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Title: The Wandering Jew — Complete
Author: Sue, Eugène
Language: English
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THE WANDERING JEW
By Eugene Sue
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR OF THE WANDERING JEW: EUGENE SUE
(1804-1857)
Time and again physicians and seamen have made noteworthy reputations as
novelists. But it is rare in the annals of literature that a man trained
in both professions should have gained his greatest fame as a writer of
novels. Eugene Sue began his career as a physician and surgeon, and then
spent six years in the French Navy. In 1830, when he returned to
France, he inherited his father’s rich estate and was free to follow
his inclination to write. His first novel, “Plick et Plock”, met with
an unexpected success, and he at once foreswore the arts of healing and
navigation for the precarious life of a man of letters. With varying
success he produced books from his inexhaustible store of personal
experiences as a doctor and sailor. In 1837, he wrote an authoritative
work on the French Navy, “Histoire de la marine Francaise”.
More and more the novel appealed to his imagination and suited his
gifts. His themes ranged from the fabulous to the strictly historical,
and he became popular as a writer of romance and fictionized fact.
His plays, however, were persistent failures. When he published “The
Mysteries of Paris”, his national fame was assured, and with the writing
of “The Wandering Jew” he achieved world-wide renown. Then, at the
height of his literary career, Eugene Sue was driven into exile after
Louis Napoleon overthrew the Constitutional Government in a coup d’etat
and had himself officially proclaimed Emperor Napoleon III. The author
of “The Wandering Jew” died in banishment five years later.
Book I.
Part First.--The Transgression.
Prologue.--The Lands End of the World.
I. Morok
II. The Travellers
III. The Arrival
IV. Morok and Dagobert
V. Rose and Blanche
VI. The Secret
VII. The Traveller
VIII. Extracts from General Simon’s Diary
IX. The Cages
X. The Surprise
XI. Jovial and Death
XII. The Burgomaster
XIII. The Judgment
XIV. The Decision
XV. The Despatches
XVI. The Orders
Book II.
Interval.--The Wandering Jew’s Sentence.
XVII. The Ajoupa
XVIII. The Tattooing
XIX. The Smuggler
XX. M. Joshua Van Dael
XXI. The Ruins of Tchandi
XXII. The Ambuscade
XXIII. M. Rodin
XXIV. The Tempest
XXV. The Shipwreck
XXVI. The Departure for Paris
XXVII. Dagobert’s Wife
XXVIII. The Sister of the Bacchanal Queen
XXIX. Agricola Baudoin
XXX. The Return
XXXI. Agricola and Mother Bunch
XXXII. The Awakening
XXXIII. The Pavilion
XXXIV. Adrienne at her Toilet
XXXV. The Interview
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
Book IV.
Part Second.--The Chastisement.
Prologue.--The Bird’s-Eye View of Two Worlds.
I. The Masquerade
II. The Contrast
III. The Carouse
IV. The Farewell
V. The Florine
VI. Mother Sainte-Perpetue
VII. The Temptation
VIII. Mother Bunch and Mdlle. De Cardoville
IX. The Encounters--The Meeting
XI. Discoveries
XII. The Penal Code
XIII. Burglary
Book V.
XIV. The Eve of a Great Day
XV. The Thug
XVI. The Two Brothers of the Good Work
XVII. The House in the Rue Saint-Francois
XVIII. Debit and Credit
XIX. The Heir
XX. The Rupture
XXI. The Change
XXII. The Red Room
XXIII. The Testament
XXIV. The Last Stroke of Noon
XXV. The Deed of Gift
Book VI.
Part Second.--The Chastisement. (Concluded.)
XXVI. A Good Genius
XXVII. The First Last, And the Last First
XXVIII. The Stranger
XXIX. The Den
XXX. An Unexpected Visit
XXXI. Friendly Services
XXXII. The Advice
XXXIII. The Accuser
XXXIV. Father d’Aigrigny’s Secretary
XXXV. Sympathy
XXXVI. Suspicions
XXXVII. Excuses
XXXVIII. Revelations
XXXIX. Pierre Simon
Book VII.
XL. The East Indian in Paris
XLI. Rising
XLII. Doubts
XLIII. The Letter
XLIV. Adrienne and Djalma
XLV. The Consultation
XLVI. Mother Bunch’s Diary
XLVII. The Diary Continued
XLVIII. The Discovery
XLIX. The Trysting-Place of the Wolves
L. The Common Dwelling-House
LI. The Secret
LII. Revelations
Book VIII.
Part Third.--The Redemption.
I. The Wandering Jew’s Chastisement
II. The Descendants of the Wandering Jew
III. The Attack
IV. The Wolves and the Devourers
V. The Return
VI. The Go-Between
VII. Another Secret
VIII. The Confession
IX. Love
X. The Execution
XI. The Champs-Elysees
XII. Behind the Scenes
XIII. Up with the Curtain
XIV. Death
Book IX.
XV. The Constant Wanderer
XVI. The Luncheon
XVII. Rendering the Account
XVIII. The Square of Notre Dame
XIX. The Cholera Masquerade
XX. The Defiance
XXI. Brandy to the Rescue
XXII. Memories
XXIII. The Poisoner
XXIV. In the Cathedral
XXV. The Murderers
XXVI. The Patient
XXVII. The Lure
XXVIII. Good News
XXIX. The Operation
XXX. The Torture
XXXI. Vice and Virtue
XXXII. Suicide
Book X.
XXXIII. Confessions
XXXIV. More Confessions
XXXV. The Rivals
XXXVI. The Interview
XXXVII. Soothing Words
XXXVIII. The Two Carriages
XXXIX. The Appointment
XL. Anxiety
XLI. Adrienne and Djalma
XLII. “The Imitation”
XLIII. Prayer
XLIV. Remembrances
XLV. The Blockhead
XLVI. The Anonymous Letters
XLVII. The Golden City
XLVIII. The Stung Lion
XLIX. The Test
Book XI.
L. The Ruins of the Abbey of St. John the Baptist
LI. The Calvary
LII. The Council
LIII. Happiness
LIV. Duty
LV. The Improvised Hospital
LVI. Hydrophobia
LVII. The Guardian Angel
LVIII. Ruin
LIX. Memories
LX. The Ordeal
LXI. Ambition
LXII. To a Socius, a Socius and a Half
LXIII. Faringhea’s Affection
LXIV. An Evening at St. Colombe’s
LXV. The Nuptial Bed
LXVI. A Duel to the Death
LXVII. A Message
LXVIII. The First of June
Epilogue.
I. Four Years After
II. The Redemption
THE WANDERING JEW.
First Part.--The Transgression.
Prologue.
The Land’s End of Two Worlds.
The Arctic Ocean encircles with a belt of eternal ice the desert
confines of Siberia and North America--the uttermost limits of the Old
and New worlds, separated by the narrow, channel, known as Behring’s
Straits.
The last days of September have arrived.
The equinox has brought with it darkness and Northern storms, and night
will quickly close the short and dismal polar day. The sky of a dull
and leaden blue is faintly lighted by a sun without warmth, whose
white disk, scarcely seen above the horizon, pales before the dazzling,
brilliancy of the snow that covers, as far as the eyes can reach, the
boundless steppes.
To the North, this desert is bounded by a ragged coast, bristling with
huge black rocks.
At the base of this Titanic mass lied enchained the petrified ocean,
whose spell-bound waves appear fired as vast ranges of ice mountains,
their blue peaks fading away in the far-off frost smoke, or snow vapor.
Between the twin-peaks of Cape East, the termination of Siberia, the
sullen sea is seen to drive tall icebergs across a streak of dead green.
There lies Behring’s Straits.
Opposite, and towering over the channel, rise the granite masses of Cape
Prince of Wales, the headland of North America.
These lonely latitudes do not belong to the habitable world; for the
piercing cold shivers the stones, splits the trees, and causes the earth
to burst asunder, which, throwing forth showers of icy spangles seems
capable of enduring this solitude of frost and tempest, of famine and
death.
And yet, strange to say, footprints may be traced on the snow, covering
these headlands on either side of Behring’s Straits.
On the American shore, the footprints are small and light, thus
betraying the passage of a woman.
She has been hastening up the rocky peak, whence the drifts of Siberia
are visible.
On the latter ground, footprints larger and deeper betoken the passing
of a man. He also was on his way to the Straits.
It would seem that this man and woman had arrived here from opposite
directions, in hope of catching a glimpse of one another, across the arm
of the sea dividing the two worlds--the Old and the New.
More strange still! the man and the woman have crossed the solitudes
during a terrific storm! Black pines, the growth of centuries, pointing
their bent heads in different parts of the solitude like crosses in a
churchyard, have been uprooted, rent, and hurled aside by the blasts!
Yet the two travellers face this furious tempest, which has plucked up
trees, and pounded the frozen masses into splinters, with the roar of
thunder.
They face it, without for one single instant deviating from the straight
line hitherto followed by them.
Who then are these two beings who advance thus calmly amidst the storms
and convulsions of nature?
Is it by chance, or design, or destiny, that the seven nails in the sole
of the man’s shoe form a cross--thus:
*
* * *
*
*
*
Everywhere he leaves this impress behind him.
On the smooth and polished snow, these footmarks seem imprinted by a
foot of brass on a marble floor.
Night without twilight has soon succeeded day--a night of foreboding
gloom.
The brilliant reflection of the snow renders the white steppes still
visible beneath the azure darkness of the sky; and the pale stars
glimmer on the obscure and frozen dome.
Solemn silence reigns.
But, towards the Straits, a faint light appears.
At first, a gentle, bluish light, such as precedes moonrise; it
increases in brightness, and assumes a ruddy hue.
Darkness thickens in every other direction; the white wilds of the
desert are now scarcely visible under the black vault of the firmament.
Strange and confused noises are heard amidst this obscurity.
They sound like the flight of large night--birds--now flapping
now-heavily skimming over the steppes-now descending.
But no cry is heard.
This silent terror heralds the approach of one of those imposing
phenomena that awe alike the most ferocious and the most harmless, of
animated beings. An Aurora Borealis (magnificent sight!) common in the
polar regions, suddenly beams forth.
A half circle of dazzling whiteness becomes visible in the horizon.
Immense columns of light stream forth from this dazzling centre, rising
to a great height, illuminating earth, sea, and sky. Then a brilliant
reflection, like the blaze of a conflagration, steals over the snow of
the desert, purples the summits of the mountains of ice, and imparts a
dark red hue to the black rocks of both continents.
After attaining this magnificent brilliancy, the Northern Lights fade
away gradually, and their vivid glow is lost in a luminous fog.
Just then, by a wondrous mirage an effect very common in high latitudes,
the American Coast, though separated from Siberia by a broad arm of the
sea, loomed so close that a bridge might seemingly be thrown from one
world to other.
Then human forms appeared in the transparent azure haze overspreading
both forelands.
On the Siberian Cape, a man on his knees, stretched his arms towards
America, with an expression of inconceivable despair.
On the American promontory, a young and handsome woman replied to the
man’s despairing gesture by pointing to heaven.
For some seconds, these two tall figures stood out, pale and shadowy, in
the farewell gleams of the Aurora.
But the fog thickens, and all is lost in the darkness.
Whence came the two beings, who met thus amidst polar glaciers, at the
extremities of the Old and New worlds?
Who were the two creatures, brought near for a moment by a deceitful
mirage, but who seemed eternally separated?
CHAPTER I. MOROK.
The month of October, 1831, draws to its close.
Though it is still day, a brass lamp, with four burners, illumines the
cracked walls of a large loft, whose solitary window is closed against
outer light. A ladder, with its top rungs coming up through an open trap
leads to it.
Here and there at random on the floor lie iron chains, spiked collars,
saw-toothed snaffles, muzzles bristling with nails, and long iron rods
set in wooden handles. In one corner stands a portable furnace, such as
tinkers use to melt their spelter; charcoal and dry chips fill it, so
that a spark would suffice to kindle this furnace in a minute.
Not far from this collection of ugly instruments, putting one in mind
of a torturer’s kit of tools, there are some articles of defence and
offence of a bygone age. A coat of mail, with links so flexible, close,
and light, that it resembles steel tissue, hangs from a box beside iron
cuishes and arm-pieces, in good condition, even to being properly fitted
with straps. A mace, and two long three-cornered-headed pikes, with ash
handles, strong, and light at the same time; spotted with lately-shed
blood, complete the armory, modernized somewhat by the presence of two
Tyrolese rifles, loaded and primed.
Along with this arsenal of murderous weapons and out-of-date
instruments, is strangely mingled a collection of very different
objects, being small glass-lidded boxes, full of rosaries, chaplets,
medals, AGNUS DEI, holy water bottles, framed pictures of saints, etc.,
not to forget a goodly number of those chapbooks, struck off in Friburg
on coarse bluish paper, in which you can hear about miracles of our own
time, or “Jesus Christ’s Letter to a true believer,” containing awful
predictions, as for the years 1831 and ‘32, about impious revolutionary
France.
One of those canvas daubs, with which strolling showmen adorn their
booths, hangs from a rafter, no doubt to prevent its being spoilt by too
long rolling up. It bore the following legend:
“THE DOWNRIGHT TRUE AND MOST MEMORABLE CONVERSION OF IGNATIUS MOROK,
KNOWN AS THE PROPHET, HAPPENING IN FRIBURG, 1828TH YEAR OF GRACE.”
This picture, of a size larger than natural, of gaudy color, and in bad
taste, is divided into three parts, each presenting an important phase
in the life of the convert, surnamed “The Prophet.” In the first, behold
a long-bearded man, the hair almost white, with uncouth face, and clad
in reindeer skin, like the Siberian savage. His black foreskin cap is
topped with a raven’s head; his features express terror. Bent forward in
his sledge, which half-a-dozen huge tawny dogs draw over the snow, he
is fleeing from the pursuit of a pack of foxes, wolves, and big bears,
whose gaping jaws, and formidable teeth, seem quite capable of devouring
man, sledge, and dogs, a hundred times over. Beneath this section,
reads:
“IN 1810, MOROK, THE IDOLATER, FLED FROM WILD BEASTS.”
In the second picture, Morok, decently clad in a catechumen’s white gown
kneels, with clasped hands, to a man who wears a white neckcloth, and
flowing black robe. In a corner, a tall angel, of repulsive aspect,
holds a trumpet in one hand, and flourishes a flaming sword with the
other, while the words which follow flow out of his mouth, in red
letters on a black ground:
“MOROK, THE IDOLATER, FLED FROM WILD BEASTS; BUT WILD BEASTS WILL FLEE
FROM IGNATIUS MOROK, CONVERTED AND BAPTIZED IN FRIBURG.”
Thus, in the last compartment, the new convert proudly, boastfully, and
triumphantly parades himself in a flowing robe of blue; head up, left
arm akimbo, right hand outstretched, he seems to scare the wits out of a
multitude of lions, tigers, hyenas, and bears, who, with sheathed claws,
and masked teeth, crouch at his feet, awestricken, and submissive.
Under this, is the concluding moral:
“IGNATIUS MOROK BEING CONVERTED, WILD BEASTS CROUCH BEFORE HIM.”
Not far from this canvas are several parcels of halfpenny books,
likewise from the Friburg press, which relate by what an astounding
miracle Morok, the Idolater, acquired a supernatural power almost
divine, the moment he was converted--a power which the wildest animal
could not resist, and which was testified to every day by the lion
tamer’s performances, “given less to display his courage than to show
his praise unto the Lord.”
Through the trap-door which opens into the loft, reek up puffs of a
rank, sour, penetrating odor. From time to time are heard sonorous
growls and deep breathings, followed by a dull sound, as of great bodies
stretching themselves heavily along the floor.
A man is alone in this loft. It is Morok, the tamer of wild beasts,
surnamed the Prophet.
He is forty years old, of middle height, with lank limbs, and an
exceedingly spare frame; he is wrapped in a long, blood-red pelisse,
lined with black fur; his complexion, fair by nature is bronzed by the
wandering life he has led from childhood; his hair, of that dead yellow
peculiar to certain races of the Polar countries, falls straight
and stiff down his shoulders; and his thin, sharp, hooked nose, and
prominent cheek-bones, surmount a long beard, bleached almost to
whiteness. Peculiarly marking the physiognomy of this man is the wide
open eye, with its tawny pupil ever encircled by a rim of white.
This fixed, extraordinary look, exercises a real fascination over
animals--which, however, does not prevent the Prophet from also
employing, to tame them, the terrible arsenal around him.
Seated at a table, he has just opened the false bottom of a box, filled
with chaplets and other toys, for the use of the devout. Beneath this
false bottom, secured by a secret lock, are several sealed envelopes,
with no other address than a number, combined with a letter of the
alphabet. The Prophet takes one of these packets, conceals it in the
pocket of his pelisse, and, closing the secret fastening of the false
bottom, replaces the box upon a shelf.
This scene occurs about four o’clock in the afternoon, in the White
Falcon, the only hostelry in the little village of Mockern, situated
near Leipsic, as you come from the north towards France.
After a few moments, the loft is shaken by a hoarse roaring from below.
“Judas! be quiet!” exclaims the Prophet, in a menacing tone, as he turns
his head towards the trap door.
Another deep growl is heard, formidable as distant thunder.
“Lie down, Cain!” cries Morok, starting from his seat.
A third roar, of inexpressible ferocity, bursts suddenly on the ear.
“Death! Will you have done,” cries the Prophet, rushing towards the trap
door, and addressing a third invisible animal, which bears this ghastly
name.
Notwithstanding the habitual authority of his voice--notwithstanding
his reiterated threats--the brute-tamer cannot obtain silence: on the
contrary, the barking of several dogs is soon added to the roaring of
the wild beasts. Morok seizes a pike, and approaches the ladder; he is
about to descend, when he sees some one issuing from the aperture.
The new-comer has a brown, sun-burnt face; he wears a gray hat, bell
crowned and broad-brimmed, with a short jacket, and wide trousers of
green cloth; his dusty leathern gaiters show that he has walked some
distance; a game-bag is fastened by straps to his back.
“The devil take the brutes!” cried he, as he set foot on the floor;
“one would think they’d forgotten me in three days. Judas thrust his paw
through the bars of his cage, and Death danced like a fury. They don’t
know me any more, it seems?”
This was said in German. Morok answered in the same language, but with a
slightly foreign accent.
“Good or bad news, Karl?” he inquired, with some uneasiness.
“Good news.”
“You’ve met them!”
“Yesterday; two leagues from Wittenberg.”
“Heaven be praised!” cried Morok, clasping his hands with intense
satisfaction.
“Oh, of course, ‘tis the direct road from Russia to France, ‘twas a
thousand to one that we should find them somewhere between Wittenberg
and Leipsic.”
“And the description?”
“Very close: two young girls in mourning; horse, white; the old man has
long moustache, blue forage-cap; gray topcoat and a Siberian dog at his
heels.”
“And where did you leave them?”
“A league hence. They will be here within the hour.”
“And in this inn--since it is the only one in the village,” said Morok,
with a pensive air.
“And night drawing on,” added Karl.
“Did you get the old man to talk?”
“Him!--you don’t suppose it!”
“Why not?”
“Go, and try yourself.”
“And for what reason?”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible--why?”
“You shall know all about it. Yesterday, as if I had fallen in with
them by chance, I followed them to the place where they stopped for the
night. I spoke in German to the tall old man, accosting him, as is usual
with wayfarers, ‘Good-day, and a pleasant journey, comrade!’ But, for an
answer, he looked askant at me, and pointed with, the end of his stick
to the other side of the road.”
“He is a Frenchman, and, perhaps, does not understand German.”
“He speaks it, at least as well as you; for at the inn I heard him ask
the host for whatever he and the young girls wanted.”
“And did you not again attempt to engage him in conversation?”
“Once only; but I met with such a rough reception, that for fear of
making mischief, I did not try again. Besides, between ourselves, I can
tell you this man has a devilish ugly look; believe me, in spite of his
gray moustache, he looks so vigorous and resolute, though with no more
flesh on him than a carcass, that I don’t know whether he or my mate
Giant Goliath, would have the best of it in a struggle. I know not your
plans: only take care, master--take care!”
“My black panther of Java was also very vigorous and very vicious,” said
Morok, with a grim, disdainful, smile.
“What, Death? Yes; in truth; and she is vigorous and vicious as ever.
Only to you she is almost mild.”
“And thus I will break this tall old man; notwithstanding his strength
and surliness.”
“Humph! humph! be on your guard, master. You are clever, you are as
brave as any one; but, believe me, you will never make a lamb out of the
old wolf that will be here presently.”
“Does not my lion, Cain--does not my tiger, Judas, crouch in terror
before me?”
“Yes, I believe you there--because you have means--”
“Because I have faith: that is all--and it is all,” said Morok,
imperiously interrupting Karl, and accompanying these words with such a
look, that the other hung his head and was silent.
“Why should not he whom the Lord upholds in his struggle with wild
beasts, be also upheld in his struggle with men, when those men are
perverse and impious?” added the Prophet, with a triumphant, inspired
air.
Whether from belief in his master’s conviction, or from inability to
engage in a controversy with him on so delicate a subject, Karl answered
the Prophet, humbly: “you are wiser than I am, master; what you do must
be well done.”
“Did you follow this old man and these two young girls all day long?”
resumed the Prophet, after a moment’s silence.
“Yes; but at a distance. As I know the country well, I sometimes cut
across a valley, sometimes over a hill, keeping my eye upon the road,
where they were always to be seen. The last time I saw them, I was hid
behind the water-mill by the potteries. As they were on the highway for
this place, and night was drawing on, I quickened my pace to get here
before them, and be the bearer of what you call good news.”
“Very good--yes--very good: and you shall be rewarded; for if these
people had escaped me--”
The Prophet started, and did not conclude the sentence. The expression
of his face, and the tones of his voice, indicated the importance of the
intelligence which had just been brought him.
“In truth,” rejoined Karl, “it may be worth attending to; for that
Russian courier, all plastered with lace, who came, without slacking
bridle, from St. Petersburg to Leipsic, only to see you, rode so fast,
perhaps, for the purpose--”
Morok abruptly interrupted Karl, and said:
“Who told you that the arrival of the courier had anything to do with
these travellers? You are mistaken; you should only know what I choose
to tell you.”
“Well, master, forgive me, and let’s say no more about it. So! I will
get rid of my game-bag, and go help Goliath to feed the brutes, for
their supper time draws near, if it is not already past. Does our big
giant grow lazy, master?”
“Goliath is gone out; he must not know that you are returned; above all,
the tall old man and the maidens must not see you here--it would make
them suspect something.”
“Where do you wish me to go, then?”
“Into the loft, at the end of the stable, and wait my orders; you may
this night have to set out for Leipsic.”
“As you please; I have some provisions left in my pouch, and can sup in
the loft whilst I rest myself.”
“Go.”
“Master, remember what I told you. Beware of that old fellow with
the gray moustache; I think he’s devilish tough; I’m up to these
things--he’s an ugly customer--be on your guard!”
“Be quite easy! I am always on my guard,” said Morok.
“Then good luck to you, master!”--and Karl, having reached the ladder,
suddenly disappeared.
After making a friendly farewell gesture to his servant, the Prophet
walked up and down for some time, with an air of deep meditation; then,
approaching the box which contained the papers, he took out a pretty
long letter, and read it over and over with profound attention. From
time to time he rose and went to the closed window, which looked upon
the inner court of the inn, and appealed to listen anxiously; for he
waited with impatience the arrival of the three persons whose approach
had just been announced to him.
CHAPTER II. THE TRAVELLERS.
While the above scene was passing in the White Falcon at Mockern, the
three persons whose arrival Morok was so anxiously expecting, travelled
on leisurely in the midst of smiling meadows, bounded on one side by
a river, the current of which turned a mill; and on the other by the
highway leading to the village, which was situated on an eminence, at
about a league’s distance.
The sky was beautifully serene; the bubbling of the river, beaten by the
mill-wheel and sparkling with foam, alone broke upon the silence of an
evening profoundly calm. Thick willows, bending over the river, covered
it with their green transparent shadow; whilst, further on, the stream
reflected so splendidly the blue heavens and the glowing tints of the
west, that, but for the hills which rose between it and the sky, the
gold and azure of the water would have mingled in one dazzling sheet
with the gold and azure of the firmament. The tall reeds on the bank
bent their black velvet heads beneath the light breath of the breeze
that rises at the close of day--for the sun was gradually sinking behind
a broad streak of purple clouds, fringed with fire. The tinkling bells
of a flock of sheep sounded from afar in the clear and sonorous air.
Along a path trodden in the grass of the meadow, two girls, almost
children--for they had but just completed their fifteenth year--were
riding on a white horse of medium size, seated upon a large saddle with
a back to it, which easily took them both in, for their figures were
slight and delicate.
A man of tall stature, with a sun-burnt face, and long gray moustache,
was leading the horse by the bridle, and ever and anon turned towards
the girls, with an air of solicitude at once respectful and paternal. He
leaned upon a long staff; his still robust shoulders carried a soldier’s
knapsack; his dusty shoes, and step that began to drag a little, showed
that he had walked a long way.
One of those dogs which the tribes of Northern Siberia harness to their
sledges--a sturdy animal, nearly of the size, form, and hairy coat of
the wolf--followed closely in the steps of the leader of this little
caravan, never quitting, as it is commonly said, the heels of his
master.
Nothing could be more charming than the group formed by the girls. One
held with her left hand the flowing reins, and with her right encircled
the waist of her sleeping sister, whose head reposed on her shoulder.
Each step of the horse gave a graceful swaying to these pliant forms,
and swung their little feet, which rested on a wooden ledge in lieu of a
stirrup.
These twin sisters, by a sweet maternal caprice, had been called Rose
and Blanche; they were now orphans, as might be seen by their sad
mourning vestments, already much worn. Extremely, like in feature, and
of the same size, it was necessary to be in the constant habit of seeing
them, to distinguish one from the other. The portrait of her who slept
not, might serve them for both of them; the only difference at the
moment being, that Rose was awake and discharging for that day the
duties of elder sister--duties thus divided between then, according to
the fancy of their guide, who, being an old soldier of the empire, and a
martinet, had judged fit thus to alternate obedience and command between
the orphans.
Greuze would have been inspired by the sight of those sweet faces,
coifed in close caps of black velvet, from beneath which strayed a
profusion of thick ringlets of a light chestnut color, floating down
their necks and shoulders, and setting, as in a frame, their round,
firm, rosy, satin like cheeks. A carnation, bathed in dew, is of no
richer softness than their blooming lips; the wood violet’s tender blue
would appear dark beside the limpid azure of their large eyes, in which
are depicted the sweetness of their characters, and the innocence of
their age; a pure and white forehead, small nose, dimpled chin, complete
these graceful countenances, which present a delightful blending of
candor and gentleness.
You should have seen them too, when, on the threatening of rain or
storm, the old soldier carefully wrapped them both in a large pelisse
of reindeer fur, and pulled over their heads the ample hood of this
impervious garment; then nothing could be more lovely than those fresh
and smiling little faces, sheltered beneath the dark-colored cowl.
But now the evening was fine and calm; the heavy cloak hung in folds
about the knees of the sisters, and the hood rested on the back of their
saddle.
Rose, still encircling with her right arm the waist of her sleeping
sister, contemplated her with an expression of ineffable tenderness,
akin to maternal; for Rose was the eldest for the day, and an elder
sister is almost a mother.
Not only, did the orphans idolize each other; but, by a psychological
phenomenon, frequent with twins, they were almost always simultaneously
affected; the emotion of one was reflected instantly in the countenance
of the other; the same cause would make both of them start or blush, so
closely did their young hearts beat in unison; all ingenuous joys, all
bitter griefs were mutually felt, and shared in a moment between them.
In their infancy, simultaneously attacked by a severe illness, like two
flowers on the same steam, they had drooped, grown pale, and languished
together; but together also had they again found the pure, fresh hues of
health.
Need it be said, that those mysterious, indissoluble links which united
the twins, could not have been broken without striking a mortal blow at
the existence of the poor children?
Thus the sweet birds called love-birds, only living in pairs, as if
endowed with a common life, pine, despond, and die, when parted by a
barbarous hand.
The guide of the orphans, a man of about fifty-five, distinguished by
his military air and gait, preserved the immortal type of the warriors
of the republic and the empire--some heroic of the people, who became,
in one campaign, the first soldiers in the world--to prove what the
people can do, have done, and will renew, when the rulers of their
choice place in them confidence, strength, and their hope.
This soldier, guide of the sisters, and formerly a horse-grenadier
of the Imperial Guard, had been nicknamed Dagobert. His grave, stern
countenance was strongly marked; his long, gray, and thick moustache
completely concealed his upper lip, and united with a large imperial,
which almost covered his chin; his meagre cheeks, brick-colored, and
tanned as parchment, were carefully shaven; thick eyebrows, still black,
overhung and shaded his light blue eyes; gold ear-rings reached down to
his white-edged military stock; his topcoat, of coarse gray cloth, was
confined at the waist by a leathern belt; and a blue foraging cap, with
a red tuft falling on his left shoulder, covered his bald head.
Once endowed with the strength of Hercules, and having still the
heart of a lion--kind and patient, because he was courageous and
strong--Dagobert, notwithstanding his rough exterior, evinced for his
orphan charges an exquisite solicitude, a watchful kindness, and a
tenderness almost maternal. Yes, motherly; for the heroism of affection
dwells alike in the mother’s heart and the soldiers.
Stoically calm, and repressing all emotion, the unchangeable coolness of
Dagobert never failed him; and, though few were less given to drollery,
he was now and then highly comic, by reason of the imperturbable gravity
with which he did everything.
From time to time, as they journeyed on, Dagobert would turn to bestow
a caress or friendly word on the good white home upon which the orphans
were mounted. Its furrowed sides and long teeth betrayed a venerable
age. Two deep scars, one on the flank and the other on the chest, proved
that his horse had been present in hot battles; nor was it without an
act of pride that he sometimes shook his old military bridle, the brass
stud of which was still adorned with an embossed eagle. His pace was
regular, careful, and steady; his coat sleek, and his bulk moderate; the
abundant foam, which covered his bit, bore witness to that health which
horses acquire by the constant, but not excessive, labor of a long
journey, performed by short stages. Although he had been more than six
months on the road, this excellent animal carried the orphans, with a
tolerably heavy portmanteau fastened to the saddle, as freely as on the
day they started.
If we have spoken of the excessive length of the horse’s teeth--the
unquestionable evidence of great age--it is chiefly because he often
displayed them, for the sole purpose of acting up to his name (he was
called Jovial), by playing a mischievous trick, of which the dog was the
victim.
This latter, who, doubtless for the sake of contrast, was called
Spoil-sport (Rabat-joie), being always at his master’s heels, found
himself within the reach of Jovial, who from time to time nipped him
delicately by the nape of the neck, lifted him from the ground, and
carried him thus for a moment. The dog, protected by his thick coat,
and no doubt long accustomed to the practical jokes of his companion,
submitted to all this with stoical complacency; save that, when he
thought the jest had lasted long enough, he would turn his head and
growl. Jovial understood him at the first hint, and hastened to set him
down again. At other times, just to avoid monotony, Jovial would gently
bite the knapsack of the soldier, who seemed, as well as the dog, to be
perfectly accustomed to his pleasantries.
These details will give a notion of the excellent understanding that
existed between the twin sisters, the old soldier, the horse, and the
dog.
The little caravan proceeded on its ways anxious to reach, before night,
the village of Mockern, which was now visible on the summit of a hill.
Ever and anon, Dagobert looked around him, and seemed to be gathering up
old recollections; by degrees, his countenance became clouded, and
when he was at a little distance from the mill, the noise of which had
arrested his attention, he stopped, and drew his long moustache several
times between his finger and thumb, the only sign which revealed in him
any strong and concentrated feeling.
Jovial, having stopped short behind his master, Blanche, awakened
suddenly by the shock, raised her head; her first look sought her
sister, on whom she smiled sweetly; then both exchanged glances of
surprise, on seeing Dagobert motionless, with his hands clasped and
resting on his long staff, apparently affected by some painful and deep
emotion.
The orphans just chanced to be at the foot of a little mound, the summit
of which was buried in the thick foliage of a huge oak, planted half
way down the slope. Perceiving that Dagobert continued motionless and
absorbed in thought, Rose leaned over her saddle, and, placing her
little white hand on the shoulder of their guide, whose back was turned
towards her, said to him, in a soft voice, “Whatever is the matter with
you, Dagobert?”
The veteran turned; to the great astonishment of the sisters, they
perceived a large tear, which traced its humid furrow down his tanned
cheek, and lost itself in his thick moustache.
“You weeping--you!” cried Rose and Blanche together, deeply moved. “Tell
us, we beseech, what is the matter?”
After a moments hesitation, the soldier brushed his horny hand across
his eyes, and said to the orphans in a faltering voice, whilst he
pointed to the old oak beside them: “I shall make you sad, my poor
children: and yet what I’m going to tell you has something sacred in it.
Well, eighteen years ago, on the eve of the great battle of Leipsic,
I carried your father to this very tree. He had two sabre-cuts on the
head, a musket ball in his shoulder; and it was here that he and I--who
had got two thrust of a lance for my share--were taken prisoners; and by
whom, worse luck?--why, a renegado! By a Frenchman--an emigrant marquis,
then colonel in the service of Russia--and who afterwards--but one day
you shall know all.”
The veteran paused; then, pointing with his staff to the village of
Mockern, he added: “Yes, yes, I can recognize the spot. Yonder are the
heights where your brave father--who commanded us, and the Poles of
the Guard--overthrew the Russian Cuirassiers, after having carried
the battery. Ah, my children!” continued the soldier, with the utmost
simplicity, “I wish you had, seen your brave father, at the head of our
brigade of horse, rushing on in a desperate charge in the thick of a
shower of shells!--There was nothing like it--not a soul so grand as
he!”
Whilst Dagobert thus expressed, in his own way, his regrets and
recollections, the two orphans--by a spontaneous movement, glided gently
from the horse, and holding each other by the hand, went together to
kneel at the foot of the old oak. And there, closely pressed in each
other’s arms, they began to weep; whilst the soldier, standing behind
them, with his hands crossed on his long staff, rested his bald front
upon it.
“Come, come you must not fret,” said he softly, when, after a pause of
a few minutes, he saw tears run down the blooming cheeks of Rose and
Blanche, still on their knees. “Perhaps we may find General Simon in
Paris,” added he; “I will explain all that to you this evening at the
inn. I purposely waited for this day, to tell you many things about
your father; it was an idea of mine, because this day is a sort of
anniversary.”
“We weep because we think also of our mother,” said Rose.
“Of our mother, whom we shall only see again in heaven,” added Blanche.
The soldier raised the orphans, took each by the hand, and gazing from
one to the other with ineffable affection, rendered still the more
touching by the contrast of his rude features, “You must not give way
thus, my children,” said he; “it is true your mother was the best of
women. When she lived in Poland, they called her the Pearl of Warsaw--it
ought to have been the Pearl of the Whole World--for in the whole world
you could not have found her match. No--no!”
The voice of Dagobert faltered; he paused, and drew his long gray
moustache between finger and thumb, as was his habit. “Listen, my
girls,” he resumed, when he had mastered his emotion; “your mother could
give you none but the best advice, eh?”
“Yes Dagobert.”
“Well, what instructions did she give you before she died? To think
often of her, but without grieving?”
“It is true; she told us than our Father in heaven, always good to poor
mothers whose children are left on earth, would permit her to hear us
from above,” said Blanche.
“And that her eyes would be ever fixed upon us,” added Rose.
And the two, by a spontaneous impulse, replete with the most touching
grace, joined hands, raised their innocent looks to heaven, and
exclaimed, with that beautiful faith natural to their age: “Is it not
so, mother?--thou seest us?--thou hearest us?”
“Since your mother sees and hears you,” said Dagobert, much moved, “do
not grieve her by fretting. She forbade you to do so.”
“You are right, Dagobert. We will not cry any more.”--And the orphans
dried their eyes.
Dagobert, in the opinion of the devout, would have passed for a very
heathen. In Spain, he had found pleasure in cutting down those monks of
all orders and colors, who, bearing crucifix in one hand, and poniard
in the other, fought not for liberty--the Inquisition had strangled her
centuries ago--but, for their monstrous privileges. Yet, in forty years,
Dagobert had witnessed so many sublime and awful scenes--he had been
so many times face to face with death--that the instinct of natural
religion, common to every simple, honest heart, had always remained
uppermost in his soul. Therefore, though he did not share in the
consoling faith of the two sisters, he would have held as criminal any
attempt to weaken its influence.
Seeing them this downcast, he thus resumed: “That’s right, my
pretty ones: I prefer to hear you chat as you did this morning and
yesterday--laughing at times, and answering me when I speak, instead of
being so much engrossed with your own talk. Yes, yes, my little ladies!
you seem to have had famous secrets together these last two days--so,
much the better, if it amuses you.”
The sisters colored, and exchanged a subdued smile, which contrasted
with the tears that yet filled their eyes, and Rose said to the soldier,
with a little embarrassment. “No, I assure you, Dagobert, we talk of
nothing in particular.”
“Well, well; I don’t wish to know it. Come, rest yourselves, a few
moments more, and then we must start again; for it grows late, and we
have to reach Mockern before night, so that we may be early on the road
to-morrow.”
“Have we still a long, long way to go?” asked Rose.
“What, to reach Paris? Yes, my children; some hundred days’ march. We
don’t travel quick, but we get on; and we travel cheap, because we have
a light purse. A closet for you, a straw mattress and a blanket at your
door for me, with Spoil-sport on my feet, and a clean litter for old
Jovial, these are our whole traveling expenses. I say nothing about
food, because you two together don’t eat more than a mouse, and I have
learnt in Egypt and Spain to be hungry only when it suits.”
“Not forgetting that, to save still more, you do all the cooking for us,
and will not even let us assist.”
“And to think, good Dagobert, that you wash almost every evening at our
resting-place. As if it were not for us to--”
“You!” said the soldier, interrupting Blanche, “I, allow you to chap
your pretty little hands in soap-suds! Pooh! don’t a soldier on a
campaign always wash his own linen? Clumsy as you see me, I was the best
washerwoman in my squadron--and what a hand at ironing! Not to make a
brag of it.”
“Yes, yes--you can iron well--very well.”
“Only sometimes, there will be a little singe,” said Rose, smiling.
“Hah! when the iron is too hot. Zounds! I may bring it as near my cheek
as I please; my skin is so tough that I don’t feel the heat,” said
Dagobert, with imperturbable gravity.
“We are only jesting, good Dagobert!”
“Then, children, if you think that I know my trade as a washerwoman, let
me continue to have your custom: it is cheaper; and, on a journey, poor
people like us should save where we can, for we must, at all events,
keep enough to reach Paris. Once there, our papers and the medal you
wear will do the rest--I hope so, at least.”
“This medal is sacred to us; mother gave it to us on her death-bed.”
“Therefore, take great care that you do not lose it: see, from time to
time, that you have it safe.”
“Here it is,” said Blanche, as she drew from her bosom a small bronze
medal, which she wore suspended from her neck by a chain of the same
material. The medal bore on its faces the following inscriptions:
Victim
of
L. C. D. J.
Pray for me!
----
Paris
February the, 13th, 1682.
At Paris.
Rue Saint Francois, No. 3,
In a century and a half
you will be.
February the 13th, 1832.
----
PRAY FOR ME!
“What does it mean, Dagobert?” resumed Blanche, as she examined the
mournful inscriptions. “Mother was not able to tell us.”
“We will discuss all that this evening; at the place where we sleep,”
answered Dagobert. “It grows late, let us be moving. Put up the medal
carefully, and away!--We have yet nearly an hour’s march to arrive at
quarters. Come, my poor pets, once more look at the mound where your
brave father fell--and then--to horse! to horse!”
The orphans gave a last pious glance at the spot which had recalled to
their guide such painful recollections, and, with his aid, remounted
Jovial.
This venerable animal had not for one moment dreamed of moving; but,
with the consummate forethought of a veteran, he had made the best use
of his time, by taking from that foreign soil a large contribution of
green and tender grass, before the somewhat envious eyes of Spoil-sport,
who had comfortably established himself in the meadow, with his snout
protruding between his fore-paws. On the signal of departure, the dog
resumed his post behind his master, and Dagobert, trying the ground with
the end of his long staff, led the horse carefully along by the bridle,
for the meadow was growing more and more marshy; indeed, after advancing
a few steps, he was obliged to turn off to the left, in order to regain
the high-road.
On reaching Mockern, Dagobert asked for the least expensive inn, and was
told there was only one in the village--the White Falcon.
“Let us go then to the White Falcon,” observed the soldier.
CHAPTER III. THE ARRIVAL.
Already had Morok several times opened with impatience the window
shutters of the loft, to look out upon the inn-yard, watching for the
arrival of the orphans and the soldier. Not seeing them, he began once
more to walk slowly up and down, with his head bent forward, and his
arms folded on his bosom, meditating on the best means to carry out
the plan he had conceived. The ideas which possessed his mind, were,
doubtless, of a painful character, for his countenance grew even more
gloomy than usual.
Notwithstanding his ferocious appearance, he was by no means deficient
in intelligence. The courage displayed in his taming exercises (which
he gravely attributed to his recent conversion), a solemn and mystical
style of speech, and a hypocritical affectation of austerity, had given
him a species of influence over the people he visited in his travels.
Long before his conversion, as may well be supposed, Morok had been
familiar with the habits of wild beasts. In fact born in the north of
Siberia, he had been, from his boyhood, one of the boldest hunters of
bears and reindeer; later, in 1810, he had abandoned this profession, to
serve as guide to a Russian engineer, who was charged with an exploring
expedition to the Polar regions. He afterwards followed him to St.
Petersburg, and there, after some vicissitudes of fortune, Morok became
one of the imperial couriers--these iron automata, that the least
caprice of the despot hurls in a frail sledge through the immensity of
the empire, from Persia to the Frozen Sea. For these men, who travel
night and day, with the rapidity of lightning there are neither seasons
nor obstacles, fatigues nor danger; living projectiles, they must either
be broken to pieces, or reach the intended mark. One may conceive the
boldness, the vigor, and the resignation, of men accustomed to such a
life.
It is useless to relate here, by what series of singular circumstances
Morok was induced to exchange his rough pursuit for another profession,
and at last to enter, as catechumen, a religious house at Friburg;
after which, being duly and properly converted, he began his nomadic
excursions, with his menagerie of unknown origin.
Morok continued to walk up and down the loft. Night had come. The three
persons whose arrival he so impatiently expected had not yet made their
appearance. His walk became more and more nervous and irregular.
On a sudden he stopped abruptly; leaned his head towards the window; and
listened. His ear was quick as a savage’s.
“They are here!” he exclaimed and his fox like eye shone with diabolic
joy. He had caught the sound of footsteps--a man’s and a horse’s.
Hastening to the window-shutter of the loft, he opened it cautiously,
and saw the two young girls on horseback, and the old soldier who served
them as a guide, enter the inn-yard together.
The night had set in, dark and cloudy; a high wind made the lights
flicker in the lanterns which were used to receive the new guests. But
the description given to Morok had been so exact, that it was impossible
to mistake them. Sure of his prey, he closed the window. Having remained
in meditation for another quarter of an hour--for the purpose, no doubt,
of thoroughly digesting his projects--he leaned over the aperture, from
which projected the ladder, and called, “Goliath!”
“Master!” replied a hoarse voice.
“Come up to me.”
“Here I am--just come from the slaughter-house with the meat.”
The steps of the ladder creaked as an enormous head appeared on a level
with the floor. The new-comer, who was more than six feet high, and
gifted with herculean proportions, had been well-named Goliath. He was
hideous. His squinting eyes were deep set beneath a low and projecting
forehead; his reddish hair and beard, thick and coarse as horse-hair,
gave his features a stamp of bestial ferocity; between his broad jaws,
armed with teeth which resembled fangs, he held by one corner a piece of
raw beef weighing ten or twelve pounds, finding it, no doubt, easier to
carry in that fashion, whilst he used his hands to ascend the ladder,
which bent beneath his weight.
At length the whole of this tall and huge body issued from the aperture.
Judging by his bull-neck, the astonishing breadth of his chest and
shoulders, and the vast bulk of his arms and legs, this giant need not
have feared to wrestle single-handed with a bear. He wore an old pair
of blue trousers with red stripes, faced with tanned sheep’s-skin, and
a vest, or rather cuirass, of thick leather, which was here and there
slashed by the sharp claws of the animals.
When he was fairly on the floor, Goliath unclasped his fangs, opened his
mouth, and let fall the great piece of beef, licking his blood-stained
lips with greediness. Like many other mountebanks, this species of
monster had began by eating raw meat at the fairs for the amusement of
the public. Thence having gradually acquired a taste for this barbarous
food, and uniting pleasure with profit, he engaged himself to perform
the prelude to the exercises of Morok, by devouring, in the presence of
the crowd, several pounds of raw flesh.
“My share and Death’s are below stairs, and here are those of Cain
and Judas,” said Goliath, pointing to the chunk of beef. “Where is
the cleaver, that I may cut it in two?--No preference here--beast or
man--every gullet must have it’s own.”
Then, rolling up one of the sleeves of his vest, he exhibited a fore-arm
hairy as skin of a wolf, and knotted with veins as large as one’s thumb.
“I say, master, where’s the cleaver?”--He again began, as he cast round
his eyes in search of that instrument. But instead of replying to this
inquiry, the Prophet put many questions to his disciple.
“Were you below when just now some new travellers arrived at the inn?”
“Yes, master; I was coming from the slaughter-house.”
“Who are these travellers?”
“Two young lasses mounted on a white horse, and an old fellow with a
big moustache. But the cleaver?--my beasts are hungry and so am I--the
cleaver!”
“Do you know where they have lodged these travellers?”
“The host took them to the far end of the court-yard.”
“The building, which overlooks the fields?”
“Yes, master--but the cleaver--”
A burst of frightful roaring shook the loft, and interrupted Goliath.
“Hark to them!” he exclaimed; “hunger has driven the beasts wild. If I
could roar, I should do as they do. I have never seen Judas and Cain as
they are to-night; they leap in their cages as if they’d knock all to
pieces. As for Death, her eyes shine more than usual like candles--poor
Death!”
“So these girls are lodged in the building at the end of the
court-yard,” resumed Morok, without attending to the observations of
Goliath.
“Yes, yes--but in the devil’s name, where is the cleaver? Since Karl
went away I have to do all the work, and that makes our meals very
late.”
“Did the old man remain with the young girls?” asked Morok.
Goliath, amazed that, notwithstanding his importunities, his master
should still appear to neglect the animals’ supper, regarded the Prophet
with an increase of stupid astonishment.
“Answer, you brute!”
“If I am a brute, I have a brute’s strength,” said Goliath, in a surly
tone, “and brute against brute, I have not always come the worst off.”
“I ask if the old man remained with the girls,” repeated Morok.
“Well, then--no!” returned the giant. “The old man, after leading his
horse to the stable, asked for a tub and some water, took his stand
under the porch--and there--by the light of a lantern--he is washing
out clothes. A man with a gray moustache!--paddling in soap-suds like
a washerwoman--it’s as if I were to feed canaries!” added Goliath,
shrugging his shoulders with disdain. “But now I’ve answered you,
master, let me attend to the beasts’ supper,”--and, looking round for
something, he added, “where is the cleaver?”
After a moment of thoughtful silence, the Prophet said to Goliath, “You
will give no food to the beasts this evening.”
At first the giant could not understand these words, the idea was so
incomprehensible to him.
“What is your pleasure, master?” said he.
“I forbid you to give any food to the beasts this evening.”
Goliath did not answer, but he opened wide his squinting eyes, folded
his hands, and drew back a couple of steps.
“Well, dost hear me?” said Morok, with impatience. “Is it plain enough?”
“Not feed? when our meat is there, and supper is already three hours
after time!” cried Goliath, with ever-increasing amazement.
“Obey, and hold your tongue.”
“You must wish something bad to happen this evening. Hunger makes the
beasts furious--and me also.”
“So much the better!”
“It’ll drive ‘em mad.”
“So much the better!”
“How, so much the better?--But--”
“It is enough!”
“But, devil take me, I am as hungry as the beasts!”
“Eat then--who prevents it? Your supper is ready, as you devour it raw.”
“I never eat without my beasts, nor they without me.”
“I tell you again, that, if you dare give any food to the beasts--I will
turn you away.”
Goliath uttered a low growl as hoarse as a bear’s, and looked at the
Prophet with a mixture of anger and stupefaction.
Morok, having given his orders, walked up and down the loft, appearing
to reflect. Then, addressing himself to Goliath, who was still plunged
in deep perplexity, he said to him.
“Do you remember the burgomaster’s, where I went to get my passport
signed?--To-day his wife bought some books and a chaplet.”
“Yes,” answered the giant shortly.
“Go and ask his servant if I may be sure to find the burgomaster early
to-morrow morning.”
“What for?”
“I may, perhaps, have something important to communicate; at all events,
say that I beg him not to leave home without seeing me.”
“Good! but may I feed the beasts before I go to the burgomaster’s?--only
the panther, who is most hungry? Come, master; only poor Death? just a
little morsel to satisfy her; Cain and I and Judas can wait.”
“It is the panther, above all, that I forbid you to feed. Yes, her,
above all the rest.”
“By the horns of the devil!” cried Goliath, “what is the matter with you
to-day? I can make nothing of it. It is a pity that Karl’s not here; he,
being cunning, would help me to understand why you prevent the beasts
from eating when they are hungry.”
“You have no need to understand it.”
“Will not Karl soon come back?”
“He has already come back.”
“Where is he, then?”
“Off again.”
“What can be going on here? There is something in the wind. Karl goes,
and returns, and goes again, and--”
“We are not talking of Karl, but of you; though hungry as a wolf you
are cunning as a fox, and, when it suits you, as cunning as Karl.” And,
changing on the sudden his tone and manner, Morok slapped the giant
cordially on the shoulder.
“What! am I cunning?”
“The proof is, that there are ten florins to earn to-night--and you will
be keen enough to earn them, I am sure.”
“Why, on those terms, yes--I am awake,” said the giant, smiling with a
stupid, self-satisfied air. “What must I do for ten florins?”
“You shall see.”
“Is it hard work?”
“You shall see. Begin by going to the burgomaster’s--but first light the
fire in that stove.” He pointed to it with his finger.
“Yes, master,” said Goliath, somewhat consoled for the delay of his
supper by the hope of gaining ten florins.
“Put that iron bar in the stove,” added the Prophet, “to make it
red-hot.”
“Yes, master.”
“You will leave it there; go to the burgomaster’s, and return here to
wait for me.”
“Yes, master.
“You will keep the fire up in the stove.”
“Yes, master.”
Morok took a step away, but recollecting himself, he resumed: “You say
the old man is busy washing under the porch?”
“Yes, master.”
“Forget nothing: the iron bar in the fire--the burgomaster--and return
here to wait my orders.” So saying, Morok descended by the trap-door and
disappeared.
CHAPTER IV. MOROK and DAGOBERT
Goliath had not been mistaken, for Dagobert was washing with that
imperturbable gravity with which he did everything else.
When we remember the habits of a soldier a-field, we need not be
astonished at this apparent eccentricity. Dagobert only thought of
sparing the scanty purse of the orphans, and of saving them all care and
trouble; so every evening when they came to a halt he devoted himself
to all sorts of feminine occupations. But he was not now serving his
apprenticeship in these matters; many times, during his campaigns, he
had industriously repaired the damage and disorder which a day of battle
always brings to the garments of the soldier; for it is not enough to
receive a sabre-cut--the soldier has also to mend his uniform; for the
stroke which grazes the skin makes likewise a corresponding fissure in
the cloth.
Therefore, in the evening or on the morrow of a hard-fought engagement,
you will see the best soldiers (always distinguished by their fine
military appearance) take from their cartridge-box or knapsack a
housewife, furnished with needles, thread, scissors, buttons, and other
such gear, and apply themselves to all kinds of mending and darning,
with a zeal that the most industrious workwoman might envy.
We could not find a better opportunity to explain the name of Dagobert,
given to Francis Baudoin (the guide of the orphans) at a time when he
was considered one of the handsomest and bravest horse-grenadiers of the
Imperial Guard.
They had been fighting hard all day, without any decisive advantage. In
the evening, the company to which our hero belonged was sent as outliers
to occupy the ruins of a deserted village. Videttes being posted, half
the troopers remained in saddle, whilst the others, having picketed
their horses, were able to take a little rest. Our hero had charged
valiantly that day without receiving any wound--for he counted as a mere
memento the deep scratch on his thigh, which a kaiserlitz had inflicted
in awkwardly attempting an upward thrust with the bayonet.
“You donkey! my new breeches!” the grenadier had exclaimed, when he
saw the wide yawning rent, which he instantly avenged by running the
Austrian through, with a thrust scientifically administered. For, if he
showed a stoical indifference on the subject of injury to his skin, it
was not so with regard to the ripping up of his best parade uniform.
He undertook, therefore, the same evening, at the bivouac, to repair
this accident. Selecting his best needle and thread from the stores of
his housewife, and arming his finger with a thimble, he began to play
the tailor by the light of the watch-fire, having first drawn off his
cavalry-boots, and also (if it must be confessed) the injured garment
itself, which he turned the wrong side out the better to conceal the
stitches.
This partial undress was certainly a breach of discipline: but the
captain, as he went his round, could not forbear laughing at the sight
of the veteran soldier, who, gravely seated, in a squatting position,
with his grenadier cap on, his regimental coat on his back, his boots
by his side, and his galligaskins in his lap, was sewing with all the
coolness of a tailor upon his own shop-board.
Suddenly, a musket-shot is heard, and the videttes fall back upon the
detachment, calling to arms. “To horse!” cries the captain, in a voice
of thunder.
In a moment, the troopers are in their saddles, the unfortunate clothes
mender having to lead the first rank; there is no time to turn the
unlucky garment, so he slips it on, as well as he can, wrong side out,
and leaps upon his horse, without even stopping to put on his boots.
A party of Cossacks, profiting by the cover of a neighboring wood, had
attempted to surprise the detachment: the fight was bloody, and our hero
foamed with rage, for he set much value on his equipments, and the day
had been fatal to him. Thinking of his torn clothes and lost boots, he
hacked away with more fury than ever; a bright moon illumined the scene
of action, and his comrades were able to appreciate the brilliant valor
of our grenadier, who killed two Cossacks, and took an officer prisoner,
with his own hand.
After this skirmish, in which the detachment had maintained its
position, the captain drew up his men to compliment them on their
success, and ordered the clothes-mender to advance from the ranks, that
he might thank him publicly for his gallant behavior. Our hero could
have dispensed with this ovation, but he was not the less obliged to
obey.
Judge of the surprise of both captain and troopers, when they saw this
tall and stern-looking figure ride forward at a slow pace, with his
naked feet in the stirrups, and naked legs pressing the sides of his
charger.
The captain drew near in astonishment; but recalling the occupation of
the soldier at the moment when the alarm was given, he understood the
whole mystery. “Ha, my old comrade!” he exclaimed, “thou art like King
Dagobert--wearing thy breeches inside out.”
In spite of discipline, this joke of the captain’s was received with
peals of ill-repressed laughter. But our friend, sitting upright in his
saddle, with his left thumb pressing the well adjusted reins, and his
sword-hilt carried close to his right thigh, made a half-wheel, and
returned to his place in the ranks without changing countenance, after
he had duly received the congratulations of his captain. From that day,
Francis Baudoin received and kept the nickname of Dagobert.
Now Dagobert was under the porch of the inn, occupied in washing, to the
great amazement of sundry beer-drinkers, who observed him with curious
eyes from the large common room in which they were assembled.
In truth, it was a curious spectacle. Dagobert had laid aside his gray
top-coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; with a vigorous hand,
and good supply of soap, he was rubbing away at a wet handkerchief,
spread out on the board, the end of which rested in a tub full of
water. Upon his right arm, tattooed with warlike emblems in red and
blue colors, two scars, deep enough to admit the finger, were distinctly
visible. No wonder then, that, while smoking their pipes, and emptying
their pots of beer, the Germans should display some surprise at the
singular occupation of this tall, moustached, bald-headed old man, with
the forbidding countenance--for the features of Dagobert assumed a harsh
and grim expression, when he was no longer in presence of the two girls.
The sustained attention, of which he saw himself the object, began
to put him out of patience, for his employment appeared to him quite
natural. At this moment, the Prophet entered the porch, and, perceiving
the soldier, eyed him attentively for several seconds; then approaching,
he said to him in French, in a rather sly tone: “It would seem, comrade,
that you have not much confidence in the washerwomen of Mockern?”
Dagobert, without discontinuing his work, half turned his head with a
frown, looked askant at the Prophet, and made him no answer.
Astonished at this silence, Morok resumed: “If I do not deceive myself,
you are French, my fine fellow. The words on your arm prove it, and your
military air stamps you as an old soldier of the Empire. Therefore I
find, that, for a hero, you have taken rather late to wear petticoats.”
Dagobert remained mute, but he gnawed his moustache, and plied the soap,
with which he was rubbing the linen, in a most hurried, not to say angry
style; for the face and words of the beast-tamer displeased him
more than he cared to show. Far from being discouraged, the Prophet
continued: “I am sure, my fine fellow, that you are neither deaf nor
dumb; why, then, will you not answer me?”
Losing all patience, Dagobert turned abruptly round, looked Morok full
in the face, and said to him in a rough voice: “I don’t know you: I
don’t wish to know you! Chain up your curb!” And he betook himself again
to his washing.
“But we may make acquaintance. We can drink a glass of Rhine-wine
together, and talk of our campaigns. I also have seen some service, I
assure you; and that, perhaps, will induce you to be more civil.”
The veins on the bald forehead of Dagobert swelled perceptibly; he saw
in the look and accent of the man, who thus obstinately addressed him,
something designedly provoking; still he contained himself.
“I ask you, why should you not drink a glass of wine with me--we could
talk about France. I lived there a long time; it is a fine country; and
when I meet Frenchmen abroad, I feel sociable--particularly when they
know how to use the soap as well as you do. If I had a housewife I’d
send her to your school.”
The sarcastic meaning was no longer disguised; impudence and bravado
were legible in the Prophet’s looks. Thinking that, with such an
adversary, the dispute might become serious, Dagobert, who wished to
avoid a quarrel at any price, carried off his tub to the other end of
the porch, hoping thus to put an end to the scene which was a sore
trial of his temper. A flash of joy lighted up the tawny eyes of the
brute-tamer. The white circle, which surrounded the pupil seemed to
dilate. He ran his crooked fingers two or three times through his yellow
beard, in token of satisfaction; then he advanced slowly towards the
soldier, accompanied by several idlers from the common-room.
Notwithstanding his coolness, Dagobert, amazed and incensed at the
impudent pertinacity of the Prophet, was at first disposed to break
the washing-board on his head; but, remembering the orphans, he thought
better of it.
Folding his arms upon his breast, Morok said to him, in a dry and
insolent tone: “It is very certain you are not civil, my man of suds!”
Then, turning to the spectators, he continued in German: “I tell this
Frenchman, with his long moustache, that he is not civil. We shall
see what answer he’ll make. Perhaps it will be necessary to give him
a lesson. Heaven preserve me from quarrels!” he added, with mock
compunction; “but the Lord has enlightened me--I am his creature, and I
ought to make his work respected.”
The mystical effrontery of this peroration was quite to the taste of
the idlers; the fame of the Prophet had reached Mockern, and, as a
performance was expected on the morrow, this prelude much amused the
company. On hearing the insults of his adversary, Dagobert could not
help saying in the German language: “I know German. Speak in German--the
rest will understand you.”
New spectators now arrived, and joined the first comers; the adventure
had become exciting, and a ring was formed around the two persons most
concerned.
The Prophet resumed in German: “I said that you were not civil, and I
now say you are grossly rude. What do you answer to that?”
“Nothing!” said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another
piece of linen.
“Nothing!” returned Morok; “that is very little. I will be less brief,
and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly
to a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and
deserves to be taught manners if he does so.”
Great drops of sweat ran down Dagobert’s forehead and cheeks; his
large imperial was incessantly agitated by nervous trembling--but he
restrained himself. Taking, by two of the corners, the handkerchief
which he had just dipped in the water, he shook it, wrung it, and began
to hum to himself the burden of the old camp ditty:
“Out of Tirlemont’s flea-haunted den,
We ride forth next day of the sen,
With sabre in hand, ah!
Good-bye to Amanda,” etc.
The silence to which Dagobert had condemned himself, almost choked him;
this song afforded him some relief.
Morok, turning towards the spectators, said to them, with an air of
hypocritical restraint: “We knew that the soldiers of Napoleon were
pagans, who stabled their horses in churches, and offended the Lord a
hundred times a day, and who, for their sins, were justly drowned in the
Beresino, like so many Pharaohs; but we did not know that the Lord,
to punish these miscreants, had deprived them of courage--their single
gift. Here is a man, who has insulted, in me, a creature favored by
divine grace, and who affects not to understand that I require an
apology; or else--”
“What?” said Dagobert, without looking at the Prophet.
“Or you must give me satisfaction!--I have already told you that I have
seen service. We shall easily find somewhere a couple of swords, and to
morrow morning, at peep of day, we can meet behind a wall, and show the
color of our blood--that is, if you have any in your veins!”
This challenge began to frighten the spectators, who were not prepared
for so tragical a conclusion.
“What, fight?--a very, fine idea!” said one. “To get yourself both
locked up in prison: the laws against duelling are strict.”
“Particularly with relation to strangers or nondescripts,” added
another. “If they were to find you with arms in your hands, the
burgomaster would shut you up in jail, and keep you there two or three
months before trial.”
“Would you be so mean as to denounce us?” asked Morok.
“No, certainly not,” cried several; “do as you like. We are only giving
you a friendly piece of advice, by which you may profit, if you think
fit.”
“What care I for prison?” exclaimed the Prophet. “Only give me a couple
of swords, and you shall see to-morrow morning if I heed what the
burgomaster can do or say.”
“What would you do with two swords?” asked Dagobert, quietly.
“When you have one in your grasp, and I one in mine, you’d see. The Lord
commands us to have a care of his honor!”
Dagobert shrugged his shoulders, made a bundle of his linen in his
handkerchief, dried his soap, and put it carefully into a little
oil-silk bag--then, whistling his favorite air of Tirlemont, moved to
depart.
The Prophet frowned; he began to fear that his challenge would not be
accepted. He advanced a step or so to encounter Dagobert, placed himself
before him, as if to intercept his passage, and, folding his arms, and
scanning him from head to foot with bitter insolence, said to him:
“So! an old soldier of that arch-robber, Napoleon, is only fit for a
washerwoman, and refuses to fight!”
“Yes, he refuses to fight,” answered Dagobert, in a firm voice, but
becoming fearfully pale. Never, perhaps, had the soldier given to his
orphan charge such a proof of tenderness and devotion. For a man of
his character to let himself be insulted with impunity, and refuse to
fight--the sacrifice was immense.
“So you are a coward--you are afraid of me--and you confess it?”
At these words Dagobert made, as it were, a pull upon himself--as if a
sudden thought had restrained him the moment he was about to rush on
the Prophet. Indeed, he had remembered the two maidens, and the fatal
hindrance which a duel, whatever might be the result, would occasion
to their journey. But the impulse of anger, though rapid, had been so
significant--the expression of the stern, pale face, bathed in sweat,
was so daunting, that the Prophet and the spectators drew back a step.
Profound silence reigned for some seconds, and then, by a sudden
reaction, Dagobert seemed to have gained the general interest. One of
the company said to those near him; “This man is clearly not a coward.”
“Oh, no! certainly not.”
“It sometimes requires more courage to refuse a challenge than to accept
one.”
“After all the Prophet was wrong to pick a quarrel about nothing--and
with a stranger, too.”
“Yes, for a stranger, if he fought and was taken up, would have a good
long imprisonment.”
“And then, you see,” added another, “he travels with two young girls.
In such a position, ought a man to fight about trifles? If he should be
killed or put in prison, what would become of them, poor children?”
Dagobert turned towards the person who had pronounced these last words.
He saw a stout fellow, with a frank and simple countenance; the soldier
offered him his hand, and said with emotion:
“Thank you, sir.”
The German shook cordially the hand, which Dagobert had proffered, and,
holding it still in his own, he added: “Do one thing, sir--share a bowl
of punch with us. We will make that mischief-making Prophet acknowledge
that he has been too touchy, and he shall drink to your health.”
Up to this moment the brute-tamer, enraged at the issue of this scene,
for he had hoped that the soldier would accept his challenge, looked on
with savage contempt at those who had thus sided against him. But now
his features gradually relaxed; and, believing it useful to his projects
to hide his disappointment, he walked up to the soldier, and said to
him, with a tolerably good grace: “Well, I give way to these gentlemen.
I own I was wrong. Your frigid air had wounded me, and I was not master
of myself. I repeat, that I was wrong,” he added, with suppressed
vexation; “the Lord commands humility--and--I beg your pardon.”
This proof of moderation and regret was highly appreciated and loudly
applauded by the spectators. “He asks your pardon; you cannot expect
more, my brave fellow?” said one of them, addressing Dagobert. “Come,
let us all drink together; we make you this offer frankly--accept it in
the same spirit.”
“Yes, yes; accept it, we beg you, in the name of your pretty little
girls,” said the stout man, hoping to decide Dagobert by this argument.
“Many thanks, gentlemen,” replied he, touched by the hearty advances of
the Germans; “you are very worthy people. But, when one is treated, he
must offer drink in return.”
“Well, we will accept it--that’s understood. Each his turn, and all
fair. We will pay for the first bowl, you for the second.”
“Poverty is no crime,” answered Dagobert; “and I must tell you honestly
that I cannot afford to pay for drink. We have still a long journey to
go, and I must not incur any useless expenses.”
The soldier spoke these words with such firm, but simple dignity, that
the Germans did not venture to renew their offer, feeling that a man of
Dagobert’s character could not accept it without humiliation.
“Well, so much the worse,” said the stout man. “I should have liked to
clink glasses with you. Good-night, my brave trooper!--Good-night--for
it grows late, and mine host of the Falcon will soon turn us out of
doors.”
“Good-night, gentlemen,” replied Dagobert, as he directed his steps
towards the stable, to give his horse a second allowance of provender.
Morok approached him, and said in a voice even more humble than before:
“I have acknowledged my error, and asked your pardon. You have not
answered me; do you still bear malice?”
“If ever I meet you,” said the veteran, in a suppressed and hollow tone,
“when my children have no longer need of me, I will just say two words
to you, and they will not be long ones.”
Then he turned his back abruptly on the Prophet, who walked slowly out
of the yard.
The inn of the White Falcon formed a parallelogram. At one end rose
the principal dwelling; at the other was a range of buildings, which
contained sundry chambers, let at a low price to the poorer sort of
travellers; a vaulted passage opened a way through this latter into
the country; finally, on either side of the court-yard were sheds and
stables, with lofts and garrets erected over them.
Dagobert, entering one of these stables, took from off a chest the
portion of oats destined for his horse, and, pouring it into a winnowing
basket, shook it as he approached Jovial.
To his great astonishment, his old travelling companion did not respond
with a joyous neigh to the rustle of the oats rattling on the wicker
work. Alarmed, he called Jovial with a friendly voice; but the animal,
instead of turning towards his master a look of intelligence, and
impatiently striking the ground with his fore-feet, remained perfectly
motionless.
More and more surprised, the soldier went up to him. By the dubious
light of a stable-lantern, he saw the poor animal in an attitude which
implied terror--his legs half bent, his head stretched forward, his ears
down, his nostrils quivering; he had drawn tight his halter, as if
he wished to break it, in order to get away from the partition that
supported his rack and manger; abundant cold-sweat had speckled his hide
with bluish stains, and his coat altogether looked dull and bristling,
instead of standing out sleek and glossy from the dark background of
the stable; lastly, from time to time, his body shook with convulsive
starts.
“Why, old Jovial!” said the soldier, as he put down the basket, in
order to soothe his horse with more freedom, “you are like thy
master--afraid!--Yes,” he added with bitterness, as he thought of the
offence he had himself endured, “you are afraid--though no coward in
general.”
Notwithstanding the caresses and the voice of his master, the horse
continued to give signs of terror; he pulled somewhat less violently
at his halter, and approaching his nostrils to the hand of Dagobert,
sniffed audibly, as if he doubted it were he.
“You don’t know me!” cried Dagobert. “Something extraordinary must be
passing here.”
The soldier looked around him with uneasiness. It was a large stable,
faintly lighted by the lantern suspended from the roof, which was
covered with innumerable cobwebs; at the further end, separated from
Jovial by some stalls with bars between, were the three strong, black,
horses of the brute-tamer--as tranquil as Jovial was frightened.
Dagobert, struck with this singular contrast, of which he was soon
to have the explanation, again caressed his horse; and the animal,
gradually reassured by his master’s presence, licked his hands, rubbed
his head against him, uttered a low neigh, and gave him his usual tokens
of affection.
“Come, come, this is how I like to see my old Jovial!” said Dagobert,
as he took up the winnowing-basket, and poured its contents into the
manger. “Now eat with a good appetite, for we have a long day’s march
tomorrow; and, above all, no more of these foolish fears about nothing!
If thy comrade, Spoil-sport, was here, he would keep you in heart; but
he is along with the children, and takes care of them in my absence.
Come, eat! Instead of staring at me in that way.”
But the horse, having just touched the oats with his mouth, as if in
obedience to his master, returned to them no more, and began to nibble
at the sleeve of Dagobert’s coat.
“Come, come, my poor Jovial! there is something the matter with you. You
have generally such a good appetite, and now you leave your corn. ‘Tis
the first time this has happened since our departure,” said the soldier,
who was now growing seriously uneasy, for the issue of his journey
greatly depended on the health and vigor of his horse.
Just then a frightful roaring, so near that it seemed to come from the
stable in which they were, gave so violent a shock to Jovial, that with
one effort he broke his halter, leaped over the bar that marked his
place, and rushing at the open door, escaped into the court-yard.
Dagobert had himself started at the suddenness of this wild and fearful
sound, which at once explained to him the cause of his horse’s terror.
The adjoining stable was occupied by the itinerant menagerie of the
brute-tamer, and was only separated by the partition, which supported
the mangers. The three horses of the Prophet, accustomed to these
howlings, had remained perfectly quiet.
“Good!” said the soldier, recovering himself; “I understand it now.
Jovial has heard another such roar before, and he can scent the animals
of that insolent scoundrel. It is enough to frighten him,” added he,
as he carefully collected the oats from the manger; “once in another
stable, and there must be others in this place, he will no longer leave
his peck, and we shall be able to start early to-morrow morning!”
The terrified horse, after running and galloping about the yard,
returned at the voice of the soldier, who easily caught him by the
broken halter; and a hostler, whom Dagobert asked if there was another
vacant stable, having pointed out one that was only intended for a
single animal, Jovial was comfortably installed there.
When delivered from his ferocious neighbors, the horse became tranquil
as before, and even amused himself much at the expense of Dagobert’s
top coat, which, thanks to his tricks, might have afforded immediate
occupation for his master’s needle, if the latter had not been fully
engaged in admiring the eagerness with which Jovial dispatched his
provender. Completely reassured on his account, the soldier shut the
door of the stable, and proceeded to get his supper as quickly as
possible, in order to rejoin the orphans, whom he reproached himself
with having left so long.
CHAPTER V. ROSE AND BLANCHE.
The orphans occupied a dilapidated chamber in one of the most remote
wings of the inn, with a single window opening upon the country. A bed
without curtains, a table, and two chairs, composed the more than modest
furniture of this retreat, which was now lighted by a lamp. On the
table, which stood near the window, was deposited the knapsack of the
soldier.
The great Siberian dog, who was lying close to the door, had already
twice uttered a deep growl, and turned his head towards the window--but
without giving any further affect to this hostile manifestation.
The two sisters, half recumbent in their bed, were clad in long white
wrappers, buttoned at the neck and wrists. They wore no caps, but their
beautiful chestnut hair was confined at the temples by a broad piece
of tape, so that it might not get tangled during the night. These white
garments, and the white fillet that like a halo encircled their brows,
gave to their fresh and blooming faces a still more candid expression.
The orphans laughed and chatted, for, in spite of some early sorrows,
they still retained the ingenuous gayety of their age. The remembrance
of their mother would sometimes make them sad, but this sorrow had in it
nothing bitter; it was rather a sweet melancholy, to be sought instead
of shunned. For them, this adored mother was not dead--she was only
absent.
Almost as ignorant as Dagobert, with regard to devotional exercises, for
in the desert where they had lived there was neither church nor priest,
their faith, as was already said, consisted in this--that God, just and
good, had so much pity for the poor mothers whose children were left
on earth, that he allowed them to look down upon them from highest
heaven--to see them always, to hear them always, and sometimes to
send fair guardian angels to protect therein. Thanks to this guileless
illusion, the orphans, persuaded that their mother incessantly watched
over them, felt, that to do wrong would be to afflict her, and to
forfeit the protection of the good angels.--This was the entire theology
of Rose and Blanche--a creed sufficient for such pure and loving souls.
Now, on the evening in question, the two sisters chatted together whilst
waiting for Dagobert. Their theme interested them much, for, since
some days, they had a secret, a great secret, which often quickened the
beatings of their innocent hearts, often agitated their budding bosoms,
changed to bright scarlet the roses on their cheeks, and infused a
restless and dreamy langour into the soft blue of their large eyes.
Rose, this evening, occupied the edge of the couch, with her rounded
arms crossed behind her head, which was half turned towards her sister;
Blanche, with her elbow resting on the bolster, looked at her smilingly,
and said: “Do you think he will come again to-night?”
“Oh, yes! certainly. He promised us yesterday.”
“He is so good, he would not break his promise.”
“And so handsome, with his long fair curls.”
“And his name--what a charming name!--How well it suits his face.”
“And what a sweet smile and soft voice, when he says to us, taking us by
the hand: ‘My children, bless God that he has given you one soul. What
others seek elsewhere, you will find in yourselves.’”
“‘Since your two hearts,’ he added, ‘only make one.’”
“What pleasure to remember his words, sister!”
“We are so attentive! When I see you listening to him, it is as if I
saw myself, my dear little mirror!” said Rose, laughing, and kissing her
sister’s forehead. “Well--when he speaks, your--or rather our eyes--are
wide, wide open, our lips moving as if we repeated every word after him.
It is no wonder we forget nothing that he says.”
“And what he says is so grand, so noble, and generous.”
“Then, my sister, as he goes on talking, what good thoughts rise within
us! If we could but always keep them in mind.”
“Do not be afraid! they will remain in our hearts, like little birds in
their mother’s nests.”
“And how lucky it is, Rose, that he loves us both at the same time!”
“He could not do otherwise, since we have but one heart between us.”
“How could he love Rose, without loving Blanche?”
“What would have become of the poor, neglected one?”
“And then again he would have found it so difficult to choose.”
“We are so much like one another.”
“So, to save himself that trouble,” said Rose, laughing, “he has chosen
us both.”
“And is it not the best way? He is alone to love us; we are two together
to think of him.”
“Only he must not leave us till we reach Paris.”
“And in Paris, too--we must see him there also.”
“Oh, above all at Paris; it will be good to have him with us--and
Dagobert, too--in that great city. Only think, Blanche, how beautiful it
must be.”
“Paris!--it must be like a city all of gold.”
“A city, where every one must be happy, since it is so beautiful.”
“But ought we, poor orphans, dare so much as to enter it? How people
will look at us!”
“Yes--but every one there is happy, every one must be good also.”
“They will love us.”
“And, besides, we shall be with our friend with the fair hair and blue
eyes.”
“He has yet told us nothing of Paris.”
“He has not thought of it; we must speak to him about it this very
night.”
“If he is in the mood for talking. Often you know, he likes best to gaze
on us in silence--his eyes on our eyes.”
“Yes. In those moments, his look recalls to me the gaze of our dear
mother.”
“And, as she sees it all, how pleased she must be at what has happened
to us!”
“Because, when we are so much beloved, we must, I hope, deserve it.”
“See what a vain thing it is!” said Blanche, smoothing with her slender
fingers the parting of the hair on her sister’s forehead.
After a moment’s reflection, Rose said to her: “Don’t you think we
should relate all this to Dagobert?”
“If you think so, let us do it.”
“We tell him everything, as we told everything to mother. Why should we
conceal this from him?”
“Especially as it is something which gives us so much pleasure.”
“Do you not find that, since we have known our friend, our hearts beat
quicker and stronger?”
“Yes, they seem to be more full.”
“The reason why is plain enough; our friend fills up a good space in
them.”
“Well, we will do best to tell Dagobert what a lucky star ours is.”
“You are right--” At this moment the dog gave another deep growl.
“Sister,” said Rose, as she pressed closer to Blanche, “there is the dog
growling again. What can be the matter with him?”
“Spoil-sport, do not growl! Come hither,” said Blanche, striking with
her little hand on the side of the bed.
The dog rose, again growled deeply, and came to lay his great,
intelligent looking head on the counterpane, still obstinately casting
a sidelong glance at the window; the sisters bent over him to pat
his broad forehead, in the centre of which was a remarkable bump, the
certain sign of extreme purity of race.
“What makes you growl so, Spoil-sport?” said Blanche, pulling him gently
by the ears--“eh, my good dog?”
“Poor beast! he is always so uneasy when Dagobert is away.”
“It is true; one would think he knows that he then has a double charge
over us.”
“Sister, it seems to me, Dagobert is late in coming to say good-night.”
“No doubt he is attending to Jovial.”
“That makes me think that we did not bid good-night to dear old Jovial.
“I am sorry for it.”
“Poor beast! he seems so glad when he licks our hands. One would think
that he thanked us for our visit.”
“Luckily, Dagobert will have wished him good-night for us.”
“Good Dagobert! he is always thinking of us. How he spoils us! We remain
idle, and he has all the trouble.”
“How can we prevent it?”
“What a pity that we are not rich, to give him a little rest.”
“We rich! Alas, my sister! we shall never be anything but poor orphans.”
“Oh, there’s the medal!”
“Doubtless, there is some hope attached to it, else we should not have
made this long journey.”
“Dagobert has promised to tell us all, this evening.”
She was prevented from continuing, for two of the windowpanes flew to
pieces with a loud crash.
The orphans, with a cry of terror, threw themselves into each other’s
arms, whilst the dog rushed towards the window, barking furiously.
Pale, trembling, motionless with affright, clasping each other in a
close embrace, the two sisters held their breath; in their extreme fear,
they durst not even cast their eyes in the direction of the window.
The dog, with his forepaws resting on the sill, continued to bark with
violence.
“Alas! what can it be?” murmured the orphans. “And Dagobert not here!”
“Hark!” cried Rose, suddenly seizing Blanche by the arm; “hark!--some
one coming up the stairs!”
“Good heaven! it does not sound like the tread of Dagobert. Do you not
hear what heavy footsteps?”
“Quick! come, Spoil-sport, and defend us!” cried the two sisters at
once, in an agony of alarm.
The boards of the wooden staircase really creaked beneath the weight
of unusually heavy footsteps, and a singular kind of rustling was
heard along the thin partition that divided the chamber from the
landing-place. Then a ponderous mass, falling against the door of the
room, shook it violently; and the girls, at the very height of terror,
looked at each other without the power of speech.
The door opened. It was Dagobert.
At the sight of him Rose and Blanche joyfully exchanged a kiss, as if
they had just escaped from a great danger.
“What is the matter? why are you afraid?” asked the soldier in surprise.
“Oh, if you only knew!” said Rose, panting as she spoke, for both her
own heart and her sister’s beat with violence.
“If you knew what has just happened! We did not recognize your
footsteps--they seemed so heavy--and then that noise behind the
partition!”
“Little frightened doves that you are! I could not run up the stairs
like a boy of fifteen, seeing that I carried my bed upon my back--a
straw mattress that I have just flung down before your door, to sleep
there as usual.”
“Bless me! how foolish we must be, sister, not to have thought of
that!” said Rose, looking at Blanche. And their pretty faces, which had
together grown pale, together resumed their natural color.
During this scene the dog, still resting against the window, did not
cease barking a moment.
“What makes Spoil-sport bark in that direction, my children?” said the
soldier.
“We do not know. Two of our windowpanes have just been broken. That is
what first frightened us so much.”
Without answering a word Dagobert flew to the window, opened it quickly,
pushed back the shutter, and leaned out.
He saw nothing; it was a dark night. He listened; but heard only the
moaning of the wind.
“Spoil-sport,” said he to his dog, pointing to the open window, “leap
out, old fellow, and search!” The faithful animal took one mighty spring
and disappeared by the window, raised only about eight feet above the
ground.
Dagobert, still leaning over, encouraged his dog with voice and gesture:
“Search, old fellow, search! If there is any one there, pin him--your
fangs are strong--and hold him fast till I come.”
But Spoil-sport found no one. They heard him go backwards and forwards,
snuffing on every side, and now and then uttering a low cry like a hound
at fault.
“There is no one, my good dog, that’s clear, or you would have had him
by the throat ere this.” Then, turning to the maidens, who listened to
his words and watched his movements with uneasiness: “My girls,” said
he, “how were these panes broken? Did you not remark?”
“No, Dagobert; we were talking together when we heard a great crash, and
then the glass fell into the room.”
“It seemed to me,” added Rose, “as if a shutter had struck suddenly
against the window.”
Dagobert examined the shutter, and observed a long movable hook,
designed to fasten it on the inside.
“It blows hard,” said he; “the wind must have swung round the shutter,
and this hook broke the window. Yes, yes; that is it. What interest
could anybody have to play such a sorry trick?” Then, speaking to Spoil
sport, he asked, “Well, my good fellow, is there no one?”
The dog answered by a bark, which the soldier no doubt understood as a
negative, for he continued: “Well, then, come back! Make the round--you
will find some door open--you are never at a loss.”
The animal followed this advice. After growling for a few seconds
beneath the window, he set off at a gallop to make the circuit of the
buildings, and come back by the court-yard.
“Be quite easy, my children!” said the soldier, as he again drew near
the orphans; “it was only the wind.”
“We were a good deal frightened,” said Rose.
“I believe you. But now I think of it, this draught is likely to give
you cold.” And seeking to remedy this inconvenience, he took from a
chair the reindeer pelisse, and suspended it from the spring-catch
of the curtainless window, using the skirts to stop up as closely as
possible the two openings made by the breaking of the panes.
“Thanks, Dagobert, how good you are! We were very uneasy at not seeing
you.”
“Yes, you were absent longer than usual. But what is the matter with
you?” added Rose, only just then perceiving that his countenance was
disturbed and pallid, for he was still under the painful influence of
the brawl with Morok; “how pale you are!”
“Me, my pets?--Oh, nothing.”
“Yes, I assure you, your countenance is quite changed. Rose is right.”
“I tell you there is nothing the matter,” answered the soldier, not
without some embarrassment, for he was little used to deceive; till,
finding an excellent excuse for his emotion, he added: “If I do look at
all uncomfortable, it is your fright that has made me so, for indeed it
was my fault.”
“Your fault!”
“Yes; for if I had not lost so much time at supper, I should have been
here when the window was broken, and have spared you the fright.”
“Anyhow, you are here now, and we think no more of it.”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
“I will, my children, for we have to talk together,” said Dagobert, as
he drew a chair close to the head of the bed.
“Now tell me, are you quite awake?” he added, trying to smile in order
to reassure them. “Are those large eyes properly open?”
“Look, Dagobert!” cried the two girls, smiling in their turn, and
opening their blue eyes to the utmost extent.
“Well, well,” said the soldier, “they are yet far enough, from shutting;
besides, it is only nine o’clock.”
“We also have something to tell, Dagobert,” resumed Rose, after
exchanging glances with her sister.
“Indeed!”
“A secret to tell you.”
“A secret?”
“Yes, to be sure.”
“Ah, and a very great secret!” added Rose, quite seriously.
“A secret which concerns us both,” resumed Blanche.
“Faith! I should think so. What concerns the one always concerns the
other. Are you not always, as the saying goes, ‘two faces under one
hood?’”
“Truly, how can it be otherwise, when you put our heads under the great
hood of your pelisse?” said Rose, laughing.
“There they are again, mocking-birds! One never has the last word with
them. Come, ladies, your secret, since a secret there is.”
“Speak, sister,” said Rose.
“No, miss, it is for you to speak. You are to-day on duty, as eldest,
and such an important thing as telling a secret like that you talk of
belongs of right to the elder sister. Come, I am listening to you,”
added the soldier, as he forced a smile, the better to conceal from
the maidens how much he still felt the unpunished affronts of the brute
tamer.
It was Rose (who, as Dagobert said, was doing duty as eldest) that spoke
for herself and for her sister.
CHAPTER VI. THE SECRET.
“First of all, good Dagobert,” said Rose, in a gracefully caressing
manner, “as we are going to tell our secret--you must promise not to
scold us.”
“You will not scold your darlings, will you?” added Blanche, in a no
less coaxing voice.
“Granted!” replied Dagobert gravely; “particularly as I should not well
know how to set about it--but why should I scold you.”
“Because we ought perhaps to have told you sooner what we are going to
tell you.”
“Listen, my children,” said Dagobert sententiously, after reflecting a
moment on this case of conscience; “one of two things must be. Either
you were right, or else you were wrong, to hide this from me. If you
were right, very well; if you were wrong, it is done: so let’s say no
more about it. Go on--I am all attention.”
Completely reassured by this luminous decision, Rose resumed, while she
exchanged a smile with her sister.
“Only think, Dagobert; for two successive nights we have had a visitor.”
“A visitor!” cried the soldier, drawing himself up suddenly in his
chair.
“Yes, a charming visitor--he is so very fair.”
“Fair--the devil!” cried Dagobert, with a start.
“Yes, fair--and with blue eyes,” added Blanche.
“Blue eyes--blue devils!” and Dagobert again bounded on his seat.
“Yes, blue eyes--as long as that,” resumed Rose, placing the tip of one
forefinger about the middle of the other.
“Zounds! they might be as long as that,” said the veteran, indicating
the whole length of his term from the elbow, “they might be as long as
that, and it would have nothing to do with it. Fair, and with blue eyes.
Pray what may this mean, young ladies?” and Dagobert rose from his seat
with a severe and painfully unquiet look.
“There now, Dagobert, you have begun to scold us already.”
“Just at the very commencement,” added Blanche.
“Commencement!--what, is there to be a sequel? a finish?”
“A finish? we hope not,” said Rose, laughing like mad.
“All we ask is, that it should last forever,” added Blanche, sharing in
the hilarity of her sister.
Dagobert looked gravely from one to the other of the two maidens, as if
trying to guess this enigma; but when he saw their sweet, innocent faces
gracefully animated by a frank, ingenuous laugh, he reflected that they
would not be so gay if they had any serious matter for self-reproach,
and he felt pleased at seeing them so merry in the midst of their
precarious position.
“Laugh on, my children!” he said. “I like so much to see you laugh.”
Then, thinking that was not precisely the way in which he ought to treat
the singular confession of the young girls, he added in a gruff voice:
“Yes, I like to see you laugh--but not when you receive fair visitors
with blue eyes, young ladies!--Come, acknowledge that I’m an old fool to
listen to such nonsense--you are only making game of me.”
“Nay, what we tell you is quite true.”
“You know we never tell stories,” added Rose.
“They are right--they never fib,” said the soldier, in renewed
perplexity.
“But how the devil is such a visit possible? I sleep before your
door--Spoil-sport sleeps under your window--and all the blue eyes and
fair locks in the world must come in by one of those two ways--and, if
they had tried it, the dog and I, who have both of us quick ears, would
have received their visits after our fashion. But come, children! pray,
speak to the purpose. Explain yourselves!”
The two sisters, who saw, by the expression of Dagobert’s countenance,
that he felt really uneasy, determined no longer to trifle with his
kindness. They exchanged a glance, and Rose, taking in her little hand
the coarse, broad palm of the veteran, said to him: “Come, do not plague
yourself! We will tell you all about the visits of our friend, Gabriel.”
“There you are again!--He has a name, then?”
“Certainly, he has a name. It is Gabriel.”
“Is it not a pretty name, Dagobert? Oh, you will see and love, as we do,
our beautiful Gabriel!”
“I’ll love your beautiful Gabriel, will I?” said the veteran, shaking
his head--“Love your beautiful Gabriel?--that’s as it may be. I must
first know--” Then, interrupting himself, he added: “It is queer. That
reminds me of something.”
“Of what, Dagobert?”
“Fifteen years ago, in the last letter that your father, on his return
from France, brought me from my wife: she told me that, poor as she was,
and with our little growing Agricola on her hands, she had taken in
a poor deserted child, with the face of a cherub, and the name of
Gabriel--and only a short time since I heard of him again.”
“And from whom, then?”
“You shall know that by and by.”
“Well, then--since you have a Gabriel of your own--there is the more
reason that you should love ours.”
“Yours! but who is yours? I am on thorns till you tell me.”
“You know, Dagobert,” resumed Rose, “that Blanche and I are accustomed
to fall asleep, holding each other by the hand.”
“Yes, yes, I have often seen you in your cradle. I was never tired of
looking at you; it was so pretty.”
“Well, then--two nights ago, we had just fallen asleep, when we
beheld--”
“Oh, it was in a dream!” cried Dagobert. “Since you were asleep, it was
in a dream!”
“Certainly, in a dream--how else would you have it?”
“Pray let my sister go on with her tale!”
“All, well and good!” said the soldier with a sigh of satisfaction;
“well and good! To be sure, I was tranquil enough in any
case--because--but still--I like it better to be a dream. Continue, my
little Rose.”
“Once asleep, we both dreamt the same thing.”
“What! both the same?”
“Yes, Dagobert; for the next morning when we awoke we related our two
dreams to each other.”
“And they were exactly alike.”
“That’s odd enough, my children; and what was this dream all about?”
“In our dream, Blanche and I were seated together, when we saw enter a
beautiful angel, with a long white robe, fair locks, blue eyes, and so
handsome and benign a countenance, that we elapsed our hands as if
to pray to him. Then he told us, in a soft voice, that he was called
Gabriel; that our mother had sent him to be our guardian angel, and that
he would never abandon us.”
“And, then,” added Blanche, “he took us each by the hand, and, bending
his fair face over us, looked at us for a long time in silence, with
so much goodness--with so much goodness, that we could not withdraw our
eyes from his.”
“Yes,” resumed Rose, “and his look seemed, by turns, to attract us, or
to go to our hearts. At length, to our great sorrow, Gabriel quitted us,
having told us that we should see him again the following night.”
“And did he make his appearance?”
“Certainly. Judge with what impatience we waited the moment of sleep, to
see if our friend would return, and visit us in our slumbers.”
“Humph!” said Dagobert, scratching his forehead; “this reminds me, young
ladies, that you kept on rubbing your eyes last evening, and pretending
to be half asleep. I wager, it was all to send me away the sooner, and
to get to your dream as fast as possible.”
“Yes, Dagobert.”
“The reason being, you could not say to me, as you would to Spoil-sport:
Lie down, Dagobert! Well--so your friend Gabriel came back?”
“Yes, and this time he talked to us a great deal, and gave us, in the
name of our mother, such touching, such noble counsels, that the next
day, Rose and I spent our whole time in recalling every word of our
guardian angel--and his face, and his look--”
“This reminds me again, young ladies, that you were whispering all along
the road this morning; and that when I spoke of white, you answered
black.”
“Yes, Dagobert, we were thinking of Gabriel.”
“And, ever since, we love him as well as he loves us.”
“But he is only one between both of you!”
“Was not our mother one between us?”
“And you, Dagobert--are you not also one for us both?”
“True, true! And yet, do you know, I shall finish by being jealous of
that Gabriel?”
“You are our friend by day--he is our friend by night.”
“Let’s understand it clearly. If you talk of him all day, and dream of
him all night, what will there remain for me?”
“There will remain for you your two orphans, whom you love so much,”
said Rose.
“And who have only you left upon earth,” added Blanche, in a caressing
tongue.
“Humph! humph! that’s right, coax the old man over, Nay, believe me, my
children,” added the soldier, tenderly, “I am quite satisfied with my
lot. I can afford to let you have your Gabriel. I felt sure that Spoil
sport and myself could take our rest in quiet. After all, there is
nothing so astonishing in what you tell me; your first dream struck your
fancy, and you talked so much about it that you had a second; nor should
I be surprised if you were to see this fine fellow a third time.”
“Oh, Dagobert! do not make a jest of it! They are only dreams, but
we think our mother sends them to us. Did she not tell us that orphan
children were watched over by guardian angels? Well, Gabriel is our
guardian angel; he will protect us, and he will protect you also.”
“Very kind of him to think of me; but you see, my dear children, for the
matter of defence, I prefer the dog; he is less fair than your angel,
but he has better teeth, and that is more to be depended on.”
“How provoking you are, Dagobert--always jesting!”
“It is true; you can laugh at everything.”
“Yes, I am astonishingly gay; I laugh with my teeth shut, in the style
of old Jovial. Come, children, don’t scold me: I know I am wrong. The
remembrance of your dear mother is mixed with this dream, and you do
well to speak of it seriously. Besides,” added he, with a grave air,
“dreams will sometimes come true. In Spain, two of the Empress’s
dragoons, comrades of mine, dreamt, the night before their death, that
they would be poisoned by the monks--and so it happened. If you continue
to dream of this fair angel Gabriel, it is--it is--why, it is, because
you are amused by it; and, as you have none too many pleasures in the
daytime, you may as well get an agreeable sleep at night. But, now, my
children, I have also much to tell you; it will concern your mother;
promise me not to be sad.”
“Be satisfied! when we think of her we are not sad, though serious.”
“That is well. For fear of grieving you, I have always delayed the
moment of telling what your poor mother would have confided to you as
soon as you were no longer children. But she died before she had time to
do so, and that which I have to tell broke her heart--as it nearly
did mine. I put off this communication as long as I could, taking for
pretext that I would say nothing till we came to the field of battle
where your father was made prisoner. That gave me time; but the moment
is now come; I can shuffle it off no longer.”
“We listen, Dagobert,” responded the two maidens, with an attentive and
melancholy air.
After a moment’s silence, during which he appeared to reflect, the
veteran thus addressed the young girls:
“Your father, General Simon, was the son of a workman, who remained a
workman; for, notwithstanding all that the general could say or do, the
old man was obstinate in not quitting his trade. He had a heart of gold
and a head of iron, just like his son. You may suppose, my children,
that when your father, who had enlisted as a private soldier, became a
general and a count of the empire, it was not without toil or without
glory.”
“A count of the Empire! what is that, Dagobert?”
“Flummery--a title, which the Emperor gave over and above the promotion,
just for the sake of saying to the people, whom he loved because he was
one of them: Here, children! You wish to play at nobility! You shall be
nobles. You wish to play at royalty! You shall be kings. Take what you
like--nothing is too good for you--enjoy yourselves!”
“Kings!” said the two girls, joining their hands in admiration.
“Kings of the first water. Oh, he was no niggard of his crowns, our
Emperor! I had a bed-fellow of mine, a brave soldier, who was afterwards
promoted to be king. This flattered us; for, if it was not one, it was
the other. And so, at this game, your father became count; but, count or
not, he was one of the best and bravest generals of the army.”
“He was handsome, was he not, Dagobert?--mother always said so.”
“Oh, yes! indeed he was--but quite another thing from your fair guardian
angel. Picture to yourself a fine, dark man, who looked splendid in his
full uniform, and could put fire into the soldiers’ hearts. With him to
lead, we would have charged up into Heaven itself--that is, if Heaven
had, permitted it,” added Dagobert, not wishing to wound in any way the
religious beliefs of the orphans.
“And father was as good as he was brave, Dagobert.”
“Good, my children? Yes, I should say so!--He could bend a horse-shoe in
his hand as you would bend a card, and the day he was taken prisoner
he had cut down the Prussian artillerymen on their very cannon. With
strength and courage like that, how could he be otherwise than good? It
is then about nineteen years ago, not far from this place--on the spot
I showed you before we arrived at the village--that the general,
dangerously wounded, fell from his horse. I was following him at
the time, and ran to his assistance. Five minutes after we were made
prisoners--and by whom think you?--by a Frenchman.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Yes, an emigrant marquis, a colonel in the service of Russia,” answered
Dagobert, with bitterness. “And so, when this marquis advanced towards
us, and said to the general: ‘Surrender, sir, to a countryman!’--‘A
Frenchman, who fights against France,’ replied the general, ‘is no
longer my countryman; he is a traitor, and I’d never surrender to a
traitor!’ And, wounded though he was, he dragged himself up to a Russian
grenadier, and delivered him his sabre, saying: ‘I surrender to you my
brave fellow!’ The marquis became pale with rage at it.”
The orphans looked at each other with pride, and a rich crimson mantled
their cheeks, as they exclaimed: “Oh, our brave father!”
“Ah, those children,” said Dagobert, as he proudly twirled his
moustache. “One sees they have soldier’s blood in their veins! Well,”
he continued, “we were now prisoners. The general’s last horse had been
killed under him; and, to perform the journey, he mounted Jovial, who
had not been wounded that day. We arrived at Warsaw, and there it was
that the general first saw your mother. She was called the Pearl of
Warsaw; that is saying everything. Now he, who admired all that is good
and beautiful, fell in love with her almost immediately; and she loved
him in return; but her parents had promised her to another--and that
other was the same--”
Dagobert was unable to proceed. Rose uttered a piercing cry, and pointed
in terror to the window.
CHAPTER VII. THE TRAVELER.
Upon the cry of the young girl, Dagobert rose abruptly.
“What is the matter, Rose?”
“There--there!” she said, pointing to the window. “I thought I saw a
hand move the pelisse.”
She had not concluded these words before Dagobert rushed to the window
and opened it, tearing down the mantle, which had been suspended from
the fastening.
It was still dark night, and the wind was blowing hard. The soldier
listened, but could hear nothing.
Returning to fetch the lamp from the table, he shaded the flame with
his hand, and strove to throw the light outside. Still he saw nothing.
Persuaded that a gust of wind had disturbed and shaken the pelisse: and
that Rose had been deceived by her own fears he again shut the window.
“Be satisfied, children! The wind is very high; it is that which lifted
the corner of the pelisse.”
“Yet methought I saw plainly the fingers which had hold of it,” said
Rose, still trembling.
“I was looking at Dagobert,” said Blanche, “and I saw nothing.”
“There was nothing to see, my children; the thing is clear enough. The
window is at least eight feet above the ground; none but a giant could
reach it without a ladder. Now, had any one used a ladder, there would
not have been time to remove it; for, as soon as Rose cried out, I ran
to the window, and, when I held out the light, I could see nothing.”
“I must have been deceived,” said Rose.
“You may be sure, sister, it was only the wind,” added Blanche.
“Then I beg pardon for having disturbed you, my good Dagobert.”
“Never mind!” replied the soldier musingly, “I am only sorry that Spoil
sport is not come back. He would have watched the window, and that would
have quite tranquillized you. But he no doubt scented the stable of his
comrade, Jovial, and will have called in to bid him good-night on the
road. I have half a mind to go and fetch him.”
“Oh, no, Dagobert! do not leave us alone,” cried the maidens; “we are
too much afraid.”
“Well, the dog is not likely to remain away much longer, and I am sure
we shall soon hear him scratching at the door, so we will continue our
story,” said Dagobert, as he again seated himself near the head of the
bed, but this time with his face towards the window.
“Now the general was prisoner at Warsaw,” continued he, “and in love
with your mother, whom they wished to marry to another. In 1814, we
learned the finish of the war, the banishment of the Emperor to the Isle
of Elba, and the return of the Bourbons. In concert with the Prussians
and Russians, who had brought them back, they had exiled the Emperor.
Learning all this, your mother said to the general: ‘The war is
finished; you are free, but your Emperor is in trouble. You owe
everything to him; go and join him in his misfortunes. I know not when
we shall meet again, but I shall never marry any one but you, I am yours
till death!’--Before he set out the general called me to him, and said:
‘Dagobert, remain here; Mademoiselle Eva may have need of you to
fly from her family, if they should press too hard upon her; our
correspondence will have to pass through your hands; at Paris, I shall
see your wife and son; I will comfort them, and tell them you are my
friend.’”
“Always the same,” said Rose, with emotion, as she looked affectionately
at Dagobert.
“As faithful to the father and mother as to their children,” added
Blanche.
“To love one was to love them all,” replied the soldier. “Well, the
general joined the Emperor at Elba; I remained at Warsaw, concealed in
the neighborhood of your mother’s house; I received the letters, and
conveyed them to her clandestinely. In one of those letters--I feel
proud to tell you of it my children--the general informed me that the
Emperor himself had remembered me.”
“What, did he know you?”
“A little, I flatter myself--‘Oh! Dagobert!’ said he to your father,
who was talking to him about me; ‘a horse-grenadier of my old guard--a
soldier of Egypt and Italy, battered with wounds--an old dare-devil,
whom I decorated with my own hand at Wagram--I have not forgotten
him!’--I vow, children, when your mother read that to me, I cried like a
fool.”
“The Emperor--what a fine golden face he has on the silver cross with
the red ribbon that you would sometimes show us when we behaved well.”
“That cross--given by him--is my relic. It is there in my knapsack, with
whatever we have of value--our little purse and papers. But, to return
to your mother; it was a great consolation to her, when I took her
letters from the general, or talked with her about him--for she suffered
much--oh, so much! In vain her parents tormented and persecuted her;
she always answered: ‘I will never marry any one but General Simon.’ A
spirited woman, I can tell you--resigned, but wonderfully courageous.
One day she received a letter from the general; he had left the Isle of
Elba with the Emperor; the war had again broken out, a short campaign,
but as fierce as ever, and heightened by soldiers’ devotion. In that
campaign of France; my children, especially at Montmirail, your father
fought like a lion, and his division followed his example it was no
longer valor--it was frenzy. He told me that, in Champagne, the peasants
killed so many of those Prussians, that their fields were manured with
them for years. Men, women, children, all rushed upon them. Pitchforks,
stones, mattocks, all served for the slaughter. It was a true wolf
hunt!”
The veins swelled on the soldier’s forehead, and his cheeks flushed as
he spoke, for this popular heroism recalled to his memory the sublime
enthusiasm of the wars of the republic--those armed risings of a whole
people, from which dated the first steps of his military career, as the
triumphs of the Empire were the last days of his service.
The orphans, too, daughters of a soldier and a brave woman, did not
shrink from the rough energy of these words, but felt their cheeks glow,
and their hearts beat tumultuously.
“How happy we are to be the children of so brave a father!” cried
Blanche.
“It is a happiness and an honor too, my children--for the evening of the
battle of Montmirail, the Emperor, to the joy of the whole army, made
your father Duke of Ligny and Marshal of France.”
“Marshal of France!” said Rose in astonishment, without understanding
the exact meaning of the words.
“Duke of Ligny!” added Blanche with equal surprise.
“Yes; Peter Simon, the son of a workman, became duke and marshal--there
is nothing higher except a king!” resumed Dagobert, proudly. “That’s how
the Emperor treated the sons of the people, and, therefore, the people
were devoted to him. It was all very fine to tell them ‘Your Emperor
makes you food for cannon.’ ‘Stuff!’ replied the people, who are no
fools, ‘another would make us food for misery. We prefer the cannon,
with the chance of becoming captain or colonel, marshal, king--or
invalid; that’s better than to perish with hunger, cold, and age, on
straw in a garret, after toiling forty years for others.’”
“Even in France--even in Paris, that beautiful city--do you mean to say
there are poor people who die of hunger and misery, Dagobert?”
“Even in Paris? Yes, my children; therefore, I come back to the point,
the cannon is better. With it, one has the chance of becoming, like your
father, duke and marshal: when I say duke and marshal, I am partly right
and partly wrong, for the title and the rank were not recognized in
the end; because, after Montmirail, came a day of gloom, a day of great
mourning, when, as the general has told me, old soldiers like myself
wept--yes, wept!--on the evening of a battle. That day, my children, was
Waterloo!”
There was in these simple words of Dagobert an expression of such deep
sorrow, that it thrilled the hearts of the orphans.
“Alas!” resumed the soldier, with a sigh, “there are days which seem
to have a curse on them. That same day, at Waterloo, the general fell,
covered with wounds, at the head of a division of the Guards. When he
was nearly cured, which was not for a long time, he solicited permission
to go to St. Helena--another island at the far end of the world, to
which the English had carried the Emperor, to torture him at their
leisure; for if he was very fortunate in the first instance, he had to
go through a deal of hard rubs at last, my poor children.”
“If you talk in that way, you will make us cry, Dagobert.”
“There is cause enough for it--the Emperor suffered so much! He bled
cruelly at the heart believe me. Unfortunately, the general was not with
him at St. Helena; he would have been one more to console him; but
they would not allow him to go. Then, exasperated, like so many others,
against the Bourbons, the general engaged in a conspiracy to recall the
son of the Emperor. He relied especially on one regiment, nearly all
composed of his old soldiers, and he went down to a place in Picardy,
where they were then in garrison; but the conspiracy had already been
divulged. Arrested the moment of his arrival, the general was taken
before the colonel of the regiment. And this colonel,” said the soldier,
after a brief pause, “who do you think it was again? Bah! it would be
too long to tell you all, and would only make you more sad; but it was
a man whom your father had many reasons to hate. When he found himself
face to face with him, he said: ‘if you are not a coward, you will give
me one hour’s liberty, and we will fight to the death; I hate you for
this, I despise you for that’--and so on. The colonel accepted the
challenge, and gave your father his liberty till the morrow. The duel
was a desperate one; the colonel was left for dead on the spot.”
“Merciful heaven!”
“The general was yet wiping his sword, when a faithful friend came to
him, and told him he had only just time to save himself. In fact, he
happily succeeded in leaving France--yes, happily--for a fortnight
after, he was condemned to death as a conspirator.”
“What misfortunes, good heaven!”
“There was some luck, however, in the midst of his troubles. Your mother
had kept her promise bravely, and was still waiting for him. She had
written to him: ‘The Emperor first, and me next!’ both unable to do
anything more for the Emperor, nor even for his son, the general,
banished from France, set out for Warsaw. Your mother had lost her
parents, and was now free; they were married--and I am one of the
witnesses to the marriage.”
“You are right, Dagobert; that was great happiness in the midst of great
misfortunes!”
“Yes, they were very happy; but, as it happened with all good hearts,
the happier they were themselves, the more they felt for the sorrows
of others--and there was quite enough to grieve them at Warsaw. The
Russians had again begun to treat the Poles as their slaves; your brave
mother, though of French origin, was a Pole in heart and soul; she spoke
out boldly what others did not dare speak in a whisper, and all the
unfortunate called her their protecting angel. That was enough to
excite the suspicions of the Russian governor. One day, a friend of the
general’s, formerly a colonel in the lancers, a brave and worthy man,
was condemned to be exiled to Siberia for a military plot against the
Russians. He took refuge in your father’s house, and lay hid there; but
his retreat was discovered. During the next night, a party of Cossacks,
commanded by an officer, and followed by a travelling-carriage, arrive
at our door; they rouse the general from his sleep and take him away
with them.”
“Oh, heaven! what did they mean to do with him?”
“Conduct him out of the Russian dominions, with a charge never to
return, on pain of perpetual imprisonment. His last words were:
‘Dagobert, I entrust to thee my wife and child!’--for it wanted yet some
months of the time when you were to be born. Well, notwithstanding that,
they exiled your mother to Siberia; it was an opportunity to get rid of
her; she did too much good at Warsaw, and they feared her accordingly.
Not content with banishing her, they confiscated all her property; the
only favor she could obtain was, that I should accompany her, and, had
it not been for Jovial, whom the general had given to me, she would have
had to make the journey on foot. It was thus, with her on horseback,
and I leading her as I lead you, my children, that we arrived at the
poverty-stricken village, where, three months after, you poor little
things were born!”
“And our father?”
“It was impossible for him to return to Russia; impossible for your
mother to think of flight, with two children; impossible for the general
to write to her, as he knew not where she was.”
“So, since that time, you have had no news of him?”
“Yes, my children--once we had news.”
“And by whom?”
After a moment’s silence, Dagobert resumed with a singular expression of
countenance: “By whom?--by one who is not like other men. Yes--that
you may understand me better, I will relate to you an extraordinary
adventure, which happened to your father during his last French
campaign. He had been ordered by the Emperor to carry a battery, which
was playing heavily on our army; after several unsuccessful efforts,
the general put himself at the head of a regiment of cuirassiers, and
charged the battery, intending, as was his custom, to cut down the men
at their guns. He was on horseback, just before the mouth of a cannon,
where all the artillerymen had been either killed or wounded, when one
of them still found strength to raise himself upon one knee, and to
apply the lighted match to the touchhole--and that when your father was
about ten paces in front of the loaded piece.”
“Oh! what a peril for our father!”
“Never, he told me, had he run such imminent danger for he saw the
artilleryman apply the match, and the gun go off--but, at the very nick,
a man of tall stature, dressed as a peasant, and whom he had not before
remarked, threw himself in front of the cannon.”
“Unfortunate creature! what a horrible death!”
“Yes,” said Dagobert, thoughtfully; “it should have been so. He ought by
rights to have been blown into a thousand pieces. But no--nothing of the
kind!”
“What do you tell us?”
“What the general told me. ‘At the moment when the gun went off,’ as he
often repeated to me, ‘I shut my eyes by an involuntary movement, that
I might not see the mutilated body of the poor wretch who had sacrificed
himself in my place. When I again opened them, the first thing I saw in
the midst of the smoke, was the tall figure of this man, standing
erect and calm on the same spot, and casting a sad mild look on the
artilleryman, who, with one knee on the ground, and his body thrown
backward, gazed on him in as much terror as if he had been the devil.
Afterwards, I lost sight of this man in the tumult,’ added your father.”
“Bless me Dagobert! how can this be possible?”
“That is just what I said to the general. He answered me that he had
never been able to explain to himself this event, which seemed as
incredible as it was true. Moreover, your father must have been greatly
struck with the countenance of this man, who appeared, he said, about
thirty years of age--for he remarked, that his extremely black eyebrows
were joined together, and formed, as it were, one line from temple to
temple, so that he seemed to have a black streak across his forehead.
Remember this, my children; you will soon see why.”
“Oh, Dagobert! we shall not forget it,” said the orphans, growing more
and more astonished as he proceeded.
“Is it not strange--this man with a black seam on his forehead?”
“Well, you shall hear. The general had, as I told you, been left for
dead at Waterloo. During the night which he passed on the field of
battle, in a sort of delirium brought on by the fever of his wounds, he
saw, or fancied he saw, this same man bending over him, with a look
of great mildness and deep melancholy, stanching his wounds, and using
every effort to revive him. But as your father, whose senses were still
wandering, repulsed his kindness saying, that after such a defeat, it
only remained to die--it appeared as if this man replied to him; ‘You
must live for Eva!’ meaning your mother, whom the general had left at
Warsaw, to join the Emperor, and make this campaign of France.”
“How strange, Dagobert!--And since then, did our father never see this
man?”
“Yes, he saw him--for it was he who brought news of the general to your
poor mother.”
“When was that? We never heard of it.”
“You remember that, on the day your mother died, you went to the pine
forest with old Fedora?”
“Yes,” answered Rose, mournfully; “to fetch some heath, of which our
mother was so fond.”
“Poor mother!” added Blanche; “she appeared so well that morning, that
we could not dream of the calamity which awaited us before night.”
“True, my children; I sang and worked that morning in the garden,
expecting, no more than you did, what was to happen. Well, as I was
singing at my work, on a sudden I heard a voice ask me in French:
‘Is this the village of Milosk?’--I turned round, and saw before me a
stranger; I looked at him attentively, and, instead of replying, fell
back two steps, quite stupefied.”
“Ah, why?”
“He was of tall stature, very pale, with a high and open forehead; but
his eyebrows met, and seemed to form one black streak across it.”
“Then it was the same man who had twice been with our father in battle?”
“Yes--it was he.”
“But, Dagobert,” said Rose, thoughtfully, “is it not a long time since
these battles?”
“About sixteen years.”
“And of what age was this stranger?”
“Hardly more than thirty.”
“Then how can it be the same man, who sixteen years before, had been
with our father in the wars?”
“You are right,” said Dagobert, after a moment’s silence, and shrugging
his shoulders: “I may have been deceived by a chance likeness--and
yet--”
“Or, if it were the same, he could not have got older all that while.”
“But did you ask him, if he had not formerly relieved our father?”
“At first I was so surprised that I did not think of it; and afterwards,
he remained so short a time, that I had no opportunity. Well, he asked
me for the village of Milosk. ‘You are there, sir,’ said I, ‘but how
do you know that I am a Frenchman?’ ‘I heard you singing as I passed,’
replied he; ‘could you tell me the house of Madame Simon, the general’s
wife?’ ‘She lives here, sir.’ Then looking at me for some seconds in
silence, he took me by the hand and said: ‘You are the friend of General
Simon--his best friend?’ Judge of my astonishment, as I answered: ‘But,
sir, how do you know?’ ‘He has often spoken of you with gratitude.’ ‘You
have seen the general then?’ ‘Yes, some time ago, in India. I am also
his friend: I bring news of him to his wife, whom I knew to be exiled
in Siberia. At Tobolsk, whence I come, I learned that she inhabits this
village. Conduct me to her!’”
“The good traveller--I love him already,” said Rose.
“Yes, being father’s friend.”
“I begged him to wait an instant, whilst I went to inform your mother,
so that the surprise might not do her harm; five minutes after, he was
beside her.”
“And what kind of man was this traveller, Dagobert?”
“He was very tall; he wore a dark pelisse, and a fur cap, and had long
black hair.”
“Was he handsome?”
“Yes, my children--very handsome; but with so mild and melancholy an
air, that it pained my heart to see him.”
“Poor man! he had doubtless known some great sorrow.”
“Your mother had been closeted with him for some minutes, when she
called me to her and said that she had just received good news of the
general. She was in tears, and had before her a large packet of papers;
it was a kind of journal, which your father had written every evening to
console himself; not being able to speak to her, he told the paper all
that he would have told her.”
“Oh! where are these papers, Dagobert?”
“There, in the knapsack, with my cross and our purse. One day I will
give them to you: but I have picked out a few leaves here and there for
you to read presently. You will see why.”
“Had our father been long in India?”
“I gathered from the few words which your mother said, that the general
had gone to that country, after fighting for the Greeks against the
Turks--for he always liked to side with the weak against the strong.
In India he made fierce war against the English, they had murdered our
prisoners in pontoons, and tortured the Emperor at St. Helena, and the
war was a doubly good one, for in harming them he served a just cause.”
“What cause did he serve then?”
“That of one of the poor native princes, whose territories the English,
lay waste, till the day when they can take possession of them against
law and right. You see, my children, it was once more the weak against
the strong, and your father did not miss this opportunity. In a few
months he had so well-trained and disciplined the twelve or fifteen
thousand men of the prince, that, in two encounters, they cut to pieces
the English sent against them, and who, no doubt, had in their reckoning
left out your brave father, my children. But come, you shall read some
pages of his journal, which will tell you more and better than I
can. Moreover, you will find in them a name which you ought always to
remember; that’s why I chose this passage.”
“Oh, what happiness! To read the pages written by our father, is almost
to hear him speak,” said Rose.
“It is as if he were close beside us,” added Blanche.
And the girls stretched out their hands with eagerness, to catch hold
of the leaves that Dagobert had taken from his pocket. Then, by a
simultaneous movement, full of touching grace, they pressed the writing
of their father in silence to their lips.
“You will see also, my children, at the end of this letter, why I
was surprised that your guardian angel, as you say, should be called
Gabriel. Read, read,” added the soldier, observing the puzzled air of
the orphans. “Only I ought to tell you that, when he wrote this,
the general had not yet fallen in with the traveller who brought the
papers.”
Rose, sitting up in her bed, took the leaves, and began to read in a
soft and trembling voice, Blanche, with her head resting on her sister’s
shoulder, followed attentively every word. One could even see, by
the slight motion of her lips, that she too was reading, but only to
herself.
CHAPTER VIII. EXTRACTS FROM GENERAL SIMON’S DIARY.
Bivouac on the Mountains of Avers February the 20th, 1830.
“Each time I add some pages to this journal, written now in the heart
of India, where the fortune of my wandering and proscribed existence has
thrown me--a journal which, alas! my beloved Eva, you may never read--I
experience a sweet, yet painful emotion; for, although to converse thus
with you is a consolation, it brings back the bitter thought that I am
unable to see or speak to you.
“Still, if these pages should ever meet your eyes, your generous heart
will throb at the name of the intrepid being, to whom I am this day
indebted for my life, and to whom I may thus perhaps owe the happiness
of seeing you again--you and my child--for of course our child lives.
Yes, it must be--for else, poor wife, what an existence would be yours
amid the horrors of exile! Dear soul! he must now be fourteen. Whom
does he resemble? Is he like you? Has he your large and beautiful blue
eyes?--Madman that I am! how many times, in this long day-book, have
I already asked the same idle question, to which you can return no
answer!--How many times shall I continue to ask it?--But you will teach
our child to speak and love the somewhat savage name of Djalma.”
“Djalma!” said Rose, as with moist eyes she left off reading.
“Djalma!” repeated Blanche, who shared the emotion of her sister. “Oh,
we shall never forget that name.”
“And you will do well, my children; for it seems to be the name of a
famous soldier, though a very young one. But go on, my little Rose!”
“I have told you in the preceding pages, my dear Eva, of the two
glorious days we had this month. The troops of my old friend, the
prince, which daily make fresh advances in European discipline, have
performed wonders. We have beaten the English, and obliged them to
abandon a portion of this unhappy country, which they had invaded in
contempt of all the rights of justice, and which they continue to
ravage without mercy, for, in these parts, warfare is another name for
treachery, pillage, and massacre. This morning, after a toilsome march
through a rocky and mountainous district, we received information from
our scouts, that the enemy had been reinforced, and was preparing to act
on the offensive; and, as we were separated from them by a distance of
a few leagues only, an engagement became inevitable. My old friend
the prince, the father of my deliverer, was impatient to march to the
attack. The action began about three o’clock; it was very bloody
and furious. Seeing that our men wavered for a moment, for they were
inferior in number, and the English reinforcements consisted of fresh
troops, I charged at the head of our weak reserve of cavalry. The old
prince was in the centre, fighting, as he always fights, intrepidly; his
son, Djalma, scarcely eighteen, as brave as his father, did not leave my
side. In the hottest part of the engagement, my horse was killed under
me, and rolling over into a ravine, along the edge of which I was
riding, I found myself so awkwardly entangled beneath him, that for an
instant I thought my thigh was broken.”
“Poor father!” said Blanche.
“This time, happily, nothing more dangerous ensued thanks to Djalma!
You see, Dagobert,” added Rose, “that I remember the name.” And she
continued to read,
“The English thought--and a very flattering opinion it was--that, if
they could kill me, they would make short work of the prince’s army.
So a Sepoy officer, with five or six irregulars--cowardly, ferocious
plunderers--seeing me roll down the ravine, threw themselves into it
to despatch me. Surrounded by fire and smoke, and carried away by their
ardor, our mountaineers had not seen me fall; but Djalma never left me.
He leaped into the ravine to my assistance, and his cool intrepidity
saved my life. He had held the fire of his double-barrelled carbine;
with one load, he killed the officer on the spot; with the other he
broke the arm of an irregular, who had already pierced my left hand
with his bayonet. But do not be alarmed, dear Eva; it is nothing--only a
scratch.”
“Wounded--again wounded--alas!” cried Blanche, clasping her hands
together, and interrupting her sister.
“Take courage!” said Dagobert: “I dare say it was only a scratch, as
the general calls it. Formerly, he used to call wounds, which did not
disable a man from fighting, blank wounds. There was no one like him for
such sayings.”
“Djalma, seeing me wounded,” resumed Rose, wiping her eyes, “made use
of his heavy carbine as a club, and drove back the soldiers. At that
instant, I perceived a new assailant, who, sheltered behind a clump of
bamboos which commanded the ravine, slowly lowered his long gun, placed
the barrel between two branches, and took deliberate aim at Djalma.
Before my shouts could apprise him of his danger, the brave youth
had received a ball in his breast. Feeling himself hit, he fell bark
involuntarily two paces, and dropped upon one knee: but he still
remained firm, endeavoring to cover me with his body. You may conceive
my rage and despair, whilst all my efforts to disengage myself were
paralyzed by the excruciating pain in my thigh. Powerless and disarmed,
I witnessed for some moments this unequal struggle.
“Djalma was losing blood rapidly; his strength of arm began to fail him;
already one of the irregulars, inciting his comrades with his voice,
drew from his belt a huge, heavy kind of bill-hook, when a dozen of
our mountaineers made their appearance, borne towards the spot by the
irresistible current of the battle. Djalma was rescued in his turn, I
was released, and, in a quarter of an hour, I was able to mount a horse.
The fortune of the day is ours, though with severe loss; but the fires
of the English camp are still visible, and to-morrow the conflict will
be decisive. Thus, my beloved Eva, I owe my life to this youth. Happily,
his wound occasions us no uneasiness; the ball only glanced along the
ribs in a slanting direction.”
“The brave boy might have said: ‘A blank wound,’ like the general,”
observed Dagobert.
“Now, my dear Eva,” continued Rose, “you must become acquainted, by
means of this narrative at least, with the intrepid Djalma. He is but
just eighteen. With one word, I will paint for you his noble and valiant
nature; it is a custom of this country to give surnames, and, when only
fifteen, he was called ‘The Generous’--by which was, of course, meant
generous in heart and mind. By another custom, no less touching than
whimsical, this name was reverted to his parent, who is called ‘The
Father of the Generous,’ and who might, with equal propriety, be called
‘The Just,’ for this old Indian is a rare example of chivalrous honor
and proud independence. He might, like so many other poor princes of
this country, have humbled himself before the execrable despotism of
the English, bargained for the relinquishment of sovereign power,
and submitted to brute force--but it was not in his nature. ‘My whole
rights, or a grave in my native mountains!’--such is his motto. And this
is no empty boast; it springs from the conviction of what is right and
just. ‘But you will be crushed in the struggle,’ I have said to him--‘My
friend,’ he answered, ‘what if, to force you to a disgraceful act, you
were told to yield or die?’--From that day I understood him, and have
devoted myself, mind and body, to the ever sacred cause of the weak
against the strong. You see, my Eva, that Djalma shows himself worthy of
such a father. This young Indian is so proud, so heroic in his bravery,
that, like a young Greek of Leonidas’ age, he fights with his breast
bare; while other warriors of his country (who, indeed, usually have
arms, breast, and shoulders uncovered) wear, in time of battle, a thick,
impenetrable vest. The rash daring of this youth reminds me of Murat,
King of Naples, who, I have so often told you, I have seen a hundred
times leading the most desperate charges with nothing but a riding-whip
in his hand.”
“That’s another of those kings I was telling you of, whom the Emperor
set up for his amusement,” said Dagobert. “I once saw a Prussian officer
prisoner, whose face had been cut across by that mad-cap King of Naples’
riding-whip; the mark was there, a black and blue stripe. The
Prussian swore he was dishonored, and that a sabre-cut would have been
preferable. I should rather think so! That devil of a king; he only
had one idea: ‘Forward, on to the cannon!’ As soon as they began to
cannonade, one would have thought the guns were calling him with all
their might, for he was soon up to them with his ‘Here I am!’ If I
speak to you about him, my children, it’s because he was fond of
repeating,--‘No one can break through a square of infantry, if General
Simon or I can’t do it.’”
Rose continued:
“I have observed with pain, that, notwithstanding his youth, Djalma
is often subject to fits of deep melancholy. At times, I have seen
him exchange with his father looks of singular import. In spite of our
mutual attachment, I believe that both conceal from me some sad family
secret, in so far as I can judge from expressions which have dropped
from them by chance.
“It relates to some strange event which their vivid imaginations have
invested with a supernatural character.
“And yet, my love, you and I have no longer the right to smile at the
credulity of others. I, since the French campaign, when I met with
that extraordinary adventure, which, to this day, I am quite unable to
understand--”
“This refers to the man who threw himself before the mouth of the
cannon,” said Dagobert.
“And you,” continued the maiden, still reading, “you, my dear Eva,
since the visits of that young and beautiful woman, whom, as your mother
asserted, she had seen at her mother’s house forty years before.”
The orphans, in amazement, looked at the soldier.
“Your mother never spoke to me of that, nor the general either, my
children; this is as strange to me as it is to you.”
With increasing excitement and curiosity, Rose continued:
“After all, my dear Eva, things which appear very extraordinary, may
often be explained by a chance resemblance or a freak of nature. Marvels
being always the result of optical illusion or heated fancy, a time must
come, when that which appeared to be superhuman or supernatural, will
prove to be the most simple and natural event in the world. I doubt not,
therefore, that the things, which we denominate our prodigies, will one
day receive this commonplace solution.”
“You see, my children--things appear marvelous, which at bottom are
quite simple--though for a long time we understand nothing about them.”
“As our father relates this, we must believe it, and not be
astonished--eh, sister?”
“Yes, truly--since it will all be explained one day.”
“For example,” said Dagobert, after a moment’s reflection, “you two
are so much alike, that any one, who was not in the habit of seeing you
daily, might easily take one for the other. Well! if they did not know
that you are, so to speak, ‘doubles,’ they might think an imp was at work
instead of such good little angels as you are.”
“You are right, Dagobert; in this way many things may be explained, even
as our father says.” And Rose continued to read:
“Not without pride, my gentle Eva, have I learned that Djalma has French
blood in his veins. His father married, some years ago, a young girl,
whose family, of French origin, had long been settled at Batavia in the
island of Java. This similarity of circumstances between my old friend
and myself--for your family also, my Eva, is of French origin, and long
settled in a foreign land--has only served to augment my sympathy for
him. Unfortunately, he has long had to mourn the loss of the wife whom
he adored.
“See, my beloved Eva! my hand trembles as I write these words. I am
weak--I am foolish--but, alas! my heart sinks within me. If such a
misfortune were to happen to me--Oh, my God!--what would become of our
child without thee--without his father--in that barbarous country?
But no! the very fear is madness; and yet what a horrible torture is
uncertainty! Where may you now be? What are you doing? What has become
of you? Pardon these black thoughts, which are sometimes too much for
me. They are the cause of my worst moments--for, when free from them,
I can at least say to myself: I am proscribed, I am every way
unfortunate--but, at the other end of the world, two hearts still beat
for me with affection--yours, my Eva, and our child’s!”
Rose could hardly finish this passage; for some seconds her voice was
broken by sobs. There was indeed a fatal coincidence between the fears
of General Simon and the sad reality; and what could be more touching
than these outpourings of the heart, written by the light of a watch
fire, on the eve of battle, by a soldier who thus sought to soothe the
pangs of a separation, which he felt bitterly, but knew not would be
eternal?
“Poor general! he is unaware of our misfortune,” said Dagobert, after
a moment’s silence; “but neither has he heard that he has two children,
instead of one. That will be at least some consolation. But come,
Blanche; do go on reading: I fear that this dwelling on grief fatigues
your sister, and she is too much affected by it. Besides, after all, it
is only just, that you should take your share of its pleasure and its
sorrow.”
Blanche took the letter, and Rose, having dried her eyes, laid in her
turn her sweet head on the shoulder of her sister, who thus continued:
“I am calmer now, my dear Eva; I left off writing for a moment,
and strove to banish those black presentiments. Let us resume our
conversation! After discoursing so long about India, I will talk to
you a little of Europe. Yesterday evening, one of our people (a trusty
fellow) rejoined our outposts. He brought me a letter, which had arrived
from France at Calcutta; at length, I have news of my father, and am no
longer anxious on his account. This letter is dated in August of last
year. I see by its contents, that several other letters, to which he
alludes, have either been delayed or lost; for I had not received
any for two years before, and was extremely uneasy about him. But my
excellent father is the same as ever! Age has not weakened him; his
character is as energetic, his health as robust, as in times past--still
a workman, still proud of his order, still faithful to his austere
republican ideas, still hoping much.
“For he says to me, ‘the time is at hand,’ and he underlines those
words. He gives me also, as you will see, good news of the family of old
Dagobert, our friend--for in truth, my dear Eva, it soothes my grief
to think, that this excellent man is with you, that he will have
accompanied you in your exile--for I know him--a kernel of gold beneath
the rude rind of a soldier! How he must love our child!”
Here Dagobert coughed two or three times, stooped down, and appeared
to be seeking on the ground the little red and blue check-handkerchief
spread over his knees. He remained thus bent for some seconds, and, when
he raised himself, he drew his hand across his moustache.
“How well father knows you!”
“How rightly has he guessed that you would love us!”
“Well, well, children; pass over that!--Let’s come to the part where the
general speaks of my little Agricola, and of Gabriel, my wife’s adopted
child. Poor woman! when I think that in three months perhaps--but
come, child, read, read,” added the old soldier, wishing to conceal his
emotion.
“I still hope against hope, my dear Eva, that these pages will one
day reach you, and therefore I wish to insert in them all that can be
interesting to Dagobert. It will be a consolation to him, to have some
news of his family. My father, who is still foreman at Mr. Hardy’s,
tells me that worthy man has also taken into his house the son of old
Dagobert. Agricola works under my father, who is enchanted with him.
He is, he tells me, a tall and vigorous lad, who wields the heavy
forge hammer as if it were a feather, and is light-spirited as he is
intelligent and laborious. He is the best workman on the establishment;
and this does not prevent him in the evening, after his hard day’s work,
when he returns home to his mother, whom he truly loves, from making
songs and writing excellent patriotic verses. His poetry is full of fire
and energy; his fellow-workmen sing nothing else, and his lays have the
power to warm the coldest and the most timid hearts.”
“How proud you must be of your son, Dagobert,” said Rose, in admiration;
“he writes songs.”
“Certainly, it is all very fine--but what pleases me best is, that he is
good to his mother, and that he handles the hammer with a will. As
for the songs, before he makes a ‘Rising of the People,’ or a
‘Marseillaise,’ he will have had to beat a good deal of iron; but where
can this rascally sweet Agricola have learned to make songs at all?--No
doubt, it was at school, where he went, as you will see, with his
adopted brother Gabriel.”
At this name of Gabriel, which reminded them of the imaginary being whom
they called their guardian angel, the curiosity of the young girls was
greatly excited. With redoubled attention, Blanche continued in these
words:
“The adopted brother of Agricola, the poor deserted child whom the wife
of our good Dagobert so generously took in, forms, my father tells me, a
great contrast with Agricola; not in heart, for they have both excellent
hearts; but Gabriel is as thoughtful and melancholy as Agricola is
lively, joyous, and active. Moreover, adds my father, each of them, so
to speak, has the aspect, which belongs to his character. Agricola
is dark, tall, and strong, with a gay and bold air; Gabriel, on
the contrary, is weak, fair, timid as a girl, and his face wears an
expression of angelic mildness.”
The orphans looked at each other in surprise; then, as they turned
towards the soldier their ingenuous countenances, Rose said to him;
“Have you heard, Dagobert? Father says, that your Gabriel is fair, and
has the face of an angel. Why, ‘tis exactly like ours!”
“Yes, yes, I heard very well; it is that which surprised me, in your
dream.”
“I should like to know, if he has also blue eyes,” said Rose.
“As for that, my children, though the general says nothing about it, I
will answer for it: your fair boys have always blue eyes. But, blue or
black, he will not use them to stare at young ladies; go on, and you
will see why.”
Blanche resumed:
“His face wears an expression of angelic mildness. One of the Brothers
of the Christian Schools, where he went with Agricola and other children
of his quarter, struck with his intelligence and good disposition, spoke
of him to a person of consequence, who, becoming interested in the lad,
placed him in a seminary for the clergy, and, since the last two years,
Gabriel is a priest. He intends devoting himself to foreign missions,
and will soon set out for America.”
“Your Gabriel is a priest, it appears?” said Rose, looking at Dagobert.
“While ours is an angel,” added Blanche.
“Which only proves that yours is a step higher than mine. Well, every
one to his taste; there are good people in all trades; but I prefer that
it should be Gabriel who has chosen the black gown. I’d rather see my
boy with arms bare, hammer in hand, and a leathern apron round him,
neither more nor less than your old grandfather, my children--the father
of Marshal Simon, Duke of Ligny--for, after all, marshal and duke he is
by the grace of the Emperor. Now finish your letter.”
“Soon, alas, yes!” said Blanche; “there are only a few lines left.” And
she proceeded:
“Thus, my dear, loving Eva, if this journal should ever reach its
destination, you will be able to satisfy Dagobert as to the position of
his wife and son, whom he left for our sakes. How can we ever repay such
a sacrifice? But I feel sure, that your good and generous heart will
have found some means of compensation.
“Adieu!--Again adieu, for to-day, my beloved Eva; I left off writing
for a moment, to visit the tent of Djalma. He slept peacefully, and
his father watched beside him; with a smile, he banished my fears. This
intrepid young man is no longer in any danger. May he still be spared in
the combat of to-morrow! Adieu, my gentle Eva! the night is silent
and calm; the fires of the bivouac are slowly dying out, and our poor
mountaineers repose after this bloody day; I can hear, from hour to
hour, the distant all’s well of our sentinels. Those foreign words
bring back my grief; they remind me of what I sometimes forget in
writing--that I am faraway, separated from you and from my child! Poor,
beloved beings! what will be your destiny? Ah! if I could only send you,
in time, that medal, which, by a fatal accident, I carried away with
me from Warsaw, you might, perhaps, obtain leave to visit France, or
at least to send our child there with Dagobert; for you know of what
importance--But why add this sorrow to all the rest? Unfortunately, the
years are passing away, the fatal day will arrive, and this last hope,
in which I live for you, will also be taken from me: but I will not
close the evening by so sad a thought. Adieu, my beloved Eva! Clasp our
child to your bosom, and cover it with all the kisses which I send to
both of you from the depths of exile!”
“Till to-morrow--after the battle!”
The reading of this touching letter was followed by long silence. The
tears of Rose and Blanche flowed together. Dagobert, with his head
resting on his hand, was absorbed in painful reflections.
Without doors, the wind had now augmented in violence; a heavy rain
began to beat on the sounding panes; the most profound silence reigned
in the interior of the inn. But, whilst the daughters of General Simon
were reading with such deep emotion, these fragments of their father’s
journal, a strange and mysterious scene transpired in the menagerie of
the brute-tamer.
CHAPTER IX. THE CAGES.
Morok had prepared himself. Over his deer-skin vest he had drawn
the coat of mail--that steel tissue, as pliable as cloth, as hard as
diamonds; next, clothing his arms and legs in their proper armor,
and his feet in iron-bound buskins, and concealing all this defensive
equipment under loose trousers and an ample pelisse carefully buttoned,
he took in his hand a long bar of iron, white-hot, set in a wooden
handle.
Though long ago daunted by the skill and energy of the Prophet, his
tiger Cain, his lion Judas, and his black panther Death, had sometimes
attempted, in a moment of rebellion, to try their fangs and claws on
his person; but, thanks to the armor concealed beneath his pelisse, they
blunted their claws upon a skin of steel, and notched their fangs upon
arms or legs of iron, whilst a slight touch of their master’s metallic
wand left a deep furrow in their smoking, shrivelled flesh.
Finding the inutility of their efforts, and endowed with strong memory,
the beasts soon learned that their teeth and claws were powerless
when directed against this invulnerable being. Hence, their terrified
submission reached to such a point that, in his public representations,
their master could make them crouch and cower at his feet by the least
movement of a little wand covered with flame-colored paper.
The Prophet, thus armed with care, and holding in his hand the iron made
hot by Goliath, descended by the trapdoor of the loft into the large
shed beneath, in which were deposited the cages of his animals. A mere
wooden partition separated this shed from the stable that contained his
horses.
A lantern, with a reflector, threw a vivid light on the cages. They were
four in number. A wide iron grating formed their sides, turning at one
end upon hinges like a door, so as to give ingress to the animal; the
bottom of each den rested on two axle-trees and four small iron castors,
so that they could easily be removed to the large covered wagon in which
they were placed during a journey. One of them was empty; the other
three contained, as already intimated, a panther, a tiger, and a lion.
The panther, originally from Java, seemed to merit the gloomy name
of Death, by her grim, ferocious aspect. Completely black, she lay
crouching and rolled up in the bottom of her cage, and her dark hues
mingling with the obscurity which surrounded her, nothing was distinctly
visible but fixed and glaring eyes--yellow balls of phosphoric light,
which only kindled, as it were, in the night-time; for it is the nature
of all the animals of the feline species to enjoy entire clearness of
vision but in darkness.
The Prophet entered the stable in silence: the dark red of his long
pelisse contrasted with the pale yellow of his straight hair and beard;
the lantern, placed at some height above the ground, threw its rays full
upon this man, and the strong light, opposed to the deep shadows around
it, gave effect to the sharp proportions of his bony and savage looking
figure.
He approached the cage slowly. The white rim, which encircled his
eyeball, appeared to dilate, and his look rivaled in motionless
brilliancy the steadily sparkling gaze of the panther. Still crouching
in the shade, she felt already the fascination of that glance; two
or three times she dropped her eyelids, with a low, angry howl; then,
reopening her eyes, as if in spite of herself, she kept them fastened
immovably on those of the Prophet. And now her rounded ears clung to
her skull, which was flattened like a viper’s; the skin of her forehead
became convulsively wrinkled; she drew in her bristling, but silky
muzzle, and twice silently opened her jaws, garnished with formidable
fangs. From that moment a kind of magnetic connection seemed to be
established between the man and the beast.
The Prophet extended his glowing bar towards the cage, and said, in a
sharp, imperious tone: “Death! come here.”
The panther rose, but so dragged herself along that her belly and the
bend of her legs touched the ground. She was three feet high, and nearly
five in length; her elastic and fleshy spine, the sinews of her thighs
as well developed as those of a race-horse, her deep chest, her enormous
jutting shoulders, the nerve and muscle in her short, thick paws--all
announced that this terrible animal united vigor with suppleness, and
strength with agility.
Morok, with his iron wand still extended in the direction of the cage,
made a step towards the panther. The panther made a stride towards the
Prophet. Morok stopped; Death stopped also.
At this moment the tiger, Judas, to whom Morok’s back was turned,
bounded violently in his cage, as if jealous of the attention, which his
master paid to the panther. He growled hoarsely, and, raising his head,
showed the under-part of his redoubtable triangular jaw, and his broad
chest of a dirty white, with which blended the copper color, streaked
with black, of his sides; his tail, like a huge red serpent, with rings
of ebony, now clung to his flanks, now lashed them with a slow and
continuous movement: his eyes, of a transparent, brilliant green, were
fixed upon the Prophet.
Such was the influence of this man over his animals, that Judas almost
immediately ceased growling, as if frightened at his own temerity; but
his respiration continued loud and deep. Morok turned his face towards
him, and examined him very attentively during some seconds. The panther,
no longer subject to the influence of her master’s look, slunk back to
crouch in the shade.
A sharp cracking, in sudden breaks, like that which great animals make
in gnawing hard substances, was now heard from the cage of the lion.
It drew the attention of the Prophet, who, leaving the tiger, advanced
towards the other den.
Nothing could be seen of the lion but his monstrous croup of a reddish
yellow. His thighs were gathered under him, and his thick mane served
entirely to conceal his head. But by the tension and movement of the
muscles of his loins, and the curving of his backbone, it was easy to
perceive that he was making violent efforts with his throat and his
forepaws. The Prophet approached the cage with same uneasiness, fearing
that, notwithstanding his orders, Goliath had given the lion some bones
to gnaw. To assure himself of it, he said in a quick and firm voice:
“Cain!”
The lion did not change his position.
“Cain! come here!” repeated Morok in a louder tone. The appeal was
useless; the lion did not move, and the noise continued.
“Cain! come here!” said the Prophet a third time; but, as he pronounced
these words, he applied the end of the glowing bar to the haunch of the
lion.
Scarcely did the light track of smoke appear on the reddish hide of
Cain, when, with a spring of incredible agility, he turned and
threw himself against the grating, not crouching, but at a single
bound--upright, superb, terrifying. The Prophet being at the angle of
the cage, Cain, in his fury, had raised himself sideways to face his
master, and, leaning his huge flank against the bars, thrust between
them his enormous fore leg, which, with his swollen muscles, was as
large as Goliath’s thigh.
“Cain! down!” said the Prophet, approaching briskly.
The lion did not obey immediately. His lips, curling with rage,
displayed fangs as long, as large, and as pointed as the tusks of a wild
boar. But Morok touched those lips with the end of the burning metal;
and, as he felt the smart, followed by an unexpected summons of his
master, the lion, not daring to roar, uttered a hollow growl, and his
great body sank down at once in an attitude of submission and fear.
The Prophet took down the lantern to see what Cain had been gnawing. It
was one of the planks from the floor of his den, which he had succeeded
in tearing up, and was crunching between his teeth in the extremity of
his hunger. For a few moments the most profound silence reigned in the
menagerie. The Prophet, with his hands behind his back, went from one
cage to the other, observing the animals with a restless contemplative
look, as if he hesitated to make between them an important and difficult
choice.
From time to time he listened at the great door of the shed, which
opened on the court-yard of the inn. At length this door turned on its
hinges, and Goliath appeared, his clothes dripping with water.
“Well! is it done?” said the Prophet.
“Not without trouble. Luckily, the night is dark, it blows hard, and it
pours with rain.”
“Then there is no suspicion?”
“None, master. Your information was good. The door of the cellar opens
on the fields, just under the window of the lasses. When you whistled to
let me know it was time, I crept out with a stool I had provided; I put
it up against the wall, and mounted upon it; with my six feet, that made
nine, and I could lean my elbows on the window-ledge; I took the shutter
in one hand, and the haft of my knife in the other, and, whilst I broke
two of the panes, I pushed the shutter with all my might.”
“And they thought it was the wind?”
“Yes, they thought it was the wind. You see, the ‘brute’ is not such a
brute, after all. That done, I crept back into my cellar, carrying my
stool with me. In a little time, I heard the voice of the old man; it
was well I had made haste.”
“Yes, when I whistled to you, he had just entered the supper-room. I
thought he would have been longer.”
“That man’s not built to remain long at supper,” said the giant,
contemptuously. “Some moments after the panes had been broken, the old
man opened the window, and called his dog, saying: ‘Jump out!’--I went
and hid myself at the further end of the cellar, or that infernal dog
would have scented me through the door.”
“The dog is now shut up in the stable with the old man’s horse.”
“Go on!”
“When I heard them close shutter and window, I came out of my cellar,
replaced my stool, and again mounted upon it. Unfastening the shutter,
I opened it without noise, but the two broken panes were stopped up with
the skirts of a pelisse. I heard talking, but I could see nothing; so I
moved the pelisse a little, and then I could see the two lasses in bed
opposite to me, and the old man sitting down with his back to where I
stood.”
“But the knapsack--the knapsack?--That is the most important.”
“The knapsack was near the window, on a table, by the side of a lamp; I
could have reached it by stretching out my arm.”
“What did you hear said?”
“As you told me to think only of the knapsack, I can only remember what
concerns the knapsack. The old man said he had some papers in it--the
letter of a general--his money--his cross.”
“Good--what next?”
“As it was difficult for me to keep the pelisse away from the hole, it
slipped through my fingers. In trying to get hold of it again, I put
my hand too much forward. One of the lasses saw it, and screamed out,
pointing to the window.”
“Dolt!” exclaimed the Prophet, becoming pale with rage, “you have ruined
all.”
“Stop a bit! there is nothing broken yet. When I heard the scream, I
jumped down from my stool, and got back into the cellar; as the dog was
no longer about, I left the door ajar, so that I could hear them open
the window, and see, by the light, that the old man was looking out with
the lamp; but he could find no ladder, and the window was too high for
any man of common size to reach it!”
“He will have thought, like the first time, that it was the wind. You
are less awkward than I imagined.”
“The wolf has become a fox, as you said. Knowing where the knapsack was
to be found with the money and the papers, and not being able to do more
for the moment, I came away--and here I am.”
“Go upstairs and fetch me the longest pike.”
“Yes, master.”
“And the red blanket.”
“Yes, master.”
“Go!”
Goliath began to mount the ladder; half-way up he stopped. “Master,”
said he, “may I not bring down a bit of meat for Death?--you will see
that she’ll bear me malice; she puts it all down to my account; she
never forgets, and on the first occasion--”
“The pike and the cloth!” repeated the Prophet, in an imperious tone.
And whilst Goliath, swearing to himself, proceeded to execute his
instructions, Morok opened the great door of the shed, looked out into
the yard, and listened.
“Here’s the pike and the cloth,” said the giant, as he descended the
ladder with the articles. “Now what must I do next?”
“Return to the cellar, mount once more by the window, and when the old
man leaves the room--”
“Who will make him leave the room?”
“Never mind! he will leave it.”
“What next?”
“You say the lamp is near the window?”
“Quite near--on the table next to the knapsack.”
“Well, then, as soon as the old man leaves the room, push open the
window, throw down the lamp, and if you accomplish cleverly what remains
to do--the ten florins are yours--you remember it all?”
“Yes, yes.”
“The girls will be so frightened by the noise and darkness, that they
will remain dumb with terror.”
“Make yourself easy! The wolf turned into a fox; why not a serpent?”
“There is yet something.”
“Well, what now?”
“The roof of this shed is not very high, the window of the loft is easy
of access, the night is dark--instead of returning by the door--”
“I will come in at the window.”
“Ay, and without noise.”
“Like a regular snake!” and the giant departed.
“Yes!” said the Prophet to himself, after a long silence, “these means
are sure. It was not for me to hesitate. A blind and obscure instrument,
I know not the motives of the orders I have received: but from the
recommendations which accompany them--but from the position of him who
sends them--immense interests must be involved--interests connected with
all that is highest and greatest upon earth!--And yet how can these
two girls, almost beggars, how can this wretched soldier represent such
interests?--No matter,” added he, with humility; “I am the arm which
acts--it is for the head, which thinks and orders, to answer for its
work.”
Soon after the Prophet left the shed, carrying with him the red cloth,
and directed his steps towards the little stable that contained Jovial.
The crazy door, imperfectly secured by a latch, was easily opened. At
sight of a stranger Spoil-sport threw himself upon him; but his teeth
encountered the iron leggings of the Prophet, who, in spite of the
efforts of the dog took Jovial by his halter, threw the blanket over
his head to prevent his either seeing or smelling, and led him from the
stable into the interior of the menagerie, of which he closed the door.
CHAPTER X. THE SURPRISE.
The orphans, after reading the journal of their father, remained for
some moments silent, sad, and pensive, contemplating the leaves yellowed
by time. Dagobert, also plunged in a reverie, thought of his wife and
son, from whom he had been so long separated, and hoped soon to see
again.
The soldier was the first to break the silence, which had lasted for
several minutes. Taking the leaves from the hand of Blanche, he folded
them carefully, put them into his pocket, and thus addressed the
orphans:
“Courage, my children! you see what a brave father you have. Think only
of the pleasure of greeting him, and remember always the name of the
gallant youth, to whom you will owe that pleasure--for without him your
father would have been killed in India.”
“Djalma! we shall never forget him,” said Rose.
“And if our guardian angel Gabriel should return,” added Blanche, “we
will ask him to watch over Djalma as over ourselves.”
“Very well, my children; I am sure that you will forget nothing that
concerns good feeling. But to return to the traveller, who came to visit
your poor mother in Siberia, he had seen the general a month after the
events of which you have read, and at a moment when he was about to
enter on a new campaign against the English. It was then that your
father entrusted him with the papers and medal.”
“But of what use will this medal be to us, Dagobert?”
“And what is the meaning of these words engraved upon it?” added Rose,
as she drew it from her bosom.
“Why it means, my children, that on the 13th of February, 1832, we must
be at No. 3, Rue Saint Francois, Paris.”
“But what are we to do there?”
“Your poor mother was seized so quickly with her last illness, that she
was unable to tell me. All I know is, that this medal came to her from
her parents, and that it had been a relic preserved in her family for
more than a century.”
“And how did our father get it?”
“Among the articles which had been hastily thrown into the coach,
when he was removed by force from Warsaw, was a dressing-case of your
mother’s, in which was contained this medal. Since that time the general
had been unable to send it back, having no means of communicating with
us, and not even knowing where we were.”
“This medal is, then, of great importance to us?”
“Unquestionably; for never, during fifteen years, had I seen your mother
so happy, as on the day the traveller brought it back to her. ‘Now,’
said she to me, in the presence of the stranger, and with tears of joy
in her eyes, ‘now may my children’s future be brilliant as their life
has hitherto been miserable. I will entreat of the governor of Siberia
permission to go to France with my daughters; it will perhaps be thought
I have been sufficiently punished, by fifteen years of exile, and the
confiscation of my property. Should they refuse, I will remain here; but
they will at least allow me to send my children to France, and you must
accompany them, Dagobert. You shall set out immediately, for much time
has been already lost; and, if you were not to arrive before the 13th
of next February, this cruel separation and toilsome journey would have
been all in vain.’”
“Suppose we were one day after?”
“Your mother told me that if we arrived the 14th instead of the 13th, it
would be too late. She also gave me a thick letter, to put into the
post for France, in the first town we should pass through--which I have
done.”
“And do you think we shall be at Paris in time?”
“I hope so; still, if you are strong enough, we must sometimes make
forced marches--for, if we only travel our five leagues a day, and that
without accident, we shall scarcely reach Paris until the beginning of
February, and it is better to be a little beforehand.”
“But as father is in--India, and condemned to death if he return to
France, when shall we see him?”
“And where shall we see him?”
“Poor children! there are so many things you have yet to learn. When the
traveller quitted him, the general could not return to France, but now
he can do so.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the Bourbons, who had banished him, were themselves turned out
last year. The news must reach India, and your father will certainly
come to meet you at Paris, because he expects that you and your mother
will be there on the 13th of next February.”
“Ah! now I understand how we may hope to see him,” said Rose with a
sigh.
“Do you know the name of this traveller, Dagobert?”
“No, my children; but whether called Jack or John, he is a good sort.
When he left your mother, she thanked him with tears for all his
kindness and devotion to the general, herself, and the children; but he
pressed her hands in his, and said to her, in so gentle a voice that
I could not help being touched by it: ‘Why do you thank me? Did He not
Say--LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER!’”
“Who is that, Dagobert?”
“Yes, of whom did the traveller speak?”
“I know nothing about it; only the manner in which he pronounced those
words struck me, and they were the last he spoke.”
“Love one another!” repeated Rose, thoughtfully.
“How beautiful are those words!” added Blanche.
“And whither was the traveller going?”
“Far, very far into the North, as he told your mother. When she saw
him depart, she said to me: ‘His mild, sad talk has affected me even to
tears; whilst I listened to him, I seemed to be growing better--I
seemed to love my husband and my children more--and yet, to judge by the
expression of his countenance, one would think that this stranger had
never either smiled or wept!’ She and I watched him from the door as
long as we could follow him with our eyes; he carried his head down, and
his walk was slow, calm, and firm; one might fancy that he counted his
steps. And, talking of steps, I remarked yet another thing.”
“What was it, Dagobert?”
“You know that the road which led to our house way, always damp, because
of the overflowing of the little spring.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, the mark of the traveller’s footsteps remained in the clay,
and I saw that he had nails under his shoe in the form of a cross.”
“How in the form of a cross?”
“Look!” said Dagobert, placing the tip of his finger seven times on the
coverlet of the bed; “they were arrange: thus beneath his heel:”
*
* * *
*
*
*
“You see it forms a cross.”
“What could it mean, Dagobert?”
“Chance, perhaps--yes, chance--and yet, in spite of myself, this
confounded cross left behind him struck me as a bad omen, for hardly was
he gone when misfortune after misfortune fell upon us.”
“Alas! the death of our mother!”
“Yes--but, before that, another piece of ill-luck. You had not yet
returned, and she was writing her petition to ask leave to go to France
or to send you there, when I heard the gallop of a horse. It was a
courier from the governor general of Siberia. He brought us orders to
change our residence; within three days we were to join other condemned
persons, and be removed with them four hundred leagues further north.
Thus, after fifteen years of exile, they redoubled in cruelty towards
your mother.”
“Why did they thus torment her?”
“One would think that some evil genius was at work against her. A few
days later, the traveller would no longer have found us at Milosk; and
if he had joined us further on, it would have been too far for the medal
and papers to be of use--since, having set out almost immediately, we
shall hardly arrive in time at Paris. ‘If they had some interest to
prevent me and my children from going to France,’ said your mother,
‘they would act just as they have done. To banish us four hundred
leagues further, is to render impossible this journey, of which the term
is fixed.’ And the idea overwhelmed her with grief.”
“Perhaps it was this unexpected sorrow that was the cause of her sudden
illness.”
“Alas! no, my children; it was that infernal cholera, who arrives
without giving you notice--for he too is a great traveller--and strikes
you down like a thunderbolt. Three hours after the traveller had left
us, when you returned quite pleased and gay from the forest, with your
large bunches of wild-flowers for your mother, she was already in the
last agony, and hardly to be recognized. The cholera had broken out in
the village, and that evening five persons died of it. Your mother had
only time to hang the medal about your neck, my dear little Rose,
to recommend you both to my care, and to beg that we should set out
immediately. When she was gone, the new order of exile could not apply
to you; and I obtained permission from the governor to take my departure
with you for France, according to the last wishes--”
The soldier could not finish the sentence; he covered his eyes with his
hand, whilst the orphans embraced him sobbing.
“Oh! but,” resumed Dagobert, with pride, after a moment of painful
silence, “it was then that you showed yourselves the brave daughters of
the general. Notwithstanding the danger, it was impossible to tear
you from your mother’s bedside; you remained with her to the last, you
closed her eyes, you watched there all night, and you would not leave
the village till you had seen me plant the little wooden cross over the
grave I had dug for her.”
Dagobert paused abruptly. A strange, wild neighing, mingled with
ferocious roarings, made the soldier start from his seat. He grew pale,
and cried: “It is Jovial! my horse! What are they doing to my horse?”
With that, opening the door he rushed down the stairs precipitately.
The two sisters clung together, so terrified at the sudden departure of
the soldier, that they saw not an enormous hand pass through the broken
panes, unfasten the catch of the window, push it violently open,
and throw down the lamp placed on the little table, on which was the
soldiers’s knapsack. The orphans thus found themselves plunged into
complete darkness.
CHAPTER XI. JOVIAL and DEATH.
Morok had led Jovial into the middle of the menagerie, and then removed
the cloth which prevented him from seeing and smelling. Scarcely had
the tiger, lion, and panther caught a glimpse of him than they threw
themselves, half famished, against the bars of their dens.
The horse struck with stupor, his neck stretched out, his eye fixed, and
trembling through all his limbs, appeared as if nailed to the ground;
an abundant icy sweat rolled suddenly down his flanks. The lion and the
tiger uttered fearful roarings, and struggled violently in their dens.
The panther did not roar, but her mute rage was terrific.
With a tremendous bound, at the risk of breaking her skull, she sprang
from the back of the cage against the bars; then, still mute, still
furious, she crawled back to the extreme corner of the den, and with a
new spring, as impetuous as it was blind, she again strove to force
out the iron grating. Three times had she thus bounded--silent,
appalling--when the horse, passing from the immobility of stupor to the
wild agony of fear, neighed long and loud, and rushed in desperation at
the door by which he had entered. Finding it closed he hung his head,
bent his knees a little, and rubbed his nostrils against the opening
left between the ground and the bottom of the door, as if he wished
to inhale the air from the outside; then, more and more affrighted, he
began to neigh with redoubled force, and struck out violently with his
fore-feet.
At the moment when Death was about once more to make her spring, the
Prophet approached her cage. The heavy bolt which secured the grating
was pushed from its staple by the pike of the brute-tamer, and, in
another second, Morok was half way up the ladder that communicated with
the loft.
The roaring of the lion and tiger, mingled with the neighing of Jovial,
now resounded through all parts of the inn. The panther had again
thrown herself furiously on the grating, and this time yielding with one
spring, she was in the middle of the shed.
The light of the lantern was reflected from the glossy ebon of her
hide, spotted with stains of a duller black. For an instant she remained
motionless, crouching upon her thick-set limbs, with her head close to
the floor, as if calculating the distance of the leap by which she was
to reach the horse; then suddenly she darted upon him.
On seeing her break from her cage Jovial had thrown himself violently
against the door, which was made to open inwards, and leaned against
it with all his might, as though he would force it down. Then, at
the moment when Death took her leap, he reared up in almost an erect
position; but she, rapid as lightning, had fastened upon his throat and
hung there, whilst at the same time she buried the sharp claws of her
fore-feet in his chest. The jugular vein of the horse opened; a torrent
of bright red blood spouted forth beneath the tooth of the panther, who,
now supporting herself on her hind legs, squeezed her victim up against
the door, whilst she dug into his flank with her claws, and laid bare
the palpitating flesh. Then his half-strangled neighing became awful.
Suddenly these words resounded: “Courage, Jovial!--I am at hand!
Courage!”
It was the voice of Dagobert, who was exhausting himself in desperate
exertions to force open the door that concealed this sanguinary
struggle. “Jovial!” cried the soldier, “I am here. Help! Help!”
At the sound of that friendly and well-known voice, the poor animal,
almost at its last gasp, strove to turn its head in the direction whence
came the accents of his master, answered him with a plaintive neigh,
and, sinking beneath the efforts of the panther, fell prostrate, first
on its knees, then upon its flank, so that its backbone lay right
across the door, and still prevented its being opened. And now all was
finished. The panther, squatting down upon the horse, crushed him with
all her paws, and, in spite of some last faint kicks, buried her bloody
snout in his body.
“Help! help! my horse!” cried Dagobert, as he vainly shook the door.
“And no arms!” he added with rage; “no arms!”
“Take care!” exclaimed the brute-tamer, who appeared at the window
of the loft; “do not attempt to enter it might cost you your life. My
panther is furious.”
“But my horse! my horse!” cried Dagobert, in a voice of agony.
“He must have strayed from his stable during the night, and pushed open
the door of the shed. At sight of him the panther must have broken out
of her cage and seized him. You are answerable for all the mischief that
may ensue,” added the brute-tamer, with a menacing air; “for I shall
have to run the greatest danger, to make Death return to her den.”
“But my horse! only save my horse!” cried Dagobert, in a tone of
hopeless supplication.
The Prophet disappeared from the window.
The roaring of the animals and the shouts of Dagobert, had roused from
sleep every one in the White Falcon. Here and there lights were seen
moving and windows were thrown open hurriedly. The servants of the
inn soon appeared in the yard with lanterns, and surrounding Dagobert,
inquired of him what had happened.
“My horse is there,” cried the soldier, continuing to shake the door,
“and one of that scoundrel’s animals has escaped from its cage.”
At these words the people of the inn, already terrified by the frightful
roaring, fled from the spot and ran to inform the host. The soldier’s
anguish may be conceived, as pale, breathless, with his ear close to
the chink of the door, he stood listening. By degrees the roaring had
ceased, and nothing was heard but low growls, accompanied by the stern
voice of the Prophet, repeating in harsh, abrupt accents: “Death! come
here! Death!”
The night was profoundly dark, and Dagobert did not perceive Goliath,
who, crawling carefully along the tiled roof entered the loft by the
attic window.
And now the gate of the court-yard was again opened, and the landlord of
the inn appeared, followed by a number of men. Armed with a carbine, he
advanced with precaution; his people carried staves and pitchforks.
“What is the row here?” said he, as he approached Dagobert. “What a
hubbub in my house! The devil take wild beast showmen, and negligent
fellows who don’t know how to tie a horse to the manger! If your beast
is hurt, so much the worse for you; you should have taken more care of
it.”
Instead of replying to these reproaches, the soldier, who still listened
attentively to what was going on in the shed, made a sign to entreat
silence. Suddenly a ferocious roar was heard, followed by a loud scream
from the Prophet; and, almost immediately after, the panther howled
piteously.
“You are no doubt the cause of some great accident,” said the frightened
host to the soldier; “did you not hear that cry? Morok is, perhaps,
dangerously wounded.”
Dagobert was about to answer, when the door opened, and Goliath appeared
on the threshold.
“You may enter now,” said he; “the danger is over.”
The interior of the menagerie presented a singular spectacle. The
Prophet, pale, and scarcely able to conceal his agitation beneath an
apparent air of calmness, was kneeling some paces from the cage of the
panther, in the attitude of one absorbed in himself; the motion of his
lips indicating that he was praying. At sight of the host and the people
of the inn, he rose, and said in a solemn voice: “I thank thee, my
Preserver, that I have been able to conquer, by the strength which Thou
hast given me.”
Then folding his arms, with haughty brow and imperious glance, he seemed
to enjoy the triumph he had achieved over Death, who, stretched on the
bottom of her den, continued to utter plaintive howlings. The spectators
of this scene, ignorant that the pelisse of the brute-tamer covered a
complete suit of armor, and attributing the cries of the panther solely
to fear, were struck with astonishment and admiration at the intrepidity
and almost supernatural power of this man. A few steps behind him stood
Goliath, leaning upon the ashen pikestaff. Finally, not far from the
cage, in the midst of a pool of blood, lay the dead body of Jovial.
At sight of the blood-stained and torn remains, Dagobert stood
motionless, and his rough countenance assumed an expression of the
deepest grief: then, throwing himself on his knees, he lifted the head
of Jovial; and when he saw those dull, glassy, and half-closed eyes,
once so bright and intelligent, as they turned towards a much-loved
master, the soldier could not suppress an exclamation of bitter anguish.
Forgetting his anger, forgetting the deplorable consequences of this
accident, so fatal to the interests of the two maidens, who would thus
be prevented from continuing their journey--he thought only of the
horrible death of his poor old horse, the ancient companion of his
fatigues and wars, the faithful animal, twice wounded like himself, and
from whom for so many years he had never been separated. This poignant
emotion was so cruelly, so affectingly visible in the soldier’s
countenance, that the landlord and his people felt themselves for a
moment touched with pity, as they gazed on the tall veteran kneeling
beside his dead horse.
But, when following the course of his regrets, he thought how Jovial had
also been the companion of his exile, how the mother of the orphans had
formerly (like her daughters) undertaken a toilsome journey with the aid
of this unfortunate animal, the fatal consequences of his loss presented
themselves on a sudden to his mind. Then, fury succeeding to grief,
he rose, with anger flashing from his eyes, and threw himself on the
Prophet; with one hand he seized him by the throat, and with the other
administered five or six heavy blows, which fell harmlessly on the coat
of mail.
“Rascal! you shall answer to me for my horse’s death!” said the soldier,
as he continued his correction. Morok, light and sinewy, could not
struggle with advantage against Dagobert, who, aided by his tall
stature, still displayed extraordinary vigor. It needed the intervention
of Goliath and the landlord to rescue the Prophet from the hands of the
old grenadier. After some moments, they succeeded in separating the two
champions. Morok was white with rage. It needed new efforts to prevent
his seizing the pike to attack Dagobert.
“It is abominable!” cried the host, addressing the soldier, who pressed
his clinched fists in despair against his bald forehead. “You expose
this good man to be devoured by his beasts, and then you wish to beat
him into the bargain. Is this fitting conduct for a graybeard? Shall
we have to fetch the police? You showed yourself more reasonable in the
early part of the evening.”
These words recalled the soldier to himself. He regretted his
impetuosity the more, as the fact of his being a stranger might augment
the difficulty of his position. It was necessary above all to obtain
the price of his horse, so as to be enabled to continue his journey, the
success of which might be compromised by a single day’s delay. With a
violent effort, therefore, he succeeded in restraining his wrath.
“You are right--I was too hasty,” said he to the host, in an agitated
voice, which he tried to make as calm as possible. “I had not the same
patience as before. But ought not this man be responsible for the loss
of my horse? I make you judge in the matter.”
“Well, then, as judge, I am not of your opinion. All this has been your
own fault. You tied up your horse badly, and he strayed by chance into
this shed, of which no doubt the door was half-open,” said the host,
evidently taking the part of the brute-tamer.
“It was just as you say,” answered Goliath. “I can remember it. I left
the door ajar, that the beasts might have some air in the night. The
cages were well shut, and there was no danger.”
“Very true,” said one of the standers-by.
“It was only the sight of the horse,” added another, “that made the
panther furious, so as to break out of its cage.”
“It is the Prophet who has the most right to complain,” observed a
third.
“No matter what this or that person says,” returned Dagobert, whose
patience was beginning to fail him, “I say, that I must have either
money or a horse on the instant--yes, on the instant--for I wish to quit
this unlucky house.”
“And I say, it is you that must indemnify me,” cried Morok, who had kept
this stage-trick for the last, and who now exhibited his left hand all
bloody, having hitherto concealed it beneath the sleeve of his pelisse.
“I shall perhaps be disabled for life,” he added; “see what a wound the
panther has made here!”
Without having the serious character that the Prophet ascribed to it,
the wound was a pretty deep one. This last argument gained for him the
general sympathy. Reckoning no doubt upon this incident, to secure the
winning of a cause that he now regarded as his own, the host said to the
hostler: “There is only one way to make a finish. It is to call up the
burgomaster, and beg him to step here. He will decide who is right or
wrong.”
“I was just going to propose it to you,” said the soldier, “for, after
all, I cannot take the law into my own hands.”
“Fritz, run to the burgomaster’s!”--and the hustler started in all
haste. His master, fearing to be compromised by the examination of the
soldier, whose papers he had neglected to ask for on his arrival, said
to him: “The burgomaster will be in a very bad humor, to be disturbed so
late. I have no wish to suffer by it, and I must therefore beg you to
go and fetch me your papers, to see if they are in rule. I ought to have
made you show them, when you arrived here in the evening.”
“They are upstairs in my knapsack; you shall have them,” answered the
soldier--and turning away his head, and putting his hand before his
eyes, as he passed the dead body of Jovial, he went out to rejoin the
sisters.
The Prophet followed him with a glance of triumph, and said to himself:
“There he goes!--without horse, without money, without papers. I could
not do more--for I was forbidden to do more--I was to act with as much
cunning as possible and preserve appearances. Now every one will think
this soldier in the wrong. I can at least answer for it, that he will
not continue his journey for some days--since such great interests
appear to depend on his arrest, and that of the young girls.”
A quarter of an hour after this reflection of the brute-tamer, Karl,
Goliath’s comrade, left the hiding-place where his master had concealed
him during the evening, and set out for Leipsic, with a letter which
Morok had written in haste, and which Karl, on his arrival, was to put
immediately into the post.
The address of this letter was as follows:
“A Monsieur Rodin, Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins, No, 11, A Paris, France.”
CHAPTER XII. THE BURGOMASTER.
Dagobert’s anxiety increased every moment. Certain that his horse had
not entered the shed of its own accord, he attributed the event which
had taken place to the spite of the brute-tamer; but he sought in vain
for the motive of this wretch’s animosity, and he reflected with dismay,
that his cause, however just, would depend on the good or bad humor of
a judge dragged from his slumbers and who might be ready to condemn upon
fallacious appearances.
Fully determined to conceal, as long as possible, from the orphans the
fresh misfortunes, which had befallen them, he was proceeding to open
the door of their chamber, when he stumbled over Spoil-sport--for the
dog had run back to his post, after vainly trying to prevent the Prophet
from leading away Jovial. “Luckily the dog has returned; the poor little
things have been well guarded,” said the soldier, as he opened the door.
To his great surprise, the room was in utter darkness.
“My children,” cried he, “why are you without a light?” There was no
answer. In terror he groped his way to the bed, and took the hand of one
of the sisters; the hand was cold as ice.
“Rose, my children!” cried he. “Blanche! Give me some answer! you
frighten me.” Still the same silence continued; the hand which he held
remained cold and powerless, and yielded passively to his touch.
Just then, the moon emerged from the black clouds that surrounded her,
and threw sufficient light into the little room, and upon the bed,
which faced the window, for the soldier to see that the two sisters
had fainted. The bluish light of the moon added to the paleness of the
orphans; they held each other in a half embrace, and Rose had buried her
head on Blanche’s bosom.
“They must have fainted through fear,” exclaimed Dagobert, running to
fetch his gourd. “Poor things! after a day of so much excitement, it is
not surprising.” And moistening the corner of a handkerchief with a few
drops of brandy, the soldier knelt beside the bed, gently chafed the
temples of the two sisters, and held the linen, wet with the spirituous
liquor, to their little pink nostrils.
Still on his knees, and bending his dark, anxious face over the orphans,
he waited some moments before again resorting to the only restorative in
his power. A slight shiver of Rose gave him renewed hope; the young girl
turned her head on the pillow with a sigh; then she started, and
opened her eyes with an expression of astonishment and alarm; but, not
immediately recognizing Dagobert, she exclaimed: “Oh, sister!” and threw
herself into the arms of Blanche.
The latter also was beginning to experience the effect of the soldier’s
care. The exclamation of Rose completely roused her from her lethargy,
and she clung to her sister, again sharing the fright without knowing
its cause.
“They’ve come to--that’s the chief point,” said Dagobert, “now we shall
soon get rid of these foolish fears.” Then softening his voice, he
added: “Well, my children, courage? You are better. It is I who am
here--me, Dagobert!”
The orphans made a hasty movement, and, turning towards the soldier
their sweet faces, which were still full of dismay and agitation, they
both, by a graceful impulse, extended their arms to him and cried: “It
is you, Dagobert--then we are safe!”
“Yes, my children, it is I,” said the veteran, taking their hands in
his, and pressing them joyfully. “So you have been much frightened
during my absence?”
“Oh, frightened to death!”
“If you knew--oh, goodness! if you knew--”
“But the lamp is extinguished--why is that?”
“We did not do it.”
“Come--recover yourselves, poor children, and tell me all about it. I
have no good opinion of this inn; but, luckily, we shall soon leave it.
It was an ill wind that blew me hither--though, to be sure, there was no
other in the village. But what has happened?”
“You were hardly gone, when the window flew open violently, and the lamp
and table fell together with a loud crash.”
“Then our courage failed--we screamed and clasped each other, for we
thought we could hear some one moving in the room.”
“And we were so frightened, that we fainted away.”
Unfortunately, persuaded that it was the violence of the wind which had
already broken the glass, and shaken the window, Dagobert attributed
this second accident to the same cause as the first, thinking that he
had not properly secured the fastening and that the orphans had been
deceived by a false alarm. “Well, well--it is over now,” said he to
them: “Calm yourselves, and don’t think of it any more.”
“But why did you leave us so hastily, Dagobert?”
“Yes, now I remember--did we not hear a great noise, sister, and see
Dagobert run to the staircase, crying: ‘My horse! what are they doing to
my horse?’”
“It was then Jovial who neighed?”
These questions renewed the anguish of the soldier; he feared to answer
them, and said, with a confused air: “Yes--Jovial neighed--but it was
nothing. By the by, we must have a light here. Do you know where I put
my flint and steel last evening? Well, I have lost my senses; it is here
in my pocket. Luckily, too, we have a candle, which I am going to light;
I want to look in my knapsack for some papers I require.”
Dagobert struck a few sparks, obtained a light, and saw that the window
was indeed open, the table thrown down, and the lamp lying by the side
of the knapsack. He shut the window, set the little table on its feet
again, placed the knapsack upon it, and began to unbuckle this last in
order to take out his portfolio, which had been deposited along with his
cross and purse, in a kind of pocket between the outside and the lining.
The straps had been readjusted with so much care, that there was no
appearance of the knapsack having been disturbed; but when the soldier
plunged his hand into the pocket above-mentioned, he found it empty.
Struck with consternation, he grew pale, and retreated a step, crying:
“How is this?--Nothing!”
“What is the matter?” said Blanche. He made her no answer. Motionless,
he leaned against the table, with his hand still buried in the pocket.
Then, yielding to a vague hope--for so cruel a reality did not appear
possible--he hastily emptied the contents of the knapsack on the
table--his poor half-worn clothes--his old uniform-coat of the
horse-grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, a sacred relic for the
soldiers--but, turn and return them as he would, he found neither his
purse, nor the portfolio that contained his papers, the letters of
General Simon, and his cross.
In vain, with that serious childishness which always accompanies a
hopeless search, he took the knapsack by the two ends, and shook it
vigorously; nothing came out. The orphans looked on with uneasiness, not
understanding his silence or his movements, for his back was turned
to them. Blanche ventured to say to him in a timid voice: “What ails
you--you don’t answer us.--What is it you are looking for in your
knapsack?”
Still mute, Dagobert searched his own person, turned out all his
pockets--nothing!--For the first time in his life, perhaps, his two
children, as he called them, had spoken to him without receiving a
reply. Blanche and Rose felt the big tears start into their eyes;
thinking that the soldier was angry, they darst not again address him.
“No, no! it is impossible--no!” said the veteran, pressing his hand to
his forehead, and seeking in his memory where he might have put those
precious objects, the loss of which he could not yet bring himself to
believe. A sudden beam of joy flashed from his eyes. He ran to a chair,
and took from it the portmanteau of the orphans; it contained a little
linen, two black dresses, and a small box of white wood, in which were
a silk handkerchief that had belonged to their mother, two locks of her
hair, and a black ribbon she had worn round her neck. The little she
possessed had been seized by the Russian government, in pursuance of
the confiscation. Dagobert searched and researched every article--peeped
into all the corners of the portmanteau--still nothing!
This time, completely worn out, leaning against the table, the strong,
energetic man felt himself giving way. His face was burning, yet bathed
in a cold sweat; his knees trembled under him. It is a common saying,
that drowning men will catch at straws; and so it is with the
despair that still clings to some shred of hope. Catching at a last
chance--absurd, insane, impossible--he turned abruptly towards the
orphans, and said to them, without considering the alteration in
his voice and features: “I did not give them to you--to keep for
me?--speak?”
Instead of answering, Rose and Blanche, terrified at his paleness and
the expression of his countenance, uttered a cry. “Good heavens! what is
the matter with you?” murmured Rose.
“Have you got them--yes, or no?” cried in a voice of thunder the
unfortunate, distracted man. “If you have not--I’ll take the first knife
I meet with, and stick it into my body!”
“Alas! You are so good: pardon us if we have done anything to afflict
you! You love us so much, you would not do us any harm.” The orphans
began to weep, as they stretched forth their hands in supplication
towards the soldier.
He looked at them with haggard eye, without even seeing them; till, as
the delusion passed away, the reality presented itself to his mind with
all its terrible consequences. Then he clasped his hands together, fell
on his knees before the bed of the orphans, leaned his forehead upon
it, and amid his convulsive sobs--for the man of iron sobbed like a
child--these broken words were audible: “Forgive me--forgive!--I do not
know how it can be!--Oh! what a misfortune!--what a misfortune!--Forgive
me!”
At this outbreak of grief, the cause of which they understood not, but
which in such a man was heart-rending, the two sisters wound their arms
about his old gray head, and exclaimed amid their tears: “Look at us!
Only tell us what is the matter with you?--Is it our fault?”
At this instant, the noise of footsteps resounded from the stairs,
mingled with the barking of Spoil-sport, who had remained outside the
door. The nearer the steps approached, the more furious became the
barking; it was no doubt accompanied with hostile demonstrations, for
the host was heard to cry out in an angry tone: “Hollo! you there! Call
off your dog, or speak to him. It is Mr. Burgomaster who is coming up.”
“Dagobert--do you hear?--it is the burgomaster,” said Rose.
“They are coming upstairs--a number of people,” resumed Blanche.
The word burgomaster recalled whatever had happened to the mind of
Dagobert, and completed, so to express it, the picture of his terrible
position. His horse was dead, he had neither papers nor money, and
a day, a single day’s detention, might defeat the last hope of the
sisters, and render useless this long and toilsome journey.
Men of strong minds, and the veteran was of the number, prefer great
perils, positions of danger accurately defined, to the vague anxieties
which precede a settled misfortune. Guided by his good sense and
admirable devotion, Dagobert understood at once, that his only resource
was now in the justice of the burgomaster, and that all his efforts
should tend to conciliate the favor of that magistrate. He therefore
dried his eyes with the sheet, rose from the ground, erect, calm, and
resolute, and said to the orphans: “Fear nothing, my children; it is our
deliverer who is at hand.”
“Will you call off your dog or no?” cried the host, still detained on
the stairs by Spoil-sport, who, as a vigilant sentinel, continued to
dispute the passage. “Is the animal mad, I say? Why don’t you tie him
up? Have you not caused trouble enough in my house? I tell you, that Mr.
Burgomaster is waiting to examine you in your turn, for he has finished
with Morok.”
Dagobert drew his fingers through his gray locks and across his
moustache, clasped the collar of his top-coat, and brushed the sleeves
with his hand, in order to give himself the best appearance possible;
for he felt that the fate of the orphans must depend on his interview
with the magistrate. It was not without a violent beating of the heart,
that he laid his hand upon the door-knob, saying to the young girls, who
were growing more and more frightened by such a succession of events:
“Hide yourselves in your bed, my children; if any one must needs enter,
it shall be the burgomaster alone.”
Thereupon, opening the door, the soldier stepped out on the landing
place, and said: “Down, Spoil-sport!--Here!”
The dog obeyed, but with manifest repugnance. His master had to speak
twice, before he would abstain from all hostile movements towards the
host. This latter, with a lantern in one hand and his cap in the other,
respectfully preceded the burgomaster, whose magisterial proportions
were lost in the half shadows of the staircase. Behind the judge, and
a few steps lower, the inquisitive faces of the people belonging to the
inn were dimly visible by the light of another lantern.
Dagobert, having turned the dog into the room, shut the door after him,
and advanced two steps on the landing-place, which was sufficiently
spacious to hold several persons, and had in one corner a wooden bench
with a back to it. The burgomaster, as he ascended the last stair, was
surprised to see Dagobert close the door of the chamber, as though he
wished to forbid his entrance. “Why do you shut that door?” asked he in
an abrupt tone.
“First, because two girls, whom I have the charge of, are in bed in
that room; secondly, because your examination would alarm them,” replied
Dagobert. “Sit down upon this bench, Mr. Burgomaster, and examine me
here; it will not make any difference, I should think.”
“And by what right,” asked the judge, with a displeased air, “do you
pretend to dictate to me the place of your examination?”
“Oh, I have no such pretension, Mr. Burgomaster!” said the soldier
hastily, fearing above all things to prejudice the judge against him:
“only, as the girls are in bed, and already much frightened, it would be
a proof of your good heart to examine me where I am.”
“Humph!” said the magistrate, with ill-humor; “a pretty state of things,
truly!--It was much worth while to disturb me in the middle of the
night. But, come, so be it; I will examine you here.” Then, turning to
the landlord, he added: “Put your lantern upon this bench, and leave
us.”
The innkeeper obeyed, and went down, followed by his people, as
dissatisfied as they were at being excluded from the examination. The
veteran was left alone with the magistrate.
CHAPTER XIII. THE JUDGEMENT.
The worthy burgomaster of Mockern wore a cloth cap, and was enveloped in
a cloak. He sat down heavily on the bench. He was a corpulent man, about
sixty, with an arrogant, morose countenance; and he frequently rubbed
with his red, fat fist, eyes that were still swollen and blood shot,
from his having been suddenly roused from sleep.
Dagobert stood bareheaded before him, with a submissive, respectful air,
holding his old foraging cap in his hands, and trying to read in the
sullen physiognomy of his judge what chance there might be to interest
him in his favor--that is, in favor of the orphans.
In this critical juncture, the poor soldier summoned to his aid all his
presence of mind, reason, eloquence and resolution. He, who had twenty
times braved death with the utmost coolness--who, calm and serene,
because sincere and tried, had never quailed before the eagle-glance
of the Emperor, his hero and idol--now felt himself disconcerted and
trembling before the ill-humored face of a village burgomaster. Even
so, a few hours before, he had submitted, impassive and resigned, to the
insults of the Prophet--that he might not compromise the sacred mission
with which a dying mother had entrusted him--thus showing to what a
height of heroic abnegation it is possible for a simple and honest heart
to attain.
“What have you to say in your justification? Come, be quick!” said the
judge roughly, with a yawn of impatience.
“I have not got to justify myself--I have to make a complaint, Mr.
Burgomaster,” replied Dagobert in a firm voice.
“Do you think you are to teach me in what terms I am to put my
questions?” exclaimed the magistrate, in so sharp a tone that the
soldier reproached himself with having begun the interview so badly.
Wishing to pacify his judge, he made haste to answer with submission:
“Pardon me, Mr. Burgomaster, I have ill-explained my meaning. I only
wished to say that I was not wrong in this affair.”
“The Prophet says the contrary.”
“The Prophet?” repeated the soldier, with an air of doubt.
“The Prophet is a pious and honest man,” resumed the judge, “incapable
of falsehood.”
“I cannot say anything upon that subject; but you are too just, and have
too good a heart, Mr. Burgomaster, to condemn without hearing me. It is
not a man like you that would do an injustice; oh, one can see that at a
glance!”
In resigning himself thus to play the part of a courtier, Dagobert
softened as much as possible his gruff voice, and strove to give to his
austere countenance a smiling, agreeable, and flattering expression.
“A man like you,” he added, with redoubled suavity of manner, “a
respectable judge like you, never shuts his ears to one side or the
other.”
“Ears are not in question, but eyes; and, though mine smart as if I had
rubbed them with nettles, I have seen the hand of the brute-tamer, with
a frightful wound on it.”
“Yes, Mr. Burgomaster, it is very true; but consider, if he had shut his
cages and his door, all this would not have happened.”
“Not so; it is your fault. You should have fastened your horse securely
to the manger.”
“You are right, Mr. Burgomaster, certainly, you are right,” said the
soldier, in a still more affable and conciliating voice. “It is not for
a poor devil like me to contradict you. But supposing my horse was
let loose out of pure malice, in order that he might stray into the
menagerie--you will then acknowledge that it was not my fault. That is,
you will acknowledge it if you think fit,” hastily added the soldier “I
have no right to dictate to you in anything.”
“And why the devil should any one do you this ill-turn?”
“I do not know, Mr. Burgomaster--but--”
“You do not know--well, nor I either,” said the burgomaster impatiently.
“Zounds! what a many words about the carcass of an old horse!”
The countenance of the soldier, losing on a sudden its expression of
forced suavity, became once more severe; he answered in a grave voice,
full of emotion: “My horse is dead--he is no more than a carcass--that
is true; but an hour ago, though very old, he was full of life and
intelligence. He neighed joyously at my voice--and, every evening, he
licked the hands of the two poor children, whom he had carried all the
day--as formerly he had carried their mother. Now he will never
carry any one again; they will throw him to the dogs, and all will
be finished. You need not have reminded me harshly of it, Mr.
Burgomaster--for I loved my horse!”
By these words, pronounced with noble and touching simplicity, the
burgomaster was moved in spite of himself, and regretted his hasty
speech. “It is natural that you should be sorry for your horse,”
said he, in a less impatient tone; “but what is to be done?--It is a
misfortune.”
“A misfortune?--Yes, Mr. Burgomaster, a very great misfortune. The
girls, who accompany me, were too weak to undertake a long journey on
foot, too poor to travel in a carriage--and yet we have to arrive in
Paris before the month of February. When their mother died, I promised
her to take them to France, for these children have only me to take care
of them.”
“You are then their--”
“I am their faithful servant, Mr. Burgomaster; and now that my horse
has been killed, what can I do for them? Come, you are good, you have
perhaps children of your own; if, one day, they should find themselves
in the position of my two little orphans--with no wealth, no resources
in the world, but an old soldier who loves them, and an old horse
to carry them along--if, after being very unfortunate from their
birth--yes, very unfortunate, for my orphans are the daughters of
exiles--they should see happiness before them at the end of a
journey, and then, by the death of their horse, that journey become
impossible--tell me, Mr. Burgomaster, if this would not touch your
heart? Would you not find, as I do, that the loss of my horse is
irreparable?”
“Certainly,” answered the burgomaster, who was not ill natured at
bottom, and who could not help taking part in Dagobert’s emotion; “I now
understand the importance of the loss you have suffered. And then your
orphans interest me: how old are they?”
“Fifteen years and two months. They are twins.”
“Fifteen years and two months--that is about the age of my Frederica.”
“You have a young lady of that age?” cried Dagobert, once more awaking
to hope; “ah, Mr. Burgomaster! I am really no longer uneasy about my
poor children. You will do us justice.”
“To do justice is my duty. After all, in this affair, the faults are
about equal on both sides. You tied up your horse badly, and the brute
tamer left his door open. He says: ‘I am wounded in the hand.’ You
answer: ‘My horse has been killed--and, for a thousand reasons, the loss
of my horse is irreparable.’”
“You make me speak better than I could ever speak on my own account, Mr.
Burgomaster,” said the soldier, with a humble, insinuating smile; “but
‘tis what I meant to express--and, as you say yourself, Mr. Burgomaster,
my horse being my whole fortune, it is only fair--”
“Exactly so,” resumed the magistrate, interrupting the soldier; “your
reasons are excellent. The Prophet--who is a good and pious man with all
has related the facts to me in his own way; and then, you see, he is an
old acquaintance. We are nearly all zealous Catholics here, and he sells
to our wives such cheap and edifying little books, with chaplets and
amulets of the best manufacture, at less than the prime cost. All this,
you will say, has nothing to do with the affair; and you will be right
in saying so: still I must needs confess that I came here with the
intention--”
“Of deciding against me, eh, Mr. Burgomaster?” said Dagobert, gaining
more and more confidence. “You see, you were not quite awake, and your
justice had only one eye open.”
“Really, master soldier,” answered the judge with good humor, “it is not
unlikely; for I did not conceal from Morok that I gave it in his favor.
Then he said to me (very generously, by the way): ‘Since you condemn
my adversary, I will not aggravate his position by telling you certain
things--’”
“What! against me?”
“Apparently so; but, like a generous enemy, when I told him that I
should most likely condemn you to pay him damages, he said no more about
it. For I will not hide from you, that, before I heard your reasons,
I fully intended that you should make compensation for the Prophet’s
wound.”
“See, Mr. Burgomaster, how the most just and able persons are subject
to be deceived,” said Dagobert, becoming once more the courtier; then,
trying to assume a prodigiously knowing look, he added: “But such
persons find out the truth at last, and are not to be made dupes of,
whatever prophets may say.”
This poor attempt at a jest--the first and only one, perhaps, that
Dagobert had ever been guilty of--will show the extremity to which he
was reduced, and the desperate efforts of all kinds he was making to
conciliate the good graces of his judge. The burgomaster did not at
first see the pleasantry; he was only led to perceive it by the self
satisfied mien of Dagobert, and by his inquiring glance, which seemed to
say: “Is it not good, eh?--I am astonished at it myself.”
The magistrate began, therefore, to smile with a patronizing air, and,
nodding his head, replied in the same jocular spirit: “Ha! Ha! Ha! You
are right; the Prophet is out in his prophecy. You shall not pay him any
damages. The faults on both sides are equal, and the injuries balance
one another. He has been wounded, your horse has been killed; so you may
cry quits, and have done with it.”
“But how much then, do you think he owes me?” asked the soldier, with
singular simplicity.
“How much?”
“Yes, Mr. Burgomaster, what sum will he have to pay me? Yes--but, before
you decide, I must tell you one thing, Mr. Burgomaster. I think I shall
be entitled to spend only part of the money in buying a horse. I am
sure, that, in the environs of Leipsic, I could get a beast very cheap
from some of the peasants; and, between ourselves, I will own to you,
that, if I could meet with only a nice little donkey--I should not be
over particular--I should even like it just as well; for, after my poor
Jovial, the company of another horse would be painful to me. I must also
tell you--”
“Hey-day!” cried the burgomaster, interrupting Dagobert, “of what money,
what donkey, and what other horse are you talking? I tell you, that you
owe nothing to the Prophet, and that he owes you nothing!”
“He owes me nothing?”
“You are very dull of comprehension, my good man. I repeat, that, if the
Prophet’s animals have killed your horse, the Prophet himself has
been badly wounded; so you may cry quits. In other words, you owe him
nothing, and he owes you nothing. Now do you understand?”
Dagobert, confounded, remained for some moments without answering,
whilst he looked at the burgomaster with an expression of deep anguish.
He saw that his judgment would again destroy all his hopes.
“But, Mr. Burgomaster,” resumed he, in an agitated voice, “you are too
just not to pay attention to one thing: the wound of the brute-tamer
does not prevent him from continuing his trade; the death of my horse
prevents me from continuing my journey; therefore, he ought to indemnify
me.”
The judge considered he had already done a good deal for Dagobert, in
not making him responsible for the wound of the Prophet, who, as we have
already said, exercised a certain influence over the Catholics of the
country by the sale of his devotional treasures, and also from its being
known that he was supported by some persons of eminence. The soldier’s
pertinacity, therefore, offended the magistrate, who, reassuming his
lofty air, replied, in a chilling tone: “You will make me repent my
impartiality. How is this? Instead of thanking me, you ask for more.”
“But, Mr. Burgomaster, I ask only for what is just. I wish I were
wounded in the hand, like the Prophet, so that I could but continue my
journey.”
“We are not talking of what you wish. I have pronounced sentence--there
is no more to say.”
“But, Mr. Burgomaster--”
“Enough, enough. Let us go to the next subject. Your papers?”
“Yes, we will speak about my papers; but I beg of you, Mr. Burgomaster,
to have pity on those two children. Let us have the means to continue
our journey, and--”
“I have done all I could for you--perhaps, more than I ought. Once
again, your papers!”
“I must first explain to you--”
“No! No explanation--your papers!--Or would you like me to have you
arrested as a vagabond?”
“Me---arrested!”
“I tell you that, if you refuse to show me your papers, it will be as if
you had none. Now, those people who have no papers we take into custody
till the authorities can dispose of them. Let me see your papers, and
make haste!--I am in a hurry to get home.”
Dagobert’s position was the more distressing, as for a moment he had
indulged in sanguine hope. The last blow was now added to all the
veteran had suffered since the commencement of this scene, which was a
cruel as well as dangerous trial, for a man of his character--upright,
but obstinate--faithful, but rough and absolute--a man who, for a long
time a soldier, and a victorious one, had acquired a certain despotic
mariner of treating with civilians.
At these words--“your papers,” Dagobert became very pale; but he tried
to conceal his anguish beneath an air of assurance, which he thought
best calculated to gain the magistrate’s good opinion. “I will tell you
all about it, Mr. Burgomaster,” said he. “Nothing can be clearer. Such
a thing might happen to any one. I do not look like a beggar and a
vagabond, do I? And yet--you will understand, that an honest man who
travels with two young girls--”
“No more words! Your papers!”
At this juncture two powerful auxiliaries arrived to the soldier’s aid.
The orphans, growing more and more uneasy, and hearing Dagobert still
talking upon the landing-place, had risen and dressed themselves; so
that just at the instant, when the magistrate said in a rough voice--“No
more words! Your papers!”--Rose and Blanche holding each other by the
hand, came forth from the chamber.
At sight of those charming faces, which their poor mourning vestments
only rendered more interesting, the burgomaster rose from his seat,
struck with surprise and admiration. By a spontaneous movement, each
sister took a hand of Dagobert, and pressed close to him, whilst they
regarded the magistrate with looks of mingled anxiety and candor.
It was so touching a picture, this of the old soldier presenting as
it were to his judge the graceful children, with countenances full of
innocence and beauty, that the burgomaster, by a sudden reaction, found
himself once more disposed to sentiments of pity. Dagobert perceived it;
and, still holding the orphans by the hand, he advanced towards him, and
said in a feeling voice: “Look at these poor children, Mr. Burgomaster!
Could I show you a better passport?” And, overcome by so many
painful sensations--restrained, yet following each other in quick
succession--Dagobert felt, in spite of himself, that the tears were
starting to his eyes.
Though naturally rough, and rendered still more testy by the
interruption of his sleep, the burgomaster was not quite deficient in
sense of feeling. He perceived at once, that a man thus accompanied,
ought not to inspire any great distrust. “Poor dear children!” said he,
as he examined them with growing interest; “orphans so young, and they
come from far--”
“From the heart of Siberia, Mr. Burgomaster, where their mother was an
exile before their birth. It is now more than five months that we have
been travelling on by short stages--hard enough, you will say, for
children of their age. It is for them that I ask your favor and support
for them against whom everything seems to combine to-day for, only just
now, when I went to look for my papers, I could not find in my knapsack
the portfolio in which they were, along with my purse and cross--for you
must know, Mr. Burgomaster--pardon me, if I say it--‘tis not from vain
glory--but I was decorated by the hand of the Emperor; and a man whom
he decorated with his own hand, you see, could not be so bad a fellow,
though he may have had the misfortune to lose his papers--and his
purse. That’s what has happened to me, and made me so pressing about the
damages.”
“How and where did you suffer this loss?”
“I do not know, Mr. Burgomaster; I am sure that the evening before
last, at bed-time, I took a little money out of the purse, and saw the
portfolio in its place; yesterday I had small change sufficient, and did
not undo the knapsack.”
“And where then has the knapsack been kept?”
“In the room occupied by the children: but this night--”
Dagobert was here interrupted by the tread of some one mounting the
stairs: it was the Prophet. Concealed in the shadow of the staircase, he
had listened to this conversation, and he dreaded lest the weakness of
the burgomaster should mar the complete success of his projects.
CHAPTER XIV. THE DECISION.
Morok, who wore his left arm in a sling, having slowly ascended the
staircase, saluted the burgomaster respectfully. At sight of the
repulsive countenance of the lion-tamer, Rose and Blanche, affrighted,
drew back a step nearer to the soldier. The brow of the latter grew
dark, for he felt his blood boil against Morok, the cause of all
his difficulties--though he was yet ignorant that Goliath, at the
instigation of the Prophet, had stolen his portfolio and papers.
“What did you want, Morok?” said the burgomaster, with an air half
friendly and half displeased. “I told the landlord that I did not wish
to be interrupted.”
“I have come to render you a service, Mr. Burgomaster.”
“A service?”
“Yes, a great service; or I should not have ventured to disturb you. My
conscience reproaches me.”
“Your conscience.”
“Yes, Mr. Burgomaster, it reproaches me for not having told you all that
I had to tell about this man; a false pity led me astray.”
“Yell, but what have you to tell?”
Morok approached the judge, and spoke to him for sometime in a low
voice.
At first apparently much astonished, the burgomaster became by degrees
deeply attentive and anxious; every now and then be allowed some
exclamation of surprise or doubt to escape him, whilst he glanced
covertly at the group formed by Dagobert and the two young girls. By
the expression of his countenance, which grew every moment more unquiet,
severe, and searching, it was easy to perceive that the interest
which the magistrate had felt for the orphans and for the soldier, was
gradually changed, by the secret communications of the Prophet, into a
sentiment of distrust and hostility.
Dagobert saw this sudden revolution, and his fears, which had been
appeased for an instant, returned with redoubled force; Rose and
Blanche, confused, and not understanding the object of this mute scene,
looked at the soldier with increased perplexity.
“The devil!” said the burgomaster, rising abruptly; “all of this never
occurred to me. What could I have been thinking of?--But you see, Morok,
when one is roused up in the middle of the night, one has not always
presence of mind. You said well: it is a great service you came to
render me.”
“I assert nothing positively, but--”
“No matter; ‘tis a thousand to one that you are right.”
“It is only a suspicion founded upon divers circumstances; but even a
suspicion--”
“May give you scent of the truth. And here was I, going like a gull into
the snare!--Once more, what could I have been thinking of?”
“It is so difficult to be on guard against certain appearances.”
“You need not tell me so, my dear Morok, you need not tell me so.”
During this mysterious conversation, Dagobert was on thorns; he saw
vaguely that a violent storm was about to burst. He thought only of how
he should still keep his anger within bounds.
Morok again approached the judge, and glancing at the orphans,
recommenced speaking in a low voice. “Oh” cried the burgomaster, with,
indignation, “you go too far now.”
“I affirm nothing,” said Morok, hastily; “it is a mere supposition
founded on--” and he again brought his lips close to the ear of the
judge.
“After all, why not?” resumed the magistrate, lifting up his hands;
“such people are capable of anything. He says that he brings them from
the heart of Siberia: why may not all this prove to be a tissue of
impudent falsehoods?--But I am not to be made a dupe twice,” cried
the burgomaster, in an angry tone, for, like all persons of a weak
and shifting character, he was without pity for those whom he thought
capable of having beguiled his compassion.
“Do not be in a hurry to decide--don’t give to my words more weight
than they deserve,” resumed Morok with a hypocritical affectation of
humility. “I am unhappily placed in so false a position with regard to
this man,”--pointing to Dagober--“that I might be thought to have acted
from private resentment for the injury he has done me; perhaps I may so
act without knowing it, while I fancy that I am only influenced by love
of justice, horror of falsehood, and respect for our holy religion.
Well--who lives long enough will know--and may heaven forgive me if I
am deceived!--In any case, the law will pronounce upon it; and if they
should prove innocent, they will be released in a month or two.”
“And, for that reason, I need not hesitate. It is a mere measure of
precaution; they will not die of it. Besides, the more I think of it,
the more it seems probable. Yes this man is doubtless a French spy
or agitator, especially when I compare these suspicions with the late
demonstration of the students at Frankfort.”
“And, upon that theory, nothing is better fitted to excite and stir
up those hot-headed youths than--” He glanced significantly at the two
sisters; then, after a pause, he added with a sigh, “Satan does not care
by what means he works out his ends!”
“Certainly, it would be odious, but well-devised.”
“And then, Mr Burgomaster, look at him attentively: you will see that
this man has a dangerous face. You will see--”
In continuing thus to speak in a low tone, Morok had evidently pointed
to Dagobert. The latter, notwithstanding his self-command, felt that the
restraint he had imposed upon himself, since his arrival at this unlucky
inn, and above all wince the commencement of the conversation between
Morok and the burgomaster, was becoming no longer bearable; besides, he
saw clearly that all his efforts to conciliate the favor of the judge
were rendered completely null by the fatal influence of the brute-tamer;
so, losing patience, he advanced towards him with his arms folded on his
breast, and said to him in a subdued voice: “Was it of me that you were
whispering to Mr. Burgomaster?”
“Yes,” said Morok, looking fixedly at him.
“Why did you not speak out loud?” Having said this, the almost
convulsive movement of his thick moustache, as he stood looping Morok
full in the face, gave evidence of a severe internal conflict. Seeing
that his adversary preserved a contemptuous silence, he repeated in
a sterner voice: “I ask you, why you did not speak out loud to Mr.
Burgomaster, when you were talking of me?”
“Because there are some things so shameful, that one would blush to
utter them aloud,” answered Morok insolently.
Till then Dagobert had kept his arms folded; he now extended them
violently, clenching his fists. This sudden movement was so expressive
that the two sisters uttered a cry of terror, and drew closer to him.
“Hark ye, Mr. Burgomaster!” said the soldier, grinding his teeth with
rage: “bid that man go down, or I will not answer for myself!”
“What!” said the burgomaster, haughtily; “do you dare to give orders to
me?”
“I tell you to make that man go down,” resumed Dagobert, quite beside
himself, “or there will be mischief!”
“Dagobert!--good heaven!--be calm,” cried the children, grasping his
hands.
“It becomes you, certainly--miserable vagabond that you are--not to say
worse,” returned the burgomaster, in a rage: “it becomes you to give
orders to me!--Oh! you think to impose upon me, by telling me you have
lost your papers!--It will not serve your turn, for which you carry
about with you these two girls, who, in spite of their innocent looks,
are perhaps after all--”
“Wretch!” cried Dagobert, with so terrible a voice and gesture that the
official did not dare to finish. Taking the children by the arm before
they could speak a word, the soldier pushed them back into the chamber;
then, locking the door, and putting the key into his pocket, he returned
precipitately towards the burgomaster, who, frightened at the menacing
air and attitude of the veteran, retreated a couple of steps, and held
by one hand to the rail of the staircase.
“Listen to me!” said the soldier, seizing the judge by the arm. “Just
now, that scoundrel insulted me--I bore with it--for it only concerned
myself. I have heard patiently all your idle talk, because you seemed
for a moment to interest yourself in those poor children. But since you
have neither soul, nor pity, nor justice--I tell you that, burgomaster
though you are--I will spurn you as I would spurn that dog,” pointing
again to the Prophet, “if you have the misfortune to mention those
two young girls, in any other way than you would speak of your own
child!--Now, do you mark me?”
“What!--you dare to say,” cried the burgomaster, stammering with rage,
“that if I happen to mention two adventuresses--”
“Hats off!--when you speak of the daughters of the Duke of Ligny,” cried
the soldier, snatching the cap of the burgomaster and flinging it on
the ground. On this act of aggression, Morok could not restrain his joy.
Exasperated and losing all hope, Dagobert had at length yielded to the
violence of his anger, after struggling so painfully against it for some
hours.
When the burgomaster saw his cap at his feet, he looked at the brute
tamer with an air of stupefaction, as if he hesitated to believe so
great an enormity. Dagobert, regretting, his violence, and feeling that
no means of conciliation note remained, threw a rapid glance around
him, and, retreating several paces, gained the topmost steps of the
staircase. The burgomaster stood near the bench, in a corner of the
landing-place, whilst Morok, with his arm in the sling, to give the more
serious appearance to his wound, was close beside him. “So!” cried the
magistrate, deceived by the backward movement of Dagobert, “you think to
escape, after daring to lift hand against me!--Old villain!”
“Forgive me, Mr. Burgomaster! It was a burst of rashness that I was not
able to control. I am sorry for it,” said Dagobert in a repentant voice,
and hanging his head humbly.
“No pity for thee, rascal! You would begin again to smooth me over with
your coaxing ways, but I have penetrated your secret designs. You are
not what you appear to be, and there is perhaps an affair of state at
the bottom of all this,” added the magistrate, in a very diplomatic
tone. “All means are alike to those who wish to set Europe in flames.”
“I am only a poor devil, Mr. Burgomaster; you, that have a good heart,
will show me some mercy.”
“What! when you have pulled off my cap?”
“And you,” added the soldier, turning towards Morok, “you, that
have been the cause of all this--have same pity upon me--do not bear
malice!--You, a holy man, speak a word in my favor to Mr. Burgomaster.”
“I have spoken to him what I was bound to speak,” answered the Prophet
ironically.
“Oho! you can look foolish enough now, you old vagabond! Did you think
to impose on me with lamentations?” resumed the burgomaster, advancing
towards Dagobert. “Thanks be, I am no longer your dupe!--You shall see
that we have good dungeons at Leipsic for French agitators and female
vagrants, for your damsels are no better than you are. Come,” added he,
puffing out his cheeks with an important air, “go down before me--and as
for you, Morok--”
The burgomaster was unable to finish. For some minutes Dagobert had only
sought to gain time, and had cast many a side-glance at a half-open
door on the landing-place, just opposite to the chamber occupied by the
orphans: finding the moment favorable, he now rushed quick as lightning
on the burgomaster, seized him by the throat, and dashed him with such
violence against the door in question, that the magistrate, stupefied
by this sudden attack, and unable to speak a word or utter a cry, rolled
over to the further end of the room, which was completely dark. Then,
turning towards Morok, who, with his arm encumbered by the sling, made
a rush for the staircase, the soldier caught him by his long, streaming
hair, pulled him back, clasped him with hands of iron, clapped his hand
over his mouth to stifle his outcries, and notwithstanding his desperate
resistance, dragged him into the chamber, on the floor of which the
burgomaster lay bruised and stunned.
Having double-locked the door, and put the key in his pocket, Dagobert
descended the stairs at two bounds, and found himself in a passage, that
opened on the court-yard. The gate of the inn was shut, and there was no
possibility of escape on that side. The rain fell in torrents. He could
see through the window of a parlor, in which a fire was burning, the
host and his people waiting for the decision of the burgomaster. To bolt
the door of the passage, and thus intercept all communication with the
yard, was for the soldier the affair of an instant, and he hastened
upstairs again to rejoin the orphans.
Morok, recovering from his surprise, was calling for help with all his
might; but, even if the distance had permitted him to be heard, the
noise of the wind and rain would have drowned his outcries. Dagobert
had about an hour before him, for it would require some time to elapse
before the length of his interview with the magistrate would excite
astonishment; and, suspicion or fear once awakened, it would be
necessary to break open two doors--that which separated the passage from
the court-yard, and that of the room in which the burgomaster and the
Prophet were confined.
“My children, it is now time to prove that you have a soldier’s blood
in your veins,” said Dagobert, as he entered abruptly the chamber of the
young girls, who were terrified at the racket they had heard for some
minutes.
“Good heaven, Dagobert! what has happened?” cried Blanche.
“What do you wish us to do?” added Rose.
Without answering, the soldier ran to the bed, tore off the sheets, tied
them strongly together, made a knot at one end, passed it over the top
of the left half of the casement, and so shut it in. Thus made fast by
the size of the knot, which could not slip through, the sheets, floating
on the outside, touched the ground. The second half of the window was
left open, to afford a passage to the fugitives.
The veteran next took his knapsack, the children’s portmanteau, and the
reindeer pelisse, and threw them all out of the window, making a sign to
Spoil-sport to follow, to watch over them. The dog did not hesitate, but
disappeared at a single bound. Rose and Blanche looked at Dagobert in
amazement, without uttering a word.
“Now, children,” said he to them, “the doors of the inn are shut, and it
is by this way,” pointing to the window, “that we must pass--if we
would not be arrested, put in prison--you in one place, and I in the
other--and have our journey altogether knocked on the head.”
“Arrested! put in prison!” cried Rose.
“Separated from you!” exclaimed Blanche.
“Yes, my poor children!--They have killed Jovial--we must make our
escape on foot, and try to reach Leipsic--when you are tired, I will
carry you, and, though I have to beg my way, we will go through with it.
But a quarter of an hour later, and all will be lost. Come, children,
have trust in me--show that the daughters of General Simon are no
cowards--and there is yet hope.”
By a sympathetic movement, the sisters joined hands, as though they
would meet the danger united. Their sweet faces, pale from the effect of
so many painful emotions, were now expressive of simple resolve, founded
on the blind faith they reposed in the devotion of the soldier.
“Be satisfied, Dagobert! we’ll not be frightened,” said Rose, in a firm
voice.
“We will do what must be done,” added Blanche, in a no less resolute
tone.
“I was sure of it,” cried Dagobert; “good blood is ever thicker than
water. Come! you are light as feathers, the sheet is strong, it is
hardly eight feet to the ground, and the pup is waiting for you.”
“It is for me to go first--I am the eldest for to-day,” cried Rose, when
she had tenderly embraced Blanche; and she ran to the window, in order,
if there were any danger, to expose herself to it before her sister.
Dagobert easily guessed the cause of this eagerness. “Dear children!”
said he, “I understand you. But fear nothing for one another--there is
no danger. I have myself fastened the sheet. Quick, my little Rose!”
As light as a bird, the young girl mounted the ledge of the window,
and assisted by Dagobert, took hold of the sheet, and slid gently down
according to the recommendation of the soldier, who, leaning out his
whole body, encouraged her with his voice.
“Don’t be afraid, sister!” said she, as soon as she touched the ground,
“it is very easy to come down this way. And Spoil-sport is here, licking
my hands.” Blanche did not long keep her waiting; as courageous as her
sister, she descended with the same success.
“Dear little creatures! what have they done to be so
unfortunate?--Thousand thunders! there must be a curse upon the family,”
cried Dagobert, as, with heavy heart, he saw the pale, sweet face of
the young girl disappear amid the gloom of the dark night, which violent
squalls of wind and torrents of rain rendered still more dismal.
“Dagobert, we are waiting for you; come quickly!” said the orphans in
a low voice, from beneath the window. Thanks to his tall stature, the
soldier rather leaped than glided to the ground.
Dagobert and the two young girls had not fled from the inn of the White
Falcon more than a quarter of an hour, when a long crash resounded
through the house. The door had yielded to the efforts of the
burgomaster and Morok, who had made use of a heavy table as a battering
ram. Guided by the light, they ran to the chamber of the orphans, now
deserted. Morok saw the sheets floating from the casement, and cried:
“Mr. Burgomaster, they have escaped by the window--they are on foot--in
this dark and stormy night, they cannot be far.”
“No doubt, we shall catch them, the miserable tramps! Oh, I will be
revenged! Quick, Morok; your honor is concerned as well as mine.”
“My honor?--Much more is concerned than that, Mr. Burgomaster,” answered
the Prophet, in a tone of great irritation. Then, rapidly descending the
stairs, he opened the door of the court-yard, and shouted in a voice of
thunder:
“Goliath! unchain the dogs!--and, landlord! bring us lanterns,
torches--arm your people--open the doors!--We must pursue the fugitives;
they cannot escape us; we must have them--alive or dead!”
CHAPTER XV. THE DESPATCHES.
When we read, in the rules of the order of the Jesuits, under the title
De formula scribendi (Institut. 2, 11, p. 125, 129), the development
of the 8th part of the constitutions, we are appalled by the number of
letters, narratives, registers, and writings of all kinds, preserved in
the archives of the society.
It is a police infinitely more exact and better informed than has ever
been that of any state. Even the government of Venice found itself
surpassed by the Jesuits: when it drove them out in 1606, it seized
all their papers, and reproached them for their great and laborious
curiosity. This police, this secret inquisition, carried to such
a degree of perfection, may give some idea of the strength of a
government, so well-informed so persevering in its projects, so powerful
by its unity, and, as the constitutions have it, by the union of its
members. It is not hard to understand, what immense force must belong to
the heads of this society, and how the general of the Jesuits could say
to the Duke de Brissac: “From this room, your grace, I govern not only
Paris, but China--not only China, but the whole world--and all without
any one knowing how it is done:” (Constitution of the Jesuits, edited by
Paulin, Paris, 1843.)
Morok, the lion-tamer, seeing Dagobert deprived of his horse, and
stripped of his money and papers, and thinking it was thus out of his
power to continue his journey, had, previous to the arrival of the
burgomaster, despatched Karl to Leipsic, as the bearer of a letter which
he was to put immediately into the post. The address of this letter was
as follows: “A Monsieur Rodin, Rue du Milieu des Ursins, Paris.”
About the middle of this obscure and solitary street, situate below the
level of the Quai Napoleon, which it joins not far from the Rue Saint
Landry, there stood a house of unpretentious appearance, at the bottom
of a dark and narrow court-yard, separated from the street by a low
building in front, with arched doorway, and two windows protected by
thick iron bars. Nothing could be more simple than the interior of this
quiet dwelling, as was sufficiently shown by the furniture of a pretty
large room on the ground floor. The walls of this apartment were lined
with old gray wainscot; the tiled floor was painted red, and carefully
polished; curtains of white calico shaded the windows.
A sphere of about four feet in diameter, raised on a pedestal of massive
oak, stood at one end of the room, opposite to the fireplace. Upon this
globe, which was painted on a large scale, a host of little red crosses
appeared scattered over all parts of the world--from the North to the
South, from the rising to the setting sun, from the most barbarous
countries, from the most distant isles, to the centres of civilization,
to France itself. There was not a single country which did not present
some spots marked with these red crosses, evidently indicative of
stations, or serving as points of reference.
Before a table of black wood, loaded with papers, and resting against
the wall near the chimney, a chair stood empty. Further on, between the
two windows, was a large walnut-wood desk, surmounted by shelves full of
pasteboard boxes.
At the end of the month of October, 1831, about eight o’clock in
the morning, a man sat writing at this desk. This was M. Rodin, the
correspondent of Morok, the brute-tamer.
About fifty years of age, he wore an old, shabby, olive greatcoat, with
a greasy collar, a snuff-powdered cotton handkerchief for a cravat, and
waistcoat and trousers of threadbare black cloth. His feet, buried in
loose varnished shoes, rested on a petty piece of green baize upon
the red, polished floor. His gray hair lay flat on his temples, and
encircled his bald forehead; his eyebrows were scarcely marked; his
upper eyelid, flabby and overhanging, like the membrane which shades the
eyes of reptiles, half concealed his small, sharp, black eye. His thin
lips, absolutely colorless, were hardly distinguishable from the wan hue
of his lean visage, with its pointed nose and chin; and this livid mask
(deprived as it were of lips) appeared only the more singular, from
its maintaining a death-like immobility. Had it not been for the rapid
movement of his fingers, as, bending over the desk, he scratched along
with his pen, M. Rodin might have been mistaken for a corpse.
By the aid of a cipher (or secret alphabet) placed before him he was
copying certain passages from a long sheet full of writing, in a manner
quite unintelligible to those who did not possess the key to the system.
Whilst the darkness of the day increased the gloom of the large, cold,
naked-looking apartment, there was something awful in the chilling
aspect of this man, tracing his mysterious characters in the midst of
profound silence.
The clock struck eight. The dull sound of the knocker at the outer door
was heard, then a bell tinkled twice, several doors opened and shut, and
a new personage entered the chamber. On seeing him, M. Rodin rose
from the desk, stuck his pen between his teeth, bowed with a deeply
submissive air, and sat down again to his work without uttering a word.
The two formed a striking contrast to one another. The newcomer, though
really older than he seemed, would have passed for thirty-six or thirty
eight years of age at most. His figure was tall and shapely, and few
could have encountered the brightness of his large gray eye, brilliant
as polished steel. His nose, broad at the commencement, formed a
well-cut square at its termination; his chin was prominent, and the
bluish tints of his close-shaved beard were contrasted with the bright
carnation of his lips, and the whiteness of his fine teeth. When he took
off his hat to change it for a black velvet cap which he found on the
small table, he displayed a quantity of light chestnut hair, not yet
silvered by time. He was dressed in a long frock-coat, buttoned up to
the neck in military fashion.
The piercing glance and broad forehead of this man revealed a powerful
intellect, even as the development of his chest and shoulders announced
a vigorous physical organization; whilst his gentlemanly appearance, the
perfection of his gloves and boots, the light perfume which hung about
his hair and person, the grace and ease of his least movements, betrayed
what is called the man of the world, and left the impression that he
had sought or might still seek every kind of success, from the most
frivolous to the most serious. This rare combination of strength of
mind, strength of body, and extreme elegance of manners, was in this
instance rendered still more striking by the circumstance, that whatever
there might be of haughtiness or command in the upper part of that
energetic countenance, was softened down, and tempered by a constant
but not uniform smile--for, as occasion served, this smile became
either kind or sly, cordial or gay, discreet or prepossessing, and thus
augmented the insinuating charm of this man, who, once seen, was never
again forgotten. But, in yielding to this involuntary sympathy, the
doubt occurred if the influence was for good--or for evil.
M. Rodin, the secretary of the newcomer, continued to write.
“Are there any letters from Dunkirk, Rodin?” inquired his master.
“Post not yet in.”
“Without being positively uneasy as to my mother’s health, since she
was already convalescent,” resumed the other, “I shall only be quite
reassured by a letter from my excellent friend, the Princess de Saint
Dizier. I shall have good news this morning, I hope.”
“It is to be desired,” said the secretary, as humble and submissive as
he was laconic and impassible.
“Certainly it is to be desired,” resumed his master; “for one of
the brightest days of my life was when the Princess de Saint-Dizier
announced to me that this sudden and dangerous illness had yielded to
the care and attention with which she surrounds my mother. Had it not
been for that I must have gone down to her instantly, though my presence
here is very necessary.”
Then, approaching the desk, he added: “Is the summary of the foreign
correspondence complete?”
“Here is the analysis.”
“The letters are still sent under envelope to the places named, and are
then brought here as I directed?”
“Always.”
“Read to me the notes of this correspondence; if there are any letters
for me to answer, I will tell you.” And Rodin’s master began to walk
up and down the room, with his hands crossed behind his back, dictating
observations of which Rodin took careful note.
The secretary turned to a pretty large pile of papers, and thus began:
“Don Raymond Olivarez acknowledges from Cadiz receipt of letter No.19;
he will conform to it, and deny all share in the abduction.”
“Very well; file it.”
“Count Romanoff, of Riga, finds himself in a position of pecuniary
embarrassment.”
“Let Duplessis send him fifty louis; I formerly served as captain in his
regiment, and he has since given us good information.”
“They have received at Philadelphia the last cargo of Histories of
France, expurgated for the use of the faithful they require some more of
the same sort.”
“Take note of it, and write to Duplessis. Go on.”
“M. Spindler sends from Namur the secret report on M. Ardouin.”
“To be examined.”
“M. Ardouin sends from the same town the secret report on M. Spindler.”
“To be examined.”
“Doctor Van Ostadt, of the same town, sends a confidential note on the
subject of Messrs. Spindler and Ardouin.”
“To be compared. Go on!”
“Count Malipierri, of Turin, announces that the donation of 300,000
francs is signed.”
“Inform Duplessis. What next?”
“Don Stanislaus has just quitted the waters of Baden with Queen Marie
Ernestine. He informs us that her majesty will receive with gratitude
the promised advices, and will answer them with her own hand.”
“Make a note of it. I will myself write to the queen.”
Whilst Rodin was inscribing a few remarks on the margin of the paper,
his master, continuing to walk up and down the room, found himself
opposite to the globe marked with little red crosses, and stood
contemplating it for a moment with a pensive air.
Rodin continued: “In consequence of the state of the public mind in
certain parts of Italy, where sundry agitators have turned their eyes in
the direction of France, Father Arsenio writes from Milan, that it would
be of importance to distribute profusely in that country, some little
book, in which the French would be represented as impious and debauched,
rapacious and bloody.”
“The idea is excellent. We might turn to good account the excesses
committed by our troops in Italy during the wars of the Republic. You
must employ Jacques Dumoulin to write it. He is full of gall, spite,
and venom: the pamphlet will be scorching. Besides, I may furnish a
few notes; but you must not pay Dumoulin till after delivery of the
manuscript.”
“That is well understood: for, if we were to pay him beforehand, he
would be drunk for a week in some low den. It was thus we had to pay
him twice over for his virulent attack on the pantheistic tendencies of
Professor Martin’s philosophy.”
“Take note of it--and go on!”
“The merchant announces that the clerk is about to send the banker to
give in his accounts. You understand?’ added Rodin, after pronouncing
these words with a marked emphasis.
“Perfectly,” said the other, with a start; “they are but the expressions
agreed on. What next?”
“But the clerk,” continued the secretary, “is restrained by a last
scruple.”
After a moment’s silence, during which the features of Rodin’s master
worked strongly, he thus resumed: “They must continue to act on the
clerk’s mind by silence and solitude; then, let him read once more the
list of cases in which regicide is authorized and absolved. Go on!”
“The woman Sydney writes from Dresden, that she waits for instructions.
Violent scenes of jealousy on her account have again taken place between
the father and son; but neither from these new bursts of mutual hatred,
nor from the confidential communications which each has made to her
against his rival, has she yet been able to glean the information
required. Hitherto, she has avoided giving the preference to one or the
other; but, should this situation be prolonged, she fears it may rouse
their suspicion. Which ought she then to choose--the father or the son?”
“The son--for jealous resentment will be much more violent and cruel in
the old man, and, to revenge himself for the preference bestowed upon
his son, he will perhaps tell what they have both such an interest to
conceal. The next?”
“Within the last three years, two maid-servants of Ambrosius whom
we placed in that little parish in the mountains of the Valais, have
disappeared, without any one knowing what has become of them. A third
has just met with the same fate. The Protestants of the country are
roused--talk of murder with frightful attendant circumstances--”
“Until there is proof positive and complete of the fact, Ambrosius must
be defended against these infamous calumnies, the work of a party that
never shrinks from; monstrous inventions. Go on!”
“Thompson, of Liverpool, has at length succeeded in procuring for Justin
the place of agent or manager to Lord Stewart, a rich Irish Catholic,
whose head grows daily weaker.”
“Let the fact be once verified, and Thompson shall have a premium of
fifty louis. Make a note of it for Duplessis. Proceed.”
“Frantz Dichstein, of Vienna,” resumed Rodin, “announces that his father
has just died of the cholera, in a little village at some leagues from
that city: for the epidemic continues to advance slowly, coming from the
north of Russia by way of Poland.”
“It is true,” said Rodin’s master, interrupting him; “may its terrible
march be stayed, and France be spared.”
“Frantz Dichstein,” resumed Rodin, “says that his two brothers are
determined to contest the donation made by his father, but that he is of
an opposite opinion.”
“Consult the two persons that are charged with all matters of
litigation. What next?”
“The Cardinal Prince d’Amalfi will conform to the three first points of
the proposal: he demands to make a reservation upon the fourth point.”
“No reserve!--Either full and absolute acceptance--or else war--and
(mark me well) war without mercy--on him and his creatures. Go on!”
“Fra Paolo announces that the Prince Boccari, chief of a redoubtable
secret society, in despair at seeing his friends accuse him of
treachery, in consequence of suspicions excited in their minds by Fra
Paolo himself, has committed suicide.”
“Boccari! is it possible?” cried Rodin’s master. “Boccari! the patriot
Boccari! so dangerous a person!”
“The patriot Boccari,” repeated the impassible secretary.
“Tell Duplessis to send an order for five-and-twenty louis to Fra Paolo.
Make a note of it.”
“Hausman informs us that the French dancer, Albertine Ducornet, is the
mistress of the reigning prince; she has the most complete influence
over him, and it would be easy through her means to arrive at the end
proposed, but that she is herself governed by her lover (condemned in
France as a forger), and that she does nothing without consulting him.”
“Let Hausman get hold of this man--if his claims are reasonable, accede
to them--and learn if the girl has any relations in Paris.”
“The Duke d’Orbano announces, that the king his master will authorize
the new establishment, but on the conditions previously stated.”
“No condition!--either a frank adhesion or a positive refusal. Let
us know our friends from our enemies. The more unfavorable the
circumstances, the more we must show firmness, and overbear opposition
by confidence in ourselves.”
“The same also announces, that the whole of the corps diplomatique
continues to support the claims of the father of that young Protestant
girl, who refuses to quit the convent where she has taken refuge, unless
it be to marry her lover against her father’s will.”
“Ah! the corps diplomatique continues to remonstrate in the father’s
name?”
“Yes.”
