great ladies of us, but we will be as
obstinate as he is."

"That is it; we must show some spirit! We will prove to him, as he says
himself, that we have soldier's blood in our veins."

"We will say to him: 'Suppose, as you say, we should one day be rich, my
good Dagobert, we shall only remember this time with the more pleasure."

"It is agreed then, is it not, Rose? The first time we are alone with
Mother Bunch, we must make her our confidant, and ask her for
information. She is so good a person, that she will not refuse us."

"And when father comes home, he will be pleased, I am sure, with our
courage."

"And will approve our wish to support ourselves, as if we were alone in
the world."

On these words of her sister, Rose started. A cloud of sadness, almost of
alarm, passed over her charming countenance, as she exclaimed: "Oh,
sister, what a horrible idea!"

"What is the matter? your look frightens me."

"At the moment I heard you say, that our father would approve our wish to
support ourselves, as if we were alone in the world--a frightful thought
struck me--I know not why--but feel how my heart beats--just as if some
misfortune were about to happen us."

"It is true; your poor heart beats violently. But what was this thought?
You alarm me."

"When we were prisoners, they did not at least separate us, and, besides,
the prison was a kind of shelter--"

"A sad one, though shared with you."

"But if, when arrived here, any accident had parted us from Dagobert--if
we had been left alone, without help, in this great town?"

"Oh, sister! do not speak of that. It would indeed be terrible. What
would become of us, kind heaven?"

This cruel thought made the girls remain for a moment speechless with
emotion. Their sweet faces, which had just before glowed with a noble
hope, grew pale and sad. After a pretty long silence, Rose uplifted her
eyes, now filled with tears, "Why does this thought," she said,
trembling, "affect us so deeply, sister? My heart sinks within me, as if
it were really to happen to us."

"I feel as frightened as you yourself. Alas! were we both to be lost in
this immense city, what would become of us?"

"Do not let us give way to such ideas, Blanche! Are we not here in
Dagobert's house, in the midst of good people?"

"And yet, sister," said Rose, with a pensive air, "it is perhaps good for
us to have had this thought."

"Why so?"

"Because we shall now find this poor lodging all the better, as it
affords a shelter from all our fears. And when, thanks to our labor, we
are no longer a burden to any one, what more can we need until the
arrival of our father?"

"We shall want for nothing--there you are right--but still, why did this
thought occur to us, and why does it weigh so heavily on our minds?"

"Yes, indeed--why? Are we not here in the midst of friends that love us?
How could we suppose that we should ever be left alone in Paris? It is
impossible that such a misfortune should happen to us--is it not, my dear
sister?"

"Impossible!" said Rose, shuddering. "If the day before we reached that
village in Germany, where poor Jovial was killed, any one had said to us:
'To-morrow, you will be in prison'--we should have answered as now: 'It
is impossible. Is not Dagobert here to protect us; what have we to fear?'
And yet, sister, the day after we were in prison at Leipsic."

"Oh! do not speak thus, my dear sister! It frightens me."

By a sympathetic impulse, the orphans took one another by the hand, while
they pressed close together, and looked around with involuntary fear. The
sensation they felt was in fact deep, strange, inexplicable, and yet
lowering--one of those dark presentiments which come over us, in spite of
ourselves--those fatal gleams of prescience, which throw a lurid light on
the mysterious profundities of the future.

Unaccountable glimpses of divination! often no sooner perceived than
forgotten--but, when justified by the event, appearing with all the
attributes of an awful fatality!

The daughters of Marshal Simon were still absorbed in the mournful
reverie which these singular thoughts had awakened, when Dagobert's wife,
returning from her son's chamber, entered the room with a painfully
agitated countenance.



CHAPTER XLVII.

THE LETTER.

Frances' agitation was so perceptible that Rose could not help
exclaiming: "Good gracious, what is the matter?"

"Alas, my dear young ladies! I can no longer conceal it from you," said
Frances, bursting into tears. "Since yesterday I have not seen him. I
expected my son to supper as usual, and he never came; but I would not
let you see how much I suffered. I continued to expect him, minute after
minute; for ten years he has never gone up to bed without coming to kiss
me; so I spent a good part of the night close to the door, listening if I
could hear his step. But he did not come; and, at last, about three
o'clock in the morning, I threw myself down upon the mattress. I have
just been to see (for I still had a faint hope), if my son had come in
this morning--"

"Well, madame!"

"There is no sign of him!" said the poor mother, drying her eyes.

Rose and Blanche looked at each other with emotion; the same thought
filled the minds of both; if Agricola should not return, how would this
family live? would they not, in such an event, become doubly burdensome?

"But, perhaps, madame," said Blanche, "M. Agricola remained too late at
his work to return home last night."

"Oh! no, no! he would have returned in the middle of the night, because
he knew what uneasiness he would cause me by stopping out. Alas! some
misfortune must have happened to him! Perhaps he has been injured at the
forge, he is so persevering at his work. Oh, my poor boy! and, as if I
did not feel enough anxiety about him, I am also uneasy about the poor
young woman who lives upstairs."

"Why so, madame?"

"When I left my son's room, I went into hers, to tell her my grief, for
she is almost a daughter to me; but I did not find her in the little
closet where she lives, and the bed had not even been slept in. Where can
she have gone so early--she, that never goes out?"

Rose and Blanche looked at each other with fresh uneasiness, for they
counted much upon Mother Bunch to help them in the resolution they had
taken. Fortunately, both they and Frances were soon to be satisfied on
this head, for they heard two low knocks at the door, and the
sempstress's voice, saying: "Can I come in, Mrs. Baudoin?"

By a spontaneous impulse, Rose and Blanche ran to the door, and opened it
to the young girl. Sleet and snow had been falling incessantly since the
evening before; the gingham dress of the young sempstress, her scanty
cotton shawl, and the black net cap, which, leaving uncovered two thick
bands of chestnut hair, encircled her pale and interesting countenance,
were all dripping wet; the cold had given a livid appearance to her thin,
white hands; it was only in the fire of her blue eyes, generally so soft
and timid, that one perceived the extraordinary energy which this frail
and fearful creature had gathered from the emergency of the occasion.

"Dear me! where do you come from, my good Mother Bunch?" said Frances.
"Just now, in going to see if my son had returned, I opened your door,
and was quite astonished to find you gone out so early."

"I bring you news of Agricola."

"Of my son!" cried Frances, trembling all over. "What has happened to
him? Did you see him?--Did you speak to him?--Where is he?"

"I did not see him, but I know where he is." Then, perceiving that
Frances grew very pale, the girl added: "He is well; he is in no danger."

"Blessed be God, who has pity on a poor sinner!--who yesterday restored
me my husband, and to-day, after a night of cruel anguish, assures me of
the safety of my child!" So saying, Frances knelt down upon the floor,
and crossed herself with fervor.

During the moment of silence, caused by this pious action, Rose and
Blanche approached Mother Bunch, and said to her in a low voice, with an
expression of touching interest: "How wet you are! you must be very cold.
Take care you do not get ill. We did not venture to ask Madame Frances to
light the fire in the stove, but now we will do so."

Surprised and affected by the kindness of Marshal Simon's daughters, the
hunchback, who was more sensible than others to the least mark of
kindness, answered them with a look of ineffable gratitude: "I am much
obliged to you, young ladies; but I am accustomed to the cold, and am
moreover so anxious that I do not feel it."

"And my son?" said Frances, rising after she had remained some moments on
her knees; "why did he stay out all night? And could you tell me where to
find him, my good girl? Will he soon come? why is he so long?"

"I assure you, Agricola is well; but I must inform you, that for some
time--"

"Well?"

"You must have courage, mother."

"Oh! the blood runs cold in my veins. What has happened? why shall I not
see him?"

"Alas, he is arrested."

"Arrested!" cried Rose and Blanche, with affright.

"Father! Thy will be done!" said Frances; "but it is a great misfortune.
Arrested! for what? He is so good and honest, that there must be some
mistake."

"The day before yesterday," resumed Mother Bunch, "I received an
anonymous letter, by which I was informed that Agricola might be arrested
at any moment, on account of his song. We agreed together that he should
go to the rich young lady in the Rue de Babylone, who had offered him her
services, and ask her to procure bail for him; to prevent his going to
prison. Yesterday morning he set out to go to the young lady's."

"And neither of you told me anything of all this--why did you hide it
from me?"

"That we might not make you uneasy, mother; for, counting on the
generosity of that young lady, I expected Agricola back every moment.
When he did not come yesterday evening. I said to myself: 'Perhaps the
necessary formalities with regard to the bail have detained him.' But the
time passed on, and he did not make his appearance. So, I watched all
night, expecting him."

"So you did not go to bed either, my good girl?"

"No, I was too uneasy. This morning, not being able to conquer my fears,
I went out before dawn. I remembered the address of the young lady in the
Rue de Babylone, and I ran thither."

"Oh, well!" said Frances, with anxiety; "you were in the right. According
to what my son told us, that young lady appeared very good and generous."

Mother Bunch shook her head sorrowfully; a tear glittered in her eyes, as
she continued: "It was still dark when I arrived at the Rue de Babylone;
I waited till daylight was come."

"Poor child! you, who are so weak and timid," said Frances, with deep
feeling, "to go so far, and in this dreadful weather!--Oh, you have been
a real daughter to me!"

"Has not Agricola been like a brother to me!" said Mother Bunch, softly,
with a slight blush.

"When it was daylight," she resumed: "I ventured to ring at the door of
the little summer-house; a charming young girl, but with a sad, pale
countenance, opened the door to me. 'I come in the name of an unfortunate
mother in despair,' said I to her immediately, for I was so poorly
dressed that I feared to be sent away as a beggar; but seeing, on the
contrary, that the young girl listened to me with kindness, I asked her
if, the day before, a young workman had not come to solicit a great favor
of her mistress. 'Alas! yes,' answered the young girl; 'my mistress was
going to interest herself for him, and, hearing that he was in danger of
being arrested, she concealed him here; unfortunately, his retreat was
discovered, and yesterday afternoon, at four o'clock, he was arrested and
taken to prison.'"

Though the orphans took no part in this melancholy conversation, the
sorrow and anxiety depicted in their countenances, showed how much they
felt for the sufferings of Dagobert's wife.

"But the young lady?" cried Frances. "You should have tried to see her,
my good Mother Bunch, and begged her not to abandon my son. She is so
rich that she must have influence, and her protection might save us from
great calamities."

"Alas!" said Mother Bunch, with bitter grief, "we must renounce this last
hope."

"Why?" said Frances. "If this young lady is so good, she will have pity
upon us, when she knows that my son is the only support of a whole
family, and that for him to go to prison is worse than for another,
because it will reduce us all to the greatest misery."

"But this young lady," replied the girl, "according to what I learned
from her weeping maid, was taken last evening to a lunatic asylum: it
appears she is mad."

"Mad! Oh! it is horrible for her, and for us also--for now there is no
hope. What will become of us without my son? Oh, merciful heaven!" The
unfortunate woman hid her face in her hands.

A profound silence followed this heart-rending outburst. Rose and Blanche
exchanged mournful glances, for they perceived that their presence
augmented the weighty embarrassments of this family. Mother Bunch, worn
out with fatigue, a prey to painful emotions, and trembling with cold in
her wet clothes, sank exhausted on a chair, and reflected on their
desperate position.

That position was indeed a cruel one!

Often, in times of political disturbances, or of agitation amongst the
laboring classes, caused by want of work, or by the unjust reduction of
wages (the result of the powerful coalition of the capitalists)--often
are whole families reduced, by a measure of preventive imprisonment, to
as deplorable a position as that of Dagobert's household by Agricola's
arrest--an arrest, which, as will afterwards appear, was entirely owing
to Rodin's arts.

Now, with regard to this "precautionary imprisonment," of which the
victims are almost always honest and industrious mechanics, driven to the
necessity of combining together by the In organization of Labor and the
Insufficiency of Wages, it is painful to see the law, which ought to be
equal for all, refuse to strikers what it grants to masters--because the
latter can dispose of a certain sum of money. Thus, under many
circumstances, the rich man, by giving bail, can escape the annoyance and
inconveniences of a preventive incarceration; he deposits a sum of money,
pledges his word to appear on a certain day, and goes back to his
pleasures, his occupations, and the sweet delights of his family. Nothing
can be better; an accused person is innocent till he is proved guilty; we
cannot be too much impressed with that indulgent maxim. It is well for
the rich man that he can avail himself of the mercy of the law. But how
is it with the poor?

Not only has he no bail to give, for his whole capital consists of his
daily labor; but it is upon him chiefly that the rigors of preventive
measures must fall with a terrible and fatal force.

For the rich man, imprisonment is merely the privation of ease and
comfort, tedious hours, and the pain of separation from his
family--distresses not unworthy of interest, for all suffering deserves
pity, and the tears of the rich man separated from his children are as
bitter as those of the poor. But the absence of the rich man does not
condemn his family to hunger and cold, and the incurable maladies caused
by exhaustion and misery.

For the workman, on the contrary, imprisonment means want, misery,
sometimes death, to those most dear to him. Possessing nothing, he is
unable to find bail, and he goes to prison. But if he have, as it often
happens, an old, infirm father or mother, a sick wife, or children in the
cradle? What will become of this unfortunate family? They could hardly
manage to live from day to day upon the wages of this man, wages almost
always insufficient, and suddenly this only resource will be wanting for
three or four months together.

What will this family do? To whom will they have recourse?

What will become of these infirm old men, these sickly wives, these
little children, unable to gain their daily bread? If they chance to have
a little linen and a few spare clothes, these will be carried to the
pawnbroker's, and thus they will exist for a week or so--but afterwards?

And if winter adds the rigors of the season to this frightful and
inevitable misery?

Then will the imprisoned artisan see in his mind's eyes, during the long
and sleepless nights, those who are dear to him, wan, gaunt, haggard,
exhausted, stretched almost naked upon filthy straw, or huddled close
together to warm their frozen limbs. And, should he afterwards be
acquitted, it is ruin and desolation that he finds on his return to his
poor dwelling.

And then, after that long cessation from labor, he will find it difficult
to return to his old employers. How many days will be lost in seeking for
work! and a day without employment is a day without bread!

Let us repeat our opinion, that if, under various circumstances, the law
did not afford to the rich the facility of giving bail, we could only
lament over all such victims of individual and inevitable misfortune. But
since the law does provide the means of setting provisionally at liberty
those who possess a certain sum of money, why should it deprive of this
advantage those very persons, for whom liberty is indeed indispensable,
as it involves the existence of themselves and families?

Is there any remedy for this deplorable state of things? We believe there
is.

The law has fixed the minimum of bail at five hundred francs. Now five
hundred francs represent, upon the average, six months' labor of an
industrious workman.

If he have a wife and two children (which is also about the average), it
is evidently quite impossible for him to have saved any such sum.

So, to ask of such a man five hundred francs, to enable him to continue
to support his family, is in fact to put him beyond the pale of the law,
though, more than any one else, he requires its protection, because of
the disastrous consequences which his imprisonment entails upon others.

Would it not be equitable and humane, a noble and salutary example, to
accept, in every case where bail is allowed (and where the good character
of the accused could be honorably established), moral guarantees, in the
absence of material ones, from those who have no capital but their labor
and their integrity--to accept the word of an honest man to appear upon
the day of trial? Would it not be great and moral, in these days to raise
the value of the lighted word, and exalt man in his own eyes, by showing
him that his promise was held to be sufficient security?

Will you so degrade the dignity of man, as to treat this proposition as
an impossible and Utopian dream? We ask, how many prisoners of war have
ever broken their parole, and if officers and soldiers are not brothers
of the workingman?

Without exaggerating the virtue of promise-keeping in the honest and
laborious poor, we feel certain, that an engagement taken by the accused
to appear on the day of trial would be always fulfilled, not only with
fidelity, but with the warmest gratitude--for his family would not have
suffered by his absence, thanks to the indulgence of the law.

There is also another fact, of which France may well be proud. It is,
that her magistrates (although miserably paid as the army itself) are
generally wise, upright, humane, and independent; they have the true
feeling of their own useful and sacred mission; they know how to
appreciate the wants and distresses of the working classes, with whom
they are so often brought in contact; to them might be safely granted the
power of fixing those cases in which a moral security, the only one that
can be given by the honest and necessitous man, should be received as
sufficient.[10]

Finally, if those who make the laws have so low an opinion of the people
as to reject with disdain the suggestions we have ventured to throw out,
let them at least so reduce the minimum of bail, as to render it
available for those who have most need to escape the fruitless rigors of
imprisonment. Let them take as their lowest limit, the month's wages of
an artisan--say eighty francs.

This sum would still be exorbitant; but, with the aid of friends, the
pawnbroker's, and some little advances, eighty francs might perhaps be
found--not always, it is true--but still sometimes--and, at all events,
many families would be rescued from frightful misery.

Having made these observations, let us return to Dagobert's family, who,
in consequence of the preventive arrest of Agricola, were now reduced to
an almost hopeless state.

The anguish of Dagobert's wife increased, the more she reflected on her
situation, for, including the marshal's daughters, four persons were left
absolutely without resource. It must be confessed, however, that the
excellent mother thought less of herself, than of the grief which her son
must feel in thinking over her deplorable position.

At this moment there was a knock at the door.

"Who is there?" said Frances.

"It is me--Father Loriot."

"Come in," said Dagobert's wife.

The dyer, who also performed the functions of a porter, appeared at the
door of the room. This time, his arms were no longer of a bright apple
green, but of a magnificent violet.

"Mrs. Baudoin," said Father Loriot, "here is a letter that the giver of
holy water at Saint Merely's has just brought from Abbe Dubois, with a
request that I would bring it up to you immediately, as it is very
pressing."

"A letter from my confessor?" said Frances, in astonishment; and, as she
took it, added: "Thank you, Father Loriot."

"You do not want anything?"

"No, Father Loriot."

"My respects to the ladies!" and the dyer went out.

"Mother Bunch, will you read this letter for me?" said Frances, anxious
to learn the contents of the missive in question.

"Yes, mother,"--and the young girl read as follows:

"'MY DEAR MADAME BAUDOIN,--I am in the habit of hearing you Tuesday and
Saturday, but I shall not be at liberty either to-morrow or the last day
of the week; you must then come to me this morning, unless you wish to
remain a whole week without approaching the tribunal of penance.'"

"Good heavens! a week!" cried Dagobert's wife. "Alas! I am only too
conscious of the necessity of going there today, notwithstanding the
trouble and grief in which I am plunged."

Then, addressing herself to the orphans, she continued: "Heaven has heard
the prayers that I made for you, my dear young ladies; this very day I
shall be able to consult a good and holy man with regard to the great
dangers to which you are exposed. Poor dear souls, that are so innocent,
and yet so guilty, without any fault of your own! Heaven is my witness,
that my heart bleeds for you as much as for my son."

Rose and Blanche looked at each other in confusion; they could not
understand the fears with which the state of their souls inspired the
wife of Dagobert. The latter soon resumed, addressing the young
sempstress:

"My good girl, will you render me yet another service?"

"Certainly."

"My husband took Agricola's week's wages with him to pay his journey to
Chartres. It was all the money I had in the house; I am sure that my poor
child had none about him, and in prison he will perhaps want some.
Therefore take my silver cup, fork, and spoon, the two pair of sheets
that remain over, and my wadded silk shawl, that Agricola gave me on my
birthday, and carry them all to the pawnbroker's. I will try and find out
in which prison my son is confined, and will send him half of the little
sum we get upon the things; the rest will serve us till my husband comes
home. And then, what shall we do? What a blow for him--and only more
misery in prospect--since my son is in prison, and I have lost my sight.
Almighty Father!" cried the unfortunate mother, with an expression of
impatient and bitter grief, "why am I thus afflicted? Have I not done
enough to deserve some pity, if not for myself, at least for those
belonging to me?" But immediately reproaching herself for this outburst,
she added, "No, no! I ought to accept with thankfulness all that Thou
sandiest me. Forgive me for these complaints, or punish only myself!"

"Be of good courage, mother!" said Mother Bunch. "Agricola is innocent,
and will not remain long in prison."

"But now I think of it," resumed Dagobert's wife, "to go to the
pawnbroker's will make you lose much time, my poor girl."

"I can make up that in the night, Madame Frances; I could not sleep,
knowing you in such trouble. Work will amuse me."

"Yes, but the candles--"

"Never mind, I am a little beforehand with my work," said the poor girl,
telling a falsehood.

"Kiss me, at least," said Frances, with moist eyes, "for you are the very
best creature in the world." So saying, she hastened cut of the room.

Rose and Blanche were left alone with Mother Bunch; at length had arrived
the moment for which they had waited with so much impatience. Dagobert's
wife proceeded to St. Merely Church, where her confessor was expecting to
see her.



CHAPTER XLVIII:

THE CONFESSIONAL

Nothing could be more gloomy than the appearance of St. Merely Church, on
this dark and snowy winter's day. Frances stopped a moment beneath the
porch, to behold a lugubrious spectacle.

While a priest was mumbling some words in a low voice, two or three dirty
choristers, in soiled surplices, were charting the prayers for the dead,
with an absent and sullen air, round a plain deal coffin, followed only
by a sobbing old man and a child, miserably clad. The beadle and the
sacristan, very much displeased at being disturbed for so wretched a
funeral, had not deigned to put on their liveries, but, yawning with
impatience, waited for the end of the ceremony, so useless to the
interests of the establishment. At length, a few drops of holy water
being sprinkled on the coffin, the priest handed the brush to the beadle,
and retired.

Then took place one of those shameful scenes, the necessary consequence
of an ignoble and sacrilegious traffic, so frequent with regard to the
burials of the poor, who cannot afford to pay for tapers, high mass, or
violins--for now St. Thomas Aquinas' Church has violins even for the
dead.

The old man stretched forth his hand to the sacristan to receive the
brush. "Come, look sharp!" said that official, blowing on his fingers.

The emotion of the old man was profound, and his weakness extreme; he
remained for a moment without stirring, while the brush was clasped
tightly in his trembling hand. In that coffin was his daughter, the
mother of the ragged child who wept by his side--his heart was breaking
at the thought of that last farewell; he stood motionless, and his bosom
heaved with convulsive sobs.

"Now, will you make haste?" said the brutal beadle. "Do you think we are
going to sleep here?"

The old man quickened his movements. He made the sign of the cross over
the corpse, and, stooping down, was about to place the brush in the hand
of his grandson, when the sacristan, thinking the affair had lasted long
enough, snatched the sprinkling-brush from the child, and made a sign to
the bearers to carry away the coffin--which was immediately done.

"Wasn't that old beggar a slow coach?" said the beadle to his companion,
as they went back to the sacristy. "We shall hardly have time to get
breakfast, and to dress ourselves for the bang-up funeral of this
morning. That will be something like a dead man, that's worth the
trouble. I shall shoulder my halberd in style!"

"And mount your colonel's epaulets, to throw dust in the eyes of the
women that let out the chairs--eh, you old rascal!" said the other, with
a sly look.

"What can I do, Capillare? When one has a fine figure, it must be seen,"
answered the beadle, with a triumphant air. "I cannot blind the women to
prevent their losing their hearts!"

Thus conversing; the two men reached the sacristy. The sight of the
funeral had only increased the gloom of Frances. When she entered the
church, seven or eight persons, scattered about upon chairs, alone
occupied the damp and icy building. One of the distributors of holy
water, an old fellow with a rubicund, joyous, wine-bibbing face, seeing
Frances approach the little font, said to her in a low voice: "Abbe
Dubois is not yet in his box. Be quick, and you will have the first wag
of his beard."

Though shocked at this pleasantry, Frances thanked the irreverent
speaker, made devoutly the sign of the cross, advanced some steps into
the church, and knelt down upon the stones to repeat the prayer, which
she always offered up before approaching the tribunal of penance. Having
said this prayer, she went towards a dark corner of the church, in which
was an oaken confessional, with a black curtain drawn across the grated
door. The places on each side were vacant; so Frances knelt down in that
upon the right hand, and remained there for some time absorbed in bitter
reflections.

In a few minutes, a priest of tall stature, with gray hair and a stern
countenance, clad in a long black cassock, stalked slowly along one of
the aisles of the church. A short, old, misshapen man, badly dressed,
leaning upon an umbrella, accompanied him, and from time to time
whispered in his ear, when the priest would stop to listen with a
profound and respectful deference.

As they approached the confessional, the short old man, perceiving
Frances on her knees, looked at the priest with an air of interrogation.
"It is she," said the clergyman.

"Well, in two or three hours, they will expect the two girls at St.
Mary's Convent. I count upon it," said the old man.

"I hope so, for the sake of their souls," answered the priest; and,
bowing gravely, he entered the confessional. The short old man quitted
the church.

This old man was Rodin. It was on leaving Saint Merely's that he went to
the lunatic asylum, to assure himself that Dr. Baleinier had faithfully
executed his instructions with regard to Adrienne de Cardoville.

Frances was still kneeling in the interior of the confessional. One of
the slides opened, and a voice began to speak. It was that of the priest,
who, for the last twenty years had been the confessor of Dagobert's wife,
and exercised over her an irresistible and all-powerful influence.

"You received my letter?" said the voice.

"Yes, father.

"Very well--I listen to you."

"Bless me, father--for I have sinned!" said Frances.

The voice pronounced the formula of the benediction. Dagobert's wife
answered "amen," as was proper, said her confider to "It is my fault,"
gave an account of the manner in which she had performed her last
penance, and then proceeded to the enumeration of the new sins, committed
since she had received absolution.

For this excellent woman, a glorious martyr of industry and maternal
love, always fancied herself sinning: her conscience was incessantly
tormented by the fear that she had committed some incomprehensible
offence. This mild and courageous creature, who, after a whole life of
devotion, ought to have passed what time remained to her in calm serenity
of soul, looked upon herself as a great sinner, and lived in continual
anxiety, doubting much her ultimate salvation.

"Father," said Frances, in a trembling voice, "I accuse myself of
omitting my evening prayer the day before yesterday. My husband, from
whom I had been separated for many years, returned home. The joy and the
agitation caused by his arrival, made me commit this great sin."

"What next?" said the voice, in a severe tone, which redoubled the poor
woman's uneasiness.

"Father, I accuse myself of falling into the same sin yesterday evening.
I was in a state of mortal anxiety, for my son did not come home as
usual, and I waited for him minute after minute, till the hour had passed
over."

"What next?" said the voice.