“Then, continue to answer, that the spiritual power has nothing to do
with the temporal.”
At this moment, the bell of the outer door again sounded twice. “See who
it is,” said Rodin’s master; and the secretary rose and left the room.
The other continued to walk thoughtfully up and down, till, coming near
to the huge globe, he stopped short before it.
For some time he contemplated, in profound silence, the innumerable
little red crosses, which appeared to cover, as with an immense net, all
the countries of the earth. Reflecting doubtless on the invisible action
of his power, which seemed to extend over the whole world, the features
of this man became animated, his large gray eye sparkled, his nostrils
swelled, and his manly countenance assumed an indescribable expression
of pride, energy, and daring. With haughty brow and scornful lip, he
drew still nearer to the globe, and leaned his strong hand upon the
pole.
This powerful pressure, an imperious movement, as of one taking
possession, seemed to indicate, that he felt sure of governing this
globe, on which he looked down from the height of his tall figure,
and on which he rested his hand with so lofty and audacious an air of
sovereignty.
But now he no longer smiled. His eye threatened, and his large forehead
was clad with a formidable scowl. The artist, who had wished to
paint the demon of craft and pride, the infernal genius of insatiable
domination, could not have chosen a more suitable model.
When Rodin returned, the face of his master had recovered its ordinary
expression. “It is the postman,” said Rodin, showing the letters which
he held in his hand; “there is nothing from Dunkirk.”
“Nothing?” cried his master--and his painful emotion formed a
strange contrast to his late haughty and implacable expression of
countenance--“nothing? no news of my mother?--Thirty-six hours more,
then, of anxiety.”
“It seems to me, that, if the princess had bad news to give, she would
have written. Probably the improvement goes on.”
“You are doubtless right, Rodin--but no matter--I am far from easy. If,
to-morrow, the news should not be completely satisfactory, I set out for
the estate of the princess. Why would my mother pass the autumn in that
part of the country? The environs of Dunkirk do not, I fear, agree with
her.”
After a few moments’ silence, he added, as he continued to walk:
“Well--these letters--whence are they?”
Rodin looked at the post-marks, and replied: “Out of the four there are
three relative to the great and important affairs of the medals.”
“Thank heaven!--provided the news be favorable,” cried his master,
with an expression of uneasiness, which showed how much importance he
attached to this affair.
“One is from Charlestown, and no doubt relative to Gabriel, the
missionary,” answered Rodin; “this other from Batavia, and no doubt
concerns the Indian, Djalma. The third is from Leipsic, and will
probably confirm that received yesterday, in which the lion-tamer,
Morok, informed us, that, in accordance with his orders, and without his
being compromised in any way, the daughters of General Simon would not
be able to continue their journey.”
At the name of General Simon, a cloud passed over the features of
Rodin’s master.
CHAPTER XVI. THE ORDERS.
The principal houses correspond with that in Paris; they are also
in direct communication with the General, who resides at Rome. The
correspondence of the Jesuits so active, various, and organized in so
wonderful a manner, has for its object to supply the heads with all the
information they can require. Every day, the General receives a host
of reports, which serve to check one another. In the central house, at
Rome, are immense registers, in which are inscribed the names of all
the Jesuits, of their adherents, and of all the considerable persons,
whether friends or enemies, with whom they have any connection. In these
registers are reported, without alteration, hatred or passion the
facts relating to the life of each individual. It is the most gigantic
biographical collection that has ever been formed. The frailties of a
woman, the secret errors of a statesman, are chronicled in this book
with the same cold impartiality. Drawn up for the purpose of being
useful, these biographies are necessarily exact. When the Jesuits wish
to influence an individual, they have but to turn to this book, and they
know immediately his life, his character, his parts, his faults, his
projects, his family, his friends, his most sacred ties. Conceive,
what a superior facility of action this immense police-register, which
includes the whole world, must give to any one society! It is not
lightly that I speak of these registers; I have my facts from a person
who has seen this collection, and who is perfectly well acquainted with
the Jesuits. Here then, is matter to reflect on for all those families,
who admit freely into their houses the members of a community that
carries its biographical researches to such a point. (Libri, Member of
the Institute. Letters on the Clergy.)
When he had conquered the involuntary emotion which the name or
remembrance of General Simon had occasioned, Rodin’s master said to the
secretary: “Do not yet open the letters from Leipsic, Charlestown, and
Batavia; the information they contain will doubtless find its place
presently. It will save our going over the same ground twice.”
The secretary looked inquiringly at his master.
The latter continued--“Have you finished the note relating to the
medals?”
“Here it is,” replied the secretary; “I was just finishing my
interpretation of the cipher.”
“Read it to me, in the order of the facts. You can append to it the news
contained in those three letters.”
“True,” said Rodin; “in that way the letters will find their right
place.”
“I wish to see,” rejoined the other, “whether this note is clear and
fully explanatory; you did not forget that the person it is intended for
ought not to know all?”
“I bore it in mind, and drew up the paper accordingly.”
“Read,” said the master.
M. Rodin read as follows, slowly and deliberately:
“‘A hundred and fifty years ago, a French Protestant family, foreseeing
the speedy--revocation of the edict of Nantes, went into voluntary
exile, in order to avoid the just and rigorous decrees already issued
against the members of the reformed church--those indomitable foes of
our holy religion.
“‘Some members of this family sought refuge in Holland, and afterwards
in the Dutch colonies; others in Poland, others in Germany; some in
England, and some in America.
“‘It is supposed that only seven descendants remain of this family,
which underwent strange vicissitudes since; its present representatives
are found in all ranks of society, from the sovereign to the mechanic.
“‘These descendants, direct or indirect, are:
“‘On the mother’s side,
“‘Rose and Blanche Simon--minors.
“‘General Simon married, at Warsaw, a descendant of the said family.
“‘Francois Hardy, manufacturer at Plessis, near Paris.
“‘Prince Djalma, son of Kadja-sing, King of Mondi.
“‘Kadja-sing, married, in 1802, a descendant of the said family, then
settled at Batavia, in the Island of Java, a Dutch colony.
“‘On the father’s side--Jacques Rennepont, surnamed Sleepinbuff,
mechanic.
“‘Adrienne de Cardoville, daughter of the Count of Rennepont, Duke of
Cardoville.
“‘Gabriel Rennepont, priest of the foreign missions.
“‘All the members of this family possess, or should possess, a bronze
medal bearing the following inscriptions:
Victim
of
L. C. D. J.
Pray for me!
Paris
February the 13th, 1682.
At Paris,
Rue Saint Francois, No. 3,
In a century and a half
you will be.
February the 13th, 1832.
Pray For Me!
“‘These words and dates show that all of them have a great interest to
be at Paris on the 13th of February, 1832; and that, not by proxy, but
in person, whether they are minors, married or single.
“‘But other persons have an immense interest that none of the
descendants of this family be at Paris on the 13th February, except
Gabriel Rennepont, priest of the foreign missions.
“‘At all hazards, therefore, Gabriel must be the only person present at
the appointment made with the descendants of this family, a century and
a half ago.
“‘To prevent the other six persons from reaching Paris on the said day,
or to render their presence of no effect, much has been already done;
but much remains to be done to ensure the success of this affair,
which is considered as the most vital and most important of the age, on
account of its probable results.’”
“‘Tis but too true,” observed Rodin’s master, interrupting him, and
shaking his head pensively. “And, moreover, that the consequences of
success are incalculable, and there is no forseeing what may follow
failure. In a word, it almost involves a question of existence or non
existence during several years. To succeed, therefore, ‘all possible
means must be employed. Nothing must be shunned,’ except, however, that
appearances must be skillfully maintained.”
“I have written it,” said Rodin, having added the words his master had
just dictated, who then said,
“Continue.”
Rodin read on:
“‘To forward or secure the affair in question, it is necessary to give
some private and secret particulars respecting the seven persons who
represent this family.
“‘The truth of these particulars may be relied on. In case of need
they might be completed in the most minute degree for contradictory
information having been given, very lengthened evidence has been
obtained. The order in which the names of the persons stand will be
observed, and events that have happened up to the present time will only
be mentioned.
“‘NOTE, No. I. “‘Rose and Blanche Simon, twin sisters, about fifteen
years of age; very pretty, so much alike, one might be taken for the
other; mild and timid disposition, but capable of enthusiasm. Brought
up in Siberia by their mother, a woman of strong mind and deistical
sentiments, they are wholly ignorant of our holy religion.
“‘General Simon, separated from his wife before they were born, is not
aware, even now, that he has two daughters.
“‘It was hoped that their presence in Paris, on the 13th of February,
would be prevented, by sending their mother to a place of exile, much
more distant than the one first allotted her; but their mother dying,
the Governor of Siberia, who is wholly ours, supposing, by a deplorable
mistake, that the measure only affected the wife of General Simon
personally, unfortunately allowed the girls to return to France, under
the guidance of an old soldier.
“‘This man is enterprising, faithful, and determined. He is noted down
as dangerous.
“‘The Simon girls are inoffensive. It is hoped, on fair grounds, that
they are now detained in the neighborhood of Leipsic.’”
Rodin’s master interrupted him, saying:
“Now, read the letter just received from Leipsic; it may complete the
information.”
Rodin read it, and exclaimed:
“Excellent news! The maidens and their guide had succeeded in escaping
during the night from the White Falcon Tavern, but all three were
overtaken and seized about a league from Mockern. They have been
transferred to Leipsic, where they are imprisoned as vagabonds;
their guide, the soldier, is accused and condemned of resisting the
authorities, and using violence to a magistrate.”
“It is almost certain, then, considering the tedious mode of proceeding
in Germany (otherwise we would see to it), that the girls will not be
able to be here on the 13th February,” added Rodin’s master. “Append
this to the note on the back.”
The secretary obeyed, and endorsed “An abstract of Morok’s letter.”
“It is written,” he then added.
“Go on,” resumed his master.
Rodin continued reading.
“‘NOTE, No. II. “‘Francois Hardy, manufacturer at Plessis, near
Paris, forty years old; a steady, rich, intelligent, active, honest,
well-informed man, idolized by his workmen--thanks to numberless
innovations to promote their welfare. Never attending to the duties of
our holy religion. Noted down as a very dangerous man: but the hatred
and envy he excites among other manufacturers, especially in M. le Baron
Tripeaud, his competitor, may easily be turned against him. If other
means of action on his account, and against him, are necessary, the
evidence may be consulted; it is very voluminous. This man has been
marked and watched for a long time.
“‘He has been so effectually misguided with respect to the medal, that
he is completely deceived as to the interests it represents. He
is, however, constantly watched, surrounded, and governed, without
suspecting it; one of his dearest friends deceives him, and through his
means we know his secret thoughts.
“‘NOTE, No. III. “‘Prince Djalma; eighteen; energetic and generous,
haughty, independent and wild; favorite of General Simon, who commanded
the troops of his father, Kadja-sing, in the struggle maintained by the
latter against the English in India. Djalma is mentioned only by way of
reminder, for his mother died young, while her parents were living. They
resided at Batavia. On the death of the latter, neither Djalma nor
the king, his father, claimed their little property. It is, therefore,
certain that they are ignorant of the grave interests connected with the
possession of the medal in question, which formed part of the property
of Djalma’s mother.”’”
Rodin’s master interrupted him.
“Now read the letter from Batavia, and complete the information
respecting Djalma.”
Rodin read, and then observed:
“Good news again. Joshua Van Dael, merchant at Batavia (he was educated
in our Pondicherry establishment), learns from his correspondent at
Calcutta that the old Indian king was killed in the last battle with
the English. His son, Djalma, deprived of the paternal throne, is
provisionally detained as a prisoner of state in an Indian fortress.”
“We are at the end of October,” said Rodin’s master. “If Prince Djalma
were to leave India now, he could scarcely reach Paris by the month of
February.”
“Van Dael,” continued Rodin, “regrets that he has not been able to prove
his zeal in this case. Supposing Prince Djalma set at liberty, or having
effected his escape, it is certain he would come to Batavia to claim his
inheritance from his mother, since he has nothing else left him in the
world. In that case, you may rely on Van Dael’s devotedness. In return,
he solicits very precise information, by the next post, respecting the
fortune of M. le Baron Tripeaud, banker and manufacturer, with whom he
has business transactions.”
“Answer that point evasively. Van Dael as yet has only shown zeal;
complete the information respecting Djalma from these new tidings.”
Rodin wrote.
But in a few minutes his master said to him with a singular expression:
“Does not Van Dael mention General Simon in connection with Djalma’s
imprisonment and his father’s death?”
“He does not allude to him,” said the secretary, continuing his task.
Rodin’s master was silent, and paced the room.
In a few moments Rodin said to him: “I have done it.”
“Go on, then.”
“‘NOTE, No. IV. “‘Jacques Rennepont, surnamed “Sleepinbuff,” i.e. Lie
naked, workman in Baron Tripeaud’s factory. This artisan is drunken,
idle, noisy, and prodigal; he is not without sense, but idleness and
debauch have ruined him. A clever agent, on whom we rely, has become
acquainted with his mistress, Cephyse Soliveau, nicknamed the Bacchanal
Queen. Through her means, the agent has formed such ties with him that
he may even now be considered beyond the reach of the interests that
ought to insure his presence in Paris on the 13th of February.
“‘NOTE, No. V. “‘Gabriel Rennepont, priest of foreign missions, distant
relation of the above, but he is alike ignorant of the existence of his
relative and the relationship. An orphan foundling, he was adopted by
Frances Baudoin, the wife of a soldier going by the name Dagobert.
“‘Should this soldier, contrary to expectation, reach Paris, his wife
would be a powerful means of influencing him. She is an excellent
creature, ignorant and credulous, of exemplary piety, over whom we have
long had unlimited control. She prevailed on Gabriel to take orders,
notwithstanding his repugnance.
“‘Gabriel is five-and-twenty; disposition as angelic as his countenance;
rare and solid virtues; unfortunately he was brought up with his
adopted brother, Agricola, Dagobert’s son. This Agricola is a poet
and workman--but an excellent workman; he is employed by M. Hardy;
has imbibed the most detestable doctrines; fond of his mother; honest,
laborious, but without religious feeling. Marked as very dangerous. This
causes his intimacy with Gabriel to be feared.
“‘The latter, notwithstanding his excellent qualities, sometimes causes
uneasiness. We have even delayed confiding in him fully. A false step
might make him, too, one of the most dangerous. Much precaution must be
used then, especially till the 13th of February; since, we repeat it,
on him, on his presence in Paris at that time, depend immense hopes and
equally important interests.
“‘Among other precautions, we have consented to his taking part in the
American mission, for he unites with angelic sweetness of character a
calm intrepidity and adventurous spirit which could only be satisfied
by allowing him to engage in the perilous existence of the missionaries.
Luckily, his superiors at Charlestown have received the strictest orders
not to endanger, on any account, so precious a life. They are to send
him to Paris, at least a month or two before February 13th.”’
Rodin’s master again interrupted him, and said: “Read the letter
from Charlestown, and see what it tells you in order to complete the
information upon this point also.”
When he had read the letter, Rodin went on: “Gabriel is expected every
day from the Rocky Mountains, whither he had absolutely insisted on
going alone upon a mission.”
“What imprudence!”
“He has no doubt escaped all danger, as he himself announces his speedy
return to Charlestown. As soon as he arrives, which cannot (they write)
be later than the middle of this month, he will be shipped off for
France.”
“Add this to the note which concerns him,” said Rodin’s master.
“It is written,” replied the secretary, a few moments later.
“Proceed, then,” said his master. Rodin continued
“‘NOTE, No. VI. “‘ADRIENNE RENNEPONT DE CARDOVILLE.
“‘Distantly related (without knowing it) to Jacques Rennepont, alias
Sleepinbuff, and Gabriel Rennepont, missionary priest. She will soon
be twenty-one years of age, the most attractive person in the
world--extraordinary beauty, though red-haired--a mind remarkable
for its originality--immense fortune--all the animal instincts. The
incredible independence of her character makes one tremble for the
future fate of this young person. Happily, her appointed guardian, Baron
Tripeaud (a baron of 1829 creation, formerly agent to the late Count of
Rennepont, Duke of Cardoville), is quite in the interest, and almost in
the dependence, of the young lady’s aunt. We count, with reason, upon
this worthy and respectable relative, and on the Baron Tripeaud, to
oppose and repress the singular, unheard-of designs which this young
person, as resolute as independent, does not fear to avow--and which,
unfortunately, cannot be turned to account in the interest of the affair
in question--for--”
Rodin was here interrupted by two discreet taps at the door. The
secretary rose, went to see who knocked, remained a moment without, and
then returned with two letters in his hand, saying: “The princess has
profited by the departure of a courier to--”
“Give me the letter!” cried his master, without leaving him time to
finish. “At length,” he added, “I shall have news of my mother--”
He had scarcely read the first few lines of the letter, when he grew
deadly pale, and his features took an expression of painful astonishment
and poignant grief. “My mother!” he cried, “oh, heavens! my mother!”
“What misfortune has happened!” asked Rodin, with a look of alarm, as he
rose at the exclamation of his master.
“The symptoms of improvement were fallacious,” replied the other,
dejectedly; “she has now relapsed into a nearly hopeless state. And
yet the doctor thinks my presence might save her, for she calls for me
without ceasing. She wishes to see me for the last time, that she
may die in peace. Oh, that wish is sacred! Not to grant it would be
matricide. If I can but arrive in time! Travelling day and night, it
will take nearly two days.”
“Alas! what a misfortune!” said Rodin, wringing his hands, and raising
his eyes to heaven.
His master rang the bell violently, and said to the old servant that
opened the door: “Just put what is indispensable into the portmanteau
of my travelling-carriage. Let the porter take a cab, and go for
post horses instantly. Within an hour, I must be on the road. Mother!
mother!” cried he, as the servant departed in haste. “Not to see her
again--oh, it would be frightful!” And sinking upon a chair, overwhelmed
with sorrow, he covered his face with his hands.
This great grief was sincere--he loved tenderly his mother that divine
sentiment had accompanied him, unalterable and pure, through all the
phases of a too often guilty life.
After a few minutes, Rodin ventured to say to his master, as he showed
him the second letter: “This, also, has just been brought from M.
Duplessis. It is very important--very pressing--”
“See what it is, and answer it. I have no head for business.”
“The letter is confidential,” said Rodin, presenting it to his master.
“I dare not open it, as you may see by the mark on the cover.”
At sight of this mark, the countenance of Rodin’s master assumed an
indefinable expression of respect and fear. With a trembling hand he
broke the seal. The note contained only the following words: “Leave all
business, and without losing a minute, set out and come. M. Duplessis
will replace you. He has orders.”
“Great God!” cried this man in despair. “Set out before I have seen my
mother! It is frightful, impossible--it would perhaps kill her--yes, it
would be matricide!”
Whilst he uttered these words, his eyes rested on the huge globe, marked
with red crosses. A sudden revolution seemed to take place within him;
he appeared to repent of the violence of his regrets; his face, though
still sad, became once more calm and grave. He handed the fatal letter
to his secretary, and said to him, whilst he stifled a sigh: “To be
classed under its proper number.”
Rodin took the letter, wrote a number upon it, and placed it in a
particular box. After a moment’s silence, his master resumed: “You will
take orders from M. Duplessis, and work with him. You will deliver to
him the note on the affair of the medals; he knows to whom to address
it. You will write to Batavia, Leipsic, and Charlestown, in the sense
agreed. Prevent, at any price, the daughters of General Simon from
quitting Leipsic; hasten the arrival of Gabriel in Paris; and should
Prince Djalma come to Batavia, tell M. Joshua Van Dael, that we count on
his zeal and obedience to keep him there.”
And this man, who, while his dying mother called to him in vain, could
thus preserve his presence of mind, entered his own apartments; whilst
Rodin busied himself with the answers he had been ordered to write, and
transcribed them in cipher.
In about three quarters of an hour, the bells of the post-horses were
heard jingling without. The old servant again entered, after discreetly
knocking at the door, and said:
“The carriage is ready.”
Rodin nodded, and the servant withdrew. The secretary, in his turn, went
to knock at the door of the inner room. His master appeared, still grave
and cold, but fearfully pale, and holding a letter in his hand.
“This for my mother,” said he to Rodin; “you will send a courier on the
instant.”
“On the instant,” replied the secretary.
“Let the three letters for Leipsic, Batavia and Charlestown, leave
to-day by the ordinary channel. They are of the last importance. You
know it.”
Those were his last words. Executing merciless orders with a merciless
obedience, he departed without even attempting to see his mother. His
secretary accompanied him respectfully to his carriage.
“What road, sir?” asked the postilion, turning round on his saddle.
“The road to ITALY!” answered Rodin’s master, with so deep a sigh that
it almost resembled a sob.
As the horses started at full gallop, Rodin made a low bow; then he
returned to the large, cold, bare apartment. The attitude, countenance,
and gait of this personage seemed to have undergone a sudden change. He
appeared to have increased in dimensions. He was no longer an automaton,
moved by the mechanism of humble obedience. His features, till now
impassible, his glance, hitherto subdued, became suddenly animated with
an expression of diabolical craft; a sardonic smile curled his thin,
pale lips, and a look of grim satisfaction relaxed his cadaverous face.
In turn, he stopped before the huge globe. In turn, he contemplated
it in silence, even as his master had done. Then, bending over it, and
embracing it, as it were, in his arms, he gloated with his reptile-eye
on it for some moments, drew his coarse finger along its polished
surface, and tapped his flat, dirty nail on three of the places dotted
with red crosses. And, whilst he thus pointed to three towns, in very
different parts of the world, he named them aloud, with a sneer.
“Leipsic--Charlestown--Batavia.”
“In each of these three places,” he added, “distant as they are from one
another, there exist persons who little think that here, in this
obscure street, from the recesses of this chamber, wakeful eyes are
upon them--that all their movements are followed, all their actions
known--and that hence will issue new instructions, which deeply concern
them, and which will be inexorably executed; for an interest is at
stake, which may have a powerful influence on Europe--on the world.
Luckily, we have friends at Leipsic, Charlestown, and Batavia.”
This funny, old, sordid, ill-dressed man, with his livid and death-like
countenance, thus crawling over the sphere before him, appeared still
more awful than his master, when the latter, erect and haughty, had
imperiously laid his hand upon that globe, which he seemed desirous of
subjecting by the strength of his pride and courage. The one resembled
the eagle, that hovers above his prey--the other the reptile, that
envelops its victim in its inextricable folds.
After some minutes, Rodin approached his desk, rubbing his hands briskly
together, and wrote the following epistle in a cipher unknown even to
his master:
“Paris, 3/4 past 9 A.M.
“He is gone--but he hesitated!
“When he received the order, his dying mother had just summoned him
to her. He might, they told him, save her by his presence; and he
exclaimed: ‘Not to go to my mother would be matricide!’
“Still, he is gone--but he hesitated. I keep my eye upon him
continually. These lines will reach Rome at the same time as himself.
“P.S.--Tell the Cardinal-Prince that he may rely on me, but I hope for
his active aid in return.”
When he had folded and sealed this letter, Rodin put it into his pocket.
The clock struck ten, M. Rodin’s hour for breakfast. He arranged and
locked up his papers in a drawer, of which he carried away the key,
brushed his old greasy hat with his sleeve, took a patched umbrella in
his hand, and went out. (1)
Whilst these two men, in the depths of their obscure retreat, were thus
framing a plot, which was to involve the seven descendants of a race
formerly proscribed--a strange mysterious defender was planning how to
protect this family, which was also his own.
1 Having cited the excellent, courageous letters of M. Libri, and the
curious work edited by M. Paulin, it is our duty likewise to mention
many bold and conscientious writings on the subject of the “Society of
Jesus,” recently published by the elder Dupin, Michelet, Quinet, Genin,
and the Count de Saint Priest--works of high and impartial intellects,
in which the fatal theories of the order are admirably exposed and
condemned. We esteem ourselves happy, if we can bring one stone towards
the erection of the strong, and, we hope, durable embankment which these
generous hearts and noble minds are raising against the encroachments of
an impure and always menacing flood.--E. S.
BOOK II. INTERVAL.--THE WANDERING JEW’S SENTENCE.
XVII. The Ajoupa XVIII. The Tattooing XIX. The Smuggler XX.
M. Joshua Van Dael XXI. The Ruins of Tchandi XXII. The
Ambuscade XXIII. M. Rodin XXIV. The Tempest XXV. The
Shipwreck XXVI. The Departure for Paris XXVII. Dagobert’s
Wife XXVIII. The Sister of the Bacchanal Queen XXIX.
Agricola Baudoin XXX. The Return XXXI. Agricola and Mother
Bunch XXXII. The Awakening XXXIII. The Pavilion XXXIV.
Adrienne at her Toilet XXXV. The Interview
INTERVAL.
THE WANDERING JEW’S SENTENCE.
The site is wild and rugged. It is a lofty eminence covered with huge
boulders of sandstone, between which rise birch trees and oaks, their
foliage already yellowed by autumn. These tall trees stand out from the
background of red light, which the sun has left in the west, resembling
the reflection of a great fire.
From this eminence the eye looks down into a deep valley, shady,
fertile, and half-veiled in light vapor by the evening mist. The rich
meadows, the tufts of bushy trees the fields from which the ripe corn
has been gathered in, all blend together in one dark, uniform tint,
which contrasts with the limpid azure of the heavens. Steeples of gray
stone or slate lift their pointed spires, at intervals, from the midst
of this valley; for many villages are spread about it, bordering a
high-road which leads from the north to the west.
It is the hour of repose--the hour when, for the most part, every
cottage window brightens to the joyous crackling of the rustic hearth,
and shines afar through shade and foliage, whilst clouds of smoke issue
from the chimneys, and curl up slowly towards the sky. But now, strange
to say, every hearth in the country seems cold and deserted. Stranger
and more fatal still, every steeple rings out a funeral knell. Whatever
there is of activity, movement, or life, appears concentrated in that
lugubrious and far-sounding vibration.
Lights begin to show themselves in the dark villages, but they rise not
from the cheerful and pleasant rustic hearth. They are as red as the
fires of the herdsmen, seen at night through the midst of the fog. And
then these lights do not remain motionless. They creep slowly towards
the churchyard of every village. Louder sounds the death-knell, the air
trembles beneath the strokes of so many bells, and, at rare intervals,
the funeral chant rises faintly to the summit of the hill.
Why so many interments? What valley of desolation is this, where the
peaceful songs which follow the hard labors of the day are replaced by
the death dirge? where the repose of evening is exchanged for the repose
of eternity? What is this valley of the shadow, where every village
mourns for its many dead, and buries them at the same hour of the same
night?
Alas! the deaths are so sudden and numerous and frightful that there is
hardly time to bury the dead. During day the survivors are chained to
the earth by hard but necessary toil; and only in the evening, when they
return from the fields, are they able, though sinking with fatigue, to
dig those other furrows, in which their brethren are to lie heaped like
grains of corn.
And this valley is not the only one that has seen the desolation. During
a series of fatal years, many villages, many towns, many cities, many
great countries, have seen, like this valley, their hearths deserted and
cold--have seen, like this valley, mourning take the place of joy, and
the death-knell substituted for the noise of festival--have wept in
the same day for their many dead, and buried them at night by the lurid
glare of torches.
For, during those fatal years, an awful wayfarer had slowly journeyed
over the earth, from one pole to the other--from the depths of India and
Asia to the ice of Siberia--from the ice of Siberia to the borders of
the seas of France.
This traveller, mysterious as death, slow as eternity, implacable as
fate, terrible as the hand of heaven, was the CHOLERA!
The tolling of bells and the funeral chants still rose from the depths
of the valley to the summit of the hill, like the complaining of a
mighty voice; the glare of the funeral torches was still seen afar
through the mist of evening; it was the hour of twilight--that strange
hour, which gives to the most solid forms a vague, indefinite fantastic
appearance--when the sound of firm and regular footsteps was heard on
the stony soil of the rising ground, and, between the black trunks of
the trees, a man passed slowly onward.
His figure was tall, his head was bowed upon his breast; his countenance
was noble, gentle, and sad; his eyebrows, uniting in the midst, extended
from one temple to the other, like a fatal mark on his forehead.
This man did not seem to hear the distant tolling of so many funeral
bells--and yet, a few days before, repose and happiness, health and joy,
had reigned in those villages through which he had slowly passed, and
which he now left behind him, mourning and desolate. But the traveller
continued on his way, absorbed in his own reflections.
“The 13th of February approaches,” thought he; “the day approaches, in
which the descendants of my beloved sister, the last scions of our race,
should meet in Paris. Alas! it is now a hundred and fifty years since,
for the third time, persecution scattered this family over all the
earth--this family, that I have watched over with tenderness for
eighteen centuries, through all its migrations and exiles, its changes
of religion, fortune, and name!
“Oh! for this family, descended from the sister of the poor
shoemaker,(2) what grandeur and what abasement, what obscurity and what
splendor, what misery and what glory! By how many crimes has it been
sullied, by how many virtues honored! The history of this single family
is the history of the human race!
“Passing, in the course of so many generations, through the veins of the
poor and the rich, of the sovereign and the bandit, of the wise man and
the fool, of the coward and the brave, of the saint and the atheist, the
blood of my sister has transmitted itself to this hour.
“What scions of this family are now remaining? Seven only.
“Two orphans, the daughters of proscribed parents--a dethroned prince--a
poor missionary priest--a man of the middle class--a young girl of a
great name and large fortune--a mechanic.
“Together, they comprise in themselves the virtues, the courage, the
degradation, the splendor, the miseries of our species!
“Siberia--India--America--France--behold the divers places where fate
has thrown them!
“My instinct teaches me when one of them is in peril. Then, from the
North to the South, from the East to the West, I go to seek them.
Yesterday amid the polar frosts--to-day in the temperate zone--to-morrow
beneath the fires of the tropics--but often, alas! at the moment when
my presence might save them, the invisible hand impels me, the whirlwind
carries me away, and the voice speaks in my ear: ‘GO ON! GO ON!’
“Oh, that I might only finish my task!--‘GO ON!’--A single hour--only
a single hour of repose!--‘GO ON!’--Alas! I leave those I love on the
brink of the abyss!--‘GO ON! GO ON!’
“Such is my punishment. If it is great, my crime was greater still! An
artisan, devoted to privations and misery, my misfortunes had made me
cruel.
“Oh, cursed, cursed be the day, when, as I bent over my work, sullen
with hate and despair, because, in spite of my incessant labor, I and
mine wanted for everything, the Saviour passed before my door.
“Reviled, insulted, covered with blows, hardly able to sustain the
weight of his heavy cross, He asked me to let Him rest a moment on my
stone bench. The sweat poured from His forehead, His feet were bleeding,
He was well-nigh sinking with fatigue, and He said to me, in a mild,
heart piercing voice: ‘I suffer!’ ‘And I too suffer,’ I replied, as with
harsh anger I pushed Him from the place; ‘I suffer, and no one comes to
help me! I find no pity, and will give none. Go on! go on!’ Then, with
a deep sigh of pain, He answered, and spake this sentence: ‘Verily,
thou shalt go on till the day of thy redemption, for so wills the Father
which art in heaven!’
“And so my punishment began. Too late I opened these eyes to the light,
too late I learned repentance and charity, too late I understood those
divine words of Him I had outraged, words which should be the law of the
whole human race. ‘LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER.’
“In vain through successive ages, gathering strength and eloquence from
those celestial words, have I labored to earn my pardon, by filling
with commiseration and love hearts that were overflowing with envy and
bitterness, by inspiring many a soul with a sacred horror of oppression
and injustice. For me the day of mercy has not yet dawned!
“And even as the first man, by his fall, devoted his posterity to
misfortune, it would seem as if I, the workman, had consigned the whole
race of artisans to endless sorrows, and as if they were expiating my
crime: for they alone, during these eighteen centuries, have not yet
been delivered.
“For eighteen centuries, the powerful and the happy of this world have
said to the toiling people what I said to the imploring and suffering
Saviour: ‘Go on! go on!’ And the people, sinking with fatigue, bearing
their heavy cross, have answered in the bitterness of their grief:
‘Oh, for pity’s sake! a few moments of repose; we are worn out with
toil.’--Go on!’--‘And if we perish in our pain, what will become of
our little children and our aged mothers?’--‘Go on! go on!’ And, for
eighteen centuries, they and I have continued to struggle forward and to
suffer, and no charitable voice has yet pronounced the word ‘Enough!’
“Alas! such is my punishment. It is immense, it is two-fold. I suffer
in the name of humanity, when I see these wretched multitudes consigned
without respite to profitless and oppressive toil. I suffer in the name
of my family, when, poor and wandering, I am unable to bring aid to
the descendants of my dear sister. But, when the sorrow is above my
strength, when I foresee some danger from which I cannot preserve my
own, then my thoughts, travelling over the world, go in search of that
woman like me accursed, that daughter of a queen, who, like me, the
son of a laborer, wanders, and will wander on, till the day of her
redemption.(3)
“Once in a century, as two planets draw nigh to each other in their
revolutions, I am permitted to meet this woman during the dread week of
the Passion. And after this interview, filled with terrible remembrances
and boundless griefs, wandering stars of eternity, we pursue our
infinite course.
“And this woman, the only one upon earth who, like me, sees the end of
every century, and exclaims: ‘What another?’ this woman responds to my
thought, from the furthest extremity of the world. She, who alone shares
my terrible destiny, has chosen to share also the only interest that has
consoled me for so many ages. Those descendants of my dear sister, she
too loves, she too protects them. For them she journeys likewise from
East to West and from North to South.
“But alas! the invisible hand impels her, the whirlwind carries her
away, and the voice speaks in her ear: ‘Go on!’--‘Oh that I might finish
my sentence!’ repeats she also,--‘Go on!’--‘A single hour--only a single
hour of repose!’--Go on!’--‘I leave those I love on the brink of the
abyss.’--‘Go on! Go on!--’”
Whilst this man thus went over the hill absorbed in his thoughts, the
light evening breeze increased almost to a gale, a vivid flash streamed
across the sky, and long, deep whistlings announced the coming of a
tempest.
On a sudden this doomed man, who could no longer weep or smile, started
with a shudder. No physical pain could reach him, and yet he pressed his
hand hastily to his heart, as though he had experienced a cruel pang.
“Oh!” cried he; “I feel it. This hour, many of those whom I love--the
descendants of my dear sister--suffer, and are in great peril. Some in
the centre of India--some in America--some here in Germany. The struggle
recommences, the detestable passions are again awake. Oh, thou that
hearest me--thou, like myself wandering and accursed--Herodias! help
me to protect them! May my invocation reach thee, in those American
solitudes where thou now lingerest--and may we arrive in time!”
Thereon an extraordinary event happened. Night was come. The man made
a movement; precipitately, to retrace his steps--but an invisible force
prevented him, and carried him forward in the opposite direction.
At this moment, the storm burst forth in its murky majesty. One of those
whirlwinds, which tear up trees by the roots and shake the foundations
of the rocks, rushed over the hill rapid and loud as thunder.
In the midst of the roaring of the hurricane, by the glare of the fiery
flashes, the man with the black mark on his brow was seen descending the
hill, stalking with huge strides among the rocks, and between trees bent
beneath the efforts of the storm.
The tread of this man was no longer slow, firm, and steady--but
painfully irregular, like that of one impelled by an irresistible power,
or carried along by the whirl of a frightful wind. In vain he extended
his supplicating hands to heaven. Soon he disappeared in the shades of
night, and amid the roar of the tempest.
(2) It is known that, according to the legend, the Wandering Jew was a
shoemaker at Jerusalem. The Saviour, carrying his cross, passed before
the house of the artisan, and asked him to be allowed to rest an instant
on the stone bench at his door. “Go on! go on!” said the Jew harshly,
pushing him away. “Thou shalt go on till the end of time,” answered the
Saviour, in a stern though sorrowful tone. For further details, see
the eloquent and learned notice by Charles Magnin, appended to the
magnificent poem “Ahasuerus,” by Ed. Quinet.--E. S.
(3) According to a legend very little known, for we are indebted to
the kindness of M. Maury, the learned sub-librarian of the Institute,
Herodias was condemned to wander till the day of judgement, for having
asked for the death of John the Baptist--E. S.
CHAPTER XVII. THE AJOUPA.
While Rodin despatched his cosmopolite correspondence, from his retreat
in the Rue du Milieu des Ursins, in Paris--while the daughters of
General Simon, after quitting as fugitives the White Falcon, were
detained prisoners at Leipsic along with Dagobert--other scenes, deeply
interesting to these different personages, were passing, almost as it
were at the same moment, at the other extremity of the world, in the
furthermost parts of Asia--that is to say, in the island of Java, not
far from the city of Batavia, the residence of M. Joshua Van Dael, one
of the correspondents of Rodin.
Java! magnificent and fatal country, where the most admirable flowers
conceal hideous reptiles, where the brightest fruits contain subtle
poisons, where grow splendid trees, whose very shadow is death--where
the gigantic vampire bat sucks the blood of its victims whilst it
prolongs their sleep, by surrounding them with a fresh and balmy air, no
fan moving so rapidly as the great perfumed wings of this monster!
The month of October, 1831, draws near its close. It is noon--an hour
well nigh mortal to him who encounters the fiery heat of the sun, which
spreads a sheet of dazzling light over the deep blue enamel of the sky.
An ajoupa, or hut, made of cane mats, suspended from long bamboos, which
are driven far into the ground, rises in the midst of the bluish shadows
cast by a tuft of trees, whose glittering verdure resembles green
porcelain. These quaintly formed trees, rounded into arches, pointing
like spires, overspreading like parasols, are so thick in foliage, so
entangled one with the other, that their dome is impenetrable to the
rain.
The soil, ever marshy, notwithstanding the insupportable heat,
disappears beneath an inextricable mass of creepers, ferns, and tufted
reeds, of a freshness and vigor of vegetation almost incredible,
reaching nearly to the top of the ajoupa, which lies hid like a nest
among the grass.
Nothing can be more suffocating than the atmosphere, heavily laden with
moist exhalations like the steam of hot water, and impregnated with
the strongest and sharpest scents; for the cinnamon-tree, ginger-plant,
stephanotis and Cape jasmine, mixed with these trees and creepers,
spread around in puffs their penetrating odors. A roof, formed of large
Indian fig-leaves, covers the cabin; at one end is a square opening,
which serves for a window, shut in with a fine lattice-work of vegetable
fibres, so as to prevent the reptiles and venomous insects from creeping
into the ajoupa. The huge trunk of a dead tree, still standing, but much
bent, and with its summit reaching to the roof of the ajoupa, rises from
the midst of the brushwood. From every crevice in its black, rugged,
mossy bark, springs a strange, almost fantastic flower; the wing of a
butterfly is not of a finer tissue, of a more brilliant purple, of a
more glossy black: those unknown birds we see in our dreams, have no
more grotesque forms than these specimens of the orchis--winged flowers,
that seem always ready to fly from their frail and leafless stalks. The
long, flexible stems of the cactus, which might be taken for reptiles,
encircle also this trunk, and clothe it with their bunches of silvery
white, shaded inside with bright orange. These flowers emit a strong
scent of vanilla.
A serpent, of a brick-red, about the thickness of a large quill, and
five or six inches long, half protrudes its flat head from one of those
enormous, perfumed calyces, in which it lies closely curled up.
Within the ajoupa, a young man is extended on a mat in a profound sleep.
His complexion of a clear golden yellow, gives him the appearance of a
statue of pale bronze, on which a ray of sun is playing. His attitude
is simple and graceful; his right arm sustains his head, a little raised
and turned on one side; his ample robe of white muslin, with hanging
sleeves, leaves uncovered his chest and arms worthy of the Antoinous.
Marble is not more firm, more polished than his skin, the golden hue of
which contracts strongly with the whiteness of his garments. Upon his
broad manly chest a deep scar is visible--the mark of the musket-ball he
received in defending the life of General Simon, the father of Rose and
Blanche.
Suspended from his neck, he wears a medal similar to that in the
possession of the two sisters. This Indian is Djalma.
His features are at once very noble and very beautiful. His hair of a
blue black, parted upon his forehead, falls waving, but not curled over
his shoulders; whilst his eyebrows, boldly and yet delicately defined,
are of as deep a jet as the long eyelashes, that cast their shadow upon
his beardless cheek. His bright, red lips are slightly apart, and he
breathes uneasily; his sleep is heavy and troubled, for the heat becomes
every moment more and more suffocating.
Without, the silence is profound. Not a breath of air is stirring.
Yet now the tall ferns, which cover the soil, begin to move almost
imperceptibly, as though their stems were shaken by the slow progress
of some crawling body. From time to time, this trifling oscillation
suddenly ceases, and all is again motionless. But, after several of
these alternations of rustling and deep silence, a human head appears
in the midst of the jungle, a little distance from the trunk of the dead
tree.
The man to whom it belonged was possessed of a grim countenance, with a
complexion the color of greenish bronze, long black hair bound about his
temples, eyes brilliant with savage fire, and an expression remarkable
for its intelligence and ferocity. Holding his breath, he remained quite
still for a moment; then, advancing upon his hands and knees, pushing
aside the leaves so gently, that not the slightest noise could be heard,
he arrived cautiously and slowly at the trunk of the dead tree, the
summit of which nearly touched the roof of the ajoupa.
This man, of Malay origin, belonging to the sect of the Lughardars
(Stranglers), after having again listened, rose almost entirely from
amongst the brushwood. With the exception of white cotton drawers,
fastened around his middle by a parti-colored sash, he was completely
naked. His bronze, supple, and nervous limbs were overlaid with a
thick coat of oil. Stretching himself along the huge trunk on the side
furthest from the cabin, and thus sheltered by the whole breadth of the
tree with its surrounding creepers, he began to climb silently, with
as much patience as caution. In the undulations of his form, in the
flexibility of his movements, in the restrained vigor, which fully
put forth would have been alarming, there was some resemblance to the
stealthy and treacherous advance of the tiger upon its prey.
Having reached, completely unperceived, the inclined portion of the
tree, which almost touched the roof of the cabin, he was only separated
from the window by a distance of about a foot. Cautiously advancing his
head, he looked down into the interior, to see how he might best find an
entrance.
At sight of Djalma in his deep sleep, the Thug’s bright eyes glittered
with increased brilliancy; a nervous contraction, or rather a mute,
ferocious laugh, curling the corners of his mouth, drew them up towards
the cheekbones, and exposed rows of teeth, filed sharp like the points
of a saw, and dyed of a shining black.
Djalma was lying in such a manner and so near the door of the ajoupa,
which opened inwards, that, were it moved in the least, he must be
instantly awakened. The Strangler, with his body still sheltered by the
tree, wishing to examine more attentively the interior of the cabin,
leaned very forward, and in order to maintain his balance, lightly
rested his hand on the ledge of the opening that served for a window.
This movement shook the large cactus-flowers, within which the little
serpent lay curled, and, darting forth it twisted itself rapidly round
the wrist of the Strangler. Whether from pain or surprise, the man
uttered a low cry; and as he drew back swiftly, still holding by the
trunk of the tree, he perceived that Djalma had moved.
The young Indian, though retaining his supine posture, had half opened
his eyes, and turned his head towards the window, whilst his breast
heaved with a deep-drawn sigh, for, beneath that thick dome of moist
verdure, the concentrated heat was intolerable.
Hardly had he moved, when, from behind the tree, was heard the shrill,
brief, sonorous note, which the bird of paradise titters when it takes
its flight--a cry which resembles that of the pheasant. This note was
soon repeated, but more faintly, as though the brilliant bird were
already at a distance. Djalma, thinking he had discovered the cause of
the noise which had aroused him for an instant, stretched out the arm
upon which his head had rested, and went to sleep again, with scarcely
any change of position.
For some minutes, the most profound silence once more reigned in this
solitude, and everything remained motionless.
The Strangler, by his skillful imitation of the bird, had repaired the
imprudence of that exclamation of surprise and pain, which the reptile
bite had forced from him. When he thought all was safe, he again
advanced his head, and saw the young Indian once more plunged in sleep.
Then he descended the tree with the same precautions, though his left
hand was somewhat swollen from the sting of the serpent, and disappeared
in the jungle.
At that instant a song of monotonous and melancholy cadence was heard
in the distance. The Strangler raised himself, and listened attentively,
and his face took an expression of surprise and deadly anger. The song
came nearer and nearer to the cabin, and, in a few seconds, an Indian,
passing through an open space in the jungle, approached the spot where
the Thug lay concealed.
The latter unwound from his waist a long thin cord, to one of the ends
of which was attached a leaden ball, of the form and size of an egg;
having fastened the other end of this cord to his right wrist, the
Strangler again listened, and then disappeared, crawling through the
tall grass in the direction of the Indian, who still advanced slowly,
without interrupting his soft and plaintive song.
He was a young fellow scarcely twenty, with a bronzed complexion, the
slave of Djalma, his vest of blue cotton was confined at the waist by a
parti-colored sash; he wore a red turban, and silver rings in his ears
and about his wrists. He was bringing a message to his master, who,
during the great heat of the day was reposing in the ajoupa, which stood
at some distance from the house he inhabited.
Arriving at a place where two paths separated, the slave, without
hesitation took that which led to the cabin, from which he was now
scarce forty paces distant.
One of those enormous Java butterflies, whose wings extend six or eight
inches in length, and offer to the eye two streaks of gold on a ground
of ultramarine, fluttering from leaf to leaf, alighted on a bush of Cape
jasmine, within the reach of the young Indian. The slave stopped in his
song, stood still, advanced first a foot, then a hand, and seized the
butterfly.
Suddenly he sees a dark figure rise before him; he hears a whizzing
noise like that of a sling; he feels a cord, thrown with as much
rapidity as force, encircle his neck with a triple band; and, almost in
the same instant, the leaden ball strikes violently against the back of
his head.
This attack was so abrupt and unforseen, that Djalma’s servant could not
even utter a single cry, a single groan. He tottered--the Strangler gave
a vigorous pull at the cord--the bronzed countenance of the slave became
purple, and he fell upon his knees, convulsively moving his arms. Then
the Strangler threw him quite down, and pulled the cord so violently,
that the blood spurted from the skin. The victim struggled for a
moment--and all was over.
During his short but intense agony, the murderer, kneeling before his
victim, and watching with ardent eye his least convulsions, seemed
plunged into an ecstasy of ferocious joy. His nostrils dilated, the
veins of his neck and temples were swollen, and the same savage laugh,
which had curled his lips at the aspect of the sleeping Djalma, again
displayed his pointed black teeth, which a nervous trembling of the jaws
made to chatter. But soon he crossed his arms upon his heaving breast,
bowed his forehead, and murmured some mysterious words, which sounded
like an invocation or a prayer. Immediately after, he returned to the
contemplation of the dead body. The hyena and the tiger-cat, who, before
devouring, crouch beside the prey that they have surprised or hunted
down, have not a wilder or more sanguinary look than this man.
But, remembering that his task was not yet accomplished tearing himself
unwillingly from the hideous spectacle, he unbound the cord from the
neck of his victim, fastened it round his own body, dragged the corpse
out of the path, and, without attempting to rob it of its silver rings,
concealed it in a thick part of the jungle.
Then the Strangler again began to creep on his knees and belly, till he
arrived at the cabin of Djalma--that cabin constructed of mats suspended
from bamboos. After listening attentively, he drew from his girdle a
knife, the sharp-pointed blade of which was wrapped in a fig-leaf, and
made in the matting an incision of three feet in length. This was done
with such quickness, and with so fine a blade, that the light touch of
the diamond cutting glass would have made more noise. Seeing, by means
of this opening, which was to serve him for a passage, that Djalma was
still fast asleep, the Thug, with incredible temerity, glided into the
cabin.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE TATTOOING
The heavens, which had been till now of transparent blue, became
gradually of a greenish tint, and the sun was veiled in red, lurid
vapor. This strange light gave to every object a weird appearance, of
which one might form an idea, by looking at a landscape through a piece
of copper colored glass. In those climates, this phenomenon, when united
with an increase of burning heat, always announces the approach of a
storm.
From time to time there was a passing odor of sulphur; then the leaves,
slightly shaken by electric currents, would tremble upon their stalks;
till again all would return to the former motionless silence. The weight
of the burning atmosphere, saturated with sharp perfumes, became almost
intolerable. Large drops of sweat stood in pearls on the forehead of
Djalma, still plunged in enervating sleep--for it no longer resembled
rest, but a painful stupor.
The Strangler glided like a reptile along the sides of the ajoupa, and,
crawling on his belly, arrived at the sleeping-mat of Djalma, beside
which he squatted himself, so as to occupy as little space as possible.
Then began a fearful scene, by reason of the mystery and silence which
surrounded it.
Djalma’s life was at the mercy of the Strangler. The latter, resting
upon his hands and knees, with his neck stretched forward, his eye fixed
and dilated, continued motionless as a wild beast about to spring. Only
a slight nervous trembling of the jaws agitated that mask of bronze.
But soon his hideous features revealed a violent struggle that was
passing within him--a struggle between the thirst, the craving for the
enjoyment of murder, which the recent assassination of the slave had
made still more active, and the orders he had received not to attempt
the life of Djalma, though the design, which brought him to the ajoupa,
might perhaps be as fatal to the young Indian as death itself. Twice did
the Strangler, with look of flame, resting only on his left hand, seize
with his right the rope’s end; and twice his hand fell--the instinct of
murder yielding to a powerful will, of which the Malay acknowledged the
irresistible empire.
In him, the homicidal craving must have amounted to madness, for, in
these hesitations, he lost much precious time: at any moment, Djalma,
whose vigor, skill, and courage were known and feared, might awake from
his sleep, and, though unarmed, he would prove a terrible adversary. At
length the Thug made up his mind; with a suppressed sigh of regret, he
set about accomplishing his task.
This task would have appeared impossible to any one else. The reader may
judge.
Djalma, with his face turned towards the left, leaned his head upon his
curved arm. It was first necessary, without waking him, to oblige him to
turn his face towards the right (that is, towards the door), so that, in
case of his being half-roused, his first glance might not fall upon the
Strangler. The latter, to accomplish his projects, would have to remain
many minutes in the cabin.
The heavens became darker; the heat arrived at its last degree of
intensity; everything combined to increase the torpor of the sleeper,
and so favor the Strangler’s designs. Kneeling down close to Djalma, he
began, with the tips of his supple, well-oiled fingers, to stroke the
brow, temples, and eyelids of the young Indian, but with such extreme
lightness, that the contact of the two skins was hardly sensible. When
this kind of magnetic incantation had lasted for some seconds, the
sweat, which bathed the forehead of Djalma, became more abundant:
he heaved a smothered sigh, and the muscles of his face gave several
twitches, for the strokings, although too light to rouse him, yet caused
in him a feeling of indefinable uneasiness.
Watching him with his restless and burning eye, the Strangler continued
his maneuvers with so much patience, that Djalma, still sleeping, but
no longer able to bear this vague, annoying sensation, raised his right
hand mechanically to his face, as if he would have brushed away an
importunate insect. But he had not strength to do it; almost immediately
after, his hand, inert and heavy, fell back upon his chest. The
Strangler saw, by this symptom, that he was attaining his object, and
continued to stroke, with the same address, the eyelids, brow, and
temples.
Whereupon Djalma, more and more oppressed by heavy sleep, and having
neither strength nor will to raise his hand to his face, mechanically
turned round his head, which fell languidly upon his right shoulder,
seeking by this change of attitude, to escape from the disagreeable
sensation which pursued him. The first point gained, the Strangler could
act more freely.
To render as profound as possible the sleep he had half interrupted, he
now strove to imitate the vampire, and, feigning the action of a fan,
he rapidly moved his extended hands about the burning face of the young
Indian. Alive to a feeling of such sudden and delicious coolness, in the
height of suffocating heat, the countenance of Djalma brightened, his
bosom heaved, his half-opened lips drank in the grateful air, and he
fell into a sleep only the more invincible, because it had been at first
disturbed, and was now yielded to under the influence of a pleasing
sensation.
A sudden flash of lightning illumined the shady dome that sheltered the
ajoupa: fearing that the first clap of thunder might rouse the young
Indian, the Strangler hastened to complete his Task. Djalma lay on his
back, with his head resting on his right shoulder, and his left arm
extended; the Thug, crouching at his left side, ceased by degrees the
process of fanning; then, with incredible dexterity, he succeeded in
rolling up, above the elbow, the long wide sleeve of white muslin that
covered the left arm of the sleeper.
He next drew from the pocket of his drawers a copper box, from which he
took a very fine, sharp-pointed needle, and a piece of a black-looking
root. He pricked this root several times with the needle, and on each
occasion there issued from it a white, glutinous liquid.
When the Strangler thought the needle sufficiently impregnated with this
juice, he bent down, and began to blow gently over the inner surface of
Djalma’s arm, so as to cause a fresh sensation of coolness; then, with
the point of his needle, he traced almost imperceptibly on the skin of
the sleeping youth some mysterious and symbolical signs. All this was
performed so cleverly and the point of the needle was so fine and keen,
that Djalma did not feel the action of the acid upon the skin.
The signs, which the Strangler had traced, soon appeared on the surface,
at first in characters of a pale rose-color, as fine as a hair; but
such was the slowly corrosive power of the juice, that, as it worked and
spread beneath the skin, they would become in a few hours of a violet
red, and as apparent as they were now almost invisible.
The Strangler, having so perfectly succeeded in his project, threw a
last look of ferocious longing on the slumbering Indian, and creeping
away from the mat, regained the opening by which he had entered the
cabin; next, closely uniting the edges of the incision, so as to obviate
all suspicion, he disappeared just as the thunder began to rumble
hoarsely in the distance.(4)
(4) We read in the letters of the late Victor Jacquemont upon India,
with regard to the incredible dexterity of these men: “They crawl on the
ground, ditches, in the furrows of fields, imitate a hundred different
voices, and dissipate the effect of any accidental noise by raising the
yelp of the jackal or note of some bird--then are silent, and another
imitates the call of the same animal in the distance. They can molest a
sleeper by all sorts of noises and slight touches, and make his body
and limbs take any position which suits their purpose.” Count Edward
de Warren, in his excellent work on English India, which we shall have
again occasion to quote, expresses himself in the same manner as to the
inconceivable address of the Indians: “They have the art,” says he, “to
rob you, without interrupting your sleep, of the very sheet in which
you are enveloped. This is not ‘a traveller’s tale.’ but a fact. The
movements of the bheel are those of the serpent. If you sleep in your
tent, with a servant lying across each entrance, the bheel will come
and crouch on the outside, in some shady corner, where he can hear the
breathing of those within. As soon as the European sleeps, he feels
sure of success, for the Asiatic will not long resist the attraction of
repose. At the proper moment, he makes a vertical incision in the cloth
of the tent, on the spot where he happens to be, and just large enough
to admit him. He glides through like a phantom, without making the least
grain of sand creak beneath his tread. He is perfectly naked, and all
his body is rubbed over with oil; a two-edged knife is suspended from
his neck. He will squat down close to your couch, and, with incredible
coolness and dexterity, will gather up the sheet in very little folds,
so as to occupy the least surface possible; then, passing to the other
side, he will lightly tickle the sleeper, whom he seems to magnetize,
till the latter shrinks back involuntarily, and ends by turning round,
and leaving the sheet folded behind him. Should he awake, and strive to
seize the robber, he catches at a slippery form, which slides through
his hands like an eel; should he even succeed in seizing him, it would
be fatal--the dagger strikes him to the heart, he falls bathed in his
blood, and the assassin disappears.”--E. S.
CHAPTER XIX. THE SMUGGLER
The tempest of the morning has long been over. The sun is verging
towards the horizon. Some hours have elapsed, since the Strangler
introduced himself into Djalma’s cabin, and tattooed him with a
mysterious sign during his sleep.
A horseman advances rapidly down a long avenue of spreading trees.
Sheltered by the thick and verdant arch, a thousand birds salute the
splendid evening with songs and circlings; red and green parrots climb,
by help of their hooked beaks, to the top of pink-blossomed acacias;
large Morea birds of the finest and richest blue, whose throats and
long tails change in the light to a golden brown, are chasing the prince
oriels, clothed in their glossy feathers of black and orange; Kolo
doves, of a changeable violet hue, are gently cooing by the side of the
birds of paradise, in whose brilliant plumage are mingled the prismatic
colors of the emerald and ruby, the topaz and sapphire.
This avenue, a little raised, commanded a view of a small pond, which
reflected at intervals the green shade of tamarind trees. In the calm,
limpid waters, many fish were visible, some with silver scales and
purple fins, others gleaming with azure and vermilion; so still were
they that they looked as if set in a mass of bluish crystal, and, as
they dwelt motionless near the surface of the pool, on which played a
dazzling ray of the sun, they revelled in the enjoyment of the light
and heat. A thousand insects--living gems, with wings of flame--glided,
fluttered and buzzed over the transparent wave, in which, at an
extraordinary depth, were mirrored the variegated tints of the aquatic
plants on the bank.
It is impossible to give an adequate idea of the exuberant nature of
this scene, luxuriant in the sunlight, colors, and perfumes, which
served, so to speak, as a frame to the young and brilliant rider, who
was advancing along the avenue. It was Djalma. He had not yet perceived
the indelible marks, which the Strangler had traced upon his left arm.
His Japanese mare, of slender make, full of fire and vigor, is black
as night. A narrow red cloth serves instead of saddle. To moderate the
impetuous bounds of the animal, Djalma uses a small steel bit, with
headstall and reins of twisted scarlet silk, fine as a thread.
Not one of those admirable riders, sculptured so masterly on the frieze
of the Parthenon, sits his horse more gracefully and proudly than this
young Indian, whose fine face, illumined by the setting sun, is radiant
with serene happiness; his eyes sparkle with joy, and his dilated
nostrils and unclosed lips inhale with delight the balmy breeze, that
brings to him the perfume of flowers and the scent of fresh leaves, for
the trees are still moist from the abundant rain that fell after the
storm.
A red cap, similar to that worn by the Greeks, surmounting the
black locks of Djalma, sets off to advantage the golden tint of his
complexion; his throat is bare; he is clad in his robe of white muslin
with large sleeves, confined at the waist by a scarlet sash; very full
drawers, in white cotton stuff, leave half uncovered his tawny and
polished legs; their classic curve stands out from the dark sides of the
horse, which he presses tightly between his muscular calves. He has no
stirrups; his foot, small and narrow, is shod with a sandal of morocco
leather.
The rush of his thoughts, by turns impetuous and restrained, was
expressed in some degree by the pace he imparted to his horse--now bold
and precipitate, like the flight of unbridled imagination--now calm and
measured, like the reflection which succeeds an idle dream. But, in
all this fantastic course, his least movements were distinguished by a
proud, independent and somewhat savage grace.
Dispossessed of his paternal territory by the English, and at first
detained by them as a state-prisoner after the death of his father--who
(as M. Joshua Van Dael had written to M. Rodin) had fallen sword in
hand--Djalma had at length been restored to liberty. Abandoning the
continent of India, and still accompanied by General Simon, who had
lingered hard by the prison of his old friend’s son, the young Indian
came next to Batavia, the birthplace of his mother, to collect the
modest inheritance of his maternal ancestors. And amongst this property,
so long despised or forgotten by his father, he found some important
papers, and a medal exactly similar to that worn by Rose and Blanche.
General Simon was not more surprised than pleased at this discovery,
which not only established a tie of kindred between his wife and
Djalma’s mother, but which also seemed to promise great advantages for
the future. Leaving Djalma at Batavia, to terminate some business there,
he had gone to the neighboring island of Sumatra, in the hope of finding
a vessel that would make the passage to Europe directly and rapidly;
for it was now necessary that, cost what it might, the young Indian also
should be at Paris on the 13th February, 1832. Should General Simon
find a vessel ready to sail for Europe, he was to return immediately, to
fetch Djalma; and the latter, expecting him daily, was now going to the
pier of Batavia, hoping to see the father of Rose and Blanche arrive by
the mail boat from Sumatra.
A few words are here necessary on the early life of the son of Kadja
sing.
Having lost his mother very young, and brought up with rude simplicity,
he had accompanied his father, whilst yet a child, to the great tiger
hunts, as dangerous as battles; and, in the first dawn of youth, he had
followed him to the stern bloody war, which he waged in defence of his
country. Thus living, from the time of his mother’s death, in the
midst of forests and mountains and continual combats, his vigorous and
ingenuous nature had preserved itself pure, and he well merited the name
of “The Generous” bestowed on him. Born a prince, he was--which by no
means follows--a prince indeed. During the period of his captivity,
the silent dignity of his bearing had overawed his jailers. Never a
reproach, never a complaint--a proud and melancholy calm was all that
he opposed to a treatment as unjust as it was barbarous, until he was
restored to freedom.
Having thus been always accustomed to a patriarchal life, or to a war of
mountaineers, which he had only quitted to pass a few months in prison,
Djalma knew nothing, so to speak, of civilized society. Without its
exactly amounting to a defect, he certainly carried his good qualities
to their extreme limits. Obstinately faithful to his pledged word,
devoted to the death, confiding to blindness, good almost to a complete
forgetfulness of himself, he was inflexible towards ingratitude,
falsehood, or perfidy. He would have felt no compunction to sacrifice
a traitor, because, could he himself have committed a treason, he would
have thought it only just to expiate it with his life.
He was, in a word, the man of natural feelings, absolute and entire.
Such a man, brought into contact with the temperaments, calculations,
falsehoods, deceptions, tricks, restrictions, and hollowness of a
refined society, such as Paris, for example, would, without doubt,
form a very curious subject for speculation. We raise this hypothesis,
because, since his journey to France had been determined on, Djalma had
one fixed, ardent desire--to be in Paris.
In Paris--that enchanted city--of which, even in Asia, the land of
enchantment, so many marvelous tales were told.
What chiefly inflamed the fresh, vivid imagination of the young Indian,
was the thought of French women--those attractive Parisian beauties,
miracles of elegance and grace, who eclipsed, he was informed, even the
magnificence of the capitals of the civilized world. And at this very
moment, in the brightness of that warm and splendid evening, surrounded
by the intoxication of flowers and perfumes, which accelerated the
pulses of his young fiery heart, Djalma was dreaming of those exquisite
creatures, whom his fancy loved to clothe in the most ideal garbs.
It seemed to him as if, at the end of the avenue, in the midst of that
sheet of golden light, which the trees encompassed with their full,
green arch, he could see pass and repass, white and sylph-like, a host
of adorable and voluptuous phantoms, that threw him kisses from the tips
of their rosy fingers. Unable to restrain his burning emotions, carried
away by a strange enthusiasm, Djalma uttered exclamations of joy, deep,
manly, and sonorous, and made his vigorous courser bound under him in
the excitement of a mad delight. Just then a sunbeam, piercing the dark
vault of the avenue, shone full upon him.
For several minutes, a man had been advancing rapidly along a path,
which, at its termination, intersected the avenue diagonally. He stopped
a moment in the shade, looking at Djalma with astonishment. It was
indeed a charming sight, to behold, in the midst of a blaze of dazzling
lustre, this youth, so handsome, joyous, and ardent, clad in his white
and flowing vestments, gayly and lightly seated on his proud black mare,
who covered her red bridle with her foam, and whose long tail and thick
mane floated on the evening breeze.
But, with that reaction which takes place in all human desires, Djalma
soon felt stealing over him a sentiment of soft, undefinable melancholy.
He raised his hand to his eyes, now dimmed with moisture, and allowed
the reins to fall on the mane of his docile steed, which, instantly
stopping, stretched out its long neck, and turned its head in the
direction of the personage, whom it could see approaching through the
coppice.
This man, Mahal the Smuggler, was dressed nearly like European sailors.
He wore jacket and trousers of white duck, a broad red sash, and a
very low-crowned straw hat. His face was brown, with strongly-marked
features, and, though forty years of age, he was quite beardless.
In another moment, Mahal was close to the young Indian. “You are Prince
Djalma?” said he, in not very good French, raising his hand respectfully
to his hat.
“What would you?” said the Indian.
“You are the son of Kadja-sing?”
“Once again, what would you?”
“The friend of General Simon?”
“General Simon?” cried Djalma.
“You are going to meet him, as you have gone every evening, since you
expect his return from Sumatra?”
“Yes, but how do you know all this?” said the Indian looking at the
Smuggler with as much surprise as curiosity.
“Is he not to land at Batavia, to-day or to-morrow?”
“Are you sent by him?”
“Perhaps,” said Mahal, with a distrustful air. “But are you really the
son of Kadja-sing?”
“Yes, I tell you--but where have you seen General Simon?”
“If you are the son of Kadja-sing,” resumed Mahal, continuing to regard
Djalma with a suspicious eye, “what is your surname?”
“My sire was called the ‘Father of the Generous,’” answered the young
Indian, as a shade of sorrow passed over his fine countenance.
These words appeared in part to convince Mahal of the identity of
Djalma; but, wishing doubtless to be still more certain, he resumed:
“You must have received, two days ago, a letter from General Simon,
written from Sumatra?”
“Yes; but why so many questions?”
“To assure myself that you are really the son of Kadja-sing, and to
execute the orders I have received.”
“From whom?”
“From General Simon.”
“But where is he?”
“When I have proof that you are Prince Djalma, I will tell you. I was
informed that you would be mounted on a black mare, with a red bridle.
But--”
“By the soul of my mother! speak what you have to say!”
“I will tell you all--if you can tell me what was the printed paper,
contained in the last letter that General Simon wrote you from Sumatra.”
“It was a cutting from a French newspaper.”
“Did it announce good or bad news for the general?”
“Good news--for it related that, during his absence, they had
acknowledged the last rank and title bestowed on him by the Emperor, as
they had done for others of his brothers in arms, exiled like him.”
“You are indeed Prince Djalma,” said the Smuggler, after a moment’s
reflection. “I may speak. General Simon landed last night in Java, but
on a desert part of the coast.”
“On a desert part?”
“Because he has to hide himself.”
“Hide himself!” exclaimed Djalma, in amazement; “why?”
“That I don’t know.”
“But where is he?” asked Djalma, growing pale with alarm.
“He is three leagues hence--near the sea-shore--in the ruins of
Tchandi.”
“Obliged to hide himself!” repeated Djalma, and his countenance
expressed increasing surprise and anxiety.
“Without being certain, I think it is because of a duel he fought in
Sumatra,” said the Smuggler, mysteriously.
“A duel--with whom?”
“I don’t know--I am not at all certain on the subject. But do you know
the ruins of Tchandi?”
“Yes.”
“The general expects you there; that is what he ordered me to tell you.”
“So you came with him from Sumatra?”
“I was pilot of the little smuggling coaster, that landed him in the
night on a lonely beach. He knew that you went every day to the mole,
to wait for him; I was almost sure that I should meet you. He gave me
details about the letter you received from him as a proof that he had
sent me. If he could have found the means of writing, he would have
written.”
“But he did not tell you why he was obliged to hide himself?”
“He told me nothing. Certain words made me suspect what I told you--a
duel.”
Knowing the mettle of General Simon, Djalma thought the suspicions of
the Smuggler not unfounded. After a moment’s silence he said to him:
“Can you undertake to lead home my horse? My dwelling is without the
town--there, in the midst of those trees--by the side of the new mosque.
In ascending the mountain of Tchandi, my horse would be in my way; I
shall go much faster on foot.”
“I know where you live; General Simon told me. I should have gone there
if I had not met you. Give me your horse.”
Djalma sprang lightly to the ground, threw the bridle to Mahal, unrolled
one end of his sash, took out a silk purse, and gave it to the Smuggler,
saying: “You have been faithful and obedient. Here!--it is a trifle--but
I have no more.”
“Kadja-sing was rightly called the ‘Father of the Generous,’” said
the Smuggler, bowing with respect and gratitude. He took the road to
Batavia, leading Djalma’s horse. The young Indian, on the contrary,
plunged into the coppice, and, walking with great strides, he directed
his course towards the mountain, on which were the ruins of Tchandi,
where he could not arrive before night.
CHAPTER XX. M. JOSHUA VAN DAEL.
M. Joshua Van Dael a Dutch merchant, and correspondent of M. Rodin, was
born at Batavia, the capital of the island of Java; his parents had sent
him to be educated at Pondicherry, in a celebrated religious house, long
established in that place, and belonging to the “Society of Jesus.”
It was there that he was initiated into the order as “professor of the
three vows,” or lay member, commonly called “temporal coadjutor.”
Joshua was a man of probity that passed for stainless; of strict
accuracy in business, cold, careful, reserved, and remarkably skillful
and sagacious; his financial operations were almost always successful,
for a protecting power gave him ever in time, knowledge of events
which might advantageously influence his commercial transactions. The
religious house of Pondicherry was interested in his affairs, having
charged him with the exportation and exchange of the produce of its
large possessions in this colony.
Speaking little, hearing much, never disputing, polite in the
extreme--giving seldom, but with choice and purpose--Joshua, without
inspiring sympathy, commanded generally that cold respect, which is
always paid to the rigid moralist; for instead of yielding to the
influence of lax and dissolute colonial manners, he appeared to live
with great regularity, and his exterior had something of austerity about
it, which tended to overawe.
The following scene took place at Batavia, while Djalma was on his way
to the ruins of Tchandi in the hope of meeting General Simon.
M. Joshua had just retired into his cabinet, in which were many shelves
filled with paper boxes, and huge ledgers and cash boxes lying open upon
desks. The only window of this apartment, which was on the ground floor,
looked out upon a narrow empty court, and was protected externally by
strong iron bars; instead of glass, it was fitted with a Venetian blind,
because of the extreme heat of the climate.
M. Joshua, having placed upon his desk a taper in a glass globe, looked
at the clock. “Half-past nine,” said he. “Mahal ought soon to be here.”
Saying this, he went out, passing through an antechamber, opened a
second thick door, studded with nail-heads, in the Dutch fashion,
cautiously entered the court (so as not to be heard by the people in
the house), and drew back the secret bolt of a gate six feet high,
formidably garnished with iron spikes. Leaving this gate unfastened, he
regained his cabinet, after he had successively and carefully closed the
two other doors behind him.
M. Joshua next seated himself at his desk, and took from a drawer a long
letter, or rather statement, commenced some time before, and continued
day by day. It is superfluous to observe, that the letter already
mentioned, as addressed to M. Rodin, was anterior to the liberation of
Djalma and his arrival at Batavia.
The present statement was also addressed to M. Rodin, and Van Dael thus
went on with it:
“Fearing the return of General Simon, of which I had been informed by
intercepting his letters--I have already told you, that I had succeeded
in being employed by him as his agent here; having then read his
letters, and sent them on as if untouched to Djalma, I felt myself
obliged, from the pressure of the circumstances, to have recourse
to extreme measures--taking care always to preserve appearances, and
rendering at the same time a signal service to humanity, which last
reason chiefly decided me.
“A new danger imperiously commanded these measures. The steamship
‘Ruyter’ came in yesterday, and sails tomorrow in the course of the day.
She is to make the voyage to Europe via the Arabian Gulf; her passengers
will disembark at Suez, cross the Isthmus, and go on board another
vessel at Alexandria, which will bring them to France. This voyage, as
rapid as it is direct, will not take more than seven or eight weeks. We
are now at the end of October; Prince Djalma might then be in France
by the commencement of the month of January; and according to your
instructions, of which I know not the motive, but which I execute with
zeal and submission, his departure must be prevented at all hazards,
because, you tell me, some of the gravest interests of the Society would
be compromised, by the arrival of this young Indian in Paris before the
13th of February. Now, if I succeed, as I hope, in making him miss this
opportunity of the ‘Ruyter’ it will be materially impossible for him to
arrive in France before the month of April; for the ‘Ruyter’ is the only
vessel which makes the direct passage, the others taking at least four
or five months to reach Europe.
“Before telling you the means which I have thought right to employ,
to detain Prince Djalma--of the success of which means I am yet
uncertain--it is well that you should be acquainted with the following
facts.
“They have just discovered, in British India, a community whose members
call themselves ‘Brothers of the Good Work,’ or ‘Phansegars,’ which
signifies simply ‘Thugs’ or ‘Stranglers;’ these murderers do not shed
blood, but strangle their victims, less for the purpose of robbing
them, than in obedience to a homicidal vocation, and to the laws of an
infernal divinity named by them ‘Bowanee.’
“I cannot better give you an idea of this horrible sect, than by
transcribing here some lines from the introduction of a report
by Colonel Sleeman, who has hunted out this dark association with
indefatigable zeal. The report in question was published about two
months ago. Here is the extract; it is the colonel who speaks:
“‘From 1822 to 1824, when I was charged with the magistracy and civil
administration of the district of Nersingpore, not a murder, not the
least robbery was committed by an ordinary criminal, without my being
immediately informed of it; but if any one had come and told me at this
period, that a band of hereditary assassins by profession lived in the
village of Kundelie, within about four hundred yards of my court of
justice--that the beautiful groves of the village of Mundesoor, within
a day’s march of my residence, formed one of the most frightful marts of
assassination in all India--that numerous bands of ‘Brothers of the Good
Work,’ coming from Hindostan and the Deccan, met annually beneath these
shades, as at a solemn festival, to exercise their dreadful vocation
upon all the roads which cross each other in this locality--I should
have taken such a person for a madman, or one who had been imposed upon
by idle tales. And yet nothing could be truer; hundreds of travellers
had been buried every year in the groves of Mundesoor; a whole tribe
of assassins lived close to my door, at the very time I was supreme
magistrate of the province, and extended their devastations to the
cities of Poonah and Hyderabad. I shall never forget, when, to convince
me of the fact, one of the chiefs of the Stranglers, who had turned
informer against them, caused thirteen bodies to be dug up from the
ground beneath my tent, and offered to produce any number from the soil
in the immediate vicinity.’(5)
“These few words of Colonel Sleeman will give some idea of this dread
society, which has its laws, duties, customs, opposed to all other
laws, human and divine. Devoted to each other, even to heroism,
blindly obedient to their chiefs, who profess themselves the immediate
representatives of their dark divinity, regarding as enemies all who do
not belong to them, gaining recruits everywhere by a frightful system of
proselytising--these apostles of a religion of murder go preaching their
abominable doctrines in the shade, and spreading their immense net over
the whole of India.
“Three of their principal chiefs, and one of their adepts, flying from
the determined pursuit of the English governor-general, having succeeded
in making their escape, had arrived at the Straits of Malacca, at no
great distance from our island; a smuggler, who is also something of a
pirate, attached to their association, and by name Mahal, took them on
board his coasting vessel, and brought them hither, where they think
themselves for some time in safety--as, following the advice of the
smuggler, they lie concealed in a thick forest, in which are many ruined
temples and numerous subterranean retreats.
“Amongst these chiefs, all three remarkably intelligent, there is one
in particular, named Faringhea, whose extraordinary energy and eminent
qualities make him every way redoubtable. He is of the mixed race,
half white and Hindoo, has long inhabited towns in which are European
factories and speaks English and French very well. The other two chiefs
are a Negro and a Hindoo; the adept is a Malay.
“The smuggler, Mahal, considering that he could obtain a large reward
by giving up these three chiefs and their adept, came to me, knowing, as
all the world knows, my intimate relations with a person who has great
influence with our governor. Two days ago, he offered me, on certain
conditions, to deliver up the Negro, the half-caste, the Hindoo, and
the Malay. These conditions are--a considerable sum of money, and a free
passage on board a vessel sailing for Europe or America, in order to
escape the implacable vengeance of the Thugs.
“I joyfully seized the occasion to hand over three such murderers to
human justice, and I promised Mahal to arrange matters for him with the
governor, but also on certain conditions, innocent in themselves, and
which concerned Djalma. Should my project succeed, I will explain myself
more at length; I shall soon know the result, for I expect Mahal every
minute.
“But before I close these despatches, which are to go tomorrow by the
‘Ruyter’--in which vessel I have also engaged a passage for Mahal the
Smuggler, in the event of the success of my plans--I must include in
parentheses a subject of some importance.
“In my last letter, in which I announced to you the death of Djalma’s
father, and his own imprisonment by the English, I asked for
some information as to the solvency of Baron Tripeaud, banker and
manufacturer at Paris, who has also an agency at Calcutta. This
information will now be useless, if what I have just learned should,
unfortunately, turn out to be correct, and it will be for you to act
according to circumstances.
“This house at Calcutta owes considerable sums both to me and our
colleague at Pondicherry, and it is said that M. Tripeaud has involved
himself to a dangerous extent in attempting to ruin, by opposition, a
very flourishing establishment, founded some time ago by M. Francois
Hardy, an eminent manufacturer. I am assured that M. Tripeaud has
already sunk and lost a large capital in this enterprise: he has no
doubt done a great deal of harm to M. Francois Hardy; but he has also,
they say, seriously compromised his own fortune--and, were he to fail,
the effects of his disaster would be very fatal to us, seeing that he
owes a large sum of money to me and to us.
“In this state of things it would be very desirable if, by the
employment of the powerful means of every kind at our disposal, we could
completely discredit and break down the house of M. Francois Hardy,
already shaken by M. Tripeaud’s violent opposition. In that case, the
latter would soon regain all he has lost; the ruin of his rival would
insure his prosperity, and our demands would be securely covered.
“Doubtless, it is painful, it is sad, to be obliged to have recourse to
these extreme measures, only to get back our own; but, in these days,
are we not surely justified in sometimes using the arms that are
incessantly turned against us? If we are reduced to such steps by the
injustice and wickedness of men, we may console ourselves with the
reflection that we only seek to preserve our worldly possessions, in
order to devote them to the greater glory of God; whilst, in the hands
of our enemies, those very goods are the dangerous instruments of
perdition and scandal.
“After all it is merely a humble proposition that I submit to you. Were
it in my power to take an active part in the matter, I should do nothing
of myself. My will is not my own. It belongs, with all I possess, to
those whom I have sworn absolute obedience.”
Here a slight noise interrupted M. Joshua, and drew his attention from
his work. He rose abruptly, and went straight to the window. Three
gentle taps were given on the outside of one of the slats of the blind.
“Is it you, Mahal?” asked M. Joshua, in a low voice.
“It is I,” was answered from without, also in a low tone.
“And the Malay?”
“He has succeeded.”
“Really!” cried M. Joshua, with an expression of great satisfaction;
“are you sure of it?”
“Quite sure: there is no devil more clever and intrepid.”
“And Djalma?”
“The parts of the letter, which I quoted, convinced him that I came from
General Simon, and that he would find him at the ruins of Tchandi.”
“Therefore, at this moment--”
“Djalma goes to the ruins, where he will encounter the black, the half
blood, and the Indian. It is there they have appointed to meet the
Malay, who tattooed the prince during his sleep.”
“Have you been to examine the subterraneous passage?”
“I went there yesterday. One of the stones of the pedestal of the statue
turns upon itself; the stairs are large; it will do.”
“And the three chiefs have no suspicion?”
“None--I saw them in the morning--and this evening the Malay came to
tell me all, before he went to join them at the ruins of Tchandi--for
he had remained hidden amongst the bushes, not daring to go there in the
daytime.”
“Mahal--if you have told the truth, and if all succeed--your pardon and
ample reward are assured to you. Your berth has been taken on board the
‘Ruyter;’ you will sail to-morrow; you will thus be safe from the malice
of the Stranglers, who would follow you hither to revenge the death of
their chiefs, Providence having chosen you to deliver those three great
criminals to justice. Heaven will bless you!--Go and wait for me at the
door of the governor’s house; I will introduce you. The matter is so
important that I do not hesitate to disturb him thus late in the night.
Go quickly!--I will follow on my side.”
The steps of Mahal were distinctly audible, as he withdrew
precipitately, and then silence reigned once more in the house. Joshua
returned to his desk, and hastily added these words to the despatch,
which he had before commenced:
“Whatever may now happen, it will be impossible for Djalma to leave
Batavia at present. You may rest quite satisfied; he will not be at
Paris by the 13th of next February. As I foresaw, I shall have to be up
all night.--I am just going to the governor’s. To-morrow I will add
a few lines to this long statement, which the steamship ‘Ruyter’ will
convey to Europe.”
Having locked up his papers, Joshua rang the bell loudly, and, to the
great astonishment of his servants, not accustomed to see him leave home
in the middle of the night, went in all haste to the residence of the
governor of the island.
We now conduct the reader to the ruins of Tchandi.
(5) This report is extracted from Count Edward de Warren’s excellent
work, “British India in 1831.”--E. S.
CHAPTER XXI. THE RUINS OF TCHANDI. To the storm in the middle of the
day, the approach of which so well served the Strangler’s designs upon
Djalma, has succeeded a calm and serene night. The disk of the moon
rises slowly behind a mass of lofty ruins, situated on a hill, in the
midst of a thick wood, about three leagues from Batavia.
Long ranges of stone, high walls of brick, fretted away by time,
porticoes covered with parasitical vegetation, stand out boldly from the
sheet of silver light which blends the horizon with the limpid blue of
the heavens. Some rays of the moon, gliding through the opening on one
of these porticoes, fall upon two colossal statues at the foot of
an immense staircase, the loose stones of which are almost entirely
concealed by grass, moss, and brambles.
The fragments of one of these statues, broken in the middle, lie
strewed upon the ground; the other, which remains whole and standing, is
frightful to behold. It represents a man of gigantic proportions, with
a head three feet high; the expression of the countenance is ferocious,
eyes of brilliant slaty black are set beneath gray brows, the large,
deep mouth gapes immoderately, and reptiles have made their nest between
the lips of stone; by the light of the moon, a hideous swarm is
there dimly visible. A broad girdle, adorned with symbolic ornaments,
encircles the body of this statue, and fastens a long sword to its right
side. The giant has four extended arms, and, in his great hands, he
bears an elephant’s head, a twisted serpent, a human skull, and a bird
resembling a heron. The moon, shedding her light on the profile of this
statue, serves to augment the weirdness of its aspect.
Here and there, enclosed in the half-crumbling walls of brick, are
fragments of stone bas-reliefs, very boldly cut; one of those in the
best preservation represents a man with the head of an elephant, and the
wings of a bat, devouring a child. Nothing can be more gloomy than these
ruins, buried among thick trees of a dark green, covered with frightful
emblems, and seen by the moonlight, in the midst of the deep silence of
night.
Against one of the walls of this ancient temple, dedicated to some
mysterious and bloody Javanese divinity, leans a kind of hut, rudely
constructed of fragments of brick and stone; the door, made of woven
rushes, is open, and a red light streams from it, which throws its rays
on the tall grass that covers the ground. Three men are assembled in
this hovel, around a clay-lamp, with a wick of cocoanut fibre steeped in
palm-oil.
The first of these three, about forty years of age, is poorly clad in
the European fashion; his pale, almost white, complexion, announces
that he belongs to the mixed race, being offspring of a white father and
Indian mother.
The second is a robust African negro, with thick lips, vigorous
shoulders, and lank legs; his woolly hair is beginning to turn gray;
he is covered with rags, and stands close beside the Indian. The third
personage is asleep, and stretched on a mat in the corner of the hovel.
These three men are the three Thuggee chiefs, who, obliged to fly from
the continent of India, have taken refuge in Java, under the guidance of
Mahal the Smuggler.
“The Malay does not return,” said the half-blood, named Faringhea, the
most redoubtable chief of this homicidal sect: “in executing our orders,
he has perhaps been killed by Djalma.”
“The storm of this morning brought every reptile out of the earth,” said
the negro; “the Malay must have been bitten, and his body ere now a nest
of serpents.”
“To serve the good work,” proceeded Faringhea, with a gloomy air, “one
must know how to brave death.”
“And to inflict it,” added the negro.
A stifled cry, followed by some inarticulate words, here drew the
attention of these two men, who hastily turned their heads in the
direction of the sleeper. This latter was thirty years old at most. His
beardless face, of a bright copper color, his robe of coarse stuff, his
turban striped brown and yellow, showed that he belonged to the pure
Hindoo race. His sleep appeared agitated by some painful vision; an
abundant sweat streamed over his countenance, contracted by terror; he
spoke in his dream, but his words were brief and broken, and accompanied
with convulsive starts.
“Again that dream!” said Faringhea to the negro. “Always the remembrance
of that man.”
“What man?”
“Do you not remember, how, five years ago, that savage, Colonel Kennedy,
butcher of the Indians, came to the banks of the Ganges, to hunt the
tiger, with twenty horses, four elephants, and fifty servants?”
“Yes, yes,” said the negro; “and we three, hunters of men, made a better
day’s sport than he did. Kennedy, his horses, his elephants, and his
numerous servants did not get their tiger--but we got ours,” he added,
with grim irony. “Yes; Kennedy, that tiger with a human face, fell into
our ambush, and the brothers of the good work offered up their fine prey
to our goddess Bowanee.”
“If you remember, it was just at the moment when we gave the last tug to
the cord round Kennedy’s neck, that we perceived on a sudden a traveller
close at hand. He had seen us, and it was necessary to make away with
him. Now, since that time,” added Faringhea, “the remembrance of the
murder of that man pursues our brother in his dreams,” and he pointed to
the sleeping Indian.
“And even when he is awake,” said the negro, looking at Faringhea with a
significant air.
“Listen!” said the other, again pointing to the Indian, who, in the
agitation of his dream, recommenced talking in abrupt sentences;
“listen! he is repeating the answers of the traveller, when we told
him he must die, or serve with us on Thuggee. His mind is still
impressed--deeply impressed--with those words.”
And, in fact, the Indian repeated aloud in his sleep, a sort of
mysterious dialogue, of which he himself supplied both questions and
answers.
“‘Traveller,’ said he, in a voice broken by sudden pauses, ‘why that
black mark on your forehead, stretching from one temple to the other? It
is a mark of doom and your look is sad as death. Have you been a victim?
Come with us; Kallee will avenge you. You have suffered?’--‘Yes, I
have greatly suffered.’--‘For a long time?’--‘Yes, for a very long
time.’--‘You suffer even now?’--‘Yes, even now.’--What do you reserve
for those who injure you?’--‘My pity.’--‘Will you not render blow for
blow?’--‘I will return love for hate.’--‘Who are you, then, that render
good for evil?’--‘I am one who loves, and suffers, and forgives.’”
“Brother, do you hear?” said the negro to Faringhea; “he has not
forgotten the words of the traveller before his death.”
“The vision follows him. Listen! he will speak again. How pale he is!”
Still under the influence of his dream, the Indian continued:
“‘Traveller, we are three; we are brave; we have your life in our
hands--you have seen us sacrifice to the good work. Be one of us, or
die--die--die! Oh, that look! Not thus--do not look at me thus!’” As he
uttered these last words, the Indian made a sudden movement, as if to
keep off some approaching object, and awoke with a start. Then, passing
his hand over his moist forehead, he looked round him with a bewildered
eye.
“What! again this dream, brother?” said Faringhea. “For a bold hunter of
men, you have a weak head. Luckily, you have a strong heart and arm.”
The other remained a moment silent, his face buried in his hands; then
he replied: “It is long since I last dreamed of that traveller.”
“Is he not dead?” said Faringhea, shrugging his shoulders. “Did you not
yourself throw the cord around his neck?”
“Yes,” replied the Indian shuddering.
“Did we not dig his grave by the side of Colonel Kennedy’s? Did we not
bury him with the English butcher, under the sand and the rushes?” said
the negro.
“Yes, we dug his grave,” said the Indian, trembling; “and yet, only a
year ago, I was seated one evening at the gate of Bombay, waiting for
one of our brothers--the sun was setting behind the pagoda, to the right
of the little hill--the scene is all before me now--I was seated under a
figtree--when I heard a slow, firm, even step, and, as I turned round my
head--I saw him--coming out of the town.”
“A vision,” said the negro; “always the same vision!”
“A vision,” added Faringhea, “or a vague resemblance.”
“I knew him by the black mark on his forehead; it was none but he.
I remained motionless with fear, gazing at him with eyes aghast. He
stopped, bending upon me his calm, sad look. In spite of myself, I
could not help exclaiming: ‘It is he!’--‘Yes,’ he replied, in his gentle
voice, ‘it is I. Since all whom thou killest must needs live again,’ and
he pointed to heaven as he spoke, ‘why shouldst thou kill?--Hear me! I
have just come from Java; I am going to the other end of the world, to a
country of never-melting snow; but, here or there, on plains of fire or
plains of ice, I shall still be the same. Even so is it with the souls
of those who fall beneath thy kalleepra; in this world or up above, in
this garb or in another, the soul must still be a soul; thou canst not
smite it. Why then kill?’--and shaking his head sorrowfully, he went on
his way, walking slowly, with downcast eyes; he ascended the hill of
the pagoda; I watched him as he went, without being able to move: at the
moment the sun set, he was standing on the summit of the hill, his tall
figure thrown out against the sky--and so he disappeared. Oh! it was
he!” added the Indian with a shudder, after a long pause: “it was none
but he.”
In this story the Indian had never varied, though he had often
entertained his companions with the same mysterious adventure. This
persistency on his part had the effect of shaking their incredulity, or
at least of inducing them to seek some natural cause for this apparently
superhuman event.
“Perhaps,” said Faringhea, after a moment’s reflection, “the knot round
the traveller’s neck got jammed, and some breath was left him, the air
may have penetrated the rushes with which we covered his grave, and so
life have returned to him.”
“No, no,” said the Indian, shaking his head, “this man is not of our
race.”
“Explain.”
“Now I know it!”
“What do you know?”
“Listen!” said the Indian, in a solemn voice; “the number of victims
that the children of Bowanee have sacrificed since the commencement of
ages, is nothing compared to the immense heap of dead and dying, whom
this terrible traveller leaves behind him in his murderous march.”
“He?” cried the negro and Faringhea.
“Yes, he!” repeated the Hindoo, with a convinced accent, that made its
impression upon his companions. “Hear me and tremble!--When I met this
traveller at the gates of Bombay, he came from Java, and was going
towards the north, he said. The very next day, the town was a prey to
the cholera, and we learned sometime after, that this plague had first
broken out here, in Java.”
“That is true,” said the negro.
“Hear me still further!” resumed the other. “‘I am going towards the
north, to a country of eternal snow,’ said the traveller to me.
The cholera also went towards the north, passing through
Muscat--Ispahan--Tauris--Tiflis--till it overwhelmed Siberia.”
“True,” said Faringhea, becoming thoughtful:
“And the cholera,” resumed the Indian, “only travelled its five or six
leagues a day--a man’s tramp--never appeared in two places at once--but
swept on slowly, steadily,--even as a man proceeds.”
At the mention of this strange coincidence, the Hindoo’s companions
looked at each other in amazement. After a silence of some minutes,
the awe-struck negro said to the last speaker: “So you think that this
man--”
“I think that this man, whom we killed, restored to life by some
infernal divinity, has been commissioned to bear this terrible scourge
over the earth, and to scatter round his steps that death, from which he
is himself secure. Remember!” added the Indian, with gloomy enthusiasm,
“this awful wayfarer passed through Java--the cholera wasted Java. He
passed through Bombay--the cholera wasted Bombay. He went towards the
north--the cholera wasted the north.”
So saying, the Indian fell into a profound reverie. The negro and
Faringhea were seized with gloomy astonishment.
The Indian spoke the truth as to the mysterious march (still
unexplained) of that fearful malady, which has never been known to
travel more than five or six leagues a day, or to appear simultaneously
in two spots. Nothing can be more curious, than to trace out, on the
maps prepared at the period in question, the slow, progressive course of
this travelling pestilence, which offers to the astonished eye all the
capricious incidents of a tourist’s journey. Passing this way rather
than that--selecting provinces in a country--towns in a province--one
quarter in a town--one street in a quarter--one house in a
street--having its place of residence and repose, and then continuing
its slow, mysterious, fear inspiring march.
The words of the Hindoo, by drawing attention to these dreadful
eccentricities, made a strong impression upon the minds of the negro and
Faringhea--wild natures, brought by horrible doctrines to the monomania
of murder.
Yes--for this also is an established fact--there have been in India
members of an abominable community, who killed without motive, without
passion--killed for the sake of killing--for the pleasure of murder--to
substitute death for life--to make of a living man a corpse, as they
have themselves declared in one of their examinations.
The mind loses itself in the attempt to penetrate the causes of these
monstrous phenomena. By what incredible series of events, have men been
induced to devote themselves to this priesthood of destruction? Without
doubt, such a religion could only flourish in countries given up, like
India, to the most atrocious slavery, and to the most merciless iniquity
of man to man.
Such a creed!--is it not the hate of exasperated humanity, wound up to
its highest pitch by oppression?--May not this homicidal sect, whose
origin is lost in the night of ages, have been perpetuated in these
regions, as the only possible protest of slavery against despotism? May
not an inscrutable wisdom have here made Phansegars, even as are made
tigers and serpents?
What is most remarkable in this awful sect, is the mysterious bond,
which, uniting its members amongst themselves, separates them from all
other men. They have laws and customs of their own, they support and
help each other, but for them there is neither country nor family; they
owe no allegiance save to a dark, invisible power, whose decrees they
obey with blind submission, and in whose name they spread themselves
abroad, to make corpses, according to their own savage expression.(6)
For some moments the three Stranglers had maintained a profound silence.
Outside the hut, the moon continued to throw great masses of white
radiance, and tall bluish shadows, over the imposing fabric of the
ruins; the stars sparkled in the heavens; from time to time, a faint
breeze rustled through the thick and varnished leaves of the bananas and
the palms.
The pedestal of the gigantic statue, which, still entire, stood on the
left side of the portico, rested upon large flagstones, half hidden with
brambles. Suddenly, one of these stones appeared to fall in; and from
the aperture, which thus formed itself without noise, a man, dressed
in uniform, half protruded his body, looked carefully around him, and
listened.
Seeing the rays of the lamp, which lighted the interior of the hovel,
tremble upon the tall grass, he turned round to make a signal, and
soon, accompanied by two other soldiers, he ascended, with the greatest
silence and precaution, the last steps of the subterranean staircase,
and went gliding amongst the ruins. For a few moments, their moving
shadows were thrown upon the moonlit ground; then they disappeared
behind some fragments of broken wall.
At the instant when the large stone resumed its place and level, the
heads of many other soldiers might have been seen lying close in the
excavation. The half-caste, the Indian, and the negro, still seated
thoughtfully in the hut, did not perceive what was passing.
(6) The following are some passages from the Count de Warren’s very
curious book, “British India in 1831:” “Besides the robbers, who kill
for the sake of the booty they hope to find upon travellers, there is a
class of assassins, forming an organized society, with chiefs of their
own, a slang-language, a science, a free-masonry, and even a religion,
which has its fanaticism and its devotion, its agents, emissaries,
allies, its militant forces, and its passive adherents, who contribute
their money to the good work. This is the community of the Thugs or
Phansegars (deceivers or stranglers, from thugna, to deceive, and
phansna, to strangle), a religious and economical society, which
speculates with the human race by exterminating men; its origin is lost
in the night of ages.
“Until 1810 their existence was unknown, not only to the European
conquerors, but even to the native governments. Between the years 1816
and 1830, several of their bands were taken in the act, and punished:
but until this last epoch, all the revelations made on the subject by
officers of great experience, had appeared too monstrous to obtain the
attention or belief of the public; they had been rejected and despised
as the dreams of a heated imagination. And yet for many years, at the
very least for half a century, this social wound had been frightfully
on the increase, devouring the population from the Himalayas to Cape
Comorin and from Cutch to Assam.
“It was in the year 1830 that the revelations of a celebrated chief,
whose life was spared on condition of his denouncing his accomplices,
laid bare the whole system. The basis of the Thuggee Society is a
religious belief--the worship of Bowanee, a gloomy divinity, who is only
pleased with carnage, and detests above all things the human race. Her
most agreeable sacrifices are human victims, and the more of these
her disciple may have offered up in this world the more he will be
recompensed in the next by all the delights of soul and sense, by women
always beautiful, and joys eternally renewed. If the assassin meets the
scaffold in his career, he dies with the enthusiasm of a martyr, because
he expects his reward. To obey his divine mistress, he murders, without
anger and without remorse, the old man, woman and child; whilst, to his
fellow-religionists, he may be charitable, humane, generous, devoted,
and may share all in common with them, because, like himself, they are
the ministers and adopted children of Bowanee. The destruction of his
fellow-creatures, not belonging to his community--the diminution of the
human race--that is the primary object of his pursuit; it is not as a
means of gain, for though plunder may be a frequent, and doubtless an
agreeable accessory, it is only secondary in his estimation. Destruction
is his end, his celestial mission, his calling; it is also a delicious
passion, the most captivating of all sports--this hunting of men!--‘You
find great pleasure,’ said one of those that were condemned, ‘in
tracking the wild beast to his den, in attacking the boar, the tiger,
because there is danger to brave, energy and courage to display. Think
how this attraction must be redoubled, when the contest is with man,
when it is man that is to be destroyed. Instead of the single faculty
of courage, all must be called into action--courage, cunning, foresight,
eloquence, intrigue. What springs to put in motion! what plans to
develop! To sport with all the passions, to touch the chords of love
and friendship, and so draw the prey into one’s net--that is a glorious
chase--it is a delight, a rapture, I tell you!’
“Whoever was in India in the years 1831 and 1832, must remember the
stupor and affright, which the discovery of this vast infernal machine
spread through all classes of society. A great number of magistrates and
administrators of provinces refused to believe in it, and could not be
brought to comprehend that such a system had so long preyed on the body
politic, under their eyes as it were, silently, and without betraying
itself.”--See “British India in 183,” by Count Edward de Warren, 2 vols.
in 8vo. Paris, 1844.--E. S.
CHAPTER XXII. THE AMBUSCADE
The half-blood Faringhea, wishing doubtless to escape from the dark
thoughts which the words of the Indian on the mysterious course of
the Cholera had raised within him, abruptly changed the subject of
conversation. His eye shone with lurid fire, and his countenance took an
expression of savage enthusiasm, as he cried: “Bowanee will always watch
over us, intrepid hunters of men! Courage, brothers, courage! The world
is large; our prey is everywhere. The English may force us to quit
India, three chiefs of the good work--but what matter? We leave there
our brethren, secret, numerous, and terrible, as black scorpions, whose
presence is only known by their mortal sting. Exiles will widen our
domains. Brother, you shall have America!” said he to the Hindoo, with
an inspired air. “Brother, you shall have Africa!” said he to the negro.
“Brothers, I will take Europe! Wherever men are to be found, there must
be oppressors and victims--wherever there are victims, there must be
hearts swollen with hate--it is for us to inflame that hate with all the
ardor of vengeance! It is for us, servants of Bowanee, to draw towards
us, by seducing wiles, all whose zeal, courage, and audacity may be
useful to the cause. Let us rival each other in devotion and sacrifices;
let us lend each other strength, help, support! That all who are not
with us may be our prey, let us stand alone in the midst of all, against
all, and in spite of all. For us, there must be neither country nor
family. Our family is composed of our brethren; our country is the
world.”
This kind of savage eloquence made a deep impression on the negro
and the Indian, over whom Faringhea generally exercised considerable
influence, his intellectual powers being very superior to theirs, though
they were themselves two of the most eminent chiefs of this bloody
association. “Yes, you are right, brother!” cried the Indian, sharing
the enthusiasm of Faringhea; “the world is ours. Even here, in Java, let
us leave some trace of our passage. Before we depart, let us establish
the good work in this island; it will increase quickly, for here also
is great misery, and the Dutch are rapacious as the English. Brother,
I have seen in the marshy rice-fields of this island, always fatal to
those who cultivate them, men whom absolute want forced to the deadly
task--they were livid as corpses--some of them worn out with sickness,
fatigue, and hunger, fell--never to rise again. Brothers, the good work
will prosper in this country!”
“The other evening,” said the half-caste, “I was on the banks of the
lake, behind a rock; a young woman came there--a few rags hardly covered
her lean and sun-scorched body--in her arms she held a little child,
which she pressed weeping to her milkless breast. She kissed it three
times, and said to it: ‘You, at least, shall not be so unhappy as
your father’--and she threw it into the lake. It uttered one wail, and
disappeared. On this cry, the alligators, hidden amongst the reeds,
leaped joyfully into the water. There are mothers here who kill their
children out of pity.--Brothers, the good work will prosper in this
country!”
“This morning,” said the negro, “whilst they tore the flesh of one of
his black slaves with whips, a withered old merchant of Batavia left
his country-house to come to the town. Lolling in his palanquin, he
received, with languid indolence, the sad caresses of two of those
girls, whom he had bought, to people his harem, from parents too poor to
give them food. The palanquin, which held this little old man, and the
girls, was carried by twelve young and robust men. There are here, you
see, mothers who in their misery sell their own daughters--slaves
that are scourged--men that carry other men, like beasts of
burden.--Brothers, the good work will prosper in this country!”
“Yes, in this country--and in every land of oppression, distress,
corruption, and slavery.”
“Could we but induce Djalma to join us, as Mahal the Smuggler advised,”
said the Indian, “our voyage to Java would doubly profit us; for we
should then number among our band this brave and enterprising youth, who
has so many motives to hate mankind.”
“He will soon be here; let us envenom his resentments.”
“Remind him of his father’s death!”
“Of the massacre of his people!”
“His own captivity!”
“Only let hatred inflame his heart, and he will be ours.”
The negro, who had remained for some time lost in thought, said
suddenly: “Brothers, suppose Mahal the Smuggler were to betray us?”
“He” cried the Hindoo, almost with indignation; “he gave us an asylum on
board his bark; he secured our flight from the Continent; he is again
to take us with him to Bombay, where we shall find vessels for America,
Europe, Africa.”
“What interest would Mahal have to betray us?” said Faringhea. “Nothing
could save him from the vengeance of the sons of Bowanee, and that he
knows.”
“Well,” said the black, “he promised to get Djalma to come hither this
evening, and, once amongst us, he must needs be our own.”
“Was it not the Smuggler who told us to order the Malay to enter the
ajoupa of Djalma, to surprise him during his sleep, and, instead of
killing him as he might have done, to trace the name of Bowanee upon his
arm? Djalma will thus learn to judge of the resolution, the cunning and
obedience of our brethren, and he will understand what he has to hope or
fear from such men. Be it through admiration or through terror, he must
become one of us.”
“But if he refuses to join us, notwithstanding the reasons he has to
hate mankind?”
“Then--Bowanee will decide his fate,” said Faringhea, with a gloomy
look; “I have my plan.”
“But will the Malay succeed in surprising Djalma during his sleep?” said
the negro.
“There is none nobler, more agile, more dexterous, than the Malay,”
said Faringhea. “He once had the daring to surprise in her den a black
panther, as she suckled her cub. He killed the dam, and took away the
young one, which he afterwards sold to some European ship’s captain.”
“The Malay has succeeded!” exclaimed the Indian, listening to a singular
kind of hoot, which sounded through the profound silence of the night
and of the woods.
“Yes, it is the scream of the vulture seizing its prey,” said the negro,
listening in his turn; “it is also the signal of our brethren, after
they have seized their prey.”
In a few minutes, the Malay appeared at the door of the hut. He had
wound around him a broad length of cotton, adorned with bright colored
stripes.
“Well,” said the negro, anxiously; “have you succeeded?”
“Djalma must bear all his life the mark of the good work,” said the
Malay, proudly. “To reach him, I was forced to offer up to Bowanee a man
who crossed my path--I have left his body under the brambles, near the
ajoupa. But Djalma is marked with the sign. Mahal the Smuggler was the
first to know it.”
“And Djalma did not awake?” said the Indian, confounded by the Malay’s
adroitness.
“Had he awoke,” replied the other, calmly, “I should have been a dead
man--as I was charged to spare his life.”
“Because his life may be more useful to us than his death,” said the
half-caste. Then, addressing the Malay, he added: “Brother, in risking
life for the good work, you have done to-day what we did yesterday,
what we may do again to-morrow. This time, you obey; another you will
command.”
“We all belong to Bowanee,” answered the Malay. “What is there yet to
do?--I am ready.” Whilst he thus spoke, his face was turned towards the
door of the hut; on a sudden, he said in a low voice: “Here is Djalma.
He approaches the cabin. Mahal has not deceived us.”
“He must not see me yet,” said Faringhea, retiring to an obscure corner
of the cabin, and hiding himself under a mat; “try to persuade him. If
he resists--I have my project.”
Hardly had Faringhea disappeared, saying these words, when Djalma
arrived at the door of the hovel. At sight of those three personages
with their forbidding aspect, Djalma started in surprise. But ignorant
that these men belonged to the Phansegars, and knowing that, in a
country where there are no inns, travellers often pass the night under
a tent, or beneath the shelter of some ruins, he continued to advance
towards them. After the first moment, he perceived by the complexion and
the dress of one of these men, that he was an Indian, and he accosted
him in the Hindoo language: “I thought to have found here a European--a
Frenchman--”
“The Frenchman is not yet come,” replied the Indian; “but he will not be
long.”
Guessing by Djalma’s question the means which Mahal had employed to
draw him into the snare, the Indian hoped to gain time by prolonging his
error.
“You knew this Frenchman?” asked Djalma of the Phansegar.
“He appointed us to meet here, as he did you,” answered the Indian.
“For what?” inquired Djalma, more and more astonished.
“You will know when he arrives.”
“General Simon told you to be at this place?”
“Yes, General Simon,” replied the Indian.
There was a moment’s pause, during which Djalma sought in vain to
explain to himself this mysterious adventure. “And who are you?” asked
he, with a look of suspicion; for the gloomy silence of the Phansegar’s
two companions, who stared fixedly at each other, began to give him some
uneasiness.
“We are yours, if you will be ours,” answered the Indian.
“I have no need of you--nor you of me.”
“Who knows?”
“I know it.”
“You are deceived. The English killed your father, a king; made you a
captive; proscribed you, you have lost all your possessions.”
At this cruel reminder, the countenance of Djalma darkened. He started,
and a bitter smile curled his lip. The Phansegar continued:
“Your father was just and brave--beloved by his subjects--they called
him ‘Father of the Generous,’ and he was well named. Will you leave his
death unavenged? Will the hate, which gnaws at your heart, be without
fruit?”
“My father died with arms in his hand. I revenged his death on the
English whom I killed in war. He, who has since been a father to me, and
who fought also in the same cause, told me, that it would now be madness
to attempt to recover my territory from the English. When they gave me
my liberty, I swore never again to set foot in India--and I keep the
oaths I make.”
“Those who despoiled you, who took you captive, who killed your
father--were men. Are there not other men, on whom you can avenge
yourself! Let your hate fall upon them!”
“You, who speak thus of men, are not a man!”
“I, and those who resemble me, are more than men. We are, to the rest of
the human race, what the bold hunter is to the wild beasts, which they
run down in the forest. Will you be, like us, more than a man? Will you
glut surely, largely, safely--the hate which devours your heart, for all
the evil done you?”
“Your words become more and more obscure: I have no hatred in my heart,”
said Djalma. “When an enemy is worthy of me, I fight with him; when he
is unworthy, I despise him. So that I have no hate--either for brave men
or cowards.”
“Treachery!” cried the negro on a sudden, pointing with rapid gesture to
the door, for Djalma and the Indian had now withdrawn a little from it,
and were standing in one corner of the hovel.
At the shout of the negro, Faringhea, who had not been perceived by
Djalma, threw off abruptly the mat which covered him, drew his crease,
started up like a tiger, and with one bound was out of the cabin. Then,
seeing a body of soldiers advancing cautiously in a circle, he dealt one
of them a mortal stroke, threw down two others, and disappeared in
the midst of the ruins. All this passed so instantaneously, that, when
Djalma turned round, to ascertain the cause of the negro’s cry of alarm,
Faringhea had already disappeared.
The muskets of several soldiers, crowding to the door, were immediately
pointed at Djalma and the three Stranglers, whilst others went in
pursuit of Faringhea. The negro, the Malay, and the Indian, seeing the
impossibility of resistance, exchanged a few rapid words, and offered
their hands to the cords, with which some of the soldiers had provided
themselves.
The Dutch captain, who commanded the squad, entered the cabin at this
moment. “And this other one?” said he, pointing out Djalma to the
soldiers, who were occupied in binding the three Phansegars.
“Each in his turn, captain!” said an old sergeant. “We come to him
next.”
Djalma had remained petrified with surprise, not understanding what
was passing round him; but, when he saw the sergeant and two soldiers
approach with ropes to bind him, he repulsed them with violent
indignation, and rushed towards the door where stood the officer. The
soldiers, who had supposed that Djalma would submit to his fate with the
same impassibility as his companions, were astounded by this resistance,
and recoiled some paces, being struck in spite of themselves, with the
noble and dignified air of the son of Kadja-sing.
“Why would you bind me like these men?” cried Djalma, addressing himself
in Hindostanee to the officer, who understood that language from his
long service in the Dutch colonies.
“Why would we bind you, wretch?--because you form part of this band of
assassins. What?” added the officer in Dutch, speaking to the soldiers,
“are you afraid of him?--Tie the cord tight about his wrists; there will
soon be another about his neck.”
“You are mistaken,” said Djalma, with a dignity and calmness which
astonished the officer; “I have hardly been in this place a quarter of
an hour--I do not know these men. I came here to meet a Frenchman.”
“Not a Phansegar like them?--Who will believe the falsehood?”
“Them!” cried Djalma, with so natural a movement and expression of
horror, that with a sign the officer stopped the soldiers, who were
again advancing to bind the son of Kadja-sing; “these men form part
of that horrible band of murderers! and you accuse me of being their
accomplice!--Oh, in this case, sir! I am perfectly at ease,” said the
young man, with a smile of disdain.
“It will not be sufficient to say that you are tranquil,” replied the
officer; “thanks to their confessions, we now know by what mysterious
signs to recognize the Thugs.”
“I repeat, sir, that I hold these murderers in the greatest horror, and
that I came here--”
The negro, interrupting Djalma, said to the officer with a ferocious
joy: “You have hit it; the sons of the good work do know each other by
marks tattooed on their skin. For us, the hour has come--we give our
necks to the cord. Often enough have we twined it round the necks of
those who served not with us the good work. Now, look at our arms, and
look at the arms of this youth!”
The officer, misinterpreting the words of the negro, said to Djalma: “It
is quite clear, that if, as this negro tells us, you do not bear on
your arm the mysterious symbol--(we are going to assure ourselves of
the fact), and if you can explain your presence here in a satisfactory
manner, you may be at liberty within two hours.”
“You do not understand me,” said the negro to the officer; “Prince
Djalma is one of us, for he bears on his left arm the name of Bowanee.”
“Yes! he is like us, a son of Kale!” added the Malay.
“He is like us, a Phansegar,” said the Indian.
The three men, irritated at the horror which Djalma had manifested on
learning that they were Phansegars, took a savage pride in making
it believed that the son of Kadja-sing belonged to their frightful
association.
“What have you to answer?” said the officer to Djalma. The latter again
gave a look of disdainful pity, raised with his right hand his long,
wide left sleeve, and displayed his naked arm.
“What audacity!” cried the officer, for on the inner part of the fore
arm, a little below the bend, the name of the Bowanee, in bright red
Hindoo characters, was distinctly visible. The officer ran to the Malay,
and uncovered his arm; he saw the same word, the same signs. Not
yet satisfied, he assured himself that the negro and the Indian were
likewise so marked.
“Wretch!” cried he, turning furiously towards Djalma; “you inspire even
more horror than your accomplices. Bind him like a cowardly assassin,”
added he to the soldiers; “like a cowardly assassin, who lies upon the
brink of the grave, for his execution will not be long delayed.”
Struck with stupor, Djalma, who for some moments had kept his eye
riveted on the fatal mark, was unable to pronounce a word, or make the
least movement: his powers of thought seemed to fail him, in presence of
this incomprehensible fact.
“Would you dare deny this sign?” said the officer to him, with
indignation.
“I cannot deny what I see--what is,” said Djalma, quite overcome.
“It is lucky that you confess at last,” replied the officer. “Soldiers,
keep watch over him and his accomplices--you answer for them.”
Almost believing himself the sport of some wild dream. Djalma offered no
resistance, but allowed himself to be bound and removed with mechanical
passiveness. The officer, with part of his soldiers, hoped still to
discover Faringhea amongst the ruins; but his search was vain, and,
after spending an hour in fruitless endeavors, he set out for Batavia,
where the escort of the prisoners had arrived before him.
Some hours after these events, M. Joshua van Dael thus finished his long
despatch, addressed to M. Rodin, of Paris:
“Circumstances were such, that I could not act otherwise; and, taking
all into consideration, it is a very small evil for a great good. Three
murderers are delivered over to justice, and the temporary arrest of
Djalma will only serve to make his innocence shine forth with redoubled
luster.
“Already this morning I went to the governor, to protest in favor of our
young prince. ‘As it was through me,’ I said, ‘that those three great
criminals fell into the hands of the authorities, let them at least
show me some gratitude, by doing everything to render clear as day the
innocence of Prince Djalma, so interesting by reason of his misfortunes
and noble qualities. Most certainly,’ I added, ‘when I came yesterday to
inform the governor, that the Phansegars would be found assembled in
the ruins of Tchandi, I was far from anticipating that any one would
confound with those wretches the adopted son of General Simon, an
excellent man, with whom I have had for some time the most honorable
relations. We must, then, at any cost, discover the inconceivable
mystery that has placed Djalma in this dangerous position;’ and, I
continued, ‘so convinced am I of his innocence, that, for his own sake,
I would not ask for any favor on his behalf. He will have sufficient
courage and dignity to wait patiently in prison for the day of justice.’
In all this, you see, I spoke nothing but the truth, and had not to
reproach myself with the least deception, for nobody in the world is
more convinced than I am of Djalma’s innocence.
“The governor answered me as I expected, that morally he felt as certain
as I did of the innocence of the young prince, and would treat him with
all possible consideration; but that it was necessary for justice to
have its course, because it would be the only way of demonstrating
the falsehood of the accusation, and discovering by what unaccountable
fatality that mysterious sign was tattooed upon Djalma’s arm.
“Mahal the Smuggler, who alone could enlighten justice on this subject,
will in another hour have quitted Batavia, to go on board the ‘Ruyter,’
which will take him to Egypt; for he has a note from me to the captain,
to certify that he is the person for whom I engaged and paid the
passage. At the same time, he will be the bearer of this long despatch,
for the ‘Ruyter’ is to sail in an hour, and the last letter-bag for
Europe was made up yesterday evening. But I wished to see the governor
this morning, before closing the present.
“Thus, then, is Prince Djalma enforced detained for a month, and, this
opportunity of the ‘Ruyter’ once lost, it is materially impossible that
the young Indian can be in France by the 13th of next February. You see,
therefore, that, even as you ordered, so have I acted according to the
means at my disposal--considering only the end which justifies them--for
you tell me a great interest of the society is concerned.
“In your hands, I have been what we all ought to be in the hands of our
superiors--a mere instrument: since, for the greater glory of God, we
become corpses with regard to the will.(7) Men may deny our unity
and power, and the times appear opposed to us; but circumstances only
change; we are ever the same.
“Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft and audacity, union
and devotion--these become us, who have the world for our country, our
brethren for family, Rome for our Queen!
“J. V.”
About ten o’clock in the morning, Mahal the Smuggler set out with this
despatch (sealed) in his possession, to board the “Ruyter.” An hour
later, the dead body of this same Mahal, strangled by Thuggee, lay
concealed beneath some reeds on the edge of a desert strand, whither he
had gone to take boat to join the vessel.
When at a subsequent period, after the departure of the steamship,
they found the corpse of the smuggler, M. Joshua sought in vain for the
voluminous packet, which he had entrusted to his care. Neither was there
any trace of the note which Mahal was to have delivered to the captain
of the “Ruyter,” in order to be received as passenger.
Finally, the searches and bushwhacking ordered throughout the country
for the purpose of discovering Faringhea, were of no avail. The
dangerous chief of the Stranglers was never seen again in Java.
(7) It is known that the doctrine of passive and absolute obedience,
the main-spring of the Society of Jesus, is summed up in those terrible
words of the dying Loyola: “Every member of the Order shall be, in the
hands of his superiors, even as a corpse (Perinde ac Cadaver).”--E. S.
CHAPTER XXIII. M. RODIN.
Three months have elapsed since Djalma was thrown into Batavia Prison
accused of belonging to the murderous gang of Megpunnas. The following
scene takes place in France, at the commencement of the month of
February, 1832, in Cardoville Manor House, an old feudal habitation
standing upon the tall cliffs of Picardy, not far from Saint Valery,
a dangerous coast on which almost every year many ships are totally
wrecked, being driven on shore by the northwesters, which render the
navigation of the Channel so perilous.
From the interior of the Castle is heard the howling of a violent
tempest, which has arisen during the night; a frequent formidable
noise, like the discharge of artillery, thunders in the distance, and
is repeated by the echoes of the shore; it is the sea breaking with fury
against the high rocks which are overlooked by the ancient Manor House.
It is about seven o’clock in the morning. Daylight is not yet visible
through the windows of a large room situated on the ground-floor. In
this apartment, in which a lamp is burning, a woman of about sixty years
of age, with a simple and honest countenance, dressed as a rich
farmer’s wife of Picardy, is already occupied with her needle-work,
notwithstanding the early hour. Close by, the husband of this woman,
about the same age as herself, is seated at a large table, sorting and
putting up in bags divers samples of wheat and oats. The face of this
white-haired man is intelligent and open, announcing good sense
and honesty, enlivened by a touch of rustic humor; he wears a
shooting-jacket of green cloth, and long gaiters of tan-colored leather,
which half conceal his black velveteen breeches.
The terrible storm which rages without renders still more agreeable
the picture of this peaceful interior. A rousing fire burns in a broad
chimney-place faced with white marble, and throws its joyous light on
the carefully polished floor; nothing can be more cheerful than the old
fashioned chintz hangings and curtains with red Chinese figures upon a
white ground, and the panels over the door painted with pastoral scenes
in the style of Watteau. A clock of Sevres china, and rosewood furniture
inlaid with green--quaint and portly furniture, twisted into all sorts
of grotesque shapes--complete the decorations of this apartment.
Out-doors, the gale continued to howl furiously, and sometimes a gust
of wind would rush down the chimney, or shake the fastenings of the
windows. The man who was occupied in sorting the samples of grain was M.
Dupont, bailiff of Cardoville manor.
“Holy Virgin!” said his wife; “what dreadful weather, my dear! This
M. Rodin, who is to come here this morning, as the Princess de Saint
Dizier’s steward announced to us, picked out a very bad day for it.”
“Why, in truth, I have rarely heard such a hurricane. If M. Rodin has
never seen the sea in its fury, he may feast his eyes to-day with the
sight.”
“What can it be that brings this M. Rodin, my dear?”
“Faith! I know nothing about it. The steward tells me in his letter to
show M. Rodin the greatest attention, and to obey him as if he were my
master. It will be for him to explain himself, and for me to execute his
orders, since he comes on the part of the princess.”
“By rights he should come from Mademoiselle Adrienne, as the land
belongs to her since the death of the duke her father.”
“Yes; but the princess being aunt to the young lady, her steward manages
Mademoiselle Adrienne’s affairs--so whether one or the other, it amounts
to the same thing.”
“May be M. Rodin means to buy the estate. Though, to be sure, that
stout lady who came from Paris last week on purpose to see the chateau
appeared to have a great wish for it.”
At these words the bailiff began to laugh with a sly look.
“What is there to laugh at, Dupont?” asked his wife, a very good
creature, but not famous for intelligence or penetration.
“I laugh,” answered Dupont, “to think of the face and figure of that
enormous woman: with such a look, who the devil would call themselves
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe--Mrs. Holy Dove? A pretty saint, and a
pretty dove, truly! She is round as a hogshead, with the voice of a
town-crier; has gray moustachios like an old grenadier, and without
her knowing it, I heard her say to her servant: ‘Stir your stumps, my
hearty!’--and yet she calls herself Sainte-Colombe!”
“How hard on her you are, Dupont; a body don’t choose one’s name. And,
if she has a beard, it is not the lady’s fault.”
“No--but it is her fault to call herself Sainte-Colombe. Do you imagine
it her true name? Ah, my poor Catherine, you are yet very green in some
things.”
“While you, my poor Dupont, are well read in slander! This lady seems
very respectable. The first thing she asked for on arriving was the
chapel of the Castle, of which she had heard speak. She even said that
she would make some embellishments in it; and, when I told her we had
no church in this little place, she appeared quite vexed not to have a
curate in the village.”
“Oh, to be sure! that’s the first thought of your upstarts--to play the
great lady of the parish, like your titled people.”
“Madame de la Sainte-Colombe need not play the great lady, because she
is one.”
“She! a great lady? Oh, lor’!”
“Yes--only see how she was dressed, in scarlet gown, and violet gloves
like a bishop’s; and, when she took off her bonnet, she had a diamond
band round her head-dress of false, light hair, and diamond ear-drops
as large as my thumb, and diamond rings on every finger! None of your
tuppenny beauties would wear so many diamonds in the middle of the day.”
“You are a pretty judge!”
“That is not all.”
“Do you mean to say there’s more?”
“She talked of nothing but dukes, and marquises, and counts, and very
rich gentlemen, who visit at her house, and are her most intimate
friends; and then, when she saw the summer house in the park, half-burnt
by the Prussians, which our late master never rebuilt, she asked, ‘What
are those ruins there?’ and I answered: ‘Madame, it was in the time of
the Allies that the pavilion was burnt.’--‘Oh, my clear,’ cried she;
‘our allies, good, dear allies! they and the Restoration began my
fortune!’ So you see, Dupont, I said to myself directly: ‘She was no
doubt one of the noble women who fled abroad--’”
“Madame de la Sainte-Colombe!” cried the bailiff, laughing heartily.
“Oh, my poor, poor wife!”
“Oh, it is all very well; but because you have been three years at
Paris, don’t think yourself a conjurer!”
“Catherine, let’s drop it: you will make me say some folly, and there
are certain things which dear, good creatures like you need never know.”
“I cannot tell what you are driving at, only try to be less
slanderous--for, after all, should Madame de la Sainte-Colombe buy the
estate, will you be sorry to remain as her bailiff, eh?”
“Not I--for we are getting old, my good Catherine; we have lived here
twenty years, and we have been too honest to provide for our old days
by pilfering--and truly, at our age, it would be hard to seek another
place, which perhaps we should not find. What I regret is, that
Mademoiselle Adrienne should not keep the land; it seems that she wished
to sell it, against the will of the princess.”
“Good gracious, Dupont! is it not very extraordinary that Mademoiselle
Adrienne should have the disposal of her large fortune so early in
life?”
“Faith! simple enough. Our young lady, having no father or mother, is
mistress of her property, besides having a famous little will of her
own. Dost remember, ten years ago, when the count brought her down here
one summer?--what an imp of mischief! and then what eyes! eh?--how they
sparkled, even then!”
“It is true that Mademoiselle Adrienne had in her look--an expression--a
very uncommon expression for her age.”
“If she has kept what her witching, luring face promised, she must be
very pretty by this time, notwithstanding the peculiar color of her
hair--for, between ourselves, if she had been a tradesman’s daughter,
instead of a young lady of high birth, they would have called it red.”
“There again! more slander.”
“What! against Mademoiselle Adrienne? Heaven forbid--I always thought
that she would be as good as pretty, and it is not speaking ill of her
to say she has red hair. On the contrary, it always appears to me so
fine, so bright, so sunny, and to suit so well her snowy complexion and
black eyes, that in truth I would not have had it other than it was;
and I am sure, that now this very color of her hair, which would be
a blemish in any one else, must only add to the charm of Mademoiselle
Adrienne’s face. She must have such a sweet vixen look!”
“Oh! to be candid, she really was a vixen--always running about the
park, aggravating her governess, climbing the trees--in fact, playing
all manner of naughty tricks.”
“I grant you, Mademoiselle Adrienne was a chip of the old block; but
then what wit, what engaging ways, and above all, what a good heart!”
“Yes--that she certainly had. Once I remember she gave her shawl and
her new merino frock to a poor little beggar girl, and came back to the
house in her petticoat, and bare arms.”
“Oh, an excellent heart--but headstrong--terribly headstrong!”
“Yes--that she was; and ‘tis likely to finish badly, for it seems that
she does things at Paris--oh! such things--”
“What things?”
“Oh, my dear; I can hardly venture--”
“Fell, but what are they?”
“Why,” said the worthy dame, with a sort of embarrassment and confusion,
which showed how much she was shocked by such enormities, “they say,
that Mademoiselle Adrienne never sets foot in a church, but lives in a
kind of heathen temple in her aunt’s garden, where she has masked women
to dress her up like a goddess, and scratches them very often, because
she gets tipsy--without mentioning, that every night she plays on a
hunting horn of massive gold--all which causes the utmost grief and
despair to her poor aunt the princess.”
Here the bailiff burst into a fit of laughter, which interrupted his
wife.
“Now tell me,” said he, when this first access of hilarity was over,
“where did you get these fine stories about Mademoiselle Adrienne?”
“From Rene’s wife, who went to Paris to look for a child to nurse; she
called at Saint-Dizier House, to see Madame Grivois, her godmother.--Now
Madame Grivois is first bedchamber woman to the princess--and she it
was who told her all this--and surely she ought to know, being in the
house.”
“Yes, a fine piece of goods that Grivois! once she was a regular bad
‘un, but now she professes to be as over-nice as her mistress; like
master like man, they say. The princess herself, who is now so stiff and
starched, knew how to carry on a lively game in her time. Fifteen years
ago, she was no such prude: do you remember that handsome colonel of
hussars, who was in garrison at Abbeville? an exiled noble who had
served in Russia, whom the Bourbons gave a regiment on the Restoration?”
“Yes, yes--I remember him; but you are really too backbiting.”
“Not a bit--I only speak the truth. The colonel spent his whole time
here, and every one said he was very warm with this same princess, who
is now such a saint. Oh! those were the jolly times. Every evening, some
new entertainment at the chateau. What a fellow that colonel was, to set
things going; how well he could act a play!--I remember--”
The bailiff was unable to proceed. A stout maid-servant, wearing the
costume and cap of Picardy, entered in haste, and thus addressed her
mistress: “Madame, there is a person here that wants to speak to master;
he has come in the postmaster’s calash from Saint-Valery, and he says
that he is M. Rodin.”
“M. Rodin?” said the bailiff rising. “Show him in directly!”
A moment after, M. Rodin made his appearance. According to his custom,
he was dressed even more than plainly. With an air of great humility,
he saluted the bailiff and his wife, and at a sign from her husband,
the latter withdrew. The cadaverous countenance of M. Rodin, his almost
invisible lips, his little reptile eyes, half concealed by their flabby
lids, and the sordid style of his dress, rendered his general aspect
far from prepossessing; yet this man knew how, when it was necessary,
to affect, with diabolical art, so much sincerity and good-nature--his
words were so affectionate and subtly penetrating--that the disagreeable
feeling of repugnance, which the first sight of him generally inspired,
wore off little by little, and he almost always finished by involving
his dupe or victim in the tortuous windings of an eloquence as pliant
as it was honeyed and perfidious; for ugliness and evil have their
fascination, as well as what is good and fair.
The honest bailiff looked at this man with surprise, when he thought
of the pressing recommendation of the steward of the Princess de Saint
Dizier; he had expected to see quite another sort of personage, and,
hardly able to dissemble his astonishment, he said to him: “Is it to M.
Rodin that I have the honor to speak?”
“Yes, sir; and here is another letter from the steward of the Princess
de Saint-Dizier.”
“Pray, sir, draw near the fire, whilst I just see what is in this
letter. The weather is so bad,” continued the bailiff, obligingly, “may
I not offer you some refreshment?”
“A thousand thanks, my dear sir; I am off again in an hour.”
Whilst M. Dupont read, M. Rodin threw inquisitive glances round the
chamber; like a man of skill and experience, he had frequently drawn
just and useful inductions from those little appearances, which,
revealing a taste or habit, give at the same time some notion of a
character; on this occasion, however, his curiosity was at fault.
“Very good, sir,” said the bailiff, when he had finished reading; “the
steward renews his recommendation, and tells me to attend implicitly to
your commands.”
“Well, sir, they will amount to very little, and I shall not trouble you
long.”
“It will be no trouble, but an honor.”
“Nay, I know how much your time must be occupied, for, as soon as one
enters this chateau, one is struck with the good order and perfect
keeping of everything in it--which proves, my dear sir, what excellent
care you take of it.”
“Oh, sir, you flatter me.”
“Flatter you?--a poor old man like myself has something else to think
of. But to come to business: there is a room here which is called the
Green Chamber?”
“Yes, sir; the room which the late Count-Duke de Cardoville used for a
study.”
“You will have the goodness to take me there.”
“Unfortunately, it is not in my power to do so. After the death of the
Count-Duke, and when the seals were removed, a number of papers were
shut up in a cabinet in that room, and the lawyers took the keys with
them to Paris.”
“Here are those keys,” said M. Rodin, showing to the bailiff a large and
a small key tied together.
“Oh, sir! that is different. You come to look for papers?”
“Yes--for certain papers--and also far a small mahogany casket, with
silver clasps--do you happen to know it?”
“Yes, sir; I have often seen it on the count’s writing-table. It must be
in the large, lacquered cabinet, of which you have the key.”
“You will conduct me to this chamber, as authorized by the Princess de
Saint-Dizier?”
“Yes, sir; the princess continues in good health?”
“Perfectly so. She lives altogether above worldly things.”
“And Mademoiselle Adrienne?”
“Alas, my dear sir!” said M. Rodin, with a sigh of deep contrition and
grief.
“Good heaven, sir! has any calamity happened to Mademoiselle Adrienne?”
“In what sense do you mean it?”
“Is she ill?”
“No, no--she is, unfortunately, as well as she is beautiful.”
“Unfortunately!” cried the bailiff, in surprise.
“Alas, yes! for when beauty, youth, and health are joined to an evil
spirit of revolt and perversity--to a character which certainly has not
its equal upon earth--it would be far better to be deprived of those
dangerous advantages, which only become so many causes of perdition. But
I conjure you, my dear sir, let us talk of something else: this subject
is too painful,” said M. Rodin, with a voice of deep emotion, lifting
the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as if to
stop a rising tear.
The bailiff did not see the tear, but he saw the gesture, and he was
struck with the change in M. Rodin’s voice. He answered him, therefore,
with much sympathy: “Pardon my indiscretion, sir; I really did not
know--”
“It is I who should ask pardon for this involuntary display of
feeling--tears are so rare with old men--but if you had seen, as I have,
the despair of that excellent princess, whose only fault has been too
much kindness, too much weakness, with regard to her niece--by which she
has encouraged her--but, once more, let us talk of something else, my
dear sir!”
After a moment’s pause, during which M. Rodin seemed to recover from his
emotion, he said to Dupont: “One part of my mission, my dear sir--that
which relates to the Green Chamber--I have now told you; but there
is yet another. Before coming to it, however, I must remind you of a
circumstance you have perhaps forgotten--namely, that some fifteen or
sixteen years ago, the Marquis d’Aigrigny, then colonel of the hussars
in garrison at Abbeville, spent some time in this house.”
“Oh, sir! what a dashing officer was there! It was only just now, that
I was talking about him to my wife. He was the life of the house!--how
well he could perform plays--particularly the character of a scapegrace.
In the Two Edmonds, for instance, he would make you die with laughing,
in that part of a drunken soldier--and then, with what a charming voice
he sang Joconde, sir--better than they could sing it at Paris!”
Rodin, having listened complacently to the bailiff, said to him:
“You doubtless know that, after a fierce duel he had with a furious
Bonapartist, one General Simon, the Marquis d’Aigrigny (whose private
secretary I have now the honor to be) left the world for the church.”
“No, sir! is it possible? That fine officer!”
“That fine officer--brave, noble, rich, esteemed, and
flattered--abandoned all those advantages for the sorry black gown; and,
notwithstanding his name, position, high connections, his reputation as
a great preacher, he is still what he was fourteen years ago--a plain
abbe--whilst so many, who have neither his merit nor his virtues, are
archbishops and cardinals.”
M. Rodin expressed himself with so much goodness, with such an air of
conviction, and the facts he cited appeared to be so incontestable,
that M. Dupont could not help exclaiming: “Well, sir, that is splendid
conduct!”
“Splendid? Oh, no!” said M. Rodin, with an inimitable expression of
simplicity; “it is quite a matter of course when one has a heart like
M. d’Aigrigny’s. But amongst all his good qualities, he has particularly
that of never forgetting worthy people--people of integrity, honor,
conscience--and therefore, my dear M. Dupont, he has not forgotten you.”
“What, the most noble marquis deigns to remember--”
“Three days ago, I received a letter from him, in which he mentions your
name.”
“Is he then at Paris?”
“He will be there soon, if not there now. He went to Italy about three
months ago, and, during his absence, he received a very sad piece of
news--the death of his mother, who was passing the autumn on one of the
estates of the Princess de Saint-Dizier.”
“Oh, indeed! I was not aware of it.”
“Yes, it was a cruel grief to him; but we must all resign ourselves to
the will of Providence!”
“And with regard to what subject did the marquis do me the honor to
mention my name?”
“I am going to tell you. First of all, you must know that this house
is sold. The bill of sale was signed the day before my departure from
Paris.”
“Oh, sir! that renews all my uneasiness.”
“Pray, why?”
“I am afraid that the new proprietors may not choose to keep me as their
bailiff.”
“Now see what a lucky chance! It is just on that subject that I am going
to speak to you.”
“Is it possible?”
“Certainly. Knowing the interest which the marquis feels for you, I am
particularly desirous that you should keep this place, and I will do all
in my power to serve you, if--”
“Ah, sir!” cried Dupont, interrupting Rodin; “what gratitude do I not
owe you! It is Heaven that sends you to me!’
“Now, my dear sir, you flatter me in your turn; but I ought to tell you,
that I’m obliged to annex a small condition to my support.”
“Oh, by all means! Only name it, sir--name it!”
“The person who is about to inhabit this mansion, is an old lady in
every way worthy of veneration; Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is the name
of this respectable--”
“What, sir?” said the bailiff, interrupting Rodin; “Madame de la Sainte
Colombe the lady who has bought us out?”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes, sir, she came last week to see the estate. My wife persists that
she is a great lady; but--between ourselves--judging by certain words
that I heard her speak--”
“You are full of penetration, my dear M. Dupont. Madame de la Sainte
Colombe is far from being a great lady. I believe she was neither more
nor less than a milliner, under one of the wooden porticoes of the
Palais Royal. You see, that I deal openly with you.”
“And she boasted of all the noblemen, French and foreign, who used to
visit her!”
“No doubt, they came to buy bonnets for their wives! However, the fact
is, that, having gained a large fortune and, after being in youth and
middle age--indifferent--alas! more than indifferent to the salvation
of her soul--Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is now in a likely way
to experience grace--which renders her, as I told you, worthy
of veneration, because nothing is so respectable as a sincere
repentance--always providing it to be lasting. Now to make the good work
sure and effectual, we shall need your assistance, my dear M. Dupont.”
“Mine, sir! what can I do in it?”
“A great deal; and I will explain to you how. There is no church in this
village, which stands at an equal distance from either of two parishes.
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe, wishing to make choice of one of the two
clergymen, will naturally apply to you and Madame Dupont, who have long
lived in these parts, for information respecting them.”
“Oh! in that case the choice will soon be made. The incumbent of
Danicourt is one of the best of men.”
“Now that is precisely what you must not say to Madame de la Sainte
Colombe.”
“How so?”
“You must, on the contrary, much praise, without ceasing, the curate
of Roiville, the other parish, so as to decide this good lady to trust
herself to his care.”
“And why, sir, to him rather than to the other?”
“Why?--because, if you and Madame Dupont succeed in persuading Madame de
la Sainte-Colombe to make the choice I wish, you will be certain to keep
your place as bailiff. I give you my word of it, and what I promise I
perform.”
“I do not doubt, sir, that you have this power,” said Dupont, convinced
by Rodin’s manner, and the authority of his words; “but I should like to
know--”
“One word more,” said Rodin, interrupting him; “I will deal openly with
you, and tell you why I insist on the preference which I beg you to
support. I should be grieved if you saw in all this the shadow of an
intrigue. It is only for the purpose of doing a good action. The
curate of Roiville, for whom I ask your influence, is a man for whom M.
d’Aigrigny feels a deep interest. Though very poor, he has to support
an aged mother. Now, if he had the spiritual care of Madame de la Sainte
Colombe, he would do more good than any one else, because he is full
of zeal and patience; and then it is clear he would reap some little
advantages, by which his old mother might profit--there you see is the
secret of this mighty scheme. When I knew that this lady was disposed to
buy an estate in the neighborhood of our friend’s parish, I wrote about
it to the marquis; and he, remembering you, desired me to ask you
to render him this small service, which, as you see, will not remain
without a recompense. For I tell you once more, and I will prove it,
that I have the power to keep you in your place as bailiff.”
“Well, sir,” replied Dupont, after a moment’s reflection, “you are so
frank and obliging, that I will imitate your sincerity. In the same
degree that the curate of Danicourt is respected and loved in this
country, the curate of Roiville, whom you wish me to prefer to him, is
dreaded for his intolerance--and, moreover--”
“Well, and what more?”
“Why, then, they say--”
“Come, what do they say?”
“They say--he is a Jesuit.”
Upon these words, M. Rodin burst into so hearty a laugh that the bailiff
was quite struck dumb with amazement--for the countenance of M. Rodin
took a singular expression when he laughed. “A Jesuit!” he repeated,
with redoubled hilarity; “a Jesuit!--Now really, my dear M. Dupont, for
a man of sense, experience, and intelligence, how can you believe such
idle stories?--A Jesuit--are there such people as Jesuits?--in our time,
above all, can you believe such romance of the Jacobins, hobgoblins of
the old freedom lovers?--Come, come; I wager, you have read about them
in the Constitutionnel!”
“And yet, sir, they say--”
“Good heavens! what will they not say?--But wise men, prudent men like
you, do not meddle with what is said--they manage their own little
matters, without doing injury to any one, and they never sacrifice, for
the sake of nonsense, a good place, which secures them a comfortable
provision for the rest of their days. I tell you frankly, however much I
may regret it, that should you not succeed in getting the preference for
my man, you will not remain bailiff here.
“But, sir,” said poor Dupont, “it will not be my fault, if this lady,
hearing a great deal in praise of the other curate, should prefer him to
your friend.”
“Ah! but if, on the other hand, persons who have long lived in the
neighborhood--persons worthy of confidence, whom she will see every
day--tell Madame de la Sainte-Colombe a great deal of good of my friend,
and a great deal of harm of the other curate, she will prefer the
former, and you will continue bailiff.”
“But, sir--that would be calumny!” cried Dupont.
“Pshaw, my dear M. Dupont!” said Rodin, with an air of sorrowful and
affectionate reproach, “how can you think me capable of giving you evil
counsel?--I was only making a supposition. You wish to remain bailiff
on this estate. I offer you the certainty of doing so--it is for you to
consider and decide.”
“But, sir--”
“One word more--or rather one more condition--as important as the other.
Unfortunately, we have seen clergymen take advantage of the age and
weakness of their penitents, unfairly to benefit either themselves or
others: I believe our protege incapable of any such baseness--but, in
order to discharge my responsibility--and yours also, as you will have
contributed to his appointment--I must request that you will write to me
twice a week, giving the most exact detail of all that you have remarked
in the character, habits, connections, pursuits, of Madame de la Sainte
Colombe--for the influence of a confessor, you see, reveals itself in
the whole conduct of life, and I should wish to be fully edified by the
proceedings of my friend, without his being aware of it--or, if anything
blameable were to strike you, I should be immediately informed of it by
this weekly correspondence.”
“But, sir--that would be to act as a spy?” exclaimed the unfortunate
bailiff.
“Now, my dear M. Dupont! how can you thus brand the sweetest, most
wholesome of human desires--mutual confidence?--I ask of you nothing
else--I ask of you to write to me confidentially the details of all that
goes on here. On these two conditions, inseparable one from the other,
you remain bailiff; otherwise, I shall be forced, with grief and regret,
to recommend some one else to Madame de la Sainte-Colombe.”
“I beg you, sir,” said Dupont, with emotion, “Be generous without any
conditions!--I and my wife have only this place to give us bread, and we
are too old to find another. Do not expose our probity of forty
years’ standing to be tempted by the fear of want, which is so bad a
counsellor!”
“My dear M. Dupont, you are really a great child: you must reflect upon
this, and give me your answer in the course of a week.”
“Oh, sir! I implore you--” The conversation was here interrupted by a
loud report, which was almost instantaneously repeated by the echoes of
the cliffs. “What is that?” said M. Rodin. Hardly had he spoken, when
the same noise was again heard more distinctly than before.
“It is the sound of cannon,” cried Dupont, rising; “no doubt a ship in
distress, or signaling for a pilot.”
“My dear,” said the bailiffs wife, entering abruptly, “from the terrace,
we can see a steamer and a large ship nearly dismasted--they are
drifting right upon the shore--the ship is firing minute gulls--it will
be lost.”
“Oh, it is terrible!” cried the bailiff, taking his hat and preparing to
go out, “to look on at a shipwreck, and be able to do nothing!”
“Can no help be given to these vessels?” asked M. Rodin.
“If they are driven upon the reefs, no human power can save them; since
the last equinox two ships have been lost on this coast.”
“Lost with all on board?--Oh, very frightful,” said M. Rodin.
“In such a storm, there is but little chance for the crew; no matter,”
said the bailiff, addressing his wife, “I will run down to the rocks
with the people of the farm, and try to save some of them, poor
creatures!--Light large fires in several rooms--get ready linen,
clothes, cordials--I scarcely dare hope to save any, but we must do our
best. Will you come with me, M. Rodin?”
“I should think it a duty, if I could be at all useful, but I am too
old and feeble to be of any service,” said M. Rodin, who was by no means
anxious to encounter the storm. “Your good lady will be kind enough to
show me the Green Chamber, and when I have found the articles I require,
I will set out immediately for Paris, for I am in great haste.”
“Very well, sir. Catherine will show you. Ring the big bell,” said the
bailiff to his servant; “let all the people of the farm meet me at the
foot of the cliff, with ropes and levers.”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Catherine; “but do not expose yourself.”
“Kiss me--it will bring me luck,” said the bailiff; and he started at a
full run, crying: “Quick! quick; by this time not a plank may remain of
the vessels.”
“My dear madam,” said Rodin, always impassible, “will you be obliging
enough to show me the Green Chamber?”
“Please to follow me, sir,” answered Catherine, drying her tears--for
she trembled on account of her husband, whose courage she well knew.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE TEMPEST
The sea is raging. Mountainous waves of dark green, marbled with white
foam, stand out, in high, deep undulations, from the broad streak of red
light, which extends along the horizon. Above are piled heavy masses
of black and sulphurous vapor, whilst a few lighter clouds of a reddish
gray, driven by the violence of the wind, rush across the murky sky.
The pale winter sun, before he quite disappears in the great clouds,
behind which he is slowly mounting, casts here and there some oblique
rays upon the troubled sea, and gilds the transparent crest of some of
the tallest waves. A band of snow-white foam boils and rages as far
as the eye can reach, along the line of the reefs that bristle on this
dangerous coast.
Half-way up a rugged promontory, which juts pretty far into the sea,
rises Cardoville Castle; a ray of the sun glitters upon its windows; its
brick walls and pointed roofs of slate are visible in the midst of this
sky loaded with vapors.
A large, disabled ship, with mere shreds of sail still fluttering from
the stumps of broken masts, drives dead upon the coast. Now she rolls
her monstrous hull upon the waves--now plunges into their trough. A
flash is seen, followed by a dull sound, scarcely perceptible in
the midst of the roar of the tempest. That gun is the last signal of
distress from this lost vessel, which is fast forging on the breakers.
At the same moment, a steamer, with its long plume of black smoke, is
working her way from east to west, making every effort to keep at a
distance from the shore, leaving the breakers on her left. The dismasted
ship, drifting towards the rocks, at the mercy of the wind and tide,
must some time pass right ahead of the steamer.
Suddenly, the rush of a heavy sea laid the steamer upon her side; the
enormous wave broke furiously on her deck; in a second the chimney
was carried away, the paddle box stove in, one of the wheels rendered
useless. A second white-cap, following the first, again struck the
vessel amidships, and so increased the damage that, no longer answering
to the helm, she also drifted towards the shore, in the same direction
as the ship. But the latter, though further from the breakers, presented
a greater surface to the wind and sea, and so gained upon the steamer
in swiftness that a collision between the two vessels became imminent--a
new clanger added to all the horrors of the now certain wreck.
The ship was an English vessel, the “Black Eagle,” homeward bound from
Alexandria, with passengers, who arriving from India and Java, via
the Red Sea, had disembarked at the Isthmus of Suez, from on board
the steamship “Ruyter.” The “Black Eagle,” quitting the Straits of
Gibraltar, had gone to touch at the Azores. She headed thence for
Portsmouth, when she was overtaken in the Channel by the northwester.
The steamer was the “William Tell,” coming from Germany, by way of the
Elbe, and bound, in the last place, for Hamburg to Havre.
These two vessels, the sport of enormous rollers, driven along by tide
and tempest, were now rushing upon the breakers with frightful speed.
The deck of each offered a terrible spectacle; the loss of crew and
passengers appeared almost certain, for before them a tremendous sea
broke on jagged rocks, at the foot of a perpendicular cliff.
The captain of the “Black Eagle,” standing on the poop, holding by the
remnant of a spar, issued his last orders in this fearful extremity
with courageous coolness. The smaller boats had been carried away by
the waves; it was in vain to think of launching the long-boat; the only
chance of escape in case the ship should not be immediately dashed to
pieces on touching the rocks, was to establish a communication with the
land by means of a life-line--almost the last resort for passing between
the shore and a stranded vessel.
The deck was covered with passengers, whose cries and terror augmented
the general confusion. Some, struck with a kind of stupor, and clinging
convulsively to the shrouds, awaited their doom in a state of stupid
insensibility. Others wrung their hands in despair, or rolled upon the
deck uttering horrible imprecations. Here, women knelt down to pray;
there, others hid their faces in their hands, that they might not see
the awful approach of death. A young mother, pale as a specter, holding
her child clasped tightly to her bosom, went supplicating from sailor
to sailor, and offering a purse full of gold and jewels to any one that
would take charge of her son.
These cries, and tears, and terror contrasted with the stern and silent
resignation of the sailors. Knowing the imminence of the inevitable
danger, some of them stripped themselves of part of their clothes,
waiting for the moment to make a last effort, to dispute their lives
with the fury of the waves; others renouncing all hope, prepared to meet
death with stoical indifference.
Here and there, touching or awful episodes rose in relief, if one may so
express it, from this dark and gloomy background of despair.
A young man of about eighteen or twenty, with shiny black hair, copper
colored complexion, and perfectly regular and handsome features,
contemplated this scene of dismay and horror with that sad calmness
peculiar to those who have often braved great perils; wrapped in a
cloak, he leaned his back against the bulwarks, with his feet resting
against one of the bulkheads. Suddenly, the unhappy mother, who, with
her child in her arms, and gold in her hand, had in vain addressed
herself to several of the mariners, to beg them to save her boy,
perceiving the young man with the copper-colored complexion, threw
herself on her knees before him, and lifted her child towards him with
a burst of inexpressible agony. The young man took it, mournfully shook
his head, and pointed to the furious waves--but, with a meaning gesture,
he appeared to promise that he would at least try to save it. Then the
young mother, in a mad transport of hope, seized the hand of the youth,
and bathed it with her tears.
Further on, another passenger of the “Black Eagle,” seemed animated
by sentiments of the most active pity. One would hardly have given him
five-and-twenty years of age. His long, fair locks fell in curls on
either side of his angelic countenance. He wore a black cassock and
white neck-band. Applying himself to comfort the most desponding, he
went from one to the other, and spoke to them pious words of hope and
resignation; to hear him console some, and encourage others, in language
full of unction, tenderness, and ineffable charity, one would have
supposed him unaware or indifferent to the perils that he shared.
On his fine, mild features, was impressed a calm and sacred intrepidity,
a religious abstraction from every terrestrial thought; from time to
time, he raised to heaven his large blue eyes, beaming with gratitude,
love, and serenity, as if to thank God for having called him to one of
those formidable trials in which the man of humanity and courage may
devote himself for his brethren, and, if not able to rescue them at all,
at least die with them, pointing to the sky. One might almost have
taken him for an angel, sent down to render less cruel the strokes of
inexorable fate.
Strange contrast! not far from this young man’s angelic beauty, there
was another being, who resembled an evil spirit!
Boldly mounted on what was left of the bowsprit, to which he held on by
means of some remaining cordage, this man looked down upon the terrible
scene that was passing on the deck. A grim, wild joy lighted up his
countenance of a dead yellow, that tint peculiar to those who spring
from the union of the white race with the East. He wore only a shirt and
linen drawers; from his neck was suspended, by a cord, a cylindrical tin
box, similar to that in which soldiers carry their leave of absence.
The more the danger augmented, the nearer the ship came to the
breakers, or to a collision with the steamer, which she was now rapidly
approaching--a terrible collision, which would probably cause the two
vessels to founder before even they touched the rocks--the more did the
infernal joy of this passenger reveal itself in frightful transports. He
seemed to long, with ferocious impatience, for the moment when the work
of destruction should be accomplished. To see him thus feasting with
avidity on all the agony, the terror, and the despair of those around
him, one might have taken him for the apostle of one of those sanguinary
deities, who, in barbarous countries, preside over murder and carnage.
By this time the “Black Eagle,” driven by the wind and waves, came so
near the “William Tell” that the passengers on the deck of the nearly
dismantled steamer were visible from the first-named vessel.
These passengers were no longer numerous. The heavy sea, which stove
in the paddle-box and broke one of the paddles, had also carried away
nearly the whole of the bulwarks on that side; the waves, entering
every instant by this large opening, swept the decks with irresistible
violence, and every time bore away with them some fresh victims.
Amongst the passengers, who seemed only to have escaped this danger
to be hurled against the rocks, or crushed in the encounter of the two
vessels, one group was especially worthy of the most tender and painful
interest. Taking refuge abaft, a tall old man, with bald forehead and
gray moustache, had lashed himself to a stanchion, by winding a piece of
rope round his body, whilst he clasped in his arms, and held fast to his
breast, two girls of fifteen or sixteen, half enveloped in a pelisse of
reindeer-skin. A large, fallow, Siberian dog, dripping with water, and
barking furiously at the waves, stood close to their feet.
These girls, clasped in the arms of the old man, also pressed close to
each other; but, far from being lost in terror, they raised their
eyes to heaven, full of confidence and ingenuous hope, as though they
expected to be saved by the intervention of some supernatural power.
A frightful shriek of horror and despair, raised by the passengers of
both vessels, was heard suddenly above the roar of the tempest. At the
moment when, plunging deeply between two waves, the broadside of the
steamer was turned towards the bows of the ship, the latter, lifted to
a prodigious height on a mountain of water, remained, as it were,
suspended over the “William Tell,” during the second which preceded the
shock of the two vessels.
There are sights of so sublime a horror, that it is impossible to
describe them. Yet, in the midst of these catastrophes, swift as
thought, one catches sometimes a momentary glimpse of a picture, rapid
and fleeting, as if illumined by a flash of lightning.
Thus, when the “Black Eagle,” poised aloft by the flood, was about
to crash down upon the “William Tell,” the young man with the angelic
countenance and fair, waving locks bent over the prow of the ship, ready
to cast himself into the sea to save some victim. Suddenly, he perceived
on board the steamer, on which he looked down from the summit of
the immense wave, the two girls extending their arms towards him in
supplication. They appeared to recognize him, and gazed on him with a
sort of ecstacy and religious homage!
For a second, in spite of the horrors of the tempest, in spite of the
approaching shipwreck, the looks of those three beings met. The features
of the young man were expressive of sudden and profound pity; for the
maidens with their hands clasped in prayer, seemed to invoke him as
their expected Saviour. The old man, struck down by the fall of a plank,
lay helpless on the deck. Soon all disappeared together.
A fearful mass of water dashed the “Black Eagle” down upon the “William
Tell,” in the midst of a cloud of boiling foam. To the dreadful crash
of the two great bodies of wood and iron, which splintering against one
another, instantly foundered, one loud cry was added--a cry of agony and
death--the cry of a hundred human creatures swallowed up at once by the
waves!
And then--nothing more was visible!
A few moments after, the fragments of the two vessels appeared in the
trough of the sea, and on the caps of the waves--with here and there
the contracted arms, the livid and despairing faces of some unhappy
wretches, striving to make their way to the reefs along the shore, at
the risk of being crushed to death by the shock of the furious breakers.
CHAPTER XXV. THE SHIPWRECK.
While the bailiff was gone to the sea-shore, to render help to those of
the passengers who might escape from the inevitable shipwreck, M.
Rodin, conducted by Catherine to the Green Chamber, had there found the
articles that he was to take with him to Paris.
After passing two hours in this apartment, very indifferent to the fate
of the shipwrecked persons, which alone absorbed the attention of
the inhabitants of the Castle, Rodin returned to the chamber commonly
occupied by the bailiff, a room which opened upon a long gallery. When
he entered it he found nobody there. Under his arm he held a casket,
with silver fastenings, almost black from age, whilst one end of a
large red morocco portfolio projected from the breast-pocket of his half
buttoned great coat.
Had the cold and livid countenance of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s secretary
been able to express joy otherwise than by a sarcastic smile, his
features would have been radiant with delight; for, just then, he was
under the influence of the most agreeable thoughts. Having placed
the casket upon a table, it was with marked satisfaction that he thus
communed with himself:
“All goes well. It was prudent to keep these papers here till this
moment, for one must always be on guard against the diabolical spirit of
that Adrienne de Cardoville, who appears to guess instinctively what it
is impossible she should know. Fortunately, the time approaches when we
shall have no more need to fear her. Her fate will be a cruel one; it
must be so. Those proud, independent characters are at all times our
natural enemies--they are so by their very essence--how much more when
they show themselves peculiarly hurtful and dangerous! As for La Sainte
Colombe, the bailiff is sure to act for us; between what the fool
calls his conscience, and the dread of being at his age deprived of a
livelihood, he will not hesitate. I wish to have him because he will
serve us better than a stranger; his having been here twenty years will
prevent all suspicion on the part of that dull and narrow-minded woman.
Once in the hands of our man at Roiville, I will answer for the result.
The course of all such gross and stupid women is traced beforehand:
in their youth, they serve the devil; in riper years, they make others
serve him; in their old age, they are horribly afraid of him; and this
fear must continue till she has left us the Chateau de Cardoville,
which, from its isolated position, will make us an excellent college.
All then goes well. As for the affair of the medals, the 13th of
February approaches, without news from Joshua--evidently, Prince Djalma
is still kept prisoner by the English in the heart of India, or I must
have received letters from Batavia. The daughters of General Simon will
be detained at Leipsic for at least a month longer. All our foreign
relations are in the best condition. As for our internal affairs--”
Here M. Rodin was interrupted in the current of his reflections by the
entrance of Madame Dupont, who was zealously engaged in preparations to
give assistance in case of need.
“Now,” said she to the servant, “light a fire in the next room; put this
warm wine there; your master may be in every minute.”
“Well, my dear madam,” said Rodin to her, “do they hope to save any of
these poor creatures?”
“Alas! I do not know, sir. My husband has been gone nearly two hours. I
am terribly uneasy on his account. He is so courageous, so imprudent, if
once he thinks he can be of any service.”
“Courageous even to imprudence,” said Rodin to himself, impatiently; “I
do not like that.”
“Well,” resumed Catherine, “I have here at hand my hot linen, my
cordials--heaven grant it may all be of use!”
“We may at least hope so, my dear madam. I very much regretted that my
age and weakness did not permit me to assist your excellent husband. I
also regret not being able to wait for the issue of his exertions,
and to wish him joy if successful--for I am unfortunately compelled to
depart, my moments are precious. I shall be much obliged if you will
have the carriage got ready.”
“Yes, Sir; I will see about it directly.”
“One word, my dear, good Madame Dupont. You are a woman of sense, and
excellent judgment. Now I have put your husband in the way to keep, if
he will, his situation as bailiff of the estate--”
“Is it possible? What gratitude do we not owe you! Without this place
what would become of us at our time of life?”
“I have only saddled my promise with two conditions--mere trifles--he
will explain all that to you.”
“Ah, sir! we shall regard you as our deliverer.”
“You are too good. Only, on two little conditions--”
“If there were a hundred, sir we should gladly accept them. Think what
we should be without this place--penniless--absolutely penniless!”
“I reckon upon you then; for the interest of your husband, you will try
to persuade him.”
“Missus! I say, missus! here’s master come back,” cried a servant,
rushing into the chamber.
“Has he many with him?”
“No, missus; he is alone.”
“Alone! alone?”
“Quite alone, missus.”
A few moments after, M. Dupont entered the room; his clothes were
streaming with water; to keep his hat on in the midst of the storm, he
had tied it down to his head by means of his cravat, which was knotted
under his chin; his gaiters were covered with chalky stains.
“There I have thee, my dear love!” cried his wife, tenderly embracing
him. “I have been so uneasy!”
“Up to the present moment--THREE SAVED.”
“God be praised, my dear M. Dupont!” said Rodin; “at least your efforts
will not have been all in vain.”
“Three, only three?” said Catherine. “Gracious heaven!”
“I only speak of those I saw myself, near the little creek of Goelands.
Let us hope there may be more saved on other parts of the coast.”
“Yes, indeed; happily, the shore is not equally steep in all parts.”
“And where are these interesting sufferers, my dear sir?” asked Rodin,
who could not avoid remaining a few instants longer.
“They are mounting the cliffs, supported by our people. As they cannot
walk very fast, I ran on before to console my wife, and to take the
necessary measures for their reception. First of all, my dear, you must
get ready some women’s clothes.”
“There is then a woman amongst the persons saved?”
“There are two girls--fifteen or sixteen years of age at the most--mere
children--and so pretty!”
“Poor little things!” said Rodin, with an affectation of interest.
“The person to whom they owe their lives is with them. He is a real
hero!”
“A hero?”
“Yes; only fancy--”
“You can tell me all this by and by. Just slip on this dry warm
dressing-gown, and take some of this hot wine. You are wet through.”
“I’ll not refuse, for I am almost frozen to death. I was telling you
that the person who saved these young girls was a hero; and certainly
his courage was beyond anything one could have imagined. When I left
here with the men of the farm, we descended the little winding path,
and arrived at the foot of the cliff--near the little creek of Goelands,
fortunately somewhat sheltered from the waves by five or six enormous
masses of rock stretching out into the sea. Well, what should we find
there? Why, the two young girls I spoke of, in a swoon, with their feet
still in the water, and their bodies resting against a rock, as though
they had been placed there by some one, after being withdrawn from the
sea.”
“Dear children! it is quite touching!” said M. Rodin, raising, as usual,
the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as though
to dry a tear, which was very seldom visible.
“What struck me was their great resemblance to each other,” resumed
the bailiff; “only one in the habit of seeing them could tell the
difference.”
“Twin--sisters, no doubt,” said Madame Dupont.
“One of the poor things,” continued the bailiff, “held between her
clasped hands a little bronze medal, which was suspended from her neck
by a chain of the same material.”
Rodin generally maintained a very stooping posture; but at these last
words of the bailiff, he drew himself up suddenly, whilst a faint color
spread itself over his livid cheeks. In any other person, these symptoms
would have appeared of little consequence; but in Rodin, accustomed for
long years to control and dissimulate his emotions, they announced
no ordinary excitement. Approaching the bailiff, he said to him in a
slightly agitated voice, but still with an air of indifference: “It was
doubtless a pious relic. Did you see what was inscribed on this medal?”
“No, sir; I did not think of it.”
“And the two young girls were like one another--very much like, you
say?”
“So like, that one would hardly know which was which. Probably they are
orphans, for they are dressed in mourning.”
“Oh! dressed in mourning?” said M. Rodin, with another start.
“Alas! orphans so young!” said Madame Dupont, wiping her eyes.
“As they had fainted away, we carried them further on to a place where
the sand was quite dry. While we were busy about this, we saw the head
of a man appear from behind one of the rocks, which he was trying to
climb, clinging to it by one hand; we ran to him, and luckily in the
nick of time, for he was clean worn out, and fell exhausted into the
arms of our men. It was of him I spoke when I talked of a hero; for, not
content with having saved the two young girls by his admirable courage,
he had attempted to rescue a third person, and had actually gone back
amongst the rocks and breakers--but his strength failed him, and,
without the aid of our men, he would certainly have been washed away
from the ridge to which he clung.”
“He must indeed be a fine fellow!” said Catherine.
Rodin, with his head bowed upon his breast, seemed quite indifferent to
this conversation. The dismay and stupor, in which he had been plunged,
only increased upon reflection. The two girls, who had just been saved,
were fifteen years of age; were dressed in mourning; were so like, that
one might be taken for the other; one of them wore round her neck a
chain with a bronze medal; he could scarcely doubt that they were the
daughters of General Simon. But how could those sisters be amongst the
number of shipwrecked passengers? How could they have escaped from the
prison at Leipsic? How did it happen, that he had not been informed of
it? Could they have fled, or had they been set at liberty? How was
it possible that he should not be apprise of such an event? But these
secondary thoughts, which offered themselves in crowds to the mind of
M. Rodin, were swallowed up in the one fact: “the daughters of General
Simon are here!”--His plan, so laboriously laid, was thus entirely
destroyed.
“When I speak of the deliverer of these young girls,” resumed the
bailiff, addressing his wife, and without remarking M. Rodin’s absence
of mind, “you are expecting no doubt to see a Hercules?--well, he is
altogether the reverse. He is almost a boy in look, with fair, sweet
face, and light, curling locks. I left him a cloak to cover him, for he
had nothing on but his shirt, black knee-breeches, and a pair of black
worsted stockings--which struck me as singular.”
“Why, it was certainly not a sailor’s dress.”
“Besides, though the ship was English, I believe my hero is a Frenchman,
for he speaks our language as well as we do. What brought the tears to
my eyes, was to see the young girls, when they came to themselves. As
soon as they saw him, they threw themselves at his feet, and seemed to
look up to him and thank him, as one would pray. Then they cast their
eyes around them, as if in search of some other person, and, having
exchanged a few words, they fell sobbing into each other’s arms.”
“What a dreadful thing it is! How many poor creatures must have
perished!”
“When we quitted the rocks, the sea had already cast ashore seven dead
bodies, besides fragments of the wrecks, and packages. I spoke to some
of the coast-guard, and they will remain all day on the look-out; and
if, as I hope, any more should escape with life, they are to be
brought here. But surely that is the sound of voices!--yes, it is our
shipwrecked guests!”
The bailiff and his wife ran to the door of the room--that door, which
opened on the long gallery--whilst Rodin, biting convulsively his flat
nails, awaited with angry impatience the arrival of the strangers. A
touching picture soon presented itself to his view.
From the end of the dark some gallery, only lighted on one side by
several windows, three persons, conducted by a peasant, advanced slowly.
This group consisted of the two maidens, and the intrepid young man
to whom they owed their lives. Rose and Blanche were on either side of
their deliverer, who, walking with great difficulty, supported himself
lightly on their arms.
Though he was full twenty-five years of age, the juvenile countenance
of this man made him appear younger. His long, fair hair, parted on
the forehead, streamed wet and smooth over the collar of a large brown
cloak, with which he had been covered. It would be difficult to describe
the adorable expression of goodness in his pale, mild face, as pure as
the most ideal creations of Raphael’s pencil--for that divine artist
alone could have caught the melancholy grace of those exquisite
features, the serenity of that celestial look, from eyes limpid and blue
as those of an archangel, or of a martyr ascended to the skies.
Yes, of a martyr! for a blood-red halo already encircled that beauteous
head. Piteous sight to see! just above his light eyebrows, and rendered
still more visible by the effect of the cold, a narrow cicatrix, from
a wound inflicted many months before, appeared to encompass his fair
forehead with a purple band; and (still more sad!) his hands had
been cruelly pierced by a crucifixion--his feet had suffered the same
injury--and, if he now walked with so much difficulty, it was that his
wounds had reopened, as he struggled over the sharp rocks.
This young man was Gabriel, the priest attached to the foreign mission,
the adopted son of Dagobert’s wife. He was a priest and martyr--for, in
our days, there are still martyrs, as in the time when the Caesars flung
the early Christians to the lions and tigers of the circus.
Yes, in our days, the children of the people--for it is almost always
amongst them that heroic and disinterested devotion may still be
found--the children of the people, led by an honorable conviction,
because it is courageous and sincere, go to all parts of the world, to
try and propagate their faith, and brave both torture and death with the
most unpretending valor.
How many of them, victims of some barbarous tribe, have perished,
obscure and unknown, in the midst of the solitudes of the two
worlds!--And for these humble soldiers of the cross, who have nothing
but their faith and their intrepidity, there is never reserved on their
return (and they seldom do return) the rich and sumptuous dignities of
the church. Never does the purple or the mitre conceal their scarred
brows and mutilated limbs; like the great majority of other soldiers,
they die forgotten.(8)
In their ingenuous gratitude, the daughters of General Simon, as soon
as they recovered their senses after the shipwreck, and felt themselves
able to ascend the cliffs, would not leave to any other person the
care of sustaining the faltering steps of him who had rescued them from
certain death.
The black garments of Rose and Blanche streamed with water; their faces
were deadly pale, and expressive of deep grief; the marks of recent
tears were on their cheeks, and, with sad, downcast eyes, they trembled
both from agitation and cold, as the agonizing thought recurred to them,
that they should never again see Dagobert, their friend and guide; for
it was to him that Gabriel had stretched forth a helping hand, to assist
him to climb the rocks. Unfortunately the strength of both had failed,
and the soldier had been carried away by a retreating wave.
The sight of Gabriel was a fresh surprise for Rodin, who had retired on
one side, in order to observe all; but this surprise was of so pleasant
a nature, and he felt so much joy in beholding the missionary safe after
such imminent peril, that the painful impression, caused by the view
of General Simon’s daughters, was a little softened. It must not
be forgotten, that the presence of Gabriel in Paris, on the 13th of
February, was essential to the success of Rodin’s projects.
The bailiff and his wife, who were greatly moved at sight of the
orphans, approached them with eagerness. Just then a farm-boy entered
the room, crying: “Sir! sir! good news--two more saved from the wreck!”
“Blessing and praise to God for it!” said the missionary.
“Where are they?” asked the bailiff, hastening towards the door.
“There is one who can walk, and is following behind me with Justin;
the other was wounded against the rocks, and they are carrying him on a
litter made of branches.”
“I will run and have him placed in the room below,” said the bailiff, as
he went out. “Catherine, you can look to the young ladies.”
“And the shipwrecked man who can walk--where is he?” asked the bailiff’s
wife.
“Here he is,” said the peasant, pointing to some one who came rapidly
along the gallery; “when he heard that the two young ladies were safe
in the chateau--though he is old, and wounded in the head, he took such
great strides, that it was all I could do to get here before him.”
Hardly had the peasant pronounced these words, when Rose and Blanche,
springing up by a common impulse, flew to the door. They arrived there
at the same moment as Dagobert.
The soldier, unable to utter a syllable, fell on his knees at the
threshold, and extended his arms to the daughters of General Simon;
while Spoil-sport, running to them licked their hands.
But the emotion was too much for Dagobert; and, when he had clasped the
orphans in his arms, his head fell backward, and he would have sunk
down altogether, but for the care of the peasants. In spite of the
observations of the bailiff’s wife, on their state of weakness and
agitation, the two young girls insisted on accompanying Dagobert, who
was carried fainting into an adjoining apartment.
At sight of the soldier, Rodin’s face was again violently contracted,
for he had till then believed that the guide of General Simon’s
daughters was dead. The missionary, worn out with fatigue, was leaning
upon a chair, and had not yet perceived Rodin.
A new personage, a man with a dead yellow complexion, now entered the
room, accompanied by another peasant, who pointed out Gabriel to him.
This man, who had just borrowed a smock-frock and a pair of trousers,
approached the missionary, and said to him in French but with a foreign
accent: “Prince Djalma has just been brought in here. His first word was
to ask for you.”
“What does that man say?” cried Rodin, in a voice of thunder; for, at
the name of Djalma, he had sprung with one bound to Gabriel’s side.
“M. Rodin!” exclaimed the missionary, falling back in surprise.
“M. Rodin,” cried the other shipwrecked person; and from that moment, he
kept his eye fixed on the correspondent of M. Van Dael.
“You here, sir?” said Gabriel, approaching Rodin with an air of
deference, not unmixed with fear.
“What did that man say to you?” repeated Rodin, in an excited tone. “Did
he not utter the name of Prince Djalma?”
“Yes, sir; Prince Djalma was one of the passengers on board the English
ship, which came from Alexandria, and in which we have just been
wrecked. This vessel touched at the Azores, where I then was; the ship
that brought me from Charlestown having been obliged to put in there,
and being likely to remain for some time, on account of serious damage,
I embarked on board the ‘Black Eagle,’ where I met Prince Djalma. We
were bound to Portsmouth, and from thence my intention was to proceed to
France.”
Rodin did not care to interrupt Gabriel. This new shock had completely
paralyzed his thoughts. At length, like a man who catches at a last
hope, which he knows beforehand to be vain, he said to Gabriel: “Can you
tell me who this Prince Djalma is?”
“A young man as good as brave--the son of an East Indian king,
dispossessed of his territory by the English.”
Then, turning towards the other shipwrecked man, the missionary said
to him with anxious interest: “How is the Prince? are his wounds
dangerous?”
“They are serious contusions, but they will not be mortal,” answered the
other.
“Heaven be praised!” said the missionary, addressing Rodin; “here, you
see, is another saved.”
“So much the better,” observed Rodin, in a quick, imperious tone.
“I will go see him,” said Gabriel, submissively. “You have no orders to
give me?”
“Will you be able to leave this place in two or three hours,
notwithstanding your fatigue?”
“If it be necessary--yes.”
“It is necessary. You will go with me.”
Gabriel only bowed in reply, and Rodin sank confounded into a chair,
while the missionary went out with the peasant. The man with the sallow
complexion still lingered in a corner of the room, unperceived by Rodin.
This man was Faringhea, the half-caste, one of the three chiefs of the
Stranglers. Having escaped the pursuit of the soldiers in the ruins
of Tchandi, he had killed Mahal the Smuggler, and robbed him of the
despatches written by M. Joshua Van Dael to Rodin, as also of the letter
by which the smuggler was to have been received as passenger on board
the “Ruyter.” When Faringhea left the hut in the ruins of Tchandi,
he had not been seen by Djalma; and the latter, when he met him on
shipboard, after his escape (which we shall explain by and by), not
knowing that he belonged to the sect of Phansegars, treated him during
the voyage as a fellow-countryman.
Rodin, with his eye fixed and haggard, his countenance of a livid hue,
biting his nails to the quick in silent rage, did not perceive the half
caste, who quietly approached him and laying his hand familiarly on his
shoulder, said to him: “Your name is Rodin?”
“What now?” asked the other, starting, and raising his head abruptly.
“Your name is Rodin?” repeated Faringhea.
“Yes. What do you want?”
“You live in the Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins, Paris?”
“Yes. But, once more, what do you want?”
“Nothing now, brother: hereafter, much!”
And Faringhea, retiring, with slow steps, left Rodin alarmed at what
had passed; for this man, who scarcely trembled at anything, had quailed
before the dark look and grim visage of the Strangler.
(8) We always remember with emotion the end of a letter written, two or
three years ago, by one of these young and valiant missionaries, the son
of poor parents in Beauce. He was writing to his mother from the heart
of Japan, and thus concluded his letter: “Adieu, my dear mother! they
say there is much danger where I am now sent to. Pray for me, and tell
all our good neighbors that I think of them very often.” These few
words, addressed from the centre of Asia to poor peasants in a hamlet of
France, are only the more touching from their very simplicity--E. S.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE DEPARTURE FOR PARIS.
The most profound silence reigns throughout Cardoville House. The
tempest has lulled by degrees, and nothing is heard from afar but the
hoarse murmur of the waves, as they wash heavily the shore.
Dagobert and the orphans have been lodged in warm and comfortable
apartments on the first-floor of the chateau. Djalma, too severely hurt
to be carried upstairs, has remained in a room below. At the moment of
the shipwreck, a weeping mother had placed her child in his arms. He
had failed in the attempt to snatch this unfortunate infant from certain
death, but his generous devotion had hampered his movements, and when
thrown upon the rocks, he was almost dashed to pieces. Faringhea, who
has been able to convince him of his affection, remains to watch over
him.
Gabriel, after administering consolation to Djalma, has rescinded to the
chamber allotted to him; faithful to the promise he made to Rodin, to be
ready to set out in two hours, he has not gone to bed; but, having dried
his clothes, he has fallen asleep in a large, high-backed arm-chair,
placed in front of a bright coal-fire. His apartment is situated near
those occupied by Dagobert and the two sisters.
Spoil-sport, probably quite at his ease in so respectable a dwelling,
has quitted the door of Rose and Blanche’s chamber, to lie down and warm
himself at the hearth, by the side of which the missionary is sleeping.
There, with his nose resting on his outstretched paws, he enjoys a
feeling of perfect comfort and repose, after so many perils by land and
sea. We will not venture to affirm, that he thinks habitually of poor
old Jovial; unless we recognize as a token of remembrance on his part,
his irresistible propensity to bite all the white horses he has met
with, ever since the death of his venerable companion, though before, he
was the most inoffensive of dogs with regard to horses of every color.
Presently one of the doors of the chamber opened, and the two sisters
entered timidly. Awake for some minutes, they had risen and dressed
themselves, feeling still some uneasiness with respect to Dagobert;
though the bailiff’s wife, after showing them to their room, had
returned again to tell them that the village doctor found nothing
serious in the hurt of the old soldier, still they hoped to meet some
one belonging to the chateau, of whom they could make further inquiries
about him.
The high back of the old-fashioned arm-chair, in which Gabriel was
sleeping, completely screened him from view; but the orphans, seeing
their canine friend lying quietly at his feet, thought it was Dagobert
reposing there, and hastened towards him on tip-toe. To their great
astonishment, they saw Gabriel fast asleep, and stood still in
confusion, not daring to advance or recede, for fear of waking him.
The long, light hair of the missionary was no longer wet, and now curled
naturally round his neck and shoulders; the paleness of his complexion
was the more striking, from the contrast afforded by the deep purple
of the damask covering of the arm-chair. His beautiful countenance
expressed a profound melancholy, either caused by the influence of some
painful dream, or else that he was in the habit of keeping down, when
awake, some sad regrets, which revealed themselves without his knowledge
when he was sleeping. Notwithstanding this appearance of bitter grief,
his features preserved their character of angelic sweetness, and seemed
endowed with an inexpressible charm, for nothing is more touching than
suffering goodness. The two young girls cast down their eyes, blushed
simultaneously, and exchanged anxious glances, as if to point out to
each other the slumbering missionary.
“He sleeps, sister,” said Rose in a low voice.
“So much the better,” replied Blanche, also in a whisper, making a sign
of caution; “we shall now be able to observe him well.”
“Yes, for we durst not do so, in coming from the sea hither.”
“Look! what a sweet countenance!”
“He is just the same as we saw him in our dreams.”
“When he promised he would protect us.”
“And he has not failed us.”
“But here, at least, he is visible.”
“Not as it was in the prison at Leipsic, during that dark night.”
“And so--he has again rescued us.”
“Without him, we should have perished this morning.”
“And yet, sister, it seems to me, that in our dreams his countenance
shone with light.”
“Yes, you know it dazzled us to look at him.”
“And then he had not so sad a mien.”
“That was because he came then from heaven; now he is upon earth.”
“But, sister, had he then that bright red scar round his forehead?”
“Oh, no! we should have certainly perceived it.”
“And these other marks on his hands?”
“If he has been wounded, how can he be an archangel?”
“Why not, sister? If he received those wounds in preventing evil, or in
helping the unfortunate, who, like us, were about to perish?”
“You are right. If he did not run any danger for those he protects, it
would be less noble.”
“What a pity that he does not open his eye!”
“Their expression is so good, so tender!”
“Why did he not speak of our mother, by the way?”
“We were not alone with him; he did not like to do so.”
“But now we are alone.”
“If we were to pray to him to speak to us?”
The orphans looked doubtingly at each other, with charming simplicity; a
bright glow suffused their cheeks, and their young bosoms heaved gently
beneath their black dresses.
“You are right. Let us kneel down to him.”
“Oh, sister! our hearts beat so!” said Blanche, believing rightly, that
Rose felt exactly as she did. “And yet it seems to do us good. It is as
if some happiness were going to befall us.”
The sisters, having approached the arm-chair on tip-toe, knelt down
with clasped hands, one to the right the other to the left of the young
priest. It was a charming picture. Turning their lovely faces towards
him, they said in a low whisper, with a soft, sweet voice, well suited
to their youthful appearance: “Gabriel! speak to us of our mother!”
On this appeal, the missionary gave a slight start, half-opened his
eyes, and, still in a state of semi-consciousness, between sleep and
waking, beheld those two beauteous faces turned towards him, and heard
two gentle voices repeat his name.
“Who calls me?” said he, rousing himself, and raising his head.
“It is Blanche and Rose.”
It was now Gabriel’s turn to blush, for he recognized the young girls he
had saved. “Rise, my sisters!” said he to them; “you should kneel only
unto God.”
The orphans obeyed, and were soon beside him, holding each other by the
hand. “You know my name, it seems,” said the missionary with a smile.
“Oh, we have not forgotten it!”
“Who told it you?”
“Yourself.” “I?”
“Yes--when you came from our mother.”
“I, my sisters?” said the missionary, unable to comprehend the words of
the orphans. “You are mistaken. I saw you to-day for the first time.”
“But in our dreams?”
“Yes--do you not remember?--in our dreams.”
“In Germany--three months ago, for the first time. Look at us well.”
Gabriel could not help smiling at the simplicity of Rose and Blanche,
who expected him to remember a dream of theirs; growing more and more
perplexed, he repeated: “In your dreams?”
“Certainly; when you gave us such good advice.”
“And when we were so sorrowful in prison, your words, which we
remembered, consoled us, and gave us courage.”
“Was it not you, who delivered us from the prison at Leipsic, in that
dark night, when we were not able to see you?”
“I!”
“What other but you would thus have come to our help, and to that of our
old friend?”
“We told him, that you would love him, because he loved us, although he
would not believe in angels.”
“And this morning, during the tempest, we had hardly any fear.”
“Because we expected you.”
“This morning--yes, my sisters--it pleased heaven to send me to your
assistance. I was coming from America, but I have never been in
Leipsic. I could not, therefore, have let you out of prison. Tell me, my
sisters,” added he, with a benevolent smile, “for whom do you take me?”
“For a good angel whom we have seen already in dreams, sent by our
mother from heaven to protect us.”
“My dear sisters, I am only a poor priest. It is by mere chance, no
doubt, that I bear some resemblance to the angel you have seen in your
dreams, and whom you could not see in any other manner--for angels are
not visible to mortal eye.
“Angels are not visible?” said the orphans, looking sorrowfully at each
other.
“No matter, my dear sisters,” said Gabriel, taking them affectionately
by the hand; “dreams, like everything else, come from above. Since the
remembrance of your mother was mixed up with this dream, it is twice
blessed.”
At this moment a door opened, and Dagobert made his appearance. Up to
this time, the orphans, in their innocent ambition to be protected by an
archangel, had quite forgotten the circumstance that Dagobert’s wife
had adopted a forsaken child, who was called Gabriel, and who was now a
priest and missionary.
The soldier, though obstinate in maintaining that his hurt was only a
blank wound (to use a term of General Simon’s), had allowed it to be
carefully dressed by the surgeon of the village, and now wore a black
bandage, which concealed one half of his forehead, and added to the
natural grimness of his features. On entering the room, he was not a
little surprised to see a stranger holding the hands of Rose and Blanche
familiarly in his own. This surprise was natural, for Dagobert did not
know that the missionary had saved the lives of the orphans, and had
attempted to save his also.
In the midst of the storm, tossed about by the waves, and vainly
striving to cling to the rocks, the soldier had only seen Gabriel
very imperfectly, at the moment when, having snatched the sisters from
certain death, the young priest had fruitlessly endeavored to come to
his aid. And when, after the shipwreck, Dagobert had found the orphans
in safety beneath the roof of the Manor House, he fell, as we have
already stated, into a swoon, caused by fatigue, emotion, and the
effects of his wound--so that he had again no opportunity of observing
the features of the missionary.
The veteran began to frown from beneath his black bandage and thick,
gray brows, at beholding a stranger so familiar with Rose and Blanche;
but the sisters ran to throw themselves into his arms, and to cover him
with filial caresses. His anger was soon dissipated by these marks of
affection, though he continued, from time to time, to cast a suspicious
glance at the missionary, who had risen from his seat, but whose
countenance he could not well distinguish.
“How is your wound?” asked Rose, anxiously. “They told us it was not
dangerous.”
“Does it still pain?” added Blanche.
“No, children; the surgeon of the village would bandage me up in this
manner. If my head was carbonadoes with sabre cuts, I could not have
more wrappings. They will take me for an old milksop; it is only a blank
wound, and I have a good mind to--” And therewith the soldier raised one
of his hands to the bandage.
“Will you leave that alone?” cried Rose catching his arm. “How can you
be so unreasonable--at your age?”
“Well, well! don’t scold! I will do what you wish, and keep it on.”
Then, drawing the sisters to one end of the room, he said to them in a
low voice, whilst he looked at the young priest from the corner of his
eye: “Who is that gentleman who was holding your hands when I came in?
He has very much the look of a curate. You see, my children, you must be
on your guard; because--”
“He?” cried both sisters at once, turning towards Gabriel. “Without him,
we should not now be here to kiss you.”
“What’s that?” cried the soldier, suddenly drawing up his tall figure,
and gazing full at the missionary.
“It is our guardian angel,” resumed Blanche.
“Without him,” said Rose, “we must have perished this morning in the
shipwreck.”
“Ah! it is he, who--” Dagobert could say no more. With swelling heart,
and tears in his eyes, he ran to the missionary, offered him both his
hands, and exclaimed in a tone of gratitude impossible to describe:
“Sir, I owe you the lives of these two children. I feel what a debt
that service lays upon me. I will not say more--because it includes
everything!”
Then, as if struck with a sudden recollection, he cried: “Stop! when
I was trying to cling to a rock, so as not to be carried away by the
waves, was it not you that held out your hand to me? Yes--that light
hair--that youthful countenance--yes--it was certainly you--now I am
sure of it!”
“Unhappily, sir, my strength failed me, and I had the anguish to see you
fall back into the sea.”
“I can say nothing more in the way of thanks than what I have already
said,” answered Dagobert, with touching simplicity: “in preserving these
children you have done more for me than if you had saved my own life.
But what heart and courage!” added the soldier, with admiration; “and so
young, with such a girlish look!”
“And so,” cried Blanche, joyfully, “our Gabriel came to your aid also?”
“Gabriel!” said Dagobert interrupting Blanche, and addressing himself to
the priest. “Is your name Gabriel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gabriel!” repeated the soldier, more and more surprised. “And a
priest!” added he.
“A priest of the foreign missions.”
“Who--who brought you up?” asked the soldier, with increasing
astonishment.
“An excellent and generous woman, whom I revere as the best of mothers:
for she had pity on me, a deserted infant, and treated me ever as her
son.”
“Frances Baudoin--was it not?” said the soldier, with deep emotion.
“It was, sir,” answered Gabriel, astonished in his turn. “But how do you
know this?”
“The wife of a soldier, eh?” continued Dagobert.
“Yes, of a brave soldier--who, from the most admirable devotion, is even
now passing his life in exile--far from his wife--far from his son, my
dear brother--for I am proud to call him by that name--”
“My Agricola!--my wife!--when did you leave them?”
“What! is it possible! You the father of Agricola?--Oh! I knew not,
until now,” cried Gabriel, clasping his hands together, “I knew not all
the gratitude that I owed to heaven!”
“And my wife! my child!” resumed Dagobert, in a trembling voice; “how
are they? have you news of them?”
“The accounts I received, three months ago, were excellent.”
“No; it is too much,” cried Dagobert; “it is too much!” The veteran
was unable to proceed; his feelings stifled his words, and fell back
exhausted in a chair.
And now Rose and Blanche recalled to mind that portion of their father’s
letter which related to the child named Gabriel, whom the wife of
Dagobert had adopted; then they also yielded to transports of innocent
joy.
“Our Gabriel is the same as yours--what happiness!” cried Rose.
“Yes, my children! he belongs to you as well as to me. We have all
our part in him.” Then, addressing Gabriel, the soldier added with
affectionate warmth: “Your hand, my brave boy! give me your hand!”
“Oh, sir! you are too good to me.”
“Yes--that’s it--thank me!--after all thou has done for us!”
“Does my adopted mother know of your return?” asked Gabriel, anxious to
escape from the praises of the soldier.
“I wrote to her five months since, but said that I should come alone;
there was a reason for it, which I will explain by and by. Does she
still live in the Rue Brise-Miche? It was there Agricola was born.”
“She still lives there.”
“In that case, she must have received my letter. I wished to write to
her from the prison at Leipsic, but it was impossible.”
“From prison! Have you just come out of prison?”
“Yes; I come straight from Germany, by the Elbe and Hamburg, and I
should be still at Leipsic, but for an event which the Devil must have
had a hand in--a good sort of devil, though.”
“What do you mean? Pray explain to me.”
“That would be difficult, for I cannot explain it to myself. These
little ladies,” he added, pointing with a smile to Rose and Blanche,
“pretended to know more about it than I did, and were continually
repeating: ‘It was the angel that came to our assistance, Dagobert--the
good angel we told thee of--though you said you would rather have Spoil
sport to defend us--’”
“Gabriel, I am waiting for you,” said a stern voice, which made the
missionary start. They all turned round instantly, whilst the dog
uttered a deep growl.
It was Rodin. He stood in the doorway leading to the corridor. His
features were calm and impassive, but he darted a rapid, piercing glance
at the soldier and sisters.
“Who is that man?” said Dagobert, very little prepossessed in favor
of Rodin, whose countenance he found singularly repulsive. “What the
mischief does he want?”
“I must go with him,” answered Gabriel, in a tone of sorrowful
constraint. Then, turning to Rodin, he added: “A thousand pardons! I
shall be ready in a moment.”
“What!” cried Dagobert, stupefied with amazement, “going the very
instant we have just met? No, by my faith! you shall not go. I have
too much to tell you, and to ask in return. We will make the journey
together. It will be a real treat for me.”
“It is impossible. He is my superior, and I must obey him.”
“Your superior?--why, he’s in citizen’s dress.”
“He is not obliged to wear the ecclesiastical garb.”
“Rubbish! since he is not in uniform, and there is no provost-marshal in
your troop, send him to the--”
“Believe me, I would not hesitate a minute, if it were possible to
remain.”
“I was right in disliking the phi of that man,” muttered Dagobert
between his teeth. Then he added, with an air of impatience and
vexation: “Shall I tell him that he will much oblige us by marching off
by himself?”
“I beg you not to do so,” said Gabriel; “it would be useless; I know
my duty, and have no will but my superior’s. As soon as you arrive in
Paris, I will come and see you, as also my adopted mother, and my dear
brother, Agricola.”
“Well--if it must be. I have been a soldier, and know what subordination
is,” said Dagobert, much annoyed. “One must put a good face on bad
fortune. So, the day after to-morrow, in the Rue Brise-Miche, my boy;
for they tell me I can be in Paris by to-morrow evening, and we set out
almost immediately. But I say--there seems to be a strict discipline
with you fellows!”
“Yes, it is strict and severe,” answered Gabriel, with a shudder, and a
stifled sigh.
“Come, shake hands--and let’s say farewell for the present. After all,
twenty-four hours will soon pass away.”
“Adieu! adieu!” replied the missionary, much moved, whilst he returned
the friendly pressure of the veteran’s hand.
“Adieu, Gabriel!” added the orphans, sighing also, and with tears in
their eyes.
“Adieu, my sisters!” said Gabriel--and he left the room with Rodin, who
had not lost a word or an incident of this scene.
Two hours after, Dagobert and the orphans had quitted the Castle for
Paris, not knowing that Djalma was left at Cardoville, being still
too much injured to proceed on his journey. The half-caste, Faringhea,
remained with the young prince, not wishing, he said, to desert a fellow
countryman.
We now conduct the reader to the Rue Brise-Miche, the residence of
Dagobert’s wife.
CHAPTER XXVII. DAGOBERT’S WIFE.
The following scenes occur in Paris, on the morrow of the day when the
shipwrecked travellers were received in Cardoville House.
Nothing can be more gloomy than the aspect of the Rue Brise-Miche, one
end of which leads into the Rue Saint-Merry, and the other into the
little square of the Cloister, near the church. At this end, the street,
or rather alley--for it is not more than eight feet wide--is shut in
between immense black, muddy dilapidated walls, the excessive height of
which excludes both air and light; hardly, during the longest days
of the year, is the sun able to throw into it a few straggling beams;
whilst, during the cold damps of winter, a chilling fog, which seems to
penetrate everything, hangs constantly above the miry pavement of this
species of oblong well.
It was about eight o’clock in the evening; by the faint, reddish light
of the street lamp, hardly visible through the haze, two men, stopping
at the angle of one of those enormous walls, exchanged a few words
together.
“So,” said one, “you understand all about it. You are to watch in the
street, till you see them enter No. 5.”
“All right!” answered the other.
“And when you see ‘em enter so as to make quite sure of the game, go up
to Frances Baudoin’s room--”
“Under the cloak of asking where the little humpbacked workwoman
lives--the sister of that gay girl, the Queen of the Bacchanals.”
“Yes--and you must try and find out her address also--from her
humpbacked sister, if possible--for it is very important. Women of her
feather change their nests like birds, and we have lost track of her.”
“Make yourself easy; I will do my best with Hump, to learn where her
sister hangs out.”
“And, to give you steam, I’ll wait for you at the tavern opposite the
Cloister, and we’ll have a go of hot wine on your return.”
“I’ll not refuse, for the night is deucedly cold.”
“Don’t mention it! This morning the water friz on my sprinkling-brush,
and I turned as stiff as a mummy in my chair at the church-door. Ah, my
boy! a distributor of holy water is not always upon roses!”
“Luckily, you have the pickings--”
“Well, well--good luck to you! Don’t forget the Fiver, the little
passage next to the dyer’s shop.”
“Yes, yes--all right!” and the two men separated.
One proceeded to the Cloister Square; the other towards the further end
of the street, where it led into the Rue Saint-Merry. This latter
soon found the number of the house he sought--a tall, narrow building,
having, like all the other houses in the street, a poor and wretched
appearance. When he saw he was right, the man commenced walking
backwards and forwards in front of the door of No. 5.
If the exterior of these buildings was uninviting, the gloom and squalor
of the interior cannot be described. The house No. 5 was, in a special
degree, dirty and dilapidated. The water, which oozed from the wall,
trickled down the dark and filthy staircase. On the second floor, a wisp
of straw had been laid on the narrow landing-place, for wiping the feet
on; but this straw, being now quite rotten, only served to augment the
sickening odor, which arose from want of air, from damp, and from
the putrid exhalations of the drains. The few openings, cut at rare
intervals in the walls of the staircase, could hardly admit more than
some faint rays of glimmering light.
In this quarter, one of the most populous in Paris, such houses as
these, poor, cheerless, and unhealthy, are generally inhabited by
the working classes. The house in question was of the number. A dyer
occupied the ground floor; the deleterious vapors arising from his vats
added to the stench of the whole building. On the upper stories, several
artisans lodged with their families, or carried on their different
trades. Up four flights of stairs was the lodging of Frances Baudoin,
wife of Dagobert. It consisted of one room, with a closet adjoining, and
was now lighted by a single candle. Agricola occupied a garret in the
roof.
Old grayish paper, broken here and there by the cracks covered the crazy
wall, against which rested the bed; scanty curtains, running upon an
iron rod, concealed the windows; the brick floor, not polished, but
often washed, had preserved its natural color. At one end of this room
was a round iron stove, with a large pot for culinary purposes. On the
wooden table, painted yellow, marbled with brown, stood a miniature
house made of iron--a masterpiece of patience and skill, the work of
Agricola Baudoin, Dagobert’s son.
A plaster crucifix hung up against the wall, surrounded by several
branches of consecrated box-tree, and various images of saints, very
coarsely colored, bore witness to the habits of the soldier’s wife.
Between the windows stood one of those old walnut-wood presses,
curiously fashioned, and almost black with time; an old arm-chair,
covered with green cotton velvet (Agricola’s first present to his
mother), a few rush bottomed chairs, and a worktable on which lay
several bags of coarse, brown cloth, completed the furniture of this
room, badly secured by a worm-eaten door. The adjoining closet contained
a few kitchen and household utensils.
Mean and poor as this interior may perhaps appear, it would not seem
so to the greater number of artisans; for the bed was supplied with
two mattresses, clean sheets, and a warm counterpane; the old-fashioned
press contained linen; and, moreover, Dagobert’s wife occupied all to
herself a room as large as those in which numerous families, belonging
to honest and laborious workmen, often live and sleep huddled
together--only too happy if the boys and girls can have separate beds,
or if the sheets and blankets are not pledged at the pawnbroker’s.
Frances Baudoin, seated beside the small stove, which, in the cold and
damp weather, yielded but little warmth, was busied in preparing her son
Agricola’s evening meal.
Dagobert’s wife was about fifty years of age; she wore a close jacket
of blue cotton, with white flowers on it, and a stuff petticoat; a white
handkerchief was tied round her head, and fastened under the chin. Her
countenance was pale and meagre, the features regular, and expressive of
resignation and great kindness. It would have been difficult to find a
better, a more courageous mother. With no resource but her labor, she
had succeeded, by unwearied energy, in bringing up not only her own
son Agricola, but also Gabriel, the poor deserted child, of whom, with
admirable devotion, she had ventured to take charge.
In her youth, she had, as it were, anticipated the strength of later
life, by twelve years of incessant toil, rendered lucrative by the most
violent exertions, and accompanied by such privations as made it almost
suicidal. Then (for it was a time of splendid wages, compared to the
present), by sleepless nights and constant labor, she contrived to earn
about two shillings (fifty sous) a day, and with this she managed to
educate her son and her adopted child.
At the end of these twelve years, her health was ruined, and her
strength nearly exhausted; but, at all events, her boys had wanted for
nothing, and had received such an education as children of the people
can obtain. About this time, M. Francois Hardy took Agricola as an
apprentice, and Gabriel prepared to enter the priest’s seminary,
under the active patronage of M. Rodin, whose communications with the
confessor of Frances Baudoin had become very frequent about the year
1820.
This woman (whose piety had always been excessive) was one of those
simple natures, endowed with extreme goodness, whose self-denial
approaches to heroism, and who devote themselves in obscurity to a life
of martyrdom--pure and heavenly minds, in whom the instincts of the
heart supply the place of the intellect!
The only defect, or rather the necessary consequence of this extreme
simplicity of character, was the invincible determination she displayed
in yielding to the commands of her confessor, to whose influence she
had now for many years been accustomed to submit. She regarded this
influence as most venerable and sacred; no mortal power, no human
consideration, could have prevented her from obeying it. Did any dispute
arise on the subject, nothing could move her on this point; she opposed
to every argument a resistance entirely free from passion--mild as her
disposition, calm as her conscience--but, like the latter, not to
be shaken. In a word, Frances Baudoin was one of those pure, but
uninstructed and credulous beings, who may sometimes, in skillful and
dangerous hands, become, without knowing it, the instruments of much
evil.
For some time past, the bad state of her health, and particularly the
increasing weakness of her sight, had condemned her to a forced repose;
unable to work more than two or three hours a day, she consumed the rest
of her time at church.
Frances rose from her seat, pushed the coarse bags at which she had been
working to the further end of the table, and proceeded to lay the cloth
for her son’s supper, with maternal care and solicitude. She took from
the press a small leathern bag, containing an old silver cup, very much
battered, and a fork and spoon, so worn and thin, that the latter cut
like a knife. These, her only plate (the wedding present of Dagobert)
she rubbed and polished as well as she was able, and laid by the side of
her son’s plate. They were the most precious of her possessions, not so
much for what little intrinsic value might attach to them, as for the
associations they recalled; and she had often shed bitter tears, when,
under the pressure of illness or want of employment, she had been
compelled to carry these sacred treasures to the pawnbroker’s.
Frances next took, from the lower shelf of the press, a bottle of water,
and one of wine about three-quarters full, which she also placed near
her son’s plate; she then returned to the stove, to watch the cooking of
the supper.
Though Agricola was not much later than usual, the countenance of his
mother expressed both uneasiness and grief; one might have seen, by the
redness of her eyes, that she had been weeping a good deal. After
long and painful uncertainty, the poor woman had just arrived at the
conviction that her eyesight, which had been growing weaker and weaker,
would soon be so much impaired as to prevent her working even the two or
three hours a day which had lately been the extent of her labors.
Originally an excellent hand at her needle, she had been obliged, as
her eyesight gradually failed her, to abandon the finer for the
coarser sorts of work, and her earnings had necessarily diminished in
proportion; she had at length been reduced to the necessity of making
those coarse bags for the army, which took about four yards of sewing,
and were paid at the rate of two sous each, she having to find her own
thread. This work, being very hard, she could at most complete three
such bags in a day, and her gains thus amounted to threepence (six
sous)!
It makes one shudder to think of the great number of unhappy females,
whose strength has been so much exhausted by privations, old age, or
sickness, that all the labor of which they are capable, hardly suffices
to bring them in daily this miserable pittance. Thus do their gains
diminish in exact proportion to the increasing wants which age and
infirmity must occasion.
Happily, Frances had an efficient support in her son. A first-rate
workman, profiting by the just scale of wages adopted by M. Hardy, his
labor brought him from four to five shillings a day--more than double
what was gained by the workmen of many other establishments. Admitting
therefore that his mother were to gain nothing, he could easily maintain
both her and himself.
But the poor woman, so wonderfully economical that she denied herself
even some of the necessaries of life, had of late become ruinously
liberal on the score of the sacristy, since she had adopted the habit
of visiting daily the parish church. Scarcely a day passed but she had
masses sung, or tapers burnt, either for Dagobert, from whom she had
been so long separated, or for the salvation of her son Agricola, whom
she considered on the high-road to perdition. Agricola had so excellent
a heart, so loved and revered his mother, and considered her actions
in this respect inspired by so touching a sentiment, that he never
complained when he saw a great part of his week’s wages (which he paid
regularly over to his mother every Saturday) disappear in pious forms.
Yet now and then he ventured to remark to Frances, with as much respect
as tenderness, that it pained him to see her enduring privations
injurious at her age, because she preferred incurring these devotional
expenses. But what answer could he make to this excellent mother, when
she replied with tears: “My child, ‘tis for the salvation of your father
and yours too.”
To dispute the efficacy of masses, would have been venturing on a
subject which Agricola, through respect for his mother’s religious
faith, never discussed. He contented himself, therefore, with seeing her
dispense with comforts she might have enjoyed.
A discreet tap was heard at the door. “Come in,” said Frances. The
person came in.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SISTER OF THE BACCHANAL QUEEN.
The person who now entered was a girl of about eighteen, short, and very
much deformed. Though not exactly a hunchback, her spine was curved; her
breast was sunken, and her head deeply set in the shoulders. Her face
was regular, but long, thin, very pale, and pitted with the small pox;
yet it expressed great sweetness and melancholy. Her blue eyes beamed
with kindness and intelligence. By a strange freak of nature, the
handsomest woman would have been proud of the magnificent hair twisted
in a coarse net at the back of her head. She held an old basket in her
hand. Though miserably clad, the care and neatness of her dress revealed
a powerful struggle with her poverty. Notwithstanding the cold, she
wore a scanty frock made of print of an indefinable color, spotted with
white; but it had been so often washed, that its primitive design and
color had long since disappeared. In her resigned, yet suffering face,
might be read a long familiarity with every form of suffering, every
description of taunting. From her birth, ridicule had ever pursued her.
We have said that she was very deformed, and she was vulgarly called
“Mother Bunch.” Indeed it was so usual to give her this grotesque name,
which every moment reminded her of her infirmity, that Frances and
Agricola, though they felt as much compassion as other people showed
contempt for her, never called her, however, by any other name.
Mother Bunch, as we shall therefore call her in future, was born in the
house in which Dagobert’s wife had resided for more than twenty years;
and she had, as it were, been brought up with Agricola and Gabriel.
There are wretches fatally doomed to misery. Mother Bunch had a very
pretty sister, on whom Perrine Soliveau, their common mother, the widow
of a ruined tradesman, had concentrated all her affection, while she
treated her deformed child with contempt and unkindness. The latter
would often come, weeping, to Frances, on this account, who tried to
console her, and in the long evenings amused her by teaching her to read
and sew. Accustomed to pity her by their mother’s example, instead of
imitating other children, who always taunted and sometimes even beat
her, Agricola and Gabriel liked her, and used to protect and defend her.
She was about fifteen, and her sister Cephyse was about seventeen,
when their mother died, leaving them both in utter poverty. Cephyse was
intelligent, active, clever, but different to her sister; she had the
lively, alert, hoydenish character which requires air, exercise and
pleasures--a good girl enough, but foolishly spoiled by her mother.
Cephyse, listening at first to Frances’s good advice, resigned herself
to her lot; and, having learnt to sew, worked like her sister, for
about a year. But, unable to endure any longer the bitter privations her
insignificant earnings, notwithstanding her incessant toil, exposed
her to--privations which often bordered on starvation--Cephyse, young,
pretty, of warm temperament, and surrounded by brilliant offers and
seductions--brilliant, indeed, for her, since they offered food to
satisfy her hunger, shelter from the cold, and decent raiment, without
being obliged to work fifteen hours a day in an obscure and unwholesome
hovel--Cephyse listened to the vows of a young lawyer’s clerk, who
forsook her soon after. She formed a connection with another clerk, whom
she (instructed by the examples set her), forsook in turn for a bagman,
whom she afterwards cast off for other favorites. In a word, what with
changing and being forsaken, Cephyse, in the course of one or two years,
was the idol of a set of grisettes, students and clerks; and acquired
such a reputation at the balls on the Hampstead Heaths of Paris, by her
decision of character, original turn of mind, and unwearied ardor in all
kinds of pleasures, and especially her wild, noisy gayety, that she was
termed the Bacchanal Queen, and proved herself in every way worthy of
this bewildering royalty.
From that time poor Mother Bunch only heard of her sister at rare
intervals. She still mourned for her, and continued to toil hard to
gain her three-and-six a week. The unfortunate girl, having been taught
sewing by Frances, made coarse shirts for the common people and the
army. For these she received half-a-crown a dozen. They had to be
hemmed, stitched, provided with collars and wristbands, buttons, and
button holes; and at the most, when at work twelve and fifteen hours a
day, she rarely succeeded in turning out more than fourteen or sixteen
shirts a week--an excessive amount of toil that brought her in about
three shillings and fourpence a week. And the case of this poor girl
was neither accidental nor uncommon. And this, because the remuneration
given for women’s work is an example of revolting injustice and savage
barbarism. They are paid not half as much as men who are employed at the
needle: such as tailors, and makers of gloves, or waistcoats, etc.--no
doubt because women can work as well as men--because they are more weak
and delicate--and because their need may be twofold as great when they
become mothers.
Well, Mother Bunch fagged on, with three-and-four a week. That is to
say, toiling hard for twelve or fifteen hours every day; she succeeded
in keeping herself alive, in spite of exposure to hunger, cold, and
poverty--so numerous were her privations. Privations? No! The word
privation expresses but weakly that constant and terrible want of all
that is necessary to preserve the existence God gives; namely, wholesome
air and shelter, sufficient and nourishing food and warm clothing.
Mortification would be a better word to describe that total want of all
that is essentially vital, which a justly organized state of society
ought--yes--ought necessarily to bestow on every active, honest
workman and workwoman, since civilization has dispossessed them of all
territorial right, and left them no other patrimony than their hands.
The savage does not enjoy the advantage of civilization; but he has, at
least, the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, the fish of the
sea, and the fruits of the earth, to feed him, and his native woods for
shelter and for fuel. The civilized man, disinherited of these gifts,
considering the rights of property as sacred, may, in return for his
hard daily labor, which enriches his country, demand wages that will
enable him to live in the enjoyment of health: nothing more, and
nothing less. For is it living, to drag along on the extreme edge which
separates life from the grave, and even there continually struggle
against cold, hunger, and disease? And to show how far the mortification
which society imposes thus inexorably on its millions of honest,
industrious laborers (by its careless disregard of all the questions
which concern the just remuneration of labor), may extend, we will
describe how this poor girl contrived to live on three shillings and
sixpence a week.
Society, perhaps, may then feel its obligation to so many unfortunate
wretches for supporting, with resignation, the horrible existence which
leaves them just sufficient life to feel the worst pangs of humanity.
Yes: to live at such a price is virtue! Yes, society thus organized,
whether it tolerates or imposes so much misery, loses all right to
blame the poor wretches who sell themselves not through debauchery, but
because they are cold and famishing. This poor girl spent her wages as
follows:
Six pounds of bread, second quality........0 8 1/2
Four pails of water................0 2
Lard or dripping (butter being out of the question)0 5
Coarse salt....................0 0 3/4
A bushel of charcoal...............0 4
A quart of dried vegetables............0 3
Three quarts of potatoes..............0 2
Dips........................0 3 1/4
Thread and needles.................0 2 1/2
______
2 7
To save charcoal, Mother Bunch prepared soup only two or three times a
week at most, on a stove that stood on the landing of the fourth story.
On other days she ate it cold. There remained nine or ten pence a week
for clothes and lodging. By rare good fortune, her situation was in one
respect an exception to the lot of many others. Agricola, that he
might not wound her delicacy, had come to a secret arrangement with the
housekeeper, and hired a garret for her, just large enough to hold a
small bed, a chair, and a table; for which the sempstress had to pay
five shillings a year. But Agricola, in fulfilment of his agreement with
the porter, paid the balance, to make up the actual rent of the
garret, which was twelve and sixpence. The poor girl had thus about
eighteenpence a month left for her other expenses. But many workwomen,
whose position is less fortunate than hers, since they have neither
home nor family, buy a piece of bread and some other food to keep them
through the day; and at night patronize the “twopenny rope,” one with
another, in a wretched room containing five or six beds, some of which
are always engaged by men, as male lodgers are by far the most abundant.
Yes; and in spite of the disgust that a poor and virtuous girl must feel
at this arrangement, she must submit to it; for a lodging-house keeper
cannot have separate rooms for females. To furnish a room, however
meanly, the poor workwoman must possess three or four shillings in ready
money. But how save this sum, out of weekly earnings of a couple of
florins, which are scarcely sufficient to keep her from starving, and
are still less sufficient to clothe her? No! no! The poor wretch must
resign herself to this repugnant cohabitation; and so, gradually, the
instinct of modesty becomes weakened; the natural sentiment of chastity,
that saved her from the “gay life,” becomes extinct; vice appears to be
the only means of improving her intolerable condition; she yields;
and the first “man made of money,” who can afford a governess for his
children, cries out against the depravity of the lower orders! And
yet, painful as the condition of the working woman is, it is relatively
fortunate. Should work fail her for one day, two days, what then? Should
sickness come--sickness almost always occasioned by unwholesome food,
want of fresh air, necessary attention, and good rest; sickness, often
so enervating as to render work impossible; though not so dangerous
as to procure the sufferer a bed in an hospital--what becomes of the
hapless wretches then? The mind hesitates, and shrinks from dwelling on
such gloomy pictures.
This inadequacy of wages, one terrible source only of so many evils, and
often of so many vices, is general, especially among women; and, again
this is not private wretchedness, but the wretchedness which afflicts
whole classes, the type of which we endeavor to develop in Mother Bunch.
It exhibits the moral and physical condition of thousands of human
creatures in Paris, obliged to subsist on a scanty four shillings a
week. This poor workwoman, then, notwithstanding the advantages she
unknowingly enjoyed through Agricola’s generosity, lived very miserably;
and her health, already shattered, was now wholly undermined by these
constant hardships. Yet, with extreme delicacy, though ignorant of
the little sacrifice already made for her by Agricola, Mother Bunch
pretended she earned more than she really did, in order to avoid offers
of service which it would have pained her to accept, because she knew
the limited means of Frances and her son, and because it would have
wounded her natural delicacy, rendered still more sensitive by so many
sorrows and humiliations.
But, singular as it may appear, this deformed body contained a loving
and generous soul--a mind cultivated even to poetry; and let us add,
that this was owing to the example of Agricola Baudoin, with whom she
had been brought up, and who had naturally the gift. This poor girl was
the first confidant to whom our young mechanic imparted his literary
essays; and when he told her of the charm and extreme relief he found
in poetic reverie, after a day of hard toil, the workwoman, gifted with
strong natural intelligence, felt, in her turn, how great a resource
this would be to her in her lonely and despised condition.
One day, to Agricola’s great surprise, who had just read some verses to
her, the sewing-girl, with smiles and blushes, timidly communicated to
him also a poetic composition. Her verses wanted rhythm and harmony,
perhaps; but they were simple and affecting, as a non-envenomed
complaint entrusted to a friendly hearer. From that day Agricola and she
held frequent consultations; they gave each other mutual encouragement:
but with this exception, no one else knew anything of the girl’s
poetical essays, whose mild timidity made her often pass for a person of
weak intellect. This soul must have been great and beautiful, for in all
her unlettered strains there was not a word of murmuring respecting her
hard lot: her note was sad, but gentle--desponding, but resigned; it
was especially the language of deep tenderness--of mournful sympathy--of
angelic charity for all poor creatures consigned, like her, to bear
the double burden of poverty and deformity. Yet she often expressed
a sincere free-spoken admiration of beauty, free from all envy or
bitterness; she admired beauty as she admired the sun. But, alas! many
were the verses of hers that Agricola had never seen, and which he was
never to see.
The young mechanic, though not strictly handsome, had an open masculine
face; was as courageous as kind; possessed a noble, glowing, generous
heart, a superior mind, and a frank, pleasing gayety of spirits. The
young girl, brought up with him, loved him as an unfortunate creature
can love, who, dreading cruel ridicule, is obliged to hide her affection
in the depths of her heart, and adopt reserve and deep dissimulation.
She did not seek to combat her love; to what purpose should she do
so? No one would ever know it. Her well known sisterly affection for
Agricola explained the interest she took in all that concerned him; so
that no one was surprised at the extreme grief of the young workwoman,
when, in 1830, Agricola, after fighting intrepidly for the people’s
flag, was brought bleeding home to his mother. Dagobert’s son, deceived,
like others, on this point, had never suspected, and was destined never
to suspect, this love for him.
Such was the poorly-clad girl who entered the room in which Frances was
preparing her son’s supper.
“Is it you, my poor love,” said she; “I have not seen you since morning:
have you been ill? Come and kiss me.”
The young girl kissed Agricola’s mother, and replied: “I was very busy
about some work, mother; I did not wish to lose a moment; I have only
just finished it. I am going down to fetch some charcoal--do you want
anything while I’m out?”
“No, no, my child, thank you. But I am very uneasy. It is half-past
eight, and Agricola is not come home.” Then she added, after a sigh: “He
kills himself with work for me. Ah, I am very unhappy, my girl; my sight
is quite going. In a quarter of an hour after I begin working, I cannot
see at all--not even to sew sacks. The idea of being a burden to my son
drives me distracted.”
“Oh, don’t, ma’am, if Agricola heard you say that--”
“I know the poor boy thinks of nothing but me, and that augments my
vexation. Only I think that rather than leave me, he gives up the
advantages that his fellow-workmen enjoy at Hardy’s, his good and worthy
master--instead of living in this dull garret, where it is scarcely
light at noon, he would enjoy, like the other workmen, at very little
expense, a good light room, warm in winter, airy in summer, with a view
of the garden. And he is so fond of trees! not to mention that this
place is so far from his work, that it is quite a toil to him to get to
it.”
“Oh, when he embraces you he forgets his fatigue, Mrs. Baudoin,” said
Mother Bunch; “besides, he knows how you cling to the house in which he
was born. M. Hardy offered to settle you at Plessy with Agricola, in the
building put up for the workmen.”
“Yes, my child; but then I must give up church. I can’t do that.”
“But--be easy, I hear him,” said the hunchback, blushing.
A sonorous, joyous voice was heard singing on the stairs.
“At least, I’ll not let him see that I have been crying,” said the good
mother, drying her tears. “This is the only moment of rest and ease from
toil he has--I must not make it sad to him.”
CHAPTER XXIX. AGRICOLA BAUDOIN.
Our blacksmith poet, a tall young man, about four-and-twenty years of
age, was alert and robust, with ruddy complexion, dark hair and eyes,
and aquiline nose, and an open, expressive countenance. His resemblance
to Dagobert was rendered more striking by the thick brown moustache
which he wore according to the fashion; and a sharp-pointed imperial
covered his chin. His cheeks, however, were shaven, Olive color
velveteen trousers, a blue blouse, bronzed by the forge smoke, a black
cravat, tied carelessly round his muscular neck, a cloth cap with
a narrow vizor, composed his dress. The only thing which contrasted
singularly with his working habiliments was a handsome purple flower,
with silvery pistils, which he held in his hand.
“Good-evening, mother,” said he, as he came to kiss Frances immediately.
Then, with a friendly nod, he added, “Good-evening, Mother Bunch.”
“You are very late, my child,” said Frances, approaching the little
stove on which her son’s simple meal was simmering; “I was getting very
anxious.”
“Anxious about me, or about my supper, dear mother?” said Agricola,
gayly. “The deuce! you won’t excuse me for keeping the nice little
supper waiting that you get ready for me, for fear it should be spoilt,
eh?”
So saying, the blacksmith tried to kiss his mother again.
“Have done, you naughty boy; you’ll make me upset the pan.”
“That would be a pity, mother; for it smells delightfully. Let’s see
what it is.”
“Wait half a moment.”
“I’ll swear, now, you have some of the fried potatoes and bacon I’m so
fond of.”
“Being Saturday, of course!” said Frances, in a tone of mild reproach.
“True,” rejoined Agricola, exchanging a smile of innocent cunning with
Mother Bunch; “but, talking of Saturday, mother, here are my wages.”
“Thank ye, child; put the money in the cupboard.”
“Yes, mother!”
“Oh, dear!” cried the young sempstress, just as Agricola was about
to put away the money, “what a handsome flower you have in your hand,
Agricola. I never saw a finer. In winter, too! Do look at it, Mrs.
Baudoin.”
“See there, mother,” said Agricola, taking the flower to her; “look
at it, admire it, and especially smell it. You can’t have a sweeter
perfume; a blending of vanilla and orange blossom.”
“Indeed, it does smell nice, child. Goodness! how handsome!” said
Frances, admiringly; “where did you find it?”
“Find it, my good mother!” repeated Agricola, smilingly: “do you think
folks pick up such things between the Barriere du Maine and the Rue
Brise-Miche?”
“How did you get it then?” inquired the sewing girl, sharing in
Frances’s curiosity.
“Oh! you would like to know? Well, I’ll satisfy you, and explain why
I came home so late; for something else detained me. It has been an
evening of adventures, I promise you. I was hurrying home, when I heard
a low, gentle barking at the corner of the Rue de Babylone; it was just
about dusk, and I could see a very pretty little dog, scarce bigger than
my fist, black and tan, with long, silky hair, and ears that covered its
paws.”
“Lost, poor thing, I warrant,” said Frances.
“You’ve hit it. I took up the poor thing, and it began to lick my hands.
Round its neck was a red satin ribbon, tied in a large bow; but as that
did not bear the master’s name, I looked beneath it, and saw a small
collar, made of a gold plate and small gold chains. So I took a Lucifer
match from my ‘bacco-box, and striking a light, I read, ‘FRISKY belongs
to Hon. Miss Adrienne de Cardoville, No. 7, Rue de Babylone.’”
“Why, you were just in the street,” said Mother Bunch.
“Just so. Taking the little animal under my arm, I looked about me till
I came to a long garden wall, which seemed to have no end, and found a
small door of a summer-house, belonging no doubt to the large mansion at
the other end of the park; for this garden looked just like a park. So,
looking up I saw ‘No. 7,’ newly painted over a little door with a grated
slide. I rang; and in a few minutes, spent, no doubt, in observing me
through the bars (for I am sure I saw a pair of eyes peeping through),
the gate opened. And now, you’ll not believe a word I have to say.”
“Why not, my child?”
“Because it seems like a fairy tale.”
“A fairy tale?” said Mother Bunch, as if she was really her namesake of
elfish history.
“For, all the world it does. I am quite astounded, even now, at my
adventure; it is like the remembrance of a dream.”
“Well, let us have it,” said the worthy mother, so deeply interested
that she did not perceive her son’s supper was beginning to burn.
“First,” said the blacksmith, smiling at the curiosity he had excited,
“a young lady opened the door to me, but so lovely, so beautifully
and gracefully dressed, that you would have taken her for a beautiful
portrait of past times. Before I could say a word, she exclaimed, ‘Ah!
dear me, sir, you have brought back Frisky; how happy Miss Adrienne
will be! Come, pray come in instantly; she would so regret not having
an opportunity to thank you in person!’ And without giving me time to
reply, she beckoned me to follow her. Oh, dear mother, it is quite out
of my power to tell you, the magnificence I saw, as I passed through
a small saloon, partially lighted, and full of perfume! It would be
impossible. The young woman walked too quickly. A door opened,--Oh, such
a sight! I was so dazzled I can remember nothing but a great glare of
gold and light, crystal and flowers; and, amidst all this brilliancy,
a young lady of extreme beauty--ideal beauty; but she had red hair, or
rather hair shining like gold! Oh! it was charming to look at! I never
saw such hair before. She had black eyes, ruddy lips, and her skin
seemed white as snow. This is all I can recollect: for, as I said
before, I was so dazzled, I seemed to be looking through a veil.
‘Madame,’ said the young woman, whom I never should have taken for
a lady’s-maid, she was dressed so elegantly, ‘here is Frisky. This
gentleman found him, and brought him back.’ ‘Oh, sir,’ said the young
lady with the golden hair, in a sweet silvery voice, ‘what thanks I owe
you! I am foolishly attached to Frisky.’ Then, no doubt, concluding from
my dress that she ought to thank me in some other way than by words, she
took up a silk purse, and said to me, though I must confess with some
hesitation--‘No doubt, sir, it gave you some trouble to bring my pet
back. You have, perhaps, lost some valuable time--allow me--’ She held
forth her purse.”
“Oh, Agricola,” said Mother Bunch, sadly; “how people may be deceived!”
“Hear the end, and you will perhaps forgive the young lady. Seeing by
my looks that the offer of the purse hurt me, she took a magnificent
porcelain vase that contained this flower, and, addressing me in a tone
full of grace and kindness, that left me room to guess that she was
vexed at having wounded me, she said--‘At least, sir, you will accept
this flower.’”
“You are right, Agricola,” said the girl, smiling sadly; “an involuntary
error could not be repaired in a nicer way.
“Worthy young lady,” said Frances, wiping her eyes; “how well she
understood my Agricola!”
“Did she not, mother? But just as I was taking the flower, without
daring to raise my eyes (for, notwithstanding the young lady’s kind
manner, there was something very imposing about her) another handsome
girl, tall and dark, and dressed to the top of fashion, came in and said
to the red-haired young lady, ‘He is here, Madame.’ She immediately rose
and said to me, ‘A thousand pardons, sir. I shall never forget that I
am indebted to you for a moment of much pleasure. Pray remember, on all
occasions, my address and name--Adrienne de Cardoville.’ Thereupon she
disappeared. I could not find a word to say in reply. The same young
woman showed me to the door, and curtseyed to me very politely. And
there I stood in the Rue de Babylone, as dazzled and astonished as if I
had come out of an enchanted palace.”
“Indeed, my child, it is like a fairy tale. Is it not, my poor girl?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mother Bunch, in an absent manner that Agricola did
not observe.
“What affected me most,” rejoined Agricola, “was, that the young lady,
on seeing her little dog, did not forget me for it, as many would
have done in her place, and took no notice of it before me. That shows
delicacy and feeling, does it not? Indeed, I believe this young lady to
be so kind and generous, that I should not hesitate to have recourse to
her in any important case.”
“Yes, you are right,” replied the sempstress, more and more absent.
The poor girl suffered extremely. She felt no jealousy, no hatred,
towards this young stranger, who, from her beauty, wealth, and delicacy,
seemed to belong to a sphere too splendid and elevated to be even
within the reach of a work, girl’s vision; but, making an involuntary
comparison of this fortunate condition with her own, the poor thing had
never felt more cruelly her deformity and poverty. Yet such were the
humility and gentle resignation of this noble creature, that the only
thing which made her feel ill-disposed towards Adrienne de Cardoville
was the offer of the purse to Agricola; but then the charming way in
which the young lady had atoned for her error, affected the sempstress
deeply. Yet her heart was ready to break. She could not restrain her
tears as she contemplated the magnificent flower--so rich in color and
perfume, which, given by a charming hand, was doubtless very precious to
Agricola.
“Now, mother,” resumed the young man smilingly, and unaware of the
painful emotion of the other bystander, “you have had the cream of my
adventures first. I have told you one of the causes of my delay; and now
for the other. Just now, as I was coming in, I met the dyer at the foot
of the stairs, his arms a beautiful pea-green. Stopping me he said, with
an air full of importance, that he thought he had seen a chap sneaking
about the house like a spy, ‘Well, what is that to you, Daddy Loriot?’
said I: ‘are you afraid he will nose out the way to make the beautiful
green, with which you are dyed up to the very elbows?’”
“But who could that man be, Agricola?” said Frances.
“On my word, mother, I don’t know and scarcely care; I tried to persuade
Daddy Loriot, who chatters like a magpie, to return to his cellar, since
it could signify as little to him as to me, whether a spy watched him
or not.” So saying, Agricola went and placed the little leathern sack,
containing his wages, on a shelf, in the cupboard.