"Father, I accuse myself of having told a falsehood all this week to my
son, by letting him think that on account of his reproaching me for
neglecting my health, I had taken a little wine for my dinner--whereas I
had left it for him, who has more need of it, because he works so much."

"Go on!" said the voice.

"Father, I accuse myself of a momentary want of resignation this morning,
when I learned that my poor son was arrested; instead of submitting with
respect and gratitude to this new trial which the Lord hath sent
me--alas! I rebelled against it in my grief--and of this I accuse
myself."

"A bad week," said the priest, in a tone of still greater severity, "a
bad week--for you have always put the creature before the Creator. But
proceed!"

"Alas, father!" resumed Frances, much dejected, "I know that I am a great
sinner; and I fear that I am on the road to sins of a still graver kind."

"Speak!"

"My husband brought with him from Siberia two young orphans, daughters of
Marshal Simon. Yesterday morning, I asked them to say their prayers, and
I learned from them, with as much fright as sorrow, that they know none
of the mysteries of our holy faith, though they are fifteen years old.
They have never received the sacrament, nor are they even baptized,
father--not even baptized!"

"They must be heathens!" cried the voice, in a tone of angry surprise.

"That is what so much grieves me, father; for, as I and my husband are in
the room of parents to these young orphans, we should be guilty of the
sins which they might commit--should we not, father?"

"Certainly,--since you take the place of those who ought to watch over
their souls. The shepherd must answer for his flock," said the voice.

"And if they should happen to be in mortal sin, father, I and my husband
would be in mortal sin?"

"Yes," said the voice; "you take the place of their parents; and fathers
and mothers are guilty of all the sins which their children commit when
those sins arise from the want of a Christian education."

"Alas, father! what am I to do? I address myself to you as I would to
heaven itself. Every day, every hour, that these poor young girls remain
heathens, may contribute to bring about their eternal damnation, may it
not, father?" said Frances, in a tone of the deepest emotion.

"Yes," answered the voice; "and the weight of this terrible
responsibility rests upon you and your husband; you have the charge of
souls!"

"Lord, have mercy upon me!" said Frances weeping.

"You must not grieve yourself thus," answered the voice, in a softer
tone; "happily for these unfortunates, they have met you upon the way.
They, will have in you and your husband good and pious examples--for I
suppose that your husband, though formerly an ungodly person, now
practices his religious duties!"

"We must pray for him, father," said Frances, sorrowfully; "grace has not
yet touched his heart. He is like my poor child, who has also not been
called to holiness. Ah, father!" said Frances, drying her tears, "these
thoughts are my heaviest cross."

"So neither your husband nor your son practises," resumed the voice, in a
tone of reflection; "this is serious--very serious. The religious
education of these two unfortunate girls has yet to begin. In your house,
they will have ever before them the most deplorable examples. Take care!
I have warned you. You have the charge of souls--your responsibility is
immense!"

"Father, it is that which makes me wretched--I am at a loss what to do.
Help me, and give me your counsels: for twenty years your voice has been
to me as the voice of the Lord."

"Well! you must agree with your husband to send these unfortunate girls
to some religious house where they may be instructed."

"We are too poor, father, to pay for their schooling, and unfortunately
my son has just been put in prison for songs that he wrote."

"Behold the fruit of impiety," said the voice, severely; "look at
Gabriel! he has followed my counsels, and is now the model of every
Christian virtue."

"My son, Agricola, has had good qualities, father; he is so kind, so
devoted!"

"Without religion," said the voice, with redoubled severity, "what you
call good qualities are only vain appearances; at the least breath of the
devil they will disappear--for the devil lurks in every soul that has no
religion."

"Oh! my poor son!" said Frances, weeping; "I pray for him every day, that
faith may enlighten him."

"I have always told you," resumed the voice, "that you have been too weak
with him. God now punishes you for it. You should have parted from this
irreligious son, and not sanctioned his impiety by loving him as you do.
'If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,' saith the Scripture."

"Alas, father! you know it is the only time I have disobeyed you; but I
could not bring myself to part from my son."

"Therefore is your salvation uncertain--but God is merciful. Do not fall
into the same fault with regard to these young girls, whom Providence has
sent you, that you might save them from eternal damnation. Do not plunge
them into it by your own culpable indifference."

"Oh, father! I have wept and prayed for them."

"That is not sufficient. These unfortunate children cannot have any
notion of good or evil. Their souls must be an abyss of scandal and
impurity--brought up as they have been, by an impious mother, and a
soldier devoid of religion."

"As for that, father," said Frances, with simplicity, "they are gentle as
angels, and my husband, who has not quitted them since their birth,
declares they have the best hearts in the world."

"Your husband has dwelt all his life in mortal sin," said the voice,
harshly; "how can he judge of the state of souls? I repeat to you, that
as you represent the parents of these unfortunates, it is not to-morrow,
but it is today, and on the instant, that you must labor for their
salvation, if you would not incur a terrible responsibility."

"It is true--I know it well, father--and I suffer as much from this fear
as from grief at my son's arrest. But what is to be done? I could not
instruct these young girls at home--for I have not the knowledge--I have
only faith--and then my poor husband, in his blindness, makes game of
sacred things, which my son, at least, respects in my presence, out of
regard for me. Then, once more, father, come to my aid, I conjure you!
Advise me: what is to be done?"

"We cannot abandon these two young souls to frightful perdition," said
the voice, after a moment's silence: "there are not two ways of saving
them: there is only one, and that is to place them in a religious house,
where they may be surrounded by good and pious examples."

"Oh, father! if we were not so poor, or if I could still work, I would
try to gain sufficient to pay for their board, and do for them as I did
for Gabriel. Unfortunately, I have quite lost my sight; but you, father,
know some charitable souls, and if you could get any of them to interest
them, selves for these poor orphans--"

"Where is their father?"

"He was in India; but, my husband tells me, he will soon be in France.
That, however, is uncertain. Besides, it would make my heart bleed to see
those poor children share our misery--which will soon be extreme--for we
only live by my son's labor."

"Have these girls no relation here?" asked the voice.

"I believe not, father."

"It was their mother who entrusted them to your husband, to bring them to
France?"

"Yes, father; he was obliged to set out yesterday for Chartres, on some
very pressing business, as he told me."

It will be remembered that Dagobert had not thought fit to inform his
wife of the hopes which the daughters of Marshall Simon founded on the
possession of the medal, and that he had particularly charged them not to
mention these hopes, even to Frances.

"So," resumed the voice, after a pause of some moments' duration, "your
husband is not in Paris."

"No, father; but he will doubtless return this evening or to-morrow
morning."

"Listen to me," said the voice, after another pause. "Every minute lost
for those two young girls is a new step on the road to perdition. At any
moment the hand of God may smite them, for He alone knows the hour of our
death; and were they to die in the state in which they now are, they
would most probably be lost to all eternity. This very day, therefore,
you must open their eyes to the divine light, and place them in a
religious house. It is your duty--it should be your desire!"

"Oh, yes, father; but, unfortunately, I am too poor, as I have already
told you."

"I know it--you do not want for zeal or faith--but even were you capable
of directing these young girls, the impious examples of your husband and
son would daily destroy your work. Others must do for these orphans, in
the name of Christian charity, that which you cannot do, though you are
answerable for them before heaven."

"Oh, father! if, thanks to you, this good work could be accomplished, how
grateful I should be!"

"It is not impossible. I know the superior of a convent, where these
young girls would be instructed as they ought. The charge for their board
would be diminished in consideration of their poverty; but, however
small, it must be paid and there would be also an outfit to furnish. All
that would be too dear for you."

"Alas! yes, father."

"But, by taking a little from my poor-box, and by applying to one or two
generous persons, I think I shall be able to complete the necessary sum,
and so get the young girls received at the convent."

"Ah, father! you are my deliverer, and these children's."

"I wish to be so--but, in the interest of their salvation, and to make
these measures really efficacious, I must attach some conditions to the
support I offer you."

"Name them, father; they are accepted beforehand. Your commands shall be
obeyed in everything."

"First of all, the children must be taken this very morning to the
convent, by my housekeeper, to whom you must bring them almost
immediately."

"Nay, father; that is impossible!" cried Frances.

"Impossible? why?"

"In the absence of my husband--"

"Well?"

"I dare not take a such a step without consulting him."

"Not only must you abstain from consulting him, but the thing must be
done during his absence."

"What, father? should I not wait for his return?"

"No, for two reasons," answered the priest, sternly: "first, because his
hardened impiety would certainly lead him to oppose your pious
resolution; secondly, because it is indispensable that these young girls
should break off all connection with your husband, who, therefore, must
be left in ignorance of the place of their retreat."

"But, father," said Frances, a prey to cruel doubt and embarrassment, "it
is to my husband that these children were entrusted--and to dispose of
them without his consent would be--"

"Can you instruct these children at your house--yes or no?" interrupted
the voice.

"No, father, I cannot."

"Are they exposed to fall into a state of final impenitence by remaining
with you--yes or no?"

"Yes, father, they are so exposed."

"Are you responsible, as you take the place of their parents, for the
mortal sins they may commit--yes or no?"

"Alas, father! I am responsible before God."

"Is it in the interest of their eternal salvation that I enjoin you to
place them this very day in a convent?"

"It is for their salvation, father."

"Well, then, choose!"

"But tell me, I entreat you, father if I have the right to dispose of
them without the consent of my husband?"

"The right! you have not only the right, but it is your sacred duty.
Would you not be bound, I ask you, to rescue these unfortunate creatures
from a fire, against the will of your husband, or during his absence?
Well! you must now rescue them, not from a fire that will only consume
the body, but from one in which their souls would burn to all eternity."

"Forgive me, I implore you, father," said the poor woman, whose
indecision and anguish increased every minute; "satisfy my doubts!--How
can I act thus, when I have sworn obedience to my husband?"

"Obedience for good--yes--but never for evil. You confess, that, were it
left to him, the salvation of these orphans would be doubtful, and
perhaps impossible."

"But, father," said Frances, trembling, "when my husband returns, he will
ask me where are these children? Must I tell him a falsehood?"

"Silence is not falsehood; you will tell him that you cannot answer his
question."

"My husband is the kindest of men; but such an answer will drive him
almost mad. He has been a soldier, and his anger will be terrible,
father," said Frances, shuddering at the thought.

"And were his anger a hundred times more terrible, you should be proud to
brave it in so sacred a cause!" cried the voice, with indignation. "Do
you think that salvation is to be so easily gained on earth? Since when
does the sinner, that would walk in the way of the Lord, turn aside for
the stones and briars that may bruise and tear him?"

"Pardon, father, pardon!" said Frances, with the resignation of despair.
"Permit me to ask one more question, one only. Alas! if you do not guide
me, how shall I find the way?"

"Speak!"

"When Marshal Simon arrives, he will ask his children of my husband. What
answer can he then give to their father?"

"When Marshal Simon arrives, you will let me know immediately, and
then--I will see what is to be done. The rights of a father are only
sacred in so far as he make use of them for the salvation of his
children. Before and above the father on earth, is the Father in heaven,
whom we must first serve. Reflect upon all this. By accepting what I
propose to you, these young girls will be saved from perdition; they will
not be at your charge; they will not partake of your misery; they will be
brought up in a sacred institution, as, after all, the daughters of a
Marshal of France ought to be--and, when their father arrives at Paris,
if he be found worthy of seeing them again, instead of finding poor,
ignorant, half savage heathens, he will behold two girls, pious, modest,
and well informed, who, being acceptable with the Almighty, may invoke
His mercy for their father, who, it must be owned, has great need of
it--being a man of violence, war, and battle. Now decide! Will you, on
peril of your soul, sacrifice the welfare of these girls in this world
and the next, because of an impious dread of your husband's anger?"

Though rude and fettered by intolerance, the confessor's language was
(taking his view of the case) reasonable and just, because the honest
priest was himself convinced of what he said; a blind instrument of
Rodin, ignorant of the end in view, he believed firmly, that, in forcing
Frances to place these young girls in a convent, he was performing a
pious duty. Such was, and is, one of the most wonderful resources of the
order to which Rodin belonged--to have for accomplices good and sincere
people, who are ignorant of the nature of the plots in which they are the
principal actors.

Frances, long accustomed to submit to the influence of her confessor,
could find nothing to object to his last words. She resigned herself to
follow his directions, though she trembled to think of the furious anger
of Dagobert, when he should no longer find the children that a dying
mother had confided to his care. But, according to the priest's opinion,
the more terrible this anger might appear to her, the more she would show
her pious humility by exposing herself to it.

"God's will be done, father!" said she, in reply to her confessor.
"Whatever may happen, I wilt do my duty as a Christian--in obedience to
your commands."

"And the Lord will reward you for what you may have to suffer in the
accomplishment of this meritorious act. You promise then, before God,
that you will not answer any of your husband's questions, when he asks
you for the daughters of Marshal Simon?"

"Yes, father, I promise!" said Frances, with a shudder.

"And will preserve the same silence towards Marshal Simon himself, in
case he should return, before his daughters appear to me sufficiently
grounded in the faith to be restored to him?"

"Yes, father," said Frances, in a still fainter voice.

"You will come and give me an account of the scene that takes place
between you and your husband, upon his return?"

"Yes, father; when must I bring the orphans to your house?"

"In an hour. I will write to the superior, and leave the letter with my
housekeeper. She is a trusty person, and will conduct the young girls to
the convent."