As Frances put down the saucepan on the end of the table, Mother Bunch,
recovering from her reverie, filled a basin with water, and, taking
it to the blacksmith, said to him in a gentle tone-“Agricola--for your
hands.”
“Thank you, little sister. How kind you are!” Then with a most
unaffected gesture and tone, he added, “There is my fine flower for your
trouble.”
“Do you give it me?” cried the sempstress, with emotion, while a vivid
blush colored her pale and interesting face. “Do you give me this
handsome flower, which a lovely rich young lady so kindly and graciously
gave you?” And the poor thing repeated, with growing astonishment, “Do
you give it to me?”
“What the deuce should I do with it? Wear it on my heart, have it set as
a pin?” said Agricola, smiling. “It is true I was very much impressed by
the charming way in which the young lady thanked me. I am delighted to
think I found her little dog, and very happy to be able to give you this
flower, since it pleases you. You see the day has been a happy one.”
While Mother Bunch, trembling with pleasure, emotion, and surprise, took
the flower, the young blacksmith washed his hands, so black with smoke
and steel filings that the water became dark in an instant. Agricola,
pointing out this change to the sempstress, said to her in a whisper,
laughing,-“Here’s cheap ink for us paper-stainers! I finished some
verses yesterday, which I am rather satisfied with. I will read them to
you.”
With this, Agricola wiped his hands naturally on the front of his
blouse, while Mother Bunch replaced the basin on the chest of drawers,
and laid the flower against the side of it.
“Can’t you ask for a towel,” said Frances, shrugging her shoulders,
“instead of wiping your hands on your blouse?”
“After being scorched all day long at the forge, it will be all the
better for a little cooling to-night, won’t it? Am I disobedient,
mother? Scold me, then, if you dare! Come, let us see you.”
Frances made no reply; but, placing her hands on either side of her
son’s head, so beautiful in its candor, resolution and intelligence, she
surveyed him for a moment with maternal pride, and kissed him repeatedly
on the forehead.
“Come,” said she, “sit down: you stand all day at your forge, and it is
late.”
“So,--your arm-chair again!” said Agricola.--“Our usual quarrel every
evening--take it away, I shall be quite as much at ease on another.”
“No, no! You ought at least to rest after your hard toil.”
“What tyranny!” said Agricola gayly, sitting down. “Well, I preach like
a good apostle; but I am quite at ease in your arm-chair, after all.
Since I sat down on the throne in the Tuileries, I have never had a
better seat.”
Frances Baudoin, standing on one side of the table, cut a slice of bread
for her son, while Mother Bunch, on the other, filled his silver mug.
There was something affecting in the attentive eagerness of the two
excellent creatures, for him whom they loved so tenderly.
“Won’t you sup with me?” said Agricola to the girl.
“Thank you, Agricola,” replied the sempstress, looking down, “I have
only just dined.”
“Oh, I only ask you for form’s sake--you have your whims--we can never
prevail on you to eat with us--just like mother; she prefers dining all
alone; and in that way she deprives herself without my knowing it.”
“Goodness, child! It is better for my health to dine early. Well, do you
find it nice?”
“Nice!--call it excellent! Stockfish and parsnips. Oh, I am very fond of
stockfish; I should have been born a Newfoundland fisherman.”
This worthy lad, on the contrary, was but poorly refreshed, after a hard
day’s toil, with this paltry stew,--a little burnt as it had been, too,
during his story; but he knew he pleased his mother by observing the
fast without complaining. He affected to enjoy his meal; and the good
woman accordingly observed with satisfaction:
“Oh, I see you like it, my dear boy; Friday and Saturday next we’ll have
some more.”
“Thank you, mother,--only not two days together. One gets tired
of luxuries, you know! And now, let us talk of what we shall do
to-morrow--Sunday. We must be very merry, for the last few days you
seem very sad, dear mother, and I can’t make it out--I fancy you are not
satisfied with me.”
“Oh, my dear child!--you--the pattern of--”
“Well, well! Prove to me that you are happy, then, by taking a little
amusement. Perhaps you will do us the honor of accompanying us, as you
did last time,” added Agricola, bowing to Mother Bunch.
The latter blushed and looked down; her face assumed an expression of
bitter grief, and she made no reply.
“I have the prayers to attend all day, you know, my dear child,” said
Frances to her son.
“Well, in the evening, then? I don’t propose the theatre; but they say
there is a conjurer to be seen whose tricks are very amusing.
“I am obliged to you, my son; but that is a kind of theatre.”
“Dear mother, this is unreasonable!”
“My dear child, do I ever hinder others from doing what they like?”
“True, dear mother; forgive me. Well, then, if it should be fine, we
will simply take a walk with Mother Bunch on the Boulevards. It is
nearly three months since she went out with us; and she never goes out
without us.”
“No, no; go alone, my child. Enjoy your Sunday, ‘tis little enough.”
“You know very well, Agricola,” said the sempstress, blushing up to the
eyes, “that I ought not to go out with you and your mother again.”
“Why not, madame? May I ask, without impropriety, the cause of this
refusal?” said Agricola gayly.
The poor girl smiled sadly, and replied, “Because I will not expose you
to a quarrel on my account, Agricola.”
“Forgive me,” said Agricola, in a tone of sincere grief, and he struck
his forehead vexedly.
To this Mother Bunch alluded sometimes, but very rarely, for she
observed punctilious discretion. The girl had gone out with Agricola and
his mother. Such occasions were, indeed, holidays for her. Many days and
nights had she toiled hard to procure a decent bonnet and shawl, that
she might not do discredit to her friends. The five or six days of
holidays, thus spent arm in arm with him whom she adored in secret,
formed the sum of her happy days.
Taking their last walk, a coarse, vulgar man elbowed her so rudely
that the poor girl could not refrain from a cry of terror, and the man
retorted it by saying,-“What are you rolling your hump in my way for,
stoopid?”
Agricola, like his father, had the patience which force and courage give
to the truly brave; but he was extremely quick when it became necessary
to avenge an insult. Irritated at the vulgarity of this man, Agricola
left his mother’s arm to inflict on the brute, who was of his own age,
size, and force, two vigorous blows, such as the powerful arm and huge
fist of a blacksmith never before inflicted on human face. The villain
attempted to return it, and Agricola repeated the correction, to the
amusement of the crowd, and the fellow slunk away amidst a deluge of
hisses. This adventure made Mother Bunch say she would not go out with
Agricola again, in order to save him any occasion of quarrel. We may
conceive the blacksmith’s regret at having thus unwittingly revived the
memory of this circumstance,--more painful, alas! for Mother Bunch
than Agricola could imagine, for she loved him passionately, and her
infirmity had been the cause of that quarrel. Notwithstanding his
strength and resolution, Agricola was childishly sensitive; and,
thinking how painful that thought must be to the poor girl, a large tear
filled his eyes, and, holding out his hands, he said, in a brotherly
tone, “Forgive my heedlessness! Come, kiss me.” And he gave her thin,
pale cheeks two hearty kisses.
The poor girl’s lips turned pale at this cordial caress; and her heart
beat so violently that she was obliged to lean against the corner of the
table.
“Come, you forgive me, do you not?” said Agricola.
“Yes! yes!” she said, trying to subdue her emotion; “but the
recollection of that quarrel pains me--I was so alarmed on your account;
if the crowd had sided with that man!”
“Alas!” said Frances, coming to the sewing-girl’s relief, without
knowing it, “I was never so afraid in all my life!”
“Oh, mother,” rejoined Agricola, trying to change a conversation which
had now become disagreeable for the sempstress, “for the wife of a horse
grenadier of the Imperial Guard, you have not much courage. Oh, my brave
father; I can’t believe he is really coming! The very thought turns me
topsy-turvy!”
“Heaven grant he may come,” said Frances, with a sigh.
“God grant it, mother. He will grant it, I should think. Lord knows, you
have had masses enough said for his return.”
“Agricola, my child,” said Frances, interrupting her son, and shaking
her head sadly, “do not speak in that way. Besides, you are talking of
your father.”
“Well, I’m in for it this evening. ‘Tis your turn now; positively, I am
growing stupid, or going crazy. Forgive me, mother! forgive! That’s the
only word I can get out to-night. You know that, when I do let out on
certain subjects, it is because I can’t help it; for I know well the
pain it gives you.”
“You do not offend me, my poor, dear, misguided boy.”
“It comes to the same thing; and there is nothing so bad as to offend
one’s mother; and, with respect to what I said about father’s return, I
do not see that we have any cause to doubt it.”
“But we have not heard from him for four months.”
“You know, mother, in his letter--that is, in the letter which he
dictated (for you remember that, with the candor of an old soldier,
he told us that, if he could read tolerably well, he could not write);
well, in that letter he said we were not to be anxious about him; that
he expected to be in Paris about the end of January, and would send us
word, three or four days before, by what road he expected to arrive,
that I might go and meet him.”
“True, my child; and February is come, and no news yet.”
“The greater reason why we should wait patiently. But I’ll tell you
more: I should not be surprised if our good Gabriel were to come back
about the same time. His last letter from America makes me hope so. What
pleasure, mother, should all the family be together!”
“Oh, yes, my child! It would be a happy day for me.”
“And that day will soon come, trust me.”
“Do you remember your father, Agricola?” inquired Mother Bunch.
“To tell the truth, I remember most his great grenadier’s shako and
moustache, which used to frighten me so, that nothing but the red ribbon
of his cross of honor, on the white facings of his uniform, and the
shining handle of his sabre, could pacify me; could it, mother? But what
is the matter? You are weeping!”
“Alas! poor Baudoin! What he must suffer at being separated from us at
his age--sixty and past! Alas! my child, my heart breaks, when I think
that he comes home only to change one kind of poverty for another.”
“What do you mean?”
“Alas! I earn nothing now.”
“Why, what’s become of me? Isn’t there a room here for you and for him;
and a table for you too? Only, my good mother, since we are talking of
domestic affairs,” added the blacksmith, imparting increased tenderness
to his tone, that he might not shock his mother, “when he and Gabriel
come home, you won’t want to have any more masses said, and tapers
burned for them, will you? Well, that saving will enable father to have
tobacco to smoke, and his bottle of wine every day. Then, on Sundays, we
will take a nice dinner at the eating-house.”
A knocking at the door disturbed Agricola.
“Come in,” said he. Instead of doing so, some one half-opened the
door, and, thrusting in an arm of a pea-green color, made signs to the
blacksmith.
“‘Tis old Loriot, the pattern of dyers,” said Agricola; “come in, Daddy,
no ceremony.”
“Impossible, my lad; I am dripping with dye from head to foot; I should
cover missus’s floor with green.”
“So much the better. It will remind me of the fields I like so much.”
“Without joking, Agricola, I must speak to you immediately.”
“About the spy, eh? Oh, be easy; what’s he to us?”
“No; I think he’s gone; at any rate, the fog is so thick I can’t see
him. But that’s not it--come, come quickly! It is very important,” said
the dyer, with a mysterious look; “and only concerns you.”
“Me, only?” said Agricola, with surprise. “What can it be.
“Go and see, my child,” said Frances.
“Yes, mother; but the deuce take me if I can make it out.”
And the blacksmith left the room, leaving his mother with Mother Bunch.
CHAPTER XXX. THE RETURN.
In five minutes Agricola returned; his face was pale and agitated--his
eyes glistened with tears, and his hands trembled; but his countenance
expressed extraordinary happiness and emotion. He stood at the door for
a moment, as if too much affected to accost his mother.
Frances’s sight was so bad that she did not immediately perceive the
change her son’s countenance had undergone.
“Well, my child--what is it?” she inquired.
Before the blacksmith could reply, Mother Bunch, who had more
discernment, exclaimed: “Goodness, Agricola--how pale you are! Whatever
is the matter?”
“Mother,” said the artisan, hastening to Frances, without replying
to the sempstress,--“mother, expect news that will astonish you; but
promise me you will be calm.”
“What do you mean? How you tremble! Look at me! Mother Bunch was
right--you are quite pale.”
“My kind mother!” and Agricola, kneeling before Frances, took both her
hands in his--“you must--you do not know,--but--”
The blacksmith could not go on. Tears of joy interrupted his speech.
“You weep, my dear child! Your tears alarm me. ‘What is the matter?--you
terrify me!”
“Oh, no, I would not terrify you; on the contrary,” said Agricola,
drying his eyes--“you will be so happy. But, again, you must try and
command your feelings, for too much joy is as hurtful as too much
grief.”
“What?”
“Did I not say true, when I said he would come?”
“Father!” cried Frances. She rose from her seat; but her surprise and
emotion were so great that she put one hand to her heart to still its
beating, and then she felt her strength fail. Her son sustained her, and
assisted her to sit down.
Mother Bunch, till now, had stood discreetly apart, witnessing from a
distance the scene which completely engrossed Agricola and his mother.
But she now drew near timidly, thinking she might be useful; for Frances
changed color more and more.
“Come, courage, mother,” said the blacksmith; “now the shock is over,
you have only to enjoy the pleasure of seeing my father.”
“My poor man! after eighteen years’ absence. Oh, I cannot believe it,”
said Frances, bursting into tears. “Is it true? Is it, indeed, true?”
“So true, that if you will promise me to keep as calm as you can, I will
tell you when you may see him.”
“Soon--may I not?”
“Yes; soon.”
“But when will he arrive?”
“He may arrive any minute--to-morrow--perhaps to-day.”
“To-day!”
“Yes, mother! Well, I must tell you all--he has arrived.”
“He--he is--” Frances could not articulate the word.
“He was downstairs just now. Before coming up, he sent the dyer to
apprise me that I might prepare you; for my brave father feared the
surprise might hurt you.”
“Oh, heaven!”
“And now,” cried the blacksmith, in an accent of indescribable joy--“he
is there, waiting! Oh, mother! for the last ten minutes I have scarcely
been able to contain myself--my heart is bursting with joy.” And running
to the door, he threw it open.
Dagobert, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, stood on the threshold.
Instead of rushing to her husband’s arms, Frances fell on her knees
in prayer. She thanked heaven with profound gratitude for hearing her
prayers, and thus accepting her offerings. During a second, the actors
of this scene stood silent and motionless. Agricola, by a sentiment of
respect and delicacy, which struggled violently with his affection,
did not dare to fall on his father’s neck. He waited with constrained
impatience till his mother had finished her prayer.
The soldier experienced the same feeling as the blacksmith; they
understood each other. The first glance exchanged by father and son
expressed their affection--their veneration for that excellent woman,
who in the fulness of her religious fervor, forgot, perhaps, too much
the creature for the Creator.
Rose and Blanche, confused and affected, looked with interest on the
kneeling woman; while Mother Bunch, shedding in silence tears of joy
at the thought of Agricola’s happiness, withdrew into the most obscure
corner of the room, feeling that she was a stranger, and necessarily out
of place in that family meeting. Frances rose, and took a step towards
her husband, who received her in his arms. There was a moment of solemn
silence. Dagobert and Frances said not a word. Nothing could be heard
but a few sighs, mingled with sighs of joy. And, when the aged couple
looked up, their expression was calm, radiant, serene; for the full and
complete enjoyment of simple and pure sentiments never leaves behind a
feverish and violent agitation.
“My children,” said the soldier, in tones of emotion, presenting the
orphans to Frances, who, after her first agitation, had surveyed them
with astonishment, “this is my good and worthy wife; she will be to the
daughters of General Simon what I have been to them.”
“Then, madame, you will treat us as your children,” said Rose,
approaching Frances with her sister.
“The daughters of General Simon!” cried Dagobert’s wife, more and more
astonished.
“Yes, my dear Frances; I have brought them from afar not without some
difficulty; but I will tell you that by and by.”
“Poor little things! One would take them for two angels, exactly
alike!” said Frances, contemplating the orphans with as much interest as
admiration.
“Now--for us,” cried Dagobert, turning to his son.
“At last,” rejoined the latter.
We must renounce all attempts to describe the wild joy of Dagobert
and his son, and the crushing grip of their hands, which Dagobert
interrupted only to look in Agricola’s face; while he rested his hands
on the young blacksmith’s broad shoulders that he might see to more
advantage his frank masculine countenance, and robust frame. Then he
shook his hand again, exclaiming, “He’s a fine fellow--well built--what
a good-hearted look he has!”
From a corner of the room Mother Bunch enjoyed Agricola’s happiness; but
she feared that her presence, till then unheeded, would be an intrusion.
She wished to withdraw unnoticed, but could not do so. Dagobert and his
son were between her and the door; and she stood unable to take her eyes
from the charming faces of Rose and Blanche. She had never seen anything
so winsome; and the extraordinary resemblance of the sisters increased
her surprise. Then, their humble mourning revealing that they were poor,
Mother Bunch involuntarily felt more sympathy towards them.
“Dear children! They are cold; their little hands are frozen, and,
unfortunately, the fire is out,” said Frances, She tried to warm the
orphans’ hands in hers, while Dagobert and his son gave themselves up to
the feelings of affection, so long restrained.
As soon as Frances said that the fire was out, Mother Bunch hastened to
make herself useful, as an excuse for her presence; and, going to the
cupboard, where the charcoal and wood were kept, she took some small
pieces, and, kneeling before the stove, succeeded, by the aid of a few
embers that remained, in relighting the fire, which soon began to draw
and blaze. Filling a coffee-pot with water, she placed it on the stove,
presuming that the orphans required some warm drink. The sempstress did
all this with so much dexterity and so little noise--she was naturally
so forgotten amidst the emotions of the scene--that Frances, entirely
occupied with Rose and Blanche, only perceived the fire when she felt
its warmth diffusing round, and heard the boiling water singing in the
coffee-pot. This phenomenon--fire rekindling of itself--did not astonish
Dagobert’s wife then, so wholly was she taken up in devising how she
could lodge the maidens; for Dagobert as we have seen, had not given her
notice of their arrival.
Suddenly a loud bark was heard three or four times at the door.
“Hallo! there’s Spoil-sport,” said Dagobert, letting in his dog; “he
wants to come in to brush acquaintance with the family too.”
The dog came in with a bound, and in a second was quite at home. After
having rubbed Dagobert’s hand with his muzzle, he went in turns to greet
Rose and Blanche, and also Frances and Agricola; but seeing that they
took but little notice of him, he perceived Mother Bunch, who stood
apart, in an obscure corner of the room, and carrying out the popular
saying, “the friends of our friends are our friends,” he went and licked
the hands of the young workwoman, who was just then forgotten by all. By
a singular impulse, this action affected the girl to tears; she patted
her long, thin, white hand several times on the head of the intelligent
dog. Then, finding that she could be no longer useful (for she had done
all the little services she deemed in her power), she took the handsome
flower Agricola had given her, opened the door gently, and went away
so discreetly that no one noticed her departure. After this exchange
of mutual affection, Dagobert, his wife, and son, began to think of the
realities of life.
“Poor Frances,” said the soldier, glancing at Rose and Blanche, “you did
not expect such a pretty surprise!”
“I am only sorry, my friend,” replied Frances, “that the daughters of
General Simon will not have a better lodging than this poor room; for
with Agricola’s garret--”
“It composes our mansion,” interrupted Dagobert; “there are handsomer,
it must be confessed. But be at ease; these young ladies are drilled
into not being hard to suit on that score. To-morrow, I and my boy will
go arm and arm, and I’ll answer for it he won’t walk the more upright
and straight of the two, and find out General Simon’s father, at M.
Hardy’s factory, to talk about business.”
“To-morrow,” said Agricola to Dagobert, “you will not find at the
factory either M. Hardy or Marshall Simon’s father.”
“What is that you say, my lad?” cried Dagobert, hastily, “the Marshal!”
“To be sure; since 1830, General Simon’s friends have secured him the
title and rank which the emperor gave him at the battle of Ligny.”
“Indeed!” cried Dagobert, with emotion, “but that ought not to surprise
me; for, after all, it is just; and when the emperor said a thing, the
least they can do is to let it abide. But it goes all the same to my
heart; it makes me jump again.”
Addressing the sisters, he said: “Do you hear that, my children? You
arrive in Paris the daughters of a Duke and Marshal of France. One
would hardly think it, indeed, to see you in this room, my poor little
duchesses! But patience; all will go well. Ah, father Simon must have
been very glad to hear that his son was restored to his rank! eh, my
lad?”
“He told us he would renounce all kinds of ranks and titles to see his
son again; for it was during the general’s absence that his friends
obtained this act of justice. But they expect Marshal Simon every
moment, for the last letter from India announced his departure.”
At these words Rose and Blanche looked at each other; and their eyes
filled with tears.
“Heaven be praised! These children rely on his return; but why shall we
not find M. Hardy and father Simon at the factory to-morrow?”
“Ten days ago, they went to examine and study an English mill
established in the south; but we expect them back every day.”
“The deuce! that’s vexing; I relied on seeing the general’s father, to
talk over some important matters with him. At any rate, they know where
to write to him. So to-morrow you will let him know, my lad, that his
granddaughters are arrived. In the mean time, children,” added the
soldier, to Rose and Blanche, “my good wife will give you her bed and
you must put up with the chances of war. Poor things! they will not be
worse off here than they were on the journey.”
“You know we shall always be well off with you and madame,” said Rose.
“Besides, we only think of the pleasure of being at length in Paris,
since here we are to find our father,” added Blanche.
“That hope gives you patience, I know,” said Dagobert, “but no matter!
After all you have heard about it, you ought to be finely surprised, my
children. As yet, you have not found it the golden city of your dreams,
by any means. But, patience, patience; you’ll find Paris not so bad as
it looks.”
“Besides,” said Agricola, “I am sure the arrival of Marshal Simon in
Paris will change it for you into a golden city.”
“You are right, Agricola,” said Rose, with a smile, “you have, indeed,
guessed us.”
“What! do you know my name?”
“Certainly, Agricola, we often talked about you with Dagobert; and
latterly, too, with Gabriel,” added Blanche.
“Gabriel!” cried Agricola and his mother, at the same time.
“Yes,” replied Dagobert, making a sign of intelligence to the orphans,
“we have lots to tell you for a fortnight to come; and among other
things, how we chanced to meet with Gabriel. All I can now say is that,
in his way, he is quite as good as my boy (I shall never be tired of
saying ‘my boy’); and they ought to love each other like brothers. Oh,
my brave, brave wife!” said Dagobert, with emotion, “you did a good
thing, poor as you were, taking the unfortunate child--and bringing him
up with your own.”
“Don’t talk so much about it, my dear; it was such a simple thing.”
“You are right; but I’ll make you amends for it by and by. ‘Tis down to
your account; in the mean time, you will be sure to see him to-morrow
morning.”
“My dear brother arrived too!” cried the blacksmith; “who’ll say, after
this, that there are not days set apart for happiness? How came you to
meet him, father?”
“I’ll tell you all, by and by, about when and how we met Gabriel; for
if you expect to sleep, you are mistaken. You’ll give me half your room,
and a fine chat we’ll have. Spoil-sport will stay outside of this door;
he is accustomed to sleep at the children’s door.”
“Dear me, love, I think of nothing. But, at such a moment, if you and
the young ladies wish to sup, Agricola will fetch something from the
cook-shop.”
“What do you say, children?”
“No, thank you, Dagobert, we are not hungry; we are too happy.”
“You will take a little wine and water, sweetened, nice and hot, to warm
you a little, my dear young ladies,” said Frances; “unfortunately, I
have nothing else to offer you.”
“You are right, Frances; the dear children are tired, and want to go to
bed; while they do so, I’ll go to my boy’s room, and, before Rose and
Blanche are awake, I will come down and converse with you, just to give
Agricola a respite.”
A knock was now heard at the door.
“It is good Mother Bunch come to see if we want her,” said Agricola.
“But I think she was here when my husband came in,” added Frances.
“Right, mother; and the good girl left lest she should be an intruder:
she is so thoughtful. But no--no--it is not she who knocks so loud.”
“Go and see who it is, then, Agricola.”
Before the blacksmith could reach the door, a man decently dressed, with
a respectable air, entered the room, and glanced rapidly round, looking
for a moment at Rose and Blanche.
“Allow me to observe, sir,” said Agricola, “that after knocking, you
might have waited till the door was opened, before you entered. Pray,
what is your business?”
“Pray excuse me, sir,” said the man, very politely, and speaking slowly,
perhaps to prolong his stay in the room: “I beg a thousand pardons--I
regret my intrusion--I am ashamed--”
“Well, you ought to be, sir,” said Agricola, with impatience, “what do
you want?”
“Pray, sir, does not Miss Soliveau, a deformed needlewoman, live here?”
“No, sir; upstairs,” said Agricola.
“Really, sir,” cried the polite man, with low bows, “I am quite abroad
at my blunder: I thought this was the room of that young person. I
brought her proposals for work from a very respectable party.”
“It is very late, sir,” said Agricola, with surprise. “But that young
person is as one of our family. Call to-morrow; you cannot see her to
night; she is gone to bed.”
“Then, sir, I again beg you to excuse--”
“Enough, sir,” said Agricola, taking a step towards the door.
“I hope, madame and the young ladies, as well as this gent, will be
assured that--”
“If you go on much longer making excuses, sir, you will have to excuse
the length of your excuses; and it is time this came to an end!”
Rose and Blanche smiled at these words of Agricola; while Dagobert
rubbed his moustache with pride.
“What wit the boy has!” said he aside to his wife. “But that does not
astonish you--you are used to it.”
During this speech, the ceremonious person withdrew, having again
directed a long inquiring glance to the sisters, and to Agricola and
Dagobert.
In a few minutes after, Frances having spread a mattress on the ground
for herself, and put the whitest sheets on her bed for the orphans,
assisted them to undress with maternal solicitude, Dagobert and Agricola
having previously withdrawn to their garret. Just as the blacksmith,
who preceded his father with a light, passed before the door of Mother
Bunch’s room, the latter, half concealed in the shade, said to him
rapidly, in a low tone:
“Agricola, great danger threatens you: I must speak to you.”
These words were uttered in so hasty and low a voice that Dagobert did
not hear them; but as Agricola stopped suddenly, with a start, the old
soldier said to him,
“Well, boy, what is it?”
“Nothing, father,” said the blacksmith, turning round; “I feared I did
not light you well.”
“Oh, stand at ease about that; I have the legs and eyes of fifteen to
night;” and the soldier, not noticing his son’s surprise, went into the
little room where they were both to pass the night.
On leaving the house, after his inquiries about Mother Bunch, the
over polite Paul Pry slunk along to the end of Brise-Miche Street. He
advanced towards a hackney-coach drawn up on the Cloitre Saint-Merry
Square.
In this carriage lounged Rodin, wrapped in a cloak.
“Well?” said he, in an inquiring tone.
“The two girls and the man with gray moustache went directly to Frances
Baudoin’s; by listening at the door, I learnt that the sisters will
sleep with her, in that room, to-night; the old man with gray moustache
will share the young blacksmith’s room.”
“Very well,” said Rodin.
“I did not dare insist on seeing the deformed workwoman this evening
on the subject of the Bacchanal Queen; I intend returning to-morrow, to
learn the effect of the letter she must have received this evening by
the post about the young blacksmith.”
“Do not fail! And now you will call, for me, on Frances Baudoin’s
confessor, late as it is; you will tell him that I am waiting for him
at Rue du Milieu des Ursins--he must not lose a moment. Do you come with
him. Should I not be returned, he will wait for me. You will tell him it
is on a matter of great moment.”
“All shall be faithfully executed,” said the ceremonious man, cringing
to Rodin, as the coach drove quickly away.
CHAPTER XXXI. AGRICOLA AND MOTHER BUNCH.
Within one hour after the different scenes which have just been
described the most profound silence reigned in the soldier’s humble
dwelling. A flickering light, which played through two panes of glass
in a door, betrayed that Mother Bunch had not yet gone to sleep; for
her gloomy recess, without air or light, was impenetrable to the rays
of day, except by this door, opening upon a narrow and obscure passage,
connected with the roof. A sorry bed, a table, an old portmanteau, and a
chair, so nearly filled this chilling abode, that two persons could not
possibly be seated within it, unless one of them sat upon the side of
the bed.
The magnificent and precious flower that Agricola had given to the girl
was carefully stood up in a vessel of water, placed upon the table on a
linen cloth, diffusing its sweet odor around, and expanding its purple
calix in the very closet, whose plastered walls, gray and damp, were
feebly lighted by the rays of an attenuated candle. The sempstress, who
had taken off no part of her dress, was seated upon her bed--her looks
were downcast, and her eyes full of tears. She supported herself with
one hand resting on the bolster; and, inclining towards the door,
listened with painful eagerness, every instant hoping to hear the
footsteps of Agricola. The heart of the young sempstress beat violently;
her face, usually very pale, was now partially flushed--so exciting was
the emotion by which she was agitated. Sometimes she cast her eyes with
terror upon a letter which she held in her hand, a letter that had
been delivered by post in the course of the evening, and which had
been placed by the housekeeper (the dyer) upon the table, while she
was rendering some trivial domestic services during the recognitions of
Dagobert and his family.
After some seconds, Mother Bunch heard a door, very near her own, softly
opened.
“There he is at last!” she exclaimed, and Agricola immediately entered.
“I waited till my father went to sleep,” said the blacksmith, in a low
voice, his physiognomy evincing much more curiosity than uneasiness.
“But what is the matter, my good sister? How your countenance is
changed! You weep! What has happened? About what danger would you speak
to me?”
“Hush! Read this!” said she, her voice trembling with emotion, while she
hastily presented to him the open letter. Agricola held it towards the
light, and read what follows:
“A person who has reasons for concealing himself, but who knows the
sisterly interest you take in the welfare of Agricola Baudoin, warns
you. That young and worthy workman will probably be arrested in the
course of to-morrow.”
“I!” exclaimed Agricola, looking at Mother Bunch with an air of
stupefied amazement. “What is the meaning of all this?”
“Read on!” quickly replied the sempstress, clasping her hands.
Agricola resumed reading, scarcely believing the evidence of his
eyes:-“The song, entitled ‘Working-men Freed,’ has been declared
libellous. Numerous copies of it have been found among the papers of a
secret society, the leaders of which are about to be incarcerated, as
being concerned in the Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy.”
“Alas!” said the girl, melting into tears, “now I see it all. The man
who was lurking about below, this evening, who was observed by the dyer,
was, doubtless, a spy, lying in wait for you coming home.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Agricola. “This accusation is quite ridiculous!
Do not torment yourself. I never trouble myself with politics. My verses
breathe nothing but philanthropy. Am I to blame, if they have been found
among the papers of a secret society?” Agricola disdainfully threw the
letter upon the table.
“Read! pray read!” said the other; “read on.”
“If you wish it,” said Agricola, “I will; no time is lost.”
He resumed the reading of the letter:
“A warrant is about to be issued against Agricola Baudoin. There is mo
doubt of his innocence being sooner or later made clear; but it will be
well if he screen himself for a time as much as possible from pursuit,
in order that he may escape a confinement of two or three months
previous to trial--an imprisonment which would be a terrible blow for
his mother, whose sole support he is.
“A SINCERE FRIEND, who is compelled to remain unknown.”
After a moment’s silence, the blacksmith raised his head; his
countenance resumed its serenity; and laughing, he said: “Reassure
yourself, good Mother Bunch, these jokers have made a mistake by trying
their games on me. It is plainly an attempt at making an April-fool of
me before the time.”
“Agricola, for the love of heaven!” said the girl, in a supplicating
tone; “treat not the warning thus lightly. Believe in my forebodings,
and listen to my advice.”
“I tell you again, my good girl,” replied Agricola, “that it is two
months since my song was published. It is not in any way political;
indeed, if it were, they would not have waited till now before coming
down on me.”
“But,” said the other, “you forget that new events have arisen. It is
scarcely two days since the conspiracy was discovered, in this very
neighborhood, in the Rue des Prouvaires. And,” continued she, “if the
verses, though perhaps hitherto unnoticed, have now been found in the
possession of the persons apprehended for this conspiracy, nothing more
is necessary to compromise you in the plot.”
“Compromise me!” said Agricola; “my verses! in which I only praise the
love of labor and of goodness! To arrest me for that! If so, justice
would be but a blind noodle. That she might grope her way, it would be
necessary to furnish her with a dog and a pilgrim’s staff to guide her
steps.”
“Agricola,” resumed Mother Bunch; overwhelmed with anxiety and terror on
hearing the blacksmith jest at such a moment, “I conjure you to listen
to me! No doubt you uphold in the verses the sacred love of labor; but
you do also grievously deplore and deprecate the unjust lot of the poor
laborers, devoted as they are, without hope, to all the miseries of
life; you recommend, indeed, only fraternity among men; but your good
and noble heart vents its indignation, at the same time, against the
selfish and the wicked. In fine, you fervently hasten on, with the ardor
of your wishes, the emancipation of all the artisans who, less fortunate
than you, have not generous M. Hardy for employer. Say, Agricola, in
these times of trouble, is there anything more necessary to compromise
you than that numerous copies of your song have been found in possession
of the persons who have been apprehended?”
Agricola was moved by these affectionate and judicious expressions of
an excellent creature, who reasoned from her heart; and he began to view
with more seriousness the advice which she had given him.
Perceiving that she had shaken him, the sewing-girl went on to say: “And
then, bear your fellow-workman, Remi, in recollection.”
“Remi!” said Agricola, anxiously.
“Yes,” resumed the sempstress; “a letter of his, a letter in itself
quite insignificant, was found in the house of a person arrested last
year for conspiracy; and Remi, in consequence, remained a month in
prison.”
“That is true, but the injustice of his implication was easily shown,
and he was set at liberty.”
“Yes, Agricola: but not till he had lain a month in prison; and that has
furnished the motive of the person who advised you to conceal yourself!
A month in prison! Good heavens! Agricola, think of that! and your
mother.”
These words made a powerful impression upon Agricola. He took up the
letter and again read it attentively.
“And the man who has been lurking all this evening about the house?”
proceeded she. “I constantly recall that circumstance, which cannot be
naturally accounted for. Alas! what a blow it would be for your father,
and poor mother, who is incapable of earning anything. Are you not
now their only resource? Oh! consider, then, what would become of them
without you--without your labor!”
“It would indeed be terrible,” said Agricola, impatiently casting the
letter upon the table. “What you have said concerning Remi is too true.
He was as innocent as I am: yet an error of justice, an involuntary
error though it be, is not the less cruel. But they don’t commit a man
without hearing him.”
“But they arrest him first, and hear him afterwards,” said Mother Bunch,
bitterly; “and then, after a month or two, they restore him his liberty.
And if he have a wife and children, whose only means of living is his
daily labor, what becomes of them while their only supporter is in
prison? They suffer hunger, they endure cold, and they weep!”
At these simple and pathetic words, Agricola trembled.
“A month without work,” he said, with a sad and thoughtful air. “And my
mother, and father, and the two young ladies who make part of our family
until the arrival in Paris of their father, Marshal Simon. Oh! you are
right. That thought, in spite of myself, affrights me!”
“Agricola!” exclaimed the girl impetuously; “suppose you apply to M.
Hardy; he is so good, and his character is so much esteemed and honored,
that, if he offered bail for you, perhaps they would give up their
persecution?”
“Unfortunately,” replied Agricola, “M. Hardy is absent; he is on a
journey with Marshal Simon.”
After a silence of some time, Agricola, striving to surmount his fear,
added: “But no! I cannot give credence to this letter. After all, I had
rather await what may come. I’ll at least have the chance of proving my
innocence on my first examination: for indeed, my good sister, whether
it be that I am in prison or that I fly to conceal myself, my working
for my family will be equally prevented.”
“Alas! that is true,” said the poor girl; “what is to be done! Oh, what
is to be done?”
“My brave father,” said Agricola to himself, “if this misfortune happen
to-morrow, what an awakening it will be for him, who came here to sleep
so joyously!” The blacksmith buried his face in his hands.
Unhappily Mother Bunch’s fears were too well-founded, for it will be
recollected that at that epoch of the year 1832, before and after the
Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy, a very great number of arrests had been
made among the working classes, in consequence of a violent reaction
against democratical ideas.
Suddenly, the girl broke the silence which had been maintained for some
seconds. A blush colored her features, which bore the impressions of an
indefinable expression of constraint, grief, and hope.
“Agricola, you are saved!”
“What say you?” he asked.
“The young lady, so beautiful, so good, who gave you this flower” (she
showed it to the blacksmith) “who has known how to make reparation with
so much delicacy for having made a painful offer, cannot but have a
generous heart. You must apply to her--”
With these words which seemed to be wrung from her by a violent effort
over herself, great tears rolled down her cheeks. For the first time in
her life she experienced a feeling of grievous jealousy. Another woman
was so happy as to have the power of coming to the relief of him whom
she idolized; while she herself, poor creature, was powerless and
wretched.
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Agricola surprised. “But what could be done
with this young lady?”
“Did she not say to you,” answered Mother Bunch, “‘Remember my name; and
in all circumstances address yourself to me?’”
“She did indeed!” replied Agricola.
“This young lady, in her exalted position, ought to have powerful
connections who will be able to protect and defend you. Go to her to
morrow morning; tell her frankly what has happened, and request her
support.”
“But tell me, my good sister, what it is you wish me to do?”
“Listen. I remember that, in former times, my father told us that he had
saved one of his friends from being put in prison, by becoming surety
for him. It will be easy for you so to convince this young lady of your
innocence, that she will be induced to become surety; and after that,
you will have nothing more to fear.”
“My poor child!” said Agricola, “to ask so great a service from a person
to whom one is almost unknown is hard.”
“Believe me, Agricola,” said the other sadly, “I would never counsel
what could possibly lower you in the eyes of any one, and above all--do
you understand?--above all, in the eyes of this young lady. I do not
propose that you should ask money from her; but only that she should
give surety for you, in order that you may have the liberty of
continuing at your employment, so that the family may not be without
resources. Believe me, Agricola, that such a request is in no respect
inconsistent with what is noble and becoming upon your part. The heart
of the young lady is generous. She will comprehend your position. The
required surety will be as nothing to her; while to you it will be
everything, and will even be the very life to those who depend upon
you.”
“You are right, my good sister,” said Agricola, with sadness and
dejection. “It is perhaps worth while to risk taking this step. If the
young lady consent to render me this service, and if giving surety will
indeed preserve me from prison, I shall be prepared for every event. But
no, no!” added he, rising, “I’d never dare to make the request to her!
What right have I to do so? What is the insignificant service that I
rendered her, when compared with that which I should solicit from her?”
“Do you imagine then, Agricola, that a generous spirit measures the
services which ought to be rendered, by those previously received? Trust
to me respecting a matter which is an affair of the heart. I am, it is
true, but a lowly creature, and ought not to compare myself with any
other person. I am nothing, and I can do nothing. Nevertheless, I am
sure--yes, Agricola, I am sure--that this young lady, who is so very far
above me, will experience the same feelings that I do in this affair;
yes, like me, she will at once comprehend that your position is a cruel
one; and she will do with joy, with happiness, with thankfulness, that
which I would do, if, alas! I could do anything more than uselessly
consume myself with regrets.”
In spite of herself, she pronounced the last words with an expression
so heart-breaking--there was something so moving in the comparison which
this unfortunate creature, obscure and disdained, infirm and miserable,
made of herself with Adrienne de Cardoville, the very type of
resplendent youth, beauty, and opulence--that Agricola was moved even to
tears; and, holding out one of his hands to the speaker, he said to her,
tenderly, “How very good you are; how full of nobleness, good feeling,
and delicacy!”
“Unhappily,” said the weeping girl, “I can do nothing more than advise.”
“And your counsels shall be followed out, my sister dear. They are those
of a soul the most elevated I have ever known. Yes, you have won me over
into making this experiment, by persuading me that the heart of Miss de
Cardoville is perhaps equal in value to your own!”
At this charming and sincere assimilation of herself to Miss Adrienne,
the sempstress forgot almost everything she had suffered, so exquisitely
sweet and consoling were her emotions. If some poor creatures, fatally
devoted to sufferings, experience griefs of which the world knows
naught, they sometimes, too, are cheered by humble and timid joys, of
which the world is equally ignorant. The least word of true tenderness
and affection, which elevates them in their own estimation, is ineffably
blissful for these unfortunate beings, habitually consigned, not only to
hardships and to disdain, but even to desolating doubts, and distrust of
themselves.
“Then it is agreed that you will go, to-morrow morning to this young
lady’s house?” exclaimed Mother Bunch, trembling with a new-born hope.
“And,” she quickly added, “at break of day I’ll go down to watch at the
street-door, to see if there be anything suspicious, and to apprise you
of what I perceive.”
“Good, excellent girl!” exclaimed Agricola, with increasing emotion.
“It will be necessary to endeavor to set off before the wakening of
your father,” said the hunchback. “The quarter in which the young lady
dwells, is so deserted, that the mere going there will almost serve for
your present concealment.”
“I think I hear the voice of my father,” said Agricola suddenly.
In truth, the little apartment was so near Agricola’s garret, that he
and the sempstress, listening, heard Dagobert say in the dark:
“Agricola, is it thus that you sleep, my boy? Why, my first sleep is
over; and my tongue itches deucedly.”
“Go quick, Agricola!” said Mother Bunch; “your absence would disquiet
him. On no account go out to-morrow morning, before I inform you whether
or not I shall have seen anything suspicious.”
“Why, Agricola, you are not here?” resumed Dagobert, in a louder voice.
“Here I am, father,” said the smith, while going out of the sempstress’s
apartment, and entering the garret, to his father.
“I have been to fasten the shutter of a loft that the wind agitated,
lest its noise should disturb you.”
“Thanks, my boy; but it is not noise that wakes me,” said Dagobert,
gayly; “it is an appetite, quite furious, for a chat with you. Oh, my
dear boy, it is the hungering of a proud old man of a father, who has
not seen his son for eighteen years.”
“Shall I light a candle, father?”
“No, no; that would be luxurious; let us chat in the dark. It will be a
new pleasure for me to see you to-morrow morning at daybreak. It will be
like seeing you for the first time twice.” The door of Agricola’s garret
being now closed, Mother Bunch heard nothing more.
The poor girl, without undressing, threw herself upon the bed, and
closed not an eye during the night, painfully awaiting the appearance of
day, in order that she might watch over the safety of Agricola. However,
in spite of her vivid anxieties for the morrow, she sometimes allowed
herself to sink into the reveries of a bitter melancholy. She compared
the conversation she had just had in the silence of night, with the man
whom she secretly adored, with what that conversation might have been,
had she possessed some share of charms and beauty--had she been loved as
she loved, with a chaste and devoted flame! But soon sinking into belief
that she should never know the ravishing sweets of a mutual passion, she
found consolation in the hope of being useful to Agricola. At the dawn
of day, she rose softly, and descended the staircase with little noise,
in order to see if anything menaced Agricola from without.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE AWAKENING.
The weather, damp and foggy during a portion of the night, became clear
and cold towards morning. Through the glazed skylight of Agricola’s
garret, where he lay with his father, a corner of the blue sky could be
seen.
The apartment of the young blacksmith had an aspect as poor as the
sewing-girl’s. For its sole ornament, over the deal table upon which
Agricola wrote his poetical inspirations, there hung suspended from a
nail in the wall a portrait of Beranger--that immortal poet whom the
people revere and cherish, because his rare and transcendent genius has
delighted to enlighten the people, and to sing their glories and their
reverses.
Although the day had only begun to dawn, Dagobert and Agricola had
already risen. The latter had sufficient self command to conceal his
inquietude, for renewed reflection had again increased his fears.
The recent outbreak in the Rue des Prouvaires had caused a great number
of precautionary arrests; and the discovery of numerous copies
of Agricola’s song, in the possession of one of the chiefs of the
disconcerted plot, was, in truth, calculated slightly to compromise the
young blacksmith. His father, however, as we have already mentioned,
suspected not his secret anguish. Seated by the side of his son, upon
the edge of their mean little bed, the old soldier, by break of day,
had dressed and shaved with military care; he now held between his hands
both those of Agricola, his countenance radiant with joy, and unable to
discontinue the contemplation of his boy.
“You will laugh at me, my dear boy,” said Dagobert to his son; “but I
wished the night to the devil, in order that I might gaze upon you in
full day, as I now see you. But all in good time; I have lost nothing.
Here is another silliness of mine; it delights me to see you wear
moustaches. What a splendid horse-grenadier you would have made! Tell
me; have you never had a wish to be a soldier?”
“I thought of mother!”
“That’s right,” said Dagobert: “and besides, I believe, after all, look
ye, that the time of the sword has gone by. We old fellows are now good
for nothing, but to be put in a corner of the chimney. Like rusty old
carbines, we have had our day.”
“Yes; your days of heroism and of glory,” said Agricola with excitement;
and then he added, with a voice profoundly softened and agitated, “it is
something good and cheering to be your son!”
“As to the good, I know nothing of that,” replied Dagobert; “but as for
the cheering, it ought to be so; for I love you proudly. And I think
this is but the beginning! What say you, Agricola? I am like the
famished wretches who have been some days without food. It is but by
little and little that they recover themselves, and can eat. Now, you
may expect to be tasted, my boy, morning and evening, and devoured
during the day. No, I wish not to think that--not all the day--no, that
thought dazzles and perplexes me; and I am no longer myself.”
These words of Dagobert caused a painful feeling to Agricola. He
believed that they sprang from a presentiment of the separation with
which he was menaced.
“Well,” continued Dagobert; “you are quite happy; M. Hardy is always
good to you.”
“Oh!” replied Agricola: “there is none in the world better, or more
equitable and generous! If you knew what wonders he has brought about
in his factory! Compared to all others, it is a paradise beside the
stithies of Lucifer!”
“Indeed!” said Dagobert.
“You shall see,” resumed Agricola, “what welfare, what joy, what
affection, are displayed upon the countenances of all whom he employs;
who work with an ardent pleasure.
“This M. Hardy of yours must be an out-and-out magician,” said Dagobert.
“He is, father, a very great magician. He has known how to render labor
pleasant and attractive. As for the pleasure, over and above good wages,
he accords to us a portion of his profits according to our deserts;
whence you may judge of the eagerness with which we go to work. And that
is not all: he has caused large, handsome buildings to be erected, in
which all his workpeople find, at less expense than elsewhere, cheerful
and salubrious lodgings, in which they enjoy all the advantages of an
association. But you shall see--I repeat--you shall see!”
“They have good reason to say, that Paris is the region of wonders,”
observed Dagobert.
“Well, behold me here again at last, never more to quit you, nor good
mother!”
“No, father, we will never separate again,” said Agricola, stifling a
sigh. “My mother and I will both try to make you forget all that you
have suffered.”
“Suffered!” exclaimed Dagobert, “who the deuce has suffered? Look me
well in the face; and see if I have a look of suffering! Bombs and
bayonets! Since I have put my foot here, I feel myself quite a young man
again! You shall see me march soon: I bet that I tire you out! You must
rig yourself up something extra! Lord, how they will stare at us! I
wager that in beholding your black moustache and my gray one, folks will
say, behold father and son! But let us settle what we are to do with the
day. You will write to the father of Marshal Simon, informing him the
his grand-daughters have arrived, and that it is necessary that he
should hasten his return to Paris; for he has charged himself with
matters which are of great importance for them. While you are writing,
I will go down to say good-morning to my wife, and to the dear little
ones. We will then eat a morsel. Your mother will go to mass; for I
perceive that she likes to be regular at that: the good soul! no great
harm, if it amuse her! and during her absence, we will make a raid
together.”
“Father,” said Agricola, with embarrassment, “this morning it is out of
my power to accompany you.”
“How! out of your power?” said Dagobert; “recollect this is Monday!”
“Yes, father,” said Agricola, hesitatingly; “but I have promised to
attend all the morning in the workshop, to finish a job that is required
in a hurry. If I fail to do so, I shall inflict some injury upon M.
Hardy. But I’ll soon be at liberty.”
“That alters the case,” said Dagobert, with a sigh of regret. “I thought
to make my first parade through Paris with you this morning; but it must
be deferred in favor of your work. It is sacred: since it is that which
sustains your mother. Nevertheless, it is vexatious, devilish vexatious.
And yet no--I am unjust. See how quickly one gets habituated to and
spoilt by happiness. I growl like a true grumbler, at a walk being put
off for a few hours! I do this! I who, during eighteen years, have only
hoped to see you once more, without daring to reckon very much upon
it! Oh! I am but a silly old fool! Vive l’amour et cogni--I mean--my
Agricola!” And, to console himself, the old soldier gayly slapped his
son’s shoulder.
This seemed another omen of evil to the blacksmith; for he dreaded one
moment to another lest the fears of Mother Bunch should be realized.
“Now that I have recovered myself,” said Dagobert, laughing, “let
us speak of business. Know you where I find the addresses of all the
notaries in Paris?”
“I don’t know; but nothing is more easy than to discover it.”
“My reason is,” resumed Dagobert, “that I sent from Russia by post, and
by order of the mother of the two children that I have brought here,
some important papers to a Parisian notary. As it was my duty to see
this notary immediately upon my arrival, I had written his name and his
address in a portfolio, of which however, I have been robbed during my
journey; and as I have forgotten his devil of a name, it seems to me,
that if I should see it again in the list of notaries, I might recollect
it.”
Two knocks at the door of the garret made Agricola start. He
involuntarily thought of a warrant for his apprehension.
His father, who, at the sound of the knocking turned round his head, had
not perceived his emotion, and said with a loud voice: “Come in!” The
door opened. It was Gabriel. He wore a black cassock and a broad brimmed
hat.
To recognize his brother by adoption, and to throw himself into his
arms, were two movements performed at once by Agricola--as quick as
thought.--“My brother!” exclaimed Agricola.
“Agricola!” cried Gabriel.
“Gabriel!” responded the blacksmith.
“After so long an absence!” said the one.
“To behold you again!” rejoined the other.
Such were the words exchanged between the blacksmith and the missionary,
while they were locked in a close embrace.
Dagobert, moved and charmed by these fraternal endearments, felt his
eyes become moist. There was something truly touching in the affection
of the young men--in their hearts so much alike, and yet of characters
and aspects so very different--for the manly countenance of Agricola
contrasted strongly with the delicacy and angelic physiognomy of
Gabriel.
“I was forewarned by my father of your arrival,” said the blacksmith at
length. “I have been expecting to see you; and my happiness has been
a hundred times the greater, because I have had all the pleasures of
hoping for it.”
“And my good mother?” asked Gabriel, in affectionately grasping the
hands of Dagobert. “I trust that you have found her in good health.”
“Yes, my brave boy!” replied Dagobert; “and her health will have become
a hundred times better, now that we are all together. Nothing is so
healthful as joy.” Then addressing himself to Agricola, who, forgetting
his fear of being arrested, regarded the missionary with an expression
of ineffable affection, Dagobert added:
“Let it be remembered, that, with the soft cheek of a young girl,
Gabriel has the courage of a lion; I have already told with what
intrepidity he saved the lives of Marshal Simon’s daughters, and tried
to save mine also.”
“But, Gabriel! what has happened to your forehead?” suddenly exclaimed
Agricola, who for a few seconds had been attentively examining the
missionary.
Gabriel, having thrown aside his hat on entering, was now directly
beneath the skylight of the garret apartment, the bright light through
which shone upon his sweet, pale countenance: and the round scar,
which extended from one eyebrow to the other, was therefore distinctly
visible.
In the midst of the powerful and diversified emotion, and of the
exciting events which so rapidly followed the shipwreck on the rocky
coast near Cardoville House, Dagobert, during the short interview he
then had with Gabriel, had not perceived the scar which seamed the
forehead of the young missionary. Now, partaking, however, of the
surprise of his son, Dagobert said:
“Aye, indeed! how came this scar upon your brow?”
“And on his hands, too; see, dear father!” exclaimed the blacksmith,
with renewed surprise, while he seized one of the hands which the young
priest held out towards him in order to tranquillize his fears.
“Gabriel, my brave boy, explain this to us!” added Dagobert; “who
has wounded you thus?” and in his turn, taking the other hand of the
missionary, he examined the scar upon it with the eye of a judge of
wounds, and then added, “In Spain, one of my comrades was found and
taken down alive from a cross, erected at the junction of several roads,
upon which the monks had crucified, and left him to die of hunger,
thirst, and agony. Ever afterwards he bore scars upon his hands, exactly
similar to this upon your hand.”
“My father is right!” exclaimed Agricola. “It is evident that your
hands have been pierced through! My poor brother!” and Agricola became
grievously agitated.
“Do not think about it,” said Gabriel, reddening with the embarrassment
of modesty. “Having gone as a missionary amongst the savages of the
Rocky Mountains, they crucified me, and they had begun to scalp me, when
Providence snatched me from their hands.”
“Unfortunate youth,” said Dagobert; “without arms then? You had not a
sufficient escort for your protection?”
“It is not for such as me to carry arms.” said Gabriel, sweetly smiling;
“and we are never accompanied by any escort.”
“Well, but your companions, those who were along with you, how came it
that they did not defend you?” impetuously asked Agricola.
“I was alone, my dear brother.”
“Alone!”
“Yes, alone; without even a guide.”
“You alone! unarmed! in a barbarous country!” exclaimed Dagobert,
scarcely crediting a step so unmilitary, and almost distrusting his own
sense of hearing.
“It was sublime!” said the young blacksmith and poet.
“The Christian faith,” said Gabriel, with mild simplicity, “cannot be
implanted by force or violence. It is only by the power of persuasion
that the gospel can be spread amongst poor savages.”
“But when persuasions fail!” said Agricola.
“Why, then, dear brother, one has but to die for the belief that is
in him, pitying those who have rejected it, and who have refused the
blessings it offers to mankind.”
There was a period of profound silence after the reply of Gabriel, which
was uttered with simple and touching pathos.
Dagobert was in his own nature too courageous not to comprehend a
heroism thus calm and resigned; and the old soldier, as well as his
son, now contemplated Gabriel with the most earnest feelings of mingled
admiration and respect.
Gabriel, entirely free from the affection of false modesty, seemed quite
unconscious of the emotions which he had excited in the breasts of his
two friends; and he therefore said to Dagobert, “What ails you?”
“What ails me!” exclaimed the brave old soldier, with great emotion:
“After having been for thirty years in the wars, I had imagined myself
to be about as courageous as any man. And now I find I have a master!
And that master is yourself!”
“I!” said Gabriel; “what do you mean? What have I done?”
“Thunder, don’t you know that the brave wounds there” (the veteran
took with transport both of Gabriel’s hands), “that these wounds are
as glorious--are more glorious than our--than all ours, as warriors by
profession!”
“Yes! yes, my father speaks truth!” exclaimed Agricola; and he added,
with enthusiasm, “Oh, for such priests! How I love them! How I
venerate them! How I am elevated by their charity, their courage, their
resignation!”
“I entreat you not to extol me thus,” said Gabriel with embarrassment.
“Not extol you!” replied Dagobert. “Hanged if I shouldn’t. When I have
gone into the heat of action, did I rush into it alone? Was I not under
the eyes of my commanding officer? Were not my comrades there along
with me? In default of true courage, had I not the instinct of self
preservation to spur me on, without reckoning the excitement of the
shouts and tumult of battle, the smell of the gunpowder, the flourishes
of the trumpets, the thundering of the cannon, the ardor of my horse,
which bounded beneath me as if the devil were at his tail? Need I state
that I also knew that the emperor was present, with his eye upon every
one--the emperor, who, in recompense for a hole being made in my tough
hide, would give me a bit of lace or a ribbon, as plaster for the wound.
Thanks to all these causes, I passed for game. Fair enough! But are
you not a thousand times more game than I, my brave boy; going alone,
unarmed, to confront enemies a hundred times more ferocious than those
whom we attacked--we, who fought in whole squadrons, supported by
artillery, bomb-shells, and case-shot?”
“Excellent father!” cried Agricola, “how noble of you to render to
Gabriel this justice!”
“Oh, dear brother,” said Gabriel, “his kindness to me makes him magnify
what was quite natural and simple!”
“Natural!” said the veteran soldier; “yes, natural for gallants who have
hearts of the true temper: but that temper is rare.”
“Oh, yes, very rare,” said Agricola; “for that kind of courage is the
most admirable of all. Most bravely did you seek almost certain death,
alone, bearing the cross in hand as your only weapon, to preach charity
and Christian brotherhood. They seized you, tortured you; and you await
death and partly endure it, without complaint, without remonstrance,
without hatred, without anger, without a wish for vengeance; forgiveness
issuing from your mouth, and a smile of pity beaming upon your lips;
and this in the depths of forests, where no one could witness your
magnanimity,--none could behold you--and without other desire, after you
were rescued than modestly to conceal blessed wounds under your black
robe! My father is right, by Jove! can you still contend that you are
not as brave as he?”
“And besides, too,” resumed Dagobert, “the dear boy did all that for
a thankless paymaster; for it is true, Agricola, that his wounds will
never change his humble black robe of a priest into the rich robe of a
bishop!”
“I am not so disinterested as I may seem to be,” said Gabriel to
Dagobert, smiling meekly. “If I am deemed worthy, a great recompense
awaits me on high.”
“As to all that, my boy,” said Dagobert, “I do not understand it; and I
will not argue about it. I maintain it, that my old cross of honor would
be at least as deservedly affixed to your cassock as upon my uniform.”
“But these recompenses are never conferred upon humble priests like
Gabriel,” said Agricola, “and if you did know, dear father, how
much virtue and valor is among those whom the highest orders in the
priesthood insolently call the inferior clergy,--the unseen merit and
the blind devotedness to be found amongst worthy, but obscure, country
curates, who are inhumanly treated and subjugated to a pitiless yoke by
the lordly lawnsleeves! Like us, those poor priests are worthy laborers
in their vocation; and for them, also, all generous hearts ought to
demand enfranchisement! Sons of common people, like ourselves, and
useful as we are, justice ought to be rendered both to them and to us.
Do I say right, Gabriel? You will not contradict it; for you have told
me, that your ambition would have been to obtain a small country curacy;
because you understand the good that you could work within it.”
“My desire is still the same,” said Gabriel sadly: “but unfortunately--”
and then, as if he wished to escape from a painful thought, and to
change the conversation, he, addressing himself to Dagobert, added:
“Believe me: be more just than to undervalue your own courage by
exalting mine. Your courage must be very great--very great; for, after
a battle, the spectacle of the carnage must be truly terrible to a
generous and feeling heart. We, at least, though we may be killed, do
not kill.”
At these words of the missionary, the soldier drew himself up erect,
looked upon Gabriel with astonishment, and said, “This is most
surprising!”
“What is?” inquired Agricola.
“What Gabriel has just told us,” replied Dagobert, “brings to my mind
what I experienced in warfare on the battlefield in proportion as I
advanced in years. Listen, my children: more than once, on the
night after a general engagement, I have been mounted as a
vidette,--alone,--by night,--amid the moonlight, on the field of battle
which remained in our possession, and upon which lay the bodies of
seven or eight thousand of the slain, amongst whom were mingled the
slaughtered remains of some of my old comrades: and then this sad scene,
when the profound silence has restored me to my senses from the thirst
for bloodshed and the delirious whirling of my sword (intoxicated
like the rest), I have said to myself, ‘for what have these men been
killed?--FOR WHAT--FOR WHAT?’ But this feeling, well understood as it
was, hindered me not, on the following morning, when the trumpets again
sounded the charge, from rushing once more to the slaughter. But the
same thought always recurred when my arm became weary with carnage; and
after wiping my sabre upon the mane of my horse, I have said to myself,
‘I have killed!--killed!!--killed!!! and, FOR WHAT!!!’”
The missionary and the blacksmith exchanged looks on hearing the old
soldier give utterance to this singular retrospection of the past.
“Alas!” said Gabriel to him, “all generous hearts feel as you did during
the solemn moments, when the intoxication of glory has subsided, and
man is left alone to the influence of the good instincts planted in his
bosom.”
“And that should prove, my brave boy,” rejoined Dagobert, “that you are
greatly better than I; for those noble instincts, as you call them, have
never abandoned you. * * * * But how the deuce did you escape from the
claws of the infuriated savages who had already crucified you?”
At this question of Dagobert, Gabriel started and reddened so visibly,
that the soldier said to him: “If you ought not or cannot answer my
request, let us say no more about it.”
“I have nothing to conceal, either from you or from my brother,” replied
the missionary with altered voice. “Only; it will be difficult for me to
make you comprehend what I cannot comprehend myself.”
“How is that?” asked Agricola with surprise.
“Surely,” said Gabriel, reddening more deeply, “I must have been
deceived by a fallacy of my senses, during that abstracted moment in
which I awaited death with resignation. My enfeebled mind, in spite of
me, must have been cheated by an illusion; or that, which to the present
hour has remained inexplicable, would have been more slowly developed;
and I should have known with greater certainty that it was the strange
woman--”
Dagobert, while listening to the missionary, was perfectly amazed; for
he also had vainly tried to account for the unexpected succor which had
freed him and the two orphans from the prison at Leipsic.
“Of what woman do you speak?” asked Agricola.
“Of her who saved me,” was the reply.
“A woman saved you from the hands of the savages?” said Dagobert.
“Yes,” replied Gabriel, though absorbed in his reflections, “a woman,
young and beautiful!”
“And who was this woman?” asked Agricola.
“I know not. When I asked her, she replied, ‘I am the sister of the
distressed!’”
“And whence came she? Whither went she?” asked Dagobert, singularly
interested.
“‘I go wheresoever there is suffering,’ she replied,” answered
the missionary; “and she departed, going towards the north of
America--towards those desolate regions in which there is eternal snow,
where the nights are without end.”
“As in Siberia,” said Dagobert, who had become very thoughtful.
“But,” resumed Agricola, addressing himself to Gabriel, who seemed also
to have become more and more absorbed, “in what manner or by what means
did this woman come to your assistance?”
The missionary was about to reply to the last question, when there was
heard a gentle tap at the door of the garret apartment, which renewed
the fears that Agricola had forgotten since the arrival of his adopted
brother. “Agricola,” said a sweet voice outside the door, “I wish to
speak with you as soon as possible.”
The blacksmith recognized Mother Bunch’s voice, and opened the door.
But the young sempstress, instead of entering, drew back into the dark
passage, and said, with a voice of anxiety: “Agricola, it is an hour
since broad day, and you have not yet departed! How imprudent! I have
been watching below, in the street, until now, and have seen nothing
alarming; but they may come any instant to arrest you. Hasten, I conjure
you, your departure for the abode of Miss de Cardoville. Not a minute
should be lost.”
“Had it not been for the arrival of Gabriel, I should have been gone.
But I could not resist the happiness of remaining some little time with
him.”
“Gabriel here!” said Mother Bunch, with sweet surprise; for, as has been
stated, she had been brought up with him and Agricola.
“Yes,” answered Agricola, “for half an hour he has been with my father
and me.”
“What happiness I shall have in seeing him again,” said the sewing-girl.
“He doubtless came upstairs while I had gone for a brief space to your
mother, to ask if I could be useful in any way on account of the young
ladies; but they have been so fatigued that they still sleep. Your
mother has requested me to give you this letter for your father. She has
just received it.”
“Thanks.”
“Well,” resumed Mother Bunch, “now that you have seen Gabriel, do not
delay long. Think what a blow it would be for your father, if they came
to arrest you in his very presence mon Dieu!”
“You are right,” said Agricola; “it is indispensable that I should
depart--while near Gabriel in spite of my anxiety, my fears were
forgotten.”
“Go quickly, then; and if Miss de Cardoville should grant this favor,
perhaps in a couple of hours you will return, quite at ease both as to
yourself and us.”
“True! a very few minutes more; and I’ll come down.”
“I return to watch at the door. If I perceive anything. I’ll come up
again to apprise you. But pray, do not delay.”
“Be easy, good sister.” Mother Bunch hurriedly descended the staircase,
to resume her watch at the street door, and Agricola re-entered his
garret. “Dear father,” he said to Dagobert, “my mother has just received
this letter, and she requests you to read it.”
“Very well; read it for me, my boy.” And Agricola read as follows:
“MADAME.--I understand that your husband has been charged by General
Simon with an affair of very great importance. Will you, as soon as your
husband arrives in Paris, request him to come to my office at Chartres
without a moment’s delay. I am instructed to deliver to himself, and
to no other person, some documents indispensable to the interests of
General Simon.
“DURAND, Notary at Chartres.”
Dagobert looked at his son with astonishment, and said to him, “Who can
have told this gentleman already of my arrival in Paris?”
“Perhaps, father,” said Agricola, “this is the notary to whom you
transmitted some papers, and whose address you have lost.”
“But his name was not Durand; and I distinctly recollect that his
address was Paris, not Chartres. And, besides,” said the soldier,
thoughtfully, “if he has some important documents, why didn’t he
transmit them to me?”
“It seems to me that you ought not to neglect going to him as soon as
possible,” said Agricola, secretly rejoiced that this circumstance
would withdraw his father for about two days, during which time his
(Agricola’s) fate would be decided in one way or other.
“Your counsel is good,” replied his father.
“This thwarts your intentions in some degree?” asked Gabriel.
“Rather, my lads; for I counted upon passing the day with you. However,
‘duty before everything.’ Having come happily from Siberia to Paris,
it is not for me to fear a journey from Paris to Chartres, when it is
required on an affair of importance. In twice twenty-four hours I shall
be back again. But the deuce take me if I expected to leave Paris for
Chartres to-day. Luckily, I leave Rose and Blanche with my good wife;
and Gabriel, their angel, as they call him, will be here to keep them
company.”
“That is, unfortunately, impossible,” said the missionary, sadly. “This
visit on my arrival is also a farewell visit.”
“A farewell visit! Now!” exclaimed Dagobert and Agricola both at once.
“Alas, yes!”
“You start already on another mission?” said Dagobert; “surely it is not
possible?”
“I must answer no question upon this subject,” said Gabriel, suppressing
a sigh: “but from now, for some time, I cannot, and ought not, come
again into this house.”
“Why, my brave boy,” resumed Dagobert with emotion, “there is something
in thy conduct that savors of constraint, of oppression. I know
something of men. He you call superior, whom I saw for some moments
after the shipwreck at Cardoville Castle, has a bad look; and I am sorry
to see you enrolled under such a commander.”
“At Cardoville Castle!” exclaimed Agricola, struck with the identity
of the name with that of the young lady of the golden hair; “was it in
Cardoville Castle that you were received after your shipwreck?”
“Yes, my boy; why, does that astonish you?” asked Dagobert.
“Nothing father; but were the owners of the castle there at the time?”
“No; for the steward, when I applied to him for an opportunity to return
thanks for the kind hospitality we had experienced, informed me that the
person to whom the house belonged was resident at Paris.”
“What a singular coincidence,” thought Agricola, “if the young lady
should be the proprietor of the dwelling which bears her name!”
This reflection having recalled to Agricola the promise which he had
made to Mother Bunch, he said to Dagobert; “Dear father, excuse me; but
it is already late, and I ought to be in the workshop by eight o’clock.”
“That is too true, my boy. Let us go. This party is adjourned till my
return from Chartres. Embrace me once more, and take care of yourself.”
Since Dagobert had spoken of constraint and oppression to Gabriel, the
latter had continued pensive. At the moment when Agricola approached
him to shake hands, and to bid him adieu, the missionary said to him
solemnly, with a grave voice, and in a tone of decision that astonished
both the blacksmith and the soldier: “My dear brother, one word more. I
have come here to say to you also that within a few days hence I shall
have need of you; and of you also, my father (permit me so to call
you),” added Gabriel, with emotion, as he turned round to Dagobert.
“How! you speak thus to us!” exclaimed Agricola; “what is the matter?”
“Yes,” replied Gabriel, “I need the advice and assistance of two men of
honor--of two men of resolution;--and I can reckon upon you two--can I
not? At any hour, on whatever day it may be, upon a word from me, will
you come?”
Dagobert and his son regarded each other in silence, astonished at the
accents of the missionary. Agricola felt an oppression of the heart. If
he should be a prisoner when his brother should require his assistance,
what could be done?
“At every hour, by night or by day, my brave boy, you may depend upon
us,” said Dagobert, as much surprised as interested--“You have a father
and a brother; make your own use of them.”
“Thanks, thanks,” said Gabriel, “you set me quite at ease.”
“I’ll tell you what,” resumed the soldier, “were it not for your
priest’s robe, I should believe, from the manner in which you have
spoken to us, that you are about to be engaged in a duel--in a mortal
combat.”
“In a duel?” said Gabriel, starting. “Yes; it may be a duel--uncommon
and fearful--at which it is necessary to have two witnesses such as
you--A FATHER and A BROTHER!”
Some instants afterwards, Agricola, whose anxiety was continually
increasing, set off in haste for the dwelling of Mademoiselle de
Cardoville, to which we now beg leave to take the reader.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE PAVILION.
Dizier House was one of the largest and handsomest in the Rue Babylone,
in Paris. Nothing could be more severe, more imposing, or more
depressing than the aspect of this old mansion. Several immense windows,
filled with small squares of glass, painted a grayish white, increased
the sombre effect of the massive layers of huge stones, blackened by
time, of which the fabric was composed.
This dwelling bore a resemblance to all the others that had been erected
in the same quarter towards the middle of the last century. It was
surmounted in front by a pediment; it had an elevated ground floor,
which was reached from the outside by a circular flight of broad stone
steps. One of the fronts looked on an immense court-yard, on each side
of which an arcade led to the vast interior departments. The other front
overlooked the garden, or rather park, of twelve or fifteen roods; and,
on this side, wings, approaching the principal part of the structure,
formed a couple of lateral galleries. Like nearly all the other great
habitations of this quarter, there might be seen at the extremity of the
garden, what the owners and occupiers of each called the lesser mansion.
This extension was a Pompadour summer-house, built in the form of a
rotunda, with the charming though incorrect taste of the era of its
erection. It presented, in every part where it was possible for the
stones to be cut, a profusion of endives, knots of ribbons, garlands
of flowers, and chubby cupids. This pavilion, inhabited by Adrienne
de Cardoville was composed of a ground floor, which was reached by a
peristyle of several steps. A small vestibule led to a circular hall,
lighted from the roof. Four principal apartments met here; and ranges of
smaller rooms, concealed in the upper story, served for minor purposes.
These dependencies of great habitations are in our days disused, or
transformed into irregular conservatories; but by an uncommon exception,
the black exterior of the pavilion had been scraped and renewed, and
the entire structure repaired. The white stones of which it was built
glistened like Parian marble; and its renovated, coquettish aspect
contrasted singularly with the gloomy mansion seen at the other
extremity of an extensive lawn, on which were planted here and there
gigantic clumps of verdant trees.
The following scene occurred at this residence on the morning following
that of the arrival of Dagobert, with the daughters of Marshal Simon, in
the Rue Brise-Miche. The hour of eight had sounded from the steeple of a
neighboring church; a brilliant winter sun arose to brighten a pure blue
sky behind the tall leafless trees, which in summer formed a dome of
verdure over the summer-house. The door in the vestibule opened, and the
rays of the morning sun beamed upon a charming creature, or rather upon
two charming creatures, for the second one, though filling a modest
place in the scale of creation, was not less distinguished by beauty of
its own, which was very striking. In plain terms two individuals, one of
them a young girl, and the other a tiny English dog, of great beauty,
of that breed of spaniels called King Charles’s, made their appearance
under the peristyle of the rotunda. The name of the young girl was
Georgette; the beautiful little spaniel’s was Frisky. Georgette was in
her eighteenth year. Never had Florine or Manton, never had a lady’s
maid of Marivaux, a more mischievous face, an eye more quick, a smile
more roguish, teeth more white, cheeks more roseate, figure more
coquettish, feet smaller, or form smarter, attractive, and enticing.
Though it was yet very early, Georgette was carefully and tastefully
dressed. A tiny Valenciennes cap, with flaps and flap-band, of half
peasant fashion, decked with rose-colored ribbons, and stuck a little
backward upon bands of beautiful fair hair, surrounded her fresh and
piquant face; a robe of gray levantine, and a cambric neck-kerchief,
fastened to her bosom by a large tuft of rose-colored ribbons, displayed
her figure elegantly rounded; a hollands apron, white as snow, trimmed
below by three large hems, surmounted by a Vandyke-row, encircled her
waist, which was as round and flexible as a reed; her short, plain
sleeves, edged with bone lace, allowed her plump arms to be seen, which
her long Swedish gloves, reaching to the elbow, defended from the rigor
of the cold. When Georgette raised the bottom of her dress, in order to
descend more quickly the steps, she exhibited to Frisky’s indifferent
eyes a beautiful ankle, and the beginning of the plump calf of a fine
leg, encased in white silk, and a charming little foot, in a laced
half-boot of Turkish satin. When a blonde like Georgette sets herself
to be ensnaring; when vivid glances sparkle from her eyes of bright yet
tender blue; when a joyous excitement suffuses her transparent skin,
she is more resistless for the conquest of everything before her than a
brunette.
This bewitching and nimble lady’s-maid, who on the previous evening
had introduced Agricola to the pavilion, was first waiting woman to
the Honorable Miss Adrienne de Cardoville, niece of the Princess Saint
Dizier.
Frisky, so happily found and brought back by the blacksmith, uttered
weak but joyful barks, and bounded, ran, and frolicked upon the turf.
She was not much bigger than one’s fist; her curled hair, of lustrous
black, shone like ebony, under the broad, red satin ribbon which
encircled her neck; her paws, fringed with long silken fur, were of
a bright and fiery tan, as well as her muzzle, the nose of which was
inconceivably pug; her large eyes were full of intelligence; and her
curly ears so long that they trailed upon the ground. Georgette seemed
to be as brisk and petulant as Frisky, and shared her sportiveness,--now
scampering after the happy little spaniel, and now retreating, in order
to be pursued upon the greensward in her turn. All at once, at the sight
of a second person, who advanced with deliberate gravity, Georgette
and Frisky were suddenly stopped in their diversion. The little King
Charles, some steps in advance of Georgette, faithful to her name,
and bold as the devil, held herself firmly upon her nervous paws, and
fiercely awaited the coming up of the enemy, displaying at the same time
rows of little teeth, which, though of ivory, were none the less pointed
and sharp. The enemy consisted of a woman of mature age, accompanied by
a very fat dog, of the color of coffee and milk; his tail was twisted
like a corkscrew; he was pot-bellied; his skin was sleek; his neck was
turned little to one side; he walked with his legs inordinately spread
out, and stepped with the air of a doctor. His black muzzle, quarrelsome
and scowling showed two fangs sallying forth, and turning up from the
left side of the mouth, and altogether he had an expression singularly
forbidding and vindictive. This disagreeable animal, a perfect type of
what might be called a “church-goer’s pug,” answered to the name of “My
Lord.” His mistress, a woman of about fifty years of age, corpulent and
of middle size, was dressed in a costume as gloomy and severe as that of
Georgette was gay and showy. It consisted of a brown robe, a black silk
mantle, and a hat of the same dye. The features of this woman might
have been agreeable in her youth; and her florid cheeks, her correct
eyebrows, her black eyes, which were still very lively, scarcely
accorded with the peevish and austere physiognomy which she tried to
assume. This matron, of slow and discreet gait, was Madame Augustine
Grivois, first woman to the Princess Saint-Dizier. Not only did the age,
the face, and the dress of these two women present a striking contrast;
but the contrast extended itself even to the animals which attended
them. There were similar differences between Frisky and My Lord, as
between Georgette and Mrs. Grivois. When the latter perceived the
little King Charles, she could not restrain a movement of surprise
and repugnance, which escaped not the notice of the young lady’s maid.
Frisky, who had not retreated one inch, since the apparition of My
Lord, regarded him valiantly, with a look of defiance, and even advanced
towards him with an air so decidedly hostile, that the cur, though
thrice as big as the little King Charles, uttered a howl of distress
and terror, and sought refuge behind Mrs. Grivois, who bitterly said to
Georgette:
“It seems to me, miss, that you might dispense with exciting your dog
thus, and setting him upon mine.”
“It was doubtless for the purpose of protecting this respectable but
ugly animal from similar alarms, that you tried to make us lose Frisky
yesterday, by driving her into the street through the little garden
gate. But fortunately an honest young man found Frisky in the Rue de
Babylone, and brought her back to my mistress. However,” continued
Georgette, “to what, madame, do I owe the pleasure of seeing you this
morning?”
“I am commanded by the Princess,” replied Mrs. Grivois, unable to
conceal a smile of triumphant satisfaction, “immediately to see Miss
Adrienne. It regards a very important affair, which I am to communicate
only to herself.”
At these words Georgette became purple, and could not repress a slight
start of disquietude, which happily escaped Grivois, who was occupied
with watching over the safety of her pet, whom Frisky continued to snarl
at with a very menacing aspect; and Georgette, having quickly overcome
her temporary emotion, firmly answered: “Miss Adrienne went to rest very
late last night. She has forbidden me to enter her apartment before mid
day.”
“That is very possible: but as the present business is to obey an order
of the Princess her aunt, you will do well if you please, miss, to
awaken your mistress immediately.”
“My mistress is subject to no one’s orders in her own house; and I will
not disturb her till mid-day, in pursuance of her commands,” replied
Georgette.
“Then I shall go myself,” said Mrs. Grivois.
“Florine and Hebe will not admit you. Indeed, here is the key of the
saloon; and through the saloon only can the apartments of Miss Adrienne
be entered.”
“How! do you dare refuse me permission to execute the orders of the
Princess?”
“Yes; I dare to commit the great crime of being unwilling to awaken my
mistress!”
“Ah! such are the results of the blind affection of the Princess for her
niece,” said the matron, with affected grief: “Miss Adrienne no longer
respects her aunt’s orders; and she is surrounded by young hare-brained
persons, who, from the first dawn of morning, dress themselves out as if
for ball-going.”
“Oh, madame! how came you to revile dress, who were formerly the
greatest coquette and the most frisky and fluttering of all the
Princess’s women. At least, that is what is still spoken of you in the
hotel, as having been handed down from time out of mind, by generation
to generation, even unto ours!”
“How! from generation to generation! do you mean to insinuate that I am
a hundred years old, Miss Impertinence?”
“I speak of the generations of waiting-women; for, except you, it is the
utmost if they remain two or three years in the Princess’s house, who
has too many tempers for the poor girls!”
“I forbid you to speak thus of my mistress, whose name some people ought
not to pronounce but on their knees.”
“However,” said Georgette, “if one wished to speak ill of--”
“Do you dare!”
“No longer ago than last night, at half past eleven o’clock--”
“Last night?”
“A four-wheeler,” continued Georgette, “stopped at a few paces from the
house. A mysterious personage, wrapped up in a cloak, alighted from it,
and directly tapped, not at the door, but on the glass of the porter’s
lodge window; and at one o’clock in the morning, the cab was still
stationed in the street, waiting for the mysterious personage in
the cloak, who, doubtless, during all that time, was, as you say,
pronouncing the name of her Highness the Princess on his knees.”
Whether Mrs. Grivois had not been instructed as to a visit made to the
Princess Saint-Dizier by Rodin (for he was the man in the cloak), in the
middle of the night, after he had become certain of the arrival in
Paris of General Simon’s daughters; or whether Mrs. Grivois thought it
necessary to appear ignorant of the visit, she replied, shrugging her
shoulders disdainfully: “I know not what you, mean, madame. I have
not come here to listen to your impertinent stuff. Once again I ask
you--will you, or will you not, introduce me to the presence of Miss
Adrienne?”
“I repeat, madame, that my mistress sleeps, and that she has forbidden
me to enter her bed-chamber before mid-day.”
This conversation took place at some distance from the summer-house,
at a spot from which the peristyle could be seen at the end of a grand
avenue, terminating in trees arranged in form of a V. All at once
Mrs. Grivois, extending her hand in that direction, exclaimed: “Great
heavens! is it possible? what have I seen?”
“What have you seen?” said Georgette, turning round.
“What have I seen?” repeated Mrs. Grivois, with amazement.
“Yes: what was it?”
“Miss Adrienne.”
“Where?” asked Georgette.
“I saw her run up the porch steps. I perfectly recognized her by her
gait, by her hat, and by her mantle. To come home at eight o’clock in
the morning!” cried Mrs. Grivois: “it is perfectly incredible!”
“See my lady? Why, you came to see her!” and Georgette burst out into
fits of laughter: and then said: “Oh! I understand! you wish to out-do
my story of the four-wheeler last night! It is very neat of you!”
“I repeat,” said Mrs. Grivois, “that I have this moment seen--”
“Oh! adone, Mrs. Grivois: if you speak seriously, you are mad!”
“I am mad, am I? because I have a pair of good eyes! The little gate
that open’s on the street lets one into the quincunx near the pavilion.
It is by that door, doubtless, that mademoiselle has re-entered.
Oh, what shameful conduct! what will the Princess say to it! Ah!
her presentiments have not yet been mistaken. See to what her weak
indulgence of her niece’s caprices has led her! It is monstrous!--so
monstrous, that, though I have seen her with my own eyes, still I can
scarcely believe it!”
“Since you’ve gone so far, ma’am, I now insist upon conducting you into
the apartment of my lady, in order that you may convince yourself, by
your own senses, that your eyes have deceived you!”
“Oh, you are very cunning, my dear, but not more cunning than I! You
propose my going now! Yes, yes, I believe you: you are certain that by
this time I shall find her in her apartment!”
“But, madame, I assure you--”
“All that I can say to you is this: that neither you, nor Florine, nor
Hebe, shall remain here twenty-four hours. The Princess will put an end
to this horrible scandal; for I shall immediately inform her of what
has passed. To go out in the night! Re-enter at eight o’clock in the
morning! Why, I am all in a whirl! Certainly, if I had not seen it with
my own eyes, I could not have believed it! Still, it is only what was to
be expected. It will astonish nobody. Assuredly not! All those to whom I
am going to relate it, will say, I am quite sure, that it is not at all
astonishing! Oh! what a blow to our respectable Princess! What a blow
for her!”
Mrs. Grivois returned precipitately towards the mansion, followed by her
fat pug, who appeared to be as embittered as herself.
Georgette, active and light, ran, on her part, towards the pavilion, in
order to apprise Miss de Cardoville that Mrs. Grivois had seen her, or
fancied she had seen her, furtively enter by the little garden gate.
CHAPTER XXXIV. ADRIENNE AT HER TOILET.
About an hour had elapsed since Mrs. Grivois had seen or pretended to
have seen Adrienne de Cardoville re-enter in the morning the extension
of Saint-Dizier House.
It is for the purpose, not of excusing, but of rendering intelligible,
the following scenes, that it is deemed necessary to bring out into the
light some striking peculiarities in the truly original character of
Miss de Cardoville.
This originality consisted in an excessive independence of mind, joined
to a natural horror of whatsoever is repulsive or deformed, and to
an insatiable desire of being surrounded by everything attractive and
beautiful. The painter most delighted with coloring and beauty, the
sculptor most charmed by proportions of form, feel not more than
Adrienne did the noble enthusiasm which the view of perfect beauty
always excites in the chosen favorites of nature.
And it was not only the pleasures of sight which this young lady
loved to gratify: the harmonious modulations of song, the melody of
instruments, the cadences of poetry, afforded her infinite pleasures;
while a harsh voice or a discordant noise made her feel the same painful
impression, or one nearly as painful as that which she involuntarily
experienced from the sight of a hideous object. Passionately fond of
flowers, too, and of their sweet scents, there are some perfumes which
she enjoyed equally with the delights of music or those of plastic
beauty. It is necessary, alas, to acknowledge one enormity: Adrienne was
dainty in her food! She valued more than any one else the fresh pulp
of handsome fruit, the delicate savor of a golden pheasant, cooked to a
turn, and the odorous cluster of a generous vine.
But Adrienne enjoyed all these pleasures with an exquisite reserve. She
sought religiously to cultivate and refine the senses given her. She
would have deemed it black ingratitude to blunt those divine gifts by
excesses, or to debase them by unworthy selections of objects upon which
to exercise them; a fault from which, indeed, she was preserved by the
excessive and imperious delicacy of her taste.
The BEAUTIFUL and the UGLY occupied for her the places which GOOD and
EVIL holds for others.
Her devotion to grace, elegance, and physical beauty, had led her also
to the adoration of moral beauty; for if the expression of a low and bad
passion render uncomely the most beautiful countenances, those which
are in themselves the most ugly are ennobled, on the contrary, by the
expression of good feelings and generous sentiments.
In a word, Adrienne was the most complete, the most ideal
personification of SENSUALITY--not of vulgar, ignorant, non intelligent,
mistaken sensuousness which is always deceit ful and corrupted by habit
or by the necessity for gross and ill-regulated enjoyments, but that
exquisite sensuality which is to the senses what intelligence is to the
soul.
The independence of this young lady’s character was extreme. Certain
humiliating subjections imposed upon her success by its social position,
above all things were revolting to her, and she had the hardihood
to resolve to withdraw herself from them. She was a woman, the most
womanish that it is possible to imagine--a woman in her timidity as well
as in her audacity--a woman in her hatred of the brutal despotism of
men, as well as in her intense disposition to self-devoting herself,
madly even and blindly, to him who should merit such a devotion from
her--a woman whose piquant wit was occasionally paradoxical--a superior
woman, in brief, who entertained a well-grounded disdain and contempt
for certain men either placed very high or greatly adulated, whom she
had from time to time met in the drawing-room of her aunt, the Princess
Saint-Dizier, when she resided with her.
These indispensable explanations being given, we usher, the reader into
the presence of Adrienne de Cardoville, who had just come out of the
bath.
It would require all the brilliant colorings of the Venetian school to
represent that charming scene, which would rather seem to have occurred
in the sixteenth century, in some palace of Florence or Bologna, than in
Paris, in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in the month of February, 1832.
Adrienne’s dressing-room was a kind of miniature temple seemingly one
erected and dedicated to the worship of beauty, in gratitude to the
Maker who has lavished so many charms upon woman, not to be neglected by
her, or to cover and conceal them with ashes, or to destroy them by
the contact of her person with sordid and harsh haircloth; but in order
that, with fervent gratitude for the divine gifts wherewith she is
endowed, she may enhance her charms with all the illusions of grace and
all the splendors of apparel, so as to glorify the divine work of her
own perfections in the eyes of all. Daylight was admitted into this
semicircular apartment, through one of those double windows, contrived
for the preservation of heat, so happily imported from Germany. The
walls of the pavilion being constructed of stone of great thickness, the
depth of the aperture for the windows was therefore very great. That of
Adrienne’s dressing-room was closed on the outside by a sash containing
a single large pane of plate glass, and within, by another large plate
of ground glass. In the interval or space of about three feet left
between these two transparent enclosures, there was a case or box filled
with furze mould, whence sprung forth climbing plants, which, directed
round the ground glass, formed a rich garland of leaves and flowers. A
garnet damask tapestry, rich with harmoniously blended arabesques, in
the purest style, covered the walls and a thick carpet of similar color
was extended over the floor: and this sombre ground, presented by the
floor and walls, marvellously enhanced the effects of all the harmonious
ornaments and decorations of the chamber.
Under the window, opposite to the south, was placed Adrienne’s dressing
case, a real masterpiece of the skill of the goldsmith. Upon a large
tablet of lapis-lazuli, there were scattered boxes of jewels, their
lids precisely enamelled; several scent boxes of rock crystal, and other
implements and utensils of the toilet, some formed of shells, some of
mother-of-pearl, and others of ivory, covered with ornaments of gold in
extraordinary taste. Two large figures, modelled in silver with antique
purity; supported an oval swing mirror, which had for its rim, in place
of a frame curiously carved, a fresh garland of natural flowers, renewed
every day like a nosegay for a ball.
Two enormous Japanese vases, of purple and gold, three feet each in
diameter, were placed upon the carpet on each side of the toilet, and,
filled with camellias, ibiscures, and cape jasmine, in full flower
formed a sort of grove, diversified with the most brilliant colors. At
the farther end of the apartment, opposite the casement, was to be seen,
surrounded by another mass of flowers, a reduction in white marble of
the enchanting group of Daphnis and Chloe, the more chaste ideal of
graceful modesty and youthful beauty.
Two golden lamps burned perfumes upon the same pedestal which supported
those two charming figures. A coffer of frosted silver, set off with
small figures in jewelry and precious stones, and supported on four
feet of gilt bronze, contained various necessaries for the toilette;
two frosted Psyches, decorated with diamond ear-rings; some excellent
drawings from Raphael and Titian, painted by Adrienne herself,
consisting of portraits of both men and women of exquisite beauty;
several consoles of oriental jasper, supporting ewers and basins of
silver and of silver gilt, richly chased and filled with scented waters;
a voluptuously rich divan, some seats, and an illuminated gilt fable,
completed the furniture of this chamber, the atmosphere of which was
impregnated with the sweetest perfumes.
Adrienne, whom her attendants had just helped from the bath, was seated
before her toilette, her three women surrounding her. By a caprice, or
rather by a necessary and logical impulse of her soul, filled as it
was with the love of beauty and of harmony in all things, Adrienne had
wished the young women who served her to be very pretty, and be dressed
with attention and with a charming originality. We have already seen
Georgette, a piquante blonde, attired in her attractive costume of an
intriguing lady’s maid of Marivaux; and her two companions were quite
equal to her both in gracefulness and gentility.
One of them, named Florine, a tall, delicately slender, and elegant
girl, with the air and form of Diana Huntress, was of a pale brown
complexion. Her thick black hair was turned up behind, where it was
fastened with a long golden pin. Like the two other girls, her arms were
uncovered to facilitate the performance of her duties about and upon the
person of her charming mistress. She wore a dress of that gay green so
familiar to the Venetian painters. Her petticoat was very ample. Her
slender waist curved in from under the plaits of a tucker of white
cambric, plaited in five minute folds, and fastened by five gold
buttons. The third of Adrienne’s women had a face so fresh and
ingenuous, a waist so delicate, so pleasing, and so finished, that her
mistress had given her the name of Hebe. Her dress of a delicate rose
color, and Grecian cut, displayed her charming neck, and her beautiful
arms up to the very shoulders. The physiognomy of these three young
women was laughter loving and happy. On their features there was no
expression of that bitter sullenness, willing and hated obedience, or
offensive familiarity, or base and degraded deference, which are the
ordinary results of a state of servitude. In the zealous eagerness of
the cares and attentions which they lavished upon Adrienne, there seemed
to be at least as much of affection as of deference and respect. They
appeared to derive an ardent pleasure from the services which they
rendered to their lovely mistress. One would have thought that they
attached to the dressing and embellishment of her person all the merits
and the enjoyment arising from the execution of a work of art, in the
accomplishing of which, fruitful of delights, they were stimulated by
the passions of love, of pride, and of joy.
The sun beamed brightly upon the toilet-case, placed in front of the
window. Adrienne was seated on a chair, its back elevated a little
more than usual. She was enveloped in a long morning-gown of blue silk,
embroidered with a leaf of the same color, which was fitted close to her
waist, as exquisitely slender and delicate as that of a child of twelve
years, by a girdle with floating tags. Her neck, delicately slender
and flexible as a bird’s, was uncovered, as were also her shoulders and
arms, and all were of incomparable beauty. Despite the vulgarity of
the comparison, the purest ivory alone can give an idea of the dazzling
whiteness of her polished satin skin, of a texture so fresh and so firm,
that some drops of water, collected and still remaining about the
roots of her hair from the bath, rolled in serpentine lines over her
shoulders, like pearls, or beads, of crystal, over white marble.
And what gave enhanced lustre to this wondrous carnation, known but to
auburn-headed beauties, was the deep purple of her, humid lips,--the
roseate transparency of her small ears, of her dilated nostrils, and
her nails, as bright and glossy, as if they had been varnished. In every
spot, indeed, where her pure arterial blood, full of animation and
heat, could make its way to the skin and shine through the surface, it
proclaimed her high health and the vivid life and joyous buoyancy of her
glorious youth. Her eyes were very large, and of a velvet softness. Now
they glanced, sparkling and shining with comic humor or intelligence
and wit; and now they widened and extended themselves, languishing and
swimming between their double fringes of long crisp eyelashes, of as
deep a black as her finely-drawn and exquisitely arched eyebrows; for,
by a delightful freak of nature, she had black eyebrows and eyelashes to
contrast with the golden red of her hair. Her forehead, small like those
of ancient Grecian statues, formed with the rest of her face a perfect
oval. Her nose, delicately curved, was slightly aquiline; the enamel of
her teeth glistened when the light fell upon them; and her vermeil
mouth voluptuously sensual, seemed to call for sweet kisses, and the
gay smiles and delectations of dainty and delicious pleasure. It is
impossible to behold or to conceive a carriage of the head freer, more
noble, or more elegant than hers; thanks to the great distance which
separated the neck and the ear from their attachment to her outspread
and dimpled shoulders. We have already said that Adrienne was
red-haired; but it was the redness of many of the admirable portraits
of women by Titian and Leonardo da Vinci,--that is to say, molten gold
presents not reflections more delightfully agreeable or more glittering,
than the naturally undulating mass of her very long hair, as soft and
fine as silk, so long, that, when let loose, it reached the floor; in
it, she could wholly envelop herself, like another Venus arising from
the sea. At the present moment, Adrienne’s tresses were ravishing to
behold; Georgette, her arms bare, stood behind her mistress, and had
carefully collected into one of her small white hands, those splendid
threads whose naturally ardent brightness was doubled in the sunshine.
When the pretty lady’s-maid pulled a comb of ivory into the midst of
the undulating and golden waves of that enormously magnificent skein of
silk, one might have said that a thousand sparks of fire darted forth
and coruscated away from it in all directions. The sunshine, too,
reflected not less golden and fiery rays from numerous clusters of
spiral ringlets, which, divided upon Adrienne’s forehead, fell over her
cheeks, and in their elastic flexibility caressed the risings of her
snowy bosom, to whose charming undulations they adapted and applied
themselves. Whilst Georgette, standing, combed the beautiful locks of
her mistress, Hebe, with one knee upon the floor, and having upon
the other the sweet little foot of Miss Cardoville, busied herself in
fitting it with a remarkably small shoe of black satin, and crossed its
slender ties over a silk stocking of a pale yet rosy flesh color, which
imprisoned the smallest and finest ankle in the world. Florine, a little
farther back, presented to her mistress, in a jeweled box, a perfumed
paste, with which Adrienne slightly rubbed her dazzling hands
and outspread fingers, which seemed tinted with carmine to their
extremities. Let us not forget Frisky, who, couched in the lap of
her mistress, opened her great eyes with all her might, and seemed to
observe the different operations of Adrienne’s toilette with grave and
reflective attention. A silver bell being sounded from without, Florine,
at a sign from her mistress, went out and presently returned, bearing
a letter upon a small silver-gilt salve. Adrienne, while her women
continued fitting on her shoes, dressing her hair, and arranging her in
her habiliments, took the letter, which was written by the steward of
the estate of Cardoville, and read aloud as follows:
“HONORED MADAME,
“Knowing your goodness of heart and generosity, I venture to address you
with respectful confidence. During twenty years I served the late Count
and Duke of Cardoville, your noble father, I believe I may truly say,
with probity and zeal. The castle is now sold; so that I and my wife, in
our old age, behold ourselves about to be dismissed, and left destitute
of all resources: which, alas! is very hard at our time of life.”
“Poor creature!” said Adrienne, interrupting herself in reading: “my
father, certainly, always prided himself upon their devotion to him, and
their probity.” She continued:
“There does, indeed, remain to us a means of retaining our place
here; but it would constrain us to be guilty of baseness; and, be the
consequences to us what they may, neither I nor my wife wish to purchase
our bread at such a price.”
“Good, very good,” said Adrienne, “always the same--dignity even in
poverty--it is the sweet perfume of a flower, not the less sweet because
it has bloomed in a meadow.”
“In order to explain to you, honored madame, the unworthy task exacted
from us, it is necessary to inform you, in the first place, that M.
Rodin came here from Paris two days ago.”
“Ah! M. Rodin!” said Mademoiselle de Cardoville, interrupting herself
anew; “the secretary of Abbe d’Aigrigny! I am not at all surprised at
him being engaged in a perfidious or black intrigue. But let us see.”
“M. Rodin came from Paris to announce to us that the estate was sold,
and that he was sure of being able to obtain our continuance in our
place, if we would assist him in imposing a priest not of good character
upon the new proprietress as her future confessor; and if, the better
to attain this end, we would consent to calumniate another priest,
a deserving and excellent man, much loved and much respected in the
country. Even that is not all. I was required to write twice or thrice
a week to M. Rodin, and to relate to him everything that should occur in
the house. I ought to acknowledge, honored madame, that these infamous
proposals were as much as possible disguised and dissimulated under
sufficiently specious pretexts; but, notwithstanding the aspect which
with more or less skill it was attempted to give to the affair, it was
precisely and substantially what I have now had the honor of stating to
you.”
“Corruption, calumny, and false and treacherous impeachment!” said
Adrienne, with disgust: “I cannot think of such wretches without
involuntarily feeling my mind shocked by dismal ideas of black,
venomous, and vile reptiles, of aspects most hideous indeed. How much
more do I love to dwell upon the consoling thought of honest Dupont and
his wife!” Adrienne proceeded:
“Believe me, we hesitated not an instant. We quit Cardoville, which
has been our home for the last twenty years;--but we shall quit it like
honest people, and with the consciousness of our integrity. And now,
honored madame, if, in the brilliant circle in which you move--you,
who are so benevolent and amiable--could find a place for us by your
recommendation, then, with endless gratitude to you, we shall escape
from a position of most cruel embarrassment.”
“Surely, surely,” said Adrienne, “they shall not in vain appeal to me.
To wrest excellent persons from the grip of M. Rodin, is not only a
duty but a pleasure: for it is at once a righteous and a dangerous
enterprise; and dearly do I love to brave powerful oppressors!” Adrienne
again went on reading:
“After having thus spoken to you of ourselves, honored madame, permit
us to implore your protection for other unfortunates; for it would be
wicked to think only of one’s self. Three days ago, two shipwrecks took
place upon our ironbound coast. A few passengers only were saved, and
were conducted hither, where I and my wife gave them all necessary
attentions. All these passengers have departed for Paris, except one,
who still remains, his wounds having hitherto prevented him from leaving
the house, and, indeed, they will constrain him to remain for some days
to come. He is a young East Indian prince, of about twenty years of age,
and he appears to be as amiable and good as he is handsome, which is
not a little to say, though he has a tawny skin, like the rest of his
countrymen, as I understand.”
“An Indian prince! twenty years of age! young, amiable, and handsome!”
exclaimed Adrienne, gayly; “this is quite delightful, and not at all
of an ordinary or vulgar nature! Oh! this Indian prince has already
awakened all my sympathies! But what can I do with this Adonis from
the banks of the Ganges, who has come to wreck himself upon the Picardy
coast?”
Adrienne’s three women looked at her with much astonishment, though they
were accustomed to the singular eccentricities of her character.
Georgette and Hebe even indulged in discreet and restrained smiles.
Florine, the tall and beautiful pale brown girl, also smiled like her
pretty companions; but it was after a short pause of seeming reflection,
as if she had previously been entirely engrossed in listening to and
recollecting the minutest words of her mistress, who, though powerfully
interested by the situation of the “Adonis from Ganges banks,” as she
had called him, continued to read Dupont’s letter:
“One of the countrymen of the Indian prince, who has also remained to
attend upon him, has given me to understand that the youthful prince
has lost in the shipwreck all he possessed, and knows not how to get to
Paris, where his speedy presence is required by some affairs of the
very greatest importance. It is not from the prince himself that I have
obtained this information: no; he appears to be too dignified and
proud to proclaim of his fate: but his countryman, more communicative,
confidentially told me what I have stated, adding, that his young
compatriot has already been subjected to great calamities, and that his
father, who was the sovereign of an Indian kingdom, has been killed by
the English, who have also dispossessed his son of his crown.”
“This is very singular,” said Adrienne, thoughtfully. “These
circumstances recall to my mind that my father often mentioned that one
of our relations was espoused in India by a native monarch; and that
General Simon: (whom they have created a marshal) had entered into his
service.” Then interrupting herself to indulge in a smile, she added,
“Gracious! this affair will be quite odd and fantastical! Such things
happen to nobody but me; and then people say that I am the uncommon
creature! But it seems to me that it is not I, but Providence, which, in
truth, sometimes shows itself very eccentric! But let us see if worthy
Dupont gives the name of this handsome prince?”
“We trust, honored madame, that you will pardon our boldness: but we
should have thought ourselves very selfish, if, while stating to you our
own griefs, we had not also informed you that there is with us a brave
and estimable prince involved in so much distress. In fine, lady, trust
to me; I am old; and I have had much experience of men; and it was
only necessary to see the nobleness of expression and the sweetness
of countenance of this young Indian, to enable me to judge that he is
worthy of the interest which I have taken the liberty to request in his
behalf. It would be sufficient to transmit to him a small sum of money
for the purchase of some European clothing; for he has lost all his
Indian vestments in the shipwreck.”
“Good heavens! European clothing!” exclaimed Adrienne, gayly. “Poor
young prince! Heaven preserve him from that; and me also! Chance has
sent hither from the heart of India, a mortal so far favored as never
to have worn the abominable European costume--those hideous habits, and
frightful hats, which render the men so ridiculous, so ugly, that in
truth there is not a single good quality to be discovered in them, nor
one spark of what can either captivate or attract! There comes to me at
last a handsome young prince from the East, where the men are clothed
in silk and cashmere. Most assuredly I’ll not miss this rare and
unique opportunity of exposing myself to a very serious and formidable
temptation! No, no! not a European dress for me, though poor Dupont
requests it! But the name--the name of this dear prince! Once more, what
a singular event is this! If it should turn out to be that cousin from
beyond the Ganges! During my childhood, I have heard so much in praise
of his royal father! Oh! I shall be quite ravished to give his son the
kind reception which he merits!” And then she read on:
“If, besides this small sum, honored madame, you are so kind as to
give him, and also his companion, the means of reaching Paris, you
will confer a very great service upon this poor young prince, who is at
present so unfortunate.
“To conclude, I know enough of your delicacy to be aware that it would
perhaps be agreeable to you to afford this succor to the prince without
being known as his benefactress; in which case, I beg that you will be
pleased to command me; and you may rely upon my discretion. If, on the
contrary, you wish to address it directly to himself, his name is, as it
has been written for me by his countrymen, Prince Djalma, son of Radja
sing, King of Mundi.”
“Djalma!” said Adrienne, quickly, and appearing to call up her
recollections, “Radja-sing! Yes--that is it! These are the very names
that my father so often repeated, while telling me that there was
nothing more chivalric or heroic in the world than the old king, our
relation by marriage; and the son has not derogated, it would seem, from
that character. Yes, Djalma, Radja-sing--once more, that is it--such
names are not so common,” she added, smiling, “that one should either
forget or confound them with others. This Djalma is my cousin! Brave
and good--young and charming! above all, he has never worn the
horrid European dress! And destitute of every resource! This is quite
ravishing! It is too much happiness at once! Quick, quick let us
improvise a pretty fairy tale, of which the handsome and beloved prince
shall be the hero! The poor bird of the golden and azure plumage has
wandered into our dismal climate; but he will find here, at least,
something to remind him of his native region of sunshine and perfumes!”
Then, addressing one of her women, she said: “Georgette, take paper and
write, my child!” The young girl went to the gilt, illuminated table,
which contained materials for writing; and, having seated herself, she
said to her mistress: “I await orders.”
Adrienne de Cardoville, whose charming countenance was radiant with the
gayety of happiness and joy, proceeded to dictate the following letter
to a meritorious old painter, who had long since taught her the arts of
drawing and designing; in which arts she excelled, as indeed she did in
all others:
“MY DEAR TITIAN, MY GOOD VERONESE, MY WORTHY RAPHAEL.
“You can render me a very great service,--and you will do it, I am
sure, with that perfect and obliging complaisance by which you are ever
distinguished.
“It is to go immediately and apply yourself to the skillful hand who
designed my last costumes of the fifteenth century. But the present
affair is to procure modern East Indian dresses for a young man--yes,
sir--for a young man,--and according to what I imagine of him, I fancy
that you can cause his measure to be taken from the Antinous, or rather,
from the Indian Bacchus; yes--that will be more likely.
“It is necessary that these vestments be at once of perfect propriety
and correctness, magnificently rich, and of the greatest elegance. You
will choose the most beautiful stuffs possible; and endeavor, above all
things, that they be, or resemble, tissues of Indian manufacture; and
you will add to them, for turbans and sashes, six splendid long cashmere
shawls, two of them white, two red, and two orange; as nothing suits
brown complexions better than those colors.
“This done (and I allow you at the utmost only two or three days), you
will depart post in my carriage for Cardoville Manor House, which
you know so well. The steward, the excellent Dupont, one of your old
friends, will there introduce you to a young Indian Prince, named
Djalma; and you will tell that most potent grave, and reverend signior,
of another quarter of the globe, that you have come on the part of an
unknown friend, who, taking upon himself the duty of a brother, sends
him what is necessary to preserve him from the odious fashions
of Europe. You will add, that his friend expects him with so much
impatience that he conjures him to come to Paris immediately. If he
objects that he is suffering, you will tell him that my carriage is an
excellent bed-closet; and you will cause the bedding, etc., which it
contains, to be fitted up, till he finds it quite commodious. Remember
to make very humble excuses for the unknown friend not sending to the
prince either rich palanquins, or even, modestly, a single elephant;
for alas! palanquins are only to be seen at the opera; and there are
no elephants but those in the menagerie,--though this must make us seem
strangely barbarous in his eyes.
“As soon as you shall have decided on your departure, perform the
journey as rapidly as possible, and bring here, into my house, in the
Rue de Babylone (what predestination! that I should dwell in the street
of BABYLON,--a name which must at least accord with the ear of an
Oriental),--you will bring hither, I say, this dear prince, who is so
happy as to have been born in a country of flowers, diamonds, and sun!
“Above all, you will have the kindness, my old and worthy friend, not
to be at all astonished at this new freak, and refrain from indulging in
extravagant conjectures. Seriously, the choice which I have made of you
in this affair,--of you, whom I esteem and most sincerely honor,--is
because it is sufficient to say to you that, at the bottom of all this,
there is something more than a seeming act of folly.”
In uttering these last words, the tone of Adrienne was as serious and
dignified as it had been previously comic and jocose. But she quickly
resumed, more gayly, dictating to Georgette.
“Adieu, my old friend. I am something like that commander of ancient
days, whose heroic nose and conquering chin you have so often made me
draw: I jest with the utmost freedom of spirit even in the moment
of battle: yes, for within an hour I shall give battle, a pitched
battle--to my dear pew-dwelling aunt. Fortunately, audacity and courage
never failed me, and I burn with impatience for the engagement with my
austere princess.
“A kiss, and a thousand heartfelt recollections to your excellent wife.
If I speak of her here, who is so justly respected, you will please to
understand, it is to make you quite at ease as to the consequences of
this running away with, for my sake, a charming young prince,--for it is
proper to finish well where I should have begun, by avowing to you that
he is charming indeed!
“Once more, adieu!”
Then, addressing Georgette, said she, “Have you done writing, chit?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Oh, add this postscript.”
“P.S.--I send you draft on sight on my banker for all expenses. Spare
nothing. You know I am quite a grand seigneur. I must use this masculine
expression, since your sex have exclusively appropriated to yourselves
(tyrants as you are) a term, so significant as it is of noble
generosity.”
“Now, Georgette,” said Adrienne; “bring me an envelope, and the letter,
that I may sign it.” Mademoiselle de Cardoville took the pen that
Georgette presented to her, signed the letter, and enclosed in it an
order upon her banker, which was expressed thus:
“Please pay M. Norval, on demand without grace, the sum of money he may
require for expenses incurred on my account.
“ADRIENNE DE CARDOVILLE.”
During all this scene, while Georgette wrote, Florine and Hebe had
continued to busy themselves with the duties of their mistress’s
toilette, who had put off her morning gown, and was now in full dress,
in order to wait upon the princess, her aunt. From the sustained and
immovably fixed attention with which Florine had listened to Adrienne’s
dictating to Georgette her letter to M. Norval, it might easily have
been seen that, as was her habit indeed, she endeavored to retain in her
memory even the slightest words of her mistress.
“Now, chit,” said Adrienne to Hebe, “send this letter immediately to M.
Norval.”
The same silver bell was again rung from without. Hebe moved towards the
door of the dressing-room, to go and inquire what it was, and also
to execute the order of her mistress as to the letter. But Florine
precipitated herself, so to speak, before her, and so as to prevent her
leaving the apartment; and said to Adrienne:
“Will it please my lady for me to send this letter? I have occasion to
go to the mansion.”
“Go, Florine, then,” said Adrienne, “seeing that you wish it. Georgette,
seal the letter.”
At the end of a second or two, during which Georgette had sealed the
letter, Hebe returned.
“Madame,” said she, re-entering, “the working-man who brought back
Frisky yesterday, entreats you to admit him for an instant. He is very
pale, and he appears quite sad.”
“Would that he may already have need of me! I should be too happy!” said
Adrienne gayly. “Show the excellent young man into the little saloon.
And, Florine, despatch this letter immediately.”
Florine went out. Miss de Cardoville, followed by Frisky, entered the
little reception-room, where Agricola awaited her.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE INTERVIEW.
When Adrienne de Cardoville entered the saloon where Agricola expected
her, she was dressed with extremely elegant simplicity. A robe of
deep blue, perfectly fitted to her shape, embroidered in front with
interlacings of black silk, according to the then fashion, outlined
her nymph-like figure, and her rounded bosom. A French cambric collar,
fastened by a large Scotch pebble, set as a brooch, served her for a
necklace. Her magnificent golden hair formed a framework for her fair
countenance, with an incredible profusion of long and light spiral
tresses, which reached nearly to her waist.
Agricola, in order to save explanations with his father, and to make him
believe that he had indeed gone to the workshop of M. Hardy, had been
obliged to array himself in his working dress; he had put on a new
blouse though, and the collar of his shirt, of stout linen, very white,
fell over upon a black cravat, negligently tied; his gray trousers
allowed his well polished boots to be seen; and he held between his
muscular hands a cap of fine woolen cloth, quite new. To sum up, his
blue blouse, embroidered with red, showing off the nervous chest of the
young blacksmith, and indicating his robust shoulders, falling down
in graceful folds, put not the least constraint upon his free and easy
gait, and became him much better than either frock-coat or dress-coat
would have done. While awaiting Miss de Cardoville, Agricola
mechanically examined a magnificent silver vase, admirably graven. A
small tablet, of the same metal, fitted into a cavity of its antique
stand, bore the words--“Chased by JEAN MARIE, working chaser, 1831.”
Adrienne had stepped so lightly upon the carpet of her saloon, only
separated from another apartment by the doors, that Agricola had not
perceived the young lady’s entrance. He started, and turned quickly
round, upon hearing a silver and brilliant voice say to him-“That is a
beautiful vase, is it not, sir?”
“Very beautiful, madame,” answered Agricola greatly embarrassed.
“You may see from it that I like what is equitable.” added Miss de
Cardoville, pointing with her finger to the little silver tablet;--“an
artist puts his name upon his painting; an author publishes his on the
title-page of his book; and I contend that an artisan ought also to have
his name connected with his workmanship.”
“Oh, madame, so this name?”
“Is that of the poor chaser who executed this masterpiece, at the order
of a rich goldsmith. When the latter sold me the vase, he was amazed at
my eccentricity, he would have almost said at my injustice, when, after
having made him tell me the name of the author of this production,
I ordered his name to be inscribed upon it, instead of that of the
goldsmith, which had already been affixed to the stand. In the absence
of the rich profits, let the artisan enjoy the fame of his skill. Is it
not just, sir?”
It would have been impossible for Adrienne to commence the conversation
more graciously: so that the blacksmith, already beginning to feel a
little more at ease, answered:
“Being a mechanic myself, madame, I cannot but be doubly affected by
such a proof of your sense of equity and justice.”
“Since you are a mechanic, sir,” resumed Adrienne, “I cannot but
felicitate myself on having so suitable a hearer. But please to be
seated.”
With a gesture full of affability, she pointed to an armchair of purple
silk embroidered with gold, sitting down herself upon a tete-a-tete of
the same materials.
Seeing Agricola’s hesitation, who again cast down his eyes with
embarrassment, Adrienne, to encourage him, showed him Frisky, and
said to him gayly: “This poor little animal, to which I am very much
attached, will always afford me a lively remembrance of your obliging
complaisance, sir. And this visit seems to me to be of happy augury;
I know not what good presentiment whispers to me, that perhaps I shall
have the pleasure of being useful to you in some affair.”
“Madame,” said Agricola, resolutely, “my name is Baudoin: a blacksmith
in the employment of M. Hardy, at Pressy, near the city. Yesterday you
offered me your purse and I refused it: to-day, I have come to request
of you perhaps ten or twenty times the sum that you had generously
proposed. I have said thus much all at once, madame, because it causes
me the greatest effort. The words blistered my lips, but now I shall be
more at ease.”
“I appreciate the delicacy of your scruples, sir,” said Adrienne; “but
if you knew me, you would address me without fear. How much do you
require?”
“I do not know, madame,” answered Agricola.
“I beg your pardon. You don’t know what sum?”
“No madame; and I come to you to request, not only the sum necessary to
me, but also information as to what that sum is.”
“Let us see, sir,” said Adrienne, smiling, “explain this to me. In spite
of my good will, you feel that I cannot divine, all at once, what it is
that is required.”
“Madame, in two words, I can state the truth. I have a food old mother,
who in her youth, broke her health by excessive labor, to enable her to
bring me up; and not only me, but a poor abandoned child whom she
had picked up. It is my turn now to maintain her; and that I have the
happiness of doing. But in order to do so, I have only my labor. If I am
dragged from my employment, my mother will be without support.”
“Your mother cannot want for anything now, sir, since I interest myself
for her.”
“You will interest yourself for her, madame?” said Agricola.
“Certainly,” replied Adrienne.
“But you don’t know her,” exclaimed the blacksmith.
“Now I do; yes.”
“Oh, madame!” said Agricola, with emotion, after a moment’s silence.
“I understand you. But indeed you have a noble heart. Mother Bunch was
right.”
“Mother Bunch?” said Adrienne, looking at Agricola with a very surprised
air; for what he said to her was an enigma.
The blacksmith, who blushed not for his friends, replied frankly.
“Madame, permit me to explain, to you. Mother Bunch is a poor and very
industrious young workwoman, with whom I have been brought up. She
is deformed, which is the reason why she is called Mother Bunch. But
though, on the one hand, she is sunk, as low as you are highly elevated
on the other, yet as regards the heart--as to delicacy--oh, lady, I am
certain that your heart is of equal worth with hers! That was at once
her own thought, after I had related to her in what manner, yesterday,
you had presented me with that beautiful flower.”
“I can assure you, sir,” said Adrienne, sincerely touched, “that this
comparison flatters and honors me more than anything else that you could
say to me,--a heart that remains good and delicate, in spite of cruel
misfortunes, is so rare a treasure; while it is very easy to be good,
when we have youth and beauty, and to be delicate and generous, when
we are rich. I accept, then, your comparison; but on condition that
you will quickly put me in a situation to deserve it. Pray go on,
therefore.”
In spite of the gracious cordiality of Miss de Cardoville, there was
always observable in her so much of that natural dignity which arises
from independence of character, so much elevation of soul and nobleness
of sentiment that Agricola, forgetting the ideal physical beauty of his
protectress, rather experienced for her the emotions of an affectionate
and kindly, though profound respect, which offered a singular and
striking contrast with the youth and gayety of the lovely being who
inspired him with this sentiment.
“If my mother alone, madame, were exposed to the rigor which I dread.
I should not be so greatly disquieted with the fear of a compulsory
suspension of my employment. Among poor people, the poor help one
another; and my mother is worshipped by all the inmates of our house,
our excellent neighbors, who would willingly succor her. But, they
themselves are far from being well off; and as they would incur
privations by assisting her, their little benefit would still be more
painful to my mother than the endurance even of misery by herself. And
besides, it is not only for my mother that my exertions are required,
but for my father, whom we have not seen for eighteen years, and who has
just arrived from Siberia, where he remained during all that time, from
zealous devotion to his former general, now Marshal Simon.”
“Marshal Simon!” said Adrienne, quickly, with an expression of much
surprise.
“Do you know the marshal, madame?”
“I do not personally know him, but he married a lady of our family.”
“What joy!” exclaimed the blacksmith, “then the two young ladies, his
daughters, whom my father has brought from Russia, are your relations!”
“Has Marshal Simon two daughters?” asked Adrienne, more and more
astonished and interested.
“Yes, madame, two little angels of fifteen or sixteen, and so pretty,
so sweet; they are twins so very much alike, as to be mistaken for one
another. Their mother died in exile; and the little she possessed having
been confiscated, they have come hither with my father, from the depths
of Siberia, travelling very wretchedly; but he tried to make them forget
so many privations by the fervency of his devotion and his tenderness.
My excellent father! you will not believe, madame, that, with the
courage of a lion, he has all the love and tenderness of a mother.”
“And where are the dear children, sir?” asked Adrienne.
“At our home, madame. It is that which renders my position so very hard;
that which has given me courage to come to you; it is not but that my
labor would be sufficient for our little household, even thus augmented;
but that I am about to be arrested.”
“About to be arrested? For what?”
“Pray, madame, have the goodness to read this letter, which has been
sent by some one to Mother Bunch.”
Agricola gave to Miss de Cardoville the anonymous letter which had been
received by the workwoman.
After having read the letter, Adrienne said to the blacksmith, with
surprise, “It appears, sir, you are a poet!”
“I have neither the ambition nor the pretension to be one, madame. Only,
when I return to my mother after a day’s toil, and often, even while
forging my iron, in order to divert and relax my attention, I amuse
myself with rhymes, sometimes composing an ode, sometimes a song.”
“And your song of the Freed Workman, which is mentioned in this letter,
is, therefore, very disaffected--very dangerous?”
“Oh, no, madame; quite the contrary. For myself, I have the good fortune
to be employed in the factory of M. Hardy, who renders the condition of
his workpeople as happy as that of their less fortunate comrades is the
reverse; and I had limited myself to attempt, in favor of the great
mass of the working classes, an equitable, sincere, warm, and earnest
claim--nothing more. But you are aware, perhaps, Madame, that in
times of conspiracy, and commotion, people are often incriminated and
imprisoned on very slight grounds. Should such a misfortune befall me,
what will become of my mother, my father, and the two orphans whom we
are bound to regard as part of our family until the return of their
father, Marshal Simon? It is on this account, madame, that, if I remain,
I run the risk of being arrested. I have come to you to request you to
provide surety for me; so that I should not be compelled to exchange
the workshop for the prison, in which case I can answer for it that the
fruits of my labor will suffice for all.”
“Thank the stars!” said Adrienne, gayly, “this affair will arrange
itself quite easily. Henceforth, Mr. Poet, you shall draw your
inspirations in the midst of good fortune instead of adversity. Sad
muse! But first of all, bonds shall be given for you.”
“Oh, madame, you have saved us!”
“To continue,” said Adrienne, “the physician of our family is intimately
connected with a very important minister (understand that, as you like,”
said she, smiling, “you will not deceive yourself much). The doctor
exercises very great influence over this great statesman; for he has
always had the happiness of recommending to him, on account of his
health; the sweets and repose of private life, to the very eve of the
day on which his portfolio was taken from him. Keep yourself, then,
perfectly at ease. If the surety be insufficient, we shall be able to
devise some other means.
“Madame,” said Agricola, with great emotion, “I am indebted to you for
the repose, perhaps for the life of my mother. Believe that I shall ever
be grateful.”
“That is all quite simple. Now for another thing. It is proper that
those who have too much should have the right of coming to the aid of
those who have too little. Marshal Simon’s daughters are members of my
family, and they will reside here with me, which will be more suitable.
You will apprise your worthy mother of this; and in the evening, besides
going to thank her for the hospitality which she has shown to my young
relations, I shall fetch them home.”
At this moment Georgette, throwing open the door which separated the
room from an adjacent apartment, hurriedly entered, with an affrighted
look, exclaiming:
“Oh, madame, something extraordinary is going on in the street.”
“How so? Explain yourself,” said Adrienne.
“I went to conduct my dressmaker to the little garden-gate,” said
Georgette; “where I saw some ill-looking men, attentively examining the
walls and windows of the little out-building belonging to the pavilion,
as if they wished to spy out some one.”
“Madame,” said Agricola, with chagrin, “I have not been deceived. They
are after me.”
“What say you?”
“I thought I was followed, from the moment when I left the Rue St.
Merry: and now it is beyond doubt. They must have seen me enter your
house; and are on the watch to arrest me. Well, now that your interest
has been acquired for my mother,--now that I have no farther uneasiness
for Marshal Simon’s daughters,--rather than hazard your exposure to
anything the least unpleasant, I run to deliver myself up.”
“Beware of that sir,” said Adrienne, quickly. “Liberty is too precious
to be voluntarily sacrificed. Besides, Georgette may have been mistaken.
But in any case, I entreat you not to surrender yourself. Take
my advice, and escape being arrested. That, I think, will greatly
facilitate my measures; for I am of opinion that justice evinces a great
desire to keep possession of those upon whom she has once pounced.”
“Madame,” said Hebe, now also entering with a terrified look, “a man
knocked at the little door, and inquired if a young man in a blue blouse
has not entered here. He added, that the person whom he seeks is
named Agricola Baudoin, and that he has something to tell him of great
importance.”
“That’s my name,” said Agricola; “but the important information is a
trick to draw me out.”
“Evidently,” said Adrienne; “and therefore we must play off trick for
trick. What did you answer, child?” added she, addressing herself to
Hebe.
“I answered, that I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Quite right,” said Adrienne: “and the man who put the question?”
“He went away, madame.”
“Without doubt to come back again, soon,” said Agricola.
“That is very probable,” said Adrienne, “and therefore, sir, it is
necessary for you to remain here some hours with resignation. I am
unfortunately obliged to go immediately to the Princess Saint-Dizier, my
aunt, for an important interview, which can no longer be delayed, and
is rendered more pressing still by what you have told me concerning the
daughters of Marshal Simon. Remain here, then, sir; since if you go out,
you will certainly be arrested.”
“Madame, pardon my refusal; but I must say once more that I ought not to
accept this generous offer.”
“Why?”
“They have tried to draw me out, in order to avoid penetrating with the
power of the law into your dwelling but if I go not out, they will come
in; and never will I expose you to anything so disagreeable. Now that I
am no longer uneasy about my mother, what signifies prison?”
“And the grief that your mother will feel, her uneasiness, and her
fears,--nothing? Think of your father; and that poor work-woman who
loves you as a brother, and whom I value as a sister;--say, sir, do you
forget them also? Believe me, it is better to spare those torments to
your family. Remain here; and before the evening I am certain, either
by giving surety, or some other means, of delivering you from these
annoyances.”
“But, madame, supposing that I do accept your generous offer, they will
come and find me here.”
“Not at all. There is in this pavilion, which was formerly the abode of
a nobleman’s left-handed wife,--you see, sir,” said Adrienne, smiling,
“that live in a very profane place--there is here a secret place
of concealment, so wonderfully well-contrived, that it can defy all
searches. Georgette will conduct you to it. You will be very well
accommodated. You will even be able to write some verses for me, if the
place inspire you.”
“Oh, madame! how great is your goodness! how have I merited it?”
“Oh, sir, I will tell you. Admitting that your character and your
position do not entitle you to any interest;--admitting that I may not
owe a sacred debt to your father for the touching regards and cares he
has bestowed upon the daughters of Marshal Simon, my relations--do you
forget Frisky, sir?” asked Adrienne, laughing,--“Frisky, there, whom
you have restored to my fondles? Seriously, if I laugh,” continued this
singular and extravagant creature, “it is because I know that you
are entirely out of danger, and that I feel an increase of happiness.
Therefore, sir, write for me quickly your address, and your mother’s, in
this pocket-book; follow Georgette; and spin me some pretty verses, if
you do not bore yourself too much in that prison to which you fly.”
While Georgette conducted the blacksmith to the hiding-place, Hebe
brought her mistress a small gray beaver hat with a gray feather;
for Adrienne had to cross the park to reach the house occupied by the
Princess Saint-Dizier.
A quarter of an hour after this scene, Florine entered mysteriously the
apartment of Mrs. Grivois, the first woman of the princess.
“Well?” demanded Mrs. Grivois of the young woman.
“Here are the notes which I have taken this morning,” said Florine,
putting a paper into the duenna’s hand. “Happily, I have a good memory.”
“At what time exactly did she return home this morning?” asked the
duenna, quickly.
“Who, madame?”
“Miss Adrienne.”
“She did not go out, madame. We put her in the bath at nine o’clock.”
“But before nine o’clock she came home, after having passed the night
out of her house. Eight o’clock was the time at which she returned,
however.”
Florine looked at Mrs. Grivois with profound astonishment, and said-“I
do not understand you, madame.”
“What’s that? Madame did not come home this morning at eight o’clock?
Dare you lie?”
“I was ill yesterday, and did not come down till nine this morning, in
order to assist Georgette and Hebe help our young lady from the bath. I
know nothing of what passed previously, I swear to you, madame.”
“That alters the case. You must ferret out what I allude to from your
companions. They don’t distrust you, and will tell you all.”
“Yes, madame.”
“What has your mistress done this morning since you saw her?”
“Madame dictated a letter to Georgette for M. Norval, I requested
permission to send it off, as a pretext for going out, and for writing
down all I recollected.”
“Very well. And this letter?”
“Jerome had to go out, and I gave it him to put in the post-office.”
“Idiot!” exclaimed Mrs. Grivois: “couldn’t you bring it to me?”
“But, as madame dictated it aloud to Georgette, as is her custom, I knew
the contents of the letter; and I have written it in my notes.”
“That’s not the same thing. It is likely there was need to delay sending
off this letter; the princess will be very much displeased.”
“I thought I did right, madame.”
“I know that it is not good will that fails you. For these six months
I have been satisfied with you. But this time you have committed a very
great mistake.”
“Be indulgent, madame! what I do is sufficiently painful!” The girl
stifled a sigh.
Mrs. Grivois looked fixedly at her, and said in a sardonic tone:
“Very well, my dear, do not continue it. If you have scruples, you are
free. Go your way.”
“You well know that I am not free, madame,” said Florine, reddening;
and with tears in her eyes she added: “I am dependent upon M. Rodin, who
placed me here.”
“Wherefore these regrets, then?”
“In spite of one’s self, one feels remorse. Madame is so good, and so
confiding.”
“She is all perfection, certainly! But you are not here to sing her
praises. What occurred afterwards?”
“The working-man who yesterday found and brought back Frisky, came early
this morning and requested permission to speak with my young lady.”
“And is this working-man still in her house?”
“I don’t know. He came in when I was going out with the letter.”
“You must contrive to learn what it was this workingman came about.”
“Yes, madame.”
“Has your mistress seemed preoccupied, uneasy, or afraid of the
interview which she is to have to-day with the princess? She conceals so
little of what she thinks, that you ought to know.”
“She has been as gay as usual. She has even jested about the interview!”
“Oh! jested, has she?” said the tire-woman, muttering between her teeth,
without Florine being able to hear her: “‘They laugh most who laugh
last.’ In spite of her audacious and diabolical character, she would
tremble, and would pray for mercy, if she knew what awaits her this
day.” Then addressing Florine, she continued-“Return, and keep yourself,
I advise you, from those fine scruples, which will be quite enough to do
you a bad turn. Do not forget!”
“I cannot forget that I belong not to myself, madame.”
“Anyway, let it be so. Farewell.”
Florine quitted the mansion and crossed the park to regain the summer
house, while Mrs Grivois went immediately to the Princess Saint-Dizier.
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.
BOOK IV.
PART SECOND.--THE CHASTISEMENT.
PROLOGUE.--THE BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF TWO WORLDS.
I. The Masquerade II. The Contrast III. The Carouse IV. The
Farewell V. The Florine VI. Mother Sainte-Perpetue VII. The
Temptation VIII. Mother Bunch and Mdlle. De Cardoville IX.
The Encounters--The Meeting XI. Discoveries XII. The Penal
Code XIII. Burglary
As the eagle, perched upon the cliff, commands an all-comprehensive
view--not only of what happens on the plains and in the woodlands, but
of matters occurring upon the heights, which its aerie overlooks, so may
the reader have sights pointed out to him, which lie below the level of
the unassisted eye.
In the year 1831, the powerful Order of the Jesuits saw fit to begin
to act upon information which had for some time been digesting in their
hands.
As it related to a sum estimated at no less than thirty or forty
millions of francs, it is no wonder that they should redouble all
exertions to obtain it from the rightful owners.
These were, presumably, the descendants of Marius, Count of Rennepont,
in the reign of Louis XIV. of France.
They were distinguished from other men by a simple token, which all, in
the year above named, had in their hands.
It was a bronze medal, bearing these legends on reverse and obverse:
VICTIM
of
L. C. D. J.
Pray for me!
PARIS,
February the 13th, 1682.
IN PARIS
Rue St Francois, No. 3,
In a century and a half
you will be.
February the 13th, 1832.
PRAY FOR ME!
Those who had this token were descendants of a family whom, a hundred
and fifty years ago, persecution scattered through the world, in
emigration and exile; in changes of religion, fortune and name. For this
family--what grandeur, what reverses, what obscurity, what lustre, what
penury, what glory! How many crimes sullied, how many virtues honored
it! The history of this single family is the history of humanity!
Passing through many generations, throbbing in the veins of the poor
and the rich, the sovereign and the bandit, the wise and the simple, the
coward and the brave, the saint and the atheist, the blood flowed on to
the year we have named.
Seven representatives summed up the virtue, courage, degradation,
splendor, and poverty of the race. Seven: two orphan twin daughters of
exiled parents, a dethroned prince, a humble missionary priest, a man
of the middle class, a young lady of high name and large fortune, and a
working man.
Fate scattered them in Russia, India, France, and America.
The orphans, Rose and Blanche Simon, had left their dead mother’s grave
in Siberia, under charge of a trooper named Francis Baudoin, alias
Dagobert, who was as much attached to them as he had been devoted to
their father, his commanding general.
On the road to France, this little party had met the first check, in the
only tavern of Mockern village. Not only had a wild beast showman, known
as Morok the lion-tamer, sought to pick a quarrel with the inoffensive
veteran, but that failing, had let a panther of his menagerie loose
upon the soldier’s horse. That horse had carried Dagobert, under General
Simon’s and the Great Napoleon’s eyes, through many battles; had borne
the General’s wife (a Polish lady under the Czar’s ban) to her home of
exile in Siberia, and their children now across Russia and Germany, but
only to perish thus cruelly. An unseen hand appeared in a manifestation
of spite otherwise unaccountable. Dagobert, denounced as a French spy,
and his fair young companions accused of being adventuresses to help his
designs, had so kindled at the insult, not less to him than to his old
commander’s daughters, that he had taught the pompous burgomaster of
Mockern a lesson, which, however, resulted in the imprisonment of the
three in Leipsic jail.
General Simon, who had vainly sought to share his master’s St. Helena
captivity, had gone to fight the English in India. But notwithstanding
his drilling of Radja-sings sepoys, they had been beaten by the troops
taught by Clive, and not only was the old king of Mundi slain, and the
realm added to the Company’s land, but his son, Prince Djalma, taken
prisoner. However, at length released, he had gone to Batavia, with
General Simon. The prince’s mother was a Frenchwoman, and among the
property she left him in the capital of Java, the general was delighted
to find just such another medal as he knew was in his wife’s possession.
The unseen hand of enmity had reached to him, for letters miscarried,
and he did not know either his wife’s decease or that he had twin
daughters.
By a trick, on the eve of the steamship leaving Batavia for the Isthmus
of Suez, Djalma was separated from his friend, and sailing for Europe
alone, the latter had to follow in another vessel.
The missionary priest trod the war trails of the wilderness, with that
faith and fearlessness which true soldiers of the cross should evince.
In one of these heroic undertakings, Indians had captured him, and
dragging him to their village under the shadow of the Rocky Mountains,
they had nailed him in derision to a cross, and prepared to scalp him.
But if an unseen hand of a foe smote or stabbed at the sons of
Rennepont, a visible interpositor had often shielded them, in various
parts of the globe.
A man, seeming of thirty years of age, very tall, with a countenance
as lofty as mournful, marked by the black eyebrows meeting, had thrown
himself--during a battle’s height--between a gun of a park which General
Simon was charging and that officer. The cannon vomited its hail of
death, but when the flame and smoke had passed, the tall man stood erect
as before, smiling pityingly on the gunner, who fell on his knees as
frightened as if he beheld Satan himself. Again, as General Simon lay
upon the lost field of Waterloo, raging with his wounds, eager to die
after such a defeat, this same man staunched his hurts, and bade him
live for his wife’s sake.
Years after, wearing the same unalterable look, this man accosted
Dagobert in Siberia, and gave him for General Simon’s wife, the diary
and letters of her husband, written in India, in little hope of them
ever reaching her hands. And at the year our story opens, this man
unbarred the cell-door of Leipsic jail, and let Dagobert and the orphans
out, free to continue their way into France.
On the other hand, when the scalping-knife had traced its mark around
the head of Gabriel the missionary, and when only the dexterous turn and
tug would have removed the trophy, a sudden apparition had terrified
the superstitious savages. It was a woman of thirty, whose brown
tresses formed a rich frame around a royal face, toned down by endless
sorrowing. The red-skins shrank from her steady advance, and when her
hand was stretched out between them and their young victim, they uttered
a howl of alarm, and fled as if a host of their foemen were on their
track. Gabriel was saved, but all his life he was doomed to bear that
halo of martyrdom, the circling sweep of the scalper’s knife.
He was a Jesuit. By the orders of his society he embarked for Europe. We
should say here, that he, though owning a medal of the seven described,
was unaware that he should have worn it. His vessel was driven by storms
to refit at the Azores, where he had changed ship into the same as was
bearing Prince Djalma to France, via Portsmouth.
But the gales followed him, and sated their fury by wrecking the “Black
Eagle” on the Picardy coast. This was at the same point as were a
disabled Hamburg steamer, among whose passengers where Dagobert and his
two charges, was destroyed the same night. Happily the tempest did not
annihilate them all. There were saved, Prince Djalma and a countryman
of his, one Faringhea, a Thuggee chief, hunted out of British India;
Dagobert, and Rose and Blanche Simon, whom Gabriel had rescued. These
survivors had recovered, thanks to the care they had received in
Cardoville House, a country mansion which had sheltered them, and except
the prince and the Strangler chief, the others were speedily able to go
on to Paris.
The old grenadier and the orphans--until General Simon should be
heard from--dwelt in the former’s house. His son had kept it, from his
mother’s love for the life-long home. It was such a mean habitation as
a workman like Agricola Baudoin could afford to pay the rent of, and far
from the fit abode of the daughters of the Duke de Ligny and Marshal of
France, which Napoleon had created General Simon, though the rank had
only recently been approved by the restoration.
But in Paris the unknown hostile hand showed itself more malignant than
ever.
The young lady of high name and large fortune was Adrienne de
Cardoville, whose aunt, the Princess de Saint-Dizier, was a Jesuit.
Through her and her accomplices’ machinations, the young lady’s forward
yet virtuous, wildly aspiring but sensible, romantic but just, character
was twisted into a passable reason for her immurement in a mad-house.
This asylum adjoined St. Mary’s Convent, into which Rose and Blanche
Simon were deceitfully conducted. To secure their removal, Dagobert had
been decoyed into the country, under pretence of showing some of General
Simon’s document’s to a lawyer; his son Agricola arrested for treason,
on account of some idle verses the blacksmith poet was guilty of, and
his wife rendered powerless, or, rather, a passive assistant, by the
influence of the confessional! When Dagobert hurried back from his wild
goose chase, he found the orphans gone: Mother Bunch (a fellow-tenant of
the house, who had been brought up in the family) ignorant, and his wife
stubbornly refusing to break the promise she had given her confessor,
and acquaint a single soul where she had permitted the girls to be
taken. In his rage, the soldier rashly accused that confessor, but
instead of arresting the Abbe Dubois, it was Mrs. Baudoin whom the
magistrate felt compelled to arrest, as the person whom alone
he ventured to commit for examination in regard to the orphans’
disappearance. Thus triumphs, for the time being, the unseen foe.
The orphans in a nunnery; the dethroned prince a poor castaway in a
foreign land; the noble young lady in a madhouse; the missionary priest
under the thumb of his superiors.
As for the man of the middle class, and the working man, who concluded
the list of this family, we are to read of them, as well as of the
others, in the pages which now succeed these.
CHAPTER I. THE MASQUERADE.
The following day to that on which Dagobert’s wife (arrested for not
accounting for the disappearance of General Simon’s daughters) was led
away before a magistrate, a noisy and animated scene was transpiring
on the Place du Chatelet, in front of a building whose first floor and
basement were used as the tap-rooms of the “Sucking Calf” public-house.
A carnival night was dying out.
Quite a number of maskers, grotesquely and shabbily bedecked, had rushed
out of the low dance-houses in the Guildhall Ward, and were roaring out
staves of songs as they crossed the square. But on catching sight of a
second troop of mummers running about the water-side, the first party
stopped to wait for the others to come up, rejoicing, with many a shout,
in hopes of one of those verbal battles of slang and smutty talk which
made Vade so illustrious.
This mob--nearly all its members half seas over, soon swollen by the
many people who have to be up early to follow their crafts--suddenly
concentrated in one of the corners of the square, so that a pale,
deformed girl, who was going that way, was caught in the human tide.
This was Mother Bunch. Up with the lark, she was hurrying to receive
some work from her employer. Remembering how a mob had treated her when
she had been arrested in the streets only the day before, by mistake,
the poor work-girl’s fears may be imagined when she was now surrounded
by the revellers against her will. But, spite of all her efforts--very
feeble, alas!--she could not stir a step, for the band of merry-makers,
newly arriving, had rushed in among the others, shoving some of them
aside, pushing far into the mass, and sweeping Mother Bunch--who was in
their way--clear over to the crowd around the public-house.
The new-comers were much finer rigged out than the others, for they
belonged to the gay, turbulent class which goes frequently to the
Chaumiere, the Prado, the Colisee, and other more or less rowdyish
haunts of waltzers, made up generally of students, shop-girls, and
counter skippers, clerks, unfortunates, etc., etc.
This set, while retorting to the chaff of the other party, seemed to be
very impatiently expecting some singularly desired person to put in her
appearance.
The following snatches of conversation, passing between clowns and
columbines, pantaloons and fairies, Turks and sultans, debardeurs and
debardeuses, paired off more or less properly, will give an idea of the
importance of the wished-for personage.
“They ordered the spread to be for seven in the morning, so their
carriages ought to have come up afore now.”
“Werry like, but the Bacchanal Queen has got to lead off the last dance
in the Prado.”
“I wish to thunder I’d ‘a known that, and I’d ‘a stayed there to see
her--my beloved Queen!”
“Gobinet; if you call her your beloved Queen again, I’ll scratch you!
Here’s a pinch for you, anyhow!”
“Ow, wow, Celeste! hands off! You are black-spotting the be-yutiful
white satin jacket my mamma gave me when I first came out as Don
Pasqually!”
“Why did you call the Bacchanal Queen your beloved, then? What am I, I’d
like to know?”
“You are my beloved, but not my Queen, for there is only one moon in
the nights of nature, and only one Bacchanal Queen in the nights at the
Prado.”
“That’s a bit from a valentine! You can’t come over me with such
rubbish.”
“Gobinet’s right! the Queen was an out-and-outer tonight!”
“In prime feather!”
“I never saw her more on the go!”
“And, my eyes! wasn’t her dress stunning?”
“Took your breath away!”
“Crushing!”
“Heavy!”
“Im-mense!”
“The last kick!”
“No one but she can get up such dresses.”
“And, then, the dance!”
“Oh, yes! it was at once bounding waving, twisting! There is not such
another bayadere under the night-cap of the sky!”
“Gobinet, give me back my shawl directly. You have already spoilt it
by rolling it round your great body. I don’t choose to have my things
ruined for hulking beasts who call other women bayaderes!”
“Celeste, simmer down. I am disguised as a Turk, and, when I talk of
bayaderes, I am only in character.”
“Your Celeste is like them all, Gobinet; she’s jealous of the Bacchanal
Queen.”
“Jealous!--do you think me jealous? Well now! that’s too bad. If I chose
to be as showy as she is they would talk of me as much. After all, it’s
only a nickname that makes her reputation! nickname!”
“In that you have nothing to envy her--since you are called Celeste!”
“You know well enough, Gobinet, that Celeste is my real name.”
“Yes; but it’s fancied a nickname--when one looks in your face.”
“Gobinet, I will put that down to your account.”
“And Oscar will help you to add it up, eh?”
“Yes; and you shall see the total. When I carry one, the remainder will
not be you.”
“Celeste, you make me cry! I only meant to say that your celestial name
does not go well with your charming little face, which is still more
mischievous than that of the Bacchanal Queen.”
“That’s right; wheedle me now, wretch!”
“I swear by the accursed head of my landlord, that, if you liked, you
could spread yourself as much as the Bacchanal Queen--which is saying a
great deal.”
“The fact is, that the Bacchanal had cheek enough, in all conscience.”
“Not to speak of her fascinating the bobbies!”
“And magnetizing the beaks.”
“They may get as angry as they please; she always finishes by making
them laugh.”
“And they all call her: Queen!”
“Last night she charmed a slop (as modest as a country girl) whose
purity took up arms against the famous dance of the Storm-blown Tulip.”
“What a quadrille! Sleepinbuff and the Bacchanal Queen, having opposite
to them Rose-Pompon and Ninny Moulin!”
“And all four making tulips as full-blown as could be!”
“By-the-bye, is it true what they say of Ninny Moulin?”
“What?”
“Why that he is a writer, and scribbles pamphlets on religion.”
“Yes, it is true. I have often seen him at my employer’s, with whom he
deals; a bad paymaster, but a jolly fellow!”
“And pretends to be devout, eh?”
“I believe you, my boy--when it is necessary; then he is my Lord
Dumoulin, as large as life. He rolls his eyes, walks with his head on
one side, and his toes turned in; but, when the piece is played out, he
slips away to the balls of which he is so fond. The girls christened him
Ninny Moulin. Add, that he drinks like a fish, and you have the photo
of the cove. All this doesn’t prevent his writing for the religious
newspapers; and the saints, whom he lets in even oftener than himself,
are ready to swear by him. You should see his articles and his
tracts--only see, not read!--every page is full of the devil and
his horns, and the desperate fryings which await your impious
revolutionists--and then the authority of the bishops, the power of the
Pope--hang it! how could I know it all? This toper, Ninny Moulin, gives
good measure enough for their money!”
“The fact is, that he is both a heavy drinker and a heavy swell. How
he rattled on with little Rose-Pompon in the dance and the full-blown
tulip!”
“And what a rum chap he looked in his Roman helmet and top-boots.”
“Rose-Pompon dances divinely, too; she has the poetic twist.”
“And don’t show her heels a bit!”
“Yes; but the Bacchanal Queen is six thousand feet above the level of
any common leg-shaker. I always come back to her step last night in the
full-blown tulip.”
“It was huge!”
“It was serene!”
“If I were father of a family, I would entrust her with the education of
my sons!”
“It was that step, however, which offended the bobby’s modesty.”
“The fact is, it was a little free.”
“Free as air--so the policeman comes up to her, and says: ‘Well,
my Queen, is your foot to keep on a-goin’ up forever?’ ‘No, modest
warrior!’ replies the Queen; ‘I practice the step only once every
evening, to be able to dance it when I am old. I made a vow of it, that
you might become an inspector.’”
“What a comic card!”
“I don’t believe she will remain always with Sleepinbuff.”
“Because he has been a workman?”
“What nonsense! it would preciously become us, students and shop-boys,
to give ourselves airs! No; but I am astonished at the Queen’s
fidelity.”
“Yes--they’ve been a team for three or four good months.”
“She’s wild upon him, and he on her.”
“They must lead a gay life.”
“Sometimes I ask myself where the devil Sleepinbuff gets all the money
he spends. It appears that he pays all last night’s expenses, three
coaches-and-four, and a breakfast this morning for twenty, at ten francs
a-head.”
“They say he has come into some property. That’s why Ninny Moulin, who
has a good nose for eating and drinking, made acquaintance with him last
night--leaving out of the question that he may have some designs on the
Bacchanal Queen.”
“He! In a lot! He’s rather too ugly. The girls like to dance with him
because he makes people laugh--but that’s all. Little Rose-Pompon, who
is such a pretty creature, has taken him as a harmless chap-her-own, in
the absence of her student.”
“The coaches! the coaches!” exclaimed the crowd, all with one voice.
Forced to stop in the midst of the maskers, Mother Bunch had not lost
a word of this conversation, which was deeply painful to her, as it
concerned her sister, whom she had not seen for a long time. Not that
the Bacchanal Queen had a bad heart; but the sight of the wretched
poverty of Mother Bunch--a poverty which she had herself shared, but
which she had not had the strength of mind to bear any longer--caused
such bitter grief to the gay, thoughtless girl, that she would no more
expose herself to it, after she had in vain tried to induce her sister
to accept assistance, which the latter always refused, knowing that its
source could not be honorable.
“The coaches! the coaches!” once more exclaimed the crowd, as they
pressed forward with enthusiasm, so that Mother Bunch, carried on
against her will, was thrust into the foremost rank of the people
assembled to see the show.
It was, indeed, a curious sight. A man on horseback, disguised as a
postilion, his blue jacket embroidered with silver, and enormous tail
from which the powder escaped in puffs, and a hat adorned with long
ribbons, preceded the first carriage, cracking his whip, and crying with
all his might: “Make way for the Bacchanal Queen and her court!”
In an open carriage, drawn by four lean horses, on which rode two old
postilions dressed as devils, was raised a downright pyramid of men and
women, sitting, standing, leaning, in every possible variety of odd,
extravagant, and grotesque costume; altogether an indescribable mass of
bright colors, flowers, ribbons, tinsel and spangles. Amid this heap of
strange forms and dresses appeared wild or graceful countenances, ugly
or handsome features--but all animated by the feverish excitement of
a jovial frenzy--all turned with an expression of fanatical admiration
towards the second carriage, in which the Queen was enthroned, whilst
they united with the multitude in reiterated shouts of “Long live the
Bacchanal Queen.”
This second carriage, open like the first, contained only the four
dancers of the famous step of the Storm-blown Tulip--Ninny Moulin, Rose
Pompon, Sleepinbuff, and the Bacchanal Queen.
Dumoulin, the religious writer, who wished to dispute possession of Mme.
de la Sainte-Colombe with his patron, M. Rodin--Dumoulin, surnamed
Ninny Moulin, standing on the front cushions, would have presented a
magnificent study for Callot or Gavarni, that eminent artist, who
unites with the biting strength and marvellous fancy of an illustrious
caricaturist, the grace, the poetry, and the depth of Hogarth.
Ninny Moulin, who was about thirty-five years of age, wore very much
back upon his head a Roman helmet of silver paper. A voluminous plume of
black feathers, rising from a red wood holder, was stuck on one side
of this headgear, breaking the too classic regularity of its outline.
Beneath this casque, shone forth the most rubicund and jovial face, that
ever was purpled by the fumes of generous wine. A prominent nose, with
its primitive shape modestly concealed beneath a luxuriant growth of
pimples, half red, half violet, gave a funny expression to a perfectly
beardless face; while a large mouth, with thick lips turning their
insides outwards, added to the air of mirth and jollity which beamed
from his large gray eyes, set flat in his head.
On seeing this joyous fellow, with a paunch like Silenus, one could not
help asking how it was, that he had not drowned in wine, a hundred times
over, the gall, bile, and venom which flowed from his pamphlets against
the enemies of Ultramontanism, and how his Catholic beliefs could float
upwards in the midst of these mad excesses of drink and dancing. The
question would have appeared insoluble, if one had not remembered how
many actors, who play the blackest and most hateful first robbers on the
stage, are, when off it, the best fellow in the world.
The weather being cold, Ninny Moulin wore a kind of box-coat, which,
being half-open, displayed his cuirass of scales, and his flesh-colored
pantaloons, finishing just below the calf in a pair of yellow tops to
his boots. Leaning forward in front of the carriage, he uttered wild
shouts of delight, mingled with the words: “Long live the Bacchanal
Queen!”--after which, he shook and whirled the enormous rattle he held
in his hand. Standing beside him, Sleepinbuff waved on high a banner
of white silk, on which were the words: “Love and joy to the Bacchanal
Queen!”
Sleepinbuff was about twenty-five years of age. His countenance was gay
and intelligent, surrounded by a collar of chestnut-colored whiskers;
but worn with late hours and excesses, it expressed a singular mixture
of carelessness and hardihood, recklessness and mockery; still, no base
or wicked passion had yet stamped there its fatal impress. He was the
perfect type of the Parisian, as the term is generally applied, whether
in the army, in the provinces, on board a king’s ship, or a merchantman.
It is not a compliment, and yet it is far from being an insult; it is an
epithet which partakes at once of blame, admiration, and fear; for if,
in this sense, the Parisian is often idle and rebellious, he is also
quick at his work, resolute in danger, and always terribly satirical and
fond of practical jokes.
He was dressed in a very flashy style. He wore a black velvet jacket
with silver buttons, a scarlet waistcoat, trousers with broad blue
stripes, a Cashmere shawl for a girdle with ends loosely floating, and
a chimney-pot hat covered with flowers and streamers. This disguise set
off his light, easy figure to great advantage.
At the back of the carriage, standing up on the cushions, were Rose
Pompon and the Bacchanal Queen.
Rose-Pompon, formerly a fringe-maker, was about seventeen years old, and
had the prettiest and most winning little face imaginable. She was gayly
dressed in debardeur costume. Her powdered wig, over which was smartly
cocked on one side an orange and green cap laced with silver, increased
the effect of her bright black eyes, and of her round, carnation cheeks.
She wore about her neck an orange-colored cravat, of the same material
as her loose sash. Her tight jacket and narrow vest of light green
velvet, with silver ornaments, displayed to the best advantage a
charming figure, the pliancy of which must have well suited the
evolutions of the Storm blown Tulip. Her large trousers, of the same
stuff and color as the jacket, were not calculated to hide any of her
attractions.
The Bacchanal Queen, being at the least a head taller, leaned with one
hand on the shoulder of Rose-Pompon. Mother Bunch’s sister ruled, like
a true monarch, over this mad revelry, which her very presence seemed
to inspire, such influence had her own mirth and animation over all that
surrounded her.
She was a tall girl of about twenty years of age, light and graceful,
with regular features, and a merry, racketing air. Like her sister, she
had magnificent chestnut hair, and large blue eyes; but instead of being
soft and timid, like those of the young sempstress, the latter shone
with indefatigable ardor in the pursuit of pleasure. Such was the energy
of her vivacious constitution, that, notwithstanding many nights and
days passed in one continued revel, her complexion was as pure, her
cheeks as rosy, her neck as fresh and fair, as if she had that morning
issued from some peaceful home. Her costume, though singular
and fantastic, suited her admirably. It was composed of a tight,
long-waisted bodice in cloth of gold, trimmed with great bunches of
scarlet ribbon, the ends of which streamed over her naked arms, and
a short petticoat of scarlet velvet, ornamented with golden beads and
spangles. This petticoat reached half way down a leg, at once trim and
strong, in a white silk stocking, and red buskin with brass heel.
Never had any Spanish dancer a more supple, elastic, and tempting form,
than this singular girl, who seemed possessed with the spirit of dancing
and perpetual motion, for, almost every moment, a slight undulation of
head, hips, and shoulders seemed to follow the music of an invisible
orchestra; while the tip of her right foot, placed on the carriage door
in the most alluring manner, continued to beat time--for the Bacchanal
Queen stood proudly erect upon the cushions.
A sort of gilt diadem, the emblem of her noisy sovereignty, hung with
little bells, adorned her forehead. Her long hair, in two thick braids,
was drawn back from her rosy cheeks, and twisted behind her head. Her
left hand rested on little Rose-Pompon’s shoulder, and in her right she
held an enormous nosegay, which she waved to the crowd, accompanying
each salute with bursts of laughter.
It would be difficult to give a complete idea of this noisily animated
and fantastic scene, which included also a third carriage, filled, like
the first, with a pyramid of grotesque and extravagant masks. Amongst
the delighted crowd, one person alone contemplated the picture with deep
sorrow. It was Mother Bunch, who was still kept, in spite of herself, in
the first rank of spectators.
Separated from her sister for a long time, she now beheld her in all the
pomp of her singular triumph, in the midst of the cries of joy, and
the applause of her companions in pleasure. Yet the eyes of the young
sempstress grew dim with tears; for, though the Bacchanal Queen seemed
to share in the stunning gayety of all around her--though her face was
radiant with smiles, and she appeared fully to enjoy the splendors
of her temporary elevation--yet she had the sincere pity of the poor
workwoman, almost in rags, who was seeking, with the first dawn of
morning, the means of earning her daily bread.
Mother Bunch had forgotten the crowd, to look only at her sister,
whom she tenderly loved--only the more tenderly, that she thought her
situation to be pitied. With her eyes fixed on the joyous and beautiful
girl, her pale and gentle countenance expressed the most touching and
painful interest.
All at once, as the brilliant glance of the Bacchanal Queen travelled
along the crowd, it lighted on the sad features of Mother Bunch.
“My sister!” exclaimed Cephyse--such was the name of the Bacchanal
Queen--“My sister!”--and with one bound, light as a ballet-dancer, she
sprang from her movable throne (which fortunately just happened to
be stopping), and, rushing up to the hunchback, embraced her
affectionately.
All this had passed so rapidly, that the companions of the Bacchanal
Queen, still stupefied by the boldness of her perilous leap, knew not
how to account for it; whilst the masks who surrounded Mother Bunch drew
back in surprise, and the latter, absorbed in the delight of embracing
her sister, whose caresses she returned, did not even think of the
singular contrast between them, which was sure to soon excite the
astonishment and hilarity of the crowd.
Cephyse was the first to think of this, and wishing to save her sister
at least one humiliation, she turned towards the carriage, and said:
“Rose Pompon, throw me down my cloak; and, Ninny Moulin, open the door
directly!”
Having received the cloak, the Bacchanal Queen hastily wrapped it round
her sister, before the latter could speak or move. Then, taking her by
the hand, she said to her: “Come! come!”
“I!” cried Mother Bunch, in alarm. “Do not think of it!”
“I must speak with you. I will get a private room, where we shall be
alone. So make haste, dear little sister! Do not resist before all these
people--but come!”
The fear of becoming a public sight decided Mother Bunch, who, confused
moreover with the adventure, trembling and frightened, followed her
sister almost mechanically, and was dragged by her into the carriage, of
which Ninny Moulin had just opened the door. And so, with the cloak of
the Bacchanal Queen covering Mother Bunch’s poor garments and deformed
figure, the crowd had nothing to laugh at, and only wondered what this
meeting could mean, while the coaches pursued their way to the eating
house in the Place du Chatelet.
CHAPTER II. THE CONTRAST.
Some minutes after the meeting of Mother Bunch with the Bacchanal Queen,
the two sisters were alone together in a small room in the tavern.
“Let me kiss you again,” said Cephyse to the young sempstress; “at least
now we are alone, you will not be afraid?”
In the effort of the Bacchanal Queen to clasp Mother Bunch in her arms,
the cloak fell from the form of the latter. At sight of those miserable
garments, which she had hardly had time to observe on the Place du
Chatelet, in the midst of the crowd, Cephyse clasped her hands, and
could not repress an exclamation of painful surprise. Then, approaching
her sister, that she might contemplate her more closely, she took her
thin, icy palms between her own plump hands, and examined for some
minutes, with increasing grief, the suffering, pale, unhappy creature,
ground down by watching and privations, and half-clothed in a poor,
patched cotton gown.
“Oh, sister! to see you thus!” Unable to articulate another word, the
Bacchanal Queen threw herself on the other’s neck, and burst into tears.
Then, in the midst of her sobs, she added: “Pardon! pardon!”
“What is the matter, my dear Cephyse?” said the young sewing-girl,
deeply moved, and gently disengaging herself from the embrace of her
sister. “Why do you ask my pardon?”
“Why?” resumed Cephyse, raising her countenance, bathed in tears, and
purple with shame; “is it not shameful of me to be dressed in all this
frippery, and throwing away so much money in follies, while you are thus
miserably clad, and in need of everything--perhaps dying of want, for I
have never seen your poor face look so pale and worn.”
“Be at ease, dear sister! I am not ill. I was up rather late last night,
and that makes me a little pale--but pray do not cry--it grieves me.”
The Bacchanal Queen had but just arrived, radiant in the midst of the
intoxicated crowd, and yet it was Mother Bunch who was now employed in
consoling her!
An incident occurred, which made the contrast still more striking.
Joyous cries were heard suddenly in the next apartment, and these words
were repeated with enthusiasm: “Long live the Bacchanal Queen!”
Mother Bunch trembled, and her eyes filled with tears, as she saw her
sister with her face buried in her hands, as if overwhelmed with shame.
“Cephyse,” she said, “I entreat you not to grieve so. You will make me
regret the delight of this meeting, which is indeed happiness to me! It
is so long since I saw you! But tell me--what ails you?”
“You despise me perhaps--you are right,” said the Bacchanal Queen,
drying her tears.
“Despise you? for what?”
“Because I lead the life I do, instead of having the courage to support
misery along with you.”
The grief of Cephyse was so heart-breaking, that Mother Bunch, always
good and indulgent, wishing to console her, and raise her a little in
her own estimation, said to her tenderly: “In supporting it bravely for
a whole year, my good Cephyse, you have had more merit and courage than
I should have in bearing with it my whole life.”
“Oh, sister! do not say that.”
“In simple truth,” returned Mother Bunch, “to what temptations is a
creature like me exposed? Do I not naturally seek solitude, even as
you seek a noisy life of pleasure? What wants have I? A very little
suffices.”
“But you have not always that little?”
“No--but, weak and sickly as I seem, I can endure some privations better
than you could. Thus hunger produces in me a sort of numbness, which
leaves me very feeble--but for you, robust and full of life, hunger is
fury, is madness. Alas! you must remember how many times I have seen
you suffering from those painful attacks, when work failed us in our
wretched garret, and we could not even earn our four francs a week--so
that we had nothing--absolutely nothing to eat--for our pride prevented
us from applying to the neighbors.”
“You have preserved the right to that honest pride.”
“And you as well! Did you not struggle as much as a human creature
could? But strength fails at last--I know you well, Cephyse--it was
hunger that conquered you; and the painful necessity of constant labor,
which was yet insufficient to supply our common wants.”
“But you could endure those privations--you endure them still.”
“Can you compare me with yourself? Look,” said Mother Bunch, taking her
sister by the hand, and leading her to a mirror placed above a couch,
“look!--Dost think that God made you so beautiful, endowed you with such
quick and ardent blood, with so joyous, animated, grasping a nature
and with such taste and fondness for pleasure, that your youth might be
spent in a freezing garret, hid from the sun, nailed constantly to your
chair, clad almost in rags, and working without rest and without hope?
No! for He has given us other wants than those of eating and drinking.
Even in our humble condition, does not beauty require some little
ornament? Does not youth require some movement, pleasure, gayety? Do not
all ages call for relaxation and rest? Had you gained sufficient wages
to satisfy hunger, to have a day or so’s amusement in the week, after
working every other day for twelve or fifteen hours, and to procure
the neat and modest dress which so charming a face might naturally
claim--you would never have asked for more, I am sure of it--you have
told me as much a hundred times. You have yielded, therefore, to an
irresistible necessity, because your wants are greater than mine.”
“It is true,” replied the Bacchanal Queen, with a pensive air; “if I
could but have gained eighteenpence a day, my life would have been quite
different; for, in the beginning, sister, I felt cruelly humiliated to
live at a man’s expense.”
“Yes, yes--it was inevitable, my dear Cephyse; I must pity, but cannot
blame you. You did not choose your destiny; but, like me, you have
submitted to it.”
“Poor sister!” said Cephyse, embracing the speaker tenderly; “you can
encourage and console me in the midst of your own misfortunes, when I
ought to be pitying you.”
“Be satisfied!” said Mother Bunch; “God is just and good. If He has
denied me many advantages, He has given me my joys, as you have yours.”
“Joys?”
“Yes, and great ones--without which life would be too burdensome, and I
should not have the courage to go through with it.”
“I understand you,” said Cephyse, with emotion; “you still know how to
devote yourself for others, and that lightens your own sorrows.”
“I do what I can, but, alas! it is very little; yet when I succeed,”
added Mother Bunch, with a faint smile, “I am as proud and happy as a
poor little ant, who, after a great deal of trouble, has brought a big
straw to the common nest. But do not let us talk any more of me.”
“Yes, but I must, even at the risk of making you angry,” resumed the
Bacchanal Queen, timidly; “I have something to propose to you which you
once before refused. Jacques Rennepont has still, I think, some money
left--we are spending it in follies--now and then giving a little to
poor people we may happen to meet--I beg of you, let me come to your
assistance--I see in your poor face, you cannot conceal it from me, that
you are wearing yourself out with toil.”
“Thanks, my dear Cephyse, I know your good heart; but I am not in want
of anything. The little I gain is sufficient for me.”
“You refuse me,” said the Bacchanal Queen, sadly, “because you know
that my claim to this money is not honorable--be it so--I respect your
scruples. But you will not refuse a service from Jacques; he has been a
workman, like ourselves, and comrades should help each other. Accept it
I beseech you, or I shall think you despise me.”
“And I shall think you despise me, if you insist any more upon it, my
dear Cephyse,” said Mother Bunch, in a tone at once so mild and firm
that the Bacchanal Queen saw that all persuasion would be in vain. She
hung her head sorrowfully, and a tear again trickled down her cheek.
“My refusal grieves you,” said the other, taking her hand; “I am truly
sorry--but reflect--and you will understand me.”
“You are right,” said the Bacchanal Queen, bitterly, after a moment’s
silence; “you cannot accept assistance from my lover--it was an insult
to propose it to you. There are positions in life so humiliating, that
they soil even the good one wishes to do.”
“Cephyse, I did not mean to hurt you--you know it well.”
“Oh! believe me,” replied the Bacchanal Queen, “gay and giddy as I am,
I have sometimes moments of reflection, even in the midst of my maddest
joy. Happily, such moments are rare.”
“And what do you think of, then?”
“Why, that the life I lead is hardly the thing; then resolve to ask
Jacques for a small sum of money, just enough to subsist on for a year,
and form the plan of joining you, and gradually getting to work again.”
“The idea is a good one; why not act upon it?”
“Because, when about to execute this project, I examined myself
sincerely, and my courage failed. I feel that I could never resume the
habit of labor, and renounce this mode of life, sometimes rich, as
to day, sometimes precarious,--but at least free and full of leisure,
joyous and without care, and at worst a thousand times preferable to
living upon four francs a week. Not that interest has guided me. Many
times have I refused to exchange a lover, who had little or nothing,
for a rich man, that I did not like. Nor have I ever asked anything for
myself. Jacques has spent perhaps ten thousand francs the last three
or four months, yet we only occupy two half-furnished rooms, because
we always live out of doors, like the birds: fortunately, when I first
loved him, he had nothing at all, and I had just sold some jewels
that had been given me, for a hundred francs, and put this sum in the
lottery. As mad people and fools are always lucky, I gained a prize of
four thousand francs. Jacques was as gay, and light-headed, and full of
fun as myself, so we said: ‘We love each other very much, and, as long
as this money lasts, we will keep up the racket; when we have no more,
one of two things will happen--either we shall be tired of one another,
and so part--or else we shall love each other still, and then, to remain
together, we shall try and get work again; and, if we cannot do so, and
yet will not part--a bushel of charcoal will do our business!’”
“Good heaven!” cried Mother Bunch, turning pale.
“Be satisfied! we have not come to that. We had still something left,
when a kind of agent, who had paid court to me, but who was so ugly that
I could not bear him for all his riches, knowing that I was living
with Jacques asked me to--But why should I trouble you with all these
details? In one word, he lent Jacques money, on some sort of a doubtful
claim he had, as was thought, to inherit some property. It is with this
money that we are amusing ourselves--as long as its lasts.”
“But, my dear Cephyse, instead of spending this money so foolishly, why
not put it out to interest, and marry Jacques, since you love him?”
“Oh! in the first place,” replied the Bacchanal Queen, laughing, as her
gay and thoughtless character resumed its ascendancy, “to put money out
to interest gives one no pleasure. All the amusement one has is to look
at a little bit of paper, which one gets in exchange for the nice little
pieces of gold, with which one can purchase a thousand pleasures. As for
marrying, I certainly like Jacques better than I ever liked any one;
but it seems to me, that, if we were married, all our happiness would
end--for while he is only my lover, he cannot reproach me with what has
passed--but, as my husband, he would be stare to upbraid me, sooner or
later, and if my conduct deserves blame, I prefer giving it to myself,
because I shall do it more tenderly.”
“Mad girl that you are! But this money will not last forever. What is to
be done next?”
“Afterwards!--Oh! that’s all in the moon. To-morrow seems to me as if it
would not come for a hundred years. If we were always saying: ‘We must
die one day or the other’--would life be worth having?”
The conversation between Cephyse and her sister was here again
interrupted by a terrible uproar, above which sounded the sharp, shrill
noise of Ninny Moulin’s rattle. To this tumult succeeded a chorus of
barbarous cries, in the midst of which were distinguishable these words,
which shook the very windows: “The Queen! the Bacchanal Queen!”
Mother Bunch started at this sudden noise.
“It is only my court, who are getting impatient,” said Cephyse--and this
time she could laugh.
“Heavens!” cried the sewing-girl, in alarm; “if they were to come here
in search of you?”
“No, no--never fear.”
“But listen! do you not hear those steps? they are coming along the
passage--they are approaching. Pray, sister, let me go out alone,
without being seen by all these people.”
That moment the door was opened, and Cephyse, ran towards it. She saw in
the passage a deputation headed by Ninny Moulin, who was armed with his
formidable rattle, and followed by Rose-Pompon and Sleepinbuff.
“The Bacchanal Queen! or I poison myself with a glass of water;” cried
Ninny Moulin.
“The Bacchanal Queen! or I publish my banns of marriage with Ninny
Moulin!” cried little Rose-Pompon, with a determined air.
“The Bacchanal Queen! or the court will rise in arms, and carry her off
by force!” said another voice.
“Yes, yes--let us carry her off!” repeated a formidable chorus.
“Jacques, enter alone!” said the Bacchanal Queen, notwithstanding these
pressing summonses; then, addressing her court in a majestic tone, she
added: “In ten minutes, I shall be at your service--and then for a--of a
time!”
“Long live the Bacchanal Queen,” cried Dumoulin, shaking his rattle as
he retired, followed by the deputation, whilst Sleepinbuff entered the
room alone.
“Jacques,” said Cephyse, “this is my good sister.”
“Enchanted to see you,” said Jacques, cordially; “the more so as you
will give me some news of my friend Agricola. Since I began to play the
rich man, we have not seen each other, but I like him as much as ever,
and think him a good and worthy fellow. You live in the same house. How
is he?”
“Alas, sir! he and his family have had many misfortunes. He is in
prison.”
“In prison!” cried Cephyse.
“Agricola in prison! what for?” said Sleepinbuff.
“For a trifling political offence. We had hoped to get him out on bail.”
“Certainly; for five hundred francs it could be done,” said Sleepinbuff.
“Unfortunately, we have not been able; the person upon whom we relied--”
The Bacchanal Queen interrupted the speaker by saying to her lover: “Do
you hear, Jacques? Agricola in prison, for want of five hundred francs!”
“To be sure! I hear and understand all about it. No need of your
winking. Poor fellow! he was the support of his mother.”
“Alas! yes, sir--and it is the more distressing, as his father has but
just returned from Russia, and his mother--”
“Here,” said Sleepinbuff, interrupting, and giving Mother Bunch a purse;
“take this--all the expenses here have been paid beforehand--this is
what remains of my last bag. You will find here some twenty-five or
thirty Napoleons, and I cannot make a better use of them than to serve
a comrade in distress. Give them to Agricola’s father; he will take the
necessary steps, and to-morrow Agricola will be at his forge, where I
had much rather he should be than myself.”
“Jacques, give me a kiss!” said the Bacchanal Queen.
“Now, and afterwards, and again and again!” said Jacques, joyously
embracing the queen.
Mother Bunch hesitated for a moment; but reflecting that, after all,
this sum of money, which was about to be spent in follies, would restore
life and happiness to the family of Agricola, and that hereafter these
very five hundred francs, when returned to Jacques, might be of the
greatest use to him, she resolved to accept this offer. She took the
purse, and with tearful eyes, said to him: “I will not refuse your
kindness M. Jacques; you are so good and generous, Agricola’s father
will thus at least have one consolation, in the midst of heavy sorrows.
Thanks! many thanks!”
“There is no need to thank me; money was made for others as well as
ourselves.”
Here, without, the noise recommenced more furiously than ever, and Ninny
Moulin’s rattle sent forth the most doleful sounds.
“Cephyse,” said Sleepinbuff, “they will break everything to pieces,
if you do not return to them, and I have nothing left to pay for the
damage. Excuse us,” added he, laughing, “but you see that royalty has
its duties.”
Cephyse deeply moved, extended her arms to Mother Bunch, who threw
herself into them, shedding sweet tears.
“And now,” said she, to her sister, “when shall I see you again?”
“Soon--though nothing grieves me more than to see you in want, out of
which I am not allowed to help you.”
“You will come, then, to see me? It is a promise?”
“I promise you in her name,” said Jacques; “we will pay a visit to you
and your neighbor Agricola.”
“Return to the company, Cephyse, and amuse yourself with a light heart,
for M. Jacques has made a whole family happy.”
So saying, and after Sleepinbuff had ascertained that she could go down
without being seen by his noisy and joyous companions, Mother Bunch
quietly withdrew, eager to carry one piece of good news at least to
Dagobert; but intending, first of all, to go to the Rue de Babylone, to
the garden-house formerly occupied by Adrienne de Cardoville. We shall
explain hereafter the cause of this determination.
As the girl quitted the eating-house, three men plainly and comfortably
dressed, were watching before it, and talking in a low voice. Soon
after, they were joined by a fourth person, who rapidly descended the
stairs of the tavern.
“Well?” said the three first, with anxiety.
“He is there.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“Are there two Sleepers-in-buff on earth?” replied the other. “I have
just seen him; he is togged out like one of the swell mob. They will be
at table for three hours at least.”
“Then wait for me, you others. Keep as quiet as possible. I will go and
fetch the captain, and the game is bagged.” So saying, one of the three
men walked off quickly, and disappeared in a street leading from the
square.
At this same instant the Bacchanal Queen entered the banqueting-room,
accompanied by Jacques, and was received with the most frenzied
acclamations from all sides.
“Now then,” cried Cephyse, with a sort of feverish excitement, as if she
wished to stun herself; “now then, friends--noise and tumult, hurricane
and tempest, thunder and earthquake--as much as you please!” Then,
holding out her glass to Ninny Moulin, she added: “Pour out! pour out!”
“Long live the Queen!” cried they all, with one voice.
CHAPTER III. THE CAROUSE.
The Bacchanal Queen, having Sleepinbuff and Rose-Pompon opposite her,
and Ninny Moulin on her right hand, presided at the repast, called a
reveille-matin (wake-morning), generously offered by Jacques to his
companions in pleasure.
Both young men and girls seemed to have forgotten the fatigues of a
ball, begun at eleven o’clock in the evening, and finished at six in
the morning; and all these couples, joyous as they were amorous and
indefatigable, laughed, ate, and drank, with youthful and Pantagruelian
ardor, so that, during the first part of the feast, there was less
chatter than clatter of plates and glasses.
The Bacchanal Queen’s countenance was less gay, but much more animated
than usual; her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes announced a feverish
excitement; she wished to drown reflection, cost what it might. Her
conversation with her sister often recurred to her, and she tried to
escape from such sad remembrances.
Jacques regarded Cephyse from time to time with passionate adoration;
for, thanks to the singular conformity of character, mind, and taste
between him and the Bacchanal Queen, their attachment had deeper and
stronger roots than generally belong to ephemeral connections founded
upon pleasure. Cephyse and Jacques were themselves not aware of all the
power of a passion which till now had been surrounded only by joys and
festivities, and not yet been tried by any untoward event.
Little Rose-Pompon, left a widow a few days before by a student, who, in
order to end the carnival in style, had gone into the country to raise
supplies from his family, under one of those fabulous pretences which
tradition carefully preserves in colleges of law and medicine--Rose
Pompon, we repeat, an example of rare fidelity, determined not to
compromise herself, had taken for a chaperon the inoffensive Ninny
Moulin.
This latter, having doffed his helmet, exhibited a bald head, encircled
by a border of black, curling hair, pretty long at the back of the head.
By a remarkable Bacchic phenomenon, in proportion as intoxication gained
upon him, a sort of zone, as purple as his jovial face, crept by degrees
over his brow, till it obscured even the shining whiteness of his crown.
Rose-Pompon, who knew the meaning of this symptom, pointed it out to the
company, and exclaimed with a loud burst of laughter: “Take care, Ninny
Moulin! the tide of the wine is coming in.”
“When it rises above his head he will be drowned,” added the Bacchanal
Queen.
“Oh, Queen! don’t disturb me; I am meditating, answered Dumoulin, who
was getting tipsy. He held in his hand, in the fashion of an antique
goblet, a punch-bowl filled with wine, for he despised the ordinary
glasses, because of their small size.
“Meditating,” echoed Rose-Pompon, “Ninny Moulin is meditating. Be
attentive!”
“He is meditating; he must be ill then!”
“What is he meditating? an illegal dance?”
“A forbidden Anacreontic attitude?”
“Yes, I am meditating,” returned Dumoulin, gravely; “I am meditating
upon wine, generally and in particular--wine, of which the immortal
Bossuet”--Dumoulin had the very bad habit of quoting Bossuet when he was
drunk--“of which the immortal Bossuet says (and he was a judge of good
liquor): ‘In wine is courage, strength joy, and spiritual fervor’--when
one has any brains,” added Ninny Moulin, by way of parenthesis.
“Oh, my! how I adore your Bossuet!” said Rose-Pompon.
“As for my particular meditation, it concerns the question, whether the
wine at the marriage of Cana was red or white. Sometimes I incline to
one side, sometimes to the other--and sometimes to both at once.”
“That is going to the bottom of the question,” said Sleepinbuff.
“And, above all, to the bottom of the bottles,” added the Bacchanal
Queen.
“As your majesty is pleased to observe; and already, by dint of
reflection and research, I have made a great discovery--namely, that, if
the wine at the marriage of Cana was red--”
“It couldn’t ‘a’ been white,” said Rose-Pompon, judiciously.
“And if I had arrived at the conviction that it was neither white nor
red?” asked Dumoulin, with a magisterial air.
“That could only be when you had drunk till all was blue,” observed
Sleepinbuff.
“The partner of the Queen says well. One may be too athirst for science;
but never mind! From all my studies on this question, to which I have
devoted my life--I shall await the end of my respectable career with
the sense of having emptied tuns with a historical--theological--and
archeological tone!”
It is impossible to describe the jovial grimace and tone with which
Dumoulin pronounced and accentuated these last words, which provoked a
general laugh.
“Archieolopically?” said Rose-Pompon. “What sawnee is that? Has he a
tail? does he live in the water?”
“Never mind,” observed the Bacchanal Queen; “these are words of wise men
and conjurers; they are like horsehair bustles--they serve for filling
out--that’s all. I like better to drink; so fill the glasses, Ninny
Moulin; some champagne, Rose-Pompon; here’s to the health of your
Philemon and his speedy return!”
“And to the success of his plant upon his stupid and stingy family!”
added Rose-Pompon.
The toast was received with unanimous applause.
“With the permission of her majesty and her court,” said Dumoulin, “I
propose a toast to the success of a project which greatly interests me,
and has some resemblance to Philemon’s jockeying. I fancy that the toast
will bring me luck.”
“Let’s have it, by all means!”
“Well, then--success to my marriage!” said Dumoulin, rising.
These words provoked an explosion of shouts, applause, and laughter.
Ninny Moulin shouted, applauded, laughed even louder than the rest,
opening wide his enormous mouth, and adding to the stunning noise the
harsh springing of his rattle, which he had taken up from under his
chair.
When the storm had somewhat subsided, the Bacchanal Queen rose and said:
“I drink to the health of the future Madame Ninny Moulin.”
“Oh, Queen! your courtesy touches me so sensibly that I must
allow you to read in the depths of my heart the name of my
future spouse,” exclaimed Dumoulin. “She is called Madame
Honoree-Modeste-Messaline-Angele de la Sainte-Colombe, widow.”
“Bravo! bravo!”
“She is sixty years old, and has more thousands of francs-a-year than
she has hair in her gray moustache or wrinkles on her face; she is
so superbly fat that one of her gowns would serve as a tent for this
honorable company. I hope to present my future spouse to you on Shrove
Tuesday, in the costume of a shepherdess that has just devoured her
flock. Some of them wish to convert her--but I have undertaken to divert
her, which she will like better. You must help me to plunge her headlong
into all sorts of skylarking jollity.”
“We will plunge her into anything you please.”
“She shall dance like sixty!” said Rose-Pompon, humming a popular tune.
“She will overawe the police.”
“We can say to them: ‘Respect this lady; your mother will perhaps be as
old some day!’”
Suddenly, the Bacchanal Queen rose; her countenance wore a singular
expression of bitter and sardonic delight. In one hand she held a glass
full to the brim. “I hear the Cholera is approaching in his seven-league
boots,” she cried. “I drink luck to the Cholera!” And she emptied the
bumper.
Notwithstanding the general gayety, these words made a gloomy
impression; a sort of electric shudder ran through the assemblage, and
nearly every countenance became suddenly serious.
“Oh, Cephyse!” said Jacques, in a tone of reproach.
“Luck to the Cholera,” repeated the Queen, fearlessly. “Let him spare
those who wish to live, and kill together those who dread to part!”
Jacques and Cephyse exchanged a rapid glance, unnoticed by their joyous
companions, and for some time the Bacchanal Queen remained silent and
thoughtful.
“If you put it that way, it is different,” cried Rose-Pompon, boldly.
“To the Cholera! may none but good fellows be left on earth!”
In spite of this variation, the impression was still painfully
impressive. Dumoulin, wishing to cut short this gloomy subject,
exclaimed: “Devil take the dead, and long live the living! And, talking
of chaps who both live and live well, I ask you to drink a health most
dear to our joyous queen, the health of our Amphitryon. Unfortunately,
I do not know his respectable name, having only had the advantage
of making his acquaintance this night; he will excuse me, then, if I
confine myself to proposing the health of Sleepinbuff--a name by no
means offensive to my modesty, as Adam never slept in any other manner.
I drink to Sleepinbuff.”
“Thanks, old son!” said Jacques, gayly; “were I to forget your name, I
should call you ‘Have-a-sip?’ and I am sure that you would answer: ‘I
will.’”
“I will directly!” said Dumoulin, making the military salute with one
hand, and holding out the bowl with the other.
“As we have drunk together,” resumed Sleepinbuff, cordially, “we ought
to know each other thoroughly. I am Jacques Rennepont?”
“Rennepont!” cried Dumoulin, who appeared struck by the name, in spite
of his half-drunkenness; “you are Rennepont?”
“Rennepont in the fullest sense of the word. Does that astonish you?”
“There is a very ancient family of that name--the Counts of Rennepont.”
“The deuce there is!” said the other, laughing.
“The Counts of Rennepont are also Dukes of Cardoville,” added Dumoulin.
“Now, come, old fellow! do I look as if I belonged to such a family?--I,
a workman out for a spree?”
“You a workman? why, we are getting into the Arabian Nights!” cried
Dumoulin, more and more surprised. “You give us a Belshazzar’s banquet,
with accompaniment of carriages and four, and yet are a workman? Only
tell me your trade, and I will join you, leaving the Vine of the Divine
to take care of itself.”
“Come, I say! don’t think that I am a printer of flimsies, and a
smasher!” replied Jacques, laughing.
“Oh, comrade! no such suspicion--”
“It would be excusable, seeing the rigs I run. But I’ll make you easy on
that point. I am spending an inheritance.”
“Eating and drinking an uncle, no doubt?” said Dumoulin, benevolently.
“Faith, I don’t know.”
“What! you don’t know whom you are eating and drinking?”
“Why, you see, in the first place, my father was a bone-grubber.”
“The devil he was!” said Dumoulin, somewhat out of countenance, though
in general not over-scrupulous in the choice of his bottle-companions:
but, after the first surprise, he resumed, with the most charming
amenity: “There are some rag-pickers very high by scent--I mean
descent!”
“To be sure! you may think to laugh at me,” said Jacques, “but you are
right in this respect, for my father was a man of very great merit. He
spoke Greek and Latin like a scholar, and often told me that he had not
his equal in mathematics; besides, he had travelled a good deal.”
“Well, then,” resumed Dumoulin, whom surprise had partly sobered, “you
may belong to the family of the Counts of Rennepont, after all.”
“In which case,” said Rose-Pompon, laughing, “your father was not a
gutter-snipe by trade, but only for the honor of the thing.”
“No, no--worse luck! it was to earn his living,” replied Jacques; “but,
in his youth, he had been well off. By what appeared, or rather by
what did not appear, he had applied to some rich relation, and the
rich relation had said to him: ‘Much obliged! try the work’us.’ Then he
wished to make use of his Greek, and Latin, and mathematics. Impossible
to do anything--Paris, it seems, being choke-full of learned men--so
my father had to look for his bread at the end of a hooked stick, and
there, too, he must have found it, for I ate of it during two years,
when I came to live with him after the death of an aunt, with whom I had
been staying in the country.”
“Your respectable father must have been a sort of philosopher,” said
Dumoulin; “but, unless he found an inheritance in a dustbin, I don’t see
how you came into your property.”
“Wait for the end of the song. At twelve years of age I was an
apprentice at the factory of M. Tripeaud; two years afterwards, my
father died of an accident, leaving me the furniture of our garret--a
mattress, a chair, and a table--and, moreover, in an old Eau de Cologne
box, some papers (written, it seems, in English), and a bronze medal,
worth about ten sous, chain and all. He had never spoken to me of these
papers, so, not knowing if they were good for anything, I left them at
the bottom of an old trunk, instead of burning them--which was well for
me, since it is upon these papers that I have had money advanced.”
“What a godsend!” said Dumoulin. “But somebody must have known that you
had them?”
“Yes; one of those people that are always looking out for old debts came
to Cephyse, who told me all about it; and, after he had read the papers,
he said that the affair was doubtful, but that he would lend me ten
thousand francs on it, if I liked. Ten thousand francs was a large sum,
so I snapped him up!”
“But you must have supposed that these old papers were of great value.”
“Faith, no! since my father, who ought to have known their value, had
never realized on them--and then, you see, ten thousand francs in good,
bright coin, falling as it were from the clouds, are not to be sneezed
at--so I took them--only the man made me do a bit of stiff as guarantee,
or something of that kind.”
“Did you sign it?”
“Of course--what did I care about it? The man told me it was only a
matter of form. He spoke the truth, for the bill fell due a fortnight
ago, and I have heard nothing of it. I have still about a thousand
francs in his hands, for I have taken him for my banker. And that’s the
way, old pal, that I’m able to flourish and be jolly all day long, as
pleased as Punch to have left my old grinder of a master, M. Tripeaud.”
As he pronounced this name, the joyous countenance of Jacques became
suddenly overcast. Cephyse, no longer under the influence of the painful
impression she had felt for a moment, looked uneasily at Jacques, for
she knew the irritation which the name of M. Tripeaud produced within
him.
“M. Tripeaud,” resumed Sleepinbuff, “is one that would make the good
bad, and the bad worse. They say that a good rider makes a good horse;
they ought to say that a good master makes a good workman. Zounds! when
I think of that fellow!” cried Sleepinbuff, striking his hand violently
on the table.
“Come, Jacques--think of something else!” said the Bacchanal Queen.
“Make him laugh, Rose-Pompon.”
“I am not in a humor to laugh,” replied Jacques, abruptly, for he was
getting excited from the effects of the wine; “it is more than I can
bear to think of that man. It exasperates me! it drives me mad! You
should have heard him saying: ‘Beggarly workmen! rascally workmen! they
grumble that they have no food in their bellies; well, then, we’ll give
them bayonets to stop their hunger.’(11) And there’s the children in his
factory--you should see them, poor little creatures!--working as long
as the men--wasting away, and dying by the dozen--what odds? as soon
as they were dead plenty of others came to take their places--not like
horses, which can only be replaced with money.”
“Well, it is clear, that you do not like your old master,” said
Dumoulin, more and more surprised at his Amphitryon’s gloomy and
thoughtful air, and, regretting that the conversation had taken this
serious turn, he whispered a few words in the ear of the Bacchanal
Queen, who answered by a sign of intelligence.
“I don’t like M. Tripeaud!” exclaimed Jacques. “I hate him--and shall
I tell you why? Because it is as much his fault as mine, that I have
become a good-for-nothing loafer. I don’t say it to screen myself; but
it is the truth. When I was ‘prenticed to him as a lad, I was all heart
and ardor, and so bent upon work, that I used to take my shirt off to
my task, which, by the way, was the reason that I was first called
Sleepinbuff. Well! I might have toiled myself to death; not one word of
encouragement did I receive. I came first to my work, and was the last
to leave off; what matter? it was not even noticed. One day, I was
injured by the machinery. I was taken to the hospital. When I came out,
weak as I was, I went straight to my work; I was not to be frightened;
the others, who knew their master well, would often say to me: ‘What
a muff you must be, little one! What good will you get by working so
hard?’--still I went on. But, one day, a worthy old man, called Father
Arsene, who had worked in the house many years, and was a model of good
conduct, was suddenly turned away, because he was getting too feeble. It
was a death-blow to him; his wife was infirm, and, at his age, he could
not get another place. When the foreman told him he was dismissed, he
could not believe it, and he began to cry for grief. At that moment, M.
Tripeaud passes; Father Arsene begs him with clasped hands to keep him
at half-wages. ‘What!’ says M. Tripeaud, shrugging his shoulders; ‘do
you think that I will turn my factory into a house of invalids? You are
no longer able to work--so be off!’ ‘But I have worked forty years of my
life; what is to become of me?’ cried poor Father Arsene. ‘That is not
my business,’ answered M. Tripeaud; and, addressing his clerk, he added:
‘Pay what is due for the week, and let him cut his stick.’ Father
Arsene did cut his stick; that evening, he and his old wife suffocated
themselves with charcoal. Now, you see, I was then a lad; but that story
of Father Arsene taught me, that, however hard you might work, it would
only profit your master, who would not even thank you for it, and leave
you to die on the flags in your old age. So all my fire was damped, and
I said to myself: ‘What’s the use of doing more than I just need? If
I gain heaps of gold for M. Tripeaud, shall I get an atom of it?’
Therefore, finding neither pride nor profit in my work, I took a disgust
for it--just did barely enough to earn my wages--became an idler and a
rake--and said to myself: ‘When I get too tired of labor, I can always
follow the example of Father Arsene and his wife.”’
Whilst Jacques resigned himself to the current of these bitter thoughts,
the other guests, incited by the expressive pantomime of Dumoulin and
the Bacchanal Queen, had tacitly agreed together; and, on a signal from
the Queen, who leaped upon the table, and threw down the bottles and
glasses with her foot, all rose and shouted, with the accompaniment
of Ninny Moulin’s rattle “The storm blown Tulip! the quadrille of the
Storm-blown Tulip!”
At these joyous cries, which burst suddenly, like shell, Jacques
started; then gazing with astonishment at his guests, he drew his hand
across his brow, as if to chase away the painful ideas that oppressed
him, and exclaimed: “You are right. Forward the first couple! Let us be
merry!”
In a moment, the table, lifted by vigorous arms, was removed to the
extremity of the banqueting-room; the spectators, mounted upon chairs,
benches, and window-ledges, began to sing in chorus the well-known air
of les Etudiants, so as to serve instead of orchestra, and accompany
the quadrille formed by Sleepinbuff, the Queen, Ninny Moulin, and Rose
Pompon.
Dumoulin, having entrusted his rattle to one of the guests, resumed his
extravagant Roman helmet and plume; he had taken off his great-coat
at the commencement of the feast, so that he now appeared in all the
splendor of his costume. His cuirass of bright scales ended in a tunic
of feathers, not unlike those worn by the savages, who form the oxen’s
escort on Mardi Gras. Ninny Moulin had a huge paunch and thin legs,
so that the latter moved about at pleasure in the gaping mouths of his
large top boots.
Little Rose-Pompon, with her pinched-up cocked-hat stuck on one side,
her hands in the pockets of her trousers, her bust a little inclined
forward, and undulating from right to left, advanced to meet
Ninny-Moulin; the latter danced, or rather leaped towards her, his
left leg bent under him, his right leg stretched forward, with the toe
raised, and the heel gliding on the floor; moreover, he struck his neck
with his left hand, and by a simultaneous movement, stretched forth
his right, as if he would have thrown dust in the eyes of his opposite
partner.
This first figure met with great success, and the applause was
vociferous, though it was only the innocent prelude to the step of
the Storm-blown Tulip--when suddenly the door opened, and one of the
waiters, after looking about for an instant, in search of Sleepinbuff,
ran to him, and whispered some words in his ear.
“Me!” cried Jacques, laughing; “here’s a go!”
The waiter added a few more words, when Sleepinbuff’s face assumed
an expression of uneasiness, as he answered. “Very well! I come
directly,”--and he made a step towards the door.
“What’s the matter, Jacques?” asked the Bacchanal Queen, in some
surprise.
“I’ll be back immediately. Some one take my place. Go on with the
dance,” said Sleepinbuff, as he hastily left the room.
“Something, that was not put down in the bill,” said Dumoulin; “he will
soon be back.”
“That’s it,” said Cephyse. “Now cavalier suel!” she added, as she took
Jacques’s place, and the dance continued.
Ninny Moulin had just taken hold of Rose Pompon with his right hand,
and of the Queen with his left, in order to advance between the two, in
which figure he showed off his buffoonery to the utmost extent, when
the door again opened, and the same waiter, who had called out Jacques,
approached Cephyse with an air of consternation, and whispered in her
ear, as he had before done to Sleepinbuff.
The Bacchanal Queen grew pale, uttered a piercing scream, and rushed out
of the room without a word, leaving her guests in stupefaction.
(11) These atrocious words were actually spoken during the Lyons Riots.
CHAPTER IV. THE FAREWELL
The Bacchanal Queen, following the waiter, arrived at the bottom of the
staircase. A coach was standing before the door of the house. In it she
saw Sleepinbuff, with one of the men who, two hours before, had been
waiting on the Place du Chatelet.
On the arrival of Cephyse, the man got down, and said to Jacques, as he
drew out his watch: “I give you a quarter of an hour; it is all that I
can do for you, my good fellow; after that we must start. Do not try to
escape, for we’ll be watching at the coach doors.”
With one spring, Cephyse was in the coach. Too much overcome to speak
before, she now exclaimed, as she took her seat by Jacques, and remarked
the paleness of his countenance: “What is it? What do they want with
you?”
“I am arrested for debt,” said Jacques, in a mournful voice.
“You!” exclaimed Cephyse, with a heart-rending sob.
“Yes, for that bill, or guarantee, they made me sign. And yet the man
said it was only a form--the rascal!”
“But you have money in his hands; let him take that on account.”
“I have not a copper; he sends me word by the bailiff, that not having
paid the bill, I shall not have the last thousand francs.”
“Then let us go to him, and entreat him to leave you at liberty. It was
he who came to propose to lend you this money. I know it well, as he
first addressed himself to me. He will have pity on you.”
“Pity?--a money broker pity? No! no!”
“Is there then no hope? none?” cried Cephyse clasping her hands in
anguish. “But there must be something done,” she resumed. “He promised
you!”
“You can see how he keeps his promises,” answered Jacques, with
bitterness. “I signed, without even knowing what I signed. The bill is
over-due; everything is in order, it would be vain to resist. They have
just explained all that to me.”
“But they cannot keep you long in prison. It is impossible.”
“Five years, if I do not pay. As I’ll never be able to do so, my fate is
certain.”
“Oh! what a misfortune! and not to be able to do anything!” said
Cephyse, hiding her face in her hands.
“Listen to me, Cephyse,” resumed Jacques, in a voice of mournful
emotion; “since I am here, I have thought only of one thing--what is to
become of you?”
“Never mind me!”
“Not mind you?--art mad? What will you do? The furniture of our two
rooms is not worth two hundred francs. We have squandered our money so
foolishly, that we have not even paid our rent. We owe three quarters,
and we must not therefore count upon the furniture. I leave you without
a coin. At least I shall be fed in prison--but how will you manage to
live?
“What is the use of grieving beforehand?”
“I ask you how you will live to-morrow?” cried Jacques.
“I will sell my costume, and some other clothes. I will send you half
the money, and keep the rest. That will last some days.”
“And afterwards?--afterwards?”
“Afterwards?--why, then--I don’t know--how can I tell you!
Afterwards--I’ll look about me.”
“Hear me, Cephyse,” resumed Jacques, with bitter agony. “It is now that
I first know how mach I love you. My heart is pressed as in a vise at
the thought of leaving you and I shudder to thinly what is to become of
you.” Then--drawing his hand across his forehead, Jacques added: “You
see we have been ruined by saying--‘To-morrow will never come!’--for to
morrow has come. When I am no longer with you, and you have spent the
last penny of the money gained by the sale of your clothes--unfit for
work as you have become--what will you do next? Must I tell you what you
will do!--you will forget me and--” Then, as if he recoiled from his own
thoughts, Jacques exclaimed, with a burst of rage and despair--“Great
Heaven! if that were to happen, I should dash my brains out against the
stones!”
Cephyse guessed the half-told meaning of Jacques, and throwing her arms
around his neck, she said to him: “I take another lover?--never! I am
like you, for I now first know how much I love you.”
“But, my poor Cephyse--how will you live?”
“Well, I shall take courage. I will go back and dwell, with my sister,
as in old times; we will work together, and so earn our bread. I’ll
never go out, except to visit you. In a few days your creditor will
reflect, that, as you can’t pay him ten thousand francs, he may as well
set you free. By that time I shall have once more acquired the habit of
working. You shall see, you shall see!--and you also will again acquire
this habit. We shall live poor, but content. After all, we have had
plenty of amusement for six month, while so many others have never known
pleasure all their lives. And believe me, my dear Jacques, when I say
to you--I shall profit by this lesson. If you love me, do not feel the
least uneasiness; I tell you, that I would rather die a hundred times,
than have another lover.”
“Kiss me,” said Jacques, with eyes full of tears. “I believe you--yes,
I believe you--and you give me back my courage, both for now and
hereafter. You are right; we must try and get to work again, or else
nothing remains but Father Arsene’s bushel of charcoal; for, my girl,”
added Jacques, in a low and trembling voice, “I have been like a drunken
man these six months, and now I am getting sober, and see whither we are
going. Our means once exhausted, I might perhaps have become a robber,
and you--”
“Oh, Jacques! don’t talk so--it is frightful,” interrupted Cephyse; “I
swear to you that I will return to my sister--that I will work--that I
will have courage!”
Thus saying, the Bacchanal Queen was very sincere; she fully intended
to keep her word, for her heart was not yet completely corrupted. Misery
and want had been with her, as with so many others, the cause and the
excuse of her worst errors. Until now, she had at least followed the
instincts of her heart, without regard to any base or venal motive. The
cruel position in which she beheld Jacques had so far exalted her love,
that she believed herself capable of resuming, along with Mother Bunch,
that life of sterile and incessant toil, full of painful sacrifices and
privations, which once had been impossible for her to bear, and which
the habits of a life of leisure and dissipation would now render still
more difficult.
Still, the assurances which she had just given Jacques calmed his grief
and anxiety a little; he had sense and feeling enough to perceive that
the fatal track which he had hitherto so blindly followed was leading
both him and Cephyse directly to infamy.
One of the bailiffs, having knocked at the coach-door, said to Jacques:
“My lad, you have only five minutes left--so make haste.”
“So, courage, my girl--courage!” said Jacques.
“I will; you may rely upon me.”
“Are you going upstairs again?”
“No--oh no!” said Cephyse. “I have now a horror of this festivity.”
“Everything is paid for, and the waiter will tell them not to expect us
back. They will be much astonished,” continued Jacques, “but it’s all
the same now.”
“If you could only go with me to our lodging,” said Cephyse, “this
man would perhaps permit it, so as not to enter Sainte-Pelagie in that
dress.”
“Oh! he will not forbid you to accompany me; but, as he will be with
us in the coach, we shall not be able to talk freely in his presence.
Therefore, let me speak reason to you for the first time in my life.
Remember what I say, my dear Cephyse--and the counsel will apply to
me as well as to yourself,” continued Jacques, in a grave and feeling
tone--“resume from to-day the habit of labor. It may be painful,
unprofitable--never mind--do not hesitate, for too soon will the
influence of this lesson be forgotten. By-and-bye it will be too late,
and then you will end like so many unfortunate creatures--”
“I understand,” said Cephyse, blushing; “but I will rather die than lead
such a life.”
“And there you will do well--for in that case,” added Jacques, in a deep
and hollow voice, “I will myself show you how to die.”
“I count upon you, Jacques,” answered Cephyse, embracing her lover
with excited feeling; then she added, sorrowfully: “It was a kind of
presentiment, when just now I felt so sad, without knowing why, in the
midst of all our gayety--and drank to the Cholera, so that we might die
together.”
“Well! perhaps the Cholera will come,” resumed Jacques, with a gloomy
air; “that would save us the charcoal, which we may not even be able to
buy.”
“I can only tell you one thing, Jacques, that to live and die together,
you will always find me ready.”
“Come, dry your eyes,” said he, with profound emotion. “Do not let us
play the children before these men.”
Some minutes after, the coach took the direction to Jacques’s lodging,
where he was to change his clothes, before proceeding to the debtors’
prison.
Let us repeat, with regard to the hunchback’s sister--for there are
things which cannot be too often repeated--that one of the most fatal
consequences of the Inorganization of Labor is the Insufficiency of
Wages.
The insufficiency of wages forces inevitably the greater number of
young girls, thus badly paid, to seek their means of subsistence in
connections which deprave them.
Sometimes they receive a small allowance from their lovers, which,
joined to the produce of their labor, enables them to live. Sometimes
like the sempstress’s sister, they throw aside their work altogether,
and take up their abode with the man of their choice, should he be
able to support the expense. It is during this season of pleasure and
idleness that the incurable leprosy of sloth takes lasting possession of
these unfortunate creatures.
This is the first phase of degradation that the guilty carelessness of
Society imposes on an immense number of workwomen, born with instincts
of modesty, and honesty, and uprightness.
After a certain time they are deserted by their seducers--perhaps when
they are mothers. Or, it may be, that foolish extravagance consigns
the imprudent lover to prison, and the young girl finds herself alone,
abandoned, without the means of subsistence.
Those who have still preserved courage and energy go back to their
work--but the examples are very rare. The others, impelled by misery,
and by habits of indolence, fall into the lowest depths.
And yet we must pity, rather than blame them, for the first and virtual
cause of their fall has been the insufficient remuneration of labor and
sudden reduction of pay.
Another deplorable consequence of this inorganization is the
disgust which workmen feel for their employment, in addition to the
insufficiency of their wages. And this is quite conceivable, for
nothing is done to render their labor attractive, either by variety
of occupations, or by honorary rewards, or by proper care, or by
remuneration proportionate to the benefits which their toil provides, or
by the hope of rest after long years of industry. No--the country thinks
not, cares not, either for their wants or their rights.
And yet, to take only one example, machinists and workers in foundries,
exposed to boiler explosions, and the contact of formidable engines,
run every day greater dangers than soldiers in time of war, display rare
practical sagacity, and render to industry--and, consequently, to their
country--the most incontestable service, during a long and honorable
career, if they do not perish by the bursting of a boiler, or have not
their limbs crushed by the iron teeth of a machine.
In this last case, does the workman receive a recompense equal to that
which awaits the soldier’s praiseworthy, but sterile courage--a place in
an asylum for invalids? No.
What does the country care about it? And if the master should happen to
be ungrateful, the mutilated workman, incapable of further service, may
die of want in some corner.
Finally, in our pompous festivals of commerce, do we ever assemble any
of the skillful workmen who alone have woven those admirable stuffs,
forged and damascened those shining weapons, chiselled those goblets of
gold and silver, carved the wood and ivory of that costly furniture, and
set those dazzling jewels with such exquisite art? No.
In the obscurity of their garrets, in the midst of a miserable and
starving family, hardly able to subsist on their scanty wages, these
workmen have contributed, at least, one half to bestow those wonders
upon their country, which make its wealth, its glory, and its pride.
A minister of commerce, who had the least intelligence of his high
functions and duties, would require of every factory that exhibits
on these occasions, the selection by vote of a certain number of
candidates, amongst whom the manufacturer would point out the one that
appeared most worthy to represent the working classes in these great
industrial solemnities.
Would it not be a noble and encouraging example to see the master
propose for public recompense and distinction the workman, deputed by
his peers, as amongst the most honest, laborious, and intelligent of his
profession? Then one most grievous injustice would disappear, and the
virtues of the workman would be stimulated by a generous and noble
ambition--he would have an interest in doing well.
Doubtless, the manufacturer himself, because of the intelligence he
displays, the capital he risks, the establishment he founds, and the
good he sometimes does, has a legitimate right to the prizes bestowed
upon him. But why is the workman to be rigorously excluded from these
rewards, which have so powerful an influence upon the people? Are
generals and officers the only ones that receive rewards in the army?
And when we have remunerated the captains of this great and powerful
army of industry, why should we neglect the privates?
Why for them is there no sign of public gratitude? no kind or consoling
word from august lips? Why do we not see in France, a single workman
wearing a medal as a reward for his courageous industry, his long and
laborious career? The token and the little pension attached to it, would
be to him a double recompense, justly deserved. But, no! for humble
labor that sustains the State, there is only forgetfulness, injustice,
indifference, and disdain!
By this neglect of the public, often aggravated by individual
selfishness and ingratitude, our workmen are placed in a deplorable
situation.
Some of them, notwithstanding their incessant toil, lead a life of
privations, and die before their time cursing the social system that
rides over them. Others find a temporary oblivion of their ills in
destructive intoxication. Others again--in great number--having no
interest, no advantage, no moral or physical inducement to do more or
better, confine themselves strictly to just that amount of labor which
will suffice to earn their wages. Nothing attaches them to their work,
because nothing elevates, honors, glorifies it in their eyes. They have
no defence against the reductions of indolence; and if, by some chance,
they find means of living awhile in repose, they give way by degrees to
habits of laziness and debauchery, and sometimes the worst passions soil
forever natures originally willing, healthy and honest--and all for
want of that protecting and equitable superintendence which should have
sustained, encouraged, and recompensed their first worthy and laborious
tendencies.
We now follow Mother Bunch, who after seeking for work from the person
that usually employed her, went to the Rue de Babylone, to the lodge
lately occupied by Adrienne de Cardoville.
CHAPTER V. FLORINE.
While the Bacchanal Queen and Sleepinbuff terminated so sadly the most
joyous portion of their existence, the sempstress arrived at the door of
the summer-house in the Rue de Babylone.
Before ringing she dried her tears; a new grief weighed upon her
spirits. On quitting the tavern, she had gone to the house of the person
who usually found her in work; but she was told that she could not have
any because it could be done a third more cheaply by women in prison.
Mother Bunch, rather than lose her last resource, offered to take it at
the third less; but the linen had been already sent out; and the
girl could not hope for employment for a fortnight to come, even if
submitting to this reduction of wages. One may conceive the anguish of
the poor creature; the prospect before her was to die of hunger, if
she would not beg or steal. As for her visit to the lodge in the Rue de
Babylone, it will be explained presently.
She rang the bell timidly; a few minutes after, Florine opened the door
to her. The waiting-maid was no longer adorned after the charming taste
of Adrienne; on the contrary, she was dressed with an affectation of
austere simplicity. She wore a high-necked dress of a dark color, made
full enough to conceal the light elegance of her figure. Her bands of
jet-black hair were hardly visible beneath the flat border of a starched
white cap, very much resembling the head-dress of a nun. Yet, in spite
of this unornamental costume, Florine’s pale countenance was still
admirably beautiful.
We have said that, placed by former misconduct at the mercy of Rodin
and M. d’Aigrigny, Florine had served them as a spy upon her mistress,
notwithstanding the marks of kindness and confidence she had received
from her. Yet Florine was not entirely corrupted; and she often suffered
painful, but vain, remorse at the thought of the infamous part she was
thus obliged to perform.
At the sight of Mother Bunch, whom she recognized--for she had told
her, the day before, of Agricola’s arrest and Mdlle. de Cardoville’s
madness--Florine recoiled a step, so much was she moved with pity at the
appearance of the young sempstress. In fact, the idea of being thrown
out of work, in the midst of so many other painful circumstances, had
made a terrible impression upon the young workwoman, the traces of
recent tears furrowed her cheeks--without her knowing it, her features
expressed the deepest despair--and she appeared so exhausted, so weak,
so overcome, that Florine offered her arm to support her, and said to
her kindly: “Pray walk in and rest yourself; you are very pale, and seem
to be ill and fatigued.”
So saying, Florine led her into a small room; with fireplace and carpet,
and made her sit down in a tapestried armchair by the side of a good
fire. Georgette and Hebe had been dismissed, and Florine was left alone
in care of the house.
When her guest was seated, Florine said to her with an air of interest:
“Will you not take anything? A little orange flower-water and sugar,
warm.”
“I thank you, mademoiselle,” said Mother Bunch, with emotion, so easily
was her gratitude excited by the least mark of kindness; she felt, too,
a pleasing surprise, that her poor garments had not been the cause of
repugnance or disdain on the part of Florine.
“I thank you, mademoiselle,” said she, “but I only require a little
rest, for I come from a great distance. If you will permit me--”
“Pray rest yourself as long as you like, mademoiselle; I am alone in
this pavilion since the departure of my poor mistress,”--here Florine
blushed and sighed;--“so, pray make yourself quite at home. Draw near
the fire--you wilt be more comfortable--and, gracious! how wet your feet
are!--place them upon this stool.”
The cordial reception given by Florine, her handsome face and agreeable
manners, which were not those of an ordinary waiting-maid, forcibly
struck Mother Bunch, who, notwithstanding her humble condition, was
peculiarly susceptible to the influence of everything graceful
and delicate. Yielding, therefore, to these attractions, the young
sempstress, generally so timid and sensitive, felt herself almost at her
ease with Florine.
“How obliging you are, mademoiselle!” said she in a grateful tone. “I am
quite confused with your kindness.”
“I wish I could do you some greater service than offer you a place at
the fire, mademoiselle. Your appearance is so good and interesting.”
“Oh, mademoiselle!” said the other, with simplicity, almost in spite
of herself; “it does one so much good to sit by a warm fire!” Then,
fearing, in her extreme delicacy, that she might be thought capable of
abusing the hospitality of her entertainer, by unreasonably prolonging
her visit, she added: “the motive that has brought me here is this.
Yesterday, you informed me that a young workman, named Agricola Baudoin,
had been arrested in this house.”
“Alas! yes, mademoiselle. At the moment, too, when my poor mistress was
about to render him assistance.”
“I am Agricola’s adopted sister,” resumed Mother Bunch, with a slight
blush; “he wrote to me yesterday evening from prison. He begged me to
tell his father to come here as soon as possible, in order to inform
Mdlle. de Cardoville that he, Agricola, had important matters to
communicate to her, or to any person that she might send; but that he
could not venture to mention them in a letter, as he did not know if
the correspondence of prisoners might not be read by the governor of the
prison.”
“What!” said Florine, with surprise; “to my mistress, M. Agricola has
something of importance to communicate?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; for, up to this time, Agricola is ignorant of the
great calamity that has befallen Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“True; the attack was indeed so sudden,” said Florine, casting down her
eyes, “that no one could have foreseen it.”
“It must have been so,” answered Mother Bunch; “for, when Agricola saw
Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time, he returned home, struck with
her grace, and delicacy, and goodness.”
“As were all who approached my mistress,” said Florine, sorrowfully.
“This morning,” resumed the sewing-girl, “when, according to Agricola’s
instructions, I wished to speak to his father on the subject, I found
him already gone out, for he also is a prey to great anxieties; but
my adopted brother’s letter appeared to me so pressing, and to involve
something of such consequence to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had shown
herself so generous towards him, that I came here immediately.”
“Unfortunately, as you already know, my mistress is no longer here.”
“But is there no member of her family to whom, if I could not speak
myself, I might at least send word by you, that Agricola has something
to communicate of importance to this young lady?”
“It is strange!” said Florine, reflecting, and without replying. Then,
turning towards the sempstress, she added: “You are quite ignorant of
the nature of these revelations?”
“Completely so, mademoiselle; but I know Agricola. He is all honor and
truth, and you may believe whatever he affirms. Besides, he would have
no interest--”
“Good gracious!” interrupted Florine, suddenly, as if struck with a
sadden light; “I have just remembered something. When he was arrested
in a hiding-place where my mistress had concealed him, I happened to
be close at hand, and M. Agricola said to me, in a quick whisper: ‘Tell
your generous mistress that her goodness to me will not go unrewarded,
and that my stay in that hiding-place may not be useless to her.’
That was all he could say to me, for they hurried him off instantly. I
confess that I saw in those words only the expression of his gratitude,
and his hope of proving it one day to my mistress; but now that I
connect them with the letter he has written you--” said Florine,
reflecting.
“Indeed!” remarked Mother Bunch, “there is certainly some connection
between his hiding-place here and the important secrets which he wishes
to communicate to your mistress, or one of her family.”
“The hiding-place had neither been inhabited nor visited for some time,”
said Florine, with a thoughtful air; “M. Agricola may have found therein
something of interest to my mistress.”
“If his letter had not appeared to me so pressing,” resumed the other,
“I should not have come hither; but have left him to do so himself, on
his release from prison, which now, thanks to the generosity of one of
his old fellow-workmen, cannot be very distant. But, not knowing if
bail would be accepted to-day, I have wished faithfully to perform his
instructions. The generous kindness of your mistress made it my first
duty.”
Like all persons whose better instincts are still roused from time to
time, Florine felt a sort of consolation in doing good whenever she
could with impunity--that is to say, without exposing herself to the
inexorable resentments of those on whom she depended. Thanks to Mother
Bunch, she might now have an opportunity of rendering a great service to
her mistress. She knew enough of the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s hatred
of her niece, to feel certain that Agricola’s communication could not,
from its very importance, be made with safety to any but Mdlle. de
Cardoville herself. She therefore said very gravely: “Listen to me,
mademoiselle! I will give you a piece of advice which will, I think, be
useful to my poor mistress--but which would be very fatal to me if you
did not attend to my recommendations.”
“How so, mademoiselle?” said the hunchback, looking at Florine with
extreme surprise.
“For the sake of my mistress, M. Agricola must confide to no one, except
herself, the important things he has to communicate.”
“But, if he cannot see Mdlle. Adrienne, may he not address himself to
some of her family?”
“It is from her family, above all, that he must conceal whatever he
knows. Mdlle. Adrienne may recover, and then M. Agricola can speak to
her. But should she never get well again, tell your adopted brother that
it is better for him to keep his secret than to place it (which would
infallibly happen) at the disposal of the enemies of my mistress.”
“I understand you, mademoiselle,” said Mother Bunch, sadly. “The family
of your generous mistress do not love her, and perhaps persecute her?”
“I cannot tell you more on this subject now; and, as regards myself, let
me conjure you to obtain M. Agricola’s promise that he will not mention
to any one in the world the step you have taken, or the advice I have
given you. The happiness--no, not the happiness,” resumed Florine
bitterly, as if that were a lost hope, “not the happiness--but the peace
of my life depends upon your discretion.”
“Oh! be satisfied!” said the sewing-girl, both affected and amazed
by the sorrowful expression of Florine’s countenance; “I will not be
ungrateful. No one in the world but Agricola shall know that I have seen
you.”
“Thank you--thank you, mademoiselle,” cried Florine, with emotion.
“Do you thank me?” said the other, astonished to see the large tears
roll down her cheeks.
“Yes! I am indebted to you for a moment of pure, unmixed happiness; for
I have perhaps rendered a service to my dear mistress, without risking
the increase of the troubles that already overwhelm me.”
“You are not happy, then?”
“That astonishes you; but, believe me, whatever may be, your fate, I
would gladly change with you.”
“Alas, mademoiselle!” said the sempstress: “you appear to have too good
a heart, for me to let you entertain such a wish--particularly now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hope sincerely, mademoiselle,” proceeded Mother Bunch, with deep
sadness, “that you may never know what it is to want work, when labor is
your only resource.”
“Are you reduced to that extremity?” cried Florine, looking anxiously
at the young sempstress, who hung her head, and made no answer. She
reproached herself, in her excessive delicacy, with having made a
communication which resembled a complaint, though it had only been wrung
from her by the thought of her dreadful situation.
“If it is so,” went on Florine, “I pity you with all my heart; and yet I
know not, if my misfortunes are not still greater than yours.”
Then, after a moment’s reflection, Florine exclaimed, suddenly: “But let
me see! If you are really in that position, I think I can procure you
some work.”
“Is it possible, mademoiselle?” cried Mother Bunch. “I should never have
dared to ask you such a service; but your generous offer commands my
confidence, and may save me from destruction. I will confess to you,
that, only this morning, I was thrown out of an employment which enabled
me to earn four francs a week.”
“Four francs a week!” exclaimed Florine, hardly able to believe what she
heard.
“It was little, doubtless,” replied the other; “but enough for me.
Unfortunately, the person who employed me, has found out where it can be
done still cheaper.”
“Four francs a week!” repeated Florine, deeply touched by so much misery
and resignation. “Well! I think I can introduce you to persons, who will
secure you wages of at least two francs a day.”
“I could earn two francs a day? Is it possible?”
“Yes, there is no doubt of it; only, you will have to go out by the day,
unless you chose to take a pace as servant.”
“In my position,” said Mother Bunch, with a mixture of timidity and
pride, “one has no right, I know, to be overnice; yet I should prefer to
go out by the day, and still more to remain at home, if possible, even
though I were to gain less.”
“To go out is unfortunately an indispensable condition,” said Florine.
“Then I must renounce this hope,” answered Mother Bunch, timidly; “not
that I refuse to go out to work--but those who do so, are expected to be
decently clad--and I confess without shame, because there is no disgrace
in honest poverty, that I have no better clothes than these.”
“If that be all,” said Florine, hastily, “they will find you the means
of dressing yourself properly.”
Mother Bunch looked at Florine with increasing surprise. These offers
were so much above what she could have hoped, and what indeed was
generally earned by needlewomen, that she could hardly credit them.
“But,” resumed she, with hesitation, “why should any one be so generous
to me, mademoiselle? How should I deserve such high wages?”
Florine started. A natural impulse of the heart, a desire to be useful
to the sempstress, whose mildness and resignation greatly interested
her, had led her to make a hasty proposition; she knew at what price
would have to be purchased the advantages she proposed, and she now
asked herself, if the hunchback would ever accept them on such terms.
But Florine had gone too far to recede, and she durst not tell all. She
resolved, therefore, to leave the future to chance and as those,
who have themselves fallen, are little disposed to believe in the
infallibility of others, Florine said to herself, that perhaps in
the desperate position in which she was, Mother Bunch would not be so
scrupulous after all. Therefore she said: “I see, mademoiselle, that you
are astonished at offers so much above what you usually gain; but I
must tell you, that I am now speaking of a pious institution, founded
to procure work for deserving young women. This establishment, which is
called St. Mary’s Society, undertakes to place them out as servants,
or by the day as needlewomen. Now this institution is managed by such
charitable persons, that they themselves undertake to supply an
outfit, when the young women, received under their protection are not
sufficiently well clothed to accept the places destined for them.”
This plausible explanation of Florine’s magnificent offers appeared to
satisfy the hearer. “I can now understand the high wages of which
you speak, mademoiselle,” resumed she; “only I have no claim to be
patronized by the charitable persons who direct this establishment.”
“You suffer--you are laborious and honest--those are sufficient claims;
only, I must tell you, they will ask if you perform regularly your
religious duties.”
“No one loves and blesses God more fervently than I do, mademoiselle,”
said the hunchback, with mild firmness; “but certain duties are an
affair of conscience, and I would rather renounce this patronage, than
be compelled--”
“Not the least in the world. Only, as I told you, there are very pious
persons at the head of this institution, and you must not be astonished
at their questions on such a subject. Make the trial, at all events;
what do you risk? If the propositions are suitable--accept them; if, on
the contrary, they should appear to touch your liberty of conscience,
you can always refuse--your position will not be the worse for it.”
Mother Bunch had nothing to object to this reasoning which left her at
perfect freedom, and disarmed her of all suspicion. “On these terms,
mademoiselle,” said she, “I accept your offer, and thank you with all my
heart. But who will introduce me?”
“I will--to-morrow, if you please.”
“But they will perhaps desire to make some inquiries about me.”
“The venerable Mother Sainte-Perpetue, Superior of St, Mary’s Convent,
where the institution is established, will, I am sure, appreciate your
good qualities without inquiry; but if otherwise, she will tell you, and
you can easily satisfy her. It is then agreed--to-morrow.”
“Shall I call upon you here, mademoiselle?”
“No; as I told you before, they must not know that you came here on the
part of M. Agricola, and a second visit might be discovered, and excite
suspicion. I will come and fetch you in a coach; where do you live?”
“At No. 3, Rue Brise-Miche; as you are pleased to give yourself so
much trouble, mademoiselle, you have only to ask the dyer, who acts as
porter, to call down Mother Bunch.”
“Mother Bunch?” said Florine, with surprise.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered the sempstress, with a sad smile; “it is
the name every one gives me. And you see,” added the hunchback, unable
to restrain a tear, “it is because of my ridiculous infirmity, to which
this name alludes, that I dread going out to work among strangers,
because there are so many people who laugh at one, without knowing the
pain they occasion. But,” continued she, drying her eyes, “I have no
choice, and must make up my mind to it.”
Florine, deeply affected, took the speaker’s hand, and said to her: “Do
not fear. Misfortunes like yours must inspire compassion, not ridicule.
May I not inquire for you by your real name?”
“It is Magdalen Soliveau; but I repeat, mademoiselle, that you had
better ask for Mother Bunch, as I am hardly known by any other name.”
“I will, then, be in the Rue Brise-Miche to-morrow, at twelve o’clock.”
“Oh, mademoiselle! How can I ever requite your goodness?”
“Don’t speak of it: I only hope my interference may be of use to you.
But of this you must judge for yourself. As for M. Agricola, do not
answer his letter; wait till he is out of prison, and then tell him to
keep his secret till he can see my poor mistress.”
“And where is the dear young lady now?”
“I cannot tell you. I do not know where they took her, when she was
attacked with this frenzy. You will expect me to-morrow?”
“Yes--to-morrow,” said Mother Bunch.
The convent whither Florine was to conduct the hunchback contained the
daughters of Marshal Simon, and was next door to the lunatic asylum of
Dr. Baleinier, in which Adrienne de Cardoville was confined.
CHAPTER VI. MOTHER SAINTE-PERPETUE.
St. Mary’s Convent, whither the daughters of Marshal Simon had been
conveyed, was a large old building, the vast garden of which was on
the Boulevard de l’Hopital, one of the most retired places in Paris,
particularly at this period. The following scenes took place on the 12th
February, the eve of the fatal day, on which the members of the family
of Rennepont, the last descendants of the sister of the Wandering Jew,
were to meet together in the Rue St. Francois. St. Mary’s Convent was a
model of perfect regularity. A superior council, composed of influential
ecclesiastics, with Father d’Aigrigny for president, and of women of
great reputed piety, at the head of whom was the Princess de Saint
Dizier, frequently assembled in deliberation, to consult on the means
of extending and strengthening the secret and powerful influence of this
establishment, which had already made remarkable progress.
Skillful combinations and deep foresight had presided at the foundation
of St. Mary’s Convent, which, in consequence of numerous donations,
possessed already real estate to a great extent, and was daily
augmenting its acquisitions. The religious community was only a pretext;
but, thanks to an extensive connection, kept up by means of the most
decided members of the ultramontane (i. e. high-church) party, a great
number of rich orphans were placed in the convent, there to receive a
solid, austere, religious education, very preferable, it was said, to
the frivolous instruction which might be had in the fashionable boarding
schools, infected by the corruption of the age. To widows also, and
lone women who happened moreover to be rich, the convent offered a sure
asylum from the dangers and temptations of the world; in this peaceful
retreat, they enjoyed a delightful calm, and secured their salvation,
whilst surrounded by the most tender and affectionate attentions. Nor
was this all. Mother Sainte-Perpetue, the superior of the convent,
undertook in the name of the institution to procure for the faithful,
who wished to preserve the interior of their houses from the depravity
of the age, companions for aged ladies, domestic servants, or
needlewomen working by the day, all selected persons whose morality
could be warranted. Nothing would seem more worthy of sympathy and
encouragement than such an institution; but we shall presently unveil
the vast and dangerous network of intrigue concealed under
these charitable and holy appearances. The lady Superior, Mother
Sainte-Perpetue, was a tall woman of about forty years of age, clad in a
stuff dress of the Carmelite tan color, and wearing a long rosary at her
waist; a white cap tied under the chin, and a long black veil, closely
encircled her thin, sallow face. A number of deep wrinkles had impressed
their transverse furrows in her forehead of yellow ivory; her marked and
prominent nose was bent like the beak of a bird of prey; her black eye
was knowing and piercing; the expression of her countenance was at once
intelligent, cold and firm.