After she had listened to the exhortations of her confessor, and received
absolution for her late sins, on condition of performing penance,
Dagobert's wife left the confessional.

The church was no longer deserted. An immense crowd pressed into it,
drawn thither by the pomp of the grand funeral of which the beadle had
spoken to the sacristan two hours before. It was with the greatest
difficulty that Frances could reach the door of the church, now hung with
sumptuous drapery.

What a contrast to the poor and humble train, which had that morning so
timidly presented themselves beneath the porch!

The numerous clergy of the parish, in full procession, advanced
majestically to receive the coffin covered with a velvet pall; the
watered silks and stuffs of their copes and stoles, their splendid
silvered embroideries, sparkled in the light of a thousand tapers. The
beadle strutted in all the glory of his brilliant uniform and flashing
epaulets; on the opposite side walked in high glee the sacristan,
carrying his whalebone staff with a magisterial air; the voice of the
choristers, now clad in fresh, white surplices, rolled out in bursts of
thunder; the trumpets' blare shook the windows; and upon the countenances
of all those who were to have a share in the spoils of this rich corpse,
this excellent corpse, this first-class corpse, a look of satisfaction
was visible, intense and yet subdued, which suited admirably with the air
and attitude of the two heirs, tall, vigorous fellows with florid
complexions, who, without overstepping the limits of a charming modesty
of enjoyment, seemed to cuddle and hug themselves most comfortably in
their mourning cloaks.

Notwithstanding her simplicity and pious faith, Dagobert's wife was
painfully impressed with this revolting difference between the reception
of the rich and the poor man's coffin at the door of the house of
God--for surely, if equality be ever real, it is in the presence of death
and eternity!

The two sad spectacles she had witnessed, tended still further to depress
the spirits of Frances. Having succeeded with no small trouble in making
her way out of the church, she hastened to return to the Rue Brise-Miche,
in order to fetch the orphans and conduct them to the housekeeper of her
confessor, who was in her turn to take them to St. Mary's Convent.
situated, as we know, next door to Dr. Baleinier's lunatic-asylum, in
which--Adrienne de Cardoville was confined.



CHAPTER XLIX.

MY LORD AND SPOIL-SPORT.

The wife of Dagobert, having quitted the church, arrived at the corner of
the Rue Brise-Miche, when she was accosted by the distributor of holy
water; he came running out of breath, to beg her to return to Saint
Mery's, where the Abbe Dubois had yet something of importance to say to
her.

The moment Frances turned to go back, a hackney-coach stopped in front of
the house she inhabited. The coachman quitted his box to open the door.

"Driver," said a stout woman dressed in black, who was seated in the
carriage, and held a pug-dog upon her knees, "ask if Mrs. Frances Baudoin
lives in this house."

"Yes, ma'am," said the coachman.

The reader will no doubt have recognized Mrs. Grivois, head waiting-woman
to the Princess de Saint-Dizier, accompanied by My Lord, who exercised a
real tyranny over his mistress. The dyer, whom we have already seen
performing the duties of a porter, being questioned by the coachman as to
the dwelling of Frances, came out of his workshop, and advanced gallantly
to the coach-door, to inform Mrs. Grivois, that Frances Baudoin did in
fact live in the house, but that she was at present from home.

The arms, hands, and part of the face of Father Loriot were now of a
superb gold-color. The sight of this yellow personage singularly provoked
My Lord, and at the moment the dyer rested his hand upon the edge of the
coach-window, the cur began to yelp frightfully, and bit him in the
wrist.

"Oh! gracious heaven!" cried Mrs. Grivois, in an agony, whilst Father
Loriot, withdrew his hand with precipitation; "I hope there is nothing
poisonous in the dye that you have about you--my dog is so delicate!"

So saying, she carefully wiped the pug-nose, spotted with yellow. Father
Loriot, not at all satisfied with this speech, when he had expected to
receive some apology from Mrs. Grivois on account of her dog's behavior,
said to her, as with difficulty he restrained his anger: "If you did not
belong to the fair sex, which obliges me to respect you in the person of
that wretched animal I would have the pleasure of taking him by the tail,
and making him in one minute a dog of the brightest orange color, by
plunging him into my cauldron, which is already on the fire."

"Dye my pet yellow!" cried Mrs. Grivois, in great wrath, as she descended
from the hackney-coach, clasping My Lord tenderly to her bosom, and
surveying Father Loriot with a savage look.

"I told you, Mrs. Baudoin is not at home," said the dyer, as he saw the
pug-dog's mistress advance in the direction of the dark staircase.

"Never mind; I will wait for her," said Mrs. Grivois tartly. "On which
story does she live?"

"Up four pair!" answered Father Loriot, returning abruptly to his shop.
And he added to himself, with a chuckle at the anticipation: "I hope
Father Dagobert's big prowler will be in a bad humor, and give that
villainous pug a shaking by the skin of his neck."

Mrs. Grivois mounted the steep staircase with some difficulty, stopping
at every landing-place to take breath, and looking about her with
profound disgust. At length she reached the fourth story, and paused an
instant at the door of the humble chamber, in which the two sisters and
Mother Bunch then were.

The young sempstress was occupied in collecting the different articles
that she was about to carry to the pawnbroker's. Rose and Blanche seemed
happier, and somewhat less uneasy about the future; for they had learned
from Mother Bunch, that, when they knew how to sew, they might between
them earn eight francs a week, which would at least afford some
assistance to the family.

The presence of Mrs. Grivois in Baudoin's dwelling was occasioned by a
new resolution of Abbe d'Aigrigny and the Princess de Saint-Dizier; they
had thought it more prudent to send Mrs. Grivois, on whom they could
blindly depend, to fetch the young girls, and the confessor was charged
to inform Frances that it was not to his housekeeper, but to a lady that
would call on her with a note from him, that she was to deliver the
orphans, to be taken to a religious establishment.

Having knocked at the door, the waiting-woman of the Princess de Saint
Dizier entered the room, and asked for Frances Baudoin.

"She is not at home, madame," said Mother Bunch timidly, not a little
astonished at so unexpected a visit, and casting down her eyes before the
gaze of this woman.

"Then I will wait for her, as I have important affairs to speak of,"
answered Mrs. Grivois, examining with curiosity and attention the faces
of the two orphans, who also cast down their eyes with an air of
confusion.

So saying, Madame Grivois sat down, not without some repugnance, in the
old arm-chair of Dagobert's wife, and believing that she might now leave
her favorite at liberty, she laid him carefully on the floor.
Immediately, a low growl, deep and hollow, sounding from behind the
armchair, made Mrs. Grivois jump from her seat, and sent the pug-dog,
yelping with affright, and trembling through his fat, to take refuge
close to his mistress, with all the symptoms of angry alarm.

"What! is there a dog here?" cried Mrs. Grivois, stooping precipitately
to catch up My Lord, whilst, as if he wished himself to answer the
question, Spoil-sport rose leisurely from his place behind the arm-chair,
and appeared suddenly, yawning and stretching himself.

At sight of this powerful animal, with his double row of formidable
pointed fangs, which he seemed to take delight in displaying as he opened
his large jaws, Mrs. Grivois could not help giving utterance to a cry of
terror. The snappish pug had at first trembled in all his limbs at the
Siberian's approach; but, finding himself in safety on the lap of his
mistress, he began to growl insolently, and to throw the most provoking
glances at Spoil-sport. These the worthy companion of the deceased Jovial
answered disdainfully by gaping anew; after which he went smelling round
Mrs. Grivois with a sort of uneasiness, turned his back upon My Lord, and
stretched himself at the feet of Rose and Blanche, keeping his large,
intelligent eyes fixed upon them, as if he foresaw that they were menaced
with some danger.

"Turn out that beast," said Mrs. Grivois, imperiously; "he frightens my
dog, and may do him some harm."

"Do not be afraid, madame," replied Rose, with a smile; "Spoil-sport will
do no harm, if he is not attacked."

"Never mind!" cried Mrs. Grivois; "an accident soon happens. The very
sight of that enormous dog, with his wolf's head and terrible teeth, is
enough to make one tremble at the injuries he might do one. I tell you to
turn him out."

Mrs. Grivois had pronounced these last words in a tone of irritation,
which did not sound at all satisfactory in Spoil-sport's ears; so he
growled and showed his teeth, turning his head in the direction of the
stranger.

"Be quiet, Spoil-sport!" said Blanche sternly.

A new personage here entered the room, and put an end to this situation,
which was embarrassing enough for the two young girls. It was a
commissionaire, with a letter in his hand.

"What is it, sir?" asked Mother Bunch.

"A very pressing letter from the good man of the house; the dyer below
stairs told me to bring it up here."

"A letter from Dagobert!" cried Rose and Blanche, with a lively
expression of pleasure. "He is returned then? where is he?"

"I do not know whether the good man is called Dagobert or not," said the
porter; "but he is an old trooper, with a gray moustache, and may be
found close by, at the office of the Chartres coaches."

"That is he!" cried Blanche. "Give me the letter."

The porter handed it to the young girl, who opened it in all haste.

Mrs. Grivois was struck dumb with dismay; she knew that Dagobert had been
decoyed from Paris, that the Abbe Dubois might have an opportunity to act
with safety upon Frances. Hitherto, all had succeeded; the good woman had
consented to place the young girls in the hands of a religious
community--and now arrives this soldier, who was thought to be absent
from Paris for two or three days at least, and whose sudden return might
easily ruin this laborious machination, at the moment when it seemed to
promise success.

"Oh!" said Blanche, when she had read the letter. "What a misfortune!"

"What is it, then, sister?" cried Rose.

"Yesterday, half way to Chartres, Dagobert perceived that he had lost his
purse. He was unable to continue his journey; he took a place upon
credit, to return, and he asks his wife to send him some money to the
office, to pay what he owes."

"That's it," said the porter; "for the good man told me to make haste,
because he was there in pledge."

"And nothing in the house!" cried Blanche. "Dear me! what is to be done?"

At these words, Mrs. Grivois felt her hopes revive for a moment, they
were soon, however, dispelled by Mother Bunch, who exclaimed, as she
pointed to the parcel she had just made up: "Be satisfied, dear young
ladies! here is a resource. The pawnbroker's, to which I am going, is not
far off, and I will take the money direct to M. Dagobert: in half an
hour, at latest, he will be here."

"Oh, my dear friend! you are right," said Rose. "How good you are! you
think of everything."

"And here," said Blanche, "is the letter, with the address upon it. Take
that with you."

"Thank you," answered Mother Bunch: then, addressing the porter, she
added: "Return to the person who sent you, and tell him I shall be at the
coach-office very shortly."

"Infernal hunchback!" thought Mrs. Grivois, with suppressed rage, "she
thinks of everything. Without her, we should have escaped the plague of
this man's return. What is to be done now? The girls would not go with
me, before the arrival of the soldier's wife; to propose it to them would
expose me to a refusal, and might compromise all. Once more, what is to
be done?"

"Do not be uneasy, ladies," said the porter as he went out; "I will go
and assure the good man, that he will not have to remain long in pledge."

Whilst Mother Bunch was occupied in tying her parcel, in which she had
placed the silver cup, fork, and spoon, Mrs. Grivois seemed to reflect
deeply. Suddenly she started. Her countenance, which had been for some
moments expressive of anxiety and rage, brightened up on the instant. She
rose, still holding My Lord in her arms, and said to the young girls: "As
Mrs. Baudoin does not come in, I am going to pay a visit in the
neighborhood, and will return immediately. Pray tell her so!"

With these words Mr. Grivois took her departure, a few minutes before
Mother Bunch left.



CHAPTER L.

APPEARANCES.

After she had again endeavored to cheer up the orphans, the sewing-girl
descended the stairs, not without difficulty, for, in addition to the
parcel, which was already heavy, she had fetched down from her own room
the only blanket she possessed--thus leaving herself without protection
from the cold of her icy garret.

The evening before, tortured with anxiety as to Agricola's fate, the girl
had been unable to work; the miseries of expectation and hope delayed had
prevented her from doing so; now another day would be lost, and yet it
was necessary to live. Those overwhelming sorrows, which deprive the poor
of the faculty of labor, are doubly dreaded; they paralyze the strength,
and, with that forced cessation from toil, want and destitution are often
added to grief.

But Mother Bunch, that complete incarnation of holiest duty, had yet
strength enough to devote herself for the service of others. Some of the
most frail and feeble creatures are endowed with extraordinary vigor of
soul; it would seem as if, in these weak, infirm organizations, the
spirit reigned absolutely over the body, and knew how to inspire it with
a factitious energy.

Thus, for the last twenty-four hours, Mother Bunch had neither slept nor
eaten; she had suffered from the cold, through the whole of a frosty
night. In the morning she had endured great fatigue, in going, amid rain
and snow, to the Rue de Babylone and back, twice crossing Paris and yet
her strength was not exhausted--so immense is the power of the human
heart!

She had just arrived at the corner of the Rue Saint Mery. Since the
recent Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy, there were stationed in this
populous quarter of the town a much larger number of police-officers than
usual. Now the young sempstress, though bending beneath the weight of her
parcel, had quickened her pace almost to a run, when, just as she passed
in front of one of the police, two five-franc pieces fell on the ground
behind her, thrown there by a stout woman in black, who followed her
closely.

Immediately after the stout woman pointed out the two pieces to the
policeman, and said something hastily to him with regard to Mother Bunch.
Then she withdrew at all speed in the direction of the Rue Brise-Miche.