In the general management of the pecuniary affairs of the community,
Mother Sainte-Perpetue would have been a match for the most cunning
attorney. When women are possessed of what is called a talent for
business, and apply to it their keen penetration, their indefatigable
perseverance, their prudent dissimulation, and, above all, that quick
and exact insight, which is natural to them, the results are often
prodigious. To Mother Sainte-Perpetue, a woman of the coolest and
strongest intellect, the management of the vast transactions of the
community was mere child’s play. No one knew better how to purchase a
depreciated property, to restore it to its former value, and then sell
it with advantage; the price of stock, the rate of exchange, the current
value of the shares in the different companies, were all familiar to
her; she had yet never been known to make bad speculation, when the
question was to invest any of the funds which were given by pious souls
for the purposes of the convent. She had established in the house the
utmost order and discipline, and, above all, an extreme economy. The
constant aim of all her efforts was to enrich, not herself, but the
community she directed; for the spirit of association, when become a
collective egotism, gives to corporations the faults and vices of an
individual. Thus a congregation may dote upon power and money, just as
a miser loves them for their own sake. But it is chiefly with regard to
estates that congregations act like a single man. They dream of landed
property; it is their fixed idea, their fruitful monomania. They pursue
it with their most sincere, and warm, and tender wishes.
The first estate is to a rising little community what the wedding
trousseau is to a young bride, his first horse to a youth, his first
success to a poet, to a gay girl her first fifty-guinea shawl; because,
after all, in this material age, an estate gives a certain rank to a
society on the Religious Exchange, and has so much the more effect upon
the simple-minded, that all these partnerships in the work of salvation,
which end by becoming immensely rich, begin with modest poverty as
social stock-in-trade, and charity towards their neighbors as security
reserve fund. We may therefore imagine what bitter and ardent rivalry
must exist between the different congregations with regard to the
various estates that each can lay claim to; with what ineffable
satisfaction the richer society crushes the poorer beneath its inventory
of houses, and farms and paper securities! Envy and hateful jealousy,
rendered still more irritable by the leisure of a cloistered life, are
the necessary consequences of such a comparison; and yet nothing is less
Christian--in the adorable acceptation of that divine word--nothing has
less in common with the true, essential, and religiously social spirit
of the gospel, than this insatiable ardor to acquire wealth by every
possible means--this dangerous avidity, which is far from being atoned
for, in the eyes of public opinion, by a few paltry alms, bestowed in
the narrow spirit of exclusion and intolerance.
Mother Sainte-Perpetue was seated before a large cylindrical-fronted
desk in the centre of an apartment simply but comfortably furnished.
An excellent fire burned within the marble chimney, and a soft carpet
covered the floor. The superior, to whom all letters addressed to the
sisters or the boarders were every day delivered, had just been opening
she first, according to her acknowledged right, and carefully unsealing
the second, without their knowing it, according to a right that she
ascribed to herself, of course, with a view to the salvation of those
dear creatures; and partly, perhaps, a little to make herself acquainted
with their correspondence, for she also had imposed on herself the duty
of reading all letters that were sent from the convent, before they were
put into the post. The traces of this pious and innocent inquisition
were easily effaced, for the good mother possessed a whole arsenal of
steel tools, some very sharp, to cut the pager imperceptibly round the
seal--others, pretty little rods, to be slightly heated and rolled round
the edge of the seal, when the letter had been read and replaced in its
envelope, so that the wax, spreading as it melted, might cover the first
incision. Moreover, from a praiseworthy feeling of justice and equality,
there was in the arsenal of the good mother a little fumigator of the
most ingenious construction, the damp and dissolving vapor of which was
reserved for the letters humbly and modestly secured with wafers, thus
softened, they yielded to the least efforts, without any tearing of the
paper. According to the importance of the revelations, which she thus
gleaned from the writers of the letters, the superior took notes more or
less extensive. She was interrupted in this investigation by two gentle
taps at the bolted door. Mother Sainte-Perpetue immediately let down the
sliding cylinder of her cabinet, so as to cover the secret arsenal, and
went to open the door with a grave and solemn air. A lay sister came to
announce to her that the Princess de Saint-Dizier was waiting for her
in the parlor, and that Mdlle. Florine, accompanied by a young girl,
deformed and badly dressed, was waiting at the door of the little
corridor.
“Introduce the princess first,” said Mother Sainte Perpetue. And, with
charming forethought, she drew an armchair to the fire. Mme. de Saint
Dizier entered.
Without pretensions to juvenile coquetry, still the princess was
tastefully and elegantly dressed. She wore a black velvet bonnet of the
most fashionable make, a large blue cashmere shawl, and a black satin
dress, trimmed with sable, to match the fur of her muff.
“To what good fortune am I again to-day indebted for the honor of your
visit, my dear daughter?” said the superior, graciously.
“A very important recommendation, my dear mother, though I am in a
great hurry. I am expected at the house of his Eminence, and have,
unfortunately, only a few minutes to spare. I have again to speak of the
two orphans who occupied our attention so long yesterday.”
“They continue to be kept separate, according to your wish; and this
separation has had such an effect upon them that I have been obliged
to send this morning for Dr. Baleinier, from his asylum. He found much
fever joined to great depression, and, singular enough, absolutely the
same symptoms in both cases. I have again questioned these unfortunate
creatures, and have been quite confounded and terrified to find them
perfect heathens.”
“It was, you see, very urgent to place them in your care. But to the
subject of my visit, my dear mother: we have just learned the unexpected
return of the soldier who brought these girls to France, and was thought
to be absent for some days; but he is in Paris, and, notwithstanding his
age, a man of extraordinary boldness, enterprise and energy. Should he
discover that the girls are here (which, however, is fortunately
almost impossible), in his rage at seeing them removed from his impious
influence, he would be capable of anything. Therefore let me entreat
you, my dear mother, to redouble your precautions, that no one may
effect an entrance by night. This quarter of the town is so deserted!”
“Be satisfied, my dear daughter; we are sufficiently guarded. Our porter
and gardeners, all well armed, make a round every night on the side
of the Boulevard de l’Hopital. The walls are high, and furnished with
spikes at the more accessible places. But I thank you, my dear daughter,
for having warned me. We will redouble our precautions.”
“Particularly this night, my dear mother.”
“Why so?”
“Because if this infernal soldier has the audacity to attempt such a
thing, it will be this very night.”
“How do you know, my dear daughter?”
“We have information which makes us certain of it,” replied the
princess, with a slight embarrassment, which did not escape the notice
of the Superior, though she was too crafty and reserved to appear to see
it; only she suspected that many things were concealed from her.
“This night, then,” resumed Mother Sainte-Perpetue, “we will be more
than ever on our guard. But as I have the pleasure of seeing you, my
dear daughter, I will take the opportunity to say a word or two on the
subject of that marriage we mentioned.”
“Yes, my dear mother,” said the princess, hastily, “for it is very
important. The young Baron de Brisville is a man full of ardent devotion
in these times of revolutionary impiety; he practises openly, and is
able to render us great services. He is listened to in the Chamber, and
does not want for a sort of aggressive and provoking eloquence; I know
not any one whose tone is more insolent with regard to his faith, and
the plan is a good one, for this cavalier and open manner of speaking
of sacred things raises and excites the curiosity of the indifferent.
Circumstances are happily such that he may show the most audacious
violence towards our enemies, without the least danger to himself,
which, of course, redoubles his ardor as a would-be martyr. In a
word, he is altogether ours, and we, in return, must bring about this
marriage. You know, besides, my dear mother, that he proposes to offer
a donation of a hundred thousand francs to St. Mary’s the day he gains
possession of the fortune of Mdlle. Baudricourt.”
“I have never doubted the excellent intentions of M. de Brisville
with regard to an institution which merits the sympathy of all pious
persons,” answered the superior, discreetly; “but I did not expect to
meet with so many obstacles on the part of the young lady.”
“How is that?”
“This girl, whom I always believed a most simple, submissive, timid,
almost idiotic person--instead of being delighted with this proposal of
marriage, asks time to consider!”
“It is really pitiable!”
“She opposes to me an inert resistance. It is in vain for me to speak
severely, and tell her that, having no parents or friends, and being
absolutely confided to my care, she ought to see with my eyes, hear with
my ears, and when I affirm that this union is suitable in all respects,
give her adhesion to it without delay or reflection.”
“No doubt. It would be impossible to speak more sensibly.”
“She answers that she wishes to see M. de Brisville, and know his
character before being engaged.”
“It is absurd--since you undertake to answer for his morality, and
esteem this a proper marriage.”
“Therefore, I remarked to Mdlle. Baudricourt, this morning, that till
now I had only employed gentle persuasion, but that, if she forced me
to it, I should be obliged, in her own interest, to act with rigor, to
conquer so much obstinacy that I should have to separate her from her
companions, and to confine her closely in a cell, until she made up her
mind, after all, to consult her own happiness, and--marry an honorable
man.”
“And these menaces, my dear mother?”
“Will, I hope, have a good effect. She kept up a correspondence with
an old school-friend in the country. I have put a stop to this, for it
appeared to me dangerous. She is now under my sole influence, and I hope
we shall attain our ends; but you see, my dear daughter, it is never
without crosses and difficulties that we succeed in doing good!”
“And I feel certain that M. de Brisville will even go beyond his first
promise, and I will pledge myself for him, that, should he marry Mdlle.
Baudricourt--”
“You know, my dear daughter,” said the superior, interrupting the
princess, “that if I were myself concerned, I would refuse everything;
but to give to this institution is to give to Heaven, and I cannot
prevent M. de Brisville from augmenting the amount of his good works.
Then, you see, we are exposed to a sad disappointment.”
“What is that, my dear mother?”
“The Sacred Heart Convent disputes an estate with us that would have
suited us exactly. Really, some people are quite insatiable! I gave the
lady superior my opinion upon it pretty freely.”
“She told me as much,” answered Madame de Saint-Dizier, “and laid the
blame on the steward.”
“Oh! so you see her, my dear daughter?” exclaimed the superior, with an
air of great surprise.
“I met her at the bishop’s,” answered Madame de Saint-Dizier, with a
slight degree of hesitation, that Mother Sainte-Perpetue did not appear
to notice.
“I really do not know,” resumed the latter, “why our establishment
should excite so violently the jealousy of the Sacred Heart. There is
not an evil report that they have not spread with regard to St. Mary’s
Convent. Certain persons are always offended by the success of their
neighbors!”
“Come, my dear mother,” said the princess, in a conciliating tone, “we
must hope that the donation of M. de Brisville will enable you to outbid
the Sacred Heart. This marriage will have a double advantage, you see,
my dear mother; it will place a large fortune at the disposal of a man
who is devoted to us, and who will employ it as we wish; and it will
also greatly increase the importance of his position as our defender,
by the addition to his income of 100,000 francs a year. We shall have at
length an organ worthy of our cause, and shall no longer be obliged to
look for defenders amongst such people as that Dumoulin.”
“There is great power and much learning in the writings of the man you
name. It is the style of a Saint Bernard, in wrath at the impiety of the
age.”
“Alas, my dear mother! if you only knew what a strange Saint Bernard
this Dumoulin is! But I will not offend your ears; all I can tell you
is, that such defenders would compromise the most sacred cause. Adieu,
my dear mother! pray redouble your precautions to-night--the return of
this soldier is alarming.”
“Be quite satisfied, my dear daughter! Oh! I forgot. Mdlle. Florine
begged me to ask you a favor. It is to let her enter your service. You
know the fidelity she displayed in watching your unfortunate niece; I
think that, by rewarding her in this way, you will attach her to you
completely, and I shall feel grateful on her account.”
“If you interest yourself the least in the world in Florine, my dear
mother, the thing is done. I will take her into my service. And now it
strikes me, she may be more useful to me than I thought.”
“A thousand thanks, my dear daughter, for such obliging attention to my
request. I hope we shall soon meet again. The day after to-morrow, at
two o’clock, we have a long conference with his Eminence and the Bishop;
do not forget!”
“No, my dear mother; I shall take care to be exact. Only, pray, redouble
your precautions to-night for fear of a great scandal!”
After respectfully kissing the hand of the superior, the princess
went out by the great door, which led to an apartment opening on the
principal staircase. Some minutes after, Florine entered the room by
another way. The superior was seated and Florine approached her with
timid humility.
“Did you meet the Princess de Saint-Dizier?” asked Mother Sainte
Perpetue.
“No, mother; I was waiting in the passage, where the windows look out on
the garden.”
“The princess takes you into her service from to-day,” said the
superior.
Florine made a movement of sorrowful surprise, and exclaimed: “Me,
mother! but--”
“I asked her in your name, and you have only to accept,” answered the
other imperiously.
“But, mother, I had entreated you--”
“I tell you, that you accept the offer,” said the superior, in so firm
and positive a tone that Florine cast down her eyes, and replied in a
low voice: “I accept.”
“It is in M. Rodin’s name that I give you this order.”
“I thought so, mother,” replied Florine, sadly; “on what conditions am I
to serve the princess?”
“On the same conditions as those on which you served her niece.”
Florine shuddered and said: “I am, then, to make frequent secret reports
with regard to the princess?”
“You will observe, you will remember, and you will give an account.”
“Yes, my mother.”
“You will above all direct your attention to the visits that the
princess may receive from the lady superior of the Sacred Heart. You
must try and listen--for we have to preserve the princess from evil
influences.”
“I will obey, my mother.”
“You will also try and discover why two young orphans have been brought
hither, and recommended to be severely treated, by Madame Grivois, the
confidential waiting-woman of the princess.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Which must not prevent you from remembering anything else that may be
worthy of remark. To-morrow I will give you particular instructions upon
another subject.”
“It is well, mother.”
“If you conduct yourself in a satisfactory manner, and execute
faithfully the instructions of which I speak, you will soon leave the
princess to enter the service of a young bride; it will be an excellent
and lasting situation always on the same conditions. It is, therefore,
perfectly understood that you have asked me to recommend you to Madame
de Saint Dizier.”
“Yes, mother; I shall remember.”
“Who is this deformed young girl that accompanies you?”
“A poor creature without any resources, very intelligent, and with an
education above her class; she works at her needle, but is at present
without employment, and reduced to the last extremity. I have made
inquiries about her this morning; she has an excellent character.”
“She is ugly and deformed, you say?”
“She has an interesting countenance, but she is deformed.”
The superior appeared pleased at this information, and added, after a
moment’s reflection: “She appears intelligent?”
“Very intelligent.”
“And is absolutely without resources?”
“Yes, without any.”
“Is she pious?”
“She does not practice.”
“No matter,” said the superior to herself; “if she be intelligent, that
will suffice.” Then she resumed aloud. “Do you know if she is a good
workwoman?”
“I believe so, mother.”
The superior rose, took a register from a shelf, appeared to be looking
into it attentively for some time, and then said, as she replaced it:
“Fetch in this young girl, and go and wait for me in the press-room.”
“Deformed--intelligent--clever at her needle,” said the superior,
reflecting; “she will excite no suspicion. We must see.”
In about a minute, Florine returned with Mother Bunch, whom she
introduced to the superior, and then discreetly withdrew. The young
sempstress was agitated, trembling, and much troubled, for she could, as
it were, hardly believe a discovery which she had chanced to make during
Florine’s absence. It was not without a vague sense of terror that the
hunchback remained alone with the lady superior.
CHAPTER VII. THE TEMPTATION.
This was the cause of Mother Bunch’s emotion. Florine, when she went to
see the superior, had left the young sempstress in a passage supplied
with benches, and forming a sort of ante-chamber on the first story.
Being alone, the girl had mechanically approached a window which
looked upon the convent garden, shut in by a half demolished wall, and
terminating at one end in an open paling. This wall was connected with
a chapel that was still building, and bordered on the garden of a
neighboring house. The sewing-girl, at one of the windows on the ground
floor of this house--a grated window, still more remarkable by the sort
of tent-like awning above it--beheld a young female, with her eyes fixed
upon the convent, making signs with her hand, at once encouraging and
affectionate. From the window where she stood, Mother Bunch could not
see to whom these signs were addressed; but she admired the rare beauty
of the telegrapher, the brilliancy of her complexion, the shining
blackness of her large eyes, the sweet and benevolent smile which
lingered on her lips. There was, no doubt, some answer to her graceful
and expressive pantomime, for, by a movement full of elegance, the girl
laid her left hand on her bosom, and waved her right, which seemed to
indicate that her heart flew towards the place on which she kept her
eyes. One faint sunbeam, piercing the clouds, came at this moment to
play with the tresses of the pale countenance, which, now held close
to the bars of the window, was suddenly, as it were, illuminated by
the dazzling reflection of her splendid golden hair. At sight of that
charming face, set in its admirable frame of red curls, Mother Bunch
started involuntarily; the thought of Mdlle. de Cardoville crossed her
mind, and she felt persuaded (nor was she, indeed, mistaken), that
the protectress of Agricola was before her. On thus beholding, in
that gloomy asylum, this young lady, so marvellously beautiful, and
remembering the delicate kindness with which a few days before she had
received Agricola in her luxurious little palace of dazzling splendor,
the work-girl felt her heart sink within her. She believed Adrienne
insane; and yet, as she looked attentively at her, it seemed as if
intelligence and grace animated that adorable countenance. Suddenly,
Mdlle. de Cardoville laid her fingers upon her lips, blew a couple of
kisses in the direction towards which she had been looking, and all
at once disappeared. Reflecting upon the important revelations which
Agricola had to make to Mdlle. de Cardoville, Mother Bunch regretted
bitterly that she had no means of approaching her; for she felt sure
that, if the young lady were mad, the present was a lucid interval.
She was yet absorbed in these uneasy reflections, when she saw Florine
return, accompanied by one of the nuns. Mother Bunch was obliged,
therefore, to keep silence with regard to the discovery she had made,
and soon after she found herself in the superior’s presence. This
latter, after a rapid and searching examination of the countenance of
the young workwoman, judged her appearance so timid, gentle and honest,
that she thought she might repose full confidence in the information
given by Florine.
“My dear daughter,” said Mother Sainte-Perpetue, in an affectionate
voice, “Florine has told me in what a cruel situation you are placed. Is
it true that you are entirely without work?”
“Alas! yes, madame.”
“Call me mother, my dear daughter; that name is dearer to me, and it is
the rule of our house. I need not ask you what are your principles?”
“I have always lived honestly by my labor, mother,” answered the girl,
with a simplicity at once dignified and modest.
“I believe you, my dear daughter, and I have good reasons for so doing.
We must thank the Lord, who has delivered you from temptation; but tell
me--are you clever at your trade?”
“I do my best, mother, and have always satisfied my employers. If you
please to try me, you will be able to judge.”
“Your affirmation is sufficient, my dear daughter. You prefer, I think,
to go out by the day?”
“Mdlle. Florine told me, mother, that I could not have work at home.”
“Why, no--not for the present, my child. If hereafter an opportunity
should offer, I will think of it. Just now I have this to propose to
you. A very respectable old lady has asked me to recommend to her a
needle-woman by the day; introduced by me, you will certainly suit
her. The institution will undertake to clothe you becomingly, and this
advance we shall retain by degrees out of your wages, for you will look
to us for payment. We propose to give you two francs a day; does that
appear to you sufficient?”
“Oh, mother! it is much more than I could have expected.”
“You will, moreover, only be occupied from nine o’clock in the morning
till six in the evening; you will thus have still some off hours, of
which you might make use. You see, the situation is not a hard one.”
“Oh! quite the contrary, mother.”
“I must tell you, first of all, with whom the institution intends to
place you. It is a widow lady, named Mme. de Bremant, a person of the
most steadfast piety. In her house, I hope, you will meet with none but
excellent examples. If it should be otherwise, you can come and inform
me.”
“How so, mother?” said the sewing-girl, with surprise.
“Listen to me, my dear daughter,” said Mother Sainte-Perpetue, in a
tone ever more and more affectionate; “the institution of St. Mary has
a double end in view. You will perfectly understand that, if it is our
duty to give to masters and mistresses every possible security as to the
morality of the persons that we place in their families, we are likewise
bound to give to the persons that we so place out every possible
security as to the morality of their employers.”
“Nothing can be more just and of a wiser foresight, mother.”
“Naturally, my dear daughter; for even as a servant of bad morals may
cause the utmost trouble in a respectable family, so the bad conduct of
a master or mistress may have the most baneful influence on the persons
who serve them, or who come to work in their houses. Now, it is to offer
a mutual guarantee to good masters and honest servants, that we have
founded this institution.”
“Oh, madame!” cried Mother Bunch, with simplicity; “such designs merit
the thanks and blessings of every one.”
“And blessings do not fail us, my dear daughter, because we perform our
promises. Thus, an interesting workwoman--such as you, for example--is
placed with persons that we suppose irreproachable. Should she, however,
perceive, on the part of her employers, or on that of the persons who
frequent the house, any irregularity of morals, any tendency to what
would offend her modesty, or shock her religious principles, she should
immediately give us a detailed account of the circumstances that have
caused her alarm. Nothing can be more proper--don’t you think so?”
“Yes, mother,” answered Mother Bunch, timidly, for she began to find
this provision somewhat singular.
“Then,” resumed the superior, “if the case appears a serious one, we
exhort our befriended one to observe what passes more attentively, so
as to convince herself whether she had really reason to be alarmed.
She makes a new report to us, and should it confirm our first fears,
faithful to our pious guardianship, we withdraw her instantly from the
house. Moreover, as the majority of our young people, notwithstanding
their innocence and virtue, have not always sufficient experience to
distinguish what may be injurious to their soul’s health, we think it
greatly to their interest that they should confide to us once a week, as
a child would to her mother, either in person or by letter, whatever has
chanced to occur in the house in which we have placed them. Then we can
judge for them, whether to withdraw them or not. We have already about
a hundred persons, companions to ladies, young women in shops, servants,
and needlewomen by the day, whom we have placed in a great number
of families, and, for the interest of all, we have every reason to
congratulate ourselves on this mode of proceeding. You understand me, do
you not, my dear daughter?”
“Yes-yes, mother,” said the sempstress, more and more embarrassed. She
had too much uprightness and sagacity not to perceive that this plan of
mutually insuring the morality of masters and servants resembled a vast
spy system, brought home to the domestic hearth, and carried on by the
members of the institution almost without their knowledge, for it would
have been difficult to disguise more skillfully the employment for which
they were trained.
“If I have entered into these long details my dear daughter,” resumed
Mother Sainte-Perpetue, taking the hearer’s silence for consent, “it
is that you may not suppose yourself obliged to remain in the house in
question, if, against our expectation, you should not find there holy
and pious examples. I believe Mme. de Bremont’s house to be a pure and
godly place; only I have heard (though I will not believe it) that Mme.
de Bremont’s daughter, Mme. de Noisy, who has lately come to reside with
her, is not so exemplary in her conduct as could be desired, that she
does not fulfil regularly her religious duties, and that, during the
absence of her husband, who is now in America, she receives visits,
unfortunately too frequent, from one M. Hardy, a rich manufacturer.”
At the name of Agricola’s master, Mother Bunch could not suppress a
movement of surprise, and also blushed slightly. The superior
naturally mistook this surprise and confusion for a proof of the modest
susceptibility of the young sempstress, and added: “I have told you all
this, my dear daughter, that you might be on your guard. I have even
mentioned reports that I believe to be completely erroneous, for the
daughter of Mme. de Bremont has always had such good examples before
her that she cannot have so forgotten them. But, being in the house from
morning to night, you will be able, better than any one, to discover if
these reports have any foundation in truth. Should it unfortunately so
turn out, my dear daughter, you would come and confide to me all the
circumstances that have led you to such a conclusion; and, should I
then agree in your opinion, I would withdraw you instantly from the
house--for the piety of the mother would not compensate sufficiently for
the deplorable example of the daughter’s conduct. For, as soon as you
form part of the institution, I am responsible for your salvation, and,
in case your delicacy should oblige you to leave Mme. de Bremont’s, as
you might be some time without employment, the institution will allow
you, if satisfied with your zeal and conduct, one franc a day till we
could find you another place. You see, my dear daughter, that you have
everything to gain with us. It is therefore agreed that the day after
to-morrow you go to Mme. de Bremont’s.” Mother Bunch found herself in a
very hard position. Sometimes she thought that her first suspicions were
confirmed, and, notwithstanding her timidity, her pride felt hurt at the
supposition, that, because they knew her poor, they should believe
her capable of selling herself as a spy for the sake of high wages.
Sometimes, on the contrary, her natural delicacy revolted at the idea
that a woman of the age and condition of the superior could descend to
make a proposition so disgraceful both to the accepter and the proposer,
and she reproached herself with her first doubts and asked herself if
the superior had not wished to try her, before employing her, to see if
her probity would enable her to resist a comparatively brilliant offer.
Mother Bunch was naturally so inclined to think well of every one, that
she made up her mind to this last conclusion, saying to herself, that
if, after all, she were deceived, it would be the least offensive mode
of refusing these unworthy offers. With a movement, exempt from all
haughtiness, but expressive of natural dignity, the young workman raised
her head, which she had hitherto held humbly cast down, looked the
superior full in the face, that the latter might read in her countenance
the sincerity of her words, and said to her in a slightly agitated
voice, forgetting this time to call her “mother”: “Ah, madame! I cannot
blame you for exposing me to such a trial. You see that I am very poor,
and I have yet done nothing to command your confidence. But, believe
me, poor as I am, I would never stoop to so despicable an action as
that which you have thought fit to propose to me, no doubt to assure
yourself, by my refusal, that I am worthy of your kindness. No, no,
madame--I could never bring myself to be a spy at any price.”
She pronounced these last words with so much animation that her cheeks
became slightly flushed. The superior had too much tact and experience
not to perceive the sincerity of the words. Thinking herself lucky that
the young girl should put this construction upon the affair, she smiled
upon her affectionately, and stretched out her arms to her, saying: “It
is well, my dear daughter. Come and embrace me!”
“Mother--I am really confused--with so much kindness--”
“No--you deserve it--your words are so full of truth and honesty. Only
be persuaded that I have not put you to any trial, because there is no
resemblance between the act of a spy and the marks of filial confidence
that we require of our members for the sake of watching over their
morals. But certain persons--I see you are of the number, my dear
daughter--have such fixed principles, and so mature a judgment, that
they can do without our advice and guardianship, and can appreciate
themselves whatever might be dangerous to their salvation. I will
therefore leave the entire responsibility to yourself, and only ask you
for such communications as you may think proper to make.”
“Oh, madame! how good you are!” said poor Mother Bunch, for she was
not aware of the thousand devices of the monastic spirit, and thought
herself already sure of gaining just wages honorably.
“It is not goodness--but justice!” answered Mother Sainte-Perpetue,
whose tone was becoming more and more affectionate. “Too much tenderness
cannot be shown to pious young women like you, whom poverty has only
purified because they have always faithfully observed the divine laws.”
“Mother--”
“One last question, my child! how many times a month do you approach the
Lord’s table?”
“Madame,” replied the hunchback, “I have not taken the sacrament since
my first communion, eight years ago. I am hardly able, by working every
day, and all day long, to earn my bread. I have no time--”
“Gracious heaven!” cried the superior, interrupting, and clasping her
hands with all the signs of painful astonishment. “Is it possible? you
do not practise?”
“Alas, madame! I tell you that I have no time,” answered Mother Bunch,
looking disconcertedly at Mother Saint-Perpetue.
“I am grieved, my dear daughter,” said the latter sorrowfully, after a
moment’s silence, “but I told you that, as we place our friends in none
but pious houses, so we are asked to recommend none but pious persons,
who practise their religious duties. It is one of the indispensable
conditions of our institution. It will, therefore, to my great regret,
be impossible for me to employ you as I had hoped. If, hereafter, you
should renounce your present indifference to those duties, we will then
see.”
“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, her heart swollen with tears, for she
was thus forced to abandon a cheering hope, “I beg pardon for having
detained you so long--for nothing.”
“It is I, my dear daughter, who regret not to be able to attach you
to the institution; but I am not altogether hopeless, that a person,
already so worthy of interest, will one day deserve by her piety the
lasting support of religious people. Adieu, my dear daughter! go in
peace, and may God be merciful to you, until the day that you return
with your whole heart to Him!”
So saying, the superior rose, and conducted her visitor to the door,
with all the forms of the most maternal kindness. At the moment she
crossed the threshold, she said to her: “Follow the passage, go down
a few steps, and knock at the second door on the right hand. It is the
press-room, and there you will find Florine. She will show you the way
out. Adieu, my dear daughter!”
As soon as Mother Bunch had left the presence of the superior, her
tears, until now restrained, gushed forth abundantly. Not wishing to
appear before Florine and the nuns in this state, she stopped a moment
at one of the windows to dry her eyes. As she looked mechanically
towards the windows of the next house, where she fancied she had seen
Adrienne de Cardoville, she beheld the latter come from a door in the
building, and advance rapidly towards the open paling that separated the
two gardens. At the same instant, and to her great astonishment, Mother
Bunch saw one of the two sisters whose disappearance had caused the
despair of Dagobert, with pale and dejected countenance, approach the
fence that separated her from Mdlle. de Cardoville, trembling with fear
and anxiety, as though she dreaded to be discovered.
CHAPTER VIII. MOTHER BUNCH AND MDLLE. DE CARDOVILLE.
Agitated, attentive, uneasy, leaning from one of the convent-windows,
the work-girl followed with her eyes the movements of Mdlle. de
Cardoville and Rose Simon, whom she so little expected to find together
in such a place. The orphan, approaching close to the fence, which
separated the nunnery-garden from that of Dr. Baleinier’s asylum, spoke
a few words to Adrienne, whose features at once expressed astonishment,
indignation, and pity. At this juncture, a nun came running, and
looking right and left, as though anxiously seeking for some one; then,
perceiving Rose, who timidly pressed close to the paling, she seized her
by the arm, and seemed to scold her severely, and notwithstanding some
energetic words addressed to her by Mdlle. de Cardoville, she hastily
carried off the orphan, who with weeping eyes, turned several times to
look back at Adrienne; whilst the latter, after showing the interest
she took in her by expressive gestures, turned away suddenly, as if to
conceal her tears.
The passage in which the witness stood, during this touching scene, was
situated on the first story. The thought immediately occurred to the
sempstress, to go down to the ground-floor, and try to get into the
garden, so that she might have an opportunity of speaking to the fair
girl with the golden hair, and ascertaining if it were really Mdlle. de
Cardoville, to whom; if she found her in a lucid interval, she might say
that Agricola had things of the greatest importance to communicate, but
that he did not know how to inform her of them. The day was advancing,
the sun was on its decline, and fearing that Florine would be tired
of waiting for her, Mother Bunch made haste to act; with a light step,
listening anxiously as she went, she reached the end of the passage,
where three or four stairs led down to the landing-place of the press
room, and then formed a spiral descent to the ground-floor. Hearing
voices in the pressroom, the sempstress hastened down the stairs, and
found herself in a long passage, in the centre of which was a glass
door, opening on that part of the garden reserved for the superior.
A path, bordered by a high box-hedge, sheltered her from the gaze of
curious eyes, and she crept along it, till she reached the open paling;
which, at this spot, separated the convent-garden from that of Dr.
Baleinier’s asylum. She saw Mdlle. de Cardoville a few steps from her,
seated, and with her arm resting upon a rustic bench. The firmness
of Adrienne’s character had for a moment been shaken by fatigue,
astonishment, fright, despair, on the terrible night when she had
been taken to the asylum by Dr. Baleinier; and the latter, taking a
diabolical advantage of her weakness and despondency, had succeeded
for a moment in making her doubt of her own sanity. But the calm, which
necessarily follows the most painful and violent emotions, combined
with the reflection and reasoning of a clear and subtle intellect, soon
convinced Adrienne of the groundlessness of the fears inspired by the
crafty doctor. She no longer believed that it could even be a mistake on
the part of the man of science. She saw clearly in the conduct of this
man, in which detestable hypocrisy was united with rare audacity, and
both served by a skill no less remarkable, that M. Baleinier was, in
fact, the blind instrument of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. From
that moment, she remained silent and calm, but full of dignity; not a
complaint, not a reproach was allowed to pass her lips. She waited. Yet,
though they left her at liberty to walk about (carefully depriving her
of all means of communicating with any one beyond the walls), Adrienne’s
situation was harsh and painful, particularly for her, who so loved to
be surrounded by pleasant and harmonious objects. She felt, however,
that this situation could not last long. She did not thoroughly
understand the penetration and action of the laws; but her good sense
taught her, that a confinement of a few days under the plea of some
appearances of insanity, more or less plausible in themselves, might
be attempted, and even executed with impunity; but that it could not be
prolonged beyond certain limits, because, after all, a young lady of
her rank in society could not disappear suddenly from the world, without
inquiries being made on the subject--and the pretence of a sudden attack
of madness would lead to a serious investigation. Whether true or false,
this conviction had restored Adrienne to her accustomed elasticity and
energy of character. And yet she sometimes in vain asked herself the
cause of this attempt on her liberty. She knew too well the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, to believe her capable of acting in this way, without
a certain end in view, and merely for the purpose of inflicting a
momentary pang. In this, Mdlle. de Cardoville was not deceived: Father
d’Aigrigny and the princess were both persuaded, that Adrienne, better
informed than she wished to acknowledge, knew how important it was for
her to find herself in the house in the Rue Saint-Francois on the 13th
of February, and was determined to maintain her rights. In shutting up
Adrienne as mad, it was intended to strike a fatal blow at her future
prospects; but this last precaution was useless, for Adrienne, though
upon the true scent of the family-secret they lead wished to conceal
from her, had not yet entirely penetrated its meaning, for want of
certain documents, which had been lost or hidden.
Whatever had been the motives for the odious conduct of Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s enemies, she was not the less disgusted at it. No one could
be more free from hatred or revenge, than was this generous young girl,
but when she thought of all the sufferings which the Princess de Saint
Dizier, Abbe d’Aigrigny, and Dr. Baleinier had occasioned her, she
promised herself, not reprisals, but a striking reparation. If it were
refused her, she was resolved to combat--without truce or rest--this
combination of craft, hypocrisy, and cruelty, not from resentment for
what she had endured, but to preserve from the same torments other
innocent victims, who might not, like her, be able to struggle and
defend themselves. Adrienne, still under the painful impression which
had been caused by her interview with Rose Simon, was leaning against
one of the sides of the rustic bench on which she was seated, and held
her left hand over her eyes. She had laid down her bonnet beside her,
and the inclined position of her head brought the long golden curls
over her fair, shining cheeks. In this recumbent attitude, so full of
careless grace, the charming proportions of her figure were seen to
advantage beneath a watered green dress, while a broad collar, fastened
with a rose-colored satin bow, and fine lace cuffs, prevented too strong
a contrast between the hue of her dress and the dazzling whiteness of
the swan-like neck and Raphaelesque hands, imperceptibly veined with
tiny azure lines. Over the high and well-formed instep, were crossed the
delicate strings of a little, black satin shoe--for Dr. Baleinier had
allowed her to dress herself with her usual taste, and elegance of
costume was not with Adrienne a mark of coquetry, but of duty towards
herself, because she had been made so beautiful. At sight of this young
lady, whose dress and appearance she admired in all simplicity, without
any envious or bitter comparison with her own poor clothes and deformity
of person, Mother Bunch said immediately to herself, with the good sense
and sagacity peculiar to her, that it was strange a mad woman should
dress so sanely and gracefully. It was therefore with a mixture of
surprise and emotion that she approached the fence which separated her
from Adrienne--reflecting, however, that the unfortunate girl might
still be insane, and that this might turn out to be merely a lucid
interval. And now, with a timid voice, but loud enough to be heard,
Mother Bunch, in order to assure herself of Adrienne’s identity, said,
whilst her heart beat fast: “Mdlle. de Cardoville!”
“Who calls me?” said Adrienne. On hastily raising her head, and
perceiving the hunchback, she could not suppress a slight cry of
surprise, almost fright. For indeed this poor creature, pale, deformed,
miserably clad, thus appearing suddenly before her, must have inspired
Mdlle, de Cardoville, so passionately fond of grace and beauty, with a
feeling of repugnance, if not of terror--and these two sentiments were
both visible in her expressive countenance.
The other did not perceive the impression she had made. Motionless, with
her eyes fixed, and her hands clasped in a sort of adoring admiration,
she gazed on the dazzling beauty of Adrienne, whom she had only half
seen through the grated window. All that Agricola had told her of the
charms of his protectress, appeared to her a thousand times below the
reality; and never, even in her secret poetic visions, had she dreamed
of such rare perfection. Thus, by a singular contrast, a feeling of
mutual surprise came over these two girls--extreme types of deformity
and beauty, wealth and wretchedness. After rendering, as it were, this
involuntary homage to Adrienne, Mother Bunch advanced another step
towards the fence.
“What do you want?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, rising with a
sentiment of repugnance, which could not escape the work-girl’s notice;
accordingly, she held down her head timidly, and said in a soft voice:
“I beg your pardon, madame, to appear so suddenly before you. But
moments are precious, I come from Agricola.”
As she pronounced these words, the sempstress raised her eyes anxiously,
fearing that Mdlle. de Cardoville might have forgotten the name of
the workman. But, to her great surprise and joy, the fears of Adrienne
seemed to diminish at the name of Agricola, and approaching the fence,
she looked at the speaker with benevolent curiosity.
“You come from M. Agricola Baudoin?” said she. “Who are you?”
“His adopted sister, madame--a poor needlewoman, who lives in the same
house.”
Adrienne appeared to collect her thoughts, and said, smiling kindly,
after a moment’s silence: “It was you then, who persuaded M. Agricola to
apply to me to procure him bail?”
“Oh, madame, do you remember--”
“I never forget anything that is generous and noble. M. Agricola was
much affected when he spoke of your devotion. I remember it well; it
would be strange if I did not. But how came you here, in this convent?”
“They told me that I should perhaps be able to get some occupation here,
as I am out of work. Unfortunately, I have been refused by the lady
superior.”
“And how did you recognize me?”
“By your great beauty, madame, of which Agricola had told me.”
“Or rather by this,” said Adrienne, smiling as she lifted, with the tips
of her rosy fingers, one end of a long, silky ringlet of golden hair.
“You must pardon Agricola, madame,” said the sewing girl, with one of
those half smiles, which rarely settled on her lips: “he is a poet, and
omitted no single perfection in the respectful and admiring description
which he gave of his protectress.”
“And what induced you to come and speak to me?”
“The hope of being useful to you, madame. You received Agricola with so
much goodness, that I have ventured to go shares in his gratitude.”
“You may well venture to do so, my dear girl,” said Adrienne, with
ineffable grace; “until now, unfortunately, I have only been able to
serve your adopted brother by intention.”
As they exchanged these words, Adrienne and Mother Bunch looked at each
other with increasing surprise. The latter was, first of all, astonished
that a person who passed for mad should express herself as Adrienne
did; next, she was amazed at the ease and freedom with which she herself
answered the questions of Mdlle. de Cardoville--not knowing that the
latter was endowed with the precious privilege of lofty and benevolent
natures, to draw out from those who approached her whatever sympathized
with herself. On her side, Mdlle. de Cardoville was deeply moved and
astonished to hear this young, low-born girl, dressed almost like a
beggar, express herself in terms selected with so much propriety. The
more she looked at her, the more the feeling of repugnance she at
first experienced wore off, and was at length converted into quite the
opposite sentiment. With that rapid and minute power of observation
natural to women, she remarked beneath the black crape of Mother Bunch’s
cap, the smoothness and brilliancy of the fair, chestnut hair. She
remarked, too, the whiteness of the long, thin hand, though it displayed
itself at the end of a patched and tattered sleeve--an infallible proof
that care, and cleanliness, and self-respect were at least struggling
against symptoms of fearful distress. Adrienne discovered, also, in the
pale and melancholy features, in the expression of the blue eyes, at
once intelligent, mild and timid, a soft and modest dignity, which made
one forget the deformed figure. Adrienne loved physical beauty, and
admired it passionately, but she had too superior a mind, too noble a
soul, too sensitive a heart, not to know how to appreciate moral beauty,
even when it beamed from a humble and suffering countenance. Only, this
kind of appreciation was new to Mdlle. de Cardoville; until now, her
large fortune and elegant habits had kept her at a distance from persons
of Mother Bunch’s class. After a short silence, during which the fair
patrician and the poor work-girl had closely examined each other,
Adrienne said to the other: “It is easy, I think, to explain the cause
of our mutual astonishment. You have, no doubt, discovered that I speak
pretty reasonably for a mad woman--if they have told you I am one. And
I,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone of respectful commiseration,
“find that the delicacy of your language and manners so singularly
contrast with the position in which you appear to be, that my surprise
must be even greater than yours.”
“Ah, madame!” cried Mother Bunch, with a welling forth of such deep and
sincere joy that the tears started to her eyes; “is it true?--they have
deceived me--you are not mad! Just now, when I beheld you so kind
and beautiful, when I heard the sweet tone of your voice, I could not
believe that such a misfortune had happened to you. But, alas! how is it
then, madame, that you are in this place?”
“Poor child!” said Adrienne, touched by the affectionate interest of
this excellent creature; “and how is it that you, with such a heart and
head, should be in such distress? But be satisfied! I shall not always
be here--and that will suffice to tell you, that we shall both resume
the place which becomes us. Believe me, I shall never forget how, in
spite of the painful ideas which must needs occupy your mind, on seeing
yourself deprived of work--your only resource--you have still thought of
coming to me, and of trying to serve me. You may, indeed, be eminently
useful to me, and I am delighted at it, for then I shall owe you
much--and you shall see how I will take advantage of my gratitude!” said
Adrienne, with a sweet smile. “But,” resumed she, “before talking
of myself, let us think of others. Is your adopted brother still in
prison?”
“By this time, madame, I hope he has obtained his freedom; thanks to the
generosity of one of his comrades. His father went yesterday to offer
bail for him, and they promised that he should be released to-day. But,
from his prison, he wrote to me, that he had something of importance to
reveal to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes, madame. Should Agricola be released immediately by what means can
he communicate with you?”
“He has secrets to tell me!” resumed Mdlle. de Cardoville, with an air
of thoughtful surprise. “I seek in vain to imagine what they can be; but
so long as I am confined in this house, and secluded from every one, M.
Agricola must not think of addressing himself directly or indirectly
to me. He must wait till I am at liberty; but that is not all, he must
deliver from that convent two poor children, who are much more to be
pitied than I am. The daughters of Marshal Simon are detained there
against their will.”
“You know their name, madame?”
“When M. Agricola informed me of their arrival in Paris, he told me they
were fifteen years old, and that they resembled each other exactly--so
that, the day before yesterday, when I took my accustomed walk, and
observed two poor little weeping faces come close to the windows of
their separate cells, one on the ground floor, the other on the first
story, a secret presentiment told me that I saw in them the orphans
of whom M. Agricola had spoken, and in whom I already took a lively
interest, as being my relations.”
“They are your relations, madame, then?”
“Yes, certainly. So, not being able to do more, I tried to express by
signs how much I felt for them. Their tears, and the sadness of their
charming faces, sufficiently told me that they were prisoners in the
convent, as I am myself in this house.”
“Oh! I understand, madame--the victim of the animosity of your family?”
“Whatever may be my fate, I am much less to be pitied than these two
children, whose despair is really alarming. Their separation is what
chiefly oppresses them. By some words that one of them just now said to
me, I see that they are, like me, the victims of an odious machination.
But thanks to you, it will be possible to save them: Since I have been
in this house I have had no communication with any one; they have not
allowed me pen or paper, so it is impossible to write. Now listen to me
attentively, and we shall be able to defeat an odious persecution.”
“Oh, speak! speak, madame!”
“The soldier, who brought these orphans to France, the father of M.
Agricola, is still in town?”
“Yes, madame. Oh! if you only knew his fury, his despair, when, on his
return home, he no longer found the children that a dying mother had
confided to him!”
“He must take care not to act with the least violence. It would ruin
all. Take this ring,” said Adrienne, drawing it from her finger, “and
give it to him. He must go instantly--are you sure that you can remember
a name and address?”
“Oh! yes, madame. Be satisfied on that point. Agricola only mentioned
your name once, and I have not forgotten it. There is a memory of the
heart.”
“I perceive it, my dear girl. Remember, then, the name of the Count de
Montbron.”
“The Count de Montbron--I shall not forget.”
“He is one of my good old friends, and lives on the Place Vendome, No.
7.”
“Place Vendome, No. 7--I shall remember.”
“M. Agricola’s father must go to him this evening, and, if he is not at
home, wait for his coming in. He must ask to speak to him, as if from
me, and send him this ring as a proof of what he says. Once with him, he
must tell him all--the abduction of the girls, the name of the convent
where they are confined, and my own detention as a lunatic in the asylum
of Dr. Baleinier. Truth has an accent of its own, which M. de Montbron
will recognize. He is a man of much experience and judgment, and
possessed of great influence. He will immediately take the necessary
steps, and to-morrow, or the day after, these poor orphans and myself
will be restored to liberty--all thanks to you! But moments are
precious; we might be discovered; make haste, dear child!”
At the moment of drawing back, Adrienne said to Mother Bunch, with so
sweet a smile and affectionate a tone, that it was impossible not to
believe her sincere: “M. Agricola told me that I had a heart like yours.
I now understand how honorable, how flattering those words were for me.
Pray, give me your hand!” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose eyes were
filling with tears; and, passing her beautiful hand through an opening
in the fence, she offered it to the other. The words and the gesture
of the fair patrician were full of so much real cordiality, that the
sempstress, with no false shame, placed tremblingly her own poor thin
hand in Adrienne’s, while the latter, with a feeling of pious respect,
lifted it spontaneously to her lips, and said: “Since I cannot embrace
you as my sister, let me at least kiss this hand, ennobled by labor!”
Suddenly, footsteps were heard in the garden of Dr. Baleinier; Adrienne
withdrew abruptly, and disappeared behind some trees, saying: “Courage,
memory, and hope!”
All this had passed so rapidly that the young workwoman had no time
to speak or move; tears, sweet tears, flowed abundantly down her pale
cheeks. For a young lady, like Adrienne de Cardoville, to treat her as a
sister, to kiss her hand, to tell her that she was proud to resemble
her in heart--her, a poor creature, vegetating in the lowest abyss
of misery--was to show a spirit of fraternal equality, divine, as the
gospel words.
There are words and impressions which make a noble soul forget years of
suffering, and which, as by a sudden flash, reveal to it something of
its own worth and grandeur. Thus it was with the hunchback. Thanks to
this generous speech, she was for a moment conscious of her own value.
And though this feeling was rapid as it was ineffable, she clasped
her hands and raised her eyes to heaven with an expression of fervent
gratitude; for, if the poor sempstress did not practise, to use the
jargon of ultramontane cant, no one was more richly endowed with that
deep religious sentiment, which is to mere dogmas what the immensity of
the starry heaven is to the vaulted roof of a church.
Five minutes after quitting Mdlle. de Cardoville, Mother Bunch, having
left the garden without being perceived, reascended to the first story,
and knocked gently at the door of the press-room. A sister came to open
the door to her.
“Is not Mdlle. Florine, with whom I came, still here, sister?” asked the
needlewoman.
“She could not wait for you any longer. No doubt, you have come from our
mother the superior?”
“Yes, yes, sister,” answered the sempstress, casting down her eyes;
“would you have the goodness to show me the way out?”
“Come with me.”
The sewing-girl followed the nun, trembling at every step lest she
should meet the superior, who would naturally have inquired the cause of
her long stay in the convent.
At length the inner gate closed upon Mother Bunch. Passing rapidly
across the vast court-yard and approaching the porter’s lodge, to ask
him to let her out, she heard these words pronounced in a gruff voice:
“It seems, old Jerome, that we are to be doubly on our guard to-night.
Well, I shall put two extra balls in my gun. The superior says we are to
make two rounds instead of one.”
“I want no gun, Nicholas,” said the other voice; “I have my sharp
scythe, a true gardener’s weapon--and none the worse for that.”
Feeling an involuntary uneasiness at these words, which she had heard by
mere chance, Mother Bunch approached the porter’s lodge, and asked him
to open the outer gate.
“Where do you come from?” challenged the porter, leaning half way out
of his lodge, with a double barrelled gun, which he was occupied in
loading, in his hand, and at the same time examining the sempstress with
a suspicious air.
“I come from speaking to the superior,” answered Mother Bunch timidly.
“Is that true?” said Nicholas roughly. “You look like a sanctified
scarecrow. Never mind. Make haste and cut!”
The gate opened, and Mother Bunch went out. Hardly had she gone a few
steps in the sweet, when, to her great surprise, she saw the dog Spoil
sport run up to her, and his master, Dagobert, a little way behind him,
arriving also with precipitation. She was hastening to meet the soldier,
when a full, sonorous voice exclaimed from a little distance: “Oh my
good sister!” which caused the girl to turn round. From the opposite
side to that whence Dagobert was coming, she saw Agricola hurrying
towards the spot.
CHAPTER IX. THE ENCOUNTERS.
At the sight of Dagobert and Agricola, Mother Bunch remained motionless
with surprise, a few steps from the convent-gate. The soldier had not
yet perceived the sempstress. He advanced rapidly, following the dog,
who though lean, half-starved, rough-coated, and dirty, seemed to frisk
with pleasure, as he turned his intelligent face towards his master, to
whom he had gone back, after caressing Mother Bunch.
“Yes, yes; I understand you, old fellow!” said the soldier, with
emotion. “You are more faithful than I was; you did not leave the dear
children for a minute. Yes, you followed them, and watched day and
night, without food, at the door of the house to which they were
taken--and, at length, weary of waiting to see them come forth, ran home
to fetch me. Yes; whilst I was giving way to despair, like a furious
madman, you were doing what I ought to have done--discovering their
retreat. What does it all prove? Why, that beasts are better than
men--which is well known. Well, at length I shall see them again. When
I think that tomorrow is the 13th, and that without you, my did
Spoil-sport, all would be lost--it makes me shudder. But I say, shall we
soon be there? What a deserted quarter! and night coming on!”
Dagobert had held this discourse to Spoil-sport, as he walked along
following the good dog, who kept on at a rapid pace. Suddenly, seeing
the faithful animal start aside with a bound, he raised his eyes, and
perceived the dog frisking about the hunchback and Agricola, who had
just met at a little distance from the convent-gate.
“Mother Bunch?” exclaimed both father and son, as they approached the
young workwoman, and looked at her with extreme surprise.
“There is good hope, M. Dagobert,” said she with inexpressible joy.
“Rose and Blanche are found!” Then, turning towards the smith, she
added, “There is good hope, Agricola: Mdlle. de Cardoville is not mad. I
have just seen her.”
“She is not mad? what happiness!” exclaimed the smith.
“The children!” cried Dagobert, trembling with emotion, as he took the
work-girl’s hands in his own. “You have seen them?”
“Yes; just now--very sad--very unhappy--but I was not able to speak to
them.”
“Oh!” said Dagobert, stopping as if suffocated by the news, and pressing
his hands on his bosom; “I never thought that my old heart could beat
so!--And yet, thanks to my dog, I almost expected what has taken place.
Anyhow, I am quite dizzy with joy.”
“Well, father, it’s a good day,” said Agricola, looking gratefully at
the girl.
“Kiss me, my dear child!” added the soldier, as he pressed Mother Bunch
affectionately in his arms; then, full of impatience, he added: “Come,
let us go and fetch the children.”
“Ah, my good sister!” said Agricola, deeply moved; “you will restore
peace, perhaps life, to my father--and Mdlle. de Cardoville--but how do
you know?”
“A mere chance. And how did you come here?”
“Spoil-sport stops and barks,” cried Dagobert, who had already made
several steps in advance.
Indeed the dog, who was as impatient as his master to see the orphans,
and far better informed as to the place of their retreat, had posted
himself at the convent gate, and was beginning to bark, to attract the
attention of Dagobert. Understanding his dog, the latter said to
the hunchback, as he pointed in that direction with his finger: “The
children are there?”
“Yes, M. Dagobert.”
“I was sure of it. Good dog!--Oh, yes! beasts are better than
men--except you, my dear girl, who are better than either man or beast.
But my poor children! I shall see them, I shall have them once more!”
So saying, Dagobert, in spite of his age, began to run very fast towards
Spoil-sport. “Agricola,” cried Mother Bunch, “prevent thy father from
knocking at that door. He would ruin all.”
In two strides, the smith had reached his father, just as the latter was
raising his hand to the knocker. “Stop, father!” cried the smith, as he
seized Dagobert by the arm.
“What the devil is it now?”
“Mother Bunch says that to knock would ruin all.”
“How so?”
“She will explain it to you.” Although not so nimble as Agricola, Mother
Bunch soon came up, and said to the soldier: “M. Dagobert, do not let us
remain before this gate. They might open it, and see us; and that would
excite suspicion. Let us rather go away--”
“Suspicion!” cried the veteran, much surprised, but without moving from
the gate; “what suspicion?”
“I conjure you, do not remain there!” said Mother Bunch, with so much
earnestness, that Agricola joined her, and said to his father: “Since
sister rashes it, father, she has some reason for it. The Boulevard de
l’Hopital is a few steps from here; nobody passes that way; we can talk
there without being interrupted.”
“Devil take me if I understand a word of all this!” cried Dagobert,
without moving from his post. “The children are here, and I will fetch
them away with me. It is an affair of ten minutes.”
“Do not think that, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch. “It is much more
difficult than you imagine. But come! come!--I can hear them talk in the
court-yard.”
In fact, the sound of voices was now distinctly audible. “Come father!”
said Agricola, forcing away the soldier, almost in spite of himself.
Spoil-sport, who appeared much astonished at these hesitations, barked
two or three times without quitting his post, as if to protest against
this humiliating retreat; but, being called by Dagobert, he hastened to
rejoin the main body.
It was now about five o’clock in the evening. A high wind swept thick
masses of grayish, rainy cloud rapidly across the sky. The Boulevard de
l’Hopital, which bordered on this portion of the convent-garden, was,
as we before said, almost deserted. Dagobert, Agricola, and the serving
girl could hold a private conference in this solitary place.
The soldier did not disguise the extreme impatience that these delays
occasioned in him. Hardly had they turned the corner of the street, when
he said to Mother Bunch: “Come, my child, explain yourself. I am upon
hot coals.”
“The house in which the daughters of Marshal Simon are confined is a
convent, M. Dagobert.”
“A convent!” cried the soldier: “I might have suspected it.” Then he
added: “Well, what then? I will fetch them from a convent as soon as
from any other place. Once is not always.”
“But, M. Dagobert, they are confined against their will and against
yours. They will not give them up.”
“They will not give them up? Zounds! we will see about that.” And he
made a step towards the street.
“Father,” said Agricola, holding him back, “one moment’s patience; let
us hear all.”
“I will hear nothing. What! the children are there--two steps from me--I
know it--and I shall not have them, either by fair means or foul? Oh!
that would indeed be curious. Let me go.”
“Listen to me, I beseech you, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, taking
his hand: “there is another way to deliver these poor children. And that
without violence--for violence, as Mdlle. de Cardoville told me, would
ruin all.”
“If there is any other way--quick--let me know it!”
“Here is a ring of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s.”
“And who is this Mdlle. de Cardoville?”
“Father,” said Agricola, “it is the generous young lady, who offered to
be my bail, and to whom I have very important matters to communicate.”
“Good, good,” replied Dagobert; “we will talk of that presently. Well,
my dear girl--this ring?”
“You must take it directly, M. Dagobert, to the Count de Montbron,
No. 7, Place Vendome. He appears to be a person of influence, and is a
friend of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s. This ring will prove that you come on
her behalf, and you will tell him, that she is confined as a lunatic in
the asylum next door to this convent, in which the daughters of Marshal
Simon are detained against their will.”
“Well, well--what next?”
“Then the Count de Montbron will take the proper steps with persons in
authority, to restore both Mdlle. de Cardoville and the daughters of
Marshal Simon to liberty--and perhaps, to-morrow, or the day after--”
“To-morrow or the day after!” cried Dagobert; “perhaps?--It is to-day,
on the instant, that I must have them. The day after to-morrow would be
of much use! Thanks, my good girl, but keep your ring: I will manage my
own business. Wait for me here, my boy.”
“What are you going to do, father?” cried Agricola, still holding back
the soldier. “It is a convent, remember.”
“You are only a raw recruit; I have my theory of convents at my fingers’
end. In Spain, I have put it in practice a hundred times. Here is what
will happen. I knock; a portress opens the door to me; she asks me what
I want, but I make no answer; she tries to stop me, but I pass on; once
in the convent, I walk over it from top to bottom, calling my children
with all my might.”
“But, M. Dagobert, the nuns?” said Mother Bunch, still trying to detain
the soldier.
“The nuns run after me, screaming like so many magpies. I know them. At
Seville I fetched out an Andalusian girl, whom they were trying to keep
by force. Well, I walk about the convent calling for Rose and Blanche.
They hear me, and answer. If they are shut in, I take the first piece of
furniture that comes to hand, and break open the door.”
“But, M. Dagobert--the nuns--the nuns?”
“The nuns, with all their squalling, will not prevent my breaking open
the door, seizing my children in my arms, and carrying them off. Should
the outer door be shut, there will be a second smash--that’s all. So,”
added Dagobert, disengaging himself from the grasp, “wait for me here.
In ten minutes I shall be back again. Go and get a hackney-coach ready,
my boy.”
More calm than Dagobert, and, above all, better informed as to the
provisions of the Penal Code, Agricola was alarmed at the consequences
that might attend the veteran’s strange mode of proceeding. So, throwing
himself before him, he exclaimed: “One word more, I entreat you.”
“Zounds! make haste!”
“If you attempt to enter the convent by force, you will ruin all.”
“How so?”
“First of all, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, “there are men in the
convent. As I came out just now, I saw the porter loading his gun, and
heard the gardener talking of his sharp scythe, and the rounds he was to
make at night.”
“Much I care for a porter’s gun and a gardener’s scythe!”
“Well, father; but listen to me a moment, I conjure you. Suppose you
knock, and the door is opened--the porter will ask you what you want.’
“I tell him that I wish to speak to the superior, and so walk into the
convent.”
“But, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, “when once you have crossed the
court-yard, you reach a second door, with a wicket. A nun comes to it,
to see who rings, and does not open the door till she knows the object
of the visit.”
“I will tell her that I wish to see the lady superior.”
“Then, father, as you are not known in the convent, they will go and
inform the superior.”
“Well, what then?”
“She will come down.”
“What next?”
“She will ask you what you want, M. Dagobert.”
“What I want?--the devil! my children!”
“One minute’s patience, father. You cannot doubt, from the precautions
they have taken, that they wish to detain these young ladies against
their will, and against yours.”
“Doubt! I am sure of it. To come to that point, they began by turning
the head of my poor wife.”
“Then, father, the superior will reply to you that she does not know
what you mean, and that the young ladies are not in the convent.”
“And I will reply to her, that they are in the convent witness--Mother
Bunch and Spoil-sport.”
“The superior will answer, that she does not know you; that she has no
explanations to give you; and will close the wicket.”
“Then I break it open--since one must come to that in the end--so leave
me alone, I tell you! ‘sblood! leave me alone!”
“And, on this noise and violence, the porter will run and fetch the
guard, and they will begin by arresting you.”
“And what will become of your poor children, then, M. Dagobert?” said
Mother Bunch.
Agricola’s father had too much good sense not to feel the truth of these
observations of the girl and his son; but he knew also, that, cost
what it might, the orphans must be delivered before the morrow. The
alternative was terrible--so terrible, that, pressing his two hands
to his burning forehead, Dagobert sunk back upon a stone bench, as if
struck down by the inexorable fatality of the dilemma.
Agricola and the workwoman, deeply moved by this mute despair, exchanged
a sad look. The smith, seating himself beside the soldier, said to him:
“Do not be down-hearted, father. Remember what’s been told you. By going
with this ring of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s to the influential gentleman
she named, the young ladies may be free by to-morrow, or, at worst, by
the day after.”
“Blood and thunder! you want to drive me mad!” exclaimed Dagobert,
starting up from the bench, and looking at Mother Bunch and his son with
so savage an expression that Agricola and the sempstress drew back, with
an air of surprise and uneasiness.
“Pardon me, my children!” said Dagobert, recovering himself after a long
silence. “I am wrong to get in a passion, for we do not understand one
another. What you say is true; and yet I am right to speak as I do.
Listen to me. You are an honest man, Agricola; you an honest girl; what
I tell you is meant for you alone. I have brought these children from
the depths of Siberia--do you know why? That they may be to-morrow
morning in the Rue Saint-Francois. If they are not there, I have failed
to execute the last wish of their dying mother.”
“No. 3, Rue Saint Francois?” cried Agricola, interrupting his father.
“Yes; how do you know the number?” said Dagobert.
“Is not the date inscribed on a bronze medal?”
“Yes,” replied Dagobert, more end more surprised; “who told you?”
“One instant, father!” exclaimed Agricola; “let me reflect. I think I
guess it. Did you not tell me, my good sister, that Mdlle. de Cardoville
was not mad?”
“Not mad. They detain her in this asylum to prevent her communicating
with any one. She believes herself, like the daughters of Marshal Simon,
the victim of an odious machination.”
“No doubt of it,” cried the smith. “I understand all now, Mdlle. de
Cardoville has the same interest as the orphans to appear to-morrow at
the Rue Saint-Francois. But she does not perhaps know it.”
“How so?”
“One word more, my good girl. Did Mdlle. de Cardoville tell you that she
had a powerful motive to obtain her freedom by to-morrow?”
“No; for when she gave me this ring for the Count de Montbron, she said
to me: ‘By this means both I and Marshal Simon’s daughters will be at
liberty either to-morrow or the day after--’”
“But explain yourself, then,” said Dagobert to his son, with impatience.
“Just now,” replied the smith, “when you came to seek me in prison, I
told you, father, that I had a sacred duty to perform, and that I would
rejoin you at home.”
“Yes; and I went, on my side, to take some measures, of which I will
speak to you presently.”
“I ran instantly to the house in the Rue de Babylone, not knowing that
Mdlle. de Cardoville was mad, or passed for mad. A servant, who opened
the door to me, informed me that the young lady had been seized with a
sudden attack of madness. You may conceive, father, what a blow that was
to me! I asked where she was: they answered, that they did not know.
I asked if I could speak to any of the family; as my jacket did not
inspire any great confidence, they replied that none of her family were
at present there. I was in despair, but an idea occurred to me. I said
to myself: ‘If she is mad, her family physician must know where they
have taken her; if she is in a state to hear me, he will take me to
her; if not, I will speak to her doctor, as I would to her relations.
A doctor is often a friend.’ I asked the servant, therefore, to give me
the doctor’s address. I obtained it without difficulty--Dr. Baleinier,
No. 12, Rue Taranne. I ran thither, but he had gone out; they told me
that I should find him about five o’clock at his asylum, which is next
door to the convent. That is how we have met.”
“But the medal--the medal?” said Dagobert, impatiently; “where did you
see it?”
“It is with regard to this and other things that I wished to make
important communications to Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“And what are these communications?”
“The fact is, father, I had gone to her the day of your departure, to
beg her to get me bail. I was followed; and when she learned this from
her waiting-woman, she concealed me in a hiding-place. It was a sort of
little vaulted room, in which no light was admitted, except through a
tunnel, made like a chimney; yet in a few minutes, I could see pretty
clearly. Having nothing better to do, I looked all about me and saw that
the walls were covered with wainscoting. The entrance to this room
was composed of a sliding panel, moving by means of weights and wheels
admirably contrived. As these concern my trade, I was interested in
them, so I examined the springs, spite of my emotion, with curiosity,
and understood the nature of their play; but there was one brass knob,
of which I could not discover the use. It was in vain to pull and move
it from right to left, none of the springs were touched. I said
to myself: ‘This knob, no doubt, belongs to another piece of
mechanism’--and the idea occurred to me, instead of drawing it towards
me, to push it with force. Directly after, I heard a grating sound,
and perceived, just above the entrance to the hiding-place, one of the
panels, about two feet square, fly open like the door of a secretary. As
I had, no doubt, pushed the spring rather too hard, a bronze medal and
chain fell out with a shock.”
“And you saw the address--Rue Saint-Francois?” cried Dagobert.
“Yes, father; and with this medal, a sealed letter fell to the ground.
On picking it up, I saw that it was addressed, in large letters: ‘For
Mdlle. de Cardoville. To be opened by her the moment it is delivered.’
Under these words, I saw the initials ‘R.’ and ‘C.,’ accompanied by a
flourish, and this date: ‘Paris, November the 13th, 1830.’ On the other
side of the envelope I perceived two seals, with the letters ‘R.’ and
‘C.,’ surmounted by a coronet.”
“And the seals were unbroken?” asked Mother Bunch.
“Perfectly whole.”
“No doubt, then, Mdlle. de Cardoville was ignorant of the existence of
these papers,” said the sempstress.
“That was my first idea, since she was recommended to open the letter
immediately, and, notwithstanding this recommendation, which bore date
two years back, the seals remained untouched.”
“It is evident,” said Dagobert. “What did you do?”
“I replaced the whole where it was before, promising myself to inform
Mdlle. de Cardoville of it. But, a few minutes after, they entered my
hiding-place, which had been discovered, and I did not see her again. I
was only able to whisper a few words of doubtful meaning to one of her
waiting-women, on the subject of what I had found, hoping thereby to
arouse the attention of her mistress; and, as soon as I was able to
write to you, my good sister, I begged you to go and call upon Mdlle. de
Cardoville.”
“But this medal,” said Dagobert, “is exactly like that possessed by the
daughter of Marshal Simon. How can you account for that?”
“Nothing so plain, father. Mdlle. de Cardoville is their relation. I
remember now, that she told me so.”
“A relation of Rose and Blanche?”
“Yes,” added Mother Bunch; “she told that also to me just now.”
“Well, then,” resumed Dagobert, looking anxiously at his son, “do you
now understand why I must have my children this very day? Do you now
understand, as their poor mother told me on her death-bed, that one
day’s delay might ruin all? Do you now see that I cannot be satisfied
with a perhaps to-morrow, when I have come all the way from Siberia,
only, that those children might be to-morrow in the Rue Saint-Francois?
Do you at last perceive that I must have them this night, even if I have
to set fire to the convent?”
“But, father, if you employ violence--”
“Zounds! do you know what the commissary of police answered me this
morning, when I went to renew my charge against your mother’s confessor?
He said to me that there was no proof, and that they could do nothing.”
“But now there is proof, father, for at least we know where the young
girls are. With that certainty we shall be strong. The law is more
powerful than all the superiors of convents in the world.”
“And the Count de Montbron, to whom Mdlle. de Cardoville begs you to
apply,” said Mother Bunch, “is a man of influence. Tell him the reasons
that make it so important for these young ladies, as well as Mdlle. de
Cardoville, to be at liberty this evening and he will certainly hasten
the course of justice, and to-night your children will be restored to
you.”
“Sister is in the right, father. Go to the Count. Meanwhile, I will run
to the commissary, and tell him that we now know where the young girls
are confined. Do you go home, and wait for us, my good girl. We will
meet at our own house!”
Dagobert had remained plunged in thought; suddenly, he said to Agricola:
“Be it so. I will follow your counsel. But suppose the commissary says
to you: ‘We cannot act before to-morrow’--suppose the Count de Montbron
says to me the same thing--do not think I shall stand with my arms
folded until the morning.”
“But, father--”
“It is enough,” resumed the soldier in an abrupt voice: “I have made
up my mind. Run to the commissary, my boy; wait for us at home, my good
girl; I will go to the Count. Give me the ring. Now for the address!”
“The Count de Montbron, No. 7, Place Vendome,” said she; “you come on
behalf of Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“I have a good memory,” answered the soldier. “We will meet as soon as
possible in the Rue Brise-Miche.”
“Yes, father; have good courage. You will see that the law protects and
defends honest people.”
“So much the better,” said the soldier; “because, otherwise, honest
people would be obliged to protect and defend themselves. Farewell, my
children! we will meet soon in the Rue Brise-Miche.”
When Dagobert, Agricola, and Mother Bunch separated, it was already dark
night.
CHAPTER X. THE MEETING.
It is eight o’clock in the evening, the rain dashes against the windows
of Frances Baudoin’s apartment in the Rue Brise-Miche, while violent
squalls of wind shake the badly dosed doors and casements. The disorder
and confusion of this humble abode, usually kept with so much care and
neatness, bore testimony to the serious nature of the sad events which
had thus disturbed existences hitherto peaceful in their obscurity.
The paved floor was soiled with mud, and a thick layer of dust covered
the furniture, once so bright and clean. Since Frances was taken away by
the commissary, the bed had not been made; at night Dagobert had thrown
himself upon it for a few hours in his clothes, when, worn out with
fatigue, and crushed by despair, he had returned from new and vain
attempts to discover Rose and Blanche’s prison-house. Upon the drawers
stood a bottle, a glass, and some fragments of dry bread, proving the
frugality of the soldier, whose means of subsistence were reduced to the
money lent by the pawnbroker upon the things pledged by Mother Bunch,
after the arrest of Frances.
By the faint glimmer of a candle, placed upon the little stove, now cold
as marble, for the stock of wood had long been exhausted, one might have
seen the hunchback sleeping upon a chair, her head resting on her bosom,
her hands concealed beneath her cotton apron, and her feet resting on
the lowest rung of the chair; from time to time, she shivered in her
damp, chill garments.
After that long day of fatigue and diverse emotions, the poor creature
had eaten nothing. Had she even thought of it, she would have been at a
loss for bread. Waiting for the return of Dagobert and Agricola, she
had sunk into an agitated sleep--very different, alas! from calm
and refreshing slumber. From time to time, she half opened her eyes
uneasily, and looked around her. Then, again, overcome by irresistible
heaviness, her head fell upon her bosom.
After some minutes of silence, only interrupted by the noise of the
wind, a slow and heavy step was heard on the landing-place. The door
opened, and Dagobert entered, followed by Spoil-sport.
Waking with a start, Mother Bunch raised her head hastily, sprang from
her chair, and, advancing rapidly to meet Agricola’s father, said to
him: “Well, M. Dagobert! have you good news? Have you--”
She could not continue, she was so struck with the gloomy expression of
the soldier’s features. Absorbed in his reflections, he did not at first
appear to perceive the speaker, but threw himself despondingly on a
chair, rested his elbows upon the table, and hid his face in his
hands. After a long meditation, he rose, and said in a low voice: “It
must--yes, it must be done!”
Taking a few steps up and down the room, Dagobert looked around him,
as if in search of something. At length, after about a minute’s
examination, he perceived near the stove, a bar of iron, perhaps two
feet long, serving to lift the covers, when too hot for the fingers.
Taking this in his hand, he looked at it closely, poised it to judge
of its weight, and then laid it down upon the drawers with an air of
satisfaction. Surprised at the long silence of Dagobert, the needlewoman
followed his movements with timid and uneasy curiosity. But soon her
surprise gave way to fright, when she saw the soldier take down his
knapsack, place it upon a chair, open it, and draw from it a pair of
pocket-pistols, the locks of which he tried with the utmost caution.
Seized with terror, the sempstress could not forbear exclaiming: “Good
gracious, M. Dagobert! what are you going to do?”
The soldier looked at her as if he only now perceived her for the first
time, and said to her in a cordial, but abrupt voice: “Good-evening, my
good girl! What is the time?”
“Eight o’clock has just struck at Saint-Mery’s, M. Dagobert.”
“Eight o’clock,” said the soldier, speaking to himself; “only eight!”
Placing the pistols by the side of the iron bar, he appeared again to
reflect, while he cast his eyes around him.
“M. Dagobert,” ventured the girl, “you have not, then, good news?”
“No.”
That single word was uttered by the soldier in so sharp a tone, that,
not daring to question him further, Mother Bunch sat down in silence.
Spoil sport came to lean his head on the knees of the girl, and followed
the movements of Dagobert with as much curiosity as herself.
After remaining for some moments pensive and silent, the soldier
approached the bed, took a sheet from it, appeared to measure its
length, and then said, turning towards Mother Bunch: “The scissors!”
“But, M. Dagobert--”
“Come, my good girl! the scissors!” replied Dagobert, in a kind tone,
but one that commanded obedience. The sempstress took the scissors from
Frances’ work-basket, and presented them to the soldier.
“Now, hold the other end of the sheet, my girl, and draw it out tight.”
In a few minutes, Dagobert had cut the sheet into four strips, which he
twisted in the fashion of cords, fastening them here and there with bits
of tape, so as to preserve the twist, and tying them strongly together,
so as to make a rope of about twenty feet long. This, however, did not
suffice him, for he said to himself: “Now I must have a hook.”
Again he looked around him, and Mother Bunch, more and more frightened,
for she now no longer doubted Dagobert’s designs, said to him timidly:
“M. Dagobert, Agricola has not yet come in. It may be some good news
that makes him so late.”
“Yes,” said the soldier, bitterly, as he continued to cast round his
eyes in search of something he wanted; “good news like mine! But I must
have a strong iron hook.”
Still looking about, he found one of the coarse, gray sacks, that
Frances was accustomed to make. He took it, opened it, and said to the
work girl: “Put me the iron bar and the cord into this bag, my girl. It
will be easier to carry.”
“Heavens!” cried she, obeying his directions; “you will not go without
seeing Agricola, M. Dagobert? He may perhaps have some good news to tell
you.”
“Be satisfied! I shall wait for my boy. I need not start before ten
o’clock--so I have time.”
“Alas, M. Dagobert! have you last all hope?”
“On the contrary. I have good hope--but in myself.”
So saying, Dagobert twisted the upper end of the sack, for the purpose
of closing it, and placed it on the drawers, by the side of his pistols.
“At all events, you will wait for Agricola, M. Dagobert?”
“Yes, if he arrives before ten o’clock.”
“Alas; you have then quite made up your mind?”
“Quite. And yet, if I were weak enough to believe in bad omens--”
“Sometimes, M. Dagobert, omens do not deceive one,” said the girl,
hoping to induce the soldier to abandon his dangerous resolution.
“Yes,” resumed Dagobert; “old women say so--and, although I am not an
old woman, what I saw just now weighed heavily on my heart. After all, I
may have taken a feeling of anger for a presentiment.”
“What have you seen?”
“I will tell it you, my good girl; it may help to pass the time, which
appears long enough.” Then, interrupting himself, he exclaimed: “Was it
the half hour that just struck?”
“Yes, M. Dagobert; it is half-past eight.”
“Still an hour and a half,” said Dagobert, in a hollow voice. “This,”
he added, “is what I saw. As I came along the street, my notice was
attracted by a large red placard, at the head of which was a black
panther devouring a white horse. That sight gave me a turn, for you
must know, my good girl, that a black panther destroyed a poor old white
horse that I had, Spoil-sport’s companion, whose name was Jovial.”
At the sound of this name, once so familiar, Spoil-sport, who was
crouching at the workwoman’s feet, raised his head hastily, and looked
at Dagobert.
“You see that beasts have memory--he recollects,” said the soldier,
sighing himself at the remembrance. Then, addressing his dog he added:
“Dost remember Jovial?”
On hearing this name a second time pronounced by his master, in a voice
of emotion, Spoil-sport gave a low whine, as if to indicate that he had
not forgotten his old travelling companion.
“It was, indeed, a melancholy incident, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch,
“to find upon this placard a panther devouring a horse.”
“That is nothing to what’s to come; you shall hear the rest. I drew near
the bill, and read in it, that one Morok, just arrived from Germany, is
about to exhibit in a theatre different wild beasts that he tamed, among
others a splendid lion, a tiger, and a black Java panther named Death.”
“What an awful name!” said the hearer.
“You will think it more awful, my child, when I tell you, that this is
the very panther which strangled my horse at Leipsic, four months ago.”
“Good Heaven! you are right, M. Dagobert,” said the girl, “it is awful.”
“Wait a little,” said Dagobert, whose countenance was growing more and
more gloomy, “that is not all. It was by means of this very Morok, the
owner of the panther, that I and my poor children were imprisoned in
Leipsic.”
“And this wicked man is in Paris, and wishes you evil?” said Mother
Bunch. “Oh! you are right, M. Dagobert; you must take care of yourself;
it is a bad omen.”
“For him, if I catch him,” said Dagobert, in a hollow tone. “We have old
accounts to settle.”
“M. Dagobert,” cried Mother Bunch, listening; “some one is running up
the stairs. It is Agricola’s footsteps. I am sure he has good news.”
“That will just do,” said the soldier, hastily, without answering.
“Agricola is a smith. He will be able to find me the iron hook.”
A few moments after, Agricola entered the room; but, alas! the
sempstress perceived at the first glance, in the dejected countenance of
the workman, the ruin of her cherished hopes.
“Well!” said Dagobert to his son, in a tone which clearly announced the
little faith he attached to the steps taken by Agricola; “well, what
news?”
“Father, it is enough to drive one mad--to make one dash one’s brains
out against the wall!” cried the smith in a rage.
Dagobert turned towards Mother Bunch, and said: “You see, my poor
child--I was sure of it.”
“Well, father,” cried Agricola; “have you seen the Court de Montbron?”
“The Count de Montbron set out for Lorraine three days ago. That is
my good news,” continued the soldier, with bitter irony; “let us have
yours--I long to know all. I need to know, if, on appealing to the laws,
which, as you told me, protect and defend honest people, it ever happens
that the rogues get the best of it. I want to know this, and then I want
an iron hook--so I count upon you for both.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“First, tell me what you have done. We have time. It is not much more
than half-past eight. On leaving me, where did you go first?”
“To the commissary, who had already received your depositions.”
“What did he say to you?”
“After having very kindly listened to all I had to state, he answered,
that these young girls were placed in a respectable house, a convent--so
that there did not appear any urgent necessity for their immediate
removal--and besides, he could not take upon himself to violate the
sanctity of a religious dwelling upon your simple testimony; to-morrow,
he will make his report to the proper authorities, and steps will be
taken accordingly.”
“Yes, yes--plenty of put offs,” said the soldier.
“‘But, sir,’ answered I to him,” resumed Agricola, “‘it is now, this
very night, that you ought to act, for if these young girls should not
be present to-morrow morning in the Rue Saint Francois, their interests
may suffer incalculable damage. ‘I am very sorry for it,’ replied he,
‘but I cannot, upon your simple declaration, or that of your father,
who--like yourself--is no relation or connection of these young persons,
act in direct opposition to forms, which could not be set aside, even on
the demand of a family. The law has its delays and its formalities, to
which we are obliged to submit.’”
“Certainly!” said Dagobert. “We must submit to them, at the risk of
becoming cowardly, ungrateful traitors!”
“Didst speak also of Mdlle. de Cardoville to him?” asked the work-girl.
“Yes--but he: answered me on this subject in much the same manner: ‘It
was very serious; there was no proof in support of my deposition. A
third party had told me that Mdlle. de Cardoville affirms she was not
mad; but all mad people pretend to be sane. He could not, therefore,
upon my sole testimony, take upon himself to enter the house of a
respectable physician. But he would report upon it, and the law would
have its course--’”
“When I wished to act just now for myself,” said Dagobert, “did I not
forsee all this? And yet I was weak enough to listen to you.”
“But, father, what you wished to attempt was impossible, and you agreed
that it would expose you to far too dangerous consequences.”
“So,” resumed the soldier, without answering his son, “they told you in
plain terms, that we must not think of obtaining legally the release of
Rose and Blanche this evening or even to-morrow morning?”
“Yes, father. In the eyes of the law, there is no special urgency. The
question may not be decided for two or three days.”
“That is all I wished to know,” said Dagobert, rising and walking up and
down the room.
“And yet,” resumed his son, “I did not consider myself beaten. In
despair, but believing that justice could not remain deaf to such
equitable claims, I ran to the Palais de Justice, hoping to find there a
judge, a magistrate who would receive my complaint, and act upon it.”
“Well?” said the soldier, stopping him.
“I was told that the courts shut every day at five o’clock, and do not
open again til ten in the morning. Thinking of your despair, and of the
position of poor Mdlle. de Cardoville, I determined to make one more
attempt. I entered a guard-house of troops of the line, commanded by a
lieutenant. I told him all. He saw that I was so much moved,
and I spoke with such warmth and conviction, that he became
interested.--‘Lieutenant,’ said I to him, ‘grant me one favor; let
a petty officer and two soldiers go to the convent to obtain a legal
entrance. Let them ask to see the daughters of Marshal Simon, and
learn whether it is their choice to remain, or return to my father, who
brought them from Russia. You will then see if they are not detained
against their will--’”
“And what answer did he give you, Agricola?” asked Mother Bunch, while
Dagobert shrugged his shoulders, and continued to walk up and down.
“‘My good fellow,’ said he, ‘what you ask me is impossible. I understand
your motives, but I cannot take upon myself so serious a measure. I
should be broke were I to enter a convent by force.--‘Then, sir, what am
I to do? It is enough to turn one’s head.’--‘Faith, I don’t know,’ said
the lieutenant; ‘it will be safest, I think, to wait.’--Then, believing
I had done all that was possible, father, I resolved to come back, in
the hope that you might have been more fortunate than I--but, alas! I
was deceived!”
So saying, the smith sank upon a chair, for he was worn out with anxiety
and fatigue. There was a moment of profound silence after these words of
Agricola, which destroyed the last hopes of the three, mute and crushed
beneath the strokes of inexorable fatality.
A new incident came to deepen the sad and painful character of this
scene.
CHAPTER XI. DISCOVERIES.
The door which Agricola had not thought of fastening opened, as it were,
timidly, and Frances Baudoin, Dagobert’s wife, pale, sinking, hardly
able to support herself, appeared on the threshold.
The soldier, Agricola, and Mother Bunch, were plunged in such deep
dejection, that neither of them at first perceived the entrance. Frances
advanced two steps into the room, fell upon her knees, clasped her
hands together, and said in a weak and humble voice; “My poor
husband--pardon!”
At these words, Agricola and the work-girl--whose backs were towards the
door--turned round suddenly, and Dagobert hastily raised his head.
“My mother!” cried Agricola, running to Frances.
“My wife!” cried Dagobert, as he also rose, and advanced to meet the
unfortunate woman.
“On your knees, dear mother!” said Agricola, stooping down to embrace
her affectionately. “Get up, I entreat you!”
“No, my child,” said Frances, in her mild, firm accents, “I will not
rise, till your father has forgiven me. I have wronged him much--now I
know it.”
“Forgive you, my poor wife?” said the soldier, as he drew near with
emotion. “Have I ever accused you, except in my first transport of
despair? No, no; it was the bad priests that I accused, and there I was
right. Well! I have you again,” added he, assisting his son to raise
Frances; “one grief the less. They have then restored you to liberty?
Yesterday, I could not even learn in what prison they had put you. I
have so many cares that I could not think of you only. But come, dear
wife: sit down!”
“How feeble you are, dear mother!--how cold--how pale!” said Agricola
with anguish, his eyes filling with tears.
“Why did you not let us know?” added he. “We would have gone to fetch
you. But how you tremble! Your hands are frozen!” continued the smith,
as he knelt down before Frances. Then, turning towards Mother Bunch:
“Pray, make a little fire directly.”
“I thought of it, as soon as your father came in, Agricola, but there is
no wood nor charcoal left.”
“Then pray borrow some of Father Loriot, my dear sister. He is too good
a fellow to refuse. My poor mother trembles so--she might fall ill.”
Hardly had he said the words, than Mother Bunch went out. The smith rose
from the ground, took the blanket from the bed, and carefully wrapped
it about the knees and feet of his mother. Then, again kneeling down, he
said to her: “Your hands, dear mother!” and, taking those feeble palms
in his own, he tried to warm them with his breath.
Nothing could be more touching than this picture: the robust young man,
with his energetic and resolute countenance, expressing by his looks
the greatest tenderness, and paying the most delicate attentions to his
poor, pale, trembling old mother.
Dagobert, kind-hearted as his son, went to fetch a pillow, and brought
it to his wife, saying: “Lean forward a little, and I will put this
pillow behind you; you will be more comfortable and warmer.”
“How you both spoil me!” said Frances, trying to smile. “And you to
be so kind, after all the ill I have done!” added she to Dagobert,
as, disengaging one of her hands from those of her son, she took the
soldier’s hand and pressed it to her tearful eyes. “In prison,” said she
in a low voice, “I had time to repent.”
Agricola’s heart was near breaking at the thought that his pious and
good mother, with her angelic purity, should for a moment have been
confined in prison with so many miserable creatures. He would have made
some attempt to console her on the subject of the painful past, but he
feared to give a new shock to Dagobert, and was silent.
“Where is Gabriel, dear mother?” inquired he. “How is he? As you have
seen him, tell us all about him.”
“I have seen Gabriel,” said Frances, drying her tears; “he is confined
at home. His superiors have rigorously forbidden his going out. Luckily,
they did not prevent his receiving me, for his words and counsels have
opened my eyes to many things. It is from him that I learned how guilty
I had been to you, my poor husband.”
“How so?” asked Dagobert.
“Why, you know that if I caused you so much grief, it was not from
wickedness. When I saw you in such despair, I suffered almost as much
myself; but I durst not tell you so, for fear of breaking my oath. I had
resolved to keep it, believing that I did well, believing that it was
my duty. And yet something told me that it could not be my duty to
cause you so much pain. ‘Alas, my God! enlighten me!’ I exclaimed in
my prison, as I knelt down and prayed, in spite of the mockeries of
the other women. ‘Why should a just and pious work, commanded by my
confessor, the most respectable of men, overwhelm me and mine with so
much misery? ‘Have mercy on me, my God, and teach me if I have done
wrong without knowing it!’ As I prayed with fervor, God heard me, and
inspired me with the idea of applying to Gabriel. ‘I thank Thee, Father!
I will obey!’ said I within myself. ‘Gabriel is like my own child; but
he is also a priest, a martyr--almost a saint. If any one in the world
imitates the charity of our blessed Saviour, it is surely he. When I
leave this prison, I will go and consult him and he will clear up my
doubts.’”
“You are right, dear mother,” cried Agricola; “it was a thought from
heaven. Gabriel is an angel of purity, courage, nobleness--the type of
the true and good priest!”
“Ah, poor wife!” said Dagobert, with bitterness; “if you had never had
any confessor but Gabriel!”
“I thought of it before he went on his journey,” said Frances, with
simplicity. “I should have liked to confess to the dear boy--but I
fancied Abbe Dubois would be offended, and that Gabriel would be too
indulgent with regard to my sins.
“Your sins, poor dear mother?” said Agricola. “As if you ever committed
any!”
“And what did Gabriel tell you?” asked the soldier.
“Alas, my dear! had I but had such an interview with him sooner! What
I told him of Abbe Dubois roused his suspicions, and he questioned me,
dear child, as to many things of which he had never spoken to me before.
Then I opened to him my whole heart, and he did the same to me, and
we both made sad discoveries with regard to persons whom we had always
thought very respectable, and who yet had deceived each of us, unknown
to the other.”
“How so?”
“Why, they used to tell him, under the seal of secrecy, things that were
supposed to come from me; and they used to tell me, under the same
seal of secrecy, things that were supposed to come from him. Thus, he
confessed to me, that he did not feel at first any vocation for the
priesthood; but they told him that I should not believe myself safe in
this world or in the next, if he did not take orders, because I felt
persuaded that I could best serve the Lord by giving Him so good a
servant; and that yet I had never dared to ask Gabriel himself to give
me this proof of his attachment, though I had taken him from the street,
a deserted orphan, and brought him up as my own son, at the cost of
labor and privations. Then, how could it be otherwise? The poor dear
child, thinking he could please me, sacrificed himself. He entered the
seminary.”
“Horrible,” said Agricola; “‘tis an infamous snare, and, for the priests
who were guilty of it, a sacrilegious lie!”
“During all that time,” resumed Frances, “they were holding very
different language to me. I was told that Gabriel felt his vocation, but
that he durst not avow it to me, for fear of my being jealous on account
of Agricola, who, being brought up as a workman, would not enjoy the
same advantages as those which the priesthood would secure to Gabriel.
So when he asked my permission to enter the seminary dear child!
he entered it with regret, but he thought he was making me so
happy!--instead of discouraging this idea, I did all in my power to
persuade him to follow it, assuring him that he could not do better, and
that it would occasion me great joy. You understand, I exaggerated, for
fear he should think me jealous on account of Agricola.”
“What an odious machination!” said Agricola, in amazement. “They were
speculating in this unworthy manner upon your mutual devotion. Thus
Gabriel saw the expression of your dearest wish in the almost forced
encouragement given to his resolution.”
“Little by little, however, as Gabriel has the best heart in the world,
the vocation really came to him. That was natural enough--he was born
to console those who suffer, and devote himself for the unfortunate.
He would never have spoken to me of the past, had it not been for this
morning’s interview. But then I beheld him, who is usually so mild and
gentle, become indignant, exasperated, against M. Rodin and another
person whom he accuses. He had serious complaints against them already,
but these discoveries, he says, will make up the measure.”
At these words of Frances, Dagobert pressed his hand to his forehead, as
if to recall something to his memory. For some minutes he had listened
with surprise, and almost terror, to the account of these secret plots,
conducted with such deep and crafty dissimulation.
Frances continued: “When at last I acknowledged to Gabriel, that by the
advice of Abbe Dubois, my confessor, I had delivered to a stranger the
children confined to my husband--General Simon’s daughters--the dear boy
blamed me, though with great regret, not for having wished to instruct
the poor orphans in the truths of our holy religion, but for having
acted without the consent of my husband, who alone was answerable before
God and man for the charge entrusted to him. Gabriel severely censured
Abbe Dubois’ conduct, who had given me, he said, bad and perfidious
counsels; and then, with the sweetness of an angel, the dear boy
consoled me, and exhorted me to come and tell you all. My poor husband!
he would fain have accompanied me, for I had scarcely courage to
come hither, so strongly did I feel the wrong I had done you; but,
unfortunately, Gabriel is confined at the seminary by the strict order
of his superiors; he could not come with me, and--”
Here Dagobert, who seemed much agitated, abruptly interrupted his wife.
“One word, Frances,” said he; “for, in truth, in the midst of so many
cares, and black, diabolical plots, one loses one’s memory, and the head
begins to wander. Didst not tell me, the day the children disappeared,
that Gabriel, when taken in by you, had round his neck a bronze medal,
and in his pocket a book filled with papers in a foreign language?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And this medal and these papers were afterwards delivered to your
confessor?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And Gabriel never spoke of them since?”
“Never.”
Agricola, hearing this from his mother, looked at her with surprise,
and exclaimed: “Then Gabriel has the same interest as the daughters of
General Simon, or Mdlle. de Cardoville, to be in the Rue Saint-Francois
to-morrow?”
“Certainly,” said Dagobert. “And now do you remember what he said to us,
just after my arrival--that, in a few days, he would need our support in
a serious matter?”
“Yes, father.”
“And he is kept a prisoner at his seminary! And he tells your mother
that he has to complain of his superiors! and he asked us for our
support with so sad and grave an air, that I said to him--”
“He would speak so, if about to engage in a deadly duel,” interrupted
Agricola. “True, father! and yet you, who are a good judge of valor,
acknowledged that Gabriel’s courage was equal to yours. For him so to
fear his superiors, the danger must be great indeed.”
“Now that I have heard your mother, I understand it all,” said Dagobert.
“Gabriel is like Rose and Blanche, like Mdlle. de Cardoville, like your
mother, like all of us, perhaps--the victim of a secret conspiracy of
wicked priests. Now that I know their dark machinations, their infernal
perseverance, I see,” added the soldier, in a whisper, “that it requires
strength to struggle against them. I had not the least idea of their
power.”
“You are right, father; for those who are hypocritical and wicked do as
much harm as those who are good and charitable, like Gabriel, do good.
There is no more implacable enemy than a bad priest.”
“I know it, and that’s what frightens me; for my poor children are
in their hands. But is all lost? Shall I bring myself to give them up
without an effort? Oh, no, no! I will not show any weakness--and yet,
since your mother told us of these diabolical plots, I do not know how
it is but I seem less strong, less resolute. What is passing around me
appears so terrible. The spiriting away of these children is no longer
an isolated fact--it is one of the ramifications of a vast conspiracy,
which surrounds and threatens us all. It seems to me as if I and those I
love walked together in darkness, in the midst of serpents, in the midst
of snares that we can neither see nor struggle against. Well! I’ll
speak out! I have never feared death--I am not a coward and yet I
confess--yes, I confess it--these black robes frighten me--”
Dagobert pronounced these words in so sincere a tone, that his son
started, for he shared the same impression. And it was quite natural.
Frank, energetic, resolute characters, accustomed to act and fight in
the light of day, never feel but one fear--and that is, to be ensnared
and struck in the dark by enemies that escape their grasp. Thus,
Dagobert had encountered death twenty times; and yet, on hearing his
wife’s simple revelation of this dark tissue of lies, and treachery, and
crime, the soldier felt a vague sense of fear; and, though nothing
was changed in the conditions of his nocturnal enterprise against the
convent, it now appeared to him in a darker and more dangerous light.
The silence, which had reigned for some moments, was interrupted by
Mother Bunch’s return. The latter, knowing that the interview between
Dagobert, his wife, and Agricola, ought not have any importunate
witness, knocked lightly at the door, and remained in the passage with
Father Loriot.
“Can we come in, Mme. Frances?” asked the sempstress. “Here is Father
Loriot, bringing some wood.”
“Yes, yes; come in, my good girl,” said Agricola, whilst his father
wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
The door opened, and the worthy dyer appeared, with his hands and arms
of an amaranthine color; on one side, he carried a basket of wood, and
on the other some live coal in a shovel.
“Good-evening to the company!” said Daddy Loriot. “Thank you for having
thought of me, Mme. Frances. You know that my shop and everything in it
are at your service. Neighbors should help one another; that’s my motto!
You were kind enough, I should think, to my late wife!”
Then, placing the wood in a corner, and giving the shovel to Agricola,
the worthy dyer, guessing from the sorrowful appearance of the different
actors in this scene, that it would be impolite to prolong his visit,
added: “You don’t want anything else, Mme. Frances?”
“No, thank you, Father Loriot.”
“Then, good-evening to the company!” said the dyer; and, addressing
Mother Bunch, he added: “Don’t forget the letter for M. Dagobert. I
durstn’t touch it for fear of leaving the marks of my four fingers and
thumb in amaranthine! But, good evening to the company!” and Father
Loriot went out.
“M. Dagobert, here is a letter,” said Mother Bunch. She set herself to
light the fire in the stove, while Agricola drew his mother’s arm-chair
to the hearth.
“See what it is, my boy,” said Dagobert to his son; “my head is so heavy
that I cannot see clear.” Agricola took the letter, which contained only
a few lines, and read it before he looked at the signature.
“At Sea, December 25th, 1831.
“I avail myself of a few minutes’ communication with a ship bound
direct for Europe, to write to you, my old comrade, a few hasty
lines, which will reach you probably by way of Havre, before the
arrival of my last letters from India. You must by this time be at
Paris, with my wife and child--tell them--I am unable to say more
--the boat is departing. Only one word; I shall soon be in France.
Do not forget the 13th February; the future of my wife and child
depends upon it.
“Adieu, my friend! Believe in my eternal gratitude.
“SIMON.”
“Agricola--quick! look to your father!” cried the hunchback.
From the first words of this letter, which present circumstances made so
cruelly applicable, Dagobert had become deadly pale. Emotion, fatigue,
exhaustion, joined to this last blow, made him stagger.
His son hastened to him, and supported him in his arms. But soon the
momentary weakness passed away, and Dagobert, drawing his hand across
his brow, raised his tall figure to its full height. Then, whilst his
eye sparkled, his rough countenance took an expression of determined
resolution, and he exclaimed, in wild excitement: “No, no! I will not
be a traitor; I will not be a coward. The black robes shall not frighten
me; and, this night, Rose and Blanche Simon shall be free!”
CHAPTER XII. THE PENAL CODE.
Startled for a moment by the dark and secret machinations of the black
robes, as he called them, against the persons he most loved, Dagobert
might have hesitated an instant to attempt the deliverance of Rose and
Blanche; but his indecision ceased directly on the reading of Marshal
Simon’s letter, which came so timely to remind him of his sacred duties.
To the soldier’s passing dejection had succeeded a resolution full of
calm and collected energy.
“Agricola, what o’clock is it?” asked he of his son.
“Just struck nine, father.”
“You must make me, directly, an iron hook--strong enough to support my
weight, and wide enough to hold on the coping of a wall. This stove will
be forge and anvil; you will find a hammer in the house; and, for iron,”
said the soldier, hesitating, and looking around him, “as for iron--here
is some!”
So saying, the soldier took from the hearth a strong pair of tongs, and
presented them to his son, adding: “Come, my boy! blow up the fire, blow
it to a white heat, and forge me this iron!”
On these words, Frances and Agricola looked at each other with surprise;
the smith remained mute and confounded, not knowing the resolution
of his father, and the preparations he had already commenced with the
needlewoman’s aid.
“Don’t you hear me, Agricola,” repeated Dagobert, still holding the pair
of tongs in his hand; “you must make me a hook directly.”
“A hook, father?--for what purpose?”
“To tie to the end of a cord that I have here. There must be a loop at
one end large enough to fix it securely.”
“But this cord--this hook--for what purpose are they?”
“To scale the walls of the convent, if I cannot get in by the door.”
“What convent?” asked Frances of her son.
“How, father?” cried the latter, rising abruptly. “You still think of
that?”
“Why! what else should I think of?”
“But, father, it is impossible; you will never attempt such an
enterprise.”
“What is it, my child?” asked Frances, with anxiety. “Where is father
going?”
“He is going to break into the convent where Marshal Simon’s daughters
are confined, and carry them off.”
“Great God! my poor husband--a sacrilege!” cried Frances, faithful to
her pious traditions, and, clasping her hands together, she endeavored
to rise and approach Dagobert.
The soldier, forseeing that he would have to contend with observations
and prayers of all sorts, and resolved not to yield, determined to cut
short all useless supplications, which would only make him lose precious
time. He said, therefore, with a grave, severe, and almost solemn air,
which showed the inflexibility of his determination: “Listen to me,
wife--and you also, my son--when, at my age, a man makes up his mind to
do anything, he knows the reason why. And when a man has once made up
his mind, neither wife nor child can alter it. I have resolved to do my
duty; so spare yourselves useless words. It may be your duty to talk to
me as you have done; but it is over now, and we will say no more about
it. This evening I must be master in my own house.”
Timid and alarmed, Frances did not dare to utter a word, but she turned
a supplicating glance towards her son.
“Father,” said the latter, “one word more--only one.”
“Let us hear,” replied Dagobert, impatiently.
“I will not combat your resolution; but I will prove to you that you do
not know to what you expose yourself.”
“I know it all,” replied the soldier, in an abrupt tone. “The
undertaking is a serious one; but it shall not be said that I neglected
any means to accomplish what I promised to do.”
“But father, you do not know to what danger you expose yourself,” said
the smith, much alarmed.
“Talk of danger! talk of the porter’s gun and the gardener’s scythe!”
said Dagobert, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. “Talk of them,
and have done with it for, after all, suppose I were to leave my carcass
in the convent, would not you remain to your mother? For twenty years,
you were accustomed to do without me. It will be all the less trying to
you.”
“And I, alas! am the cause of these misfortunes!” cried the poor mother.
“Ah! Gabriel had good reason to blame me.”
“Mme. Frances, be comforted,” whispered the sempstress, who had drawn
near to Dagobert’s wife. “Agricola will not suffer his father to expose
himself thus.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the smith resumed, in an agitated voice:
“I know you too well, father, to think of stopping you by the fear of
death.”
“Of what danger, then, do you speak?”
“Of a danger from which even you will shrink, brave as you are,” said
the young man, in a voice of emotion, that forcibly struck his father.
“Agricola,” said the soldier, roughly and severely, “that remark is
cowardly, you are insulting.”
“Father--”
“Cowardly!” resumed the soldier, angrily; “because it is cowardice to
wish to frighten a man from his duty--insulting! because you think me
capable of being so frightened.”
“Oh, M. Dagobert!” exclaimed the sewing-girl, “you do not understand
Agricola.”
“I understand him too well,” answered the soldier harshly.
Painfully affected by the severity of his father, but firm in his
resolution, which sprang from love and respect, Agricola resumed, whilst
his heart beat violently. “Forgive me, if I disobey you, father; but,
were you to hate me for it, I must tell you to what you expose yourself
by scaling at night the walls of a convent--”
“My son! do you dare?” cried Dagobert, his countenance inflamed with
rage-“Agricola!” exclaimed Frances, in tears. “My husband!”
“M. Dagobert, listen to Agricola!” exclaimed Mother Bunch. “It is only
in your interest that he speaks.”
“Not one word more!” replied the soldier, stamping his foot with anger.
“I tell you, father,” exclaimed the smith, growing fearfully pale as he
spoke, “that you risk being sent to the galleys!”
“Unhappy boy!” cried Dagobert, seizing his son by the arm; “could you
not keep that from me--rather than expose me to become a traitor and a
coward?” And the soldier shuddered, as he repeated: “The galleys!”--and,
bending down his head, remained mute, pensive, withered, as it were, by
those blasting words.
“Yes, to enter an inhabited place by night, in such a manner, is what
the law calls burglary, and punishes with the galleys,” cried Agricola,
at once grieved and rejoicing at his father’s depression of mind--“yes,
father, the galleys, if you are taken in the act; and there are ten
chances to one that you would be so. Mother Bunch has told you, the
convent is guarded. This morning, had you attempted to carry off the two
young ladies in broad daylight, you would have been arrested; but, at
least, the attempt would have been an open one, with a character of
honest audacity about it, that hereafter might have procured your
acquittal. But to enter by night, and by scaling the walls--I tell you,
the galleys would be the consequence. Now, father, decide. Whatever you
do, I will do also--for you shall not go alone. Say but the word, and I
will forge the hook for you--I have here hammer and pincers--and in an
hour we will set out.”
A profound silence followed these words--a silence that was only
interrupted by the stifled sobs of Frances, who muttered to herself in
despair: “Alas! this is the consequence of listening to Abbe Dubois!”
It was in vain that Mother Bunch tried to console Frances. She was
herself alarmed, for the soldier was capable of braving even infamy, and
Agricola had determined to share the perils of his father.
In spite of his energetic and resolute character, Dagobert remained for
some time in a kind of stupor. According to his military habits, he had
looked at this nocturnal enterprise only as a ruse de guerre, authorized
by his good cause, and by the inexorable fatality of his position; but
the words of his son brought him back to the fearful reality, and
left him the choice of a terrible alternative--either to betray the
confidence of Marshal Simon, and set at naught the last wishes of the
mother of the orphan--or else to expose himself, and above all his
son, to lasting disgrace--without even the certainty of delivering the
orphans after all.
Drying her eyes, bathed in tears, Frances exclaimed, as if by a sudden
inspiration: “Dear me! I have just thought of it. There is perhaps a way
of getting these dear children from the convent without violence.”
“How so, mother?” said Agricola, hastily.
“It is Abbe Dubois, who had them conveyed thither; but Gabriel supposes,
that he probably acted by the advice of M. Rodin.
“And if that were so, mother, it would be in vain to apply to M. Rodin.
We should get nothing from him.”
“Not from him--but perhaps from that powerful abbe, who is Gabriel’s
superior, and has always patronized him since his first entrance at the
seminary.”
“What abbe, mother?”
“Abbe d’Aigrigny.”
“True mother; before being a priest, he was a soldier he may be more
accessible than others--and yet--”
“D’Aigrigny!” cried Dagobert, with an expression of hate and horror.
“There is then mixed up with these treasons, a man who was a soldier
before being a priest, and whose name is D’Aigrigny?”
“Yes, father; the Marquis d’Aigrigny--before the Restoration, in the
service of Russia--but, in 1815, the Bourbons gave him a regiment.”
“It is he!” said Dagobert, in a hollow voice. “Always the same! like an
evil spirit--to the mother, father, children.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“The Marquis d’Aigrigny!” replied Dagobert. “Do you know what is this
man? Before he was a priest, he was the murderer of Rose and Blanche’s
mother, because she despised his love. Before he was a priest, he fought
against his country, and twice met General Simon face to face in war.
Yes; while the general was prisoner at Leipsic, covered with wounds
at Waterloo, the turncoat marquis triumphed with the Russians and
English!--Under the Bourbons, this same renegade, loaded with honors,
found himself once more face to face with the persecuted soldier of the
empire. Between them, this time, there was a mortal duel--the marquis
was wounded--General Simon was proscribed, condemned, driven into exile.
The renegade, you say, has become a priest. Well! I am now certain, that
it is he who has carried off Rose and Blanche, in order to wreak on them
his hatred of their father and mother. It is the infamous D’Aigrigny,
who holds them in his power. It is no longer the fortune of these
children that I have to defend; it is their life--do you hear what I
say?--their very life?”
“What, father! do you think this man capable--”
“A traitor to his country, who finishes by becoming a mock priest, is
capable of anything. I tell you, that, perhaps at this moment he may
be killing those children by a slow-fire!” exclaimed the soldier, in a
voice of agony. “To separate them from one another was to begin to kill
them. Yes!” added Dagobert, with an exasperation impossible to describe;
“the daughters of Marshal Simon are in the power of the Marquis
d’Aigrigny and his band, and I hesitate to attempt their rescue, for
fear of the galleys! The galleys!” added he, with a convulsive burst of
laughter; “what do I care for the galleys? Can they send a corpse there?
If this last attempt fail, shall I not have the right to blow my brains
out?--Put the iron in the fire, my boy--quick! time presses--and strike
while the iron’s hot!”
“But your son goes with you!” exclaimed Frances, with a cry of maternal
despair. Then rising, she threw herself at the feet of Dagobert, and
said: “If you are arrested, he will be arrested also.”
“To escape the galleys, he will do as I do. I have two pistols.”
“And without you--without him,” cried the unhappy mother, extending her
hands in supplication, “what will become of me?”
“You are right--I was too selfish,” said Dagobert. “I will go alone.”
“You shall not go alone, father,” replied Agricola.
“But your mother?”
“Mother Bunch sees what is passing; she will go to Mr. Hardy, my master,
and tell him all. He is the most generous of men, and my mother will
have food and shelter for the rest of her days.”
“And I am the cause of all!” cried Frances, wringing her hands in
despair. “Punish me, oh, heaven! for it is my fault. I gave up those
children. I shall be punished by the death of my child!”
“Agricola, you shall not go with me--I forbid it!” said Dagobert,
clasping his son closely to his breast.
“What! when I have pointed out the danger, am I to be the first to
shrink from it? you cannot think thus lowly of me, father! Have I not
also some one to deliver? The good, the generous Mdlle. de Cardoville,
who tried to save me from a prison, is a captive in her turn. I will
follow you, father. It is my right, my duty, my determination.”
So saying, Agricola put into the heated stove the tongs that were
intended to form the hook. “Alas! may heaven have pity upon us!” cried
his poor mother, sobbing as she still knelt, whilst the soldier seemed a
prey to the most violent internal struggle.
“Do not cry so, dear mother; you will break my heart,” said Agricola,
as he raised her with the sempstress’s help. “Be comforted! I have
exaggerated the danger of my father. By acting prudently, we two may
succeed in our enterprise; without much risk--eh, father?” added he,
with a significant glance at Dagobert. “Once more, be comforted, dear
mother. I will answer for everything. We will deliver Marshal Simon’s
daughters, and Mdlle. de Cardoville too. Sister, give me the hammer and
pincers, there in the press.”
The sempstress, drying her tears, did as desired, while Agricola, by the
help of bellows, revived the fire in which the tongs were heating.
“Here are your tools, Agricola,” said the hunchback, in a
deeply-agitated voice, as she presented them with trembling hands to
the smith, who, with the aid of the pincers, soon drew from the fire
the white-hot tongs, and, with vigorous blows of the hammer, formed them
into a hook, taking the stove for his anvil.
Dagobert had remained silent and pensive. Suddenly he said to Frances,
taking her by the hand: “You know what metal your son is. To prevent his
following me would now be impossible. But do not be afraid, dear wife;
we shall succeed--at least, I hope so. And if we should not succeed--if
Agricola and me should be arrested--well! we are not cowards; we shall
not commit suicide; but father and son will go arm in arm to prison,
with heads high and proud, look like two brave men who have done their
duty. The day of trial must come, and we will explain all, honestly,
openly--we will say, that, driven to the last extremity, finding no
support, no protection in the law, we were forced to have recourse to
violence. So hammer away, my boy!” added Dagobert, addressing his son,
pounding the hot iron; “forge, forge, without fear. Honest judges will
absolve honest men.”
“Yes, father, you are right, be at ease dear mother! The judges will see
the difference between rascals who scale walls in order to rob, and
an old soldier and his son who, at peril of their liberty, their life,
their honor, have sought only to deliver unhappy victims.”
“And if this language should not be heard,” resumed Dagobert, “so much
the worse for them! It will not be your son, or husband, who will be
dishonored in the eyes of honest people. If they send us to the galleys,
and we have courage to survive--the young and the old convict will wear
their chains proudly--and the renegade marquis, the traitor priest,
will bear more shame than we. So, forge without fear, my boy! There are
things which the galleys themselves cannot disgrace--our good conscience
and our honor! But now,” he added, “two words with my good Mother Bunch.
It grows late, and time presses. On entering the garden, did you remark
if the windows of the convent were far from the ground?”
“No, not very far, M. Dagobert--particularly on that side which is
opposite to the madhouse, where Mdlle. de Cardoville is confined.”
“How did you manage to speak to that young lady?”
“She was on the other side of an open paling, which separates the two
gardens.”
“Excellent!” said Agricola, as he continued to hammer the iron: “we can
easily pass from one garden to the other. The madhouse may perhaps
be the readier way out. Unfortunately, you do not know, Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s chamber.”
“Yes, I do,” returned the work-girl, recollecting herself. “She is
lodged in one of the wings, and there is a shade over her window,
painted like canvas, with blue and white stripes.”
“Good! I shall not forget that.”
“And can you form no guess as to where are the rooms of my poor
children?” said Dagobert.
After a moment’s reflection, Mother Bunch answered, “They are opposite
to the chamber occupied by Mdlle. de Cardoville, for she makes signs
to them from her window: and I now remember she told me, that their two
rooms are on different stories, one on the ground-floor, and the other
up one pair of stairs.”
“Are these windows grated?” asked the smith.
“I do not know.”
“Never mind, my good girl: with these indications we shall do very
well,” said Dagobert. “For the rest, I have my plans.”
“Some water, my little sister,” said Agricola, “that I may cool my
iron.” Then addressing his father: “Will this hook do?”
“Yes, my boy; as soon as it is cold we will fasten the cord.”
For some time, Frances Baudoin had remained upon her knees, praying with
fervor. She implored Heaven to have pity on Agricola and Dagobert,
who, in their ignorance, were about to commit a great crime; and she
entreated that the celestial vengeance might fall upon her only, as she
alone had been the cause of the fatal resolution of her son and husband.
Dagobert and Agricola finished their preparations in silence. They
were both very pale, and solemnly grave. They felt all the danger of so
desperate an enterprise.
The clock at Saint-Mery’s struck ten. The sound of the bell was faint,
and almost drowned by the lashing of the wind and rain, which had not
ceased for a moment.
“Ten o’clock!” said Dagobert, with a start. “There is not a minute to
lose. Take the sack, Agricola.”
“Yes, father.”
As he went to fetch the sack, Agricola approached Mother Bunch, who was
hardly able to sustain herself, and said to her in a rapid whisper: “If
we are not here to-morrow, take care of my mother. Go to M. Hardy, who
will perhaps have returned from his journey. Courage, my sister! embrace
me. I leave poor mother to you.” The smith, deeply affected, pressed the
almost fainting girl in his arms.
“Come, old Spoil-sport,” said Dagobert: “you shall be our scout.”
Approaching his wife, who, just risen from the ground, was clasping her
son’s head to her bosom, and covering it with tears and kisses, he said
to her, with a semblance of calmness and serenity: “Come, my dear wife,
be reasonable! Make us a good fire. In two or three hours we will bring
home the two poor children, and a fine young lady. Kiss me! that will
bring me luck.”
Frances threw herself on her husband’s neck, without uttering a word.
This mute despair, mingled with convulsive sobs, was heart-rending.
Dagobert was obliged to tear himself from his wife’s arms, and striving
to conceal his emotion, he said to his son, in an agitated voice:
“Let us go--she unmans me. Take care of her, my good Mother Bunch.
Agricola--come!”
The soldier slipped the pistols into the pocket of his great coat, and
rushed towards the door, followed by Spoil-sport.
“My son, let me embrace you once more--alas! it is perhaps for the last
time!” cried the unfortunate mother, incapable of rising, but stretching
out her arms to Agricola. “Forgive me! it is all my fault.”
The smith turned back, mingled his tears with those of his mother--for
he also wept--and murmured, in a stifled voice: “Adieu, dear mother! Be
comforted. We shall soon meet again.”
Then, escaping from the embrace, he joined his father upon the stairs.
Frances Baudoin heaved a long sigh, and fell almost lifeless into the
needlewoman’s arms.
Dagobert and Agricola left the Rue Brise-Miche in the height of
the storm, and hastened with great strides towards the Boulevard de
l’Hopital, followed by the dog.
CHAPTER XIII. BURGLARY.
Half-past eleven had just struck, when Dagobert and his son arrived on
the Boulevard de l’Hopital.
The wind blew violently, and the rain fell down in torrents, but
notwithstanding the thickness of the watery clouds, it was tolerably
light, thanks to the late rising of the moon. The tall, dark trees, and
the white walls of the convent garden, were distinguishable in the midst
of the pale glimmer. Afar off, a street lamp, acted on by the wind, with
its red lights hardly visible through the mist and rain, swung backwards
and forwards over the dirty causeway of the solitary boulevard.
At rare intervals, they heard, at a very great distance, the rattle and
rumble of a coach, returning home late; then all was again silent.
Since their departure from the Rue Brise-Miche, Dagobert and his son had
hardly exchanged a word. The design of these two brave men was noble
and generous, and yet, resolute but pensive, they glided through the
darkness like bandits, at the hour of nocturnal crimes.
Agricola carried on his shoulders the sack containing the cord, the
hook, and the iron bar; Dagobert leaned upon the arm of his son, and
Spoil sport followed his master.
“The bench, where we sat down, must be close by,” said Dagobert,
stopping.
“Yes,” said Agricola, looking around; “here it is, father.”
“It is oily half-past eleven--we must wait for midnight,” resumed
Dagobert. “Let us be seated for an instant, to rest ourselves, and
decide upon our plan.”
After a moment’s silence, the soldier took his son’s hands between his
own, and thus continued: “Agricola, my child--it is yet time. Let me
go alone, I entreat you. I shall know very well how to get through the
business; but the nearer the moment comes, the more I fear to drag you
into this dangerous enterprise.”
“And the nearer the moment comes, father, the more I feel I may be
of some use; but, be it good or bad, I will share the fortune of your
adventure. Our object is praiseworthy; it is a debt of honor that you
have to pay, and I will take one half of it. Do not fancy that I will
now draw back. And so, dear father, let us think of our plan of action.”
“Then you will come?” said Dagobert, stifling a sigh.
“We must do everything,” proceeded Agricola, “to secure success. You
have already noticed the little garden-door, near the angle of the
wall--that is excellent.”
“We shall get by that way into the garden, and look immediately for the
open paling.”
“Yes; for on one side of this paling is the wing inhabited by Mdlle.
de Cardoville, and on the other that part of the convent in which the
general’s daughters are confined.”
At this moment, Spoil-sport, who was crouching at Dagobert’s feet, rose
suddenly, and pricked up his ears, as if to listen.
“One would think that Spoil-sport heard something,” said Agricola. They
listened--but heard only the wind, sounding through the tall trees of
the boulevard.
“Now I think of it, father--when the garden-door is once open, shall we
take Spoil-sport with us?”
“Yes; for if there is a watch-dog, he will settle him. And then he will
give us notice of the approach of those who go the rounds. Besides, he
is so intelligent, so attached to Rose and Blanche, that (who knows?) he
may help to discover the place where they are. Twenty times I have seen
him find them in the woods, by the most extraordinary instinct.”
A slow and solemn knell here rose above the noise of the wind: it was
the first stroke of twelve.
That note seemed to echo mournfully through the souls of Agricola and
his father. Mute with emotion, they shuddered, and by a spontaneous
movement, each grasped the hand of the other. In spite of themselves,
their hearts kept time to every stroke of the clock, as each successive
vibration was prolonged through the gloomy silence of the night.
At the last strobe, Dagobert said to his son, in a firm voice: “It is
midnight. Shake hands, and let us forward!”
The moment was decisive and solemn. “Now, father,” said Agricola, “we
will act with as much craft and daring as thieves going to pillage a
strong box.”
So saying, the smith took from the sack the cord and hook; Dagobert
armed himself with the iron bar, and both advanced cautiously, following
the wall in the direction of the little door, situated not far from the
angle formed by the street and the boulevard. They stopped from time to
time, to listen attentively, trying to distinguish those noises which
were not caused either by the high wind or the rain.
It continued light enough for them to be able to see surrounding
objects, and the smith and the soldier soon gained the little door,
which appeared much decayed, and not very strong.
“Good!” said Agricola to his father. “It will yield at one blow.”
The smith was about to apply his shoulder vigorously to the door, when
Spoil-sport growled hoarsely, and made a “point.” Dagobert silenced the
dog with a word, and grasping his son’s arm, said to him in a whisper:
“Do not stir. The dog has scented some one in the garden.”
Agricola and his father remained for some minutes motionless, holding
their breath and listening. The dog, in obedience to his master, no
longer growled, but his uneasiness and agitation were displayed more and
more. Yet they heard nothing.
“The dog must have been deceived, father,” whispered Agricola.
“I am sure of the contrary. Do not move.”
After some seconds of expectation, Spoil-sport crouched down abruptly,
and pushed his nose as far as possible under the door, snuffling up the
air.
“They are coming,” said Dagobert hastily, to his son.
“Let us draw off a little distance,” replied Agricola.
“No,” said his father; “we must listen. It will be time to retire, if
they open the door. Here, Spoil-sport! down!”
The dog obeyed, and withdrawing from the door, crouched down at the feet
of his master. Some seconds after, they heard a sort of splashing on the
damp ground, caused by heavy footsteps in puddles of water, and then the
sound of words, which carried away by the wind, did not reach distinctly
the ears of the soldier and the smith.
“They are the people of whom Mother Bunch told us, going their round,”
said Agricola to his father.
“So much the better. There will be an interval before they come round
again, and we shall have some two hours before us, without interruption.
Our affair is all right now.”
By degrees, the sound of the footsteps became less and less distinct,
and at last died away altogether.
“Now, quick! we must not lose any time,” said Dagobert to his son, after
waiting about ten minutes; “they are far enough. Let us try to open the
door.”
Agricola leaned his powerful shoulder against it, and pushed vigorously;
but the door did not give way, notwithstanding its age.
“Confound it!” said Agricola; “there is a bar on the inside. I am sure
of it, or these old planks would not have resisted my weight.”
“What is to be done?”
“I will scale the wall by means of the cord and hook, and open the door
from the other side.”
So saying, Agricola took the cord, and after several attempts, succeeded
in fixing the hook on the coping of the wall.
“Now, father, give me a leg up; I will help myself up with the cord;
once astride on the wall, I can easily turn the hook and get down into
the garden.”
The soldier leaned against the wall, and joined his two hands, in the
hollow of which his son placed one of his feet, then mounting upon the
robust shoulders of his father, he was able, by help of the cord, and
some irregularities in the wall, to reach the top. Unfortunately, the
smith had not perceived that the coping of the wall was strewed with
broken bottles, so that he wounded his knees and hands; but, for fear of
alarming Dagobert, he repressed every exclamation of pain, and replacing
the hook, he glided down the cord to the ground. The door was close by,
and he hastened to it; a strong wooden bar had indeed secured it on the
inside. This was removed, and the lock was in so bad a state, that it
offered no resistance to a violent effort from Agricola.
The door was opened, and Dagobert entered the garden with Spoil-sport.
“Now,” said the soldier to his son, “thanks to you, the worst is
over. Here is a means of escape for the poor children, and Mdlle. de
Cardoville. The thing is now to find them, without accident or delay.
Spoil-sport will go before as a scout. Come, my good dog!” added
Dagobert, “above all--fair and softly!”
Immediately, the intelligent animal advanced a few steps, sniffing and
listening with the care and caution of a hound searching for the game.
By the half-light of the clouded moon, Dagobert and his son perceived
round them a V-shaped grove of tall trees, at which several paths met.
Uncertain which to choose, Agricola said to his father: “Let us take
the path that runs alongside the wall. It will surely lead to some
building.”
“Right! Let us walk on the strips of grass, instead of through the mud.
It will make less noise.”
The father and son, preceded by the Siberian dog, kept for some time in
a winding path, at no great distance from the wall. They stopped now
and then to listen, or to satisfy themselves, before continuing their
advance, with regard to the changing aspects of the trees and bushes,
which, shaken by the wind, and faintly illumined by the pale light of
the moon, often took strange and doubtful forms.
Half-past twelve struck as Agricola and his father reached a large
iron gate which shut in that part of the garden reserved for the
Superior--the same into which Mother Bunch had intruded herself, after
seeing Rose Simon converse with Adrienne de Cardoville.
Through the bars of this gate, Agricola and his father perceived at a
little distance an open paling, which joined a half-finished chapel, and
beyond it a little square building.
“That is no doubt the building occupied by Mdlle. de Cardoville,” said
Agricola.
“And the building which contains the chambers of Rose and Blanche, but
which we cannot see from here, is no doubt opposite it,” said Dagobert.
“Poor children! they are there, weeping tears of despair,” added he,
with profound emotion.
“Provided the gate be but open,” said Agricola.
“It will probably be so--being within the walls.”
“Let us go on gently.”
The gate was only fastened by the catch of the lock. Dagobert was about
to open it, when Agricola said to him: “Take care! do not make it creak
on its hinges.”
“Shall I push it slowly or suddenly?”
“Let me manage it,” said Agricola; and he opened the gate so quickly,
that it creaked very little; still the noise might have been plainly
heard, in the silence of the night, during one of the lulls between the
squalls of wind.
Agricola and his father remained motionless for a moment, listening
uneasily, before they ventured to pass through the gate. Nothing
stirred, however; all remained calm and still. With fresh courage, they
entered the reserved garden.
Hardly had the dog arrived on this spot, when he exhibited tokens of
extraordinary delight. Picking up his ears, wagging his tail, bounding
rather than running, he had soon reached the paling where, in
the morning, Rose Simon had for a moment conversed with Mdlle. de
Cardoville. He stopped an instant at this place, as if at fault, and
turned round and round like a dog seeking the scent.
Dagobert and his son, leaving Spoil-sport to his instinct, followed
his least movements with intense interest, hoping everything from his
intelligence and his attachment to the orphans.
“It was no doubt near this paling that Rose stood when Mother Bunch saw
her,” said Dagobert. “Spoil-sport is on her track. Let him alone.”
After a few seconds, the dog turned his head towards Dagobert, and
started at full trot in the direction of a door on the ground-floor of
a building, opposite to that occupied by Adrienne. Arrived at this door,
the dog lay down, seemingly waiting for Dagobert.
“No doubt of it! the children are there!” said Dagobert, hastening to
rejoin Spoil-sport; “it was by this door that they took Rose into the
house.”
“We must see if the windows are grated,” said Agricola, following his
father.
“Well, old fellow!” whispered the soldier, as he came up to the dog and
pointed to the building, “are Rose and Blanche there?”
The dog lifted his head, and answered by a joyful bark. Dagobert had
just time to seize the mouth of the animal with his hands.
“He will ruin all!” exclaimed the smith. “They have, perhaps, heard
him.”
“No,” said Dagobert. “But there is no longer any doubt--the children are
here.”
At this instant, the iron gate, by which the soldier and his son had
entered the reserved garden, and which they had left open, fell to with
a loud noise.
“They’ve shut us in,” said Agricola, hastily; “and there is no other
issue.”
For a moment, the father and son looked in dismay at each other; but
Agricola instantly resumed: “The gate has perhaps shut of itself. I will
make haste to assure myself of this, and to open it again if possible.”
“Go quickly; I will examine the windows.”
Agricola flew towards the gate, whilst Dagobert, gliding along the wall,
soon reached the windows on the ground floor. They were four in number,
and two of them were not grated. He looked up at the first story; it was
not very far from the ground, and none of the windows had bars. It would
then be easy for that one of the two sisters, who inhabited this story,
once informed of their presence, to let herself down by means of a
sheet, as the orphans had already done to escape from the inn of
the White Falcon. But the difficult thing was to know which room she
occupied. Dagobert thought they might learn this from the sister on the
ground floor; but then there was another difficulty--at which of the
four windows should they knock?
Agricola returned precipitately. “It was the wind, no doubt, which shut
the gate,” said he. “I have opened it again, and made it fast with a
stone. But we have no time to lose.”
“And how shall we know the windows of the poor children?” said Dagobert,
anxiously.
“That is true,” said Agricola, with uneasiness. “What is to be done?”
“To call them at hap-hazard,” continued Dagobert, “would be to give the
alarm.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Agricola, with increasing anguish. “To have arrived
here, under their windows, and yet not to know!”
“Time presses,” said Dagobert, hastily, interrupting his son; “we must
run all risks.”
“But how, father?”
“I will call out loud, ‘Rose and Blanche’--in their state of despair, I
am sure they do not sleep. They will be stirring at my first summons. By
means of a sheet, fastened to the window, she who is on the first
story will in five minutes be in our arms. As for the one on the ground
floor--if her window is not grated, we can have her in a second. If it
is, we shall soon loosen one of the bars.”
“But, father--this calling out aloud?”
“Will not perhaps be heard.”
“But if it is heard--all will be lost.”
“Who knows? Before they have time to call the watch, and open several
doors, the children may be delivered. Once at the entrance of the
boulevard, and we shall be safe.”
“It is a dangerous course; but I see no other.”
“If there are only two men, I and Spoil-sport will keep them in check,
while you will have time to carry off the children.”
“Father, there is a better way--a surer one,” cried Agricola, suddenly.
“From what Mother Bunch told us, Mdlle. de Cardoville has corresponded
by signs with Rose and Blanche.”
“Yes.”
“Hence she knows where they are lodged, as the poor children answered
her from their windows.”
“You are right. There is only that course to take. But how find her
room?”
“Mother Bunch told me there was a shade over the window.”
“Quick! we have only to break through a wooden fence. Have you the iron
bar?”
“Here it is.”
“Then, quick!”
In a few steps, Dagobert and his son had reached the paling. Three
planks, torn away by Agricola, opened an easy passage.
“Remain here, father, and keep watch,” said he to Dagobert, as he
entered Dr. Baleinier’s garden.
The indicated window was easily recognized. It was high and broad; a
sort of shade surmounted it, for this window had once been a door, since
walled in to the third of its height. It was protected by bars of iron,
pretty far apart. Since some minutes, the rain had ceased. The moon,
breaking through the clouds, shone full upon the building. Agricola,
approaching the window, saw that the room was perfectly dark; but light
came from a room beyond, through a door left half open. The smith,
hoping that Mdlle. de Cardoville might be still awake, tapped lightly at
the window. Soon after, the door in the background opened entirely, and
Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had not yet gone to bed, came from the other
chamber, dressed as she had been at her interview with Mother Bunch. Her
charming features were visible by the light of the taper she held in
her hand. Their present expression was that of surprise and anxiety. The
young girl set down the candlestick on the table, and appeared to listen
attentively as she approached the window. Suddenly she started and
stopped abruptly. She had just discerned the face of a man, looking
at her through the window. Agricola, fearing that Mdlle. de Cardoville
would retire in terror to the next room, again tapped on the glass, and
running the risk of being heard by others, said in a pretty loud voice:
“It is Agricola Baudoin.”
These words reached the ears of Adrienne. Instantly remembering her
interview with Mother Bunch, she thought that Agricola and Dagobert
must have entered the convent for the purpose of carrying off Rose
and Blanche. She ran to the window, recognized Agricola in the clear
moonlight, and cautiously opened the casement.
“Madame,” said the smith, hastily; “there is not an instant to lose.
The Count de Montbron is not in Paris. My father and myself have come to
deliver you.”
“Thanks, thanks, M. Agricola!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone
expressive of the most touching gratitude; “but think first of the
daughters of General Simon.”
“We do think of them, madame, I have come to ask you which are their
windows.”
“One is on the ground floor, the last on the garden-side; the other is
exactly over it, on the first story.”
“Then they are saved!” cried the smith.
“But let me see!” resumed Adrienne, hastily; “the first story is pretty
high. You will find, near the chapel they are building, some long poles
belonging to the scaffolding. They may be of use to you.”
“They will be as good as a ladder, to reach the upstairs window. But now
to think of you madame.”
“Think only of the dear orphans. Time presses. Provided they are
delivered to-night, it makes little difference to me to remain a day or
two longer in this house.”
“No, mademoiselle,” cried the smith, “it is of the first importance that
you should leave this place to-night. Interests are concerned, of which
you know nothing. I am now sure of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have not time to explain myself further; but I conjure you madame, to
come. I can wrench out two of these bars; I will fetch a piece of iron.”
“It is not necessary. They are satisfied with locking the outer door
of this building, which I inhabit alone. You can easily break open the
lock.”
“And, in ten minutes, we shall be on the boulevard,” said the smith.
“Make yourself ready, madame; take a shawl, a bonnet, for the night is
cold. I will return instantly.”
“M. Agricola,” said Adrienne, with tears in her eyes, “I know what you
risk for my sake. I shall prove to you, I hope, that I have as good a
memory as you have. You and your adopted sister are noble and valiant
creatures, and I am proud to be indebted to you. But do not return for
me till the daughters of Marshal Simon are in safety.”
“Thanks to your directions, the thing will be done directly, madame. I
fly to rejoin my father, and we will come together to fetch you.”
Following the excellent advice of Mdlle. de Cardoville, Agricola took
one of the long, strong poles that rested against the wall of the
chapel, and, bearing it on his robust shoulders, hastened to rejoin
his father. Hardly had Agricola passed the fence, to direct his steps
towards the chapel, obscured in shadow, than Mdlle. de Cardoville
thought she perceived a human form issue from one of the clumps of trees
in the convent-garden, cross the path hastily, and disappear behind
a high hedge of box. Alarmed at the sight, Adrienne in vain called to
Agricola in a low voice, to bid him beware. He could not hear her; he
had already rejoined his father, who, devoured by impatience, went from
window to window with ever-increasing anguish.
“We are saved,” whispered Agricola. “Those are the windows of the poor
children--one on the ground floor, the other on the first story.”
“At last!” said Dagobert, with a burst of joy impossible to describe. He
ran to examine the windows. “They are not grated!” he exclaimed.
“Let us make sure, that one of them is there,” said Agricola; “then, by
placing this pole against the wall, I will climb up to the first story,
which is not so very high.”
“Right, my boy!--once there, tap at the window, and call Rose or
Blanche. When she answers, come down. We will rest the pole against
the window, and the poor child will slide along it. They are bold and
active. Quick, quick! to work!”
“And then we will deliver Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
Whilst Agricola placed his pole against the wall, and prepares to mount,
Dagobert tapped at the panes of the last window on the ground floor, and
said aloud: “It is I--Dagobert.”
Rose Simon indeed occupied the chamber. The unhappy child, in despair
at being separated from her sister, was a prey to a burning fever, and,
unable to sleep, watered her pillow with her tears. At the sound of the
tapping on the glass, she started up affrighted, then, hearing the voice
of the soldier--that voice so familiar and so dear--she sat up in bed,
pressed her hands across her forehead, to assure herself that she was
not the plaything of a dream, and, wrapped in her long night-dress, ran
to the window with a cry of joy. But suddenly--and before she could open
the casement--two reports of fire-arms were heard, accompanied by loud
cries of “Help! thieves!”
The orphan stood petrified with terror, her eyes mechanically fixed upon
the window, through which she saw confusedly, by the light of the moon,
several men engaged in a mortal struggle, whilst the furious barking
of Spoil-sport was heard above all the incessant cries of “Help! Help!
Thieves! Murder!”
BOOK V.
XIV. The Eve of a Great Day XV. The Thug XVI. The Two
Brothers of the Good Work XVII. The House in the Rue Saint-
Francois XVIII. Debit and Credit XIX. The Heir XX. The
Rupture XXI. The Change XXII. The Red Room XXIII. The
Testament XXIV. The Last Stroke of Noon XXV. The Deed of
Gift
CHAPTER XIV. THE EVE OF A GREAT DAY.
About two hours before the event last related took place at St. Mary’s
Convent, Rodin and Abbe d’Aigrigny met in the room where we have already
seen them, in the Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins. Since the Revolution of
July, Father d’Aigrigny had thought proper to remove for the moment to
this temporary habitation all the secret archives and correspondence of
his Order--a prudent measure, since he had every reason to fear that the
reverend fathers would be expelled by the state from that magnificent
establishment, with which the restoration had so liberally endowed their
society. (11)
Rodin, dressed in his usual sordid style, mean and dirty as ever, was
writing modestly at his desk, faithful to his humble part of secretary,
which concealed, as we have already seen a far more important
office--that of Socius--a function which, according to the constitutions
of the Order, consists in never quitting his superior, watching his
least actions, spying into his very thoughts, and reporting all to Rome.
In spite of his usual impassibility, Rodin appeared visibly uneasy and
absent in mind; he answered even more briefly than usual to the commands
and questions of Father d’Aigrigny, who had but just entered the room.
“Has anything new occurred during my absence?” asked he. “Are the
reports still favorable?”
“Very favorable.”
“Read them to me.”
“Before giving this account to your reverence,” said Rodin, “I must
inform you that Morok has been two days in Paris.”
“Morok?” said Abbe d’Aigrigny, with surprise. “I thought, on leaving
Germany and Switzerland, he had received from Friburg the order to
proceed southward. At Nismes, or Avignon, he would at this moment be
useful as an agent; for the Protestants begin to move, and we fear a
reaction against the Catholics.”
“I do not know,” said Rodin, “if Morok may not have had private reasons
for changing his route. His ostensible reasons are, that he comes here
to give performances.”
“How so?”
“A dramatic agent, passing through Lyons, engaged him and his menagerie
for the Port Saint-Martin Theatre at a very high price. He says that he
did not like to refuse such an offer.”
“Well,” said Father d’Aigrigny, shrugging his shoulders, “but by
distributing his little books, and selling prints and chaplets, as
well as by the influence he would certainly exercise over the pious and
ignorant people of the South or of Brittany, he might render services,
such as he can never perform in Paris.”
“He is now below, with a kind of giant, who travels about with him. In
his capacity of your reverence’s old servant, Morok hoped to have the
honor of kissing your hand this evening.”
“Impossible--impossible--you know how much I am occupied. Have you sent
to the Rue Saint-Francois?”
“Yes, I have. The old Jew guardian has had notice from the notary. To
morrow, at six in the morning, the masons will unwall the door, and,
for the first time since one hundred and fifty years, the house will be
opened.”
Father d’Aigrigny remained in thought for a moment, and then said to
Rodin: “On the eve of such a decisive day, we must neglect nothing,
and call every circumstance to memory. Read me the copy of the note,
inserted in the archives of the society, a century and a half ago, on
the subject of Rennepont.”
The secretary took the note from the case, and read as follows:
“‘This 19th day of February, 1682, the Reverend Father-Provincial
Alexander Bourdon sent the following advice, with these words in the
margin: Of extreme importance for the future.
“‘We have just discovered, by the confession of a dying person to one of
our fathers, a very close secret.
“‘Marius de Rennepont, one of the most active and redoubtable partisans
of the Reformed Religion, and one of the most determined enemies of our
Holy Society, had apparently re-entered the pale of our Mother Church,
but with the sole design of saving his worldly goods, threatened with
confiscation because of his irreligious and damnable errors. Evidence
having been furnished by different persons of our company to prove that
the conversion of Rennepont was not sincere, and in reality covered a
sacrilegious lure, the possessions of the said gentleman, now considered
a relapsed heretic, were confiscated by our gracious sovereign, his
Majesty King Louis XIV, and the said Rennepont was condemned to the
galleys for life.(12) He escaped his doom by a voluntary death; in
consequence of which abominable crime, his body was dragged upon a
hurdle, and flung to the dogs on the highway.
“‘From these preliminaries, we come to the great secret, which is of
such importance to the future interests of our Society.
“‘His Majesty Louis XIV., in his paternal and Catholic goodness towards
the Church in general, and our Order in particular, had granted to us
the profit of this confiscation, in acknowledgment of our services in
discovering the infamous and sacrilegious relapse of the said Rennepont.
“‘But we have just learned, for certain, that a house situated in Paris,
No. 3, Rue Saint-Francois, and a sum of fifty thousand gold crowns, have
escaped this confiscation, and have consequently been stolen from our
Society.
“‘The house was conveyed, before the confiscation, by means of a feigned
purchase, to a friend of Rennepont’s a good Catholic, unfortunately, as
against him we cannot take any severe measures. Thanks to the culpable,
but secure connivance of his friend, the house has been walled up, and
is only to be opened in a century and a half, according to the last
will of Rennepont. As for the fifty thousand gold crowns, they have been
placed in hands which, unfortunately, are hitherto unknown to us, in
order to be invested and put out to use for one hundred and fifty years,
at the expiration of which time they are to be divided between the then
existing descendants of the said Rennepont; and it is calculated that
this sum, increased by so many accumulations, will by then have become
enormous, and will amount to at least forty or fifty millions of livres
tournois. From motives which are not known, but which are duly stated
in a testamentary document, the said Rennepont has concealed from his
family, whom the edicts against the Protestants have driven out of
France, the investment of these fifty thousand crowns; and has only
desired his relations to preserve in their line from generation to
generation, the charge to the last survivors, to meet in Paris, Rue
Saint-Francois, a hundred and fifty years hence, on February the 13th,
1832. And that this charge might not be forgotten, he employed a person,
whose description is known, but not his real occupation, to cause to
be manufactured sundry bronze medals, on which the request and date are
engraved, and to deliver one to each member of the family--a measure the
more necessary, as, from some other motive equally unknown, but probably
explained in the testament, the heirs are to present themselves on the
day in question, before noon, in person, and not by any attorney, or
representative, or to forfeit all claim to the inheritance. The stranger
who undertook to distribute the medals to the different members of the
family of Rennepont is a man of thirty to thirty-six years of age, of
tall stature, and with a proud and sad expression of countenance. He has
black eyebrows, very thick, and singularly joined together. He is
known as JOSEPH, and is much suspected of being an active and dangerous
emissary of the wretched republicans and heretics of the Seven
United Provinces. It results from these premises, that this sum,
surreptitiously confided by a relapsed heretic to unknown hands, has
escaped the confiscation decreed in our favor by our well-beloved king.
A serious fraud and injury has therefore been committed, and we are
bound to take every means to recover this our right, if not immediately,
at least in some future time. Our Society being (for the greater glory
of God and our Holy Father) imperishable, it will be easy, thanks to the
connections we keep up with all parts of the world, by means of missions
and other establishments, to follow the line of this family of Rennepont
from generation to generation, without ever losing sight of it--so that
a hundred and fifty years hence, at the moment of the division of this
immense accumulation of property, our Company may claim the inheritance
of which it has been so treacherously deprived, and recover it by
any means in its power, fas aut nefas, even by craft or violence--our
Company not being bound to act tenderly with the future detainers of
our goods, of which we have been maliciously deprived by an infamous and
sacrilegious heretic--and because it is right to defend, preserve,
and recover one’s own property by every means which the Lord may place
within one’s reach. Until, therefore, the complete restitution of this
wealth, the family of Rennepont must be considered as reprobate and
damnable, as the cursed seed of a Cain, and always to be watched with
the utmost caution. And it is to be recommended, that, every year
from this present date, a sort of inquisition should be held as to the
situation of the successive members of this family.’”
Rodin paused, and said to Father d’Aigrigny: “Here follows the account,
year by year, of the history of this family, from the year 1682, to our
own day. It will be useless to read this to your reverence.”
“Quite useless,” said Abbe d’Aigrigny. “The note contains all the
important facts.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he exclaimed, with
an expression of triumphant pride: “How great is the power of the
Association, when founded upon tradition and perpetuity! Thanks to this
note, inserted in our archives a century and a half ago, this family has
been watched from generation to generation--our Order has always had
its eyes upon them, following them to all points of the globe, to which
exile had distributed them--and at last, to-morrow, we shall obtain
possession of this property, at first inconsiderable, but which a
hundred and fifty years have raised to a royal fortune. Yes, we shall
succeed, for we have foreseen every eventuality. One thing only troubles
me.”
“What is that?” asked Rodin.
“The information that we have in vain tried to obtain from the guardian
of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois. Has the attempt been once more
made, as I directed?”
“It has been made.”
“Well?”
“This time, as always before, the old Jew has remained impenetrable.
Besides he is almost in his second childhood, and his wife not much
better.”
“When I think,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “that for a century and a
half, this house in the Rue Saint-Francois has remained walled up, and
that the care of it has been transmitted from generation to generation
in this family of the Samuels--I cannot suppose that they have all been
ignorant as to who were and are the successive holders of these funds,
now become immense by accumulation.”
“You have seen,” said Rodin, “by the notes upon this affair, that the
Order has always carefully followed it up ever since 1682. At different
periods attempts have been made to obtain information upon subjects
not fully explained in the note of Father Bourdon. But this race of Jew
guardians has ever remained dumb, and we must therefore conclude that
they know nothing about it.”
“That has always struck me as impossible; for the ancestor of these
Samuels was present at the closing of the house, a hundred and fifty
years ago. He was according to the file, a servant or confidential clerk
of De Rennepont. It is impossible that he should not have known many
things, the tradition of which must have been preserved in the family.”
“If I were allowed to hazard a brief observation,” began Rodin, humbly.
“Speak.”
“A few years ago we obtained certain information through the
confessional, that the funds were in existence, and that they had risen
to an enormous amount.”
“Doubtless; and it was that which called the attention of the Reverend
Father-General so strongly to this affair.”
“We know, then, what probably the descendants of the family do not--the
immense value of this inheritance?”
“Yes,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, “the person who certified this fact
in confession is worthy of all belief. Only lately, the same declaration
was renewed; but all the efforts of the confessor could not obtain the
name of the trustee, or anything beyond the assertion, that the money
could not be in more honest hands.”
“It seems to me, then,” resumed Rodin, “that we are certain of what is
most important.”
“And who knows if the holder of this enormous sum will appear to-morrow,
in spite of the honesty ascribed to him? The nearer the moment the more
my anxiety increases. Ah!” continued Father d’Aigrigny, after a moment’s
silence, “the interests concerned are so immense that the consequences
of success are quite incalculable. However, all that it was possible to
do, has been at least tried.”
To these words, which Father d’Aigrigny addressed to Rodin, as if asking
for his assent, the socius returned no answer.
The abbe looked at him with surprise, and said: “Are you not of my
opinion--could more have been attempted? Have we not gone to the extreme
limit of the possible?”
Rodin bowed respectfully, but remained mute.
“If you think we have omitted some precaution,” cried Father d’Aigrigny,
with a sort of uneasy impatience, “speak out! We have still time. Once
more, do you think it is possible to do more than I have done? All the
other descendants being removed, when Gabriel appears to-morrow in
the Rue Saint-Francois, will he not be the only representative of this
family, and consequently the rightful possessor of this immense fortune?
Now, according to his act of renunciation, and the provisions of our
statutes, it is not to him, but to the Order, that these possessions
must fall. Could I have acted better, or in any other manner? Speak
frankly!”
“I cannot permit myself to offer an opinion on this subject,” replied
Rodin, humbly, and again bowing; “the success of the measures taken must
answer your reverence.”
Father d’Aigrigny shrugged his shoulders, and reproached himself for
having asked advice of this writing-machine, that served him for
a secretary, and to whom he only ascribed three qualities--memory,
discretion, and exactness.
(11) This was an idle fear, for we read in the Constitutionnel, Feb. 1st
1832, as follows: “When in 1822, M. de Corbiere abruptly abolished that
splendid Normal School, which, during its few years’ existence, had
called forth or developed such a variety of talent, it was decided,
as some compensation, that a house in the Rue des Postes should be
purchased, where the congregation of the Holy Ghost should be located
and endowed. The Minister of Marine supplied the funds for this purpose,
and its management was placed at the disposal of the Society, which then
reigned over France. From that period it has held quiet possession of
the place, which at once became a sort of house of entertainment, where
Jesuitism sheltered, and provided for, the numerous novitiates that
flocked from all parts of the country, to receive instructions from
Father Ronsin. Matters were in this state when the Revolution of
July broke out, which threatened to deprive the Society of this
establishment. But it will hardly be believed; this was not done. It
is true that they suppressed their practice, but they left them in
possession of the house in the Rue des Postes; and to this very day, the
31st of January, 1832, the members of the Sacred Heart are housed at the
expense of government, during the whole of which time the Normal School
has been without a shelter--and on its reorganization, thrust into a
dirty hole, in a narrow corner of the College of Louis the Great.”
The above appeared in the Constitutionnel, respecting the house in
the Rue des Posses. We are certainly ignorant as to the nature of the
transactions, since that period, that have taken place between the
reverend fathers and the government; but we read further, in a recently
published article that appeared in a journal, in reference to the
Society of Jesus, that the house in the Rue des Postes, still forms a
part of their landed property. We will here give some portions of the
article in question.
“The following is a list of the property belonging to this branch of
Jesuits: Fr.
House in the Rue de Postes, worth about 500,000
One in the Rue de Sevres, estimated at 300,000
Farm, two leagues from Paris.....150,000
House and church at Bourges..... 100,000
Notre Dame de Liesse, donation in 1843 60,000
Saint Acheul, House for Novitiates.. 400,000
Nantes, a house...........100,000
Quimper, ditto........... 40,000
Laval, house and church...... 150,000
Rennes, a house.......... 20,000
Vannes, ditto........... 20,000
Metz, ditto............ 40,000
Strasbourg............ 60,000
Rouen, ditto........... 15,000
“By this it appears that these various items amount to little less than
two millions. Teaching, moreover, is another important source of revenue
to the Jesuits. The college at Broyclette alone brings in 200,000
francs. The two provinces in France (for the general of the Jesuits at
Rome has divided France into two provinces, Lyons and Paris) possess,
besides a large sum in ready money, Austrian bonds of more than 260,000
francs. Their Propagation of Faith furnishes annually some 50,000
francs; and the harvest which the priests collect by their sermons
amounts to 150,000 francs. The alms given for charity may be estimated
at the same figure, producing together a revenue of 540,000 francs. Now,
to this revenue may be added the produce of the sale of the Society’s
works, and the profit obtained by hawking pictures. Each plate costs,
design and engraving included, about 600 francs, off which are struck
about 10,000 copies, at 40 francs per thousand, and there is a further
expense of 250 francs to their publisher; and they obtain a net profit
of 210 francs on every thousand. This, indeed, is working to advantage.
And it can easily be imagined with what rapidity all these are sold. The
fathers themselves are the travellers for the Society, and it would be
difficult to find more zealous or persevering ones. They are always well
received, and do not know what it is to meet with a refusal. They always
take care that the publisher should be one of their own body. The first
person whom they selected for this occupation was one of their members,
possessing some money; but they were obliged, notwithstanding, to make
certain advances to enable him to defray the expenses of its first
establishment. But, when they became fully convinced of the success of
their undertaking, they suddenly called in these advances, which the
publisher was not in a condition to pay. They were perfectly aware of
this, and superseded him by a wealthy successor, with whom they could
make a better bargain; and thus, without remorse, they ruined the
man, by thrusting him from an appointment of which they had morally
guaranteed the continuance.”
(12) Louis XIV., the great King, punished with the Galleys those
Protestants who, once converted, often by force, afterwards returned
to their first belief. As for those Protestants who remained in France,
notwithstanding the rigor of the edicts against them, they were deprived
of burial, dragged upon a hurdle, and given to the dogs.--E. S.
CHAPTER XV. THE THUG.
After a moment’s silence, Father d’Aigrigny resumed “Read me to-day’s
report on the situation of each of the persons designated.”
“Here is that of this evening; it has just come.”
“Let us hear.”
Rodin read as follows: “Jacques Rennepont, alias Sleepinbuff, was seen
in the interior of the debtors’ prison at eight o’clock this evening.”
“He will not disturb us to-morrow. One; go on.”
“The lady superior of St. Mary’s Convent, warned by the Princess
de Saint-Dizier, has thought fit to confine still more strictly the
Demoiselles Rose and Blanche Simon. This evening, at nine o’clock, they
have been carefully locked in their cells, and armed men will make their
round in the convent garden during the night.”
“Thanks to these precautions, there is nothing to fear from that side,”
said Father d’Aigrigny. “Go on.”
“Dr. Baleinier, also warned by the Princess de Saint-Dizier, continues
to have Mdlle. de Cardoville very closely watched. At a quarter to nine
the door of the building in which she is lodged was locked and bolted.”
“That is still another cause the less for uneasiness.”
“As for M. Hardy,” resumed Rodin “I have received this morning, from
Toulouse, a letter from his intimate friend, M. de Bressac, who has been
of such service to us in keeping the manufacturer away for some
days longer. This letter contains a note, addressed by M. Hardy to a
confidential person, which M. de Bressac has thought fit to intercept,
and send to us as another proof of the success of the steps he has
taken, and for which he hopes we shall give him credit--as to serve us,
he adds, he betrays his friend in the most shameful manner, and acts a
part in an odious comedy. M. de Bressac trusts that, in return for these
good offices, we will deliver up to him those papers, which place him
in our absolute dependence, as they might ruin for ever a woman he loves
with an adulterous passion. He says that we ought to have pity on the
horrible alternative in which he is placed--either to dishonor and ruin
the woman he adores, or infamously to betray the confidence of his bosom
friend.”
“These adulterous lamentations are not deserving of pity,” answered
Father d’Aigrigny, with contempt. “We will see about that; M. de Bressac
may still be useful to us. But let us hear this letter of M. Hardy, that
impious and republican manufacturer, worthy descendant of an accursed
race, whom it is of the first importance to keep away.”
“Here is M. Hardy’s letter,” resumed Rodin. “To-morrow, we will send it
to the person to whom it is addressed.” Rodin read as follows:
“TOULOUSE, February the 10th.
“At length I find a moment to write to you, and to explain the cause
of the sudden departure which, without alarming, must at least have
astonished you. I write also to ask you a service; the facts may be
stated in a few words. I have often spoken to you of Felix de Bressac,
one of my boyhood mates, though not nearly so old as myself. We have
always loved each other tenderly, and have shown too many proofs of
mutual affection not to count upon one another. He is a brother to me.
You know all I mean by that expression. Well--a few days ago, he wrote
to me from Toulouse, where he was to spend some time: ‘If you love me,
come; I have the greatest need of you. At once! Your consolations
may perhaps give me the courage to live. If you arrive too late--why,
forgive me--and think sometimes of him who will be yours to the last.’
Judge of my grief and fear on receipt of the above. I seat instantly
for post-horses. My old foreman, whom I esteem and revere (the father of
General Simon), hearing that I was going to the south, begged me to take
him with me, and to leave him for some days in the department of the
Creuse, to examine some ironworks recently founded there. I consented
willingly to this proposition, as I should thus at least have some one
to whom I could pour out the grief and anxiety which had been caused
by this letter from Bressac. I arrive at Toulouse; they tell me that
he left the evening before, taking arms with him, a prey to the most
violent despair. It was impossible at first to tell whither he had gone;
after two days, some indications, collected with great trouble, put me
upon his track. At last, after a thousand adventures, I found him in a
miserable village. Never--no, never, have I seen despair like this.
No violence, but a dreadful dejection, a savage silence. At first, he
almost repulsed me; then, this horrible agony having reached its height,
he softened by degrees, and, in about a quarter of an hour, threw
himself into my arms, bathed in tears. Beside him were his loaded
pistols: one day later, and all would have been over. I cannot tell you
the reason of his despair; I am not at liberty to do so; but it did not
greatly astonish me. Now there is a complete cure to effect. We must
calm, and soothe, and heal this poor soul, which has been cruelly
wounded. The hand of friendship is alone equal to this delicate task,
and I have good hope of success. I have therefore persuaded him to
travel for some time; movement and change of scene will be favorable to
him. I shall take him first to Nice; we set out tomorrow. If he wishes
to prolong this excursion. I shall do so too, for my affairs do not
imperiously demand my presence in Paris before the end of March. As
for the service I have to ask of you, it is conditional. These are the
facts. According to some family papers that belonged to my mother,
it seems I have a certain interest to present myself at No. 3, Rue
Saint-Francois, in Paris, on the 13th of February. I had inquired about
it, and could learn nothing, except that this house of very antique
appearance, has been shut up for the last hundred and fifty years,
through a whim of one of my maternal ancestors, and that it is to be
opened on the 13th of this month, in presence of the co-heirs who, if
I have any, are quite unknown to me. Not being able to attend myself, I
have written to my foreman, the father of General Simon, in whom I have
the greatest confidence, and whom I had left behind in the department
of the Creuse, to set out for Paris, and to be present at the opening
of this house, not as an agent (which would be useless), but as a
spectator, and inform me at Nice what has been the result of this
romantic notion of my ancestor’s. As it is possible that my foreman may
arrive too late to accomplish this mission, I should be much obliged
if you would inquire at my house at Plessy, if he has yet come, and,
in case of his still being absent, if you would take his place at the
opening of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois. I believe that I have
made a very small sacrifice for my friend Bressac, in not being in Paris
on that day. But had the sacrifice been immense, I should have made it
with pleasure, for my care and friendship are at present most necessary
to the man whom I look upon as a brother. I count upon your compliance
with my request, and, begging you to be kind enough to write me, ‘to
be called for,’ at Nice, the result of your visit of inquiry, I remain,
etc., etc.
“FRANCIS HARDY.”
“Though his presence cannot be of any great importance, it would be
preferable that Marshal Simon’s father should not attend at the opening
of this house to-morrow,” said Father d’Aigrigny. “But no matter. M.
Hardy himself is out of the way. There only remains the young Indian.”
“As for him,” continued the abbe, with a thoughtful air, “we acted
wisely in letting M. Norval set out with the presents of Mdlle. de
Cardoville. The doctor who accompanies M. Norval, and who was chosen by
M. Baleinier, will inspire no suspicion?”
“None,” answered Rodin. “His letter of yesterday is completely
satisfactory.”
“There is nothing, then, to fear from the Indian prince,” said
D’Aigrigny. “All goes well.”
“As for Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “he has again written this morning, to
obtain from your reverence the interview that he has vainly solicited
for the last three days. He is affected by the rigor exercised towards
him, in forbidding him to leave the house for these five days past.”
“To-morrow, when we take him to the Rue Saint-Francois, I will hear what
he has to say. It will be time enough. Thus, at this hour,” said Father
d’Aigrigny, with an air of triumphant satisfaction, “all the descendants
of this family, whose presence might ruin our projects, are so
placed that it is absolutely impossible for them to be at the Rue
Saint-Francois to-morrow before noon, while Gabriel will be sure to be
there. At last our end is gained.”
Two cautious knocks at the door interrupted Father d’Aigrigny. “Come
in,” said he.
An old servant in black presented himself, and said: “There is a man
downstairs who wishes to speak instantly to M. Rodin on very urgent
business.”
“His name?” asked Father d’Aigrigny.
“He would not tell his name; but he says that he comes from M. Van Dael,
a merchant in Java.”
Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin exchanged a glance of surprise, almost of
alarm.
“See what this man is,” said D’Aigrigny to Rodin, unable to conceal
his uneasiness, “and then come and give me an account of it.” Then,
addressing the servant, he added: “Show him in”--and exchanging
another expressive sign with Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny disappeared by a
side-door.
A minute after, Faringhea, the ex-chief of the Stranglers, appeared
before Rodin, who instantly remembered having seen him at Cardoville
Castle.
The socius started, but he did not wish to appear to recollect his
visitor. Still bending over his desk, he seemed not to seen Faringhea,
but wrote hastily some words on a sheet of paper that lay before him.
“Sir,” said the servant, astonished at the silence of Rodin, “here is
the person.”
Rodin folded the note that he had so precipitately written, and said to
the servant: “Let this be taken to its address. Wait for an answer.”
The servant bowed, and went out. Then Rodin, without rising, fixed his
little reptile-eyes on Faringhea, and said to him courteously: “To whom,
sir, have I the honor of speaking?”
CHAPTER XVI. THE TWO BROTHERS OF THE GOOD WORK.
Faringhea, as we have before stated, though born in India, had travelled
a good deal, and frequented the European factories in different parts
of Asia. Speaking well both English and French, and full of intelligence
and sagacity, he was perfectly civilized.
Instead of answering Rodin’s question, he turned upon him a fixed and
searching look. The socius, provoked by this silence, and forseeing
vaguely that Faringhea’s arrival had some connection--direct or
indirect--with Djalma, repeated, though still with the greatest
coolness: “To whom, sir, have I the honor of speaking?”
“Do you not recognize me,” said Faringhea, advancing two steps nearer to
Rodin’s chair.
“I do not think I have ever had the honor of seeing you,” answered the
other, coldly.
“But I recognize you,” said Faringhea; “I saw you at Cardoville Castle
the day that a ship and a steamer were wrecked together.”
“At Cardoville Castle? It is very possible, sir. I was there when a
shipwreck took place.”
“And that day I called you by your name, and you asked me what I
wanted. I replied: ‘Nothing now, brother--hereafter, much.’ The time has
arrived. I have come to ask for much.”
“My dear sir,” said Rodin, still impassible, “before we continue this
conversation, which appears hitherto tolerably obscure, I must repeat my
wish to be informed to whom I have the advantage of speaking. You have
introduced yourself here under pretext of a commission from Mynheer
Joshua Van Dael, a respectable merchant of Batavia, and--”
“You know the writing of M. Van Dael?” said Faringhea, interrupting
Rodin.
“I know it perfectly.”
“Look!” The half-caste drew from his pocket (he was shabbily dressed in
European clothes) a long dispatch, which he had taken from one Mahal the
Smuggler, after strangling him on the beach near Batavia. These papers
he placed before Rodin’s eyes, but without quitting his hold of them.
“It is, indeed, M. Van Dael’s writing,” said Rodin, and he stretched
out his hard towards the letter, which Faringhea quickly and prudently
returned to his pocket.
“Allow me to observe, my dear sir, that you have a singular manner of
executing a commission,” said Rodin. “This letter, being to my address,
and having been entrusted to you by M. Van Dael, you ought--”
“This letter was not entrusted to me by M. Van Dael,” said Faringhea,
interrupting Rodin.
“How, then, is it in your possession?”
“A Javanese smuggler betrayed me. Van Dael had secured a passage to
Alexandria for this man, and had given him this letter to carry with him
for the European mail. I strangled the smuggler, took the letter, made
the passage--and here I am.”
The Thug had pronounced these words with an air of savage boasting; his
wild, intrepid glance did not quail before the piercing look of Rodin,
who, at this strange confession, had hastily raised his head to observe
the speaker.
Faringhea thought to astonish or intimidate Rodin by these ferocious
words; but, to his great surprise, the socius, impassible as a corpse,
said to him, quite simply: “Oh! they strangle people in Java?”
“Yes, there and elsewhere,” answered Faringhea, with a bitter smile.
“I would prefer to disbelieve you; but I am surprised at your sincerity
M.--, what is your name?”
“Faringhea.”
“Well, then, M. Faringhea, what do you wish to come to? You have
obtained by an abominable crime, a letter addressed to me, and now you
hesitate to deliver it.”
“Because I have read it, and it may be useful to me.”
“Oh! you have read it?” said Rodin, disconcerted for a moment. Then he
resumed: “It is true, that judging by your mode of possessing yourself
of other people’s correspondence, we cannot expect any great amount of
honesty on your part. And pray what have you found so useful to you in
this letter?”
“I have found, brother, that you are, like myself, a son of the Good
Work.”
“Of what good work do you speak” asked Rodin not a little surprised.
Faringhea replied with an expression of bitter irony. “Joshua says to
you in his letter--‘Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft
and audacity, union between us, who have the world for our country, the
brethren for our family, Rome for our queen.’”
“It is possible that M. Van Dael has written thus to me Pray, sir, what
do you conclude from it?”
“We, too, have the world for our country, brother, our accomplices for
our family, and for our queen Bowanee.”
“I do not know that saint,” said Rodin, humbly.
“It is our Rome,” answered the Strangler. “Van Dael speaks to you of
those of your Order, who, scattered over all the earth, labor for
the glory of Rome, your queen. Those of our band labor also in divers
countries, for the glory of Bowanee.”
“And who are these sons of Bowanee, M. Faringhea?”
“Men of resolution, audacious, patient, crafty, obstinate, who, to make
the Good Work succeed, would sacrifice country and parents, and sister
and brother, and who regard as enemies all not of their band!”
“There seems to be much that is good in the persevering and exclusively
religious spirit of such an order,” said Rodin, with a modest and
sanctified air; “only, one must know your ends and objects.”
“The same as your own, brother--we make corpses.” (13)
“Corpses!” cried Rodin.
“In this letter,” resumed Faringhea, “Van Dael tells you that the
greatest glory of your Order is to make ‘a corpse of man.’ Our work also
is to make corpses of men. Man’s death is sweet to Bowanee.”
“But sir,” cried Rodin, “M. Van Dael speaks of the soul, of the will, of
the mind, which are to be brought down by discipline.”
“It is true--you kill the soul, and we the body. Give me your hand,
brother, for you also are hunters of men.”
“But once more, sir,--understand, that we only meddle with the will, the
mind,” said Rodin.
“And what are bodies deprived of soul, will, thought, but mere corpses?
Come--come, brother; the dead we make by the cord are not more icy and
inanimate than those you make by your discipline. Take my hand, brother;
Rome and Bowanee are sisters.”
Notwithstanding his apparent calmness, Rodin could not behold, without
some secret alarm, a wretch like Faringhea in possession of a long
letter from Van Dael, wherein mention must necessarily have been made of
Djalma. Rodin believed, indeed, that he had rendered it impossible for
the young Indian to be at Paris on the morrow, but not knowing what
connection might have been formed, since the shipwreck, between the
prince and the half-caste, he looked upon Faringhea as a man who might
probably be very dangerous. But the more uneasy the socius felt in
himself, the more he affected to appear calm and disdainful. He replied,
therefore: “This comparison between Rome and Bowanee is no doubt very
amusing; but what, sir, do you deduce from it?”
“I wish to show you, brother, what I am, and of what I am capable, to
convince you that it is better to have me for a friend than an enemy.”
“In other terms, sir,” said Rodin, with contemptuous irony, “you belong
to a murderous sect in India, and, you wish, by a transparent allegory,
to lead me to reflect on the fate of the man from whom you have stolen
the letter addressed to me. In my turn, I will take the freedom just
to observe to you, in all humility, M. Faringhea, that here it is not
permitted to strangle anybody, and that if you were to think fit to make
any corpses for the love of Bowanee, your goddess, we should make you a
head shorter, for the love of another divinity commonly called justice.”
“And what would they do to me, if I tried to poison any one?”
“I will again humbly observe to you, M. Faringhea, that I have no time
to give you a course of criminal jurisprudence; but, believe me, you
had better resist the temptation to strangle or poison any one. One word
more: will you deliver up to me the letters of M. Van Dael, or not?”
“The letters relative to Prince Djalma?” said the half-caste, looking
fixedly at Rodin, who, notwithstanding a sharp and sudden twinge,
remained impenetrable, and answered with the utmost simplicity: “Not
knowing what the letters which you, sir, are pleased to keep from me,
may contain, it is impossible for me to answer your question. I beg, and
if necessary, I demand, that you will hand me those letters--or that you
will retire.”
“In a few minutes, brother, you will entreat me to remain.”
“I doubt it.”
“A few words will operate--this miracle. If just now I spoke to you
about poisoning, brother, it was because you sent a doctor to Cardoville
Castle, to poison (at least for a time) Prince Djalma.”
In spite of himself, Rodin started almost imperceptibly, as he replied:
“I do not understand you.”
“It is true, that I am a poor foreigner, and doubtless speak with an
accent; I will try and explain myself better. I know, by Van Dael’s
letters, the interest you have that Prince Djalma should not be here to
morrow, and all that you have done with this view. Do you understand me
now?”
“I have no answer for you.”
Two cautious taps at the door here interrupted the conversation. “Come
in,” said Rodin.
“The letter has been taken to its address, sir,” said the old servant,
bowing, “and here is the answer.”
Rodin took the paper, and, before he opened it, said courteously to
Faringhea: “With your permission, sir?”
“Make no ceremonies,” said the half-caste.
“You are very kind,” replied Rodin, as, having read the letter he
received, he wrote hastily some words at the bottom, saying: “Send this
back to the same address.”
The servant bowed respectfully, and withdrew.
“Now can I continue”’ asked the half-caste, of Rodin.
“Certainly.”
“I will continue, then,” resumed Faringhea:
“The day before yesterday, just as the prince, all wounded as he
was, was about, by my advice, to take his departure for Paris, a fine
carriage arrived, with superb presents for Djalma, from an unknown
friend. In this carriage were two men--one sent by the unknown
friend--the other a doctor, sent by you to attend upon Djalma, and
accompany him to Paris. It was a charitable act, brother--was it not
so?”
“Go on with your story, sir.”
“Djalma set out yesterday. By declaring that the prince’s wound would
grow seriously worse, if he did not lie down in the carriage during all
the journey, the doctor got rid of the envoy of the unknown friend, who
went away by himself. The doctor wished to get rid of me too; but Djalma
so strongly insisted upon it, that I accompanied the prince and doctor.
Yesterday evening, we had come about half the distance. The doctor
proposed we should pass the night at an inn. ‘We have plenty of time,’
said he, ‘to reach Paris by to-morrow evening’--the prince having told
him, that he must absolutely be in Paris by the evening of the 12th. The
doctor had been very pressing to set out alone with the prince. I knew
by Van Dael’s letter, that it was of great importance to you for Djalma
not to be here on the 13th; I had my suspicions, and I asked the
doctor if he knew you; he answered with an embarrassed air, and then my
suspicion became certainty. When we reached the inn, whilst the doctor
was occupied with Djalma, I went up to the room of the former, and
examined a box full of phials that he had brought with him. One of them
contained opium--and then I guessed--”
“What did you guess, sir?”
“You shall know. The doctor said to Djalma, before he left him: ‘Your
wound is doing well, but the fatigue of the journey might bring on
inflammation; it will be good for you, in the course of to-morrow, to
take a soothing potion, that I will make ready this evening, to have
with us in the carriage.’ The doctor’s plan was a simple one,” added
Faringhea; “to-day the prince was to take the potion at four or five
o’clock in the afternoon--and fall into a deep sleep--the doctor to grow
uneasy, and stop the carriage--to declare that it would be dangerous to
continue the journey--to pass the night at an inn, and keep close watch
over the prince, whose stupor was only, to cease when it suited your
purposes. That was your design--it was cleverly planned--I chose to make
use of it myself, and I have succeeded.”
“All that you are talking about, my dear sir,” said Rodin, biting his
nails, “is pure Hebrew to me.”
“No doubt, because of my accent. But tell me, have you heard speak of
array--mow?”
“No.”
“Your loss! It is an admirable production of the Island of Java, so
fertile in poisons.”
“What is that to me?” said Rodin, in a sharp voice, but hardly able to
dissemble his growing anxiety.
“It concerns you nearly. We sons of Bowanee have a horror of shedding
blood,” resumed Faringhea; “to pass the cord round the neck of our
victims, we wait till they are asleep. When their sleep is not deep
enough, we know how to make it deeper. We are skillful at our work; the
serpent is not more cunning, or the lion more valiant, Djalma himself
bears our mark. The array-mow is an impalpable powder, and, by letting
the sleeper inhale a few grains of it, or by mixing it with the tobacco
to be smoked by a waking man, we can throw our victim into a stupor,
from which nothing will rouse him. If we fear to administer too strong a
dose at once, we let the sleeper inhale a little at different times, and
we can thus prolong the trance at pleasure, and without any danger,
as long as a man does not require meat and drink--say, thirty or
forty hours. You see, that opium is mere trash compared to this divine
narcotic. I had brought some of this with me from Java--as a mere
curiosity, you know--without forgetting the counter poison.”
“Oh! there is a counter-poison, then?” said Rodin, mechanically.
“Just as there are people quite contrary to what we are, brother of
the good work. The Javanese call the juice of this root tooboe; it
dissipates the stupor caused by the array-mow, as the sun disperses the
clouds. Now, yesterday evening, being certain of the projects of your
emissary against Djalma, I waited till the doctor was in bed and
asleep. I crept into his room, and made him inhale such a dose of
array-mow--that he is probably sleeping still.”
“Miscreant!” cried Rodin, more and more alarmed by this narrative, for
Faringhea had dealt a terrible blow at the machinations of the socius
and his friends. “You risk poisoning the doctor.”
“Yes, brother; just as he ran the risk of poisoning Djalma. This morning
we set out, leaving your doctor at the inn, plunged in a deep sleep.
I was alone in the carriage with Djalma. He smoked like a true Indian;
some grains of array-mow, mixed with the tobacco in his long pipe, first
made him drowsy; a second dose, that he inhaled, sent him to sleep; and
so I left him at the inn where we stopped. Now, brother, it depends
upon me, to leave Djalma in his trance, which will last till to-morrow
evening or to rouse him from it on the instant. Exactly as you
comply with my demands or not, Djalma will or will not be in the Rue
Saint-Francois to morrow.”
So saying, Faringhea drew from his pocket the medal belonging to Djalma,
and observed, as he showed it to Rodin: “You see that I tell you
the truth. During Djalma’s sleep, took from him this medal, the only
indication he has of the place where he ought to be to-morrow. I finish,
then as I began: Brother, I have come to ask you for a great deal.”
For some minutes, Rodin had been biting his nails to the quick, as was
his custom when seized with a fit of dumb and concentrated rage. Just
then, the bell of the porter’s lodge rang three times in a particular
manner. Rodin did not appear to notice it, and yet a sudden light
sparkled in his small reptile eyes; while Faringhea, with his arms
folded, looked at him with an expression of triumph and disdainful
superiority. The socius bent down his head, remained silent for some
seconds, took mechanically a pen from his desk, and began to gnaw the
feather, as if in deep reflection upon what Faringhea had just said.
Then, throwing down the pen upon the desk, he turned suddenly towards
the half-caste, and addressed him with an air of profound contempt “Now,
really, M. Faringhea--do you think to make game of us with your cock-and
bull stories?”
Amazed, in spite of his audacity, the half-caste recoiled a step.
“What, sir!” resumed Rodin. “You come here into a respectable house,
to boast that you have stolen letters, strangled this man, drugged that
other?--Why, sir, it is downright madness. I wished to hear you to the
end, to see to what extent you would carry your audacity--for none but a
monstrous rascal would venture to plume himself on such infamous crimes.
But I prefer believing, that they exist only in your imagination.”
As he barked out these words, with a degree of animation not usual
in him, Rodin rose from his seat, and approached the chimney, while
Faringhea, who had not yet recovered from his surprise, looked at him
in silence. In a few seconds, however, the half-caste returned, with a
gloomy and savage mien: “Take care, brother; do not force me to prove to
you that I have told the truth.”
“Come, come, sir; you must be fresh from the Antipodes, to believe us
Frenchmen such easy dupes. You have, you say, the prudence of a serpent,
and the courage of a lion. I do not know if you are a courageous lion,
but you are certainly not a prudent serpent. What! you have about you a
letter from M. Van Dael, by which I might be compromised--supposing all
this not to be a fable--you have left Prince Djalma in a stupor, which
would serve my projects, and from which you alone can rouse him--you are
able, you say, to strike a terrible blow at my interests--and yet you do
not consider (bold lion! crafty serpent as you are!) that I only want to
gain twenty-four hours upon you. Now, you come from the end of India to
Paris, an unknown stranger--you believe me to be as great a scoundrel as
yourself,--since you call me brother--and do not once consider, that you
are here in my power--that this street and house are solitary, and
that I could have three or four persons to bind you in a second, savage
Strangler though you are!--and that just by pulling this bell-rope,”
said Rodin, as he took it in his hand. “Do not be alarmed,” added he,
with a diabolical smile, as he saw Faringhea make an abrupt movement of
surprise and fright; “would I give you notice, if I meant to act in
this manner?--But just answer me. Once bound and put in confinement for
twenty-four hours, how could you injure me? Would it not be easy for
me to possess myself of Van Dael’s letter, and Djalma’s medal? and the
latter, plunged in a stupor till to-morrow evening, need not trouble me
at all. You see, therefore, that your threats are vain because they rest
upon falsehood--because it is not true, that Prince Djalma is here and
in your power. Begone, sir--leave the house; and when next you wish to
make dupes, show more judgment in the selection.”
Faringhea seemed struck with astonishment. All that he had just heard
seemed very probable. Rodin might seize upon him, the letter, and the
medal, and, by keeping him prisoner, prevent Djalma from being awakened.
And yet Rodin ordered him to leave the house, at the moment when
Faringhea had imagined himself so formidable. As he thought for
the motives of this inexplicable conduct, it struck him that Rodin,
notwithstanding the proofs he had brought him, did not yet believe that
Djalma was in his power. On that theory, the contempt of Van Dael’s
correspondent admitted of a natural explanation. But Rodin was playing a
bold and skillful game; and, while he appeared to mutter to himself,
as in anger, he was observing, with intense anxiety, the Strangler’s
countenance.
The latter, almost certain that he had divined the secret motive of
Rodin, replied: “I am going--but one word more. You think I deceive
you?”
“I am certain of it. You have told me nothing but a tissue of fables,
and I have lost much time in listening to them. Spare me the rest; it is
late--and I should like to be alone.”
“One minute more: you are a man, I see, from whom nothing should be
hid,” said Faringhea, “from Djalma, I could now only expect alms and
disdain--for, with a character like this, to say to him, ‘Pay me,
because I might have betrayed you and did not,’ would be to provoke his
anger and contempt. I could have killed him twenty times over, but his
day is not yet come,” said the Thug, with a gloomy air; “and to wait for
that and other fatal days, I must have gold, much gold. You alone can
pay me for the betrayal of Djalma, for you alone profit by it. You
refuse to hear me, because you think I am deceiving you. But I took the
direction of the inn where we stopped--and here it is. Send some one to
ascertain the truth of what I tell you, and then you will believe me.
But the price of my services will be high; for I told you that I wanted
much.”
So saying, Faringhea offered a printed card to Rodin: the socius, who,
out of the corner of his eye, followed all the half-caste’s movements,
appeared to be absorbed in thought, and taking no heed of anything.
“Here is the address,” repeated Faringhea, as he held out the card to
Rodin; “assure yourself that I do not lie.”
“Eh? what is it?” said the other, casting a rapid but stolen glance at
the address, which he read greedily, without touching the card.
“Take this address,” repeated the half-caste, “and you may then assure
yourself--”
“Really, sir,” cried Rodin, pushing back the card with his hand, “your
impudence confounds me. I repeat that I wish to have nothing in common
with you. For the last time, I tell you to leave the house. I know
nothing about your Prince Djalma. You say you can injure me--do so--make
no ceremonies--but, in heaven’s name, leave me to myself.”
So saying, Rodin rang the bell violently. Faringhea made a movement as
if to stand upon the defensive; but only the old servant, with his quiet
and placid mien, appeared at the door.
“Lapierre, light the gentleman out,” said Rodin, pointing to Faringhea.
Terrified at Rodin’s calmness, the half-caste hesitated to leave the
room.
“Why do you wait, sir?” said Rodin, remarking his hesitation. “I wish to
be alone.”
“So, sir,” said Faringhea, as he withdrew, slowly, “you refuse my
offers? Take care! to-morrow it will be too late.”
“I have the honor to be your most humble servant, sir,” said Rodin,
bowing courteously. The Strangler went out, and the door closed upon
him.
Immediately, Father d’Aigrigny entered from the next room. His
countenance was pale and agitated.
“What have you done?” exclaimed he addressing Rodin.
“I have heard all. I am unfortunately too sure that this wretch spoke
the truth. The Indian is in his power, and he goes to rejoin him.”
“I think not,” said Rodin, humbly, as bowing, he reassumed his dull and
submissive countenance.
“What will prevent this man from rejoining the prince?”
“Allow me. As soon as the rascal was shown in, I knew him; and so,
before speaking a word to him, I wrote a few lines to Morok, who was
waiting below with Goliath till your reverence should be at leisure.
Afterwards, in the course of the conversation, when they brought me
Morok’s answer, I added some fresh instructions, seeing the turn that
affairs were taking.”
“And what was the use of all this, since you have let the man leave the
house?”
“Your reverence will perhaps deign to observe that he did not leave it;
till he had given me the direction of the hotel where the Indian now is,
thanks to my innocent stratagem of appearing to despise him. But, if it
had failed, Faringhea would still have fallen into the hands of Goliath
and Morok, who are waiting for him in the street, a few steps from the
door. Only we should have been rather embarrassed, as we should not have
known where to find Prince Djalma.”
“More violence!” said Father d’Aigrigny, with repugnance.
“It is to be regretted, very much regretted,” replied Rodin; “but it was
necessary to follow out the system already adopted.”
“Is that meant for a reproach?” said Father d’Aigrigny, who began to
think that Rodin was something more than a mere writing-machine.
“I could not permit myself to blame your reverence,” said Rodin,
cringing almost to the ground. “But all that will be required is to
confine this man for twenty-four hours.”
“And afterwards--his complaints?”
“Such a scoundrel as he is will not dare to complain. Besides, he left
this house in freedom. Morok and Goliath will bandage his eyes when they
seize him. The house has another entrance in the Rue Vieille-des-Ursins.
At this hour, and in such a storm, no one will be passing through this
deserted quarter of the town. The knave will be confused by the change
of place; they will put him into a cellar, of the new building, and to
morrow night, about the same hour, they will restore him to liberty with
the like precautions. As for the East Indian, we now know where to find
him; we must send to him a confidential person, and, if he recovers from
his trance, there would be, in my humble opinion,” said Rodin, modestly,
“a very simple and quiet manner of keeping him away from the Rue Saint
Francois all day to-morrow.”
The same servant with the mild countenance, who had introduced and shown
out Faringhea, here entered the room, after knocking discreetly at the
door. He held in his hand a sort of game-bag, which he gave to Rodin,
saying: “Here is what M. Morok has just brought; he came in by the Rue
Vieille.”
The servant withdrew, and Rodin, opening the bag, said to Father
d’Aigrigny, as he showed him the contents: “The medal, and Van Dael’s
letter. Morok has been quick at his work.”
“One more danger avoided,” said the marquis; “it is a pity to be forced
to such measures.”
“We must only blame the rascal who has obliged us to have recourse to
them. I will send instantly to the hotel where the Indian lodges.”
“And, at seven in the morning, you will conduct Gabriel to the Rue Saint
Francois. It is there that I must have with him the interview which he
has so earnestly demanded these three days.”
“I informed him of it this evening, and he awaits your orders.”
“At last, then,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “after so many struggles, and
fears, and crosses, only a few hours separate us from the moment which
we have so long desired.”
We now conduct the reader to the house in the Rue Saint-Francois.
(13) The doctrine of passive and absolute obedience, the principal tool
in the hands of the Jesuits, as summed up in these terrible words of the
dying Loyola--that every member of the order should be in the hands of
his superiors as a dead body--‘perinde ad cadaver’.
CHAPTER XVII. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-FRANCOIS.
On entering the Rue Saint-Gervais, by the Rue Dore (in the Marais),
you would have found yourself, at the epoch of this narrative, directly
opposite to an enormously high wall, the stones of which were black and
worm-eaten with age. This wall, which extended nearly the whole length
of that solitary street, served to support a terrace shaded by trees
of some hundred years old, which thus grew about forty feet above the
causeway. Through their thick branches appeared the stone front, peaked
roof and tall brick chimneys of an antique house, the entrance of which
was situated in the Rue Saint-Francois, not far from the Rue Saint
Gervais corner. Nothing could be more gloomy than the exterior of this
abode. On the entrance-side also was a very high wall, pierced with two
or three loop-holes, strongly grated. A carriage gateway in massive oak,
barred with iron, and studded with large nail-heads, whose primitive
color disappeared beneath a thick layer of mud, dust, and rust, fitted
close into the arch of a deep recess, forming the swell of a bay window
above. In one of these massive gates was a smaller door, which served
for ingress and egress to Samuel the Jew, the guardian of this dreary
abode. On passing the threshold, you came to a passage, formed in the
building which faced in the street. In this building was the lodging of
Samuel, with its windows opening upon the rather spacious inner court
yard, through the railing of which you perceived the garden. In the
middle of this garden stood a two-storied stone house, so strangely
built, that you had to mount a flight of steps, or rather a
double-flight of at least twenty steps, to reach the door, which had
been walled up a hundred and fifty years before. The window-blinds
of this habitation had been replaced by large thick plates of lead,
hermetically soldered and kept in by frames of iron clamped in the
stone. Moreover, completely to intercept air and light, and thus to
guard against decay within and without, the roof had been covered with
thick sheets of lead, as well as the vents of the tall chimneys, which
had previously been bricked up. The same precautions had been taken with
respect to a small square belvedere, situated on the top of the house;
this glass cage was covered with a sort of dome, soldered to the roof.
Only, in consequence of some singular fancy, in every one of the leaden
plates, which concealed the four sides of the belvedere, corresponding
to the cardinal points, seven little round holes had been bored in
the form of a cross, and were easily distinguishable from the outside.
Everywhere else the plates of lead were completely unpierced. Thanks
to these precautions, and to the substantial structure of the
building, nothing but a few outward repairs had been necessary; and the
apartments, entirely removed from the influence of the external air, no
doubt remained, during a century and a half, exactly in the same state
as at the time of their being shut up. The aspect of walls in crevices,
of broken, worm-eaten shutters, of a roof half fallen in, and windows
covered with wall-flowers, would perhaps have been less sad than the
appearance of this stone house, plated with iron and lead, and preserved
like a mausoleum. The garden, completely deserted, and only regularly
visited once a week by Samuel, presented to the view, particularly in
summer, an incredible confusion of parasites and brambles. The trees,
left to themselves, had shot forth and mingled their branches in all
directions; some straggling vines, reproduced from offshoots, had
crept along the ground to the foot of the trees, and, climbing up their
trunks, had twined themselves about them, and encircled their highest
branches with their inextricable net. You could only pass through this
virgin forest by following the path made by the guardian, to go from the
grating to the house, the approaches to which were a little sloped to
let the water run off, and carefully paved to the width of about ten
feet. Another narrow path which extended all around the enclosure, was
every night perambulated by two or three Pyrenees dogs--a faithful race,
which had been perpetuated in the house during a century and a half.
Such was the habitation destined for the meeting of the descendants of
the family of Rennepont. The night which separated the 12th from the
13th day of February was near its close. A calm had succeeded the storm,
and the rain had ceased; the sky was clear and full of stars; the moon,
on its decline, shone with a mild lustre, and threw a melancholy light
over that deserted, silent house, whose threshold for so many years no
human footstep had crossed.
A bright gleam of light, issuing from one of the windows of the
guardian’s dwelling, announced that Samuel was awake. Figure to yourself
a tolerably large room, lined from top to bottom with old walnut
wainscoting browned to an almost black, with age. Two half-extinguished
brands are smoking amid the cinders on the hearth. On the stone
mantelpiece, painted to resemble gray granite, stands an old iron
candlestick, furnished with a meagre candle, capped by an extinguisher.
Near it one sees a pair of double-barrelled pistols, and a sharp
cutlass, with a hilt of carved bronze, belonging to the seventeenth
century. Moreover, a heavy rifle rests against one of the chimney jambs.
Four stools, an old oak press, and a square table with twisted legs,
formed the sole furniture of this apartment. Against the wall were
systematically suspended a number of keys of different sizes, the shape
of which bore evidence to their antiquity, whilst to their rings were
affixed divers labels. The back of the old press, which moved by a
secret spring, had been pushed aside, and discovered, built in the wall,
a large and deep iron chest, the lid of which, being open, displayed
the wondrous mechanism of one of those Florentine locks of the sixteenth
century, which, better than any modern invention, set all picklocks
at defiance; and, moreover, according to the notions of that age, are
supplied with a thick lining of asbestos cloth, suspended by gold wire
at a distance from the sides of the chest, for the purpose of rendering
incombustible the articles contained in it. A large cedar-wood box
had been taken from the chest, and placed upon a stool; it contained
numerous papers, carefully arranged and docketed. By the light of a
brass lamp, the old keeper Samuel, was writing in a small register,
whilst Bathsheba, his wife, was dictating to him from an account. Samuel
was about eighty two years old, and, notwithstanding his advanced age, a
mass of gray curling hair covered his head. He was short, thin, nervous,
and the involuntary petulance of his movements proved that years had not
weakened his energy and activity; though, out of doors, where, however,
he made his appearance very seldom, he affected a sort of second
childhood, as had been remarked by Rodin to Father d’Aigrigny. An old
dressing-gown, of maroon-colored camlet, with large sleeves, completely
enveloped the old man, and reached to his feet.
Samuel’s features were cast in the pure, Eastern mould of his race. His
complexion was of a dead yellow, his nose aquiline, his chin shaded by
a little tuft of white beard, while projecting cheek-bones threw a harsh
shadow upon the hollow and wrinkled cheeks. His countenance was full of
intelligence, fine sharpness, and sagacity. On his broad, high forehead
one might read frankness, honesty, and firmness; his eyes, black and
brilliant as an Arab’s, were at once mild and piercing.
His wife, Bathsheba, some fifteen years younger than himself, was of
tall stature, and dressed entirely in black. A low cap, of starched
lawn, which reminded one of the grave head-dresses of Dutch matrons,
encircled a pale and austere countenance, formerly of a rare and haughty
beauty, and impressed with the Scriptural character. Some lines in the
forehead, caused by the almost continual knitting of her gray brows,
showed that this woman had often suffered from the pressure of intense
grief.
At this very moment her countenance betrayed inexpressible sorrow. Her
look was fixed, her head resting on her bosom. She had let her right
hand, which held a small account-book, fall upon her lap, while the
other hand grasped convulsively a long tress of jet-black hair, which
she bore about her neck. It was fastened by a golden clasp, about an
inch square, in which, under a plate of crystal, that shut in one side
of it like a relic-case, could be seen a piece of linen, folded square,
and almost entirely covered with dark red spots that resembled blood a
long time dried.
After a short silence, during which Samuel was occupied with his
register, he read aloud what he had just been writing: “Per contra,
5,000 Austrian Metallics of 1,000 florins, under date of October 19th,
1826.”
After which enumeration, Samuel raised his head, and said to his wife:
“Well, is it right, Bathsheba? Have you compared it with the account
book?”
Bathsheba did not answer. Samuel looked at her, and, seeing that she was
absorbed in grief, said to her, with an expression of tender anxiety:
“What is the matter? Good heaven! what is the matter with you?”
“The 19th of October, 1826,” said she, slowly, with her eyes still
fixed, and pressing yet more closely the lock of black hair which she
wore about her neck; “It was a fatal day--for, Samuel, it was the date
of the last letter which we received from--”
Bathsheba was unable to proceed. She uttered a long sigh, and concealed
her face in her hands.
“Oh! I understand you,” observed the old man, in a tremulous voice; “a
father may be taken up by the thought of other cares; but the heart of
a mother is ever wakeful.” Throwing his pen down upon the table, Samuel
leaned his forehead upon his hands in sorrow.
Bathsheba resumed, as if she found a melancholy pleasure in these cruel
remembrances: “Yes; that was the last day on which our son, Abel, wrote
to us from Germany, to announce to us that he had invested the funds
according to your desire and was going thence into Poland, to effect
another operation.”
“And in Poland he met the death of a martyr,” added Samuel. “With no
motive and no proof, they accused him falsely of coming to organize
smuggling, and the Russian governor, treating him as they treat our
brothers in that land of cruel tyranny, condemned him to the dreadful
punishment of the knout, without even hearing him in his defence. Why
should they hear a Jew? What is a Jew? A creature below a serf, whom
they reproach for all the vices that a degrading slavery has engendered.
A Jew beaten to death? Who would trouble themselves about it?”
“And poor Abel, so good, so faithful, died beneath their stripes, partly
from shame, partly from the wounds,” said Bathsheba, shuddering. “One
of our Polish brethren obtained with great difficulty permission to
bury him. He cut off this lock of beautiful black hair--which, with this
scrap of linen, bathed in the blood of our dear son, is all that
now remains to us of him.” Bathsheba covered the hair and clasp with
convulsive kisses.
“Alas!” said Samuel, drying his tears, which had burst forth at these
sad recollections, “the Lord did not at last remove our child, until the
task which our family has accomplished faithfully for a century and a
half was nearly at an end. Of what use will our race be henceforth upon
earth?” added Samuel, most bitterly. “Our duty is performed. This casket
contains a royal fortune--and yonder house, walled up for a hundred
and fifty years, will be opened to-morrow to the descendants of my
ancestor’s benefactor.” So saying, Samuel turned his face sorrowfully
towards the house, which he could see through the window. The dawn was
just about to appear. The moon had set; belvedere, roof, and chimneys
formed a black mass upon the dark blue of the starry firmament.
Suddenly, Samuel grew pale, and, rising abruptly, said to his wife in
a tremulous tone, whilst he still pointed to the house: “Bathsheba! the
seven points of light--just as it was thirty years ago. Look! look:”
Indeed, the seven round holes, bored in the form of a cross in the
leaden plates which covered the window of the belvedere, sparkled like
so many luminous points, as if some one in the house ascended with a
light to the roof.
CHAPTER XVIII. DEBIT AND CREDIT.
For some seconds, Samuel and Bathsheba remained motionless, with their
eyes fixed in fear and uneasiness on the seven luminous points,
which shone through the darkness of the night from the summit of the
belvedere; while, on the horizon, behind the house, a pale, rosy hue
announced the dawn of day.
Samuel was the first to break silence, and he said to his wife, as he
drew his hand across his brow: “The grief caused by the remembrance of
our poor child has prevented us from reflecting that, after all, there
should be nothing to alarm us in what we see.”
“How so, Samuel?”
“My father always told me that he, and my grandfather before him, had
seen such lights at long intervals.”
“Yes, Samuel--but without being able, any more than ourselves, to
explain the cause.”
“Like my father and grandfather, we can only suppose that some secret
passage gives admittance to persons who, like us, have some mysterious
duty to fulfil in this dwelling. Besides, my father warned me not to be
uneasy at these appearances, foretold by him, and now visible for the
second time in thirty years.”
“No matter for that, Samuel, it does strike one as if it was something
supernatural.”
“The days of miracles are over.” said the Jew, shaking his head
sorrowfully: “many of the old houses in this quarter have subterraneous
communications with distant places--some extending even to the Seine and
the Catacombs. Doubtless, this house is so situated, and the persons who
make these rare visits enter by some such means.”
“But that the belvedere should be thus lighted up?”
“According to the plan of the building, you know that the belvedere
forms a kind of skylight to the apartment called the Great Hall of
Mourning, situated on the upper story. As it is completely dark, in
consequence of the closing of all the windows, they must use a light to
visit this Hall of Mourning--a room which is said to contain some very
strange and gloomy things,” added the Jew, with a shudder.
Bathsheba, as well as her husband, gazed attentively on the seven
luminous points, which diminished in brightness as the daylight
gradually increased.
“As you say, Samuel, the mystery may be thus explained,” resumed the
Hebrew’s wife. “Besides, the day is so important a one for the family
of Rennepont, that this apparition: ought not to astonish us under the
circumstances.”
“Only to think,” remarked Samuel, “that these lights have appeared at
several different times throughout a century and a half! There must,
therefore, be another family that, like ours, has devoted itself, from
generation to generation, to accomplish a pious duty.”
“But what is this duty? It will perhaps be explained today.”
“Come, come, Bathsheba,” suddenly exclaimed Samuel, as if roused from
his reverie, and reproaching himself with idleness; this is the day,
and, before eight o’clock, our cash account must be in order, and these
titles to immense property arranged, so that they may be delivered to
the rightful owners”--and he pointed to the cedar-wood box.
“You are right, Samuel; this day does not belong to us. It is a solemn
day--one that would have been sweet, oh! very sweet to you and me--if
now any days could be sweet to us,” said Bathsheba bitterly, for she was
thinking of her son.
“Bathsheba,” said Samuel, mournfully, as he laid his hand on his wife’s;
“we shall at least have the stern satisfaction of having done our duty.
And has not the Lord been very favorable to us, though He has thus
severely tried us by the death of our son? Is it not thanks to His
providence that three generations of my family have been able to
commence, continue, and finish this great work?”
“Yes, Samuel,” said the Jewess, affectionately, “and for you at least
this satisfaction will be combined with calm and quietness, for on
the stroke of noon you will be delivered from a very terrible
responsibility.”
So saying, Bathsheba pointed to the box.
“It is true,” replied the old man; “I had rather these immense riches
were in the hands of those to whom they belong, than in mine; but, to
day, I shall cease to be their trustee. Once more then, I will check the
account for the last time, and compare the register with the cash-book
that you hold in your hand.”
Bathsheba bowed her head affirmatively, and Samuel, taking up his pen,
occupied himself once more with his calculations. His wife, in spite
of herself, again yielded to the sad thoughts which that fatal date had
awakened, by reminding her of the death of her son.
Let us now trace rapidly the history, in appearance so romantic and
marvellous, in reality so simple, of the fifty thousand crowns, which,
thanks to the law of accumulation, and to a prudent, intelligent and
faithful investment, had naturally, and necessarily, been transformed,
in the space of a century and a half, into a sum far more important
than the forty millions estimated by Father d’Aigrigny--who, partially
informed on this subject, and reckoning the disastrous accidents,
losses, and bankruptcies which might have occurred during so long a
period, believed that forty millions might well b e considered enormous.
The history of this fortune being closely connected with that of the
Samuel family, by whom it had been managed for three generations, we
shall give it again in a few words.
About the period 1670, some years before his death, Marius de Rennepont,
then travelling in Portugal, had been enabled, by means of powerful
interest, to save the life of an unfortunate Jew, condemned to be burnt
alive by the Inquisition, because of his religion. This Jew was Isaac
Samuel, grandfather of the present guardian of the house in the Rue
Saint-Francois.
Generous men often attach themselves to those they have served, as much,
at least, as the obliged parties are attached to their benefactors.
Having ascertained that Isaac, who at that time carried on a petty
broker’s business at Lisbon, was industrious, honest, active, laborious,
and intelligent, M. de Rennepont, who then possessed large property
in France, proposed to the Jew to accompany him, and undertake the
management of his affairs. The same hatred and suspicion with which the
Israelites have always been followed, was then at its height. Isaac was
therefore doubly grateful for this mark of confidence on the part of
M. de Rennepont. He accepted the offer, and promised from that day to
devote his existence to the service of him who had first saved his life,
and then trusted implicitly to his good faith and uprightness, although
he was a Jew, and belonged to a race generally suspected and despised.
M. de Rennepont, a man of great soul, endowed with a good spirit, was
not deceived in his choice. Until he was deprived of his fortune, it
prospered wonderfully in the hands of Isaac Samuel, who, gifted with an
admirable aptitude for business, applied himself exclusively to advance
the interests of his benefactor.
Then came the persecution and ruin of M. de Rennepont, whose property
was confiscated and given up to the reverend fathers of the Company of
Jesus only a few days before his death. Concealed in the retreat he had
chosen, therein to put a violent end to his life, he sent secretly for
Isaac Samuel, and delivered to him fifty thousand crowns in gold, the
last remains of his fortune. This faithful servant was to invest the
money to the best advantage, and, if he should have a son, transmit to
him the same obligation; or, should he have no child, he was to seek out
some relation worthy of continuing this trust, to which would moreover
be annexed a fair reward. It was thus to be transmitted and perpetuated
from relative to relative, until the expiration of a century and a half.
M. de Rennepont also begged Isaac to take charge, during his life, of
the house in the Rue Saint-Francois, where he would be lodged gratis,
and to leave this function likewise to his descendants, if it were
possible.
If even Isaac Samuel had not had children, the powerful bond of union
which exists between certain Jewish families, would have rendered
practicable the last will of De Rennepont. The relations of Isaac would
have become partner; in his gratitude to his benefactor, and they, and
their succeeding generations, would have religiously accomplished the
task imposed upon one of their race. But, several years after the death
of De Rennepont, Isaac had a son.
This son, Levy Samuel, born in 1689, not having had any children by his
first wife, married again at nearly sixty years of age, and, in 1750, he
also had a son--David Samuel, the guardian of the house in the Rue Saint
Francois, who, in 1832 (the date of this narrative), was eighty-two
years old, and seemed likely to live as long as his father, who had died
at the age of ninety-three. Finally, Abel Samuel, the son whom Bathsheba
so bitterly regretted, born in 1790, had perished under the Russian
knout, at the age of thirty-six.
Having established this humble genealogy, we easily understand how this
successive longevity of three members of the Samuel family, all of whom
had been guardians of the walled house, by uniting, as it were, the
nineteenth with the seventeenth century, simplified and facilitated
the execution of M. de Rennepont’s will; the latter having declared his
desire to the grandfather of the Samuels, that the capital should only
be augmented by interest at five per cent.--so that the fortune might
come to his descendants free from all taint of usurious speculation.
The fellow men of the Samuel family, the first inventors of the bill of
exchange, which served them in the Middle Ages to transport mysteriously
considerable amounts from one end of the world to the other, to conceal
their fortune, and to shield it from the rapacity of their enemies--the
Jews, we say, having almost the monopoly of the trade in money and
exchanges, until the end of the eighteenth century, aided the secret
transactions and financial operations of this family, which, up to about
1820, placed their different securities, which had become progressively
immense, in the hands of the principal Israelitish bankers and merchants
of Europe. This sure and secret manner of acting had enabled the present
guardian of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois, to effect enormous
investments, unknown to all; and it was more especially during the
period of his management, that the capital sum had acquired, by the mere
fact of compound interest, an almost incalculable development. Compared
with him, his father and grandfather had only small amounts to manage.
Though it had only been necessary to find successively sure and
immediate investments, so that the money might not remain as it were
one day without bearing interest, it had acquired financial capacity to
attain this result, when so many millions were in question. The last of
the Samuels, brought up in the school of his father, had exhibited
this capacity in a very high degree, as will be seen immediately by the
results. Nothing could be more touching, noble, and respectable, than
the conduct of the members of this Jewish family, who, partners in the
engagement of gratitude taken by their ancestor, devote themselves for
long years, with as much disinterestedness as intelligence and honesty,
to the slow acquisition of a kingly fortune, of which they expect no
part themselves, but which, thanks to them, would come pure, as immense,
to the hands of the descendants of their benefactor! Nor could anything
be more honorable to him who made, and him who received this deposit,
than the simple promise by word of mouth, unaccompanied by any security
save mutual confidence and reciprocal esteem, when the result was only
to be produced at the end of a century and a half!
After once more reading his inventory with attention, Samuel said to his
wife: “I am certain of the correctness of my additions. Now please
to compare with the account-book in your hand the summary of the
investments that I have just entered in the register. I will assure
myself, at the same time, that the bonds and vouchers are properly
arranged in this casket, that, on the opening of the will, they may be
delivered in order to the notary.”
“Begin, my dear, and I will check you,” said Bathsheba.
Samuel read as follows, examining as he went on, the contents of his
casket:
Statement of the account of the heirs of M. DE RENNEPONT, delivered by
DAVID SAMUELS.
DEBIT.
2,000,000 francs per annum,
in the French 5 P. C.,
bought from 1825 to 1832,
at an average price of 99f.
50c............ 39,800,000
900,000 francs, ditto, in
the French 3 P. C.,
bought during the
same years, at an average
of 74f 25c........ 22,275,000
5;000 shares in the Bank
of France, bought at 1,900 9,500,000
3,000 shares in the Four
Canals, in a certificate
from the Company,
bought at 1,115f..... 3,345,000
125,000 ducats of
Neapolitans, at an average
of 82. 2,050,000 ducats,
at 4f. 400....... 9,020,000
5,000 Austrian Metallics,
of 1,000 florins, at 93
--say 4,650,000 florins,
at 2f. 50c........ 11,625,000
75,000 pounds sterling
per annum, English
Consolidated 3 P. C.,
at 88 3/4--say 2,218,750,
at 25f......... 55,468,750
1,200,000 florins, Dutch
2 1/2 P. C., at 60-28,
860,000 florins, at 2f.
100........... 60,606,000
Cash in banknotes, gold
and silver........ 535,250
------
Francs 212,175,000
Paris, 12th February, 1832.
CREDIT.
150,000 francs
received from M.
de Rennepont,
in 1682, by Isaac
Samuel my grandfather;
and invested by him,
my father, and myself,
in different securities,
at Five per Cent.
Interest, with a
settlement of account
and Investment of
interest every six
months, producing,
as by annexed vouchers, 225,950,000
Less losses sustained
by failures, expenses of
commission and
brokerage, and
salary of three
generations of
trustees, as per
statement annexed 13,775,000
----------
212,175,000
Francs 212,175,000
“It is quite right,” said Samuel, after examining the papers, contained
in the cedar-wood box. “There remains in hand, at the absolute disposal
of the heirs of the Rennepont family, the Sum Of TWO HUNDRED AND TWELVE
MILLIONS, ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND FRANCS.” And the old man
looked at his wife with an expression of legitimate pride. “It is hardly
credible!” cried Bathsheba, struck with surprise. “I knew that you had
immense property in your hands; but I could never have believed, that
one hundred and fifty thousand francs, left a century and a half ago,
should be the only source of this immense fortune.”
“It is even so, Bathsheba,” answered the old man, proudly. “Doubtless,
my grandfather, my father, and myself, have all been exact and faithful
in the management of these funds; doubtless, we have required some
sagacity in the choice of investments, in times of revolution and
commercial panics; but all this was easy to us, thanks to our relations
with our brethren in all countries--and never have I, or any of mine,
made an usurious investment, or even taken the full advantage of
the legal rate of interest. Such were the positive demands of M. de
Rennepont, given to my grandfather; nor is there in the world a
fortune that has been obtained by purer means. Had it not been for this
disinterestedness, we might have much augmented this two hundred
and twelve millions, only by taking advantage of a few favorable
circumstances.”
“Dear me! is it possible?”
“Nothing is more simple, Bathsheba. Every one knows, that in fourteen
years a capital will be doubled, by the mere accumulation of interest
and compound interest at five per cent. Now reflect, that in a century
and a half there are ten times fourteen years, and that these one
hundred and fifty thousands francs have thus been doubled and redoubled,
over and over again. All that astonishes you will then appear plain
enough. In 1682, M. de Rennepont entrusted my grandfather with a hundred
and fifty thousand francs; this sum, invested as I have told you, would
have produced in 1696, fourteen years after, three hundred thousand
francs. These last, doubled in 1710, would produce six hundred thousand.
On the death of my grandfather in 1719, the amount was already near a
million; in 1724, it would be twelve hundred thousand francs; in 1738,
two millions four hundred thousand; in 1752, about two years after my
birth, four millions eight hundred thousand; in 1766, nine millions six
hundred thousand; in 1780, nineteen millions two hundred thousand; in
1794, twelve years after the death of my father, thirty-eight millions
four hundred thousand; in 1808, seventy-six millions eight hundred
thousand; in 1822, one hundred and fifty-three millions six hundred
thousand; and, at this time, taking the compound interest for ten years,
it should be at least two hundred and twenty-five millions. But losses
and inevitable charges, of which the account has been strictly kept,
have reduced the sum to two hundred and twelve millions one hundred and
seventy-five thousand francs, the securities for which are in this box.”
“I now understand you, my dear,” answered Bathsheba, thoughtfully;
“but how wonderful is this power of accumulation! and what admirable
provision may be made for the future, with the smallest present
resources!”
“Such, no doubt, was the idea of M. de Rennepont; for my father has
often told me, and he derived it from his father, that M. de Rennepont
was one of the soundest intellects of his time,” said Samuel, as he
closed the cedar-box.
“God grant his descendants may be worthy of this kingly fortune, and
make a noble use of it!” said Bathsheba, rising.
It was now broad day, and the clock had just struck seven.
“The masons will soon be here,” said Samuel, as he replaced the
cedar-box in the iron safe, concealed behind the antique press. “Like
you, Bathsheba, I am curious and anxious to know, what descendants of M.
de Rennepont will now present themselves.”
Two or three loud knocks on the outer gate resounded through the house.
The barking of the watch-dogs responded to this summons.
Samuel said to his wife: “It is no doubt the masons, whom the notary has
sent with his clerk. Tie all the keys and their labels together; I will
come back and fetch them.”
So saying, Samuel went down to the door with much nimbleness,
considering his age, prudently opened a small wicket, and saw three
workmen, in the garb of masons, accompanied by a young man dressed in
black.
“What may you want, gentlemen?” said the Jew, before opening the door,
as he wished first to make sure of the identity of the personages.
“I am sent by M. Dumesnil, the notary,” answered the clerk, “to be
present at the unwalling of a door. Here is a letter from my master,
addressed to M. Samuel, guardian of the house.”
“I am he, sir,” said the Jew; “please to put the letter through the
slide, and I will take it.”
The clerk did as Samuel desired, but shrugged his shoulders at what
he considered the ridiculous precautions of a suspicious old man. The
housekeeper opened the box, took the letter, went to the end of
the vaulted passage in order to read it, and carefully compared the
signature with that of another letter which he drew from the pocket
of his long coat; then, after all these precautions, he chained up his
dogs, and returned to open the gate to the clerk and masons.
“What the devil, my good man!” said the clerk, as he entered; “there
would not be more formalities in opening the gates of a fortress!”
The Jew bowed, but without answering.
“Are you deaf, my good fellow?” cried the clerk, close to his ears.
“No, sir,” said Samuel, with a quiet smile, as he advanced several steps
beyond the passage. Then pointing to the old house, he added: “That,
sir, is the door which you will have to open; you will also have to
remove the lead and iron from the second window to the right.”
“Why not open all the windows?” asked the clerk.
“Because, sir, as guardian of this house, I have received particular
orders on the subject.”
“Who gave you these orders?”
“My father, sir, who received them from his father, who transmitted them
from the master of this house. When I cease to have the care of it, the
new proprietor will do as he pleases.”
“Oh! very well,” said the clerk, not a little surprised. Then,
addressing himself to the masons, he added: “This is your business, my
fine fellows; you are to unwall the door, and remove the iron frame-work
of the second window to the right.”
Whilst the masons set to work, under the inspection of the notary’s
clerk, a coach stopped before the outer gate, and Rodin, accompanied by
Gabriel, entered the house in the Rue Saint-Francois.
CHAPTER XIX. THE HEIR
Samuel opened the door to Gabriel and Rodin.
The latter said to the Jew, “You, sir, are the keeper of this house?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Samuel.
“This is Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont,” said Rodin, as he introduced his
companion, “one of the descendants of the family of the Renneponts.”
“Happy to hear it, sir,” said the Jew, almost involuntarily, struck with
the angelic countenance of Gabriel--for nobleness and serenity of soul
were visible in the glance of the young priest, and were written upon
his pure, white brow, already crowned with the halo of martyrdom. Samuel
looked at Gabriel with curiosity and benevolent interest; but feeling
that this silent contemplation must cause some embarrassment to his
guest, he said to him, “M. Abbe, the notary will not be here before ten
o’clock.”
Gabriel looked at him in turn, with an air of surprise, and answered,
“What notary, sir?”
“Father d’Aigrigny will explain all this to you,” said Rodin, hastily.
Then addressing Samuel, he added, “We are a little before the time. Will
you allow us to wait for the arrival of the notary?”
“Certainly,” said Samuel, “if you please to walk into my house.”
“I thank you, sir,” answered Rodin, “and accept your offer.”
“Follow me, then, gentlemen,” said the old man.
A few moments after, the young priest and the socius, preceded by
Samuel, entered one of the rooms occupied by the latter, on the
ground-floor of the building, looking out upon the court-yard.
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny, who has been the guardian of M. Gabriel, will soon
be coming to ask for us,” added Rodin; “will you have the kindness, sir
to show him into this room?”
“I will not fail to do so, sir,” said Samuel, as he went out.
The socius and Gabriel were left alone. To the adorable gentleness which
usually gave to the fine features of the missionary so touching a charm,
there had succeeded in this moment a remarkable expression of sadness,
resolution, and severity. Rodin not having seen Gabriel for some days,
was greatly struck by the change he remarked in him. He had watched him
silently all the way from the Rue des Postes to the Rue Saint-Francois.
The young priest wore, as usual, a long black cassock, which made still
more visible the transparent paleness of his countenance. When the Jew
had left the room, Gabriel said to Rodin, in a firm voice, “Will you at
length inform me, sir, why, for some days past, I have been prevented
from speaking to his reverence Father d’Aigrigny? Why has he chosen this
house to grant me an interview?”
“It is impossible for me to answer these questions,” replied Rodin,
coldly. “His reverence will soon arrive, and will listen to you. All I
can tell you is, that the reverend father lays as much stress upon this
meeting as you do. If he has chosen this house for the interview, it is
because you have an interest to be here. You know it well--though you
affected astonishment on hearing the guardian speak of a notary.”
So saying, Rodin fixed a scrutinizing, anxious look upon Gabriel, whose
countenance expressed only surprise.
“I do not understand you,” said he, in reply to Rodin. “What have I to
do with this house?”
“It is impossible that you should not know it,” answered Rodin, still
looking at him with attention.
“I have told you, sir, that I do not know it,” replied the other, almost
offended by the pertinacity of the socius.
“What, then, did your adopted mother come to tell you yesterday? Why did
you presume to receive her without permission from Father d’Aigrigny, as
I have heard this morning? Did she not speak with you of certain family
papers, found upon you when she took you in?”
“No, sir,” said Gabriel; “those papers were delivered at the time to
my adopted mother’s confessor, and they afterwards passed into Father
d’Aigrigny’s hands. This is the first I hear for a long time of these
papers.”
“So you affirm that Frances Baudoin did not come to speak to you on
this subject?” resumed Rodin, obstinately, laying great emphasis on his
words.
“This is the second time, sir, that you seem to doubt my affirmation,”
said the young priest, mildly, while he repressed a movement of
impatience, “I assure you that I speak the truth.”
“He knows nothing,” thought Rodin; for he was too well convinced of
Gabriel’s sincerity to retain the least doubt after so positive a
declaration. “I believe you,” went on he. “The idea only occurred to me
in reflecting what could be the reason of sufficient weight to induce
you to transgress Father d’Aigrigny’s orders with regard to the absolute
retirement he had commanded, which was to exclude all communication with
those without. Much more, contrary to all the rules of our house, you
ventured to shut the door of your room, whereas it ought to remain half
open, that the mutual inspection enjoined us might be the more easily
practiced. I could only explain these sins against discipline, by the
necessity of some very important conversation with your adopted mother.”
“It was to a priest, and not to her adopted son, that Madame Baudoin
wished to speak,” replied Gabriel, in a tone of deep seriousness. “I
closed my door because I was to hear a confession.”
“And what had Frances Baudoin of such importance to confess?”
“You will know that by-and-bye, when I speak to his reverence--if it be
his pleasure that you should hear me.”
These words were so firmly spoken, that a long silence ensued. Let us
remind the reader that Gabriel had hitherto been kept by his superiors
in the most complete ignorance of the importance of the family interests
which required his presence in the Rue Saint-Francois. The day before,
Frances Baudoin, absorbed in her own grief, had forgotten to tell him
that the two orphans also should be present at this meeting, and had she
even thought of it, Dagobert would have prevented her mentioning this
circumstance to the young priest.
Gabriel was therefore quite ignorant of the family ties which united him
with the daughters of Marshal Simon, with Mdlle. de Cardoville, with M.
Hardy, Prince Djalma, and Sleepinbuff. In a word, if it had then been
revealed to him that he was the heir of Marius de Rennepont, he would
have believed himself the only descendant of the family. During the
moment’s silence which succeeded his conversation with Rodin, Gabriel
observed through the windows the mason’s at their work of unwalling the
door. Having finished this first operation, they set about removing the
bars of iron by which a plate of lead was fixed over the same entrance.
At this juncture, Father d’Aigrigny, conducted by Samuel, entered the
room. Before Gabriel could turn around, Rodin had time to whisper to the
reverend father, “He knows nothing--and we have no longer anything to
fear from the Indian.”
Notwithstanding his affected calmness, Father d’Aigrigny’s countenance
was pale and contracted, like that of a player who is about to stake all
on a last, decisive game. Hitherto, all had favored the designs of the
Society; but he could not think without alarm of the four hours which
still remained before they should reach the fatal moment. Gabriel having
turned towards him, Father d’Aigrigny offered him his hand with a smile,
and said to him in an affectionate and cordial tone, “My dear son, it
has pained me a good deal to have been obliged to refuse you till now
the interview that you so much desired. It has been no less distressing
to me to impose on you a confinement of some days. Though I cannot give
any explanation of what I may think fit to order, I will just observe to
you that I have acted only for your interest.”
“I am bound to believe your reverence,” answered Gabriel, bowing his
head.
In spite of himself, the young priest felt a vague sense of fear, for
until his departure for his American mission, Father d’Aigrigny,
at whose feet he had pronounced the formidable vows which bound him
irrevocably to the Society of Jesus, had exercised over him that
frightful species of influence which, acting only by despotism,
suppression, and intimidation, breaks down all the living forces of
the soul, and leaves it inert, trembling, and terrified. Impressions of
early youth are indelible, and this was the first time, since his
return from America, that Gabriel found himself in presence of Father
d’Aigrigny; and although he did not shrink from the resolution he had
taken, he regretted not to have been able, as he had hoped, to gather
new strength and courage from an interview with Agricola and Dagobert.
Father d’Aigrigny knew mankind too well not to have remarked the emotion
of the young priest, and to have endeavored to explain its cause. This
emotion appeared to him a favorable omen; he redoubled, therefore, his
seductive arts, his air of tenderness and amenity, reserving to himself,
if necessary, the choice of assuming another mask. He sat down, while
Gabriel and Rodin remained standing in a respectful position, and said
to the former: “You desire, my dear son, to have an important interview
with me?”
“Yes, father,” said Gabriel, involuntarily casting down his eyes before
the large, glittering gray pupil of his superior.
“And I also have matters of great importance to communicate to you.
Listen to me first; you can speak afterwards.”
“I listen, father.”
“It is about twelve years ago, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny,
affectionately, “that the confessor of your adopted mother, addressing
himself to me through M. Rodin, called my attention to yourself, by
reporting the astonishing progress you had made at the school of the
Brothers. I soon found, indeed, that your excellent conduct, your
gentle, modest character, and your precocious intelligence, were worthy
of the most tender interest. From that moment I kept my eyes upon
you, and at the end of some time, seeing that you did not fall off, it
appeared to me that there was something more in you than the stuff that
makes a workman. We agreed with your adopted mother, and through my
intervention, you were admitted gratuitously to one of the schools of
our Company. Thus one burden the less weighed upon the excellent woman
who had taken charge of you, and you received from our paternal care all
the benefits of a religious education. Is not this true, my dear son?”
“It is true, father,” answered Gabriel, casting down his eyes.
“As you grew up, excellent and rare virtues displayed themselves in your
character. Your obedience and mildness were above all exemplary. You
made rapid progress in your studies. I knew not then to what career you
wished to devote yourself, but I felt certain that, in every station of
life, you would remain a faithful son of the Church. I was not deceived
in my hopes, or rather, my dear son, you surpassed them all. Learning,
by a friendly communication, that your adopted mother ardently desired
to see you take orders, you acceded generously and religiously to the
wish of the excellent woman to whom you owed so much. But as the Lord is
always just in His recompenses, He willed that the most touching work of
gratitude you could show to your adopted mother, should at the same time
be divinely profitable by making you one of the militant members of our
holy Church.”
At these words, Gabriel could not repress a significant start, as he
remembered Frances’ sad confidences. But he restrained himself, whilst
Rodin stood leaning with his elbow on the corner of the chimney-piece,
continuing to examine him with singular and obstinate attention.
Father d’Aigrigny resumed: “I do not conceal from you, my dear son,
that your resolution filled me with joy. I saw in you one of the future
lights of the Church, and I was anxious to see it shine in the midst
of our Company. You submitted courageously to our painful and difficult
tests; you were judged worthy of belonging to us, and, after taking in
my presence the irrevocable and sacred oath, which binds you for ever to
our Company for the greater glory of God, you answered the appeal of our
Holy Father(14) to willing souls, and offered yourself as a missionary,
to preach to savages the one Catholic faith. Though it was painful to us
to part with our dear son, we could not refuse to accede to such
pious wishes. You set out a humble missionary you return a glorious
martyr--and we are justly proud to reckon you amongst our number. This
rapid sketch of the past was necessary, my dear son to arrive at what
follows, for we wish now, if it be possible, to draw still closer the
bonds that unite us. Listen to me, my dear son; what I am about to say
is confidential and of the highest importance, not only for you, but the
whole Company.”
“Then, father,” cried Gabriel hastily, interrupting the Abbe d’Aigrigny,
“I cannot--I ought not to hear you.”
The young priest became deadly pale; one saw, by the alteration of
his features, that a violent struggle was taking place within him, but
recovering his first resolution, he raised his head, and casting an
assured look on Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, who glanced at each other
in mute surprise, he resumed: “I repeat to you, father, that if it
concerns confidential matters of the Company, I must not hear you.”
“Really, my dear son, you occasion me the greatest astonishment. What
is the matter?--Your countenance changes, your emotion is visible. Speak
without fear; why can you not hear me?”
“I cannot tell you, father, until I also have, in my turn, rapidly
sketched the past--such as I have learned to judge it of late. You
will then understand, father, that I am no longer entitled to your
confidence, for an abyss will doubtlessly soon separate us.”
At these words, it is impossible to paint the look rapidly exchanged
between Rodin and Father d’Aigrigny. The socius began to bite his nails,
fixing his reptile eye angrily upon Gabriel; Father d’Aigrigny grew
livid, and his brow was bathed in cold sweat. He asked himself with
terror, if, at the moment of reaching the goal, the obstacle was going
to come from Gabriel, in favor of whom all other obstacles had been
removed. This thought filled him with despair. Yet the reverend
father contained himself admirably, remained calm, and answered with
affectionate unction: “It is impossible to believe, my dear son, that
you and I can ever be separated by an abyss--unless by the abyss of
grief, which would be caused by any serious danger to your salvation.
But speak; I listen to you.”
“It is true, that, twelve years ago, father,” proceeded Gabriel, in a
firm voice, growing more animated as he proceeded, “I entered, through
your intervention, a college of the Company of Jesus. I entered it
loving, truthful, confiding. How did they encourage those precious
instincts of childhood? I will tell you. The day of my entrance, the
Superior said to me, as he pointed out two children a little older than
myself: ‘These are the companions that you will prefer. You will always
walk three together. The rules of the house forbid all intercourse
between two persons only. They also require, that you should listen
attentively to what your companions say, so that you may report it to
me; for these dear children may have, without knowing it, bad thoughts
or evil projects. Now, if you love your comrades, you must inform me of
these evil tendencies, that my paternal remonstrances may save them from
punishment; it is better to prevent evil than to punish it.’”
“Such are, indeed, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “the rules
of our house, and the language we hold to all our pupils on their
entrance.”
“I know it, father,” answered Gabriel, bitterly; “three days after,
a poor, submissive, and credulous child, I was already a spy upon my
comrades, hearing and remembering their conversation, and reporting it
to the superior, who congratulated me on my zeal. What they thus made
me do was shameful, and yet, God knows! I thought I was accomplishing a
charitable duty. I was happy in obeying the commands of a superior whom
I respected, and to whose words I listened, in my childish faith, as I
should have listened to those of Heaven. One day, that I had broken some
rule of the house, the superior said to me: ‘My child, you have deserved
a severe punishment; but you will be pardoned, if you succeed in
surprising one of your comrades in the same fault that you have
committed.’ And for that, notwithstanding my faith and blind obedience,
this encouragement to turn informer, from the motive of personal
interest, might appear odious to me, the superior added. ‘I speak to
you, my child, for the sake of your comrade’s salvation. Were he
to escape punishment, his evil habits would become habitual. But by
detecting him in a fault, and exposing him to salutary correction, you
will have the double advantage of aiding in his salvation, and escaping
yourself a merited punishment, which will have been remitted because of
your zeal for your neighbor--”
“Doubtless,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, more and more terrified by
Gabriel’s language; “and in truth, my dear son, all this is conformable
to the rule followed in our colleges, and to the habits of the members
of our Company, ‘who may denounce each other without prejudice to mutual
love and charity, and only for their greater spiritual advancement,
particularly when questioned by their superior, or commanded for the
greater glory of God,’ as our Constitution has it.”
“I know it,” cried Gabriel; “I know it. ‘Tis in the name of all that is
most sacred amongst men, that we are encouraged to do evil.”
“My dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, trying to conceal his secret and
growing terror beneath an appearance of wounded dignity, “from you to me
these words are at least strange.”
At this, Rodin quitted the mantelpiece, on which he had been leaning,
begin to walk up and down the room, with a meditative air, and without
ceasing to bite his nails.
“It is cruel to be obliged to remind you, my dear son, that your are
indebted to us for the education you have received,” added Father
d’Aigrigny.
“Such were its fruits, father,” replied Gabriel. “Until then I had been
a spy on the other children, from a sort of disinterestedness; but the
orders of the superior made me advance another step on that shameful
road. I had become an informer, to escape a merited punishment. And yet,
such was my faith, my humility, my confidence, that I performed with
innocence and candor this doubly odious part. Once, indeed, tormented by
vague scruples, the last remains of generous aspirations that they were
stifling within me, I asked myself if the charitable and religious end
could justify the means, and I communicated my doubts to the superior.
He replied, that I had not to judge, but to obey, and that to him alone
belonged the responsibility of my acts.”
“Go on, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, gelding, in spite of
himself, to the deepest dejection. “Alas! I was right in opposing your
travel to America.”