The policeman, struck with what Mrs. Grivois had said to him ( for it was
that person), picked up the money, and, running after the humpback, cried
out to her: "Hi, there! young woman, I say--stop! stop!"

On this outcry, several persons turned round suddenly and, as always
happens in those quarters of the town, a nucleus of five or six persons
soon grew to a considerable crowd.

Not knowing that the policeman was calling to her, Mother Bunch only
quickened her speed, wishing to get to the pawnbroker's as soon as
possible, and trying to avoid touching any of the passers-by, so much did
she dread the brutal and cruel railleries, to which her infirmity so
often exposed her.

Suddenly, she heard many persons running after her, and at the same
instant a hand was laid rudely on her shoulder. It was the policeman,
followed by another officer, who had been drawn to the spot by the noise.
Mother Bunch turned round, struck with as much surprise as fear.

She found herself in the centre of a crowd, composed chiefly of that
hideous scum, idle and in rags, insolent and malicious, besotted with
ignorance, brutalized by want, and always loafing about the corners.
Workmen are scarcely ever met with in these mobs, for they are for the
most part engaged in their daily labors.

"Come, can't you hear? you are deaf as Punch's dog," said the policeman,
seizing Mother Bunch so rudely by the arm, that she let her parcel fall
at her feet.

When the unfortunate girl, looking round in terror, saw herself exposed
to all those insolent, mocking, malicious glances, when she beheld the
cynical and coarse grimace on so many ignoble and filthy countenances,
she trembled in all her limbs, and became fearfully pale. No doubt the
policeman had spoken roughly to her; but how could he speak otherwise to
a poor deformed girl, pale and trembling, with her features agitated by
grief and fear--to a wretched creature, miserably clad, who wore in
winter a thin cotton gown, soiled with mud, and wet with melted snow--for
the poor sempstress had walked much and far that morning. So the
policeman resumed, with great severity, following that supreme law of
appearances which makes poverty always suspected: "Stop a bit, young
woman! it seems you are in a mighty hurry, to let your money fall without
picking it up."

"Was her blunt hid in her hump?" said the hoarse voice of a match-boy, a
hideous and repulsive specimen of precocious depravity.

This sally was received with laughter, shouts, and hooting, which served
to complete the sewing-girl's dismay and terror. She was hardly able to
answer, in a feeble voice, as the policeman handed her the two pieces of
silver: "This money, sir, is not mine."

"You lie," said the other officer, approaching; "a respectable lady saw
it drop from your pocket."

"I assure you, sir, it is not so," answered Mother Bunch, trembling.

"I tell you that you lie," resumed the officer; "for the lady, struck
with your guilty and frightened air, said to me: 'Look at yonder little
hunchback, running away with that large parcel, and letting her money
fall without even stopping to pick it up--it is not natural.'"

"Bobby," resumed the match-vendor in his hoarse voice, "be on your guard!
Feel her hump, for that is her luggage-van. I'm sure that you'll find
boots, and cloaks, and umbrellas, and clocks in it--for I just heard the
hour strike in the bend of her back."

Then came fresh bursts of laughter and shouts and hooting, for this
horrible mob has no pity for those who implore and suffer. The crowd
increased more and more, and now they indulged in hoarse cries, piercing
whistles, and all kinds of horse play.

"Let a fellow see her; it's free gratis."

"Don't push so; I've paid for my place!"

"Make her stand up on something, that all may have a look."

"My corns are being ground: it was not worth coming."

"Show her properly--or return the money."

"That's fair, ain't it?"

"Give it us in the 'garden' style."

"Trot her out in all her paces! Kim up!"

Fancy the feelings of this unfortunate creature, with her delicate mind,
good heart, and lofty soul, and yet with so timid and nervous a
character, as she stood alone with the two policemen in the thick of the
crowd, and was forced to listen to all these coarse and savage insults.

But the young sempstress did not yet understand of what crime she was
accused. She soon discovered it, however, for the policeman, seizing the
parcel which she had picked up and now held in her trembling hands, said
to her rudely: "What is there in that bundle?"

"Sir--it is--I am going--" The unfortunate girl hesitated--unable, in her
terror, to find the word.

"If that's all you have to answer," said the policeman, "it's no great
shakes. Come, make haste! turn your bundle inside out."

So saying, the policeman snatched the parcel from her, half opened it,
and repeated, as he enumerated the divers articles it contained: "The
devil!--sheets--a spoon and fork--a silver mug--a shawl--a
blanket--you're a downy mot! it was not so bad a move. Dressed like a
beggar, and with silver plate about you. Oh, yes! you're a deep 'un."

"Those articles do not belong to you," said the other officer.

"No, sir," replied Mother Bunch, whose strength was failing her; "but--"

"Oh, vile hunchback! you have stolen more than you are big!"

"Stolen!" cried Mother Bunch, clasping her hands in horror, for she now
understood it all. "Stolen!"

"The guard! make way for the lobsters!" cried several persons at once.

"Oh, ho! here's the lobsters!"

"The fire-eaters!"

"The Arab devourers!"

"Come for their dromedary!"

In the midst of these noisy jests, two soldiers and a corporal advanced
with much difficulty. Their bayonets and the barrels of their guns were
alone visible above the heads of this hideous and compact crowd. Some
officious person had been to inform the officer at the nearest guard
house, that a considerable crowd obstructed the public way.

"Come, here is the guard--so march to the guard-house!" said the
policeman, taking Mother Bunch by the arm.

"Sir," said the poor girl, in a voice stifled by sobs, clasping her hands
in terror, and sinking upon her knees on the pavement; "sir,--have
pity--let me explain--"

"You will explain at the guard-house; so come on!"

"But, sir--I am not a thief," cried Mother Bunch, in a heart-rending
tone; "have pity upon me--do not take me away like a thief, before all
this crowd. Oh! mercy! mercy!"

"I tell you, there will be time to explain at the guard-house. The street
is blocked up; so come along!" Grasping the unfortunate creature by both
her hands, he set her, as it were, on her feet again.

At this instant, the corporal and his two soldiers, having succeeded in
making their way through the crowd, approached the policeman. "Corporal,"
said the latter, "take this girl to the guard-house. I am an officer of
the police."

"Oh, gentlemen!" cried the girl, weeping hot tears, and wringing her
hands, "do not take me away, before you let me explain myself. I am not a
thief--indeed, indeed, I am not a thief! I will tell you--it was to
render service to others--only let me tell you--"

"I tell you, you should give your explanations at the guard-house; if you
will not walk, we must drag you along," said the policeman.

We must renounce the attempt to paint this scene, at once ignoble and
terrible.

Weak, overpowered, filled with alarm, the unfortunate girl was dragged
along by the soldiers, her knees sinking under her at every step. The two
police-officers had each to lend an arm to support her, and mechanically
she accepted their assistance. Then the vociferations and hootings burst
forth with redoubled fury. Half-swooning between the two men, the hapless
creature seemed to drain the cup of bitterness to the dregs.

Beneath that foggy sky, in that dirty street, under the shadow of the
tall black houses, those hideous masses of people reminded one of the
wildest fancies of Callot and of Goya: children in rags, drunken women,
grim and blighted figures of men, rushed against each other, pushed,
fought, struggled, to follow with howls and hisses an almost inanimate
victim--the victim of a deplorable mistake.

Of a mistake! How one shudders to think, that such arrests may often take
place, founded upon nothing but the suspicion caused by the appearance of
misery, or by some inaccurate description. Can we forget the case of that
young girl, who, wrongfully accused of participating in a shameful
traffic, found means to escape from the persons who were leading her to
prison, and, rushing up the stairs of a house, threw herself from a
window, in her despair, and was crushed to death upon the paving-stones?

Meanwhile, after the abominable denunciation of which Mother Bunch was
the victim, Mrs. Grivois had returned precipitately to the Rue Brise
Miche. She ascended in haste to the fourth story, opened the door of
Frances Baudoin's room, and saw--Dagobert in company with his wife and
the two orphans!



CHAPTER LI.

THE CONVENT.

Let us explain in a few words the presence of Dagobert. His countenance
was impressed with such an air of military frankness that the manager of
the coach-office would have been satisfied with his promise to return and
pay the money; but the soldier had obstinately insisted on remaining in
pledge, as he called it, till his wife had answered his letter. When,
however, on the return of the porter, he found that the money was coming,
his scruples were satisfied, and he hastened to run home.

We may imagine the stupor of Mrs. Grivois, when, upon entering the
chamber, she perceived Dagobert (whom she easily recognized by the
description she had heard of him) seated beside his wife and the orphans.
The anxiety of Frances at sight of Mrs. Grivois was equally striking.
Rose and Blanche had told her of the visit of a lady, during her absence,
upon important business; and, judging by the information received from
her confessor, Frances had no doubt that this was the person charged to
conduct the orphans to a religious establishment.

Her anxiety was terrible. Resolved to follow the counsels of Abbe Dubois,
she dreaded lest a word from Mrs. Grivois should put Dagobert on the
scent--in which case all would be lost, and the orphans would remain in
their present state of ignorance and mortal sin, for which she believed
herself responsible.

Dagobert, who held the hands of Rose and Blanche, left his seat as the
Princess de Saint-Dizier's waiting-woman entered the room and cast an
inquiring glance on Frances.

The moment was critical--nay, decisive; but Mrs. Grivois had profited by
the example of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. So, taking her resolution at
once, and turning to account the precipitation with which she had mounted
the stairs, after the odious charge she had brought against poor Mother
Bunch, and even the emotion caused by the unexpected sight of Dagobert,
which gave to her features an expression of uneasiness and alarm--she
exclaimed, in an agitated voice, after the moment's silence necessary to
collect her thoughts: "Oh, madame! I have just been the spectator of a
great misfortune. Excuse my agitation! but I am so excited--"

"Dear me! what is the matter?" said Frances, in a trembling voice, for
she dreaded every moment some indiscretion on the part of Mrs. Grivois.

"I called just now," resumed the other, "to speak to you on some
important business; whilst I was waiting for you, a poor young woman,
rather deformed, put up sundry articles in a parcel--"

"Yes," said Frances; "it was Mother Bunch, an excellent, worthy
creature."

"I thought as much, madame; well, you shall hear what has happened. As
you did not come in, I resolved to pay a visit in the neighborhood. I go
out, and get as far as the Rue St. Mery, when--Oh, madame!"

"Well?" said Dagobert, "what then?"

"I see a crowd--I inquire what is the matter--I learn that a policeman
has just arrested a young girl as a thief, because she had been seen
carrying a bundle, composed of different articles which did not appear to
belong to her--I approached--what do I behold?--the same young woman that
I had met just before in this room."

"Oh! the poor child!" exclaimed Frances, growing pale, and clasping her
hands together. "What a dreadful thing!"

"Explain, then," said Dagobert to his wife. "What was in this bundle?"

"Well, my dear--to confess the truth--I was a little short, and I asked
our poor friend to take some things for me to the pawnbroker's--"

"What! and they thought she had robbed us!" cried Dagobert; "she, the
most honest girl in the world! it is dreadful--you ought to have
interfered, madame; you ought to have said that you knew her."

"I tried to do so, sir; but, unfortunately, they would not hear me. The
crowd increased every moment, till the guard came up, and carried her
off."

"She might die of it, she is so sensitive and timid!" exclaimed Frances.

"Ah, good Mother Bunch! so gentle! so considerate!" said Blanche, turning
with tearful eyes towards her sister.

"Not being able to help her," resumed Mrs. Grivois "I hastened hither to
inform you of this misadventure--which may, indeed, easily be
repaired--as it will only be necessary to go and claim the young girl as
soon as possible."

At these words, Dagobert hastily seized his hat, and said abruptly to
Mrs. Grivois: "Zounds, madame! you should have begun by telling us that.
Where is the poor child? Do you know?"

"I do not, sir; but there are still so many excited people in the street
that, if you will have the kindness to step out, you will be sure to
learn."

"Why the devil do you talk of kindness? It is my duty, madame. Poor
child!" repeated Dagobert. "Taken up as a thief!--it is really horrible.
I will go to the guard-house, and to the commissary of police for this
neighborhood, and, by hook or crook, I will find her, and have her out,
and bring her home with me."

So saying, Dagobert hastily departed. Frances, now that she felt more
tranquil as to the fate of Mother Bunch, thanked the Lord that this
circumstance had obliged her husband to go out, for his presence at this
juncture caused her a terrible embarrassment.

Mrs. Grivois had left My Lord in the coach below, for the moments were
precious. Casting a significant glance at Frances she handed her Abbe
Dubois' letter, and said to her, with strong emphasis on every word: "You
will see by this letter, madame, what was the object of my visit, which I
have not before been able to explain to you, but on which I truly
congratulate myself, as it brings me into connection with these two
charming young ladies." Rose and Blanche looked at each other in
surprise. Frances took the letter with a trembling hand. It required all
the pressing and threatening injunctions of her confessor to conquer the
last scruples of the poor woman, for she shuddered at the thought of
Dagobert's terrible indignation. Moreover, in her simplicity, she knew
not how to announce to the young girls that they were to accompany this
lady.

Mrs. Grivois guessed her embarrassment, made a sign to her to be at her
ease, and said to Rose, whilst Frances was reading the letter of her
confessor: "How happy your relation will be to see you, my dear young
lady!'

"Our relation, madame?" said Rose, more and more astonished.

"Certainly. She knew of your arrival here, but, as she is still suffering
from the effects of a long illness, she was not able to come herself
to-day, and has sent me to fetch you to her. Unfortunately," added Mrs.
Grivois, perceiving a movement of uneasiness on the part of the two
sisters, "it will not be in her power, as she tells Mrs. Baudoin in her
letter, to see you for more than a very short time--so you may be back
here in about an hour. But to-morrow or the next day after, she will be
well enough to leave home, and then she will come and make arrangements
with Mrs. Baudoin and her husband, to take you into her house--for she
could not bear to leave you at the charge of the worthy people who have
been so kind to you."

These last words of Mrs. Grivois made a favorable impression upon the two
sisters, and banished their fears of becoming a heavy burden to
Dagobert's family. If it had been proposed to them to quit altogether the
house in the Rue Bris-Miche, without first asking the consent of their
old friend, they would certainly have hesitated; but Mrs. Grivois had
only spoken of an hour's visit. They felt no suspicion, therefore, and
Rose said to Frances: "We may go and see our relation, I suppose, madame,
without waiting for Dagobert's return?"

"Certainly," said Frances, in a feeble voice, "since you are to be back
almost directly."

"Then, madame, I would beg these dear young ladies to come with me as
soon as possible, as I should like to bring them back before noon.

"We are ready, madame," said Rose.

"Well then, young ladies, embrace your second mother, and come," said
Mrs. Grivois, who was hardly able to control her uneasiness, for she
trembled lest Dagobert should return from one moment to the other.

Rose and Blanche embraced Frances, who, clasping in her arms the two
charming and innocent creatures that she was about to deliver up, could
with difficulty restrain her tears, though she was fully convinced that
she was acting for their salvation.

"Come, young ladies," said Mrs. Grivois, in the most affable tone, "let
us make haste--you will excuse my impatience, I am sure--but it is in the
name of your relation that I speak."

Having once more tenderly kissed the wife of Dagobert, the sisters
quitted the room hand in hand, and descended the staircase close behind
Mrs. Grivois, followed (without their being aware of it), by Spoil-sport.
The intelligent animal cautiously watched their movements, for, in the
absence of his master, he never let them out of his sight.

For greater security, no doubt, the waiting-woman of Madame de Saint
Dizier had ordered the hackney-coach to wait for her at a little distance
from the Rue Brise-Miche, in the cloister square. In a few seconds, the
orphans and their conductress reached the carriage.

"Oh, missus!" said the coachman, opening the door; "no offence, I
hope--but you have the most ill-tempered rascal of a dog! Since you put
him into my coach, he has never ceased howling like a roasted cat, and
looks as if he would eat us all up alive!" In fact, My Lord, who detested
solitude, was yelling in the most deplorable manner.

"Be quiet, My Lord! here I am," said Mrs. Grivois; then addressing the
two sisters, she added: "Pray, get in, my dear young ladies."

Rose and Blanche got into the coach. Before she followed them, Mrs.
Grivois was giving to the coachman in a low voice the direction to St.
Mary's Convent, and was adding other instructions, when suddenly the pug
dog, who had growled savagely when the sisters took their seats in the
coach, began to bark with fury. The cause of this anger was clear enough;
Spoil-sport, until now unperceived, had with one bound entered the
carriage.

The pug, exasperated by this boldness, forgetting his ordinary prudence,
and excited to the utmost by rage and ugliness of temper, sprang at his
muzzle, and bit him so cruelly, that, in his turn, the brave Siberian
dog, maddened by the pain, threw himself upon the teaser, seized him by
the throat, and fairly strangled him with two grips of his powerful
jaws--as appeared by one stifled groan of the pug, previously half
suffocated with fat.

All this took place in less time than is occupied by the description.
Rose and Blanche had hardly opportunity to exclaim twice: "Here, Spoil
sport! down!"

"Oh, good gracious!" said Mrs. Grivois, turning round at the noise.
"There again is that monster of a dog--he will certainly hurt my love.
Send him away, young ladies--make him get down--it is impossible to take
him with us."

Ignorant of the degree of Spoil-sport's criminality, for his paltry foe
was stretched lifeless under a seat, the young girls yet felt that it
would be improper to take the dog with them, and they therefore said to
him in an angry tone, at the same time slightly touching him with their
feet: "Get down, Spoil-sport! go away!"

The faithful animal hesitated at first to obey this order. Sad and
supplicatingly looked he at the orphans, and with an air of mild
reproach, as if blaming them for sending away their only defender. But,
upon the stern repetition of the command, he got down from the coach,
with his tail between his legs, feeling perhaps that he had been somewhat
over-hasty with regard to the pug.

Mrs. Grivois, who was in a great hurry to leave that quarter of the town,
seated herself with precipitation in the carriage; the coachman closed
the door, and mounted his box; and then the coach started at a rapid
rate, whilst Mrs. Grivois prudently let down the blinds, for fear of
meeting Dagobert by the way.

Having taken these indispensable precautions, she was able to turn her
attention to her pet, whom she loved with all that deep, exaggerated
affection, which people of a bad disposition sometimes entertain for
animals, as if then concentrated and lavished upon them all those
feelings in which they are deficient with regard to their fellow
creatures. In a word. Mrs. Grivois was passionately attached to this
peevish, cowardly, spiteful dog, partly perhaps from a secret sympathy
with his vices. This attachment had lasted for six years, and only seemed
to increase as My Lord advanced in age.

We have laid some stress on this apparently puerile detail, because the
most trifling causes have often disastrous effects, and because we wish
the reader to understand what must have been the despair, fury, and
exasperation of this woman, when she discovered the death of her dog--a
despair, a fury, and an exasperation, of which the orphans might yet feel
the cruel consequences.

The hackney-coach had proceeded rapidly for some seconds, when Mrs.
Grivois, who was seated with her back to the horses, called My Lord. The
dog had very good reasons for not replying.

"Well, you sulky beauty!" said Mrs. Grivois, soothingly; "you have taken
offence, have you? It was not my fault if that great ugly dog came into
the coach, was it, young ladies? Come and kiss your mistress, and let us
make peace, old obstinate!"

The same obstinate silence continued on the part of the canine noble.
Rose and Blanche began to look anxiously at each other, for they knew
that Spoil-sport was somewhat rough in his ways, though they were far
from suspecting what had really happened. But Mrs. Grivois, rather
surprised than uneasy at her pug-log's insensibility to her affectionate
appeals, and believing him to be sullenly crouching beneath the seat,
stooped clown to take him up, and feeling one of his paws, drew it
impatiently towards her whilst she said to him in a half-jesting, half
angry tone: "Come, naughty fellow! you will give a pretty notion of your
temper to these young ladies."

So saying, she took up the dog, much astonished at his unresisting
torpor; but what was her fright, when, having placed him upon her lap,
she saw that he was quite motionless.

"An apoplexy!" cried she. "The dear creature ate too much--I was always
afraid of it."

Turning round hastily, she exclaimed: "Stop, coachman! stop!" without
reflecting that the coachman could not hear her. Then raising the cur's
head, still thinking that he was only in a fit, she perceived with horror
the bloody holes imprinted by five or six sharp fangs, which left no
doubt of the cause of his deplorable end.

Her first impulse was one of grief and despair. "Dead!" she exclaimed;
"dead! and already cold! Oh, goodness!" And this woman burst into tears.

The tears of the wicked are ominous. For a bad man to weep, he must have
suffered much; and, with him, the reaction of suffering, instead of
softening the soul, inflames it to a dangerous anger.

Thus, after yielding to that first painful emotion, the mistress of My
Lord felt herself transported with rage and hate--yes, hate--violent hate
for the young girls, who had been the involuntary cause of the dog's
death. Her countenance so plainly betrayed her resentment, that Blanche
and Rose were frightened at the expression of her face, which had now
grown purple with fury, as with agitated voice and wrathful glance she
exclaimed: "It was your dog that killed him!"

"Oh, madame!" said Rose; "we had nothing to do with it."

"It was your dog that bit Spoil-sport first," added Blanche, in a
plaintive voice.

The look of terror impressed on the features of the orphans recalled Mrs.
Grivois to herself. She saw the fatal consequences that might arise from
yielding imprudently to her anger. For the very sake of vengeance, she
had to restrain herself, in order not to awaken suspicion in the minds of
Marshal Simon's daughters. But not to appear to recover too soon from her
first impression, she continued for some minutes to cast irritated
glances at the young girls; then, little by little, her anger seemed to
give way to violent grief; she covered her face with her hands, heaved a
long sigh, and appeared to weep bitterly.

"Poor lady!" whispered Rose to Blanche. "How she weeps!--No doubt, she
loved her dog as much as we love Spoil-sport."

"Alas! yes," replied Blanche. "We also wept when our old Jovial was
killed."

After a few minutes, Mrs. Grivois raised her head, dried her eyes
definitively, and said in a gentle, and almost affectionate voice:
"Forgive me, young ladies! I was unable to repress the first movement of
irritation, or rather of deep sorrow--for I was tenderly attached to this
poor dog he has never left me for six years."

"We are very sorry for this misfortune, madame," resumed Rose; "and we
regret it the more, that it seems to be irreparable."

"I was just saying to my sister, that we can the better fancy your grief,
as we have had to mourn the death of our old horse, that carried us all
the way from Siberia."

"Well, my dear young ladies, let us think no more about it. It was my
fault; I should not have brought him with me; but he was always so
miserable, whenever I left him. You will make allowance for my weakness.
A good heart feels for animals as well as people; so I must trust to your
sensibility to excuse my hastiness."

"Do not think of it, madame; it is only your grief that afflicts us."

"I shall get over it, my dear young ladies--I shall get over it. The joy
of the meeting between you and your relation will help to console me. She
will be so happy. You are so charming! and then the singular circumstance
of your exact likeness to each other adds to the interest you inspire."

"You are too kind to us, madame."

"Oh, no--I am sure you resemble each other as much in disposition as in
face."

"That is quite natural, madame," said Rose, "for since our birth we have
never left each other a minute, whether by night or day. It would be
strange, if we were not like in character."

"Really, my dear young ladies! you have never left each other a minute?"

"Never, madame." The sisters joined hands with an expressive smile.

"Then, how unhappy you would be, and how much to be pitied, if ever you
were separated."

"Oh, madame! it is impossible," said Blanche, smiling.

"How impossible?"

"Who would have the heart to separate us?"

"No doubt, my dear young ladies, it would be very cruel."

"Oh, madame," resumed Blanche, "even very wicked people would not think
of separating us."

"So much the better, my dear young ladies--pray, why?"

"Because it would cause us too much grief."

"Because it would kill us."

"Poor little dears!"

"Three months ago, we were shut up in prison. Well when the governor of
the prison saw us, though he looked a very stern man, he could not help
saying: 'It would be killing these children to separate them;' and so we
remained together, and were as happy as one can be in prison."

"It shows your excellent heart, and also that of the persons who knew how
to appreciate it."

The carriage stopped, and they heard the coachman call out "Any one at
the gate there?"

"Oh! here we are at your relation's," said Mrs. Grivois. Two wings of a
gate flew open, and the carriage rolled over the gravel of a court-yard.

Mrs. Grivois having drawn up one of the blinds, they found themselves in
a vast court, across the centre of which ran a high wall, with a kind of
porch upon columns, under which was a little door. Behind this wall, they
could see the upper part of a very large building in freestone. Compared
with the house in the Rue Brise-Miche, this building appeared a palace;
so Blanche said to Mrs. Grivois, with an expression of artless
admiration: "Dear me, madame, what a fine residence!"

"That is nothing," replied Madame Grivois; "wait till you see the
interior, which is much finer."

When the coachman opened the door of the carriage, what was the rage of
Mrs. Grivois, and the surprise of the girls, to see Spoil-sport, who had
been clever enough to follow the coach. Pricking up his ears, and wagging
his tail, he seemed to have forgotten his late offences, and to expect to
be praised for his intelligent fidelity.

"What!" cried Mrs. Grivois, whose sorrows were renewed at the sight; "has
that abominable dog followed the coach?"

"A famous dog, mum," answered the coachman "he never once left the heels
of my horses. He must have been trained to it. He's a powerful beast, and
two men couldn't scare him. Look at the throat of him now!"

The mistress of the deceased pug, enraged at the somewhat unseasonable
praises bestowed upon the Siberian, said to the orphans, "I will announce
your arrival, wait for me an instant in the coach."

So saying, she went with a rapid step towards the porch, and rang the
bell. A woman, clad in a monastic garb, appeared at the door, and bowed
respectfully to Mrs. Grivois, who addressed her in these few words, "I
have brought you the two young girls; the orders of Abbe d'Aigrigny and
the princess are, that they be instantly separated, and kept apart in
solitary cells--you understand, sister--and subjected to the rule for
impenitents."

"I will go and inform the superior, and it will be done," said the
portress, with another bend.

"Now, will you come, my dear young ladies?" resumed Mrs. Grivois,
addressing the two girls, who had secretly bestowed a few caresses upon
Spoil sport, so deeply were they touched by his instinctive attachment;
"you will be introduced to your relation, and I will return and fetch you
in half an hour. Coachman keep that dog back."