“And yet it was the will of Providence, in that new, productive, and
free country, that, enlightened by a singular chance, on past and
present, my eyes were at length opened. Yes!” cried Gabriel, “it was in
America that, released from the gloomy abode where I had spent so many
years of my youth, and finding myself for the first time face to face
with the divine majesty of Nature, in the heart of immense solitudes
through which I journeyed--it was there that, overcome by so much
magnificence and grandeur, I made a vow--” Here Gabriel interrupted
himself, to continue: “Presently, father, I will explain to you that
vow; but believe me,” added the missionary, with an accent of deep
sorrow, “it was a fatal day to me when I first learned to fear and
condemn all that I had hitherto most revered and blessed. Oh! I assure
you father,” added Gabriel, with moist eyes, “it was not for myself
alone, that I then wept.”
“I know the goodness of your heart, my dear son,” replied Father
d’Aigrigny, catching a glimpse of hope, on seeing Gabriel’s emotion; “I
fear that you have been led astray. But trust yourself to us, as to
your spiritual fathers, and I doubt not we shall confirm your faith,
so unfortunately shaken, and disperse the darkness which at present
obscures your sight. Alas, my dear son, in your vain illusions, you have
mistaken some false glimmer for the pure light of day. But go on.”
Whilst Father d’Aigrigny was thus speaking, Rodin stopped, took a pocket
book from his coat, and wrote down several notes. Gabriel was becoming
more and more pale and agitated. It required no small courage in him,
to speak as he was speaking, for, since his journey to America, he
had learned to estimate the formidable power of the Company. But this
revelation of the past, looked at from the vantage-ground of a more
enlightened present, was for the young priest the excuse, or rather the
cause of the determination he had just signified to his superior, and
he wished to explain all faithfully, notwithstanding the danger he
knowingly encountered. He continued therefore, in an agitated voice:
“You know, father, that the last days of my childhood, that happy age
of frankness and innocent joy, were spent in an atmosphere of terror,
suspicion, and restraint. Alas! how could I resign myself to the least
impulse of confiding trust, when I was recommended to shun the looks of
him who spoke with me, in order to hide the impression that his words
might cause--to conceal whatever I felt, and to observe and listen to
everything? Thus I reached the age of fifteen; by degrees, the rare
visits that I was allowed to pay, but always in presence of one of our
fathers, to my adopted mother and brother, were quite suppressed, so as
to shut my heart against all soft and tender emotions. Sad and fearful
in that large, old noiseless, gloomy house, I felt that I became more
and more isolated from the affections and the freedom of the world.
My time was divided between mutilated studies, without connection and
without object, and long hours of minute devotional exercises. I ask
you, father, did they ever seek to warm our young souls by words of
tenderness or evangelic love? Alas, no! For the words of the divine
Saviour--Love ye one another, they had substituted the command: Suspect
ye one another. Did they ever, father, speak to us of our country or of
liberty?--No! ah, no! for those words make the heart beat high; and with
them, the heart must not beat at all. To our long hours of study and
devotion, there only succeeded a few walks, three by three--never two
and two--because by threes, the spy-system is more practicable, and
because intimacies are more easily formed by two alone; and thus might
have arisen some of those generous friendships, which also make the
heart beat more than it should.15 And so, by the habitual repression of
every feeling, there came a time when I could not feel at all. For six
months, I had not seen my adopted mother and brother; they came to visit
me at the college; a few years before, I should have received them with
transports and tears; this time my eyes were dry, my heart was cold. My
mother and brother quitted me weeping. The sight of this grief struck me
and I became conscious of the icy insensibility which had been creeping
upon me since I inhabited this tomb. Frightened at myself, I wished to
leave it, while I had still strength to do so. Then, father, I spoke to
you of the choice of a profession; for sometimes, in waking moments,
I seemed to catch from afar the sound of an active and useful life,
laborious and free, surrounded by family affections. Oh! then I felt the
want of movement and liberty, of noble and warm emotions--of that life
of the soul, which fled before me. I told it you, father on my
knees, bathing your hands with my tears. The life of a workman or a
soldier--anything would have suited me. It was then you informed me,
that my adopted mother, to whom I owed my life--for she had taken me in,
dying of want, and, poor herself, had shared with me the scanty bread
of her child--admirable sacrifice for a mother!--that she,” continued
Gabriel, hesitating and casting down his eyes, for noble natures blush
for the guilt of others, and are ashamed of the infamies of which they
are themselves victims, “that she, that my adopted mother, had but one
wish, one desire--”
“That of seeing you takes orders, my dear son,” replied Father
d’Aigrigny; “for this pious and perfect creature hoped, that, in
securing your salvation, she would provide for her own: but she did not
venture to inform you of this thought, for fear you might ascribe it to
an interested motive.”
“Enough, father!” said Gabriel, interrupting the Abbe d’Aigrigny, with
a movement of involuntary indignation; “it is painful for me to hear you
assert an error. Frances Baudoin never had such a thought.”
“My dear son, you are too hasty in your judgments,” replied Father
d’Aigrigny, mildly. “I tell you, that such was the one, sole thought of
your adopted mother.”
“Yesterday, father, she told me all. She and I were equally deceived.”
“Then, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, sternly, “you take the word
of your adopted mother before mine?”
“Spare me an answer painful for both of us, father,” said Gabriel,
casting down his eyes.
“Will you now tell me,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, with anxiety, “what
you mean to--”
The reverend father was unable to finish. Samuel entered the room, and
said: “A rather old man wishes to speak to M. Rodin.”
“That is my name, sir,” answered the socius, in surprise; “I am much
obliged to you.” But, before following the Jew, he gave to Father
d’Aigrigny a few words written with a pencil upon one of the leaves of
his packet-book.
Rodin went out in very uneasy mood, to learn who could have come to seek
him in the Rue Saint-Francois. Father d’Aigrigny and Gabriel were left
alone together.
(14) It is only in respect to Missions that the Jesuits acknowledge the
papal supremacy.
(15) This rule is so strict in Jesuit Colleges, that if one of three
pupils leaves the other two, they separate out of earshot till the first
comes back.
CHAPTER XX. THE RUPTURE.
Plunged into a state of mortal anxiety, Father d’Aigrigny had taken
mechanically the note written by Rodin, and held it in his hand without
thinking of opening it. The reverend father asked himself in alarm, what
conclusion Gabriel would draw from these recriminations upon the
past; and he durst not make any answer to his reproaches, for fear of
irritating the young priest, upon whose head such immense interests now
reposed. Gabriel could possess nothing for himself, according to the
constitutions of the Society of Jesus. Moreover, the reverend father had
obtained from him, in favor of the Order, an express renunciation of
all property that might ever come to him. But the commencement of his
conversation seemed to announce so serious a change in Gabriel’s views
with regard to the Company, that he might choose to break through the
ties which attached him to it; and in that case, he would not be legally
bound to fulfil any of his engagements.(16) The donation would thus be
cancelled de facto, just at the moment of being so marvellously realized
by the possession of the immense fortune of the Rennepont family, and
d’Aigrigny’s hopes would thus be completely and for ever frustrated.
Of all these perplexities which the reverend father had experienced
for some time past, with regard to this inheritance, none had been more
unexpected and terrible than this. Fearing to interrupt or question
Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny waited, in mute terror, the end of this
interview, which already bore so threatening an aspect.
The missionary resumed: “It is my duty, father, to continue this sketch
of my past life, until the moment of my departure for America. You will
understand, presently, why I have imposed on myself this obligation.”
Father d’Aigrigny nodded for him to proceed.
“Once informed of the pretended wishes of my adopted mother, I resigned
myself to them, though at some cost of feeling. I left the gloomy abode,
in which I had passed my childhood and part of my youth, to enter one
of the seminaries of the Company. My resolution was not caused by an
irresistible religious vocation, but by a wish to discharge the sacred
debt I owed my adopted mother. Yet the true spirit of the religion of
Christ is so vivifying, that I felt myself animated and warmed by the
idea of carrying out the adorable precepts of our Blessed Saviour. To my
imagination, a seminary, instead of resembling the college where I had
lived in painful restraint, appeared like a holy place, where all that
was pure and warm in the fraternity of the Gospel would be applied to
common life--where, for example, the lessons most frequently taught
would be the ardent love of humanity, and the ineffable sweets of
commiseration and tolerance--where the everlasting words of Christ
would be interpreted in their broadest sense--and where, in fine, by
the habitual exercise and expansion of the most generous sentiments, men
were prepared for the magnificent apostolic mission of making the rich
and happy sympathize with the sufferings of their brethren, by unveiling
the frightful miseries of humanity--a sublime and sacred morality, which
none are able to withstand, when it is preached with eyes full of tears,
and hearts overflowing with tenderness and charity!”
As he delivered these last words with profound emotion, Gabriel’s eyes
became moist, and his countenance shone with angelic beauty.
“Such is, indeed, my dear son, the spirit of Christianity; but one must
also study and explain the letter,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, coldly.
“It is to this study that the seminaries of our Company are specially
destined. Now the interpretation of the letter is a work of analysis,
discipline, and submission--and not one of heart and sentiment.”
“I perceive that only too well, father. On entering this new house, I
found, alas! all my hopes defeated. Dilating for a moment, my heart soon
sunk within me. Instead of this centre of life, affection, youth, of
which I had dreamed. I found, in the silent and ice-cold seminary,
the same suppression of every generous emotion, the same inexorable
discipline, the same system of mutual prying, the same suspicion, the
same invincible obstacles to all ties of friendship. The ardor which had
warmed my soul for an instant soon died out; little by little, I fell
back into the habits of a stagnant, passive, mechanical life, governed
by a pitiless power with mechanical precision, just like the inanimate
works of a watch.”
“But order, submission and regularity are the first foundations of our
Company, my dear son.”
“Alas, father! it was death, not life, that I found thus organized. In
the midst of this destruction of every generous principle, I devoted
myself to scholastic and theological studies--gloomy studies--a wily,
menacing, and hostile science which, always awake to ideas of peril,
contest, and war, is opposed to all those of peace, progress, and
liberty.”
“Theology, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, sternly, “is at once
a buckler and a sword; a buckler, to protect and cover the Catholic
faith--a sword, to attack and combat heresy.”
“And yet, father, Christ and His apostles knew not this subtle science:
their simple and touching words regenerated mankind, and set freedom
over slavery. Does not the divine code of the Gospel suffice to teach
men to love one another? But, alas! far from speaking to us this
language, our attention was too often occupied with wars of religion,
and the rivers of blood that had flowed in honor of the Lord, and for
the destruction of heresy. These terrible lessons made our life still
more melancholy. As we grew near to manhood, our relations at the
seminary assumed a growing character of bitterness, jealousy and
suspicion. The habit of tale bearing against each other, applied to more
serious subjects, engendered silent hate and profound resentments. I
was neither better nor worse than the others. All of us, bowed down
for years beneath the iron yoke of passive obedience, unaccustomed to
reflection or free-will, humble and trembling before our superiors, had
the same pale, dull, colorless disposition. At last I took orders; once
a priest, you invited me, father, to enter the Company of Jesus, or
rather I found myself insensibly brought to this determination. How,
I do not know. For a long time before, my will was not my own. I went
through all my proofs; the most terrible was decisive; for some months,
I lived in the silence of my cell, practicing with resignation the
strange and mechanical exercises that you ordered me. With the exception
of your reverence, nobody approached me during that long space of time;
no human voice but yours sounded in my ear. Sometimes, in the night,
I felt vague terrors; my mind, weakened by fasting, austerity, and
solitude, was impressed with frightful visions. At other times, on the
contrary, I felt a sort of quiescence, in the idea that, having once
pronounced my vows, I should be delivered for ever from the burden of
thought and will. Then I abandoned myself to an insurmountable torpor,
like those unfortunate wretches, who, surprised by a snow-storm,
yield to a suicidal repose. Thus I awaited the fatal moment. At last,
according to the rule of discipline, choking with the death rattle,(17)
I hastened the moment of accomplishing the final act of my expiring
will--the vow to renounce it for ever.”
“Remember, my dear son,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, pale and tortured by
increasing anguish, “remember, that, on the eve of the day fixed for
the completion of your vows; I offered, according to the rule of our
Company, to absolve you from joining us--leaving you completely free,
for we accept none but voluntary vocations.”
“It is true, father,” answered Gabriel, with sorrowful bitterness;
“when, worn out and broken by three months of solitude and trial, I was
completely exhausted, and unable to move a step, you opened the door
of my cell, and said to me: ‘If you like, rise and walk; you are free;
Alas! I had no more strength. The only desire of my soul, inert and
paralyzed for so long a period, was the repose of the grave; and
pronouncing those irrevocable vows, I fell, like a corpse, into your
hands.”
“And, till now, my dear son, you have never failed in this corpse--like
obedience,--to use the expression of our glorious founder--because, the
more absolute this obedience, the more meritorious it must be.”
After a moment’s silence, Gabriel resumed: “You had always concealed
from me, father, the true ends of the Society into which I entered. I
was asked to abandon my free-will to my superiors, in the name of the
Greater Glory of God. My vows once pronounced, I was to be in your hands
a docile and obedient instrument; but I was to be employed, you told me,
in a holy, great and beauteous work. I believed you, father--how should
I not have believed you? but a fatal event changed my destiny--a painful
malady caused by--”
“My son,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, interrupting Gabriel, “it is useless
to recall these circumstances.”
“Pardon me, father, I must recall them. I have the right to be heard. I
cannot pass over in silence any of the facts, which have led me to take
the immutable resolution that I am about to announce to you.”
“Speak on, my son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, frowning; for he was much
alarmed at the words of the young priest, whose cheeks, until now pale,
were covered with a deep blush.
“Six months before my departure for America,” resumed Gabriel, casting
down his eyes, “you informed me, that I was destined to confess
penitents; and to prepare then for that sacred ministry, you gave me a
book.”
Gabriel again hesitated. His blushes increased. Father d’Aigrigny could
scarcely restrain a start of impatience and anger.
“You gave me a book,” resumed the young priest, with a great effort
to control himself, “a book containing questions to be addressed by
a confessor to youths, and young girls, and married women, when they
present themselves at the tribunal of penance. My God!” added Gabriel,
shuddering at the remembrance. “I shall never forget that awful moment.
It was night. I had retired to my chamber, taking with me this book,
composed, you told me, by one of our fathers, and completed by a holy
bishop.(18) Full of respect, faith, and confidence, I opened those
pages. At first, I did not understand them--afterwards I understood--and
then I was seized with shame and horror--struck with stupor--and had
hardly strength to close, with trembling hand, this abominable volume.
I ran to you, father, to accuse myself of having involuntarily cast my
eyes on those nameless pages, which, by mistake, you had placed in my
hands.”
“Remember, also, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, gravely, “that I
calmed your scruples, and told you that a priest, who is bound to
hear everything under the seal of confession, must be able to know and
appreciate everything; and that our Company imposes the task of reading
this Compendium, as a classical work, upon young deacons seminarists,
and priests, who are destined to be confessors.”
“I believed you, father. In me the habit of inert obedience was so
powerful, and I was so unaccustomed to independent reflection, that,
notwithstanding my horror (with which I now reproached myself as with
a crime), I took the volume back into my chamber, and read. Oh, father!
what a dreadful revelation of criminal fancies, guilty of guiltiest in
their refinement!”
“You speak of this book in blamable terms,” skid Father d’Aigrigny,
severely; “you were the victim of a too lively imagination. It is to it
that you must attribute this fatal impression, and not to an excellent
work, irreproachable for its special purpose, and duly authorized by the
Church. You are not able to judge of such a production.”
“I will speak of it no more, father,” said Gabriel: and he thus resumed:
“A long illness followed that terrible night. Many times, they feared
for my reason. When I recovered, the past appeared to me like a painful
dream. You told me, then, father, that I was not yet ripe for certain
functions; and it was then that I earnestly entreated you to be allowed
to go on the American missions. After having long refused my prayer,
you at length consented. From my childhood, I had always lived in the
college or seminary, to a state of continual restraint and subjection.
By constantly holding down my head and eyes, I had lost the habit of
contemplating the heavens and the splendors of nature. But, oh!
what deep, religious happiness I felt, when I found myself suddenly
transported to the centre of the imposing grandeur of the seas-half-way
between the ocean and the sky!--I seemed to come forth from a place of
thick darkness; for the first time, for many years, I felt my heart beat
freely in my bosom; for the first time, I felt myself master of my own
thoughts, and ventured to examine my past life, as from the summit of
a mountain, one looks down into a gloomy vale. Then strange doubts rose
within me. I asked myself by what right, and for what end, any beings
had so long repressed, almost annihilated, the exercise of my will, of
my liberty, of my reason, since God had endowed me with these gifts. But
I said to myself, that perhaps, one day, the great, beauteous, and holy
work, in which I was to have my share, would be revealed to me, and
would recompense my obedience and resignation.”
At this moment, Rodin re-entered the room. Father d’Aigrigny questioned
him with a significant look. The socius approached, and said to him in
a low voice, so, that Gabriel could not hear: “Nothing serious. It was
only to inform me, that Marshal Simon’s father is arrived at M. Hardy’s
factory.”
Then, glancing at Gabriel, Rodin appeared to interrogate Father
d’Aigrigny, who hung his head with a desponding air. Yet he resumed,
again addressing Gabriel, whilst Rodin took his old place, with his
elbow on the chimney-piece: “Go on, my dear son. I am anxious to learn
what resolution you have adopted.”
“I will tell you in a moment, father. I arrived at Charleston. The
superior of our establishment in that place, to whom I imparted my
doubts as to the object of our Society, took upon himself to clear them
up, and unveiled it all to me with alarming frankness. He told me the
tendency not perhaps of all the members of the Company, for a great
number must have shared my ignorance--but the objects which our leaders
have pertinaciously kept in view, ever since the foundation of the
Order. I was terrified. I read the casuists. Oh, father! that was a
new and dreadful revelation, when, at every page, I read the excuse and
justification of robbery, slander, adultery, perjury, murder, regicide.
When I considered that I, the priest of a God of charity, justice,
pardon, and love, was to belong henceforth to a Company, whose chiefs
professed and glorified in such doctrines, I made a solemn oath to break
for ever the ties which bound me to it!”(19)
On these words of Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin exchanged a look
of terror. All was lost; their prey had escaped them. Deeply moved by
the remembrances he recalled, Gabriel did not perceive the action of
the reverend father and the socius, and thus continued: “In spite of my
resolution, father, to quit the Company, the discovery I had made was
very painful to me. Oh! believe me, for the honest and loving soul,
nothing is more frightful than to have to renounce what it has long
respected!--I suffered so much, that, when I thought of the dangers of
my mission, I hoped, with a secret joy, that God would perhaps take me
to Himself under these circumstances: but, on the contrary, He watched
over me with providential solicitude.”
As he said this, Gabriel felt a thrill, for he remembered a Mysterious
Woman who had saved his life in America. After a moment’s silence, he
resumed: “My mission terminated, I returned hither to beg, father, that
you would release me from my vows. Many times but in vain, I solicited
an interview. Yesterday, it pleased Providence that I should have a long
conversation with my adopted mother; from her I learned the trick by
which my vocation had been forced upon me--and the sacrilegious abuse
of the confessional, by which she had been induced to entrust to other
persons the orphans that a dying mother had confided to the care of
an honest soldier. You understand, father, that, if even I had before
hesitated to break these bonds, what I have heard yesterday must have
rendered my decision irrevocable. But at this solemn moment, father,
I am bound to tell you, that I do not accuse the whole Society; many
simple, credulous, and confiding men, like myself, must no doubt form
part of it. Docile instruments, they see not in their blindness the work
to which they are destined. I pity them, and pray God to enlighten them,
as he has enlightened me.”
“So, my son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, rising with livid and despairing
look, “you come to ask of me to break the ties which attach you to the
Society?”
“Yes, father; you received my vows--it is for you to release me from
them.”
“So, my son, you understand that engagements once freely taken by you,
are now to be considered as null and void?”
“Yes, father.”
“So, my son, there is to be henceforth nothing in common between you and
our Company?”
“No, father--since I request you to absolve me of my vows.”
“But, you know, my son, that the Society may release you--but that you
cannot release yourself.”
“The step I take proves to you, father, the importance I attach to an
oath, since I come to you to release me from it. Nevertheless, were
you to refuse me, I should not think myself bound in the eyes of God or
man.”
“It is perfectly clear,” said Father d’Aigrigny to Rodin, his voice
expiring upon his lips, so deep was his despair.
Suddenly, whilst Gabriel, with downcast eyes, waited for the answer
of Father d’Aigrigny, who remained mute and motionless, Rodin appeared
struck with a new idea, on perceiving that the reverend father still
held in his hand the note written in pencil. The socius hastily
approached Father d’Aigrigny, and said to him in a whisper, with a look
of doubt and alarm: “Have you not read my note?”
“I did not think of it,” answered the reverend father, mechanically.
Rodin appeared to make a great effort to repress a movement of violent
rage. Then he said to Father d’Aigrigny, in a calm voice: “Read it now.”
Hardly had the reverend father cast his eyes upon this note, than
a sudden ray of hope illumined his hitherto despairing countenance.
Pressing the hand of the socius with an expression of deep gratitude, he
said to him in a low voice: “You are right. Gabriel is ours.”
(16) The statutes formally state that the Company can expel all drones
and wasps, but that no man can break his ties, if the Order wishes to
retain him.
(17) This is their own command. The constitution expressly bids the
novice wait for this decisive climax of the ordeal before taking the
vows of God.
(18) It is impossible, even in Latin, to give our readers an idea of
this infamous work.
(19) This is true. See the extracts from the Compendium for the use of
Schools, published under the title of “Discoveries by a Bibliophilist.”
Strasburg, 1843. For regicide, see Sanchez and others.
CHAPTER XXI. THE CHANGE.
Before again addressing Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny carefully reflected;
and his countenance, lately so disturbed, became gradually once more
serene. He appeared to meditate and calculate the effects of the
eloquence he was about to employ, upon an excellent and safe theme,
which the socius struck with the danger of the situation, had suggested
in a few lines rapidly written with a pencil, and which, in his despair,
the reverend father had at first neglected. Rodin resumed his post of
observation near the mantelpiece, on which he leaned his elbow,
after casting at Father d’Aigrigny a glance of disdainful and angry
superiority, accompanied by a significant shrug of the shoulders.
After this involuntary manifestation, which was luckily not perceived
by Father d’Aigrigny, the cadaverous face of the socius resumed its
icy calmness, and his flabby eyelids, raised a moment with anger and
impatience, fell, and half-veiled his little, dull eyes. It must be
confessed that Father d’Aigrigny, notwithstanding the ease and elegance
of his speech, notwithstanding the seduction of his exquisite manners,
his agreeable features, and the exterior of an accomplished and refined
man of the world, was often subdued and governed by the unpitying
firmness, the diabolical craft and depth of Rodin, the old, repulsive,
dirty, miserably dressed man, who seldom abandoned his humble part of
secretary and mute auditor. The influence of education is so powerful,
that Gabriel, notwithstanding the formal rupture he had just provoked,
felt himself still intimidated in presence of Father d’Aigrigny, and
waited with painful anxiety for the answer of the reverend father to his
express demand to be released from his old vows. His reverence having,
doubtless, regularly laid his plan of attack, at length broke silence,
heaved a deep sigh, gave to his countenance, lately so severe and
irritated, a touching expression of kindness, and said to Gabriel, in an
affectionate voice: “Forgive me, my dear son, for having kept silence
so long; but your abrupt determination has so stunned me, and has raised
within me so many painful thoughts, that I have had to reflect for some
moments, to try and penetrate the cause of this rupture, and I think
I have succeeded. You have well considered, my dear son, the serious
nature of the step you are taking?”
“Yes, father.”
“And you have absolutely decided to abandon the Society, even against my
will?”
“It would be painful to me, father--but I must resign myself to it.”
“It should be very painful to you, indeed, my dear son; for you took the
irrevocable vow freely, and this vow, according to our statutes, binds
you not to quit the Society, unless with the consent of your superiors.”
“I did not then know, father, the nature of the engagement I took. More
enlightened now, I ask to withdraw myself; my only desire is to obtain
a curacy in some village far from Paris. I feel an irresistible vocation
for such humble and useful functions. In the country, there is so much
misery, and such ignorance of all that could contribute to ameliorate
the condition of the agricultural laborer, that his existence is as
unhappy as that of a negro slave; for what liberty has he? and what
instruction? Oh! it seems to me, that, with God’s help, I might, as a
village curate, render some services to humanity. It would therefore be
painful to me, father, to see you refuse--”
“Be satisfied, my son,” answered Father d’Aigrigny; “I will no longer
seek to combat your desire to separate yourself from us.”
“Then, father, you release me from my vows?”
“I have not the power to do so, my dear son; but I will write
immediately to Rome, to ask the necessary authority from our general.”
“I thank you, father.”
“Soon, my dear son, you will be delivered from these bonds, which you
deem so heavy; and the men you abandon will not the less continue to
pray for you, that God may preserve you from still greater wanderings.
You think yourself released with regard to us, my dear son; but we do
not think ourselves released with regard to you. It is not thus that we
can get rid of the habit of paternal attachment. What would you have? We
look upon ourselves as bound to our children, by the very benefits with
which we have loaded them. You were poor, and an orphan; we stretched
out our arms to you, as much from the interest which you deserved, my
dear son, as to spare your excellent adopted mother too great a burden.”
“Father,” said Gabriel, with suppressed emotion, “I am not ungrateful.”
“I wish to believe so, my dear son. For long years, we gave to you, as
to our beloved child, food for the body and the soul. It pleases you now
to renounce and abandon us. Not only do we consent to it--but now that I
have penetrated the true motives of your rupture with us, it is my duty
to release you from your vow.”
“Of what motives do you speak, Father?”
“Alas! my dear son, I understand your fears. Dangers menace us--you know
it well.”
“Dangers, father?” cried Gabriel.
“It is impossible, my dear son, that you should not be aware that,
since the fall of our legitimate sovereigns, our natural protectors,
revolutionary impiety becomes daily more and more threatening. We
are oppressed with persecutions. I can, therefore, comprehend and
appreciate, my dear son, the motive which under such circumstances,
induces you to separate from us.”
“Father!” cried Gabriel, with as much indignation as grief, “you do not
think that of me--you cannot think it.”
Without noticing the protestations of Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny
continued his imaginary picture of the dangers of the Company, which,
far from being really in peril, was already beginning secretly to
recover its influence.
“Oh! if our Company were now as powerful as it was some years ago,”
resumed the reverend father; “if it were still surrounded by the respect
and homage which are due to it from all true believers--in spite of the
abominable calumnies with which we are assailed--then, my dear son, we
should perhaps have hesitated to release you from your vows, and have
rather endeavored to open your eyes to the light, and save you from
the fatal delusion to which you are a prey. But now that we are weak,
oppressed, threatened on every side, it is our duty, it is an act of
charity, not to force you to share in perils from which you have the
prudence to wish to withdraw yourself.”
So, saying, Father d’Aigrigny cast a rapid glance at his socius,
who answered with a nod of approbation, accompanied by a movement of
impatience that seemed to say: “Go on! go on!”
Gabriel was quite overcome. There was not in the whole world a heart
more generous, loyal, and brave than his. We may judge of what he
must have suffered, on hearing the resolution he had come to thus
misinterpreted.
“Father,” he resumed, in an agitated voice, whilst his eyes filled
with tears, “your words are cruel and unjust. You know that I am not a
coward.”
“No,” said Rodin, in his sharp, cutting voice, addressing Father
d’Aigrigny, and pointing to Gabriel with a disdainful look; “your dear
son is only prudent.”
These words from Rodin made Gabriel start; a slight blush colored his
pale cheeks; his large and blue eyes sparkled with a generous anger;
then, faithful to the precepts of Christian humility and resignation,
he conquered this irritable impulse, hung down his head, and, too much
agitated to reply, remained silent, and brushed away an unseen tear.
This tear did not escape the notice of the socius. He saw in it no
doubt, a favorable symptom, for he exchanged a glance of satisfaction
with Father d’Aigrigny. The latter was about to touch on a question of
great interest, so, notwithstanding his self-command, his voice trembled
slightly; but encouraged, or rather pushed on by a look from Rodin,
who had become extremely attentive, he said to Gabriel: “Another motive
obliges us not to hesitate in releasing you from your vow, my dear son.
It is a question of pure delicacy. You probably learned yesterday
from your adopted mother, that you will perhaps be called upon to take
possession of an inheritance, of which the value is unknown.”
Gabriel raised his head hastily and said to Father d’Aigrigny: “As I
have already stated to M. Rodin, my adopted mother only talked of her
scruples of conscience, and I was completely ignorant of the existence
of the inheritance of which you speak.”
The expression of indifference with which the young priest pronounced
these last words, was remarked by Rodin.
“Be it so,” replied Father d’Aigrigny. “You were not aware of it--I
believe you--though all appearances would tend to prove the contrary--to
prove, indeed, that the knowledge of this inheritance was not
unconnected with your resolution to separate from us.”
“I do not understand you, Father.”
“It is very simple. Your rupture with us would then have two motives.
First, we are in danger, and you think it prudent to leave us--”
“Father!”
“Allow me to finish, my dear son, and come to the second motive. If I
am deceived, you can tell me so. These are the facts. Formerly, on the
hypothesis that your family, of which you knew nothing, might one day
leave you some property, you made, in return for the care bestowed on
you by the Company, a free gift of all you might hereafter possess, not
to us--but to the poor, of whom we are the born shepherds.”
“Well, father?” asked Gabriel, not seeing to what this preamble tended.
“Well, my dear son--now that you are sure of enjoying a competence, you
wish, no doubt, by separating from us, to annul this donation made under
other circumstances.”
“To speak plainly, you violate your oath, because we are persecuted,
and because you wish to take back your gifts,” added Rodin, in a
sharp voice, as if to describe in the clearest and plainest manner the
situation of Gabriel with regard to the Society.
At this infamous accusation, Gabriel could only raise his hands and eyes
to heaven, and exclaim, with an expression of despair, “Oh, heaven!”
Once more exchanging a look of intelligence with Rodin, Father
d’Aigrigny said to him, in a severe tone, as if reproaching him for his
too savage frankness: “I think you go too far. Our dear son could only
have acted in the base and cowardly manner you suggest, had he known his
position as an heir; but, since he affirms the contrary, we are bound to
believe him--in spite of appearances.”
“Father,” said Gabriel, pale, agitated trembling, and with half
suppressed grief and indignation, “I thank you, at least, for having
suspended your judgment. No, I am not a coward; for heaven is my
witness, that I knew of no danger to which the Society was exposed. Nor
am I base and avaricious; for heaven is also my witness, that only at
this moment I learn from you, father, that I may be destined to inherit
property, and--”
“One word, my dear son. It is quite lately that I became informed of
this circumstance, by the greatest chance in the world,” said Father
d’Aigrigny, interrupting Gabriel; “and that was thanks to some family
papers which your adopted mother had given to her confessor, and which
were entrusted to us when you entered our college. A little before your
return from America, in arranging the archives of the Company, your file
of papers fell into the hands of our father-attorney. It was examined,
and we thus learned that one of your paternal ancestors, to whom the
house in which we now are belonged, left a will which is to be opened to
day at noon. Yesterday, we believed you one of us; our statutes command
that we should possess nothing of our own; you had corroborated those
statutes, by a donation in favor of the patrimony of the poor--which we
administer. It was no longer you, therefore, but the Company, which, in
my person, presented itself as the inheritor in your place, furnished
with your titles, which I have here ready in order. But now, my clear
son, that you separate from us, you must present yourself in your own
name. We came here as the representatives of the poor, to whom in former
days you piously abandoned whatever goods might fall to your share. Now,
on the contrary, the hope of a fortune changes your sentiments. You are
free to resume your gifts.”
Gabriel had listened to Father d’Aigrigny with painful impatience. At
length he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say, father, that you think me
capable of canceling a donation freely made, in favor of the Company, to
which I am indebted for my education? You believe me infamous enough to
break my word, in the hope of possessing a modest patrimony?”
“This patrimony, my dear, son, may be small; but it may also be
considerable.”
“Well, father! if it were a king’s fortune,” cried Gabriel, with proud
and noble indifference, “I should not speak otherwise--and I have,
I think, the right to be believed listen to my fixed resolution. The
Company to which I belong runs, you say, great dangers. I will inquire
into these dangers. Should they prove threatening--strong in the
determination which morally separates me from you--I will not leave you
till I see the end of your perils. As for the inheritance, of which you
believe me so desirous, I resign it to you formally, father, as I once
freely promised. My only wish is, that this property may be employed
for the relief of the poor. I do not know what may be the amount of this
fortune, but large or small, it belongs to the Company, because I have
thereto pledged my word. I have told you, father, that my chief
desire is to obtain a humble curacy in some poor village--poor, above
all--because there my services will be most useful. Thus, father, when a
man, who never spoke falsehood in his life, affirms to you, that he only
sighs for so humble an existence, you ought, I think, to believe him
incapable of snatching back, from motives of avarice, gifts already
made.”
Father d’Aigrigny had now as much trouble to restrain his joy, as he
before had to conceal his terror. He appeared, however, tolerably calm,
and said to Gabriel: “I did not expect less from you, my dear son.”
Then he made a sign to Rodin, to invite him to interpose. The latter
perfectly understood his superior. He left the chimney, drew near
to Gabriel, and leaned against the table, upon which stood paper and
inkstand. Then, beginning mechanically to beat the tattoo with the tips
of his coarse fingers, in all their array of flat and dirty nails, he
said to Father d’Aigrigny: “All this is very fine! but your dear son
gives you no security for the fulfilment of his promise except an
oath--and that, we know, is of little value.”
“Sir!” cried Gabriel
“Allow me,” said Rodin, coldly. “The law does not acknowledge our
existence and therefore can take no cognizance of donations made in
favor of the Company. You might resume to-morrow what you are pleased to
give us to-day.”
“But my oath, sir!” cried Gabriel.
Rodin looked at him fixedly, as he answered: “Your oath? Did you not
swear eternal obedience to the Company, and never to separate from
us?--and of what weight now are these oaths?”
For a moment Gabriel was embarrassed; but, feeling how false was this
logic, he rose, calm and dignified, went to seat himself at the desk,
took up a pen, and wrote as follows:
“Before God, who sees and hears me, and in the presence of you, Father
d’Aigrigny and M. Rodin, I renew and confirm, freely and voluntarily,
the absolute donation made by me to the Society of Jesus, in the person
of the said Father d’Aigrigny, of all the property which may hereafter
belong to me, whatever may be its value. I swear, on pain of infamy, to
perform tis irrevocable promise, whose accomplishment I regard, in my
soul and conscience, as the discharge of a debt, and the fulfilment of a
pious duty.
“This donation having for its object the acknowledgment of past
services, and the relief of the poor, no future occurrences can at
all modify it. For the very reason that I know I could one day legally
cancel the present free and deliberate act, I declare, that if ever I
were to attempt such a thing, under any possible circumstances, I should
deserve the contempt and horror of all honest people.
“In witness whereof I have written this paper, on the 13th of February,
1832, in Paris, immediately before the opening of the testament of one
of my paternal ancestors.
“GABRIEL DE RENNEPONT.”
As he rose, the young priest delivered this document to Rodin, without
uttering a word. The socius read it attentively, and, still impassible,
answered, as he looked at Gabriel: “Well, it is a written oath--that is
all.”
Gabriel dwelt stupefied at the audacity of Rodin, who ventured to tell
him, that this document, in which he renewed his donation in so noble,
generous, and spontaneous a manner, was not all sufficient. The
socius was the first again to break the silence, and he said to Father
d’Aigrigny, with his usual cool impudence. “One of two things must be.
Either your dear son means to render his donation absolutely valuable
and irrevocable,--or--”
“Sir,” exclaimed Gabriel, interrupting him, and hardly able to restrain
himself, “spare yourself and me such a shameful supposition.”
“Well, then,” resumed Rodin, impassible as ever, “as you are perfectly
decided to make this donation a serious reality, what objection can you
have to secure it legally?”
“None, sir,” said Gabriel, bitterly, “since my written and sworn promise
will not suffice you.”
“My dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, affectionately, “if this were
a donation for my own advantage, believe me I should require no better
security than your word. But here I am, as it were, the agent of the
Society, or rather the trustee of the poor, who will profit by your
generosity. For the sake of humanity, therefore, we cannot secure this
gift by too many legal precautions, so that the unfortunate objects of
our care may have certainty instead of vague hopes to depend upon. God
may call you to him at any moment, and who shall say that your heirs
will be so ready to keep the oath you have taken?”
“You are right, father,” said Gabriel, sadly; “I had not thought of the
case of death, which is yet so probable.”
Hereupon, Samuel opened the door of the room, and said: “Gentlemen, the
notary has just arrived. Shall I show him in? At ten o’clock precisely,
the door of the house will be opened.”
“We are the more glad to see the notary,” said Rodin, “as we just happen
to have some business with him. Pray ask him to walk in.”
“I will bring him to you instantly,” replied Samuel, as he went out.
“Here is a notary,” said Rodin to Gabriel. “If you have still the same
intentions, you can legalize your donation in presence of this public
officer, and thus save yourself from a great burden for the future.”
“Sir,” said Gabriel, “happen what may, I am as irrevocably engaged by
this written promise, which I beg you to keep, father”--and he handed
the paper to Father d’Aigrigny “as by the legal document, which I am
about to sign,” he added, turning to Rodin.
“Silence, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “here is the notary,”
just as the latter entered the room.
During the interview of the administrative officer with Rodin, Gabriel,
and Father d’Aigrigny, we shall conduct the reader to the interior of
the walled-up house.
CHAPTER XXII. THE RED ROOM.
As Samuel had said, the door of the walled-up house had just been
disencumbered of the bricks, lead, and iron, which had kept it from
view, and its panels of carved oak appeared as fresh and sound, as on
the day when they had first been withdrawn from the influence of the air
and time. The laborers, having completed their work, stood waiting
upon the steps, as impatient and curious as the notary’s clerk, who
had superintended the operation, when they saw Samuel slowly advancing
across the garden, with a great bunch of keys in his hand.
“Now, my friends,” said the old man, when he had reached the steps,
“your work is finished. The master of this gentleman will pay you, and I
have only to show you out by the street door.”
“Come, come, my good fellow,” cried the clerk, “you don’t think. We
are just at the most interesting and curious moment; I and these honest
masons are burning to see the interior of this mysterious house, and you
would be cruel enough to send us away? Impossible!”
“I regret the necessity, sir, but so it must he. I must be the first to
enter this dwelling, absolutely alone, before introducing the heirs, in
order to read the testament.”
“And who gave you such ridiculous and barbarous orders?” cried the
clerk, singularly disappointed.
“My father, sir.”
“A most respectable authority, no doubt; but come, my worthy guardian,
my excellent guardian,” resumed the clerk, “be a good fellow, and let us
just take a peep in at the door.”
“Yes, yes, sir, only a peep!” cried the heroes of the trowel, with a
supplicating air.
“It is disagreeable to have to refuse you, gentlemen,” answered Samuel;
“but I cannot open this door, until I am alone.”
The masons, seeing the inflexibility of the old man, unwillingly
descended the steps; but the clerk had resolved to dispute the ground
inch by inch, and exclaimed: “I shall wait for my master. I do not leave
the house without him. He may want me--and whether I remain on these
steps or elsewhere, can be of little consequence to you my worthy
keeper.”
The clerk was interrupted in his appeal by his master himself, who
called out from the further side of the courtyard, with an air of
business: “M. Piston! quick, M. Piston--come directly!”
“What the devil does he want with me?” cried the clerk, in a passion.
“He calls me just at the moment when I might have seen something.”
“M. Piston,” resumed the voice, approaching, “do you not hear?”
While Samuel let out the masons, the clerk saw, through a clump of
trees, his master running towards him bareheaded, and with an air of
singular haste and importance. The clerk was therefore obliged to leave
the steps, to answer the notary’s summons, towards whom he went with a
very bad grace.
“Sir, sir,” said M. Dumesnil, “I have been calling you this hour with
all my might.”
“I did not hear you sir,” said M. Piston.
“You must be deaf, then. Have you any change about you?”
“Yes sir,” answered the clerk, with some surprise.
“Well, then, you must go instantly to the nearest stamp-office, and
fetch me three or four large sheets of stamped paper, to draw up a deed.
Run! it is wanted directly.”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk, casting a rueful and regretful glance at the
door of the walled-up house.
“But make haste, will you, M. Piston,” said the notary.
“I do not know, sir, where to get any stamped paper.”
“Here is the guardian,” replied M. Dumesnil. “He will no doubt be able
to tell you.”
At this instant, Samuel was returning, after showing the masons out by
the street-door.
“Sir,” said the notary to him, “will you please to tell me where we can
get stamped paper?”
“Close by, sir,” answered Samuel; “in the tobacconist’s, No. 17, Rue
Vieille-du-Temple.”
“You hear, M. Piston?” said the notary to his clerk. “You can get the
stamps at the tobacconist’s, No. 17, Rue Vieille-du-Temple. Be quick!
for this deed must be executed immediately before the opening of the
will. Time presses.”
“Very well, sir; I will make haste,” answered the clerk, discontentedly,
as he followed his master, who hurried back into the room where he had
left Rodin, Gabriel, and Father d’Aigrigny.
During this time, Samuel, ascending the steps, had reached the door,
now disencumbered of the stone, iron, and lead with which it had been
blocked up. It was with deep emotion that the old man having selected
from his bunch of keys the one he wanted, inserted it in the keyhole,
and made the door turn upon its hinges. Immediately he felt on his
face a current of damp, cold air, like that which exhales from a cellar
suddenly opened. Having carefully re-closed and double-locked the door,
the Jew advanced along the hall, lighted by a glass trefoil over the
arch of the door. The panes had lost their transparency by the effect of
time, and now had the appearance of ground-glass. This hall, paved with
alternate squares of black and white marble, was vast, sonorous, and
contained a broad staircase leading to the first story. The walls of
smooth stone offered not the least appearance of decay or dampness; the
stair-rail of wrought iron presented no traces of rust; it was inserted,
just above the bottom step, into a column of gray granite, which
sustained a statue of black marble, representing a negro bearing a
flambeau. This statue had a strange countenance, the pupils of the eyes
being made of white marble.
The Jew’s heavy tread echoed beneath the lofty dome of the hall.
The grandson of Isaac Samuel experienced a melancholy feeling, as he
reflected that the footsteps of his ancestor had probably been the last
which had resounded through this dwelling, of which he had closed the
doors a hundred and fifty years before; for the faithful friend,
in favor of whom M. de Rennepont had made a feigned transfer of the
property, had afterwards parted with the same, to place it in the name
of Samuel’s grandfather, who had transmitted it to his descendants, as
if it had been his own inheritance.
To these thoughts, in which Samuel was wholly absorbed, was joined the
remembrance of the light seen that morning through the seven openings in
the leaden cover of the belvedere; and, in spite of the firmness of his
character, the old man could not repress a shudder, as, taking a second
key from his bunch, and reading upon the label, The Key of the Red
Room, he opened a pair of large folding doors, leading to the inner
apartments. The window which, of all those in the house, had alone been
opened, lighted this large room, hung with damask, the deep purple of
which had undergone no alteration. A thick Turkey carpet covered the
floor, and large arm-chairs of gilded wood, in the severe Louis XIV.
style, were symmetrically arranged along the wall. A second door,
leading to the next room, was just opposite the entrance. The
wainscoting and the cornice were white, relieved with fillets and
mouldings of burnished gold. On each side of this door was a large
piece of buhl-furniture, inlaid with brass and porcelain, supporting
ornamental sets of sea crackle vases. The window was hung with heavy
deep-fringed damask curtains, surmounted by scalloped drapery, with
silk tassels, directly opposite the chimney-piece of dark-gray marble,
adorned with carved brass-work. Rich chandeliers, and a clock in the
same style as the furniture, were reflected in a large Venice glass,
with basiled edges. A round table, covered with a cloth of crimson
velvet, was placed in the centre of this saloon.
As he approached this table, Samuel perceived a piece of white vellum,
on which were inscribed these words: “My testament is to be opened in
this saloon. The other apartments are to remain closed, until after the
reading of my last will--M. De R.”
“Yes,” said the Jew, as he perused with emotion these lines traced so
long ago; “this is the same recommendation as that which I received from
my father; for it would seem that the other apartments of this house are
filled with objects, on which M. de Rennepont set a high value, not for
their intrinsic worth, but because of their origin. The Hall of Mourning
must be a strange and mysterious chamber. Well,” added Samuel, as he
drew from his pocket a register bound in black shagreen, with a brass
lock, from which he drew the key, after placing it upon the table, “here
is the statement of the property in hand, which I have been ordered to
bring hither, before the arrival of the heirs.”
The deepest silence reigned in the room, at the moment when Samuel
placed the register on the table. Suddenly a simple and yet most
startling occurrence roused him from his reverie. In the next apartment
was heard the clear, silvery tone of a clock, striking slowly ten. And
the hour was ten! Samuel had too much sense to believe in perpetual
motion, or in the possibility of constructing a clock to go far one
hundred and fifty years. He asked himself, therefore, with surprise and
alarm, how this clock could still be going, and how it could mark so
exactly the hour of the day. Urged with restless curiosity, the old man
was about to enter the room; but recollecting the recommendation of his
father, which had now been confirmed by the few lines he had just read
from De Rennepont’s pen, he stopped at the door, and listened with
extreme attention.
He heard nothing--absolutely nothing, but the last dying vibration of
the clock. After having long reflected upon this strange fact, Samuel,
comparing it with the no less extraordinary circumstance of the light
perceived that morning through the apertures in the belvedere, concluded
that there must be some connection between these two incidents. If
the old man could not penetrate the true cause of these extraordinary
appearances, he at least explained them to himself, by remembering the
subterraneous communications, which, according to tradition, were said
to exist between the cellars of this house and distant places; and he
conjectured that unknown and mysterious personages thus gained access
to it two or three times in a century. Absorbed in these thoughts Samuel
approached the fireplace, which, as we have said, was directly opposite
the window. Just then, a bright ray of sunlight, piercing the clouds,
shone full upon two large portraits, hung upon either side of the
fireplace, and not before remarked by the Jew. They were painted life
size, and represented one a woman, the other a man. By the sober yet
powerful coloring of these paintings, by the large and vigorous style,
it was easy to recognize a master’s hand. It would have been difficult
to find models more fitted to inspire a great painter. The woman
appeared to be from five-and-twenty to thirty years of age. Magnificent
brown hair, with golden tints, crooned a forehead, white, noble, and
lofty. Her head-dress, far from recalling the fashion, which Madame de
Sevigne brought in during the age of Louis XIV., reminded one rather of
some of the portraits of Paul Veronese, in which the hair encircles the
face in broad, undulating bands, surmounted by a thick plait, like a
crown, at the back of the head. The eyebrows, finely pencilled, were
arched over large eyes of bright, sapphire blue. Their gaze at once
proud and mournful, had something fatal about it. The nose, finely
formed, terminated in slight dilated nostrils: a half smile, almost
of pain, contracted the mouth; the face was a long oval, and the
complexion, extremely pale, was hardly shaded on the cheek by a light
rose-color. The position of the head and neck announced a rare mixture
of grace and dignity. A sort of tunic or robe, of glossy black material,
came as high as the commencement of her shoulders, and just marking
her lithe and tall figure, reached down to her feet, which were almost
entirely concealed by the folds of this garment.
The attitude was full of nobleness and simplicity. The head looked white
and luminous, standing out from a dark gray sky, marbled at the horizon
by purple clouds, upon which were visible the bluish summits of distant
hills, in deep shadow. The arrangement of the picture, as well as the
warm tints of the foreground, contrasting strongly with these distant
objects, showed that the woman was placed upon an eminence, from which
she could view the whole horizon. The countenance was deeply pensive and
desponding. There was an expression of supplicating and resigned grief,
particularly in her look, half raised to heaven, which one would have
thought impossible to picture. On the left side of the fireplace was the
other portrait, painted with like vigor. It represented a man, between
thirty and thirty-five years of age, of tall stature. A large brown
cloak, which hung round him in graceful folds, did not quite conceal a
black doublet, buttoned up to the neck, over which fell a square white
collar. The handsome and expressive head was marked with stern powerful
lines, which did not exclude an admirable air of suffering, resignation,
and ineffable goodness. The hair, as well as the beard and eyebrows, was
black; and the latter, by some singular caprice of nature, instead
of being separated and forming two distinct arches, extended from one
temple to the other, in a single bow, and seemed to mark the forehead of
this man with a black line.
The background of this picture also represented a stormy sky; but,
beyond some rocks in the distance, the sea was visible, and appeared to
mingle with the dark clouds. The sun, just now shining upon these two
remarkable figures (which it appeared impossible to forget, after once
seeing them), augmented their brilliancy.
Starting from his reverie, and casting his eyes by chance upon these
portraits, Samuel was greatly struck with them. They appeared almost
alive. “What noble and handsome faces!” he exclaimed, as he approached
to examine them more closely. “Whose are these portraits? They are not
those of any of the Rennepont family, for my father told me that they
are all in the Hall of Mourning. Alas!” added the old man, “one might
think, from the great sorrow expressed in their countenances, that they
ought to have a place in that mourning-chamber.”
After a moment’s silence, Samuel resumed: “Let me prepare everything for
this solemn assembly, for it has struck ten.” So saying, he placed the
gilded arm-chairs round the table, and then continued, with a pensive
air: “The hour approaches, and of the descendants of my grandfather’s
benefactor, we have seen only this young priest, with the angelic
countenance. Can he be the sole representative of the Rennepont family?
He is a priest, and this family will finish with him! Well! the moment
is come when I must open this door, that the will may be read. Bathsheba
is bringing hither the notary. They knock at the door; it is time!” And
Samuel, after casting a last glance towards the place where the clock
had struck ten, hastened to the outer door, behind which voices were now
audible.
He turned the key twice in the lock, and threw the portals open. To his
great regret, he saw only Gabriel on the steps, between Rodin and Father
d’Aigrigny. The notary, and Bathsheba, who had served them as a guide,
waited a little behind the principal group.
Samuel could not repress a sigh, as he stood bowing on the threshold,
and said to them: “All is ready, gentlemen. You may walk in.”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE TESTAMENT.
When Gabriel, Rodin, and Father d’Aigrigny entered the Red Room, they
were differently affected. Gabriel, pale and sad, felt a kind of painful
impatience. He was anxious to quit this house, though he had already
relieved himself of a great weight, by executing before the notary,
secured by every legal formality, a deed making over all his rights of
inheritance to Father d’Aigrigny. Until now it had not occurred to the
young priest, that in bestowing the care upon him, which he was about
to reward so generously, and in forcing his vocation by a sacrilegious
falsehood, the only object of Father d’Aigrigny might have been to
secure the success of a dark intrigue. In acting as he did, Gabriel was
not yielding, in his view of the question, to a sentiment of exaggerated
delicacy. He had made this donation freely, many years before. He would
have looked upon it as infamy now to withdraw it. It was hard enough
to be suspected of cowardice: for nothing in the world would he have
incurred the least reproach of cupidity.
The missionary must have been endowed with a very rare and excellent
nature, or this flower of scrupulous probity would have withered
beneath the deleterious and demoralizing influence of his education; but
happily, as cold sometimes preserves from corruption, the icy atmosphere
in which he had passed a portion of his childhood and youth had
benumbed, but not vitiated, his generous qualities, which had indeed
soon revived in the warm air of liberty. Father d’Aigrigny, much paler
and more agitated than Gabriel, strove to excuse and explain his anxiety
by attributing it to the sorrow he experienced at the rupture of his
dear son with the Order. Rodin, calm, and perfectly master of himself,
saw with secret rage the strong emotion of Father d’Aigrigny, which
might have inspired a man less confiding than Gabriel with strange
suspicions. Yet, notwithstanding his apparent indifference, the socius
was perhaps still more ardently impatient than his superior for the
success of this important affair. Samuel appeared quite desponding, no
other heir but Gabriel having presented himself. No doubt the old man
felt a lively sympathy for the young priest; but then he was a priest,
and with him would finish the line of Rennepont; and this immense
fortune, accumulated with so much labor, would either be again
distributed, or employed otherwise than the testator had desired. The
different actors in this scene were standing around the table. As they
were about to seat themselves, at the invitation of the notary, Samuel
pointed to the register bound in black shagreen, and said: “I was
ordered, sir, to deposit here this register. It is locked. I will
deliver up the key, immediately after the reading of the will.”
“This course is, in fact, directed by the note which accompanies the
will,” said M. Dumesnil, “as it was deposited, in the year 1682, in the
hands of Master Thomas Le Semelier, king’s counsel, and notary of the
Chatelet of Paris, then living at No. 13, Place Royale.”
So saying, M. Dumesnil drew from a portfolio of red morocco a large
parchment envelope, grown yellow with time; to this envelope was
annexed, by a silken thread, a note also upon vellum.
“Gentlemen,” said the notary, “if you please to sit down, I will read
the subjoined note, to regulate the formalities at the opening of the
will.”
The notary, Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny, and Gabriel, took seats. The young
priest, having his back turned to the fireplace, could not see the two
portraits. In spite of the notary’s invitation, Samuel remained standing
behind the chair of that functionary, who read as follows:
“‘On the 13th February, 1832, my will shall be carried to No. 3, in the
Rue Saint-Francois.
“‘At ten o’clock precisely, the door of the Red Room shall be opened
to my heirs, who will no doubt have arrived long before at Paris, in
anticipation of this day, and will have had time to establish their line
of descent.
“‘As soon as they are assembled, the will shall be read, and, at the
last stroke of noon, the inheritance shall be finally settled in favor
of those of my kindred, who according to my recommendation (preserved,
I hope, by tradition in my family, during a century and a half); shall
present themselves in person, and not by agents, before twelve o’clock,
on the 13th of February, in the Rue Saint-Francois.’”
Having read these words in a sonorous voice, the notary stopped an
instant, and resumed, in a solemn tone: “M. Gabriel Francois Marie de
Rennepont, priest, having established, by legal documents, his descent
on the father’s side, and his relationship to the testator, and being at
this hour the only one of the descendants of the Rennepont family here
present, I open the testament in his presence, as it has been ordered.”
So saying, the notary drew from its envelope the will, which had been
previously opened by the President of the Tribunal, with the formalities
required by law. Father d’Aigrigny leaned forward, and resting his elbow
on the table, seemed to pant for breath. Gabriel prepared himself to
listen with more curiosity than interest. Rodin was seated at some
distance from the table, with his old hat between his knees, in the
bottom of which, half hidden by the folds of a shabby blue cotton
handkerchief, he had placed his watch. The attention of the socius was
divided between the least noise from without, and the slow evolution of
the hands of the watch, which he followed with his little, wrathful eye,
as if hastening their progress, so great was his impatience for the hour
of noon.
The notary, unfolding the sheet of parchment, read what follows, in the
midst of profound attention:
Hameau de Villetaneuse,
“‘February 13th, 1682.
“‘I am about to escape, by death, from the disgrace of the galleys, to
which the implacable enemies of my family have caused me to be condemned
as a relapsed heretic.
“‘Moreover, life is too bitter for me since the death of my son, the
victim of a mysterious crime.
“‘At nineteen years of age--poor henry!--and his murderers unknown--no,
not unknown--if I may trust my presentiments.
“‘To preserve my fortune for my son, I had feigned to abjure the
Protestant faith. As long as that beloved boy lived, I scrupulously kept
up Catholic appearances. The imposture revolted me, but the interest of
my son was concerned.
“‘When they killed him, this deceit became insupportable to me. I
was watched, accused, and condemned as relapsed. My property has been
confiscated, and I am sentenced to the galleys.
“‘Tis a terrible time we live in! Misery and servitude! sanguinary
despotism and religious intolerance! Oh, it is sweet to abandon life!
sweet to rest and see no more such evils and such sorrows!
“‘In a few hours, I shall enjoy that rest. I shall die. Let me think
of those who will survive--or rather, of those who will live perhaps in
better times.
“‘Out of all my fortune, there remains to me a sum of fifty thousand
crowns, deposited in a friend’s hands.
“‘I have no longer a son; but I have numerous relations, exiled in
various parts of Europe. This sum of fifty thousand crowns, divided
between them, would profit each of them very little. I have disposed of
it differently.
“‘In this I have followed the wise counsels of a man, whom I venerate
as the image of God on earth, for his intelligence, wisdom, and goodness
are almost divine.
“‘Twice in the course of my life have I seen this man, under very fatal
circumstances--twice have I owed him safety, once of the soul, once of
the body.
“‘Alas! he might perhaps have saved my poor child, but he came too
late--too late.
“‘Before he left me, he wished to divert me from the intention of
dying--for he knew all. But his voice was powerless. My grief, my
regret, my discouragement, were too much for him.
“‘It is strange! when he was convinced of my resolution to finish my
days by violence, some words of terrible bitterness escaped him, making
me believe that he envied me--my fate--my death!
“‘Is he perhaps condemned to live?
“‘Yes; he has, no doubt, condemned himself to be useful to humanity,
and yet life is heavy on him, for I heard him repeat one day, with an
expression of despair and weariness that I have never forgotten: “Life!
life! who will deliver me from it?”
“‘Is life then so very burdensome to him?
“‘He is gone. His last words have made me look for my departure with
serenity. Thanks to him, my death shall not be without fruit.
“‘Thanks to him, these lines, written at this moment by a man who, in a
few hours, will have ceased to live, may perhaps be the parents of great
things a century and a half hence--yes! great and noble things, if my
last will is piously followed by my descendants, for it is to them that
I here address myself.
“‘That they may understand and appreciate this last will--which I
commend to the care of the unborn, who dwell in the future whither I am
hastening--they must know the persecutors of my family and avenge their
ancestor, but by a noble vengeance.
“‘My grandfather was a Catholic. Induced by perfidious counsels rather
than religious zeal, he attached himself, though a layman, to a Society
whose power has always been terrible and mysterious--the Society of
Jesus--’”
At these words of the testament, Father d’Aigrigny, Rodin, and Gabriel
looked involuntarily at each other: The notary, who had not perceived
this action, continued to read:
“‘After some years, during which he had never ceased to profess the
most absolute devotion to this Society, he was suddenly enlightened by
fearful revelations as to the secret ends it pursued, and the means it
employed.
“‘This was in 1510, a month before the assassination of Henry IV.
“‘My grandfather, terrified at the secret of which he had become the
unwilling depositary, and which was to be fully explained by the death
of the best of kings, not only broke with the Society, but, as if
Catholicism itself had been answerable for the crimes of its members,
he abandoned the Romish religion, in which he had hitherto lived, and
became a Protestant.
“‘Undeniable proofs, attesting the connivance of two members of the
Company with Ravaillac, a connivance also proved in the case of Jean
Chatel, the regicide, were in my grandfather’s possession.
“‘This was the first cause of the violent hatred of the Society for our
family. Thank Heaven, these papers have been placed in safety, and if my
last will is executed, will be found marked A. M.C. D. G., in the ebony
casket in the Hall of Mourning, in the house in the Rue Saint-Francois.
“‘My father was also exposed to these secret persecutions. His ruin, and
perhaps his death, would have been the consequence, had it not been for
the intervention of an angelic woman, towards whom he felt an almost
religious veneration.
“‘The portrait of this woman, whom I saw a few years ago, as well as
that of the man whom I hold in the greatest reverence, were painted
by me from memory, and have been placed in the Red Room in the Rue
Saint-Francois--to be gratefully valued, I hope, by the descendants of
my family.’”
For some moments Gabriel had become more and more attentive to the
reading of this testament. He thought within himself by how strange a
coincidence one of his ancestors had, two centuries before, broken with
the Society of Jesus, as he himself had just done; and that from this
rupture, two centuries old, dated also that species of hatred with which
the Society of Jesus had always pursued his family. Nor did the young
priest find it less strange that this inheritance, transmitted to him
after a lapse of a hundred and fifty years, from one of his kindred (the
victim of the Society of Jesus), should return by a voluntary act to the
coffers of this same society. When the notary read the passage relative
to the two portraits, Gabriel, who, like Father d’Aigrigny, sat with his
back towards the pictures, turned round to look at them. Hardly had the
missionary cast his eyes on the portrait of the woman, than he uttered
a loud cry of surprise, and almost terror. The notary paused in his
reading, and looked uneasily at the young priest.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST STROKE OF NOON.
At the cry uttered by Gabriel, the notary had stopped reading the
testament, and Father d’Aigrigny hastily drew near the young priest. The
latter rose trembling from his seat and gazed with increasing stupor at
the female portrait.
Then he said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself. “Good Heaven!
is it possible that nature can produce such resemblances? Those eyes--so
proud and yet so sad--that forehead--that pale complexion--yes, all her
features, are the same--all of them!”
“My dear son, what is the matter?” said Father d’Aigrigny, as astonished
as Samuel and the notary.
“Eight months ago,” replied the missionary, in a voice of deep emotion,
without once taking his eyes from the picture, “I was in the power of
the Indians, in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. They had crucified,
and were beginning to scalp me; I was on the point of death, when Divine
Providence sent me unexpected aid--sent me this woman for a deliverer.”
“That woman!” cried Samuel, Father d’Aigrigny, and the notary, all
together.
Rodin alone appeared completely indifferent to this episode of the
picture. His face contracted with angry impatience, he bit his nails to
the quick, as he contemplated with agony the slow progress of the hands
of his watch.
“What! that woman saved your life?” resumed Father d’Aigrigny.
“Yes, this woman,” replied Gabriel, in a still lower and more trembling
voice; “this woman--or rather a woman so much resembling her, that if
this picture had not been here for a century and a half, I should have
felt sure it was the same--nor can I explain to myself that so striking
a resemblance could be the effect of chance. Well,” added he, after
a moment’s silence, as he heaved a profound sigh, “the mysteries of
Nature, and the will of God, are impenetrable.”
Gabriel fell back into his chair, in the midst of a general silence,
which was broken by Father d’Aigrigny saying, “It is a case of
extraordinary resemblance; that is all, my dear son. Only, the natural
gratitude which you feel towards your benefactress, makes you take a
deep interest in this singular coincidence.”
Rodin, bursting with impatience, here said to the notary, by whose side
he stood, “It seems to me, sir, that all this little romance has nothing
to do with the testament.”
“You are right,” answered the notary, resuming his seat; “but the fact
is so extraordinary, and as you say, romantic, that one cannot help
sharing in this gentleman’s astonishment.”
He pointed to Gabriel, who, with his elbow resting on the arms of the
chair, leaned his forehead upon his hand, apparently quite absorbed in
thought. The notary continued the reading of the will, as follows:
“‘Such are the persecutions to which my family has been exposed on the
part of the Society of Jesus.
“‘The Society possesses at this hour the whole of my confiscated
property. I am about to die. May its hatred perish with me, and spare my
kindred, whose fate at this solemn moment is my last and only thought.
“‘This morning I sent for a man of long tried probity Isaac Samuel. He
owes his life to me, and every day I congratulate myself on having been
able to preserve to the world so honest and excellent a creature.
“‘Before the confiscation of my property, Isaac Samuel had long managed
it with as much intelligence as uprightness. I have entrusted him with
the fifty thousand crowns, returned to me by a faithful friend. Isaac
Samuel, and his descendants after him, to whom he will leave this debt
of gratitude, will invest the above sum, and allow it to accumulate,
until the expiration of the hundred and fiftieth year from this time.
“‘The amount thus accumulated may become enormous, and constitute a
royal fortune, if no unfavorable event should occur. May my descendants
attend to my wishes, as to the division and employment of this immense
sum!
“‘In a century and a half, there happen so many changes, so many
varieties of fortunes, such a rise and fall in the condition of the
successive generations of a family, that probably, a hundred and fifty
years hence, my descendants will belong to various classes of society,
and thus represent the divers social elements of their time.
“‘There may, perhaps, be among them men of great intelligence great
courage, or great virtue--learned men, or names illustrious in arts
and arms. There may, perhaps, also be obscure workmen, or humble
citizens--perhaps, also, alas! great criminals.
“‘However, this may be, my most earnest desire is that my descendants
should combine together, and, reconstituting one family, by a close and
sincere union, put into practice the divine words of Christ, “Love ye
one another.”
“‘This union would have a salutary tendency; for it seems to me that
upon union, upon the association of men together, must depend the future
happiness of mankind.
“‘The Company, which so long persecuted my family, is one of the most
striking examples of the power of association, even when applied to
evil.
“‘There is something so fruitful and divine in this principle, that it
sometimes forces to good the worst and most dangerous combinations.
“‘Thus, the missions have thrown a scanty but pure and generous light on
the darkness of this Company of Jesus--founded with the detestable and
impious aim of destroying, by a homicidal education, all will, thought,
liberty, and intelligence, in the people, so as to deliver them,
trembling, superstitious, brutal, and helpless, to the despotism of
kings, governed in their turn by confessors belonging to the Society.’”
At this passage of the will, there was another strange look exchanged
between Gabriel and Father d’Aigrigny. The notary continued:
“‘If a perverse association, based upon the degradation of humanity,
upon fear and despotism, and followed by the maledictions of the people,
has survived for centuries, and often governed the world by craft and
terror--how would it be with an association, which, taking fraternity
and evangelic love for its means, had for its end to deliver man
and woman from all degrading slavery, to invite to the enjoyment of
terrestrial happiness those who have hitherto known nothing of life but
its sorrows and miseries, and to glorify and enrich the labor that feeds
the state?--to enlighten those whom ignorance has depraved?--to favor
the free expansion of all the passions, which God, in His infinite
wisdom, and inexhaustible goodness, gave to man as so many powerful
levers?--to sanctify all the gifts of Heaven: love, maternity, strength,
intelligence, beauty, genius?--to make men truly religious, and deeply
grateful to their Creator, by making them understand the splendors of
Nature, and bestowing on them their rightful share in the treasures
which have been poured upon us?
“‘Oh! if it be Heaven’s will that, in a century and a half, the
descendants of my family, faithful to the last wishes of a heart that
loved humanity, meet in this sacred union!--if it be Heaven’s will
that amongst them be found charitable and passionate souls, full of
commiseration for those who suffer, and lofty minds, ardent for liberty!
warm and eloquent natures! resolute characters! women, who unite beauty
and wit with goodness--oh! then, how fruitful, how powerful will be the
harmonious union of all these ideas, and influences, and forces--of
all these attractions grouped round that princely fortune, which,
concentrated by association, and wisely managed, would render
practicable the most admirable Utopias!
“‘What a wondrous centre of fertile and generous thoughts! What precious
and life-giving rays would stream incessantly from this focus of
charity, emancipation, and love! What great things might be attempted
what magnificent examples given to the world! What a divine mission!
What an irresistible tendency towards good might be impressed on the
whole human race by a family thus situated, and in possession of such
means!
“‘And, then, such a beneficent association would be able to combat the
fatal conspiracy of which I am the victim, and which, in a century and a
half, may have lost none of its formidable power.
“‘So, to this work of darkness, restraint, and despotism, which weighs
heavily on the Christian world, my family would oppose their work of
light, expansion, and liberty!
“‘The genii of good and evil would stand face to face. The struggle
would commence, and God would protect the right.
“‘And that these immense pecuniary resources, which will give so much
power to my family, may not be exhausted by the course of years,
my heirs, following my last will, are to place out, upon the same
conditions, double the sum that I have invested--so that, a century and
a half later, a new source of power and action will be at the disposal
of their descendants. What a perpetuity of good!
“‘In the ebony cabinet of the Hall of Mourning will be found some
practical suggestions on the subject of this association.
“‘Such is my last will--or rather, such are my last hopes.
“‘When I require absolutely that the members of my family should appear
in person in the Rue Saint-Francois, on the day of the opening of this
testament, it is so that, united in that solemn moment, they may see and
know each other. My words may then, perhaps, have some effect upon them;
and, instead of living divided, they will combine together. It will be
for their own interest, and my wishes will thus be accomplished.
“‘When I sent, a few days ago, to those of my family whom exile has
dispersed over Europe, a medal on which is engravers the date of the
convocation of my heirs, a century and a half from this time, I was
forced to keep secret my true motive, and only to tell them, that my
descendants would find it greatly to their interest to attend this
meeting.
“‘I have acted thus, because I know the craft and perseverance of the
society of which I have been the victim. If they could guess that my
descendants would hereafter have to divide immense sums between them,
my family would run the risk of much fraud and malice, through the fatal
recommendations handed down from age to age in the Society of Jesus.
“‘May these precautions be successful! May the wish, expressed upon
these medals, be faithfully transmitted from generation to generation!
“‘If I fix a day and hour, in which my inheritance shall irrevocably
fall to those of my descendants who shall appear in the Rue
Saint-Francois on the 13th February, in 1832, it is that all delays
must have a term, and that my heirs will have been sufficiently informed
years before of the great importance of this meeting.
“‘After the reading of my testament, the person who shall then be the
trustee of the accumulated funds, shall make known their amount, so
that, with the last stroke of noon, they may be divided between my heirs
then and there present.
“‘The different apartments of the house shall then be opened to them.
They will see in them divers objects, well worthy of interest, pity, and
respect--particularly in the Hall of Mourning.
“‘My desire is, that the house may not be sold, but that it may remain
furnished as it is, and serve as a place of meeting for my descendants,
if, as I hope, they attend to my last wishes.
“‘If, on the contrary, they are divided amongst themselves--if, instead
of uniting for one of the most generous enterprises that ever signalized
an age, they yield to the influence of selfish passions--if they prefer
a sterile individuality to a fruitful association--if, in this immense
fortune, they see only an opportunity for frivolous dissipation, or
sordid interest--may they be accursed by all those whom they might have
loved, succored, and disfettered!--and then let this house be utterly
demolished and destroyed, and the papers, of which Isaac Samuel
possesses the inventory, as well as the two portraits in the Red Room,
be burnt by the guardian of the property.
“‘I have spoken. My duty is accomplished. In all this, I have followed
the counsels of the man whom I revere and love as the image of God upon
earth.
“‘The faithful friend, who preserved for me the fifty thousand crowns,
the wreck of my fortune, knows the use I mean to make of them. I could
not refuse his friendship this mark of confidence. But I have concealed
from him the name of Isaac Samuel--for to have mentioned it might have
exposed this latter and his descendants to great dangers.
“‘In a short time, this friend, who knows not that my resolution to die
is so near its accomplishment, will come hither with my notary. Into
their hands, after the usual formalities, I shall deliver my sealed
testament.
“‘Such is my last will. I leave its execution to the superintending care
of Providence. God will protect the cause of love, peace, union, and
liberty.
“‘This mystic testament,(20) having been freely made by me, and written
entirely with my own hand, I intend and will its scrupulous execution
both in spirit and the letter.
“‘This 13th day of February, 1682, at one o’clock in the afternoon.
“‘MARIUS DE RENNEPONT.’”
As the notary had proceeded with the reading of the testament, Gabriel
was successively agitated by divers painful impressions. At first, as
we have before said, he was struck with the singular fatality which
restored this immense fortune, derived from a victim of the Society of
Jesus, to the hands of that very association, by the renewal of his
deed of gift. Then, as his charitable and lofty soul began fully to
comprehend the admirable tendency of the association so earnestly
recommended by Marius de Rennepont, he reflected with bitter remorse,
that, in consequence of his act of renunciation, and of the absence of
any other heir, this great idea would never be realized, and a fortune,
far more considerable than had even been expected, would fall to
the share of an ill-omened society, in whose hands it would become a
terrible means of action. At the same time, it must be said that the
soul of Gabriel was too pure and noble to feel the slightest personal
regret, on hearing the great probable value of the property he had
renounced. He rejoiced rather in withdrawing his mind, by a touching
contrast, from the thought of the wealth he had abandoned, to the humble
parsonage, where he hoped to pass the remainder of his life, in the
practice of most evangelical virtue.
These ideas passed confusedly through his brain. The sight of that
woman’s portrait, the dark revelations contained in the testament, the
grandeur of the views exhibited in this last will of M. de Rennepont,
all these extraordinary incidents had thrown Gabriel into a sort of
stupor, in which he was still plunged, when Samuel offered the key
of the register to the notary, saying: “You will find, sir, in this
register, the exact statement of the sums in my possession, derived from
the investment and accumulation of the one hundred and fifty thousand
francs, entrusted to my grandfather by M. Marius de Rennepont.”
“Your grandfather!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with the utmost surprise;
“it is then your family that has always had the management of this
property.”
“Yes, sir; and, in a few minutes, my wife will bring hither the casket
which contains the vouchers.”
“And to what sum does this property amount?” asked Rodin, with an air of
the most complete indifference.
“As M. Notary may convince himself by this statement,” replied Samuel,
with perfect frankness, and as if he were only talking of the original
one hundred and fifty thousand francs, “I have in my possession various
current securities to the amount of two hundred and twelve millions, one
hundred and seventy--”
“You say, sir’” cried Father d’Aigrigny, without giving Samuel time to
finish, for the odd money did not at all interest his reverence.
“Yes, the sum!” added Rodin, in an agitated voice, and, for the first
time, perhaps, in his life losing his presence of mind; “the sum--the
sum--the sum!”
“I say, sir,” resumed the old man, “that I hold securities for two
hundred and twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand
francs, payable to self or bearer--as you may soon convince yourself, M.
Notary, for here is my wife with the casket.”
Indeed, at this moment, Bathsheba entered, holding in her arms the cedar
wood chest, which contained the securities in question; she placed it
upon the table, and withdrew, after exchanging an affectionate glance
with Samuel. When the latter declared the enormous amount of the sum in
hand, his words were received with silent stupor. All the actors in
this scene, except himself, believed that they were the sport of some
delusion. Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin had counted upon forty millions.
This sum, in itself enormous, was more than quintupled. Gabriel, when he
heard the notary read those passages in the testament, which spoke of
a princely fortune, being quite ignorant of the prodigious effects of
eligible investments, had valued the property at some three or
four millions. He was, therefore, struck dumb with amazement at the
exorbitant amount named. Notwithstanding his admirable disinterestedness
and scrupulous honor, he felt dazzled and giddy at the thought, that
all these immense riches might have belonged to him--alone. The notary,
almost as much amazed as Gabriel, examined the statement, and could
hardly believe his eyes. The Jew also remained mute, and seemed
painfully absorbed in thought, that no other heir made his appearance.
In the depth of this profound silence, the clock in the next room began
slowly to strike twelve. Samuel started, and heaved a deep sigh. A
few seconds more, and the fatal term would be at an end. Rodin, Father
d’Aigrigny, Gabriel, and the notary, were all under the influence of
such complete surprise, that not one of them even remarked how strange
it was to hear the sound of this clock.
“Noon!” cried Rodin, as, by an involuntary movement, he hastily placed
his two hands upon the casket, as if to take possession of it.
“At last!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with an expression of joy, triumph
transport, which it is impossible to describe. Then he added, as he
threw himself into Gabriel’s arms, whom he embraced warmly: “Oh, my dear
son! how the poor will bless you! You will be a second Vincent de Paul.
You will be canonized, I promise you.”
“Let us first thank Providence,” said Rodin, in a grave and solemn
tone, as he fell upon his knees, “let us thank Providence, that He has
permitted so much wealth to be employed for His glory!”’
Father d’Aigrigny, having again embraced Gabriel, took him by the hand,
and said: “Rodin is right. Let us kneel, my dear son, and render thanks
to Providence!”
So saying, Father d’Aigrigny knelt down, dragging Gabriel with him, and
the latter, confused and giddy with so many precipitate events, yielded
mechanically to the impulse. It was the last stroke of twelve when they
all rose together.
Then said the notary, in a slightly agitated voice, for there was
something extraordinary and solemn in this scene--
“No other heir of M. Marius de Rennepont having presented himself,
before noon on this day, I execute the will of the testator, by
declaring, in the name of law and justice, that M. Francois Marie
Gabriel de Rennepont, here present, is the sole heir and possessor of
all the estate, real and personal, bequeathed under the said will;
all which estate the said Gabriel de Rennepont, priest, has freely and
voluntarily made over by deed of gift to Frederic Emanuel de Bordeville,
Marquis d’Aigrigny, priest, who has accepted the same, and is,
therefore, the only legal holder of such property, in the room of the
said Gabriel de Rennepont, by virtue of the said deed, drawn up and
engrossed by me this morning, and signed in my presence by the said
Gabriel de Rennepont and Frederic d’Aigrigny.”
At this moment, the sound of loud voices was heard from the garden.
Bathsheba entered hastily, and said to her husband with an agitated air:
“Samuel--a soldier--who insists--”
She had not time to finish. Dagobert appeared at the door of the Red
Room. The soldier was fearfully pale. He seemed almost fainting; his
left arm was in a sling, and he leaned upon Agricola. At sight of
Dagobert, the pale and flabby eyelids of Rodin were suddenly distended,
as if all the blood in his body had flowed towards the head. Then the
socius threw himself upon the casket, with the haste of ferocious rage
and avidity, as if he were resolved to cover it with his body, and
defend it at the peril of his life.
(20) This term is sanctioned by legal usage.
CHAPTER XXV. THE DEED OF GIFT.
Father d’Aigrigny did not recognize Dagobert, and had never seen
Agricola. He could not therefore, at first explain the kind of angry
alarm exhibited by Rodin. But the reverend father understood it all,
when he heard Gabriel utter a cry of joy, and saw him rush into the
arms of the smith, exclaiming: “My brother! my second father--oh! it is
heaven that sends you to me.”
Having pressed Gabriel’s hand, Dagobert advanced towards Father
d’Aigrigny, with a rapid but unsteady step. As he remarked the soldier’s
threatening countenance, the reverend father, strong in his acquired
rights, and feeling that, since noon, he was at home here; drew back a
little, and said imperiously to the veteran: “Who are you, sir!--What do
you want here?”
Instead of answering, the soldier continued to advance, then, stopping
just facing Father d’Aigrigny, he looked at him for a second with such
an astounding mixture of curiosity, disdain, aversion, and audacity,
that the ex-colonel of hussars quailed before the pale face and glowing
eye of the veteran. The notary and Samuel, struck with surprise,
remained mute spectators of this scene, while Agricola and Gabriel
followed with anxiety Dagobert’s least movements. As for Rodin, he
pretended to be leaning on the casket, in order still to cover it with
his body.
Surmounting at length the embarrassment caused by the steadfast look
of the soldier, Father d’Aigrigny raised his head, and repeated. “I ask
you, sir, who you are, and what you want?”
“Do you not recognize me?” said Dagobert, hardly able to restrain
himself.
“No, sir--”
“In truth,” returned the soldier, with profound contempt, “You cast
down your eyes for shame when, at Leipsic, you fought for the Russians
against the French, and when General Simon, covered with wounds,
answered you, renegade that you were, when you asked him for his sword,
‘I do not surrender to a traitor!’--and dragged himself along to one of
the Russian grenadiers, to whom he yielded up his weapon. Well! there
was then a wounded soldier by the side of General Simon--I am he.”
“In brief, sir, what do you want?” said Father d’Aigrigny, hardly, able
to control himself.
“I have come to unmask you--you, that are as false and hateful a priest,
as Gabriel is admirable and beloved by all.”
“Sir!” cried the marquis, becoming livid with rage and emotion.
“I tell you, that you are infamous,” resumed the soldier, with still
greater force. “To rob Marshal Simon’s daughters, and Gabriel, and
Mdlle. de Cardoville of their inheritance, you have had recourse to the
most shameful means.”
“What do you say?” cried Gabriel. “The daughters of Marshal Simon?”
“Are your relations, my dear boy, as is also that worthy Mdlle. de
Cardoville, the benefactress of Agricola. Now, this priest,” he added,
pointing to Father d’Aigrigny, “has had them shut up--the one as mad,
in a lunatic asylum--the others in a convent. As for you, my dear boy, I
did not hope to find you here, believing that they would have prevented
you, like the others, from coming hither this morning. But, thank God,
you are here, and I arrive in time. I should have been sooner, but for
my wound. I have lost so much blood, that I have done nothing but faint
all the morning.”
“Truly!” cried Gabriel, with uneasiness. “I had not remarked your arm in
a sling. What is the wound?”
At a sign from Agricola, Dagobert answered: “Nothing; the consequence of
a fall. But here I am, to unveil many infamies.”
It is impossible to paint the curiosity, anguish, surprise, or fear,
of the different actors in this scene, as they listened to Dagobert’s
threatening words. But the most overcome was Gabriel. His angelic
countenance was distorted, his knees trembled under him. Struck by the
communication of Dagobert which revealed the existence of other heirs,
he was unable to speak for some time; at length, he cried out, in a tone
of despair: “And it is I--oh, God! I--who am the cause of the spoliation
of this family!”
“You, brother?” exclaimed Agricola.
“Did they not wish to rob you also?” added Dagobert.
“The will,” cried Gabriel, with increasing agony, “gave the property to
those of the heirs that should appear before noon.”
“Well?” said Dagobert, alarmed at the emotion of the young priest.
“Twelve o’clock has struck,” resumed the latter. “Of all the family, I
alone was present. Do you understand it now? The term is expired. The
heirs have been thrust aside by me!”
“By you!” said Dagobert, stammering with joy. “By you, my brave boy!
then all is well.”
“But--”
“All is well,” resumed Dagobert, radiant with delight. “You will share
with the others--I know you.”
“But all this property I have irrevocably, made over to another,” cried
Gabriel, in despair.
“Made over the property!” cried Dagobert, quite petrified. “To whom,
then?--to whom?”
“To this gentleman,” said Gabriel, pointing to Father d’Aigrigny.
“To him!” exclaimed Dagobert, overwhelmed by the news; “to him--the
renegade--who has always been the evil genius of this family!”
“But, brother,” cried Agricola, “did you then know your claim to this
inheritance?”
“No,” answered the young priest, with deep dejection; “no--I only
learned it this morning, from Father d’Aigrigny. He told me, that he
had only recently been informed of my rights, by family papers long ago
found upon me, and sent by our mother to her confessor.”
A sudden light seemed to dawn upon the mind of the smith, as he
exclaimed: “I understand it all now. They discovered in these papers,
that you would one day have a chance of becoming rich. Therefore, they
interested themselves about you--therefore, they took you into their
college, where we could never see you--therefore, they deceived you in
your vocation by shameful falsehoods, to force you to become a priest,
and to lead you to make this deed of gift. Oh, sir!” resumed Agricola,
turning towards Father d’Aigrigny, with indignation, “my father is
right--such machinations are indeed infamous!”
During this scene, the reverend father and his socius, at first alarmed
and shaken in their audacity, had by degrees recovered all their
coolness. Rodin, still leaning upon the casket, had said a few words in
a low voice to Father d’Aigrigny. So that when Agricola, carried away by
his indignation, reproached the latter with his infamous machinations,
he bowed his head humbly, and answered: “We are bound to forgive
injuries, and offer them to the Lord as a mark of our humility.”
Dagobert, confounded at all he had just heard, felt his reason begin to
wander. After so much anxiety, his strength failed beneath this new and
terrible blow. Agricola’s just and sensible words, in connection with
certain passages of the testament, at once enlightened Gabriel as to
the views of Father d’Aigrigny, in taking charge of his education, and
leading him to join the Society of Jesus. For the first time in his
life, Gabriel was able to take in at a glance all the secret springs of
the dark intrigue, of which he had been the victim. Then, indignation
and despair surmounting his natural timidity, the missionary, with
flashing eye, and cheeks inflamed with noble wrath, exclaimed, as he
addressed Father d’Aigrigny: “So, father, when you placed me in one of
your colleges, it was not from any feeling of kindness or commiseration,
but only in the hope of bringing me one day to renounce in favor of your
Order my share in this inheritance; and it did not even suffice you
to sacrifice me to your cupidity, but I must also be rendered the
involuntary instrument of a shameful spoliation! If only I were
concerned--if you only coveted my claim to all this wealth, I should not
complain. I am the minister of a religion which honors and sanctifies
poverty; I have consented to the donation in your favor, and I have not,
I could never have any claim upon it. But property is concerned which
belong to poor orphans, brought from a distant exile by my adopted
father, and I will not see them wronged. But the benefactress of my
adopted brother is concerned, and I will not see her wronged. But
the last will of a dying man is concerned, who, in his ardent love
of humanity, bequeathed to his descendants an evangelic mission--an
admirable mission of progress, love, union, liberty--and I will not
see this mission blighted in its bud. No, no; I tell you, that this his
mission shall be accomplished, though I have to cancel the donation I
have made.”
On these words, Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin looked at each other with a
slight shrug of the shoulders. At a sign from the socius, the reverend
father began to speak with immovable calmness, in a slow and sanctified
voice, keeping eyes constantly cast down: “There are many incidents
connected with this inheritance of M. de Rennepont, which appear very
complicated--many phantoms, which seem un usually menacing--and yet,
nothing could be really more simple and natural. Let us proceed in
regular order. Let us put aside all these calumnious imputations; we
will return to them afterwards. M. Gabriel de Rennepont--and I humbly
beg him to contradict me, if I depart in the least instance from the
exact truth--M. Gabriel de Rennepont, in acknowledgment of the care
formerly bestowed on him by the society to which I have the honor to
belong, made over to me, as its representative, freely and voluntarily,
all the property that might come to him one day, the value of which was
unknown to him, as well as to myself.”
Father d’Aigrigny here looked at Gabriel, as if appealing to him for the
truth of this statement.
“It is true,” said the young priest: “I made this donation freely.”
“This morning, in consequence of a private conversation, which I will
not repeat--and in this, I am certain beforehand, of the Abbe Gabriel--”
“True,” replied Gabriel, generously; “the subject of this conversation
is of little importance.”
“It was then, in consequence of this conversation that the Abbe Gabriel
manifested the desire to confirm this donation--not in my favor, for I
have little to do with earthly wealth--but in favor of the sacred and
charitable works of which our Company is the trustee. I appeal to the
honor of M. Gabriel to declare if he have not engaged himself towards
us, not only by a solemn oath, but by a perfectly legal act, executed in
presence of M. Dumesnil, here present?”
“It is all true,” answered Gabriel.
“The deed was prepared by me,” added the notary.
“But Gabriel could only give you what belonged to him,” cried Dagobert.
“The dear boy never supposed that you were making use of him to rob
other people.”
“Do me the favor, sir, to allow me to explain myself,” replied Father
d’Aigrigny, courteously; “you can afterwards make answer.”
Dagobert repressed with difficulty his painful impatience. The reverend
father continued: “The Abbe Gabriel has therefore, by the double
engagement of an oath and a legal act, confirmed his donation. Much
more,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny: “when to his great astonishment and
to ours, the enormous amount of the inheritance became known, the Abbe
Gabriel, faithful to his own admirable generosity, far from repenting of
his gifts, consecrated them once more by a pious movement of gratitude
to Providence--for M. Notary will doubtless remember, that, after
embracing the Abbe Gabriel with transport, and telling him that he was
a second Vincent de Paul in charity, I took him by the hand, and we both
knelt down together to thank heaven for having inspired him with the
thought too offer these immense riches to the Greater Glory of the
Lord.”
“That is true, also,” said Gabriel, honestly; “so long as myself was
concerned, though I might be astounded for a moment by the revelation of
so enormous a fortune, I did not think for an instant of cancelling the
donation I had freely made.”
“Under these circumstances,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “the hour fixed
for the settlement of the inheritance having struck, and Abbe Gabriel
being the only heir that presented himself, he became necessarily
the only legitimate possessor of this immense wealth--enormous, no
doubt--and charity makes me rejoice that it is enormous, for, thanks to
it, many miseries will be relieved and many tears wiped away. But,
all on a sudden, here comes this gentleman,” said Father d’Aigrigny,
pointing to Dagobert; “and, under some delusion, which I forgive from
the bottom of my soul, and which I am sure he will himself regret,
accuses me, with insults and threats, with having carried off (I know
not where) some persons (I know not whom), in order to prevent their
being here at the proper time--”
“Yes, I accuse you of this infamy!” cried the soldier exasperated by the
calmness and audacity of the reverend father: “yes--and I will--”
“Once again, sir, I conjure you to be so good as to let me finish; you
can reply afterwards,” said Father d’Aigrigny, humbly, in the softest
and most honeyed accents.
“Yes, I will reply, and confound you!” cried Dagobert.
“Let him finish, father. You can speak presently,” said Agricola.
The soldier was silent as Father d’Aigrigny continued with new
assurance: “Doubtless, if there should really be any other heirs,
besides the Abbe Gabriel, it is unfortunate for them that they have not
appeared in proper time. And if, instead of defending the cause of the
poor and needy, I had only to look to my own interest, I should be far
from availing myself of this advantage, due only to chance; but, as a
trustee for the great family of the poor, I am obliged to maintain my
absolute right to this inheritance; and I do not doubt that M. Notary
will acknowledge the validity of my claim, and deliver to me these
securities, which are now my legitimate property.”
“My only mission,” replied the notary, in an agitated voice, “is
faithfully to execute the will of the testator. The Abbe Gabriel
de Rennepont alone presented himself, within the term fixed by the
testament. The deed of gift is in due form; I cannot refuse, therefore,
to deliver to the person named in the deed the amount of the heritage--”
On these words Samuel hid his face in his hands, and heaved a deep
sigh; he was obliged to acknowledge the rigorous justice of the notary’s
observations.
“But, sir,” cried Dagobert, addressing the man of law, “this cannot be.
You will not allow two poor orphans to be despoiled. It is in the name
of their father and mother that I speak to you. I give you my honor--the
honor of a soldier!--that they took advantage of the weakness of my wife
to carry the daughters of Marshal Simon to a convent, and thus prevent
me bringing them here this morning. It is so true, that I have already
laid my charge before a magistrate.”
“And what answer did you receive?” said the notary.
“That my deposition was not sufficient for the law to remove these young
girls from the convent in which they were, and that inquiries would be
made--”
“Yes, sir,” added Agricola, “and it was the same with regard to Mdlle.
de Cardoville, detained as mad in a lunatic asylum, though in the full
enjoyment of her reason. Like Marshal Simon’s daughters, she too has a
claim to this inheritance. I took the same steps for her, as my father
took for Marshal Simon’s daughters.”
“Well?” asked the notary.
“Unfortunately, sir,” answered Agricola, “they told me; as they did my
father, that my deposition would not suffice, and that they must make
inquiries.”
At this moment, Bathsheba, having heard the street-bell ring, left the
Red Room at a sign from Samuel. The notary resumed, addressing Agricola
and his father: “Far be it from me, gentlemen, to call in question your
good faith; but I cannot, to my great regret, attach such importance to
your accusations, which are not supported by proof, as to suspend the
regular legal course. According to your own confession, gentlemen,
the authorities, to whom you addressed yourselves, did not see fit to
interfere on your depositions, and told you they would inquire further.
Now, really, gentlemen, I appeal to you: how can I, in so serious
a matter, take upon myself a responsibility, which the magistrates
themselves have refused to take?”
“Yes, you should do so, in the name of justice and honor?” cried
Dagobert.
“It may be so, sir, in your opinion; but in my view of the case, I
remain faithful to justice and honor, by executing with exactness the
last will of the dead. For the rest you have no occasion to despair. If
the persons, whose interests you represent, consider themselves injured,
they may hereafter have recourse to an action at law, against the person
receiving as donee of the Abbe Gabriel--but in the meanwhile, it is my
duty to put him in immediate possession of the securities. I should be
gravely injured, were I to act in any, other manner.”
The notary’s observations seemed so reasonable, that Samuel, Dagobert
and Agricola were quite confounded. After a moment’s thought, Gabriel
appeared to take a desperate resolution, and said to the notary, in a
firm voice--
“Since, under these circumstances, the law is powerless to obtain the
right, I must adopt, sir, an extreme course. Before doing so, I will ask
M. l’Abbe d’Aigrigny, for the last time, if he will content himself with
that portion of the property which falls justly to me, on condition that
the rest shall be placed in safe hands, till the heirs, whose names have
been brought forward, shall prove their claim.”
“To this proposition I must answer as I have done already,” replied
Father d’Aigrigny; “it is not I who am concerned, but an immense work of
charity. I am, therefore, obliged to refuse the part-offer of the Abbe
Gabriel, and to remind him of his engagements of every kind.”
“Then you refuse this arrangement?” asked Gabriel, in an agitated voice.
“Charity commands me to do so.”
“You refuse it--absolutely?”
“I think of all the good and pious institutions that these treasures
will enable us to establish for the Greater Glory of the Lord, and I
have neither the courage nor the desire to make the least concession.”
“Then, sir,” resumed the good priest, in a still more agitated manner,
“since you force me to do it, I revoke my donation. I only intended to
dispose of my own property, and not of that which did not belong to me.”
“Take care M. l’Abbe,” said rather d’Aigrigny; “I would observe that I
hold in my hand a written, formal promise.”
“I know it, sir; you have a written paper, in which I take an oath
never to revoke this donation, upon any pretext whatever, and on pain of
incurring the aversion and contempt of all honest men. Well, sir! be it
so,” said Gabriel, with deep bitterness; “I will expose myself to all
the consequences of perjury; you may proclaim it everywhere. I may be
hated and despised by all--but God will judge me!” The young priest
dried a tear, which trickled from his eye.
“Oh! do not be afraid, my dear boy!” cried Dagobert, with reviving hope.
“All honest men will be on your side!”
“Well done, brother!” said Agricola.
“M. Notary,” said Rodin, in his little sharp voice, “please to explain
to Abbe Gabriel, that he may perjure himself as much as he thinks
fit, but that the Civil Code is much less easy to violate than a mere
promise, which is only--sacred!”
“Speak, sir,” said Gabriel.
“Please to inform Abbe Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “that a deed of gift,
like that made in favor of Father d’Aigrigny, can only be cancelled for
one of three reasons--is it not so?”
“Yes, sir, for three reasons,” said the notary.
“The first is in case of the birth of a child,” said Rodin, “and I
should blush to mention such a contingency to the Abbe Gabriel. The
second is the ingratitude of the donee--and the Abbe Gabriel may
be certain of our deep and lasting gratitude. The last case is the
non-fulfilment of the wishes of the donor, with regard to the employment
of his gifts.
“Now, although the Abbe Gabriel may have suddenly conceived a very bad
opinion of us, he will at least give us some time to show that his
gifts have been disposed of according to his wishes, and applied to the
Greater Glory of the Lord.”
“Now, M. Notary,” added Father d’Aigrigny, “it is for you to decide and
say, if Abbe Gabriel can revoke the donation he has made.”
Just as the notary was going to answer, Bathsheba reentered the room,
followed by two more personages, who appeared in the Red Room at a
little distance from each other.
BOOK VI.
PART SECOND.--THE CHASTISEMENT. (Concluded.)
XXVI. A Good Genius XXVII. The First Last, And the Last
First XXVIII. The Stranger XXIX. The Den XXX. An Unexpected
Visit XXXI. Friendly Services XXXII. The Advice XXXIII. The
Accuser XXXIV. Father d’Aigrigny’s Secretary XXXV. Sympathy
XXXVI. Suspicions XXXVII. Excuses XXXVIII. Revelations
XXXIX. Pierre Simon
CHAPTER XXVI. A GOOD GENIUS.
The first of the two, whose arrival had interrupted the answer of the
notary, was Faringhea. At sight of this man’s forbidding countenance,
Samuel approached, and said to him: “Who are you, sir?”
After casting a piercing glance at Rodin, who started but soon recovered
his habitual coolness, Faringhea replied to Samuel: “Prince Djalma
arrived lately from India, in order to be present here this day, as it
was recommended to him by an inscription on a medal, which he wore about
his neck.”
“He, also!” cried Gabriel, who had been the shipmate of the Indian
Prince from the Azores, where the vessel in which he came from
Alexandria had been driven into port: “he also one of the heirs! In
fact, the prince told me during the voyage that his mother was of French
origin. But, doubtless, he thought it right to conceal from me the
object of his journey. Oh! that Indian is a noble and courageous young
man. Where is he?”
The Strangler again looked at Rodin, and said, laying strong emphasis
upon his words: “I left the prince yesterday evening. He informed me
that, although he had a great interest to be here, he might possibly
sacrifice that interest to other motives. I passed the night in the same
hotel, and this morning, when I went to call on him, they told me he was
already gone out. My friendship for him led me to come hither, hoping
the information I should be able to give might be of use to the prince.”
In making no mention of the snare into which he had fallen the day
before, in concealing Rodin’s machinations with regard to Djalma, and
in attributing the absence of this latter to a voluntary cause, the
Strangler evidently wished to serve the socius, trusting that Rodin
would know how to recompense his discretion. It is useless to observe,
that all this story was impudently false. Having succeeded that morning
in escaping from his prison by a prodigious effort of cunning, audacity,
and skill, he had run to the hotel where he had left Djalma; there
he had learned that a man and woman, of an advanced age, and most
respectable appearance, calling themselves relations of the young
Indian, had asked to see him--and that, alarmed at the dangerous state
of somnolency in which he seemed to be plunged, they had taken him home
in their carriage, in order to pay him the necessary attention.
“It is unfortunate,” said the notary, “that this heir also did not
make his appearance--but he has, unhappily, forfeited his right to the
immense inheritance that is in question.”
“Oh! an immense inheritance is in question,” said Faringhea, looking
fixedly at Rodin, who prudently turned away his eyes.
The second of the two personages we have mentioned entered at this
moment. It was the father of Marshal Simon, an old man of tall stature,
still active and vigorous for his age. His hair was white and thin. His
countenance, rather fresh-colored, was expressive at once of quickness,
mildness and energy.
Agricola advanced hastily to meet him. “You here, M. Simon!” he
exclaimed.
“Yes, my boy,” said the marshal’s father, cordially pressing Agricola’s
hand “I have just arrived from my journey. M. Hardy was to have been
here, about some matter of inheritance, as he supposed: but, as he will
still be absent from Paris for some time, he has charged me--”
“He also an heir!--M. Francis Hardy!” cried Agricola, interrupting the
old workman.
“But how pale and agitated you are, my boy!” said the marshal’s father,
looking round with astonishment. “What is the matter?”
“What is the matter?” cried Dagobert, in despair, as he approached the
foreman. “The matter is that they would rob your granddaughters, and
that I have brought them from the depths of Siberia only to witness this
shameful deed!”
“Eh?” cried the old workman, trying to recognize the soldiers face, “you
are then--”
“Dagobert.”
“You--the generous, devoted friend of my son!” cried the marshal’s
father, pressing the hands of Dagobert in his own with strong emotion;
“but did you not speak of Simon’s daughter?”
“Of his daughters; for he is more fortunate than he imagines,” said
Dagobert. “The poor children are twins.”
“And where are they?” asked the old man.
“In a convent.”
“In a convent?”
“Yes; by the treachery of this man, who keeps them there in order to
disinherit them.”
“What man?”
“The Marquis d’Aigrigny.”
“My son’s mortal enemy!” cried the old workman, as he threw a glance of
aversion at Father d’Aigrigny, whose audacity did not fail him.
“And that is not all,” added Agricola. “M. Hardy, my worthy and
excellent master, has also lost his right to this immense inheritance.”
“What?” cried Marshal Simon’s father; “but M. Hardy did not know that
such important interests were concerned. He set out hastily to join one
of his friends who was in want of him.”
At each of these successive revelations, Samuel felt his trouble
increase: but he could only sigh over it, for the will of the testator
was couched, unhappily, in precise and positive terms.
Father d’Aigrigny, impatient to end this scene, which caused him cruel
embarrassment, in spite of his apparent calmness, said to the notary,
in a grave and expressive voice: “It is necessary, sir, that all
this should have an end. If calumny could reach me, I would answer
victoriously by the facts that have just come to light. Why attribute
to odious conspiracies the absence of the heirs, in whose names this
soldier and his son have so uncourteously urged their demands? Why
should such absence be less explicable than the young Indian’s, or than
M. Hardy’s, who, as his confidential man has just told us, did not even
know the importance of the interests that called him hither? Is it not
probable, that the daughters of Marshal Simon, and Mdlle. de Cardoville
have been prevented from coming here to-day by some very natural
reasons? But, once again, this has lasted too long. I think M. Notary
will agree with me, that this discovery of new heirs does not at all
affect the question, which I had the honor to propose to him just now;
namely whether, as trustee for the poor, to whom Abbe Gabriel made a
free gift of all he possessed, I remain notwithstanding his tardy and
illegal opposition, the only possessor of this property, which I
have promised, and which I now again promise, in presence of all here
assembled, to employ for the Greater Glory of the Lord? Please to answer
me plainly, M. Notary; and thus terminate the scene which must needs be
painful to us all.”
“Sir,” replied the notary, in a solemn tone, “on my soul and conscience,
and in the name of law and justice--as a faithful and impartial executor
of the last will of M. Marius de Rennepont, I declare that, by virtue
of the deed of gift of Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont, you, M. l’Abbe
d’Aigrigny, are the only possessor of this property, which I place at
your immediate disposal, that you may employ the same according to the
intention of the donor.”
These words pronounced with conviction and gravity, destroyed the last
vague hopes that the representatives of the heirs might till then have
entertained. Samuel became paler than usual, and pressed convulsively
the hand of Bathsheba, who had drawn near to him. Large tears rolled
down the cheeks of the two old people. Dagobert and Agricola were
plunged into the deepest dejection. Struck with the reasoning of
the notary, who refused to give more credence and authority to their
remonstrances than the magistrates had done before him, they saw
themselves forced to abandon every hope. But Gabriel suffered more than
any one; he felt the most terrible remorse, in reflecting that, by his
blindness, he had been the involuntary cause and instrument of this
abominable theft.
So, when the notary, after having examined and verified the amount of
securities contained in the cedar box, said to Father d’Aigrigny:
“Take possession, sir, of this casket--” Gabriel exclaimed, with bitter
disappointment and profound despair: “Alas! one would fancy, under these
circumstances, that an inexorable fatality pursues all those who are
worthy of interest, affection or respect. Oh, my God!” added the young
priest, clasping his hands with fervor, “Thy sovereign justice will
never permit the triumph of such iniquity.”
It was as if heaven had listened to the prayer of the missionary. Hardly
had he spoken, when a strange event took place.
Without waiting for the end of Gabriel’s invocation, Rodin, profiting by
the decision of the notary, had seized the casket in his arms, unable
to repress a deep aspiration of joy and triumph. At the very moment
when Father d’Aigrigny and his socius thought themselves at last in safe
possession of the treasure, the door of the apartment in which the clock
had been heard striking was suddenly opened.
A woman appeared upon the threshold.
At sight of her, Gabriel uttered a loud cry, and remained as if
thunderstruck. Samuel and Bathsheba fell on their knees together, and
raised their clasped hands. The Jew and Jewess felt inexplicable hopes
reviving within them.
All the other actors in this scene appeared struck with stupor.
Rodin--Rodin himself--recoiled two steps, and replaced the casket on the
table with a trembling hand. Though the incident might appear natural
enough--a woman appearing on the threshold of a door, which she had just
thrown open--there was a pause of deep and solemn silence. Every bosom
seemed oppressed, and as if struggling for breath. All experienced,
at sight of this woman, surprise mingled with fear, and indefinable
anxiety--for this woman was the living original of the portrait, which
had been placed in the room a hundred and fifty years ago. The same
head-dress, the same flowing robe, the same countenance, so full of
poignant and resigned grief! She advanced slowly, and without appearing
to perceive the deep impression she had caused. She approached one of
the pieces of furniture, inlaid with brass, touched a spring concealed
in the moulding of gilded bronze, so that an upper drawer flew open, and
taking from it a sealed parchment envelope, she walked up to the table,
and placed this packet before the notary, who, hitherto silent and
motionless, received it mechanically from her.
Then, casting upon Gabriel, who seemed fascinated by her presence, a
long, mild, melancholy look, this woman directed her steps towards the
hall, the door of which had remained open. As she passed near Samuel and
Bathsheba, who were still kneeling, she stopped an instant, bowed her
fair head towards them, and looked at them with tender solicitude. Then,
giving them her hands to kiss, she glided away as slowly as she had
entered--throwing a last glance upon Gabriel. The departure of this
woman seemed to break the spell under which all present had remained for
the last few minutes. Gabriel was the first to speak, exclaiming, in an
agitated voice. “It is she--again--here--in this house!”
“Who, brother?” said Agricola, uneasy at the pale and almost wild
looks of the missionary; for the smith had not yet remarked the strange
resemblance of the woman to the portrait, though he shared in the
general feeling of amazement, without being able to explain it to
himself. Dagobert and Faringhea were in a similar state of mind.
“Who is this woman?” resumed Agricola, as he took the hand of Gabriel,
which felt damp and icy cold.
“Look!” said the young priest. “Those portraits have been there for more
than a century and a half.”
He pointed to the paintings before which he was now seated, and
Agricola, Dagobert, and Faringhea raised their eyes to either side of
the fireplace. Three exclamations were now heard at once.
“It is she--it is the same woman!” cried the smith, in amazement, “and
her portrait has been here for a hundred and fifty years!”
“What do I see?” cried Dagobert, as he gazed at the portrait of the man.
“The friend and emissary of Marshal Simon. Yes! it is the same face that
I saw last year in Siberia. Oh, yes! I recognize that wild and sorrowful
air--those black eyebrows, which make only one!”
“My eyes do not deceive me,” muttered Faringhea to himself, shuddering
with horror. “It is the same man, with the black mark on his forehead,
that we strangled and buried on the banks of the Ganges--the same man,
that one of the sons of Bowanee told me, in the ruins of Tchandi, had
been met by him afterwards at one of the gates of Bombay--the man of the
fatal curse, who scatters death upon his passage--and his picture has
existed for a hundred and fifty years!”
And, like Dagobert and Agricola, the stranger could not withdraw his
eyes from that strange portrait.
“What a mysterious resemblance!” thought Father d’Aigrigny. Then, as if
struck with a sudden idea, he said to Gabriel: “But this woman is the
same that saved your life in America?”
“It is the same,” answered Gabriel, with emotion; “and yet she told me
she was going towards the North,” added the young priest, speaking to
himself.
“But how came she in this house?” said Father d’Aigrigny, addressing
Samuel. “Answer me! did this woman come in with you, or before you?”
“I came in first, and alone, when this door was first opened since a
century and half,” said Samuel, gravely.
“Then how can you explain the presence of this woman here?” said Father
d’Aigrigny.
“I do not try to explain it,” said the Jew. “I see, I believe, and now I
hope.” added he, looking at Bathsheba with an indefinable expression.
“But you ought to explain the presence of this woman!” said Father
d’Aigrigny, with vague uneasiness. “Who is she? How came she hither?”
“All I know is, sir, that my father has often told me; there are
subterraneous communications between this house and distant parts of the
quarter.”
“Oh! then nothing can be clearer,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “it only
remains to be known what this woman intends by coming hither. As for
her singular resemblance to this portrait, it is one of the freaks of
nature.”
Rodin had shared in the general emotion, at the apparition of this
mysterious woman. But when he saw that she had delivered a sealed packet
to the notary, the socius, instead of thinking of the strangeness of
this unexpected vision, was only occupied with a violent desire to quit
the house with the treasure which had just fallen to the Company. He
felt a vague anxiety at sight of the envelope with the black seal, which
the protectress of Gabriel had delivered to the notary, and was still
held mechanically in his hands. The socius, therefore, judging this a
very good opportunity to walk off with the casket, during the general
silence and stupor which still continued, slightly touched Father
d’Aigrigny’s elbow, made him a sign of intelligence, and, tucking the
cedar-wood chest under his arm, was hastening towards the door.
“One moment, sir,” said Samuel, rising, and standing in his path; “I
request M. Notary to examine the envelope, that has just been delivered
to him. You may then go out.”
“But, sir,” said Rodin, trying to force a passage, “the question is
definitively decided in favor of Father d’Aigrigny. Therefore, with your
permission--”
“I tell you, sir,” answered the old man, in a loud voice, “that this
casket shall not leave the house, until M. Notary has examined the
envelope just delivered to him!”
These words drew the attention of all, Rodin was forced to retrace his
steps. Notwithstanding the firmness of his character, the Jew shuddered
at the look of implacable hate which Rodin turned upon him at this
moment.
Yielding to the wish of Samuel, the notary examined the envelope with
attention. “Good Heaven!” he cried suddenly; “what do I see?--Ah! so
much the better!”
At this exclamation all eyes turned upon the notary. “Oh! read, read,
sir!” cried Samuel, clasping his hands together. “My presentiments have
not then deceived me!”
“But, sir,” said Father d’Aigrigny to the notary, for he began to share
in the anxiety of Rodin, “what is this paper?”
“A codicil,” answered the notary; “a codicil, which reopens the whole
question.”
“How, sir?” cried Father d’Aigrigny, in a fury, as he hastily drew
nearer to the notary, “reopens the whole question! By what right?”
“It is impossible,” added Rodin. “We protest against it.
“Gabriel! father! listen,” cried Agricola, “all is not lost. There is
yet hope. Do you hear, Gabriel? There is yet hope.”
“What do you say?” exclaimed the young priest, rising, and hardly
believing the words of his adopted brother.
“Gentlemen,” said the notary; “I will read to you the superscription
of this envelope. It changes, or rather, it adjourns, the whole of the
testamentary provisions.”
“Gabriel!” cried Agricola, throwing himself on the neck of the
missionary, “all is adjourned, nothing is lost!”
“Listen, gentlemen,” said the notary; and he read as follows:
“‘This is a Codicil, which for reasons herein stated, adjourns and
prorogues to the 1st day of June, 1832, though without any other change,
all the provisions contained in the testament made by me, at one o’clock
this afternoon. The house shall be reclosed, and the funds left in the
hands of the same trustee, to be distributed to the rightful claimants
on the 1st of June, 1832.
“‘Villetaneuse, this 13th of February, 1682, eleven o’clock at night.
“‘MARIUS DE RENNEPONT.’”
“I protest against this codicil as a forgery!” cried Father d’Aigrigny
livid with rage and despair.
“The woman who delivered it to the notary is a suspicious character,”
added Rodin. “The codicil has been forged.”
“No, sir,” said the notary, severely; “I have just compared the two
signatures, and they are absolutely alike. For the rest--what I said
this morning, with regard to the absent heirs, is now applicable to
you--the law is open; you may dispute the authenticity of this codicil.
Meanwhile, everything will remain suspended--since the term for the
adjustment of the inheritance is prolonged for three months and a half.”
When the notary had uttered these last words, Rodin’s nails dripped
blood; for the first time, his wan lips became red.
“Oh, God! Thou hast heard and granted my prayer!” cried Gabriel,
kneeling down with religious fervor, and turning his angelic face
towards heaven. “Thy sovereign justice has not let iniquity triumph!”
“What do you say, my brave boy?” cried Dagobert, who, in the first
tumult of joy, had not exactly understood the meaning of the codicil.
“All is put off, father!” exclaimed the smith; “the heirs will have
three months and a half more to make their claim. And now that these
people are unmasked,” added Agricola, pointing to Rodin and Father
d’Aigrigny, “we have nothing more to fear from them. We shall be on
our guard; and the orphans, Mdlle. de Cardoville, my worthy master, M.
Hardy, and this young Indian, will all recover their own.”
We must renounce the attempt to paint the delight, the transport of
Gabriel and Agricola, of Dagobert, and Marshal Simon’s father, of Samuel
and Bathsheba. Faringhea alone remained in gloomy silence, before the
portrait of the man with the black-barred forehead. As for the fury of
Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, when they saw Samuel retake possession of
the casket, we must also renounce any attempt to describe it. On the
notary’s suggestion, who took with him the codicil, to have it opened
according to the formalities of the law, Samuel agreed that it would be
more prudent to deposit in the Bank of France the securities of immense
value that were now known to be in his possession.
While all the generous hearts, which had for a moment suffered so much,
were overflowing with happiness, hope, and joy, Father d’Aigrigny and
Rodin quitted the house with rage and death in their souls. The reverend
father got into his carriage, and said to his servants: “To Saint-Dizier
House!”--Then, worn out and crushed, he fell back upon the seat, and hid
his face in his hands, while he uttered a deep groan. Rodin sat next to
him, and looked with a mixture of anger and disdain at this so dejected
and broken-spirited man.
“The coward!” said he to himself. “He despairs--and yet--”
A quarter of an hour later, the carriage stopped in the Rue de Babylone,
in the court-yard of Saint-Dizier House.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE FIRST LAST, AND THE LAST FIRST.
The carriage had travelled rapidly to Saint-Dizier House. During all
the way, Rodin remained mute, contenting himself with observing Father
d’Aigrigny, and listening to him, as he poured forth his grief and fury
in a long monologue, interrupted by exclamations, lamentations, and
bursts of rage, directed against the strokes of that inexorable destiny,
which had ruined in a moment the best founded hopes. When the carriage
entered the courtyard, and stopped before the portico, the princess’s
face could be seen through one of the windows, half hidden by the folds
of a curtain; in her burning anxiety, she came to see if it was really
Father d’Aigrigny who arrived at the house. Still more, in defiance
of all ordinary rules, this great lady, generally so scrupulous as to
appearances, hurried from her apartment, and descended several steps
of the staircase, to meet Father d’Aigrigny, who was coming up with
a dejected air. At sight of the livid and agitated countenance of the
reverend father, the princess stopped suddenly, and grew pale. She
suspected that all was lost. A look rapidly exchanged with her old lover
left her no doubt of the issue she so much feared. Rodin humbly followed
the reverend father, and both, preceded by the princess, entered the
room. The door once closed, the princess, addressing Father d’Aigrigny,
exclaimed with unspeakable anguish: “What has happened?”
Instead of answering this question, the reverend father, his eyes
sparkling with rage, his lips white, his features contracted, looked
fixedly at the princess, and said to her: “Do you know the amount of
this inheritance, that we estimated at forty millions?”
“I understand,” cried the princess; “we have been deceived. The
inheritance amounts to nothing, and all you have dare has been in vain.”
“Yes, it has indeed been in vain,” answered the reverend father,
grinding his teeth with rage; “it was no question of forty millions, but
of two hundred and twelve millions.
“Two hundred and twelve millions!” repeated the princess in amazement,
as she drew back a step. “It is impossible!”
“I tell you I saw the vouchers, which were examined by the notary.”
“Two hundred and twelve millions?” resumed the princess, with deep
dejection. “It is an immense and sovereign power--and you have
renounced--you have not struggled for it, by every possible means, and
till the last moment?”
“Madame, I have done all that I could!--notwithstanding the treachery
of Gabriel, who this very morning declared that he renounced us, and
separated from the Society.”
“Ungrateful!” said the princess, unaffectedly.
“The deed of gift, which I had the precaution to have prepared by the
notary, was in such good, legal form, that in spite of the objections of
that accursed soldier and his son, the notary had put me in possession
of the treasure.”
“Two hundred and twelve millions!” repeated the princess clasping her
hands. “Verily it is like a dream!”
“Yes,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, bitterly, “for us, this possession is
indeed a dream, for a codicil has been discovered, which puts off for
three months and a half all the testamentary provisions. Now that our
very precautions have roused the suspicion of all these heirs--now that
they know the enormous amount at stake--they will be upon their guard;
and all is lost.”
“But who is the wretch that produced this codicil?”
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“Some wandering creature, that Gabriel says he met in America, where she
saved his life.”
“And how could this woman be there--how could she know the existence of
this codicil?”
“I think it was all arranged with a miserable Jew, the guardian of the
house, whose family has had charge of the funds for three generations;
he had no doubt some secret instructions, in case he suspected the
detention of any of the heirs, for this Marius de Rennepont had foreseen
that our Company would keep their eyes upon his race.”
“But can you not dispute the validity of this codicil?”
“What, go to law in these times--litigate about a will--incur the
certainty of a thousand clamors, with no security for success?--It is
bad enough, that even this should get wind. Alas! it is terrible. So
near the goal! after so much care and trouble. An affair that had been
followed up with so much perseverance during a century and a half!”
“Two hundred and twelve millions!” said the princess. “The Order would
have had no need to look for establishments in foreign countries; with
such resources, it would have been able to impose itself upon France.”
“Yes,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, with bitterness; “by means of
education, we might have possessed ourselves of the rising generation.
The power is altogether incalculable.” Then, stamping with his foot, he
resumed: “I tell you, that it is enough to drive one mad with rage! an
affair so wisely, ably, patiently conducted!”
“Is there no hope?”
“Only that Gabriel may not revoke his donation, in as far as concerns
himself. That alone would be a considerable sum--not less than thirty
millions.”
“It is enormous--it is almost what you hoped,” said the princess; “then
why despair?”
“Because it is evident that Gabriel will dispute this donation. However
legal it may be, he will find means to annul it, now that he is free,
informed as to our designs, and surrounded by his adopted family. I tell
you, that all is lost. There is no hope left. I think it will be even
prudent to write to Rome, to obtain permission to leave Paris for a
while. This town is odious to me!”
“Oh, yes! I see that no hope is left--since you, my friend, have decided
almost to fly.”
Father d’Aigrigny was completely discouraged and broken down; this
terrible blow had destroyed all life and energy within him. He threw
himself back in an arm-chair, quite overcome. During the preceding
dialogue, Rodin was standing humbly near the door, with his old hat in
his hand. Two or three times, at certain passages in the conversation
between Father d’Aigrigny and the princess, the cadaverous face of the
socius, whose wrath appeared to be concentrated, was slightly flushed,
and his flappy eyelids were tinged with red, as if the blood mounted in
consequence of an interior struggle; but, immediately after, his dull
countenance resumed its pallid blue.
“I must write instantly to Rome, to announce this defeat, which has
become an event of the first importance, because it overthrows immense
hopes,” said Father d’Aigrigny, much depressed.
The reverend father had remained seated; pointing to a table, he said to
Rodin, with an abrupt and haughty air:
“Write!”
The socius placed his hat on the ground, answered with a respectful
bow the command, and with stooping head and slanting walk, went to
seat himself on a chair, that stood before a desk. Then, taking pen
and paper, he waited, silent and motionless, for the dictation of his
superior.
“With your permission, princess?” said Father d’Aigrigny to Madame de
Saint-Dizier. The latter answered by an impatient wave of the hand, as
if she reproached him for the formal demand at such a time. The reverend
father bowed, and dictated these words in a hoarse and hollow voice:
“All our hopes, which of late had become almost certainties, have been
suddenly defeated. The affair of the Rennepont inheritance, in spite
of all the care and skill employed upon it, has completely and
finally failed. At the point to which matters had been brought, it is
unfortunately worse than a failure; it is a most disastrous event for
the Society, which was clearly entitled to this property, fraudulently
withdrawn from a confiscation made in our favor. My conscience at least
bears witness, that, to the last moment, I did all that was possible
to defend and secure our rights. But I repeat, we must consider this
important affair as lost absolutely and forever, and think no more about
it.”
Thus dictating, Father d’Aigrigny’s back was turned towards Rodin. At a
sudden movement made by the socius, in rising and throwing his pen upon
the table, instead of continuing to write, the reverend father turned
round, and, looking at Rodin with profound astonishment, said to him:
“Well! what are you doing?”
“It is time to end this--the man is mad!” said Rodin to himself, as he
advanced slowly towards the fireplace.
“What! you quit your place--you cease writing?” said the reverend
father, in amazement. Then, addressing the princess, who shared in his
astonishment, he added, as he glanced contemptuously at the socius, “He
is losing his senses.”
“Forgive him,” replied Mme. de Saint-Dizier; “it is, no doubt, the
emotion caused by the ruin of this affair.”
“Thank the princess, return to your place, and continue to write,” said
Father d’Aigrigny to Rodin, in a tone of disdainful compassion, as, with
imperious finger, he pointed to the table.
The socius, perfectly indifferent to this new order, approached the
fireplace, drew himself up to his full height as he turned his arched
back, planted himself firmly on his legs, stamped on the carpet with the
heel of his clumsy, greasy shoes, crossed his hands beneath the flaps of
his old, spotted coat, and, lifting his head, looked fixedly at
Father d’Aigrigny. The socius had not spoken a word, but his hideous
countenance, now flushed, suddenly revealed such a sense of his
superiority, and such sovereign contempt for Father d’Aigrigny, mingled
with so calm and serene a daring, that the reverend father and the
princess were quite confounded by it. They felt themselves overawed by
this little old man, so sordid and so ugly. Father d’Aigrigny knew too
well the customs of the Company, to believe his humble secretary capable
of assuming so suddenly these airs of transcendent superiority without
a motive, or rather, without a positive right. Late, too late, the
reverend father perceived, that this subordinate agent might be partly
a spy, partly an experienced assistant, who, according to the
constitutions of the Order, had the power and mission to depose and
provisionally replace, in certain urgent cases, the incapable person
over whom he was stationed as a guard. The reverend father was not
deceived. From the general to the provincials, and to the rectors of
the colleges, all the superior members of the Order have stationed
near them, often without their knowledge, and in apparently the lowest
capacities, men able to assume their functions at any given moment, and
who, with this view, constantly keep up a direct correspondence with
Rome.
From the moment Rodin had assumed this position, the manners of Father
d’Aigrigny, generally so haughty, underwent a change. Though it cost him
a good deal, he said with hesitation, mingled with deference: “You have,
no doubt, the right to command me--who hitherto have commanded.” Rodin,
without answering, drew from his well-rubbed and greasy pocket-book a
slip of paper, stamped upon both sides, on which were written several
lines in Latin. When he had read it, Father d’Aigrigny pressed this
paper respectfully, even religiously, to his lips: then returned it to
Rodin, with a low bow. When he again raised his head, he was purple with
shame and vexation. Notwithstanding his habits of passive obedience
and immutable respect for the will of the Order, he felt a bitter and
violent rage at seeing himself thus abruptly deposed from power. That
was not all. Though, for a long time past, all relations in gallantry
had ceased between him and Mme. de Saint-Dizier, the latter was not the
less a woman; and for him to suffer this humiliation in presence of a
woman was, undoubtedly, cruel, as, notwithstanding his entrance into the
Order, he had not wholly laid aside the character of man of the world.
Moreover, the princess, instead of appearing hurt and offended by this
sudden transformation of the superior into a subaltern, and of the
subaltern into a superior, looked at Rodin with a sort of curiosity
mingled with interest. As a woman--as a woman, intensely ambitious,
seeking to connect herself with every powerful influence--the princess
loved this strange species of contrast. She found it curious and
interesting to see this man, almost in rags, mean in appearance, and
ignobly ugly, and but lately the most humble of subordinates look down
from the height of his superior intelligence upon the nobleman by
birth, distinguished for the elegance of his manners, and just before so
considerable a personage in the Society. From that moment, as the more
important personage of the two, Rodin completely took the place of
Father d’Aigrigny in the princess’s mind. The first pang of humiliation
over, the reverend father, though his pride bled inwardly, applied all
his knowledge of the world to behave with redoubled courtesy towards
Rodin, who had become his superior by this abrupt change of fortune. But
the ex-socius, incapable of appreciating, or rather of acknowledging,
such delicate shades of manner, established himself at once, firmly,
imperiously, brutally, in his new position, not from any reaction of
offended pride, but from a consciousness of what he was really worth.
A long acquaintance with Father d’Aigrigny had revealed to him the
inferiority of the latter.
“You threw away your pen,” said Father d’Aigrigny to Rodin with extreme
deference, “while I was dictating a note for Rome. Will you do me the
favor to tell me how I have acted wrong?”
“Directly,” replied Rodin, in his sharp, cutting voice. “For a long time
this affair appeared to me above your strength; but I abstained from
interfering. And yet what mistakes! what poverty of invention; what
coarseness in the means employed to bring it to bear!”
“I can hardly understand your reproaches,” answered Father d’Aigrigny,
mildly, though a secret bitterness made its way through his apparent
submission. “Was not the success certain, had it not been for this
codicil? Did you not yourself assist in the measures that you now
blame?”
“You commanded, then, and it was my duty to obey. Besides, you were just
on the point of succeeding--not because of the means you had taken--but
in spite of those means, with all their awkward and revolting
brutality.”
“Sir--you are severe,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“I am just. One has to be prodigiously clever, truly, to shut up any one
in a room, and then lock the door! And yet, what else have you done? The
daughters of General Simon?--imprisoned at Leipsic, shut up in a
convent at Paris! Adrienne de Cardoville?--placed in confinement.
Sleepinbuff--put in prison. Djalma?--quieted by a narcotic. One only
ingenious method, and a thousand times safer, because it acted morally,
not materially, was employed to remove M. Hardy. As for your other
proceedings--they were all bad, uncertain, dangerous. Why? Because they
were violent, and violence provokes violence. Then it is no longer a
struggle of keen, skillful, persevering men, seeing through the darkness
in which they walk, but a match of fisticuffs in broad day. Though we
should be always in action, we should always shrink from view; and yet
you could find no better plan than to draw universal attention to us
by proceedings at once open and deplorably notorious. To make them more
secret, you call in the guard, the commissary of police, the jailers,
for your accomplices. It is pitiable, sir; nothing but the most
brilliant success could cover such wretched folly; and this success has
been wanting.”
“Sir,” said Father d’Aigrigny, deeply hurt, for the Princess de Saint
Dizier, unable to conceal the sort of admiration caused in her by the
plain, decisive words of Rodin, looked at her old lover, with an air
that seemed to say, “He is right;”--“sir, you are more than severe in
your judgment; and, notwithstanding the deference I owe to you, I must
observe, that I am not accustomed--”
“There are many other things to which you are not accustomed,” said
Rodin, harshly interrupting the reverend father; “but you will accustom
yourself to them. You have hitherto had a false idea of your own value.
There is the old leaven of the soldier and the worlding fermenting
within you, which deprives your reason of the coolness, lucidity, and
penetration that it ought to possess. You have been a fine military
officer, brisk and gay, foremost in wars and festivals, with pleasures
and women. These things have half worn you out. You will never be
anything but a subaltern; you have been thoroughly tested. You will
always want that vigor and concentration of mind which governs men and
events. That vigor and concentration of mind I have--and do you know
why? It is because, solely devoted to the service of the Company, I have
always been ugly, dirty, unloved, unloving--I have all my manhood about
me!”
In pronouncing these words, full of cynical pride, Rodin was truly
fearful. The princess de Saint-Dizier thought him almost handsome by his
energy and audacity.
Father d’Aigrigny, feeling himself overawed, invincibly and inexorably,
by this diabolical being, made a last effort to resist and exclaimed,
“Oh! sir, these boastings are no proofs of valor and power. We must see
you at work.”
“Yes,” replied Rodin, coldly; “do you know at what work?” Rodin was fond
of this interrogative mode of expression. “Why, at the work that you so
basely abandon.”
“What!” cried the Princess de Saint-Dizier; for Father d’Aigrigny,
stupefied at Rodin’s audacity, was unable to utter a word.
“I say,” resumed Rodin, slowly, “that I undertake to bring to a good
issue this affair of the Rennepont inheritance, which appears to you so
desperate.”
“You?” cried Father d’Aigrigny. “You?” “I.”
“But they have unmasked our maneuvers.”
“So much the better; we shall be obliged to invent others.”
“But they; will suspect us in everything.”
“So much the better; the success that is difficult is the most certain.”
“What! do you hope to make Gabriel consent not to revoke his donation,
which is perhaps illegal?”
“I mean to bring in to the coffers of the Company the whole of the two
hundred and twelve millions, of which they wish to cheat us. Is that
clear?”
“It is clear--but impossible.”
“And I tell you that it is, and must be possible. Do you not understand,
short-sighted as you are!” cried Rodin, animated to such a degree that
his cadaverous face became slightly flushed; “do you not understand that
it is no longer in our choice to hesitate? Either these two hundred
and twelve millions must be ours--and then the re-establishment of our
sovereign influence in France is sure--for, in these venal times, with
such a sum at command, you may bribe or overthrow a government, or light
up the flame of civil war, and restore legitimacy, which is our natural
ally, and, owing all to us, would give us all in return--”
“That is clear,” cried the princess, clasping her hands in admiration.
“If, on the contrary,” resumed Rodin, “these two hundred and twelve
millions fall into the hands of the family of the Renneponts, it will
be our ruin and our destruction. We shall create a stock of bitter and
implacable enemies. Have you not heard the execrable designs of that
Rennepont, with regard to the association he recommends, and which, by
an accursed fatality, his race are just in a condition to realize? Think
of the forces that would rally round these millions. There would be
Marshal Simon, acting in the name of his daughters--that is, the man of
the people become a duke, without being the vainer for it, which secures
his influence with the mob, because military spirit and Bonapartism
still represent, in the eyes of the French populace, the traditions of
national honor and glory. There would be Francis Hardy, the liberal,
independent, enlightened citizen, the type of the great manufacturer,
the friend of progress, the benefactor of his workmen. There would be
Gabriel--the good priest, as they say!--the apostle of the primitive
gospel, the representative of the democracy of the church, of the poor
country curate as opposed to the rich bishop, the tiller of the vine as
opposed to him who sits in the shade of it; the propagator of all
the ideas of fraternity, emancipation, progress--to use their own
jargon--and that, not in the name of revolutionary and incendiary
politics, but in the name of a religion of charity, love, and peace--to
speak as they speak. There, too, would be Adrienne de Cardoville, the
type of elegance, grace, and beauty, the priestess of the senses, which
she deifies by refining and cultivating them. I need not tell you of
her wit and audacity; you know them but too well. No one could be more
dangerous to us than this creature, a patrician in blood, a plebeian in
heart, a poet in imagination. Then, too, there would be Prince Djalma,
chivalrous, bold, ready for adventure, knowing nothing of civilized
life, implacable in his hate as in his affection, a terrible instrument
for whoever can make use of him. In this detestable family, even such
a wretch as Sleepinbuff, who in himself is of no value, raised and
purified by the contact of these generous and far from narrow natures
(as they call them), might represent the working class, and take a large
share in the influence of that association. Now do you not think that if
all these people, already exasperated against us, because (as they say)
we have wished to rob them, should follow the detestable counsels of
this Rennepont--should unite their forces around this immense fortune,
which would strengthen them a hundred-fold--do you not think that, if
they declare a deadly war against us, they will be the most dangerous
enemies that we have ever had? I tell you that the Company has never
been in such serious peril; yes, it is now a question of life and
death. We must no longer defend ourselves, but lead the attack, so as
to annihilate this accursed race of Rennepont, and obtain possession of
these millions.”
At this picture, drawn by Rodin with a feverish animation, which had
only the more influence from its unexpectedness, the princess and Father
d’Aigrigny looked at each other in confusion.
“I confess,” said the reverend father to Rodin, “I had not considered
all the dangerous consequences of this association, recommended by M. de
Rennepont. I believe that the heir, from the characters we know them to
be possessed of, would wish to realize this Utopia. The peril is great
and pressing; what is to be done?”
“What, sir? You have to act upon ignorant, heroic, enthusiastic natures
like Djalma’s--sensual and eccentric characters like Adrienne de
Cardoville’s--simple and ingenuous minds like Rose and Blanche
Simon’s--honest and frank dispositions like Francis Hardy’s--angelic and
pure souls like Gabriel’s--brutal and stupid instincts like Jacques--and
can you ask, ‘What is to be done?’”
“In truth, I do not understand you,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“I believe it. Your past conduct shows as much,” replied Rodin,
contemptuously. “You have had recourse to the lowest and most mechanical
contrivances, instead of acting upon the noble and generous passions,
which, once united, would constitute so formidable a bond; but which,
now divided and isolated, are open to every surprise, every seduction,
every attack! Do you, at length understand me? Not yet?” added Rodin,
shrugging his shoulders. “Answer me--do people die of despair?”
“Yes.”
“May not the gratitude of successful love reach the last limits of
insane generosity?”
“Yes.”
“May there not be such horrible deceptions, that suicide is the only
refuge from frightful realities?”
“Yes.”
“May not the excess of sensuality lead to the grave by a slow and
voluptuous agony?”
“Yes.”
“Are there not in life such terrible circumstances that the most
worldly, the firmest, the most impious characters, throw themselves
blindly, overwhelmed with despair, into the arms of religion, and
abandon all earthly greatness for sackcloth, and prayers, and solitude?”
“Yes.”
“Are there not a thousand occasions in which the reaction of the
passions works the most extraordinary changes, and brings about the most
tragic catastrophes in the life of man and woman?”
“No doubt.”
“Well, then! why ask me, ‘What is to be done?’ What would you say, for
example, if before three months are over, the most dangerous members of
this family of the Renneponts should come to implore, upon their knees,
admission to that very Society which they now hold in horror, and from
which Gabriel has just separated?”
“Such a conversion is impossible,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.
“Impossible? What were you, sir, fifteen years ago?” said Rodin. “An
impious and debauched man of the world. And yet you came to us, and your
wealth became ours. What! we have conquered princes, kings, popes; we
have absorbed and extinguished in our unity magnificent intelligences,
which, from afar, shone with too dazzling a light; we have all but
governed two worlds; we have perpetuated our Society, full of life,
rich and formidable, even to this day, through all the hate, and all the
persecutions that have assailed us; and yet we shall not be able to
get the better of a single family, which threatens our Company, and has
despoiled us of a large fortune? What! we are not skillful enough to
obtain this result without having recourse to awkward and dangerous
violence? You do not know, then, the immense field that is thrown
open by the mutually destructive power of human passions, skillfully
combined, opposed, restrained, excited?--particularly,” added Rodin,
with a strange smile, “when, thanks to a powerful ally, these passions
are sure to be redoubled in ardor and energy.”
“What ally?” asked Father d’Aigrigny, who, as well as the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, felt a sort of admiration mixed with terror.
“Yes,” resumed Rodin, without answering the reverend father; “this
formidable ally, who comes to our assistance, may bring about the most
astonishing transformations--make the coward brave, and the impious
credulous, and the gentle ferocious--”
“But this ally!” cried the Princess, oppressed with a vague sense of
fear. “This great and formidable ally--who is he?”
“If he comes,” resumed Rodin, still impassible, “the youngest and most
vigorous, every moment in danger of death, will have no advantage over
the sick man at his last gasp.”
“But who is this ally?” exclaimed Father d’Aigrigny, more and more
alarmed, for as the picture became darker, Rodin’s face become more
cadaverous.
“This ally, who can decimate a population, may carry away with him in
the shroud that he drags at his heels, the whole of an accursed race;
but even he must respect the life of that great intangible body, which
does not perish with the death of its members--for the spirit of the
Society of Jesus is immortal!”
“And this ally?”
“Oh, this ally,” resumed Rodin, “who advances with slow steps, and whose
terrible coming is announced by mournful presentiments--”
“Is--”
“The Cholera!”
These words, pronounced by Rodin in an abrupt voice, made the Princess
and Father d’Aigrigny grow pale and tremble. Rodin’s look was gloomy and
chilling, like a spectre’s. For some moments, the silence of the
tomb reigned in the saloon. Rodin was the first to break it. Still
impassible, he pointed with imperious gesture to the table, where a few
minutes before he had himself been humbly seated, and said in a sharp
voice to Father d’Aigrigny, “Write!”
The reverend father started at first with surprise; then, remembering
that from a superior he had become an inferior, he rose, bowed lowly to
Rodin, as he passed before him, seated himself at the table, took the
pen, and said, “I am ready.”
Rodin dictated, and the reverend Father wrote as follows: “By the
mismanagement of the Reverend Father d’Aigrigny, the affair of the
inheritance of the Rennepont family has been seriously compromised.
The sum amounts to two hundred and twelve millions. Notwithstanding
the check we have received, we believe we may safely promise to prevent
these Renneponts from injuring the Society, and to restore the two
hundred and twelve millions to their legitimate possessors. We only ask
for the most complete and extensive powers.”
A quarter of an hour after this scene, Rodin left Saint Dizier House,
brushing with his sleeve the old greasy hat, I which he had pulled off
to return the salute of the porter by a very low bow.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE STRANGER.
The following scene took place on the morrow of the day in which
Father d’Aigrigny had been so rudely degraded by Rodin to the subaltern
position formerly occupied by the socius.
It is well known that the Rue Clovis is one of the most solitary streets
in the Montagne St. Genevieve district. At the epoch of this narrative,
the house No. 4, in this street, was composed of one principal building,
through which ran a dark passage, leading to a little, gloomy court, at
the end of which was a second building, in a singularly miserable and
dilapidated condition. On the ground-floor, in front of the house, was a
half-subterraneous shop, in which was sold charcoal, fagots, vegetables,
and milk. Nine o’clock in the morning had just struck. The mistress of
the shop, one Mother Arsene, an old woman of a mild, sickly countenance,
clad in a brown stuff dress, with a red bandanna round her head, was
mounted on the top step of the stairs which led down to her door, and
was employed in setting out her goods--that is, on one side of her
door she placed a tin milk-can, and on the other some bunches of stale
vegetables, flanked with yellowed cabbages. At the bottom of the steps,
in the shadowy depths of the cellar, one could see the light of the
burning charcoal in a little stove. This shop situated at the side of
the passage, served as a porter’s lodge, and the old woman acted as
portress. On a sudden, a pretty little creature, coming from the house,
entered lightly and merrily the shop. This young girl was Rose-Pompon,
the intimate friend of the Bacchanal Queen.--Rose-Pompon, a widow for
the moment, whose bacchanalian cicisbeo was Ninny Moulin, the orthodox
scapegrace, who, on occasion, after drinking his fill, could transform
himself into Jacques Dumoulin, the religious writer, and pass gayly from
dishevelled dances to ultramontane polemics, from Storm-blown Tulips to
Catholic pamphlets.
Rose-Pompon had just quitted her bed, as appeared by the negligence of
her strange morning costume; no doubt, for want of any other head-dress,
on her beautiful light hair, smooth and well-combed, was stuck jauntily
a foraging-cap, borrowed from her masquerading costume. Nothing could
be more sprightly than that face, seventeen years old, rosy, fresh,
dimpled, and brilliantly lighted up by a pair of gay, sparkling blue
eyes. Rose Pompon was so closely enveloped from the neck to the feet
in a red and green plaid cloak, rather faded, that one could guess the
cause of her modest embarrassment. Her naked feet, so white that one
could not tell if she wore stockings or not, were slipped into little
morocco shoes, with plated buckles. It was easy to perceive that her
cloak concealed some article which she held in her hand.
“Good-day, Rose-Pompon,” said Mother Arsene with a kindly air; “you are
early this morning. Had you no dance last night?”
“Don’t talk of it, Mother Arsene; I had no heart to dance. Poor
Cephyse--the Bacchanal Queen--has done nothing but cry all night. She
cannot console herself, that her lover should be in prison.”
“Now, look here, my girl,” said the old woman, “I must speak to you
about your friend Cephyse. You won’t be angry?”
“Am I ever angry?” said Rose-Pompon, shrugging her shoulders.
“Don’t you think that M. Philemon will scold me on his return?”
“Scold you! what for?”
“Because of his rooms, that you occupy.”
“Why, Mother Arsene, did not Philemon tell you, that, in his absence, I
was to be as much mistress of his two rooms as I am of himself?”
“I do not speak of you, but of your friend Cephyse, whom you have also
brought to occupy M. Philemon’s lodgings.”
“And where would she have gone without me, my good Mother Arsene? Since
her lover was arrested, she has not dared to return home, because she
owes ever so many quarters. Seeing her troubles. I said to her: ‘Come,
lodge at Philemon’s. When he returns, we must find another place for
you.’”
“Well, little lovey--if you only assure me that M. Philemon will not be
angry--”
“Angry! for what? That we spoil his things? A fine set of things he has
to spoil! I broke his last cup yesterday--and am forced to fetch the
milk in this comic concern.”
So saying, laughing with all her might, Rose-Pompon drew her pretty
little white arm from under her cloak, and presented to Mother Arsene
one of those champagne glasses of colossal capacity, which hold about a
bottle.
“Oh, dear!” said the greengrocer in amazement; “it is like a glass
trumpet.”
“It is Philemon’s grand gala-glass, which they gave him when he took his
degrees in boating,” said Rose-Pompon, gravely.
“And to think you must put your milk in it--I am really ashamed,” said
Mother Arsene.
“So am I! If I were to meet any one on the stairs, holding this glass in
my hand like a Roman candlestick, I should burst out laughing, and
break the last remnant of Philemon’s bazaar, and he would give me his
malediction.”
“There is no danger that you will meet any one. The first-floor is gone
out, and the second gets up very late.”
“Talking of lodgers,” said Rose-Pompon, “is there not a room to let
on the second-floor in the rear house? It might do for Cephyse, when
Philemon comes back.”
“Yes, there is a little closet in the roof--just over the two rooms of
the mysterious old fellow,” said Mother Arsene.
“Oh, yes! Father Charlemagne. Have you found out anything more about
him?”
“Dear me, no, my girl! only that he came this morning at break of day,
and knocked at my shutters. ‘Have you received a letter for me, my good
lady?’ said he--for he is always so polite, the dear man!--‘No, sir,’
said I.’--‘Well, then, pray don’t disturb yourself, my good lady!’ said
he; ‘I will call again.’ And so he went away.”
“Does he never sleep in the house?”
“Never. No doubt, he lodges somewhere else--but he passes some hours
here, once every four or five days.”
“And always comes alone?”
“Always.”
“Are you quite sure? Does he never manage to slip in some little puss
of a woman? Take care, or Philemon will give you notice to quit,” said
Rose-Pompon, with an air of mock-modesty.
“M. Charlemagne with a woman! Oh, poor dear man!” said the greengrocer,
raising her hands to heaven; “if you saw him, with his greasy hat, his
old gray coat, his patched umbrella, and his simple face, he looks more
like a saint than anything else.”
“But then, Mother Arsene, what does the saint do here, all alone for
hours, in that hole at the bottom of the court, where one can hardly see
at noon-day?”
“That’s what I ask myself, my dovey, what can he be doing? It can’t be
that he comes to look at his furniture, for he has nothing but a flock
bed, a table, a stove, a chair, and an old trunk.”
“Somewhat in the style of Philemon’s establishment,” said Rose-Pompon.
“Well, notwithstanding that, Rosey, he is as much afraid that any one
should come into his room, as if we were all thieves, and his furniture
was made of massy gold. He has had a patent lock put on the door, at his
own expense; he never leaves me his key; and he lights his fire himself,
rather than let anybody into his room.”
“And you say he is old?”
“Yes, fifty or sixty.”
“And ugly?”
“Just fancy, little viper’s eyes, looking as if they had been bored with
a gimlet, in a face as pale as death--so pale, that the lips are white.
That’s for his appearance. As for his character, the good old man’s so
polite!--he pulls off his hat so often, and makes you such low bows,
that it is quite embarrassing.”
“But, to come back to the point,” resumed Rose-Pompon, “what can he
do all alone in those two rooms? If Cephyse should take the closet, on
Philemon’s return, we may amuse ourselves by finding out something about
it. How much do they want for the little room?”
“Why, it is in such bad condition, that I think the landlord would let
it go for fifty or fifty-five francs a-year, for there is no room for a
stove, and the only light comes through a small pane in the roof.”
“Poor Cephyse!” said Rose, sighing, and shaking her head sorrowfully.
“After having amused herself so well, and flung away so much money with
Jacques Rennepont, to live in such a place, and support herself by hard
work! She must have courage!”
“Why, indeed, there is a great difference between that closet and the
coach-and-four in which Cephyse came to fetch you the other day, with
all the fine masks, that looked so gay--particularly the fat man in
the silver paper helmet, with the plume and the top boots. What a jolly
fellow!”
“Yes, Ninny Moulin. There is no one like him to dance the forbidden
fruit. You should see him with Cephyse, the Bacchanal Queen. Poor
laughing, noisy thing!--the only noise she makes now is crying.”
“Oh! these young people--these young people!” said the greengrocer.
“Easy, Mother Arsene; you were young once.”
“I hardly know. I have always thought myself much the same as I am now.”
“And your lovers, Mother Arsene?”
“Lovers! Oh, yes! I was too ugly for that--and too well taken care of.”
“Your mother looked after you, then?”
“No, my girl; but I was harnessed.”
“Harnessed!” cried Rose-Pompon, in amazement, interrupting the dealer.
“Yes,--harnessed to a water-cart, along with my brother. So, you see,
when we had drawn like a pair of horses for eight or ten hours a day, I
had no heart to think of nonsense.”
“Poor Mother Arsene, what a hard life,” said Rose-Pompon with interest.
“In the winter, when it froze, it was hard enough. I and my brother were
obliged to be rough-shod, for fear of slipping.”
“What a trade for a woman! It breaks one’s heart. And they forbid people
to harness dogs!” added Rose-Pompon, sententiously.(21)
“Why, ‘tis true,” resumed Mother Arsene. “Animals are sometimes better
off than people. But what would you have? One must live, you know. As
you make your bed, you must lie. It was hard enough, and I got a disease
of the lungs by it--which was not my fault. The strap, with which I
was harnessed, pressed so hard against my chest, that I could scarcely
breathe: so I left the trade, and took to a shop, which is just to tell
you, that if I had had a pretty face and opportunity, I might have done
like so many other young people, who begin with laughter and finish--”
“With a laugh t’other side of the mouth--you would say; it is true,
Mother Arsene. But, you see, every one has not the courage to go into
harness, in order to remain virtuous. A body says to herself, you must
have some amusement while you are young and pretty--you will not always
be seventeen years old--and then--and then--the world will end, or you
will get married.”
“But, perhaps, it would have been better to begin by that.”
“Yes, but one is too stupid; one does not know how to catch the men, or
to frighten them. One is simple, confiding, and they only laugh at us.
Why, Mother Arsene, I am myself an example that would make you shudder;
but ‘tis quite enough to have had one’s sorrows, without fretting one’s
self at the remembrance.”
“What, my beauty! you, so young and gay, have had sorrows?”
“Ah, Mother Arsene! I believe you. At fifteen and a half I began to cry,
and never left off till I was sixteen. That was enough, I think.”
“They deceived you, mademoiselle?”
“They did worse. They treated me as they have treated many a poor girl,
who had no more wish to go wrong than I had. My story is not a three
volume one. My father and mother are peasants near Saint-Valery, but
so poor--so poor, that having five children to provide for, they were
obliged to send me, at eight years old, to my aunt, who was a charwoman
here in Paris. The good woman took me out of charity, and very kind it
was of her, for I earned but little. At eleven years of age she sent me
to work in one of the factories of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I don’t
wish to speak, ill of the masters of these factories; but what do they
care, if little boys and girls are mixed up pell-mell with young men and
women of eighteen to twenty? Now you see, there, as everywhere, some are
no better than they should be; they are not particular in word or deed,
and I ask you, what art example for the children, who hear and see more
than you think for. Then, what happens? They get accustomed as they grow
older, to hear and see things, that afterwards will not shock them at
all.”
“What you say there is true, Rose-Pompon. Poor children! who takes any
trouble about them?--not their father or mother, for they are at their
daily work.”
“Yes, yes, Mother Arsene, it is all very well; it is easy to cry down a
young girl that has gone wrong; but if they knew all the ins and
outs, they would perhaps pity rather than blame her. To come back to
myself--at fifteen years old I was tolerably pretty. One day I had
something to ask of the head clerk. I went to him in his private room.
He told me he would grant what I wanted, and even take me under his
patronage, if I would listen to him; and he began by trying to kiss me.
I resisted. Then he said to me:--‘You refuse my offer? You shall have no
more work; I discharge you from the factory.’”
“Oh, the wicked man!” said Mother Arsene.
“I went home all in tears, and my poor aunt encouraged me not to yield,
and she would try to place me elsewhere. Yes--but it was impossible;
the factories were all full. Misfortunes never come single; my aunt fell
ill, and there was not a sou in the house; I plucked up my courage, and
returned to entreat the mercy of the clerk at the factory. Nothing would
do. ‘So much the worse,’ said he; ‘you are throwing away your luck. If
you had been more complying, I should perhaps have married you.’ What
could I do, Mother Arsene?--misery was staring me in the face; I had no
work; my aunt was ill; the clerk said he would marry me--I did like so
many others.”
“And when, afterwards, you spoke to him about marriage?”
“Of course he laughed at me, and in six months left me. Then I wept
all the tears in my body, till none remained--then I was very ill--and
then--I console myself, as one may console one’s self for anything.
After some changes, I met with Philemon. It is upon him that I revenge
myself for what others have done to me. I am his tyrant,” added
Rose-Pompon, with a tragic air, as the cloud passed away which had
darkened her pretty face during her recital to Mother Arsene.
“It is true,” said the latter thoughtfully. “They deceive a poor
girl--who is there to protect or defend her? Oh! the evil we do does not
always come from ourselves, and then--”
“I spy Ninny Moulin!” cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting the greengrocer,
and pointing to the other side of the street. “How early abroad! What
can he want with me?” and Rose wrapped herself still more closely and
modestly in her cloak.
It was indeed Jacques Dumoulin, who advanced with his hat stuck on one
side, with rubicund nose and sparkling eye, dressed in a loose coat,
which displayed the rotundity of his abdomen. His hands, one of which
held a huge cane shouldered like a musket, were plunged into the vast
pockets of his outer garment.
Just as he reached the threshold of the door, no doubt with the
intention of speaking to the portress, he perceived Rose-Pompon. “What!”
he exclaimed, “my pupil already stirring? That is fortunate. I came on
purpose to bless her at the rise of morn!”
So saying, Ninny Moulin advanced with open arms towards Rose-Pompon who
drew back a step.
“What, ungrateful child!” resumed the writer on divinity. “Will you
refuse me the morning’s paternal kiss?”
“I accept paternal kisses from none but Philemon. I had a letter from
him yesterday, with a jar of preserves, two geese, a bottle of home-made
brandy, and an eel. What ridiculous presents! I kept the drink, and
changed the rest for two darling live pigeons, which I have installed
in Philemon’s cabinet, and a very pretty dove-cote it makes me. For the
rest, my husband is coming back with seven hundred francs, which he got
from his respectable family, under pretence of learning the bass viol,
the cornet-a-piston, and the speaking trumpet, so as to make his way in
society, and a slap-up marriage--to use your expression--my good child.”
“Well, my dear pupil, we will taste the family brandy, and enjoy
ourselves in expectation of Philemon and his seven hundred francs.”
So saying, Ninny Moulin slapped the pockets of his waistcoat, which
gave forth a metallic sound, and added: “I come to propose to you to
embellish my life, to-day and to-morrow, and even the day after, if your
heart is willing.”
“If the announcements are decent and fraternal, my heart does not say
no.”
“Be satisfied; I will act by you as your grandfather, your great
grandfather, your family portrait. We will have a ride, a dinner, the
play, a fancy dress ball, and a supper afterwards. Will that suit you?”
“On condition that poor Cephyse is to go with us. It will raise her
spirits.”
“Well, Cephyse shall be of the party.”
“Have you come into a fortune, great apostle?”
“Better than that, most rosy and pompous of all Rose-Pom, pons! I am
head editor of a religious journal; and as I must make some appearance
in so respectable a concern, I ask every month for four weeks in
advance, and three days of liberty. On this condition, I consent to play
the saint for twenty-seven days out of thirty, and to be always as grave
and heavy as the paper itself.”
“A journal! that will be something droll, and dance forbidden steps all
alone on the tables of the cafes.”
“Yes, it will be droll enough; but not for everybody. They are rich
sacristans, who pay the expenses. They don’t look to money, provided the
journal bites, tears, burns, pounds, exterminates and destroys. On my
word of honor, I shall never have been in such a fury!” added Ninny
Moulin, with a loud, hoarse laugh. “I shall wash the wounds of my
adversaries with venom of the finest vintage, and gall of the first
quality.”
For his peroration, Ninny Moulin imitated the pop of uncorking a bottle
of champagne--which made Rose-Pompon laugh heartily.
“And what,” resumed she, “will be the name of your journal of
sacristans?”
“It will be called ‘Neighborly Love.’”
“Come! that is a very pretty name.”
“Wait a little! there is a second title.”
“Let us hear it.”
“‘Neighborly Love; or, the Exterminator of the Incredulous, the
Indifferent, the Lukewarm, and Others,’ with this motto from the great
Bossuet: ‘Those who are not for us are against us.’”
“That is what Philemon says in the battles at the Chaumiere, when he
shakes his cane.”
“Which proves, that the genius of the Eagle of Meaux is universal. I
only reproach him for having been jealous of Moliere.”
“Bah! actor’s jealousy,” said Rose-Pompon.
“Naughty girl!” cried Ninny Moulin, threatening her with his finger.
“But if you are going to exterminate Madame de la Sainte-Colombo, who is
somewhat lukewarm--how about your marriage?”
“My journal will advance it, on the contrary. Only think! editor-In
chief is a superb position; the sacristans will praise, and push, and
support, and bless me; I shall get La-Sainte-Colombe--and then, what a
life I’ll lead!”
At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to
the greengrocer, saying: “For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!”
“My!” said Rose-Pompon; “it is for the little mysterious old man, who
has such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?”
“I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome,” said Ninny Moulin,
looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her
hand. “Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?”
“Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle,” said Rose-Pompon, “a
little old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never
sleeps there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for
hours, without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without
any one knowing what he does there.”
“He is a conspirator,” said Ninny Moulin, laughing, “or else a comer.”
“Poor dear man,” said Mother Arsene, “what has he done with his false
money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I
furnish him for his breakfast.”
“And what is the name of this mysterious chap?” asked Dumoulin.
“M. Charlemagne,” said the greengrocer. “But look, surely one speaks of
the devil, one is sure to see his horns.”
“Where’s the horns?”
“There, by the side of the house--that little old man, who walks with
his neck awry, and his umbrella under his arm.”
“M. Rodin!” ejaculated Ninny Moulin, retreating hastily, and descending
three steps into the shop, in order not to be seen. Then he added. “You
say, that this gentleman calls himself--”
“M. Charlemagne--do you know him?” asked the greengrocer.
“What the devil does he do here, under a false name?” said Jacques
Dumoulin to himself.
“You know him?” said Rose-Pompon, with impatience. “You are quite
confused.”
“And this gentleman has two rooms in this house, and comes here
mysteriously,” said Jacques Dumoulin, more and more surprised.
“Yes,” resumed Rose-Pompon; “you can see his windows from Philemon’s
dove-cote.”
“Quick! quick! let me go into the passage, that I may not meet him,”
said Dumoulin.
And, without having been perceived by Rodin, he glided from the shop
into the passage, and thence mounted to the stairs, which led to the
apartment occupied by Rose-Pompon.
“Good-morning, M. Charlemagne,” said Mother Arsene to Rodin, who made
his appearance on the threshold. “You come twice in a day; that is
right, for your visits are extremely rare.”
“You are too polite, my good lady,” said Rodin, with a very courteous
bow; and he entered the shop of the greengrocer.
(21) There are, really, ordinances, full of a touching interest for the
canine race, which forbid the harnessing of dogs.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE DEN.
Rodin’s countenance, when he entered Mother Arsene’s shop, was
expressive of the most simple candor. He leaned his hands on the knob of
his umbrella, and said: “I much regret, my good lady, that I roused you
so early this morning.”
“You do not come often enough, my dear sir, for me to find fault with
you.”
“How can I help it, my good lady? I live in the country, and only come
hither from time to time to settle my little affairs.”
“Talking of that sir, the letter you expected yesterday has arrived
this morning. It is large, and comes from far. Here it is,” said the
greengrocer, drawing it from her pocket; “it cost nothing for postage.”
“Thank you, my dear lady,” said Rodin, taking the letter with apparent
indifference, and putting it into the side-pocket of his great-coat,
which he carefully buttoned over.
“Are you going up to your rooms, sir?”
“Yes, my good, lady.”
“Then I will get ready your little provisions,” said Mother Arsene; “as
usual, I suppose, my dear sir?”
“Just as usual.”
“It shall be ready in the twinkling of an eye, sir.”
So saying, the greengrocer took down an old basket; after throwing
into it three or four pieces of turf, a little bundle of wood, and some
charcoal, she covered all this fuel with a cabbage leaf; then, going to
the further end of the shop, she took from a chest a large round loaf,
cut off a slice, and selecting a magnificent radish with the eye of a
connoisseur, divided it in two, made a hole in it, which she filled with
gray salt joined the two pieces together again, and placed it carefully
by the side of the bread, on the cabbage leaf which separated the
eatables from the combustibles. Finally, taking some embers from the
stove, she put them into a little earthen pot, containing ashes, which
she placed also in the basket.
Then, reascending to her top step, Mother Arsene said to Rodin: “Here is
your basket, sir.”
“A thousand thanks, my good lady,” answered Rodin, and plunging his
hand into the pocket of his trousers, he drew forth eight sous, which he
counted out only one by one to the greengrocer, and said to her, as he
carried off his store: “Presently, when I come down again, I will return
your basket as usual.”
“Quite at your service, my dear sir, quite at your service,” said Mother
Arsene.
Rodin tucked his umbrella under his left arm, took up the greengrocer’s
basket with his right hand, entered the dark passage, crossed the little
court and mounted with light step to the second story of a dilapidated
building; there, drawing a key from his pocket, he opened a door, which
he locked carefully after him. The first of the two rooms which he
occupied was completely unfurnished, as for the second, it is impossible
to imagine a more gloomy and miserable den. Papering so much worn, torn
and faded, that no one could recognize its primitive color, bedecked
the walls. A wretched flock-bed, covered with a moth-fretted blanket; a
stool, and a little table of worm-eaten wood; an earthenware stove, as
cracked as old china; a trunk with a padlock, placed under the bed--such
was the furniture of this desolate hole. A narrow window, with dirty
panes, hardly gave any light to this room, which was almost deprived
of air by the height of the building in front; two old cotton pocket
handkerchiefs, fastened together with pins, and made to slide upon a
string stretched across the window, served for curtains. The plaster
of the roof, coming through the broken and disjointed tiles, showed the
extreme neglect of the inhabitant of this abode. After locking his door,
Rodin threw his hat and umbrella on the bed, placed his basket on the
ground, set the radish and bread on the table, and kneeling down before
his stove, stuffed it with fuel, and lighted it by blowing with vigorous
lungs on the embers contained in his earthen pot.
When, to use the consecrated expression, the stove began to draw, Rodin
spread out the handkerchiefs, which served him for curtains; then,
thinking himself quite safe from every eye, he took from the side-pocket
of his great-coat the letter that Mother Arsene had given him. In doing
so, he brought out several papers and different articles; one of these
papers, folded into a thick and rumpled packet, fell upon the table,
and flew open. It contained a silver cross of the Legion of Honor, black
with time. The red ribbon of this cross had almost entirely lost its
original color. At sight of this cross, which he replaced in his pocket
with the medal of which Faringhea had despoiled Djalma, Rodin shrugged
his shoulders with a contemptuous and sardonic air; then, producing his
large silver watch, he laid it on the table by the side of the letter
from Rome. He looked at this letter with a singular mixture of suspicion
and hope, of fear, and impatient curiosity. After a moment’s reflection,
he prepared to unseal the envelope; but suddenly he threw it down again
upon the table, as if, by a strange caprice, he had wished to prolong
for a few minutes that agony of uncertainty, as poignant and irritating
as the emotion of the gambler.
Looking at his watch, Rodin resolved not to open the letter, until the
hand should mark half-past nine, of which it still wanted seven minutes.
In one of those whims of puerile fatalism, from which great minds have
not been exempt, Rodin said to himself: “I burn with impatience to open
this letter. If I do not open it till half-past nine, the news will be
favorable.” To employ these minutes, Rodin took several turns up and
down the room, and stood in admiring contemplation before two old
prints, stained with damp and age, and fastened to the wall by rusty
nails. The first of these works of art--the only ornaments with which
Rodin had decorated this hole--was one of those coarse pictures,
illuminated with red, yellow, green, and blue, such as are sold at
fairs; an Italian inscription announced that this print had been
manufactured at Rome. It represented a woman covered with rags, bearing
a wallet, and having a little child upon her knees; a horrible hag of
a fortune-teller held in her hands the hand of the little child, and
seemed to read there his future fate, for these words in large blue
letters issued from her mouth: “Sara Papa” (he shall be Pope).
The second of these works of art, which appeared to inspire Rodin with
deep meditations, was an excellent etching, whose careful finish and
bold, correct drawing, contrasted singularly with the coarse coloring
of the other picture. This rare and splendid engraving, which had cost
Rodin six louis (an enormous expense for him), represented a young boy
dressed in rags. The ugliness of his features was compensated by the
intellectual expression of his strongly marked countenance. Seated on
a stone, surrounded by a herd of swine, that he seemed employed in
keeping, he was seen in front, with his elbow resting on his knee, and
his chin in the palm of his hand. The pensive and reflective attitude
of this young man, dressed as a beggar, the power expressed in his large
forehead, the acuteness of his penetrating glance, and the firm lines
of the mouth, seemed to reveal indomitable resolution, combined with
superior intelligence and ready craft. Beneath this figure, the emblems
of the papacy encircled a medallion, in the centre of which was the
head of an old man, the lines of which, strongly marked, recalled in
a striking manner, notwithstanding their look of advanced age, the
features of the young swineherd. This engraving was entitled THE YOUTH
of SIXTUS V.; the color print was entitled The Prediction.(22)
In contemplating these prints more and more nearly, with ardent and
inquiring eye, as though he had asked for hopes or inspirations from
them, Rodin had come so close that, still standing, with his right arm
bent behind his head, he rested, as it were, against the wall, whilst,
hiding his left hand in the pocket of his black trousers, he thus held
back one of the flaps of his olive great-coat. For some minutes, he
remained in this meditative attitude.
Rodin, as we have said, came seldom to this lodging; according to the
rules of his Order, he had till now lived with Father d’Aigrigny,
whom he was specially charged to watch. No member of the Society,
particularly in the subaltern position which Rodin had hitherto held,
could either shut himself in, or possess an article of furniture made
to lock. By this means nothing interferes with the mutual spy-system,
incessantly carried on, which forms one of the most powerful resources
of the Company of Jesus. It was on account of certain combinations,
purely personal to himself, though connected on some points with the
interests of the Order, that Rodin, unknown to all, had taken these
rooms in the Rue Clovis. And it was from the depths of this obscure
den that the socius corresponded directly with the most eminent and
influential personages of the sacred college. On one occasion, when
Rodin wrote to Rome, that Father d’Aigrigny, having received orders to
quit France without seeing his dying mother, had hesitated to set out,
the socius had added, in form of postscriptum, at the bottom of the
letter denouncing to the General of the Order the hesitation of Father
d’Aigrigny:
“Tell the Prince Cardinal that he may rely upon me, but I hope for his
active aid in return.”
This familiar manner of corresponding with the most powerful dignitary
of the Order, the almost patronizing tone of the recommendation
that Rodin addressed to the Prince Cardinal, proved that the socius,
notwithstanding his apparently subaltern position, was looked upon, at
that epoch, as a very important personage, by many of the Princes of the
Church, who wrote to him at Paris under a false name, making use of a
cipher and other customary precautions. After some moments passed in
contemplation, before the portrait of Sixtus V., Rodin returned slowly
to the table, on which lay the letter, which, by a sort of superstitious
delay, he had deferred opening, notwithstanding his extreme curiosity.
As it still wanted some minutes of half-past nine, Rodin, in order not
to lose time, set about making preparations for his frugal breakfast.
He placed on the table, by the side of an inkstand, furnished with pens,
the slice of bread and the radish; then seating himself on his stool,
with the stove, as it were, between his legs, he drew a horn-handled
knife from his pocket, and cutting alternately a morsel of bread and a
morsel of radish, with a sharp, well-worn blade, he began his temperate
repast with a vigorous appetite, keeping his eye fixed on the hand of
his watch. When it reached the momentous hour, he unsealed the envelope
with a trembling hand.
It contained two letters. The first appeared to give him little
satisfaction; for, after some minutes, he shrugged his shoulders, struck
the table impatiently with the handle of his knife, disdainfully pushed
aside the letter with the back of his dirty hand, and perused the second
epistle, holding his bread in one hand, and with the other mechanically
dipping a slice of radish into the gray salt spilt on a corner of the
table. Suddenly, Rodin’s hand remained motionless. As he progressed
in his reading, he appeared more and more interested, surprised, and
struck. Rising abruptly, he ran to the window, as if to assure himself,
by a second examination of the cipher, that he was not deceived. The
news announced to him in the letter seemed to be unexpected. No doubt,
Rodin found that he had deciphered correctly, for, letting fall his
arms, not in dejection, but with the stupor of a satisfaction as
unforeseen as extraordinary, he remained for some time with his head
down, and his eyes fixed--the only mark of joy that he gave being
manifested by a loud, frequent, and prolonged respiration. Men who are
as audacious in their ambition, as they are patient and obstinate in
their mining and countermining, are surprised at their own success, when
this latter precedes and surpasses their wise and prudent expectations.
Rodin was now in this case. Thanks to prodigies of craft, address, and
dissimulation, thanks to mighty promises of corruption, thanks to the
singular mixture of admiration, fear, and confidence, with which his
genius inspired many influential persons, Rodin now learned from members
of the pontifical government, that, in case of a possible and probable
occurrence, he might, within a given time, aspire, with a good chance of
success, to a position which has too often excited the fear, the hate,
or the envy of many sovereigns, and which has in turn, been occupied by
great, good men, by abominable scoundrels, and by persons risen from
the lowest grades of society. But for Rodin to attain this end with
certainty, it was absolutely necessary for him to succeed in that
project, which he had undertaken to accomplish without violence, and
only by the play and the rebound of passions skillfully managed. The
project was: To secure for the Society of Jesus the fortune of the
Rennepont family.
This possession would thus have a double and immense result; for Rodin,
acting in accordance with his personal views, intended to make of his
Order (whose chief was at his discretion) a stepping-stone and a means
of intimidation. When his first impression of surprise had passed
away--an impression that was only a sort of modesty of ambition and
self diffidence, not uncommon with men of really superior powers--Rodin
looked more coldly and logically on the matter, and almost reproached
himself for his surprise. But soon after, by a singular contradiction,
yielding to one of those puerile and absurd ideas, by which men are
often carried away when they think themselves alone and unobserved,
Rodin rose abruptly, took the letter which had caused him such glad
surprise, and went to display it, as it were, before the eyes of the
young swineherd in the picture: then, shaking his head proudly and
triumphantly, casting his reptile-glance on the portrait, he muttered
between his teeth, as he placed his dirty finger on the pontifical
emblem: “Eh, brother? and I also--perhaps!”
After this ridiculous interpolation, Rodin returned to his seat, and,
as if the happy news he had just received had increased his appetite, he
placed the letter before him, to read it once more, whilst he exercised
his teeth, with a sort of joyous fury, on his hard bread and radish,
chanting an old Litany.
There was something strange, great, and, above all, frightful, in the
contrast afforded by this immense ambition, already almost justified
by events, and contained, as it were, in so miserable an abode. Father
d’Aigrigny (who, if not a very superior man, had at least some real
value, was a person of high birth, very haughty, and placed in the best
society) would never have ventured to aspire to what Rodin thus looked
to from the first. The only aim of Father d’Aigrigny, and even this
he thought presumptuous, was to be one day elected General of his
Order--that Order which embraced the world. The difference of the
ambitious aptitudes of these two personages is conceivable. When a man
of eminent abilities, of a healthy and vivacious nature, concentrates
all the strength of his mind and body upon a single point, remaining,
like Rodin, obstinately chaste and frugal, and renouncing every
gratification of the heart and the senses--the man, who revolts against
the sacred designs of his Creator, does so almost always in favor of
some monstrous and devouring passion--some infernal divinity, which,
by a sacrilegious pact, asks of him, in return for the bestowal of
formidable power, the destruction of every noble sentiment, and of all
those ineffable attractions and tender instincts with which the Maker,
in His eternal wisdom and inexhaustible munificence, has so paternally
endowed His creatures.
During the scene that we have just described, Rodin had not perceived
that the curtain of a window on the third story of the building opposite
had been partially drawn aside, and had half-revealed the sprightly face
of Rose-Pompon, and the Silenus-like countenance of Ninny Moulin.
It ensued that Rodin, notwithstanding his barricade of cotton
handkerchiefs, had not been completely sheltered from the indiscreet and
curious examination of the two dancers of the Storm-blown Tulip.
(22) According to the tradition, it was predicted to the mother of
Sixtus V., that he would be pope; and, in his youth, he is said to have
kept swine.
CHAPTER XXX. AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.
Though Rodin had experienced much surprise on reading the second letter
from Rome, he did not choose that his answer should betray any such
amazement. Having finished his frugal breakfast, he took a sheet of
paper, and rapidly wrote in cipher the following note, in the short,
abrupt style that was natural to him when not obliged to restrain
himself:
“The information does not surprise me. I had foreseen it all. Indecision
and cowardice always bear such fruit. This is not enough. Heretical
Russia murders Catholic Poland. Rome blesses the murderers, and curses
the victims.(23)
“Let it pass.
“In return, Russia guarantees to Rome, by Austria, the bloody
suppression of the patriots of Romagna.
“That, too, is well.
“The cut-throat band of good Cardinal Albani is not sufficient for the
massacre of the impious liberals. They are weary of the task.
“Not so well. They must go on.”
When Rodin had written these last words, his attention was suddenly
attracted by the clear and sonorous voice of Rose-Pompon, who, knowing
her Beranger by heart, had opened Philemon’s window, and, seated on the
sill, sang with much grace and prettiness this verse of the immortal
song-writer:
“How wrong you are! Is’t you dare say
That heaven ever scowls on earth?
The earth that laughs up to its blue,
The earth that owes it joy and birth?
Oh, may the wine from vines it warms,
May holy love thence fluttering down,
Lend my philosophy their charms,
To drive away care’s direful frown!
So, firm let’s stand,
Full glass in hand,
And all evoke
The God of honest folk!”
This song, in its divine gentleness, contrasted so strangely with the
cold cruelty of the few lines written by Rodin, that he started and bit
his lips with rage, as he recognized the words of the great poet, truly
Christian, who had dealt such rude blows to the false Church. Rodin
waited for some moments with angry impatience, thinking the voice would
continue; but Rose-Pompon was silent, or only continued to hum, and soon
changed to another air, that of the Good Pope, which she entoned, but
without words. Rodin, not venturing to look out of his window to see who
was this troublesome warbler, shrugged his shoulders, resumed his pen,
and continued:
“To it again. We must exasperate the independent spirits in all
countries--excite philosophic rage all over Europe make liberalism foam
at the mouth--raise all that is wild and noisy against Rome. To
effect this, we must proclaim in the face of the world these three
propositions. 1. It is abominable to assert that a man may be saved in
any faith whatever, provided his morals be pure. 2. It is odious and
absurd to grant liberty of conscience to the people. 3. The liberty of
the press cannot be held in too much horror.24
“We must bring the Pap-fed man to declare these propositions in
every respect orthodox--show him their good effect upon despotic
governments--upon true Catholics, the muzzlers of the people. He will
fall into the snare. The propositions once published, the storm will
burst forth. A general rising against Rome--a wide schism--the sacred
college divided into three parties. One approves--the other blames--the
third trembles. The Sick Man, still more frightened than he is now at
having allowed the destruction of Poland, will shrink from the clamors,
reproaches, threats, and violent ruptures that he has occasioned.
“That is well--and goes far.
“Then, set the Pope to shaking the conscience of the Sick Man, to
disturb his mind, and terrify his soul.
“To sum up. Make everything bitter to him--divide his council--isolate
him--frighten him--redouble the ferocious ardor of good Albini--revive
the appetite of the Sanfedists(25)--give them a gulf of liberals--let
there be pillage, rape, massacre, as at Cesena--a downright river
of Carbonaro blood--the Sick Man will have a surfeit of it. So many
butcheries in his name--he will shrink, be sure he will shrink--every
day will have its remorse, every night its terror, every minute
its anguish; and the abdication he already threatens will come at
last--perhaps too soon. That is now the only danger; you must provide
against it.
“In case of an abdication, the grand penitentiary has understood me.
Instead of confiding to a general the direction of our Order, the best
militia of the Holy See, I should command it myself. Thenceforward this
militia would give me no uneasiness. For instance: the Janissaries and
the Praetorian Guards were always fatal to authority--why?--because
they were able to organize themselves as defenders of the government,
independently of the government; hence their power of intimidation.
“Clement XIV. was a fool. To brand and abolish our Company was an absurd
fault. To protect and make it harmless, by declaring himself the General
of the Order, is what he should have done. The Company, then at his
mercy, would have consented to anything. He would have absorbed us, made
us vassals of the Holy See, and would no longer have had to fear our
services. Clement XIV. died of the cholic. Let him heed who hears. In a
similar case, I should not die the same death.”
Just then, the clear and liquid voice of Rose-Pompon was again heard.
Rodin bounded with rage upon his seat; but soon, as he listened to the
following verse, new to him (for, unlike Philemon’s widow, he had not
his Beranger at his fingers’ ends), the Jesuit, accessible to certain
odd, superstitious notions, was confused and almost frightened at so
singular a coincidence. It is Beranger’s Good Pope who speaks--
“What are monarchs? sheepish sots!
Or they’re robbers, puffed with pride,
Wearing badges of crime blots,
Till their certain graves gape wide.
If they’ll pour out coin for me,
I’ll absolve them--skin and bone!
If they haggle--they shall see,
My nieces dancing on their throne!
So laugh away!
Leap, my fay!
Only watch one hurt the thunder
First of all by Zeus under,
I’m the Pope, the whole world’s wonder!”
Rodin, half-risen from his chair, with outstretched neck and attentive
eye, was still listening, when Rose-Pompon, flitting like a bee from
flower to flower of her repertoire, had already begun the delightful air
of Colibri. Hearing no more, the Jesuit reseated himself, in a sort
of stupor; but, after some minutes’ reflection, his countenance again
brightened up, and he seemed to see a lucky omen in this singular
incident. He resumed his pen, and the first words he wrote partook, as
it were, of this strange confidence in fate.
“I have never had more hope of success than at this moment. Another
reason to neglect nothing. Every presentiment demands redoubled zeal. A
new thought occurred to me yesterday.
“We shall act here in concert. I have founded an ultra-Catholic paper
called Neighborly Love. From its ultramontane, tyrannical, liberticidal
fury, it will be thought the organ of Rome. I will confirm these
reports. They will cause new terrors.
“That will be well.
“I shall raise the question of the liberty of instruction. The raw
liberals will support us. Like fools, they admit us to equal rights;
when our privileges, our influence of the confessional, our obedience to
Rome, all place us beyond the circle of equal rights, by the advantages
which we enjoy. Double fools! they think us disarmed, because they have
disarmed themselves towards us.
“A burning question--irritating clamors--new cause of disgust for the
Weak Man. Every little makes a mickle.
“That also is very well.
“To sum up all in two words. The end is abdication--the means, vexation,
incessant torture. The Rennepont inheritance wilt pay for the election.
The price agreed, the merchandise will be sold.”
Rodin here paused abruptly, thinking he had heard some noise at that
door of his, which opened on the staircase; therefore he listened with
suspended breath; but all remaining silent, he thought he must have been
deceived, and took up his pen:
“I will take care of the Rennepont business--the hinge on which
will turn our temporal operations. We must begin from the
foundation--substitute the play of interests, and the springs of
passion, for the stupid club law of Father d’Aigrigny. He nearly
compromised everything--and yet he has good parts, knows the world, has
powers of seduction, quick insight--but plays ever in a single key, and
is not great enough to make himself little. In his stead, I shall know
how to make use of him. There is good stuff in the man. I availed myself
in time of the full powers given by the R. F. G.; I may inform Father
d’Aigrigny, in case of need, of the secret engagements taken by the
General towards myself. Until now, I have let him invent for this
inheritance the destination that you know of. A good thought, but
unseasonable. The same end, by other means.
“The information was false. There are over two hundred millions. Should
the eventuality occur, what was doubtful must become certain. An immense
latitude is left us. The Rennepont business is now doubly mine, and
within three months, the two hundred millions will be ours, by the
free will of the heirs themselves. It must be so; for this failing, the
temporal part would escape me, and my chances be diminished by one half.
I have asked for full powers; time presses, and I act as if I had
them. One piece of information is indispensable for the success of my
projects. I expect it from you, and I must have it; do you understand
me? The powerful influence of your brother at the Court of Vienna will
serve you in this. I wish to have the most precise details as to the
present position of the Duke de Reichstadt--the Napoleon II. of the
Imperialists. Is it possible, by means of your brother, to open a secret
correspondence with the prince, unknown to his attendants?
“Look to this promptly. It is urgent. This note will be sent off to day.
I shall complete it to-morrow. It will reach you, as usual, by the hands
of the petty shopkeeper.”
At the moment when Rodin was sealing this letter within a double
envelope, he thought that he again heard a noise at the door. He
listened. After some silence, several knocks were distinctly audible.
Rodin started. It was the first time any one had knocked at his door,
since nearly a twelve-month that he occupied this room. Hastily placing
the letter in his great-coat pocket, the Jesuit opened the old trunk
under his bed, took from it a packet of papers wrapped in a tattered
cotton handkerchief, added to them the two letters in cipher he had
just received, and carefully relocked the trunk. The knocking continued
without, and seemed to show more and more impatience. Rodin took the
greengrocer’s basket in his hand, tucked his umbrella under his arm, and
went with some uneasiness to ascertain who was this unexpected visitor.
He opened the door, and found himself face to face with Rose-Pompon, the
troublesome singer, and who now, with a light and pretty courtesy, said
to him in the most guileless manner in the world, “M. Rodin, if you
please?”
(23) On page 110 of Lamennais’ Affaires de Rome, will be seen the
following admirable scathing of Rome by the most truly evangelical
spirit of our age: “So long as the issue of the conflict between Poland
and her oppressors remained in the balances, the papal official organ
contained not one word to offend the so long victorious nation; but
hardly had she gone down under the Czar’s atrocious vengeance, and the
long torture of a whole land doomed to rack, and exile, and servitude
began, than this same journal found no language black enough to stain
those whom fortune had fled. Yet it is wrong to charge this unworthy
insult to papal power; it only cringes to the law which Russia lays down
to it, when it says:
“‘If you want to keep your own bones unbroken, bide where you are,
beside the scaffold, and, as the victims pass, hoot at them!’”
(24) See Pope Gregory XVI.’s Encyclical Letter to the Bishops in France,
1832.
(25) Hardly had the Sixteenth Gregory ascended the pontifical throne,
than news came of the rising in Bologna. His first idea was to call
the Austrians, and incite the Sanfedist volunteer bands of fanatics.
Cardinal Albini defeated the liberals at Cesena, where his followers
pillaged churches, sacked the town, and ill-treated women. At Forli,
cold-blooded murders were committed. In 1832 the Sanfedists (Holy
Faithites) openly paraded their medals, bearing the heads of the Duke
of Modena and the Pope; letters issued by the apostolic confederation;
privileges and indulgences. They took the following oath: “I. A. B.,
vow to rear the throne and altar over the bones of infamous freedom
shriekers, and exterminate these latter without pity for children’s
cries and women’s tears.” The disorders perpetrated by these marauders
went beyond all bounds; the Romish Court regularized anarchy and
organized the Sanfedists into volunteer corps, to which fresh privileges
were granted. (Revue deux Mondes, Nov. 15th, 1844.--“La Revolution en
Italie.”)
CHAPTER XXXI. FRIENDLY SERVICES.
Notwithstanding his surprise and uneasiness, Rodin did not frown. He
began by locking his door after him, as he noticed the young girl’s
inquisitive glance. Then he said to her good-naturedly, “Who do you
want, my dear?”
“M. Rodin,” repeated Rose-Pompon, stoutly, opening her bright blue eyes
to their full extent, and looking Rodin full in the face.
“It’s not here,” said he, moving towards the stairs. “I do not know him.
Inquire above or below.”
“No, you don’t! giving yourself airs at your age!” said Rose-Pompon,
shrugging her shoulders. “As if we did not know that you are M. Rodin.”
“Charlemagne,” said the socius, bowing; “Charlemagne, to serve you--if I
am able.”
“You are not able,” answered Rose-Pompon, majestically; then she added
with a mocking air, “So, we have our little pussy-cat hiding-places; we
change our name; we are afraid Mamma Rodin will find us out.”
“Come, my dear child,” said the socius, with a paternal smile; “you have
come to the right quarter. I am an old man, but I love youth--happy,
joyous youth! Amuse yourself, pray, at my expense. Only let me pass, for
I am in a hurry.” And Rodin again advanced towards the stairs.
“M. Rodin,” said Rose-Pompon, in a solemn voice, “I have very important
things to say to you, and advice to ask about a love affair.”
“Why, little madcap that you are! have you nobody to tease in your own
house, that you must come here?”
“I lodge in this house, M. Rodin,” answered Rose-Pompon, laying a
malicious stress on the name of her victim.
“You? Oh, dear, only to think I did not know I had such a pretty
neighbor.”
“Yes, I have lodged here six months, M. Rodin.”
“Really! where?”
“On the third story, front, M. Rodin.”
“It was you, then, that sang so well just now?”
“Rather.”
“You gave me great pleasure, I must say.”
“You are very polite, M. Rodin.”
“You lodge, I suppose, with your respectable family?”
“I believe you, M. Rodin,” said Rose-Pompon, casting down her eyes
with a timid air. “I lodge with Grandpapa Philemon, and Grandmamma
Bacchanal--who is a queen and no mistake.”
Rodin had hitherto been seriously uneasy, not knowing in what manner
Rose had discovered his real name. But on hearing her mention the
Bacchanal queen, with the information that she lodged in the house,
he found something to compensate for the disagreeable incident of
Rose-Pompon’s appearance. It was, indeed, important to Rodin to find
out the Bacchanal Queen, the mistress of Sleepinbuff, and the sister of
Mother Bunch, who had been noted as dangerous since her interview with
the superior of the convent, and the part she had taken in the projected
escape of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Moreover, Rodin hoped--thanks to what he
had just heard--to bring Rose-Pompon to confess to him the name of the
person from whom she had learned that “Charlemagne” masked “Rodin.”
Hardly had the young girl pronounced the name of the Bacchanal queen,
than Rodin clasped his hands, and appeared as much surprised as
interested.
“Oh, my dear child,” he exclaimed, “I conjure you not to jest on this
subject. Are you speaking of a young girl who bears that nickname, the
sister of a deformed needlewoman.”
“Yes, sir, the Bacchanal Queen is her nickname,” said Rose-Pompon,
astonished in her turn; “she is really Cephyse Soliveau, and she is my
friend.”
“Oh! she is your friend?” said Rodin, reflecting.
“Yes, sir, my bosom friend.”
“So you love her?”
“Like a sister. Poor girl! I do what I can for her, and that’s not much.
But how comes it that a respectable man of your age should know the
Bacchanal Queen?--Ah! that shows you have a false name!”
“My dear child, I am no longer inclined to laugh,” said Rodin, with
so sorrowful an air, that Rose-Pompon, reproaching herself with her
pleasantry, said to him: “But how comes it that you know Cephyse?”
“Alas! I do not know her--but a young fellow, that I like excessively--”
“Jacques Rennepont?”
“Otherwise called Sleepinbuff. He is now in prison for debt,” sighed
Rodin. “I saw him yesterday.”
“You saw him yesterday?--how strange!” said Rose-Pompon, clapping her
hands. “Quick! quick!--come over to Philemon’s, to give Cephyse news of
her lover. She is so uneasy about him.”
“My dear child, I should like to give her good news of that worthy
fellow, whom I like in spite of his follies, for who has not been guilty
of follies?” added Rodin, with indulgent good-nature.
“To be sure,” said Rose-Pompon, twisting about as if she still wore the
costume of a debardeur.
“I will say more,” added Rodin: “I love him because of his follies; for,
talk as we may, my dear child, there is always something good at bottom,
a good heart, or something, in those who spend generously their money
for other people.”
“Well, come! you are a very good sort of a man,” said Rose-Pompon,
enchanted with Rodin’s philosophy. “But why will you not come and see
Cephyse, and talk to her of Jacques?”
“Of what use would it be to tell her what she knows already--that
Jacques is in prison? What I should like, would be to get the worthy
fellow out of his scrape.”
“Oh, sir! only do that, only get Jacques out of prison,” cried Rose
Pompon, warmly, “and we will both give you a kiss--me and Cephyse!”
“It would be throwing kisses away, dear little madcap!” said Rodin,
smiling. “But be satisfied, I want no reward to induce me to do good
when I can.”
“Then you hope to get Jacques out of prison?”
Rodin shook his head, and answered with a grieved and disappointed air.
“I did hope it. Certainly, I did hope it; but now all is changed.”
“How’s that?” asked Rose-Pompon, with surprise.
“That foolish joke of calling me M. Rodin may appear very amusing to
you, my dear child. I understand it, you being only an echo. Some one
has said to you: ‘Go and tell M. Charlemagne that he is one M. Rodin.
That will be very funny.’”
“Certainly, I should never myself have thought of calling you M. Rodin.
One does not invent such names,” answered Rose-Pompon.
“Well! that person with his foolish jokes, has done, without knowing it,
a great injury to Jacques Rennepont.”
“What! because I called you Rodin instead of Charlemagne?” cried Rose
Pompon, much regretting the pleasantry which she had carried on at the
instigation of Ninny Moulin. “But really, sir,” she added, “what can
this joke have to do with the service that you were, about to render
Jacques?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you, my child. In truth, I am very sorry
for poor Jacques. Believe me, I am; but do let me pass.
“Listen to me, sir, I beg,” said Rose-Pompon; “if I told you the name
of the person who told me to call you Rodin, would you interest yourself
again for Jacques?”
“I do not wish to know any one’s secrets, my dear child. In all this,
you have been the echo of persons who are, perhaps, very dangerous;
and, notwithstanding the interest I feel for Jacques Rennepont, I do not
wish, you understand, to make myself enemies. Heaven forbid!”
Rose-Pompon did not at all comprehend Rodin’s fears, and upon this he
had counted; for after a second’s reflection, the young girl resumed:
“Well, sir--this is too deep for me; I do not understand it. All I know
is, that I am truly sorry if I have injured a good young man by a mere
joke. I will tell you exactly how it happened. My frankness may be of
some use.”
“Frankness will often clear up the most obscure matters,” said Rodin,
sententiously.
“After all,” said Rose-Pompon, “it’s Ninny’s fault. Why does he tell
me nonsense, that might injure poor Cephyse’s lover? You see, sir, it
happened in this way. Ninny Moulin who is fond of a joke, saw you just
now in the street. The portress told him that your name was Charlemagne.
He said to me: ‘No; his name is Rodin. We must play him a trick. Go to
his room, Rose-Pompon, knock at the door, and call him M. Rodin. You
will see what a rum face he will make.’ I promised Ninny Moulin not to
name him; but I do it, rather than run the risk of injuring Jacques.”
At Ninny Moulin’s name Rodin had not been able to repress a movement of
surprise. This pamphleteer, whom he had employed to edit the “Neighborly
Love,” was not personally formidable; but, being fond of talking in
his drink, he might become troublesome, particularly if Rodin, as was
probable, had often to visit this house, to execute his project upon
Sleepinbuff, through the medium of the Bacchanal Queen. The socius
resolved, therefore, to provide against this inconvenience.
“So, my dear child,” said he to Rose-Pompon, “it is a M. Desmoulins that
persuaded you to play off this silly joke?”
“Not Desmoulins, but Dumoulin,” corrected Rose. “He writes in the
pewholders’ papers, and defends the saints for money; for, if Ninny
Moulin is a saint, his patrons are Saint Drinkard and Saint Flashette,
as he himself declares.”
“This gentleman appears to be very gay.”
“Oh! a very good fellow.”
“But stop,” resumed Rodin, appearing to recollect himself; “ain’t he a
man about thirty-six or forty, fat, with a ruddy complexion?”
“Ruddy as a glass of red wine,” said Rose-Pompon, “and with a pimpled
nose like a mulberry.”
“That’s the man--M. Dumoulin. Oh! in that case, I am quite satisfied,
my dear child. The jest no longer makes me uneasy; for M. Dumoulin is a
very worthy man--only perhaps a little too fond of his joke.”
“Then, sir, you will try to be useful to Jacques? The stupid pleasantry
of Ninny Moulin will not prevent you?”
“I hope not.”
“But I must not tell Ninny Moulin that you know it was he who sent me to
call you M. Rodin--eh, sir?”
“Why not? In every case, my dear child, it is always better to speak
frankly the truth.”
“But, sir, Ninny Moulin so strongly recommended me not to name him to
you--”
“If you have named him, it is from a very good motive; why not avow
it? However, my dear child, this concerns you, not me. Do as you think
best.”
“And may I tell Cephyse of your good intentions towards Jacques?”
“The truth, my dear child, always the truth. One need never hesitate to
say what is.”
“Poor Cephyse! how happy she will be!” cried Rose-Pompon, cheerfully;
“and the news will come just in time.”
“Only you must not exaggerate; I do not promise positively to get this
good fellow out of prison; I say, that I will do what I can. But what I
promise positively is--for, since the imprisonment of poor Jacques, your
friend must be very much straitened--”
“Alas, sir!”
“What I promise positively is some little assistance which your friend
will receive to-day, to enable her to live honestly; and if she behaves
well--hereafter--why, hereafter, we shall see.”
“Oh, sir! you do not know how welcome will be your assistance to poor
Cephyse! One might fancy you were her actual good angel. Faith! you may
call yourself Rodin, or Charlemagne; all I know is, that you are a nice,
sweet--”
“Come, come, do not exaggerate,” said Rodin; “say a good sort of old
fellow; nothing more, my dear child. But see how things fall out,
sometimes! Who could have told me, when I heard you knock at my
door--which, I must say, vexed me a great deal--that it was a pretty
little neighbor of mine, who under the pretext of playing off a joke,
was to put me in the way of doing a good action? Go and comfort your
friend; this evening she will receive some assistance; and let us have
hope and confidence. Thanks be, there are still some good people in the
world!”
“Oh, sir! you prove it yourself.”
“Not at all! The happiness of the old is to see the young happy.”
This was said by Rodin with so much apparent kindness, that Rose-Pompon
felt the tears well up to her eyes, and answered with much emotion:
“Sir, Cephyse and me are only poor girls; there are many more virtuous
in the world; but I venture to say, we have good hearts. Now, if ever
you should be ill, only send for us; there are no Sisters of Charity
that will take better care of you. It is all that we can offer you,
without reckoning Philemon, who shall go through fire and water for
you, I give you my word for it--and Cephyse, I am sure, will answer for
Jacques also, that he will be yours in life and death.”
“You see, my dear child, that I was right in saying--a fitful head and a
good heart. Adieu, till we meet again.”
Thereupon Rodin, taking up the basket, which he had placed on the ground
by the side of his umbrella, prepared to descend the stairs.
“First of all, you must give me this basket; it will be in your way
going down,” said Rose-Pompon, taking the basket from the hands of
Rodin, notwithstanding his resistance. Then she added: “Lean upon my
arm. The stairs are so dark. You might slip.”
“I will accept your offer, my dear child, for I am not very courageous.”
Leaning paternally on the right arm of Rose-Pompon, who held the
basket in her left hand, Rodin descended the stairs, and crossed the
court-yard.
“Up there, on the third story, do you see that big face close to the
window-frame?” said Rose-Pompon suddenly to Rodin, stopping in the
centre of the little court. “That is my Ninny Moulin. Do you know him?
Is he the same as yours?”
“The same as mine,” said Rodin, raising his head, and waving his hand
very affectionately to Jacques Dumoulin, who, stupefied thereat, retired
abruptly from the window.
“The poor fellow! I am sure he is afraid of me since his foolish joke,”
said Rodin, smiling. “He is very wrong.”
And he accompanied these last words with a sinister nipping of the lips,
not perceived by Rose-Pompon.
“And now, my dear child,” said he, as they both entered the passage, “I
no longer need you assistance; return to your friend, and tell her the
good news you have heard.”
“Yes, sir, you are right. I burn with impatience to tell her what a good
man you are.” And Rose-Pompon sprung towards the stairs.
“Stop, stop! how about my basket that the little madcap carries off with
her?” said Rodin.
“Oh true! I beg your pardon, sir. Poor Cephyse! how pleased she will be.
Adieu, sir!” And Rose-Pompon’s pretty figure disappeared in the darkness
of the staircase, which she mounted with an alert and impatient step.
Rodin issued from the entry. “Here is your basket, my good lady,” said
he, stopping at the threshold of Mother Arsene’s shop. “I give you my
humble thanks for your kindness.”
“For nothing, my dear sir, for nothing. It is all at your service. Well,
was the radish good?”
“Succulent, my dear madame, and excellent.”
“Oh! I am glad of it. Shall we soon see you again?”
“I hope so. But could you tell me where is the nearest post-office?”
“Turn to the left, the third house, at the grocer’s.”
“A thousand thanks.”
“I wager it’s a love letter for your sweetheart,” said Mother Arsene,
enlivened probably by Rose Pompon’s and Ninny Moulin’s proximity.
“Ha! ha! ha! the good lady!” said Rodin, with a titter. Then, suddenly
resuming his serious aspect, he made a low bow to the greengrocer,
adding: “Your most obedient humble servant!” and walked out into the
street.
We now usher the reader into Dr. Baleinier’s asylum, in which Mdlle. de
Cardoville was confined.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE ADVICE.
Adrienne de Cardoville had been still more strictly confined in Dr.
Baleinier’s house, since the double nocturnal attempt of Agricola and
Dagobert, in which the soldier, though severely wounded, had succeeded,
thanks to the intrepid devotion of his son, seconded by the heroic Spoil
sport, in gaining the little garden gate of the convent, and escaping by
way of the boulevard, along with the young smith. Four o’clock had just
struck. Adrienne, since the previous day, had been removed to a chamber
on the second story of the asylum. The grated window, with closed
shutters, only admitted a faint light to this apartment. The young lady,
since her interview with Mother Bunch, expected to be delivered any day
by the intervention of her friends. But she felt painful uneasiness on
the subject of Agricola and Dagobert, being absolutely ignorant of the
issue of the struggle in which her intended liberators had been engaged
with the people of the asylum and convent. She had in vain questioned
her keepers on the subject; they had remained perfectly mute. These new
incidents had augmented the bitter resentment of Adrienne against the
Princess de Saint Dizier, Father d’Aigrigny, and their creatures. The
slight paleness of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s charming face, and her fine
eyes a little drooping, betrayed her recent sufferings; seated before
a little table, with her forehead resting upon one of her hands, half
veiled by the long curls of her golden hair, she was turning over the
leaves of a book. Suddenly, the door opened, and M. Baleinier entered.
The doctor, a Jesuit, in lay attire, a docile and passive instrument
of the will of his Order, was only half in the confidence of Father
d’Aigrigny and the Princess de Saint-Dizier. He was ignorant of the
object of the imprisonment of Mdlle. de Cardoville; he was ignorant also
of the sudden change which had taken place in the relative position
of Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, after the reading of the testament
of Marius de Rennepont. The doctor had, only the day before, received
orders from Father d’Aigrigny (now acting under the directions of Rodin)
to confine Mdlle. de Cardoville still more strictly, to act towards her
with redoubled severity, and to endeavor to force her, it will be seen
by what expedients, to renounce the judicial proceedings, which she
promised herself to take hereafter against her persecutors. At sight of
the doctor, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not hide the aversion and disdain
with which this man inspired her. M. Baleinier, on the contrary, always
smiling, always courteous, approached Adrienne with perfect ease and
confidence, stopped a few steps from her, as if to study her features
more attentively, and then added like a man who is satisfied with the
observations he had made: “Come! the unfortunate events of the night
before last have had a less injurious influence than I feared. There is
some improvement; the complexion is less flushed, the look calmer,
the eyes still somewhat too bright, but no longer shining with such
unnatural fire. You are getting on so well! Now the cure must be
prolonged--for this unfortunate night affair threw you into a state
of excitement, that was only the more dangerous from your not being
conscious of it. Happily, with care, your recovery will not, I hope, be
very much delayed.” Accustomed though she was to the audacity of this
tool of the Congregation, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not forbear saying
to him, with a smile of bitter disdain: “What impudence, sir, there is
in your probity! What effrontery in your zeal to earn your hire! Never
for a moment do you lay aside your mask; craft and falsehood are ever on
your lips. Really, if this shameful comedy causes you as much fatigue as
it does me disgust and contempt, they can never pay you enough.”
“Alas!” said the doctor, in a sorrowful tone; “always this unfortunate
delusion, that you are not in want of our care!--that I am playing a
part, when I talk to you of the sad state in which you were when we were
obliged to bring you hither by stratagem. Still, with the exception of
this little sign of rebellious insanity, your condition has marvellously
improved. You are on the high-road to a complete cure. By-and-by, your
excellent heart will render me the justice that is due to me; and, one
day, I shall be judged as I deserve.”
“I, believe it, sir; the day approaches, in which you will be judged as
you deserve,” said Adrienne, laying great stress upon the two words.
“Always that other fixed idea,” said the doctor with a sort of
commiseration. “Come, be reasonable. Do not think of this childishness.”
“What! renounce my intention to demand at the hands of justice
reparation for myself, and disgrace for you and your accomplices? Never,
sir--never!”
“Well!” said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders; “once at liberty,
thank heaven, you will have many other things to think of, my fair
enemy.”
“You forget piously the evil that you do; but I, sir, have a better
memory.”
“Let us talk seriously. Have you really the intention of applying to the
courts?” inquired Dr. Baleinier, in a grave tone.
“Yes, sir, and you know that what I intend, I firmly carry out.”
“Well! I can only conjure you not to follow out this idea,” replied the
doctor, in a still more solemn tone; “I ask it as a favor, in the name
of your own interest.”
“I think, sir, that you are a little too ready to confound your interest
with mine.”
“Now come,” said Dr. Baleinier, with a feigned impatience, as if quite
certain of convincing Mdlle. de Cardoville on the instant; “would you
have the melancholy courage to plunge into despair two persons full of
goodness and generosity?”
“Only two? The jest would be complete, if you were to reckon three:
you, sir, and my aunt, and Abbe d’Aigrigny; for these are no doubt the
generous persons in whose name you implore my pity.”
“No, madame; I speak neither of myself, nor of your aunt, nor of Abbe
d’Aigrigny.”
“Of whom, then, sir?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise.
“Of two poor fellows, who, no doubt sent by those whom you call your
friends, got into the neighboring convent the other night, and thence
into this garden. The guns which you heard go off were fired at them.”
“Alas! I thought so. They refused to tell me if either of them was
wounded,” said Adrienne, with painful emotion.
“One of them received a wound, but not very serious, since he was able
to fly and escape pursuit.”
“Thank God!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, clasping her hands with fervor.
“It is quite natural that you should rejoice at their escape, but
by what strange contradiction do you now wish to put the officers of
justice on their track? A singular manner, truly, of rewarding their
devotion!”
“What do you say, sir?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“For if they should be arrested,” resumed Dr. Baleinier, without
answering her, “as they have been guilty of housebreaking and attempted
burglary, they would be sent to the galleys.”
“Heavens! and for my sake!”
“Yes; it would be for you, and what is worse, by you, that they would be
condemned.”
“By me, sir?”
“Certainly; that is, if you follow up your vengeance against your aunt
and Abbe d’Aigrigny--I do not speak of myself, for I am quite safe; in
a word, if you persist in laying your complaint before the magistrates,
that you have been unjustly confined in this house.”
“I do not understand you, sir. Explain yourself,” said Adrienne, with
growing uneasiness.
“Child that you are!” cried the Jesuit of the short robe, with an air of
conviction; “do you think that if the law once takes cognizance of this
affair, you can stop short its action where and when you please? When
you leave this house, you lodge a complaint against me and against
your family; well, what happens? The law interferes, inquires, calls
witnesses, enters into the most minute investigations. Then, what
follows? Why, that this nocturnal escalade, which the superior of the
convent has some interest in hushing up, for fear of scandal--that this
nocturnal attempt, I say, which I also would keep quiet, is necessarily
divulged, and as it involves a serious crime, to which a heavy penalty
is attached, the law will ferret into it, and find out these unfortunate
men, and if, as is probable, they are detained in Paris by their duties
or occupations, or even by a false security, arising from the honorable
motives which they know to have actuated them, they will be arrested.
And who will be the cause of this arrest? You, by your deposition
against us.”
“Oh, sir! that would be horrible; but it is impossible.”
“It is very possible, on the contrary,” returned M. Baleinier: “so that,
while I and the superior of the convent, who alone are really entitled
to complain, only wish to keep quiet this unpleasant affair, it is
you--you, for whom these unfortunate men have risked the galleys--that
will deliver them up to justice.”
Though Mdlle. de Cardoville was not completely duped by the lay Jesuit,
she guessed that the merciful intentions which he expressed with regard
to Dagobert and his son, would be absolutely subordinate to the course
she might take in pressing or abandoning the legitimate vengeance which
she meant to claim of authority. Indeed, Rodin, whose instructions the
doctor was following without knowing it, was too cunning to have it said
to Mdlle. de Cardoville: “If you attempt any proceedings, we denounce
Dagobert and his son;” but he attained the same end, by inspiring
Adrienne with fears on the subject of her two liberators, so as to
prevent her taking any hostile measures. Without knowing the exact law
on the subject, Mdlle. de Cardoville had too much good sense not to
understand that Dagobert and Agricola might be very seriously involved
in consequence of their nocturnal adventure, and might even find
themselves in a terrible position. And yet, when she thought of all
she had suffered in that house, and of all the just resentment she
entertained in the bottom of her heart, Adrienne felt unwilling to
renounce the stern pleasure of exposing such odious machinations to the
light of day. Dr. Baleinier watched with sullen attention her whom he
considered his dupe, for he thought he could divine the cause of the
silence and hesitation of Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“But, sir,” resumed the latter, unable to conceal her anxiety, “if I
were disposed, for whatever reason, to make no complaint, and to forget
the wrongs I have suffered, when should I leave this place?”
“I cannot tell; for I do not know when you will be radically cured,”
said the doctor, benignantly. “You are in a very good way, but--”
“Still this insolent and stupid acting!” broke forth Mdlle. de
Cardoville, interrupting the doctor with indignation. “I ask, and if it
must be, I entreat you to tell me how long I am to be shut up in this
dreadful house, for I shall leave it some day, I suppose?”
“I hope so, certainly,” said the Jesuit of the short robe, with unction;
“but when, I am unable to say. Moreover, I must tell you frankly, that
every precaution is taken against such attempts as those of the other
night; and the most vigorous watch will be maintained, to prevent your
communicating with any one. And all this in your own interest, that your
poor head may not again be dangerously excited.”
“So, sir,” said Adrienne, almost terrified, “compared with what awaits
me, the last few days have been days of liberty.”
“Your interest before everything,” answered the doctor, in a fervent
tone.
Mdlle. de Cardoville, feeling the impotence of her indignation and
despair, heaved a deep sigh, and hid her face in her hands.
At this moment, quick footsteps were heard in the passage, and one of
the nurses entered, after having knocked at the door.
“Sir,” said she to the doctor, with a frightened air, “there are two
gentlemen below, who wish to see you instantly, and the lady also.”
Adrienne raised her head hastily; her eyes were bathed in tears.
“What are the names of these persons?” said M. Baleinier, much
astonished.
“One of them said to me,” answered the nurse: “‘Go and inform Dr.
Baleinier that I am a magistrate, and that I come on a duty regarding
Mdlle. de Cardoville.’”
“A magistrate!” exclaimed the Jesuit of the short robe, growing purple
in the face, and unable to hide his surprise and uneasiness.
“Heaven be praised!” cried Adrienne, rising with vivacity, her
countenance beaming through her tears with hope and joy; “my friends
have been informed in time, and the hour of justice is arrived!”
“Ask these persons to walk up,” said Dr. Baleinier, after a moment’s
reflection. Then, with a still more agitated expression of countenance,
he approached Adrienne with a harsh, and almost menacing air, which
contrasted with the habitual placidity of his hypocritical smile, and
said to her in a low voice: “Take care, madame! do not rejoice too
soon.”
“I no longer fear you,” answered Mdlle. de Cardoville, with a bright,
flashing eye. “M. de Montbron is no doubt returned to Paris, and has
been informed in time. He accompanies the magistrate, and comes to
deliver me. I pity you, sir--both you and yours,” added Adrienne, with
an accent of bitter irony.
“Madame,” cried M. Baleinier, no longer able to dissemble his growing
alarm, “I repeat to you, take care! Remember what I have told you. Your
accusations would necessarily involve the discovery of what took place
the other night. Beware! the fate of the soldier and his son is in your
hands. Recollect they are in danger of the convict’s chains.”
“Oh! I am not your dupe, sir. You are holding out a covert menace.
Have at least the courage to say to me, that, if I complain to the
magistrates, you will denounce the soldier and his son.”
“I repeat, that, if you make any complaint, those two people are lost,”
answered the doctor, ambiguously.
Startled by what was really dangerous in the doctor’s threats, Adrienne
asked: “Sir, if this magistrate questions me, do you think I will tell
him a falsehood?”
“You will answer what is true,” said M. Baleinier, hastily, in the hope
of still attaining his end. “You will answer that you were in so excited
a state of mind a few days ago, that it was thought advisable, for your
own sake, to bring you hither, without your knowing it. But you are now
so much better, that you acknowledge the utility of the measures taken
with regard to you. I will confirm these words for, after all, it is the
truth.”
“Never!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, with indignation, “never will I be
the accomplice of so infamous a falsehood; never will I be base enough
to justify the indignities that I have suffered!”
“Here is the magistrate,” said M. Baleinier, as he caught the sound of
approaching footsteps. “Beware!”
The door opened, and, to the indescribable amazement of the doctor,
Rodin appeared on the threshold, accompanied by a man dressed in
black, with a dignified and severe countenance. In the interest of his
projects, and from motives of craft and prudence that will hereafter be
known, Rodin had not informed Father d’Aigrigny, and consequently
the doctor, of the unexpected visit he intended to pay to the asylum,
accompanied by a magistrate. On the contrary, he had only the day before
given orders to M. Baleinier to confine Mdlle. de Cardoville still more
strictly. Therefore, imagine the stupor of the doctor when he saw the
judicial officer, whose unexpected presence and imposing aspect were
otherwise sufficiently alarming, enter the room, accompanied by Rodin,
Abbe d’Aigrigny’s humble and obscure secretary. From the door,
Rodin, who was very shabbily dressed, as usual, pointed out Mdlle.
de Cardoville to the magistrate, by a gesture at once respectful and
compassionate. Then, while the latter, who had not been able to repress
a movement of admiration at sight of the rare beauty of Adrienne, seemed
to examine her with as much surprise as interest, the Jesuit modestly
receded several steps.
Dr. Baleinier in his extreme astonishment, hoping to be understood by
Rodin, made suddenly several private signals, as if to interrogate him
on the cause of the magistrate’s visit. But this was only productive of
fresh amazement to M. Baleinier; for Rodin did not appear to recognize
him, or to understand his expressive pantomime, and looked at him with
affected bewilderment. At length, as the doctor, growing impatient,
redoubled his mute questionings, Rodin advanced with a stride, stretched
forward his crooked neck, and said, in a loud voice: “What is your
pleasure, doctor?”
These words, which completely disconcerted Baleinier, broke the silence
which had reigned for some seconds, and the magistrate turned round.
Rodin added, with imperturbable coolness: “Since our arrival, the doctor
has been making all sorts of mysterious signs to me. I suppose he has
something private to communicate, but, as I have no secrets, I must beg
him to speak out loud.”
This reply, so embarrassing for M. Baleinier, uttered in a tone of
aggression, and with an air of icy coldness, plunged the doctor into
such new and deep amazement, that he remained for some moments without
answering. No doubt the magistrate was struck with this incident, and
with the silence which followed it, for he cast a look of great severity
on the doctor. Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had expected to have seen M. de
Montbron, was also singularly surprised.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE ACCUSER.
Baleinier, disconcerted for a moment by the unexpected presence of a
magistrate, and by Rodin’s inexplicable attitude, soon recovered his
presence of mind, and addressing his colleague of the longer robe, said
to him: “If I make signs to you, sir, it was that, while I wished
to respect the silence which this gentleman”--glancing at the
magistrate--“has preserved since his entrance, I desired to express my
surprise at the unexpected honor of this visit.”
“It is to the lady that I will explain the reason for my silence, and
beg her to excuse it,” replied the magistrate, as he made a half-bow to
Adrienne, whom he thus continued to address: “I have just received
so serious a declaration with regard to you, madame, that I could not
forbear looking at you for a moment in silence, to see if I could read
in your countenance or in your attitude, the truth or falsehood of the
accusation that has been placed in my hands; and I have every reason to
believe that it is but too well founded.”
“May I at length be informed, sir,” said Dr. Baleinier, in a polite but
firm tone, “to whom I have the honor of speaking?”
“Sir, I am juge d’instruction, and I have come to inform myself as to a
fact which has been pointed out to me--”
“Will you do me the honor to explain yourself, sir?” said the doctor,
bowing.
“Sir,” resumed the magistrate, M. de Gernande, a man of about fifty
years of age, full of firmness and straightforwardness, and knowing how
to unite the austere duties of his position with benevolent politeness,
“you are accused of having committed--a very great error, not to use a
harsher expression. As for the nature of that error, I prefer believing,
sir, that you (a first rate man of science) may have been deceived in
the calculation of a medical case, rather than suspect you of having
forgotten all that is sacred in the exercise of a profession that is
almost a priesthood.”
“When you specify the facts, sir,” answered the Jesuit of the short
robe, with a degree of haughtiness, “it will be easy for me to prove
that my reputation as a man of science is no less free from reproach,
than my conscience as a man of honor.”
“Madame,” said M. de Gernande, addressing Adrienne, “is it true that you
were conveyed to this house by stratagem?”
“Sir,” cried M. Baleinier, “permit me to observe, that the manner in
which you open this question is an insult to me.”
“Sir, it is to the lady that I have the honor of addressing myself,”
replied M. de Gernande, sternly; “and I am the sole judge of the
propriety of my questions.”
Adrienne was about to answer affirmatively to the magistrate, when an
expressive took from Dr. Baleinier reminded her that she would perhaps
expose Dagobert and his son to cruel dangers. It was no base and vulgar
feeling of vengeance by which Adrienne was animated, but a legitimate
indignation, inspired by odious hypocrisy. She would have thought it
cowardly not to unmask the criminals; but wishing to avoid compromising
others, she said to the magistrate, with an accent full of mildness and
dignity: “Permit me, sir, in my turn, rather to ask you a question.”
“Speak, madame.”
“Will the answer I make be considered a formal accusation?”
“I have come hither, madame, to ascertain the truth, and no
consideration should induce you to dissemble it.”
“So be it, sir,” resumed Adrienne; “but suppose, having just causes of
complaint, I lay them before you, in order to be allowed to leave this
house, shall I afterwards be at liberty not to press the accusations I
have made?”
“You may abandon proceedings, madame, but the law will take up your case
in the name of society, if its rights have been inured in your person.”
“Shall I then not be allowed to pardon? Should I not be sufficiently
avenged by a contemptuous forgetfulness of the wrongs I have suffered?”
“Personally, madame, you may forgive and forget; but I have the honor
to repeat to you, that society cannot show the same indulgence, if
it should turn out that you have been the victim of a criminal
machination--and I have every reason to fear it is so. The manner in
which you express yourself, the generosity of your sentiments, the
calmness and dignity of your attitude, convince me that I have been well
informed.”
“I hope, sir,” said Dr. Baleinier, recovering his coolness, “that you
will at least communicate the declaration that has been made to you.”
“It has been declared to me, sir,” said the magistrate, in a stern
voice, “that Mdlle. de Cardoville was brought here by stratagem.”
“By stratagem?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is true. The lady was brought here by stratagem,” answered the
Jesuit of the short robe, after a moment’s silence.
“You confess it, then?” said M. de Gernande.
“Certainly I do, sir. I admit that I had recourse to means which we are
unfortunately too often obliged to employ, when persons who most need
our assistance are unconscious of their own sad state.”
“But, sir,” replied the magistrate, “it has also been declared to me,
that Mdlle. de Cardoville never required such aid.”
“That, sir, is a question of medical jurisprudence, which has to be
examined and discussed,” said M. Baleinier, recovering his assurance.
“It will, indeed, sir, be seriously discussed; for you are accused of
confining Mdlle. De Cardoville, while in the full possession of all her
faculties.”
“And may I ask you for what purpose?” said M. de Baleinier, with a
slight shrug of the shoulders, and in a tone of irony. “What interest
had I to commit such a crime, even admitting that my reputation did not
place me above so odious and absurd a charge?”
“You are said to have acted, sir, in furtherance of a family plot,
devised against Mdlle. de Cardoville for a pecuniary motive.”
“And who has dared, sir, to make so calumnious a charge?” cried Dr.
Baleinier, with indignant warmth. “Who has had the audacity to accuse
a respectable, and I dare to say, respected man, of having been the
accomplice in such infamy?”
“I,” said Rodin, coldly.
“You!” cried Dr. Baleinier, falling back two steps, as if thunderstruck.
“Yes, I accuse you,” repeated Rodin, in a clear sharp voice.
“Yes, it was this gentleman who came to me this morning, with ample
proofs, to demand my interference in favor of Mdlle. de Cardoville,”
said the magistrate, drawing back a little, to give Adrienne the
opportunity of seeing her defender.
Throughout this scene, Rodin’s name had not hitherto been mentioned.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had often heard speak of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s
secretary in no very favorable terms; but, never having seen him, she
did not know that her liberator was this very Jesuit. She therefore
looked towards him, with a glance in which were mingled curiosity,
interest, surprise and gratitude. Rodin’s cadaverous countenance, his
repulsive ugliness, his sordid dress, would a few days before have
occasioned Adrienne a perhaps invincible feeling of disgust. But the
young lady, remembering how the sempstress, poor, feeble, deformed,
and dressed almost in rags was endowed notwithstanding her wretched
exterior, with one of the noblest and most admirable hearts, recalled
this recollection in favor of the Jesuit. She forgot that he was ugly
and sordid, only to remember that he was old, that he seemed poor, and
that he had come to her assistance. Dr. Baleinier, notwithstanding his
craft, notwithstanding his audacious hypocrisy, in spite even of his
presence of mind, could not conceal how much he was disturbed by Rodin’s
denunciation. His head became troubled as he remembered how, on the
first day of Adrienne’s confinement in this house, the implacable appeal
of Rodin, through the hole in the door, had prevented him (Baleinier)
from yielding to emotions of pity, inspired by the despair of this
unfortunate young girl, driven almost to doubt of her own reason. And
yet it was this very Rodin, so cruel, so inexorable, the devoted agent
of Father d’Aigrigny, who denounced him (Baleinier), and brought a
magistrate to set Adrienne at liberty--when, only the day before, Father
d’Aigrigny had ordered an increase of severity towards her!
The lay Jesuit felt persuaded that Rodin was betraying Father d’Aigrigny
in the most shameful manner, and that Mdlle. de Cardoville’s friends had
bribed and bought over this scoundrelly secretary. Exasperated by what
he considered a monstrous piece of treachery, the doctor exclaimed, in a
voice broken with rage: “And it is you, sir, that have the impudence to
accuse me--you, who only a few days ago--”
Then, reflecting that the retort upon Rodin would be self-accusation,
he appeared to give way to an excess of emotion, and resumed with
bitterness: “Ah, sir, you are the last person that I should have thought
capable of this odious denunciation. It is shameful!”
“And who had a better right than I to denounce this infamy?” answered
Rodin, in a rude, overbearing tone. “Was I not in a position to
learn--unfortunately, too late--the nature of the conspiracy of which
Mdlle. de Cardoville and others have been the victims? Then, what was
my duty as an honest man? Why, to inform the magistrate, to prove what I
set forth, and to accompany him hither. That is what I have done.”
“So, sir,” said the doctor, addressing the magistrate, “it is not only
myself that this man accuses, but he dares also--”
“I accuse the Abbe d’Aigrigny,” resumed Rodin, in a still louder and
more imperative tone, interrupting the doctor, “I accuse the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, I accuse you, sir--of having, from a vile motive of self
interest, confined Mdlle. de Cardoville in this house, and the two
daughters of Marshal Simon in the neighboring convent. Is that clear?”
“Alas! it is only too true,” said Adrienne, hastily. “I have seen those
poor children all in tears, making signs of distress to me.”
The accusation of Rodin, with regard to the orphans, was a new and
fearful blow for Dr. Baleinier. He felt perfectly convinced that the
traitor had passed clear over to the enemy’s camp. Wishing therefore to
put an end to this embarrassing scene, he tried to put a good face on
the matter, in spite of his emotion, and said to the magistrate:
“I might confine myself, sir, to silence--disdaining to answer such
accusations, till a judicial decision had given them some kind of
authority. But, strong in a good conscience I address myself to Mdlle.
de Cardoville, and I beg her to say if this very morning I did not
inform her, that her health would soon be sufficiently restored to allow
her to leave this house. I conjure her, in the name of her well-known
love of truth to state if such was not my language, when I was alone
with her--”
“Come, sir!” said Rodin, interrupting Baleinier with an insolent air;
“suppose that, from pure generosity, this dear young lady were to admit
as much--what will it prove in your favor?--why, nothing at all.”
“What, sir,” cried the doctor, “do you presume--”
“I presume to unmask you, without asking your leave. What have you just
told us? Why, that being alone with Mdlle. de Cardoville, you talked to
her as if she were really mad. How very conclusive!”
“But, sir--” cried the doctor.
“But, sir,” resumed Rodin, without allowing him to continue, “it is
evident that, foreseeing the possibility of what has occurred to-day,
and, to provide yourself with a hole to creep out at, you have pretended
to believe your own execrable falsehood, in presence of this poor young
lady, that you might afterwards call in aid the evidence of your own
assumed conviction. Come, sir! such stories will not go down with people
of common sense or common humanity.”
“Come now, sir!” exclaimed Baleinier, angrily.
“Well, sir,” resumed Rodin, in a still louder voice, which completely
drowned that of the doctor; “is it true, or is it not, that you have
recourse to the mean evasion of ascribing this odious imprisonment to a
scientific error? I affirm that you do so, and that you think yourself
safe, because you can now say: ‘Thanks to my care, the young lady has
recovered her reason. What more would you have?’”
“Yes, I do say that, sir, and I maintain it.”
“You maintain a falsehood; for it is proven that the lady never lost her
reason for a moment.”
“But I, sir, maintain that she did lose it.”
“And I, sir, will prove the contrary,” said Rodin.
“You? How will you do that?” cried the doctor.
“That I shall take care not to tell you at present, as you may
well suppose,” answered Rodin, with an ironical smile, adding with
indignation: “But, really, sir, you ought to die for shame, to dare to
raise such a question in presence of the lady. You should at least have
spared her this discussion.”
“Sir!”
“Oh, fie, sir! I say, fie! It is odious to maintain this argument before
her--odious if you speak truth, doubly odious if you lie,” said Rodin,
with disgust.
“This violence is inconceivable!” cried the Jesuit of the short robe,
exasperated; “and I think the magistrate shows great partiality in
allowing such gross calumnies to be heaped upon me!”
“Sir,” answered M. de Gernande, severely, “I am entitled not only to
hear, but to provoke any contradictory discussion that may enlighten
me in the execution of my duty; it results from all this, that, even in
your opinion, sir, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s health is sufficiently good to
allow her to return home immediately.”
“At least, I do not see any very serious inconvenience likely to arise
from it, sir,” said the doctor: “only I maintain that the cure is not
so complete as it might have been, and, on this subject, I decline all
responsibility for the future.”
“You can do so, safely,” said Rodin; “it is not likely that the young
lady will ever again have recourse to your honest assistance.”
“It is useless, therefore, to employ my official authority, to demand
the immediate liberation of Mdlle. de Cardoville,” said the magistrate.
“She is free,” said Baleinier, “perfectly free.”
“As for the question whether you have imprisoned her on the plea of a
suppositious madness, the law will inquire into it, sir, and you will be
heard.”
“I am quite easy, sir,” answered M. Baleinier, trying to look so; “my
conscience reproaches me with nothing.”
“I hope it may turn out well, sir,” said M. de Gernande. “However bad
appearances may be, more especially when persons of your station in
society are concerned, we should always wish to be convinced of their
innocence.” Then, turning to Adrienne, he added: “I understand, madame,
how painful this scene must be to all your feelings of delicacy and
generosity; hereafter, it will depend upon yourself, either to proceed
for damages against M. Baleinier, or to let the law take its course.
One word more. The bold and upright man”--here the magistrate pointed
to Rodin--“who has taken up your cause in so frank and disinterested a
manner, expressed a belief that you would, perhaps, take charge for the
present of Marshal Simon’s daughters, whose liberation I am about to
demand from the convent where they also are confined by stratagem.”
“The fact is, sir,” replied Adrienne, “that, as soon as I learned the
arrival of Marshal Simon’s daughters in Paris, my intention was to offer
them apartments in my house. These young ladies are my near relations.
It is at once a duty and a pleasure for me to treat them as sisters. I
shall, therefore, be doubly grateful to you, sir, if you will trust them
to my care.”
“I think that I cannot serve them better,” answered M. de Gernande.
Then, addressing Baleinier, he added, “Will you consent, sir, to my
bringing these two ladies hither? I will go and fetch them, while Mdlle.
de Cardoville prepares for her departure. They will then be able to
leave this house with their relation.”
“I entreat the lady to make use of this house as her own, until she
leaves it,” replied M. Baleinier. “My carriage shall be at her orders to
take her home.”
“Madame,” said the magistrate, approaching Adrienne, “without prejudging
the question, which must soon be decided by, a court of law, I may at
least regret that I was not called in sooner. Your situation must have
been a very cruel one.”
“There will at least remain to me, sir, from this mournful time,”
said Adrienne, with graceful dignity, “one precious and touching
remembrance--that of the interest which you have shown me. I hope that
you will one day permit me to thank you, at my own home, not for the
justice you have done me, but for the benevolent and paternal manner in
which you have done it. And moreover, sir,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville,
with a sweet smile, “I should like to prove to you, that what they call
my cure is complete.”
M. de Gernande bowed respectfully in reply. During the abort dialogue of
the magistrate with Adrienne, their backs were both turned to Baleinier
and Rodin. The latter, profiting by this moment’s opportunity, hastily
slipped into the doctor’s hand a note just written with a pencil in the
bottom of his hat. Baleinier looked at Rodin in stupefied amazement. But
the latter made a peculiar sign, by raising his thumb to his forehead,
and drawing it twice across his brow. Then he remained impassible. This
had passed so rapidly, that when M. de Gernande turned round, Rodin was
at a distance of several steps from Dr. Baleinier, and looking at Mdlle.
de Cardoville with respectful interest.
“Permit me to accompany you, sir,” said the doctor, preceding the
magistrate, whom Mdlle. de Cardoville saluted with much affability. Then
both went out, and Rodin remained alone with the young lady.
After conducting M. de Gernande to the outer door of the house, M.
Baleinier made haste to read the pencil-note written by Rodin; it ran as
follows: “The magistrate is going to the convent, by way of the street.
Run round by the garden, and tell the Superior to obey the order I
have given with regard to the two young girls. It is of the utmost
importance.”
The peculiar sign which Rodin had made, and the tenor of this note,
proved to Dr. Baleinier, who was passing from surprise to amazement,
that the secretary, far from betraying the reverend father, was still
acting for the Greater Glory of the Lord. However, whilst he obeyed the
orders, M. Baleinier sought in vain to penetrate the motives of Rodin’s
inexplicable conduct, who had himself informed the authorities of an
affair that was to have been hushed up, and that might have the most
disastrous consequences for Father d’Aigrigny, Madame de Saint-Dizier,
and Baleinier himself. But let us return to Rodin, left alone with
Mdlle, de Cardoville.
CHAPTER XXXIV. FATHER D’AIGRIGNY’S SECRETARY.
Hardly had the magistrate and Dr. Baleinier disappeared, than Mdlle. de
Cardoville, whose countenance was beaming with joy, exclaimed, as she
looked at Rodin with a mixture of respect and gratitude, “At length,
thanks to you, sir, I am free--free! Oh, I had never before felt
how much happiness, expansion, delight, there is in that adorable
word--liberty!”
Her bosom rose and fell, her rosy nostrils dilated, her vermilion lips
were half open, as if she again inhaled with rapture pure and vivifying
air.
“I have been only a few days in this horrible place,” she resumed, “but
I have suffered enough from my captivity to make me resolve never to let
a year pass without restoring to liberty some poor prisoners for debt.
This vow no doubt appears to belong a little to the Middle Ages,”
added she, with a smile; “but I would fain borrow from that noble epoch
something more than its old windows and furniture. So, doubly thanks,
sir!--for I take you as a partner in that project of deliverance, which
has just (you see) unfolded itself in the midst of the happiness I owe
to you, and by which you seem so much affected. Oh! let my joy speak my
gratitude, and pay you for your generous aid!” exclaimed the young girl
with enthusiasm.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had truly remarked a complete transfiguration in
the countenance of Rodin. This man, lately so harsh, severe, inflexible,
with regard to Dr. Baleinier, appeared now under the influence of the
mildest and most tender sentiments. His little, half-veiled eyes were
fixed upon Adrienne with an expression of ineffable interest. Then, as
if he wished to tear himself from these impressions, he said, speaking
to himself, “Come, come, no weakness. Time is too precious; my mission
is not fulfilled. My dear young lady,” added he, addressing himself to
Adrienne, “believe what I say--we will talk hereafter of gratitude--but
we have now to talk of the present so important for you and your family.
Do you know what is taking place?”
Adrienne looked at the Jesuit with surprise, and said, “What is taking
place, sir?”
“Do you know the real motive of your imprisonment in this house? Do you
know what influenced the Princess de Saint-Dizier and Abbe d’Aigrigny?”
At the sound of those detested names, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s face,
now so full of happiness, became suddenly sad, and she answered with
bitterness, “It is hatred, sir, that no doubt animated Madame de
Saint-Dizier against me.”
“Yes, hatred; and, moreover, the desire to rob you with impunity of an
immense fortune.”
“Me, sir! how?”
“You must be ignorant, my dear young lady, of the interest you had to be
in the Rue Saint-Francois on the 13th February, for an inheritance?”
“I was ignorant, sir, of the date and details: but I knew by some family
papers, and thanks to an extraordinary circumstance, that one of our
ancestors--”
“Had left an enormous sum to be divided between his descendants; is it
not so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But what unfortunately you did not know, my dear young lady, was that
the heirs were all bound to be present at a certain hour on the 13th
February. This day and hour once past, the absent would forfeit their
claim. Do you now understand why you have been imprisoned here, my dear
young lady?”
“Yes, yes; I understand it,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville; “cupidity was
added to the hatred which my aunt felt for me. All is explained. Marshal
Simon’s daughters, having the same right as I had have, like me, been
imprisoned.”
“And yet,” cried Rodin, “you and they were not the only victims.”
“Who, then, are the others, sir?”
“A young East Indian.”
“Prince Djalma?” said Adrienne, hastily.
“For the same reason he has been nearly poisoned with a narcotic.”
“Great God!” cried the young girl, clasping her hands in horror. “It is
fearful. That young prince, who was said to have so noble and generous a
character! But I had sent to Cardoville Castle--”
“A confidential person, to fetch the prince to Paris--I know it, my dear
young lady; but, by means of a trick, your friend was got out of the
way, and the young Oriental delivered to his enemies.”
“And where is he now?”
“I have only vague information on the subject. I know that he is in
Paris, and do not despair of finding him. I shall pursue my researches
with an almost paternal ardor, for we cannot too much love the rare
qualities of that poor king’s son. What a heart, my dear young lady!
what a heart! Oh, it is a heart of gold, pure and bright as the gold of
his country!”
“We must find the prince, sir,” said Adrienne with emotion; “let me
entreat you to neglect nothing for that end. He is my relation--alone
here--without support--without assistance.”
“Certainly,” replied Rodin, with commiseration. “Poor boy!--for he is
almost a boy--eighteen or nineteen years of age--thrown into the
heart of Paris, of this hell--with his fresh, ardent, half-savage
passions--with his simplicity and confidence--to what perils may he not
be exposed?”
“Well, we must first find him, sir,” said Adrienne, hastily; “and then
we will save him from these dangers. Before I was confined here, I
learned his arrival in France, and sent a confidential person to offer
him the services of an unknown friend. I now see that this mad idea,
with which I have been so much reproached, was a very sensible one. I am
more convinced of it than ever. The prince belongs to my family, and
I owe him a generous hospitality. I had destined for him the lodge I
occupied at my aunt’s.”
“And you, my dear young lady?”
“To-day, I shall remove to a house, which I had prepared some time ago,
with the determination of quitting Madame de Saint-Dizier, and living
alone as I pleased. Then, sir, as you seem bent upon being the good
genius of our family, be as generous with regard to Prince Djalma, as
you have been to me and Marshal Simon’s daughters. I entreat you to
discover the hiding-place of this poor king’s son, as you call him; keep
my secret for me, and conduct him to the house offered by the unknown
friend. Let him not disquiet himself about anything; all his wants shall
be provided for; he shall live--like a prince.”
“Yes; he will indeed live like a prince, thanks to your royal
munificence. But never was such kind interest better deserved. It is
enough to see (as I have seen) his fine, melancholy countenance--”
“You have seen him, then, sir?” said Adrienne, interrupting Rodin.
“Yes, my dear young lady; I was with him for about two hours. It was
quite enough to judge of him. His charming features are the mirror of
his soul.”
“And where did you see him, sir?”
“At your old Chateau de Cardoville, my dear young lady, near which he
had been shipwrecked in a storm, and whither I had gone to--” Rodin
hesitated for a moment, and then, as if yielding to the frankness of
his disposition, added: “Whither I had gone to commit a bad action--a
shameful, miserable action, I must confess!”
“You, sir?--at Cardoville House--to commit a bad action?” cried
Adrienne, much surprised.
“Alas! yes, my dear young lady,” answered Rodin with simplicity. “In one
word, I had orders from Abbe d’Aigrigny, to place your former bailiff in
the alternative either of losing his situation or lending himself to a
mean action--something, in fact, that resembled spying and calumny; but
the honest, worthy man refused.”
“Why, who are you, sir?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more
astonished.
“I am Rodin, lately secretary of the Abbe d’Aigrigny--a person of very
little importance, as you see.”
It is impossible to describe the accent, at once humble and ingenuous,
of the Jesuit, as he pronounced these words, which he accompanied with
a respectful bow. On this revelation, Mdlle. de Cardoville drew back
abruptly. We have said that Adrienne had sometimes heard talk of Rodin,
the humble secretary of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, as a sort of obedient and
passive machine. That was not all; the bailiff of Cardoville Manor,
writing to Adrienne on the subject of Prince Djalma, had complained of
the perfidious and dishonest propositions of Rodin. She felt, therefore,
a vague suspicion, when she heard that her liberator was the man who had
played so odious a part. Yet this unfavorable feeling was balanced by
the sense of what she owed to Rodin, and by his frank denunciation of
Abbe d’Aigrigny before the magistrate. And then the Jesuit, by his own
confession, had anticipated, as it were, the reproaches that might have
been addressed to him. Still, it was with a kind of cold reserve that
Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed this dialogue, which she had commenced with
as much frankness as warmth and sympathy.
Rodin perceived the impression he had made. He expected it. He was not
the least disconcerted when Mdlle. de Cardoville said to him, as she
fixed upon him a piercing glance, “Ah! you are M. Rodin--secretary to
the Abbe d’Aigrigny?”
“Say ex-secretary, if you please, my dear young lady,” answered the
Jesuit; “for you see clearly that I can never again enter the house of
the Abbe d’Aigrigny. I have made of him an implacable enemy, and I am
now without employment--but no matter--nay, so much the better--since,
at this price, the wicked are unmasked, and honest people rescued.”
These words, spoken with much simplicity, and dignity, revived a feeling
of pity in Adrienne’s heart. She thought within herself that, after all,
the poor old man spoke the truth. Abbe d’Aigrigny’s hate, after this
exposure, would be inexorable, and Rodin had braved it for the sake of a
generous action.
Still Mdlle. de Cardoville answered coldly, “Since you knew, sir, that
the propositions you were charged to make to the bailiff of Cardoville
were shameful and perfidious, how could you undertake the mission?”
“How?” replied Rodin, with a sort of painful impatience; “why, because
I was completely under Abbe d’Aigrigny’s charm, one of the most
prodigiously clever men I have ever known, and, as I only discovered the
day before yesterday, one of the most prodigiously dangerous men there
is in the world. He had conquered my scruples, by persuading me that
the End justifies the Means. I must confess that the end he seemed to
propose to himself was great and beautiful; but the day before yesterday
I was cruelly undeceived. I was awakened, as it were, by a thunder-peal.
Oh, my dear young lady!” added Rodin, with a sort of embarrassment
and confusion, “let us talk no more of my fatal journey to Cardoville.
Though I was only an ignorant and blind instrument, I feel as ashamed
and grieved at it as if I had acted for myself. It weighs upon me, it
oppresses me. I entreat you, let us speak rather of yourself, and of
what interests you--for the soul expands with generous thoughts, even as
the breast is dilated in pure and healthful air.”
Rodin had confessed his fault so spontaneously, he explained it so
naturally, he appeared to regret it so sincerely, that Adrienne,
whose suspicions had no other grounds, felt her distrust a good deal
diminished.
“So,” she resumed, still looking attentively at Rodin, “it was at
Cardoville that you saw Prince Djalma?”
“Yes, madame; and my affection for him dates from that interview.
Therefore I will accomplish my task. Be satisfied, my dear young lady;
like you, like Marshal Simon’s daughters, the prince shall avoid being
the victim of this detestable plot, which unhappily does not stop
there.”
“And who besides, then, is threatened?”
“M. Hardy, a man full of honor and probity, who is also your relation,
and interested in this inheritance, but kept away from Paris by infamous
treachery. And another heir, an unfortunate artisan, who falling into a
trap cleverly baited, has been thrown into a prison for debt.”
“But, sir,” said Adrienne, suddenly, “for whose advantage was this
abominable plot, which really alarms me, first devised?”
“For the advantage of Abbe d’Aigrigny,” answered Rodin.
“How, and by what right! Was he also an heir?”
“It would take too long to explain it to you, my dear young lady. You
will know all one day. Only be convinced that your family has no more
bitter enemy that Abbe d’Aigrigny.”
“Sir,” said Adrienne, giving way to one last suspicion, “I will speak
frankly to you. How can I have deserved the interest that you seem to
take in me, and that you even extend to all the members of my family?”
“My dear young lady,” answered Rodin, with a smile, “were I to tell you
the cause, you would only laugh at, or misapprehend me.”
“Speak, I beg of you, sir. Do not mistrust me or yourself.”
“Well, then, I became interested in you--devoted to you--because your
heart is generous, your mind lofty, your character independent and
proud. Once attached to you, those of your race, who are indeed
themselves worthy of interest, were no longer indifferent to me. To
serve them was to serve you also.”
“But, sir--admitting that you suppose me worthy of the too flattering
praises you bestow upon me--how could you judge of my heart, my mind, my
character?”
“I will tell you, my dear young lady; but first I must make another
confession, that fills me with shame. If you were not even so
wonderfully endowed, what you have suffered in this house should suffice
to command the interest of every honest man--don’t you think so?”
“I do think it should, sir.”
“I might thus explain the interest I feel in you. But no--I confess
it--that would not have sufficed with me. Had you been only Mdlle. de
Cardoville--a rich, noble, beautiful young lady--I should doubtless have
pitied your misfortune; but I should have said to myself, ‘This poor
young lady is certainly much to be pitied; but what can I, poor man, do
in it? My only resource is my post of secretary to the Abbe d’Aigrigny,
and he would be the first that must be attacked. He is all-powerful, and
I am nothing. To engage in a struggle with him would be to ruin myself,
without the hope of saving this unfortunate person.’ But when I
learnt what you were, my dear young lady, I revolted, in spite of my
inferiority. ‘No,’ I said, ‘a thousand times, no! So fine an intellect,
so great a heart, shall not be the victims of an abominable plot. I may
perish in the struggle, but I will at least make the attempt.’”
No words can paint the mixture of delicacy, energy, and sensibility with
which Rodin uttered these sentiments. As it often happens with people
singularly repulsive and ill-favored, if they can once bring you to
forget their ugliness, their very deformity becomes a source of interest
and commiseration, and you say to yourself, “What a pity that such a
mind, such a soul, should inhabit so poor a body!”--and you are touched
and softened by the contrast.
It was thus that Mdlle. de Cardoville began to look upon Rodin. He had
shown himself as simple and affectionate towards her as he had been
brutal and insolent to Dr. Baleinier. One thing only excited the lively
curiosity of Mdlle. de Cardoville--she wished to know how Rodin had
conceived the devotion and admiration which she seemed to inspire.
“Forgive my indiscreet and obstinate curiosity, sir, but I wish to
know--”
“How you were morally revealed to me--is it not so? Oh, my dear young
lady! nothing is more simple. I will explain it to you in two words.
The Abbe d’Aigrigny saw in me nothing but a writing-machine, an obtuse,
mute, blind instrument--”
“I thought M. d’Aigrigny had more penetration.”
“And you are right, my dear young lady; he is a man of unparalleled
sagacity; but I deceived him by affecting more than simplicity. Do not,
therefore, think me false. No; I am proud in my manner--and my pride
consists in never appearing above my position, however subaltern it may
be! Do you know why? It is that, however haughty may be my superiors, I
can say to myself, ‘They do not know my value. It is the inferiority of
my condition, not me, that they humiliate.’ By this I gain doubly--my
self-love is spared, and I hate no one.”
“Yes, I understand that sort of pride,” said Adrienne, more and more
struck with Rodin’s original turn of mind.
“But let us return to what concerns you, my dear young lady. On the eve
of the 13th of February, the Abbe d’Aigrigny delivered to me a paper
in shorthand, and said to me, ‘Transcribe this examination; you may
add that it is to support the decision of a family council, which has
declared, in accordance with the report of Dr. Baleinier, the state of
mind of Mdlle. de Cardoville to be sufficiently alarming to render it
necessary to confine her in a lunatic asylum.’”
“Yes,” said Adrienne, with bitterness; “it related to a long interview,
which I had with the Princess de Saint-Dizier, my aunt, and which was
taken down without my knowledge.”
“Behold me, then, poring over my shorthand report, and beginning to
transcribe it. At the end of the first ten lines, I was struck with
stupor. I knew not if I were awake or dreaming. ‘What! mad?’ They must
be themselves insane who dare assert so monstrous a proposition!--More
and more interested, I continued my reading--I finished it--Oh! then,
what shall I say? What I felt, my dear young lady, it is impossible to
express. It was sympathy, delight, enthusiasm!”
“Sir,” said Adrienne.
“Yes, my dear young lady, enthusiasm! Let not the words shock your
modesty. Know that these ideas, so new, so independent, so courageous
which you expressed to your aunt with so much brilliancy, are, without
your being aware of it, common to you and another person, for whom you
will one day feel the most tender and religious respect.”
“Of whom do you speak, sir?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more
interested.
After a moment’s apparent hesitation, Rodin resumed, “No, no--it is
useless now to inform you of it. All I can tell you, my dear young lady,
is that, when I had finished my reading, I ran to Abbe d’Aigrigny’s, to
convince him of the error into which he had fallen with regard to you.
It was impossible then to find him; but yesterday morning I told him
plainly what I thought. He only appeared surprised to find that I could
think at all. He received my communications with contemptuous silence.
I thought him deceived; I continued my remonstrances, but quite in vain.
He ordered me to follow him to the house, where the testament of your
ancestor was to be opened. I was so blind with regard to the Abbe
d’Aigrigny, that it required the successive arrivals of the soldier,
of his son, and of Marshal Simon’s father, to open my eyes thoroughly.
Their indignation unveiled to me the extent of a conspiracy, plotted
long ago, and carried on with terrible ability. Then, I understood why
you were confined here as a lunatic; why the daughters of Marshal Simon
were imprisoned in a convent. Then a thousand recollections returned to
my mind; fragments of letters and statements, which had been given me
to copy or decipher, and of which I had never been able to find the
explanation, put me on the track of this odious machination. To express
then and there the sudden horror I felt at these crimes, would have been
to ruin all. I did not make this mistake. I opposed cunning to cunning;
I appeared even more eager than Abbe d’Aigrigny. Had this immense
inheritance been destined for me alone, I could not have shown myself
more grasping and merciless. Thanks to this stratagem, Abbe d’Aigrigny
had no suspicion. A providential accident having rescued the inheritance
from his hands, he left the house in a state of profound consternation.
For my part, I felt indescribable joy; for I had now the means of saving
and avenging you, my dear young lady. As usual, I went yesterday evening
to my place of business. During the absence of the abbe, it was easy for
me to peruse the correspondence relative to the inheritance. In this way
I was able to unite all the threads of this immense plot. Oh! then,
my dear young lady, I remained, struck with horror, in presence of the
discoveries that I made, and that I never should have made under any
other circumstances.”
“What discoveries, sir?”
“There are some secrets which are terrible to those who possess them. Do
not ask me to explain, my dear young lady; but, in this examination, the
league formed against you and your relations, from motives of insatiable
cupidity, appeared to me in all its dark audacity. Thereupon, the lively
and deep interest which I already felt for you, my dear young lady, was
augmented greatly, and extended itself to the other innocent victims of
this infernal conspiracy. In spite of my weakness, I determined to risk
all, to unmask the Abbe d’Aigrigny. I collected the necessary proofs,
to give my declaration before the magistrate the needful authority;
and, this morning, I left the abbe’s house without revealing to him my
projects. He might have employed some violent method to detain me; yet
it would have been cowardly to attack him without warning. Once out of
his house, I wrote to him, that I had in my hands proof enough of his
crimes, to attack him openly in the face of day. I would accuse, and he
must defend himself. I went directly to a magistrate, and you know the
rest.”
At this juncture, the door opened, and one of the nurses appeared, and
said to Rodin: “Sir, the messenger that you and the magistrate sent to
the Rue Brise-Miche has just come back.”
“Has he left the letter?”
“Yes, sir; and it was taken upstairs directly.”
“Very well. Leave us!” The nurse went out.
CHAPTER XXXV. SYMPATHY.
If it had been possible for Mdlle. de Cardoville to harbor any suspicion
of the sincerity of Rodin’s devotion, it must have given way before this
reasoning, unfortunately so simple and undeniable. How could she suppose
the faintest complicity between the Abbe d’Aigrigny and his secretary,
when it was the latter who completely unveiled the machinations of his
master, and exposed them to the tribunals? when in this, Rodin went
even further than Mdlle. de Cardoville would herself have gone? Of what
secret design could she suspect the Jesuit? At worst, of a desire to
earn by his services the profitable patronage of the young lady.
And then, had he not just now protested against this supposition, by
declaring his devotion, not to Mdlle. de Cardoville--not to the fair,
rich, noble lady--but to the high-souled and generous girl? Finally,
as Rodin had said himself, could any but a miserable wretch fail to be
interested in Adrienne’s fate? A strange mixture of curiosity, surprise,
and interest, was joined with Mdlle. de Cardoville’s feelings of
gratitude towards Rodin. Yet, as she recognized the superior mind under
that humble exterior, she was suddenly struck with a grave suspicion.
“Sir,” said she to Rodin, “I always confess to the persons I esteem the
doubts they may have inspired, so that they may justify themselves, and
excuse me, if I am wrong.”
Rodin looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as if mentally
calculating the suspicions than she might entertain, and replied,
after a moment’s silence: “You are perhaps thinking of my journey to
Cardoville, of my base proposals to your good and worthy bailiff? Oh! if
you--”
“No, no, sir,” said Adrienne, interrupting him; “you made that
confession spontaneously, and I quite understand, that, blinded with
regard to M. d’Aigrigny, you passively executed instructions repugnant
to your delicacy. But how comes it, that, with your incontestable
merits, you have so long; occupied so mean a position in his service?”
“It is true,” said Rodin, with a smile; “that must impress you
unfavorably, my dear young lady; for a man of any capacity, who remains
long in an inferior condition, has evidently some radical vice, some bad
or base passion--”
“It is generally true, sir.”
“And personally true--with regard to myself.”
“What, sir! do you make this avowal?”
“Alas! I confess that I have a bad passion, to which, for forty years, I
have sacrificed all chances of attaining to a better position.”
“And this passion, sir?”
“Since I must make the unpleasant avowal, this passion is
indolence--yes, indolence--the horror of all activity of mind, of all
moral responsibility, of taking the lead in anything. With the twelve
hundred francs that Abbe d’Aigrigny gave me, I was the happiest man in
the world; I trusted to the nobleness of his views; his thoughts became
mine, his wishes mine. My work once finished, I returned to my poor
little chamber, I lighted my fire, I dined on vegetables--then, taking
up some book of philosophy, little known, and dreaming over it, I gave
free course to my imagination, which, restrained all the day long,
carried me through numberless theories to a delicious Utopia. Then, from
the eminences of my intelligence, lifted up Lord knows whither, by the
audacity of my thoughts, I seemed to look down upon my master, and upon
the great men of the earth. This fever lasted for three or four hours,
after which I had a good sleep; and, the next morning, I went lightly to
my work, secure of my daily bread, without cares for the future, living
content with little, waiting with impatience for the delights of my
solitary evening, and saying to myself as I went on writing like a
stupid machine: ‘And yet--and yet--if I chose!’--”
“Doubtless, you could, like others, surer than others, have reached a
higher position,” said Adrienne, greatly struck with Rodin’s practical
philosophy.
“Yes, I think I could have done so; but for what purpose?--You see, my
dear young lady, what often renders people of some merit puzzles to the
vulgar, is that they are frequently content to say: ‘If I chose!’”
“But, sir, without attaching much importance to the luxuries of
life, there is a certain degree of comfort, which age renders almost
indispensable, and which you seem to have utterly renounced.”
“Undeceive yourself, if you please, my dear young lady,” said Rodin,
with a playful smile. “I am a true Sybarite; I require absolutely warm
clothes, a good stove, a soft mattress, a good piece of bread, a fresh
radish, flavored with good cheap salt, and some good, clear water; and,
notwithstanding this complication of wants, my twelve hundred francs
have always more than sufficed, for I have been able to make some little
savings.”
“But now that you are without employment, how will you manage to live,
sir?” said Adrienne, more and more interested by the singularities of
this man, and wishing to put his disinterestedness to the proof.
“I have laid by a little, which will serve me till I have unravelled
the last thread of Father d’Aigrigny’s dark designs. I owe myself this
reparation, for having been his dupe; three or four days, I hope, will
complete the work. After that, I have the certainty of meeting with a
situation, in my native province, under a collector of taxes: some
time ago, the offer was made me by a friend; but then I would not leave
Father d’Aigrigny, notwithstanding the advantages proposed. Fancy, my
dear young lady--eight hundred francs, with board and lodging! As I am
a little of the roughest, I should have preferred lodging apart; but, as
they give me so much, I must submit to this little inconvenience.”
Nothing could exceed Rodin’s ingenuity, in making these little household
confidences (so abominably false) to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who felt her
last suspicions give way.
“What, sir?” said she to the Jesuit, with interest; “in three or four
days, you mean to quit Paris?”
“I hope to do so, my dear young lady; and that,” added he, in a
mysterious tone, “and that for many reasons. But what would be very
precious to me,” he resumed, in a serious voice, as he looked at
Adrienne with emotion, “would be to carry with me the conviction,
that you did me the justice to believe, that, on merely reading your
interview with the Princess de Saint-Dizier, I recognized at once
qualities quite unexampled in our day, in a young person of your age and
condition.”
“Ah, sir!” said Adrienne, with a smile, “do not think yourself
obliged to return so soon the sincere praises that I bestowed on your
superiority of mind. I should be better pleased with ingratitude.”
“Oh, no! I do not flatter you, my dear young lady. Why should I? We
may probably never meet again. I do not flatter you; I understand
you--that’s all--and what will seem strange to you, is, that your
appearance complete, the idea which I had already formed of you, my dear
young lady, in reading your interview with your aunt: and some parts of
your character, hitherto obscure to me, are now fully displayed.”
“Really, sir, you astonish me more and more.”
“I can’t help it! I merely describe my impressions. I can now explain
perfectly, for example, your passionate love of the beautiful, your
eager worship of the refinements of the senses, your ardent aspirations
for a better state of things, your courageous contempt of many degrading
and servile customs, to which woman is condemned; yes, now I
understand the noble pride with which you contemplate the mob of vain,
self-sufficient, ridiculous men, who look upon woman as a creature
destined for their service, according to the laws made after their own
not very handsome image. In the eyes of these hedge-tyrants, woman, a
kind of inferior being to whom a council of cardinals deigned to grant a
soul by a majority of two voices, ought to think herself supremely happy
in being the servant of these petty pachas, old at thirty, worn-out,
used up, weary with excesses, wishing only for repose, and seeking, as
they say, to make an end of it, which they set about by marrying some
poor girl, who is on her side desirous to make a beginning.”
Mdlle. de Cardoville would certainly have smiled at these satirical
remarks, if she had not been greatly struck by hearing Rodin express in
such appropriate terms her own ideas, though it was the first time in
her life that she saw this dangerous man. Adrienne forgot, or
rather, she was not aware, that she had to deal with a Jesuit of rare
intelligence, uniting the information and the mysterious resources of
the police-spy with the profound sagacity of the confessor; one of those
diabolic priests, who, by the help of a few hints, avowals, letters,
reconstruct a character, as Cuvier could reconstruct a body from
zoological fragments. Far from interrupting Rodin, Adrienne listened
to him with growing curiosity. Sure of the effect he produced, he
continued, in a tone of indignation: “And your aunt and the Abbe
d’Aigrigny treated you as mad, because you revolted against the yoke of
such tyrants! because, hating the shameful vices of slavery, you chose
to be independent with the suitable qualities of independence, free with
the proud virtues of liberty!”
“But, sir,” said Adrienne, more and more surprised, “how can my thoughts
be so familiar to you?”
“First, I know you perfectly, thanks to your interview with the Princess
de Saint-Dizier: and next, if it should happen that we both pursue the
same end, though by different means,” resumed Rodin, artfully, as he
looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with an air of intelligence, “why should
not our convictions be the same?”
“I do not understand you, sir. Of what end do you speak?”
“The end pursued incessantly by all lofty, generous, independent
spirits--some acting, like you, my dear young lady, from passion, from
instinct, without perhaps explaining to themselves the high mission they
are called on to ful, fil. Thus, for example, when you take pleasure
in the most refined delights, when you surround yourself with all that
charms the senses, do you think that you only yield to the attractions
of the beautiful, to the desire of exquisite enjoyments? No! ah, no! for
then you would be incomplete, odiously selfish, a dry egotist, with a
fine taste--nothing more--and at your age, it would be hideous, my dear
young lady, it would be hideous!”
“And do you really think thus severely of me?” said Adrienne, with
uneasiness, so much influence had this man irresistibly attained over
her.
“Certainly, I should think thus of you, if you loved luxury for luxury’s
sake; but, no--quite another sentiment animates you,” resumed the
Jesuit. “Let us reason a little. Feeling a passionate desire for all
these enjoyments, you know their value and their need more than any
one--is it not so?”
“It is so,” replied Adrienne, deeply interested.
“Your gratitude and favor are then necessarily acquired by those who,
poor, laborious, and unknown, have procured for you these marvels of
luxury, which you could not do without?”
“This feeling of gratitude is so strong in me, sir,” replied Adrienne,
more and more pleased to find herself so well understood, “that I once
had inscribed on a masterpiece of goldsmith’s work, instead of the name
of the seller, that of the poor unknown artist who designed it, and who
has since risen to his true place.”
“There you see, I was not deceived,” went on Rodin; “the taste for
enjoyment renders you grateful to those who procure it for you; and
that is not all; here am I, an example, neither better nor worse than my
neighbors, but accustomed to privations, which cause me no suffering--so
that the privations of others necessarily touch me less nearly than they
do you, my dear young lady; for your habits of comfort must needs render
you more compassionate towards misfortune. You would yourself suffer too
much from poverty, not to pity and succor those who are its victims.”
“Really, sir,” said Adrienne, who began to feel herself under the fatal
charm of Rodin, “the more I listen to you, the more I am convinced that
you would defend a thousand times better than I could those ideas for
which I was so harshly reproached by Madame de Saint-Dizier and
Abbe d’Aigrigny. Oh! speak, speak, sir! I cannot tell you with what
happiness, with what pride I listen.”
Attentive and moved, her eyes fixed on the Jesuit with as much interest
as sympathy and curiosity, Adrienne, by a graceful toss of the head that
was habitual to her, threw hack her long, golden curls, the better to
contemplate Rodin, who thus resumed: “You are astonished, my dear young
lady, that you were not understood by your aunt or by Abbe d’Aigrigny!
What point of contact had you with these hypocritical, jealous, crafty
minds, such as I can judge them to be now? Do you wish a new proof of
their hateful blindness? Among what they called your monstrous follies,
which was the worst, the most damnable? Why, your resolution to live
alone and in your own way, to dispose freely of the present and the
future. They declared this to be odious, detestable, immoral. And
yet--was this resolution dictated by a mad love of liberty? no!--by
a disordered aversion to all restraint? no!--by the desire of
singularity?--no!--for then I, too, should have blamed you severely.”
“Other reasons have indeed guided me, sir, I assure you,” said Adrienne
eagerly, for she had become very eager for the esteem with which her
character might inspire Rodin.
“Oh! I know it well; your motives could only be excellent ones,” replied
the Jesuit. “Why then did you take this resolution, so much called in
question? Was it to brave established etiquette? no! for you respected
them until the hate of Mme. de Saint-Dizier forced you to withdraw
yourself from her unbearable guardianship. Was it to live alone, to
escape the eyes of the world? no! you would be a hundred times more open
to observation in this than any other condition. Was it to make a bad
use of your liberty? no, ah, no! those who design evil seek for darkness
and solitude; while you place yourself right before the jealous
anal envious eyes of the vulgar crowd. Why then do you take this
determination, so courageous and rare, unexampled in a young person of
your age? Shall I tell you, my dear young lady? It is, that you wish to
prove, by your example, that a woman of pure heart and honest mind, with
a firm character and independence of soul, may nobly and proudly throw
off the humiliating guardianship that custom has imposed upon her. Yes,
instead of accepting the fate of a revolted slave, a life only destined
to hypocrisy or vice, you wish to live freely in presence of all the
world, independent, honorable, and respected. You wish to have, like
man, the exercise of your own free will, the entire responsibility
of all your actions, so as to establish the fact, that a woman left
completely to herself, may equal man in reason, wisdom, uprightness, and
surpass him indelicacy and dignity. That is your design, my dear young
lady. It is noble and great. Will your example be imitated? I hope it
may; but whether it be so or not, your generous attempt, believe me,
will place you in a high and worthy position.”
Mdlle. de Cardoville’s eyes shone with a proud and gentle brightness,
her cheeks were slightly colored, her bosom heaved, she raised her
charming head with a movement of involuntary pride; at length completely
under the charm of that diabolical man she exclaimed: “But, sir, who are
you that can thus know and analyze my most secret thoughts, and read
my soul more clearly than myself, so as to give new life and action to
those ideas of independence which have long stirred within me? Who are
you, that can thus elevate me in my own eyes, for now I am conscious of
accomplishing a mission, honorable to myself, and perhaps useful to my
sisters immersed in slavery? Once again, sir, who are you?”
“Who am I, madame?” answered Rodin, with a smile of the greatest good
nature; “I have already told you that I am a poor old man, who for the
last forty years, having served in the day time as a writing machine to
record the ideas of others, went home every evening to work out ideas of
his own--a good kind of man who, from his garret, watches and even takes
some little share in the movement of generous spirits, advancing towards
an end that is nearer than is commonly thought. And thus, my dear young
lady, as I told you just now, you and I are both tending towards the
same objects, though you may do the same without reflection, and merely
in obedience to your rare and divine instincts. So continue so to live,
fair, free, and happy!--it is your mission--more providential than you
may think it. Yes; continue to surround yourself with all the marvels of
luxury and art; refine your senses, purify your tastes, by the exquisite
choice of your enjoyments; by genius, grace, and purity raise yourself
above the stupid and ill-favored mob of men, that will instantly
surround you, when they behold you alone and free; they will consider
you an easy prey, destined to please their cupidity, their egotism,
their folly.
“Laugh at them, and mock these idiotic and sordid pretensions. Be
the queen of your own world, and make yourself respected as a queen.
Love--shine--enjoy--it is your part upon earth. All the flowers, with
which you are whelmed in profusion, will one day bear fruit. You think
that you have lived only for pleasure; in reality, you will have lived
for the noblest aims that could tempt a great and lofty soul. And
so--some years hence--we may meet again, perhaps; you, fairer and more
followed than ever; I, older and more obscure. But, no matter--a secret
voice, I am sure, says to you at this moment, that between us two,
however different, there exists an invisible bond, a mysterious
communion, which nothing hereafter will ever be able to destroy!”
He uttered these final words in a tone of such profound emotion, that
Adrienne started. Rodin had approached without her perceiving it, and
without, as it were, walking at all, for he dragged his steps along the
floor, with a sort of serpent motion; and he had spoken with so much
warmth and enthusiasm, that his pale face had become slightly tinged,
and his repulsive ugliness had almost disappeared before the brilliancy
of his small sharp eyes, now wide open, and fixed full upon Adrienne.
The latter leaned forward, with half-open lips and deep-drawn breath,
nor could she take her eyes from the Jesuit’s; he had ceased to speak,
and yet she was still listening. The feelings of the fair young lady,
in presence of this little old man, dirty, ugly, and poor, were
inexplicable. That comparison so common, and yet so true, of the
frightful fascination of the bird by the serpent, might give some idea
of the singular impression made upon her. Rodin’s tactics were skillful
and sure. Until now, Mdlle. de Cardoville had never analyzed her tastes
or instincts. She had followed them, because they were inoffensive and
charming. How happy and proud she then was sure to be to hear a man of
superior mind not only praise these tendencies, for which she had been
heretofore so severely blamed, but congratulate her upon them, as upon
something great, noble, and divine! If Rodin had only addressed himself
to Adrienne’s self-conceit, he would have failed in his perfidious
designs, for she had not the least spark of vanity. But he addressed
himself to all that was enthusiastic and generous in her heart; that
which he appeared to encourage and admire in her was really worthy of
encouragement and admiration. How could she fail to be the dupe of such
language, concealing though it did such dark and fatal projects?
Struck with the Jesuit’s rare intelligence, feeling her curiosity
greatly excited by some mysterious words that he had purposely uttered,
hardly explaining to herself the strange influence which this pernicious
counsellor already exercised over her, and animated by respectful
compassion for a man of his age and talents placed in so precarious a
position, Adrienne said to him, with all her natural cordiality, “A man
of your merit and character, sir, ought not to be at the mercy of the
caprice of circumstances. Some of your words have opened a new horizon
before me; I feel that, on many points, your counsels may be of the
greatest use to me. Moreover, in coming to fetch me from this house, and
in devoting yourself to the service of other persons of my family,
you have shown me marks of interest which I cannot forget without
ingratitude. You have lost a humble but secure situation. Permit me--”
“Not a word more, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, interrupting Mdlle.
de Cardoville, with an air of chagrin. “I feel for you the deepest
sympathy; I am honored by having ideas in common with you; I believe
firmly that some day you will have to ask advice of the poor old
philosopher; and, precisely because of all that, I must and ought to
maintain towards you the most complete independence.”
“But, sir, it is I that would be the obliged party, if you deigned to
accept what I offer.”
“Oh, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, with a smile: “I know that your
generosity would always know how to make gratitude light and easy; but,
once more, I cannot accept anything from you. One day, perhaps, you will
know why.”
“One day?”
“It is impossible for me to tell you more. And then, supposing I were
under an obligation to you, how could I tell you all that was good and
beautiful in your actions? Hereafter, if you are somewhat indebted to
me for my advice, so much the better; I shall be the more ready to blame
you, if I find anything to blame.”
“In this way, sir, you would forbid me to be grateful to you.”
“No, no,” said Rodin, with apparent emotion. “Oh, believe me! there will
come a solemn moment, in which you may repay all, in a manner worthy of
yourself and me.”
This conversation was here interrupted by the nurse, who said to
Adrienne as she entered: “Madame, there is a little humpback workwoman
downstairs, who wishes to speak to you. As, according to the doctor’s
new orders, you are to do as you like, I have come to ask, if I am to
bring her up to you. She is so badly dressed, that I did not venture.”
“Bring her up, by all means,” said Adrienne, hastily, for she had
recognized Mother Bunch by the nurse’s description. “Bring her up
directly.”
“The doctor has also left word, that his carriage is to be at your
orders, madame; are the horses to be put to?”
“Yes, in a quarter of an hour,” answered Adrienne to the nurse, who
went out; then, addressing Rodin, she continued: “I do not think the
magistrate can now be long, before he returns with Marshal Simon’s
daughters?”
“I think not, my dear young lady; but who is this deformed workwoman?”
asked Rodin, with an air of indifference.
“The adopted sister of a gallant fellow, who risked all in endeavoring
to rescue me from this house. And, sir,” said Adrienne, with emotion,
“this young workwoman is a rare and excellent creature. Never was
a nobler mind, a more generous heart, concealed beneath an exterior
less--”
But reflecting, that Rodin seemed to unite in his own person the same
moral and physical contrasts as the sewing-girl, Adrienne stopped short,
and then added, with inimitable grace, as she looked at the Jesuit, who
was somewhat astonished at the sudden pause: “No; this noble girl is
not the only person who proves how loftiness of soul, and superiority of
mind, can make us indifferent to the vain advantages which belong
only to the accidents of birth or fortune.” At the moment of Adrienne
speaking these last words, Mother Bunch entered the room.
CHAPTER XXXVI. SUSPICIONS.
Mdlle. de Cardoville sprang hastily to meet the visitor, and said
to her, in a voice of emotion, as she extended her arms towards her:
“Come--come--there is no grating to separate us now!”
On this allusion, which reminded her how her poor, laborious hand had
been respectfully kissed by the fair and rich patrician, the young
workwoman felt a sentiment of gratitude, which was at once ineffable
and proud. But, as she hesitated to respond to the cordial reception,
Adrienne embraced her with touching affection. When Mother Bunch found
herself clasped in the fair arms of Mdlle. de Cardoville, when she felt
the fresh and rosy lips of the young lady fraternally pressed to her own
pale and sickly cheek, she burst into tears without being able to utter
a word. Rodin, retired in a corner of the chamber, locked on this scene
with secret uneasiness. Informed of the refusal, so full of dignity,
which Mother Bunch had opposed to the perfidious temptations of the
superior of St. Mary’s Convent, and knowing the deep devotion of this
generous creature for Agricola--a devotion which for some days she had
so bravely extended to Mdlle. de Cardoville--the Jesuit did not like
to see the latter thus laboring to increase that affection. He thought,
wisely, that one should never despise friend or enemy, however small
they may appear. Now, devotion to Mdlle. de Cardoville constituted an
enemy in his eyes; and we know, moreover, that Rodin combined in
his character rare firmness, with a certain degree of superstitious
weakness, and he now felt uneasy at the singular impression of fear
which Mother Bunch inspired in him. He determined to recollect this
presentiment.
Delicate natures sometimes display in the smallest things the most
charming instincts of grace and goodness. Thus, when the sewing-girl was
shedding abundant and sweet tears of gratitude, Adrienne took a richly
embroidered handkerchief, and dried the pale and melancholy face. This
action, so simple and spontaneous, spared the work-girl one humiliation;
for, alas! humiliation and suffering are the two gulfs, along the edge
of which misfortune continually passes. Therefore, the least kindness is
in general a double benefit to the unfortunate. Perhaps the reader may
smile in disdain at the puerile circumstance we mention. But poor
Mother Bunch, not venturing to take from her pocket her old ragged
handkerchief, would long have remained blinded by her tears, if Mdlle.
de Cardoville had not come to her aid.
“Oh! you are so good--so nobly charitable, lady!” was all that the
sempstress could say, in a tone of deep emotion; for she was still more
touched by the attention of the young lady, than she would perhaps have
been by a service rendered.
“Look there, sir,” said Adrienne to Rodin, who drew near hastily.
“Yes,” added the young patrician, proudly, “I have indeed discovered
a treasure. Look at her, sir; and love her as I love her, honor as I
honor. She has one of those hearts for which we are seeking.”
“And which, thank heaven, we are still able to find, my dear young
lady!” said Rodin, as he bowed to the needle-woman.
The latter raised her eyes slowly, and locked at the Jesuit. At sight of
that cadaverous countenance, which was smiling benignantly upon her, the
young girl started. It was strange! she had never seen this man, and
yet she felt instantly the same fear and repulsion that he had felt with
regard to her. Generally timid and confused, the work-girl could not
withdraw her eyes from Rodin’s; her heart beat violently, as at the
coming of some great danger, and, as the excellent creature feared only
for those she loved, she approached Adrienne involuntarily, keeping
her eyes fixed on Rodin. The Jesuit was too good a physiognomist not to
perceive the formidable impression he had made, and he felt an increase
of his instinctive aversion for the sempstress. Instead of casting down
his eyes, he appeared to examine her with such sustained attention, that
Mdlle. de Cardoville was astonished at it.
“I beg your pardon, my dear girl,” said Rodin, as if recalling his
recollections, and addressing himself to Mother Bunch, “I beg your
pardon--but I think--if I am not deceived--did you not go a few days
since to St. Mary’s Convent, hard by?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No doubt, it was you. Where then was my head?” cried Rodin. “It was
you--I should have guessed it sooner.”
“Of what do you speak, sir?” asked Adrienne.
“Oh! you are right, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, pointing to the
hunchback. “She has indeed a noble heart, such as we seek. If you knew
with what dignity, with what courage this poor girl, who was out of work
and, for her, to want work is to want everything--if you knew, I say,
with what dignity she rejected the shameful wages that the superior of
the convent was unprincipled enough to offer, on condition of her acting
as a spy in a family where it was proposed to place her.”
“Oh, that is infamous!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, with disgust. “Such
a proposal to this poor girl--to her!”
“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, bitterly, “I had no work, I was poor, they
did not know me--and they thought they might propose anything to the
likes of me.”
“And I tell you,” said Rodin, “that it was a double baseness on the part
of the superior, to offer such temptation to misery, and it was doubly
noble in you to refuse.”
“Sir,” said the sewing-girl, with modest embarrassment.
“Oh! I am not to be intimidated,” resumed Rod in. “Praise or blame, I
speak out roughly what I think. Ask this dear young lady,” he added,
with a glance at Adrienne. “I tell you plainly, that I think as well of
you as she does herself.”
“Believe me, dear,” said Adrienne, “there are some sorts of praise which
honor, recompense, and encourage; and M. Rodin’s is of the number. I
know it,--yes, I know it.”
“Nay, my dear young lady, you must not ascribe to me all the honor of
this judgment.”
“How so, sir?”
“Is not this dear girl the adopted sister of Agricola Baudoin, the
gallant workman, the energetic and popular poet? Is not the affection of
such a man the best of guarantees, and does it not enable us to judge,
as it were, by the label?” added Rodin, with a smile.
“You are right, sir,” said Adrienne; “for, before knowing this dear
girl, I began to feel deeply interested in her, from the day that her
adopted brother spoke to me about her. He expressed himself with so much
warmth, so much enthusiasm, that I at once conceived an esteem for the
person capable of inspiring so noble an attachment.”
These words of Adrienne, joined to another circumstance, had such
an effect upon their hearer, that her pale face became crimson. The
unfortunate hunchback loved Agricola, with love as passionate as it was
secret and painful: the most indirect allusion to this fatal sentiment
occasioned her the most cruel embarrassment. Now, the moment Mdlle. de
Cardoville spoke of Agricola’s attachment for Mother Bunch, the latter
had encountered Rodin’s observing and penetrating look fixed upon her.
Alone with Adrienne, the sempstress would have felt only a momentary
confusion on hearing the name of the smith; but unfortunately she
fancied that the Jesuit, who already filled her with involuntary fear,
had seen into her heart, and read the secrets of that fatal love, of
which she was the victim. Thence the deep blushes of the poor girl, and
the embarrassment so painfully visible, that Adrienne was struck with
it.
A subtle and prompt mind, like Rodin’s on perceiving the smallest
effect, immediately seeks the cause. Proceeding by comparison, the
Jesuit saw on one side a deformed, but intelligent young girl, capable
of passionate devotion; on the other, a young workman, handsome, bold,
frank, and full of talent. “Brought up together, sympathizing with each
other on many points, there must be some fraternal affection between
them,” said he to himself; “but fraternal affection does not blush, and
the hunchback blushed and grew troubled beneath my look; does she, then,
Love Agricola?”
Once on the scent of this discovery, Rodin wished to pursue the
investigation. Remarking the surprise and visible uneasiness that Mother
Bunch had caused in Adrienne, he said to the latter, with a smile,
looking significantly at the needlewoman: “You see, my dear young
lady, how she blushes. The good girl is troubled by what we said of the
attachment of this gallant workman.”
The needlewoman hung down her head, overcome with confusion. After the
pause of a second, during which Rodin preserved silence, so as to give
time for his cruel remark to pierce the heart of the victim, the savage
resumed: “Look at the dear girl! how embarrassed she appears!”
Again, after another silence, perceiving that Mother Bunch from crimson
had become deadly pale, and was trembling in all her limbs, the Jesuit
feared he had gone too far, whilst Adrienne said to her friend, with
anxiety: “Why, dear child, are you so agitated?”
“Oh! it is clear enough,” resumed Rodin, with an air of perfect
simplicity; for having discovered what he wished to know, he now chose
to appear unconscious. “It is quite clear and plain. This good girl has
the modesty of a kind and tender sister for a brother. When you praise
him, she fancies that she is herself praised.”
“And she is as modest as she is excellent,” added Adrienne, taking bath
of the girl’s hands, “the least praise, either of her adopted brother or
of herself, troubles her in this way. But it is mere childishness, and I
must scold her for it.”
Mdlle. de Cardoville spoke sincerely, for the explanation given by Rodin
appeared to her very plausible. Like all other persons who, dreading
every moment the discovery of some painful secret have their courage
as easily restored as shaken, Mother Bunch persuaded herself (and she
needed to do so, to escape dying of shame), that the last words of Rodin
were sincere, and that he had no idea of the love she felt for Agricola.
So her agony diminished, and she found words to reply to Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
“Excuse me, madame,” she said timidly, “I am so little accustomed to
such kindness as that with which you overwhelm me, that I make a sorry
return for all your goodness.”
“Kindness, my poor girl?” said Adrienne. “I have done nothing for
you yet. But, thank heaven! from this day I shall be able to keep my
promise, and reward your devotion to me, your courageous resignation,
your sacred love of labor, and the dignity of which you have given so
many proofs, under the most cruel privations. In a word, from this day,
if you do not object to it, we will part no more.”
“Madame, you are too kind,” said Mother Bunch, in a trembling voice;
“but I--”
“Oh! be satisfied,” said Adrienne, anticipating her meaning. “If you
accept my offer, I shall know how to reconcile with my desire (not
a little selfish) of having you near me, the independence of your
character, your habits of labor, your taste for retirement, and your
anxiety to devote yourself to those who deserve commiseration; it is,
I confess, by affording you the means of satisfying these generous
tendencies, that I hope to seduce and keep you by me.”
“But what have I done?” asked the other, simply, “to merit any gratitude
from you? Did you not begin, on the contrary, by acting so generously to
my adopted brother?”
“Oh! I do not speak of gratitude,” said Adrienne; “we are quits. I speak
of friendship and sincere affection, which I now offer you.”
“Friendship to me, madame?”
“Come, come,” said Adrienne, with a charming smile, “do not be proud
because your position gives you the advantage. I have set my heart on
having you for a friend, and you will see that it shall be so. But now
that I think of it (a little late, you will say), what good wind brings
you hither?”
“This morning M. Dagobert received a letter, in which he was requested
to come to this place, to learn some news that would be of the greatest
interest to him. Thinking it concerned Marshal Simon’s daughters, he
said to me: ‘Mother Bunch, you have taken so much interest in those
dear children, that you must come with me: you shall witness my joy on
finding them, and that will be your reward.’”
Adrienne glanced at Rodin. The latter made an affirmative movement of
the head, and answered: “Yes, yes, my dear young lady: it was I who
wrote to the brave soldier, but without signing the letter, or giving
any explanation. You shall know why.”
“Then, my dear girl, why did you come alone?” said Adrienne.
“Alas, madame! on arriving here, it was your kind reception that made me
forget my fears.”
“What fears?” asked Rodin.
“Knowing that you lived here, madame, I supposed the letter was from
you; I told M. Dagobert so, and he thought the same. When we arrived,
his impatience was so great, that he asked at the door if the orphans
were in this house, and he gave their description. They told him no.
Then, in spite of my supplications, he insisted on going to the convent
to inquire about them.”
“What imprudence!” cried Adrienne.
“After what took place the other night, when he broke in,” added Rodin,
shrugging his shoulders.
“It was in vain to tell him,” returned Mother Bunch, “that the letter
did not announce positively, that the orphans would be delivered up to
him; but that, no doubt, he would gain some information about them. He
refused to hear anything, but said to me: ‘If I cannot find them, I will
rejoin you. But they were at the convent the day before yesterday, and
now that all is discovered, they cannot refuse to give them up--”
“And with such a man there is no disputing!” said Rodin, with a smile.
“I hope they will not recognize him!” said Adrienne, remembering
Baleinier’s threats.
“It is not likely,” replied Rodin; “they will only refuse him
admittance. That will be, I hope, the worst misfortune that will happen.
Besides, the magistrate will soon be here with the girls. I am no longer
wanted: other cares require my attention. I must seek out Prince Djalma.
Only tell me, my dear young lady, where I shall find you, to keep you
informed of my discoveries, and to take measures with regard to the
young prince, if my inquiries, as I hope, shall be attended with
success.”
“You will find me in my new house, Rue d’Anjou, formerly Beaulieu House.
But now I think of it,” said Adrienne, suddenly, after some moments of
reflection, “it would not be prudent or proper, on many accounts, to
lodge the Prince Djalma in the pavilion I occupied at Saint-Dizier
House. I saw, some time ago, a charming little house, all furnished and
ready; it only requires some embellishments, that could be completed in
twenty four hours, to make it a delightful residence. Yes, that will be
a thousand times preferable,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, after a new
interval of silence; “and I shall thus be able to preserve the strictest
incognito.”
“What!” cried Rodin, whose projects would be much impeded by this new
resolution of the young lady; “you do not wish him to know who you are?”
“I wish Prince Djalma to know absolutely nothing of the anonymous friend
who comes to his aid; I desire that my name should not be pronounced
before him, and that he should not even know of my existence--at
least, for the present. Hereafter--in a month, perhaps--I will see;
circumstances will guide me.”
“But this incognito,” said Rodin, hiding his disappointment, “will be
difficult to preserve.”
“If the prince had inhabited the lodge, I agree with you; the
neighborhood of my aunt would have enlightened him, and this fear is one
of the reasons that have induced me to renounce my first project. But
the prince will inhabit a distant quarter--the Rue Blanche. Who will
inform him of my secret? One of my old friends, M. Norval--you, sir--and
this dear girl,” pointing to Mother Bunch, “on whose discretion I can
depend as on your own, will be my only confidants. My secret will then
be quite safe. Besides, we will talk further on this subject to-morrow.
You must begin by discovering the retreat of this unfortunate young
prince.”
Rodin, though much vexed at Adrienne’s subtle determination with
regard to Djalma, put the best face on the matter, and replied: “Your
intentions shall be scrupulously fulfilled, my dear young lady; and
to-morrow, with your leave, I hope to give you a good account of what
you are pleased to call my providential mission.”
“To-morrow, then, I shall expect you with impatience,” said Adrienne, to
Rodin, affectionately. “Permit me always to rely upon you, as from this
day you may count upon me. You must be indulgent with me, sir; for I see
that I shall yet have many counsels, many services to ask of you--though
I already owe you so much.”
“You will never owe me enough, my dear young lady, never enough,”
said Rodin, as he moved discreetly towards the door, after bowing to
Adrienne. At the very moment he was going out, he found himself face to
face with Dagobert.
“Holloa! at last I have caught one!” shouted the soldier, as he seized
the Jesuit by the collar with a vigorous hand.
CHAPTER XXXVII. EXCUSES.
On seeing Dagobert grasp Rodin so roughly by the collar, Mdlle. de
Cardoville exclaimed in terror, as she advanced several steps towards
the soldier: “In the name of Heaven, sir! what are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” echoed the soldier, harshly, without relaxing his
hold on Rodin, and turning his head towards Adrienne, whom he did not
know; “I take this opportunity to squeeze the throat of one of the
wretches in the band of that renegade, until he tells me where my poor
children are.”
“You strangle me,” said the Jesuit, in a stifled voice, as he tried to
escape from the soldier.
“Where are the orphans, since they are not here, and the convent door
has been closed against me?” cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder.
“Help! help!” gasped Rodin.
“Oh! it is dreadful!” said Adrienne, as, pale and trembling, she held up
her clasped hands to Dagobert. “Have mercy, sir! listen to me! listen to
him!”
“M. Dagobert!” cried Mother Bunch, seizing with her weak hands the
soldier’s arm, and showing him Adrienne, “this is Mdlle. de Cardoville.
What violence in her presence! and then, you are deceived doubtless!”
At the name of Mdlle. de Cardoville, the benefactress of his son, the
soldier turned round suddenly, and loosened his hold on Rodin. The
latter, crimson with rage and suffocation, set about adjusting his
collar and his cravat.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said Dagobert, going towards Adrienne, who
was still pale with fright; “I did not known who you were, and the first
impulse of anger quite carried me away.”
“But what has this gentleman done to you?” said Adrienne. “If you had
listened to me, you would have learned--”
“Excuse me if I interrupt you, madame,” said the soldier to Adrienne, in
a hollow voice. Then addressing himself to Rodin, who had recovered his
coolness, he added: “Thank the lady, and begone!--If you remain here, I
will not answer for myself.”
“One word only, my dear sir,” said Rodin.
“I tell you that if you remain, I will not answer for myself!” cried
Dagobert, stamping his foot.
“But, for heaven’s sake, tell me the cause of this anger,” resumed
Adrienne; “above all, do not trust to appearances. Calm yourself, and
listen.”
“Calm myself, madame!” cried Dagobert, in despair; “I can think only of
one thing, ma dame--of the arrival of Marshal Simon--he will be in Paris
to-day or to-morrow.”
“Is it possible?” said Adrienne. Rodin started with surprise and joy.
“Yesterday evening,” proceeded Dagobert, “I received a letter from the
marshal: he has landed at Havre. For three days I have taken step
after step, hoping that the orphans would be restored to me, as the
machinations of those wretches have failed.” He pointed to Rodin with a
new gesture of impatience. “Well! it is not so. They are conspiring some
new infamy. I am prepared for anything.”
“But, sir,” said Rodin advancing, “permit me--”
“Begone!” cried Dagobert, whose irritation and anxiety redoubled, as he
thought how at any moment Marshal Simon might arrive in Paris. “Begone!
Were it not for this lady, I would at least be revenged on some one.”
Rodin made a nod of intelligence to Adrienne, whom he approached
prudently, and, pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of affectionate
commiseration, he said to the latter: “I will leave you, sir, and the
more willingly, as I was about to withdraw when you entered.” Then,
coming still closer to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the Jesuit whispered
to her, “Poor soldier! he is beside himself with grief, and would be
incapable of hearing me. Explain it all to him, my dear young lady;
he will be nicely caught,” added he, with a cunning air. “But in the
meantime,” resumed Rodin, feeling in the side-pocket of his great-coat
and taking out a small parcel, “let me beg you to give him this, my dear
young lady. It is my revenge, and a very good one.”
And while Adrienne, holding the little parcel in her hand looked at the
Jesuit with astonishment, the latter laying his forefinger upon his lip,
as if recommending silence, drew backward on tiptoe to the door, and
went out after again pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of pity; while
the soldier, in sullen dejection, with his head drooping, and his arms
crossed upon his bosom, remained deaf to the sewing-girl’s earnest
consolations. When Rodin had left the room, Adrienne, approaching the
soldier, said to him, in her mild voice, with an expression of deep
interest, “Your sudden entry prevented my asking you a question that
greatly concerns me. How is your wound?”
“Thank you, madame,” said Dagobert, starting from his painful lethargy,
“it is of no consequence, but I have not time to think of it. I am sorry
to have been so rough in your presence, and to have driven away that
wretch; but ‘tis more than I could master. At sight of those people, my
blood is all up.”
“And yet, believe me, you have been too hasty in your judgment. The
person who was just now here--”
“Too hasty, madame! I do not see him to-day for the first time. He was
with that renegade the Abbe d’Aigrigny--”
“No doubt!--and yet he is an honest and excellent man.”
“He!” cried Dagobert.
“Yes; for at this moment he is busy about only one thing restoring to
you those dear children!”
“He!” repeated Dagobert, as if he could not believe what he heard. “He
restore me my children?”
“Yes; and sooner, perhaps, than you think for.”
“Madame,” said Dagobert, abruptly, “he deceives you. You are the dupe of
that old rascal.”
“No,” said Adrienne, shaking her head, with a smile. “I have proofs of
his good faith. First of all, it is he who delivers me from this house.”
“Is it true?” said Dagobert, quite confounded.
“Very true; and here is, perhaps, something that will reconcile you to
him,” said Adrienne, as she delivered the small parcel which Rodin
had given her as he went out. “Not wishing to exasperate you by his
presence, he said to me: ‘Give this to that brave soldier; it is my
revenge.’”
Dagobert looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as he
mechanically opened the little parcel. When he had unfolded it, and
discovered his own silver cross, black with age, and the old red, faded
ribbon, treasures taken from him at the White Falcon Inn, at the same
time as his papers, he exclaimed in a broken voice: “My cross! my cross!
It is my cross!” In the excitement of his joy, he pressed the silver
star to his gray moustache.
Adrienne and the other were deeply affected by the emotion of the old
soldier, who continued, as he ran towards the door by which Rodin had
gone out: “Next to a service rendered to Marshal Simon, my wife, or son,
nothing could be more precious to me. And you answer for this worthy
man, madame, and I have ill used him in your presence! Oh! he is
entitled to reparation, and he shall have it.”
So saying, Dagobert left the room precipitately, hastened through two
other apartments, gained the staircase, and descending it rapidly,
overtook Rodin on the lowest step.
“Sir,” said the soldier to him, in an agitated voice, as he seized him
by the arm, “you must come upstairs directly.”
“You should make up your mind to one thing or the other, my dear sir,”
said Rodin, stopping good-naturedly; “one moment you tell me to begone,
and the next to return. How are we to decide?”
“Just now, sir, I was wrong; and when I am wrong, I acknowledge it.
I abused and ill-treated you before witnesses; I will make you my
apologies before witnesses.”
“But, my dear sir--I am much obliged to you--I am in a hurry.”
“I cannot help your being in a hurry. I tell you, I must have you come
upstairs, directly--or else--or else,” resumed Dagobert, taking the hand
of the Jesuit, and pressing it with as much cordiality as emotion, “or
else the happiness you have caused the in returning my cross will not be
complete.”
“Well, then, my good friend, let us go up.”
“And not only have you restored me my cross, for which I have wept many
tears, believe me, unknown to any one,” cried Dagobert, much affected;
“but the young lady told me, that, thanks to you, those poor children
but tell me--no false joy-is it really true?--My God! is it really
true?”
“Ah! ah! Mr. Inquisitive,” said Rodin, with a cunning smile. Then he
added: “Be perfectly tranquil, my growler; you shall have your two
angels back again.” And the Jesuit began to ascend the stairs.
“Will they be restored to me to-day?” cried Dagobert, stopping Rodin
abruptly, by catching hold of his sleeve.
“Now, really, my good friend,” said the Jesuit, “let us come to the
point. Are we to go up or down? I do not find fault, but you turn me
about like a teetotum.”
“You are right. We shall be better able to explain things upstairs. Come
with me--quick! quick!” said Dagobert, as, taking the Jesuit by the arm,
he hurried him along, and brought him triumphantly into the room, where
Adrienne and Mother Bunch had remained in much surprise at the soldier’s
sudden disappearance.
“Here he is! here he is!” cried Dagobert, as he entered. “Luckily, I
caught him at the bottom of the stairs.”
“And you have made me come up at a fine pace!” added Rodin, pretty well
out of breath.
“Now, sir,” said Dagobert, in a grave voice, “I declare, in presence of
all, that I was wrong to abuse and ill-treat you. I make you my apology
for it, sir; and I acknowledge, with joy, that I owe you--much--oh! very
much and when I owe, I pay.”
So saying, Dagobert held out his honest hand to Rodin, who pressed it
in a very affable manner, and replied: “Now, really--what is all this
about? What great service do you speak of?”
“This!” said Dagobert, holding up the cross before Rodin’s eyes. “You do
not know, then, what this cross is to me?”
“On the contrary, supposing you would set great store by it, I intended
to have the pleasure of delivering it myself. I had brought it for that
purpose; but, between ourselves, you gave me so warm a reception, that I
had not the time--”
“Sir,” said Dagobert, in confusion, “I assure you that I sincerely
repent of what I have done.”
“I know it, my good friend; do not say another word about it. You were
then much attached to this cross?”
“Attached to it, sir!” cried Dagobert. “Why, this cross,” and he kissed
it as he spoke, “is my relic. He from whom it came was my saint--my
hero--and he had touched it with his hand!”
“Oh!” said Rodin, feigning to regard the cross with as much curiosity as
respectful admiration; “did Napoleon--the Great Napoleon--indeed touch
with his own hand--that victorious hand!--this noble star of honor?”
“Yes, sir, with his own hand. He placed it there upon my bleeding
breast, as a cure for my fifth wound. So that, you see, were I dying of
hunger, I think I should not hesitate betwixt bread and my cross--that
I might, in any case, have it on my heart in death. But, enough--enough!
let us talk of something else. It is foolish in an old soldier, is it
not?” added Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, and then, as
if ashamed to deny what he really felt: “Well, then! yes,” he resumed,
raising his head proudly, and no longer seeking to conceal the tears
that rolled down his cheek; “yes, I weep for joy, to have found my
cross--my cross, that the Emperor gave me with his victorious hand, as
this worthy man has called it.”
“Then blessed be my poor old hand for having restored you the glorious
treasure!” said Rodin, with emotion. “In truth,” he added, “the day will
be a good one for everybody--as I announced to you this morning in my
letter.”
“That letter without a signature?” asked the soldier, more and more
astonished. “Was it from you?”
“It was I who wrote it. Only, fearing some new snare of the Abbe
d’Aigrigny, I did not choose, you understand, to explain myself more
clearly.”
“Then--I shall see--my orphans?”
Rodin nodded affirmatively, with an expression of great good-nature.
“Presently--perhaps immediately,” said Adrienne, with smile. “Well! was
I right in telling you that you had not judged this gentleman fairly?”
“Why did he not tell me this when I came in?” cried Dagobert, almost
beside himself with joy.
“There was one difficulty in the way, my good friend,” said Rodin; “it
was, that when you came in, you nearly throttled me.”
“True; I was too hasty. Once more, I ask your pardon. But was I to
blame? I had only seen you with that Abbe d’Aigrigny, and in the first
moment--”
“This dear young lady,” said Rodin, bowing to Adrienne, “will tell you
that I have been, without knowing it, the accomplice IN many perfidious
actions; but as soon as I began to see my way through the darkness, I
quitted the evil course on which I had entered, and returned to that
which is honest, just and true.”
Adrienne nodded affirmatively to Dagobert, who appeared to consult her
look.
“If I did not sign the letter that I wrote to you, my good friend, it
was partly from fear that my name might inspire suspicion; and if I
asked you to come hither, instead of to the convent, it was that I had
some dread--like this dear young lady--lest you might be recognized by
the porter or by the gardener, your affair of the other night rendering
such a recognition somewhat dangerous.”
“But M. Baleinier knows all; I forgot that,” said Adrienne, with
uneasiness. “He threatened to denounce M. Dagobert and his son, if I
made any complaint.”
“Do not be alarmed, my dear young lady; it will soon be for you to
dictate conditions,” replied Rodin. “Leave that to me; and as for you,
my good friend, your torments are now finished.”
“Yes,” said Adrienne, “an upright and worthy magistrate has gone to the
convent, to fetch Marshal Simon’s daughters. He will bring them hither;
but he thought with me, that it would be most proper for them to take
up their abode in my house. I cannot, however, come to this decision
without your consent, for it is to you that these orphans were entrusted
by their mother.”
“You wish to take her place with regard to them, madame?” replied
Dagobert. “I can only thank you with all my heart, for myself and for
the children. But, as the lesson has been a sharp one, I must beg to
remain at the door of their chamber, night and day. If they go out with
you, I must be allowed to follow them at a little distance, so as to
keep them in view, just like Spoil-sport, who has proved himself a
better guardian than myself. When the marshal is once here--it will be
in a day or two--my post will be relieved. Heaven grant it may be soon!”
“Yes,” replied Rodin, in a firm voice, “heaven grant he may arrive soon,
for he will have to demand a terrible reckoning of the Abbe d’Aigrigny,
for the persecution of his daughters; and yet the marshal does not know
all.”
“And don’t you tremble for the renegade?” asked Dagobert, as he thought
how the marquis would soon find himself face to face with the marshal.
“I never care for cowards and traitors,” answered Rodin; “and when
Marshal Simon returns--” Then, after a pause of some seconds, he
continued: “If he will do me the honor to hear me, he shall be edified
as to the conduct of the Abbe d’Aigrigny. The marshal knows that his
dearest friends, as well as himself, have been victims of the hatred of
that dangerous man.”
“How so?” said Dagobert.
“Why, yourself, for instance,” replied Rodin; “you are an example of
what I advance.”
“Do you think it was mere chance, that brought about the scene at the
White Falcon Inn, near Leipsic?”
“Who told you of that scene?” said Dagobert in astonishment.
“Where you accepted the challenge of Morok,” continued the Jesuit,
without answering Dagobert’s question, “and so fell into a trap, or else
refused it, and were then arrested for want of papers, and thrown into
prison as a vagabond, with these poor children. Now, do you know the
object of this violence? It was to prevent your being here on the 13th
of February.”
“But the more I hear, sir,” said Adrienne, “the more I am alarmed at the
audacity of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, and the extent of the means he has at
his command. Really,” she resumed, with increasing surprise, “if your
words were not entitled to absolute belief--”
“You would doubt their truth, madame?” said Dagobert. “It is like me.
Bad as he is. I cannot think that this renegade had relations with a
wild-beast showman as far off as Saxony; and then, how could he know
that I and the children were to pass through Leipsic? It is impossible,
my good man.”
“In fact, sir,” resumed Adrienne, “I fear that you are deceived by your
dislike (a very legitimate one) of Abbe d’Aigrigny, and that you ascribe
to him an almost fabulous degree of power and extent of influence.”
After a moment’s silence, during which Rodin looked first at Adrienne
and then at Dagobert, with a kind of pity, he resumed. “How could
the Abbe d’Aigrigny have your cross in his possession, if he had no
connection with Morok?”
“That is true, sir,” said Dagobert; “joy prevented me from reflecting.
But how indeed, did my cross come into your hands?”
“By means of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s having precisely those relations with
Leipsic, of which you and the young lady seem to doubt.”
“But how did my cross get to Paris?”
“Tell me; you were arrested at Leipsic for want of papers--is it not
so?”
“Yes; but I could never understand how my passports and money
disappeared from my knapsack. I thought I must have had the misfortune
to lose them.”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “You were robbed of them
at the White Falcon Inn, by Goliath, one of Morok’s servants, and the
latter sent the papers and the cross to the Abbe d’Aigrigny, to prove
that he had succeeded in executing his orders with respect to the
orphans and yourself. It was the day before yesterday, that I obtained
the key of that dark machination. Cross and papers were amongst the
stores of Abbe d’Aigrigny; the papers formed a considerable bundle,
and he might have missed them; but, hoping to see you this morning, and
knowing how a soldier of the Empire values his cross, his sacred relic,
as you call it, my good friend--I did not hesitate. I put the relic into
my pocket. ‘After all,’ said I, ‘it is only restitution, and my delicacy
perhaps exaggerates this breach of trust.’”
“You could not have done a better action,” said Adrienne; “and, for my
part, because of the interest I feel for M. Dagobert--I take it as a
personal favor. But, sir,” after a moment’s silence, she resumed with
anxiety: “What terrible power must be at the command of M. d’Aigrigny,
for him to have such extensive and formidable relations in a foreign
country!”
“Silence!” said Rodin, in a low voice, and looking round him with an air
of alarm. “Silence! In heaven’s name do not ask me about it!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII. REVELATIONS.
Mdlle. de Cardoville, much astonished at the alarm displayed by Rodin,
when she had asked him for some explanation of the formidable and far
reaching power of the Abby d’Aigrigny, said to him: “Why, sir, what is
there so strange in the question that I have just asked you?”
After a moment’s silence, Rodin cast his looks all around, with well
feigned uneasiness, and replied in a whisper: “Once more, madame, do not
question me on so fearful a subject. The walls of this house may have
ears.”
Adrienne and Dagobert looked at each other with growing surprise. Mother
Bunch, by an instinct of incredible force, continued to regard Rodin
with invincible suspicion. Sometimes she stole a glance at him, as if
trying to penetrate the mask of this man, who filled her with fear. At
one moment, the Jesuit encountered her anxious gaze, obstinately fixed
upon him; immediately he nodded to her with the greatest amenity. The
young girl, alarmed at finding herself observed, turned away with a
shudder.
“No, no, my dear young lady,” resumed Rodin, with a sigh, as he saw
Mdlle. de Cardoville astonished at his silence; “do not question me on
the subject of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s power!”
“But, to persist, sir,” said Adrienne; “why this hesitation to answer?
What do you fear?”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, shuddering, “those people are so
powerful! their animosity is so terrible!”
“Be satisfied, sir; I owe you too much, for my support ever to fail
you.”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” cried Rodin, as if hurt by the supposition;
“think better of me, I entreat you. Is it for myself that I fear?--No,
no; I am too obscure, too inoffensive; but it is for you, for Marshal
Simon, for the other members of your family, that all is to be feared.
Oh, my dear young lady! let me beg you to ask no questions. There are
secrets which are fatal to those who possess them.”
“But, sir, is it not better to know the perils with which one is
threatened?”
“When you know the manoeuvres of your enemy, you may at least defend
yourself,” said Dagobert. “I prefer an attack in broad daylight to an
ambuscade.”
“And I assure you,” resumed Adrienne, “the few words you have spoken
cause me a vague uneasiness.”
“Well, if I must, my dear young lady,” replied the Jesuit, appearing to
make a great effort, “since you do not understand my hints, I will be
more explicit; but remember,” added he, in a deeply serious tone, “that
you have persevered in forcing me to tell you what you had perhaps
better not have known.”
“Speak, Sir, I pray you speak,” said Adrienne.
Drawing about him Adrienne, Dagobert, and Mother Bunch, Rodin said to
them in a low voce, and with a mysterious air: “Have you never heard of
a powerful association, which extends its net over all the earth, and
counts its disciples, agents, and fanatics in every class of society
which has had, and often has still, the ear of kings and nobles--which,
in a word, can raise its creatures to the highest positions, and with a
word can reduce them again to the nothingness from which it alone could
uplift them?”
“Good heaven, sir!” said Adrienne, “what formidable association? Until
now I never heard of it.”
“I believe you; and yet your ignorance on this subject greatly
astonishes me, my dear young lady.”
“And why should it astonish you?”
“Because you lived some time with your aunt, and must have often seen
the Abbe d’Aigrigny.”
“I lived at the princess’s, but not with her; for a thousand reasons she
had inspired me with warrantable aversion.”
“In truth, my dear young lady, my remark was ill-judged. It was there,
above all, and particularly in your presence, that they would keep
silence with regard to this association--and yet to it alone did the
Princess de Saint-Dizier owe her formidable influence in the world,
during the last reign. Well, then; know this--it is the aid of that
association which renders the Abbe d’Aigrigny so dangerous a man.
“By it he was enabled to follow and to reach divers members of your
family, some in Siberia, some in India, others on the heights of the
American mountains; but, as I have told you, it was only the day before
yesterday, and by chance, that, examining the papers of Abbe d’Aigrigny,
I found the trace of his connection with this Company, of which he is
the most active and able chief.”
“But the name, sir, the name of this Company?” said Adrienne.
“Well! it is--” but Rodin stopped short.
“It is,” repeated Adrienne, who was now as much interested as Dagobert
and the sempstress; “it is--”
Rodin looked round him, beckoned all the actors in this scene to draw
nearer, and said in a whisper, laying great stress upon the words: “It
is--the Society of Jesus!” and he again shuddered.
“The Jesuits!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, unable to restrain a burst
of laughter, which was the more buoyant, as, from the mysterious
precautions of Rodin, she had expected some very different revelation.
“The Jesuits!” she resumed, still laughing. “They have no existence,
except in books; they are frightful historical personages, certainly;
but why should you put forward Madame de Saint-Dizier and M. d’Aigrigny
in that character? Such as they are, they have done quite enough to
justify my aversion and disdain.”
After listening in silence to Mdlle. de Cardoville Rodin continued, with
a grave and agitated air: “Your blindness frightens me, my dear, young
lady; the past should have given you some anxiety for the future, since,
more than any one, you have already suffered from the fatal influence of
this Company, whose existence you regard as a dream!”
“I, sir?” said Adrienne, with a smile, although a little surprised.
“You.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“You ask me this question! my dear young lady! you ask me this
question!--and yet you have been confined here as a mad person! Is it
not enough to tell you that the master of this house is one of the most
devoted lay members of the Company, and therefore the blind instrument
of the Abbe d’Aigrigny?”
“So,” said Adrienne, this time without smiling, “Dr. Baleinier”
“Obeyed the Abbe d’Aigrigny, the most formidable chief of that
formidable society. He employs his genius for evil; but I must confess
he is a man of genius. Therefore, it is upon him that you and yours must
fix all your doubts and suspicions; it is against him that you must be
upon your guard. For, believe me, I know him, and he does not look upon
the game as lost. You must be prepared for new attacks, doubtless of
another kind, but only the more dangerous on that account--”
“Luckily, you give us notice,” said Dagobert, “and you will be on our
side.”
“I can do very little, my good friends; but that little is at the
service of honest people,” said Rodin.
“Now,” said Adrienne, with a thoughtful air, completely persuaded by
Rodin’s air of conviction, “I can explain the inconceivable influence
that my aunt exercised in the world. I ascribed it chiefly to her
relations with persons in power; I thought that she, like the Abbe
d’Aigrigny, was concerned in dark intrigues, for which religion served
as a veil--but I was far from believing what you tell me.”
“How many things you have got to learn!” resumed Rodin. “If you knew, my
dear young lady, with what art these people surround you, without your
being aware of it, by agents devoted to themselves! Every one of your
steps is known to them, when they have any interest in such knowledge.
Thus, little by little, they act upon you--slowly, cautiously,
darkly. They circumvent you by every possible means, from flattery to
terror--seduce or frighten, in order at last to rule you, without your
being conscious of their authority. Such is their object, and I must
confess they pursue it with detestable ability.”
Rodin had spoken with so much sincerity, that Adrienne trembled; then,
reproaching herself with these fears, she resumed: “And yet, no--I can
never believe in so infernal a power; the might of priestly ambition
belongs to another age. Heaven be praised, it has disappeared forever!”
“Yes, certainly, it is out of sight; for they now know how to disperse
and disappear, when circumstances require it. But then are they the
most dangerous; for suspicion is laid asleep, and they keep watch in the
dark. Oh! my dear young lady, if you knew their frightful ability! In
my hatred of all that is oppressive, cowardly, and hypocritical, I had
studied the history of that terrible society, before I knew that the
Abbe d’Aigrigny belonged to it. Oh! it is dreadful. If you knew what
means they employ! When I tell you that, thanks to their diabolical
devices, the most pure and devoted appearances often conceal the most
horrible snares.” Rodin’s eye rested, as if by chance, on the hunchback;
but, seeing that Adrienne did not take the hint, the Jesuit continued:
“In a word--are you not exposed to their pursuits?--have they any
interest in gaining you over?--oh! from that moment, suspect all that
surround you, suspect the most noble attachments, the most tender
affections, for these monsters sometimes succeed in corrupting your
best friends, and making a terrible use of them, in proportion to the
blindness of your confidence.”
“Oh! it is impossible,” cried Adrienne, in horror. “You must exaggerate.
No! hell itself never dreamed of more frightful treachery!”
“Alas, my dear young lady! one of your relations, M. Hardy--the most
loyal and generous-hearted man that could be--has been the victim of
some such infamous treachery. Do you know what we learned from the
reading of your ancestor’s will? Why, that he died the victim of the
malevolence of these people; and now, at the lapse of a hundred and
fifty years, his descendants are still exposed to the hate of that
indestructible society.”
“Oh, sir! it terrifies me,” said Adrienne, feeling her heart sink within
her. “But are there no weapons against such attacks?”
“Prudence, my dear young lady--the most watchful caution--the most
incessant study and suspicion of all that approach you.”
“But such a life would be frightful! It is a torture to be the victim of
continual suspicions, doubts, and fears.”
“Without doubt! They know it well, the wretches! That constitutes their
strength. They often triumph by the very excess of the precautions
taken against them. Thus, my dear young lady, and you, brave and worthy
soldier, in the name of all that is dear to you, be on your guard, and
do not lightly impart your confidence. Be on your guard, for you have
nearly fallen the victims of those people. They will always be your
implacable enemies. And you, also, poor, interesting girl!” added the
Jesuit, speaking to Mother Bunch, “follow my advice--fear these people.
Sleep, as the proverb says, with one eye open.”
“I, sir!” said the work-girl. “What have I done? what have I to fear?”
“What have you done? Dear me! Do not you tenderly love this young lady,
your protectress? have you not attempted to assist her? Are you not the
adopted sister of the son of this intrepid soldier, the brave Agricola!
Alas, poor, girl! are not these sufficient claims to their hatred, in
spite of your obscurity? Nay, my dear young lady! do not think that I
exaggerate. Reflect! only reflect! Think what I have just said to
the faithful companion-in-arms of Marshal Simon, with regard to his
imprisonment at Leipsic. Think what happened to yourself, when, against
all law and reason, you were brought hither. Then you will see, that
there is nothing exaggerated in the picture I have drawn of the secret
power of this Company. Be always on your guard, and, in doubtful cases,
do not fear to apply to me. In three days, I have learned enough by my
own experience, with regard to their manner of acting, to be able to
point out to you many a snare, device, and danger, and to protect you
from them.”
“In any such case, sir,” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville, “my interests, as
well as gratitude, would point to you as my best counsellor.”
According to the skillful tactics of the sons of Loyola, who sometimes
deny their own existence, in order to escape from an adversary--and
sometimes proclaim with audacity the living power of their organization,
in order to intimidate the feeble-R-odin had laughed in the face of the
bailiff of Cardoville, when the latter had spoken of the existence of
the Jesuits; while now, at this moment, picturing their means of action,
he endeavored, and he succeeded in the endeavor, to impregnate the mind
of Mdlle. de Cardoville with some germs of doubt, which were gradually
to develop themselves by reflection, and serve hereafter the dark
projects that he meditated. Mother Bunch still felt considerable alarm
with regard to Rodin. Yet, since she had heard the fatal powers of the
formidable Order revealed to Adrienne, the young sempstress, far from
suspecting the Jesuit of having the audacity to speak thus of a society
of which he was himself a member, felt grateful to him, in spite of
herself, for the important advice that he had just given her patroness.
The side-glance which she now cast upon him (which Rodin also detected,
for he watched the young girl with sustained attention), was full
of gratitude, mingled with surprise. Guessing the nature of this
impression, and wishing entirely to remove her unfavorable opinion, and
also to anticipate a revelation which would be made sooner or later,
the Jesuit appeared to have forgotten something of great importance,
and exclaimed, striking his forehead: “What was I thinking of?” Then,
speaking to Mother Bunch, he added: “Do you know where your sister is,
my dear girl?” Disconcerted and saddened by this unexpected question,
the workwoman answered with a blush, for she remembered her last
interview with the brilliant Bacchanal Queen: “I have not seen my sister
for some days, sir.”
“Well, my dear girl, she is not very comfortable,” said Rodin; “I
promised one of her friends to send her some little assistance. I have
applied to a charitable person, and that is what I received for her.”
So saying, he drew from his pocket a sealed roll of coin, which he
delivered to Mother Bunch, who was now both surprised and affected.
“You have a sister in trouble, and I know nothing of it?” said Adrienne,
hastily. “This is not right of you, my child!”
“Do not blame her,” said Rodin. “First of all, she did not know that her
sister was in distress, and, secondly, she could not ask you, my dear
young lady, to interest yourself about her.”
As Mdlle. de Cardoville looked at Rodin with astonishment, he added,
again speaking to the hunchback: “Is not that true, my dear girl!”
“Yes, sir,” said the sempstress, casting down her eyes and blushing.
Then she added, hastily and anxiously: “But when did you see my sister,
sir? where is she? how did she fall into distress?”
“All that would take too long to tell you, my dear girl; but go as soon
as possible to the greengrocer’s in the Rue Clovis, and ask to speak to
your sister as from M. Charlemagne or M. Rodin, which you please, for
I am equally well known in that house by my Christian name as by my
surname, and then you will learn all about it. Only tell your sister,
that, if she behaves well, and keeps to her good resolutions, there are
some who will continue to look after her.”
More and more surprised, Mother Bunch was about to answer Rodin, when
the door opened, and M. de Gernande entered. The countenance of the
magistrate was grave and sad.
“Marshal Simon’s daughters!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Unfortunately, they are not with me,” answered the judge.
“Then, where are they, sir? What have they done with them? The day
before yesterday, they were in the convent!” cried Dagobert, overwhelmed
by this complete destruction of his hopes.
Hardly had the soldier pronounced these words, when, profiting by
the impulse which gathered all the actors in this scene about the
magistrate, Rodin withdrew discreetly towards the door, and disappeared
without any one perceiving his absence. Whilst the soldier, thus
suddenly thrown back to the depths of his despair, looked at M. de
Gernande, waiting with anxiety for the answer, Adrienne said to the
magistrate: “But, sir, when you applied at the convent, what explanation
did the superior give on the subject of these young girls?”
“The lady superior refused to give any explanation, madame. ‘You
pretend,’ said she, ‘that the young persons of whom you speak are
detained here against their will. Since the law gives you the right of
entering this house, make your search.’ ‘But, madame, please to answer
me positively,’ said I to the superior; ‘do you declare, that you know
nothing of the young girls, whom I have come to claim?’ ‘I have nothing
to say on this subject, sir. You assert, that you are authorized to
make a search: make it.’ Not being able to get any other explanation,”
continued the magistrate, “I searched all parts of the convent, and had
every door opened--but, unfortunately, I could find no trace of these
young ladies.”
“They must have sent them elsewhere,” cried Dagobert; “who
knows?--perhaps, ill. They will kill them--O God! they will kill them!”
cried he, in a heart-rending tone.
“After such a refusal, what is to be done? Pray, sir, give us your
advice; you are our providence,” said Adrienne, turning to speak to
Rodin, who she fancied was behind her. “What is your--”
Then, perceiving that the Jesuit had suddenly disappeared, she said to
Mother Bunch, with uneasiness: “Where is M. Rodin?”
“I do not know, madame,” answered the girl, looking round her; “he is no
longer here.”
“It is strange,” said Adrienne, “to disappear so abruptly!”
“I told you he was a traitor!” cried Dagobert, stamping with rage; “they
are all in a plot together.”
“No, no,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville; “do not think that. But the
absence is not the less to be regretted, for, under these difficult
circumstances, he might have given us very useful information, thanks to
the position he occupied at M. d’Aigrigny’s.”
“I confess, madame, that I rather reckoned upon it,” said M. de
Gernande; “and I returned hither, not only to inform you of the
fruitless result of my search, but also to seek from the upright and
honorable roan, who so courageously unveiled these odious machinations,
the aid of his counsels in this contingency.”
Strangely enough, for the last few moments Dagobert was so completely
absorbed in thought, that he paid no attention to the words of the
magistrate, however important to him. He did not even perceive the
departure of M. de Gernande, who retired after promising Adrienne that
he would neglect no means to arrive at the truth, in regard to the
disappearance of the orphans. Uneasy at this silence, wishing to quit
the house immediately, and induce Dagobert to accompany her, Adrienne,
after exchanging a rapid glance with Mother Bunch, was advancing towards
the soldier, when hasty steps were heard from without the chamber, and a
manly sonorous voice, exclaiming with impatience, “Where is he--where is
he?”
At the sound of this voice, Dagobert seemed to rouse himself with a
start, made a sudden bound, and with a loud cry, rushed towards the
door. It opened. Marshal Simon appeared on the threshold!
CHAPTER XXXIX. PIERRE SIMON.
Marshal Pierre Simon, Duke de Ligny, was a man of tall stature, plainly
dressed in a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the throat, with a red
ribbon tied to the top buttonhole. You could not have wished to see
a more frank, honest, and chivalrous cast of countenance than the
marshal’s. He had a broad forehead, an aquiline nose, a well formed
chin, and a complexion bronzed by exposure to the Indian sun. His hair,
cut very short, was inclined to gray about the temples; but his eyebrows
were still as black as his large, hanging moustache. His walk was free
and bold, and his decided movements showed his military impetuosity. A
man of the people, a man of war and action, the frank cordiality of
his address invited friendliness and sympathy. As enlightened as he was
intrepid as generous as he was sincere, his manly, plebeian pride was
the most remarkable part of his character. As others are proud of their
high birth, so was he of his obscure origin, because it was ennobled by
the fine qualities of his father, the rigid republican, the intelligent
and laborious artisan, who, for the space of forty years, had been the
example and the glory of his fellow-workmen. In accepting with gratitude
the aristocratic title which the Emperor had bestowed upon him, Pierre
Simon acted with that delicacy which receives from a friendly hand a
perfectly useless gift, and estimates it according to the intention of
the giver. The religious veneration of Pierre Simon for the Emperor had
never been blind; in proportion as his devotion and love for his idol
were instructive and necessary, his admiration was serious, and founded
upon reason. Far from resembling those swashbucklers who love fighting
for its own sake, Marshal Simon not only admired his hero as the
greatest captain in the world, but he admired him, above all, because he
knew that the Emperor had only accepted war in the hope of one day being
able to dictate universal peace; for if peace obtained by glory and
strength is great, fruitful, and magnificent, peace yielded by weakness
and cowardice is sterile, disastrous, and dishonoring. The son of a
workman, Pierre Simon still further admired the Emperor, because that
imperial parvenu had always known how to make that popular heart beat
nobly, and, remembering the people, from the masses of whom he first
arose, had invited them fraternally to share in regal and aristocratic
pomp.
When Marshal Simon entered the room, his countenance was much agitated.
At sight of Dagobert, a flash of joy illumined his features; he rushed
towards the soldier, extending his arms, and exclaimed, “My friend! my
old friend!”
Dagobert answered this affectionate salute with silent emotion. Then the
marshal, disengaging himself from his arms, and fixing his moist eyes
upon him, said to him in so agitated a voice that his lips trembled,
“Well, didst arrive in time for the 13th of February?”
“Yes, general; but everything is postponed for four months.”
“And--my wife?--my child?” At this question Dagobert shuddered, hung
down his head, and was silent.
“They are not, then, here?” asked Simon, with more surprise than
uneasiness. “They told me they were not at your house, but that I should
find you here--and I came immediately. Are they not with you?”
“General,” said Dagobert, becoming deadly pale; “general--” Drying
the drops of cold sweat that stood upon his forehead, he was unable to
articulate a word, for his voice was checked in his parched throat.
“You frighten me!” exclaimed Pierre Simon, becoming pale as the soldier,
and seizing him by the arm.
At this, Adrienne advanced, with a countenance full of grief and
sympathy; seeing the cruel embarrassment of Dagobert, she wished to come
to his assistance, and she said to Pierre Simon, in a mild but agitated
voice, “Marshal, I am Mdlle. de Cardoville--a relation of your dear
children.”
Pierre Simon turned around suddenly, as much struck with the dazzling
beauty of Adrienne as with the words she had just pronounced. He
stammered out in his surprise, “You, madame--a relation--of my
children!”
He laid a stress on the last words, and looked at Dagobert in a kind of
stupor.
“Yes, marshal your children,” hastily replied Adrienne; “and the love of
those charming twin sisters--”
“Twin sisters!” cried Pierre Simon, interrupting Mdlle. de Cardoville,
with an outburst of joy impossible to describe. “Two daughters instead
of one! Oh! what happiness for their mother! Pardon me, madame, for
being so impolite,” he continued; “and so little grateful for what you
tell me. But you will understand it; I have been seventeen years without
seeing my wife; I come, and I find three loved beings, instead of two.
Thanks, madame: would I could express all the gratitude I owe you! You
are our relation; this is no doubt your house; my wife and children
are with you. Is it so? You think that my sudden appearance might be
prejudicial to them? I will wait--but madame, you, that I am certain
are good as fair--pity my impatience--will make haste to prepare them to
receive me--”
More and more agitated, Dagobert avoided the marshal’s gaze, and
trembled like a leaf. Adrienne cast down her eyes without answering.
Her heart sunk within her, at thought of dealing the terrible blow to
Marshal Simon.
The latter, astonished at this silence, looking at Adrienne, then at
the soldier, became first uneasy, and at last alarmed. “Dagobert!” he
exclaimed, “something is concealed from me!”
“General!” stammered the soldier, “I assure you--I--I--.”
“Madame!” cried Pierre Simon, “I conjure you, in pity, speak to me
frankly!--my anxiety is horrible. My first fears return upon me. What
is it? Are my wife and daughters ill? Are they in danger? Oh! speak!
speak!”
“Your daughters, marshal,” said Adrienne “have been rather unwell, since
their long journey--but they are in no danger.”
“Oh, heaven! it is my wife!”
“Have courage, sir!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, sadly. “Alas! you must
seek consolation in the affection of the two angels that remain to you.”
“General!” said Dagobert, in a firm grave tone, “I returned from
Siberia--alone with your two daughters.”
“And their mother! their mother!” cried Simon, in a voice of despair.
“I set out with the two orphans the day after her death,” said the
soldier.
“Dead?” exclaimed Pierre Simon, overwhelmed by the stroke; “dead?” A
mournful silence was the only answer. The marshal staggered beneath this
unexpected shock, leaned on the back of a chair for support, and then,
sinking into the seat, concealed his face with his hands. For same
minutes nothing was heard but stifled sobs, for not only had Pierre
Simon idolized his wife, but by one of those singular compromises, that
a man long cruelly tried sometimes makes with destiny, Pierre Simon,
with the fatalism of loving souls, thought he had a right to reckon upon
happiness after so many years of suffering, and had not for a moment
doubted that he should find his wife and child--a double consolation
reserved to him after going through so much. Very different from certain
people, whom the habit of misfortune renders less exacting, Simon had
reckoned upon happiness as complete as had been his misery. His wife and
child were the sole, indispensable conditions of this felicity, and, had
the mother survived her daughters, she would have no more replaced them
in his eyes than they did her. Weakness or avarice of the heart, so it
was; we insist upon this singularity, because the consequences of these
incessant and painful regrets exercised a great influence on the
future life of Marshal Simon. Adrienne and Dagobert had respected the
overwhelming grief of this unfortunate man. When he had given a free
course to his tears, he raised his manly countenance, now of marble
paleness, drew his hand across his blood-shot eyes, rose, and said to
Adrienne, “Pardon me, madame; I could not conquer my first emotion.
Permit me to retire. I have cruel details to ask of the worthy friend
who only quitted my wife at the last moment. Have the kindness to let
me see my children--my poor orphans!--” And the marshal’s voice again
broke.
“Marshal,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, “just now we were expecting your
dear children: unfortunately, we have been deceived in our hopes.”
Pierre Simon first looked at Adrienne without answering, as if he had
not heard or understood.--“But console yourself,” resumed the young
girl; “we have yet no reason to despair.”
“To despair?” repeated the marshaling by turns at Mdlle. de Cardoville
despair?--“of what, in heaven’s name?”
“Of seeing your children, marshal,” said Adrienne; “the presence of
their father will facilitate the search.”
“The search!” cried Pierre Simon. “Then, my daughters are not here?”
“No, sir,” said Adrienne, at length; “they have been taken from the
affectionate care of the excellent man who brought them from Russia, to
be removed to a convent.”
“Wretch!” cried Pierre Simon, advancing towards Dagobert, with a
menacing and terrible aspect; “you shall answer to me for all!”
“Oh, sir, do not blame him!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“General,” said Dagobert, in a tone of mournful resignation, “I merit
your anger. It is my fault. Forced to absent myself from Paris, I
entrusted the children to my wife; her confessor turned her head, and
persuaded her that your daughters would be better in a convent than at
our house. She believed him, and let them be conveyed there. Now they
say at the convent, that they do not know where they are. This is the
truth: do what you will with me; I have only to silently endure.”
“This is infamous!” cried Pierre Simon, pointing to Dagobert, with a
gesture of despairing indignation. “In whom can a man confide, if he has
deceived me? Oh, my God!”
“Stay, marshal! do not blame him,” repeated Mdlle. de Cardoville; “do
not think so! He has risked life and honor to rescue your children from
the convent. He is not the only one who has failed in this attempt. Just
now, a magistrate--despite his character and authority--was not more
successful. His firmness towards the superior, his minute search of the
convent, were all in vain. Up to this time it has been impossible to
find these unfortunate children.”
“But where’s this convent!” cried Marshal Simon, raising his head, his
face all pale and agitated with grief and rage. “Where is it? Do these
vermin know what a father is, deprived of his children?” At the moment
when Marshal Simon, turning towards Dagobert, pronounced these words,
Rodin, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, appeared at the open door
of the chamber. On hearing the marshal’s exclamation, he started with
surprise, and a flash of diabolical joy lit up his grim countenance--for
he had not expected to meet Pierre Simon so opportunely.
Mdlle. de Cardoville was the first to perceive the presence of Rodin.
She exclaimed, as she hastened towards him: “Oh! I was not deceived. He
is still our providence.”
“My poor children!” said Rodin, in a low voice, to the young girls, as
he pointed to Pierre Simon, “this is your father!”
“Sir!” cried Adrienne, following close upon Rose and Blanche. “Your
children are here!”
As Simon turned round abruptly, his two daughters threw themselves into
his arms. Here was a long silence, broken only by sobs, and kisses, and
exclamations of joy.
“Come forward, at least, and enjoy the good you have done!” said Mdlle.
de Cardoville, drying her eyes, and turning towards Rodin, who, leaning
against the door, seemed to contemplate this scene with deep emotion.
Dagobert, at sight of Rodin bringing back the children, was at first
struck with stupor, and unable to move a step; but hearing the words of
Adrienne, and yielding to a burst of almost insane gratitude, he threw
himself on his knees before the Jesuit, joined his hands together, and
exclaimed in a broken voice: “You have saved me, by bringing back these
children.”
“Oh, bless you, sir!” said Mother Bunch, yielding to the general
current.
“My good friends, this is too much,” said Rodin, as if his emotions were
beyond his strength; “this is really too much for me. Excuse me to the
marshal, and tell him that I am repaid by the sight of his happiness.”
“Pray, sir,” said Adrienne, “let the marshal at least have the
opportunity to see and know you.”
“Oh, remain! you that have saved us all!” cried Dagobert, trying to stop
Rodin.
“Providence, you know, my dear young lady, does not trouble itself about
the good that is done, but the good that remains to do,” said Rodin,
with an accent of playful kindness. “Must I not think of Prince Djalma?
My task is not finished, and moments are precious. Come,” he added,
disengaging himself gently from Dagobert’s hold, “come the day has been
as good a one as I had hoped.. The Abbe d’Aigrigny is unmasked; you
are free, my dear young lady; you have recovered your cross, my brave
soldier; Mother Bunch is sure of a protectress; the marshal has found
his children. I have my share in all these joys, it is a full share--my
heart is satisfied. Adieu, my friends, till we meet again.” So saying,
Rodin waved his hand affectionately to Adrienne, Dagobert, and the
hunchback, and withdrew, waving his hand with a look of delight on
Marshal Simon, who, seated between his daughters, held them in his arms,
and covered them with tears and kisses, remaining quite indifferent to
all that was passing around him.
An hour after this scene, Mdlle. de Cardoville and the sempstress,
Marshal Simon, his two daughters and Dagobert quitted Dr. Beleinier’s
asylum.
In terminating this episode, a few words by way of moral, with regard to
lunatic asylums and convents may not be out of place. We have said, and
we repeat, that the laws which apply to the superintendence of lunatic
asylums appear to us insufficient. Facts that have recently transpired
before the courts, and other facts that have been privately communicated
to us, evidently prove this insufficiency. Doubtless, magistrates have
full power to visit lunatic asylums. They are even required to make
such visits. But we know, from the best authority, that the numerous
and pressing occupations of magistrates, whose number is often out of
proportion with the labor imposed upon them, render these inspections so
rare, that they are, so to speak, illusory. It appears, therefore, to us
advisable to institute a system of inspections, at least twice a month,
especially designed for lunatic asylums, and entrusted to a physician
and a magistrate, so that every complaint may be submitted to a double
examination. Doubtless, the law is sufficient when its ministers are
fully informed; but how many formalities, how many difficulties must be
gone through, before they can be so, particularly when the unfortunate
creature who needs their assistance, already suspected, isolated, and
imprisoned, has no friend to come forward in defence, and demand, in his
or her name, the protection of the authorities! Is it not imperative,
therefore, on the civil power, to meet these necessities by a periodical
and well-organized system of inspection?
What we here say of lunatic asylums will apply with still greater force
to convents for women, seminaries, and houses inhabited by religious
bodies. Recent and notorious facts, with which all France has rung,
have, unfortunately, proved that violence, forcible detention, barbarous
usage, abduction of minors, and illegal imprisonment, accompanied by
torture, are occurrences which, if not frequent, are at least possible
in religious houses. It required singular accidents, audacious and
cynical brutalities; to bring these detestable actions to public
knowledge. How many other victims have been, and, perhaps still are,
entombed in those large silent mansions, where no profane look may
penetrate, and which, through the privileges of the clergy, escape the
superintendence of the civil power. Is it not deplorable that these
dwellings should not also be subject to periodical inspection, by
visitors consisting, if it be desired, of a priest, a magistrate, and
some delegate of the municipal authorities? If nothing takes place, but
what is legal, human, and charitable, in these establishments, which
have all the character, and incur all the responsibility, of public
institutions, why this resistance, this furious indignation of the
church party, when any mention is made of touching what they call their
privileges? There is something higher than the constitutions devised
at Rome. We mean the Law of France--the common law--which grants to all
protection, but which, in return, exacts from all respect and obedience.
BOOK VII.
XL. The East Indian in Paris XLI. Rising XLII. Doubts XLIII.
The Letter XLIV. Adrienne and Djalma XLV. The Consultation
XLVI. Mother Bunch’s Diary XLVII. The Diary Continued
XLVIII. The Discovery XLIX. The Trysting-Place of the Wolves
L. The Common Dwelling-House LI. The Secret LII. Revelations
CHAPTER XL. THE EAST INDIAN IN PARIS.
Since three days, Mdlle. de Cardoville had left Dr. Baleinier’s. The
following scene took place in a little dwelling in the Rue Blanche, to
which Djalma had been conducted in the name of his unknown protector.
Fancy to yourself a pretty, circular apartment, hung with Indian
drapery, with purple figures on a gray ground, just relieved by a
few threads of gold. The ceiling, towards the centre, is concealed by
similar hangings, tied together by a thick, silken cord; the two ends
of this cord, unequal in length, terminated, instead of tassels, in two
tiny Indian lamps of gold filigreed-work, marvellously finished. By one
of those ingenious combinations, so common in barbarous countries,
these lamps served also to burn perfumes. Plates of blue crystal, let
in between the openings of the arabesque, and illumined by the interior
light, shone with so limpid an azure, that the golden lamps seemed
starred with transparent sapphires. Light clouds, of whitish vapor rose
incessantly from these lamps, and spread all around their balmy odor.
Daylight was only admitted to this room (it was about two o’clock in the
afternoon) through a little greenhouse, on the other side of a door of
plate-glass, made to slide into the thickness of the wall, by means of a
groove. A Chinese shade was arranged so as to hide or replace this
glass at pleasure. Some dwarf palm tress, plantains, and other Indian
productions, with thick leaves of a metallic green, arranged in clusters
in this conservatory, formed, as it were, the background to two large
variegated bushes of exotic flowers, which were separated by a narrow
path, paved with yellow and blue Japanese tiles, running to the foot of
the glass. The daylight, already much dimmed by the leaves through which
it passed, took a hue of singular mildness as it mingled with the azure
lustre of the perfumed lamps, and the crimson brightness of the fire
in the tall chimney of oriental porphyry. In the obscurity of this
apartment, impregnated with sweet odors and the aromatic vapor of
Persian tobacco, a man with brown, hanging locks, dressed in a long robe
of dark green, fastened round the waist by a parti-colored sash, was
kneeling upon a magnificent Turkey carpet, filling the golden bowl of
a hookah; the long, flexible tube of this pipe, after rolling its folds
upon the carpet, like a scarlet serpent with silver scales, rested
between the slender fingers of Djalma, who was reclining negligently on
a divan. The young prince was bareheaded; his jet-black hair, parted on
the middle of his forehead, streamed waving about his face and neck of
antique beauty--their warm transparent colors resembling amber or topaz.
Leaning his elbow on a cushion, he supported his chin with the palm of
his right hand. The flowing sleeve of his robe, falling back from his
arm, which was round as that of a woman, revealed mysterious signs
formerly tattooed there in India by a Thug’s needle. The son of
Radja-sing held in his left hand the amber mouthpiece of his pipe. His
robe of magnificent cashmere, with a border of a thousand hues, reaching
to his knee, was fastened about his slim and well-formed figure by the
large folds of an orange-colored shawl. This robe was half withdrawn
from one of the elegant legs of this Asiatic Antinous, clad in a kind
of very close fitting gaiter of crimson velvet, embroidered with silver,
and terminating in a small white morocco slipper, with a scarlet heel.
At once mild and manly, the countenance of Djalma was expressive of that
melancholy and contemplative calmness habitual to the Indian and the
Arab, who possess the happy privilege of uniting, by a rare combination,
the meditative indolence of the dreamer with the fiery energy of the
man of action--now delicate, nervous, impressionable as women--now
determined, ferocious, and sanguinary as bandits.
And this semi-feminine comparison, applicable to the moral nature of the
Arab and the Indian, so long as they are not carried away by the ardor
of battle and the excitement of carnage, is almost equally applicable to
their physical constitution; for if, like women of good blood, they have
small extremities, slender limbs, fine and supple forms, this delicate
and often charming exterior always covers muscles of steel, full of an
elasticity, and vigor truly masculine. Djalma’s oblong eyes, like black
diamonds set in bluish mother-of-pearl, wandered mechanically from the
exotic flowers to the ceiling; from time to time he raised the amber
mouthpiece of the hookah to his lips; then, after a slow aspiration,
half opening his rosy lips, strongly contrasted with the shining enamel
of his teeth, he sent forth a little spiral line of smoke, freshly
scented by the rose-water through which it had passed.
“Shall I put more tobacco in the hookah?” said the kneeling figure,
turning towards Djalma, and revealing the marked and sinister features
of Faringhea the Strangler.
The young prince remained dumb, either that, from an oriental contempt
for certain races, he disdained to answer the half-caste, or that,
absorbed in his reverie, he did not even hear him. The Strangler became
again silent; crouching cross-legged upon the carpet, with his elbows
resting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, he kept his eyes
fixed on Djalma, and seemed to await the reply or the orders of him
whose sire had been surnamed the Father of the Generous. How had
Faringhea, the sanguinary worshipper of Bowanee, the Divinity of Murder,
been brought to seek or to accept such humble functions? How came this
man, possessed of no vulgar talents, whose passionate eloquence and
ferocious energy had recruited many assassins for the service of the
Good Work, to resign himself to so base a condition? Why, too, had
this man, who, profiting by the young prince’s blindness with regard
to himself, might have so easily sacrificed him as an offering to
Bowanee--why had he spared the life of Radja-sings son? Why, in fine,
did he expose himself to such frequent encounters with Rodin, whom he
had only known under the most unfavorable auspices? The sequel of this
story will answer all these questions. We can only say at present,
that, after a long interview with Rodin, two nights before, the Thug had
quitted him with downcast eyes and cautious bearing.
After having remained silent for some time, Djalma, following with his
eye the cloud of whitish smoke that he had just sent forth into space,
addressed Faringhea, without looking at him, and said to him in the
language, as hyperbolical as concise, of Orientals: “Time passes. The
old man with the good heart does not come. But he will come. His word is
his word.”
“His word is his word, my lord,” repeated Faringhea, in an affirmative
tone. “When he came to fetch you, three days ago, from the house whither
those wretches, in furtherance of their wicked designs, had conveyed you
in a deep sleep--after throwing me, your watchful and devoted servant,
into a similar state--he said to you: ‘The unknown friend, who sent for
you to Cardoville Castle, bids me come to you, prince. Have confidence,
and follow me. A worthy abode is prepared for you.’--And again, he said
to you, my lord: ‘Consent not to leave the house, until my return. Your
interest requires it. In three days you will see me again, and then be
restored to perfect freedom.’ You consented to those terms, my lord, and
for three days you have not left the house.”
“And I wait for the old man with impatience,” said Djalma, “for this
solitude is heavy with me. There must be so many things to admire in
Paris. Above all.”
Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie. After
some moments’ silence, the son of Radja-sing said suddenly to Faringhea,
in the tone of an impatient yet indolent sultan: “Speak to me!”
“Of what shall I speak, my lord?”
“Of what you will,” said Djalma, with careless contempt, as he fixed
on the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor. “One thought pursues
me--I wish to be diverted from it. Speak to me.”
Faringhea threw a piercing glance on the countenance of the young
Indian, and saw that his cheeks were colored with a slight blush. “My
lord,” said the half-caste, “I can guess your thought.”
Djalma shook his head, without looking at the Strangler. The latter
resumed: “You are thinking of the women of Paris, my lord.”
“Be silent, slave!” said Djalma, turning abruptly on the sofa, as if
some painful wound had been touched to the quick. Faringhea obeyed.
After the lapse of some moments. Djalma broke forth again with
impatience, throwing aside the tube of the hookah, and veiling both
eyes with his hands: “Your words are better than silence. Cursed be my
thoughts, and the spirit which calls up these phantoms!”
“Why should you fly these thoughts, my lord? You are nineteen years of
age, and hitherto all your youth has been spent in war and captivity.
Up to this time, you have remained as chaste as Gabriel, that young
Christian priest, who accompanied us on our voyage.”
Though Faringhea did not at all depart from his respectful deference
for the prince, the latter felt that there was something of irony in the
tone of the half-caste, as he pronounced the word “chaste.”
Djalma said to him with a mixture of pride and severity: “I do not wish
to pass for a barbarian, as they call us, with these civilized people;
therefore I glory in my chastity.”
“I do not understand, my lord.”
“I may perhaps love some woman, pure as was my mother when she married
my father; and to ask for purity from a woman, a man must be chaste as
she.”
At this, Faringhea could not refrain from a sardonic smile.
“Why do you laugh, slave?” said the young prince, imperiously.
“Among civilized people, as you call them, my lord, the man who married
in the flower of his innocence would be mortally wounded with ridicule.”
“It is false, slave! He would only be ridiculous if he married one that
was not pure as himself.”
“Then, my lord, he would not only be wounded--he would be killed
outright, for he would be doubly and unmercifully laughed at.”
“It is false! it is false. Where did you learn all this?”
“I have seen Parisian women at the Isle of France, and at Pondicherry,
my lord. Moreover, I learned a good deal during our voyage; I talked
with a young officer, while you conversed with the young priest.”
“So, like the sultans of our harems, civilized men require of women the
innocence they have themselves lost.”
“They require it the more, the less they have of it, my lord.”
“To require without any return, is to act as a master to his slave; by
what right?”
“By the right of the strongest--as it is among us, my lord.”
“And what do the women do?”
“They prevent the men from being too ridiculous, when they marry, in the
eyes of the world.”
“But they kill a woman that is false?” said Djalma, raising himself
abruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled with
lurid fire.
“They kill her, my lord, as with us--when they find her out.”
“Despots like ourselves! Why then do these civilized men not shut up
their women, to force them to a fidelity which they do not practise?”
“Because their civilization is barbarous, and their barbarism civilized,
my lord.”
“All this is sad enough, if true,” observed Djalma, with a pensive air,
adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mystic
and figurative language familiar to the people of his country; “yes,
your talk afflicts me, slave--for two drops of dew blending in the cup
of a flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two
rays of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning
and eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock.”
Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible
grace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes
shone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale
gold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into
a deep reverie.
Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: “If, like the proud
and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied
pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours--handsome, young, rich
as you are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive
Parisians--voluptuous phantoms of your nights--charming tormentors
of your dreams--were you to cast upon them looks bold as a challenge,
supplicating as prayers, ardent as desires--do you not think that many
a half-veiled eye would borrow fire from your glance? Then it would no
longer be the monotonous delights of a single love, the heavy chain of
our life--no, it would be the thousand pleasures of the harem--a harem
peopled with free and proud beauties, whom happy love would make your
slaves. So long constrained, there is no such thing as excess to you.
Believe me, it would then be you, the ardent, the magnificent son of our
country, that would become the love and pride of these women--the most
seductive in the world, who would soon have for you no looks but those
of languor and passion.”
Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness. The expression
of his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy
and dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother,
and finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images
sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it
was no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the
thought of the permitted joys of a legitimate union. No! the incitements
of Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance
of Djalma, his eyes now sparkling and now veiled, his manly and sonorous
respiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up of
the passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hitherto
restrained.
So, springing suddenly from the divan, supple, vigorous, and light as
a young tiger, Djalma clutched Faringhea by the throat exclaiming: “Thy
words are burning poison!”
“My lord,” said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, “your
slave is your slave.” This submission disarmed the prince.
“My life belongs to you,” repeated the half-caste.
“I belong to you, slave!” cried Djalma, repulsing him. “Just now, I hung
upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies.”
“Lies, my lord? Only appear before these women, and their looks will
confirm my words.”
“These women love me!--me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?”
“The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on men
and tigers, will make them adore, my lord.”
“You lie!”
“I tell you, my lord, on seeing your hand, as delicate as theirs, but
which has been so often bathed in hostile blood, they will wish to
caress it; and they will kiss it again, when they think that, in our
forests, with loaded rifle, and a poniard between your teeth, you smiled
at the roaring of a lion or panther for whom you lay in wait.”
“But I am a savage--a barbarian.”
“And for that very reason you will have them at your feet. They will
feel themselves both terrified and charmed by all the violence and fury,
the rage of jealousy, the passion and the love, to which a man of your
blood, your youth, your ardor must be subject. To-day mild and tender,
to-morrow fierce and suspicious, another time ardent and passionate,
such you will be--and such you ought to be, if you wish to win them.
Yes; let a kiss of rage be heard between two kisses: let a dagger
glitter in the midst of caresses, and they will fall before you,
palpitating with pleasure, love, and fear--and you will be to them, not
a man, but a god.”
“Dost think so?” cried Djalma, carried away in spite of himself by the
Thug’s wild eloquence.
“You know, you feel, that I speak the truth,” cried the latter,
extending his arm towards the young Indian.
“Why, yes!” exclaimed Djalma, his eyes sparkling, his nostrils swelling,
as he moved about the apartment with savage bounds. “I know not if I
possess my reason, or if I am intoxicated, but it seems to me that you
speak truth. Yes, I feel that they will love me with madness and fury,
because my love will be mad and furious they will tremble with pleasure
and fear, because the very thought of it makes me tremble with delight
and terror. Slave, it is true; there is something exciting and fearful
in such a love!” As he spoke forth these words, Djalma was superb in his
impetuous sensuality. It is a rare thing to see a young man arrive
in his native purity, at the age in which are developed, in all their
powerful energy, those admirable instincts of love, which God has
implanted in the heart of his creatures, and which, repressed,
disguised, or perverted, may unseat the reason, or generate mad excesses
and frightful crimes--but which, directed towards a great and noble
passion, may and must, by their very violence, elevate man, through
devotion and tenderness, to the limits of the ideal.
“Oh! this woman--this woman, before whom I am to tremble--and who,
in turn, must tremble before me--where is she?” cried Djalma, with
redoubled excitement. “Shall I ever find her?”
“One is a good deal, my lord,” replied Faringhea, with his sardonic
coolness; “he who looks for one woman, will rarely succeed in this
country; he who seeks women, is only at a loss to choose.”
As the half-caste made this impertinent answer to Djalma, a very elegant
blue-and-white carriage stopped before the garden-gate of the house,
which opened upon a deserted street. It was drawn by a pair of beautiful
blood-horses, of a cream color, with black manes and tails. The
scutcheons on the harness were of silver, as were also the buttons of
the servants’ livery, which was blue with white collars. On the blue
hammercloth, also laced with white, as well as on the panels of the
doors, were lozenge-shaped coats of arms, without crest or coronet, as
usually borne by unmarried daughters of noble families. Two women were
in this carriage--Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine.
CHAPTER XLI. RISING.
To explain the arrival of Mdlle. de Cardoville at the garden-door of
the house occupied by Djalma, we must cast a retrospective glance at
previous events. On leaving Doctor Baleinier’s, Mdlle. de Cardoville had
gone to take up her residence in the Rue d’Anjou. During the last few
months of her stay with her aunt, Adrienne had secretly caused this
handsome dwelling to be repaired and furnished, and its luxury
and elegance were now increased by all the wonders of the lodge of
Saint-Dizier House. The world found it very strange, that a lady of the
age and condition of Mdlle. de Cardoville should take the resolution of
living completely alone and free, and, in fact, of keeping house exactly
like a bachelor, a young widow, or an emancipated minor. The world
pretended not to know that Mdlle. de Cardoville possessed what is often
wanting in men, whether of age or twice of age--a firm character, a
lofty mind, a generous heart, strong and vigorous good sense.
Judging that she would require faithful assistance in the internal
management of her house, Adrienne had written to the bailiff of
Cardoville, and his wife, old family servants, to come immediately to
Paris: M. Dupont thus filled the office of steward, and Mme. Dupont
that of housekeeper. An old friend of Adrienne’s father, the Count de
Montbron, an accomplished old man, once very much in fashion, and still
a connoisseur in all sorts of elegances, had advised Adrienne to act
like a princess, and take an equerry; recommended for this office a man
of good rearing and ripe age, who, himself an amateur in horses, had
been ruined in England, at Newmarket, the Derby, and Tattersall’s, and
reduced, as sometimes happened to gentlemen in that country, to drive
the stage coaches, thus finding an honest method of earning his bread,
and at the same time gratifying his taste for horses. Such was M. de
Bonneville, M. de Montbron’s choice. Both from age and habits, this
equerry could accompany Mdlle. de Cardoville on horseback, and better
than any one else, superintend the stable. He accepted, therefore, the
employment with gratitude, and, thanks to his skill and attention, the
equipages of Mdlle. de Cardoville were not eclipsed in style by anything
of the kind in Paris. Mdlle. de Cardoville had taken back her women,
Hebe, Georgette, and Florine. The latter was at first to have re-entered
the service of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, to continue her part of spy
for the superior of St. Mary’s Convent; but, in consequence of the new
direction given by Rodin to the Rennepont affair, it was decided
that Florine, if possible, should return to the service of Mdlle. de
Cardoville. This confidential place, enabling this unfortunate creature
to render important and mysterious services to the people who held her
fate in their hands, forced her to infamous treachery. Unfortunately,
all things favored this machination. We know that Florine, in her
interview with Mother Bunch, a few days after Mdlle. de Cardoville was
imprisoned at Dr. Baleinier’s, had yielded to a twinge of remorse,
and given to the sempstress advice likely to be of use to Adrienne’s
interests--sending word to Agricola not to deliver to Madame de Saint
Dizier the papers found in the hiding-place of the pavilion, but only
to entrust them to Mdlle. de Cardoville herself. The latter, afterwards
informed of these details by Mother Bunch, felt a double degree of
confidence and interest in Florine, took her back into her service
with gratitude, and almost immediately charged her with a confidential
mission--that of superintending the arrangements of the house hired for
Djalma’s habitation. As for Mother Bunch (yielding to the solicitations
of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and finding she was no longer of use to
Dagobert’s wife, of whom we shall speak hereafter), she had consented to
take up her abode in the hotel on the Rue d’Anjou, along with Adrienne,
who with that rare sagacity of the heart peculiar to her, entrusted
the young sempstress, who served her also as a secretary, with the
department of alms-giving.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had at first thought of entertaining her merely
as a friend, wishing to pay homage in her person to probity with labor,
resignation in sorrow, and intelligence in poverty; but knowing
the workgirl’s natural dignity, she feared, with reason that,
notwithstanding the delicate circumspection with which the hospitality
would be offered, Mother Bunch might perceive in it alms in disguise.
Adrienne preferred, therefore, whilst she treated her as a friend, to
give her a confidential employment. In this manner the great delicacy of
the needlewoman would be spared, since she could earn her livelihood by
performing duties which would at the same time satisfy her praiseworthy
instincts of charity. In fact, she could fulfil, better than any one,
the sacred mission confided to her by Adrienne. Her cruel experience in
misfortune, the goodness of her angelic soul, the elevation of her mind,
her rare activity, her penetration with regard to the painful secrets
of poverty, her perfect knowledge of the industrial classes, were
sufficient security for the tact and intelligence with which the
excellent creature would second the generous intentions of Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
Let us now speak of the divers events which, on that day, preceded the
coming of Mdlle. de Cardoville to the garden-gate of the house in the
Rue Blanche. About ten o’clock in the morning, the blinds of Adrienne’s
bedchamber, closely shut, admitted no ray of daylight to this apartment,
which was only lighted by a spherical lamp of oriental alabaster,
suspended from the ceiling by three long silver chains. This apartment,
terminating in a dome, was in the form of a tent with eight sides. From
the ceiling to the floor, it was hung with white silk, covered with
long draperies of muslin, fastened in large puffs to the wall, by bands
caught in at regular distances by plates of ivory. Two doors, also
of ivory, admirably encrusted with mother-of-pearl, led, one to the
bath-room, the other to the toilet-chamber, a sort of little temple
dedicated to the worship of beauty, and furnished as it had been at the
pavilion of Saint Dizier House. Two other compartments of the wall were
occupied by windows, completely veiled with drapery. Opposite the bed,
enclosing splendid fire-dogs of chased silver, was a chimney-piece
of white marble, like crystallized snow, on which were sculptured two
magnificent caryatides, and a frieze representing birds and flowers.
Above this frieze, carved in openwork with extreme delicacy, was a
marble basket, filled with red camellias. Their leaves of shining
green their flowers of a delicate rosy hue, were the only colors that
disturbed the harmonious whiteness of this virgin retreat. Finally, half
surrounded by waves of white muslin, which poured down from the dome
like a mass of light clouds, the bed was visible--very low, and resting
on feet of carved ivory, which stood upon the ermine carpet that covered
the floor. With the exception of a plinth, also in ivory, admirably
inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the bed was entirely covered with white
satin, wadded and quilted like an immense scent-bag. The cambric sheets,
trimmed with lace, being a little disturbed on one side, discovered the
corner of a white taffety mattress, and a light counterpane of watered
stuff--for an equal temperature always reigned in this apartment, warm
as a fine spring day.
From a singular scruple, arising from the same sentiment which had
caused Adrienne to have inscribed on a masterpiece of goldsmith’s work
the name of the maker instead of that of the seller, she had wished all
these articles, so costly and sumptuous, to be manufactured by workmen
chosen amongst the most intelligent, honest, and industrious of their
class, whom she had supplied with the necessary materials. In this
manner she had been able to add to the price of the work the profit
usually gained by the middle man, who speculates in such labor; this
notable augmentation of wages had spread happiness and comfort through a
hundred necessitous families, who, blessing the munificence of Adrienne,
gave her, as she said, the right to enjoy her luxury as a good action.
Nothing could be fresher or more charming than the interior of this
bedchamber. Mdlle. de Cardoville had just awoke; she reposed in the
middle of this flood of muslin, lace, cambric, and white silk, in a
position full of sweet grace. Never during the night did she cover that
beautiful golden hair (a certain recipe, said the Greeks, for preserving
it for a long while in magnificence). Every evening, her women arranged
her long silky curls in flat tresses, forming two broad bands, which,
descending sufficiently low almost entirely to conceal the small ear,
the rosy lobe of which was alone visible, were joined to the large plait
behind the head.
This head-dress, borrowed from Greek antiquity, set off to admiration
the pure, fine features of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and made her look so
much younger, that, instead of eighteen, one would hardly have given her
fifteen years of age. Gathered thus closely about the temples, the hair
lost its transparent and brilliant hues, and would have appeared almost
brown, but for the golden tints which played here and there, amid the
undulations of the tresses. Lulled in that morning torpor, the warm
languor of which is so favorable to soft reveries, Adrienne leaned
with her elbow on the pillow, and her head a little on one side,
which displayed to advantage the ideal contour of her bared neck and
shoulders; her smiling lips, moist and rosy, were, like her cheeks, cold
as if they had just been bathed in ice-water; her snow-white lids
half veiled the large, dark, soft eyes, which now gazed languidly upon
vacancy, and now fixed themselves with pleasure upon the rosy flowers
and green leaves in the basket of camellias. Who can paint the matchless
serenity of Adrienne’s awaking--when the fair and chaste soul roused
itself in the fair and chaste body? It was the awakening of a heart as
pure as the fresh and balmy breath of youth, that made her bosom rise
and fall in its white, immaculate purity. What creed, what dogma, what
formula, what religious symbol, oh! paternal and divine Creator! can
ever give a more complete idea of Thy harmonious and ineffable power,
than the image of a young maiden awaking in the bloom of her beauty,
and in all the grace of that modesty with which Thou hast endowed her,
seeking, in her dreamy innocence, for the secret of that celestial
instinct of love, which Thou hast placed in the bosom of all Thy
creatures--oh! Thou whose love is eternal, and goodness infinite!
The confused thoughts which, since her sleep, had appeared gently to
agitate Adrienne, absorbed her more and more; her head resting on her
bosom, her beautiful arm upon the couch, her features without becoming
precisely sad, assumed an expression of touching melancholy. Her dearest
desire was accomplished; she was about to live independent and alone.
But this affectionate, delicate, expansive, and marvellously complete
nature, felt that God had not given her such rare treasures, to bury
them in a cold and selfish solitude. She felt how much that was great
and beautiful might be inspired by love, both in herself, and in
him that should be worthy of her. Confiding in her courage, and the
nobleness of her character, proud of the example that she wished to give
to other women, knowing that all eyes would be fixed enviously upon her,
she felt, as it were, only too sure of herself; far from fearing that
she should make a bad choice, she rather feared, that she should not
find any from whom to choose, so pure and perfect was her taste. And,
even had she met with her own ideal, she had views so singular and
so just, so extraordinary and yet so sensible, with regard to the
independence and dignity of woman, that, inexorably determined to make
no concession upon this head, she asked herself if the man of her choice
would ever accept the hitherto unheard-of conditions that she meant to
impose. In recalling to her remembrance the possible suitors that she
had met in the world, she remembered also the dark, but true picture,
which Rodin had drawn with so much caustic bitterness. She remembered,
too, not without a certain pride, the encouragement this man had given
her, not by flattery, but by advising her to follow out and accomplish
a great, generous, and beautiful design. The current or the caprice of
fancy soon brought Adrienne to think of Djalma. Whilst she congratulated
herself on having paid to her royal kinsman the duties of a kingly
hospitality, the young lady was far from regarding the prince as the
hero of her future.
And first she said to herself, not unreasonably, that this half-savage
boy, with passions, if not untamable, yet untamed, transported on a
sudden into the midst of a refined civilization, would be inevitably
destined to fiery trials and violent transformations. Now Mdlle. de
Cardoville, having nothing masculine or despotic in her character, had
no wish to civilize the young savage. Therefore, notwithstanding the
interest, or rather because of the interest, which she felt for the
young Indian, she was firmly resolved, not to make herself known to him,
till after the lapse of two or three months; and she determined also,
that, even if Djalma should learn by chance that she was his relation,
she would not receive his visit. She desired, if not to try him, at
least to leave him free in all his acts, so that he might expend the
first fire of his passions, good or bad. But not wishing to abandon him
quite without defence to the perils of Parisian life, she requested the
Count de Montbron, in confidence, to introduce Prince Djalma to the
best company in Paris, and to enlighten him by the counsels of his
long experience. M. de Montbron had received the request of Mdlle.
de Cardoville with the greatest pleasure, taking delight, he said, in
starting his royal tiger in drawing-rooms, and bringing him into contact
with the flower of the fine ladies and gentlemen of Paris, offering at
the same time to wager any amount in favor of his half-savage pupil.
“As for myself, my dear Count,” said Adrienne to M. de Montbron, with
her usual frankness, “my resolution is not to be shaken. You have told
me the effect that will be produced in the fashionable world, by the
first appearance of Prince Djalma, an Indian nineteen years of age,
of surprising beauty, proud and wild as a young lion arriving from his
forest; it is new, it is extraordinary, you added; and, therefore, all
the coquetries of civilized life will pursue him with an eagerness which
makes me tremble for him. Now, seriously, my dear count it will not
suit me to appear as the rival of so many fine ladies, who are about
to expose themselves intrepidly to the claws of the young tiger. I take
great interest in him, because he is my cousin, because he is handsome,
because he is brave, and above all because he does not wear that
horrible European dress. No doubt these are rare qualities--but not
sufficient to make me change my mind. Besides, the good old philosopher,
my new friend, has given me advice about this Indian, which you, my
dear Count, who are not a philosopher, will yet approve. It is, for some
time, to receive visits at home, but not to visit other people--which
will spare me the awkwardness of meeting my royal cousin, and allow me
to make a careful choice, even amongst my usual society. As my house
will be an excellent one, my position most unusual, and as I shall be
suspected of all sorts of naughty secrets, I shall be in no want of
inquisitive visitors, who will amuse me a good deal, I assure you.”
And as M. de Montbron asked, if the exile of the poor young Indian
tiger was to last long, Adrienne answered: “As I shall see most of the
persons, to whom you will introduce him, I shall be pleased to hear
different opinions about him. If certain men speak well of him, and
certain women ill, I shall have good hope of him. In a word, the opinion
that I come to, in sifting the true from the false (you may leave that
to my sagacity), will shorten or prolong the exile of my royal cousin.”
Such were the formal intentions of Mdlle. de Cardoville with regard to
Djalma, even on the day she went with Florine to the house he occupied.
In a word, she had positively resolved not to be known to him for some
months to come.
After long reflecting that morning, on the chances that might yet offer
themselves to satisfy the wants of her heart, Adrienne fell into a new,
deep reverie. This charming creature, so full of life and youth, heaved
a low sigh, raised her arms above her head, turned her profile
towards the pillow, and remained for some moments as if powerless and
vanquished. Motionless beneath the white tissues that wrapped her round,
she looked like a fair, marble statue, visible beneath a light layer
of snow. Suddenly, Adrienne raised herself up, drew her hand across her
brow, and rang for her women. At the first silver tone of the bell,
the two ivory doors opened. Georgette appeared on the threshold of the
dressing-room, from which Frisky, a little black and-tan dog, with his
golden collar, escaped with a joyful barking. Hebe appeared at the
same time on the threshold of the bath-room. At the further end of this
apartment, lighted from above, might be seen upon a green mat of Spanish
leather, with golden ornaments, a crystal bath in the form of a long
shell. The three only divisions in this masterpiece of glass work, were
concealed by the elegant device of several large reeds in silver,
which rose from the wide base of the bath, also of wrought silver,
representing children and dolphins playing, among branches of natural
coral, and azure shells. Nothing could be more pleasing than the effect
of these purple reeds and ultramarine shells, upon a dull ground of
silver; the balsamic vapor, which rose from the warm, limpid, and
perfumed water, that filled the crystal shell, spread through the
bath-room, and floated like a light cloud into the sleeping-chamber.
Seeing Hebe in her fresh and pretty costume, bringing her a long bathing
gown, hanging upon a bare and dimpled arm, Adrienne said to her: “Where
is Florine, my child?”
“Madame, she went downstairs two hours ago; she was wanted for something
very pressing.”
“Who wanted her?”
“The young person who serves Madame as secretary. She went out this
morning very early; and, as soon as she returned, she sent for Florine,
who has not come back since.”
“This absence no doubt relates to some important affair of my angelic
minister of succor,” said Adrienne, smiling, and thinking of the
hunchback. Then she made a sign to Hebe to approach her bed.
About two hours after rising, Adrienne, having had herself dressed,
as usual, with rare elegance, dismissed her women, and sent for Mother
Bunch, whom she treated with marked deference, always receiving her
alone. The young sempstress entered hastily, with a pale, agitated
countenance, and said, in a trembling voice: “Oh, madame! my
presentiments were justified. You are betrayed.”
“Of what presentiments do you speak, my dear child!” said Adrienne, with
surprise. “Who betrays me?”
“M. Rodin!” answered the workgirl.
CHAPTER XLII. DOUBTS.
On hearing the accusation brought against Rodin, Mdlle. de Cardoville
looked at the denunciator with new astonishment. Before continuing this
scene, we may say that Mother Bunch was no longer clad in her poor, old
clothes, but was dressed in black, with as much simplicity as taste. The
sad color seemed to indicate her renunciation of all human vanity, the
eternal mourning of her heart, and the austere duties imposed upon her
by her devotion to misfortune. With her black gown, she wore a large
falling collar, white and neat as her little gauze cap, with its gray
ribbons, which, revealing her bands of fine brown hair, set off to
advantage her pale and melancholy countenance, with its soft blue eyes.
Her long, delicate hands, preserved from the cold by gloves, were no
longer, as formerly, of a violet hue, but of an almost transparent
whiteness.
Her agitated features expressed a lively uneasiness. Extremely
surprised, Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed: “What do you say?”
“M. Rodin betrays you, madame.”
“M. Rodin? Impossible!”
“Oh, madame! my presentiments did not deceive me.”
“Your presentiments?”
“The first time I saw M. Rodin, I was frightened in spite of myself. My
heart sank within me, and I trembled--for you, madame.”
“For me?” said Adrienne. “Why did you not tremble for yourself, my poor
friend?”
“I do not know, madame; but such was my first impression. And this fear
was so invincible, that, notwithstanding the kindness that M. Rodin
showed my sister, he frightened me, none the less.”
“That is strange. I can understand as well as any one the almost
irresistible influence of sympathies or aversions; but, in this
instance--However,” resumed Adrienne, after a moment’s reflection, “no
matter for that; how have these suspicions been changed to certainty?”
“Yesterday, I went to take to my sister Cephyse, the assistance that M.
Rodin had given me, in the name of a charitable person. I did not find
Cephyse at the friend’s who had taken care of her; I therefore begged
the portress, to inform my sister that I would call again this morning.
That is what I did; but you must excuse me, madame, some necessary
details.”
“Speak, speak, my dear.”
“The young girl who had received my sister,” said Mother Bunch, with
embarrassment, casting down her eyes and blushing, “does not lead a very
regular life. A person, with whom she has gone on several parties of
pleasure, one M. Dumoulin, had informed her of the real name of M.
Rodin, who has a kind of lodging in that house, and there goes by the
name of Charlemagne.”
“That is just what he told us at Dr. Baleinier’s; and, the day before
yesterday, when I again alluded to the circumstance, he explained to
me the necessity in which he was, for certain reasons, to have a humble
retreat in that remote quarter--and I could not but approve of his
motives.”
“Well, then! yesterday, M. Rodin received a visit from the Abbe
d’Aigrigny.”
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny!” exclaimed Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Yes, madame; he remained for two hours shut up with M. Rodin.”
“My child, you must have been deceived.”
“I was told, madame, that the Abbe d’Aigrigny had called in the morning
to see M. Rodin; not finding him at home, he had left with the portress
his name written on a slip of paper, with the words, ‘I shall return
in two hours.’ The girl of whom I spoke, madame, had seen this slip of
paper. As all that concerns M. Rodin appears mysterious enough, she
had the curiosity to wait for M. d’Aigrigny in the porter’s lodge, and,
about two hours afterwards, he indeed returned, and saw M. Rodin.”
“No, no,” said Adrienne, shuddering; “it is impossible. There must be
some mistake.”
“I think not, madame; for, knowing how serious such a discovery would
be, I begged the young girl to describe to me the appearance of M.
d’Aigrigny.”
“Well?”
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny, she told me, is about forty years of age. He is
tall and upright, dresses plainly, but with care; has gray eyes, very
large and piercing, thick eyebrows, chestnut-colored hair, a face
closely shaved, and a very decided aspect.”
“It is true,” said Adrienne, hardly able to believe what she heard. “The
description is exact.”
“Wishing to have all possible details,” resumed Mother Bunch, “I asked
the portress if M. Rodin and the Abbe d’Aigrigny appeared to be at
variance when they quitted the house? She replied no, but that the
Abbe said to M. Rodin, as they parted at the door: ‘I will write to you
tomorrow, as agreed.’”
“Is it a dream? Good heaven!” said Adrienne, drawing her hands across
her forehead in a sort of stupor. “I cannot doubt your word, my poor
friend; and yet it is M. Rodin who himself sent you to that house, to
give assistance to your sister: would he have wilfully laid open to you
his secret interviews with the Abbe d’Aigrigny? It would have been bad
policy in a traitor.”
“That is true, and the same reflection occurred to me. And yet the
meeting of these two men appeared so dangerous to you, madame, that I
returned home full of terror.”
Characters of extreme honesty are very hard to convince of the treachery
of others: the more infamous the deception, the more they are inclined
to doubt it. Adrienne was one of these characters, rectitude being a
prime quality of her mind. Though deeply impressed by the communication,
she remarked: “Come, my dear, do not let us frighten ourselves too soon,
or be over-hasty in believing evil. Let us try to enlighten ourselves by
reasoning, and first of all remember facts. M. Rodin opened for me the
doors of Dr. Baleinier’s asylum; in my presence, he brought, his charge
against the Abbe d’Aigrigny; he forced the superior of the convent
to restore Marshal Simon’s daughters, he succeeded in discovering the
retreat of Prince Djalma--he faithfully executed my intentions with
regard to my young cousin; only yesterday, he gave me the most useful
advice. All this is true--is it not?”
“Certainly, madame.”
“Now suppose that M. Rodin, putting things in their worst light,
had some after-thought--that he hopes to be liberally rewarded, for
instance; hitherto, at least, he has shown complete disinterestedness.”
“That also is true, madame,” said poor Mother Bunch, obliged, like
Adrienne, to admit the evidence of fixed facts.
“Now let us look to the possibility of treachery. Unite with the Abbe
d’Aigrigny to betray me! Betray me?--how? and for what purpose? What
have I to fear? Is it not the Abbe d’Aigrigny, on the contrary, is
it not Madame de Saint-Dizier, who have to render an account for the
injuries they have done me?”
“But, then, madame, how do you explain the meeting of these two men,
who have so many motives for mutual aversion? May there not be some dark
project still behind? Besides, madame, I am not the only one to think
so.”
“How is that?”
“This morning, on my return, I was so much agitated, that Mdlle. Florine
asked me the cause of my trouble. I know, madame, how much she is
devoted to you.”
“Nobody could be more so; only recently, you yourself informed me of the
signal service she rendered, during my confinement at Dr. Baleinier’s.”
“Well, madame, this morning, on my return, thinking it necessary to have
you informed as soon as possible, I told all to Mdlle. Florine. Like
me--even more, perhaps--she was terrified at the meeting of Rodin and M.
d’Aigrigny.
“After a moment’s reflection, she said to me: ‘It is, I think, useless
to disturb my mistress at present; it can be of no importance whether
she is informed of this treachery two or three hours sooner or later;
during that time I may be able to discover something more. I have an
idea, which I think a good one. Make my excuses to my mistress; I shall
soon be back.’ Then Florine sent for a hackney-coach, and went out.”
“Florine is an excellent girl,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, with a smile,
for further reflection had quite reassured her: “but, on this occasion,
I think that her zeal and good heart have deceived her, as they have
you, my poor friend. Do you know, that we are two madcaps, you and I,
not to have thought of one thing, which would have put us quite at our
ease?”
“How so, madame?”
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny fears M. Rodin; he may have sought him out,
to entreat his forbearance. Do you not find this explanation both
satisfactory and reasonable?”
“Perhaps so, madame,” said Mother Bunch, after a moment’s reflection;
“yes, it is probable.” But after another silence, and as if yielding to
a conviction superior to every possible argument, she exclaimed:
“And yet, no; believe me, madame, you are deceived. I feel it. All
appearances may be against what I affirm; yet, believe me, these
presentiments are too strong not to be true. And have you not guessed
the most secret instincts of my heart? Why should I not be able to guess
the dangers with which you are menaced?”
“What do you say? what have I guessed?” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville,
involuntarily impressed by the other’s tone of conviction and alarm.
“What have you guessed?” resumed the latter. “All the troublesome
susceptibility of an unfortunate creature, to whom destiny has decreed a
life apart. If I have hitherto been silent, it is not from ignorance
of what I owe you. Who told you, madame, that the only way to make me
accept your favors without blushing, was to give me some employment,
that would enable me to soothe the misfortunes I had so long shared? Who
told you, when you wished me to have a seat at your table, and to treat
as your friend the poor needlewoman, in whose person you sought to
honor, resignation and honest industry--who told you, when I answered
with tears of gratitude and regret, that it was not false modesty, but
a consciousness of my own ridiculous deformity, that made me refuse
your offer? Who told you that, but for this, I should have accepted it
proudly, in the name of all my low-born sisters? But you replied to me
with the touching words: ‘I understand your refusal, my friend; it is
not occasioned by false modesty, but by a sentiment of dignity that
I love and respect.’ Who told you,” continued the workgirl, with
increasing animation, “that I should be so happy to find a little
solitary retreat in this magnificent house, which dazzles me with its
splendor? Who guided you in the choice of the apartment (still far
too good) that you have provided for me? Who taught you, that, without
envying the beauty of the charming creatures that surround you, and whom
I love because they love you, I should always feel, by an involuntary
comparison, embarrassed and ashamed before them? Who told you therefore
to send them away, whenever you wished to speak with me? Yes! who
has revealed to you all the painful and secret susceptibilities of a
position like mine! Who has revealed them to you? God, no doubt! who in
His infinite majesty creates worlds, and yet cares for the poor little
insect hidden beneath the grass. And you think, that the gratitude of
a heart you have understood so well, cannot rise in its turn to the
knowledge of what may be hurtful to you? No, no, lady; some people have
the instinct of self preservation; others have the still more precious
instinct that enables them to preserve those they love. God has given
me this instinct. I tell you that you are betrayed!” And with animated
look, and cheeks slightly colored with emotion, the speaker laid such
stress upon the last words, and accompanied them with such energetic
gesture, that Mdlle. de Cardoville already shaken by the girl’s warmth,
began almost to share in her apprehensions. Then, although she had
before learned to appreciate the superior intelligence of this poor
child of the people, Mdlle. de Cardoville had never till now heard her
friend express herself with so much eloquence--an eloquence, too, that
was inspired by the noblest sentiments. This circumstance added to
the impression made upon Adrienne. But at the moment she was about to
answer, a knock was heard at the door of the room, and Florine entered.
On seeing the alarmed countenance of her waiting-maid, Mdlle. de
Cardoville said hastily: “Well, Florine! what news? Whence come you, my
child?”
“From Saint-Dizier House, madame.”
“And why did you go there?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville, with surprise.
“This morning,” said Florine, glancing at the workgirl, “madame, there,
confided to me her suspicions and uneasiness. I shared in them. The
visit of the Abbe d’Aigrigny to M. Rodin appeared to me very serious.
I thought, if it should turn out that M. Rodin had been during the last
few days to Saint-Dizier House, there would be no longer any doubt of
his treachery.”
“True,” said Adrienne, more and more uneasy. “Well?”
“As I had been charged to superintend the removal from the lodge, I knew
that several things had remained there. To obtain admittance, I had to
apply to Mrs. Grivois. I had thus a pretext for returning to the hotel.”
“What next, Florine, what next?”
“I endeavored to get Mrs. Grivois to talk of M. Rodin; but it was in
vain.”
“She suspected you,” said the workgirl. “It was to be anticipated.”
“I asked her,” continued Florine, “if they had seen M. Rodin at the
hotel lately. She answered evasively. Then despairing of getting
anything out of her,” continued Florine, “I left Mrs. Grivois, and that
my visit might excite no suspicion, I went to the pavilion--when, as I
turn down the avenue--whom do I see? why, M. Rodin himself, hastening
towards the little garden-door, wishing no doubt to depart unnoticed by
that way.”
“Madame, you hear,” cried Mother Bunch, clasping her hands with a
supplicating air; “such evidence should convince you.”
“M. Rodin at the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s!” cried Mdlle. de
Cardoville, whose glance, generally so mild, now suddenly flashed with
vehement indignation. Then she added, in a tone of considerable emotion,
“Continue, Florine.”
“At sight of M. Rodin, I stopped,” proceeded Florine, “and keeping a
little on one side, I gained the pavilion without being seen. I looked
out into the street, through the closed blinds, and perceived a hackney
coach. It was waiting for M. Rodin, for, a minute after, he got into it,
saying to the coachman, ‘No. 39, Rue Blanche.’
“The prince’s!” exclaimed Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Yes, madame.”
“Yes, M. Rodin was to see him to-day,” said Adrienne, reflecting.
“No doubt he betrays you, madame, and the prince also; the latter will
be made his victim more easily than you.”
“Shame! shame!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, on a sudden, as she rose,
all her features contracted with painful anger. “After such a piece
of treachery, it is enough to make us doubt of everything--even of
ourselves.”
“Oh, madame! is it not dreadful?” said Mother Bunch, shuddering.
“But, then, why did he rescue me and mine, and accuse the Abbe
d’Aigrigny?” wondered Mdlle. de Cardoville. “Of a truth, it is enough
to make one lose one’s reason. It is an abyss--but, oh! how frightful is
doubt!”
“As I returned,” said Florine, casting a look of affectionate devotion
on her mistress, “I thought of a way to make all clear; but there is not
a minute to lose.”
“What do you mean?” said Adrienne, looking at Florine with surprise.
“M. Rodin will soon be alone with the prince,” said Florine.
“No doubt,” replied Adrienne.
“The prince always sits in a little room that opens upon a greenhouse.
It is there that he will receive M. Rodin.”
“What then?” resumed Adrienne.
“This greenhouse, which I had arranged according to your orders, has
only one issue--by a door leading into a little lane. The gardener
gets in that way every morning, so as not to have to pass through the
apartments. Having finished his work, he does not return thither during
the day.”
“What do you mean? what is your project?” said Adrienne, looking at
Florine with growing surprise.
“The plants are so disposed, that, I think, if even the shade were
not there, which screens the glass that separates the saloon from the
greenhouse, one might get near enough to hear what was passing in the
room, without being seen. When I was superintending the arrangements, I
always entered by this greenhouse door. The gardener had one key, and I
another. Luckily, I have not yet parted with mine. Within an hour, you
may know how far to trust M. Rodin. If he betrays the prince, he betrays
you also.”
“What say you?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Set out instantly with me; we reach the side door; I enter alone, for
precaution sake--if all is right, I return--”
“You would have me turn spy?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, haughtily,
interrupting Florine. “You cannot think it.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said the girl, casting down her eyes, with
confused and sorrowful air; “you had suspicions, and me seems ‘tis the
only way to confirm or destroy them.”
“Stoop to listen to a conversation--never!” replied Adrienne.
“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, suddenly, after same moments’ thought,
“permit me to tell you that Mdlle. Florine is right. The plan proposed
is a painful one, but it is the only way in which you can clear up,
perhaps, for ever, your doubts as to M. Rodin. Notwithstanding the
evidence of facts, in spite of the almost certainty of my presentiments,
appearances may deceive us. I was the first who accused M. Rodin to you.
I should not forgive myself all the rest of my life, did I accuse him
wrongfully. Beyond doubt, it is painful, as you say, madame, to listen
to a conversation--” Then, with a violent effort to console herself, she
added, as she strove to repress her tears, “Yet, as your safety is
at stake, madame--for, if this be treachery, the future prospect is
dreadful--I will go in your place--to--”
“Not a word more, I entreat you,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville,
interrupting. “Let you, my poor friend, do for me what I thought
degrading to do myself? Never!”
Then, turning to Florine, she added, “Tell M. de Bonneville to have the
carriage got ready on the instant.”
“You consent, then!” cried Florine, clasping her hands, and not seeking
to conceal her joy; and her eyes also became full of tears.
“Yes, I consent,” answered Adrienne, with emotion. “If it is to be
war--war to the knife, that they would wage with me--I must be prepared
for it; and, come to think of it, it would only be weakness and folly
not to put myself on my guard. No doubt this step costs me much, and is
very repugnant to me, but it is the only way to put an end to suspicions
that would be a continual torment to me, and perhaps to prevent still
greater evils. Yes! for many important reasons, this interview of
M. Rodin with Prince Djalma may be doubly decisive to me--as to the
confidence, or the inexorable hate, that I must henceforth feel for M.
Rodin. So, Florine, quick!--my cloak and bonnet, and the carriage. You
will go with me. As for you, my dear, pray wait for me here,” she added,
turning to the work girl.
Half an hour after this conversation, Adrienne’s carriage stopped, as
we have before seen, at the little garden-gate of the house in the
Rue Blanche. Florine entered the greenhouse and soon returned to her
mistress. “The shade is down, madame. M. Rodin has just entered the
prince’s room.” Mdlle. de Cardoville was, therefore, present, though
invisible, at the following scene, which took place between Rodin and
Djalma.
CHAPTER XLIII. THE LETTER.
Some minutes before the entrance of Mdlle. de Cardoville into the
greenhouse, Rodin had been introduced by Faringhea into the presence
of the prince, who, still under the influence of the burning excitement
into which he had been plunged by the words of the half-caste, did not
appear to perceive the Jesuit. The latter, surprised at the animated
expression of Djalma’s countenance, and his almost frantic air, made a
sign of interrogation to Faringhea, who answered him privately in the
following symbolical manner:--After laying his forefinger on his head
and heart, he pointed to the fire burning in the chimney, signifying
by his pantomimic action that the head and heart of Djalma were both
in flames. No doubt Rodin understood him, for an imperceptible smile of
satisfaction played upon his wan lips; then he said aloud to Faringhea,
“I wish to be alone with the prince. Let down the shade and see that we
are not interrupted.” The half-caste bowed, and touched a spring
near the sheet of plate-glass, which slid into the wall as the blind
descended; then, again bowing, Faringhea left the room. It was shortly
after that Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine entered the greenhouse,
which was now only separated from the room in which was Djalma, by the
transparent thickness of a shade of white silk, embroidered with large
colored birds. The noise of the door, which Faringhea closed as he went
out, seemed to recall the young Indian to himself; his features, though
still animated, recovered their habitual expression of mildness and
gentleness; he started, drew his hand across his brow, looked around
him, as if waking up from a deep reverie, and then, advancing towards
Rodin, with an air as respectful as confused, he said to him, using
the expression commonly applied to old men in his country, “Pardon me,
father.” Still following the customs of his nation, so full of deference
towards age, he took Rodin’s hand to raise it to his lips, but the
Jesuit drew back a step, and refused his homage.
“For what do you ask pardon, my dear prince?” said he to Djalma.
“When you entered, I was in a dream; I did not come to meet you. Once
more, pardon me, father!”
“Once more, I forgive you with all my heart, my dear prince. But let us
have some talk. Pray resume your place on the couch, and your pipe, too,
if you like it.”
But Djalma, instead of adopting the suggestion, and throwing himself
on the divan, according to his custom, insisted on seating himself in a
chair, notwithstanding all the persuasions of “the Old Man with the Good
Heart,” as he always called the Jesuit.
“Really, your politeness troubles me, my dear prince,” said Rodin; “you
are here at home in India; at least, we wish you to think so.”
“Many things remind me of my country,” said Djalma, in a mild grave
tone. “Your goodness reminds me of my father, and of him who was a
father to me,” added the Indian, as he thought of Marshal Simon, whose
arrival in Paris had been purposely concealed from him.
After a moment’s silence, he resumed in a tone full of affectionate
warmth, as he stretched out his hand to Rodin, “You are come, and I am
happy!”
“I understand your joy, my dear prince, for I come to take you out of
prison--to open your cage for you. I had begged you to submit to a brief
seclusion, entirely for your own interest.”
“Can I go out to-morrow?”
“To-day, my dear prince, if you please.”
The young Indian reflected for a moment, and then resumed, “I must have
friends, since I am here in a palace that does not belong to me.”
“Certainly you have friends--excellent friends,” answered Rodin. At
these words, Djalma’s countenance seemed to acquire fresh beauty. The
most noble sentiments were expressed in his fine features; his large
black eyes became slightly humid, and, after another interval of
silence, he rose and said to Rodin with emotion: “Come!”
“Whither, dear prince?” said the other, much surprised.
“To thank my friends. I have waited three days. It is long.”
“Permit me dear prince--I have much to tell you on this subject--please
to be seated.”
Djalma resumed his seat with docility. Rodin continued: “It is true that
you have friends; or rather, you have a friend. Friends are rare.”
“What are you?”
“Well, then, you have two friends, my dear prince--myself, whom you
know, and one other, whom you do not know, and who desires to remain
unknown to you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” answered Rodin, after a moment’s embarrassment. “Because the
happiness he feels in giving you these proofs of his friendship and even
his own tranquillity, depend upon preserving this mystery.”
“Why should there be concealment when we do good?”
“Sometimes, to conceal the good we do, my dear prince.”
“I profit by this friendship; why should he conceal himself from one?”
These repeated questions of the young Indian appeared to puzzle Rodin,
who, however, replied: “I have told you, my dear prince, that your
secret friend would perhaps have his tranquillity compromised, if he
were known.”
“If he were known--as my friend?”
“Exactly so, dear prince.”
The countenance of Djalma immediately assumed an appearance of sorrowful
dignity; he raised his head proudly, and said in a stern and haughty
voice: “Since this friend hides himself from me, he must either be
ashamed of me, or there is reason for me to be ashamed of him. I only
accept hospitality from those who are worthy of me, and who think me
worthy of them. I leave this house.” So saying, Djalma rose with such
an air of determination, that Rodin exclaimed: “Listen to me, my dear
prince. Allow me to tell you, that your petulance and touchiness are
almost incredible. Though we have endeavored to remind you of your
beautiful country, we are here in Europe, in France, in the centre of
Paris. This consideration may perhaps a little modify your views. Listen
to me, I conjure you.”
Notwithstanding his complete ignorance of certain social
conventionalisms, Djalma had too much good sense and uprightness, not
to appreciate reason, when it appeared reasonable. The words of Rodin
calmed him. With that ingenuous modesty, with which natures full of
strength and generosity are almost always endowed, he answered mildly:
“You are right, father. I am no longer in my own country. Here the
customs are different. I will reflect upon it.”
Notwithstanding his craft and suppleness, Rodin sometimes found himself
perplexed by the wild and unforseen ideas of the young Indian. Thus he
saw, to his great surprise, that Djalma now remained pensive for some
minutes, after which he resumed in a calm but firm tone: “I have obeyed
you, father: I have reflected.”
“Well, my dear prince?”
“In no country in the world, under no pretext, should a man of honor
conceal his friendship for another man of honor.”
“But suppose there should be danger in avowing this friendship?” said
Rodin, very uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. Djalma eyed
the Jesuit with contemptuous astonishment, and made no reply.
“I understand your silence, my dear prince: a brave man ought to defy
danger. True; but if it should be you that the danger threatens, in
case this friendship were discovered, would not your man of honor be
excusable, even praiseworthy, to persist in remaining unknown?”
“I accept nothing from a friend, who thinks me capable of denying him
from cowardice.”
“Dear prince--listen to me.”
“Adieu, father.”
“Yet reflect!”
“I have said it,” replied Djalma, in an abrupt and almost sovereign
tone, as he walked towards the door.
“But suppose a woman were concerned,” cried Rodin, driven to extremity,
and hastening after the young Indian, for he really feared that Djalma
might rush from the house, and thus overthrow all his projects.
At the last words of Rodin the Indian stopped abruptly. “A woman!” said
he, with a start, and turning red. “A woman is concerned?”
“Why, yes! suppose it were a woman,” resumed Rodin, “would you not then
understand her reserve, and the secrecy with which she is obliged to
surround the marks of affection she wishes to give you?”
“A woman!” repeated Djalma, in a trembling voice, clasping his hands in
adoration; and his beautiful countenance was expressive of the deepest
emotion. “A woman!” said he again. “A Parisian?”
“Yes, my dear prince, as you force me to this indiscretion, I will
confess to you that your friend is a real Parisian--a noble matron,
endowed with the highest virtues--whose age alone merits all your
respect.”
“She is very old, then?” cried poor Djalma, whose charming dream was
thus abruptly dispelled.
“She may be a few years older than I am,” answered Rodin, with an
ironical smile, expecting to see the young man express a sort of comical
disappointment or angry regret.
But it was not so. To the passionate enthusiasm of love, which had for
a moment lighted up the prince’s features, there now succeeded a
respectful and touching expression. He looked at Rodin with emotion, and
said to him in a broken voice: “This woman, is then, a mother to me?”
It is impossible to describe with what a pious, melancholy, and tender
charm the Indian uttered the word mother.
“You have it, my dear prince; this respectable lady wishes to be a
mother to you. But I may not reveal to you the cause of the affection
she feels for you. Only, believe me--this affection is sincere, and the
cause honorable. If I do not tell you her secret, it is that, with us,
the secrets of women, young or old, are equally sacred.”
“That is right, and I will respect it. Without seeing her, I will love
her--as I love God, without seeing Him.”
“And now, my dear prince, let me tell you what are the intentions of
your maternal friend. This house will remain at your disposal, as long
as you like it; French servants, a carriage, and horses, will be at your
orders; the charges of your housekeeping will be paid for you. Then, as
the son of a king should live royalty, I have left in the next room a
casket containing five hundred Louis; every month a similar sum will
be provided: if it should not be found sufficient for your little
amusements, you will tell me, and it shall be augmented.”
At a movement of Djalma, Rodin hastened to add: “I must tell you at
once, my dear prince, that your delicacy may be quite at ease. First
of all, you may accept anything from a mother; next, as in about three
months you will come into possession of an immense inheritance, it will
be easy for you, if you feel the obligation a burden--and the sum
cannot exceed, at the most, four or five thousand Louis--to repay these
advances. Spare nothing, then, but satisfy all your fancies. You are
expected to appear in the great world of Paris, in a style becoming the
son of a king who was called the Father of the Generous. So once again I
conjure you not to be restrained by a false delicacy; if this sum should
not be sufficient--”
“I will ask for more. My mother is right; the son of a monarch ought to
live royally.”
Such was the answer of the Indian, made with perfect simplicity, and
without any appearance of astonishment at these magnificent offers. This
was natural. Djalma would have done for others what they were doing
for him, for the traditions of the prodigal magnificence and splendid
hospitality of Indian princes are well known. Djalma had been as moved
as grateful, on hearing that a woman loved him with maternal affection.
As for the luxury with which she nought to surround him, he accepted
it without astonishment and without scruple. This resignation, again,
somewhat disconcerted Rodin, who had prepared many excellent arguments
to persuade the Indian to accept his offers.
“Well, then, it’s all agreed, my dear prince,” resumed the Jesuit. “Now,
as you must see the world, it’s just as well to enter by the best door,
as we say. One of the friends of your maternal protectress, the Count de
Montbron, an old nobleman of the greatest experience, and belonging
to the first society, will introduce you in some of the best houses in
Paris.”
“Will you not introduce me, father?”
“Alas! my dear prince, look at me. Tell me, if you think I am fitted
for such an office. No! no; I live alone and retired from the world.
And then,” added Rodin, after a short silence, fixing a penetrating,
attentive, and curious look upon the prince, as if he would have
subjected him to a sort of experiment by what follows; “and then, you
see, M. de Montbron will be better able than I should, in the world you
are about to enter, to enlighten you as to the snares that will be
laid for you. For if you have friends, you have also enemies--cowardly
enemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamous
manner, and have made sport of you. And as, unfortunately, their power
is equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you to
try to avoid them--to fly, instead of resisting them openly.”
At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them,
Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness;
his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkled
with lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance,
expressed themselves so terribly on a human face. His upper lip, blood
red, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and close
set teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air of
such animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed:
“What is the matter, prince? You frighten me.”
Djalma did not answer. Half leaning forward, with his hands clinched in
rage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fear
of yielding to a burst of terrific fury. At this moment, the amber
mouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; the
violent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian,
was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, he
was endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered to
dust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.
“In the name of heaven, what is the matter, prince?” cried Rodin.
“Thus would I crush my cowardly enemies!” exclaimed Djalma, with
menacing and excited look. Then, as if these words had brought his rage
to a climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strode
about the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he sought
for some weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which he
endeavored to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth,
whilst his jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wild
beast, thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserved
a great and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts of
sanguinary ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch by
horror of treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to those
gigantic Indian hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, must
make of Djalma what he really was a hero.
Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity
of passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable
circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit’s
great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma’s fury was calmed thus
instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed
of his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance
remained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more
formidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin:
“Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies.”
“In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?”
“Kill the cowards!”
“Kill them! you must not think of it.”
“Faringhea will aid me.”
“Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not
kill an enemy like a hunted tiger.”
“One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed
dog,” replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.
“Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous,” said Rodin,
in a grave voice; “what pleasure can you find in striking down creatures
as cowardly as they are wicked?”
“To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty.”
“So prince, you seek for revenge.”
“I do not revenge myself on a serpent,” said the Indian, with haughty
bitterness; “I crush it.”
“But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in that
manner. If we have cause of complaint--”
“Women and children complain,” said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: “men
strike.”
“Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takes
your cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be good
reason, punishes.”
“In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner.”
“Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies,
have you not?--Well! suppose it were thanks to the devotion of the
venerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and that
she were to ask you to forgive them--she, who saved you from their
hands--what would you do then?”
The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation,
Rodin continued: “I might say to you that I know your enemies, but that
in the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I would
conceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that if
the respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it either
right or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so--until
she has pronounced, I must be silent.”
Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment,
Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: “A man with a letter, not finding
you at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comes
from the Abbe d’Aigrigny.
“Certainly,” answered Rodin. “That is,” he added, “with the prince’s
permission.”
Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.
“You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morning
a very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered it
to be sent on.”
A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which he
delivered to Rodin--and the half-caste again withdrew.
CHAPTER XLIV. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.
When Faringhea had quitted the room, Rodin took the letter from Abbe
d’Aigrigny with one hand, and with the other appeared to be looking
for something, first in the side pocket of his great-coat, then in the
pocket behind, then in that of his trousers; and, not finding what he
sought, he laid the letter on his knee, and felt himself all over with
both hands, with an air of regret and uneasiness. The divers movements
of this pantomime, performed in the most natural manner, were crowned by
the exclamations.
“Oh! dear me! how vexatious!”
“What is the matter?” asked Djalma, starting from the gloomy silence in
which he had been plunged for some minutes.
“Alas! my dear prince!” replied Rodin, “the most vulgar and puerile
accident may sometimes cause the greatest inconvenience. I have
forgotten or lost my spectacles. Now, in this twilight, with the very
poor eyesight that years of labor have left me, it will be absolutely
impossible for me to read this most important letter--and an immediate
answer is expected--most simple and categorical--a yes or a no. Times
presses; it is really most annoying. If,” added Rodin, laying great
stress on his words, without looking at Djalma, but so as the prince
might remark it; “if only some one would render me the service to read
it for me; but there is no one--no--one!”
“Father,” said Djalma, obligingly, “shall I read it for you. When I have
finished it, I shall forget what I have read.”
“You?” cried Rodin, as if the proposition of the Indian had appeared
to him extravagant and dangerous; “it is impossible, prince, for you to
read this letter.”
“Then excuse my having offered,” said Djalma mildly.
“And yet,” resumed Rodin, after a moment’s reflection, and as if
speaking to himself, “why not?”
And he added, addressing Djalma: “Would you really be so obliging, my
dear prince? I should not have ventured to ask you this service.”
So saying, Rodin delivered the letter to Djalma, who read aloud as
follows: “‘Your visit this morning to Saint-Dizier House can only be
considered, from what I hear, as a new act of aggression on your part.
“‘Here is the last proposition I have to make. It may be as fruitless as
the step I took yesterday, when I called upon you in the Rue Clovis.
“‘After that long and painful explanation, I told you that I would write
to you. I keep my promise, and here is my ultimatum.
“‘First of all, a piece of advice. Beware! If you are determined to
maintain so unequal a struggle, you will be exposed even to the hatred
of those whom you so foolishly seek to protect. There are a thousand
ways to ruin you with them, by enlightening them as to your protects. It
will be proved to them, that you have shared in the plat, which you
now pretend to reveal, not from generosity, but from cupidity.’” Though
Djalma had the delicacy to feel that the least question on the subject
of this letter would be a serious indiscretion, he could not forbear
turning his head suddenly towards the Jesuit, as he read the last
passage.
“Oh, yes! it relates to me. Such as you see me, my dear prince,” added
he, glancing at his shabby clothes, “I am accused of cupidity.”
“And who are these people that you protect?”
“Those I protect?” said Rodin feigning some hesitation, as if he
had been embarrassed to find an answer; “who are those I protect?
Hem--hem--I will tell you. They are poor devils without resources; good
people without a penny, having only a just cause on their side, in a
lawsuit in which they are engaged. They are threatened with destruction
by powerful parties--very powerful parties; but, happily, these latter
are known to me, and I am able to unmask them. What else could have
been? Being myself poor and weak, I range myself naturally on the side
of the poor and weak. But continue, I beg of you.”
Djalma resumed: “‘You have therefore every-thing to fear if you persist
in your hostility, and nothing to gain by taking the side of those whom
you call your friends. They might more justly be termed your dupes, for
your disinterestedness would be inexplicable, were it sincere. It must
therefore conceal some after-thought of cupidity.
“‘Well! in that view of the case, we can offer you ample
compensation--with this difference, that your hopes are now entirely
founded on the probable gratitude of your friends, a very doubtful
chance at the best, whereas our offers will be realized on the instant.
To speak clearly, this is what we ask, what we exact of you. This very
night, before twelve, you must have left Paris, and engage not to return
for six months.’” Djalma could not repress a movement of surprise, and
looked at Rodin.
“Quite natural,” said the latter; “the cause of my poor friends would be
judged by that time, and I should be unable to watch over them. You see
how it is, my dear prince,” added Rodin, with bitter indignation. “But
please continue, and excuse me for having interrupted you; though,
indeed, such impudence disgusts me.”
Djalma continued: “‘That we may be certain of your removal from Paris
for six months, you will go to the house of one of our friends in
Germany. You will there be received with generous hospitality, but
forcibly detained until the expiration of the term.’”
“Yes, yes! a voluntary prison,” said Rodin.
“‘On these conditions, you will receive a pension of one thousand francs
a month, to begin from your departure from Paris, ten thousand francs
down, and twenty thousand at the end of the six months--the whole to
be completely secured to you. Finally, at the end of the six months, we
will place you in a position both honorable and independent.’”
Djalma having stopped short, with involuntary indignation, Rodin said to
him: “Let me beg you to continue, my dear prince. Read to the end,
and it will give you some idea of what passes in the midst of our
civilization.”
Djalma resumed: “‘You know well enough the course of affairs, and what
we are, to feel that in providing for your absence, we only wish to get
rid of an enemy, not very dangerous, but rather troublesome. Do not be
blinded by your first success. The results of your denunciation will
be stifled, because they are calumnious. The judge who received your
evidence will soon repent his odious partiality. You may make what use
you please of this letter. We know what we write, to whom we write, and
how we write. You will receive this letter at three o’clock; if by four
o’clock we have not your full and complete acceptance, written with your
own hand at the bottom of this letter, war must commence between us--and
not from to-morrow, but on the instant.’”
Having finished reading the letter, Djalma looked at Rodin, who said to
him: “Permit me to summon Faringhea.”
He rang the bell, and the half-caste appeared. Rodin took the letter
from the hands of Djalma, tore it into halves, rubbed it between his
palms, so as to make a sort of a ball, and said to the half-caste, as
he returned it to him: “Give this palter to the person who waits for
it, and tell him that is my only answer to his shameless and insolent
letter; you understand me--this shameless and insolent letter.”
“I understand.” said the half-caste; and he went out.
“This will perhaps be a dangerous war for you, father, said the Indian,
with interest.
“Yes, dear prince, it may be dangerous, but I am not like you; I have no
wish to kill my enemies, because they are cowardly and wicked. I fight
them under the shield of the law. Imitate me in this.” Then, seeing that
the countenance of Djalma darkened, he added: “I am wrong. I will advise
you no more on this subject. Only, let us defer the decision to the
judgment of your noble and motherly protectress. I shall see her to
morrow; if she consents, I will tell you the names of your enemies. If
not--not.”
“And this woman, this second mother,” said Djalma, “is her character
such, that I can rely on her judgment?”
“She!” cried Rodin, clasping his hands, and speaking with increased
excitement. “Why, she is the most noble, the most generous, the most
valiant being upon earth!--why, if you were really her son, and she
loved you with all the strength of maternal affection, and a case arose
in which you had to choose between an act of baseness and death, she
would say to you: ‘Die!’ though she might herself die with you.”
“Oh, noble woman! so was my mother!” cried Djalma, with enthusiasm.
“Yes,” resumed Rodin, with growing energy, as he approached the window
concealed by the shade, towards which he threw an oblique and anxious
glance, “if you would imagine your protectress, think only of courage,
uprightness, and loyalty personified. Oh! she has the chivalrous
frankness of the brave man, joined with the high-souled dignity of the
woman, who not only never in her life told a falsehood, never concealed
a single thought, but who would rather die than give way to the least
of those sentiments of craft and dissimulation, which are almost forced
upon ordinary women by the situation in which they are placed.”
It is difficult to express the admiration which shone upon the
countenance of Djalma, as he listened to this description. His eyes
sparkled, his cheeks glowed, his heart palpitated with enthusiasm.
“That is well, noble heart!” said Rodin to him, drawing still nearer
to the blind; “I love to see your soul sparkle through your eyes, on
hearing me speak thus of your unknown protectress. Oh! but she is worthy
of the pious adoration which noble hearts and great characters inspire!”
“Oh! I believe you,” cried Djalma, with enthusiasm; “my heart is full of
admiration and also of astonishment, for my mother is no more, and yet
such a woman exists!”
“Yes, she exists. For the consolation of the afflicted, for the glory of
her sex, she exists. For the honor of truth, and the shame of falsehood,
she exists. No lie, no disguise, has ever tainted her loyalty, brilliant
and heroic as the sword of a knight. It is but a few days ago that this
noble woman spoke to me these admirable words, which, in all my life,
I shall not forget: ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘if ever I suspect any one that I
love or esteem--’”
Rodin did not finish. The shade, so violently shaken that the spring
broke, was drawn up abruptly, and, to the great astonishment of Djalma,
Mdlle. de Cardoville appeared before him. Adrienne’s cloak had fallen
from her shoulders, and in the violence of the movement with which she
had approached the blind, her bonnet, the strings of which were untied,
had also fallen. Having left home suddenly, with only just time to throw
a mantle over the picturesque and charming costume which she often chose
to wear when alone, she appeared so radiant with beauty to Djalma’s
dazzled eyes, in the centre of those leaves and flowers, that the Indian
believed himself under the influence of a dream.
With clasped hands, eyes wide open, the body slightly bent forward, as
if in the act of prayer, he stood petrified with admiration, Mdlle. de
Cardoville, much agitated, and her countenance glowing with emotion,
remained on the threshold of the greenhouse, without entering the room.
All this had passed in less time than it takes to describe it. Hardly
had the blind been raised, than Rodin, feigning surprise, exclaimed:
“You here, madame?”
“Oh, sir!” said Adrienne, in an agitated voice, “I come to terminate
the phrase which you have commenced. I told you, that when a suspicion
crossed my mind, I uttered it aloud to the person by whom it was
inspired. Well! I confess it: I have failed in this honesty. I came here
as a spy upon you, when your answer to the Abbe d’Aigrigny was giving me
a new pledge of your devotion and sincerity. I doubted your uprightness
at the moment when you were bearing testimony to my frankness. For
the first time in my life, I stooped to deceit; this weakness merits
punishment, and I submit to it--demands reparation, and I make it--calls
for apologies, and I tender them to you.” Then turning towards Djalma,
she added: “Now, prince, I am no longer mistress of my secret. I am your
relation, Mdlle. de Cardoville; and I hope you will accept from a sister
the hospitality that you did not refuse from a mother.”
Djalma made no reply. Plunged in ecstatic contemplation of this sudden
apparition, which surpassed his wildest and most dazzling visions, he
felt a sort of intoxication, which, paralyzing the power of thought,
concentrated all his faculties in the one sense of sight; and just as we
sometimes seek in vain to satisfy unquenchable thirst, the burning look
of the Indian sought, as it were, with devouring avidity, to take in
all the rare perfections of the young lady. Verily, never had two more
divine types of beauty met face to face. Adrienne and Djalma were the
very ideal of a handsome youth and maiden. There seemed to be something
providential in the meeting of these two natures, so young and so
vivacious, so generous and so full of passion, so heroic and so proud,
who, before coming into contact, had, singularly enough, each learned
the moral worth of the other; for if, at the words of Rodin, Djalma had
felt arise in his heart an admiration, as lively as it was sudden, for
the valiant and generous qualities of that unknown benefactress, whom
he now discovered in Mdlle. de Cardoville, the latter had, in her turn,
been moved, affected, almost terrified, by the interview she had just
overheard, in which Djalma had displayed the nobleness of his soul,
the delicate goodness of his heart, and the terrible transports of
his temper. Then she had not been able to repress a movement of
astonishment, almost admiration, at sight of the surprising beauty of
the prince; and soon after, a strange, painful sentiment, a sort
of electric shock, seemed to penetrate all her being, as her eyes
encountered Djalma’s.
Cruelly agitated, and suffering deeply from this agitation, she tried
to dissemble the impression she had received, by addressing Rodin, to
apologize for having suspected him. But the obstinate silence of the
Indian redoubled the lady’s painful embarrassment. Again raising her
eyes towards the prince, to invite him to respond to her fraternal
offer, she met his ardent gaze wildly fixed upon her, and she looked
once more with a mixture of fear, sadness, and wounded pride; then she
congratulated herself on having foreseen the inexorable necessity of
keeping Djalma at a distance from her, such apprehension did this ardent
and impetuous nature already inspire. Wishing to put an end to her
present painful situation, she said to Rodin, in a low and trembling
voice, “Pray, sir, speak to the prince; repeat to him my offers. I
cannot remain longer.” So saying, Adrienne turned, as if to rejoin
Florine. But, at the first step, Djalma sprang towards her with the
bound of a tiger, about to be deprived of his prey. Terrified by the
expression of wild excitement which inflamed the Indian’s countenance,
the young lady drew back with a loud scream.
At this, Djalma remembered himself, and all that had passed. Pale with
regret and shame, trembling, dismayed, his eyes streaming with tears,
and all his features marked with an expression of the most touching
despair, he fell at Adrienne’s feet, and lifting his clasped hands
towards her, said in a soft, supplicating, timid voice: “Oh, remain!
remain! do not leave me. I have waited for you so long!” To this prayer,
uttered with the timid simplicity of a child, and a resignation which
contrasted strangely with the savage violence that had so frightened
Adrienne, she replied, as she made a sign to Florine to prepare for
their departure: “Prince, it is impossible for me to remain longer
here.”
“But you will return?” said Djalma, striving to restrain his tears. “I
shall see you again?”
“Oh, no! never--never!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a failing voice.
Then, profiting by the stupor into which her answer had thrown Djalma,
Adrienne disappeared rapidly behind the plants in the greenhouse.
Florine was hastening to rejoin her mistress, when, just at the
moment she passed before Rodin, he said to her in a low, quick voice:
“To-morrow we must finish with the hunchback.” Florine trembled in every
limb, and, without answering Rodin, disappeared, like her mistress,
behind the plants. Broken, overpowered, Djalma remained upon his knees,
with his head resting on his breast. His countenance expressed neither
rage nor excitement, but a painful stupor; he wept silently. Seeing
Rodin approach him, he rose, but with so tremulous a step, that he could
hardly reach the divan, on which he sank down, hiding his face in his
hands.
Then Rodin, advancing, said to him in a mild and insinuating tone:
“Alas! I feared what has happened. I did not wish you to see your
benefactress; and if I told you she was old, do you know why, dear
prince?”
Djalma, without answering, let his hands fall upon his knees, and turned
towards Rodin a countenance still bathed in tears.
“I knew that Mdlle. de Cardoville was charming, and at your age it is
so easy to fall in love,” continued Rodin; “I wished to spare you that
misfortune, my dear prince, for your beautiful protectress passionately
loves a handsome young man of this town.”
Upon these words, Djalma suddenly pressed both hands to his heart, as if
he felt a piercing stab, uttered a cry of savage grief, threw back his
head, and fell fainting upon the divan.
Rodin looked at him coldly for some seconds, and then said as he went
away, brushing his old hat with his elbow,
“Come! it works--it works!”
CHAPTER XLV. THE CONSULTATION.
It is night. It has just struck nine. It is the evening of that day
on which Mdlle. de Cardoville first found herself in the presence of
Djalma. Florine, pale, agitated, trembling, with a candle in her hand,
had just entered a bedroom, plainly but comfortably furnished. This room
was one of the apartments occupied by Mother Bunch, in Adrienne’s house.
They were situated on the ground-floor, and had two entrances. One
opened on the garden, and the other on the court-yard. From this side
came the persons who applied to the workgirl for succor; an ante-chamber
in which they waited, a parlor in which they were received, constituted
Mother Bunch’s apartments, along with the bedroom, which Florine
had just entered, looking about her with an anxious and alarmed air,
scarcely touching the carpet with the tips of her satin shoes, holding
her breath, and listening at the least noise.
Placing the candle upon the chimney-piece, she took a rapid survey
of the chamber, and approached the mahogany desk, surmounted by a
well-filled bookcase. The key had been left in the drawers of this
piece of furniture, and they were all three examined by Florine. They
contained different petitions from persons in distress, and various,
notes in the girl’s handwriting. This was not what Florine wanted. Three
cardboard boxes were placed in pigeon-holes beneath the bookcase. These
also were vainly explored, and Florine, with a gesture of vexation,
looked and listened anxiously; then, seeing a chest of drawers, she
made therein a fresh and useless search. Near the foot of the bed was
a little door, leading to a dressing-room. Florine entered it, and
looked--at first without success--into a large wardrobe, in which were
suspended several black dresses, recently made for Mother Bunch,
by order of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Perceiving, at the bottom of this
wardrobe, half hidden beneath a cloak, a very shabby little trunk,
Florine opened it hastily, and found there, carefully folded up, the
poor old garments in which the work-girl had been clad when she first
entered this opulent mansion.
Florine started--an involuntary emotion contracted her features; but
considering that she had not liberty to indulge her feelings, but only
to obey Rodin’s implacable orders, she hastily closed both trunk and
wardrobe, and leaving the dressing-room, returned into the bed-chamber.
After having again examined the writing-stand, a sudden idea occurred to
her. Not content with once more searching the cardboard boxes, she drew
out one of them from the pigeon-hole, hoping to find what she sought
behind the box: her first attempt failed, but the second was more
successful. She found behind the middle box a copy-book of considerable
thickness. She started in surprise, for she had expected something else;
yet she took the manuscript, opened it, and rapidly turned over
the leaves. After having perused several pages, she manifested her
satisfaction, and seemed as if about to put the book in her pocket; but
after a moment’s reflection, she replaced it where she had found it,
arranged everything in order, took her candle, and quitted the apartment
without being discovered--of which, indeed, she had felt pretty sure,
knowing that Mother Bunch would be occupied with Mdlle. de Cardoville
for some hours.
The day after Florine’s researches, Mother Bunch, alone in her bed
chamber, was seated in an arm-chair, close to a good fire. A thick
carpet covered the floor; through the window-curtains could be seen the
lawn of a large garden; the deep silence was only interrupted by the
regular ticking of a clock, and the crackling of the wood. Her
hands resting on the arms of the chair, she gave way to a feeling of
happiness, such as she had never so completely enjoyed since she took
up her residence at the hotel. For her, accustomed so long to cruel
privations, there was a kind of inexpressible charm in the calm silence
of this retreat--in the cheerful aspect of the garden, and above all, in
the consciousness that she was indebted for this comfortable position,
to the resignation and energy she had displayed, in the thick of the
many severe trials which now ended so happily. An old woman, with a mild
and friendly countenance, who had been, by express desire of Adrienne,
attached to the hunchback’s service, entered the room and said to her:
“Mademoiselle, a young man wishes to speak to you on pressing business.
He gives his name as Agricola Baudoin.”
At this name, Mother Bunch uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy,
blushed slightly, rose and ran to the door which led to the parlor in
which was Agricola.
“Good-morning, dear sister,” said the smith, cordially embracing the
young girl, whose cheeks burned crimson beneath those fraternal kisses.
“Ah, me!” cried the sempstress on a sudden, as she looked anxiously
at Agricola; “what is that black band on your forehead? You have been
wounded!”
“A mere nothing,” said the smith, “really nothing. Do not think of it.
I will tell you all about that presently. But first, I have things of
importance to communicate.”
“Come into my room, then; we shall be alone,” Mother Bunch, as she went
before Agricola.
Notwithstanding the expression of uneasiness which was visible on the
countenance of Agricola, he could not forbear smiling with pleasure as
he entered the room and looked around him.
“Excellent, my poor sister! this is how I would always have you lodged.
I recognize here the hand of Mdlle. de Cardoville. What a heart! what
a noble mind!--Dost know, she wrote to me the day before yesterday,
to thank me for what I had done for her, and sent me a gold pin (very
plain), which she said I need not hesitate to accept, as it had no other
value but that of having been worn by her mother! You can’t tell how
much I was affected by the delicacy of this gift!”
“Nothing must astonish you from a heart like hers,” answered the
hunchback. “But the wound--the wound?”
“Presently, my good sister; I have so many things to tell you. Let us
begin by what is most pressing, for I want you to give me some good
advice in a very serious case. You know how much confidence I have in
your excellent heart and judgment. And then, I have to ask of you a
service--oh! a great service,” added the smith, in an earnest, and
almost solemn tone, which astonished his hearer. “Let us begin with what
is not personal to myself.”
“Speak quickly.”
“Since my mother went with Gabriel to the little country curacy he has
obtained, and since my father lodges with Marshal Simon and the young
ladies, I have resided, you know, with my mates, at M. Hardy’s factory,
in the common dwelling-house. Now, this morning but first, I must tell
you that M. Hardy, who has lately returned from a journey, is again
absent for a few days on business. This morning, then, at the hour of
breakfast, I remained at work a little after the last stroke of the
bell; I was leaving the workshop to go to our eating-room, when I saw
entering the courtyard, a lady who had just got out of a hackney-coach.
I remarked that she was fair, though her veil was half down; she had
a mild and pretty countenance, and her dress was that of a fashionable
lady. Struck with her paleness, and her anxious, frightened air, I asked
her if she wanted anything. ‘Sir,’ said she to me, in a trembling voice,
and as if with a great effort, ‘do you belong to this factory?’--‘Yes,
madame.’--‘M. Hardy is then in clanger?’ she exclaimed.--‘M. Hardy,
madame? He has not yet returned home.’--‘What!’ she went on, ‘M. Hardy
did not come hither yesterday evening? Was he not dangerously wounded by
some of the machinery?’ As she said these words, the poor young lady’s
lips trembled, and I saw large tears standing in her eyes. ‘Thank God,
madame! all this is entirely false,’ said I, ‘for M. Hardy has
not returned, and indeed is only expected by to-morrow or the day
after.’--‘You are quite sure that he has not returned! quite sure that
he is not hurt?’ resumed the pretty young lady, drying her eyes.--‘Quite
sure, madame; if M. Hardy were in danger, I should not be so quiet in
talking to you about him.’--‘Oh! thank God! thank God!’ cried the young
lady. Then she expressed to me her gratitude, with so happy, so feeling
an air, that I was quite touched by it. But suddenly, as if then only
she felt ashamed of the step she had taken, she let down her veil, left
me precipitately, went out of the court-yard, and got once more into the
hackney-coach that had brought her. I said to myself: ‘This is a lady
who takes great interest in M. Hardy, and has been alarmed by a false
report.”’
“She loves him, doubtless,” said Mother Bunch, much moved, “and, in
her anxiety, she perhaps committed an act of imprudence, in coming to
inquire after him.”
“It is only too true. I saw her get into the coach with interests, for
her emotion had infected me. The coach started--and what did I see a few
seconds after? A cab, which the young lady could not have perceived, for
it had been hidden by an angle of the wall; and, as it turned round the
corner, I distinguished perfectly a man seated by the driver’s side, and
making signs to him to take the same road as the hackney-coach.”
“The poor young lady was followed,” said Mother Bunch, anxiously.
“No doubt of it; so I instantly hastened after the coach, reached it,
and through the blinds that were let down, I said to the young lady,
whilst I kept running by the side of the coach door: ‘Take care, madame;
you are followed by a cab.
“Well, Agricola! and what did she answer?”
“I heard her exclaim, ‘Great Heaven!’ with an accent of despair. The
coach continued its course. The cab soon came up with me; I saw, by
the side of the driver, a great, fat, ruddy man, who, having watched me
running after the coach, no doubt suspected something, for he looked at
me somewhat uneasily.”
“And when does M. Hardy return?” asked the hunchback.
“To-morrow, or the day after. Now, my good sister, advise me. It is
evident that this young lady loves M. Hardy. She is probably married,
for she looked so embarrassed when she spoke to me, and she uttered
a cry of terror on learning that she was followed. What shall I do? I
wished to ask advice of Father Simon, but he is so very strict in such
matters--and then a love affair, at his age!--while you are so delicate
and sensible, my good sister, that you will understand it all.”
The girl started, and smiled bitterly; Agricola did not perceive it, and
thus continued: “So I said to myself, ‘There is only Mother Bunch, who
can give me good advice.’ Suppose M. Hardy returns to-morrow, shall I
tell him what has passed or not?”
“Wait a moment,” cried the other, suddenly interrupting Agricola, and
appearing to recollect something; “when I went to St. Mary’s Convent, to
ask for work of the superior, she proposed that I should be employed by
the day, in a house in which I was to watch or, in other words, to act
as a spy--”
“What a wretch!”
“And do you know,” said the girl, “with whom I was to begin this odious
trade? Why, with a Madame de-Fremont, or de Bremont, I do not remember
which, a very religious woman, whose daughter, a young married lady,
received visits a great deal too frequent (according to the superior)
from a certain manufacturer.”
“What do you say?” cried Agricola. “This manufacturer must be--”
“M. Hardy. I had too many reasons to remember that name, when it was
pronounced by the superior. Since that day, so many other events have
taken place, that I had almost forgotten the circumstance. But it is
probable that this young lady is the one of whom I heard speak at the
convent.”
“And what interest had the superior of the convent to set a spy upon
her?” asked the smith.
“I do not know; but it is clear that the same interest still exists,
since the young lady was followed, and perhaps, at this hour, is
discovered and dishonored. Oh! it is dreadful!” Then, seeing Agricola
start suddenly, Mother Bunch added: “What, then, is the matter?”
“Yes--why not?” said the smith, speaking to himself; “why may not all
this be the work of the same hand? The superior of a convent may have a
private understanding with an abbe--but, then, for what end?”
“Explain yourself, Agricola,” said the girl. “And then,--where did you
get your wound? Tell me that, I conjure you.”
“It is of my wound that I am just going to speak; for in truth, the
more I think of it, the more this adventure of the young lady seems to
connect itself with other facts.”
“How so?”
“You must know that, for the last few days, singular things are passing
in the neighborhood of our factory. First, as we are in Lent, an abbe
from Paris (a tall, fine-looking man, they say) has come to preach in
the little village of Villiers, which is only a quarter of a league from
our works. The abbe has found occasion to slander and attack M. Hardy in
his sermons.”
“How is that?”
“M. Hardy has printed certain rules with regard to our work, and the
rights and benefits he grants us. These rules are followed by various
maxims as noble as they are simple; with precepts of brotherly love such
as all the world can understand, extracted from different philosophies
and different religions. But because M. Hardy has chosen what is best in
all religions, the abbe concludes that M. Hardy has no religion at all,
and he has therefore not only attacked him for this in the pulpit,
but has denounced our factory as a centre of perdition and damnable
corruption, because, on Sundays, instead of going to listen to his
sermons, or to drink at a tavern, our comrades, with their wives and
children, pass their time in cultivating their little gardens, in
reading, singing in chorus, or dancing together in the common dwelling
house. The abbe has even gone so far as to say, that the neighborhood
of such an assemblage of atheists, as he calls us, might draw down the
anger of Heaven upon the country--that the hovering of Cholera was much
talked of, and that very possibly, thanks to our impious presence, the
plague might fall upon all our neighborhood.”
“But to tell such things to ignorant people,” exclaimed Mother Bunch,
“is likely to excite them to fatal actions.”
“That is just what the abbe wants.”
“What do you tell me?”
“The people of the environs, still more excited, no doubt by other
agitators, show themselves hostile to the workmen of our factory. Their
hatred, or at least their envy, has been turned to account. Seeing
us live all together, well lodged, well warmed, and comfortably clad,
active, gay, and laborious, their jealousy has been embittered by the
sermons, and by the secret manoeuvres of some depraved characters,
who are known to be bad workmen, in the employment of M. Tripeaud, our
opposition. All this excitement is beginning to bear fruit; there have
been already two or three fights between us and our neighbors. It was in
one of these skirmishes that I received a blow with a stone on my head.”
“Is it not serious, Agricola?--are you quite sure?” said Mother Bunch,
anxiously.
“It is nothing at all, I tell you. But the enemies of M. Hardy have not
confined themselves to preaching. They have brought into play something
far more dangerous.”
“What is that?”
“I, and nearly all my comrades, did our part in the three Revolutionary
days of July; but we are not eager at present, for good reasons, to take
up arms again. That is not everybody’s opinion; well, we do not blame
others, but we have our own ideas; and Father Simon, who is as brave as
his son, and as good a patriot as any one, approves and directs us. Now,
for some days past, we find all about the factory, in the garden, in the
courts, printed papers to this effect: ‘You are selfish cowards; because
chance has given you a good master, you remain indifferent to the
misfortunes of your brothers, and to the means of freeing them; material
comforts have enervated your hearts.’”
“Dear me, Agricola! what frightful perseverance in wickedness!”
“Yes! and unfortunately these devices have their effect on some of
our younger mates. As the appeal was, after all, to proud and generous
sentiments, it has had some influence. Already, seeds of division have
shown themselves in our workshops, where, before, all were united as
brothers. A secret agitation now reigns there. Cold suspicion takes the
place, with some, of our accustomed cordiality. Now, if I tell you that
I am nearly sure these printed papers, thrown over the walls of our
factory, to raise these little sparks of discord amongst us, have been
scattered about by the emissaries of this same preaching abbe--would
it not seem from all this, taken in conjunction with what happened this
morning to the young lady, that M. Hardy has of late numerous enemies?”
“Like you, I think it very fearful, Agricola,” said the girl; “and it
is so serious, that M. Hardy alone can take a proper decision on the
subject. As for what happened this morning to the young lady, it appears
to me, that, immediately on M. Hardy’s return, you should ask for an
interview with him, and, however delicate such a communication may be,
tell him all that passed.”
“There is the difficulty. Shall I not seem as if wishing to pry into his
secrets?”
“If the young lady had not been followed, I should have shared your
scruples. But she was watched, and is evidently in danger. It is
therefore, in my opinion, your duty to warn M. Hardy. Suppose (which is
not improbable) that the lady is married; would it not be better, for a
thousand reasons, that M. Hardy should know all?”
“You are right, my good sister; I will follow your advice. M. Hardy
shall know everything. But now that we have spoken of others, I have to
speak of myself--yes, of myself--for it concerns a matter, on which may
depend the happiness of my whole life,” added the smith, in a tone of
seriousness, which struck his hearer. “You know,” proceeded Agricola,
after a moment’s silence, “that, from my childhood, I have never
concealed anything from you--that I have told you everything--absolutely
everything?”
“I know it, Agricola, I know it,” said the hunchback, stretching out her
white and slender hand to the smith, who grasped it cordially, and thus
continued: “When I say everything, I am not quite exact--for I have
always concealed from you my little love-affairs--because, though we may
tell almost anything to a sister, there are subjects of which we ought
not to speak to a good and virtuous girl, such as you are.”
“I thank you, Agricola. I had remarked this reserve on your part,”
observed the other, casting down her eyes, and heroically repressing the
grief she felt; “I thank you.”
“But for the very reason, that I made it a duty never to speak to you
of such love affairs, I said to myself, if ever it should happen that I
have a serious passion--such a love as makes one think of marriage--oh!
then, just as we tell our sister even before our father and mother, my
good sister shall be the first to be informed of it.”
“You are very kind, Agricola.”
“Well then! the serious passion has come at last. I am over head and
ears in love, and I think of marriage.”
At these words of Agricola, poor Mother Bunch felt herself for an
instant paralyzed. It seemed as if all her blood was suddenly frozen in
her veins. For some seconds, she thought she was going to die. Her heart
ceased to beat; she felt it, not breaking, but melting away to nothing.
Then, the first blasting emotion over, like those martyrs who found, in
the very excitement of pain, the terrible power to smile in the midst
of tortures, the unfortunate girl found, in the fear of betraying the
secret of her fatal and ridiculous love, almost incredible energy. She
raised her head, looked at the smith calmly, almost serenely, and said
to him in a firm voice: “Ah! so, you truly love?”
“That is to say, my good sister, that, for the last four days, I
scarcely live at all--or live only upon this passion.”
“It is only since four days that you have been in love?”
“Not more--but time has nothing to do with it.”
“And is she very pretty?”
“Dark hair--the figure of a nymph--fair as a lily--blue eyes, as large
as that--and as mild, as good as your own.”
“You flatter me, Agricola.”
“No, no, it is Angela that I flatter--for that’s her name. What a pretty
one! Is it not, my good Mother Bunch?”
“A charming name,” said the poor girl, contrasting bitterly that
graceful appellation with her own nickname, which the thoughtless
Agricola applied to her without thinking of it. Then she resumed, with
fearful calmness: “Angela? yes, it is a charming name!”
“Well, then! imagine to yourself, that this name is not only suited to
her face, but to her heart. In a word, I believe her heart to be almost
equal to yours.”
“She has my eyes--she has my heart,” said Mother Bunch, smiling. “It is
singular, how like we are.”
Agricola did not perceive the irony of despair contained in these words.
He resumed, with a tenderness as sincere as it was inexorable: “Do you
think, my good girl, that I could ever have fallen seriously in love
with any one, who had not in character, heart, and mind, much of you?”
“Come, brother,” said the girl, smiling--yes, the unfortunate creature
had the strength to smile; “come, brother, you are in a gallant vein
to day. Where did you make the acquaintance of this beautiful young
person?”
“She is only the sister of one of my mates. Her mother is the head
laundress in our common dwelling, and as she was in want of assistance,
and we always take in preference the relations of members of the
association, Mrs. Bertin (that’s the mother’s name) sent for her
daughter from Lille, where she had been stopping with one of her aunts,
and, for the last five days, she has been in the laundry. The first
evening I saw her, I passed three hours, after work was over, in talking
with her, and her mother and brother; and the next day, I felt that my
heart was gone; the day after that, the feeling was only stronger--and
now I am quite mad about her, and resolved on marriage--according as you
shall decide. Do not be surprised at this; everything depends upon you.
I shall only ask my father and mother’s leave, after I have yours.”
“I do not understand you, Agricola.”
“You know the utter confidence I have in the incredible instinct of your
heart. Many times, you have said to me: ‘Agricola, love this person,
love that person, have confidence in that other’--and never yet were you
deceived. Well! you must now render me the same service. You will ask
permission of Mdlle. de Cardoville to absent yourself; I will take you
to the factory: I have spoken of you to Mrs. Benin and her daughter,
as of a beloved sister; and, according to your impression at sight
of Angela, I will declare myself or not. This may be childishness, or
superstition, on my part; but I am so made.”
“Be it so,” answered Mother Bunch, with heroic courage; “I will see
Mdlle. Angela; I will tell you what I think of her--and that, mind you,
sincerely.”
“I know it. When will you come?”
“I must ask Mdlle. de Cardoville what day she can spare sue. I will let
you know.”
“Thanks, my good sister!” said Agricola warmly; then he added, with a
smile: “Bring your best judgment with you--your full dress judgment.”
“Do not make a jest of it, brother,” said Mother Bunch, in a mild, sad
voice; “it is a serious matter, for it concerns the happiness of your
whole life.”
At this moment, a modest knock was heard at the door. “Come in,” said
Mother Bunch. Florine appeared.
“My mistress begs that you will come to her, if you are not engaged,”
said Florine to Mother Bunch.
The latter rose, and, addressing the smith, said to him: “Please wait a
moment, Agricola. I will ask Mdlle. de Cardoville what day I can dispose
of, and I will come and tell you.” So saying, the girl went out, leaving
Agricola with Florine.
“I should have much wished to pay my respects to Mdlle. de Cardoville,”
said Agricola; “but I feared to intrude.”
“My lady is not quite well, sir,” said Florine, “and receives no one to
day. I am sure, that as soon as she is better, she will be quite pleased
to see you.”
Here Mother Bunch returned, and said to Agricola: “If you can come for
me to-morrow, about three o’clock, so as not to lose the whole day, we
will go to the factory, and you can bring me back in the evening.”
“Then, at three o’clock to-morrow, my good sister.”
“At three to-morrow, Agricola.”
The evening of that same day, when all was quiet in the hotel, Mother
Bunch, who had remained till ten o’clock with Mdlle. de Cardoville, re
entered her bedchamber, locked the door after her, and finding herself
at length free and unrestrained, threw herself on her knees before a
chair, and burst into tears. She wept long--very long. When her tears at
length ceased to flow, she dried her eyes, approached the writing-desk,
drew out one of the boxes from the pigeonhole, and, taking from this
hiding-place the manuscript which Florine had so rapidly glanced over
the evening before, she wrote in it during a portion of the night.
CHAPTER XLVI. MOTHER BUNCH’S DIARY.
We have said that the hunchback wrote during a portion of the night,
in the book discovered the previous evening by Florine, who had not
ventured to take it away, until she had informed the persons who
employed her of its contents, and until she had received their final
orders on the subject. Let us explain the existence of this manuscript,
before opening it to the reader. The day on which Mother Bunch first
became aware of her love for Agricola, the first word of this manuscript
had been written. Endowed with an essentially trusting character, yet
always feeling herself restrained by the dread of ridicule--a dread
which, in its painful exaggeration, was the workgirl’s only weakness--to
whom could the unfortunate creature have confided the secret of that
fatal passion, if not to paper--that mute confidant of timid and
suffering souls, that patient friend, silent and cold, who, if it makes
no reply to heart rending complaints, at least always listens, and never
forgets?
When her heart was overflowing with emotion, sometimes mild and sad,
sometimes harsh and bitter, the poor workgirl, finding a melancholy
charm in these dumb and solitary outpourings of the soul, now clothed in
the form of simple and touching poetry, and now in unaffected prose,
had accustomed herself by degrees not to confine her confidences to what
immediately related to Agricola, for though he might be mixed up with
all her thoughts, for reflections, which the sight of beauty, of happy
love, of maternity, of wealth, of misfortune, called up within her, were
so impressed with the influence of her unfortunate personal position,
that she would not even have dared to communicate them to him. Such,
then, was this journal of a poor daughter of the people, weak, deformed,
and miserable, but endowed with an angelic soul, and a fine intellect,
improved by reading, meditation, and solitude; pages quite unknown,
which yet contained many deep and striking views, both as regard men and
things, taken from the peculiar standpoint in which fate had placed
this unfortunate creature. The following lines, here and there abruptly
interrupted or stained with tears, according to the current of her
various emotions, on hearing of Agricola’s deep love for Angela, formed
the last pages of this journal:
“Friday, March 3d, 1832.
“I spent the night without any painful dreams. This morning, I rose with
no sorrowful presentiment. I was calm and tranquil when Agricola came.
He did not appear to me agitated. He was simple and affectionate as
he always is. He spoke to me of events relating to M. Hardy, and then,
without transition, without hesitation, he said to me: ‘The last four
days I have been desperately in love. The sentiment is so serious, that
I think of marriage. I have come to consult you about it.’ That was how
this overwhelming revelation was made to me--naturally and cordially--I
on one side of the hearth, and Agricola an the other, as if we had
talked of indifferent things. And yet no more is needed to break
one’s heart. Some one enters, embraces you like a brother, sits down,
talks--and then--Oh! Merciful heaven! my head wanders.
“I feel calmer now. Courage, my poor heart, courage!--Should a day of
misfortune again overwhelm me, I will read these lines written under the
impression of the most cruel grief I can ever feel, and I will say to
myself: ‘What is the present woe compared to that past?’ My grief is
indeed cruel! it is illegitimate, ridiculous, shameful: I should not
dare to confess it, even to the most indulgent of mothers. Alas!
there are some fearful sorrows, which yet rightly make men shrug their
shoulders in pity or contempt. Alas! these are forbidden misfortunes.
Agricola has asked me to go to-morrow, to see this young girl to whom he
is so passionately attached, and whom he will marry, if the instinct of
my heart should approve the marriage. This thought is the most painful
of all those which have tortured me since he so pitilessly announced
this love. Pitilessly? No, Agricola--no, my brother--forgive me this
unjust cry of pain! Is it that you know, can even suspect, that I love
you better than you love, better than you can ever love, this charming
creature?
“‘Dark-haired--the figure of a nymph--fair as a lily--with blue eyes--as
large as that--and almost as mild as your own.’
“That is the portrait he drew of her. Poor Agricola! how would he have
suffered, had he known that every one of his words was tearing my heart.
Never did I so strongly feel the deep commiseration and tender pity,
inspired by a good, affectionate being, who, in the sincerity of his
ignorance, gives you your death-wound with a smile. We do not blame
him--no--we pity him to the full extent of the grief that he would feel
on learning the pain he had caused me. It is strange! but never did
Agricola appear to me more handsome than this morning. His manly
countenance was slightly agitated, as he spoke of the uneasiness of that
pretty young lady. As I listened to him describing the agony of a woman
who runs the risk of ruin for the man she loves, I felt my heart
beat violently, my hands were burning, a soft languor floated over
me--Ridiculous folly! As if I had any right to feel thus!
“I remember that, while he spoke, I cast a rapid glance at the glass. I
felt proud that I was so well dressed; he had not even remarked it; but
no matter--it seemed to me that my cap became me, that my hair shone
finely, my gaze beamed mild--I found Agricola so handsome, that I almost
began to think myself less ugly--no doubt, to excuse myself in my own
eyes for daring to love him. After all, what happened to-day would have
happened one day or another! Yes, that is consoling--like the thoughts
that death is nothing, because it must come at last--to those who are
in love with life! I have been always preserved from suicide--the last
resource of the unfortunate, who prefer trusting in God to remaining
amongst his creatures--by the sense of duty. One must not only think
of self. And I reflected also’God is good--always good--since the most
wretched beings find opportunities for love and devotion.’ How is it
that I, so weak and poor, have always found means to be helpful and
useful to some one?
“This very day I felt tempted to make an end with life--Agricola and
his mother had no longer need of me.--Yes, but the unfortunate creatures
whom Mdlle. de Cardoville has commissioned me to watch over?--but my
benefactress herself, though she has affectionately reproached me with
the tenacity of my suspicions in regard to that man? I am more than ever
alarmed for her--I feel that she is more than ever in danger--more than
ever--I have faith in the value of my presence near her. Hence, I must
live. Live--to go to-morrow to see this girl, whom Agricola passionately
loves? Good heaven! why have I always known grief, and never hate? There
must be a bitter pleasure in hating. So many people hate!--Perhaps I
may hate this girl--Angela, as he called her, when he said, with so much
simplicity: ‘A charming name, is it not, Mother Bunch?’ Compare this
name, which recalls an idea so full of grace, with the ironical symbol
of my witch’s deformity! Poor Agricola! poor brother! goodness
is sometimes as blind as malice, I see. Should I hate this young
girl?--Why? Did she deprive me of the beauty which charms Agricola? Can
I find fault with her for being beautiful? When I was not yet accustomed
to the consequences of my ugliness, I asked myself, with bitter
curiosity, why the Creator had endowed his creatures so unequally. The
habit of pain has allowed me to reflect calmly, and I have finished by
persuading myself, that to beauty and ugliness are attached the two most
noble emotions of the soul--admiration and compassion. Those who are
like me admire beautiful persons--such as Angela, such as Agricola--and
these in their turn feel a couching pity for such as I am. Sometimes, in
spite of one’s self, one has very foolish hopes. Because Agricola, from
a feeling of propriety had never spoken to me of his love affairs, I
sometimes persuaded myself that he had none--that he loved me, and that
the fear of ridicule alone was with him, as with me, an obstacle in the
way of confessing it. Yes, I have even made verses on that subject--and
those, I think, not the worst I have written.
“Mine is a singular position! If I love, I am ridiculous; if any love
me, he is still more ridiculous. How did I come so to forget that, as to
have suffered and to suffer what I do?--But blessed be that suffering,
since it has not engendered hate--no; for I will not hate this girl--I
will Perform a sister’s part to the last; I will follow the guidance of
my heart; I have the instinct of preserving others--my heart will lead
and enlighten me. My only fear is, that I shall burst into tears when
I see her, and not be able to conquer my emotion. Oh, then! what
a revelation to Agricola--a discovery of the mad love he has
inspired!--Oh, never! the day in which he knew that would be the last of
my life. There would then be within me something stronger than duty--the
longing to escape from shame--that incurable shame, that burns me like a
hot iron. No, no; I will be calm. Besides, did I not just now, when
with him bear courageously a terrible trial? I will be calm. My personal
feelings must not darken the second sight, so clear for those I love.
Oh! painful--painful task! for the fear of yielding involuntarily to
evil sentiments must not render me too indulgent toward this girl. I
might compromise Agricola’s happiness, since my decision is to guide his
choice. Poor creature that I am. How I deceive myself! Agricola asks my
advice, because he thinks that I shall have not the melancholy courage
to oppose his passion; or else he would say to me: ‘No matter--I love;
and I brave the future!’
“But then, if my advice, if the instincts of my heart, are not to guide
him--if his resolution is taken beforehand--of what use will be
to morrow’s painful mission? Of what use? To obey him. Did he not
say--‘Come!’ In thinking of my devotion for him, how many times, in the
secret depths of my heart, I have asked myself if the thought had ever
occurred to him to love me otherwise than as a sister; if it had ever
struck him, what a devoted wife he would have in me! And why should
it have occurred to him? As long as he wished, as long as he may still
wish, I have been, and I shall be, as devoted to him, as if I were his
wife, sister, or mother. Why should he desire what he already possesses?
“Married to him--oh, God!--the dream is mad as ineffable. Are not such
thoughts of celestial sweetness--which include all sentiments from
sisterly to maternal love--forbidden to me, on pain of ridicule as
distressing as if I wore dresses and ornaments, that my ugliness and
deformity would render absurd? I wonder, if I were now plunged into the
most cruel distress, whether I should suffer as much as I do, on hearing
of Agricola’s intended marriage? Would hunger, cold, or misery diminish
this dreadful dolor?--or is it the dread pain that would make me forget
hunger, cold, and misery?
“No, no; this irony is bitter. It is not well in me to speak thus. Why
such deep grief? In what way have the affection, the esteem, the respect
of Agricola, changed towards me? I complain--but how would it be, kind
heaven! if, as, alas! too often happens, I were beautiful, loving,
devoted, and he had chosen another, less beautiful, less loving, less
devoted?--Should I not be a thousand times more unhappy? for then I
might, I would have to blame him--whilst now I can find no fault with
him, for never having thought of a union which was impossible, because
ridiculous. And had he wished it, could I ever have had the selfishness
to consent to it? I began to write the first pages of this diary as I
began these last, with my heart steeped in bitterness--and as I went on,
committing to paper what I could have intrusted to no one, my soul grew
calm, till resignation came--Resignation, my chosen saint, who, smiling
through her tears, suffers and loves, but hopes--never!”
These word’s were the last in the journal. It was clear, from the blots
of abundant tears, that the unfortunate creature had often paused to
weep.
In truth, worn out by so many emotions, Mother Bunch late in the night,
had replaced the book behind the cardboard box, not that she thought it
safer there than elsewhere (she had no suspicion of the slightest need
for such precaution), but because it was more out of the way there than
in any of the drawers, which she frequently opened in presence of other
people. Determined to perform her courageous promise, and worthily
accomplish her task to the end, she waited the next day for Agricola,
and firm in her heroic resolution, went with the smith to M. Hardy’s
factory. Florine, informed of her departure, but detained a portion
of the day in attendance on Mdlle. de Cardoville preferred waiting for
night to perform the new orders she had asked and received, since she
had communicated by letter the contents of Mother Bunch’s journal.
Certain not to be surprised, she entered the workgirls’ chamber, as soon
as the night was come.
Knowing the place where she should find the manuscript, she went
straight to the desk, took out the box, and then, drawing from her
pocket a sealed letter, prepared to leave it in the place of the
manuscript, which she was to carry away with her. So doing, she trembled
so much, that she was obliged to support herself an instant by the
table. Every good sentiment was not extinct in Florine’s heart; she
obeyed passively the orders she received, but she felt painfully
how horrible and infamous was her conduct. If only herself had been
concerned, she would no doubt have had the courage to risk all, rather
than submit to this odious despotism; but unfortunately, it was not so,
and her ruin would have caused the mortal despair of another person whom
she loved better than life itself. She resigned herself, therefore, not
without cruel anguish, to abominable treachery.
Though she hardly ever knew for what end she acted, and this was
particularly the case with regard to the abstraction of the journal,
she foresaw vaguely, that the substitution of this sealed letter for
the manuscript would have fatal consequences for Mother Bunch, for she
remembered Rodin’s declaration, that “it was time to finish with the
young sempstress.”
What did he mean by those words? How would the letter that she was
charged to put in the place of the diary, contribute to bring about
this result? she did not know--but she understood that the clear-sighted
devotion of the hunchback justly alarmed the enemies of Mdlle. de
Cardoville, and that she (Florine) herself daily risked having her
perfidy detected by the young needlewoman. This last fear put an end to
the hesitations of Florine; she placed the letter behind the box, and,
hiding the manuscript under her apron, cautiously withdrew from the
chamber.
CHAPTER XLVII. THE DIARY CONTINUED.
Returned into her own room, some hours after she had concealed there the
manuscript abstracted from Mother Bunch’s apartment, Florine yielded
to her curiosity, and determined to look through it. She soon felt a
growing interest, an involuntary emotion, as she read more of these
private thoughts of the young sempstress. Among many pieces of verse,
which all breathed a passionate love for Agricola--a love so deep,
simple, and sincere, that Florine was touched by it, and forgot the
author’s deformity--among many pieces of verse, we say, were divers
other fragments, thoughts, and narratives, relating to a variety of
facts. We shall quote some of them, in order to explain the profound
impression that their perusal made upon Florine.
Fragments from the Diary.
“This is my birthday. Until this evening, I had cherished a foolish
hope. Yesterday, I went down to Mrs. Baudoin’s, to dress a little wound
she had on her leg. When I entered the room, Agricola was there. No
doubt he was talking of me to his mother, for they stopped when I came
in, and exchanged a meaning smile. In passing by the drawers, I saw a
pasteboard box, with a pincushion-lid, and I felt myself blushing
with joy, as I thought this little present was destined for me, but
I pretended not to see it. While I was on my knees before his mother,
Agricola went out. I remarked that he took the little box with him.
Never has Mrs. Baudoin been more tender and motherly than she was that
morning. It appeared to me that she went to bed earlier than usual.
‘It is to send me away sooner,’ said I to myself, ‘that I may enjoy
the surprise Agricola has prepared for me.’ How my heart beat, as I ran
fast, very fast, up to my closet! I stopped a moment before opening the
door, that my happiness might last the longer. At last I entered the
room, my eyes swimming with tears of joy. I looked upon my table, my
chair, my bed--there was nothing. The little box was not to be found. My
heart sank within me. Then I said to myself: ‘It will be to-morrow--this
is only the eve of my birthday.’ The day is gone. Evening is come.
Nothing. The pretty box was not for me. It had a pincushion-cover. It
was only suited for a woman. To whom has Agricola given it?
“I suffer a good deal just now. It was a childish idea that I connected
with Agricola’s wishing me many happy returns of the day. I am ashamed
to confess it; but it might have proved to me, that he has not forgotten
I have another name besides that of Mother Bunch, which they always
apply to me. My susceptibility on this head is unfortunately so
stubborn, that I cannot help feeling a momentary pang of mingled shame
and sorrow, every time that I am called by that fairy-tale name, and
yet I have had no other from infancy. It is for that very reason that I
should have been so happy if Agricola had taken this opportunity to call
me for once by my own humble name--Magdalen. Happily, he will never know
these wishes and regrets!”
Deeper and deeper touched by this page of simple grief, Florine turned
over several leaves, and continued:
“I have just been to the funeral of poor little Victorine Herbin, our
neighbor. Her father, a journeyman upholsterer, is gone to work by the
month, far from Paris. She died at nineteen, without a relation near
her. Her agony was not long. The good woman who attended her to the
last, told us that she only pronounced these words: ‘At last, oh at
last!’ and that with an air of satisfaction, added the nurse. Dear
child! she had become so pitiful. At fifteen, she was a rosebud--so
pretty, so fresh-looking, with her light hair as soft as silk; but she
wasted away by degrees--her trade of renovating mattresses killed her.
She was slowly poisoned by the emanations from the wool.(26) They were
all the worse, that she worked almost entirely for the poor, who have
cheap stuff to lie upon.
“She had the courage of a lion, and an angel’s resignation, She always
said to me, in her low, faint voice, broken by a dry and frequent cough:
‘I have not long to live, breathing, as I do, lime and vitriol all day
long. I spit blood, and have spasms that make me faint.’
“‘Why not change your trade?’ have I said to her.
“‘Where will I find the time to make another apprenticeship?’ she would
answer; ‘and it is now too late. I feel that I am done for. It is not my
fault,’ added the good creature, ‘for I did not choose my employment.
My father would have it so; luckily he can do without me. And then, you
see, when one is dead, one cares for nothing, and has no fear of “slop
wages.”’
“Victorine uttered that sad, common phrase very sincerely, and with a
sort of satisfaction. Therefore she died repeating: ‘At last!’
“It is painful to think that the labor by which the poor man earns his
daily bread, often becomes a long suicide! I said this the other day to
Agricola; he answered me that there were many other fatal employments;
those who prepare aquafortis, white lead, or minium, for instance, are
sure to take incurable maladies of which they die.
“‘Do you know,’ added Agricola, ‘what they say when they start for those
fatal works?’--Why, ‘We are going to the slaughter-house.’
“That made me tremble with its terrible truth.
“‘And all this takes place in our day,’ said I to him, with an aching
heart; ‘and it is well-known. And, out of so many of the rich and
powerful, no one thinks of the mortality which decimates his brothers,
thus forced to eat homicidal bread!’
“‘What can you expect, my poor sister,’ answered Agricola. ‘When men are
to be incorporated, that they may get killed in war, all pains are taken
with them. But when they are to be organized, so as to live in peace,
no one cares about it, except M. Hardy, my master. People say, ‘Pooh!
hunger, misery, and suffering of the laboring classes--what is that to
us? that is not politics.’ ‘They are wrong,’ added Agricola; ‘IT IS MORE
THAN POLITICS.’
“As Victorine had not left anything to pay for the church service, there
was only the presentation of the body under the porch; for there is not
even a plain mass for the poor. Besides, as they could not give eighteen
francs to the curate, no priest accompanied the pauper’s coffin to the
common grave. If funerals, thus abridged and cut short, are sufficient
in a religious point of view, why invent other and longer forms? Is it
from cupidity?--If, on the other hand, they are not sufficient, why
make the poor man the only victim of this insufficiency? But why trouble
ourselves about the pomp, the incense, the chants, of which they are
either too sparing or too liberal? Of what use? and for what purpose?
They are vain, terrestrial things, for which the soul recks nothing,
when, radiant, it ascends towards its Creator. Yesterday, Agricola made
me read an article in a newspaper, in which violent blame and bitter
irony are by turns employed, to attack what they call the baneful
tendencies of some of the lower orders, to improve themselves, to write,
to read the poets, and sometimes to make verses. Material enjoyments
are forbidden us by poverty. Is it humane to reproach us for seeking the
enjoyments of the mind? What harm can it do any one if every evening,
after a day’s toil, remote from all pleasure, I amuse myself, unknown to
all, in making a few verses, or in writing in this journal the good or
bad impressions I have received? Is Agricola the worse workman, because,
on returning home to his mother, he employs Sunday in composing some of
those popular songs, which glorify the fruitful labors of the artisan,
and say to all, Hope and brotherhood! Does he not make a more worthy use
of his time than if he spent it in a tavern? Ah! those who blame us for
these innocent and noble diversions, which relieve our painful toils and
sufferings, deceive themselves when they think, that, in proportion as
the intellect is raised and refined, it is more difficult to bear with
privations and misery, and that so the irritation increases against the
luckier few.
“Admitting even this to be the case--and it is not so--is it not better
to have an intelligent, enlightened enemy, to whose heart and reason you
may address yourself, than a stupid, ferocious, implacable foe? But no;
enmities disappear as the mind becomes enlightened, and the horizon
of compassion extends itself. We thus learn to understand moral
afflictions. We discover that the rich also have to suffer intense
pains, and that brotherhood in misfortune is already a link of sympathy.
Alas! they also have to mourn bitterly for idolized children, beloved
mistresses, reverend mothers; with them, also, especially amongst the
women, there are, in the height of luxury and grandeur, many broken
hearts, many suffering souls, many tears shed in secret. Let them not be
alarmed. By becoming their equals in intelligence, the people will learn
to pity the rich, if good and unhappy--and to pity them still more if
rejoicing in wickedness.
“What happiness! what a joyful day! I am giddy with delight. Oh, truly,
man is good, humane, charitable. Oh, yes! the Creator has implanted
within him every generous instinct--and, unless he be a monstrous
exception, he never does evil willingly. Here is what I saw just now. I
will not wait for the evening to write it down, for my heart would, as
it were, have time to cool. I had gone to carry home some work that was
wanted in a hurry. I was passing the Place du Temple. A few steps from
me I saw a child, about twelve years old at most, with bare head, and
feet, in spite of the severe weather, dressed in a shabby, ragged smock
frock and trousers, leading by the bridle a large cart-horse, with his
harness still on. From time to time the horse stopped short, and refused
to advance. The child, who had no whip, tugged in vain at the bridle.
The horse remained motionless. Then the poor little fellow cried out:
‘O dear, O dear!’ and began to weep bitterly, looking round him as if
to implore the assistance of the passers-by. His dear little face was
impressed with so heart piercing a sorrow, that, without reflecting, I
made an attempt at which I can now only smile, I must have presented so
grotesque a figure. I am horribly afraid of horses, and I am still more
afraid of exposing myself to public gaze. Nevertheless, I took courage,
and, having an umbrella in my hand, I approached the horse, and with the
impetuosity of an ant that strives to move a large stone with a little
piece of straw, I struck with all my strength on the croup of the
rebellious animal. ‘Oh, thanks, my good lady!’ exclaimed the child,
drying his eyes: ‘hit him again, if you please. Perhaps he will get up.’
“I began again, heroically; but, alas! either from obstinacy or
laziness, the horse bent his knees, and stretched himself out upon the
ground; then, getting entangled with his harness, he tore it, and broke
his great wooden collar. I had drawn back quickly, for fear of receiving
a kick. Upon this new disaster, the child could only throw himself on
his knees in the middle of the street, clasping his hands and sobbing,
and exclaiming in a voice of despair: ‘Help! help!’
“The call was heard; several of the passers-by gathered round, and a
more efficacious correction than mine was administered to the restive
horse, who rose in a vile state, and without harness.
“‘My master will beat me,’ cried the poor child, as his tears redoubled;
‘I am already two hours after time, for the horse would not go, and now
he has broken his harness. My master will beat me, and turn me away. Oh
dear! what will become of me! I have no father nor mother.’
“At these words, uttered with a heart-rending accent, a worthy old
clothes-dealer of the Temple, who was amongst the spectators, exclaimed,
with a kindly air: ‘No father nor mother! Do not grieve so, my poor
little fellow; the Temple can supply everything. We will mend the
harness, and, if my gossips are like me, you shall not go away
bareheaded or barefooted in such weather as this.’
“This proposition was greeted with acclamation; they led away both horse
and child; some were occupied in mending the harness, then one supplied
a cap, another a pair of stockings, another some shoes, and another
a good jacket; in a quarter of an hour the child was warmly clad, the
harness repaired, and a tall lad of eighteen, brandishing a whip, which
he cracked close to the horse’s ears, by way of warning, said to the
little boy, who, gazing first at his new clothes, and then at the good
woman, believed himself the hero of a fairy-tale. ‘Where does your
governor live, little ‘un?’
“‘On the Quai du Canal-Saint-Martin, sir,’ answered he, in a voice
trembling with joy.
“‘Very good,’ said the young man, ‘I will help you take home the horse,
who will go well enough with me, and I will tell the master that the
delay was no fault of your’n. A balky horse ought not to be trusted to a
child of your age.’
“At the moment of setting out, the poor little fellow said timidly to
the good dame, as he took off his cap to her: ‘Will you let me kiss you,
ma’am?’
“His eyes were full of tears of gratitude. There was heart in that
child. This scene of popular charity gave me delightful emotions. As
long as I could, I followed with my eyes the tall young man and the
child, who now could hardly keep up with the pace of the horse, rendered
suddenly docile by fear of the whip.
“Yes! I repeat it with pride; man is naturally good and helpful.
Nothing could have been more spontaneous than this movement of pity and
tenderness in the crowd, when the poor little fellow exclaimed: ‘What
will become of me? I have no father or mother!’
“‘Unfortunate child!’ said I to myself. ‘No father nor mother. In the
hands of a brutal master, who hardly covers him with a few rags, and
ill treats him into the bargain. Sleeping, no doubt in the corner of
a stable. Poor little, fellow! and yet so mild and good, in spite of
misery and misfortune. I saw it--he was even more grateful than pleased
at the service done him. But perhaps this good natural disposition,
abandoned without support or counsel, or help, and exasperated by bad
treatment, may become changed and embittered--and then will come the age
of the passions--the bad temptations--’
“Oh! in the deserted poor, virtue is doubly saintly and respectable!
“This morning, after having (as usual) gently reproached me for not
going to mass, Agricola’s mother said to me these words, so touching in
her simple and believing mouth, ‘Luckily, I pray for you and myself too,
my poor girl; the good God will hear me, and you will only go, I hope,
to Purgatory.’