Rose and Blanche, in getting out of the coach, were so much occupied with
Spoil-sport, that they did not perceive the portress, who was half hidden
behind the little door. Neither did they remark, that the person who was
to introduce them was dressed as a nun, till, taking them by the hand,
she had led them across the threshold, when the door was immediately
closed behind them.

As soon as Mrs. Grivois had seen the orphans safe into the convent, she
told the coachman to leave the court-yard, and wait for her at the outer
gate. The coachman obeyed; but Spoil-sport, who had seen Rose and Blanche
enter by the little door, ran to it, and remained there.

Mrs. Grivois then called the porter of the main entrance, a tall,
vigorous fellow and said to him: "Here are ten francs for you, Nicholas,
if you will beat out the brains of that great dog, who is crouching under
the porch."

Nicholas shook his head, as he observed Spoil-sport's size and strength.
"Devil take me, madame!" said he; "'tis not so easy to tackle a dog of
that build."

"I will give you twenty francs; only kill him before me."

"One ought to have a gun, and I have only an iron hammer."

"That will do; you can knock him down at a blow."

"Well, madame--I will try--but I have my doubts." And Nicholas went to
fetch his mallet.

"Oh! if I had the strength!" said Mrs. Grivois.

The porter returned with his weapon, and advanced slowly and
treacherously towards Spoil-sport, who was still crouching beneath the
porch. "Here, old fellow! here, my good dog!" said Nicholas striking his
left hand on his thigh, and keeping his right behind him, with the
crowbar grasped in it.

Spoil-sport rose, examined Nicholas attentively, and no doubt perceiving
by his manner that the porter meditated some evil design, bounded away
from him, outflanked the enemy, saw clearly what was intended, and kept
himself at a respectful distance.

"He smells a rat," said Nicholas; "the rascal's on his guard. He will not
let me come near him. It's no go."

"You are an awkward fellow," said Mrs. Grivois in a passion, as she threw
a five-franc piece to Nicholas: "at all events, drive him away."

"That will be easier than to kill him, madame," said the porter. Indeed,
finding himself pursued, and conscious probably that it would be useless
to attempt an open resistance, Spoil-sport fled from the court-yard into
the street; but once there, he felt himself, as it were, upon neutral
ground, and notwithstanding all the threats of Nicholas, refused to
withdraw an inch further than just sufficient to keep out of reach of the
sledge-hammer. So that when Mrs. Grivois, pale with rage, again stepped
into her hackney-coach, in which were My Lord's lifeless remains, she saw
with the utmost vexation that Spoil-sport was lying at a few steps from
the gate, which Nicholas had just closed, having given up the chase in
despair.

The Siberian dog, sure of finding his way back to the Rue Brise-Miche,
had determined, with the sagacity peculiar to his race, to wait for the
orphans on the spot where he then was.

Thus were the two sisters confined in St. Mary's Convent, which, as we
have already said, was next door to the lunatic asylum in which Adrienne
de Cardoville was immured.

We now conduct the reader to the dwelling of Dagobert's wife, who was
waiting with dreadful anxiety for the return of her husband, knowing that
he would call her to account for the disappearance of Marshal Simon's
daughters.



CHAPTER LII.

THE INFLUENCE OF A CONFESSOR.

Hardly had the orphans quitted Dagobert's wife, when the poor woman,
kneeling down, began to pray with fervor. Her tears, long restrained, now
flowed abundantly; notwithstanding her sincere conviction that she had
performed a religious duty in delivering up the girl's she waited with
extreme fear her husband's return. Though blinded by her pious zeal, she
could not hide from herself, that Dagobert would have good reason to be
angry; and then this poor mother had also, under these untoward
circumstances, to tell him of Agricola's arrest.

Every noise upon the stairs made Frances start with trembling anxiety;
after which, she would resume her fervent prayers, supplicating strength
to support this new and arduous trial. At length, she heard a step upon
the landing-place below, and, feeling sure this time that it was
Dagobert, she hastily seated herself, dried her tears, and taking a sack
of coarse cloth upon her lap, appeared to be occupied with sewing--though
her aged hands trembled so much, that she could hardly hold the needle.

After some minutes the door opened, and Dagobert appeared. The soldier's
rough countenance was stern and sad; as he entered, he flung his hat
violently upon the table, so full of painful thought, that he did not at
first perceive the absence of the orphans.

"Poor girl!" cried he. "It is really terrible!"

"Didst see Mother Bunch? didst claim her?" said Frances hastily,
forgetting for a moment her own fears.

"Yes, I have seen her--but in what a state--twas enough to break one's
heart. I claimed her, and pretty loud too, I can tell you; but they said
to me, that the commissary must first come to our place in order--" here
Dagobert paused, threw a glance of surprise round the room, and exclaimed
abruptly: "Where are the children?"

Frances felt herself seized with an icy shudder. "My dear," she began in
a feeble voice--but she was unable to continue.

"Where are Rose and Blanche! Answer me then! And Spoil-sport, who is not
here either!"

"Do not be angry."

"Come," said Dagobert, abruptly, "I see you have let them go out with a
neighbor--why not have accompanied them yourself, or let them wait for
me, if they wished to take a walk; which is natural enough, this room
being so dull. But I am astonished that they should have gone out before
they had news of good Mother Bunch--they have such kind hearts. But how
pale you are?" added the soldier looking nearer at Frances; "what is the
matter, my poor wife? Are you ill?"

Dagobert took Frances's hand affectionately in his own but the latter,
painfully agitated by these words, pronounced with touching goodness,
bowed her head and wept as she kissed her husband's hand. The soldier,
growing more and more uneasy as he felt the scalding tears of his wife,
exclaimed: "You weep, you do not answer--tell me, then, the cause of your
grief, poor wife! Is it because I spoke a little loud, in asking you how
you could let the dear children go out with a neighbor? Remember their
dying mother entrusted them to my care--'tis sacred, you see--and with
them, I am like an old hen after her chickens," added he, laughing to
enliven Frances.

"Yes, you are right in loving them!"

"Come, then--becalm--you know me of old. With my great, hoarse voice, I
am not so bad a fellow at bottom. As you can trust to this neighbor,
there is no great harm done; but, in future, my good Frances, do not take
any step with regard to the children without consulting me. They asked, I
suppose, to go out for a little stroll with Spoil-sport?"

"No, my dear!"

"No! Who is this neighbor, to whom you have entrusted them? Where has she
taken them? What time will she bring them back?"

"I do not know," murmured Frances, in a failing voice.

"You do not know!" cried Dagobert, with indignation; but restraining
himself, he added, in a tone of friendly reproach: "You do not know? You
cannot even fix an hour, or, better still, not entrust them to any one?
The children must have been very anxious to go out. They knew that I
should return at any moment, so why not wait for me--eh, Frances? I ask
you, why did they not wait for me? Answer me, will you!--Zounds! you
would make a saint swear!" cried Dagobert, stamping his foot; "answer me,
I say!"

The courage of Frances was fast failing. These pressing and reiterated
questions, which might end by the discovery of the truth, made her endure
a thousand slow and poignant tortures. She preferred coming at once to
the point, and determined to bear the full weight of her husband's anger,
like a humble and resigned victim, obstinately faithful to the promise
she had sworn to her confessor.

Not having the strength to rise, she bowed her head, allowed her arms to
fall on either side of the chair, and said to her husband in a tone of
the deepest despondency: "Do with me what you will--but do not ask what
is become of the children--I cannot answer you."

If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the soldier, he would not have
been more violently, more deeply moved; he became deadly pale; his bald
forehead was covered with cold sweat; with fixed and staring look, he
remained for some moments motionless, mute, and petrified. Then, as if
roused with a start from this momentary torpor, and filled with a
terrific energy, he seized his wife by the shoulders, lifted her like a
feather, placed her on her feet before him, and, leaning over her,
exclaimed in a tone of mingled fury and despair: "The children!"

"Mercy! mercy!" gasped Frances, in a faint voice.

"Where are the children?" repeated Dagobert, as he shook with his
powerful hands that poor frail body, and added in a voice of thunder:
"Will you answer? the children!"

"Kill me, or forgive me, I cannot answer you," replied the unhappy woman,
with that inflexible, yet mild obstinacy, peculiar to timid characters,
when they act from convictions of doing right.

"Wretch!" cried the soldier; wild with rage, grief, despair, he lifted up
his wife as if he would have dashed her upon the floor--but he was too
brave a man to commit such cowardly cruelty, and, after that first burst
of involuntary fury, he let her go.

Overpowered, Frances sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and, by the
faint motion of her lips, it was clear that she was praying. Dagobert had
then a moment of stunning giddiness; his thoughts wandered; what had just
happened was so sudden, so incomprehensible that it required some minutes
to convince himself that his wife (that angel of goodness, whose life had
been one course of heroic self-devotion, and who knew what the daughters
of Marshal Simon were to him) should say to him: "Do not ask me about
them--I cannot answer you."

The firmest, the strongest mind would have been shaken by this
inexplicable fact. But, when the soldier had a little recovered himself,
he began to look coolly at the circumstances, and reasoned thus sensibly
with himself: "My wife alone can explain to me this inconceivable
mystery--I do not mean either to beat or kill her--let us try every
possibly method, therefore, to induce her to speak, and above all, let me
try to control myself."

He took a chair, handed another to his wife, who was still on her knees,
and said to her: "Sit down." With an air of the utmost dejection, Frances
obeyed.

"Listen to me, wife," resumed Dagobert in a broken voice, interrupted by
involuntary starts, which betrayed the boiling impatience he could hardly
restrain. "Understand me--this cannot pass over in this manner--you know.
I will never use violence towards you--just now, I gave way to a first
moment of hastiness--I am sorry for it. Be sure, I shall not do so again:
but, after all, I must know what has become of these children. Their
mother entrusted them to my care, and I did not bring them all the way
from Siberia, for you to say to me: 'Do not ask me--I cannot tell you
what I have done with them.' There is no reason in that. Suppose Marshal
Simon were to arrive, and say to me, 'Dagobert, my children?' what answer
am I to give him? See, I am calm--judge for yourself--I am calm--but just
put yourself in my place, and tell me--what answer am I to give to the
marshal? Well--what say you! Will you speak!"

"Alas! my dear--"

"It is of no use crying alas!" said the soldier wiping his forehead, on
which the veins were swollen as if they would burst; "what am I to answer
to the marshal?"

"Accuse me to him--I will bear it all--I will say--"

"What will you say?"

"That, on going out, you entrusted the two girls to me, and that not
finding them on return you asked be about them--and that my answer was,
that I could not tell you what had become of them."

"And you think the marshal will be satisfied with such reasons?" cried
Dagobert, clinching his fists convulsively upon his knees.

"Unfortunately, I can give no other--either to him or you--no--not if I
were to die for it."

Dagobert bounded from his chair at this answer, which was given with
hopeless resignation. His patience was exhausted; but determined not to
yield to new bursts of anger, or to spend his breath in useless menaces,
he abruptly opened one of the windows, and exposed his burning forehead
to the cool air. A little calmer, he walked up and down for a few
moments, and then returned to seat himself beside his wife. She, with her
eyes bathed in tears, fixed her gaze upon the crucifix, thinking that she
also had to bear a heavy cross.

Dagobert resumed: "By the manner in which you speak, I see that no
accident has happened, which might endanger the health of the children."

"No, oh no! thank God, they are quite well--that is all I can say to
you."

"Did they go out alone?"

"I cannot answer you."

"Has any one taken them away?"

"Alas, my dear! why ask me these questions? I cannot answer you."

"Will they come back here?"

"I do not know."

Dagobert started up; his patience was once more exhausted. But, after
taking a few turns in the room, he again seated himself as before.

"After all," said he to his wife, "you have no interest to conceal from
me what is become of the children. Why refuse to let me know?"

"I cannot do otherwise."

"I think you will change your opinion, when you know something that I am
now forced to tell you. Listen to me well!" added Dagobert, in an
agitated voice; "if these children are not restored to me before the 13th
of February--a day close at hand--I am in the position of a man that
would rob the daughters of Marshal Simon--rob them, d'ye understand?"
said the soldier, becoming more and more agitated. Then, with an accent
of despair which pierced Frances's heart, he continued: "And yet I have
done all that an honest man could do for those poor children--you cannot
tell what I have had to suffer on the road--my cares, my anxieties--I, a
soldier, with the charge of two girls. It was only by strength of heart,
by devotion, that I could go through with it--and when, for my reward, I
hoped to be able to say to their father: 'Here are your children!--'" The
soldier paused. To the violence of his first emotions had succeeded a
mournful tenderness; he wept.

At sight of the tears rolling slowly down Dagobert's gray moustache,
Frances felt for a moment her resolution give way; but, recalling the
oath which she had made to her confessor, and reflecting that the eternal
salvation of the orphans was at stake, she reproached herself inwardly
with this evil temptation, which would no doubt be severely blamed by
Abbe Dubois. She answered, therefore, in a trembling voice: "How can they
accuse you of robbing these children?"

"Know," resumed Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, "that if
these young girls have braved so many dangers, to come hither, all the
way from Siberia, it is that great interests are concerned--perhaps an
immense fortune--and that, if they are not present on the 13th
February--here, in Paris, Rue Saint Francois--all will be lost--and
through my fault--for I am responsible for your actions."

"The 13th February? Rue Saint Francois?" cried Frances, looking at her
husband with surprise. "Like Gabriel!"

"What do you say about Gabriel?"

"When I took him in (poor deserted child!), he wore a bronze medal about
his neck."