“Good mother; angelic soul! she spoke those words in so grave and mild
a tone, with so strong a faith in the happy result of her pious
intercession, that I felt my eyes become moist, and I threw myself on
her neck, as sincerely grateful as if I had believed in Purgatory. This
day has been a lucky one for me. I hope I have found work, which luck I
shall owe to a young person full of heart and goodness, she is to take
me to-morrow to St. Mary’s Convent, where she thinks she can find me
employment.”
Florine, already much moved by the reading, started at this passage in
which Mother Bunch alluded to her, ere she continued as follows:
“Never shall I forget with what touching interest, what delicate
benevolence, this handsome young girl received me, so poor, and so
unfortunate. It does not astonish me, for she is attached to the person
of Mdlle. de Cardoville. She must be worthy to reside with Agricola’s
benefactress. It will always be dear and pleasant to me to remember
her name. It is graceful and pretty as her face; it is Florine. I am
nothing, I have nothing--but if the fervent prayers of a grateful heart
might be heard, Mdlle. Florine would be happy, very happy. Alas! I am
reduced to say prayers for her--only prayers--for I can do nothing but
remember and love her!”
These lines, expressing so simply the sincere gratitude of the
hunchback, gave the last blow to Florine’s hesitations. She could no
longer resist the generous temptation she felt. As she read these last
fragments of the journal, her affection and respect for Mother Bunch
made new progress. More than ever she felt how infamous it was in her
to expose to sarcasms and contempt the most secret thoughts of this
unfortunate creature. Happily, good is often as contagious as evil.
Electrified by all that was warm, noble, and magnanimous in the pages
she had just read, Florine bathed her failing virtue in that pure and
vivifying source, and, yielding, at last to one of those good impulses
which sometimes carried her away, she left the room with the manuscript
in her hand, determined, if Mother Bunch had not yet returned, to
replace it--resolved to tell Rodin that, this second time, her search
for the journal had been vain, the sempstress having no doubt discovered
the first attempt.
(26) In the Ruche Populaire, a working man’s organ, are the following
particulars:
“Carding Mattresses.--The dust which flies out of the wool makes carding
destructive to health in any case, but trade adulterations enhance the
danger. In sticking sheep, the skin gets blood-spotted; it has to be
bleached to make it salable. Lime is the main whitener, and some of it
clings to the wool after the process. The dresser (female, most often)
breathes in the fine dust, and, by lung and other complaints, is far
from seldom deplorably situated; the majority sicken of it and give up
the trade, while those who keep to it, at the very least, suffer with a
catarrh or asthma that torments them until death.
“As for horsehair, the very best is not pure. You can judge what the
inferior quality is, from the workgirls calling it vitriol hair, because
it is the refuse or clippings from goats and swine, washed in vitriol,
boiled in dyes, etc., to burn and disguise such foreign bodies as straw.
thorns, splinters, and even bits of skin, not worth picking out. The
dust rising when a mass of this is beaten, makes as many ravages as the
lime-wool.”
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DISCOVERY.
A little while before Florine made up her mind to atone for her shameful
breach of confidence, Mother Bunch had returned from the factory, after
accomplishing to the end her painful task. After a long interview with
Angela, struck, like Agricola, with the ingenuous grace, sense, and
goodness, with which the young girl was endowed, Mother Bunch had the
courageous frankness to advise the smith to enter into this marriage.
The following scene took place whilst Florine, still occupied in reading
the journal, had not yet taken the praiseworthy resolution of replacing
it. It was ten o’clock at night. The workgirl, returned to Cardoville
House, had just entered her chamber. Worn out by so many emotions, she
had thrown herself into a chair. The deepest silence reigned in the
house. It was now and then interrupted by the soughing of a high wind,
which raged without and shook the trees in the garden. A single candle
lighted the room, which was papered with dark green. That peculiar tint,
and the hunchback’s black dress, increased her apparent paleness. Seated
in an arm-chair by the side of the fire, with her head resting upon her
bosom, her hands crossed upon her knees, the work-girl’s countenance
was melancholy and resigned; on it was visible the austere satisfaction
which is felt by the consciousness of a duty well performed.
Like all those who, brought up in the merciless school of misfortune, no
longer exaggerate the sentiment of sorrow, too familiar and assiduous
a guest to be treated as a stranger, Mother Bunch was incapable of
long yielding to idle regrets and vain despair, with regard to what
was already past. Beyond doubt, the blow had been sudden, dreadful;
doubtless it must leave a long and painful remembrance in the sufferer’s
soul; but it was soon to pass, as it were, into that chronic state of
pain-durance, which had become almost an integral part of her life.
And then this noble creature, so indulgent to fate, found still some
consolations in the intensity of her bitter pain. She had been deeply
touched by the marks of affection shown her by Angela, Agricola’s
intended: and she had felt a species of pride of the heart, in
perceiving with what blind confidence, with what ineffable joy, the
smith accepted the favorable presentiments which seemed to consecrate
his happiness. Mother Bunch also said to herself: “At least, henceforth
I shall not be agitated by hopes, or rather by suppositions as
ridiculous as they were senseless. Agricola’s marriage puts a term to
all the miserable reveries of my poor head.”
Finally, she found a real and deep consolation in the certainty that
she had been able to go through this terrible trial, and conceal from
Agricola the love she felt for him. We know how formidable to this
unfortunate being were those ideas of ridicule and shame, which she
believed would attach to the discovery of her mad passion. After having
remained for some time absorbed in thought, Mother Bunch rose, and
advanced slowly towards the desk.
“My only recompense,” said she, as she prepared the materials for
writing, “will be to entrust the mute witness of my pains with this new
grief. I shall at least have kept the promise that I made to myself.
Believing, from the bottom of my soul, that this girl is able to make
Agricola happy, I told him so with the utmost sincerity. One day, a long
time hence, when I shall read over these pages, I shall perhaps find in
that a compensation for all that I now suffer.”
So saying, she drew the box from the pigeon-hole. Not finding her
manuscript, she uttered a cry of surprise; but, what was her alarm, when
she perceived a letter to her address in the place of the journal! She
became deadly pale; her knees trembled; she almost fainted away. But her
increasing terror gave her a fictitious energy, and she had the strength
to break the seal. A bank-note for five hundred francs fell from the
letter on the table, and Mother Bunch read as follows:
“Mademoiselle,--There is something so original and amusing in reading in
your memoirs the story of your love for Agricola, that it is impossible
to resist the pleasure of acquainting him with the extent of it, of
which he is doubtless ignorant, but to which he cannot fail to show
himself sensible. Advantage will be taken to forward it to a multitude
of other persons, who might, perhaps, otherwise be unfortunately
deprived of the amusing contents of your diary. Should copies and
extracts not be sufficient, we will have it printed, as one cannot
too much diffuse such things. Some will weep--others will laugh--what
appears superb to one set of people, will seem ridiculous to another,
such is life--but your journal will surely make a great sensation. As
you are capable of wishing to avoid your triumph, and as you were only
covered with rags when you were received, out of charity into this
house, where you wish to figure as the great lady, which does not suit
your shape for more reasons than one, we enclose in the present five
hundred francs to pay for your day-book, and prevent your being without
resources, in case you should be modest enough to shrink from the
congratulations which await you, certain to overwhelm you by to-morrow,
for, at this hour, your journal is already in circulation.
“One of your brethren,
“A REAL MOTHER BUNCH.”
The vulgar, mocking, and insolent tone of this letter, which was
purposely written in the character of a jealous lackey, dissatisfied
with the admission of the unfortunate creature into the house, had
been calculated with infernal skill and was sure to produce the effect
intended.
“Oh, good heaven!” were the only words the unfortunate girl could
pronounce, in her stupor and alarm.
Now, if we remember in what passionate terms she had expressed her love
for her adopted brother, if we recall many passages of this manuscript,
in which she revealed the painful wounds often inflicted on her by
Agricola without knowing it, and if we consider how great was her
terror of ridicule, we shall understand her mad despair on reading this
infamous letter. Mother Bunch did not think for a moment of all the
noble words and touching narratives contained in her journal. The one
horrible idea which weighed down the troubled spirit of the unfortunate
creature, was, that on the morrow Agricola, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and an
insolent and mocking crowd, would be informed of this ridiculous love,
which would, she imagined, crush her with shame and confusion. This new
blow was so stunning, that the recipient staggered a moment beneath the
unexpected shock. For some minutes, she remained completely inert
and helpless; then, upon reflection, she suddenly felt conscious of a
terrible necessity.
This hospitable mansion, where she had found a sure refuge after so many
misfortunes, must be left for ever. The trembling timidity and sensitive
delicacy of the poor creature did not permit her to remain a minute more
in this dwelling, where the most secret recesses of her soul had been
laid open, profaned, and exposed no doubt to sarcasm and contempt.
She did not think of demanding justice and revenge from Mdlle. de
Cardoville. To cause a ferment of trouble and irritation in this house,
at the moment of quitting it, would have appeared to her ingratitude
towards her benefactress. She did not seek to discover the author or
the motive of this odious robbery and insulting letter. Why should she,
resolved, as she was, to fly from the humiliations with which she was
threatened? She had a vague notion (as indeed was intended), that
this infamy might be the work of some of the servants, jealous of the
affectionate deference shown her by Mdlle. de Cardoville--and this
thought filled her with despair. Those pages--so painfully confidential,
which she would not have ventured to impart to the most tender and
indulgent mother, because, written as it were with her heart’s blood,
they painted with too cruel a fidelity the thousand secret wounds of her
soul--those pages were to serve, perhaps served even now, for the jest
and laughing-stock of the lackeys of the mansion.
The money which accompanied this letter, and the insulting way in which
it was offered, rather tended to confirm her suspicions. It was intended
that the fear of misery should not be the obstacle of her leaving the
house. The workgirl’s resolution was soon taken, with that calm and firm
resignation which was familiar to her. She rose, with somewhat bright
and haggard eyes, but without a tear in them. Since the day before, she
had wept too much. With a trembling, icy hand, she wrote these words
on a paper, which she left by the side of the bank-note: “May Mdlle. de
Cardoville be blessed for all that she has done for me, and forgive me
for having left her house, where I can remain no longer.”
Having written this, Mother Bunch threw into the fire the infamous
letter, which seemed to burn her hands. Then, taking a last look at her
chamber, furnished so comfortably, she shuddered involuntarily as she
thought of the misery that awaited her--a misery more frightful than
that of which she had already been the victim, for Agricola’s mother
had departed with Gabriel, and the unfortunate girl could no longer, as
formerly, be consoled in her distress by the almost maternal affection
of Dagobert’s wife. To live alone--quite alone--with the thought that
her fatal passion for Agricola was laughed at by everybody, perhaps even
by himself--such were the future prospects of the hunchback. This future
terrified her--a dark desire crossed her mind--she shuddered, and an
expression of bitter joy contracted her features. Resolved to go, she
made some steps towards the door, when, in passing before the fireplace,
she saw her own image in the glass, pale as death, and clothed in black;
then it struck her that she wore a dress which did not belong to her,
and she remembered a passage in the letter, which alluded to the rags
she had on before she entered that house. “True!” said she, with a heart
breaking smile, as she looked at her black garments; “they would call me
a thief.”
And, taking her candle, she entered the little dressing room, and put on
again the poor, old clothes, which she had preserved as a sort of pious
remembrance of her misfortunes. Only at this instant did her tears flow
abundantly. She wept--not in sorrow at resuming the garb of misery, but
in gratitude; for all the comforts around her, to which she was about
to bid an eternal adieu, recalled to her mind at every step the delicacy
and goodness of Mdlle. de Cardoville: therefore, yielding to an almost
involuntary impulse, after she had put on her poor, old clothes, she
fell on her knees in the middle of the room, and, addressing herself
in thought to Mdlle. de Cardoville, she exclaimed, in a voice broken by
convulsive sobs: “Adieu! oh, for ever, adieu!--You, that deigned to call
me friend--and sister!”
Suddenly, she rose in alarm; she heard steps in the corridor, which led
from the garden to one of the doors of her apartment, the other door
opening into the parlor. It was Florine, who (alas! too late) was
bringing back the manuscript. Alarmed at this noise of footsteps, and
believing herself already the laughing-stock of the house. Mother Bunch
rushed from the room, hastened across the parlor, gained the court-yard,
and knocked at the window of the porter’s lodge. The house-door opened,
and immediately closed upon her. And so the workgirl left Cardoville
House.
Adrienne was thus deprived of a devoted, faithful, and vigilant
guardian. Rodin was delivered from an active and sagacious antagonist,
whom he had always, with good reason, feared. Having, as we have seen,
guessed Mother Bunch’s love for Agricola, and knowing her to be a
poet, the Jesuit supposed, logically enough that she must have written
secretly some verses inspired by this fatal and concealed passion. Hence
the order given to Florine, to try and discover some written evidence
of this love; hence this letter, so horribly effective in its coarse
ribaldry, of which, it must be observed, Florine did not know the
contents, having received it after communicating a summary of the
contents of the manuscript, which, the first time, she had only glanced
through without taking it away. We have said, that Florine, yielding
too late to a generous repentance, had reached Mother Bunch’s apartment,
just as the latter quitted the house in consternation.
Perceiving a light in the dressing-room, the waiting-maid hastened
thither. She saw upon a chair the black dress that Mother Bunch had just
taken off, and, a few steps further, the shabby little trunk, open and
empty, in which she had hitherto preserved her poor garments. Florine’s
heart sank within her; she ran to the secretary; the disorder of the
card-board boxes, the note for five hundred francs left by the side
of the two lines written to Mdlle. de Cardoville, all proved that her
obedience to Rodin’s orders had borne fatal fruit, and that Mother Bunch
had quitted the house for ever. Finding the uselessness of her tardy
resolution, Florine resigned herself with a sigh to the necessity of
delivering the manuscript to Rodin. Then, forced by the fatality of her
miserable position to console herself for evil by evil, she considered
that the hunchback’s departure would at least make her treachery less
dangerous.
Two days after these events, Adrienne received the following note from
Rodin, in answer to a letter she had written him, to inform him of the
work-girl’s inexplicable departure:
“MY DEAR YOUNG LADY;--Obliged to set out this morning for the factory of
the excellent M. Hardy, whither I am called by an affair of importance,
it is impossible for me to pay you my humble respects. You ask me what I
think of the disappearance of this poor girl? I really do not know. The
future will, I doubt not, explain all to her advantage. Only, remember
what I told you at Dr. Baleinier’s, with regard to a certain society and
its secret emissaries, with whom it has the art of surrounding those
it wishes to keep a watch on. I accuse no one; but let us only recall
facts. This poor girl accused me; and I am, as you know, the most
faithful of your servants. She possessed nothing; and yet five hundred
francs were found in her secretary. You loaded her with favors; and
she leaves your house without even explaining the cause of this
extraordinary flight. I draw no conclusion, my dear young lady; I am
always unwilling to condemn without evidence; but reflect upon all this,
and be on your guard, for you have perhaps escaped a great danger.
Be more circumspect and suspicious than ever; such at least is the
respectful advice of your most obedient, humble servant,
“Rodin.”
CHAPTER XLIX. THE TRYSTING-PLACE OF THE WOLVES.
It was a Sunday morning the very day on which Mdlle. de Cardoville had
received Rodin’s letter with regard to Mother Bunch’s disappearance.
Two men were talking to together, seated at a table in one of the public
houses in the little village of Villiers, situated at no great distance
from Hardy’s factory. The village was for the most part inhabited
by quarrymen and stonecutters, employed in working the neighboring
quarries. Nothing can be ruder and more laborious, and at the same time
less adequately paid, than the work of this class of people. Therefore,
as Agricola had told Mother Bunch, they drew painful comparisons
between their condition, almost always miserable, and the comfort and
comparative ease enjoyed by M. Hardy’s workmen, thanks to his generous
and intelligent management, and to the principles of association
and community which he had put in practice amongst them. Misery and
ignorance are always the cause of great evils. Misery is easily excited
to anger, and ignorance soon yields to perfidious counsels. For a long
time, the happiness of M. Hardy’s workmen had been naturally envied, but
not with a jealousy amounting to hatred. As soon, however, as the secret
enemies of the manufacturer, uniting with his rival Baron Tripeaud,
had an interest in changing this peaceful state of things--it changed
accordingly.
With diabolical skill and perseverance they succeeded in kindling the
most evil passions. By means of chosen emissaries, they applied to those
quarrymen and stonecutters of the neighborhood, whose bad conduct had
aggravated their misery. Notorious for their turbulence, audacity, and
energy, these men might exercise a dangerous influence on the majority
of their companions, who were peaceful, laborious, and honest, but
easily intimidated by violence. These turbulent leaders, previously
embittered by misfortune, were soon impressed with an exaggerated idea
of the happiness of M. Hardy’s workmen, and excited to a jealous hatred
of them. They went still further; the incendiary sermons of an abbe,
a member of the Jesuits, who had come expressly from Paris to preach
during Lent against M. Hardy, acted powerfully on the minds of the
women, who filled the church, whilst their husbands were haunting
the taverns. Profiting by the growing fear, which the approach of the
Cholera then inspired, the preacher struck with terror these weak and
credulous imaginations by pointing to M. Hardy’s factory as a centre
of corruption and damnation, capable of drawing down the vengeance of
Heaven, and bringing the fatal scourge upon the country. Thus the men,
already inflamed with envy, were still more excited by the incessant
urgency of their wives, who, maddened by the abbe’s sermons, poured
their curses on that band of atheists, who might bring down so many
misfortunes upon them and their children. Some bad characters, belonging
to the factory of Baron Tripeaud, and paid by him (for it was a great
interest the honorable manufacturer had in the ruin of M. Hardy), came
to augment the general irritation, and to complete it by raising one
of those alarming union-questions, which in our day have unfortunately
caused so much bloodshed. Many of M. Hardy’s workmen, before they
entered his employ, had belonged to a society or union, called the
Devourers; while many of the stonecutters in the neighboring quarries
belonged to a society called the Wolves. Now, for a long time, an
implacable rivalry had existed between the Wolves and Devourers, and
brought about many sanguinary struggles, which are the more to be
deplored, as, in some respects, the idea of these unions is excellent,
being founded on the fruitful and mighty principle of association.
But unfortunately, instead of embracing all trades in one fraternal
communion, these unions break up the working-class into distinct and
hostile societies, whose rivalry often leads to bloody collisions.(27)
For the last week, the Wolves, excited by so many different
importunities, burned to discover an occasion or a pretext to come
to blows with the Devourers; but the latter, not frequenting the
public-houses, and hardly leaving the factory during the week, had
hitherto rendered such a meeting impossible, and the Wolves had been
forced to wait for the Sunday with ferocious impatience.
Moreover, a great number of the quarrymen and stonecutters, being
peaceable and hard-working people, had refused, though Wolves themselves
to join this hostile manifestation against the Devourers of M. Hardy’s
factory; the leaders had been obliged to recruit their forces from the
vagabonds and idlers of the barriers, whom the attraction of tumult and
disorder had easily enlisted under the flag of the warlike Wolves. Such
then was the dull fermentation, which agitated the little village of
Villiers, whilst the two men of whom we have spoken were at table in the
public-house.
These men had asked for a private room, that they might be alone. One of
them was still young, and pretty well dressed. But the disorder in his
clothes, his loose cravat, his shirt spotted with wine, his dishevelled
hair, his look of fatigue, his marble complexion, his bloodshot eyes,
announced that a night of debauch had preceded this morning; whilst
his abrupt and heavy gesture, his hoarse voice, his look, sometimes
brilliant, and sometimes stupid, proved that to the last fumes of the
intoxication of the night before, were joined the first attacks of a
new state of drunkenness. The companion of this man said to him, as he
touched his glass with his own: “Your health, my boy!”
“Yours!” answered the young man; “though you look to me like the devil.”
“I!--the devil?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“How did you come to know me?”
“Do you repent that you ever knew me?”
“Who told you that I was a prisoner at Sainte-Pelagie?”
“Didn’t I take you out of prison?”
“Why did you take me out?”
“Because I have a good heart.”
“You are very fond of me, perhaps--just as the butcher likes the ox that
he drives to the slaughter-house.”
“Are you mad?”
“A man does not pay a hundred thousand francs for another without a
motive.”
“I have a motive.”
“What is it? what do you want to do with me?”
“A jolly companion that will spend his money like a man, and pass every
night like the last. Good wine, good cheer, pretty girls, and gay songs.
Is that such a bad trade?”
After he had remained a moment without answering, the young man replied
with a gloomy air: “Why, on the eve of my leaving prison, did you attach
this condition to my freedom, that I should write to my mistress to tell
her that I would never see her again! Why did you exact this letter from
me?”
“A sigh! what, are you still thinking of her?”
“Always.”
“You are wrong. Your mistress is far from Paris by this time. I saw
her get into the stage-coach, before I came to take you out of Sainte
Pelagie.”
“Yes, I was stifled in that prison. To get out, I would have given my
soul to the devil. You thought so, and therefore you came to me; only,
instead of my soul, you took Cephyse from me. Poor Bacchanal-Queen! And
why did you do it? Thousand thunders! Will you tell me!”
“A man as much attached to his mistress as you are is no longer a man.
He wants energy, when the occasion requires.”
“What occasion?”
“Let us drink!”
“You make me drink too much brandy.”
“Bah! look at me!”
“That’s what frightens me. It seems something devilish. A bottle of
brandy does not even make you wink. You must have a stomach of iron and
a head of marble.”
“I have long travelled in Russia. There we drink to roast ourselves.”
“And here to only warm. So--let’s drink--but wine.”
“Nonsense! wine is fit for children. Brandy for men like us!”
“Well, then, brandy; but it burns, and sets the head on fire, and then
we see all the flames of hell!”
“That’s how I like to see you, hang it!”
“But when you told me that I was too much attached to my mistress, and
that I should want energy when the occasion required, of what occasion
did you speak?”
“Let us drink!”
“Stop a moment, comrade. I am no more of a fool than others. Your half
words have taught me something.
“Well, what?”
“You know that I have been a workman, that I have many companions, and
that, being a good fellow, I am much liked amongst them. You want me for
a catspaw, to catch other chestnuts?”
“What then?”
“You must be some getter-up of riots--some speculator in revolts.”
“What next?”
“You are travelling for some anonymous society, that trades in musket
shots.”
“Are you a coward?”
“I burned powder in July, I can tell you--make no mistakes!”
“You would not mind burning some again?”
“Just as well that sort of fireworks as any other. Only I find
revolutions more agreeable than useful; all that I got from the
barricades of the three days was burnt breeches and a lost jacket. All
the cause won by me, with its ‘Forward! March!’ says.”
“You know many of Hardy’s workmen?”
“Oh! that’s why you have brought me down here?”
“Yes--you will meet with many of the workmen from the factory.”
“Men from Hardy’s take part in a row? No, no; they are too well off for
that. You have been sold.”
“You will see presently.”
“I tell you they are well off. What have they to complain of?”
“What of their brethren--those who have not so good a master, and die
of hunger and misery, and call on them for assistance? Do you think they
will remain deaf to such a summons? Hardy is only an exception. Let the
people but give a good pull all together, and the exception will become
the rule, and all the world be happy.”
“What you say there is true, but it would be a devil of a pull that
would make an honest man out of my old master, Baron Tripeaud, who made
me what I am--an out-and-out rip.”
“Hardy’s workmen are coming; you are their comrade, and have no interest
in deceiving them. They will believe you. Join with me in persuading
them--”
“To what?”
“To leave this factory, in which they grow effeminate and selfish, and
forget their brothers.”
“But if they leave the factory, how are they to live?”
“We will provide for that--on the great day.”
“And what’s to be done till then?”
“What you have done last night--drink, laugh, sing, and, by way of work,
exercise themselves privately in the use of arms.’
“Who will bring these workmen here?”
“Some one has already spoken to them. They have had printed papers,
reproaching them with indifference to their brothers. Come, will you
support me?”
“I’ll support you--the more readily as I cannot very well support
myself. I only cared for Cephyse in the world; I know that I am on a bad
road; you are pushing me on further; let the ball roll!--Whether we
go to the devil one way or the other is not of much consequence. Let’s
drink.”
“Drink to our next night’s fun; the last was only apprenticeship.”
“Of what then are you made? I looked at you, and never saw you either
blush or smile, or change countenance. You are like a man of iron.”
“I am not a lad of fifteen. It would take something more to make me
laugh. I shall laugh to-night.”
“I don’t know if it’s the brandy; but, devil take me, if you don’t
frighten me when you say you shall laugh tonight!”
So saying, the young man rose, staggering; he began to be once more
intoxicated.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” The host made his appearance.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a young man below, who calls himself Olivier. He asks for M.
Morok.”
“That’s right. Let him came up.” The host went out.
“It is one of our men, but he is alone,” said Morok, whose savage
countenance expressed disappointment. “It astonishes me, for I expected
a good number. Do you know him?”
“Olivier? Yes--a fair chap, I think.”
“We shall see him directly. Here he is.” A young man, with an open,
bold, intelligent countenance, at this moment entered the room.
“What! old Sleepinbuff!” he exclaimed, at sight of Morok’s companion.
“Myself. I have not seen you for an age, Olivier.”
“Simple enough, my boy. We do not work at the same place.”
“But you are alone!” cried Morok; and pointing to Sleepinbuff, he added:
“You may speak before him--he is one of us. But why are you alone?”
“I come alone, but in the name of my comrades.”
“Oh!” said Morok, with a sigh of satisfaction, “they consent.”
“They refuse--just as I do!”
“What, the devil! they refuse? Have they no more courage than women?”
cried Morok, grinding his teeth with rage.
“Hark ye,” answered Olivier, coolly. “We have received your letters,
and seen your agent. We have had proof that he is really connected with
great societies, many members of which are known to us.”
“Well! why do you hesitate?”
“First of all, nothing proves that these societies are ready to make a
movement.”
“I tell you they are.”
“He--tells you--they are,” said Sleepinbuff, stammering “and I (hic!)
affirm it. Forward! March!”
“That’s not enough,” replied Olivier. “Besides, we have reflected upon
it. For a week the factory was divided. Even yesterday the discussion
was too warm to be pleasant. But this morning Father Simon called to
him; we explained ourselves fully before him, and he brought us all to
one mind. We mean to wait, and if any disturbance breaks out, we shall
see.”
“Is that your final word?”
“It is our last word.”
“Silence!” cried Sleepinbuff, suddenly, as he listened, balancing
himself on his tottering legs. “It is like the noise of a crowd not far
off.” A dull sound was indeed audible, which became every moment more
and more distinct, and at length grew formidable.
“What is that?” said Olivier, in surprise.
“Now,” replied Morok, smiling with a sinister air, “I remember the host
told me there was a great ferment in the village against the factory. If
you and your other comrades had separated from Hardy’s other workmen, as
I hoped, these people who are beginning to howl would have been for you,
instead of against you.”
“This was a trap, then, to set one half of M. Hardy’s workmen against
the other!” cried Olivier; “you hoped that we should make common cause
with these people against the factory, and that--”
The young man had not time to finish. A terrible outburst of shouts,
howls, and hisses shook the tavern. At the same instant the door was
abruptly opened, and the host, pale and trembling, hurried into the
chamber, exclaiming: “Gentlemen! do any of you work at M. Hardy’s
factory?”
“I do,” said Olivier.
“Then you are lost. Here are the Wolves in a body, saying there are
Devourers here from M. Hardy’s, and offering them battle--unless the
Devourers will give up the factory, and range themselves on their side.”
“It was a trap, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Olivier, looking at
Morok and Sleepinbuff, with a threatening air; “if my mates had come, we
were all to be let in.”
“I lay a trap, Olivier?” stammered Jacques Rennepont. “Never!”
“Battle to the Devourers! or let them join the Wolves!” cried the angry
crowd with one voice, as they appeared to invade the house.
“Come!” exclaimed the host. Without giving Olivier time to answer, he
seized him by the arm, and opening a window which led to a roof at no
very great height from the ground, he said to him: “Make your escape by
this window, let yourself slide down, and gain the fields; it is time.”
As the young workman hesitated, the host added, with a look of terror:
“Alone, against a couple of hundred, what can you do? A minute more, and
you are lost. Do you not hear them? They have entered the yard; they are
coming up.”
Indeed, at this moment, the groans, the hisses, and cheers redoubled
in violence; the wooden staircase which led to the first story shook
beneath the quick steps of many persons, and the shout arose, loud and
piercing: “Battle to the Devourers!”
“Fly, Olivier!” cried Sleepinbuff, almost sobered by the danger.
Hardly had he pronounced the words when the door of the large room,
which communicated with the small one in which they were, was burst open
with a frightful crash.
“Here they are!” cried the host, clasping his hands in alarm. Then,
running to Olivier, he pushed him, as it were, out of the window; for,
with one foot on the sill, the workman still hesitated.
The window once closed, the publican returned towards Morok the instant
the latter entered the large room, into which the leaders of the Wolves
had just forced an entry, whilst their companions were vociferating in
the yard and on the staircase. Eight or ten of these madmen, urged by
others to take part in these scenes of disorder, had rushed first into
the room, with countenances inflamed by wine and anger; most of them
were armed with long sticks. A blaster, of Herculean strength and
stature, with an old red handkerchief about his head, its ragged
ends streaming over his shoulders, miserably dressed in a half-worn
goat-skin, brandished an iron drilling-rod, and appeared to direct the
movements. With bloodshot eyes, threatening and ferocious countenance,
he advanced towards the small room, as if to drive back Morok, and
exclaimed, in a voice of thunder:
“Where are the Devourers?--the Wolves will eat ‘em up!”
The host hastened to open the door of the small room, saying: “There is
no one here, my friends--no one. Look for yourselves.”
“It is true,” said the quarryman, surprised, after peeping into the
room; “where are they, then? We were told there were a dozen of them
here. They should have marched with us against the factory, or there’d
‘a been a battle, and the Wolves would have tried their teeth!”
“If they have not come,” said another, “they will come. Let’s wait.”
“Yes, yes; we will wait for them.”
“We will look close at each other.”
“If the Wolves want to see the Devourers,” said Morok, “why not go and
howl round the factory of the miscreant atheists? At the first howl of
the Wolves they will come out, and give you battle.”
“They will give you--battle,” repeated Sleepinbuff, mechanically.
“Unless the Wolves are afraid of the Devourers,” added Morok.
“Since you talk of fear, you shall go with us, and see who’s afraid!”
cried the formidable blaster, and in a thundering voice, he advanced
towards Morok.
A number of voices joined in with, “Who says the Wolves are afraid of
the Devourers?”
“It would be the first time!”
“Battle! battle! and make an end of it!”
“We are tired of all this. Why should we be so miserable, and they so
well off?”
“They have said that quarrymen are brutes, only fit to torn wheels in a
shaft, like dogs to turn spits,” cried an emissary of Baron Tripeaud’s.
“And that the Devourers would make themselves caps with wolf-skin,”
added another.
“Neither they nor their wives ever go to mass. They are pagans and
dogs!” cried an emissary of the preaching abbe.
“The men might keep their Sunday as they pleased; but their wives not to
go to mass!--it is abominable.
“And, therefore, the curate has said that their factory, because of its
abominations, might bring down the cholera to the country.”
“True? he said that in his sermon.”
“Our wives heard it.”
“Yes, yes; down with the Devourers, who want to bring the cholera on the
country!”
“Hooray, for a fight!” cried the crowd in chorus.
“To the factory, my brave Wolves!” cried Morok, with the voice of a
Stentor; “on to the factory!”
“Yes! to the factory! to the factory!” repeated the crowd, with furious
stamping; for, little by little, all who could force their way into the
room, or up the stairs, had there collected together.
These furious cries recalling Jacques for a moment to his senses, he
whispered to Morok: “It is slaughter you would provoke? I wash my hands
of it.”
“We shall have time to let them know at the factory. We can give these
fellows the slip on the road,” answered Morok. Then he cried aloud,
addressing the host, who was terrified at this disorder: “Brandy!--let
us drink to the health of the brave Wolves! I will stand treat.” He
threw some money to the host, who disappeared, and soon returned with
several bottles of brandy, and some glasses.
“What! glasses?” cried Morok. “Do jolly companions, like we are, drink
out of glasses?” So saying, he forced out one of the corks, raised the
neck of the bottle to his lips, and, having drunk a deep draught, passed
it to the gigantic quarryman.
“That’s the thing!” said the latter. “Here’s in honor of the
treat!--None but a sneak will refuse, for this stuff will sharpen the
Wolves’ teeth!”
“Here’s to your health, mates!” said Morok, distributing the bottles.
“There will be blood at the end of all this,” muttered Sleepinbuff, who,
in spite of his intoxication, perceived all the danger of these fatal
incitements. Indeed, a large portion of the crowd was already quitting
the yard of the public-house, and advancing rapidly towards M. Hardy’s
factory.
Those of the workmen and inhabitants of the village, who had not chosen
to take any part in this movement of hostility (they were the majority),
did not make their appearance, as this threatening troop passed along
the principal street; but a good number of women, excited to fanaticism
by the sermons of the abbe, encouraged the warlike assemblage with
their cries. At the head of the troop advanced the gigantic blaster,
brandishing his formidable bar, followed by a motley mass, armed with
sticks and stones. Their heads still warmed by their recent libations
of brandy, they had now attained a frightful state of frenzy. Their
countenances were ferocious, inflamed, terrible. This unchaining of
the worst passions seemed to forbode the most deplorable consequences.
Holding each other arm-in-arm, and walking four or five together, the
Wolves gave vent to their excitement in war-songs, which closed with the
following verse:
“Forward! full of assurance! Let us try our vigorous arms! They have
wearied out our prudence; Let us show we’ve no alarms. Sprung from a
monarch glorious,(28) To-day we’ll not grow pale, Whether we win the
fight, or fail, Whether we die, or are victorious! Children of Solomon,
mighty king, All your efforts together bring, Till in triumph we shall
sing!”
Morok and Jacques had disappeared whilst the tumultuous troop were
leaving the tavern to hasten to the factory.
(27) Let it be noted, to the working-man’s credit, that such outrageous
scenes become more and more rare as he is enlightened to the full
consciousness of his worth. Such better tendencies are to be attributed
to the just influence of an excellent tract on trades’ union written
by M. Agricole Perdignier, and published in 1841, Paris. This author, a
joiner, founded at his own expense an establishment in the Faubourg St.
Antoine, where some forty or fifty of his trade lodged, and were given,
after the day’s work, a course of geometry, etc., applied to wood
carving. We went to one of the lectures, and found as much clearness
in the professor as attention and intelligence in the audience. At ten,
after reading selections, all the lodgers retire, forced by their scanty
wages to sleep, perhaps, four in a room. M. Perdignier informed us that
study and instruction were such powerful ameliorators, that, during
six years, he had only one of his lodgers to expel. “In a few days,”
he remarked, “the bad eggs find out, this is no place for them to addle
sound ones!” We are happy to hear, reader, public homage to a learned
and upright man, devoted to his fellow-workmen.
(28) The Wolves (among others) ascribe the institution of their company
to King Solomon. See the curious work by M. Agricole Perdignier, from
which the war-song is extracted.
CHAPTER L. THE COMMON DWELLING-HOUSE
Whilst the Wolves, as we have just seen, prepared a savage attack on
the Devourers, the factory of M. Hardy had that morning a festal air,
perfectly in accordance with the serenity of the sky; for the wind was
from the north, and pretty sharp for a fine day in March. The clock had
just struck nine in the Common Dwelling-house of the workmen, separated
from the workshops by a broad path planted with trees. The rising sun
bathed in light this imposing mass of buildings, situated a league from
Paris, in a gay and salubrious locality, from which were visible the
woody and picturesque hills, that on this side overlook the great city.
Nothing could be plainer, and yet more cheerful than the aspect of the
Common Dwelling-house of the workmen. Its slanting roof of red tiles
projected over white walls, divided here and there by broad rows of
bricks, which contrasted agreeably with the green color of the blinds on
the first and second stories.
These buildings, open to the south and east, were surrounded by a large
garden of about ten acres, partly planted with trees, and partly laid
out in fruit and kitchen-garden. Before continuing this description,
which perhaps will appear a little like a fairy-tale, let us begin by
saying, that the wonders, of which we are about to present the sketch,
must not to be considered Utopian dreams; nothing, on the contrary,
could be of a more positive character, and we are able to assert, and
even to prove (what in our time is of great weight and interest),
that these wonders were the result of an excellent speculation, and
represented an investment as lucrative as it was secure. To undertake
a vast, noble, and most useful enterprise; to bestow on a considerable
number of human creatures an ideal prosperity, compared with the
frightful, almost homicidal doom, to which they are generally condemned;
to instruct them, and elevate them in their own esteem; to make them
prefer to the coarse pleasures of the tavern, or rather to the fatal
oblivion which they find there, as an escape from the consciousness
of their deplorable destiny, the pleasures, of the intellect and the
enjoyments of art; in a word, to make men moral by making them happy,
and finally, thanks to this generous example, so easy of imitation, to
take a place amongst the benefactors of humanity--and yet, at the same
time to do, as it were, without knowing it, an excellent stroke of
business--may appear fabulous. And yet this was the secret of the
wonders of which we speak.
Let us enter the interior of the factory. Ignorant of Mother Bunch’s
cruel disappearance, Agricola gave himself up to the most happy,
thoughts as he recalled Angela’s image, and, having finished dressing
with unusual care, went in search of his betrothed.
Let us say two words on the subject of the lodging, which the smith
occupied in the Common Dwelling-house, at the incredibly low rate
of seventy-five francs per annum like the other bachelors on the
establishment. This lodging, situated on the second story, was comprised
of a capital chamber and bedroom, with a southern aspect, and looking
on the garden; the pine floor was perfectly white and clean; the iron
bedstead was supplied with a good mattress and warm coverings; a gas
burner and a warm-air pipe were also introduced into the rooms, to
furnish light and heat as required; the walls were hung with pretty
fancy papering, and had curtains to match; a chest of drawers, a walnut
table, a few chairs, a small library, comprised Agricola’s furniture.
Finally, in the large and light closet, was a place for his clothes, a
dressing table, and large zinc basin, with an ample supply of water.
If we compare this agreeable, salubrious, comfortable lodging, with the
dark, icy, dilapidated garret, for which the worthy fellow paid ninety
francs at his mother’s, and to get to which he had more than a league
and a half to go every evening, we shall understand the sacrifice he
made to his affection for that excellent woman.
Agricola, after casting a last glance of tolerable satisfaction at his
looking-glass, while he combed his moustache and imperial, quitted his
chamber, to go and join Angela in the women’s workroom. The corridor,
along which he had to pass, was broad, well-lighted from above, floored
with pine, and extremely clean. Notwithstanding some seeds of discord
which had been lately sown by M. Hardy’s enemies amongst his workmen,
until now so fraternally united, joyous songs were heard in almost
all the apartments which skirted the corridor, and, as Agricola passed
before several open doors, he exchanged a cordial good-morrow with many
of his comrades. The smith hastily descended the stairs, crossed
the court yard, in which was a grass-plot planted with trees, with a
fountain in the centre, and gained the other wing of the building. There
was the workroom, in which a portion of the wives and daughters of the
associated artisans, who happened not to be employed in the factory,
occupied themselves in making up the linen. This labor, joined to the
enormous saving effected by the purchase of the materials wholesale,
reduced to an incredible extent the price of each article. After
passing through this workroom, a vast apartment looking on the garden,
well-aired in summer,(29) and well-warmed in winter, Agricola knocked at
the door of the rooms occupied by Angela’s mother.
If we say a few words with regard to this lodging, situated on the first
story, with an eastern aspect, and also looking on the garden, it is
that we may tape it as a specimen of the habitation of a family in this
association, supplied at the incredibly small price of one hundred and
twenty-five francs per annum.
A small entrance, opening on the corridor, led to a large room, on each
side of which was a smaller chamber, destined for the family, when the
boys and girls were too big to continue to sleep in the two dormitories,
arranged after the fashion of a large school, and reserved for the
children of both sexes. Every night the superintendence of these
dormitories was entrusted to a father and mother of a family, belonging
to the association. The lodging of which we speak, being, like all the
others, disencumbered of the paraphernalia of a kitchen--for the
cooking was done in common, and on a large scale, in another part of the
building--was kept extremely clean. A pretty large piece of carpet,
a comfortable arm-chair, some pretty-looking china on a stand of well
polished wood, some prints hung against the walls, a clock of gilt
bronze, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a mahogany secretary, announced
that the inhabitants of this apartment enjoyed not only the necessaries,
but some of the luxuries of life. Angela, who, from this time, might
be called Agricola’s betrothed, justified in every point the flattering
portrait which the smith had drawn of her in his interview with poor
Mother Bunch. The charming girl, seventeen years of age at most, dressed
with as much simplicity as neatness, was seated by the side of her
mother. When Agricola entered, she blushed slightly at seeing him.
“Mademoiselle,” said Agricola, “I have come to keep my promise, if your
mother has no objection.”
“Certainly, M. Agricola,” answered the mother of the young girl
cordially. “She would not go over the Common Dwelling-house with her
father, her brother, or me, because she wished to have that pleasure
with you today. It is quite right that you, who can talk so well, should
do the honors of the house to the new-comer. She has been waiting for
you an hour, and with such impatience!”
“Pray excuse me, mademoiselle,” said Agricola, gayly; “in thinking of
the pleasure of seeing you, I forgot the hour. That is my only excuse.”
“Oh, mother!” said the young girl, in a tone of mild reproach, and
becoming red as a cherry, “why did you say that?”
“Is it true, yes or no? I do not blame you for it; on the contrary. Go
with M. Agricola, child, and he will tell you, better than I can, what
all the workmen of the factory owe to M, Hardy.”
“M. Agricola,” said Angela, tying the ribbons of her pretty cap, “what a
pity that your good little adopted sister is not with us.”
“Mother Bunch?--yes, you are right, mademoiselle; but that is only a
pleasure put off, and the visit she paid us yesterday will not be the
last.”
Having embraced her mother, the girl took Agricola’s arm, and they went
out together.
“Dear me, M. Agricola,” said Angela; “if you knew how much I was
surprised on entering this fine house, after being accustomed to see so
much misery amongst the poor workmen in our country, and in which I too
have had my share, whilst here everybody seems happy and contented. It
is really like fairy-land; I think I am in a dream, and when I ask my
mother the explanation of these wonders, she tells me, ‘M. Agricola will
explain it all to you.’”
“Do you know why I am so happy to undertake that delightful task,
mademoiselle?” said Agricola, with an accent at once grave and tender.
“Nothing could be more in season.”
“Why so, M. Agricola?”
“Because, to show you this house, to make you acquainted with all the
resources of our association, is to be able to say to you: ‘Here, the
workman, sure of the present, sure of the future, is not, like so many
of his poor brothers, obliged to renounce the sweetest want of the
heart--the desire of choosing a companion for life--in the fear of
uniting misery to misery.”’
Angela cast down her eyes, and blushed.
“Here the workman may safely yield to the hope of knowing the sweet joys
of a family, sure of not having his heart torn hereafter by the sight
of the horrible privations of those who are dear to him; here, thanks to
order and industry, and the wise employment of the strength of all, men,
women, and children live happy and contented. In a ward, to explain all
this to you, mademoiselle,” added Agricola, smiling with a still more
tender air, “is to prove, that here we can do nothing more reasonable
than love, nothing wiser than marry.”
“M. Agricola,” answered Angela, in a slightly agitated voice, and
blushing still more as she spoke, “suppose we were to begin our walk.”
“Directly, mademoiselle,” replied the smith, pleased at the trouble
he had excited in that ingenuous soul. “But, come; we are near the
dormitory of the little girls. The chirping birds have long left their
nests. Let us go there.”
“Willingly, M. Agricola.”
The young smith and Angela soon entered a spacious dormitory, resembling
that of a first-rate boarding school. The little iron bedsteads were
arranged in symmetrical order; at each end were the beds of the two
mothers of families, who took the superintendence by turns.
“Dear me! how well it is arranged, M. Agricola, and how neat and clean!
Who is it that takes such good care of it?”
“The children themselves; we have no servants here. There is an
extraordinary emulation between these urchins--as to who shall make her
bed most neatly, and it amuses them quite as much as making a bed for
their dolls. Little girls, you know, delight in playing at keeping
house. Well, here they play at it in good earnest, and the house is
admirably kept in consequence.”
“Oh! I understand. They turn to account their natural taste for all such
kinds of amusement.”
“That is the whole secret. You will see them everywhere usefully
occupied, and delighted at the importance of the employments given
them.”
“Oh, M. Agricola!” said Angela, timidly, “only compare these fine
dormitories, so warm and healthy, with the horrible icy garrets, where
children are heaped pell-mell on a wretched straw-mattress, shivering
with cold, as in the case with almost all the workmen’s families in our
country!”
“And in Paris, mademoiselle, it is even worse.”
“Oh! how kind, generous, and rich must M. Hardy be, to spend so much
money in doing good!”
“I am going to astonish you, mademoiselle!” said Agricola, with a smile;
“to astonish you so much, that perhaps you will not believe me.”
“Why so, M. Agricola?”
“There is not certainly in the world a man with a better and more
generous heart than M. Hardy; he does good for its own sake and without
thinking of his personal interest. And yet, Mdlle. Angela, were he the
most selfish and avaricious of men, he would still find it greatly to
his advantage to put us in a position to be as comfortable as we are.”
“Is it possible, M. Agricola? You tell me so, and I believe it; but if
good can so easily be done, if there is even an advantage in doing it,
why is it not more commonly attempted?”
“Ah! mademoiselle, it requires three gifts very rarely met with in the
same person--knowledge, power and will.”
“Alas! yes. Those who have the knowledge, have not the power.”
“And those who have the power, have neither the knowledge nor the will.”
“But how does M. Hardy find any advantage in the good he does for you?”
“I will explain that presently, mademoiselle.”
“Oh, what a nice, sweet smell of fruit!” said Angela, suddenly.
“Our common fruit-store is close at hand. I wager we shall find there
some of the little birds from the dormitory--not occupied in picking and
stealing, but hard at work.”
Opening a door, Agricola led Angela into a large room, furnished with
shelves, on which the winter fruits were arranged in order. A number
of children, from seven to eight years old, neatly and warmly clad,
and glowing with health, exerted themselves cheerfully, under the
superintendence of a woman, in separating and sorting the spoiled fruit.
“You see,” said Agricola, “wherever it is possible, we make use of the
children. These occupations are amusements for them, answering to the
need of movement and activity natural to their age; and, in this way, we
can employ the grown girls and the women to much better advantage.”
“True, M. Agricola; how well it is all arranged.”
“And if you saw what services the urchins in the kitchen render!
Directed by one or two women, they do the work of eight or ten
servants.”
“In fact,” said Angela, smiling, “at their age, we like so much to play
at cooking dinner. They must be delighted.”
“And, in the same way, under pretext of playing at gardening, they weed
the ground, gather the fruit and vegetables, water the flowers, roll the
paths, and so on. In a word, this army of infant-workers, who generally
remain till ten or twelve years of age without being of any service,
are here very useful. Except three hours of school, which is quite
sufficient for them, from the age of six or seven their recreations are
turned to good account, and the dear little creatures, by the saving of
full-grown arms which they effect, actually gain more than they cost;
and then, mademoiselle, do you not think there is something in the
presence of childhood thus mixed up with every labor--something mild,
pure, almost sacred, which has its influence on our words and actions,
and imposes a salutary reserve? The coarsest man will respect the
presence of children.”
“The more one reflects, the more one sees that everything here is really
designed for the happiness of all!” said Angela, in admiration.
“It has not been done without trouble. It was necessary to conquer
prejudices, and break through customs. But see, Mdlle. Angela! here we
are at the kitchen,” added the smith, smiling; “is it not as imposing as
that of a barrack or a public school?”
Indeed, the culinary department of the Common Dwelling-house was
immense. All its utensils were bright and clean; and thanks to the
marvellous and economical inventions of modern science (which are always
beyond the reach of the poorer classes, to whom they are most necessary,
because they can only be practised on a large scale), not only the fire
on the hearth, and in the stoves, was fed with half the quantity of
fuel that would have been consumed by each family individually, but the
excess of the caloric sufficed, with the aid of well-constructed tubes,
to spread a mild and equal warmth through all parts of the house. And
here also children, under the direction of two women, rendered numerous
services. Nothing could be more comic than the serious manner in which
they performed their culinary functions; it was the same with the
assistance they gave in the bakehouse, where, at an extraordinary saving
in the price (for they bought flour wholesale), they made an excellent
household bread, composed of pure wheat and rye, so preferable to
that whiter bread, which too often owes its apparent qualities to some
deleterious substance.
“Good-day, Dame Bertrand,” said Agricola, gayly, to a worthy matron, who
was gravely contemplating the slow evolution of several spits, worthy
of Gamache’s Wedding so heavily were they laden with pieces of beef,
mutton, and veal, which began to assume a fine golden brown color of the
most attractive kind; “good-day, Dame Bertrand. According to the rule,
I do not pass the threshold of the kitchen. I only wish it to be admired
by this young lady, who is a new-comer amongst us.”
“Admire, my lad, pray admire--and above all take notice, how good these
brats are, and how well they work!” So saying, the matron pointed with
the long ladle, which served her as a sceptre, to some fifteen children
of both sexes, seated round a table, and deeply absorbed in the exercise
of their functions, which consisted in peeling potatoes and picking
herbs.
“We are, I see, to have a downright Belshazzar’s feast, Dame Bertrand?”
said Agricola, laughing.
“Faith, a feast like we have always, my lad. Here is our bill of fare
for to-day. A good vegetable soup, roast beef with potatoes, salad,
fruit, cheese; and for extras, it being Sunday, some currant tarts made
by Mother Denis at the bakehouse, where the oven is heating now.”
“What you tell me, Dame Bertrand, gives me a furious appetite,” said
Agricola, gayly. “One soon knows when it is your turn in the kitchen,”
added he, with a flattering air.
“Get along, do!” said the female Soyer on service, merrily.
“What astonishes me, so much, M. Agricola,” said Angela, as they
continued their walk, “is the comparison of the insufficient,
unwholesome food of the workmen in our country, with that which is
provided here.”
“And yet we do not spend more than twenty-five sous a day, for much
better food than we should get for three francs in Paris.”
“But really it is hard to believe, M. Agricola. How is it possible?”
“It is thanks to the magic wand of M. Hardy. I will explain it all
presently.”
“Oh! how impatient I am to see M. Hardy!”
“You will soon see him--perhaps to-day; for he is expected every moment.
But here is the refectory, which you do not yet know, as your family,
like many others, prefer dining at home. See what a fine room, looking
out on the garden, just opposite the fountain!”
It was indeed a vast hall, built in the form of a gallery, with ten
windows opening on the garden. Tables, covered with shining oil-cloth,
were ranged along the walls, so that, in winter, this apartment
served in the evening, after work, as a place of meeting for those who
preferred to pass an hour together, instead of remaining alone or with
their families. Then, in this large hall, well warmed and brilliantly
lighted with gas, some read, some played cards, some talked, and some
occupied themselves with easy work.
“That is not all,” said Agricola to the young girl; “I am sure you will
like this apartment still better when I tell you, that on Thursdays
and Sundays we make a ball-room of it, and on Tuesdays and Saturdays a
concert-room.”
“Really!”
“Yes,” continued the smith, proudly, “we have amongst us musicians,
quite capable of tempting us to dance. Moreover, twice a week, nearly
all of us sing in chorus--men, women, and children. Unfortunately, this
week, some disputes that have arisen in the factory have prevented our
concerts.”
“So many voices! that must be superb.”
“It is very fine, I assure you. M. Hardy has always encouraged this
amusement amongst us, which has, he says--and he is right--so powerful
an effect on the mind and the manners. One winter, he sent for two
pupils of the celebrated Wilhelm, and, since then, our school has made
great progress. I assure you, Mdlle. Angela, that, without flattering
ourselves, there is something truly exciting in the sound of two hundred
voices, singing in chorus some hymn to Labor or Freedom. You shall hear
it, and you will, I think, acknowledge that there is something great
and elevating in the heart of man, in this fraternal harmony of voices,
blending in one grave, sonorous, imposing sound.”
“Oh! I believe it. But what happiness to inhabit here. It is a life of
joy; for labor, mixed with recreation, becomes itself a pleasure.”
“Alas! here, as everywhere, there are tears and sorrows,” replied
Agricola, sadly. “Do you see that isolated building, in a very exposed
situation?”
“Yes; what is it?”
“That is our hospital for the sick. Happily, thanks to our healthy mode
of life, it is not often full; an annual subscription enables us to have
a good doctor. Moreover, a mutual benefit society is arranged in such a
manner amongst us, that any one of us, in case of illness, receives two
thirds of what he would have gained in health.”
“How well it is all managed! And there, M. Agricola, on the other side
of the grass-plot?”
“That is the wash-house, with water laid on, cold and hot; and under
yonder shed is the drying-place: further on, you see the stables, and
the lofts and granaries for the provender of the factory horses.”
“But M. Agricola, will you tell me the secret of all these wonders?”
“In ten minutes you shall understand it all, mademoiselle.”
Unfortunately, Angela’s curiosity was for a while disappointed. The girl
was now standing with Agricola close to the iron gate, which shut in the
garden from the broad avenue that separated the factory from the Common
Dwelling-house. Suddenly, the wind brought from the distance the sound
of trumpets and military music; then was heard the gallop of two
horses, approaching rapidly, and soon after a general officer made his
appearance, mounted on a fine black charger, with a long flowing tail
and crimson housings; he wore cavalry boots and white breeches, after
the fashion of the empire; his uniform glittered with gold embroidery,
the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor was passed over his right epaulet,
with its four silver stars, and his hat had a broad gold border, and
was crowned with a white plume, the distinctive sign reserved for
the marshals of France. No warrior could have had a more martial and
chivalrous air, or have sat more proudly on his war-horse. At the moment
Marshal Simon (for it was he) arrived opposite the place where Angela
and Agricola were standing, he drew up his horse suddenly, sprang
lightly to the ground, and threw the golden reins to a servant in
livery, who followed also on horseback.
“Where shall I wait for your grace?” asked the groom.
“At the end of the avenue,” said the marshal.
And, uncovering his head respectfully, he advanced hastily with his
hat in his hand, to meet a person whom Angela and Agricola had not
previously perceived. This person soon appeared at a turn of the avenue;
he was an old man, with an energetic, intelligent countenance. He wore
a very neat blouse, and a cloth cap over his long, white hair. With his
hands in his pocket, he was quietly smoking an old meerschaum pipe.
“Good-morning, father,” said the marshal, respectfully, as he
affectionately embraced the old workman, who, having tenderly returned
the pressure, said to him: “Put on your hat, my boy. But how gay we
are!” added he, with a smile.
“I have just been to a review, father, close by; and I took the
opportunity to call on you as soon as possible.”
“But shall I then not see my granddaughters to-day, as I do every
Sunday?”
“They are coming in a carriage, father, and Dagobert accompanies them.”
“But what is the matter? you appear full of thought.”
“Indeed, father,” said the marshal, with a somewhat agitated air, “I
have serious things to talk about.”
“Come in, then,” said the old man, with some anxiety. The marshal and
his father disappeared at the turn of the avenue.
Angela had been struck with amazement at seeing this brilliant General,
who was entitled “your grace,” salute an old workman in a blouse as his
father; and, looking at Agricola with a confused air she said to him:
“What, M. Agricola! this old workman--”
“Is the father of Marshal Duke de Ligny--the friend--yes, I may say the
friend,” added Agricola, with emotion, “of my father, who for twenty
years served under him in war.’
“To be placed so high, and yet to be so respectful and tender to his
father!” said Angela. “The marshal must have a very noble heart; but why
does he let his father remain a workman?”
“Because Father Simon will not quit his trade and the factory for
anything in the world. He was born a workman, and he will die a workman,
though he is the father of a duke and marshal of France.”
(29) See Adolphe Bobierre “On Air and Health,” Paris, 1844.
CHAPTER LI. THE SECRET.
When the very natural astonishment which the arrival of Marshal Simon
had caused in Angela had passed away, Agricola said to her with a smile:
“I do not wish to take advantage of this circumstance, Mdlle. Angela,
to spare you the account of the secret, by which all the wonders of our
Common Dwelling-house are brought to pass.”
“Oh! I should not have let you forget your promise, M. Agricola,”
answered Angela, “what you have already told me interests me too much
for that.”
“Listen, then. M. Hardy, like a true magician, has pronounced three
cabalistic words: ASSOCIATION--COMMUNITY--FRATERNITY. We have understood
the sense of these words, and the wonders you have seen have sprung from
them, to our great advantage; and also, I repeat, to the great advantage
of M. Hardy.”
“It is that which appears so extraordinary, M. Agricola.”
“Suppose, mademoiselle, that M. Hardy, instead of being what he is, had
only been a cold-hearted speculator, looking merely to the profit, and
saying to himself: ‘To make the most of my factory, what is needed?
Good work--great economy in the raw material--full employment of the
workman’s time; in a word, cheapness of manufacture, in order to produce
cheaply--excellence of the thing produced, in order to sell dear.’”
“Truly, M. Agricola, no manufacturer could desire more.”
“Well, mademoiselle, these conditions might have been fulfilled, as they
have been, but how? Had M. Hardy only been a speculator, he might have
said: ‘At a distance from my factory, my workmen might have trouble to
get there: rising earlier, they will sleep less; it is a bad economy
to take from the sleep so necessary to those who toil. When they get
feeble, the work suffers for it; then the inclemency of the seasons
makes it worse; the workman arrives wet, trembling with cold, enervated
before he begins to work--and then, what work!’”
“It is unfortunately but too true, M. Agricola. At Lille, when I reached
the factory, wet through with a cold rain, I used sometimes to shiver
all day long at my work.”
“Therefore, Mdlle. Angela, the speculator might say: ‘To lodge
my workmen close to the door of my factory would obviate this
inconvenience. Let us make the calculation. In Paris the married workman
pays about two hundred and fifty francs a-year,(30) for one or two
wretched rooms and a closet, dark, small, unhealthy, in a narrow,
miserable street; there he lives pell-mell with his family. What ruined
constitutions are the consequence! and what sort of work can you expect
from a feverish and diseased creature? As for the single men, they pay
for a smaller, and quite as unwholesome lodging, about one hundred and
fifty francs a-year. Now, let us make the addition. I employ one hundred
and forty-six married workmen, who pay together, for their wretched
holes, thirty-six thousand five hundred francs; I employ also one
hundred and fifteen bachelors, who pay at the rate of seventeen thousand
two hundred and eighty francs; the total will amount to about fifty
thousand francs per annum, the interest on a million.”’
“Dear me, M. Agricola! what a sum to be produced by uniting all these
little rents together!”
“You see, mademoiselle, that fifty thousand francs a-year is a
millionaire’s rent. Now, what says our speculator: To induce our workmen
to leave Paris, I will offer them, enormous advantages. I will reduce
their rent one-half, and, instead of small, unwholesome rooms, they
shall have large, airy apartments, well-warmed and lighted, at a
trifling charge. Thus, one hundred and forty-six families, paying me
only one hundred and twenty-five francs a-year, and one hundred
and fifteen bachelors, seventy-five francs, I shall have a total of
twenty-six to twenty-seven thousand francs. Now, a building large enough
to hold all these people would cost me at most five hundred thousand
francs.(31) I shall then have invested my money at five per cent at the
least, and with perfect security, since the wages is a guarantee for the
payment of the rent.’”
“Ah, M. Agricola! I begin to understand how it may sometimes be
advantageous to do good, even in a pecuniary sense.”
“And I am almost certain, mademoiselle, that, in the long run, affairs
conducted with uprightness and honesty turn out well. But to return to
our speculator. ‘Here,’ will he say, ‘are my workmen, living close to
my factory, well lodged, well warmed, and arriving always fresh at
their work. That is not all; the English workman who eats good beef, and
drinks good beer, does twice as much, in the same time, as the French
workman,(32) reduced to a detestable kind of food, rather weakening than
the reverse, thanks to the poisonous adulteration of the articles he
consumes. My workmen will then labor much better, if they eat much
better. How shall I manage it without loss? Now I think of it, what
is the food in barracks, schools, even prisons? Is it not the union of
individual resources which procures an amount of comfort impossible to
realize without such an association? Now, if my two hundred and sixty
workmen, instead of cooking two hundred and sixty detestable dinners,
were to unite to prepare one good dinner for all of them, which might
be done, thanks to the savings of all sorts that would ensue, what an
advantage for me and them! Two or three women, aided by children, would
suffice to make ready the daily repasts; instead of buying wood and
charcoal in fractions,(33) and so paying for it double its value, the
association of my workmen would, upon my security (their wages would be
an efficient security for me in return), lay in their own stock of wood,
flour, butter, oil, wine, etc., all which they would procure directly
from the producers. Thus, they would pay three or four sous for a bottle
of pure wholesome wine, instead of paying twelve or fifteen sous for
poison. Every week the association would buy a whole ox, and some sheep,
and the women would make bread, as in the country. Finally, with these
resources, and order, and economy, my workmen may have wholesome,
agreeable, and sufficient food, for from twenty to twenty-five sous a
day.’”
“Ah! this explains it, M. Agricola.”
“It is not all, mademoiselle. Our cool-headed speculator would continue:
‘Here are my workmen well lodged, well warmed, well fed, with a saving
of at least half; why should they not also be warmly clad? Their health
will then have every chance of being good, and health is labor. The
association will buy wholesale, and at the manufacturing price (still
upon my security, secured to me by their wages), warm, good, strong
materials, which a portion of the workmen’s wives will be able to make
into clothes as well as any tailor. Finally, the consumption of caps and
shoes being considerable, the association will obtain them at a great
reduction in price.’ Well, Mdlle. Angela! what do you say to our
speculator?”
“I say, M. Agricola,” answered the young girl; with ingenuous
admiration, “that it is almost incredible, and yet so simple!”
“No doubt, nothing is more simple than the good and beautiful, and yet
we think of it so seldom. Observe, that our man has only been speaking
with a view to his own interest--only considering the material side of
the question--reckoning for nothing the habit of fraternity and mutual
aid, which inevitably springs from living together in common--not
reflecting that a better mode of life improves and softens the character
of man--not thinking of the support and instruction which the strong owe
to the weak--not acknowledging, in fine, that the honest, active, and
industrious man has a positive right to demand employment from
society, and wages proportionate to the wants of his condition. No,
our speculator only thinks of the gross profits; and yet, you see, he
invests his money in buildings at five per cent., and finds the greatest
advantages in the material comfort of his workmen.”
“It is true, M. Agricola.”
“And what will you say, mademoiselle, when I prove to you that our
speculator finds also a great advantage in giving to his workmen, in
addition to their regular wages, a proportionate share of his profits?”
“That appears to me more difficult to prove, M. Agricola.”
“Yet I will convince you of it in a few minutes.”
Thus conversing, Angela and Agricola had reached the garden-gate of the
Common Dwelling-house. An elderly woman, dressed plainly, but with care
and neatness, approached Agricola, and asked him: “Has M. Hardy returned
to the factory, sir?”
“No, madame; but we expect him hourly.”
“To-day, perhaps?”
“To-day or to-morrow, madame.”
“You cannot tell me at what hour he will be here?”
“I do not think it is known, madame, but the porter of the factory,
who also belongs to M. Hardy’s private house, may, perhaps, be able to
inform you.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“Quite welcome, madame.”
“M. Agricola,” said Angela, when the woman who had just questioned him
was gone, “did you remark that this lady was very pale and agitated?”
“I noticed it as you did, mademoiselle; I thought I saw tears standing
in her eyes.”
“Yes, she seemed to have been crying. Poor woman! perhaps she came to
ask assistance of M. Hardy. But what ails you, M. Agricola? You appear
quite pensive.”
Agricola had a vague presentiment that the visit of this elderly woman
with so sad a countenance, had some connection with the adventure of the
young and pretty lady, who, three days before had come all agitated and
in tears to inquire after M. Hardy, and who had learned--perhaps too
late--that she was watched and followed.
“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” said Agricola to Angela; “but the presence
of this old lady reminded me of a circumstance, which, unfortunately, I
cannot tell you, for it is a secret that does not belong to me alone.”
“Oh! do not trouble yourself, M. Agricola,” answered the young girl,
with a smile; “I am not inquisitive, and what we were talking of before
interests me so much, that I do not wish to hear you speak of anything
else.”
“Well, then mademoiselle, I will say a few words more, and you will be
as well informed as I am of the secrets of our association.”
“I am listening, M. Agricola.”
“Let us still keep in view the speculator from mere interest. ‘Here are
my workmen, says he, ‘in the best possible condition to do a great
deal of work. Now what is to be done to obtain large profits? Produce
cheaply, and sell dear. But there will be no cheapness, without economy
in the use of the raw material, perfection of the manufacturing process,
and celerity of labor. Now, in spite of all my vigilance, how am I to
prevent my workmen from wasting the materials? How am I to induce them,
each in his own province, to seek for the most simple and least irksome
processes?”
“True, M. Agricola; how is that to be done?”
“‘And that is not all,’ says our man; ‘to sell my produce at high
prices, it should be irreproachable, excellent. My workmen do pretty
well; but that is not enough. I want them to produce masterpieces.’”
“But, M. Agricola, when they have once performed the task set them what
interest have workmen to give themselves a great deal of trouble to
produce masterpieces?”
“There it is, Mdlle. Angela; what interest have they? Therefore, our
speculator soon says to himself: ‘That my workmen may have an interest
to be economical in the use of the materials, an interest to employ
their time well, an interest to invent new and better manufacturing
processes, an interest to send out of their hands nothing but
masterpieces--I must give them an interest in the profits earned by
their economy, activity, zeal and skill. The better they manufacture,
the better I shall sell, and the larger will be their gain and mine
also.’”
“Oh! now I understand, M. Agricola.”
“And our speculator would make a good speculation. Before he was
interested, the workman said: ‘What does it matter to me, that I do more
or do better in the course of the day? What shall I gain by it? Nothing.
Well, then, little work for little wages. But now, on the contrary
(he says), I have an interest in displaying zeal and economy. All is
changed. I redouble my activity, and strive to excel the others. If a
comrade is lazy, and likely to do harm to the factory, I have the right
to say to him: ‘Mate, we all suffer more or less from your laziness, and
from the injury you are doing the common weal.’”
“And then, M. Agricola, with what ardor, courage, and hope, you must set
to work!”
“That is what our speculator counts on; and he may say to himself,
further: ‘Treasures of experience and practical wisdom are often buried
in workshops, for want of goodwill, opportunity, or encouragement.
Excellent workmen, instead of making all the improvements in their
power, follow with indifference the old jog-trot. What a pity! for an
intelligent man, occupied all his life with some special employment,
must discover, in the long run, a thousand ways of doing his work better
and quicker. I will form, therefore, a sort of consulting committee; I
will summon to it my foremen and my most skillful workmen. Our interest
is now the same. Light will necessarily spring from this centre of
practical intelligence.’ Now, the speculator is not deceived in this,
and soon struck with the incredible resources, the thousand new,
ingenious, perfect inventions suddenly revealed by his workmen, ‘Why’
he exclaims, ‘if you knew this, did you not tell it before? What for the
last ten years has cost me a hundred francs to make, would have cost
me only fifty, without reckoning an enormous saving of time.’ ‘Sir,’
answers the workman, who is not more stupid than others, ‘what interest
had I, that you should effect a saving of fifty per cent? None. But now
it is different. You give me, besides my wages, a share in your
profits; you raise me in my own esteem, by consulting my experience and
knowledge. Instead of treating me as an inferior being, you enter into
communion with me. It is my interest, it is my duty, to tell you all I
know, and to try to acquire more.’ And thus it is, Mdlle. Angela,
that the speculator can organize his establishment, so as to shame
his oppositionists, and provoke their envy. Now if, instead of a cold
hearted calculator, we tape a man who unites with the knowledge of these
facts the tender and generous sympathies of an evangelical heart, and
the elevation of a superior mind, he will extend his ardent solicitude;
not only to the material comfort, but to the moral emancipation, of
his workmen. Seeking everywhere every possible means to develop their
intelligence, to improve their hearts, and strong in the authority
acquired by his beneficence, feeling that he on whom depends the
happiness or the misery of three hundred human creatures has also the
care of souls, he will be the guide of those whom he no longer calls his
workmen, but his brothers, in a straightforward and noble path, and will
try to create in them the taste for knowledge and art, which will render
them happy and proud of a condition of life that is often accepted by
others with tears and curses of despair. Well, Mdlle. Angela, such a man
is--but, see! he could not arrive amongst us except in the middle of a
blessing. There he is--there is M. Hardy!”
“Oh, M. Agricola!” said Angela, deeply moved, and drying her tears; “we
should receive him with our hands clasped in gratitude.”
“Look if that mild and noble countenance is not the image of his
admirable soul!”
A carriage with post horses, in which was M. Hardy, with M. de Blessac,
the unworthy friend who was betraying him in so infamous a manner,
entered at this moment the courtyard of the factory.
A little while after, a humble hackney-coach was seen advancing also
towards the factory, from the direction of Paris. In this coach was
Rodin.
(30) The average price of a workman’s lodging, composed of two small
rooms and a closet at most, on the third or fourth story.
(31) This calculation is amply sufficient, if not excessive. A similar
building, at one league from Paris, on the side of Montrouge, with all
the necessary offices, kitchen, wash-houses, etc., with gas and water
laid on, apparatus for warming, etc., and a garden of ten acres, cost,
at the period of this narrative, hardly five hundred thousand francs.
An experienced builder less obliged us with an estimate, which confirms
what we advance. It is, therefore, evident, that, even at the same
price which workmen are in the habit of paying, it would be possible to
provide them with perfectly healthy lodgings, and yet invest one’s money
at ten per cent.
(32) The fact was proved in the works connected with the Rouen Railway.
Those French workmen who, having no families, were able to live like the
English, did at least as much work as the latter, being strengthened by
wholesome and sufficient nourishment.
(33) Buying penny-worths, like all other purchases at minute retail, are
greatly to the poor man’s disadvantage.
CHAPTER LII. REVELATIONS.
During the visit of Angela and Agricola to the Common Dwelling-house,
the band of Wolves, joined upon the road by many of the haunters
of taverns, continued to march towards the factory, which the
hackney-coach, that brought Rodin from Paris, was also fast approaching.
M. Hardy, on getting out of the carriage with his friend, M. de Blessac,
had entered the parlor of the house that he occupied next the factory.
M. Hardy was of middle size, with an elegant and slight figure, which
announced a nature essentially nervous and impressionable. His forehead
was broad and open, his complexion pale, his eyes black, full at once
of mildness and penetration, his countenance honest, intelligent, and
attractive.
One word will paint the character of M. Hardy. His mother had called him
her Sensitive Plant. His was indeed one of those fine and exquisitely
delicate organizations, which are trusting, loving, noble, generous, but
so susceptible, that the least touch makes them shrink into themselves.
If we join to this excessive sensibility a passionate love for art, a
first-rate intellect, tastes essentially refined, and then think of the
thousand deceptions, and numberless infamies of which M. Hardy must have
been the victim in his career as a manufacturer, we shall wonder how
this heart, so delicate and tender, had not been broken a thousand
times, in its incessant struggle with merciless self-interest. M. Hardy
had indeed suffered much. Forced to follow the career of productive
industry, to honor the engagements of his father, a model of uprightness
and probity, who had yet left his affairs somewhat embarrassed, in
consequence of the events of 1815, he had succeeded, by perseverance
and capacity, in attaining one of the most honorable positions in the
commercial world. But, to arrive at this point, what ignoble annoyances
had he to bear with, what perfidious opposition to combat, what hateful
rivalries to tire out!
Sensitive as he was, M. Hardy would a thousand times have fallen a
victim to his emotions of painful indignation against baseness, of
bitter disgust at dishonesty, but for the wise and firm support of his
mother. When he returned to her, after a day of painful struggles
with odious deceptions, he found himself suddenly transported into an
atmosphere of such beneficent purity, of such radiant serenity, that he
lost almost on the instant the remembrance of the base things by which
he had been so cruelly tortured during the day; the pangs of his heart
were appeased at the mere contact of her great and lofty soul; and
therefore his love for her resembled idolatry. When he lost her, he
experienced one of those calm, deep sorrows which have no end--which
become, as it were, part of life, and have even sometimes their days
of melancholy sweetness. A little while after this great misfortune, M.
Hardy became more closely connected with his workmen. He had always been
a just and good master; but, although the place that his mother left
in his heart would ever remain void, he felt as it were a redoubled
overflowing of the affections, and the more he suffered, the more he
craved to see happy faces around him. The wonderful ameliorations, which
he now produced in the physical and moral condition of all about him,
served, not to divert, but to occupy his grief. Little by little, he
withdrew from the world, and concentrated his life in three affections:
a tender and devoted friendship, which seemed to include all past
friendships--a love ardent and sincere, like a last passion--and a
paternal attachment to his workmen. His days therefore passed in the
heart of that little world, so full of respect and gratitude towards
him--a world, which he had, as it were, created after the image of his
mind, that he might find there a refuge from the painful realities he
dreaded, surrounded with good, intelligent, happy beings, capable
of responding to the noble thoughts which had become more and more
necessary to his existence. Thus, after many sorrows, M. Hardy, arrived
at the maturity of age, possessing a sincere friend, a mistress worthy
of his love, and knowing himself certain of the passionate devotion
of his workmen, had attained, at the period of this history, all the
happiness he could hope for since his mother’s death.
M. de Blessac, his bosom friend, had long been worthy of his touching
and fraternal affection; but we have seen by what diabolical means
Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin had succeeded in making M. de Blessac, until
then upright and sincere, the instrument of their machinations. The two
friends, who had felt on their journey a little of the sharp influence
of the north wind, were warming themselves at a good fire lighted in M.
Hardy’s parlor.
“Oh! my dear Marcel, I begin really to get old,” said M. Hardy, with a
smile, addressing M. de Blessac; “I feel more and more the want of being
at home. To depart from my usual habits has become painful to me, and I
execrate whatever obliges me to leave this happy little spot of ground.”
“And when I think,” answered M. de Blessac, unable to forbear blushing,
“when I think, my friend, that you undertook this long journey only for
my sake!--”
“Well, my dear Marcel! have you not just accompanied me in your turn, in
an excursion which, without you, would have been as tiresome as it has
been charming?”
“What a difference, my friend! I have contracted towards you a debt that
I can never repay.”
“Nonsense, my dear Marcel! Between us, there are no distinctions of meum
and tuum. Besides, in matters of friendship, it is as sweet to give as
to receive.”
“Noble heart! noble heart!”
“Say, happy heart!--most happy, in the last affections for which it
beats.”
“And who, gracious heaven! could deserve happiness on earth, if it be
not you, my friend?”
“And to what do I owe that happiness? To the affections which I found
here, ready to sustain me, when deprived of the support of my mother,
who was all my strength, I felt myself (I confess my weakness) almost
incapable of standing up against adversity.”
“You, my friend--with so firm and resolute a character in doing
good--you, that I have seen struggle with so much energy and courage, to
secure the triumph of some great and noble idea?”
“Yes; but the farther I advance in my career, the more am I disgusted
with all base and shameful actions, and the less strength I feel to
encounter them--”
“Were it necessary, you would have the courage, my friend.”
“My dear Marcel,” replied M. Hardy, with mild and restrained emotion,
“I have often said to you: My courage was my mother. You see, my friend,
when I went to her, with my heart torn by some horrible ingratitude,
or disgusted by some base deceit, she, taking my hands between her own
venerable palms, would say to me in her grave and tender voice: ‘My dear
child, it is for the ungrateful and dishonest to suffer; let us pity the
wicked, let us forget evil, and only think of good.’--Then, my friend,
this heart, painfully contracted, expanded beneath the sacred influence
of the maternal words, and every day I gathered strength from her, to
recommence on the morrow a cruel struggle with the sad necessities of my
condition. Happily, it has pleased God, that, after losing that beloved
mother, I have been able to bind up my life with affections, deprived
of which, I confess, I should find myself feeble and disarmed for you
cannot tell, Marcel, the support, the strength that I have found in your
friendship.”
“Do not speak of me, my dear friend,” replied M. de Blessac, dissembling
his embarrassment. “Let us talk of another affection, almost as sweet
and tender as that of a mother.”
“I understand you, my good Marcel,” replied M. Hardy: “I have concealed
nothing from you since, under such serious circumstances, I had recourse
to the counsels of your friendship. Well! yes; I think that every day I
live augment my adoration for this woman, the only one that I have ever
passionately loved, the only one that I shall now ever love. And then I
must tell you, that my mother, not knowing what Margaret was to me, as
often loud in her praise, and that circumstance renders this love almost
sacred in my eyes.”
“And then there are such strange resemblances between Mme. de Noisy’s
character and yours, my friend; above all, in her worship of her
mother.”
“It is true, Marcel; that affection has often caused me both admiration
and torment. How often she has said to me, with her habitual frankness:
‘I have sacrificed all for you, but I would sacrifice you for my
mother.’”
“Thank heaven, my friend, you will never see Mme. de Noisy exposed to
that cruel choice. Her mother, you say, has long renounced her intention
of returning to America, where M. de Noisy, perfectly careless of
his wife, appears to have settled himself permanently. Thanks to the
discreet devotion of the excellent woman by whom Margaret was brought
up, your love is concealed in the deepest mystery. What could disturb it
now?”
“Nothing--oh! nothing,” cried M. Hardy. “I have almost security for its
duration.”
“What do you mean, my friend?”
“I do not know if I ought to tell you.”
“Have you ever found me indiscreet, my friend?”
“You, good Marcel! how can you suppose such a thing?” said M. Hardy, in
a tone of friendly reproach; “no! but I do not like to tell you of my
happiness, till it is complete; and I am not yet quite certain--”
A servant entered at this moment and said to M. Hardy: “Sir, there is an
old gentleman who wishes to speak to you on very pressing business.”
“So soon!” said M. Hardy, with a slight movement of impatience. “With
your permission, my friend.” Then, as M. de Blessac seemed about to
withdraw into the next room, M. Hardy added with a smile: “No, no; do
not stir. Your presence will shorten the interview.”
“But if it be a matter of business, my friend?”
“I do everything openly, as you know.” Then, addressing the servant, M.
Hardy bade him: “Ask the gentleman to walk in.”
“The postilion wishes to know if he is to wait?”
“Certainly: he will take M. de Blessac back to Paris.”
The servant withdrew, and presently returned, introducing Rodin, with
whom M. de Blessac was not acquainted, his treacherous bargain having
been negotiated through another agent.
“M. Hardy?” said Rodin, bowing respectfully to the two friends, and
looking from one to the other with an air of inquiry.
“That is my name, sir; what can I do to serve you?” answered the
manufacturer, kindly; for, at first sight of the humble and ill-dressed
old man, he expected an application for assistance.
“M. Francois Hardy,” repeated Rodin, as if he wished to make sure of the
identity of the person.
“I have had the honor to tell you that I am he.”
“I have a private communication to make to you, sir,” said Rodin.
“You may speak, sir. This gentleman is my friend,” said M. Hardy,
pointing to M. de Blessac.
“But I wish to speak to you alone, sir,” resumed Rodin.
M. de Blessac was again about to withdraw, when M. Hardy retained him
with a glance, and said to Rodin kindly, for he thought his feelings
might be hurt by asking a favor in presence of a third party: “Permit
me to inquire if it is on your account or on mine, that you wish this
interview to be secret?”
“On your account entirely, sir,” answered Rodin.
“Then, sir,” said M. Hardy, with some surprise, “you may speak out. I
have no secrets from this gentleman.”
After a moment’s silence, Rodin resumed, addressing himself to M. Hardy:
“Sir, you deserve, I know, all the good that is said of you; and you
therefore command the sympathy of every honest man.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Now, as an honest man, I come to render you a service.”
“And this service, sir--”
“To reveal to you an infamous piece of treachery, of which you have been
the victim.”
“I think, sir, you must be deceived.”
“I have the proofs of what I assert.”
“Proofs?”
“The written proofs of the treachery that I come to reveal: I have them
here,” answered Rodin “In a word, a man whom you believed your friend,
has shamefully deceived you, sir.”
“And the name of this man?”
“M. Marcel de Blessac,” replied Rodin.
On these words, M. de Blessac started, and became pale as death. He
could hardly murmur: “Sir--”
But, without looking at his friend, or perceiving his agitation, M.
Hardy seized his hand, and exclaimed hastily: “Silence, my friend!”
Then, whilst his eye flashed with indignation, he turned towards Rodin,
who had not ceased to look him full in the face, and said to him, with
an air of lofty disdain: “What! do you accuse M. de Blessac?”
“Yes, I accuse him,” replied Rodin, briefly.
“Do you know him?”
“I have never seen him.”
“Of what do you accuse him? And how dare you say that he has betrayed
me?”
“Two words, if you please,” said Rodin, with an emotion which he
appeared hardly able to restrain. “If one man of honor sees another
about to be slain by an assassin, ought he not give the alarm of
murder?”
“Yes, sir; but what has that to do--”
“In my eyes, sir, certain treasons are as criminal as murders: I have
come to place myself between the assassin and his victim.”
“The assassin? the victim?” said M. Hardy more and more astonished.
“You doubtless know M. de Blessac’s writing?” said Rodin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then read this,” said Rodin, drawing from his pocket a letter, which he
handed to M. Hardy.
Casting now for the first time a glance at M. de Blessac, the
manufacturer drew back a step, terrified at the death-like paleness of
this man, who, struck dumb with shame, could not find a word to justify
himself; for he was far from possessing the audacious effrontery
necessary to carry him through his treachery.
“Marcel!” cried M. Hardy, in alarm, and deeply agitated by this
unexpected blow. “Marcel! how pale you are! you do not answer!”
“Marcel! this, then, is M. de Blessac?” cried Rodin, feigning the most
painful surprise. “Oh, sir, if I had known--”
“But don’t you hear this man, Marcel?” cried M. Hardy. “He says that you
have betrayed me infamously.” He seized the hand of M. de Blessac. That
hand was cold as ice. “Oh, God! Oh God!” said M. Hardy, drawing back in
horror: “he makes no answer!”
“Since I am in presence of M. de Blessac,” resumed Rodin, “I am forced
to ask him, if he can deny having addressed many letters to the Rue du
Milieu des Ursins, at Paris under cover of M. Rodin.”
M. de Blessac remained dumb. M. Hardy, still unwilling to believe what
he saw and heard, convulsively tore open the letter, which Rodin had
just delivered to him, and read the first few lines--interrupting the
perusal with exclamations of grief and amazement. He did not require to
finish the letter, to convince himself of the black treachery of M. de
Blessac. He staggered; for a moment his senses seemed to abandon him.
The horrible discovery made him giddy, and his head swam on his first
look down into that abyss of infamy. The loathsome letter dropped from
his trembling hands. But soon indignation, rage, and scorn succeeded
this moment of despair, and rushing, pale and terrible, upon M. de
Blessac: “Wretch!” he exclaimed, with a threatening gesture. But,
pausing as in the act to strike: “No!” he added, with fearful calmness.
“It would be to soil my hands.”
He turned towards Rodin, who had approached hastily, as if to interpose.
“It is not worth while chastising a wretch,” said M. Hardy; “But I will
press your honest hand, sir--for you have had the courage to unmask a
traitor and a coward.”
“Sir!” cried M. de Blessac, overcome with shame; “I am at your
orders--and--”
He could not finish. The sound of voices was heard behind the door,
which opened violently, and an aged woman entered, in spite of the
efforts of the servant, exclaiming in an agitated voice: “I tell you, I
must speak instantly to your master.”
On hearing this voice, and at sight of the pale, weeping woman, M.
Hardy, forgetting M. de Blessac, Rodin, the infamous treachery, and all,
fell back a step, and exclaimed: “Madame Duparc! you here! What is the
matter?”
“Oh, sir! a great misfortune--”
“Margaret!” cried M. Hardy, in a tone of despair.
“She is gone, sir!”
“Gone!” repeated M. Hardy, as horror-struck as if a thunderbolt had
fallen at his feet. “Margaret gone!”
“All is discovered. Her mother took her away--three days ago!” said the
unhappy woman, in a failing voice.
“Gone! Margaret! It is not true. You deceive me,” cried M. Hardy.
Refusing to hear more, wild, despairing, he rushed out of the house,
threw himself into his carriage, to which the post-horses were still
harnessed, waiting for M. de Blessac, and said to the postilion: “To
Paris! as fast as you can go!”
As the carriage, rapid as lightning, started upon the road to Paris, the
wind brought nearer the distant sound of the war-song of the Wolves,
who were rushing towards the factory. In this impending destruction, see
Rodin’s subtle hand, administering his fatal blows to clear his way up
to the chair of St. Peter to which he aspired. His tireless, wily course
can hardly be darker shadowed by aught save that dread coming horror
the Cholera, whose aid he evoked, and whose health the Bacchanal Queen
wildly drank.
That once gay girl, and her poor famished sister; the fair patrician and
her Oriental lover; Agricola, the workman, and his veteran father; the
smiling Rose-Pompon, and the prematurely withered Jacques Rennepont;
Father d’Aigrigny, the mock priest; and Gabriel, the true disciple;
with the rest that have been named and others yet to be pictured, in the
blaze of the bolts of their life’s paths, will be seen in the third and
concluding part of this romance entitled,
“THE WANDERING JEW: REDEMPTION.”
BOOK VIII.
PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.
I. The Wandering Jew’s Chastisement II. The Descendants of
the Wandering Jew III. The Attack IV. The Wolves and the
Devourers V. The Return VI. The Go-Between VII. Another
Secret VIII. The Confession IX. Love X. The Execution XI.
The Champs-Elysees XII. Behind the Scenes XIII. Up with the
Curtain XIV. Death
PART THIRD.--THE REDEMPTION.
CHAPTER I. THE WANDERING JEW’S CHASTISEMENT.
‘Tis night--the moon is brightly shining, the brilliant stars are
sparkling in a sky of melancholy calmness, the shrill whistlings of a
northerly wind--cold, bleak, and evil-bearing--are increasing: winding
about, and bursting into violent blasts, with their harsh and hissing
gusts, they are sweeping the heights of Montmartre. A man is standing
on the very summit of the hill; his lengthened shadow, thrown out by
the moon’s pale beams, darkens the rocky ground in the distance. The
traveller is surveying the huge city lying at his feet--the City of
Paris--from whose profundities are cast up its towers, cupolas, domes,
and steeples, in the bluish moisture of the horizon; while from the very
centre of this sea of stones is rising a luminous vapor, reddening the
starry azure of the sky above. It is the distant light of a myriad
lamps which at night, the season for pleasure, is illuminating the noisy
capital.
“No!” said the traveller, “it will not be. The Lord surely will not
suffer it. Twice is quite enough. Five centuries ago, the avenging hand
of the Almighty drove me hither from the depths of Asia. A solitary
wanderer, I left in my track more mourning, despair, disaster, and
death, than the innumerable armies of a hundred devastating conquerors
could have produced. I then entered this city, and it was decimated. Two
centuries ago that inexorable hand which led me through the world again
conducted me here; and on that occasion, as on the previous one, that
scourge, which at intervals the Almighty binds to my footsteps, ravaged
this city, attacking first my brethren, already wearied by wretchedness
and toil. My brethren! through me--the laborer of Jerusalem, cursed by
the Lord, who in my person cursed the race of laborers--a race always
suffering, always disinherited, always slaves, who like me, go on, on,
on, without rest or intermission, without recompense, or hope; until at
length, women, men, children, and old men, die under their iron yoke of
self-murder, that others in their turn then take up, borne from age to
age on their willing but aching shoulders. And here again, for the third
time, in the course of five centuries, I have arrived at the summit of
one of the hills which overlooks the city; and perhaps I bring
again with me terror, desolation, and death. And this unhappy city,
intoxicated in a whirl of joys, and nocturnal revelries, knows nothing
about it--oh! it knows not that I am at its very gate. But no! no! my
presence will not be a source of fresh calamity to it. The Lord, in
His unsearchable wisdom, has brought me hither across France, making me
avoid on my route all but the humblest villages, so that no increase
of the funeral knell has, marked my journey. And then, moreover, the
spectre has left me--that spectre, livid and green, with its deep
bloodshot eyes. When I touched the soil of France, its moist and icy
hand abandoned mine--it disappeared. And yet I feel the atmosphere of
death surrounding me still. There is no cessation; the biting gusts
of this sinister wind, which envelop me in their breath, seem by their
envenomed breath to propagate the scourge. Doubtless the anger of the
Lord is appeased. Maybe, my presence here is meant only as a threat,
intending to bring those to their senses whom it ought to intimidate. It
must be so; for were it otherwise, it would, on the contrary, strike a
loud-sounding blow of greater terror, casting at once dread and death
into the very heart of the country, into the bosom of this immense city.
Oh, no! no! the Lord will have mercy; He will not condemn me to this new
affliction. Alas! in this city my brethren are more numerous and more
wretched than in any other. And must I bring death to them? No! the Lord
will have mercy; for, alas! the seven descendants of my sister are at
last all united in this city. And must I bring death to them? Death!
instead of that immediate assistance they stand so much in need of? For
that woman who, like myself, wanders from one end of the world into the
other, has gone now on her everlasting journey, after having confounded
their enemies’ plots. In vain did she foretell that great evils still
threatened those who are akin to me through my sister’s blood. The
unseen hand by which I am led, drives that woman away from me, even as
though it were a whirlwind that swept her on. In vain she entreated and
implored at the moment she was leaving those who are so dear to me.--At
least, 0 Lord, permit me to stay until I shall have finished my task!
Onward! A few days, for mercy’s sake, only a few days! Onward! I leave
these whom I am protecting on the very brink of an abyss! Onward!
Onward!! And the wandering star is launched afresh on its perpetual
course. But her voice traversed through space, calling me to the
assistance of my own! When her voice reached me I felt that the
offspring of my sister were still exposed to fearful dangers: those
dangers are still increasing. Oh, say, say, Lord! shall the descendants
of my sister escape those woes which for so many centuries have
oppressed my race? Wilt Thou pardon me in them? Wilt Thou punish me
in them? Oh! lead them, that they may obey the last wishes of their
ancestor. Guide them, that they may join their charitable hearts, their
powerful strength, their best wisdom, and their immense wealth, and work
together for the future happiness of mankind, thereby, perhaps, enabled
to ransom me from my eternal penalties. Let those divine words of
the Son of Man, ‘Love ye one another!’ be their only aim; and by the
assistance of their all-powerful words, let them contend against and
vanquish those false priests who have trampled on the precepts of love,
of peace, and hope commanded by the Saviour, setting up in their stead
the precepts of hatred, violence, and despair. Those false shepherds,
supported ay the powerful and wealthy of the world, who in all times
have been their accomplices, instead of asking here below a little
happiness for my brethren, who have been suffering and groaning for
centuries, dare to utter, in Thy name, O Lord! that the poor must always
be doomed to the tortures of this world, and that it is criminal in
Thine eyes that they should either wish for or hope a mitigation of
their sufferings on earth, because the happiness of the few and the
wretchedness of nearly all mankind is Thine almighty will. Blasphemies!
is it not the contrary of these homicidal words that is more worthy of
the name of Divine will? Hear, me, O Lord! for mercy’s sake. Snatch from
their enemies the descendants of my sister, from the artisan up to
the king’s son. Do not permit them to crush the germ of a mighty and
fruitful association, which, perhaps, under Thy protection, may take its
place among the records of the happiness of mankind. Suffer me, O Lord!
to unite those whom they are endeavoring to divide--to defend those whom
they are attacking. Suffer me to bring hope to those from whom hope has
fled, to give courage to those who are weak, to uphold those whom evil
threatens, and to sustain those who would persevere in well-doing. And
then, perhaps, their struggles, their devotedness, their virtues, this
miseries might expiate my sin. Yes, mine--misfortune, misfortune alone,
made me unjust and wicked. O Lord! since Thine almighty hand hath
brought me hither, for some end unknown to me, disarm Thyself, I implore
Thee, of Thine anger, and let not me be the instrument of Thy vengeance!
There is enough of mourning in the earth these two years past--Thy
creatures have fallen by millions in my footsteps. The world is
decimated. A veil of mourning extends from one end of the globe to the
other. I have traveled from Asia even to the Frozen Pole, and death has
followed in my wake. Dost Thou not hear, O Lord! the universal wailings
that mount up to Thee? Have mercy upon all, and upon me. One day, grant
me but a single day, that I may collect the descendants of my sister
together, and save them!” And uttering these words, the wanderer fell
upon his knees, and raised his hands to heaven in a suppliant attitude.
Suddenly, the wind howled with redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings
changed to a tempest. The Wanderer trembled, and exclaimed in a voice of
terror, “O Lord! the blast of death is howling in its rage. It appears
as though a whirlwind were lifting me up. Lord, wilt Thou not, then,
hear my prayer? The spectre! O! do I behold the spectre? Yes, there it
is; its cadaverous countenance is agitated by convulsive throes, its red
eyes are rolling in their orbits. Begone! begone! Oh! its hand--its icy
hand has seized on mine! Mercy, Lord, have mercy! ‘Onward!’ Oh, Lord!
this scourge, this terrible avenging scourge! Must I, then, again carry
it into this city, must my poor wretched brethren be the first to fall
under it--though already so miserable? Mercy, mercy! ‘Onward!’ And the
descendants of my sister--oh, pray, have mercy, mercy! ‘Onward!’ O Lord,
have pity on me! I can no longer keep my footing on the ground, the
spectre is dragging me over the brow of the hill; my course is as rapid
as the death-bearing wind that whistles in my track; I already approach
the walls of the city. Oh, mercy, Lord, mercy on the descendants of my
sister--spare them! do not compel me to be their executioner, and let
them triumph over their enemies. Onward, onward! The ground is fleeing
from under me; I am already at the city gate; oh, yet, Lord, yet there
is time; oh, have mercy on this slumbering city, that it may not even
now awaken with the lamentations of terror, of despair and death! O
Lord, I touch the threshold of the gate; verily Thou willest it so
then. ‘Tis done--Paris! the scourge is in thy bosom! oh, cursed, cursed
evermore am I. Onward! on! on!”(34)
(34) In 1346, the celebrated Black Death ravaged the earth, presenting
the same symptoms as the cholera, and the same inexplicable phenomena as
to its progress and the results in its route. In 1660 a similar epidemic
decimated the world. It is well known that when the cholera first broke
out in Paris, it had taken a wide and unaccountable leap; and, also
memorable, a north-east wind prevailed during its utmost fierceness.
CHAPTER II. THE DESCENDANTS OF THE WANDERING JEW.
That lonely wayfarer whom we have heard so plaintively urging to be
relieved of his gigantic burden of misery, spoke of “his sister’s
descendants” being of all ranks, from the working man to the king’s son.
They were seven in number, who had, in the year 1832, been led to Paris,
directly or indirectly, by a bronze medal which distinguished them from
others, bearing these words:-VICTIM of L. C. D. J. Pray for me!
-----PARIS, February the 13th, 1682.
IN PARIS, Rue St. Francois, No. 3, In a century and a half you will be.
February the 13th, 1832.
-----PRAY FOR ME!
The son of the King of Mundi had lost his father and his domains in
India by the irresistible march of the English, and was but in title
Prince Djalma. Spite of attempts to make his departure from the East
delayed until after the period when he could have obeyed his
medal’s command, he had reached France by the second month of 1832.
Nevertheless, the results of shipwreck had detained him from Paris till
after that date. A second possessor of this token had remained unaware
of its existence, only discovered by accident. But an enemy who sought
to thwart the union of these seven members, had shut her up in a
mad-house, from which she was released only after that day. Not alone
was she in imprisonment. An old Bonapartist, General Simon, Marshal of
France, and Duke de Ligny, had left a wife in Russian exile, while he
(unable to follow Napoleon to St. Helena) continued to fight the English
in India by means of Prince Djalma’s Sepoys, whom he drilled. On the
latter’s defeat, he had meant to accompany his young friend to Europe,
induced the more by finding that the latter’s mother, a Frenchwoman, had
left him such another bronze medal as he knew his wife to have had.
Unhappily, his wife had perished in Siberia, without his knowing it, any
more than he did, that she had left twin daughters, Rose and Blanche.
Fortunately for them, one who had served their father in the Grenadiers
of the Guard. Francis Baudoin, nicknamed Dagobert, undertook to fulfil
the dying mother’s wishes, inspired by the medal. Saving a check at
Leipsic, where one Morok the lion-tamer’s panther had escaped from its
cage and killed Dagobert’s horse, and a subsequent imprisonment (which
the Wandering Jew’s succoring hand had terminated) the soldier and his
orphan charges had reached Paris in safety and in time. But there, a
renewal of the foe’s attempt had gained its end. By skillful devices,
Dagobert and his son Agricola were drawn out of the way while Rose and
Blanche Simon were decoyed into a nunnery, under the eyes of Dagobert’s
wife. But she had been bound against interfering by the influence of the
Jesuit confessional. The fourth was M. Hardy, a manufacturer, and the
fifth, Jacques Rennepont, a drunken scamp of a workman, who were more
easily fended off, the latter in a sponging house, the former by
a friend’s lure. Adrienne de Cardoville, daughter of the Count of
Rennepont, who had also been Duke of Cardoville, was the lady who had
been unwarrantably placed in the lunatic asylum. The fifth, unaware
of the medal, was Gabriel, a youth, who had been brought up, though
a foundling, in Dagobert’s family, as a brother to Agricola. He had
entered holy orders, and more, was a Jesuit, in name though not in
heart. Unlike the others, his return from abroad had been smoothed. He
had signed away all his future prospects, for the benefit of the order
of Loyola, and, moreover, executed a more complete deed of transfer on
the day, the 13th of February, 1832, when he, alone of the heirs, stood
in the room of the house, No. 3, Rue St. Francois, claiming what was a
vast surprise for the Jesuits, who, a hundred and fifty years
before, had discovered that Count Marius de Rennepont had secreted a
considerable amount of his wealth, all of which had been confiscated to
them, in those painful days of dragoonings, and the revocation of the
Edict of Nantes. They had bargained for some thirty or forty millions of
francs to be theirs, by educating Gabriel into resigning his inheritance
to them, but it was two hundred and twelve millions which the Jesuit
representatives (Father d’Aigrigny and his secretary, Rodin) were amazed
to hear their nursling placed in possession of. They had the treasure
in their hands, in fact, when a woman of strangely sad beauty had
mysteriously entered the room where the will had been read, and laid
a paper before the notary. It was a codicil, duly drawn up and signed,
deferring the carrying out of the testament until the first day of June
the same year. The Jesuits fled from the house, in rage and intense
disappointment. Father d’Aigrigny was so stupor-stricken at the defeat,
that he bade his secretary at once write off to Rome that the Rennepont
inheritance had escaped them, and hopes to seize it again were utterly
at an end. Upon this, Rodin had revolted, and shown that he had
authority to command where he had, so far, most humbly obeyed. Many such
spies hang about their superior’s heels, with full powers to become the
governor in turn, at a moment’s notice. Thenceforward, he, Rodin, had
taken the business into his own hands. He had let Rose and Blanche Simon
out of the convent into their father’s arms. He had gone in person to
release Adrienne de Cardoville from the asylum. More, having led her to
sigh for Prince Djalma, he prompted the latter to burn for her.
He let not M. Hardy escape. A friend whom the latter treated as a
brother, had been shown up to him as a mere spy of the Jesuits; the
woman whom he adored, a wedded woman, alas! who had loved him in spite
of her vows, had been betrayed. Her mother had compelled her to hide her
shame in America, and, as she had often said--“Much as you are endeared
to me, I cannot waver between you and my mother!” so she had obeyed,
without one farewell word to him. Confess, Rodin was a more dextrous
man than his late master! In the pages that ensue farther proofs of his
superiority in baseness and satanic heartlessness will not be wanting.
CHAPTER III. THE ATTACK.
On M. Hardy’s learning from the confidential go-between of the lovers,
that his mistress had been taken away by her mother, he turned from
Rodin and dashed away in a post carriage. At the same moment, as loud
as the rattle of the wheels, there arose the shouts of a band of workmen
and rioters, hired by the Jesuit’s emissaries, coming to attack Hardy’s
operatives. An old grudge long existing between them and a rival
manufacturer’s--Baron Tripeaud--laborers, fanned the flames. When M.
Hardy had left the factory, Rodin, who was not prepared for this
sudden departure, returned slowly to his hackney-coach; but he stopped
suddenly, and started with pleasure and surprise, when he saw, at some
distance, Marshall Simon and his father advancing towards one of the
wings of the Common Dwelling-house; for an accidental circumstance had
so far delayed the interview of the father and son.
“Very well!” said Rodin. “Better and better! Now, only let my man have
found out and persuaded little Rose-Pompon!”
And Rodin hastened towards his hackney-coach. At this moment, the wind,
which continued to rise, brought to the ear of the Jesuit the war song
of the approaching Wolves.
The workman was in the garden. The marshal said to him, in a voice of
such deep emotion that the old man started; “Father, I am very unhappy.”
A painful expression, until then concealed, suddenly darkened the
countenance of the marshal.
“You unhappy?” cried father Simon, anxiously, as he pressed nearer to
the marshal.
“For some days, my daughters have appeared constrained in manner, and
lost in thought. During the first moments of our re-union, they were
mad with joy and happiness. Suddenly, all has changed; they are becoming
more and more sad. Yesterday, I detected tears in their eyes; then
deeply moved, I clasped them in my arms, and implored them to tell me
the cause of their sorrow. Without answering, they threw themselves on
my neck, and covered my face with their tears.”
“It is strange. To what do you attribute this alteration?”
“Sometimes, I think I have not sufficiently concealed from them the
grief occasioned me by the loss of their mother, and they are
perhaps miserable that they do not suffice for my happiness. And yet
(inexplicable as it is) they seem not only to understand, but to share
my sorrow. Yesterday, Blanche said to me: ‘How much happier still should
we be, if our mother were with us!--’”
“Sharing your sorrow, they cannot reproach you with it. There must be
some other cause for their grief.”
“Yes,” said the marshal, looking fixedly at his father; “yes--but to
penetrate this secret--it would be necessary not to leave them.”
“What do you mean?”
“First learn, father, what are the duties which would keep me here; then
you shall know those which may take me away from you, from my daughters,
and from my other child.”
“What other child?”
“The son of my old friend, the Indian Prince.”
“Djalma? Is there anything the matter with him?”
“Father, he frightens me. I told you, father, of his mad and unhappy
passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“Does that frighten you, my son?” said the old man, looking at the
marshal with surprise. “Djalma is only eighteen, and, at that age, one
love drives away another.”
“You have no idea of the ravages which the passion has already made in
the ardent, indomitable boy; sometimes, fits of savage ferocity follow
the most painful dejection. Yesterday, I came suddenly upon him; his
eyes were bloodshot, his features contracted with rage; yielding to an
impulse of mad furry, he was piercing with his poinard a cushion of red
cloth, whilst he exclaimed, panting for breath, ‘Ha blood!--I will have
blood!’ ‘Unhappy boy!’ I said to him, ‘what means this insane passion?’
‘I’m killing the man!’ replied he, in a hollow and savage voice: it is
thus he designates his supposed rival.”
“There is indeed something terrible,” said the old man, “in such a
passion, in such a heart.”
“At other times,” resumed the marshal, “it is against Mdlle. de
Cardoville that his rage bursts forth; and at others, against himself.
I have been obliged to remove his weapons, for a man who came with him
from Java, and who appears much attached to him, has informed me that he
suspected him of entertaining some thoughts of suicide.”
“Unfortunate boy!”
“Well, father,” said Marshal Simon, with profound bitterness; “it is
at the moment when my daughters and my adopted son require all my
solicitude, that I am perhaps on the eve of quitting them.”
“Of quitting them?”
“Yes, to fulfil a still more sacred duty than that imposed by friendship
or family,” said the marshal, in so grave and solemn a tone, that his
father exclaimed, with deep emotion: “What can this duty be?”
“Father,” said the marshal, after remaining a moment in thoughtful
silence, “who made me what I am? Who gave me the ducal title, and the
marshal’s baton?”
“Napoleon.”
“For you, the stern republican, I know that he lost all his value, when
from the first citizen of a Republic he became an emperor.
“I cursed his weakness,” said Father Simon, sadly; “the demi-god sank
into a man.”
“But for me, father--for me, the soldier, who have always fought beside
him, or under his eye--for me, whom he raised from the lowest rank in
the army to the highest--for me, whom he loaded with benefits and marks
of affection--for me, he was more than a hero, he was a friend--and
there was as much gratitude as admiration in my idolatry for him. When
he was exiled, I would fain have shared his exile; they refused me that
favor; then I conspired, then I drew my sword against those who had
robbed his son of the crown which France had given him.”
“And, in your position, you did well, Pierre; without sharing your
admiration, I understood your gratitude. The projects of exile, the
conspiracies--I approved them all--you know it.”
“Well, then, that disinherited child, in whose name I conspired
seventeen years ago, is now of an age to wield his father’s sword.”
“Napoleon II!” exclaimed the old man, looking at his son with surprise
and extreme anxiety; “the king of Rome!”
“King? no; he is no longer king. Napoleon? no; he is no longer Napoleon.
They have given him some Austrian name, because the other frightened
them. Everything frightens them. Do you know what they are doing with
the son of the Emperor?” resumed the marshal, with painful excitement.
“They are torturing him--killing him by inches!”
“Who told you this?”
“Somebody who knows, whose words are but too true. Yes; the son of the
Emperor struggles with all his strength against a premature death. With
his eyes turned towards France, he waits--he waits--and no one comes--no
one--out of all the men that his father made as great as they once were
little, not one thinks of that crowned child, whom they are stifling,
till he dies.”
“But you think of him?”
“Yes; but I had first to learn--oh! there is no doubt of it, for I have
not derived all my information from the same source--I had first to
learn the cruel fate of this youth, to whom I also swore allegiance; for
one day, as I have told you, the Emperor, proud and loving father as he
was, showed him to me in his cradle, and said: ‘My old friend, you will
be to the son what you have been to the father; who loves us, loves our
France.’”
“Yes, I know it. Many times you have repeated those words to me, and,
like yourself, I have been moved by them.”
“Well, father! suppose, informed of the sufferings of the son of
the Emperor, I had seen--with the positive certainty that I was not
deceived--a letter from a person of high rank in the court of Vienna,
offering to a man that was still faithful to the Emperor’s memory, the
means of communicating with the king of Rome, and perhaps of saving him
from his tormentors--”
“What next?” said the workman, looking fixedly at his son. “Suppose
Napoleon II. once at liberty--”
“What next?” exclaimed the marshal. Then he added, in a suppressed
voice: “Do you think, father, that France is insensible to the
humiliations she endures? Do you think that the memory of the Emperor
is extinct? No, no; it is, above all, in the days of our country’s
degredation, that she whispers that sacred name. How would it be, then,
were that name to rise glorious on the frontier, reviving in his son? Do
you not think that the heart of all France would beat for him?”
“This implies a conspiracy--against the present government--with
Napoleon II. for a watchword,” said the workman. “This is very serious.”
“I told you, father, that I was very unhappy; judge if it be not so,”
cried the marshal. “Not only I ask myself, if I ought to abandon my
children and you, to run the risk of so daring an enterprise, but I
ask myself if I am not bound to the present government, which, in
acknowledging my rank and title, if it bestowed no favor, at least did
me an act of justice. How shall I decide?--abandon all that I love, or
remain insensible to the tortures of Emperor--of that Emperor to the
son of the whom I owe everything--to whom I have sworn fidelity, both
to himself and child? Shall I lose this only opportunity, perhaps, of
saving him, or shall I conspire in his favor? Tell me, if I exaggerate
what I owe to the memory of the Emperor? Decide for me, father! During a
whole sleepless night, I strove to discover, in the midst of this chaos,
the line prescribed by honor; but I only wandered from indecision to
indecision. You alone, father--you alone, I repeat, can direct me.”
After remaining for some moments in deep thought, the old man was about
to answer, when some person, running across the little garden, opened
the door hastily, and entered the room in which were the marshal and his
father. It was Olivier, the young workman, who had been able to effect
his escape from the village in which the Wolves had assembled.
“M. Simon! M. Simon!” cried he, pale, and panting for breath. “They are
here--close at hand. They have come to attack the factory.”
“Who?” cried the old man, rising hastily.
“The Wolves, quarrymen, and stone-cutters, joined on the road by a crowd
of people from the neighborhood, and vagabonds from town. Do you not
hear them? They are shouting, ‘Death to the Devourers!’”
The clamor was indeed approaching, and grew more and more distinct.
“It is the same noise that I heard just now,” said the marshal, rising
in his turn.
“There are more than two hundred of them, M. Simon,” said Olivier; “they
are armed with clubs and stones, and unfortunately the greater part of
our workmen are in Paris. We are not above forty here in all; the women
and children are already flying to their chambers, screaming for terror.
Do you not hear them?”
The ceiling shook beneath the tread of many hasty feet.
“Will this attack be a serious one?” said the marshal to his father, who
appeared more and more dejected.
“Very serious,” said the old man; “there is nothing more fierce than
these combats between different unions; and everything has been done
lately to excite the people of the neighborhood against the factory.”
“If you are so inferior in number,” said the marshal, “you must begin by
barricading all the doors--and then--”
He was unable to conclude. A burst of ferocious cries shook the windows
of the room, and seemed so near and loud, that the marshal, his father,
and the young workman, rushed out into the little garden, which was
bounded on one side by a wall that separated it from the fields.
Suddenly whilst the shouts redoubled in violence, a shower of large
stones, intended to break the windows of the house, smashed some of the
panes on the first story, struck against the wall, and fell into the
garden, all around the marshal and his father. By a fatal chance, one
of these large stones struck the old man on the head. He staggered, bent
forward, and fell bleeding into the arms of Marshal Simon, just as arose
from without, with increased fury, the savage cries of, “Death to the
Devourers!”
CHAPTER IV. THE WOLVES AND THE DEVOURERS.
It was a frightful thing to view the approach of the lawless crowd,
whose first act of hostility had been so fatal to Marshal Simon’s
father. One wing of the Common Dwelling-house, which joined the
garden-wall on that side, was next to the fields. It was there that the
Wolves began their attack. The precipitation of their march, the halt
they had made at two public-houses on the road, their ardent impatience
for the approaching struggle, had inflamed these men to a high pitch of
savage excitement. Having discharged their first shower of stones, most
of the assailants stooped down to look for more ammunition. Some of
them, to do so with greater ease, held their bludgeons between their
teeth; others had placed them against the wall; here and there, groups
had formed tumultuously round the principal leaders of the band; the
most neatly dressed of these men wore frocks, with caps, whilst
others were almost in rags, for, as we have already said, many of the
hangers-on at the barriers, and people without any profession, had
joined the troop of the Wolves, whether welcome or not. Some hideous
women, with tattered garments, who always seem to follow in the track of
such people, accompanied them on this occasion, and, by their cries and
fury, inflamed still more the general excitement. One of them, tall,
robust, with purple complexion, blood shot eyes, and toothless jaws,
had a handkerchief over her head, from beneath which escaped her yellow,
frowsy hair. Over her ragged gown, she wore an old plaid shawl, crossed
over her bosom, and tied behind her back. This hag seemed possessed
with a demon. She had tucked up her half-torn sleeves; in one hand
she brandished a stick, in the other she grasped a huge stone; her
companions called her Ciboule (scullion).
This horrible hag exclaimed, in a hoarse voice: “I’ll bite the women of
the factory; I’ll make them bleed.”
The ferocious words were received with applause by her companions, and
with savage cries of “Ciboule forever!” which excited her to frenzy.
Amongst the other leaders, was a small, dry pale man, with the face of
a ferret, and a black beard all round the chin; he wore a scarlet Greek
cap, and beneath his long blouse, perfectly new, appeared a pair of neat
cloth trousers, strapped over thin boots. This man was evidently of a
different condition of life from that of the other persons in the troop;
it was he, in particular, who ascribed the most irritating and insulting
language to the workmen of the factory, with regard to the inhabitants
of the neighborhood. He howled a great deal, but he carried neither
stick nor stone. A full-faced, fresh-colored man, with a formidable bass
voice, like a chorister’s, asked him: “Will you not have a shot at those
impious dogs, who might bring down the Cholera on the country, as the
curate told us?”
“I will have a better shot than you,” said the little man, with a
singular, sinister smile.
“And with what, I’d like to see?”
“Probably, with this,” said the little man, stooping to pick up a
large stone; but, as he bent, a well-filled though light bag, which he
appeared to carry under his blouse, fell to the ground.
“Look, you are losing both bag and baggage,” said the other; “it does
not seem very heavy.”
“They are samples of wool,” answered the man with the ferret’s face, as
he hastily picked up the bag, and replaced it under his blouse; then he
added: “Attention! the big blaster is going to speak.”
And, in fact, he who exercised the most complete ascendency over this
irritated crowd was the terrible quarryman. His gigantic form towered
so much above the multitude, that his great head, bound in its ragged
handkerchief, and his Herculean shoulders, covered with a fallow goat
skin, were always visible above the level of that dark and swarming
crowd, only relieved here and there by a few women’s caps, like so many
white points. Seeing to what a degree of exasperation the minds of the
crowd had reached, the small number of honest, but misguided workmen,
who had allowed themselves to be drawn into this dangerous enterprise,
under the pretext of a quarrel between rival unions, now fearing for the
consequences of the struggle, tried, but too late, to abandon the main
body. Pressed close, and as it were, girt in with the more hostile
groups, dreading to pass for cowards, or to expose themselves to the bad
treatment of the majority, they were forced to wait for a more
favorable moment to effect their escape. To the savage cheers, which
had accompanied the first discharge of stones, succeeded a deep silence
commanded by the stentorian voice of the quarryman.
“The Wolves have howled,” he exclaimed; “let us wait and see how the
Devourers will answer, and when they will begin the fight.”
“We must draw them out of their factory, and fight them on neutral
ground,” said the little man with the ferret’s face, who appeared to be
the thieves’ advocate; “otherwise there would be trespass.”
“What do we care about trespass?” cried the horrible hag, Ciboule; “in
or out, I will tear the chits of the factory.”
“Yes, yes,” cried other hideous creatures, as ragged as Ciboule herself;
“we must not leave all to the men.”
“We must have our fun, too!”
“The women of the factory say that all the women of the neighborhood are
drunken drabs,” cried the little man with the ferret’s face.
“Good! we’ll pay them for it.”
“The women shall have their share.”
“That’s our business.”
“They like to sing in their Common House,” cried Ciboule; “we will make
them sing the wrong side of their mouths, in the key of ‘Oh, dear me!’”
This pleasantry was received with shouts, hootings, and furious stamping
of feet, to which the stentorian voice of the quarryman put a term by
roaring: “Silence!”
“Silence! silence!” repeated the crowd. “Hear the blaster!”
“If the Devourers are cowards enough not to dare to show themselves,
after a second volley of stones, there is a door down there which we can
break open, and we will soon hunt them from their holes.”
“It would be better to draw them out, so that none might remain in the
factory,” said the little old man with the ferret’s face, who appeared
to have some secret motive.
“A man fights where he can,” cried the quarryman, in a voice of thunder;
“all, right, if we can but once catch hold. We could fight on a sloping
roof, or on the top of a wall--couldn’t we, my Wolves?”
“Yes, yes!” cried the crowd, still more excited by those savage words;
“if they don’t come out, we will break in.”
“We will see their fine palace!”
“The pagans haven’t even a chapel,” said the bass voice. “The curate has
damned them all!”
“Why should they have a palace, and we nothing but dog-kennels?”
“Hardy’s workmen say that kennels are good enough for such as you.” said
the little man with the ferret’s face.
“Yes, yes! they said so.”
“We’ll break all their traps.”
“We’ll pull down their bazaar.”
“We’ll throw the house out of the windows.”
“When we have made the mealy-mouthed chits sing,” cried Ciboule, “we
will make them dance to the clatter of stones on their heads.”
“Come, my Wolves! attention!” cried the quarryman, still in the same
stentorian voice; “one more volley, and if the Devourers do not come
out, down with the door!”
This proposition was received with cheers of savage ardor, and the
quarryman, whose voice rose above the tumult, cried with all the
strength of his herculean lungs: “Attention, my Wolves. Make ready! all
together. Now, are you ready?”
“Yes, yes--all ready!”
“Then, present!--fire!” And, for the second time, a shower of enormous
stones poured upon that side of the Common Dwelling-house which was
turned towards the fields. A part of these projectiles broke such of the
windows as had been spared by the first volley. To the sharp smashing
and cracking of glass were joined the ferocious cries uttered in chorus
by this formidable mob, drunk with its own excesses: “Death to the
Devourers!”
Soon these outcries became perfectly frantic, when, through the broken
windows, the assailants perceived women running in terror, some with
children in their arms, and others raising their hands to heaven,
calling aloud for help; whilst a few, bolder than the rest, leaned out
of the windows, and tried to fasten the outside blinds.
“There come the ants out of their holes!” cried Ciboule, stooping to
pick up a stone. “We must have a fling at them for luck!” The stone,
hurled by the steady, masculine hand of the virago, went straight to its
mark, and struck an unfortunate woman who was trying to close one of the
shutters.
“Hit in the white!” cried the hideous creature.
“Well done, Ciboule!--you’ve rapped her coker-nut!” cried a voice.
“Ciboule forever!”
“Come out, you Devourers, if you dare!”
“They have said a hundred times, that the neighbors were too cowardly
even to come and look at their house,” squealed the little man with the
ferret’s face.
“And now they show the white feather!”
“If they will not come out,” cried the quarryman, in voice of thunder,
“let us smoke them out!”
“Yes, yes!”
“Let’s break open the door!”
“We are sure to find them!”
“Come on! come on!”
The crowd, with the quarryman at their head, and Ciboule not far from
him, brandishing a stick, advanced tumultously towards one of the great
doors. The ground shook beneath the rapid tread of the mob, which had
now ceased shouting; but the confused, and, as it were, subterraneous
noise, sounded even more ominous than those savage outcries. The Wolves
soon arrived opposite the massive oaken door. At the moment the blaster
raised a sledgehammer, the door opened suddenly. Some of the most
determined of the assailants were about to rush in at this entrance; but
the quarryman stepped back, extending his arm as if to moderate their
ardor and impose silence. Then his followers gathered round him.
The half-open door discovered a party of workmen, unfortunately by no
means numerous, but with countenances full of resolution. They had armed
themselves hastily with forks, iron bars, and clubs. Agricola, who was
their leader, held in his hand a heavy sledge-hammer. The young workman
was very pale; but the fire of his eye, his menacing look, and the
intrepid assurance of his bearing, showed that his father’s blood
boiled in his veins, and that in such a struggle he might become
fear-inspiring. Yet he succeeded in restraining himself, and challenged
the quarryman, in a firm voice: “What do you want?”
“A fight!” thundered the blaster.
“Yes, yes! a fight!” repeated the crowd.
“Silence, my Wolves!” cried the quarryman, as he turned round, and
stretched forth his large hand towards the multitude. Then addressing
Agricola, he said: “The Wolves have come to ask for a fight.”
“With whom?”
“With the Devourers.”
“There are no Devourers here,” replied Agricola; “we are only peaceable
workmen. So begone.”
“Well! here are the Wolves, that will eat your quiet workmen.”
“The Wolves will eat no one here,” said Agricola, looking full at the
quarryman, who approached him with a threatening air; “they can only
frighten little children.”
“Oh! you think so,” said the quarryman, with a savage sneer. Then
raising his weapon, he shook it in Agricola’s face, exclaiming: “Is that
any laughing matter?
“Is that?” answered Agricola, with a rapid movement, parrying the stone
sledge with his own hammer.
“Iron against iron--hammer against hammer--that suits me,” said the
quarryman.
“It does not matter what suits you,” answered Agricola, hardly able to
restrain himself. “You have broken our windows, frightened our women,
and wounded--perhaps killed--the oldest workman in the factory, who at
this moment lies bleeding in the arms of his son.” Here Agricola’s voice
trembled in spite of himself. “It is, I think, enough.”
“No; the Wolves are hungry for more,” answered the blaster; “you must
come out (cowards that you are!), and fight us on the plain.”
“Yes! yes! battle!--let them come out!” cried the crowd, howling,
hissing, waving their sticks and pushing further into the small space
which separated them from the door.
“We will have no battle,” answered Agricola: “we will not leave our
home; but if you have the misfortune to pass this,” said Agricola,
throwing his cap upon the threshold, and setting his foot on it with an
intrepid air, “if you pass this, you attack us in our own house, and you
will be answerable for all that may happen.”
“There or elsewhere we will have the fight! the Wolves must eat the
Devourers. Now for the attack!” cried the fierce quarryman, raising his
hammer to strike Agricola.
But the latter, throwing himself on one side by a sudden leap, avoided
the blow, and struck with his hammer full at the chest of the quarryman,
who staggered for a moment, but instantly recovering his legs, rushed
furiously on Agricola, crying: “Follow me, Wolves!”
CHAPTER V. THE RETURN.
As soon as the combat had begun between Agricola and the blaster,
the general fight became terrible, ardent, implacable. A flood of
assailants, following the quarryman’s steps, rushed into the house
with irresistible fury; others, unable to force their way through this
dreadful crowd, where the more impetuous squeezed, stifled, and crushed
these who were less so, went round in another direction, broke through
some lattice work, and thus placed the people of the factory, as it
were, between two fires. Some resisted courageously; others, seeing
Ciboule, followed by some of her horrible companions, and by several
of the most ill-looking ruffians, hastily enter that part of the
Common-Dwelling house in which the women had taken refuge, hurried in
pursuit of this band; but some of the hag’s companions, having faced
about, and vigorously defended the entrance of the staircase against the
workmen, Ciboule, with three or four like herself, and about the same
number of no less ignoble men, rushed through the rooms, with the
intention of robbing or destroying all that came in their way. A door,
which at first resisted their efforts, was soon broken through;
Ciboule rushed into the apartment with a stick in her hand, her hair
dishevelled, furious, and, as it were, maddened with the noise and
tumult. A beautiful young girl (it was Angela), who appeared anxious
to defend the entrance to a second chamber, threw herself on her knees,
pale and supplicating, and raising her clasped hands, exclaimed: “Do not
hurt my mother!”
“I’ll serve you out first, and your mother afterwards,” replied the
horrible woman, throwing herself on the poor girl, and endeavoring to
tear her face with her nails, whilst the rest of the ruffianly
band broke the glass and the clock with their sticks, and possessed
themselves of some articles of wearing apparel.
Angela, struggling with Ciboule, uttered loud cries of distress, and
still attempted to guard the room in which her mother had taken refuge;
whilst the latter, leaning from the window, called Agricola to their
assistance. The smith was now engaged with the huge blaster. In a close
struggle, their hammers had become useless, and with bloodshot eyes
and clinched teeth, chest to chest, and limbs twined together like two
serpents, they made the most violent efforts to overthrow each other.
Agricola, bent forward, held under his right arm the left leg of the
quarryman, which he had seized in parrying a violent kick; but such was
the Herculean strength of the leader of the Wolves, that he remained
firm as a tower, though resting only on one leg. With the hand that
was still free (for the other was gripped by Agricola as in a vise),
he endeavored with violent blows to break the jaws of the smith, who,
leaning his head forward, pressed his forehead hard against the breast
of his adversary.
“The Wolf will break the Devourer’s teeth, and he shall devour no more,”
said the quarryman.
“You are no true Wolf,” answered the smith, redoubling his efforts; “the
true Wolves are honest fellows, and do not come ten against one.”
“True or false, I will break your teeth.”
“And I your paw,” said the smith, giving so violent a wrench to the leg
of the quarryman, that the latter uttered a cry of acute pain, and,
with the rage of a wild beast, butting suddenly forward with his head,
succeeded in biting Agricola in the side of the neck.
The pang of this bite forced Agricola to make a movement, which enabled
the quarryman to disengage his leg. Then, with a superhuman effort, he
threw himself with his whole weight on Agricola, and brought him to the
ground, falling himself upon him.
At this juncture, Angela’s mother, leaning from one of the windows of
the Common Dwelling-house, exclaimed in a heart-rending voice: “Help,
Agricola!--they are killing my child!”
“Let me go--and on, my honor--I will fight you tomorrow, or when you
will,” said Agricola, panting for breath.
“No warmed-up food for me; I eat all hot,” answered the quarryman,
seizing the smith by the throat, whilst he tried to place one of his
knees upon his chest.
“Help!--they are killing my child!” cried Angela’s mother, in a voice of
despair.
“Mercy! I ask mercy! Let me go!”’ said Agricola, making the most violent
efforts to escape.
“I am too hungry,” answered the quarryman.
Exasperated by the terror which Angela’s danger occasioned him, Agricola
redoubled his efforts, when the quarryman suddenly felt his thigh seized
by the sharp teeth of a dog, and at the same instant received from a
vigorous hand three or four heavy blows with a stick upon his head. He
relaxed his grasp, and fell stunned upon his hand and knee, whilst he
mechanically raised his other arm to parry the blows, which ceased as
soon as Agricola was delivered.
“Father, you have saved me!” cried the smith, springing up. “If only I
am in time to rescue Angela!”
“Run!--never mind me!” answered Dagobert; and Agricola rushed into the
house.
Dogabert, accompanied by Spoil-sport, had come, as we have already said,
to bring Marshal Simon’s daughters to their grandfather. Arriving in the
midst of the tumult, the soldier had collected a few workmen to defend
the entrance of the chamber, to which the marshal’s father had been
carried in a dying state. It was from this post that the soldier had
seen Agricola’s danger. Soon after, the rush of the conflict separated
Dagobert from the quarryman, who remained for some moments insensible.
Arrived in two bounds at the Common Dwelling-house, Agricola succeeded
in forcing his way through the men who defended the staircase, and
rushed into the corridor that led to Angela’s chamber. At the moment he
reached it, the unfortunate girl was mechanically guarding her face with
both hands against Ciboule, who, furious as the hyena over its prey, was
trying to scratch and disfigure her.
To spring upon the horrible hag, seize her by her yellow hair with
irresistible hand, drag her backwards, and then with one cuff, stretch
her full length upon the ground, was for Agricola an achievement
as rapid as thought. Furious with rage, Ciboule rose again almost
instantly; but at this moment, several workmen, who had followed close
upon Agricola, were able to attack with advantage, and whilst the smith
lifted the fainting form of Angela, and carried her into the next room,
Ciboule and her band were driven from that part of the house.
After the first fire of the assault, the small number of real Wolves,
who, as Agricola said, were in the main honest fellows, but had the
weakness to let themselves be drawn into this enterprise, under the
pretext of a quarrel between rival unions, seeing the excesses committed
by the rabble who accompanied them, turned suddenly round, and ranged
themselves on the side of the Devourers.
“There are no longer here either Wolves or Devourers,” said one of
the most determined Wolves to Olivier, with whom he had been fighting
roughly and fairly; “there are none here but honest workmen, who must
unite to drive out a set of scoundrels, that have come only to break and
pillage.”
“Yes,” added another; “it was against our will that they began by
breaking your windows.”
“The big blaster did it all,” said another; “the true Wolves wash their
hands of him. We shall soon settle his account.”
“We may fight every day--but we ought to esteem each other.” (35)
This defection of a portion of the assailants (unfortunately but a
small portion) gave new spirit to the workmen of the factory, and all
together, Wolves and Devourers, though very inferior in number,
opposed themselves to the band of vagabonds, who were proceeding to new
excesses. Some of these wretches, still further excited by the little
man with the ferret’s face, a secret emissary of Baron Tripeaud,
now rushed in a mass towards the workshops of M. Hardy. Then began
a lamentable devastation. These people, seized with the mania of
destruction, broke without remorse machines of the greatest value, and
most delicate construction; half manufactured articles were pitilessly
destroyed; a savage emulation seemed to inspire these barbarians,
and those workshops, so lately the model of order and well-regulated
economy, were soon nothing but a wreck; the courts were strewed with
fragments of all kinds of wares, which were thrown from the windows with
ferocious outcries, or savage bursts of laughter. Then, still thanks to
the incitements of the little man with the ferret’s face, the books
of M. Hardy, archives of commercial industry, so indispensable to the
trader, were scattered to the wind, torn, trampled under foot, in a sort
of infernal dance, composed of all that was most impure in this assembly
of low, filthy, and ragged men and women, who held each other by the
hand, and whirled round and round with horrible clamor. Strange and
painful contrasts! At the height of the stunning noise of these horrid
deeds of tumult and devastation, a scene of imposing and mournful calm
was taking place in the chamber of Marshal Simon’s father, the door of
which was guarded by a few devoted men. The old workman was stretched
on his bed, with a bandage across his blood stained white hair. His
countenance was livid, his breathing oppressed, his look fixed and
glazed.
Marshal Simon, standing at the head of the bed, bending over his father,
watched in despairing anguish the least sign of consciousness on the
part of the dying man, near whom was a physician, with his finger on
the failing pulse. Rose and Blanche, brought hither by Dagobert, were
kneeling beside the bed, their hands clasped, and their eyes bathed in
tears; a little further, half hidden in the shadows of the room, for
the hours had passed quickly, and the night was at hand, stood Dagobert
himself, with his arms crossed upon his breast, and his features
painfully contracted. A profound and solemn silence reigned in this
chamber, only interrupted by the broken sobs of Rose and Blanche, or by
Father Simon’s hard breathing. The eyes of the marshal were dry, gloomy,
and full of fire. He only withdrew them from his father’s face, to
interrogate the physician by a look. There are strange coincidences in
life. That physician was Dr. Baleinier. The asylum of the doctor being
close to the barrier that was nearest to the factory, and his fame being
widely spread in the neighborhood, they had run to fetch him on the
first call for medical assistance.
Suddenly, Dr. Baleinier made a movement; the marshal, who had not taken
his eyes off him, exclaimed: “Is there any hope?”
“At least, my lord duke, the pulse revives a little.”
“He is saved!” said the marshal.
“Do not cherish false hopes, my lord duke,” answered the doctor,
gravely: “the pulse revives, owing to the powerful applications to the
feet, but I know not what will be the issue of the crisis.”
“Father! father! do you hear me?” cried the marshal, seeing the old man
slightly move his head, and feebly raise his eyelids. He soon opened his
eyes, and this time their intelligence had returned.
“Father! you live--you know me!” cried the marshal, giddy with joy and
hope.
“Pierre! are you there?” said the old man, in a weak voice. “Your
hand--give--it--” and he made a feeble movement.
“Here, father!” cried the marshal, as he pressed the hands of the old
man in his own.
Then, yielding to an impulse of delight, he bent over his father,
covered his hands, face, and hair with kisses, and repeated: “He lives!
kind heaven, he lives! he is saved!”
At this instant, the noise of the struggle which had recommenced between
the rabble, the Wolves, and the Devourers, reached the ears of the dying
man.
“That noise! that noise!” said he: “they are fighting.”
“It is growing less, I think,” said the marshal, in order not to agitate
his father.
“Pierre,” said the old man, in a weak and broken voice, “I have not long
to live.”
“Father--”
“Let me speak, child; if I can but tell you all.”
“Sir,” said Baleinier piously to the old workman, “heaven may perhaps
work a miracle in your favor; show yourself grateful, and allow a
priest--”
“A priest! Thank you, sir--I have my son,” said the old man; “in his
arms, I will render up my soul--which has always been true and honest.”
“You die?” exclaimed the marshal; “no! no!”
“Pierre,” said the old man, in a voice which, firm at first, gradually
grew fainter, “just now--you ask my advice in a very serious matter. I
think, that the wish to tell you of your duty--has recalled me--for a
moment--to life--for I should die miserable--if I thought you in a road
unworthy of yourself and me. Listen to me, my son--my noble son--at this
last hour, a father cannot deceive himself. You have a great duty to
perform---under pain--of not acting like a man of honor--under pain of
neglecting my last will. You ought, without hesitation--”
Here the voice failed the old man. When he had pronounced the last
sentence, he became quite unintelligible. The only words that Marshal
Simon could distinguish, were these: “Napoleon II.--oath--dishonor--my
son!”
Then the old workman again moved his lips mechanically--and all was
over. At the moment he expired, the night was quite come, and terrible
shouts were heard from without, of “Fire! Fire!” The conflagration had
broken out in one of the workshops, filled with inflammable stuff, into
which had glided the little man with the ferret’s face. At the same
time, the roll of drums was heard in the distance, announcing the
arrival of a detachment of troops from town.
During an hour, in spite of every effort, the fire had been spreading
through the factory. The night is clear, cold, starlight; the wind blows
keenly from the north, with a moaning sound. A man, walking across the
fields, where the rising ground conceals the fire from him, advances
with slow and unsteady steps. It is M. Hardy. He had chosen to return
home on foot, across the country, hoping that a walk would calm the
fever in his blood--an icy fever, more like the chill of death. He had
not been deceived. His adored mistress--the noble woman, with whom he
might have found refuge from the consequences of the fearful deception
which had just been revealed to him--had quitted France. He could have
no doubt of it. Margaret was gone to America. Her mother had exacted
from her, in expiation of her fault, that she should not even write to
him one word of farewell--to him, for whom she had sacrificed her duty
as a wife. Margaret had obeyed.
Besides, she had often said to him: “Between my mother and you, I should
not hesitate.”
She had not hesitated. There was therefore no hope, not the slightest;
even if an ocean had not separated him from Margaret, he knew enough
of her blind submission to her mother, to be certain that all relations
between them were broken off forever. It is well. He will no longer
reckon upon this heart--his last refuge. The two roots of his life have
been torn up and broken, with the same blow, the same day, almost at the
same moment. What then remains for thee, poor sensitive plant, as thy
tender mother used to call thee? What remains to console thee for the
loss of this last love--this last friendship, so infamously crushed? Oh!
there remains for thee that one corner of the earth, created after
the image of thy mind that little colony, so peaceful and flourishing,
where, thanks to thee, labor brings with it joy and recompense. These
worthy artisans, whom thou hast made happy, good, and grateful, will
not fail thee. That also is a great and holy affection; let it be thy
shelter in the midst of this frightful wreck of all thy most sacred
convictions! The calm of that cheerful and pleasant retreat, the sight
of the unequalled happiness of thy dependents, will soothe thy poor,
suffering soul, which now seems to live only for suffering. Come! you
will soon reach the top of the hill, from which you can see afar, in the
plain below, that paradise of workmen, of which you are the presiding
divinity.
M. Hardy had reached the summit of the hill. At that moment the
conflagration, repressed for a short time, burst forth with redoubled
fury from the Common Dwelling-house, which it had now reached. A bright
streak, at first white, then red, then copper-colored, illuminated
the distant horizon. M. Hardy looked at it with a sort of incredulous,
almost idiotic stupor. Suddenly, an immense column of flame shot up in
the thick of a cloud of smoke, accompanied by a shower of sparks, and
streamed towards the sky, casting a bright reflection over all the
country, even to M. Hardy’s feet. The violence of the north wind,
driving the flames in waves before it, soon brought to the ears of M.
Hardy the hurried clanging of the alarm-bell of the burning factory.
(35) We wish it to be understood, that the necessities of our story
alone have made the Wolves the assailants. While endeavoring to paint
the evils arising the abuse of the spirit of association, we do not wish
to ascribe a character of savage hostility to one sect rather than to
the other to the Wolves more than to the Devourers. The Wolves, a club
of united stone-cutters, are generally industrious, intelligent workmen,
whose situation is the more worthy of interest, as not only their
labors, conducted with mathematical precision, are of the rudest and
most wearisome kind, but they are likewise out of work during three or
four months of the year, their profession being, unfortunately, one of
those which winter condemns to a forced cessation. A number of Wolves,
in order to perfect themselves in their trade, attend every evening a
course of linear geometry, applied to the cutting of stone, analogous
to that given by M. Agricole Perdignier, for the benefit of carpenters.
Several working stone-cutters sent an architectural model in plaster to
the last exhibition.
CHAPTER VI. THE GO-BETWEEN.
A few days have elapsed since the conflagration of M. Hardy’s factory.
The following scene takes place in the Rue Clovis, in the house where
Rodin had lodged, and which was still inhabited by Rose-Pompon, who,
without the least scruple, availed herself of the household arrangements
of her friend Philemon. It was about noon, and Rose-Pompon, alone in
the chamber of the student, who was still absent, was breakfasting very
gayly by the fireside; but how singular a breakfast! what a queer fire!
how strange an apartment!
Imagine a large room, lighted by two windows without curtains--for as
they looked on empty space, the lodger had fear of being overlooked.
One side of this apartment served as a wardrobe, for there was suspended
Rose-Pompon’s flashy costume of debardeur, not far from the boat-man’s
jacket of Philemon, with his large trousers of coarse, gray stuff,
covered with pitch (shiver my timbers!), just as if this intrepid
mariner had bunked in the forecastle of a frigate, during a voyage
round the globe. A gown of Rose Pompon’s hung gracefully over a pair of
pantaloons, the legs of which seemed to come from beneath the petticoat.
On the lowest of several book-shelves, very dusty and neglected, by the
side of three old boots (wherefore three boots?) and a number of empty
bottles, stood a skull, a scientific and friendly souvenir, left to
Philemon by one of his comrades, a medical student. With a species of
pleasantry, very much to the taste of the student-world, a clay pipe
with a very black bowl was placed between the magnificently white teeth
of this skull; moreover, its shining top was half hidden beneath an
old hat, set knowingly on one side, and adorned with faded flowers
and ribbons. When Philemon was drunk, he used to contemplate this bony
emblem of mortality, and break out into the most poetical monologues,
with regard to this philosophical contrast between death and the mad
pleasures of life. Two or three plaster casts, with their noses and
chins more or less injured, were fastened to the wall, and bore witness
to the temporary curiosity which Philemon had felt with regard to
phrenological science, from the patient and serious study of which he
had drawn the following logical conclusion:--That, having to an alarming
extent the bump of getting into debt, he ought to resign himself to the
fatality of this organization, and accept the inconvenience of creditors
as a vital necessity. On the chimney-piece, stood uninjured, in all
its majesty, the magnificent rowing-club drinking-glass, a china teapot
without a spout, and an inkstand of black wood, the glass mouth of which
was covered by a coat of greenish and mossy mould. From time to time,
the silence of this retreat was interrupted by the cooing of pigeons,
which Rose-Pompon had established with cordial hospitality in the little
study. Chilly as a quail, Rose-Pompon crept close to the fire, and at
the same time seemed to enjoy the warmth of a bright ray of sunshine,
which enveloped her in its golden light. This droll little creature was
dressed in the oddest costume, which, however, displayed to advantage
the freshness of her piquant and pretty countenance, crowned with its
fine, fair hair, always neatly combed and arranged the first thing in
the morning. By way of dressing-gown, Rose-Pompon had ingeniously
drawn over her linen, the ample scarlet flannel shirt which belonged to
Philemon’s official garb in the rowing-club; the collar, open and turned
down, displayed the whiteness of the young girl’s under garment, as
also of her neck and shoulders, on whose firm and polished surface the
scarlet shirt seemed to cast a rosy light. The grisette’s fresh and
dimpled arms half protruded from the large, turned-up sleeves; and her
charming legs were also half visible, crossed one over the other, and
clothed in neat white stockings, and boots. A black silk cravat formed
the girdle which fastened the shirt round the wasp-like waist of
Rose-Pompon, just above those hips, worthy of the enthusiasm of a modern
Phidias, and which gave to this style of dress a grace very original.
We have said, that the breakfast of Rose-Pompon was singular. You shall
judge. On a little table placed before her, was a wash-hand-basin, into
which she had recently plunged her fresh face, bathing it in pure water.
From the bottom of this basin, now transformed into a salad-bowl, Rose
Pompon took with the tips of her fingers large green leaves, dripping
with vinegar, and crunched them between her tiny white teeth, whose
enamel was too hard to allow them to be set on edge. Her drink was
a glass of water and syrup of gooseberries, which she stirred with a
wooden mustard-spoon. Finally, as an extra dish, she had a dozen olives
in one of those blue glass trinket-dishes sold for twenty-five sous. Her
dessert was composed of nuts, which she prepared to roast on a red-hot
shovel. That Rose-Pompon, with such an unaccountable savage choice of
food, should retain a freshness of complexion worthy of her name, is one
of those miracles, which reveal the mighty power of youth and health.
When she had eaten her salad, Rose-Pompon was about to begin upon her
olives, when a low knock was heard at the door, which was modestly
bolted on the inside.
“Who is there?” said Rose-Pompon.
“A friend--the oldest of the old,” replied a sonorous, jovial voice.
“Why do you lock yourself in?”
“What! is it you, Ninny Moulin?”
“Yes, my beloved pupil. Open quickly. Time presses.”
“Open to you? Oh, I dare say!--that would be pretty, the figure I am!”
“I believe you! what does it matter what figure you are? It would be
very pretty, thou rosiest of all the roses with which Cupid ever adorned
his quiver!”
“Go and preach fasting and morality in your journal, fat apostle!”
said Rose--Pompon, as she restored the scarlet shirt to its place, with
Philemon’s other garments.
“I say! are we to talk much longer through the door, for the greater
edification of our neighbors?” cried Ninny Moulin. “I have something of
importance to tell you--something that will astonish you--”
“Give me time to put on my gown, great plague that you are!”
“If it is because of my modesty, do not think of it. I am not over nice.
I should like you very well as you are!”
“Only to think that such a monster is the favorite of all the
churchgoers!” said Rose-Pompon, opening the door as she finished
fastening her dress.
“So! you have at last returned to the dovecot, you stray girl!” said
Ninny Moulin, folding his arms, and looking at Rose-Pompon with comic
seriousness. “And where may you have been, I pray? For three days the
naughty little bird has left its nest.”
“True; I only returned home last night. You must have called during my
absence?”
“I came, every day, and even twice a day, young lady, for I have very
serious matters to communicate.”
“Very serious matters? Then we shall have a good laugh at them.”
“Not at all--they are really serious,” said Ninny Moulin, seating
himself. “But, first of all, what did you do during the three days that
you left your conjugal and Philemonic home? I must know all about it,
before I tell you more.”
“Will you have some olives?” said Rose-Pompon, as she nibbled one of
them herself.
“Is that your answer?--I understand!--Unfortunate Philemon!”
“There is no unfortunate Philemon in the case, slanderer. Clara had a
death in her house, and, for the first few days after the funeral she
was afraid to sleep alone.”
“I thought Clara sufficiently provided against such fears.”
“There you are deceived, you great viper! I was obliged to go and keep
the poor girl company.”
At this assertion, the religious pamphleteer hummed a tune, with an
incredulous and mocking air.
“You think I have played Philemon tricks?” cried Rose-Pompon, cracking a
nut with the indignation of injured innocence.
“I do not say tricks; but one little rose-colored trick.”
“I tell you, that it was not for my pleasure I went out. On the
contrary--for, during my absence, poor Cephyse disappeared.”
“Yes, Mother Arsene told me that the Bacchanal-Queen was gone on a
journey. But when I talk of Philemon, you talk of Cephyse; we don’t
progress.”
“May I be eaten by the black panther that they are showing at the Porte
Saint-Martin if I do not tell you the truth. And, talking of that,
you must get tickets to take me to see those animals, my little Ninny
Moulin! They tell me there never were such darling wild beasts.”
“Now really, are you mad?”
“Why so?”
“That I should guide your youth, like a venerable patriarch, through the
dangers of the Storm-blown Tulip, all well and good--I ran no risk
of meeting my pastors and masters; but were I to take you to a Lent
Spectacle (since there are only beasts to be seen), I might just run
against my sacristans--and how pretty I should look with you on my arm!”
“You can put on a false nose, and straps to your trousers, my big Ninny;
they will never know you.”
“We must not think of false noses, but of what I have to tell you, since
you assure me that you have no intrigue in hand.”
“I swear it!” said Rose-Pompon, solemnly, extending her left hand
horizontally, whilst with her right she put a nut into her mouth. Then
she added, with surprise, as she looked at the outside coat of Ninny
Moulin, “Goodness gracious! what full pockets you have got! What is
there in them?”
“Something that concerns you, Rose-Pompon,” said Dumoulin, gravely.
“Me?”
“Rose-Pompon!” said Ninny Moulin, suddenly, with a majestic air; “will
you have a carriage? Will you inhabit a charming apartment, instead of
living in this dreadful hole? Will you be dressed like a duchess?”
“Now for some more nonsense! Come, will you eat the olives? If not, I
shall eat them all up. There is only one left.”
Without answering this gastronomic offer, Ninny Moulin felt in one of
his pockets, and drew from it a case containing a very pretty bracelet,
which he held up sparkling before the eyes of the young girl.
“Oh! what a sumptuous bracelet!” cried she, clapping her hands. “A
green-eyed serpent biting his tail--the emblem of my love for Philemon.”
“Do not talk of Philemon; it annoys me,” said Ninny Moulin, as he
clasped the bracelet round the wrist of Rose-Pompon, who allowed him to
do it, laughing all the while like mad, and saying to him, “So you’ve
been employed to make a purchase, big apostle, and wish to see the
effect of it. Well! it is charming!”
“Rose-Pompon,” resumed Ninny Moulin, “would you like to have a servant,
a box at the Opera, and a thousand francs a month for your pin-money?”
“Always the same nonsense. Get along!” said the young girl, as she held
up the bracelet to the light, still continuing to eat her nuts. “Why
always the same farce, and no change of bills?”
Ninny Moulin again plunged his hand into his pocket, and this time drew
forth an elegant chain, which he hung round Rose-Pompon’s neck.
“Oh! what a beautiful chain!” cried the young girl, as she looked by
turns at the sparkling ornament and the religious writer. “If you chose
that also, you have a very good taste. But am I not a good natured girl
to be your dummy, just to show off your jewels?”
“Rose-Pompon,” returned Ninny Moulin, with a still more majestic air,
“these trifles are nothing to what you may obtain, if you will but
follow the advice of your old friend.”
Rose began to look at Dumoulin with surprise, and said to him, “What
does all this mean, Ninny Moulin? Explain yourself; what advice have you
to give?”
Dumoulin did not answer, but replunging his hand into his inexhaustible
pocket, he fished up a parcel, which he carefully unfolded, and in which
was a magnificent mantilla of black lace. Rose-Pompon started up, full
of new admiration, and Dumoulin threw the rich mantilla over the young
girl’s shoulders.
“It is superb! I have never seen anything like it! What patterns! what
work!” said Rose-Pompon, as she examined all with simple and perfectly
disinterested curiosity. Then she added, “Your pocket is like a shop;
where did you get all these pretty things?” Then, bursting into a fit of
laughter, which brought the blood to her cheeks, she exclaimed, “Oh, I
have it! These are the wedding-presents for Madame de la Sainte-Colombe.
I congratulate you; they are very choice.”
“And where do you suppose I should find money to buy these wonders?”
said Ninny Moulin. “I repeat to you, all this is yours if you will but
listen to me!”
“How is this?” said Rose-Pompon, with the utmost amazement; “is what you
tell me in downright earnest?”
“In downright earnest.”
“This offer to make me a great lady?”
“The jewels might convince you of the reality of my offers.”
“And you propose all this to me for some one else, my poor Ninny
Moulin?”
“One moment,” said the religious writer, with a comical air of modesty,
“you must know me well enough, my beloved pupil, to feel certain that
I should be incapable of inducing you to commit an improper action. I
respect myself too much for that--leaving out the consideration that it
would be unfair to Philemon, who confided to me the guardianship of your
virtue.”
“Then, Ninny Moulin,” said Rose-Pompon, more and more astonished, “on my
word of honor, I can make nothing of it.
“Yet, ‘tis all very simple, and I--”
“Oh! I’ve found it,” cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting Ninny Moulin; “it
is some gentleman who offers me his hand, his heart, and all the rest of
it. Could you not tell me that directly?”
“A marriage? oh, laws, yes!” said Dumoulin, shrugging his shoulders.
“What! is it not a marriage?” said Rose-Pompon, again much surprised.
“No.”
“And the offers you make me are honest ones, my big apostle?”
“They could not be more so.” Here Dumoulin spoke the truth.
“I shall not have to be unfaithful to Philemon?”
“No.”
“Or faithful to any one else?”
“No.”
Rose-Pompon looked confounded. Then she rattled on: “Come, do not let
us have any joking! I am not foolish enough to imagine that I am to live
just like a duchess, just for nothing. What, therefore, must I give in
return?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Nothing?”
“Not even that,” said Ninny Moulin, biting his nail-tip.
“But what am I to do, then?”
“Dress yourself as handsomely as possible, take your ease, amuse
yourself, ride about in a carriage. You see, it is not very
fatiguing--and you will, moreover, help to do a good action.”
“What! by living like a duchess?”
“Yes! so make up your mind. Do not ask me for any more details, for I
cannot give them to you. For the rest, you will not be detained against
your will. Just try the life I propose to you. If it suits you, go on
with it; if not, return to your Philemonic household.”
“In fact--”
“Only try it. What can you risk?”
“Nothing; but I can hardly believe that all you say is true. And then,”
added she, with hesitation, “I do not know if I ought--”
Ninny Moulin went to the window, opened it, and said to Rose-Pompon, who
ran up to it, “Look there! before the door of the house.”
“What a pretty carriage! How comfortable a body’d be inside of it!”
“That carriage is yours. It is waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me!” exclaimed Rose-Pompon; “am I to decide as short as
that?”
“Or not at all.”
“To-day?”
“On the instant.”
“But where will they take me?”
“How should I know?”
“You do not know where they will take me?”
“Not I,”--and Dumoulin still spoke the truth--“the coachman has his
orders.”
“Do you know all this is very funny, Ninny Moulin?”
“I believe you. If it were not funny, where would be the pleasure?”
“You are right.”
“Then you accept the offer? That is well. I am delighted both for you
and myself.”
“For yourself?”
“Yes; because, in accepting, you render me a great service.”
“You? How so?”
“It matters little, as long as I feel obliged to you.”
“True.”
“Come, then; let us set out!”
“Bah! after all, they cannot eat me,” said Rose-Pompon, resolutely.
With a skip and a jump, she went to fetch a rose-colored cap, and, going
up to a broken looking-glass, placed the cap very much cocked on one
side on her bands of light hair. This left uncovered her snowy neck,
with the silky roots of the hair behind, and gave to her pretty face a
very mischievous, not to say licentious expression.
“My cloak!” said she to Ninny Moulin, who seemed to be relieved from a
considerable amount of uneasiness, since she had accepted his offer.
“Fie! a cloak will not do,” answered her companion, feeling once more
in his pocket and drawing out a fine Cashmere shawl, which he threw over
Rose-Pompon’s shoulders.
“A Cashmere!” cried the young girl, trembling with pleasure and joyous
surprise. Then she added, with an air of heroism: “It is settled! I
will run the gauntlet.” And with a light step she descended the stairs,
followed by Ninny Moulin.
The worthy greengrocer was at her post. “Good-morning, mademoiselle; you
are early to-day,” said she to the young girl.
“Yes, Mother Arsene; there is my key.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle.”
“Oh! now I think of it,” said Rose Pompon, suddenly, in a whisper, as
she turned towards Ninny Moulin, and withdrew further from the portress,
“what is to became of Philemon?”
“Philemon?”
“If he should arrive--”
“Oh! the devil!” said Ninny Moulin, scratching his ear.
“Yes; if Philemon should arrive, what will they say to him? for I may be
a long time absent.”
“Three or four months, I suppose.”
“Not more?”
“I should think not.”
“Oh! very good!” said Rose-Pompon. Then, turning towards the
greengrocer, she said to her, after a moment’s reflection: “Mother
Arsene, if Philemon should come home, you will tell him I have gone
out--on business.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“And that he must not forget to feed my pigeons, which are in his
study.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Good-bye, Mother Arsene.”
“Good-bye, mademoiselle.” And Rose-Pompon entered the carriage in
triumph, along with Ninny Moulin.
“The devil take me if I know what is to come of all this,” said Jacques
Dumoulin to himself, as the carriage drove rapidly down the Rue Clovis.
“I have repaired my error--and now I laugh at the rest.”
CHAPTER VII. ANOTHER SECRET.
The following scene took place a few days after the abduction of Rose
Pompon by Ninny Moulin. Mdlle. de Cardoville was seated in a dreamy
mood, in her cabinet, which was hung with green silk, and furnished
with an ebony library, ornamented with large bronze caryatides. By some
significant signs, one could perceive that Mdlle. de Cardoville had
sought in the fine airs some relief from sad and serious thoughts.
Near an open piano, was a harp, placed before a music-stand. A little
further, on a table covered with boxes of oil and water-color, were
several brilliant sketches. Most of them represented Asiatic scenes,
lighted by the fires of an oriental sun. Faithful to her fancy of
dressing herself at home in a picturesque style, Mademoiselle de
Cardoville resembled that day one of those proud portraits of Velasquez,
with stern and noble aspect. Her gown was of black moire, with wide
swelling petticoat, long waist, and sleeve slashed with rose-colored
satin, fastened together with jet bugles. A very stiff, Spanish ruff
reached almost to her chin, and was secured round her neck by a broad
rose-colored ribbon. This frill, slightly heaving, sloped down as far as
the graceful swell of the rose-colored stomacher, laced with strings of
jet beads, and terminating in a point at the waist. It is impossible to
express how well this black garment, with its ample and shining folds,
relieved with rose-color and brilliant jet, skin, harmonized with the
shining whiteness of Adrienne’s and the golden flood of her beautiful
hair, whose long, silky ringlets descended to her bosom.
The young lady was in a half-recumbent posture, with her elbow resting
on a couch covered with green silk. The back of this piece of furniture,
which was pretty high towards the fireplace, sloped down insensibly
towards the foot. A sort of light, semicircular trellis-work, in gilded
bronze, raised about five feet from the ground, covered with flowering
plants (the admirable passiflores quadrangulatoe, planted in a deep
ebony box, from the centre of which rose the trellis-work), surrounded
this couch with a sort of screen of foliage enamelled with large
flowers, green without, purple within, and as brilliant as those flowers
of porcelain, which we receive from Saxony. A sweet, faint perfume,
like a faint mixture of jasmine with violet, rose from the cup of these
admirable passiflores. Strange enough, a large quantity of new books
(Adrienne having bought them since the last two or three days) and
quite fresh-cut, were scattered around her on the couch, and on a little
table; whilst other larger volumes, amongst which were several atlases
full of engravings, were piled on the sumptuous fur, which formed
the carpet beneath the divan. Stranger still, these books, though of
different forms, and by different authors, alt treated of the same
subject. The posture of Adrienne revealed a sort of melancholy
dejection. Her cheeks were pale; a light blue circle surrounded her
large, black eyes, now half-closed, and gave to them an expression of
profound grief. Many causes contributed to this sorrow--amongst others,
the disappearance of Mother Bunch. Without absolutely believing the
perfidious insinuations of Rodin, who gave her to understand that, in
the fear of being unmasked by him, the hunchback had not dared to remain
in the house, Adrienne felt a cruel sinking of the heart, when she
thought how this young girl, in whom she had had so much confidence, had
fled from her almost sisterly hospitality, without even uttering a word
of gratitude; for care had been taken not to show her the few lines
written by the poor needlewoman to her benefactress, just before her
departure.
She had only been told of the note of five hundred francs found on her
desk; and this last inexplicable circumstance had contributed to awaken
cruel suspicions in the breast of Mdlle. de Cardoville. She already felt
the fatal effects of that mistrust of everything and everybody, which
Rodin had recommended to her; and this sentiment of suspicion and
reserve had the more tendency to become powerful, that, for the first
time in her life, Mdlle. de Cardoville, until then a stranger to all
deception, had a secret to conceal--a secret, which was equally her
happiness, her shame, and her torment. Half-recumbent on her divan,
pensive and depressed, Adrienne pursued, with a mind often absent, one
of her newly purchased books. Suddenly, she uttered an exclamation of
surprise; the hand which held the book trembled like a leaf, and from
that moment she appeared to read with passionate attention and devouring
curiosity. Soon, her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, her smile
assumed ineffable sweetness, and she seemed at once proud, happy,
delighted--but, as she turned over the last page, her countenance
expressed disappointment and chagrin. Then she recommenced this reading,
which had occasioned her such sweet emotion, and this time she read with
the most deliberate slowness, going over each page twice, and spelling,
as it were, every line, every word. From time to time, she paused,
and in a pensive mood, with her forehead leaning on her fair hand, she
seemed to reflect, in a deep reverie, on the passages she had read with
such tender and religious love. Arriving at a passage which so affected
her, that a tear started in her eye, she suddenly turned the volume,
to see on the cover the name of the author. For a few seconds, she
contemplated this name with a singular expression of gratitude, and
could not forbear raising to her rosy lips the page on which it was
printed. After reading many times over the lines with which she had
been so much struck, forgetting, no doubt, the letter in the spirit, she
began to reflect so deeply, that the book glided from her hand, and
fell upon the carpet. During the course of this reverie, the eyes of the
young girl rested, at first mechanically, upon an admirable bas-relief,
placed on an ebony stand, near one of the windows. This magnificent
bronze, recently cast after a plaster copy from the antique, represented
the triumph of the Indian Bacchus. Never, perhaps, had Grecian art
attained such rare perfection. The youthful conqueror, half clad in a
lion’s skin, which displayed his juvenile grace and charming purity
of form shone with divine beauty. Standing up in a car, drawn by two
tigers, with an air at once gentle and proud, he leaned with one hand
upon a thyrsus, and with the other guided his savage steeds in tranquil
majesty. By this rare mixture of grace, vigor, and serenity, it was easy
to recognize the hero who had waged such desperate combats with men and
with monsters of the forest. Thanks to the brownish tone of the figure,
the light, falling from one side of the sculpture, admirably displayed
the form of the youthful god, which, carved in relievo, and thus
illumined, shone like a magnificent statue of pale gold upon the dark
fretted background of the bronze.
When Adrienne’s look first rested on this rare assemblage of divine
perfections, her countenance was calm and thoughtful. But this
contemplation, at first mechanical, became gradually more and more
attentive and conscious, and the young lady, rising suddenly from her
seat, slowly approached the bas-relief, as if yielding to the invincible
attraction of an extraordinary resemblance. Then a slight blush appeared
on the cheeks of Mdlle. de Cardoville, stole across her face, and spread
rapidly to her neck and forehead. She approached still closer, threw
round a hasty glance, as if half-ashamed, or as if she had feared to
be surprised in a blamable action, and twice stretched forth her hand,
trembling with emotion, to touch with the tips of her charming fingers
the bronze forehead of the Indian Bacchus. And twice she stopped short,
with a kind of modest hesitation. At last, the temptation became too
strong for her. She yielded to it; and her alabaster finger, after
delicately caressing the features of pale gold, was pressed more boldly
for an instant on the pure and noble brow of the youthful god. At this
pressure, though so slight, Adrienne seemed to feel a sort of electric
shock; she trembled in every limb, her eyes languished, and, after
swimming for an instant in their humid and brilliant crystal, were
raised, half-closed, to heaven. Then her head was thrown a little way
back, her knees bent insensibly, her rosy lips were half opened, as if
to give a passage to her heated breath, for her bosom heaved violently,
as thought youth and life had accelerated the pulsations of her heart,
and made her blood boil in her veins. Finally, the burning cheeks of
Adrienne betrayed a species of ecstasy, timid and passionate, chaste and
sensual, the expression of which was ineffably touching.
An affecting spectacle indeed is that of a young maiden, whose modest
brow flushes with the first fires of a secret passion. Does not the
Creator of all things animate the body as well as the soul, with a
spark of divine energy? Should He not be religiously glorified in the
intellect as in the senses, with which He has so paternally endowed His
creatures? They are impious blasphemers who seek to stifle the celestial
senses, instead of guiding and harmonizing them in their divine flight.
Suddenly, Mdlle. de Cardoville started, raised her head, opened her eyes
as if awakening from a dream, withdrew abruptly from the sculptures,
and walked several times up and down the room in an agitated manner,
pressing her burning hands to her forehead. Then, falling, as it were,
exhausted on her seat, her tears flowed in abundance. The most bitter
grief was visible in her features, which revealed the fatal struggle
that was passing within her. By degrees, her tears ceased. To this
crisis of painful dejection succeeded a species of violent scorn and
indignation against herself, which were expressed by these words that
escaped her: “For the first time in my life, I feel weak and cowardly.
Oh yes! cowardly--very cowardly!”
The sound of a door opening and closing, roused Mdlle. de Cardoville
from her bitter reflections. Georgette entered the room, and said to her
mistress: “Madame, can you receive the Count de Montbron?”
Adrienne, too well-bred to exhibit before her women the sort of
impatience occasioned by this unseasonable visit, said to Georgette:
“You told M. de Montbron that I was at home?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Then beg him to walk in.” Though Mdlle. de Cardoville felt at that
moment much vexed at the arrival of Montbron, let us hasten to say,
that she entertained for him an almost filial affection, and a profound
esteem, though, by a not unfrequent contrast, she almost always differed
from him in opinion. Hence arose, when Mdlle. de Cardoville had nothing
to disturb her mind, the most gay and animated discussions, in which M.
de Montbron, notwithstanding his mocking and sceptical humor, his
long experience, his rare knowledge of men and things, his fashionable
training, in a word, had not always the advantage, and even acknowledged
his defeat gayly enough. Thus, to give an idea of the differences of
the count and Adrienne, before, as he would say laughingly, he had made
himself her accomplice, he had always opposed (from other motives than
those alleged by Madame de Saint-Dizier) Adrienne’s wish to live alone
and in her own way; whilst Rodin, on the contrary, by investing
the young girl’s resolve on this subject with an ideal grandeur of
intention, had acquired a species of influence over her. M. de Montbron,
now upwards of sixty years of age, had been a most prominent character
during the Directory, Consulate, and the Empire. His prodigal style of
living, his wit, his gayety, his duels, his amours, and his losses at
play, had given him a leading influence in the best society of his day;
while his character, his kind-heartedness, and liberality, secured him
the lasting friendship of nearly all his female friends. At the time
we now present him to the reader, he was still a great gambler; and,
moreover, a very lucky gambler. He had, as we have stated, a very lordly
style; his manners were decided, but polished and lively; his habits
were such as belong to the higher classes of society, though he could be
excessively sharp towards people whom he did not like. He was tall and
thin, and his slim figure gave him an almost youthful appearance; his
forehead was high, and a little bald; his hair was gray and short, his
countenance long, his nose aquiline, his eyes blue and piercing, and his
teeth white, and still very good.
“The Count de Montbron,” said Georgette, opening the door. The count
entered, and hastened to kiss Adrienne’s hand, with a sort of paternal
familiarity.
“Come!” said M. de Montbron to himself; “let us try to discover the
truth I am in search of, that we may escape a great misfortune.”
CHAPTER VIII. THE CONFESSION.
Mdlle. de Cardoville, not wishing to betray the cause of the violent
feelings which agitated her, received M. de Montbron with a feigned and
forced gayety. On the other hand, notwithstanding his tact and knowledge
of the world, the count was much embarrassed how to enter upon the
subject on which he wished to confer with Adrienne, and he resolved
to feel his way, before seriously commencing the conversation. After
looking at the young lady for some seconds, M. de Montbron shook
his head, and said, with a sigh of regret: “My dear child, I am not
pleased.”
“Some affair of the heart, or of hearts, my dear count?” returned
Adrienne, smiling.
“Of the heart,” said M. de Montbron.
“What! you, so great a player, think more of a woman’s whim than a throw
of the dice?”
“I have a heavy heart, and you are the cause of it, my dear child.”
“M. de Montbron, you will make me very proud,” said Adrienne, with a
smile.
“You would be wrong, for I tell you plainly, my trouble is caused by
your neglect of your beauty. Yes, your countenance is pale, dejected,
sorrowful; you have been low-spirited for the last few days; you have
something on your mind, I am sure of it.”
“My dear M. de Montbron, you have so much penetration, that you may be
allowed to fall for once, as now. I am not sad, I have nothing on my
mind, and--I am about to utter a very silly piece of impertinence--I
have never thought myself so pretty.”
“On the contrary, nothing could be more modest than such an assertion.
Who told you that falsehood? a woman?”
“No; it was my heart, and it spoke the truth,” answered Adrienne, with a
slight degree of emotion. “Understand it, if you can,” she added.
“Do you mean that you are proud of the alteration in your features,
because you are proud of the sufferings of your heart?” said M. de
Montbron, looking at Adrienne with attention. “Be it so; I am then
right. You have some sorrow. I persist in it,” added the count, speaking
with a tone of real feeling, “because it is painful to me.”
“Be satisfied; I am as happy as possible--for every instant I take
delight in repeating, how, at my age, I am free--absolutely free!”
“Yes; free to torment yourself, free to be miserable.”
“Come, come, my dear count!” said Adrienne, “you are recommencing
our old quarrel. I still find in you the ally of my aunt and the Abbe
d’Aigrigny.”
“Yes; as the republicans are the allies of the legitimists--to destroy
each other in their turn. Talking of your abominable aunt, they say that
she holds a sort of council at her house these last few days, a regular
mitred conspiracy. She is certainly in a good way.”
“Why not? Formerly, she would have wished to be Goddess of Reason, now,
we shall perhaps see her canonized. She has already performed the first
part of the life of Mary Magdalen.”
“You can never speak worse of her than she deserves, my dear child.
Still, though for quite opposite reasons, I agreed with her on the
subject of your wish to reside alone.”
“I know it.”
“Yes; and because I wished to see you a thousand times freer than you
really are, I advised you--”
“To marry.”
“No doubt; you would have had your dear liberty, with its consequences,
only, instead of Mdlle. de Cardoville, we should have called you Madame
Somebody, having found an excellent husband to be responsible for your
independence.”
“And who would have been responsible for this ridiculous husband? And
who would bear a mocked and degraded name? I, perhaps?” said Adrienne,
with animation. “No, no, my dear count, good or ill, I will answer for
my own actions; to my name shall attach the reputation, which I alone
have formed. I am as incapable of basely dishonoring a name which is
not mine, as of continually bearing it myself, if it were not held in,
esteem. And, as one can only answer for one’s own actions, I prefer to
keep my name.”
“You are the only person in the world that has such ideas.”
“Why?” said Adrienne, laughing. “Because it appears to me horrible,
to see a poor girl lost and buried in some ugly and selfish man, and
become, as they say seriously, the better half of the monster--yes! a
fresh and blooming rose to become part of a frightful thistle!--Come,
my dear count; confess there is something odious in this conjugal
metempsychosis,” added Adrienne, with a burst of laughter.
The forced and somewhat feverish gayety of Adrienne contrasted painfully
with her pale and suffering countenance; it was so easy to see that she
strove to stifle with laughter some deep sorrow, that M. de Montbron
was much affected by it; but, dissembling his emotion, he appeared to
reflect a moment, and took up mechanically one of the new, fresh-cut
books, by which Adrienne was surrounded. After casting a careless glance
at this volume, he continued, still dissembling his feelings: “Come, my
dear madcap: this is another folly. Suppose I were twenty years old,
and that you did me the honor to marry me--you would be called Lady de
Montbron, I imagine?”
“Perhaps.”
“How perhaps? Would you not bear my name, if you married me?”
“My dear count,” said Adrienne, with a smile, “do not let us pursue this
hypothesis, which can only leave us--regrets.”
Suddenly, M. de Montbron started, and looked at Mdlle, de Cardoville
with an expression of surprise. For some moments, whilst talking to
Adrienne, he had mechanically--taken up two or three of the volumes
scattered over the couch, and had glanced at their titles in the same
careless manner. The first was the “Modern History of India.” The
second, “Travels in India.” The third, “Letters on India.” Much
surprised, M. de Montbron had continued his investigation, and found
that the fourth volume continued this Indian nomenclature, being
“Rambles in India.” The fifth was, “Recollections of Hindostan.” The
sixth, “Notes of a Traveller in the East Indies.”
Hence the astonishment, which, for many serious reasons, M. de Montbron
had no longer been able to conceal, and which his looks betrayed to
Adrienne. The latter, having completely forgotten the presence of the
accusing volumes by which she was surrounded, yielded to a movement of
involuntary confusion, and blushed slightly; but, her firm and resolute
character again coming to her aid, she looked full at M. de Montbron,
and said to him: “Well, my dear count! what surprises you?”
Instead of answering, M. de Montbron appeared still more absorbed in
thought, and contemplating the young girl, he could not forbear saying
to himself: “No, no--it is impossible--and yet--”
“It would, perhaps, be indiscreet in me to listen to your soliloquy, my
dear count,” said Adrienne.
“Excuse me, my dear child; but what I see surprises me so much--”
“And pray what do you see?”
“The traces of so great and novel an interest in all that relates to
India,” said M. de Montbron, laying a slight stress on his words, and
fixing a piercing look upon the young girl.
“Well!” said Adrienne, stoutly.
“Well! I seek the cause of this sudden passion--”
“Geographical?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, interrupting M. de Montbron:
“you may find this taste somewhat serious for my age my dear count--but
one must find occupation for leisure hours--and then, having a cousin,
who is both an Indian and a prince, I should like to know something of
the fortunate country from which I derive this savage relationship.”
These last words were pronounced with a bitterness that was not lost on
M. de Montbron: watching Adrienne attentively, he observed: “Meseems,
you speak of the prince with some harshness.”
“No; I speak of him with indifference.”
“Yet he deserves a very different feeling.”
“On the part of some other person, perhaps,” replied Adrienne, dryly.
“He is so unhappy!” said M, de Montbron, in a tone of sincere pity.
“When I saw him the other day, he made my heart ache.”
“What have I to do with it?” exclaimed Adrienne, with an accent of
painful and almost angry impatience.
“I should have thought that his cruel torments at least deserved your
pity,” answered the count gravely.
“Pity--from me!” cried Adrienne, with an air of offended pride. Then
restraining herself, she added coldly: “You are jesting, M. de Montbron.
It is not in sober seriousness that you ask me to take interest in the
amorous torments of your prince.”
There was so much cold disdain in these last words of Adrienne, her pale
and agitated countenance betrayed such haughty bitterness, that M. de
Montbron said, sorrowfully: “It is then true; I have not been deceived.
I, who thought, from our old and constant friendship, that I had some
claim to your confidence have known nothing of it--while you told all to
another. It is painful, very painful to me.”
“I do not understand you, M. de Montbron.”
“Well then, since I must speak plainly,” cried the count, “there is, I
see, no hope for this unhappy boy--you love another.”
As Adrienne started--“Oh! you cannot deny it,” resumed the count;
“your paleness and melancholy for the last few days, your implacable
indifference to the prince--all prove to me that you are in love.”
Hurt by the manner in which the count spoke of the sentiment he
attributed to her, Mdlle. de Cardoville answered with dignified
stateliness: “You must know, M. de Montbron, that a secret discovered is
not a confidence. Your language surprises me.
“Oh, my dear friend, if I use the poor privilege of experience--if I
guess that you are in love--if I tell you so, and even go so far as
to reproach you with it--it is because the life or death of this poor
prince is concerned; and I feel for him as if he were my son, for it is
impossible to know him without taking the warmest interest in him.”
“It would be singular,” returned Adrienne, with redoubled coldness, and
still more bitter irony, “if my love--admitting I were in love--could
have any such strange influence on Prince Djalma. What can it matter to
him?” added she, with almost agonizing disdain.
“What can it matter to him? Now really, my dear friend, permit me to
tell you, that it is you who are jesting cruelly. What! this unfortunate
youth loves you with all the blind ardor of a first love--twice
has attempted to terminate by suicide the horrible tortures of his
passion--and you think it strange that your love for another should be
with him a question of life or death!”
“He loves me then?” cried the young girl, with an accent impossible to
describe.
“He loves you to madness, I tell you; I have seen it.”
Adrienne seemed overcome with amazement. From pale, she became crimson;
as the redness disappeared, her lips grew white, and trembled. Her
emotion was so strong, that she remained for some moments unable
to speak, and pressed her hand to her heart, as if to moderate its
pulsations.
M. de Montbron, almost frightened at the sudden change in Adrienne’s
countenance, hastily approached her, exclaiming: “Good heaven, my poor
child! what is the matter?”
Instead of answering, Adrienne waved her hand to him, in sign that
he should not be alarmed; and, in fact, the count was speedily
tranquillized, for the beautiful face, which had so lately been
contracted with pain, irony, and scorn, seemed now expressive of the
sweetest and most ineffable emotions; Adrienne appeared to luxuriate
in delight, and to fear losing the least particle of it; then, as
reflection told her, that she was, perhaps, the dupe of illusion or
falsehood, she exclaimed suddenly, with anguish, addressing herself to
M. de Montbron: “But is what you tell me true?”
“What I tell you!”
“Yes--that Prince Djalma--”
“Loves you to madness?--Alas! it is only too true.”
“No, no,” cried Adrienne, with a charming expression of simplicity;
“that could never be too true.”
“What do you say?” cried the count.
“But that woman?” asked Adrienne, as if the word scorched her lips.
“What woman?”
“She who has been the cause of all these painful struggles.”
“That woman--why, who should it be but you?”
“What, I? Oh! tell me, was it I?”
“On my word of honor. I trust my experience. I have never seen so ardent
and sincere a passion.”
“Oh! is it really so? Has he never had any other love?”
“Never.”
“Yet I was told so.”
“By whom?”
“M. Rodin.”
“That Djalma--”
“Had fallen violently in love, two days after I saw him.”
“M. Rodin told you that!” cried M. de Montbron, as if struck with a
sudden idea. “Why, it is he who told Djalma that you were in love with
some one else.”
“I!”
“And this it was which occasioned the poor youth’s dreadful despair.”
“It was this which occasioned my despair.”
“You love him, then, just as he loves you!” exclaimed M. de Montbron,
transported with joy.
“Love him!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville. A discreet knock at the door
interrupted Adrienne.
“One of your servants, no doubt. Be calm,” said the count.
“Come in,” said Adrienne, in an agitated voice.
“What is it?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville. Florine entered the room.
“M. Rodin has just been here. Fearing to disturb mademoiselle, he would
not come in; but he will return in half an hour. Will mademoiselle
receive him?”
“Yes, yes,” said the count to Florine; “even if I am still here, show
him in by all means. Is not that your opinion?” asked M. de Montbron of
Adrienne.
“Quite so,” answered the young girl; and a flash of indignation darted
from her eyes, as she thought of Rodin’s perfidy.
“Oho! the old knave!” said M. de Montbron, “I always had my doubts
of that crooked neck!” Florine withdrew, leaving the count with her
mistress.
CHAPTER IX. LOVE.
Mdlle. de Cardoville was transfigured. For the first time her beauty
shone forth in all its lustre. Until now overshadowed by indifference,
or darkened by grief, she appeared suddenly illumined by a brilliant ray
of sunshine. The slight irritation caused by Rodin’s perfidy passed like
an imperceptible shade from her brow. What cared she now for falsehood
and perfidy? Had they not failed? And, for the future, what human power
could interpose between her and Djalma, so sure of each other? Who would
dare to cross the path of those two things, resolute and strong with the
irresistible power of youth, love, and liberty? Who would dare to follow
them into that blazing sphere, whither they went, so beautiful and
happy, to blend together in their inextinguishable love, protected by
the proof armor of their own happiness? Hardly had Florine left the
room, when Adrienne approached M. de Montbron with a rapid step.
She seemed to have become taller; and to watch her advancing, light,
radiant, and triumphant, one might have fancied her a goddess walking
upon clouds.
“When shall I see him?” was her first word to M. de Montbron.
“Well--say to-morrow; he must be prepared for so much happiness; in so
ardent a nature, such sudden, unexpected joy might be terrible.”
Adrienne remained pensive for a moment, and then said rapidly: “To
morrow--yes--not before to-morrow. I have a superstition of the heart.”
“What is it?”
“You shall know. HE LOVES ME--that word says all, contains all,
comprehends all, is all--and yet I have a thousand questions to ask
with regard to him--but I will ask none before to-morrow, because, by a
mysterious fatality, to-morrow is with me a sacred anniversary. It will
be an age till then; but happily, I can wait. Look here!”
Beckoning M. de Montbron, she led him to the Indian Bacchus. “How much
it is like him!” said she to the count.
“Indeed,” exclaimed the latter, “it is strange!”
“Strange?” returned Adrienne, with a smile of gentle pride; “strange,
that a hero, a demi-god, an ideal of beauty, should resemble Djalma?”
“How you love him!” said M. de Montbron, deeply touched, and almost
dazzled by the felicity which beamed from the countenance of Adrienne.
“I must have suffered a good deal, do you not think so?” said she, after
a moment’s silence.
“If I had not made up my mind to come here to-day, almost in despair,
what would have happened?”
“I cannot tell; I should perhaps have died, for I am wounded mortally
here”--she pressed her hand to her heart. “But what might have been
death to me, will now be life.”
“It was horrible,” said the count, shuddering. “Such a passion, buried
in your own breast, proud as you are--”
“Yes, proud--but not self-conceited. When I learned his love for
another, and that the impression which I fancied I had made on him at
our first interview had been immediately effaced, I renounced all hope,
without being able to renounce my love. Instead of shunning his image,
I surrounded myself with all that could remind me of him. In default
of happiness, there is a bitter pleasure in suffering through what we
love.”
“I can now understand your Indian library.”
Instead of answering the count, Adrienne took from the stand one of the
freshly-cut volumes, and, bringing it to M. de Montbron, said to him,
with a smile and a celestial expression of joy and happiness: “I was
wrong--I am vain. Just read this--aloud, if you please. I tell you that
I can wait for to-morrow.” Presenting the book to the count, she pointed
out one passage with the tip of her charming finger. Then she sank down
upon the couch, and, in an attitude of deep attention, with her body
bent forward, her hands crossed upon the cushion, her chin resting upon
her hands, her large eyes fixed with a sort of adoration on the Indian
Bacchus, that was just opposite to her, she appeared by this impassioned
contemplation to prepare herself to listen to M. de Montbron.
The latter, much astonished, began to read, after again looking at
Adrienne, who said to him, in her most coaxing voice, “Very slowly, I
beg of you.”
M. de Montbron then read the following passage from the journal of a
traveller in India: “‘When I was at Bombay, in 1829, I constantly heard
amongst the English there, of a young hero, the son of--’”
The count having paused a second, by reason of the barbarous spelling
of the name of Djalma’s father, Adrienne immediately said to him, in her
soft voice: “The son of Kadja-sing.”
“What a memory!” said the count, with a smile. And he resumed: “‘A young
hero, the son of Kadja-sing, king of Mundi. On his return from a distant
and sanguinary expedition amongst the mountains against this Indian
king, Colonel Drake was filled with enthusiasm for this son of
Kadja-sing, known as Djalma. Hardly beyond the age of childhood, this
young prince has in the course of this implacable war given proofs
of such chivalrous intrepidity, and of so noble a character, that his
father has been surnamed the Father of the Generous.’”
“That is a touching custom,” said the count. “To recompense the father,
as it were, by giving him a surname in honor of his son, is a great
idea. But how strange you should have met with this book!” added the
count, in surprise. “I can understand; there is matter here to inflame
the coolest head.”
“Oh! you will see, you will see,” said Adrienne.
The count continued to read: “‘Colonel Drake, one of the bravest and
best officers of the English army, said yesterday, in my presence, that
having been dangerously wounded, and taken prisoner by Prince Djalma,
after an energetic resistance, he had been conveyed to the camp
established in the village of--”
Here there was the same hesitation on the part of the count, on seeing
a still more barbarous name than the first; so, not wishing to try the
adventure, he paused, and said to Adrienne, “Now really, I give this
up.”
“And yet it is so easy!” replied Adrienne; and she pronounced with
inexpressible softness, a name in itself soft, “The village of
Shumshabad.”
“You appear to have an infallible process for remembering geographical
names,” said the count, continuing: “‘Once arrived at the camp, Colonel
Drake received the kindest hospitality, and Prince Djalma treated
him with the respect of a son. It was there that the colonel became
acquainted with some facts, which carried to the highest pitch his
enthusiasm for prince Djalma. I heard him relate the two following.
“‘In one of the battles, the prince was accompanied by a young Indian of
about twelve years of age, whom he loved tenderly, and who served him
as a page, following him on horseback to carry his spare weapons.
This child was idolized by its mother; just as they set out on the
expedition, she had entrusted her son to Prince Djalma’s care, saying,
with a stoicism worthy of antiquity, “Let him be your brother.” “He
shall be my brother,” had replied the prince. In the height of a
disastrous defeat, the child is severely wounded, and his horse killed;
the prince, at peril of his life, notwithstanding the perception of a
forced retreat, disengages him, and places him on the croup of his own
horse; they are pursued; a musket-ball strikes their steed, who is just
able to reach a jungle, in the midst of which, after some vain efforts,
he falls exhausted. The child is unable to walk, but the prince carries
him in his arms, and hides with him in the thickest part of the jungle.
The English arrive, and begin their search; but the two victims escape.
After a night and a day of marches, counter-marches, stratagems,
fatigues, unheard-of perils, the prince, still, carrying the child, one
of whose legs is broken, arrives at his father’s camp, and says, with
the utmost simplicity, “I had promised his mother that I would act a
brother’s part by him--and I have done so.”’
“That is admirable!” cried the count.
“Go on--pray go on!” said Adrienne, drying a tear, without removing
her eyes from the bas-relief, which she continued to contemplate with
growing adoration.
The count continued: “‘Another time, Prince Djalma, followed by two
black slaves, went, before sunrise, to a very wild spot, to seize a
couple of tiger cubs only a few days old. The den had been previously
discovered. The two old tigers were still abroad. One of the blacks
entered the den by a narrow aperture; the other, aided by Djalma,
cut down a tolerably large tree, to prepare a trap for one of the old
tigers. On the side of the aperture, the cavern was exceedingly steep.
The prince mounted to the top of it with agility, to set his trap, with
the aid of the other black. Suddenly, a dreadful roar was heard; and, in
a few bounds, the tigress, returning from the chase, reached the opening
of the den. The black who was laying the trap with the prince had his
skull fractured by her bite; the tree, falling across the entrance,
prevented the female from penetrating the cavern, and at the same time
stopped the exit of the black who had seized the cubs.
“‘About twenty feet higher, upon a ledge of rock, the prince lay flat
on the ground, looking down upon this frightful spectacle. The tigress,
rendered furious by the cries of her little ones, gnawed the hands of
the black, who, from the interior of the den, strove to support
the trunk of the tree, his only rampart, whilst he uttered the most
lamentable outcries.’
“It is horrible!” said the count.
“Oh! go on! pray go on!” exclaimed Adrienne, with excitement; “you will
see what can be achieved by the heroism of goodness.”
The count pursued: “‘Suddenly the prince seized his dagger between his
teeth, fastened his sash to a block of stone, took his axe in one hand,
and with the other slid down this substitute for a rope; falling a few
steps from the wild beast, he sprang upon her, and, swift as lightning,
dealt her two mortal strokes, just as the black, losing his strength,
was about to drop the trunk of the tree, sure to have been torn to
pieces.’”
“And you are astonished at his resemblance with the demi-god, to whom
fable itself ascribes no more generous devotion!” cried the young lady,
with still increasing excitement.
“I am astonished no longer, I only admire,” said the count, in a voice
of emotion; “and, at these two noble instances of heroism, my heart
beats with enthusiasm, as if I were still twenty.”
“And the noble heart of this traveller beat like yours at the recital,”
said Adrienne; “you will see.”
“‘What renders so admirable the intrepidity of the prince, is, that,
according to the principle of Indian castes, the life of a slave is of
no importance; thus a king’s son, risking his life for the safety of
a poor creature, so generally despised, obeyed an heroic and truly
Christian instinct of charity, until then unheard of in this country.”
“‘Two such actions,’ said Colonel Drake, with good reason, ‘are
sufficient to paint the man; it is with a feeling of profound respect
and admiration, therefore, that I, an obscure traveller, have written
the name of Prince Djalma in my book; and at the same time, I have
experienced a kind of sorrow, when I have asked myself what would be the
future fate of this prince, buried in the depths of a savage country,
always devastated by war. However humble may be the homage that I pay
to this character, worthy of the heroic age, his name will at least be
repeated with generous enthusiasm by all those who have hearts that beat
in sympathy with what is great and noble.’”
“And just now, when I read those simple and touching lines,” resumed
Adrienne, “I could not forbear pressing my lips to the name of the
traveller.”
“Yes; he is such as I thought him,” cried the count, with still more
emotion, as he returned the book to Adrienne, who rose, with a grave and
touching air, and said to him: “It was thus I wished you to know him,
that you might understand my adoration; for this courage, this heroic
goodness, I had guessed beforehand, when I was an involuntary listener
to his conversation. From that moment, I knew him to be generous as
intrepid, tender and sensitive as energetic and resolute; and when I saw
him so marvellously beautiful--so different, in the noble character of
his countenance, and even in the style of his garments, from all I had
hitherto met with--when I saw the impression that I made upon him, and
which I perhaps felt still more violently--I knew that my whole life was
bound up with his love.”
“And now, what are your plans?”
“Divine, radiant as my heart. When he learns his happiness, I wish that
Djalma should feel dazzled as I do, so as to prevent my gazing on my
sun; for I repeat, that until tomorrow will be a century to me. Yes, it
is strange! I should have thought that after such a discovery, I should
feel the want of being left alone, plunged in an ocean of delicious
dreams. But no! from this time till to-morrow--I dread solitude--I
feel a kind of feverish impatience--uneasy--ardent--Oh! where is the
beneficent fairy, that, touching me with her wand, will lull me into
slumber till to-morrow!”
“I will be that beneficent fairy,” said the count, smiling.
“You?”
“Yes, I.”
“And how so?”
“The power of my wand is this: I will relieve you from a portion of your
thoughts by making them materially visible.”
“Pray explain yourself.”
“And my plan will have another advantage for you. Listen to me; you
are so happy now that you can hear anything. Your odious aunt, and her
equally odious friends, are spreading the report that your residence
with Dr. Baleinier--”
“Was rendered necessary by the derangement of my mind,” said Adrienne,
with a smile; “I expected that.”
“It is stupid enough; but, as your resolution to live alone makes many
envious of you, and many hostile, you must feel that there will be no
want of persons ready to believe the most absurd calumny possible.”
“I hope as much. To pass for mad in the eyes of fools is very
flattering.”
“Yes; but to prove to fools that they are fools, and that in the face
of all Paris, is much more amusing. Now, people begin to talk of your
absence; you have given up your daily rides; for some time my niece has
appeared alone in our box at the Opera; you wish to kill the time till
to-morrow--well! here is an excellent opportunity. It is two o’clock;
at halfpast three, my niece will come in the carriage; the weather is
splendid; there is sure to be a crowd in the Bois de Boulogne. You can
take a delightful ride, and be seen by everybody. Then, as the air and
movement will have calmed your fever of happiness, I will commence my
magic this evening, and take you to India.”
“To India?”
“Into the midst of one of those wild forests, in which roar the lion,
the panther, and the tiger. We will have this heroic combat, which so
moved you just now, under our own eyes, in all its terrible reality.”
“Really, my dear count, you must be joking.”
“Not at all; I promise to show you real wild beasts, formidable tenants
of the country of our demigod--growling tigers--roaring lions--do you
not think that will be better than books?”
“But how?”
“Come! I must give you the secret of my supernatural power. On returning
from your ride, you shall dine with my niece, and we will go together
to a very curious spectacle now exhibiting at the Porte-Saint-Martin
Theatre. A most extraordinary lion-tamer there shows you a number of
wild beasts, in a state of nature, in the midst of a forest (here only
commences the illusion), and has fierce combats with them all--tigers,
lions, and panthers. All Paris is crowding to these representations, and
all Paris will see you there, more charming than ever.”
“I accept your offer,” said Adrienne, with childish delight. “Yes,
you are right. I feel a strange pleasure in beholding these ferocious
monsters, who will remind me of those that my demi-god so heroically
overcame. I accept also, because, for the first time in my life, I am
anxious to be admired--even by everybody. I accept finally because--”
Here Mdlle. de Cardoville was interrupted by a low knock at the door,
and by the entrance of Florine, who announced M. Rodin.
CHAPTER X. THE EXECUTION.
Rodin entered. A rapid glance at Mdlle. de Cardoville and M. de Montbron
told him at once that he was in a dilemma. In fact, nothing could be
less encouraging than the faces of Adrienne and the count. The latter,
when he disliked people, exhibited his antipathy, as we have already
said, by an impertinently aggressive manner, which had before now
occasioned a good number of duels. At sight of Rodin, his countenance at
once assumed a harsh and insolent expression; resting his elbow on the
chimney-piece, and conversing with Adrienne, he looked disdainfully over
his shoulder, without taking the least notice of the Jesuit’s low bow.
On the other hand, at sight of this man, Mdlle. de Cardoville almost
felt surprise, that she should experience no movement of anger or
hatred. The brilliant flame which burned in her heart, purified it from
every vindictive sentiment. She smiled, on the contrary; for, glancing
with gentle pride at the Indian Bacchus, and then at herself, she asked
herself what two beings, so young, and fair, and free, and loving,
could have to fear from this old, sordid man, with his ignoble and base
countenance, now advancing towards her with the writhing of a reptile.
In a word, far from feeling anger or aversion with regard to Rodin, the
young lady seemed full of the spirit of mocking gayety, and her large
eyes, already lighted up with happiness, now sparkled with irony and
mischief. Rodin felt himself ill at ease. People of his stamp greatly
prefer violent to mocking enemies. They can encounter bursts of
rage--sometimes by falling on their knees, weeping, groaning, and
beating their breasts--sometimes by turning on their adversary, armed
and implacable. But they are easily disconcerted by biting raillery; and
thus it was with Rodin. He saw that between Adrienne de Cardoville and
M. de Montbron, he was about to be placed in what is vulgarly termed a
“regular fix.”
The count opened the fire; still glancing over his shoulder, he said to
Rodin: “Ah! you are here, my benevolent gentleman!”
“Pray, sir, draw a little nearer,” said Adrienne, with a mocking smile.
“Best of friends and model of philosophers--as well as declared enemy of
all fraud and falsehood--I have to pay you a thousand compliments.”
“I accent anything from you, my dear young lady, even though
undeserved,” said the Jesuit, trying to smile, and thus exposing his
vile yellow teeth; “but may I be informed how I have earned these
compliments?”
“Your penetration, sir, which is rare--” replied Adrienne.
“And your veracity, sir,” said the count, “which is perhaps no less
rare--”
“In what have I exhibited my penetration, my dear young lady?” said
Rodin, coldly. “In what my veracity?” added he, turning towards M. de
Montbron.
“In what, sir?” said Adrienne. “Why, you have guessed a secret
surrounded by difficulties and mystery. In a word, you have known how to
read the depths of a woman’s heart.”
“I, my dear young lady?”
“You, sir! rejoice at it, for your penetration has had the most
fortunate results.”
“And your veracity has worked wonders,” added the count.
“It is pleasant to do good, even without knowing it,” said Rodin, still
acting on the defensive, and throwing side glances by turns on the count
and Adrienne; “but will you inform me what it is that deserves this
praise--”
“Gratitude obliges me to inform you of it,” said Adrienne, maliciously;
“you have discovered, and told Prince Djalma, that I was passionately in
love. Well! I admire your penetration; it was true.”
“You have also discovered, and told this lady, that Prince Djalma
was passionately in love,” resumed the count. “Well! I admire your
penetration, my dear sir; it was true.”
Rodin looked confused, and at a loss for a reply.
“The person that I loved so passionately,” said Adrienne, “was the
prince.”
“The person that the prince loved so passionately,” resumed the count,
“was this lady.”
These revelations, so sudden and alarming, almost stunned Rodin; he
remained mute and terrified, thinking of the future.
“Do you understand now, sir, the extent of our gratitude towards
you?” resumed Adrienne, in a still more mocking tone. “Thanks to your
sagacity, thanks to the touching interest you take in us, the prince and
I are indebted to you for the knowledge of our mutual sentiments.”
The Jesuit had now gradually recovered his presence of mind, and
his apparent calmness greatly irritated M. de Montbron, who, but for
Adrienne’s presence, would have assumed another tone than jests.
“There is some mistake,” said Rodin, “in what you have done me the honor
to tell me, my dear young lady. I have never in my life spoken of the
sentiments, however worthy and respectable, that you may entertain for
Prince Djalma--”
“That is true,” replied Adrienne; “with scrupulous and exquisite
discretion, whenever you spoke to me of the deep love felt by Prince
Djalma, you carried your reserve and delicacy so far as to inform me
that it was not I whom he loved.”
“And the same scruple induced you to tell the prince that Mdlle. de
Cardoville loved some one passionately--but that he was not the person,”
added the count.
“Sir,” answered Rodin, dryly, “I need hardly tell you that I have no
desire to mix myself up with amorous intrigues.”
“Come! this is either pride or modesty,” said the count, insolently.
“For your own interest, pray do not advance such things; for, if we took
you at your word, and it became known, it might injure some of the nice
little trades that you carry on.”
“There is one at least,” said Rodin, drawing himself up as proudly as
M. de Montbron, “whose rude apprenticeship I shall owe to you. It is the
wearisome one of listening to your discourse.”
“I tell you what, my good sir!” replied the count, disdainfully: “you
force me to remind you that there are more ways than one of chastising
impudent rogues.”
“My dear count!” said Adrienne to M. de Montbron, with an air of
reproach.
With perfect coolness, Rodin replied: “I do not exactly see, sir, first,
what courage is shown by threatening a poor old man like myself, and,
secondly--”
“M. Rodin,” said the count, interrupting the Jesuit, “first, a poor old
man like you, who does evil under the shelter of the age he dishonors,
is both cowardly and wicked, and deserves a double chastisement;
secondly, with regard to this question of age, I am not aware that
gamekeepers and policemen bow down respectfully to the gray coats of old
wolves, and the gray hairs of old thieves. What do you think, my good
sir?”
Still impassible, Rodin raised his flabby eyelids, fixed for hardly a
second his little reptile eye upon the count, and darted at him one of
his rapid, cold, and piercing glances--and then the livid eyelid again
covered the dull eye of that corpse-like face.
“Not having the disadvantage of being an old wolf, and still less an
old thief,” said Rodin, quietly, “you will permit me, sir, to take no
account of the pursuit of hunters and police. As for the reproaches made
me, I have a very simple method of answering--I do not say of justifying
myself--I never justify myself--”
“You don’t say!” said the count.
“Never,” resumed Rodin coolly; “my acts are sufficient for that. I
will then simply answer that seeing the deep, violent, almost fearful
impression made by this lady on the prince--”
“Let this assurance which you give me of the prince’s love,” said
Adrienne interrupting Rodin with an enchanting smile, “absolve you of
all the evil you wished to do me. The sight of our happiness be your
only punishment!”
“It may be that I need neither absolution nor punishment, for, as I have
already had the honor to observe to the count, my dear young lady, the
future will justify my acts. Yes; it was my duty to tell the prince that
you loved another than himself, and to tell you that he loved another
than yourself--all in your mutual interest. That my attachment for you
may have misled me, is possible--I am not infallible; but, after my past
conduct towards you, my dear young lady, I have, perhaps, some right to
be astonished at seeing myself thus treated. This is not a complaint. If
I never justify myself, I never complain either.”
“Now really, there is something heroic in all this, my good sir,” said
the count. “You do not condescend to complain or justify yourself, with
regard to the evil you have done.”
“The evil I have done?” said Rodin, looking fixedly at the count. “Are
we playing at enigmas?”
“What, sir!” cried the count, with indignation: “is it nothing, by your
falsehoods, to have plunged the prince into so frightful a state of
despair, that he has twice attempted his life? Is it nothing, by similar
falsehoods, to have induced this lady to believe so cruel and complete
an error, that but for the resolution I have to-day taken, it might have
led to the most fatal consequences?”
“And will you do me the honor to tell me, sir, what interest I could
have in all this despair and error, admitting even that I had wished to
produce them?”
“Some great interest no doubt,” said the count, bluntly; “the more
dangerous that it is concealed. You are one of those, I see, to whom the
woes of others are pleasure and profit.”
“That is really too much, sir,” said Rodin, bowing; “I should be quite
contented with the profit.”
“Your impudent coolness will not deceive me; this is a serious matter,”
said the count. “It is impossible that so perfidious a piece of roguery
can be an isolated act. Who knows but this may still be one of the
fruits of Madame de Saint-Dizier’s hatred for Mdlle. de Cardoville?”
Adrienne had listened to the preceding discussion with deep attention.
Suddenly she started, as if struck by a sudden revelation.
After a moment’s silence, she said to Rodin, without anger, without
bitterness, but with an expression of gentle and serene calmness: “We
are told, sir, that happy love works miracles. I should be tempted
to believe it; for, after some minutes’ reflection, and when I recall
certain circumstances, your conduct appears to me in quite a new light.”
“And what may this new perspective be, my dear young lady?”
“That you may see it from my point of view, sir, allow me to remind you
of a few facts. That sewing-girl was generously devoted to me; she had
given me unquestionable proofs of her attachment. Her mind was equal
to her noble heart; but she had an invincible dislike to you. All on a
sudden she disappears mysteriously from my house, and you do your
best to cast upon her odious suspicions. M. de Montbron has a paternal
affection for me; but, as I must confess, little sympathy for you; and
you have always tried to produce a coldness between us. Finally, Prince
Djalma has a deep affection for me, and you employ the most perfidious
treachery to kill that sentiment within him. For what end do you act
thus? I do not know; but certainly with some hostile design.”
“It appears to me, madame,” said Rodin, severely, “that you have
forgotten services performed.”
“I do not deny, sir, that you took me from the house of Dr. Baleinier;
but, a few days sooner or later, I must infallibly have been released by
M. de Montbron.”
“You are right, my dear child,” said the count; “it may be that your
enemies wished to claim the merit of what must necessarily have happened
through the exertions of your friends.”
“You are drowning, and I save you--it is all a mistake to feel
grateful,” said Rodin, bitterly; “some one else would no doubt have
saved you a little later.”
“The comparison is wanting in exactness,” said Adrienne, with a smile;
“a lunatic asylum is not a river, and though, from what I see, I think
you quite capable of diving, you have had no occasion to swim on this
occasion. You merely opened a door for me, which would have opened of
itself a little later.”
“Very good, my dear child!” said the count, laughing heartily at
Adrienne’s reply.
“I know, sir, that your care did not extend to me only. The daughters
of Marshal Simon were brought back by you; but we may imagine that the
claim of the Duke de Ligny to the possession of his daughters would not
have been in vain. You returned to an old soldier his imperial cross,
which he held to be a sacred relic; it is a very touching incident.
Finally, you unmasked the Abbe d’Aigrigny and Dr. Baleinier: but I had
already made up my mind to unmask then. However, all this proves that
you are a very clever man--”
“Oh, madame!” said Rodin, humbly.
“Full of resources and invention--”
“Oh, madame!”
“It is not my fault if, in our long interview at Dr. Baleinier’s, you
betrayed that superiority of mind which struck me so forcibly, and
which seems to embarrass you so much at present. What would you have,
sir?--great minds like yours find it difficult to maintain their
incognito. Yet, as by different ways--oh! very different,” added the
young lady, maliciously, “we are tending to the same end (still keeping
in view our conversation at Dr. Baleinier’s), I wish, for the sake of
our future communion, as you call it, to give you a piece of advice, and
speak frankly to you.”
Rodin had listened to Mdlle. de Cardoville with apparent impassibility,
holding his hat under his arm, and twirling his thumbs, whilst his hands
were crossed upon his waistcoat. The only external mark of the intense
agitation into which he was thrown by the calm words of Adrienne, was
that the livid eyelids of the Jesuit, which had been hypocritically
closed, became gradually red, as the blood flowed into them.
Nevertheless, he answered Mdlle. de Cardoville in a firm voice, and with
a low bow: “Good advice and frankness are always excellent things.”
“You see, sir,” resumed Adrienne, with some excitement, “happy love
bestows such penetration, such energy, such courage, as enables one to
laugh at perils, to detect stratagems, and to defy hatred. Believe me,
the divine light which surrounds two loving hearts will be sufficient to
disperse all darkness, and reveal every snare. You see, in India--excuse
my weakness, but I like to talk of India,” added the young girl, with
a smile of indescribable grace and meaning--“in India, when travellers
sleep at night, they kindle great fires round their ajoupa (excuse this
touch of local coloring), and far as extends the luminous circle, it
puts to flight by its mere brilliancy, all the impure and venomous
reptiles that shun the day and live only in darkness.”
“The meaning of this comparison has quite escaped me,” said Rodin,
continuing to twirl his thumbs, and half raising his eyelids, which were
getting redder and redder.
“I will speak more plainly,” said Adrienne, with a smile. “Suppose,
sir, that the last is a service which you have rendered me and the
prince--for you only proceed by way of services--that, I acknowledge, is
novel and ingenious.”
“Bravo, my dear child!” said the count, joyfully. “The execution will be
complete.”
“Oh! this is meant for an execution?” said Rodin, still impassible.
“No, sir,” answered Adrienne, with a smile; “it is a simple conversation
between a poor young girl and an old philosopher, the friend of
humanity. Suppose, then, that these frequent services that you have
rendered to me and mine have suddenly opened my eyes; or, rather,” added
the young girl, in a serious tone, “suppose that heaven, who gives to
the mother the instinct to defend her child, has given me, along with
happiness, the instinct to preserve my happiness, and that a vague
presentiment, by throwing light on a thousand circumstances until now
obscure, has suddenly revealed to me that, instead of being the friend,
you are perhaps, the most dangerous enemy of myself and family.”
“So we pass from the execution to suppositions,” said Rodin, still
immovable.
“And from suppositions, sir, if you must have it, to certainty,” resumed
Adrienne, with dignified firmness; “yes, now I believe that I was for
awhile your dupe, and I tell you, without hate, without anger, but with
regret--that it is painful to see a man of your sense and intelligence
stoop to such machinations, and, after having recourse to so many
diabolical manoeuvres, finish at last by being ridiculous; for, believe
me, there is nothing more ridiculous for a man like you, than to
be vanquished by a young girl, who has no weapon, no defence, no
instructor, but her love. In a word, sir, I look upon you from to-day as
an implacable and dangerous enemy; for I half perceive your aim, without
guessing by what means you will seek to accomplish it, No doubt your
future means will be worthy of the past. Well! in spite of all this,
I do not fear you. From tomorrow, my family will be informed of
everything, and an active, intelligent, resolute union will keep us all
upon our guard, for it doubtless concerns this enormous inheritance, of
which they wish to deprive us. Now, what connection can there be between
the wrongs I reproach you with and the pecuniary end proposed? I do
not at all know--but you have told me yourself that our enemies are
so dangerously skillful, and their craft so far-reaching, that we must
expect all, be prepared for all. I will remember the lesson. I have
promised you frankness, sir, and now I suppose you have it.”
“It would be an imprudent frankness if I were your enemy,” said Rodin,
still impassible; “but you also promised me some advice, my dear young
lady.”
“My advice will be short; do not attempt to continue the struggle,
because, you see, there is something stronger than you and yours--it is
a woman’s resolve, defending her happiness.”
Adrienne pronounced these last words with so sovereign a confidence; her
beautiful countenance shone, as is it were, with such intrepid joy,
that Rodin, notwithstanding his phlegmatic audacity, was for a moment
frightened. Yet he did not appear in the least disconcerted; and, after
a moment’s silence, he resumed, with an air of almost contemptuous
compassion: “My dear young lady, we may perhaps never meet again; it is
probable. Only remember one thing, which I now repeat to you: I never
justify myself. The future will provide for that. Notwithstanding which,
my dear young lady, I am your humble servant;” and he made her a low
bow.
“Count, I beg to salute you most respectfully,” he added, bowing still
more humbly to M. de Montbron; and he went out.
Hardly had Rodin left the room than Adrienne ran to her desk, and
writing a few hasty lines, sealed the note, and said to M. de Montbron:
“I shall not see the prince before to-morrow--as much from superstition
of the heart as because it is necessary for my plans that this interview
should be attended with some little solemnity. You shall know all; but I
write to him on the instant, for, with an enemy like M. Rodin, one must
be prepared for all.”
“You are right, my dear child; quick! the letter.” Adrienne gave it to
him.
“I tell him enough,” said she, “to calm his grief; and not enough to
deprive me of the delicious happiness of the surprise I reserve for to
morrow.”
“All this has as much sense as heart in it: I will hasten to the
prince’s abode, to deliver your letter. I shall not see him, for I
could not answer for myself. But come! our proposed drive, our evening’s
amusement, are still to hold good.”
“Certainly. I have more need than ever to divert my thoughts till
to morrow. I feel, too, that the fresh air will do me good, for this
interview with M. Rodin has warmed me a little.”
“The old wretch! but we will talk further of him. I will hasten to the
prince’s and return with Madame de Morinval, to fetch you to the Champs
Elysees.”
The Count de Montbron withdrew precipitately, as joyful at his departure
as he had been sad on his arrival.
CHAPTER XI. THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES
It was about two hours after the interview of Rodin with Mdlle. de
Cardoville. Numerous loungers, attracted to the Champs-Elysees by the
serenity of a fine spring day (it was towards the end of the month of
March) stopped to admire a very handsome equipage. A bright-blue open
carriage, with white-and-blue wheels, drawn by four superb horses,
of cream color, with black manes, and harness glittering with silver
ornaments, mounted by two boy postilions of equal size, with black
velvet caps, light-blue cassimere jackets with white collars, buckskin
breeches, and top-boots; two tall, powdered footmen, also in light-blue
livery, with white collars and facings, being seated in the rumble
behind.
No equipage could have been turned out in better style. The horses, full
of blood, spirit, and vigor, were skillfully managed by the postilions,
and stepped with singular regularity, gracefully keeping time in their
movements, champing their bits covered with foam, and ever and anon
shaking their cockades of blue and white silk, with long floating ends,
and a bright rose blooming in the midst.
A man on horseback, dressed with elegant simplicity, keeping at the
other side of the avenue, contemplated with proud satisfaction
this equipage which he had, as it were, created. It was M. de
Bonneville--Adrienne’s equerry, as M. de Montbron called him--for the
carriage belonged to that young lady. A change had taken place in the
plan for this magic day’s amusement. M. de Montbron had not been able to
deliver Mdlle. de Cardoville’s note to Prince Djalma. Faringhea had told
him that the prince had gone that morning into the country with Marshal
Simon, and would not be back before evening. The letter should be given
him on his arrival. Completely satisfied as to Djalma, knowing that
he could find these few lines, which, without informing him of the
happiness that awaited him, would at least give him some idea of it,
Adrienne had followed the advice of M. de Montbron, and gone to the
drive in her own carriage, to show all the world that she had quite
made up her mind, in spite of the perfidious reports circulated by the
Princess de Saint Dizier, to keep to her resolution of living by herself
in her own way. Adrienne wore a small white bonnet, with a fall of
blonde, which well became her rosy face and golden hair; her high
dress of garnet-colored velvet was almost hidden beneath a large green
cashmere shawl. The young Marchioness de Morinval, who was also very
pretty and elegant, was seated at her right. M. de Montbron occupied the
front seat of the carriage.
Those who know the Parisian world, or rather, that imperceptible
fraction of the world of Paris which goes every fine, sunny day to the
Champs Elysees, to see and be seen, will understand that the presence
of Mdlle. de Cardoville on that brilliant promenade was an extraordinary
and interesting event.
The world (as it is called) could hardly believe its eyes, on seeing
this lady of eighteen, possessed of princely wealth, and belonging to
the highest nobility, thus prove to every one, by this appearance in
public, that she was living completely free and independent, contrary to
all custom and received notions of propriety. This kind of emancipation
appeared something monstrous, and people were almost astonished that
the graceful and dignified bearing of the young lady should belie so
completely the calumnies circulated by Madame de Saint-Dizier and her
friends, with regard to the pretended madness of her niece. Many beaux,
profiting by their acquaintance with the Marchioness de Morinval or M.
de Montbron, came by turns to pay their respects, and rode for a few
minutes by the side of the carriage, so as to have an opportunity
of seeing, admiring, and perhaps hearing, Mdlle. de Cardoville; she
surpassed their expectations, by talking with her usual grace and
spirit. Then surprise and enthusiasm knew no bounds. What had at first
been blamed as an almost insane caprice, was now voted a charming
originality, and it only depended on Mdlle. de Cardoville herself, to be
declared from that day the queen of elegance and fashion. The young lady
understood very well the impression she had made; she felt proud and
happy, for she thought of Djalma; when she compared him to all these
men of fashion, her happiness was the more increased. And, verily, these
young men, most of whom had never quitted Paris, or had ventured at most
as far as Naples or Baden, looked insignificant enough by the side of
Djalma, who, at his age, had so many times commanded and combated in
bloody wars, and whose reputation far courage and generosity, mentioned
by travellers with admiration, had already reached from India to Paris.
And then, how could these charming exquisites, with their small hats,
their scanty frock-coats, and their huge cravats, compare with the
Indian prince, whose graceful and manly beauty was still heightened by
the splendor of a costume, at once so rich and so picturesque?
On this happy day, all was joy and love for Adrienne. The sun, setting
in a splendidly serene sky, flooded the promenade with its golden light.
The air was warm. Carriages and horsemen passed and repassed in rapid
succession; a light breeze played with the scarfs of the women, and
the plumes in their bonnets; all around was noise, movement, sunshine.
Adrienne, leaning back in her carriage, amused herself with watching
this busy scene, sparkling with Parisian luxury; but, in the vortex
of this brilliant chaos, she saw in thought the mild, melancholy
countenance of Djalma--when suddenly something fell into her lap, and
she started. It was a bunch of half-faded violets. At the same instant
she heard a child’s voice following the carriage, and saying: “For the
love of heaven, my good lady, one little sou!” Adrienne turned her head,
and saw a poor little girl, pale and wan, with mild, sorrowful features,
scarcely covered with rags, holding out her hand, and raising her eyes
in supplication. Though the striking contrast of extreme misery, side
by side with extreme luxury, is so common, that it no longer excites
attention, Adrienne was deeply affected by it. She thought of Mother
Bunch, now, perhaps, the victim of frightful destitution.
“Ah! at least,” thought the young lady, “let not this day be one of
happiness for me alone!”
She leaned from the carriage-window, and said to the poor child: “Have
you a mother, my dear?”
“No, my lady, I have neither father nor mother.”
“Who takes care of you?”
“No one, my lady. They give me nosegays to sell, and I must bring home
money--or they beat me.”
“Poor little thing!”
“A sou, my good lady--a sou, for the love of heaven!” said the child,
continuing to follow the carriage, which was then moving slowly.
“My dear count,” said Adrienne, smiling, and addressing M. de Montbron,
“you are, unfortunately, no novice at an elopement. Please to stretch
forth your arms, take up that child with both hands, and lift her into
the carriage. We can hide her between Lady de Morinval and myself; and
we can drive away before any one perceives this audacious abduction.”
“What!” said the count, in surprise. “You wish--”
“Yes; I beg you to do it.”
“What a folly!”
“Yesterday, you might, perhaps, have treated this caprice as a folly;
but to-day,” said Adrienne, laying great stress upon the word, and
glancing at M. de Montbron with a significant air, “to-day, you should
understand that it is almost a duty.”
“Yes, I understand you, good and noble heart!” said the count,
with emotion; while Lady de Morinval, who knew nothing of Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s love for Djalma, looked with as much surprise as curiosity
at the count and the young lady.
M. de Montbron, leaning from the carriage, stretched out his arms
towards the child, and said to her: “Give me your hands, little girl.”
Though much astonished, the child obeyed mechanically, and held out both
her little arms; then the count took her by the wrists, and lifted her
lightly from the ground, which he did the more easily, as the carnage
was very low, and its progress by no means rapid. More stupefied than
frightened, the child said not a word. Adrienne and Lady de Morinval
made room for her to crouch down between them, and the little girl was
soon hidden beneath the shawls of the two young women. All this was
executed so quickly, that it was hardly perceived by a few persons
passing in the side-avenues.
“Now, my dear count,” said Adrienne, radiant with pleasure, “let us make
off at once with our prey.”
M. de Montbron half rose, and called to the postilions. “Home!” and the
four horses started at once into a rapid and regular trot.
“This day of happiness now seems consecrated, and my luxury is excused,”
thought Adrienne; “till I can again meet with that poor Mother Bunch,
and from this day I will make every exertion to find her out, her place
will at least not be quite empty.”
There are often strange coincidences in life. At the moment when this
thought of the hunchback crossed the mind of Adrienne, a crowd had
collected in one of the side-avenues, and other persons soon ran to join
the group.
“Look, uncle!” said Lady de Morinval; “how many people are assembled
yonder. What can it be? Shall we stop, and send to inquire?”
“I am sorry, my dear, but your curiosity cannot be satisfied,” said
the count, drawing out his watch; “it will soon be six o’clock, and the
exhibition of the wild beasts begin at eight. We shall only just have
time to go home and dine. Is not that your opinion, my dear child?” said
he to Adrienne.
“And yours, Julia?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville to the marchioness.
“Oh, certainly!” answered her friend.
“I am the less inclined to delay,” resumed the count, “as when I have
taken you to the Porte-Saint-Martin, I shall be obliged to go for half
an-hour to my club, to ballot for Lord Campbell, whom I propose.”
“Then, Adrienne and I will be left alone at the play, uncle?”
“Your husband will go with you, I suppose.”
“True, dear uncle; but do not quite leave us, because of that.”
“Be sure I shall not: for I am curious as you are to see these terrible
animals, and the famous Morok, the incomparable lion-tamer.”
A few minutes after, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s carriage had left the Champs
Elysees, carrying with it the little girl, and directing its course
towards the Rue d’Anjou. As the brilliant equipage disappeared from
the scene, the crowd, of which we before have spoken, greatly increased
about one of the large trees in the Champs-Elysees, and expressions of
pity were heard here and there amongst the groups. A lounger approached
a young man on the skirts of the crowd, and said to him: “What is the
matter, sir?”
“I hear it is a poor young girl, a hunchback, that has fallen from
exhaustion.”
“A hunchback! is that all? There will always be enough hunchbacks,” said
the lounger, brutally, with a coarse laugh.
“Hunchback or not, if she dies of hunger,” answered the young man,
scarcely able to restrain his indignation, “it will be no less sad--and
there is really nothing to laugh at, sir.”
“Die of hunger! pooh!” said the lounger, shrugging his shoulders. “It
is only lazy scoundrels, that will not work, who die of hunger. And it
serves them right.”
“I wager, sir, there is one death you will never die of,” cried the
young man, incensed at the cruel insolence of the lounger.
“What do you mean?” answered the other, haughtily.
“I mean, sir, that your heart is not likely to kill you.”
“Sir!” cried the lounger in an angry tone.
“Well! what, sir?” replied the young man, looking full in his face.
“Nothing,” said the lounger, turning abruptly on his heel, and grumbling
as he sauntered towards an orange-colored cabriolet, on which was
emblazoned an enormous coat-of-arms, surmounted by a baron’s crest.
A servant in green livery, ridiculously laced with gold, was standing
beside the horse, and did not perceive his master.
“Are you catching flies, fool?” said the latter, pushing him with his
cane. The servant turned round in confusion. “Sir,” said he.
“Will you never learn to call me Monsieur le Baron, rascal?” cried his
master, in a rage--“Open the door directly!”
The lounger was Baron Tripeaud, the manufacturing baron the
stock-jobber. The poor hunchback was Mother Bunch, who had, indeed
fallen with hunger and fatigue, whilst on her way to Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s. The unfortunate creature had found courage to brave the
shame of the ridicule she so much feared, by returning to that house
from which she was a voluntary exile; but this time, it was not for
herself, but for her sister Cephyse--the Bacchanal Queen, who had
returned to Paris the previous day, and whom Mother Bunch now sought,
through the means of Adrienne, to rescue from a most dreadful fate.
Two hours after these different scenes, an enormous crowd pressed round
the doors of the Porte-Saint-Martin, to witness the exercises of Morok,
who was about to perform a mock combat with the famous black panther of
Java, named Death. Adrienne, accompanied by Lord and Lady de Morinval,
now stepped from a carriage at the entrance of the theatre. They were to
be joined in the course of the evening by M. de Montbron, whom they had
dropped, in passing, at his club.
CHAPTER XII. BEHIND THE SCENES.
The large theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin was crowded by an impatient
multitude. All Paris had hurried with eager and burning curiosity to
Morok’s exhibition. It is quite unnecessary to say that the lion-tamer
had completely abandoned his small taste in religious baubles, which he
had so successfully carried on at the White Falcon Inn at Leipsic.
There were, moreover, numerous tokens by which the surprising effects
of Morok’s sudden conversion had been blazoned in the most extraordinary
pictures: the antiquated baubles in which he had formerly dealt would
have found no sale in Paris. Morok had nearly finished dressing himself,
in one of the actor’s rooms, which had been lent to him. Over a coat of
mail, with cuishes and brassarts, he wore an ample pair of red trousers,
fastened round his ankles by broad rings of gilt brass. His long caftan
of black cloth, embroidered with scarlet and gold, was bound round his
waist and wrist by other large rings of gilt metal. This sombre costume
imparted to him an aspect still more ferocious. His thick and red-haired
beard fell in large quantities down to his chest, and a long piece
of white muslin was folded round his red head. A devout missionary in
Germany and an actor in Paris, Morok knew as well as his employers, the
Jesuits, how to accommodate himself to circumstances.
Seated in one corner of the room, and contemplating with a sort of
stupid admiration, was Jacques Rennepont, better known as “Sleepinbuff”
(from the likelihood that he would end his days in rags, or his present
antipathy to great care in dress). Since the day Hardy’s factory had
been destroyed by fire, Jacques had not quitted Morok, passing
the nights in excesses, which had no baneful effects on the iron
constitution of the lion-tamer. On the other’s features, on the
contrary, a great alteration was perceptible; his hollow cheeks, marble
pallor, his eyes, by turns dull and heavy, or gleaming with lurid
fire, betrayed the ravages of debauchery, his parched lips were almost
constantly curled by a bitter and sardonic smile. His spirit, once
gay and sanguine, still struggled against the besotting influence of
habitual intoxication. Unfitted for labor, no longer able to forego
gross pleasures, Jacques sought to drown in wine a few virtuous impulses
which he still possessed, and had sunk so low as to accept without shame
the large dole of sensual gratification proffered him by Morok, who paid
all the expenses of their orgies, but never gave him money, in order
that he might be completely dependent on him. After gazing at Morok for
some time in amazement, Jacques said to him, in a familiar tone: “Well,
yours is a famous trade; you may boast that, at this moment, there are
not two men like you in the whole world That’s flattering. It’s a pity
you don’t stick to this fine trade.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, how is the conspiracy going on, in whose honor you make me keep it
up all day and all night?”
“It is working, but the time is not yet come; that is why I wish to have
you always at hand, till the great day. Do you complain?”
“Hang it, no!” said Jacques. “What could I do? Burnt up with brandy as
I am, if I wanted to work, I’ve no longer the strength to do so. I have
not, like you, a head of marble, and a body of iron; but as for fuddling
myself with gunpowder, instead of anything else, that’ll do for me; I’m
only fit for that work now--and then, it will drive away thought.”
“Oh what kind?”
“You know that when I do think, I think only of one thing,” said
Jacques, gloomily.
“The Bacchanal queen?--still?” said Morok, in a disdainful tone.
“Still! rather: when I shall think of her no longer, I shall be dead--or
stupefied. Fiend!”
“You were never better or more intelligent, you fool!” replied Morok,
fastening his turban. The conversation was here interrupted. Morok’s
aider entered hastily.
The gigantic form of this Hercules had increased in width. He was
habited like Alcides; his enormous limbs, furrowed with veins as thick
as whipcord, were covered with a close-fitting flesh-colored garment, to
which a pair of red drawers formed a strong contrast.
“Why do you rush in like a storm, Goliath?” said Morok.
“There’s a pretty storm in the house; they are beginning to get
impatient, and are calling out like madmen. But if that were all!”
“Well, what else?”
“Death will not be able to play this evening.”
Morok turned quickly around. He seemed uneasy. “Why so?” he exclaimed.
“I have just seen her! she’s crouching at the bottom of her cage; her
ears lie so close to her head, she looks as if they had been cut off.
You know what that means.”
“Is that all?” said Morok, turning to the glass to complete his head
dress.
“It’s quite enough; she’s in one of her tearing fits. Since that night
in Germany, when she ripped up that old hack of a white horse, I’ve not
seen her look so savage! her eyes shine like burning candles.”
“Then she must have her fine collar on,” said Morok, quietly.
“Her fine collar?”
“Yes; her spring-collar.”
“And I must be lady’s-maid,” said the giant. “A nice toilet to attend
to!”
“Hold your tongue!”
“That’s not all--” continued Goliath, hesitating.
“What more?”
“I might as well tell you at once.”
“Will you speak?”
“Well! he is here.”
“Who, you stupid brute?”
“The Englishman!”
Morok started; his arms fell powerless by his side. Jacques was struck
with the lion-tamer’s paleness and troubled countenance.
“The Englishman!--you have seen him?” cried Morok, addressing Goliath.
“You are quite sure?”
“Quite sure. I was looking through the peep-hole in the curtain; I saw
him in one of the stage-boxes--he wishes to see things close; he’s easy
to recognize, with his pointed forehead, big nose, and goggle eyes.”
Morok shuddered again; usually fierce and unmoved, he appeared to be
more and more agitated, and so alarmed, that Jacques said to him: “Who
is this Englishman?”
“He has followed me from Strasburg, where he fell in with me,” said
Morok, with visible dejection. “He travelled with his own horses, by
short stages, as I did; stopping where I stopped, so as never to miss
one of my exhibitions. But two days before I arrived at Paris, he left
me--I thought I was rid of him,” said Morok, with a sigh.
“Rid of him!--how you talk!” replied Jacques, surprised; “such a good
customer, such an admirer!”