"A bronze medal!" cried the soldier, struck with amazement; "a bronze
medal with these words, 'At Paris you will be, the 13th of February,
1832, Rue Saint Francois?"

"Yes--how do you know?"

"Gabriel, too!" said the soldier speaking to himself. Then he added
hastily: "Does Gabriel know that this medal was found upon him?"

"I spoke to him of it at some time. He had also about him a portfolio,
filled with papers in a foreign tongue. I gave them to Abbe Dubois, my
confessor, to look over. He told me afterwards, that they were of little
consequence; and, at a later period, when a charitable person named M.
Rodin, undertook the education of Gabriel, and to get him into the
seminary, Abbe Dubois handed both papers and medal to him. Since then, I
have heard nothing of them."

When Frances spoke of her confessor a sudden light flashed across the
mind of the soldier, though he was far from suspecting the machinations
which had so long been at work with regard to Gabriel and the orphans.
But he had a vague feeling that his wife was acting in obedience to some
secret influence of the confessional--an influence of which he could not
understand the aim or object, but which explained, in part at least,
Frances's inconceivable obstinacy with regard to the disappearance of the
orphans.

After a moment's reflection, he rose, and said sternly to his wife,
looking fixedly at her: "There is a priest at the bottom of all this."

"What do you mean, my dear?"

"You have no interest to conceal these children. You are one of the best
of women. You see that I suffer; if you only were concerned, you would
have pity upon me."

"My dear--"

"I tell you, all this smacks of the confessional," resumed Dagobert. "You
would sacrifice me and these children to your confessor; but take care--I
shall find out where he lives--and a thousand thunders! I will go and ask
him who is master in my house, he or I--and if he does not answer," added
the soldier, with a threatening expression of countenance, "I shall know
how to make him speak."

"Gracious heaven!" cried Frances, clasping her hands in horror at these
sacrilegious words; "remember he is a priest!"

"A priest, who causes discord, treachery, and misfortune in my house, is
as much of a wretch as any other; whom I have a right to call to account
for the evil he does to me and mine. Therefore, tell me immediately where
are the children--or else, I give you fair warning, I will go and demand
them of the confessor. Some crime is here hatching, of which you are an
accomplice without knowing it, unhappy woman! Well, I prefer having to do
with another than you."

"My dear," said Frances, in a mild, firm voice, "you cannot think to
impose by violence on a venerable man, who for twenty years has had the
care of my soul. His age alone should be respected."

"No age shall prevent me!"

"Heavens! where are you going? You alarm me!"

"I am going to your church. They must know you there--I will ask for your
confessor--and we shall see!"

"I entreat you, my dear," cried Frances, throwing herself in a fright
before Dagobert, who was hastening towards the door; "only think, to what
you will expose yourself! Heavens! insult a priest? Why, it is one of the
reserved cases!"

These last words, which appeared most alarming to the simplicity of
Dagobert's wife, did not make any impression upon the soldier. He
disengaged himself from her grasp, and was going to rush out bareheaded,
so high was his exasperation, when the door opened, and the commissary of
police entered, followed by Mother Bunch and a policeman, carrying the
bundle which he had taken from the young girl.

"The commissary!" cried Dagobert, who recognized him by his official
scarf. "Ah! so much the better--he could not have come at a fitter
moment."



CHAPTER LIII.

THE EXAMINATION.

"Mistress Frances Baudoin?" asked the magistrate.

"Yes, sir--it is I," said Frances. Then, perceiving the pale and
trembling sewing-girl, who did not dare to come forward, she stretched
out her arms to her. "Oh, my poor child!" she exclaimed, bursting into
tears; "forgive--forgive us--since it is for our sake you have suffered
this humiliation!"

When Dagobert's wife had tenderly embraced the young sempstress, the
latter, turning towards the commissary, said to him with an expression of
sad and touching dignity: "You see, sir, that I am not a thief."

"Madame," said the magistrate, addressing Frances, "am I to understand
that the silver mug, the shawl, the sheets contained in this bundle--"

"Belong to me, sir. It was to render me a service that this dear girl,
who is the best and most honest creature in the world, undertook to carry
these articles to the pawnbroker's."

"Sir," said the magistrate sternly to the policeman, "you have committed
a deplorable error. I shall take care to report you, and see that you are
punished. You may go, sir." Then, addressing Mother Bunch, with an air of
real regret, he added: "I can only express my sorrow for what has
happened. Believe me, I deeply feel for the cruel position in which you
have been placed."

"I believe it, sir," said Mother Bunch, "and I thank you." Overcome by so
many emotions, she sank upon a chair.

The magistrate was about to retire, when Dagobert, who had been seriously
reflecting for some minutes, said to him in a firm voice: "Please to hear
me, Sir; I have a deposition to make."

"Speak, Sir."

"What I am about to say is very important; it is to you, in your quality
of a magistrate, that I make this declaration."

"And as a magistrate I will hear you, sir."

"I arrived here two days ago, bringing with me from Russia two girls who
had been entrusted to me by their mother--the wife of Marshal Simon."

"Of Marshal Simon, Duke de Ligny?" said the commissary, very much
surprised.

"Yes, Sir. Well, I left them here, being obliged to get out on pressing
business. This morning, during my absence, they disappeared--and I am
certain I know the man who has been the cause of it."

"Now, my dear," said Frances, much alarmed.

"Sir," said the magistrate, "your declaration is a very serious one.
Disappearance of persons--sequestration, perhaps. But are you quite
sure?"

"These young ladies were here an hour ago; I repeat, sir, that during my
absence, they have been taken away."

"I do not doubt the sincerity of your declaration, sir; but still it is
difficult to explain so strange an abduction. Who tells you that these
young girls will not return? Besides, whom do you suspect? One word,
before you make your accusation. Remember, it is the magistrate who hears
you. On leaving this place, the law will take its course in this affair."

"That is what I wish, Sir; I am responsible for those young ladies to
their father. He may arrive at any moment, and I must be prepared to
justify myself."

"I understand all these reasons, sir; but still have a care you are not
deceived by unfounded suspicions. Your denunciation once made, I may have
to act provisionally against the person accused. Now, if you should be
under a mistake, the consequences would be very serious for you; and,
without going further," said the magistrate, pointing to Mother Bunch,
with emotion, "you see what are the results of a false accusation."

"You hear, my dear," cried Frances, terrified at the resolution of
Dagobert to accuse Abbe Dubois; "do not say a word more, I entreat you."

But the more the soldier reflected, the more he felt convinced that
nothing but the influence of her confessor could have induced Frances to
act as she had done; so he resumed, with assurance: "I accuse my wife's
confessor of being the principal or the accomplice in the abduction of
Marshal Simon's daughters."

Frances uttered a deep groan, and hid her face in her hands; while Mother
Bunch, who had drawn nigh, endeavored to console her. The magistrate had
listened to Dagobert with extreme astonishment, and he now said to him
with some severity: "Pray, sir, do not accuse unjustly a man whose
position is in the highest degree respectable--a priest, sir?--yes, a
priest? I warned you beforehand to reflect upon what you advanced. All
this becomes very serious, and, at your age, any levity in such matters
would be unpardonable."

"Bless me, sir!" said Dagobert, with impatience; "at my age, one has
common sense. These are the facts. My wife is one of the best and most
honorable of human creatures--ask any one in the neighborhood, and they
will tell you so--but she is a devotee; and, for twenty years, she has
always seen with her confessor's eyes. She adores her son, she loves me
also; but she puts the confessor before us both."

"Sir," said the commissary, "these family details--"

"Are indispensable, as you shall see. I go out an hour ago, to look after
this poor girl here. When I come back, the young ladies have disappeared.
I ask my wife to whom she has entrusted them, and where they are; she
falls at my feet weeping, and says: 'Do what you will with me, but do not
ask me what has become of the children. I cannot answer you.'"

"Is thus true, madame?" cried the commissary, looking at Frances with
surprise.

"Anger, threats, entreaties, had no effect," resumed Dagobert; "to
everything she answered as mildly as a saint: 'I can tell you nothing!'
Now, sir, I maintain that my wife has no interest to take away these
children; she is under the absolute dominion of her confessor; she has
acted by his orders and for his purposes; he is the guilty party."

Whilst Dagobert spoke, the commissary looked more and more attentively at
Frances, who, supported by the hunchback, continued to weep bitterly.
After a moment's reflection, the magistrate advanced towards Dagobert's
wife, and said to her: "Madame, you have heard what your husband has just
declared."

"Yes, sir."

"What have you to say in your justification?"

"But, sir," cried Dagobert, "it is not my wife that I accuse--I do not
mean that; it is her confessor."

"Sir, you have applied to a magistrate; and the magistrate must act as he
thinks best for the discovery of the truth. Once more, madame," he
resumed, addressing Frances, "what have you to say in your
justification?"

"Alas! nothing, sir."

"Is it true that your husband left these young girls in your charge when
he went out?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is it true that, on his return, they were no longer to be found?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is it true that, when he asked you where they were, you told him that
you could give him no information on the subject?"

The commissary appeared to wait for Frances' reply with kind of anxious
curiosity.

"Yes, sir," said she, with the utmost simplicity, "that was the answer I
made my husband."

"What, madame!" said the magistrate, with an air of painful astonishment;
"that was your only answer to all the prayers and commands of your
husband? What! you refused to give him the least information? It is
neither probable nor possible."

"It is the truth, sir."

"Well, but, after all, madame, what have you done with the young ladies
that were entrusted to your care?"

"I can tell you nothing about it, sir. If I would not answer my poor
husband, I certainly will not answer any one else."

"Well, sir," resumed Dagobert, "was I wrong? An honest, excellent woman
like that, who was always full of good sense and affection, to talk in
this way--is it natural? I repeat to you, sir that it is the work of her
confessor; act against him promptly and decidedly, we shall soon know
all, and my poor children will be restored to me."

"Madame," continued the commissary, without being able to repress a
certain degree of emotion, "I am about to speak to you very severely. My
duty obliges me to do so. This affair becomes so serious and complicated,
that I must instantly commence judicial proceedings on the subject. You
acknowledge that these young ladies have been left in your charge, and
that you cannot produce them. Now, listen to me: if you refuse to give
any explanation in the matter, it is you alone that will be accused of
their disappearance. I shall be obliged, though with great regret, to
take you into custody."

"Me!" cried Frances, with the utmost alarm.

"Her!" exclaimed Dagobert; "never! It is her confessor that I accuse, not
my poor wife. Take her into custody, indeed!" He ran towards her, as if
he would protect her.

"It is too late, sir," said the commissary. "You have made your charge
for the abduction of these two young ladies. According to your wife's own
declaration, she alone is compromised up to this point. I must take her
before the Public Prosecutor, who will decide what course to pursue."

"And I say, sir," cried Dagobert, in a menacing tone, "that my wife shall
not stir from this room."

"Sir," said the commissary coolly, "I can appreciate your feelings; but,
in the interest of justice, I would beg you not to oppose a necessary
measure--a measure which, moreover, in ten minutes it would be quite
impossible for you to prevent."

These words, spoken with calmness, recalled the soldier to himself. "But,
sir," said he, "I do not accuse my wife."'

"Never mind, my dear--do not think of me!" said Frances, with the angelic
resignation of a martyr. "The Lord is still pleased to try me sorely; but
I am His unworthy servant, and must gratefully resign myself to His will.
Let them arrest me, if they choose; I will say no more in prison than I
have said already on the subject of those poor children."

"But, sir," cried Dagobert, "you see that my wife is out of her head. You
cannot arrest her."

"There is no charge, proof, or indication against the other person whom
you accuse, and whose character should be his protection. If I take your
wife, she may perhaps be restored to you after a preliminary examination.
I regret," added the commissary, in a tone of pity, "to have to execute
such a mission, at the very moment when your son's arrest--"

"What!" cried Dagobert, looking with speechless astonishment at his wife
and Mother Bunch; "what does he say? my son?"

"You were not then aware of it? Oh, sir, a thousand pardons!" said the
magistrate, with painful emotion. "It is distressing to make you such a
communication."

"My son!" repeated Dagobert, pressing his two hands to his forehead. "My
son! arrested!"

"For a political offence of no great moment," said the commissary.

"Oh! this is too much. All comes on me at once!" cried the soldier,
falling overpowered into a chair, and hiding his face with his hands.

After a touching farewell, during which, in spite of her terror, Frances
remained faithful to the vow she had made to the Abbe Dubois--Dagobert,
who had refused to give evidence against his wife, was left leaning upon
a table, exhausted by contending emotions, and could not help explaining:
"Yesterday, I had with me my wife, my son, my two poor orphans--and
now--I am alone--alone!"

The moment he pronounced these words, in a despairing tone, a mild sad
voice was heard close behind him, saying timidly: "M. Dagobert, I am
here; if you will allow me, I will remain and wait upon you."

It was Mother Bunch!

Trusting that the reader's sympathy is with the old soldier thus left
desolate, with Agricola in his prison, Adrienne in hers, the madhouse,
and Rose and Blanche Simon in theirs, the nunnery; we hasten to assure
him (or her, as the case may be), that not only will their future steps
be traced, but the dark machinations of the Jesuits, and the thrilling
scenes in which new characters will perform their varied parts, pervaded
by the watching spirit of the Wandering Jew, will be revealed in Part
Second of this work, entitled: THE CHASTISEMENT.





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