“Aye!” said Morok, becoming more and more agitated; “this wretch has
wagered an enormous sum, that I will be devoured in his presence,
during one of my performances: he hopes to win his wager--that is why he
follows me about.”
Sleepinbuff found the John Bull’s idea so amusingly eccentric, that, for
the first time since a very long period, he burst into a peal of hearty
laughter. Morok, pale with rage, rushed towards him with so menacing an
air, that Goliath was obliged to interpose.
“Come, come,” said Jacques, “don’t be angry; if it is serious, I will
not laugh any more.”
Morok was appeased, and said to Sleepinbuff in a hoarse voice: “Do you
think me a coward?”
“No, by heaven!”
“Well! And yet this Englishman, with his grotesque face, frightens me
more than any tiger or my panther!”
“You say so, and I believe it,” replied Jacques; “but I cannot
understand why the presence of this man should alarm you.”
“But consider, you dull knave!” cried Morok, “that, obliged to watch
incessantly the least movement of the ferocious beast, whom I keep in
subjection by my action and my looks, there is something terrible in
knowing that two eyes are there--always there--fixed--waiting till
the least absence of mind shall expose me to be torn in pieces by the
animals.”
“Now, I understand,” said Jacques, shuddering in his turn. “It is
terrible.”
“Yes; for once there, though I may not see this cursed Englishman, I
fancy I have his two round eyes, fixed and wide open, always before me.
My tiger Cain once nearly mutilated my arm, when my attention was drawn
away by this Englishman, whom the devil take! Blood and thunder!” cried
Morok: “this man will be fatal to me.” And Morok paced the room in great
agitation.
“Besides, Death lays her ears close to her skull,” said Goliath,
brutally. “If you persist--mind, I tell you--the Englishman will win his
wager this evening.”
“Go away, you brute!--don’t vex my head with your confounded
predictions,” cried Morok: “go and prepare Death’s collar.”
“Well, every one to his taste; you wish the panther to taste you,” said
the giant, stalking heavily away, after this joke.
“But if you feel these fears,” said Jacques, “why do you not say that
the panther is ill?”
Morok shrugged his shoulders, and replied with a sort of feverish
ferocity, “Have you ever heard of the fierce pleasure of the gamester,
who stakes his honor, his life, upon a card? Well! I too--in these daily
exhibitions where my life is at stake--find a wild, fierce pleasure in
braving death, before a crowded assembly, shuddering and terrified at my
audacity. Yes, even in the fear with which this Englishman inspires me,
I find, in spite of myself, a terrible excitement, which I abhor, and
which yet subjugates me.”
At this moment, the stage-manager entered the room, and interrupted the
beast-tamer. “May we give the signal, M. Morok?” said the stage-manager.
“The overture will not last above ten minutes.”
“I am ready,” said Morok.
“The police-inspector has just now given orders, that the double chain
of the panther, and the iron ring riveted to the floor of the stage, at
the end of the cavern in the foreground, shall be again examined; and
everything has been reported quite secure.”
“Yes--secure--except for me,” murmured the beast-tamer.
“So, M. Morok, the signal may be given?”
“The signal may--be given,” replied Morok. And the manager went out.
CHAPTER XIII. UP WITH THE CURTAIN.
The usual bell sounded with solemnity behind the scenes the overture
began, and, to say the truth, but little attention was paid to it. The
interior of the theatre offered a very animated view. With the exception
of two stage-boxes even with the dress circle, one to the left, the
other to the right of the audience, every seat was occupied. A great
number of very fashionable ladies, attracted, as is always the case, by
the strange wildness of the spectacle, filled the boxes. The stalls were
crowded by most of the young men who; in the morning, had walked their
horses on the Champs-Elysees. The observations which passed from one
stall to another, will give some idea of their conversation.
“Do you know, my dear boy, there would not be so crowded or fashionable
an audience to witness Racine’s Athalia?”
“Undoubtedly. What is the beggarly howling of an actor, compared to the
roaring of the lion?”
“I cannot understand how the authorities permit this Morok to fasten his
panther with a chain to an iron ring in the corner of the stage. If the
chain were to break?”
“Talking of broken chains--there’s little Mme. de Blinville, who is no
tigress. Do you see her in the second tier, opposite?”
“It becomes her very well to have broken, as you say, the marriage
chain; she looks very well this season.”
“Oh! there is the beautiful Duchess de Saint-Prix; all the world is here
to-night--I don’t speak of ourselves.”
“It is a regular opera night--what a festive scene!”
“Well, after all, people do well to amuse themselves, perhaps it will
not be for long.”
“Why so?”
“Suppose the cholera were to come to Paris?”
“Oh! nonsense!”
“Do you believe in the cholera?”
“To be sure I do! He’s coming from the North, with his walking-stick
under his arm.”
“The devil take him on the road! don’t let us see his green visage
here.”
“They say he’s at London.”
“A pleasant journey to him.”
“Come, let us talk of something else; it may be a weakness, if you
please, but I call this a dull subject.”
“I believe you.”
“Oh! gentlemen--I am not mistaken--no--it is she!”
“Who, then?”
“Mdlle. de Cardoville! She is coming into the stage-box with Morinval
and his wife. It is a complete resuscitation: this morning on the
Champs-Elysees; in the evening here.”
“Faith, you are right! It is Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“Good heaven! how lovely she is!”
“Lend me your eyeglass.”
“Well, what do you think of her?”
“Exquisite--dazzling.”
“And in addition to her beauty, an inexhaustible flow of wit, three
hundred thousand francs a year, high birth, eighteen years of age,
and--free as air.”
“Yes, that is to say, that, provided it pleased her, I might be to
morrow--or even to-day--the happiest of men.”
“It is enough to turn one’s brain.”
“I am told that her mansion, Rue d’Anjou, is like an enchanted palace; a
great deal is said about a bath-room and bedroom, worthy of the Arabian
Nights.”
“And free as air--I come back to that.”
“Ah! if I were in her place!”
“My levity would be quite shocking.”
“Oh! gentlemen, what a happy man will he be who is loved first!”
“You think, then, that she will have many lovers?”
“Being as free as air--”
“All the boxes are full, except the stage-box opposite to that in which
Mdlle. de Cardoville is seated. Happy the occupiers of that box!”
“Did you see the English ambassador’s lady in the dress circle?”
“And the Princess d’Alvimar--what an enormous bouquet!”
“I should like to know the name--of that nosegay.”
“Oh!--it’s Germigny.”
“How flattering for the lions and tigers, to attract so fashionable an
audience.”
“Do you notice, gentlemen, how all the women are eye-glassing Mdlle. de
Cardoville?”
“She makes a sensation.”
“She is right to show herself; they gave her out as mad.”
“Oh! gentlemen, what a capital phiz!”
“Where--where?”
“There--in the omnibus-box beneath Mdlle. de Cardoville’s.”
“It’s a Nuremburg nutcracker.”
“An ourang-outang!”
“Did you ever see such round, staring eyes?”
“And the nose!”
“And the forehead!”
“It’s a caricature.”
“Order, order! the curtain rises.”
And, in fact, the curtain rose. Some explanation is necessary for the
clear understanding of what follows. In the lower stage-box, to the left
of the audience, were several persons, who had been referred to by the
young men in the stalls. The omnibus-box was occupied by the Englishman,
the eccentric and portentous bettor, whose presence inspired Morok with
so much dread.
It would require Hoffman’s rare and fantastic genius to describe
worthily that countenance, at once grotesque and frightful, as it stood
out from the dark background of the box. This Englishman was about fifty
years old; his forehead was quite bald, and of a conical shape; beneath
this forehead, surmounted by eyebrows like parenthesis marks, glittered
large, green eyes, remarkably round and staring, and set very close to a
hooked nose, extremely sharp and prominent; a chin like that on the old
fashioned nutcrackers was half-hidden in a broad and ample white cravat,
as stiffly-starched as the round-cornered shirt-collar, which nearly
touched his ears. The face was exceedingly thin and bony, and yet the
complexion was high-colored, approaching to purple, which made the
bright green of the pupils, and the white of the other part of the
eyes, still more conspicuous. The mouth, which was very wide, sometimes
whistled inaudibly the tune of a Scotch jig (always the same tune),
sometimes was slightly curled with a sardonic smite. The Englishman was
dressed with extreme care; his blue coat, with brass buttons, displayed
his spotless waistcoat, snowy, white as his ample cravat; his shirt was
fastened with two magnificent ruby studs, and his patrician hands were
carefully kid gloved.
To any one who knew the eccentric and cruel desire which attracted this
man to every representation, his grotesque face became almost terrific,
instead of exciting ridicule; and it was easy to understand the dread
experience by Morok at sight of those great, staring round eyes, which
appeared to watch for the death of the lion-tamer (what a horrible
death!) with unshaken confidence. Above the dark box of the Englishman,
affording a graceful contrast, were seated the Morinvals and Mdlle.
de Cardoville. The latter was placed nearest the stage. Her head was
uncovered, and she wore a dress of sky-blue China crepe, ornamented at
the bosom with a brooch of the finest Oriental pearls--nothing more; yet
Adrienne, thus attired, was charming. She held in her hand an enormous
bouquet, composed of the rarest flowers of India: the stephanotis and
the gardenia mingled the dead white of their blossoms with the purple
hibiscus and Java amaryllis.
Madame de Morinval, seated on the opposite side of the box, was dressed
with equal taste and simplicity; Morinval, a fair and very handsome
young man, of elegant appearance, was behind the two ladies. M. de
Montbron was expected to arrive every moment. The reader will please
to recollect that the stage-box to the right of the audience, opposite
Adrienne’s, had remained till then quite empty. The stage represented
one of the gigantic forests of India. In the background, tall exotic
trees rose in spiral or spreading forms, among rugged masses of
perpendicular rocks, with here and there glimpses of a tropical sky. The
side-scenes formed tufts of trees, interspersed with rocks; and at the
side which was immediately beneath Adrienne’s box appeared the irregular
opening of a deep and gloomy cavern, round which were heaped huge blocks
of granite, as if thrown together by some convulsion of nature. This
scenery, full of a wild and savage grandeur, was wonderfully “built up,”
so as to make the illusion as complete as possible; the footlights
were lowered, and being covered with a purple shade, threw over this
landscape a subdued reddish light, which increased the gloomy and
startling effect of the whole. Adrienne, leaning forward from the box,
with cheeks slightly flushed, sparkling eyes, and throbbing heart,
sought to trace in this scene the solitary forest described by the
traveller who had eulogized Djalma’s generosity and courage, when he
threw himself upon a ferocious tigress to save the life of a poor black
slave. Chance coincided wonderfully indeed with her recollections.
Absorbed in the contemplation of the scenery and the thoughts it
awakened in her heart, she paid no attention to what was passing in the
house. And yet something calculated to excite curiosity was taking place
in the opposite stage-box.
The door of this box opened. A man about forty years of age, of a yellow
complexion, entered; he was clothed after the East Indian fashion, in a
long robe of orange silk, bound round the waist with a green sash, and
he wore a small white turban. He placed two chairs at the front of the
box; and, having glanced round the house for a moment, he started, his
black eyes sparkled, and he went out quickly. That man was Faringhea.
His apparition caused surprise and curiosity in the theatre; the
majority of the spectators not having, like Adrienne, a thousand reasons
for being absorbed in the contemplation of a picturesque set scene.
The public attention was still more excited when they saw the box which
Faringhea had just left, entered by a youth of rare beauty, also dressed
Oriental fashion, in a long robe of white Cashmere with flowing sleeves,
with a scarlet turban striped with gold on his head, and a sash to
correspond, in which was stuck a long dagger, glittering with precious
stones. This young man was Prince Djalma. For an instant he remained
standing at the door, and cast a look of indifference upon the immense
theatre, crowded with people; then, stepping forward with a majestic
and tranquil air, the prince seated himself negligently on one of the
chairs, and, turning his head in a few moments towards the entrance,
appeared surprised at not seeing some person whom he doubtless expected.
This person appeared at length; the boxkeeper had been assisting her to
take off her cloak. She was a charming, fair-haired girl, attired
with more show than taste, in a dress of white silk, with broad
cherry-colored stripes, made ultra fashionably low, and with short
sleeves; a large bow of cherry-colored ribbon was placed on each side
of her light hair, and set off the prettiest, sprightliest, most wilful
little face in the world.
It was Rose-Pompon. Her pretty arms were partly covered by long white
gloves, and ridiculously loaded with bracelets: in her hand she carried
an enormous bouquet of roses.
Far from imitating the calm demeanor of Djalma, Rose-Pompon skipped into
the box, moved the chairs about noisily, and fidgeted on her seat for
some time, to display her fine dress; then, without being in the least
intimidated by the presence of the brilliant assembly, she, with a
little coquettish air, held her bouquet towards Djalma, that he might
smell it, and appeared finally to establish herself on her seat.
Faringhea came in, shut the door of the box, and seated himself behind
the prince. Adrienne, still completely absorbed in the contemplation of
the Indian forest, and in her own sweet thoughts, had not observed the
newcomers. As she was turning her head completely towards the stage, and
Djalma could not, for the moment, see even her profile, he, on his side,
had not recognized Mdlle. de Cardoville.
CHAPTER XIV. DEATH.
The pantomime opening, by which was introduced the combat of Morok with
the black panther, was so unmeaning, that the majority of the audience
paid no attention to it, reserving all their interest for the scene in
which the lion-tamer was to make his appearance.
This indifference of the public explains the curiosity excited in
the theatre by the arrival of Faringhea and Djalma--a curiosity which
expressed itself (as at this day, when uncommon foreigners appear in
public) by a slight murmur and general movement amongst the crowd. The
sprightly, pretty face of Rose-Pompon, always charming, in spite of her
singularly staring dress, in style so ridiculous for such a theatre,
and her light and familiar manner towards the handsome Indian who
accompanied her, increased and animated the general surprise; for, at
this moment, Rose-Pompon, yielding without reserve to a movement of
teasing coquetry, had held up, as we have already stated, her large
bunch of roses to Djalma. But the prince, at sight of the landscape
which reminded him of his country, instead of appearing sensible to this
pretty, provocation, remained for some minutes as in a dream, with his
eyes fixed upon the stage. Then Rose-Pompon began to beat time on the
front of the box with her bouquet, whilst the somewhat too visible
movement of her pretty shoulders showed that this devoted dancer was
thinking of fast-life dances, as the orchestra struck up a more lively
strain.
Placed directly opposite the box in which Faringhea, Djalma, and Rose
Pompon had just taken their seats, Lady Morinval soon perceived
the arrival of these two personages, and particularly the eccentric
coquetries of Rose-Pompon. Immediately, the young marchioness, leaning
over towards Mdlle. de Cardoville, who was still absorbed in memories
ineffable, said to her, laughing: “My dear, the most amusing part of the
performance is not upon the stage. Look just opposite.”
“Just opposite?” repeated Adrienne, mechanically: and, turning towards
Lady Morinval with an air of surprise, she glanced in the direction
pointed out.
She looked--what did she see?--Djalma seated by the side of a young
woman, who was familiarly offering to his sense of smell the perfume
of her bouquet. Amazed, struck almost literally to the heart, as by an
electric shock, swift, sharp, and painful, Adrienne became deadly pale.
From instinct, she shut her eyes for a second, in order not to see--as
men try to ward off the dagger, which, having once dealt the blow,
threatens to strike again. Then suddenly, to this feeling of grief
succeeded a reflection, terrible both to her love and to her wounded
pride.
“Djalma is present with this woman, though he must have received my
letter,” she said to herself,--“wherein he was informed of the happiness
that awaited him.”
At the idea of so cruel an insult, a blush of shame and indignation
displaced Adrienne’s paleness, who overwhelmed by this sad reality, said
to herself: “Rodin did not deceive me.”
We abandon all idea of picturing the lightning-like rapidity of certain
emotions which in a moment may torture--may kill you in the space of a
minute. Thus Adrienne was precipitated from the most radiant happiness
to the lowest depths of an abyss of the most heart-rending grief, in
less than a second; for a second had hardly elapsed before she replied
to Lady Morinval: “What is there, then, so curious, opposite to us, my
dear Julia?”
This evasive question gave Adrienne time to recover her self-possession.
Fortunately, thanks to the thick folds of hair which almost entirely
concealed her cheeks, the rapid and sudden changes from pallor to blush
escaped the notice of Lady Morinval, who gayly replied: “What, my dear,
do you not perceive those East Indians, who have just entered the box
immediately opposite to ours? There, just before us!”
“Yes, I see them; but what then?” replied Adrienne, in a firm tone.
“And don’t you observe anything remarkable?” said the marchioness.
“Don’t be too hard, ladies,” laughingly interposed the marquis; “we
ought to allow the poor foreigners some little indulgence. They are
ignorant of our manners and customs; were it not for that, they would
never appear in the face of all Paris in such dubious company.”
“Indeed,” said Adrienne, with a bitter smile, “their simplicity is
touching; we must pity them.”
“And, unfortunately, the girl is charming, spite of her low dress and
bare arms,” said the marchioness; “she cannot be more than sixteen or
seventeen at most. Look at her, my dear Adrienne; what a pity!”
“It is one of your charitable days, my dear Julia,” answered Adrienne;
“we are to pity the Indians, to pity this creature, and--pray, whom else
are we to pity?”
“We will not pity that handsome Indian, in his red-and-gold turban,”
said the marquis, laughing, “for, if this goes on, the girl with the
cherry colored ribbons will be giving him a kiss. See how she leans
towards her sultan.”
“They are very amusing,” said the marchioness, sharing the hilarity
of her husband, and looking at Rose-Pompom through her glass; then she
resumed, in about a minute, addressing herself to Adrienne: “I am quite
certain of one thing. Notwithstanding her giddy airs, that girl is very
fond of her Indian. I just saw a look that expresses a great deal.”
“Why so much penetration, my dear Julia?” said Adrienne, mildly; “what
interest have we to read the heart of that girl?”
“Why, if she loves her sultan, she is quite in the right,” said the
marquis, looking through his opera-glass in turn; “for, in my whole
life, I never saw a more handsome fellow than that Indian. I can only
catch his side-face, but the profile is pure and fine as an antique
cameo. Do you not think so?” added the marquis, leaning towards
Adrienne. “Of course, it is only as a matter of art, that I permit
myself to ask you the question.”
“As a work of art,” answered Adrienne, “it is certainly very fine.”
“But see!” said the marchioness; “how impertinent the little creature
is!--She is actually staring at us.”
“Well!” said the marquis; “and she is actually laying her hand quite
unceremoniously on her sultan’s shoulder, to make him share, no doubt,
in her admiration of you ladies.”
In fact, Djalma, until now occupied with the contemplation of the
scene which reminded him of his country, had remained insensible to the
enticements of Rose-Pompon, and had not yet perceived Adrienne.
“Well, now!” said Rose-Pompon, bustling herself about in front of the
box, and continuing to stare at Mdlle. de Cardoville, for it was she,
and not the marchioness, who now drew her attention; “that is something
quite out of the common way--a pretty woman, with red hair; but such
sweet red, it must be owned. Look, Prince Charming!”
And so saying, she tapped Djalma lightly on the shoulder; he started at
these words, turned round, and for the first time perceived Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
Though he had been almost prepared for this meeting, the prince was so
violently affected by it, that he was about involuntarily to rise, in
a state of the utmost confusion; but he felt the iron hand of Faringhea
laid heavily on his shoulder, and heard him whisper in Hindostanee:
“Courage! and by to-morrow she will be at your feet.”
As Djalma still struggled to rise, the half-caste added to restrain him:
“Just now, she grew pale and red with jealousy. No weakness, or all is
lost!”
“So! there you are again, talking your dreadful gibberish,” said Rose
Pompon, turning round towards Faringhea. “First of all, it is not
polite; and then the language is so odd, that one might suppose you were
cracking nuts.”
“I spoke of you to my master,” said the half-caste; “he is preparing a
surprise for you.”
“A surprise? oh! that is different. Only make haste--do you hear, Prince
Charming!” added she, looking tenderly at Djalma.
“My heart is breaking,” said Djalma, in a hollow voice to Faringhea,
still using the language of India.
“But to-morrow it will bound with joy and love,” answered the
half-caste. “It is only by disdain that you can conquer a proud woman.
To-morrow, I tell you, she will be trembling, confused, supplicating, at
your feet!”
“To-morrow, she will hate me like death!” replied the prince,
mournfully.
“Yes, were she now to see you weak and cowardly. It is now too late to
draw back; look full at her, take the nosegay from this girl, and raise
it to your lips. Instantly, you will see yonder woman, proud as she is,
grow pale and red, as just now. Then will you believe me?”
Reduced by despair to make almost any attempt, and fascinated, in spite
of himself, by the diabolical hints of Faringhea, Djalma looked for a
second full at Mdlle. de Cardoville; then, with a trembling hand he took
the bouquet from Rose-Pompon, and, again looking at Adrienne, pressed it
to his lips.
Upon this insolent bravado, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not restrain so
sudden and visible a pang, that the prince was struck by it.
“She is yours,” said the half-caste, to him. “Did you see, my lord, how
she trembled with jealousy?--Only have courage! and she is yours. She
will soon prefer you to that handsome young man behind her--for it is he
whom she has hitherto fancied herself in love with.”
As if the half-caste had guessed the movement of rage and hatred, which
this revelation would excite in the heart of the prince, he hastily
added: “Calmness and disdain! Is it not his turn now to hate you?”
The prince restrained himself, and drew his hand across his forehead
which glowed with anger.
“There now! what are you telling him, that vexes him so?” said Rose
Pompon to Faringhea, with pouting lip. Then, addressing Djalma, she
continued: “Come, Prince Charming, as they say in the fairy-tale, give
me back my flowers.”
As she took it again, she added: “You have kissed it, and I could almost
eat it.” Then, with a sigh, and a passionate glance at Djalma, she said
softly to herself: “That monster Ninny Moulin did not deceive me. All
this is quite proper; I have not even that to reproach myself with.” And
with her little white teeth, she bit at a rosy nail of her right hand,
from which she had just drawn the glove.
It is hardly necessary to say, that Adrienne’s letter had not been
delivered to the prince, and that he had not gone to pass the day in the
country with Marshal Simon. During the three days in which Montbron had
not seen Djalma, Faringhea had persuaded him, that, by affecting another
passion, he would bring Mdlle. de Cardoville to terms. With regard
to Djalma’s presence at the theatre, Rodin had learned from her maid,
Florine, that her mistress was to go in the evening to the Porte-Saint
Martin. Before Djalma had recognized her, Adrienne, who felt her
strength failing her, was on the point of quitting the theatre; the man,
whom she had hitherto placed so high, whom she had regarded as a hero
and a demi-god and whom she had imagined plunged in such dreadful
despair, that, led by the most tender pity, she had written to him with
simple frankness, that a sweet hope might calm his grief--replied to
a generous mark of sincerity and love, by making himself a ridiculous
spectacle with a creature unworthy of him. What incurable wounds for
Adrienne’s pride! It mattered little, whether Djalma knew or not, that
she would be a spectator of the indignity. But when she saw herself
recognized by the prince, when he carried the insult so far as to look
full at her, and, at the same time, raise to his lips the creature’s
bouquet who accompanied him, Adrienne was seized with noble indignation,
and felt sufficient courage to remain: instead of closing her eyes to
evidence, she found a sort of barbarous pleasure in assisting at the
agony and death of her pure and divine love. With head erect, proud and
flashing eye, flushed cheek, and curling lip, she looked in her turn at
the prince with disdainful steadiness. It was with a sardonic smile that
she said to the marchioness, who, like many others of the spectators
was occupied with what was passing in the stage-box: “This revolting
exhibition of savage manners is at least in accordance with the rest of
the performance.”
“Certainly,” said the marchioness; “and my dear uncle will have lost,
perhaps, the most amusing part.”
“Montbron?” said Adrienne, hastily, with hardly repressed bitterness;
“yes, he will regret not having seen all. I am impatient for his
arrival. Is it not to him that I am indebted for his charming evening?”
Perhaps Madame de Morinval would have remarked the expression of bitter
irony, that Adrienne could not altogether dissemble, if suddenly a
hoarse and prolonged roar had net attracted her attention, as well
as that of the rest of the audience, who had hitherto been quite
indifferent to the scenes intended for an introduction to the appearance
of Morok. Every eye was now turned instinctively towards the cavern
situated to the left of the stage, just below Mdlle. de Cardoville’s
box; a thrill of curiosity ran through the house. A second roar, deeper
and more sonorous, and apparently expressive of more irritation than
the first, now rose from the cave, the mouth of which was half-hidden
by artificial brambles, made so as to be easily put on one side. At this
sound, the Englishman stood up in his little box, leaned half over the
front, and began to rub his hands with great energy; then, remaining
perfectly motionless, he fixed his large, green, glittering eyes on the
mouth of the cavern.
At these ferocious howlings, Djalma also had started, notwithstanding
the frenzy of love, hate, and jealousy, to which he was a prey. The
sight of this forest, and the roarings of the panther, filled him with
deep emotion, for they recalled the remembrance of his country, and of
those great hunts which, like war, have their own terrible excitement.
Had he suddenly heard the horns and gongs of his father’s army sounding
to the charge, he could not have been transported with more savage
ardor. And now deep growls, like distant thunder, almost drowned the
roar of the panther. The lion and tiger, Judas and Cain answered her
from their dens at the back of the stage. On this frightful concert,
with which his ears had been familiar in the midst of the solitudes of
India, when he lay encamped, for the purposes of the chase or of war,
Djalma’s blood boiled in his veins. His eyes sparkled with a wild ardor.
Leaning a little forward, with both hands pressed on the front of the
box, his whole body trembled with a convulsive shudder. The audience,
the theatre, Adrienne herself no longer existed for him; he was in a
forest of his own lands, tracking the tiger.
Then there mingled with his beauty so intrepid and ferocious an
expression, that Rose-Pompon looked at him with a sort of terror and
passionate admiration. For the first time in her life, perhaps, her
pretty blue eyes, generally so gay and mischievous; expressed a serious
emotion. She could not explain what she felt; but her heart seemed
frightened, and beat violently, as though some calamity were at hand.
Yielding to a movement of involuntary fear, she seized Djalma by the
arm, and said to him: “Do not stare so into that cavern; you frighten
me.”
Djalma did not hear what she said.
“Here he is! here he is!” murmured the crowd, almost with one voice, as
Morok appeared at the back of the stage.
Dressed as we have described, Morok now carried in addition a bow and
a long quiver full of arrows. He slowly descended the line of painted
rocks, which came sloping down towards the centre of the stage. From
time to time, he stopped as if to listen, and appeared to advance with
caution. Looking from one side to the other, his eyes involuntarily
encountered the large, green eyes of the Englishman, whose box was close
to the cavern. Instantly the lion-tamer’s countenance was contracted in
so frightful a manner, that Lady Morinval, who was examining him closely
with the aid of an excellent glass, said hastily to Adrienne: “My dear,
the man is afraid. Some misfortune will happen.”
“How can accidents happen,” said Adrienne, with a sardonic smile,
“in the midst of this brilliant crowd, so well dressed and full of
animation! Misfortunes here, this evening! why, dear Julia, you do not
think it. It is in darkness and solitude that misfortunes come--never in
the midst of a joyous crowd, and in all this blaze of light.”
“Good gracious, Adrienne! take care!” cried the marchioness, unable to
repress an exclamation of alarm, and seizing her arm, as if to draw her
closer; “do you not see it?” And with a trembling hand, she pointed to
the cavern’s mouth. Adrienne hastily bent forward, and looked in that
direction. “Take care, do not lean so forward!” exclaimed Lady Morinval.
“Your terrors are nonsensical, my dear,” said the marquis to his wife.
“The panther is securely chained; and even were it to break its chains
(which is impossible), we are here beyond its reach.”
A long murmur of trembling curiosity here ran through the house, and
every eye was intently fixed on the cavern. From amongst the artificial
brambles, which she abruptly pushed aside with her broad chest, the
black panther suddenly appeared. Twice she stretched forth her flat
head, illumined by yellow, flaming eyes; then, half-opening her
blood-red jaws, she uttered another roar, and exhibited two rows of
formidable fangs. A double iron chain, and a collar also of iron,
painted black, blended with the ebon shades of her hide, and with the
darkness of the cavern. The illusion was complete, and the terrible
animal seemed to be at liberty in her den.
“Ladies,” said the marquis, suddenly, “look at those Indians. Their
emotion makes them superb!”
In fact, the sight of the panther had raised the wild ardor of Djalma
to its utmost pitch. His eyes sparkled in their pearly orbits like two
black diamonds; his upper lip was curled convulsively with an expression
of animal ferocity, as if he were in a violent paroxysm of rage.
Faringhea, now leaning on the front of the box, was also greatly
excited, by reason of a strange coincidence. “That black panther of so
rare a breed,” thought he, “which I see here at Paris, upon the stage,
must be the very one that the Malay”--the Thug who had tatooed Djalma
at Java during his sleep--“took quite young from his den, and sold to a
European captain. Bowanee’s power is everywhere!” added the Thug, in his
sanguinary superstition.
“Do you not think,” resumed the marquis, addressing Adrienne, “that
those Indians are really splendid in their present attitude?”
“Perhaps they may have seen such a hunt in their own country,” said
Adrienne, as if she would recall and brave the most cruel remembrances.
“Adrienne,” said the marchioness, suddenly, in an agitated voice, “the
lion-tamer has now come nearer--is not his countenance fearful to look
at?--I tell you he is afraid.”
“In truth,” observed the marquis, this time very seriously, “he is
dreadfully pale, and seems to grow worse every minute, the nearer he
approaches this side. It is said that, were he to lose his presence of
mind for a single moment, he would run the greatest danger.”
“O! it would be horrible!” cried the marchioness, addressing Adrienne,
“if he were wounded--there--under our eyes!”
“Every wound does not kill,” replied her friend, with an accent of such
cold indifference, that the marchioness looked at her with surprise, and
said to her: “My dear girl, what you say there is cruel!”
“It is the air of the place that acts on me,” answered Adrienne, with an
icy smile.
“Look! look! the lion-tamer is about to shoot his arrow at the panther,”
said the marquis, suddenly. “No doubt, he will next perform the hand to
hand grapple.”
Morok was at this moment in front of the stage, but he had yet to
traverse its entire breadth to reach the cavern’s mouth. He stopped an
instant, adjusted an arrow to the string, knelt down behind a mass of
rock, took deliberate aim--and then the arrow hissed across the stage,
and was lost in the depths of the cavern, into which the panther
had retired, after showing for a moment her threatening head to the
audience. Hardly had the arrow disappeared, than Death, purposely
irritated by Goliath (who was invisible) sent forth a howl of rage, as
if she had been really wounded. Morok’s actions became so expressive,
he evinced so naturally his joy at having hit the wild beast, that
a tempest of applause burst from every quarter of the house. Then,
throwing away his bow, he drew a dagger from his girdle, took it between
his teeth, and began to crawl forward on hands and knees, as though he
meant to surprise the wounded panther in his den. To render the illusion
perfect, Death, again excited by Goliath, who struck him with an iron
bar, sent forth frightful howlings from the depths of the cavern.
The gloomy aspect of the forest, only half-lighted with a reddish glare,
was so effective--the howlings of the panther were so furious--the
gestures, attitude, and countenance of Morok were so expressive of
terror, that the audience, attentive and trembling, now maintained a
profound silence. Every one held his breath, and a kind of shudder came
over the spectators, as though they expected some horrible event. What
gave such a fearful air of truth to the pantomime of Morok, was that,
as he approached the cavern step by step, he approached also the
Englishman’s box. In spite of himself, the lion-tamer, fascinated by
terror, could not take his eyes from the large green eyes of this man,
and it seemed as if every one of the abrupt movements which he made in
crawling along, was produced by a species of magnetic attraction, caused
by the fixed gaze of the fatal wagerer. Therefore, the nearer Morok
approached, the more ghastly and livid he became. At sight of this
pantomime, which was no longer acting, but the real expression of
intense fear, the deep and trembling silence which had reigned in the
theatre was once more interrupted by acclamations, with which were
mingled the roarings of the panther, and the distant growls of the lion
and tiger.
The Englishman leaned almost out of his box, with a frightful sardonic
smile on his lip, and with his large eyes still fixed, panted for
breath. The perspiration ran down his bald red forehead, as if he had
really expended an incredible amount of magnetic power in attracting
Morok, whom he now saw close to the cavern entrance. The moment was
decisive. Crouching down with his dagger in his hand, following with eye
and gesture Death’s every movement, who, roaring furiously, and opening
wide her enormous jaws, seemed determined to guard the entrance of
her den, Morok waited for the moment to rush upon her. There is such
fascination in danger, that Adrienne shared, in spite of herself, the
feeling of painful curiosity, mixed with terror, that thrilled through
all the spectators. Leaning forward like the marchioness, and gazing
upon this scene of fearful interest, the lady still held mechanically in
her hand the Indian bouquet preserved since the morning. Suddenly,
Morok raised a wild shout, as he rushed towards Death, who answered this
exclamation by a dreadful roar, and threw herself upon her master with
so much fury, that Adrienne, in alarm, believing the man lost, drew
herself back, and covered her fact with her hands. Her flowers slipped
from her grasp, and, falling upon the stage, rolled into the cavern in
which Morok was struggling with the panther.
Quick as lightning, supple and agile as a tiger, yielding to the
intoxication of his love, and to the wild ardor excited in him by the
roaring of the panther, Djalma sprang at one bound upon the stage, drew
his dagger, and rushed into the cavern to recover Adrienne’s nosegay. At
that instant, Morok, being wounded, uttered a dreadful cry for help; the
panther, rendered still more furious at sight of Djalma, make the most
desperate efforts to break her chain. Unable to succeed in doing so, she
rose upon her hind legs, in order to seize Djalma, then within reach of
her sharp claws. It was only by bending down his head, throwing himself
on his knees, and twice plunging his dagger into her belly with the
rapidity of lightning, that Djalma escaped certain death. The panther
gave a howl, and fell with her whole weight upon the prince. For a
second, during which lasted her terrible agony, nothing was seen but a
confused and convulsive mass of black limbs, and white garments
stained with blood--and then Djalma rose, pale, bleeding, for he was
wounded--and standing erect, his eye flashing with savage pride, his
foot on the body of the panther, he held in his hand Adrienne’s bouquet,
and cast towards her a glance which told the intensity of his love.
Then only did Adrienne feel her strength fail her--for only superhuman
courage had enabled her to watch all the terrible incidents of the
struggle.
BOOK IX.
XV. The Constant Wanderer XVI. The Luncheon XVII. Rendering
the Account XVIII. The Square of Notre Dame XIX. The Cholera
Masquerade XX. The Defiance XXI. Brandy to the Rescue XXII.
Memories XXIII. The Poisoner XXIV. In the Cathedral XXV. The
Murderers XXVI. The Patient XXVII. The Lure XXVIII. Good
News XXIX. The Operation XXX. The Torture XXXI. Vice and
Virtue XXXII. Suicide
CHAPTER XV. THE CONSTANT WANDERER.
It is night. The moon shines and the stars glimmer in the midst of a
serene but cheerless sky; the sharp whistlings of the north wind, that
fatal, dry, and icy breeze, ever and anon burst forth in violent gusts.
With its harsh and cutting breath, it sweeps Montmartre’s Heights. On
the highest point of the hills, a man is standing. His long shadow is
cast upon the stony, moon-lit ground. He gazes on the immense city,
which lies outspread beneath his feet. PARIS--with the dark outline of
its towers, cupolas, domes, and steeples, standing out from the limpid
blue of the horizon, while from the midst of the ocean of masonry, rises
a luminous vapor, that reddens the starry azure of the sky. It is the
distant reflection of the thousand fires, which at night, the hour of
pleasures, light up so joyously the noisy capital.
“No,” said the wayfarer; “it is not to be. The Lord will not exact it.
Is not twice enough?
“Five centuries ago, the avenging hand of the Almighty drove me hither
from the uttermost confines of Asia. A solitary traveller, I had left
behind me more grief, despair, disaster, and death, than the innumerable
armies of a hundred devastating conquerors. I entered this town, and it
too was decimated.
“Again, two centuries ago, the inexorable hand, which leads me through
the world, brought me once more hither; and then, as the time before,
the plague, which the Almighty attaches to my steps, again ravaged this
city, and fell first on my brethren, already worn out with labor and
misery.
“My brethren--mine?--the cobbler of Jerusalem, the artisan accursed by
the Lord, who, in my person, condemned the whole race of workmen,
ever suffering, ever disinherited, ever in slavery, toiling on like me
without rest or pause, without recompense or hope, till men, women,
and children, young and old, all die beneath the same iron yoke--that
murderous yoke, which others take in their turn, thus to be borne from
age to age on the submissive and bruised shoulders of the masses.
“And now, for the third time in five centuries, I reach the summit of
one of the hills that overlook the city. And perhaps I again bring with
me fear, desolation, and death.
“Yet this city, intoxicated with the sounds of its joys and its
nocturnal revelries, does not know--oh! does not know that I am at its
gates.
“But no, no! my presence will not be a new calamity. The Lord, in his
impenetrable views, has hitherto led me through France, so as to
avoid the humblest hamlet; and the sound of the funeral knell has not
accompanied my passage.
“And, moreover, the spectre has left me--the green, livid spectre, with
its hollow, bloodshot eyes. When I touched the soil of France, its damp
and icy hands was no longer clasped in mine--and it disappeared.
“And yet--I feel that the atmosphere of death is around me.
“The sharp whistlings of that fatal wind cease not, which, catching me
in their whirl, seem to propagate blasting and mildew as they blow.
“But perhaps the wrath of the Lord is appeased, and my presence here is
only a threat--to be communicated in some way to those whom it should
intimidate.
“Yes; for otherwise he would smite with a fearful blow, by first
scattering terror and death here in the heart of the country, in the
bosom of this immense city!
“Oh! no, no! the Lord will be merciful. No! he will not condemn me to
this new torture.
“Alas! in this city, my brethren are more numerous and miserable than
elsewhere. And should I be their messenger of death?”
“No! the Lord will have pity. For, alas! the seven descendants of my
sister have at length met in this town. And to them likewise should I be
the messenger of death, instead of the help they so much need?
“For that woman, who like me wanders from one border of the earth to the
other, after having once more rent asunder the nets of their enemies,
has gone forth upon her endless journey.
“In vain she foresaw that new misfortunes threatened my sister’s family.
The invisible hand, that drives me on, drives her on also.
“Carried away, as of old, by the irresistible whirlwind, at the moment
of leaving my kindred to their fate, she in vain cried with supplicating
tone: ‘Let me at least, O Lord, complete my task!’--‘GO ON!--‘A few
days, in mercy, only a few poor days!’--‘GO ON’--‘I leave those I love
on the brink of the abyss!’--‘GO ON! GO ON!’
“And the wandering star--again started on its eternal round. And her
voice, passing through space, called me to the assistance of mine own.
“When that voice readied me, I knew that the descendants of my sister
were still exposed to frightful perils. Those perils are even now on the
increase.
“Tell me, O Lord! will they escape the scourge, which for so many
centuries has weighed down our race?
“Wilt thou pardon me in them? wilt thou punish me in them? Oh, that they
might obey the last will of their ancestor!
“Oh, that they might join together their charitable hearts, their valor
and their strength, their noble intelligence, and their great riches!
“They would then labor for the future happiness of humanity--they would
thus, perhaps, redeem me from my eternal punishment!
“The words of the Son of Man, LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER, will be their only
end, their only means.
“By the help of those all-powerful words, they will fight and conquer
the false priests, who have renounced the precepts of love, peace, and
hope, for lessons of hatred, violence, and despair.
“Those false priests, who, kept in pay by the powerful and happy of this
world, their accomplices in every age, instead of asking here below for
some slight share of well-being for my unfortunate brethren, dare in
thy name, O Lord God, to assert that the poor are condemned to endless
suffering in this world--and that the desire or the hope to suffer less
is a crime in thine eyes--because the happiness of the few, and the
misery of nearly the whole human race, is (O blasphemy!) according to
thy will. Is not the very contrary of those murderous words alone worthy
of divinity!
“In mercy, hear me, Lord! Rescue from their enemies the descendants of
my sister--the artisan as the king’s son. Do not let them destroy the
germ of so mighty and fruitful an association, which, with thy blessing,
would make an epoch in the annals of human happiness!
“Let me unite them, O Lord, since others would divide them--defend them,
since others attack; let me give hope to those who have ceased to hope,
courage to those who are brought low with fear--let me raise up the
falling, and sustain those who persevere in the way of the righteous!
“And, peradventure, their struggles, devotion, virtue, and grief, may
expiate my fault--that of a man, whom misfortune alone rendered unjust
and wicked.
“Oh! since Thy Almighty hand hath led me hither--to what end I know
not--lay aside Thy wrath, I beseech Thee--let me be no longer the
instrument of Thy vengeance!
“Enough of woe upon the earth! for the last two years, Thy creatures
have fallen by thousands upon my track. The world is decimated. A veil
of mourning extends over all the globe.
“From Asia to the icy Pole, they died upon the path of the wanderer.
Dost Thou not hear the long-drawn sigh that rises from the earth unto
Thee, O Lord?
“Mercy for all! mercy for me!--Let me but unite the descendants of my
sister for a single day, and they will be saved!”
As he pronounced these words, the wayfarer sank upon his knees, and
raised to heaven, his supplicating hands. Suddenly, the wind blew with
redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings were changed into the roar of a
tempest.
The traveller shuddered; in a voice of terror he exclaimed: “The blast
of death rises in its fury--the whirlwind carries me on--Lord! Thou art
then deaf to my prayer?”
“The spectre! oh, the spectre! it is again here! its green face
twitching with convulsive spasms--its red eyes rolling in their orbits.
Begone! begone!--its hand, oh! its icy hand has again laid hold of mine.
Have mercy, heaven!”
“GO ON!”
“Oh, Lord! the pestilence--the terrible plague--must I carry it into
this city?--And my brethren will perish the first--they, who are so
sorely smitten even now! Mercy!”
“GO ON!”
“And the descendants of my sister. Mercy! Mercy!”
“GO ON!”
“Oh, Lord, have pity!--I can no longer keep my ground; the spectre drags
me to the slope of the hill; my walk is rapid as the deadly blast that
rages behind me; already do I behold the city gates. Have mercy, Lord,
on the descendants of my sister! Spare them; do not make me their
executioner; let them triumph over their enemies!”
“GO ON! GO ON!”
“The ground flies beneath my feet; there is the city gate. Lord, it is
yet time! Oh, mercy for that sleeping town! Let it not waken to cries
of terror, despair, and death! Lord, I am on the threshold. Must it
be?--Yes, it is done. Paris, the plague is in thy bosom. The curse--oh,
the eternal curse!”
“GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!”
CHAPTER XVI. THE LUNCHEON.
The morning after the doomed traveller, descending the heights of
Montmartre, had entered the walls of Paris, great activity reigned in
St. Dizier House. Though it was hardly noon, the Princess de St. Dizier,
without being exactly in full dress (she had too much taste for that),
was yet arrayed with more care than usual. Her light hair, instead of
being merely banded, was arranged in two bunches of curls, which suited
very well with her full and florid cheeks. Her cap was trimmed with
bright rose-colored ribbon, and whoever had seen the lady in her tight
fitting dress of gray-watered silk would have easily guessed that
Mrs. Grivois, her tirewoman, must have required the assistance and the
efforts of another of the princess’s women to achieve so remarkable a
reduction in the ample figure of their mistress.
We shall explain the edifying cause of this partial return to the
vanities of the world. The princess, attended by Mrs. Grivois, who
acted as housekeeper, was giving her final orders with regard to some
preparations that were going on in a vast parlor. In the midst of this
room was a large round table, covered with crimson velvet, and near it
stood several chairs, amongst which, in the place of honor, was an arm
chair of gilded wood. In one corner, not far from the chimney, in which
burned an excellent fire, was a buffet. On it were the divers materials
for a most dainty and exquisite collation. Upon silver dishes were piled
pyramids of sandwiches composed of the roes of carp and anchovy paste,
with slices of pickled tunny-fish and Lenigord truffles (it was in
Lent); on silver dishes, placed over burning spirits of wine, so as to
keep them very hot, tails of Meuse crawfish boiled in cream, smoked in
golden colored pastry, and seemed to challenge comparison with delicious
little Marennes oyster-patties, stewed in Madeira, and flavored with a
seasoning of spiced sturgeon. By the side of these substantial
dishes were some of a lighter character, such as pineapple tarts,
strawberry-creams (it was early for such fruit), and orange-jelly served
in the peel, which had been artistically emptied for that purpose.
Bordeaux, Madeira, and Alicant sparkled like rubies and topazes in large
glass decanters, while two Sevres ewers were filled, one with coffee
a la creme, the other with vanilla chocolate, almost in the state of
sherbet, from being plunged in a large cooler of chiselled silver,
containing ice.
But what gave to this dainty collation a singularly apostolic and
papal character were sundry symbols of religious worship carefully
represented. Thus there were charming little Calvaries in apricot paste,
sacerdotal mitres in burnt almonds, episcopal croziers in sweet cake,
to which the princess added, as a mark of delicate attention, a little
cardinal’s hat in cherry sweetmeat, ornamented with bands in burnt
sugar. The most important, however, of these Catholic delicacies, the
masterpiece of the cook, was a superb crucifix in angelica, with a crown
of candied berries. These are strange profanations, which scandalize
even the least devout. But, from the impudent juggle of the coat of
Triers, down to the shameless jest of the shrine at Argenteuil, people,
who are pious after the fashion of the princess, seem to take delight in
bringing ridicule upon the most respectable traditions.
After glancing with an air of satisfaction at these preparations for the
collation, the lady said to Mrs. Grivois, as she pointed to the gilded
arm-chair, which seemed destined for the president of the meeting: “Is
there a cushion under the table, for his Eminence to rest his feet on?
He always complains of cold.”
“Yes, your highness,” said Mrs. Grivois, when she had looked under the
table; “the cushion is there.”
“Let also a pewter bottle be filled with boiling water, in case his
Eminence should not find the cushion enough to keep his feet warm.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And put some more wood on the fire.”
“But, my lady, it is already a very furnace. And if his Eminence is
always too cold, my lord the Bishop of Halfagen is always too hot. He
perspires dreadfully.”
The princess shrugged her shoulders, and said to Mrs. Grivois: “Is not
his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri the superior of his Lordship the Bishop
of Halfagen?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Then, according to the rules of the hierarchy, it is for his Lordship
to suffer from the heat, rather than his Eminence from the cold.
Therefore, do as I tell you, and put more wood on the fire. Nothing is
more natural; his Eminence being an Italian, and his Lordship
coming from the north of Belgium, they are accustomed to different
temperatures.”
“Just as your highness pleases,” said Mrs. Grivois, as she placed two
enormous logs on the fire; “but in such a heat as there is here his
Lordship might really be suffocated.”
“I also find it too warm; but does not our holy religion teach us
lessons of self-sacrifice and mortification?” said the princess, with a
touching expression of devotion.
We have now explained the cause of the rather gay attire of the
princess. She was preparing for a reception of prelates, who, along with
Father d’Aigrigny and other dignitaries of the Church, had already held
at the princely house a sort of council on a small scale. A young bride
who gives her first ball, an emancipated minor who gives his first
bachelor’s dinner, a woman of talent who reads aloud for the first time
her first unpublished work, are not more joyous and proud, and, at the
same time, more attentive to their guests, than was this lady with her
prelates. To behold great interests discussed in her house, and in
her presence, to hear men of acknowledged ability ask her advice
upon certain practical matters relating to the influence of female
congregations, filled the princess with pride, as her claims to
consideration were thus sanctioned by Lordships and Eminences, and she
took the position, as it were, of a mother of the Church. Therefore, to
win these prelates, whether native or foreign, she had recourse to no
end of saintly flatteries and sanctified coaxing. Nor could anything be
more logical than these successive transfigurations of this heartless
woman, who only loved sincerely and passionately the pursuit of intrigue
and domination. With the progress of age, she passed naturally from the
intrigues of love to those of politics, and from the latter to those of
religion.
At the moment she finished inspecting her preparations, the sound of
coaches was heard in the courtyard, apprising her of the arrival of the
persons she had been expecting. Doubtless, these persons were of the
highest rank, for contrary to all custom, she went to receive them at
the door of her outer saloon. It was, indeed, Cardinal Malipieri, who
was always cold, with the Belgian Bishop of Halfagen, who was always
hot. They were accompanied by Father d’Aigrigny. The Roman cardinal was
a tall man, rather bony than thin, with a yellowish puffy countenance,
haughty and full of craft; he squinted a good deal, and his black eyes
were surrounded by a deep brown circle. The Belgian Bishop was short,
thick, and fat, with a prominent abdomen, an apoplectic complexion, a
slow, deliberate look, and a soft, dimpled, delicate hand.
The company soon assembled in the great saloon. The cardinal instantly
crept close to the fire, whilst the bishop, beginning to sweat and blow,
cast longing glances at the iced chocolate and coffee, which were to aid
him in sustaining the oppressive heat of the artificial dog-day. Father
d’Aigrigny, approaching the princess, said to her in a low voice: “Will
you give orders for the admittance of Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont, when he
arrives?”
“Is that young priest then here?” asked the princess, with extreme
surprise.
“Since the day before yesterday. We had him sent for to Paris, by his
superiors. You shall know all. As for Father Rodin, let Mrs. Grivois
admit him, as the other day, by the little door of the back stairs.”
“He will come to-day?”
“He has very important matters to communicate. He desires that both the
cardinal and the bishop should be present for they have been informed
of everything at Rome by the Superior General, in their quality of
associates.”
The princess rang the bell, gave the necessary orders, and, returning
towards the cardinal, said to him, in a tone of the most earnest
solicitude: “Does your Eminence begin to feel a little warmer? Would
your Eminence like a bottle of hot water to your feet? Shall we make a
larger fire for your Eminence?”
At this proposition, the Belgian bishop, who was wiping the perspiration
from his forehead, heaved a despairing sigh.
“A thousand thanks, princess,” answered the cardinal to her, in very
good French, but with an intolerable Italian accent; “I am really
overcome with so much kindness.”
“Will not your Lordship take some refreshment?” said the princess to the
bishop, as she turned towards the sideboard.
“With your permission, madame, I will take a little iced coffee,” said
the prelate, making a prudent circuit to approach the dishes without
passing before the fire.
“And will not your Eminence try one of these little oyster-patties? They
are quite hot,” said the princess.
“I know them already, princess,” said the cardinal, with the air
and look of an epicure; “they are delicious, and I cannot resist the
temptation.”
“What wine shall I have the honor to offer your Eminence?” resumed the
princess, graciously.
“A little claret, if you please, madame;” and as Father d’Aigrigny
prepared to fill the cardinal’s glass, the princess disputed with him
that pleasure.
“Your Eminence will doubtless approve what I have done,” said Father
d’Aigrigny to the cardinal, whilst the latter was gravely despatching
the oyster-patties, “in not summoning for to-day the Bishop of
Mogador, the Archbishop of Nanterre, and our holy Mother Perpetue, the
lady-superior of St. Mary Convent, the interview we are about to have
with his Reverence Father Rodin and Abbe Gabriel being altogether
private and confidential.”
“Our good father was perfectly right,” said the cardinal; “for, though
the possible consequences of this Rennepont affair may interest the
whole Church, there are some things that are as well kept secret.”
“Then I must seize this opportunity to thank your Eminence for having
deigned to make an exception in favor of a very obscure and humble
servant of the Church,” said the princess to the cardinal, with a very
deep and respectful curtsey.
“It is only just and right, madame,” replied the cardinal, bowing as he
replaced his empty glass upon the table; “we know how much the Church
is indebted to you for the salutary direction you give to the religious
institutions of which you are the patroness.”
“With regard to that, your Eminence may be assured that I always refuse
assistance to any poor person who cannot produce a certificate from the
confessional.”
“And it is only thus, madame,” resumed the cardinal, this time allowing
himself to be tempted by the attractions of the crawfish’s tails, “it
is only thus that charity has any meaning. I care little that the
irreligious should feel hunger, but with the pious it is different;” and
the prelate gayly swallowed a mouthful. “Moreover,” resumed he, “it is
well known with what ardent zeal you pursue the impious, and those who
are rebels against the authority of our Holy Father.”
“Your Eminence may feel convinced that I am Roman in heart and soul;
I see no difference between a Gallican and a Turk,” said the princess,
bravely.
“The princess is right,” said the Belgian bishop: “I will go further,
and assert that a Gallican should be more odious to the church than a
pagan. In this respect I am of the opinion of Louis XIV. They asked him
a favor for a man about the court. ‘Never,’ said the great king; ‘this
person is a Jansenist.’--‘No, sire; he is an atheist.’--‘Oh! that is
different; I will grant what he asks,’ said the King.”
This little episcopal jest made them all laugh. After which Father
d’Aigrigny resumed seriously, addressing the cardinal: “Unfortunately,
as I was about to observe to your Eminence with regard to the Abbe
Gabriel, unless they are very narrowly watched, the lower clergy have
a tendency to become infected with dissenting views, and with ideas of
rebellion against what they call the despotism of the bishops.”
“This young man must be a Catholic Luther!” said the bishop. And,
walking on tip-toe, he went to pour himself out a glorious glass of
Madeira, in which he soaked some sweet cake, made in the form of a
crozier.
Led by his example, the Cardinal, under pretence of warming his feet by
drawing still closer to the fire, helped himself to an excellent glass
of old Malaga, which he swallowed by mouthfuls, with an air of profound
meditation; after which he resumed: “So this Abbe Gabriel starts as a
reformer. He must be an ambitious man. Is he dangerous?”
“By our advice his superiors have judged him to be so. They have ordered
him to come hither. He will soon be here, and I will tell your Eminence
why I have sent for him. But first, I have a note on the dangerous
tendencies of the Abbe Gabriel. Certain questions were addressed to
him, with regard to some of his acts, and it was in consequence of his
answers that his superiors recalled him.”
So saying, Father d’Aigrigny, took from his pocket-book a paper, which
he read as follows:
“‘Question.--Is it true that you performed religious rites for an
inhabitant of your parish who died in final impenitence of the most
detestable kind, since he had committed suicide?
“‘Answer of Abbe Gabriel.--I paid him the last duties, because, more
than any one else, because of his guilty end, he required the prayers of
the church. During the night which followed his interment I continually
implored for him the divine mercy.
“‘Q.--Is it true that you refused a set of silver-gilt sacramental
vessels, and other ornaments, with which one of the faithful, in pious
zeal, wished to endow your parish?
“‘A.--I refused the vessels and embellishments, because the house of the
Lord should be plain and without ornament, so as to remind the faithful
that the divine Saviour was born in a stable. I advised the person who
wished to make these useless presents to my parish to employ the money
in judicious almsgiving, assuring him it would be more agreeable to the
Lord.’”
“What a bitter and violent declamation against the adorning of our
temples!” cried the cardinal. “This young priest is most dangerous.
Continue, my good father.”
And, in his indignation, his Eminence swallowed several mouthfuls of
strawberry-cream. Father d’Aigrigny continued.
“‘Q.--Is it true that you received in your parsonage, and kept there for
some days, an inhabitant of the village, by birth a Swiss, belonging to
the Protestant communion? Is it true that not only you did not attempt
to convert him to the one Catholic and Apostolic faith, but that you
carried so far the neglect of your sacred duties as to inter this
heretic in the ground consecrated for the repose of true believers?
“‘A.--One of my brethren was houseless. His life had been honest and
laborious. In his old age his strength had failed him, and sickness had
come at the back of it; almost in a dying state, he had been driven from
his humble dwelling by a pitiless landlord, to whom he owed a year’s
rent. I received the old man in my house, and soothed his last days. The
poor creature had toiled and suffered all his life; dying, he uttered no
word of bitterness at his hard fate; he recommended his soul to God and
piously kissed the crucifix. His pure and simple spirit returned to the
bosom of its Creator. I closed his eyes with respect, I buried him, I
prayed for him; and, though he died in the Protestant faith, I thought
him worthy of a place in consecrated ground.’”
“Worse and worse!” said the cardinal. “This tolerance is monstrous. It
is a horrible attack on that maxim of Catholicism: ‘Out of the pale of
the Church there is no salvation.’”
“And all this is the more serious, my lord,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny,
“because the mildness, charity, and Christian devotion of Abbe Gabriel
have excited, not only in his parish, but in all the surrounding
districts, the greatest enthusiasm. The priests of the neighboring
parishes have yielded to the general impulse, and it must be confessed
that but for his moderation a wide-spread schism would have commenced.”
“But what do you hope will result from bringing him here?” said the
prelate.
“The position of Abbe Gabriel is complicated; first of all, he is the
heir of the Rennepont family.”
“But has he not ceded his rights?” asked the cardinal.
“Yes, my lord; and this cession, which was at first informal, has
lately, with his free consent, been made perfectly regular in law; for
he had sworn, happen what might, to renounce his part of the inheritance
in favor of the Society of Jesus. Nevertheless, his Reverence Father
Rodin thinks, that if your Eminence, after explaining to Abbe Gabriel
that he was about to be recalled by his superiors, were to propose to
him some eminent position at Rome, he might be induced to leave France,
and we might succeed in arousing within him those sentiments of ambition
which are doubtless only sleeping for the present; your Eminence, having
observed, very judiciously, that every reformer must be ambitious.”
“I approve of this idea,” said the cardinal, after a moment’s
reflection; “with his merit and power of acting on other men, Abbe
Gabriel may rise very high, if he is docile; and if he should not be so,
it is better for the safety of the Church that he should be at Rome
than here--for you know, my good father, we have securities that are
unfortunately wanting in France.” (36)
After some moments of silence, the cardinal said suddenly to Father
d’Aigrigny: “As we were talking of Father Rodin, tell me frankly what
you think of him.”
“Your Eminence knows his capacity,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with a
constrained and suspicious air; “our reverend Father-General--”
“Commissioned him to take your place,” said the cardinal; “I know that.
He told me so at Rome. But what do you think of the character of Father
Rodin? Can one have full confidence in him?”
“He has so complete, so original, so secret, and so impenetrable a
mind,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with hesitation, “that it is difficult to
form any certain judgment with respect to him.”
“Do you think him ambitious?” said the cardinal, after another moment’s
pause. “Do you not suppose him capable of having other views than those
of the greater glory of his Order?--Come, I have reasons for speaking
thus,” added the prelate, with emphasis.
“Why,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, not without suspicion, for the game
is played cautiously between people of the same craft, “what should your
Eminence think of him, either from your own observation, or from the
report of the Father-General?”
“I think--that if his apparent devotion to his Order really concealed
some after-thought--it would be well to discover it--for, with the
influence that he has obtained at Rome (as I have found out), he might
one day, and that shortly, become very formidable.”
“Well!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, impelled by his jealousy of Rodin; “I
am, in this respect, of the same opinion as your Eminence; for I have
sometimes perceived in him flashes of ambition, that were as alarming as
they were extraordinary--and since I must tell all to your Eminence--”
Father d’Aigrigny was unable to continue; at this moment Mrs. Grivois,
who had been knocking at the door, half-opened it, and made a sign to
her mistress. The princess answered by bowing her head, and Mrs. Grivois
again withdrew. A second afterwards Rodin entered the room.
(36) It is known that, in 1845, the Inquisition, solitary confinement,
etc., still existed at Rome.
CHAPTER XVII. RENDERING THE ACCOUNT.
At sight of Rodin, the two prelates and Father d’Aigrigny rose
spontaneously, so much were they overawed by the real superiority
of this man; their faces, just before contracted with suspicion and
jealousy, suddenly brightened up, and seemed to smile on the reverend
father with affectionate deference. The princess advanced some steps to
meet him.
Rodin, badly dressed as ever, leaving on the soft carpet the muddy track
of his clumsy shoes, put his umbrella into one corner, and advanced
towards the table--not with his accustomed humility, but with slow step,
uplifted head, and steady glance; not only did he feel himself in the
midst of his partisans, but he knew that he could rule them all by the
power of his intellect.
“We were speaking of your reverence, my dear, good father,” said the
cardinal, with charming affability.
“Ah!” said Rodin, looking fixedly at the prelate; “and what were you
saying?”
“Why,” replied the Belgian bishop, wiping his forehead, “all the good
that can be said of your reverence.”
“Will you not take something, my good father?” said the princess to
Rodin, as she pointed to the splendid sideboard.
“Thank you, madame, I have eaten my radish already this morning.”
“My secretary, Abbe Berlini, who was present at your repast, was,
indeed, much astonished at your reverence’s frugality,” said the
prelate: “it is worthy of an anchorite.”
“Suppose we talk of business,” said Rodin, abruptly, like a man
accustomed to lead and control the discussion.
“We shall always be most happy to hear you,” said the prelate. “Your
reverence yourself fixed to-day to talk over this great Rennepont
affair. It is of such importance, that it was partly the cause of my
journey to France; for to support the interests of the glorious Company
of Jesus, with which I have the honor of being associated, is to support
the interests of Rome itself, and I promised the reverend Father-General
that I would place myself entirely at your orders.”
“I can only repeat what his Eminence has just said,” added the bishop.
“We set out from Rome together, and our ideas are just the same.”
“Certainly,” said Rodin, addressing the cardinal, “your Eminence may
serve our cause, and that materially. I will tell you how presently.”
Then, addressing the princess, he continued: “I have desired Dr.
Baleinier to come here, madame, for it will be well to inform him of
certain things.”
“He will be admitted as usual,” said the princess.
Since Rodin’s arrival Father d’Aigrigny had remained silent; he seemed
occupied with bitter thoughts, and with some violent internal struggle.
At last, half rising, he said to the prelate, in a forced tone of voice:
“I will not ask your Eminence to judge between the reverend Father Rodin
and myself. Our General has pronounced, and I have obeyed. But, as your
Eminence will soon see our superior, I should wish that you would grant
me the favor to report faithfully the answers of Father Rodin to one or
two questions I am about to put to him.”
The prelate bowed. Rodin looked at Father d’Aigrigny with an air of
surprise, and said to him, dryly: “The thing is decided. What is the use
of questions?”
“Not to justify myself,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, “but to place
matters in their true light before his Eminence.”
“Speak, then; but let us have no useless speeches,” said Rodin, drawing
out his large silver watch, and looking at it. “By two o’clock I must be
at Saint-Sulpice.”
“I will be as brief as possible,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with repressed
resentment. Then, addressing Rodin, he resumed: “When your reverence
thought fit to take my place, and to blame, very severely perhaps,
the manner in which I had managed the interests confided to my care, I
confess honestly that these interests were gravely compromised.”
“Compromised?” said Rodin, ironically; “you mean lost. Did you not order
me to write to Rome, to bid them renounce all hope?”
“That is true,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“It was then a desperate case, given up by the best doctors,” continued
Rodin, with irony, “and yet I have undertaken to restore it to life. Go
on.”
And, plunging both hands into the pockets of his trousers, he looked
Father d’Aigrigny full in the face.
“Your reverence blamed me harshly,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “not for
having sought, by every possible means, to recover the property odiously
diverted from our society--”
“All your casuists authorize you to do so,” said the cardinal; “the
texts are clear and positive; you have a right to recover; per fas aut
nefas what has been treacherously taken from you.”
“And therefore,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “Father Rodin only
reproached me with the military roughness of my means. ‘Their violence,’
he said, ‘was in dangerous opposition to the manners of the age.’ Be it
so; but first of all, I could not be exposed to any legal proceedings,
and, but for one fatal circumstance, success would have crowned the
course I had taken, however rough and brutal it may appear. Now, may I
ask your reverence what--”
“What I have done more than you?” said Rodin to Father d’Aigrigny,
giving way to his impertinent habit of interrupting people; “what I have
done better than you?--what step I have taken in the Rennepont affair,
since I received it from you in a desperate condition? Is that what you
wish to know?”
“Precisely,” said Father d’Aigrigny, dryly.
“Well, I confess,” resumed Rodin, in a sardonic tone, “just as you did
great things, coarse things, turbulent things, I have been doing little,
puerile, secret things. Oh, heaven! you cannot imagine what a foolish
part I, who passed for a man of enlarged views, have been acting for the
last six weeks.”
“I should never have allowed myself to address such a reproach to your
reverence, however deserved it may appear,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with
a bitter smile.
“A reproach?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders; “a reproach? You
shall be the judge. Do you know what I wrote about you, some six weeks
ago? Here it is: ‘Father d’Aigrigny has excellent qualities. He will
be of much service to me’--and from to-morrow I shall employ you very
actively, added Rodin, by way of parenthesis--‘but he is not great
enough to know how to make himself little on occasion.’ Do you
understand?”
“Not very well,” said Father d’Aigrigny, blushing.
“So much the worse for you,” answered Rodin; “it only proves that I was
right. Well, since I must tell you, I have been wise enough to play the
most foolish part for six whole weeks. Yes, I have chatted nonsense with
a grisette--have talked of liberty, progress, humanity, emancipation of
women, with a young, excited girl; of Napoleon the Great, and all sorts
of Bonapartist idolatry, with an old, imbecile soldier; of imperial
glory, humiliation of France, hopes in the King of Rome, with a certain
marshal of France, who, with a heart full of adoration for the robber of
thrones, that was transported to Saint-Helena, has a head as hollow and
sonorous as a trumpet, into which you have only to blow some warlike or
patriotic notes, and it will flourish away of itself, without knowing
why or how. More than all this, I have talked of love affairs with
a young tiger. When I told you it was lamentable to see a man of
any intelligence descend, as I have done, to all such petty ways of
connecting the thousand threads of this dark web, was I not right? Is it
not a fine spectacle to see the spider obstinately weaving its net?--to
see the ugly little black animal crossing thread upon thread, fastening
it here, strengthening it there, and again lengthening it in some
other place? You shrug your shoulders in pity; but return two hours
after--what will you find? The little black animal eating its fill, and
in its web a dozen of the foolish flies, bound so securely, that the
little black animal has only to choose the moment of its repast.”
As he uttered those words, Rodin smiled strangely; his eyes, gradually
half closed, opened to their full width, and seemed to shine more
than usual. The Jesuit felt a sort of feverish excitement, which he
attributed to the contest in which he had engaged before these eminent
personages, who already felt the influence of his original and cutting
speech.
Father d’Aigrigny began to regret having entered on the contest. He
resumed, however, with ill-repressed irony: “I do not dispute the
smallness of your means. I agree with you, they are very puerile--they
are even very vulgar. But that is not quite sufficient to give an
exalted notion of your merit. May I be allowed to ask--”
“What these means have produced?” resumed Rodin, with an excitement that
was not usual with him. “Look into my spider’s web, and you will see
there the beautiful and insolent young girl, so proud, six weeks ago, of
her grace, mind, and audacity--now pale, trembling, mortally wounded at
the heart.”
“But the act of chivalrous intrepidity of the Indian prince, with which
all Paris is ringing,” said the princess, “must surely have touched
Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“Yes; but I have paralyzed the effect of that stupid and savage
devotion, by demonstrating to the young lady that it is not sufficient
to kill black panthers to prove one’s self a susceptible, delicate, and
faithful lover.”
“Be it so,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “we will admit the fact that Mdlle.
de Cardoville is wounded to the heart.”
“But what does this prove with regard to the Rennepont affair?” asked
the cardinal, with curiosity, as he leaned his elbows on the table.
“There results from it,” said Rodin, “that when our most dangerous enemy
is mortally wounded, she abandons the battlefield. That is something, I
should imagine.”
“Indeed,” said the princess, “the talents and audacity of Mdlle. de
Cardoville would make her the soul of the coalition formed against us.”
“Be it so,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, obstinately; “she may be no
longer formidable in that respect. But the wound in her heart will not
prevent her from inheriting.”
“Who tells you so?” asked Rodin, coldly, and with assurance. “Do you
know why I have taken such pains, first to bring her in contact with
Djalma, and then to separate her from him?”
“That is what I ask you,” said Father D’Aigrigny; “how can this storm of
passion prevent Mdlle. de Cardoville and the prince from inheriting?”
“Is it from the serene, or from the stormy sky, that darts the
destroying thunderbolt?” said Rodin, disdainfully. “Be satisfied; I
shall know where to place the conductor. As for M. Hardy, the man lived
for three things: his workmen, his friend, his mistress. He has been
thrice wounded in the heart. I always take aim at the heart; it is legal
and sure.”
“It is legal, and sure, and praiseworthy,” said the bishop; “for, if
I understand you rightly, this manufacturer had a concubine; now it is
well to make use of an evil passion for the punishment of the wicked.”
“True, quite true,” added the cardinal; “if they have evil passion for
us to make use of it, it is their own fault.”
“Our holy Mother Perpetue,” said the princess, “took every means to
discover this abominable adultery.”
“Well, then, M. Hardy is wounded in his dearest affections, I admit,”
said Father d’Aigrigny, still disputing every inch of ground; “ruined
too in his fortune, which will only make him the more eager after this
inheritance.”
The argument appeared of weight to the two prelates and the princess;
all looked at Rodin with anxious curiosity. Instead of answering he
walked up to the sideboard, and, contrary to his habits of stoical
sobriety, and in spite of his repugnance for wine, he examined the
decanters, and said: “What is there in them?”
“Claret and sherry,” said the hostess, much astonished at the sudden
taste of Rodin, “and--”
The latter took a decanter at hazard, and poured out a glass of Madeira,
which he drank off at a draught. Just be fore he had felt a strange kind
of shivering; to this had succeeded a sort of weakness. He hoped the
wine would revive him.
After wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, he returned to
the table, and said to Father d’Aigrigny: “What did you tell me about M.
Hardy?”
“That being ruined in fortune, he would be the more eager to obtain this
immense inheritance,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, inwardly much offended
at the imperious tone.
“M. Hardy think of money?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. “He is
indifferent to life, plunged in a stupor from which he only starts to
burst into tears. Then he speaks with mechanical kindness to those about
him. I have placed him in good hands. He begins, however, to be sensible
to the attentions shown him, for he is good, excellent, weak; and ii is
to this excellence, Father d’Aigrigny, that you must appeal to finish
the work in hand.”
“I?” said Father d’Aigrigny, much surprised.
“Yes; and then you will find that the result I have obtained is
considerable, and--”
Rodin paused, and, pressing his hand to his forehead, said to himself:
“It is strange!”
“What is the matter?” said the princess, with interest.
“Nothing, madame,” answered Rodin, with a shiver; “it is doubtless the
wine I drank; I am not accustomed to it. I feel a slight headache; but
it will pass.”
“Your eyes are very bloodshot, my good father, said the princess.
“I have looked too closely into my web,” answered the Jesuit, with a
sinister smile; “and I must look again, to make Father d’Aigrigny,
who pretends to be blind, catch a glimpse of my other flies. The two
daughters of Marshal Simon, for instance, growing sadder and more
dejected every day, at the icy barrier raised between them and their
father; and the latter thinking himself one day dishonored if he does
this, another if he does that; so that the hero of the Empire has become
weaker and more irresolute than a child. What more remains of this
impious family? Jacques Rennepont? Ask Morok, to what a state of
debasement intemperance has reduced him, and towards what an abyss he is
rushing!--There is my occurrence-sheet; you see to what are reduced all
the members of this family, who, six weeks ago, had each elements of
strength and union! Behold these Renneponts, who, by the will of their
heretical ancestor, were to unite their forces to combat and crush our
Society!--There was good reason to fear them; but what did I say? That I
would act upon their passions. What have I done? I have acted upon their
passions. At this hour they are vainly struggling in my web--they are
mine--they are mine--”
As he was speaking, Rodin’s countenance and voice had undergone a
singular alteration; his complexion, generally so cadaverous, had become
flushed, but unequally, and in patches; then, strange phenomenon! his
eyes grew both more brilliant and more sunken, and his voice sharper
and louder. The change in the countenance of Rodin, of which he did not
appear to be conscious, was so remarkable, that the other actors in this
scene looked at him with a sort of terror.
Deceived as to the cause of this impression, Rodin exclaimed with
indignation, in a voice interrupted by deep gaspings for breath: “It is
pity for this impious race, that I read upon your faces? Pity for the
young girl, who never enters a church, and erects pagan altars in
her habitation? Pity for Hardy, the sentimental blasphemer, the
philanthropic atheist, who had no chapel in his factory, and dared
to blend the names of Socrates, Marcus, Aurelius, and Plato, with our
Savior’s? Pity for the Indian worshipper of Brahma? Pity for the two
sisters, who have never even been baptized? Pity for that brute, Jacques
Rennepont? Pity for the stupid imperial soldier, who has Napoleon for
his god, and the bulletins of the Grand Army for his gospel? Pity
for this family of renegades, whose ancestor, a relapsed heretic, not
content with robbing us of our property, excites from his tomb, at the
end of a century and a half, his cursed race to lift their heads against
us? What! to defend ourselves from these vipers, we shall not have the
right to crush them in their own venom?--I tell you, that it is to
serve heaven, and to give a salutary example to the world, to devote, by
unchaining their own passions, this impious family to grief and despair
and death!”
As he spoke thus, Rodin was dreadful in his ferocity; the fire of his
eyes became still more brilliant; his lips were dry and burning, a cold
sweat bathed his temples, which could be seen throbbing; an icy shudder
ran through his frame. Attributing these symptoms to fatigue from
writing through a portion of the night, and wishing to avoid fainting,
he went to the sideboard, filled another glass with wine, which he drank
off at a draught, and returned as the cardinal said to him: “If your
course with regard to this family needed justification, my good father,
your last word would have victoriously justified it. Not only are you
right, according to your own casuists, but there is nothing in your
proceedings contrary to human laws. As for the divine law, it is
pleasing to the Lord to destroy impiety with its own weapons.”
Conquered, as well as the others, by Rodin’s diabolical assurance, and
brought back to a kind of fearful admiration, Father d’Aigrigny said to
him: “I confess I was wrong in doubting the judgment of your reverence.
Deceived by the appearance of the means employed, I could not judge
of their connection, and above all, of their results. I now see, that,
thanks to you, success is no longer doubtful.”
“This is an exaggeration,” replied Rodin, with feverish impatience; “all
these passions are at work, but the moment is critical. As the alchemist
bends over the crucible, which may give him either treasures or sudden
death--I alone at this moment--”
Rodin did not finish the sentence. He pressed both his hands to his
forehead, with a stifled cry of pain.
“What is the matter?” said Father d’Aigrigny. “For some moments you have
been growing fearfully pale.”
“I do not know ‘what is the matter,” said Rodin, in an altered voice;
“my headache increases--I am seized with a sort of giddiness.”
“Sit down,” said the princess, with interest.
“Take something,” said the bishop.
“It will be nothing,” said Rodin, with an effort; “I am no milksop,
thank heaven!--I had little sleep last night; it is fatigue--nothing
more. I was saying, that I alone could now direct this affair: but I
cannot execute the plan myself. I must keep out of the way, and watch
in the shade: I must hold the threads, which I alone can manage,” added
Rodin, in a faint voice.
“My good father,” said the cardinal uneasily, “I assure you that you are
very unwell. Your paleness is becoming livid.”
“It is possible,” answered Rodin, courageously; “but I am not to be so
soon conquered. To return to our affair--this is the time, in which your
qualities, Father d’Aigrigny, will turn to good account. I have never
denied them, and they may now be of the greatest use. You have the power
of charming--grace--eloquence--you must--”
Rodin paused again. A cold sweat poured from his forehead. He felt his
legs give way under him, notwithstanding his obstinate energy.
“I confess, I am not well,” he said; “yet, this morning, I was as well
as ever. I shiver. I am icy cold.”
“Draw near the fire--it is a sudden indisposition,” said the bishop,
offering his arm with heroic devotion; “it will not be anything of
consequence.”
“If you were to take something warm, a cup of tea,” said the princess;
“Dr. Baleinier will be here directly--he will reassure us as to
this--indisposition.”
“It is really inexplicable,” said the prelate.
At these words of the cardinal, Rodin, who had advanced with difficulty
towards the fire, turned his eyes upon the prelate, and looked at him
fixedly in a strange manner, for about a second; then, strong in his
unconquerable energy, notwithstanding the change in his features, which
were now visibly disfigured, Rodin said, in a broken voice, which he
tried to make firm: “The fire has warmed me; it will be nothing. I have
no time to coddle myself. It would be a pretty thing to fall ill just as
the Rennepont affair can only succeed by my exertions! Let us return to
business. I told you, Father d’Aigrigny, that you might serve us a good
deal; and you also, princess, who have espoused this cause as if it were
your own--”
Rodin again paused. This time he uttered a piercing cry, sank upon
a chair placed near him, and throwing himself back convulsively, he
pressed his hands to his chest, and exclaimed: “Oh! what pain!”
Then (dreadful sight!) a cadaverous decomposition, rapid as thought,
took place in Rodin’s features. His hollow eyes were filled with blood,
and seemed to shrink back in their orbits, which formed, as it were,
two dark holes, in the centre of which blazed points of fire; nervous
convulsions drew the flabby, damp, and icy skin tight over the bony
prominences of the face, which was becoming rapidly green. From the
lips, writhing with pain, issued the struggling breath, mingled with the
words: “Oh! I suffer! I burn!”
Then, yielding to a transport of fury. Rodin tore with his nails his
naked chest, for he had twisted off the buttons of his waistcoat, and
rent his black and filthy shirt-front, as if the pressure of those
garments augmented the violence of the pain under which he was writhing.
The bishop, the cardinal, and Father d’Aigrigny, hastily approached
Rodin, to try and hold him; he was seized with horrible convulsions;
but, suddenly, collecting all his strength, he rose upon his feet stiff
as a corpse. Then, with his garments in disorder, his thin, gray hair
standing up all around his greenish face, fixing his red and flaming
eyes upon the cardinal, he seized him with convulsive grasp, and
exclaimed in a terrible voice, half stifled in his throat: “Cardinal
Malipieri--this illness is too sudden--they suspect me at Rome--you
are of the race of the Borgias--and your secretary was with me this
morning!”
“Unhappy man! what does he dare insinuate?” cried the prelate, as amazed
as he was indignant at the accusation. So saying, the cardinal strove to
free himself from the grasp of Rodin, whose fingers were now as stiff as
iron.
“I am poisoned!” muttered Rodin, and sinking back, he fell into the arms
of Father d’Aigrigny.
Notwithstanding his alarm, the cardinal had time to whisper to the
latter: “He thinks himself poisoned. He must therefore be plotting
something very dangerous.”
The door of the room opened. It was Dr. Baleinier.
“Oh, doctor!” cried the princess, as she ran pale and frightened towards
him; “Father Rodin has been suddenly attacked with terrible convulsions.
Quick! quick!”
“Convulsions? oh! it will be nothing, madame,” said the doctor, throwing
down his hat upon a chair, and hastily approaching the group which
surrounded the sick man.
“Here is the doctor!” cried the princess. All stepped aside, except
Father d’Aigrigny, who continued to support Rodin, leaning against a
chair.
“Heavens! what symptoms!” cried Dr. Baleinier, examining with growing
terror the countenance of Rodin, which from green was turning blue.
“What is it?” asked all the spectators, with one voice.
“What is it?” repeated the doctor, drawing back as if he had trodden
upon a serpent. “It is the cholera! and contagious!”
On this frightful, magic word, Father d’Aigrigny abandoned his hold of
Rodin, who rolled upon the floor.
“He is lost!” cried Dr. Baleinier. “But I will run to fetch the means
for a last effort.” And he rushed towards the door.
The Princess de Saint-Dizier, Father d’Aigrigny, the bishop, and the
cardinal followed in terror the flight of Dr. Baleinier. They all
pressed to the door, which, in their consternation, they could not
open. It opened at last but from without--and Gabriel appeared upon
the threshold. Gabriel, the type of the true priest, the holy, the
evangelical minister, to whom we can never pay enough of respect and
ardent sympathy, and tender admiration. His angelic countenance, in its
mild serenity, offered a striking contrast of these faces, all disturbed
and contracted with terror.
The young priest was nearly thrown down by the fugitives, who rushed
through the now open doorway, exclaiming: “Do not go in! he is dying of
the cholera. Fly!”
On these words, pushing back the bishop, who, being the last, was
trying to force a passage, Gabriel ran towards Rodin, while the prelate
succeeded in making his escape. Rodin, stretched upon the carpet, his
limbs twisted with fearful cramps, was writhing in the extremity
of pain. The violence of his fall had, no doubt, roused him to
consciousness, for he moaned, in a sepulchral voice: “They leave me to
die--like a dog--the cowards!--Help!--no one--”
And the dying man, rolling on his back with a convulsive movement,
turned towards the ceiling a face on which was branded the infernal
despair of the damned, as he once more repeated: “No one!--not one!”
His eyes, which suddenly flamed with fury, just then met the large blue
eyes of the angelic and mild countenance of Gabriel who, kneeling beside
him, said to him, in his soft, grave tones: “I am here, father--to help
you, if help be possible--to pray for you, if God calls you to him.”
“Gabriel!” murmured Rodin, with failing voice; “forgive me for the evil
I have done you--do not leave me--do not--”
Rodin could not finish; he had succeeded in raising himself into a
sitting posture; he now uttered a loud cry, and fell back without sense
or motion.
The same day it was announced in the evening papers: “The cholera has
broken out in Paris. The first case declared itself this day, at half
past three, P.M. in the Rue de Babylone, at Saint-Dizier House.”
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SQUARE OF NOTRE DAME.
A week had passed since Rodin was seized with the cholera, and its
ravages had continually increased. That was an awful time! A funeral
pall was spread over Paris, once so gay. And yet, never had the sky been
of a more settled, purer blue; never had the sun shone more brilliantly.
The inexorable serenity of nature, during the ravages of the deadly
scourge, offered a strange and mysterious contrast. The flaunting light
of the dazzling sunshine fell full upon the features, contracted by a
thousand agonizing fears. Each trembled for himself, or for those dear
to him; every countenance was stamped with an expression of feverish
astonishment and dread. People walked with rapid steps, as if they would
escape from the fate which threatened them; besides, they were in haste
to return to their homes, for often they left life, health, happiness,
and, two hours later, they found agony, death, and despair.
At every moment, new dismal objects met the view. Sometimes carts passed
along, filled with coffins, symmetrically piled; they stopped before
every house. Men in black and gray garments were in waiting before the
door; they held out their hands, and to some, one coffin was thrown, to
some two, frequently three or four, from the same house. It sometimes
happened that the store was quickly exhausted, and the cart, which had
arrived full, went away empty, whilst many of the dead in the street
were still unserved. In nearly every dwelling, upstairs and down, from
the roof to the cellar, there was a stunning tapping of hammers: coffins
were being nailed down, and so many, so very many were nailed, that
sometimes those who worked stopped from sheer fatigue. Then broke forth
laments, heart-rending moans, despairing imprecations. They were uttered
by those from whom the men in black and gray had taken some one to fill
the coffins.
Unceasingly were the coffins filled, and day and night did those men
work, but by day more than by night, for, as soon as it was dusk, came
a gloomy file of vehicles of all kinds--the usual hearses were not
sufficient; but cars, carts, drays, hackney-coaches, and such like,
swelled the funeral procession; different to the other conveyances,
which entered the streets full and went away empty--these came empty but
soon returned full. During that period, the windows of many houses were
illuminated, and often the lights remained burning till the morning. It
was “the season.” These illuminations resembled the gleaming rays which
shine in the gay haunts of pleasure; but there were tapers instead
of wax candles, and the chanting of prayers for the dead replaced
the murmur of the ball-room. In the streets, instead of the facetious
transparencies which indicate the costumers, there swung at intervals
huge lanterns of a blood-red color, with these words in black letters:
“Assistance for those attacked with the cholera.” The true places for
revelry, during the night, were the churchyards; they ran riot--they,
usually so desolate and silent, during the dark, quiet hours, when the
cypress trees rustle in the breeze, so lonely, that no human step dared
to disturb the solemn silence which reigned there at night, became on
a sudden, animated, noisy, riotous, and resplendent with light. By
the smoky flames of torches, which threw a red glare upon the dark
fir-trees, and the white tombstones, many grave-diggers worked merrily,
humming snatches of some favorite tune. Their laborious and hazardous
industry then commanded a very high price; they were in such request
that it was necessary to humor them. They drank often and much; they
sang long and loud; and this to keep up their strength and spirits good,
absolute requisites in such an employment. If, by chance, any did not
finish the grave they had begun, some obliging comrade finished it for
them (fitting expression!), and placed them in it with friendly care.
Other distant sounds responded to the joyous strains of the grave
diggers; public-houses had sprung up in the neighborhood of the
churchyards, and the drivers of the dead, when they had “set down their
customers,” as they jocosely expressed themselves, enriched with their
unusual gratuities, feasted and made merry like lords; dawn often found
them with a glass in their hands, and a jest on their lips; and, strange
to say, among these funeral satellites, who breathed the very atmosphere
of the disease, the mortality was scarcely perceptible. In the
dark, squalid quarters of the town, where, surrounded by infectious
exhalations, the indigent population was crowded together, and miserable
beings, exhausted by severe privation, were “bespoke” by the cholera, as
it was energetically said at the time, not only individuals, but whole
families, were carried off in a few hours; and yet, sometimes, oh,
merciful Providence! one or two little children were left in the cold
and empty room, after the father and mother, brother and sister, had
been taken away in their shells.
Frequently, houses which had swarmed with hard working laborers, were
obliged to be shut up for want of tenants; in one day, they had been
completely cleared by this terrible visitation, from the cellars, where
little chimney-sweepers slept upon straw, to the garret, on whose cold
brick floor lay stretched some wan and half-naked being, without work
and without bread. But, of all the wards of Paris, that which perhaps
presented the most frightful spectacle during the progress of the
cholera, was the City; and in the City, the square before the cathedral
of Notre-Dame was almost every day the theatre of dreadful scenes: for
this locality was frequently thronged with those who conveyed the sick
from the neighboring streets to the Great Hospital. The cholera had
not one aspect, but a thousand. So that one week after Rodin had
been suddenly attacked, several events combining the horrible and the
grotesque occurred in the square of Notre Dame.
Instead of the Rue d’Arcole, which now leads directly to the square, it
was then approached on one side, by a mean, narrow lane, like all the
other streets of the City, and terminating in a dark, low archway. Upon
entering the square the principal door of the huge Cathedral was to the
left of the spectator, and facing him were the Hospital buildings.
A little beyond, was an opening which gave to view a portion of the
parapet of the Quay Notre-Dame. A placard had been recently stuck on
the discolored and sunken wail of the archway; it contained these words,
traced in large characters.(37)
“VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE!
“The Working-men carried to the hospitals are poisoned, because the
number of patients is too great; every night, Boats filled with corpses,
drop down the Seine.
“Vengeance and Death to the murderers of the People!”
Two men, enveloped in cloaks, and half-hidden in the deep shadow of the
vault, were listening with anxious curiosity to the threatening murmur,
which rose with increasing force from among a tumultuous assembly,
grouped around the Hospital. Soon, cries of “Death to the
doctors!--Vengeance!” reached the ears of the persons who were in ambush
under the arch.
“The posters are working,” said one; “the train is on fire. When once
the populace is roused, we can set them on whom we please.”
“I say,” replied the other man, “look over there. That Hercules, whose
athletic form towers above the mob, was cue of the most frantic leaders
when M. Hardy’s factory was destroyed.”
“To be sure he was; I know him again. Wherever mischief is to be done,
you are sure to find those vagabonds.
“Now, take my advice, do not let us remain under this archway,” said
the other man; “the wind is as cold as ice, and though I am cased in
flannel--”
“You are right, the cholera is confoundedly impolite. Besides,
everything is going on well here; I am likewise assured that the whole
of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine is ready to rise in the republican cause;
that will serve our ends, and our holy religion will triumph over
revolutionary impiety. Let us rejoin Father d’Aigrigny.”
“Where shall we find him?”
“Near here, come--come.”
The two hastily disappeared.
The sun, beginning to decline, shed its golden rays upon the blackened
sculptures of the porch of Notre-Dame, and upon its two massy towers,
rising in imposing majesty against a perfectly blue sky, for during
the fast few days, a north-east wind, dry and cold, had driven away
the lightest cloud. A considerable number of people, as we have already
stated, obstructed the approach to the Hospital; they crowded round the
iron railings that protect the front of the building, behind which was
stationed a detachment of infantry, the cries of “Death to the doctors!”
becoming every moment more threatening. The people who thus vociferated.
belonged to an idle, vagabond, and depraved populace--the dregs of the
Paris mob; and (terrible spectacle!) the unfortunate beings who were
forcibly carried through the midst of these hideous groups entered the
Hospital, whilst the air resounded with hoarse clamors, and cries of
“Death.” Every moment, fresh victims were brought along in litters,
and on stretchers; the litters were frequently furnished with coarse
curtains, and thus the sick occupants were concealed from the public
gaze; but the stretchers, having no covering, the convulsive movements
of the dying patients often thrust aside the sheet, and exposed to
view their faces, livid as corpses. Far from inspiring with terror the
wretches assembled round the Hospital, such spectacles became to them
the signal for savage jests, and atrocious predictions upon the fate of
these poor creatures, when once in the power of the doctors.
The big blaster and Ciboule, with a good many of their adherents, were
among the mob. After the destruction of Hardy’s factory, the quarryman
was formally expelled from the union of the Wolves, who would have
nothing more to do with this wretch; since then, he had plunged into
the grossest debauchery, and speculating on his herculean strength, had
hired himself as the officious champion of Ciboule and her compeers.
With the exception therefore of some chance passengers, the square of
Notre-Dame was filled with a ragged crowd, composed of the refuse of
the Parisian populace--wretches who call for pity as well as blame;
for misery, ignorance, and destitution, beget but too fatally vice and
crime. These savages of civilization felt neither pity, improvement, nor
terror, at the shocking sights with which they were surrounded; careless
of a life which was a daily struggle against hunger, or the allurements
of guilt, they braved the pestilence with infernal audacity, or sank
under it with blasphemy on their lips.
The tall form of the quarryman was conspicuous amongst the rest; with
inflamed eyes and swollen features, he yelled at the top of his voice:
“Death to the body-snatchers! they poison the people.”
“That is easier than to feed them,” added Ciboule. Then, addressing
herself to an old man, who was being carried with great difficulty
through the dense crowd, upon a chair, by two men, the hag continued:
“Hey? don’t go in there, old croaker; die here in the open air instead
of dying in that den, where you’ll be doctored like an old rat.”
“Yes,” added the quarryman; “and then they’ll throw you into the water
to feast the fishes, which you won’t swallow any more.”
At these atrocious cries, the old man looked wildly around, and uttered
faint groans. Ciboule wished to stop the persons who were carrying him,
and they had much difficulty in getting rid of the hag. The number
of cholera-patients arriving increased every moment, and soon neither
litters nor stretchers could be obtained, so that they were borne along
in the arms of the attendants. Several awful episodes bore witness
to the startling rapidity of the infection. Two men were carrying a
stretcher covered with a blood-stained sheet; one of them suddenly felt
himself attacked with the complaint; he stopped short, his powerless
arms let go the stretcher; he turned pale, staggered, fell upon the
patient, becoming as livid as him; the other man, struck with terror,
fled precipitately, leaving his companion and the dying man in the
midst of the crowd. Some drew back in horror, others burst into a savage
laugh.
“The horses have taken fright,” said the quarryman, “and have left the
turn-out in the lurch.”
“Help!” cried the dying man, with a despairing accent; “for pity’s sake
take me in.”
“There’s no more room in the pit,” said one, in a jeering tone.
“And you’ve no legs left to reach the gallery,” added another.
The sick man made an effort to rise; but his strength failed him; he
fell back exhausted on the mattress. A sudden movement took place among
the crowd, the stretcher was overturned, the old man and his companion
were trodden underfoot, and their groans were drowned in the cries of
“Death to the body-snatchers!” The yells were renewed with fresh fury,
but the ferocious band, who respected nothing in their savage fury,
were soon after obliged to open their ranks to several workmen, who
vigorously cleared the way for two of their friends carrying in their
arms a poor artisan. He was still young, but his heavy and already
livid head hung down upon the shoulder of one of them. A little child
followed, sobbing, and holding by one of the workmen’s coats. The
measured and sonorous sound of several drums was now heard at a distance
in the winding streets of the city: they were beating the call to
arms, for sedition was rife in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The drummers
emerged from under the archway, and were traversing the square, when one
of them, a gray-haired veteran, suddenly slackened the rolling of his
drum, and stood still: his companions turned round in surprise--he had
turned green; his legs gave way, he stammered some unintelligible words,
and had fallen upon the pavement before those in the front rank had time
to pause. The overwhelming rapidity of this attack startled for a moment
the most hardened among the surrounding spectators; for, wondering at
the interruption, a part of the crowd had rushed towards the soldiers.
At sight of the dying man, supported in the arms of two of his comrades,
one of the individuals, who, concealed under the arch, had watched the
beginning of the popular excitement, said to the drummers: “Your comrade
drank, perhaps, at some fountain on the road?”
“Yes, sir,” replied one; “he was very thirsty; he drank two mouthfuls of
water on the Place du Chatelet.”
“Then he is poisoned,” said the man.
“Poisoned?” cried several voices.
“It is not surprising,” replied the man, in a mysterious tone; “poison
is thrown into the public fountains; and this very morning a man was
massacred in the Rue Beaubourg who was discovered emptying a paper of
arsenic into a pot of wine at a public-house.” (38)
Having said these words, the man disappeared in the crowd. This report,
no less absurd than the tales about the poisoning of the Hospital
patients, was received with a general burst of indignation. Five or
six ragged beings, regular ruffians, seized the body of the expiring
drummer, hoisted it upon their shoulders, in spite of all the efforts
of his comrades to prevent them, and paraded the square exhibiting the
dismal trophy. Ciboule and the quarryman went before, crying: “Wake way
for the corpse! This is how they poison the people!”
A fresh incident now attracted the attention of the crowd. A travelling
carriage, which had not been able to pass along the Quai-Napoleon, the
pavement of which was up, had ventured among the intricate streets of
the city, and now arrived in the square of Notre-Dame on its way to the
other side of the Seine. Like many others, its owners were flying from
Paris, to escape the pestilence which decimated it. A man-servant and a
lady’s maid were in the rumble, and they exchanged a glance of alarm as
they passed the Hospital, whilst a young man seated in the front part
of the carriage let down the glass, and called to the postilions to go
slowly, for fear of accident, as the crowd was very dense at that part
of the square. This young man was Lord Morinval, and on the back seat
were Lord Montbron and his niece, Lady Morinval. The pale and anxious
countenance of the young lady showed the alarm which she felt; and
Montbron, notwithstanding his firmness of mind, appeared to be
very uneasy; he, as well as his niece, frequently had recourse to a
smelling-bottle filled with camphor.
During the last few minutes, the carriage had advanced very slowly,
the postilions managing their horses with great caution, when a sudden
hubbub, at first distant and undefined, but soon more distinct, arose
among the throng, as it drew near, the ringing sound of chains and
metal, peculiar to the artillery-wagons, was plainly audible, and
presently one of these vehicles came towards the travelling-carriage,
from the direction of the Quai Notre-Dame. It seemed strange, that
though the crowd was so compact, yet at the rapid approach of this
wagon, the close ranks of human beings opened as if by enchantment, but
the following words which were passed from mouth to mouth soon accounted
for the prodigy: “A wagon full of dead! the wagon of the dead!” As
we have already stated, the usual funeral conveyances were no longer
sufficient for the removal of the corpses; a number of artillery wagons
had been put into requisition, and the coffins were hastily piled in
these novel hearses.
Many of the spectators regarded this gloomy vehicle with dismay, but the
quarryman and his band redoubled their horrible jokes.
“Make way for the omnibus of the departed!” cried Ciboule.
“No danger of having one’s toes crushed in that omnibus,” said the
quarryman.
“Doubtless they’re easy to please, the stiff-uns in there.”
“They never want to be set down, at all events.”
“I say, there’s only one reg’lar on duty as postilion!”
“That’s true, the leaders are driven by a man in a smock-frock.”
“Oh! I daresay the other soldier was tired, lazy fellow! and got into
the omnibus with the others--they’ll all get out at the same big hole.”
“Head foremost, you know.”
“Yes, they pitch them head first into a bed of lime.”
“Why, one might follow the dead-cart blind-fold, and no mistake. It’s
worse than Montfaucon knacker-yards!”
“Ha! ha! ha!--it’s rather gamey!” said the quarryman, alluding to the
infectious and cadaverous odor which this funeral conveyance left behind
it.
“Here’s sport!” exclaimed Ciboule: “the omnibus of the dead will run
against the fine coach. Hurrah! the rich folks will smell death.”
Indeed, the wagon was now directly in front of the carriage, and at a
very little distance from it. A man in a smock-frock and wooden shoes
drove the two leaders, and an artilleryman the other horses. The coffins
were so piled up within this wagon, that its semicircular top did
not shut down closely, so that, as it jolted heavily over the uneven
pavement, the biers could be seen chafing against each other. The fiery
eyes and inflamed countenance of the man in the smock-frock showed that
he was half intoxicated; urging on the horses with his voice, his heels,
and his whip, he paid no attention to the remonstrances of the soldier,
who had great difficulty in restraining his own animals, and was obliged
to follow the irregular movements of the carman. Advancing in this
disorderly manner, the wagon deviated from its course just as it should
have passed the travelling-carriage, and ran against it. The shock
forced open the top, one of the coffins was thrown out, and, after
damaging the panels of the carriage, fell upon the pavement with a dull
and heavy sound. The deal planks had been hastily nailed together, and
were shivered in the fall, and from the wreck of the coffin rolled a
livid corpse, half enveloped in a shroud.
At this horrible spectacle, Lady Morinval, who had mechanically leaned
forward, gave a loud scream, and fainted. The crowd fell back in dismay;
the postilions, no less alarmed, took advantage of the space left open
to them by the retreat of the multitude; they whipped their horses, and
the carriage dashed on towards the quay. As it disappeared behind
the furthermost buildings of the Hospital, the shrill joyous notes
of distant trumpets were heard, and repeated shouts proclaimed: “The
Cholera Masquerade!” The words announced one of those episodes combining
buffoonery with terror, which marked the period when the pestilence was
on the increase, though now they can with difficulty be credited. If
the evidence of eyewitnesses did not agree in every particular with the
accounts given in the public papers of this masquerade, they might be
regarded as the ravings of some diseased brain, and not as the notice of
a fact which really occurred.
“The Masquerade of the Cholera” appeared, we say, in the square of Notre
Dame, just as Morinval’s carriage gained the quay, after disengaging
itself from the death-wagon.
(37) It is well-known that at the time of the cholera, such placards
were numerous in Paris, and were alternately attributed to opposite
parties. Among others, to the priests, many of the bishops having
published mandatory letters, or stated openly in the churches of their
diocese, that the Almighty had sent the cholera as a punishment to
France for having driven away its lawful sovereign, and assimilated the
Catholic to other forms of worship.
(38) It is notorious, that at this unhappy period several persons were
massacred, under a false accusation of poisoning the fountains, etc.
CHAPTER XIX. THE CHOLERA MASQUERADE.(39)
A stream of people, who preceded the masquerade, made a sudden irruption
through the arch into the square, uttering loud cheers as they advanced.
Children were also there, blowing horns, whilst some hooted and others
hissed.
The quarryman, Ciboule, and their band, attracted by this new spectacle,
rushed tumultuously towards the arch. Instead of the two eating-houses,
which now (1845) stand on either side of the Rue d’Arcole, there was
then only one, situated to the left of the vaulted passage, and much
celebrated amongst the joyous community of students, for the excellence
both of its cookery and its wines. At the first blare of the trumpets,
sounded by the outriders in livery who preceded the masquerade, the
windows of the great room of the eating-house were thrown open, and
several waiters, with their napkins under their arms, leaned forward,
impatient to witness the arrival of the singular guests they were
expecting.
At length, the grotesque procession made its appearance in the thick of
an immense uproar. The train comprised a chariot, escorted by men and
women on horseback, clad in rich and elegant fancy dresses. Most of
these maskers belonged to the middle and easy classes of society. The
report had spread that masquerade was in preparation, for the purpose
of daring the cholera, and, by this joyous demonstration, to revive
the courage of the affrighted populace. Immediately, artists, young men
about town, students, and so on, responded to the appeal, and though
till now unknown one to the other, they easily fraternized together.
Many brought their mistresses, to complete the show. A subscription had
been opened to defray the expenses, and, that morning, after a splendid
breakfast at the other end of Paris, the joyous troop had started
bravely on their march, to finish the day by a dinner in the square of
Notre Dame.
We say bravely, for it required a singular turn of mind, a rare firmness
of character, in young women, to traverse, in this fashion, a great
city plunged in consternation and terror--to fall in at every step with
litters loaded with the dying, and carriages filled with the dead--to
defy, as it were, in a spirit of strange pleasantry, the plague that was
detonating the Parisians. It is certain that, in Paris alone, and
there only amongst a peculiar class, could such an idea have ever been
conceived or realized. Two men, grotesquely disguised as postilions at
a funeral, with formidable false noses, rose-colored crape hat-bands and
large favors of roses and crape bows at their buttonholes, rode before
the vehicle. Upon the platform of the car were groups of allegorical
personages, representing WINE, PLEASURE, LOVE, PLAY. The mission of
these symbolical beings was, by means of jokes, sarcasms, and mockeries,
to plague the life out of Goodman Cholera, a sort of funeral and
burlesque Cassander, whom they ridiculed and made game of in a hundred
ways. The moral of the play was this: “To brave Cholera in security, let
us drink, laugh, game, and make love!”
WINE was represented by a huge, lusty Silenus, thick-set, and with
swollen paunch, a crown of ivy on his brow, a panther’s skin across his
shoulder, and in his hand a large gilt goblet, wreathed with flowers.
None other than Ninny Moulin, the famous moral and religious writer,
could have exhibited to the astonished and delighted spectators an
ear of so deep a scarlet, so majestic an abdomen, and a face of such
triumphant and majestic fulness. Every moment, Ninny Moulin appeared to
empty his cup--after which he burst out laughing in the face of Goodman
Cholera. Goodman Cholera, a cadaverous pantaloon, was half-enveloped in
a shroud; his mask of greenish cardboard, with red, hollow eyes, seemed
every moment to grin as in mockery of death; from beneath his powdered
peruke, surmounted by a pyramidical cotton night-cap, appeared his neck
and arm, dyed of a bright green color; his lean hand, which shook almost
always with a feverish trembling (not feigned, but natural), rested upon
a crutch-handled cane; finally, as was becoming in a pantaloon, he wore
red stockings, with buckles at the knees, and high slippers of black
beaver. This grotesque representative of the cholera was Sleepinbuff.
Notwithstanding a slow and dangerous fever, caused by the excessive use
of brandy, and by constant debauchery, that was silently undermining his
constitution, Jacques Rennepont had been induced by Morok to join the
masquerade. The brute-tamer himself, dressed as the King of Diamonds,
represented PLAY. His forehead was adorned with a diadem of gilded
paper, his face was pale and impassible, and as his long, yellow beard
fell down the front of his parti-colored robe, Morok looked exactly
the character he personated. From time to time, with an air of grave
mockery, he shook close to the eyes of Goodman Cholera a large bag full
of sounding counters, and on this bag were painted all sorts of playing
cards. A certain stiffness in the right arm showed that the lion-tamer
had not yet quite recovered from the effects of the wound which the
panther had inflicted before being stabbed by Djalma.
PLEASURE, who also represented Laughter, classically shook her rattle,
with its sonorous gilded bells, close to the ears of Goodman Cholera.
She was a quick, lively young girl, and her fine black hair was crowned
with a scarlet cap of liberty. For Sleepinbuff’s sake, she had taken the
place of the poor Bacchanal queen, who would not have failed to attend
on such an occasion--she, who had been so valiant and gay, when she
bore her part in a less philosophical, but not less amusing masquerade.
Another pretty creature, Modeste Bornichoux, who served as a model to
a painter of renown (one of the cavaliers of the procession), was
eminently successful in her representation of LOVE. He could not have
had a more charming face, and more graceful form. Clad in a light blue
spangled tunic, with a blue and silver band across her chestnut hair,
and little transparent wings affixed to her white shoulders, she
placed one forefinger upon the other, and pointed with the prettiest
impertinence at Goodman Cholera. Around the principal group, other
maskers, more or less grotesque in appearance, waved each a banner, an
which were inscriptions of a very anacreontic character, considering the
circumstances:
“Down with the Cholera!” “Short and sweet!” “Laugh away, laugh always!”
“We’ll collar the Cholera!” “Love forever!” “Wine forever!” “Come if you
dare, old terror!”
There was really such audacious gayety in this masquerade, that the
greater number of the spectators, at the moment when it crossed the
square, in the direction of the eating-house, where dinner was waiting,
applauded it loudly and repeatedly. This sort of admiration, which
courage, however mad and blind, almost always inspires, appeared to
others (a small number, it must be confessed) a kind of defiance to the
wrath of heaven; and these received the procession with angry murmurs.
This extraordinary spectacle, and the different impressions it
produced, were too remote from all customary facts to admit of a just
appreciation. We hardly know if this daring bravado was deserving of
praise or blame.
Besides, the appearance of those plagues, which from age to age decimate
the population of whole countries, has almost always been accompanied by
a sort of mental excitement, which none of those who have been spared
by the contagion can hope to escape. It is a strange fever of the mind,
which sometimes rouses the most stupid prejudices and the most ferocious
passions, and sometimes inspires, on the contrary, the most magnificent
devotion, the most courageous actions--with some, driving the fear
of death to a point of the wildest terror--with others, exciting the
contempt of life to express itself in the most audacious bravadoes.
Caring little for the praise or blame it might deserve, the masquerade
arrived before the eating-house, and made its entry in the midst of
universal acclamations. Everything seemed to combine to give full effect
to this strange scene, by the opposition of the most singular contrasts.
Thus the tavern, in which was to be held this extraordinary feast, being
situated at no great distance from the antique cathedral, and the gloomy
hospital, the religious anthems of the ancient temple, the cries of the
dying, and the bacchanalian songs of the banqueteers, must needs mingle,
and by turns drown one another. The maskers now got down from their
chariot, and from their horses, and went to take their places at the
repast, which was waiting for them. The actors in the masquerade are
at table in the great room of the tavern. They are joyous, noisy, even
riotous. Yet their gayety has a strange tone, peculiar to itself.
Sometimes, the most resolute involuntarily remember that their life is
at stake in this mad and audacious game with destiny. That fatal thought
is rapid as the icy fever-shudder, which chills you in an instant;
therefore, from time to time, an abrupt silence, lasting indeed only for
a second, betrays these passing emotions which are almost immediately
effaced by new bursts of joyful acclamation, for each one says to
himself: “No weakness! my chum and my girl are looking at me!”
And all laugh, and knock glasses together, and challenge the next man,
and drink out of the glass of the nearest woman. Jacques had taken off
the mask and peruke of Goodman Cholera. His thin, leaden features, his
deadly paleness, the lurid brilliancy of his hollow eyes, showed
the incessant progress of the slow malady which was consuming this
unfortunate man, brought by excesses to the last extremity of weakness.
Though he felt the slow fire devouring his entrails, he concealed his
pain beneath a forced and nervous smile.
To the left of Jacques was Morok, whose fatal influence was ever on the
increase, and to his right the girl disguised as PLEASURE. She was named
Mariette. By her side sat Ninny Moulin, in all his majestic bulk, who
often pretended to be looking for his napkin under the table, in order
to have the opportunity of pressing the knees of his other neighbor,
Modeste, the representative of LOVE. Most of the guests were grouped
according to their several tastes, each tender pair together, and the
bachelors where they could. They had reached the second course, and the
excellence of the wine, the good cheer, the gay speeches, and even the
singularity of the occasion, had raised their spirits to a high degree
of excitement, as may be gathered from the extraordinary incidents of
the following scene.
(39) We read in the Constitutionnel, Saturday March 31st, 1832: “The
Parisians readily conform to that part of the official instructions
with regard to the cholera, which prescribes, as a preservation from the
disease, not to be afraid, to amuse one’s self, etc. The pleasures of
Mid-Lent have been as brilliant and as mad as those of the carnival
itself. For a long time past there had not been so many balls at this
period of the year. Even the cholera has been made the subject of an
itinerant caricature.”
CHAPTER XX. THE DEFIANCE.
Two or three times, without being remarked by the guests, one of the
waiters had come to whisper to his fellows, and point with expressive
gesture to the ceiling. But his comrades had taken small account of his
observations or fears, not wishing, doubtless, to disturb the guests,
whose mad gayety seemed ever on the increase.
“Who can doubt now of the superiority of our manner of treating this
impertinent Cholera? Has he dared even to touch our sacred battalion?”
said a magnificent mountebank-Turk, one of the standard-bearers of the
masquerade.
“Here is all the mystery,” answered another. “It is very simple. Only
laugh in the face of the plague, and it will run away from you.”
“And right enough too, for very stupid work it does,” added a pretty
little Columbine, emptying her glass.
“You are right, my darling; it is intolerably stupid work,” answered
the Clown belonging to the Columbine; “here you are very quiet, enjoying
life, and all on a sudden you die with an atrocious grimace. Well! what
then? Clever, isn’t it? I ask you, what does it prove?”
“It proves,” replied an illustrious painter of the romantic school,
disguised like a Roman out of one of David’s pictures, “it proves that
the Cholera is a wretched colorist, for he has nothing but a dirty
green on his pallet. Evidently he is a pupil of Jacobus, that king of
classical painters, who are another species of plagues.”
“And yet, master,” added respectfully a pupil of the great painter, “I
have seen some cholera patients whose convulsions were rather fine, and
their dying looks first-rate!”
“Gentlemen,” cried a sculptor of no less celebrity, “the question
lies in a nutshell. The Cholera is a detestable colorist, but a good
draughtsman. He shows you the skeleton in no time. By heaven! how he
strips off the flesh!--Michael Angelo would be nothing to him.”
“True,” cried they all, with one voice; “the Cholera is a bad colorist,
but a good draughtsman.”
“Moreover, gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with comic gravity, “this
plague brings with it a providential lesson, as the great Bossuet would
have said.”
“The lesson! the lesson!”
“Yes, gentlemen; I seem to hear a voice from above, proclaiming: ‘Drink
of the best, empty your purse, and kiss your neighbor’s wife; for your
hours are perhaps numbered, unhappy wretch!’”
So saying, the orthodox Silenus took advantage of a momentary absence
of mind on the part of Modeste, his neighbor, to imprint on the blooming
cheek of LOVE a long, loud kiss. The example was contagious, and a storm
of kisses was mingled with bursts of laughter.
“Ha! blood and thunder!” cried the great painter as he gayly threatened
Ninny Moulin; “you are very lucky that to-morrow will perhaps be the end
of the world, or else I should pick a quarrel with you for having kissed
my lovely LOVE.”
“Which proves to you, O Rubens! O Raphael! the thousand advantages of
the Cholera, whom I declare to be essentially sociable and caressing.”
“And philanthropic,” said one of the guests; “thanks to him, creditors
take care of the health of their debtors. This morning a usurer, who
feels a particular interest in my existence, brought me all sorts of
anti-choleraic drugs, and begged me to make use of them.”
“And I!” said the pupil of the great painter. “My tailor wished to force
me to wear a flannel band next to the skin, because I owe him a thousand
crowns. But I answered ‘Oh, tailor, give me a receipt in full, and I
will wrap myself up in flannel, to preserve you my custom!’”
“O Cholera, I drink to thee!” said Ninny Moulin, by way of grotesque
invocation. “You are not Despair; on the contrary, you are the emblem
of Hope--yes, of hope. How many husbands, how many wives, longed for
a number (alas! too uncertain chance) in the lottery of widowhood! You
appear, and their hearts are gladdened. Thanks to you, benevolent pest!
their chances of liberty are increased a hundredfold.”
“And how grateful heirs ought to be! A cold--a heat--a trifle--and
there, in an hour, some old uncle becomes a revered benefactor!”
“And those who are always looking out for other people’s places--what an
ally they must find in the Cholera!”
“And how true it will make many vows of constancy!” said Modeste,
sentimentally. “How many villains have sworn to a poor, weak woman, to
love her all their lives, who never meant (the wretches!) to keep their
word so well!”
“Gentlemen,” cried Ninny Moulin, “since we are now, perhaps, at the eve
of the end of the world, as yonder celebrated painter has expressed
it, I propose to play the world topsy-turvy: I beg these ladies to make
advances to us, to tease us, to excite us, to steal kisses from us, to
take all sorts of liberties with us, and (we shall not die of it) even
to insult us. Yes, I declare that I will allow myself to be insulted.
So, LOVE, you may offer me the greatest insult that can be offered to a
virtuous and modest bachelor,” added the religious writer, leaning over
towards his neighbor, who repulsed him with peals of laughter; and the
proposal of Ninny Moulin being received with general hilarity, a new
impulse was given to the mirth and riot.
In the midst of the uproar, the waiter, who had before entered the room
several times, to whisper uneasily to his comrades, whilst he pointed
to the ceiling, again appeared with a pale and agitated countenance;
approaching the man who performed the office of butler, he said to him,
in a low voice, tremulous with emotion: “They are come!”
“Who?”
“You know--up there”; and he pointed to the ceiling.
“Oh!” said the butler, becoming thoughtful; “where are they?”
“They have just gone upstairs; they are there now,” answered the waiter,
shaking his head with an air of alarm; “yes, they are there!”
“What does master say?”
“He is very vexed, because--” and the waiter glanced round at the
guests. “He does not know what to do; he has sent me to you.”
“What the devil have I to do with it?” said the other; wiping his
forehead. “It was to be expected, and cannot be helped.”
“I will not remain here till they begin.”
“You may as well go, for your long face already attracts attention. Tell
master we must wait for the upshot.”
The above incident was scarcely perceived in the midst of the growing
tumult of the joyous feast. But, among the guests, one alone laughed
not, drank not. This was Jacques. With fixed and lurid eye, he gazed
upon vacancy. A stranger to what was passing around him, the unhappy man
thought of the Bacchanal Queen, who had been so gay and brilliant in the
midst of similar saturnalia. The remembrance of that one being, whom
he still loved with an extravagant love, was the only thought that from
time to time roused him from his besotted state.
It is strange, but Jacques had only consented to join this masquerade
because the mad scene reminded him of the merry day he had spent with
Cephyse--that famous breakfast, after a night of dancing, in which the
Bacchanal Queen, from some extraordinary presentiment, had proposed a
lugubrious toast with regard to this very pestilence, which was then
reported to be approaching France. “To the Cholera!” had she said. “Let
him spare those who wish to live, and kill at the same moment those who
dread to part!”
And now, at this time, remembering those mournful words, Jacques was
absorbed in painful thought. Morok perceived his absence of mind, and
said aloud to him, “You have given over drinking, Jacques. Have you had
enough wine? Then you will want brandy. I will send for some.”
“I want neither wine nor brandy,” answered Jacques, abruptly, and he
fell back into a sombre reverie.
“Well, you may be right,” resumed Morok, in a sardonic tone, and raising
his voice still higher. “You do well to take care of yourself. I was
wrong to name brandy in these times. There would be as much temerity in
facing a bottle of brandy as the barrel of a loaded pistol.”
On hearing his courage as a toper called in question, Sleepinbuff looked
angrily at Morok. “You think it is from cowardice that I will not drink
brandy!” cried the unfortunate man, whose half-extinguished intellect
was roused to defend what he called his dignity. “Is it from cowardice
that I refuse, d’ye think, Morok? Answer me!”
“Come, my good fellow, we have all shown our pluck today,” said one of
the guests to Jacques; “you, above all, who, being rather indisposed,
yet had the courage to take the part of Goodman Cholera.”
“Gentlemen,” resumed Morok, seeing the general attention fixed upon
himself and Sleepinbuff, “I was only joking; for if my comrade (pointing
to Jacques) had the imprudence to accept my offer, it would be an act,
not of courage, but of foolhardiness. Luckily, he has sense enough to
renounce a piece of boasting so dangerous at this time, and I--”
“Waiter!” cried Jacques, interrupting Morok with angry impatience, “two
bottles of brandy, and two glasses!”
“What are you going to do?” said Morok, with pretended uneasiness. “Why
do you order two bottles of brandy?”
“For a duel,” said Jacques, in a cool, resolute tone.
“A duel!” cried the spectators, in surprise.
“Yes,” resumed Jacques, “a duel with brandy. You pretend there is as
much danger in facing a bottle of brandy as a loaded pistol; let us each
take a full bottle, and see who will be the first to cry quarter.”
This strange proposition was received by some with shouts of joy, and by
others with genuine uneasiness.
“Bravo! the champions of the bottle!” cried the first.
“No, no; there would be too much danger in such a contest,” said the
others.
“Just now,” added one of the guests; “this challenge is as serious as an
invitation to fight to the death.”
“You hear,” said Morok, with a diabolical smile, “you hear, Jacques?
Will you now retreat before the danger?”
At these words, which reminded him of the peril to which he was about
to expose himself, Jacques started, as if a sudden idea had occurred to
him. He raised his head proudly, his cheeks were slightly flushed, his
eye shone with a kind of gloomy satisfaction, and he exclaimed in a firm
voice: “Hang it, waiter! are you deaf? I asked you for two bottles of
brandy.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, going to fetch them, although himself
frightened at what might be the result of this bacchanalian struggle.
But the mad and perilous resolution of Jacques was applauded by the
majority.
Ninny Moulin moved about on his chair, stamped his feet, and shouted
with all his might: “Bacchus and drink! bottles and glasses! the throats
are dry! brandy to the rescue! Largess! largess!”
And, like a true champion of the tournament, he embraced Modeste,
adding, to excuse the liberty: “Love, you shall be the Queen of Beauty,
and I am only anticipating the victor’s happiness!”
“Brandy to the rescue!” repeated they all, in chorus. “Largess!”
“Gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with enthusiasm, “shall we remain
indifferent to the noble example set us by Goodman Cholera? He said in
his pride, ‘brandy!’ Let us gloriously answer, ‘punch!’”
“Yes, yes! punch!”
“Punch to the rescue!”
“Waiter!” shouted the religious writer, with the voice of a Stentor,
“waiter! have you a pan, a caldron, a hogshead, or any other immensity,
in which we can brew a monster punch?”
“A Babylonian punch!”
“A lake of punch!”
“An ocean of punch!”
Such was the ambitious crescendo that followed the proposition of Ninny
Moulin.
“Sir,” answered the waiter, with an air of triumph, “we just happen to
have a large copper caldron, quite new. It has been used, and would hold
at least thirty bottles.”
“Bring the caldron!” said Ninny Moulin, majestically.
“The caldron forever!” shouted the chorus.
“Put in twenty bottles of brandy, six loaves of sugar, a dozen lemons, a
pound of cinnamon, and then--fire! fire!” shouted the religious writer,
with the most vociferous exclamations.
“Yes, yes! fire!” repeated the chorus!
The proposition of Ninny Moulin gave a new impetus to the general
gayety; the most extravagant remarks were mingled with the sound of
kisses, taken or given under the pretext that perhaps there would be
no to-morrow, that one must make the most of the present, etc., etc.
Suddenly, in one of the moments of silence which sometimes occur in the
midst of the greatest tumult, a succession of slow and measured taps
sounded above the ceiling of the banqueting-room. All remained silent,
and listened.
CHAPTER XXI. BRANDY TO THE RESCUE.
After the lapse of some seconds, the singular rapping which had so much
surprised the guests, was again heard, but this time louder and longer.
“Waiter!” cried one of the party, “what in the devil’s name is
knocking?”
The waiter, exchanging with his comrades a look of uneasiness and alarm,
stammered Out in reply: “Sir--it is--it is--”
“Well! I suppose it is some crabbed, cross-grained lodger, some animal,
the enemy of joy, who is pounding on the floor of his room to warn us to
sing less loud,” said Ninny Moulin.
“Then, by a general rule,” answered sententiously the pupil of the great
painter, “if lodger or landlord ask for silence, tradition bids us reply
by an infernal uproar, destined to drown all his remonstrances. Such, at
least,” added the scapegrace, modestly, “are the foreign relations that
I have always seen observed between neighboring powers.”
This remark was received with general laughter and applause. During the
tumult, Morok questioned one of the waiters, and then exclaimed in a
shrill tone, which rose above the clamor: “I demand a hearing!”
“Granted!” cried the others, gayly. During the silence which followed
the exclamation of Morok, the noise was again heard; it was this time
quicker than before.
“The lodger is innocent,” said Morok, with a strange smile, “and would
be quite incapable of interfering with your enjoyment.”
“Then why does he keep up that knocking?” said Ninny Moulin, emptying
his glass.
“Like a deaf man who has lost his ear-horn?” added the young artist.
“It is not the lodger who is knocking” said Morok, in a sharp, quick
tone; “for they are nailing him down in his coffin.” A sudden and
mournful silence followed these words.
“His coffin no, I am wrong,” resumed Morok; “her coffin, I should say,
or more properly their coffin; for, in these pressing times, they put
mother and child together.”
“A woman!” cried PLEASURE, addressing the writer; “is it a woman that is
dead?”
“Yes, ma’am; a poor young woman about twenty years of age,” answered the
waiter in a sorrowful tone. “Her little girl, that she was nursing, died
soon after--all in less than two hours. My master is very sorry that
you ladies and gents should be disturbed in this way; but he could not
foresee this misfortune, as yesterday morning the young woman was quite
well, and singing with all her might--no one could have been gayer than
she was.”
Upon these words, it was as if a funeral pall had been suddenly thrown
over a scene lately so full of joy; all the rubicund and jovial faces
took an expression of sadness; no one had the hardihood to make a
jest of mother and child, nailed down together in the same coffin. The
silence became so profound, that one could hear each breath oppressed by
terror: the last blows of the hammer seemed to strike painfully on every
heart; it appeared as if each sad feeling, until now repressed,
was about to replace that animation and gayety, which had been more
factitious than sincere. The moment was decisive. It was necessary to
strike an immediate blow, and to raise the spirits of the guests, for
many pretty rosy faces began to grow pale, many scarlet ears became
suddenly white; Ninny Moulin’s were of the number.
On the contrary, Sleepinbuff exhibited an increase of audacity; he drew
up his figure, bent down from the effects of exhaustion, and, with a
cheek slightly flushed, he exclaimed: “Well, waiter? are those bottles
of brandy coming? And the punch? Devil and all! are the dead to frighten
the living?”
“He’s right! Down with sorrow, and let’s have the punch!” cried several
of the guests, who felt the necessity of reviving their courage.
“Forward, punch!”
“Begone, dull care!”
“Jollity forever!”
“Gentlemen, here is the punch,” said a waiter, opening the door. At
sight of the flaming beverage, which was to reanimate their enfeebled
spirits, the room rang with the loudest applause.
The sun had just set. The room was large, being capable of dining a
hundred guests; and the windows were few, narrow, and half veiled by red
cotton curtains. Though it was not yet night, some portions of this vast
saloon were almost entirely dark. Two waiters brought the monster-punch,
in an immense brass kettle, brilliant as gold, suspended from an iron
bar, and crowned with flames of changing color. The burning beverage was
then placed upon the table, to the great joy of the guests, who began to
forget their past alarms.
“Now,” said Jacques to Morok, in a taunting tone, “while the punch is
burning, we will have our duel. The company shall judge.” Then, pointing
to the two bottles of brandy, which the waiter had brought, Jacques
added: “Choose your weapon!”
“Do you choose,” answered Morok.
“Well! here’s your bottle--and here’s your glass. Ninny Moulin shall be
umpire.”
“I do not refuse to be judge of the field,” answered the religious
writer, “only I must warn you, comrade, that you are playing a desperate
game, and that just now, as one of these gentlemen has said, the neck
of a bottle of brandy in one’s mouth, is perhaps more dangerous than the
barrel of a loaded pistol.”
“Give the word, old fellow!” said Jacques, interrupting Ninny Moulin,
“or I will give it myself.”
“Since you will have it so--so be it!”
“The first who gives in is conquered,” said Jacques.
“Agreed!” answered Morok.
“Come, gentlemen, attention! we must follow every movement,” resumed
Ninny Moulin. “Let us first see if the bottles are of the same
size--equality of weapons being the foremost condition.”
During these preparations, profound silence reigned in the room. The
courage of the majority of those present, animated for a moment by the
arrival of the punch, was soon again depressed by gloomy thoughts,
as they vaguely foresaw the danger of the contest between Morok and
Jacques. This impression joined to the sad thoughts occasioned by the
incident of the coffin, darkened by degrees many a countenance. Some
of the guests, indeed, continued to make a show of rejoicing, but their
gayety appeared forced. Under certain circumstances, the smallest things
will have the most powerful effect. We have said that, after sunset,
a portion of this large room was plunged in obscurity; therefore, the
guests who sat in the remote corners of the apartment, had no other
light than the reflection of the flaming punch. Now it is well known,
that the flame of burning spirit throws a livid, bluish tint over the
countenance; it was therefore a strange, almost frightful spectacle, to
see a number of the guests, who happened to be at a distance from the
windows, in this ghastly and fantastic light.
The painter, more struck than all the rest by this effect of color,
exclaimed: “Look! at this end of the table, we might fancy ourselves
feasting with cholera-patients, we are such fine blues and greens.”
This jest was not much relished. Fortunately, the loud voice of Ninny
Moulin demanded attention, and for a moment turned the thoughts of the
company.
“The lists are open,” cried the religious writer, really more frightened
than he chose to appear. “Are you ready, brave champions?” he added.
“We are ready,” said Morok and Jacques.
“Present! fire!” cried Ninny Moulin, clapping his hands. And the two
drinkers each emptied a tumbler full of brandy at a draught.
Morok did not even knit his brow; his marble face remained impassible;
with a steady hand he replaced his glass upon the table. But Jacques, as
he put down his glass, could not conceal a slight convulsive trembling,
caused by internal suffering.
“Bravely done!” cried Ninny Moulin. “The quarter of a bottle of brandy
at a draught--it is glorious! No one else here would be capable of such
prowess. And now, worthy champions, if you believe me, you will stop
where you are.”
“Give the word!” answered Jacques, intrepidly. And, with feverish and
shaking hand, he seized the bottle; then suddenly, instead of filling
his glass, he said to Morok: “Bah! we want no glasses. It is braver to
drink from the bottle. I dare you to it!”
Morok’s only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neck
of the bottle to his lips. Jacques hastened to imitate him. The thin,
yellowish, transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressive
diminution of the liquor. The stony countenance of Morok, and the pale
thin face of Jacques, on which already stood large drops of cold sweat,
were now, as well as the features of the other guests, illuminated
by the bluish light of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok and
Jacques, with that barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seem
involuntarily to inspire.
Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand;
suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand with
a convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and his
countenance revealed an agony of pain. Yet he continued to drink; only,
without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it for
an instant, as if to recover breath. Just then, Jacques met the sardonic
look of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility.
Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok’s
glance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a few
drops more. But his strength was exhausted. A quenchless fire devoured
his vitals. His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bear
up against them. His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively,
he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grew
rigid, his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almost
senseless.
“Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing,” cried Morok, whose ferocious
glance now sparkled with diabolical joy. Then, replacing his bottle
on the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainly
endeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.
This sudden attack had none of the symptoms of cholera. Yet terror
seized upon all present; one of the women was taken with hysterics, and
another uttered piercing cries and fainted away. Ninny Moulin, leaving
Jacques in the hands of Morok, ran towards the door to seek for
help,--when that door was suddenly opened, and the religious writer drew
back in alarm, at the sight of the unexpected personage who appeared on
the threshold.
CHAPTER XXII. MEMORIES.
The person before whom Ninny Moulin stopped in such extreme astonishment
was the Bacchanal Queen.
Pale and wan, with, hair in disorder, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and
clothed almost in rags, this brilliant and joyous heroine of so many mad
orgies was now only the shadow of her former self. Misery and grief were
impressed on that countenance, once so charming. Hardly had she entered
the room, when Cephyse paused; her mournful and unquiet gaze strove
to penetrate the half-obscurity of the apartment, in search of him she
longed to see. Suddenly the girl started, and uttered a loud scream.
She had just perceived, at the other side of a long table, by the bluish
light of the punch, Jacques struggling with Morok and one of the guests,
who were hardly able to restrain his convulsive movements.
At this sight Cephyse, in her first alarm, carried away by her
affection, did what she had so often done in the intoxication of joy and
pleasure. Light and agile, instead of losing precious time in making a
long circuit, she sprang at once upon the table, passed nimbly through
the array of plates and bottles, and with one spring was by the side of
the sufferer.
“Jacques!” she exclaimed, without yet remarking the lion-tamer, and
throwing herself on the neck of her lover. “Jacques! it is I--Cephyse!”
That well-known voice, that heart-piercing cry, which came from the
bottom of the soul, seemed not unheard by Sleepinbuff. He turned his
head mechanically towards the Bacchanal Queen, without opening his eyes,
and heaved a deep sigh; his stiffened limbs relaxed, a slight trembling
succeeded to the convulsions, and in a few seconds his heavy eyelids
were raised with an effort, so as to uncover his dull and wandering
gaze. Mute with astonishment, the spectators of this scene felt an
uneasy curiosity. Cephyse, kneeling beside her lover, bathed his hands
in her tears, covered them with kisses, and exclaimed, in a voice broken
by sobs, “It is I--Cephyse--I have found you again--it was not my fault
that I abandoned you! Forgive me, forgive--”
“Wretched woman!” cried Morok, irritated at this meeting, which might,
perhaps, be fatal to his projects; “do you wish to kill him? In his
present state, this agitation is death. Begone!” So saying, he seized
Cephyse suddenly by the arm, just as Jacques, waking, as it were, from a
painful dream, began to distinguish what was passing around him.
“You! It is you!” cried the Bacchanal Queen, in amazement, as she
recognized Morok, “who separated me from Jacques!”
She paused; for the dim eye of the victim, as it rested upon her, grew
suddenly bright.
“Cephyse!” murmured Jacques; “is it you?”
“Yes, it is I,” answered she, in a voice of deep emotion; “who have
come--I will tell you--”
She was unable to continue, and, as she clasped her hands together,
her pale, agitated, tearful countenance expressed her astonishment and
despair at the mortal change which had taken place in the features
of Jacques. He understood the cause of her surprise, and as he
contemplated, in his turn, the suffering and emaciated countenance of
Cephyse, he said to her, “Poor girl! you also have had to bear much
grief, much misery--I should hardly have known you.”
“Yes,” replied Cephyse, “much grief--much misery--and worse than
misery,” she added, trembling, whilst a deep blush overspread her pale
features.
“Worse than misery?” said Jacques, astonished.
“But it is you who have suffered,” hastily resumed Cephyse, without
answering her lover.
“Just now, I was going to make an end of it--your voice has recalled me
for an instant--but I feel something here,” and he laid his hand upon
his breast, “which never gives quarter. It is all the same now--I have
seen you--I shall die happy.”
“You shall not die, Jacques; I am here--”
“Listen to one, my girl. If I had a bushel of live coal in my stomach,
it could hardly burn me more. For more than a month, I have been
consuming my body by a slow fire. This gentleman,” he added, glancing at
Morok, “this dear friend, always undertook to feed the flame. I do not
regret life; I have lost the habit of work, and taken to drink and riot;
I should have finished by becoming a thorough blackguard: I preferred
that my friend here should amuse himself with lighting a furnace in my
inside. Since what I drank just now, I am certain that it fumes like
yonder punch.”
“You are both foolish and ungrateful,” said Morok, shrugging his
shoulders; “you held out your glass, and I filled it--and, faith, we
shall drink long and often together yet.”
For some moments, Cephyse had not withdrawn her eyes from Morok. “I tell
you, that you have long blown the fire, in which I have burnt my skin,”
resumed Jacques, addressing Morok in a feeble voice, “so that they may
not think I die of cholera. It would look as if I had been frightened
by the part I played. I do not therefore reproach you, my affectionate
friend,” added he, with a sardonic smile; “you dug my grave gayly--and
sometimes, when, seeing the great dark hole, into which I was about to
fall, I drew back a step--but you, my excellent friend, still pushed
me forward, saying, ‘Go on, my boy, go on!’--and I went on--and here I
am--”
So saying, Sleepinbuff burst into a bitter laugh, which sent an icy
shudder through the spectators of this scene.
“My good fellow,” said Morok, coolly, “listen to me, and follow my
advice.”
“Thank you! I know your advice--and, instead of listening to you, I
prefer speaking to my poor Cephyse. Before I go down to the moles, I
should like to tell her what weighs on my heart.”
“Jacques,” replied Cephyse, “do not talk so. I tell you, you shall not
die.”
“Why, then, my brave Cephyse, I shall owe my life to you,” returned
Jacques, in a tone of serious feeling, which surprised the spectators.
“Yes,” resumed he, “when I came to myself, and saw you so poorly clad,
I felt something good about my heart--do you know why?--it was because
I said to myself, ‘Poor girl! she has kept her word bravely; she has
chosen to toil, and want, and suffer--rather than take another love--who
would have given her what I gave her as long as I could’--and that
thought, Cephyse, refreshed my soul. I needed it, for I was burning--and
I burn still,” added he, clinching his fists with pain; “but that made
me happy--it did me good--thanks, my good, brave Cephyse--yes, you are
good and brave--and you were right; for I never loved any but you in the
wide world; and if, in my degradation, I had one thought that raised me
a little above the filth, and made me regret that I was not better--the
thought was of you! Thanks then, my poor, dear love,” said Jacques,
whose hot and shining eyes were becoming moist; “thanks once again,” and
he reached his cold hand to Cephyse; “if I die, I shall die happy--if I
live, I shall live happy also. Give me your hand, my brave Cephyse!--you
have acted like a good and honest creature.”
Instead of taking the hand which Jacques offered her, Cephyse, still
kneeling, bowed her head, and dared not raise her eyes to her lover.
“You don’t answer,” said he, leaning over towards the young girl; “you
don’t take my hand--why is this?”
The unfortunate creature only answered by stifled sobs. Borne down with
shame, she held herself in so humble, so supplicating an attitude, that
her forehead almost touched the feet of her lover.
Amazed at the silence and conduct of the Bacchanal Queen, Jacques
looked at her with increasing agitation; suddenly he stammered out with
trembling lips, “Cephyse, I know you. If you do not take my hand, it is
because--”
Then, his voice failing, he added, in a dull tone, after a moment’s
silence, “When, six weeks ago, I was taken to prison, did you not say to
me, ‘Jacques, I swear that I will work--and if need be, live in horrible
misery--but I will live true!’ That was your promise. Now, I know you
never speak false; tell me you have kept your word, and I shall believe
you.”
Cephyse only answered by a heart-rending sob, as she pressed the knees
of Jacques against her heaving bosom. By a strange contradiction, more
common than is generally thought--this man, degraded by intoxication
and debauchery, who, since he came out of prison, had plunged in every
excess, and tamely yielded to all the fatal incitements of Morok, yet
received a fearful blow, when he learned, by the mute avowal of
Cephyse, the infidelity, of this creature, whom he had loved in spite of
degradation. The first impulse of Jacques was terrible. Notwithstanding
his weakness and exhaustion, he succeeded in rising from his seat, and,
with a countenance contracted by rage and despair, he seized a knife,
before they had time to prevent him, and turned it upon Cephyse. But at
the moment he was about to strike, shrinking from an act of murder, he
hurled the knife far away from him, and falling back into the chair,
covered his face with his hands.
At the cry of Ninny Moulin, who had, though late, thrown himself upon
Jacques to take away the knife, Cephyse raised her head: Jacques’s
woeful dejection wrung her heart; she rose, and fell upon his neck,
notwithstanding his resistance, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs,
“Jacques, if you knew! if you only knew--listen--do not condemn me
without hearing me--I will tell you all, I swear to you--without
falsehood--this man,” and she pointed to Morok, “will not dare deny what
I say; he came, and told me to have the courage to--”
“I do not reproach you. I have no right to reproach you. Let me die
in peace. I ask nothing but that now,” said Jacques, in a still weaker
voice, as he repulsed Cephyse. Then he added, with a grievous and
bitter smile, “Luckily, I have my dose. I knew--what I was doing--when I
accepted the duel with brandy.”
“No, you shall not die, and you shall hear me,” cried Cephyse, with a
bewildered air; “you shall hear me, and everybody else shall hear me.
They shall see that it is not my fault. Is it not so, gentlemen? Do I
not deserve pity? You will entreat Jacques to forgive me; for if driven
by misery--finding no work--I was forced to this--not for the sake of
any luxury--you see the rags I wear--but to get bread and shelter for my
poor, sick sister--dying, and even more miserable than myself--would you
not have pity upon me? Do you think one finds pleasure in one’s infamy?”
cried the unfortunate, with a burst of frightful laughter; then she
added, in a low voice, and with a shudder, “Oh, if you knew, Jacques! it
is so infamous, so horrible, that I preferred death to falling so low
a second time. I should have killed myself, had I not heard you were
here.” Then, seeing that Jacques did not answer her, but shook his
head mournfully as he sank down though still supported by Ninny
Moulin, Cephyse exclaimed, as she lifted her clasped hands towards him,
“Jacques! one word--for pity’s sake--forgive me!”
“Gentlemen, pray remove this woman,” cried Morok; “the sight of her
causes my friend too painful emotions.”
“Come, my dear child, be reasonable,” said several of the guests, who,
deeply moved by this scene, were endeavoring to withdraw Cephyse from
it; “leave him, and come with us; he is not in any danger.”
“Gentlemen! oh, gentlemen!” cried the unfortunate creature, bursting
into tears, and raising her hands in supplication; “listen to me--I
will do all that you wish me--I will go--but, in heaven’s name, send
for help, and do not let him die thus. Look, what pain he suffers! what
horrible convulsions!”
“She is right,” said one of the guests, hastening towards the door; “we
must send for a doctor.”
“There is no doctor to be found,” said another; “they are all too busy.”
“We will do better than that,” cried a third; “the Hospital is just
opposite, and we can carry the poor fellow thither. They will give him
instant help. A leaf of the table will make a litter, and the table
cloth a covering.”
“Yes, yes, that is it,” said several voices; “let us carry him over at
once.”
Jacques, burnt up with brandy, and overcome by his interview with
Cephyse, had again fallen into violent convulsions. It was the dying
paroxysm of the unfortunate man. They were obliged to tie him with the
ends of the cloth, so as to secure him to the leaf which was to serve
for a litter, which two of the guests hastened to carry away. They
yielded to the supplication of Cephyse, who asked, as a last favor, to
accompany Jacques to the Hospital. When the mournful procession quitted
the great room of the eating-house, there was a general flight among the
guests. Men and women made haste to wrap themselves in their cloaks, in
order to conceal their costumes. The coaches, which had been ordered in
tolerable number for the return of the masquerade, had luckily
arrived. The defiance had been fully carried out, the audacious bravado
accomplished, and they could now retire with the honors of war. Whilst a
part of the guests were still in the room, an uproar, at first distant,
but which soon drew nearer, broke out with incredible fury in the square
of Notre Dame.
Jacques had been carried to the outer door of the tavern. Morok and
Ninny Moulin, striving to open a passage through the crowd in the
direction of the Hospital, preceded the litter. A violent reflux of
the multitude soon forced them to stop, whilst a new storm of savage
outcries burst from the other extremity of the square, near the angle of
the church.
“What is it then?” asked Ninny Moulin of one of those ignoble figures
that was leaping up before him. “What are those cries?”
“They are making mince-meat of a poisoner, like him they have thrown
into the river,” replied the man. “If you want to see the fun, follow me
close,” added he, “and peg away with your elbows, for fear you should be
too late.”
Hardly had the wretch pronounced these words than a dreadful shriek
sounded above the roar of the crowd, through which the bearers of the
litter, preceded by Morok, were with difficulty making their way. It
was Cephyse who uttered that cry. Jacques (one of the seven heirs of the
Rennepont family) had just expired in her arms! By a strange fatality,
at the very moment that the despairing exclamation of Cephyse announced
that death, another cry rose from that part of the square where they
were attacking the poisoner. That distant, supplicating cry, tremulous
with horrible alarm, like the last appeal of a man staggering beneath
the blows of his murderers, chilled the soul of Morok in the midst of
his execrable triumph.
“Damnation!” cried the skillful assassin, who had selected drunkenness
and debauchery for his murderous but legal weapons; “it is the voice of
the Abbe d’Aigrigny, whom they have in their clutches!”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE POISONER.
It is necessary to go back a little before relating the adventure of
Father d’Aigrigny, whose cry of distress made so deep an impression upon
Morok just at the moment of Jacques Rennepont’s death. We have said that
the most absurd and alarming reports were circulating in Paris; not only
did people talk of poison given to the sick or thrown into the public
fountains, but it was also said that wretches had been surprised in the
act of putting arsenic into the pots which are usually kept all ready
on the counters of wine-shops. Goliath was on his way to rejoin Morok,
after delivering a message to Father d’Aigrigny, who was waiting in a
house on the Place de l’Archeveche. He entered a wine-shop in the Rue
de la Calandre, to get some refreshment, and having drunk two glasses
of wine, he proceeded to pay for them. Whilst the woman of the house was
looking for change, Goliath, mechanically and very innocently, rested
his hand on the mouth of one of the pots that happened to be within his
reach.
The tall stature of this man and his repulsive and savage countenance
had already alarmed the good woman, whose fears and prejudices had
previously been roused by the public rumors on the subject of poisoning;
but when she saw Goliath place his hand over the mouth of one of her
pots, she cried out in dismay: “Oh! my gracious! what are you throwing
into that pot?” At these words, spoken in a loud voice, and with the
accent of terror, two or three of the drinkers at one of the tables
rose precipitately, and ran to the counter, while one of them rashly
exclaimed: “It is a poisoner!”
Goliath, not aware of the reports circulated in the neighborhood, did
not at first understand of what he was accused. The men raised their
voices as they called on him to answer the charge; but he, trusting to
his strength, shrugged his shoulders in disdain, and roughly demanded
the change, which the pale and frightened hostess no longer thought of
giving him.
“Rascal!” cried one of the men, with so much violence that several of
the passers-by stopped to listen; “you shall have your change when you
tell us what you threw in the pot!”
“Ha! did he throw anything into the wine-pot?” said one of the passers
by.
“It is, perhaps, a poisoner,” said another.
“He ought to be taken up,” added a third.
“Yes, yes,” cried those in the house--honest people perhaps, but under
the influence of the general panic; “he must be taken up, for he has
been throwing poison into the wine-pots.”
The words “He is a poisoner” soon spread through the group, which, at
first composed of three or four persons, increased every instant around
the door of the wine-shop. A dull, menacing clamor began to rise from
the crowd; the first accuser, seeing his fears thus shared and almost
justified, thought he was acting like a good and courageous citizen
in taking Goliath by the collar, and saying to him: “Come and explain
yourself at the guard-house, villain!”
The giant, already provoked at insults of which he did not perceive the
real meaning, was exasperated at this sudden attack; yielding to his
natural brutality, he knocked his adversary down upon the counter,
and began to hammer him with his fists. During this collision, several
bottles and two or three panes of glass were broken with much noise,
whilst the woman of the house, more and more frightened, cried out with
all her might; “Help! a poisoner! Help! murder!”
At the sound of the breaking windows and these cries of distress, the
passers-by, of whom the greater number believed in the stories about
the poisoners, rushed into the shop to aid in securing Goliath. But
the latter, thanks to his herculean strength, after struggling for
some moments with seven or eight persons, knocked down two of his most
furious assailants, disengaged himself from the others, drew near the
counter, and, taking a vigorous spring, rushed head-foremost, like
a bull about to butt, upon the crowd that blocked up the door; then,
forcing a passage, by the help of his enormous shoulders and athletic
arms, he made his way into the street, and ran with all speed in the
direction of the square of Notre-Dame, his garments torn, his head bare,
and his countenance pale and full of rage. Immediately, a number of
persons from amongst the crowd started in pursuit of Goliath, and a
hundred voices exclaimed: “Stop--stop the poisoner!”
Hearing these cries, and seeing a man draw near with a wild and troubled
look, a butcher, who happened to be passing with his large, empty tray
on his head, threw it against Goliath’s shins, and taken by surprise, he
stumbled and fell. The butcher, thinking he had performed as heroic an
action as if he had encountered a mad dog, flung himself on Goliath,
and rolled over with him on the pavement, exclaiming: “Help! it is a
poisoner! Help! help!” This scene took place not far from the Cathedral,
but at some distance from the crowd which was pressing round the
hospital gate, as well as from the eating-house in which the masquerade
of the cholera then was. The day was now drawing to a close. On the
piercing call of the butcher, several groups, at the head of which were
Ciboule and the quarryman, flew towards the scene of the struggle,
while those who had pursued the pretended poisoner from the Rue de la
Calandre, reached the square on their side.
At sight of this threatening crowd advancing towards him, Goliath,
whilst he continued to defend himself against the butcher, who held him
with the tenacity of a bull-dog, felt that he was lost unless he could
rid himself of this adversary before the arrival of the rest; with a
furious blow of the fist, therefore, he broke the jaw of the butcher,
who just then was above him, and disengaging himself from his hold, he
rose, and staggered a few steps forward. Suddenly he stopped. He saw
that he was surrounded. Behind him rose the walls of the cathedral; to
the right and left, and in front of him, advanced a hostile multitude.
The groans uttered by the butcher, who had just been lifted from the
ground covered with blood, augmented the fury of the populace.
This was a terrible moment for Goliath: still standing alone in the
centre of a ring that grew smaller every second, he saw on all sides
angry enemies rushing towards him, and uttering cries of death. As the
wild boar turns round once or twice, before resolving to stand at bay
and face the devouring pack, Goliath, struck with terror, made one or
two abrupt and wavering movements. Then, as he abandoned the possibility
of flight, instinct told him that he had no mercy to expect from a crowd
given up to blind and savage fury--a fury the more pitiless as it was
believed to be legitimate. Goliath determined, therefore, at least to
sell his life dearly; he sought for a knife in his pocket, but, not
finding it, he threw out his left leg in an athletic posture, and
holding up his muscular arms, hard and stiff as bars of iron, waited
with intrepidity for the shock.
The first who approached Goliath was Ciboule. The hag, heated and out
of breath, instead of rushing upon him, paused, stooped down, and
taking off one of the large wooden shoes that she wore, hurled it at the
giant’s head with so much force and with so true an aim that it struck
him right in the eye, which hung half out of its socket. Goliath pressed
his hands to his face, and uttered a cry of excruciating pain.
“I’ve made him squint!” said Ciboule, with a burst of laughter.
Goliath, maddened by the pain, instead of waiting for the attack, which
the mob still hesitated to begin, so greatly were they awed by his
appearance of herculean strength--the only adversary worthy to cope with
him being the quarryman, who had been borne to a distance by the surging
of the crowd--Goliath, in his rage, rushed headlong upon the nearest.
Such a struggle was too unequal to last long; but despair redoubled
the Colossus’s strength, and the combat was for a moment terrible. The
unfortunate man did not fall at once. For some seconds, almost buried
amid a swarm of furious assailants, one saw now his mighty arm rise and
fall like a sledge hammer, beating upon skulls and faces, and now his
enormous head, livid and bloody, drawn back by some of the combatants
hanging to his tangled hair. Here and there sudden openings and violent
oscillations of the crowd bore witness to the incredible energy of
Goliath’s defence. But when the quarryman succeeded in reaching him,
Goliath was overpowered and thrown down. A long, savage cheer in triumph
announced this fall; for, under such circumstances, to “go under” is “to
die.” Instantly a thousand breathless and angry voices repeated the cry
of “Death to the poisoner!”
Then began one of those scenes of massacre and torture, worthy of
cannibals, horrible to relate, and the more incredible, that they happen
almost always in the presence, and often with the aid, of honest and
humane people, who, blinded by false notions and stupid prejudices,
allow themselves to be led into all sorts of barbarity, under the idea
of performing an act of inexorable justice. As it frequently happens,
the sight of the blood which flowed in torrents from Goliath’s wounds
inflamed to madness the rage of his assailants. A hundred fists struck
at the unhappy man; he was stamped under foot, his face and chest were
beaten in. Ever and anon, in the midst of furious cries of “Death to the
poisoner!” heavy blows were audible, followed by stifled groans. It was
a frightful butchery. Each individual, yielding to a sanguinary frenzy,
came in turn to strike his blow; or to tear off his morsel of flesh.
Women--yes, women--mothers!--came to spend their rage on this mutilated
form.
There was one moment of frightful terror. With his face all bruised and
covered with mud, his garments in rags, his chest bare, red, gaping with
wounds--Goliath, availing himself of a moment’s weariness on the part of
his assassins, who believed him already, finished, succeeded, by one of
those convulsive starts frequent in the last agony, in raising himself
to his feet for a few seconds; then, blind with wounds and loss of
blood, striking about his arms in the air as if to parry blows that were
no longer struck, he muttered these words, which came from his mouth,
accompanied by a crimson torrent: “Mercy! I am no poisoner. Mercy!” This
sort of resurrection produced so great an effect on the crowd, that for
an instant they fell hack affrighted. The clamor ceased, and a small
space was left around the victim. Some hearts began even to feel pity;
when the quarryman, seeing Goliath blinded with blood, groping before
him with his hands, exclaimed in ferocious allusion to a well-known
game: “Now for blind-man’s-bluff.”
Then, with a violent kick, he again threw down the victim, whose head
struck twice heavily on the pavement.
Just as the giant fell a voice from amongst the crowd exclaimed: “It is
Goliath! stop! he is innocent.”
It was Father d’Aigrigny, who, yielding to a generous impulse, was
making violent efforts to reach the foremost rank of the actors in this
scene, and who cried out, as he came nearer, pale, indignant, menacing:
“You are cowards and murderers! This man is innocent. I know him. You
shall answer for his life.”
These vehement words were received with loud murmurs.
“You know that poisoner,” cried the quarryman, seizing the Jesuit by the
collar; “then perhaps you are a poisoner too.
“Wretch,” exclaimed Father d’Aigrigny, endeavoring to shake himself
loose from the grasp, “do you dare to lay hand upon me?”
“Yes, I dare do anything,” answered the quarryman.
“He knows him: he’s a poisoner like the other,” cried the crowd,
pressing round the two adversaries; whilst Goliath, who had fractured
his skull in the fall, uttered a long death-rattle.
At a sudden movement of Father d’Aigrigny, who disengaged himself from
the quarryman, a large glass phial of peculiar form, very thick, and
filled with a greenish liquor, fell from his pocket, and rolled close
to the dying Goliath. At sight of this phial, many voices exclaimed
together: “It is poison! Only see! He had poison upon him.”
The clamor redoubled at this accusation, and they pressed so close to
Abbe d’Aigrigny, that he exclaimed: “Do not touch me! do not approach
me!”
“If he is a poisoner,” said a voice, “no more mercy for him than for the
other.”
“I a poisoner?” said the abbe, struck with horror.
Ciboule had darted upon the phial; the quarryman seized it from her,
uncorked it and presenting it to Father d’Aigrigny, said to him: “Now
tell us what is that?”
“It is not poison,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.
“Then drink it!” returned the quarryman.
“Yes, yes! let him drink it!” cried the mob.
“Never,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, in extreme alarm. And he drew back
as he spoke, pushing away the phial with his hand.
“Do you see? It is poison. He dares not drink it,” they exclaimed.
Hemmed in on every side, Father d’Aigrigny stumbled against the body of
Goliath.
“My friends,” cried the Jesuit, who, without being a poisoner, found
himself exposed to a terrible alternative, for his phial contained
aromatic salts of extraordinary strength, designed for a preservative
against the cholera, and as dangerous to swallow as any poison, “my good
friends, you are in error. I conjure you, in the name of heaven--”
“If that is not poison, drink it!” interrupted the quarryman, as he
again offered the bottle to the Jesuit.
“If he does not drink it, death to the poisoner of the poor!”
“Yes!--death to him! death to him!”
“Unhappy men!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, whilst his hair stood on end
with terror; “do you mean to murder me?”
“What about all those, that you and your mate have killed, you wretch?”
“But it is not true--and--”
“Drink, then!” repeated the inflexible quarryman; “I ask you for the
last time.”
“To drink that would be death,” cried Father d’Aigrigny.
“Oh! only hear the wretch!” cried the mob, pressing closer to him; “he
has confessed--he has confessed!”
“He has betrayed himself!”(40)
“He said, ‘to drink that would be death!’”
“But listen to me,” cried the abbe, clasping his hands together; “this
phial is--”
Furious cries interrupted Father d’Aigrigny. “Ciboule, make an end of
that one!” cried the quarryman, spurning Goliath with his foot. “I will
begin this one!” And he seized Father d’Aigrigny by the throat.
At these words, two different groups formed themselves. One, led by
Ciboule, “made an end” of Goliath, with kicks and blows, stones and
wooden shoes; his body was soon reduced to a horrible thing, mutilated,
nameless, formless--a mere inert mass of filth and mangled flesh.
Ciboule gave her cloak, which they tied to one of the dislocated ankles
of the body, and thus dragged it to the parapet of the quay. There, with
shouts of ferocious joy, they precipitated the bloody remains into
the river. Now who does not shudder at the thought that, in a time of
popular commotion, a word, a single word, spoken imprudently, even by
an honest man, and without hatred, will suffice to provoke so horrible a
murder.
“Perhaps it is a poisoner!” said one of the drinkers in the tavern of
the Rue de la Calandre--nothing more--and Goliath had been pitilessly
murdered.
What imperious reasons for penetrating the lowest depths of the masses
with instruction and with light--to enable unfortunate creatures
to defend themselves from so many stupid prejudices, so many fatal
superstitions, so much implacable fanaticism!--How can we ask for
calmness, reflection, self-control, or the sentiment of justice from
abandoned beings, whom ignorance has brutalized, and misery depraved,
and suffering made ferocious, and of whom society takes no thought,
except when it chains them to the galleys, or binds them ready for the
executioner! The terrible cry which had so startled Morok was uttered
by Father d’Aigrigny as the quarryman laid his formidable hand upon him,
saying to Ciboule: “Make an end of that one--I will begin this one!”
(40) This fact is historical. A man was murdered because a phial full
of ammonia was found upon him. On his refusal to drink it, the populace,
persuaded that the bottle contained poison, tore him to pieces.
CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE CATHEDRAL.
Night was almost come, as the mutilated body of Goliath was thrown into
the river. The oscillations of the mob had carried into the street,
which runs along the left side of the cathedral, the group into whose
power Father d’Aigrigny had fallen. Having succeeded in freeing himself
from the grasp of the quarryman, but still closely pressed by the
multitude that surrounded him, crying, “Death to the poisoner!” he
retreated step by step, trying to parry the blows that were dealt him.
By presence of mind, address, and courage, recovering at that critical
moment his old military energy, he had hitherto been able to resist and
to remain firm on his feet--knowing, by the example of Goliath, that
to fall was to die. Though he had little hope of being heard to any
purpose, the abbe continued to call for help with all his might.
Disputing the ground inch by inch, he manoeuvred so as to draw near
one of the lateral walls of the church, and at length succeeded in
ensconcing himself in a corner formed by the projection of a buttress,
and close by a little door.
This position was rather favorable. Leaning with his back against the
wall, Father d’Aigrigny was sheltered from the attacks of a portion of
his assailants. But the quarryman, wishing to deprive him of this last
chance of safety, rushed upon him, with the intention of dragging him
out into the circle where he would have been trampled under foot. The
fear of death gave Father d’Aigrigny extraordinary strength, and he was
able once more to repulse the quarryman, and remain entrenched in the
corner where he had taken refuge. The resistance of the victim redoubled
the rage of the assailants. Cries of murderous import resounded with
new violence. The quarryman again rushed upon Father d’Aigrigny, saying,
“Follow me, friends! this lasts too long. Let us make an end of it.”
Father d’Aigrigny saw that he was lost. His strength was exhausted,
and he felt himself sinking; his legs trembled under him, and a cloud
obscured his sight; the howling of the furious mob began to sound dull
upon his ear. The effects of violent contusions, received during the
struggle, both on the head and chest, were now very perceptible. Two or
three times, a mixture of blood and foam rose to the lips of the abbe;
his position was a desperate one.
“To be slaughtered by these brutes, after escaping death so often in
war!” Such was the thought of Father d’Aigrigny, as the quarryman rushed
upon him.
Suddenly, at the very moment when the abbe, yielding to the instinct of
self-preservation, uttered one last call for help, in a heart-piercing
voice, the door against which he leaned opened behind him, and a firm
hand caught hold of him, and pulled him into the church. Thanks to
this movement, performed with the rapidity of lightning, the quarryman,
thrown forward in his attempt to seize Father d’Aigrigny, could not
check his progress, and found himself just opposite to the person who
had come, as it were, to take the place of the victim.
The quarryman stopped short, and then fell back a couple of paces, so
much was he amazed at this sudden apparition, and impressed, like the
rest of the crowd, with a vague feeling of admiration and respect
at sight of him who had come so miraculously to the aid of Father
d’Aigrigny. It was Gabriel. The young missionary remained standing on
the threshold of the door. His long black cassock was half lost in
the shadows of the cathedral; whilst his angelic countenance, with its
border of long light hair, now pale and agitated by pity and grief, was
illumined by the last faint rays of twilight. This countenance shone
with so divine a beauty, and expressed such touching and tender
compassion, that the crowd felt awed as, with his large blue eyes full
of tears, and his hands clasped together, he exclaimed, in a sonorous
voice: “Have mercy, my brethren! Be humane--be just!”
Recovering from his first feeling of surprise and involuntary emotion,
the quarryman advanced a step towards Gabriel, and said to him: “No
mercy for the poisoner! we must have him! Give him up to us, or we go
and take him!”
“You cannot think of it, my brethren,” answered Gabriel; “the church is
a sacred place--a place of refuge for the persecuted.”
“We would drag our prisoner from the altar!” answered the quarryman,
roughly; “so give him up to us.”
“Listen to me, my brethren,” said Gabriel, extending his arms towards
them.
“Down with the shaveling!” cried the quarryman; “let us go in and hunt
him up in the church!”
“Yes, yes!” cried the mob, again led away by the violence of this
wretch, “down with the black gown!”
“They are all of a piece!”
“Down with them!”
“Let us do as we did at the archbishop’s!”
“Or at Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois!”
“What do our likes care for a church?”
“If the priests defend the poisoners, we’ll pitch them into the water
too!”
“Yes, yes!”
“I’ll show you the lead!” cried the quarryman; and followed by Ciboule,
and a good number of determined men, he rushed towards Gabriel.
The missionary, who for some moments had watched the increasing fury
of the crowd, had foreseen this movement; hastily retreating into the
church, he succeeded, in spite of the efforts of the assailants, in
nearly closing the door, and in barricading it by the help of a wooden
bar, which he held in such a manner as would enable the door to resist
for a few minutes.
Whilst he thus defended the entrance, Gabriel shouted to Father
d’Aigrigny: “Fly, father! fly through the vestry! the other doors are
fastened.”
The Jesuit, overpowered by fatigue, covered with contusions, bathed in
cold sweat, feeling his strength altogether fail, and too soon fancying
himself in safety, had sunk, half fainting, into a chair. At the
voice of Gabriel, he rose with difficulty, and, with a trembling step,
endeavored to reach the choir, separated from the rest of the church by
an iron railing.
“Quick, father!” added Gabriel, in alarm, using every effort to maintain
the door, which was now vigorously assailed. “Make haste! In a few
minutes it will be too late. All alone!” continued the missionary, in
despair, “alone, to arrest the progress of these madmen!”
He was indeed alone. At the first outbreak of the attack, three or four
sacristans and other members of the establishment were in the church;
but, struck with terror, and remembering the sack of the archbishop’s
palace, and of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, they had immediately taken
flight. Some of them had concealed themselves in the organ-loft and
others fled into the vestry, the doors of which they locked after them,
thus cutting off the retreat of Gabriel and Father d’Aigrigny. The
latter, bent double by pain, yet roused by the missionary’s portentive
warning, helping himself on by means of the chairs he met with on his
passage, made vain efforts to reach the choir railing. After advancing
a few steps, vanquished by his suffering, he staggered and fell upon the
pavement, deprived of sense and motion. At the same moment, Gabriel,
in spite of the incredible energy with which the desire to save Father
d’Aigrigny had inspired him, felt the door giving way beneath the
formidable pressure from without.
Turning his head, to see if the Jesuit had at least quitted the church,
Gabriel, to his great alarm, perceived that he was lying motionless at
a few steps from the choir. To abandon the half-broken door, to run
to Father d’Aigrigny, to lift him in his arms, and drag him within
the railing of the choir, was for the young priest an action rapid as
thought; for he closed the gate of the choir just at the instant that
the quarryman and his band, having finished breaking down the door,
rushed in a body into the church.
Standing in front of the choir, with his arms crossed upon his
breast, Gabriel waited calmly and intrepidly for this mob, still more
exasperated by such unexpected resistance.
The door once forced, the assailants rushed in with great violence. But
hardly had they entered the church, than a strange scene took place. It
was nearly dark; only a few silver lamps shed their pale light round
the sanctuary, whose far outlines disappeared in the shadow. On suddenly
entering the immense cathedral, dark, silent, and deserted, the most
audacious were struck with awe, almost with fear in presence of the
imposing grandeur of that stony solitude. Outcries and threats died away
on the lips of the most furious. They seemed to dread awaking the
echoes of those enormous arches, those black vaults, from which oozed a
sepulchral dampness, which chilled their brows, inflamed with anger, and
fell upon their shoulders like a mantle of ice.
Religious tradition, routine, habit, the memories of childhood, have so
much influence upon men, that hardly had they entered the church, than
several of the quarryman’s followers respectfully took off their hats,
bowed their bare heads, and walked along cautiously, as if to check the
noise of their footsteps on the sounding stones. Then they exchanged a
few words in a low and fearful whisper. Others timidly raised their eyes
to the far heights of the topmost arches of that gigantic building,
now lost in obscurity, and felt almost frightened to see themselves so
little in the midst of that immensity of darkness. But at the first joke
of the quarryman, who broke this respectful silence, the emotion soon
passed away.
“Blood and thunder!” cried he; “are you fetching breath to sing vespers?
If they had wine in the font, well and good!”
These words were received with a burst of savage laughter. “All this
time the villain will escape!” said one.
“And we shall be done,” added Ciboule.
“One would think we had cowards here, who are afraid of the sacristans!”
cried the quarryman.
“Never!” replied the others in chorus; “we fear nobody.”
“Forward!”
“Yes, yes--forward!” was repeated on all sides. And the animation, which
had been calmed down for a moment, was redoubled in the midst of
renewed tumult. Some moments after, the eyes of the assailants, becoming
accustomed to the twilight, were able to distinguish in the midst of
the faint halo shed around by a silver lamp, the imposing countenance of
Gabriel, as he stood before the iron railing of the choir.
“The poisoner is here, hid in some corner,” cried the quarryman. “We
must force this parson to give us back the villain.”
“He shall answer for him!”
“He took him into the church.”
“He shall pay for both, if we do not find the other!”
As the first impression of involuntary respect was effaced from the
minds of the crowd, their voices rose the louder, and their faces became
the more savage and threatening, because they all felt ashamed of their
momentary hesitation and weakness.
“Yes, yes!” cried many voices, trembling with rage, “we must have the
life of one or the other!”
“Or of both!”
“So much the worse for this priest, if he wants to prevent us from
serving out our poisoner!”
“Death to him! death to him!”
With this burst of ferocious yells, which were fearfully re-echoed from
the groined arches of the cathedral, the mob, maddened by rage, rushed
towards the choir, at the door of which Gabriel was standing. The young
missionary, who, when placed on the cross by the savages of the Rocky
Mountains, yet entreated heaven to spare his executioners, had too much
courage in his heart, too much charity in his soul, not to risk his life
a thousand times over to save Father d’Aigrigny’s--the very man who had
betrayed hire by such cowardly and cruel hypocrisy.
CHAPTER XXV. THE MURDERERS.
The quarryman, followed by his gang, ran towards Gabriel, who had
advanced a few paces from the choir-railing, and exclaimed, his eyes
sparkling with rage: “Where is the poisoner? We will have him!”
“Who has told you, my brethren, that he is a poisoner?” replied
Gabriel, with his deep, sonorous voice. “A poisoner! Where are the
proofs--witnesses or victims?”
“Enough of that stuff! we are not here for confession,” brutally
answered the quarryman, advancing towards him in a threatening manner.
“Give up the man to us; he shall be forthcoming, unless you choose to
stand in his shoes?”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed several voices; “they are ‘in’ with one another!
One or the other we will have!”
“Very well, then; since it is so,” said Gabriel, raising his head, and
advancing with calmness, resignation; and fearlessness; “he or me,”
added he;--“it seems to make no difference to you--you are determined
to have blood--take mine, and I will pardon you, my friends; for a fatal
delusion has unsettled your reason.”
These words of Gabriel, his courage, the nobleness of his attitude,
the beauty of his countenance, had made an impression on some of
the assailants, when suddenly a voice exclaimed: “Look! there is the
poisoner, behind the railing!”
“Where--where?” cried they.
“There--don’t you see?--stretched on the floor.”
On hearing this, the mob, which had hitherto formed a compact mass, in
the sort of passage separating the two sides of the nave, between the
rows of chairs, dispersed in every direction, to reach the railing
of the choir, the last and only barrier that now sheltered Father
d’Aigrigny. During this manoeuvre the quarryman, Ciboule, and others,
advanced towards Gabriel, exclaiming, with ferocious joy: “This time we
have him. Death to the poisoner!”
To save Father d’Aigrigny, Gabriel would have allowed himself to be
massacred at the entrance of the choir; but, a little further on, the
railing, not above four feet in height, would in another instant be
scaled or broken through. The Missionary lost all hope of saving the
Jesuit from a frightful death. Yet he exclaimed: “Stop, poor deluded
people!”--and, extending his arms, he threw himself in front of the
crowd.
His words, gesture, and countenance, were expressive of an authority
at once so affectionate and so fraternal, that there was a momentary
hesitation amongst the mob. But to this hesitation soon succeeded the
most furious cries of “Death; death!”
“You cry for his death?” cried Gabriel, growing still paler.
“Yes! yes!”
“Well, let him die,” cried the missionary, inspired with a sudden
thought; “let him die on the instant!”
These words of the young priest struck the crowd with amazement. For a
few moments, they all stood mute, motionless, and as it were, paralyzed,
looking at Gabriel in stupid astonishment.
“This man is guilty, you say,” resumed the young missionary, in a voice
trembling with emotion. “You have condemned him without proof, without
witnesses--no matter, he must die. You reproach him with being a
poisoner; where are his victims? You cannot tell--but no matter; he is
condemned. You refuse to hear his defense, the sacred right of every
accused person--no matter; the sentence is pronounced. You are at once
his accusers, judges, and executioners. Be it so!--You have never seen
till now this unfortunate man, he has done you no harm, he has perhaps
not done harm to any one--yet you take upon yourselves the terrible
responsibility of his death--understand me well--of his death. Be it so
then! your conscience will absolve you--I will believe it. He must die;
the sacredness of God’s house will not save him--”
“No, no!” cried many furious voices.
“No,” resumed Gabriel, with increasing warmth; “no you have determined
to shed his blood, and you will shed it, even in the Lord’s temple. It
is, you say, your right. You are doing an act of terrible justice. But
why then, so many vigorous arms to make an end of one dying man? Why
these outcries? this fury? this violence? Is it thus that the people,
the strong and equitable people, are wont to execute their judgments?
No, no; when sure of their right, they strike their enemies, it is
with the calmness of the judge, who, in freedom of soul and conscience,
passes sentence. No, the strong and equitable people do not deal their
blows like men blind or mad, uttering cries of rage, as if to drown the
sense of some cowardly and horrible murder. No, it is not thus that they
exercise the formidable right, to which you now lay claim--for you will
have it--”
“Yes, we will have it!” shouted the quarryman, Ciboule, and others of
the more pitiless portion of the mob; whilst a great number remained
silent, struck with the words of Gabriel, who had just painted to them,
in such lively colors, the frightful act they were about to commit.
“Yes,” resumed the quarryman, “it is our right; we have determined to
kill the poisoner!”
So saying, and with bloodshot eyes, and flushed cheek, the wretch
advanced at the head of a resolute group, making a gesture as though he
would have pushed aside Gabriel, who was still standing in front of the
railing. But instead of resisting the bandit, the missionary advanced
a couple of steps to meet him, took him by the arm, and said in a firm
voice: “Come!”
And dragging, as it were, with him the stupefied quarryman, whose
companions did not venture to follow at the moment, struck dumb as they
were by this new incident, Gabriel rapidly traversed the space which
separated him from the choir, opened the iron gate, and, still holding
the quarryman by the arm, led him up to the prostrate form of Father
d’Aigrigny, and said to him: “There is the victim. He is condemned.
Strike!”
“I” cried the quarryman, hesitating; “I--all alone!”
“Oh!” replied Gabriel, with bitterness, “there is no danger. You can
easily finish him. Look! he is broken down with suffering; he has hardly
a breath of life left; he will make no resistance. Do not be afraid!”
The quarryman remained motionless, whilst the crowd, strangely impressed
with this incident, approached a little nearer the railing, without
daring to come within the gate.
“Strike then!” resumed Gabriel, addressing the quarryman, whilst he
pointed to the crowd with a solemn gesture; “there are the judges; you
are the executioner.”
“No!” cried the quarryman, drawing back, and turning away his eyes; “I’m
not the executioner--not I!”
The crowd remained silent. For a few moments, not a word, not a cry,
disturbed the stillness of the solemn cathedral. In a desperate case,
Gabriel had acted with a profound knowledge of the human heart. When the
multitude, inflamed with blind rage, rushes with ferocious clamor upon
a single victim, and each man strikes his blow, this dreadful species of
combined murder appears less horrible to each, because they all share in
the common crime; and then the shouts, the sight of blood, the desperate
defence of the man they massacre, finish by producing a sort of
ferocious intoxication; but, amongst all those furious madmen, who take
part in the homicide, select one, and place him face to face with the
victim, no longer capable of resistance, and say to him, “Strike!”--he
will hardly ever dare to do so.
It was thus with the quarryman; the wretch trembled at the idea of
committing a murder in cold blood, “all alone.” The preceding scene had
passed very rapidly; amongst the companions of the quarryman, nearest
to the railing, some did not understand an impression, which they would
themselves have felt as strongly as this bold man, if it had been said
to them: “Do the office of executioner!” These, therefore, began to
murmur aloud at his weakness. “He dares not finish the poisoner,” said
one.
“The coward!”
“He is afraid.”
“He draws back.” Hearing these words, the quarryman ran to the gate,
threw it wide open, and, pointing to Father d’Aigrigny, exclaimed: “If
there is one here braver than I am, let him go and finish the job--let
him be, the executioner--come!”
On this proposal the murmurs ceased. A deep silence reigned once more in
the cathedral. All those countenances, but now so furious, became sad,
confused, almost frightened.
The deluded mob began to appreciate the ferocious cowardice of the
action it had been about to commit. Not one durst go alone to strike the
half expiring man. Suddenly, Father d’Aigrigny uttered a dying rattle,
his head and one of his arms stirred with a convulsive movement, and
then fell back upon the stones as if he had just expired.
Gabriel uttered a cry of anguish, and threw himself on his knees close
to Father d’Aigrigny, exclaiming: “Great Heaven! he is dead!”
There is a singular variableness in the mind of a crowd, susceptible
alike to good or evil impressions. At the heart-piercing cry of Gabriel,
all these people, who, a moment before, had demanded, with loud uproar,
the massacre of this man, felt touched with a sudden pity. The words:
“He is dead!” circulated in low whispers through the crowd accompanied
by a slight shudder, whilst Gabriel raised with one hand the victim’s
heavy head, and with the other sought to feel if the pulse still beat
beneath the ice-cold skin.
“Mr. Curate,” said the quarryman, bending towards Gabriel, “is there
really no hope?”
The answer was waited for with anxiety, in the midst of deep silence.
The people hardly ventured to exchange a few words in whispers.
“Blessed be God!” exclaimed Gabriel, suddenly. “His heart beats.”
“His heart beats,” repeated the quarryman, turning his head towards the
crowd, to inform them of the good news.
“Oh! his heart beats!” repeated the others, in whispers.
“There is hope. We may yet save him,” added Gabriel with an expression
of indescribable happiness.
“We may yet save him,” repeated the quarryman, mechanically.
“We may yet save him,” muttered the crowd.
“Quick, quick,” resumed Gabriel, addressing the quarryman; “help me,
brother. Let us carry him to a neighboring house, where he can have
immediate aid.”
The quarryman obeyed with readiness. Whilst the missionary lifted Father
d’Aigrigny by holding him under the arms, the quarryman took the legs
of the almost inanimate body. Together, they carried him outside of the
choir. At sight of the formidable quarryman, aiding the young priest
to render assistance to the man whom he had just before pursued with
menaces of death, the multitude felt a sudden thrill of compassion.
Yielding to the powerful influence of the words and example of Gabriel,
they felt themselves deeply moved, and each became anxious to offer
services.
“Mr. Curate, he would perhaps be better on a chair, that one could carry
upright,” said Ciboule.
“Shall I go and fetch a stretcher from the hospital?” asked another.
“Mr. Curate, let me take your place; the body is too heavy for you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said a powerful man, approaching the
missionary respectfully; “I can carry him alone.”
“Shall I run and fetch a coach, Mr. Curate?” said a young vagabond,
taking off his red cap.
“Right,” said the quarryman; “run away, my buck!”
“But first, ask Mr. Curate if you are to go for a coach,” said Ciboule,
stopping the impatient messenger.
“True,” added one of the bystanders; “we are here in a church, and Mr.
Curate has the command. He is at home.”
“Yes, yes; go at once, my child,” said Gabriel to the obliging young
vagabond.
Whilst the latter was making his way through the crowd, a voice said:
“I’ve a little wicker-bottle of brandy; will that be of any use?”
“No doubt,” answered Gabriel, hastily; “pray give it here. We can rub
his temples with the spirit, and make him inhale a little.”
“Pass the bottle,” cried Ciboule; “but don’t put your noses in it!”
And, passed with caution from hand to hand, the flask reached Gabriel in
safety.
Whilst waiting for the coming of the coach, Father d’Aigrigny had
been seated on a chair. Whilst several good-natured people carefully
supported the abbe, the missionary made him inhale a little brandy. In a
few minutes, the spirit had a powerful influence on the Jesuit; he made
some slight movements, and his oppressed bosom heaved with a deep sigh.
“He is saved--he will live,” cried Gabriel, in a triumphant voice; “he
will live, my brothers!”
“Oh! glad to hear it!” exclaimed many voices.
“Oh, yes! be glad, my brothers!” repeated Gabriel; “for, instead of
being weighed down with the remorse of crime, you will have a just and
charitable action to remember. Let us thank God, that he has changed
your blind fury into a sentiment of compassion! Let us pray to Him, that
neither you, nor those you love, may ever be exposed to such frightful
danger as this unfortunate man has just escaped. Oh, my brothers!” added
Gabriel, as he pointed to the image of Christ with touching emotion,
which communicated itself the more easily to others from the expression
of his angelic countenance; “oh, my brothers! let us never forget, that
HE, who died upon that cross for the defence of the oppressed, for
the obscure children of the people like to ourselves, pronounced those
affectionate words so sweet to the heart; ‘Love ye one another!’--Let
us never forget it; let us love and help one another, and we poor
people shall then become better, happier, just. Love--yes, love ye one
another--and fall prostrate before that Saviour, who is the God of all
that are weak, oppressed, and suffering in this world!”
So saying, Gabriel knelt down. All present respectfully followed his
example, such power was there in his simple and persuasive words. At
this moment, a singular incident added to the grandeur of the scene. We
have said that a few seconds before the quarryman and his band entered
the body of the church, several persons had fled from it. Two of these
had taken refuge in the organ-loft, from which retreat they had viewed
the preceding scene, themselves remaining invisible. One of these
persons was a young man charged with the care of the organ, and quite
musician enough to play on it. Deeply moved by the unexpected turn of an
event which at first appeared so tragical, and yielding to an artistical
inspiration, this young man, at the moment when he saw the people
kneeling with Gabriel, could not forbear striking the notes. Then a sort
of harmonious sigh, at first almost insensible, seemed to rise from the
midst of this immense cathedral, like a divine aspiration. As soft and
aerial as the balmy vapor of incense, it mounted and spread through the
lofty arches. Little by little the faint, sweet sounds, though still as
it were covered, changed to an exquisite melody, religious, melancholy,
and affectionate, which rose to heaven like a song of ineffable
gratitude and love. And the notes were at first so faint, so covered,
that the kneeling multitude had scarcely felt surprise, and had yielded
insensibly to the irresistible influence of that enchanting harmony.
Then many an eye, until now dry and ferocious, became wet with
tears--many hard hearts beat gently, as they remembered the words
pronounced by Gabriel with so tender an accent: “Love ye one another!”
It was at this moment that Father d’Aigrigny came to himself--and opened
his eyes. He thought himself under the influence of a dream. He had
lost his senses in sight of a furious populace, who, with insult and
blasphemy on their lips, pursued him with cries of death even to the
sanctuary of the temple. He opened his eyes--and, by the pale light of
the sacred lamps, to the solemn music of the organ, he saw that crowd,
just now so menacing and implacable, kneeling in mute and reverential
emotion, and humbly bowing their heads before the majesty of the shrine.
Some minutes after, Gabriel, carried almost in triumph on the shoulders
of the crowd, entered the coach, in which Father d’Aigrigny, who by
degrees had completely recovered his senses, was already reclining. By
the order of the Jesuit, the coach stopped before the door of a house
in the Rue de Vaugirard; he had the strength and courage to enter this
dwelling alone; Gabriel was not admitted, but we shall conduct the
reader thither.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE PATIENT.
At the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, there was then a very high wall,
with only one small doorway in all its length. On opening this door,
you entered a yard surrounded by a railing, with screens like Venetian
blinds, to prevent your seeing between the rails. Crossing this
courtyard, you come to a fine large garden, symmetrically planted, at
the end of which stood a building two stories high, looking perfectly
comfortable, without luxury, but with all that cozy simplicity which
betokens discreet opulence. A few days had elapsed since Father
d’Aigrigny had been so courageously rescued by Gabriel from the popular
fury. Three ecclesiastics, wearing black gowns, white bands, and square
caps, were walking in the garden with a slow and measured step. The
youngest seemed to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was
pale, hollow, and impressed with a certain ascetic austerity. His two
companions, aged between fifty or sixty, had, on the contrary, faces at
once hypocritical and cunning; their round, rosy cheeks shone brightly
in the sunshine, whilst their triple chins, buried in fat, descended in
soft folds over the fine cambric of their bands. According to the rules
of their order (they belonged to the Society of Jesus), which forbade
their walking only two together, these three members of the brotherhood
never quitted each other a moment.
“I fear,” said one of the two, continuing a conversation already begun,
and speaking of an absent person, “I fear, that the continual agitation
to which the reverend father has been a prey, ever since he was attacked
with the cholera, has exhausted his strength, and caused the dangerous
relapse which now makes us fear for his life.”
“They say,” resumed the other, “that never was there seen anxiety like
to his.”
“And moreover,” remarked the young priest, bitterly, “it is painful to
think, that his reverence Father Rodin has given cause for scandal,
by obstinately refusing to make a public confession, the day before
yesterday when his situation appeared so desperate, that, between two
fits of a delirium, it was thought right to propose to him to receive
the last sacraments.”
“His reverence declared that he was not so ill as they supposed,”
answered one of the fathers, “and that he would have the last duties
performed when he thought necessary.”
“The fact is, that for the last ten days, ever since he was brought here
dying, his life has been, as it were, only a long and painful agony; and
yet he continues to live.”
“I watched by him during the first three days of his malady, with M.
Rousselet, the pupil of Dr. Baleinier,” resumed the youngest father; “he
had hardly a moment’s consciousness, and when the Lord did grant him
a lucid interval, he employed it in detestable execrations against the
fate which had confined him to his bed.”
“It is said,” resumed the other, “that Father Rodin made answer to
his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, who came to persuade him to die in an
exemplary manner, worthy of a son of Loyola, our blessed founder”--at
these words, the three Jesuits bowed their heads together, as if they
had been all moved by the same spring--“it is said, that Father Rodin
made answer to his eminence: ‘I do not need to confess publicly; I WANT
TO LIVE, AND I WILL LIVE.’”
“I did not hear that,” said the young priest, with an indignant air;
“but if Father Rodin really made use of such expressions, it is--”
Here, no doubt, reflection came to him just in time, for he stole a
sidelong glance at his two silent, impassible companions, and added: “It
is a great misfortune for his soul; but I am certain, his reverence has
been slandered.”
“It was only as a calumnious report, that I mentioned those words,” said
the other priest, exchanging a glance with his companion.
One of the garden gates opened, and one of the three reverend fathers
exclaimed, at the sight of the personage who now entered: “Oh! here is
his Eminence Cardinal Malipieri, coming to pay a visit to Father Rodin.”
“May this visit of his eminence,” said the young priest, calmly, “be
more profitable to Father Rodin than the last!”
Cardinal Malipieri was crossing the garden, on his way to the apartment
occupied by Rodin.
Cardinal Malipieri, whom we saw assisting at the sort of council held at
the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s, now on his way to Rodin’s apartment, was
dressed as a layman, but enveloped in an ample pelisse of puce-colored
satin, which exhaled a strong odor of camphor, for the prelate had
taken care to surround himself with all sorts of anti-cholera specifics.
Having reached the second story of the house, the cardinal knocked at
a little gray door. Nobody answering, he opened it, and, like a man to
whom the locality was well known, passed through a sort of antechamber,
and entered a room in which was a turn-up bed. On a black wood table
were many phials, which had contained different medicines. The prelate’s
countenance seemed uneasy and morose; his complexion was still yellow
and bilious; the brown circle which surrounded his black, squinting eyes
appeared still darker than usual.
Pausing a moment, he looked round him almost in fear, and several times
stopped to smell at his anti-cholera bottle. Then, seeing he was alone,
he approached a glass over the chimney-piece, and examined with much
attention the color of his tongue; after some minutes spent in this
careful investigation, with the result of which he appeared tolerably
satisfied, he took some preservative lozenges out of a golden box, and
allowed them to melt in his mouth, whilst he closed his eyes with a
sanctified air. Having taken these sanitary precautions, and again
pressed his bottle to his nose, the prelate prepared to enter the third
room, when he heard a tolerably loud noise through the thin partition
which separated him from it, and, stopping to listen, all that was said
in the next apartment easily reached his ear.
“Now that my wounds are dressed, I will get up,” said weak, but sharp
and imperious voice.
“Do not think of it, reverend father,” was answered in a stronger tone;
“it is impossible.”
“You shall see if it is impossible,” replied the other voice.
“But, reverend father, you will kill yourself. You are not in a state to
get up. You will expose yourself to a mortal relapse. I cannot consent
to it.”
To these words succeeded the noise of a faint struggle, mingled with
groans more angry than plaintive, and the voice resumed: “No, no,
father; for your own safety, I will not leave your clothes within your
reach. It is almost time for your medicine; I will go and prepare it for
you.”
Almost immediately after, the door opened, and the prelate saw enter a
man of about twenty-five years of age, carrying on his arm an old olive
great-coat and threadbare black trousers, which he threw down upon a
chair.
This personage was Ange Modeste Rousselet, chief pupil of Dr. Baleinier;
the countenance of the young practitioner was mild, humble, and
reserved; his hair, very short in front, flowed down upon his neck
behind. He made a slight start in surprise on perceiving the cardinal,
and bowed twice very low, without raising his eyes.
“Before anything else,” said the prelate, with his marked Italian
accent, still holding to his nose his bottle of camphor, “have any
choleraic symptoms returned?”
“No, my lord; the pernicious fever, which succeeded the attack of
cholera, still continues.”
“Very good. But will not the reverend father be reasonable? What was the
noise that I just heard?”
“His reverence wished absolutely to get up and dress himself; but his
weakness is so great, that he could not have taken two steps from the
bed. He is devoured by impatience, and we fear that this agitation will
cause a mortal relapse.”
“Has Dr. Baleinier been here this morning?”
“He has just left, my lord.”
“What does he think of the patient?”
“He finds him in the most alarming state, my lord. The night was so bad,
that he was extremely uneasy this morning. Father Rodin is at one of
those critical junctures, when a few hours may decide the life or death
of the patient. Dr. Baleinier is now gone to fetch what is necessary for
a very painful operation, which he is about to perform on the reverend
father.”
“Has Father d’Aigrigny been told of this?”
“Father d’Aigrigny is himself very unwell, as your eminence knows; he
has not been able to leave his bed for the last three days.”
“I inquired about him as I came up,” answered the prelate, “and I shall
see him directly. But, to return to Father Rodin, have you sent for
his confessor, since he is in a desperate state, and about to undergo a
serious operation?”
“Dr. Baleinier spoke a word to him about it, as well as about the last
sacraments; but Father Rodin exclaimed, with great irritation, that they
did not leave him a moment’s peace, that he had as much care as any one
for his salvation, and that--”
“Per Bacco! I am not thinking of him,” cried the cardinal, interrupting
Ange Modeste Rousselet with his pagan oath, and raising his sharp voice
to a still higher key; “I am not thinking of him, but of the interests
of the Company. It is indispensable that the reverend father should
receive the sacraments with the most splendid solemnity, and that his
end should not only be Christian, but exemplary. All the people in the
house, and even strangers, should be invited to the spectacle, so that
his edifying death may produce an excellent sensation.”
“That is what Fathers Grison and Brunet have already endeavored to
persuade his reverence, my lord; but your Eminence knows with what
impatience Father Rodin received this advice, and Dr. Baleinier did not
venture to persist, for fear of advancing a fatal crisis.”
“Well, I will venture to do it; for in these times of revolutionary
impiety, a solemnly Christian death would produce a very salutary
effect on the public. It would indeed be proper to make the necessary
preparations to embalm the reverend father: he might then lie in state
for some days, with lighted tapers, according to Romish custom. My
secretary would furnish the design for the bier; it would be very
splendid and imposing; from his position in the Order, Father Rodin is
entitled to have everything in the most sumptuous style. He must have at
least six hundred tapers, and a dozen funeral lamps, burning spirits of
wine, to hang just over the body, and light it from above: the effect
would be excellent. We must also distribute little tracts to the people,
concerning the pious and ascetic life of his reverence--”
Here a sudden noise, like that of some piece of metal thrown angrily on
the floor, was heard from the next room, in which was the sick man, and
interrupted the prelate in his description.
“I hope Father Rodin has not heard you talk of embalming him, my lord,”
said Rousselet, in a whisper: “his bed touches the partition, and almost
everything is audible through it.”
“If Father Rodin has heard me,” answered the cardinal, sinking his
voice, and retiring to the other end of the room, “this circumstance
will enable me to enter at once on the business; but, in any case,
I persist in believing that the embalming and the lying in state are
required to make a good effect upon the public. The people are already
frightened at the cholera, and such funeral pomp would have no small
influence on the imagination.”
“I would venture to observe to your Eminence, that here the laws are
opposed to such exhibitions.”
“The laws--already the laws!” said the cardinal, angrily; “has not Rome
also her laws? And is not every priest a subject of Rome? Is it not
time--”
But, not choosing, doubtless, to begin a more explicit conversation with
the young doctor, the prelate resumed, “We will talk of this hereafter.
But, tell me, since my last visit, has the reverend father had any fresh
attacks of delirium?”
“Yes, my lord; here is the note, as your Eminence commanded.” So saying
Rousselet delivered a paper to the prelate. We will inform the reader
that this part of the conversation between Rousselet and the cardinal
was carried on at a distance from the partition, so that Rodin could
hear nothing of it, whilst that which related to the embalming had been
perfectly audible to him.
The cardinal, having received the note from Rousselet, perused it with
an expression of lively curiosity. When he had finished, he crumpled
it in his hand, and said, without attempting to dissemble his vexation,
“Always nothing but incoherent expression. Not two words together, from
which you can draw any reasonable conclusion. One would really think
this man had the power to control himself even in his delirium, and to
rave about insignificant matters only.”
Then, addressing Rousselet, “You are sure that you have reported
everything that escaped from him during his delirium?”
“With the exception of the same phrases, that he repeated over and over
again, your Eminence may be assured that I have not omitted a single
word, however unmeaning.”
“Show me into Father Rodin’s room,” said the prelate, after a moment’s
silence.
“But, my lord,” answered the young doctor, with some hesitation, “the
fit has only left him about an hour, and the reverend father is still
very weak.”
“The more the reason,” replied the prelate, somewhat indiscreetly.
Then, recollecting himself, he added, “He will the better appreciate
the consolations I have to offer. Should he be asleep, awake him, and
announce my visit.”
“I have only orders to receive from your Eminence,” said Rousselet,
bowing, and entering the next room.
Left alone, the cardinal said to himself, with a pensive air, “I always
come back to that. When he was suddenly attacked by the cholera, Father
Rodin believed himself poisoned by order of the Holy See. He must then
have been plotting something very formidable against Rome, to entertain
so abominable a fear. Can our suspicions be well founded? Is he acting
secretly and powerfully on the Sacred College? But then for what end?
This it has been impossible to penetrate, so faithfully has the secret
been kept by his accomplices. I had hoped that, during his delirium, he
would let slip some word that would put us on the trace of what we are
so much interested to discover. With so restless and active a mind,
delirium is often the exaggeration of some dominant idea; yet here I
have the report of five different fits--and nothing--no, nothing but
vague, unconnected phrases.”
The return of Rousselet put an end to these reflections. “I am sorry to
inform my lord that the reverend father obstinately refuses to see any
one. He says that he requires absolute repose. Though very weak, he has
a savage and angry look, and I should not be surprised if he overheard
your Eminence talk about embalming him.”
The cardinal, interrupting Rousselet, said to him, “Did Father Rodin
have his last fit of delirium in the night?”
“Between three and half-past five this morning, my lord.”
“Between three and half-past five,” repeated the prelate, as if he
wished to impress this circumstance on his memory, “the attack presented
no particular symptoms?”
“No, my lord; it consisted of rambling, incoherent talk, as your
Eminence may see by this note.”
Then, as he perceived the prelate approaching Father Rodin’s door,
Rousselet added, “The reverend father will positively see no one,
my lord; he requires rest, to prepare for the operation; it might be
dangerous--”
Without attending to these observations, the cardinal entered Rodin’s
chamber. It was a tolerably large room, lighted by two windows, and
simply but commodiously furnished. Two logs were burning slowly in the
fireplace, in which stood a coffee-pot, a vessel containing mustard
poultice, etc. On the chimney-piece were several pieces of rag, and some
linen bandages. The room was full of that faint chemical odor peculiar
to the chambers of the sick, mingled with so putrid a stench, that the
cardinal stopped at the door a moment, before he ventured to advance
further. As the three reverend fathers had mentioned in their walk,
Rodin lived because he had said to himself, “I want to live, and I will
live.”
For, as men of timid imaginations and cowardly minds often die from the
mere dread of dying, so a thousand facts prove that vigor of character
and moral energy may often struggle successfully against disease, and
triumph over the most desperate symptoms.
It was thus with the Jesuit. The unshaken firmness of his character, the
formidable tenacity of his will (for the will has sometimes a mysterious
and almost terrific power), aiding the skillful treatment of Dr.
Baleinier, had saved him from the pestilence with which he had been so
suddenly attacked. But the shock had been succeeded by a violent fever,
which placed Rodin’s life in the utmost peril. This increased danger had
caused the greatest alarm to Father d’Aigrigny, who felt, in spite of
his rivalry and jealousy, that Rodin was the master-spirit of the plot
in which they were engaged, and could alone conduct it to a successful
issue.
The curtains of the room was half closed, and admitted only a doubtful
light to the bed on which Rodin was lying. The Jesuit’s features
had lost the greenish hue peculiar to cholera patients, but remained
perfectly livid and cadaverous, and so thin, that the dry, rugged skin
appeared to cling to the smallest prominence of bone. The muscles and
veins of the long, lean, vulture-like neck resembled a bundle of cords.
The head, covered with an old, black, filthy nightcap, from beneath
which strayed a few thin, gray hairs, rested upon a dirty pillow; for
Rodin would not allow them to change his linen. His iron-gray beard had
not been shaved for some time, and stood out like the hairs of a brush.
Under his shirt he wore an old flannel waistcoat full of holes. He had
one of his arms out of bed, and his bony hairy hand, with its bluish
nails, held fast a cotton handkerchief of indescribable color.
You might have taken him for a corpse, had it not been for the two
brilliant sparks which still burned in the depths of his eyes. In that
look, in which seemed concentrated all the remaining life and energy
of the man, you might read the most restless anxiety. Sometimes his
features revealed the sharpest pangs; sometimes the twisting of his
hands, and his sudden starts, proclaimed his despair at being thus
fettered to a bed of pain, whilst the serious interests which he had
in charge required all the activity of his mind. Thus, with thoughts
continually on the stretch, his mind often wandered, and he had fits
of delirium, from which he woke as from a painful dream. By the prudent
advice of Dr. Baleinier, who considered him not in a state to attend to
matters of--importance, Father d’Aigrigny had hitherto evaded Rodin’s
questions with regard to the Rennepont affair, which he dreaded to see
lost and ruined in consequence of his forced inaction. The silence of
Father d’Aigrigny on this head, and the ignorance in which they kept
him, only augmented the sick man’s exasperation. Such was the moral and
physical state of Rodin, when Cardinal Malipieri entered his chamber
against his will.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE LURE.
To understand fully the tortures of Rodin, reduced to inactivity by
sickness, and to explain the importance of Cardinal Malipieri’s visit,
we must remember the audacious views of the ambitious Jesuit, who
believed himself following in the steps of Sixtus V., and expected to
become his equal. By the success of the Rennepont affair, to attain to
the generalship of his Order, by the corruption of the Sacred College
to ascend the pontifical throne, and then, by means of a change in the
statutes of the Company, to incorporate the Society of Jesus with the
Holy See, instead of leaving it independent, to equal and almost always
rule the Papacy--such were the secret projects of Rodin.
Their possibility was sanctioned by numerous precedents, for many mere
monks and priests had been suddenly raised to the pontifical dignity.
And as for their morality, the accession of the Borgias, of Julius
II., and other dubious Vicars of Christ, might excuse and authorize the
pretensions of the Jesuits.
Though the object of his secret intrigues at Rome had hitherto been
enveloped in the greatest mystery, suspicions had been excited in regard
to his private communications with many members of the Sacred College.
A portion of that college, Cardinal Malipieri at the head of them, had
become very uneasy on the subject, and, profiting by his journey
to France, the cardinal had resolved to penetrate the Jesuit’s dark
designs. If, in the scene we have just painted, the cardinal showed
himself so obstinately bent on having a conference with Rodin, in spite
of the refusal of the latter, it was because the prelate hoped, as we
shall soon see, to get by cunning at the secret, which had hitherto
been so well concealed. It was, therefore, in the midst of all these
extraordinary circumstances, that Rodin saw himself the victim of a
malady, which paralyzed his strength, at the moment when he had need of
all his activity, and of all the resources of his mind. After remaining
for some seconds motionless near the door, the cardinal, still holding
his bottle under his nose, slowly approached the bed where Rodin lay.
The latter, enraged at this perseverance, and wishing to avoid an
interview which for many reasons was singularly odious to him, turned
his face towards the wall, and pretended to be asleep. Caring little for
this feint, and determined to profit by Rodin’s state of weakness, the
prelate took a chair, and, conquering his repugnance, sat down close to
the Jesuit’s bed.
“My reverend and very dear father, how do you find yourself?” said he to
him, in a honeyed tone, which his Italian accent seemed to render still
more hypocritical. Rodin pretended not to hear, breathed hard, and made
no answer. But the cardinal, not without disgust, shook with his gloved
hand the arm of the Jesuit, and repeated in a louder voice: “My reverend
and very dear father, answer me, I conjure you!”
Rodin could not restrain a movement of angry impatience, but he
continued silent. The cardinal was not a man to be discouraged by so
little; he again shook the arm of the Jesuit, somewhat more roughly,
repeating, with a passionless tenacity that would have incensed the most
patient person in the world: “My reverend and very dear father, since
you are not asleep, listen to me, I entreat of you.”
Irritable with pain, exasperated by the obstinacy of the prelate, Rodin
abruptly turned his head, fixed on the Roman his hollow eyes, shining
with lurid fire, and, with lips contracted by a sardonic smile, said to
him, bitterly: “You must be very anxious, my lord, to see me embalmed,
and lie in state with tapers, as you were saying just now, for you thus
to come to torment me in my last moments, and hasten my end!”
“Oh, my good father! how can you talk so?” cried the cardinal, raising
his hands as if to call heaven to witness to the sincerity of the tender
interest he felt for the Jesuit.
“I tell you that I heard all just now, my lord; for the partition is
thin,” added Rodin, with redoubled bitterness.
“If you mean that, from the bottom of my soul, I desired that you should
make an exemplary and Christian end, you are perfectly right, my dear
father. I did say so; for, after a life so well employed, it would be
sweet to see you an object of adoration for the faithful!”
“I tell you, my lord,” cried Rodin, in a weak and broken voice, “that
it is ferocious to express such wishes in the presence of a dying man.
Yes,” he added, with growing animation, that contrasted strongly with
his weakness, “take care what you do; for if I am too much plagued and
pestered--if I am not allowed to breathe my last breath quietly--I give
you notice that you will force me to die in anything but a Christian
manner, and if you mean to profit by an edifying spectacle, you will be
deceived.”
This burst of anger having greatly fatigued Rodin, his head fell back
upon the pillow, and he wiped his cracked and bleeding lips with his old
cotton handkerchief.
“Come, come, be calm, my very dear father,” resumed the cardinal, with
a patronizing air; “do not give way to such gloomy ideas. Doubtless,
Providence reserves you for great designs, since you have been already
delivered from so much peril. Let us hope that you will be likewise
saved from your present danger.”
Rodin answered by a hoarse growl, and turned his face towards the wall.
The imperturbable prelate continued: “The views of Providence are not
confined to your salvation, my very dear father. Its power has been
manifested in another way. What I am about to tell you is of the highest
importance. Listen attentively.”
Without turning his head, Rodin muttered in a tone of angry bitterness,
which betrayed his intense sufferings: “They desire my death. My chest
is on fire, my head racked with pain, and they have no pity. Oh, I
suffer the tortures of the damned!”
“What! already” thought the Roman, with a smile of sarcastic malice;
then he said aloud: “Let me persuade you, my very dear father--make an
effort to listen to me; you will not regret it.”
Still stretched upon the bed, Rodin lifted his hands clasped upon his
cotton handkerchief with a gesture of despair, and then let them fall
again by his side.
The cardinal slightly shrugged his shoulders, and laid great stress
on what follows, so that Rodin might not lose a word of it: “My dear
father, it has pleased Providence that, during your fit of raving, you
have made, without knowing it, the most important revelations.”
The prelate waited with anxious curiosity for the effect of the pious
trap he had laid for the Jesuit’s weakened faculties. But the latter,
still turned towards the wall, did not appear to have heard him and
remained silent.
“You are, no doubt, reflecting on my words, my dear father,” resumed
the cardinal; “you are right, for it concerns a very serious affair. I
repeat to you that Providence has allowed you, during your delirium, to
betray your most secret thoughts--happily, to me alone. They are such
as would compromise you in the highest degree. In short, during your
delirium of last night, which lasted nearly two hours, you unveiled the
secret objects of your intrigues at Rome with many of the members of the
Sacred College.”
The cardinal, rising softly, stooped over the bed to watch the
expression of Rodin’s countenance. But the latter did not give him time.
As a galvanized corpse starts into strange and sudden motion, Rodin
sprang into a sitting posture at the last words of the prelate.
“He has betrayed himself,” said the cardinal, in a low voice, in
Italian. Then, resuming his seat, he fixed on the Jesuit his eyes, that
sparkled with triumphant joy.
Though he did not hear the exclamation of Malipieri, nor remark the
expression of his countenance, Rodin, notwithstanding his state of
weakness, instantly felt the imprudence of his start. He pressed his
hand to his forehead, as though he had been seized with a giddiness;
then, looking wildly round him, he pressed to his trembling lips his old
cotton handkerchief, and gnawed it mechanically for some seconds.
“Your emotion and alarm confirm the sad discoveries I have made,”
resumed the cardinal, still more rejoicing at the success of his trick;
“and now, my dear father,” added he, “you will understand that it is
for your best interest to enter into the most minute detail as to your
projects and accomplices at Rome. You may then hope, my dear father,
for the indulgence of the Holy See--that is, if your avowals are
sufficiently explicit to fill up the chasms necessarily left in a
confession made during delirium.”
Rodin, recovered from his first surprise, perceived, but too late, that
he had fallen into a snare, not by any words he had spoken, but by his
too significant movements. In fact, the Jesuit had feared for a moment
that he might have betrayed himself during his delirium, when he heard
himself accused of dark intrigues with Rome; but, after some minutes of
reflection, his common sense suggested: “If this crafty Roman knew my
secret, he would take care not to tell me so. He has only suspicions,
confirmed by my involuntary start just now.”
Rodin wiped the cold sweat from his burning forehead. The emotion of
this scene augmented his sufferings, and aggravated the danger of his
condition. Worn out with fatigue, he could not remain long in a sitting
posture, and soon fell back upon the bed.
“Per Bacco!” said the cardinal to himself, alarmed at the expression
of the Jesuit’s face; “if he were to die before he had spoken, and so
escape the snare!”
Then, leaning over the bed, the prelate asked: “What is the matter, my
very dear father?”
“I am weak, my lord--I am in pain--I cannot express what I suffer.”
“Let us hope, my very dear father, that this crisis will have no fatal
results; but the contrary may happen, and it behooves the salvation
of your soul to make instantly the fullest confession. Were it even to
exhaust your strength, what is this perishable body compared to eternal
life?”
“Of what confession do you speak, my lord?” said Rodin, in a feeble and
yet sarcastic tone.
“What confession!” cried the amazed cardinal; “why, with regard to your
dangerous intrigues at Rome.”
“What intrigues?” asked Rodin.
“The intrigues you revealed during your delirium,” replied the prelate,
with still more angry impatience. “Were not your avowals sufficiently
explicit? Why, then, this culpable hesitation to complete them?”
“My avowals--were explicit--you assure me?” said Rodin, pausing after
each word for want of breath, but without losing his energy and presence
of mind.
“Yes, I repeat it,” resumed the cardinal; “with the exception of a few
chasms, they were most explicit.”
“Then why repeat them?” said Rodin, with the same sardonic smile on his
violet lips.
“Why repeat them?” cried the angry prelate. “In order to gain pardon;
for if there is indulgence and mercy for the repentant sinner, there
must be condemnation and curses for the hardened criminal!”
“Oh, what torture! I am dying by slow fire!” murmured Rodin. “Since I
have told all,” he resumed, “I have nothing more to tell. You know it
already.”
“I know all--doubtless, I know all,” replied the prelate, in a voice of
thunder; “but how have I learned it? By confessions made in a state
of unconsciousness. Do you think they will avail you anything? No; the
moment is solemn--death is at hand, tremble to die with a sacrilegious
falsehood on your lips,” cried the prelate, shaking Rodin violently by
the arm; “dread the eternal flames, if you dare deny what you know to be
the truth. Do you deny it?”
“I deny nothing,” murmured Rodin, with difficulty. “Only leave me
alone!”
“Then heaven inspires you,” said the cardinal, with a sigh of
satisfaction; and, thinking he had nearly attained his object, he
resumed, “Listen to the divine word, that will guide you, father. You
deny nothing?”
“I was--delirious--and cannot--(oh! how I suffer!)” added Rodin, by way
of parenthesis; “and cannot therefore--deny--the nonsense--I may have
uttered!”
“But when this nonsense agrees with the truth,” cried the prelate,
furious at being again deceived in his expectation; “but when raving is
an involuntary, providential revelation--”
“Cardinal Malipieri--your craft is no match--for my agony,” answered
Rodin, in a failing voice. “The proof--that I have not told my
secret--if I have a secret--is--that you want to make me tell it!” In
spite of his pain and weakness, the Jesuit had courage to raise himself
in the bed, and look the cardinal full in the face, with a smile of
bitter irony. After which he fell back on the pillow, and pressed his
hands to his chest, with a long sigh of anguish.
“Damnation! the infernal Jesuit has found me out!” said the cardinal
to himself, as he stamped his foot with rage. “He sees that he was
compromised by his first movement; he is now upon his guard; I shall get
nothing more from him--unless indeed, profiting by the state of weakness
in which he is, I can, by entreaties, by threats, by terror--”
The prelate was unable to finish. The door opened abruptly, and Father
d’Aigrigny entered the room, exclaiming with an explosion of joy:
“Excellent news!”
CHAPTER XXVIII. GOOD NEWS.
By the alteration in the countenance of Father d’Aigrigny, his pale
cheek, and the feebleness of his walk, one might see that the terrible
scene in the square of Notre-Dame, had violently reacted upon his
health. Yet his face was radiant and triumphant, as he entered Rodin’s
chamber, exclaiming: “Excellent news!”
On these words, Rodin started. In spite of his weakness, he raised his
head, and his eyes shone with a curious, uneasy, piercing expression.
With his lean hand, he beckoned Father d’Aigrigny to approach the
bed, and said to him, in a broken voice, so weak that it was scarcely
audible: “I am very ill--the cardinal has nearly finished me--but if
this excellent news--relates to the Rennepont affair--of which I hear
nothing--it might save me yet!”
“Be saved then!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, forgetting the recommendations
of Dr. Baleinier; “read, rejoice! What you foretold is beginning to be
realized!”
So saying, he drew a paper from his pocket, and delivered it to Rodin,
who seized it with an eager and trembling hand. Some minutes before,
Rodin would have been really incapable of continuing his conversation
with the cardinal, even if prudence had allowed him to do so; nor could
he have read a single line, so dim had his sight become. But, at the
words of Father d’Aigrigny, he felt such a renewal of hope and vigor,
that, by a mighty effort of energy and will, he rose to a sitting
posture, and, with clear head, and look of intelligent animation, he
read rapidly the paper that Father d’Aigrigny had just delivered to him.
The cardinal, amazed at this sudden transfiguration, asked himself if he
beheld the same man, who, a few minutes before, had fallen back on
his bed, almost insensible. Hardly had Rodin finished reading, than
he uttered a cry of stifled joy, saying, with an accent impossible to
describe: “ONE gone! it works--‘tis well!” And, closing his eyes in
a kind of ecstatic transport, a smile of proud triumph overspread his
face, and rendered him still more hideous, by discovering his yellow and
gumless teeth. His emotion was so violent, that the paper fell from his
trembling hand.
“He has fainted,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with uneasiness, as he leaned
over Rodin. “It is my fault, I forgot that the doctor cautioned me not
to talk to him of serious matters.”
“No; do not reproach yourself,” said Rodin, in a low voice, half-raising
himself in the bed. “This unexpected joy may perhaps cure me. Yes--I
scarce know what I feel--but look at my cheeks--it seems to me, that,
for the first time since I have been stretched on this bed of pain, they
are a little warm.”
Rodin spoke the truth. A slight color appeared suddenly on his livid and
icy cheeks; his voice though still very weak, became less tremulous, and
he exclaimed, in a tone of conviction that startled Father d’Aigrigny
and the prelate, “This first success answers for the others. I read the
future. Yes, yes; our cause will triumph. Every member of the execrable
Rennepont family will be crushed--and that soon you will see--”
Then, pausing, Rodin threw himself back on the pillow, exclaiming: “Oh!
I am choked with joy. My voice fails me.”
“But what is it?” asked the cardinal of Father d’Aigrigny.
The latter replied, in a tone of hypocritical sanctity: “One of the
heirs of the Rennepont family, a poor fellow, worn out with excesses and
debauchery, died three days ago, at the close of some abominable
orgies, in which he had braved the cholera with sacrilegious impiety.
In consequence of the indisposition that kept me at home, and of another
circumstance, I only received to-day the certificate of the death of
this victim of intemperance and irreligion. I must proclaim it to the
praise of his reverence”--pointing to Rodin--“that he told me, the worst
enemies of the descendants of that infamous renegade would be their own
bad passions, and that the might look to them as our allies against the
whole impious race. And so it has happened with Jacques Rennepont.”
“You see,” said Rodin, in so faint a voice that it was almost
unintelligible, “the punishment begins already. One of the Renneponts
is dead--and believe me--this certificate,” and he pointed to the paper
that Father d’Aigrigny held in his hand, “will one day be worth forty
millions to the Society of Jesus--and that--because--”
The lips alone finished the sentence. During some seconds, Rodin’s
voice had become so faint, that it was at last quite imperceptible. His
larynx, contracted by violent emotion, no longer emitted any sound.
The Jesuit, far from being disconcerted by this incident, finished his
phrase, as it were, by expressive pantomime. Raising his head proudly he
tapped his forehead with his forefinger, as if to express that it was to
his ability this first success was owing. But he soon fell back again
on the bed, exhausted, breathless, sinking, with his cotton handkerchief
pressed once more to his parched lips. The good news, as Father
d’Aigrigny called it, had not cured Rodin. For a moment only, he had had
the courage to forget his pain. But the slight color on his cheek soon
disappeared; his face became once more livid. His sufferings, suspended
for a moment, were so much increased in violence, that he writhed
beneath the coverlet, and buried his face in the pillow, extending his
arms above his head, and holding them stiff as bars of iron. After this
crisis, intense as it was rapid: during which Father d’Aigrigny and the
prelate bent anxiously over him, Rodin, whose face was bathed in cold
sweat, made a sign that he suffered less, and that he wished to drink of
a potion to which he pointed. Father d’Aigrigny fetched it for him,
and while the cardinal held him up with marked disgust, the abbe
administered a few spoonfuls of the potion, which almost immediately
produced a soothing effect.
“Shall I call M. Rousselet?” said Father d’Aigrigny, when Rodin was once
more laid down in bed.
Rodin shook his head; then, with a fresh effort, he raised his right
hand, opened it, and pointed with his forefinger to a desk in a corner
of the room, to signify that, being no longer able to speak, he wished
to write.
“I understand your reverence,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “but first
calm yourself. Presently, if you require it. I will give you writing
materials.”
Two knocks at the outer door of the next room interrupted this scene.
From motives of prudence, Father d’Aigrigny had begged Rousselet to
remain in the first of the three rooms. He now went to open the door,
and Rousselet handed him a voluminous packet, saying: “I beg pardon
for disturbing you, father, but I was told to let you have these papers
instantly.”
“Thank you, M. Rousselet,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “do you know at what
hour Dr. Baleinier will return?”
“He will not be long, father, for he wishes to perform before night the
painful operation, that will have a decisive effect on the condition of
Father Rodin. I am preparing what is necessary for it,” added Rousselet,
as he pointed to a singular and formidable apparatus, which Father
d’Aigrigny examined with a kind of terror.
“I do not know if the symptom is a serious one,” said the Jesuit; “but
the reverend father has suddenly lost his voice.”
“It is the third time this has happened within the last week,” said
Rousselet; “the operation of Dr. Baleiner will act both on the larynx
and on the lungs.”
“Is the operation a very painful one?” asked Father d’Aigrigny.
“There is, perhaps, none more cruel in surgery,” answered the young
doctor; “and Dr. Baleinier has partly concealed its nature from Father
Rodin.”
“Please to wait here for Dr. Baleinier, and send him to us as soon as he
arrives,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny: and, returning to the sick chamber,
he sat down by the bedside, and said to Rodin, as he showed him the
letter: “Here are different reports with regard to different members
of the Rennepont family, whom I have had looked after by others, my
indisposition having kept me at home for the last few days. I do not
know, father, if the state of your health will permit you to hear--”
Rodin made a gesture, at once so supplicating and peremptory, that
Father d’Aigrigny felt there would be at least as much danger in
refusing as in granting his request; so, turning towards the cardinal,
still inconsolable at not having discovered the Jesuit’s secret, he
said to him with respectful deference, pointing at the same time to the
letter: “Have I the permission of your Eminence?”
The prelate bowed, and replied: “Your affairs are ours, my dear father.
The Church must always rejoice in what rejoices your glorious Company.”
Father d’Aigrigny unsealed the packet, and found in it different notes
in different handwritings. When he had read the first, his countenance
darkened, and he said, in a grave tone: “A misfortune--a great
misfortune.”
Rodin turned his head abruptly, and looked at him with an air of uneasy
questioning.
“Florine is dead of the cholera,” answered Father d’Aigrigny; “and what
is the worst,” added he, crumpling the note between his hands, “before
dying, the miserable creature confessed to Mdlle. de Cardoville that she
long acted as a spy under the orders of your reverence.”
No doubt the death of Florine, and the confession she had made, crossed
some of the plans of Rodin, for he uttered an inarticulate murmur, and
his countenance expressed great vexation.
Passing to another note, Father d’Aigrigny continued: “This relates
to Marshal Simon, and is not absolutely bad, but still far from
satisfactory, as it announces some amelioration in his position. We
shall see if it merits belief, by information from another source.”
Rodin made a sign of impatience, to hasten Father d’Aigrigny to read the
note, which he did as follows. “‘For some days, the mind of the marshal
has appeared to be less sorrowful, anxious and agitated. He lately
passed two hours with his daughters, which had not been the case for
some time before. The harsh countenance of the soldier Dagobert is
becoming smoother--a sure sign of some amelioration in the condition of
the marshal. Detected by their handwriting, the last anonymous letters
were returned by Dagobert to the postman, without having been opened by
the marshal. Some other method must be found to get them delivered.’”
Looking at Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny said to him: “Your reverence thinks
with me that this note is not very satisfactory?”
Rodin held down his head. One saw by the expression of his countenance
how much he suffered by not being able to speak. Twice he put his hand
to his throat, and looked at Father d’Aigrigny with anguish.
“Oh!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, angrily, when he had perused another
note, “for one lucky chance, to-day brings some very black ones.”
At these words turning hastily to Father d’Aigrigny, and extending
his trembling hands, Rodin questioned him with look and gesture. The
cardinal, sharing his uneasiness, exclaimed: “What do you learn by this
note, my dear father?”
“We thought the residence of M. Hardy in our house completely unknown,”
replied Father d’Aigrigny, “but we now fear that Agricola Baudoin
has discovered the retreat of his old master, and that he has even
communicated with him by letter, through a servant of the house. So,”
added the reverend father, angrily, “during the three days that I have
not been able to visit the pavilion, one of my servants must have been
bought over. There is one of them, a man blind of one eye, whom I
have always suspected--the wretch! But no: I will not yet believe this
treachery. The consequences would be too deplorable; for I know how
matters stand, and that such a correspondence might ruin everything.
By awaking in M. Hardy memories with difficulty laid asleep, they might
destroy in a single day all that has been done since he inhabits our
house. Luckily, this note contains only doubts and fears; my other
information will be more positive, and will not, I hope, confirm them.”
“My dear father,” said the cardinal, “do not despair. The Lord will not
abandon the good cause!”
Father d’Aigrigny seemed very little consoled by this assurance. He
remained still and thoughtful, whilst Rodin writhed his head in a
paroxysm of mute rage, as he reflected on this new check.
“Let us turn to the last note,” said Father d’Aigrigny, after a moment
of thoughtful silence. “I have so much confidence in the person who
sends it, that I cannot doubt the correctness of the information it
contains. May it contradict the others!”
In order not to break the chain of facts contained in this last note,
which was to have so startling an effect on the actors in this scene, we
shall leave it to the reader’s imagination to supply the exclamations
of surprise, hate, rage and fear of Father d’Aigrigny, and the terrific
pantomime of Rodin, during the perusal of this formidable document,
the result of the observations of a faithful and secret agent of
the reverend fathers. Comparing this note with the other information
received, the results appeared more distressing to the reverend fathers.
Thus Gabriel had long and frequent conferences with Adrienne, who before
was unknown to him. Agricola Baudoin had opened a communication with
Francis Hardy, and the officers of justice were on the track of the
authors and instigators of the riot which had led to the burning of the
factory of Baron Tripeaud’s rival. It seemed almost certain that Mdlle.
de Cardoville had had an interview with Prince Djalma.
This combination of facts showed that, faithful to the threats she
had uttered to Rodin, when she had unmasked the double perfidy of the
reverend father, Mdlle. de Cardoville was actively engaged in uniting
the scattered members of her family, to form a league against those
dangerous enemies, whose detestable projects, once unveiled and boldly
encountered, could hardly have a chance of success. The reader will now
understand the tremendous effect of this note on Father d’Aigrigny and
Rodin--on Rodin, stretched powerless on a bed of pain at the moment when
the scaffolding, raised with so much labor, seemed to be tumbling around
him.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE OPERATION.
We have given up the attempt to paint the countenance, attitude, and
gesticulation of Rodin during the reading of this note, which seemed to
ruin all his most cherished hopes. Everything was failing at once, at
the moment when only superhuman trust in the success of his plans could
give him sufficient energy to strive against mortal sickness. A single,
absorbing thought had agitated him even to delirium: What progress,
during his illness, had been made in this immense affair? He had first
heard a good piece of news, the death of Jacques Rennepont; but now the
advantages of this decease, which reduced the number of the heirs from
seven to six, were entirely lost. To what purpose would be this death,
if the other members of the family, dispersed and persecuted with such
infernal perseverance, were to unite and discover the enemies who had
so long aimed at them in darkness? If all those wounded hearts were to
console, enlighten, support each other, their cause would be gained, and
the inheritance rescued from the reverend fathers. What was to be done?
Strange power of the human will!--Rodin had one foot in the grave, he
was almost at the last gasp; his voice had failed him. And yet that
obstinate nature, so full of energy and resources, did not despair.
Let but a miracle restore his health, and that firm confidence in the
success of his projects which has given him power to struggle against
disease, tells him that he could yet save all--but then he must have
health and life! Health! life! His physician does not know if he will
survive the shock--if he can bear the pain--of a terrible operation.
Health! life! and just now Rodin heard talk of the solemn funeral they
had prepared for him. And yet--health, life, he will have them. Yes; he
has willed to live--and he has lived--why should he not live longer? He
will live--because he has willed it.
All that we have just written passed though Rodin’s mind in a second.
His features, convulsed by the mental torment he endured, must have
assumed a very strange expression, for Father d’Aigrigny and the
cardinal looked at him in silent consternation. Once resolved to live,
and to sustain a desperate struggle with the Rennepont family, Rodin
acted in consequence. For a few moments Father d’Aigrigny and the
prelate believed themselves under the influence of a dream. By an effort
of unparalleled energy, and as if moved by hidden mechanism, Rodin
sprang from the bed, dragging the sheet with him, and trailing it, like
a shroud, behind his livid and fleshless body. The room was cold; the
face of the Jesuit was bathed in sweat; his naked and bony feet left
their moist print upon the stones.
“What are you doing? It is death!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, rushing
towards Rodin, to force him to lie down again.
But the latter, extending one of his skeleton arms, as hard as iron,
pushed aside Father d’Aigrigny with inconceivable vigor, considering the
state of exhaustion in which he had so long been.
“He has the strength of a man in a fit of epilepsy,” said Father
d’Aigrigny, recovering his balance.
With a steady step Rodin advanced to the desk on which Dr. Baleinier
daily wrote his prescriptions. Seating himself before it, the Jesuit
took pen and paper, and began to write in a firm hand. His calm, slow,
and sure movements had in them something of the deliberateness remarked
in somnambulists. Mute and motionless, hardly knowing whether they
dreamed or not, the cardinal and Father d’Aigrigny remained staring at
the incredible coolness of Rodin, who, half-naked, continued to write
with perfect tranquillity.
“But, father,” said the Abbe d’Aigrigny, advancing towards him, “this is
madness!”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders, stopped him with a gesture and made him a
sign to read what he had just written.
The reverend father expected to see the ravings of a diseased brain; but
he took the note, whilst Rodin commenced another.
“My lord,” exclaimed Father d’Aigrigny, “read this!”
The cardinal read the paper, and returning it to the reverend father
with equal amazement, added: “It is full of reason, ability, and
resources. We shall thus be able to neutralize the dangerous combination
of Abbe Gabriel and Mdlle. de Cardoville, who appear to be the most
formidable leaders of the coalition.”
“It is really miraculous,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Oh, my dear father!” whispered the cardinal, shaking his head; “what
a pity that we are the only witnesses of this scene! What an excellent
MIRACLE we could have made of it! In one sense, it is another Raising of
Lazarus!”
“What an idea, my lord!” answered Father d’Aigrigny, in a low voice. “It
is perfect--and we must not give it up--”
This innocent little plot was interrupted by Rodin, who, turning his
head, made a sign to Father d’Aigrigny to approach, and delivered to him
another sheet, with this note attached: “To be executed within an hour.”
Having rapidly perused the paper, Father d’Aigrigny exclaimed: “Right!
I had not thought of that. Instead of being fatal, the correspondence
between Agricola and M. Hardy may thus have the best results. Really,”
added the reverend father in a low voice to the prelate, while Rodin
continued to write, “I am quite confounded. I read--I see--and yet I can
hardly believe my eyes. Just before, exhausted and dying--and now
with his mind as clear and penetrating as ever. Can this be one of the
phenomena of somnambulism, in which the mind alone governs and sustains
the body?”
Suddenly the door opened, and Dr. Baleinier entered the room. At sight
of Rodin, seated half-naked at the desk, with his feet upon the cold
stones, the doctor exclaimed, in a tone of reproach and alarm: “But, my
lord--but, father--it is murder to let the unhappy man do this!--If he
is delirious from fever, he must have the strait-waistcoat, and be tied
down in bed.”
So saying. Dr. Baleinier hastily approached Rodin, and took him by the
arm. Instead of finding the skin dry and chilly, as he expected, he
found it flexible, almost damp. Struck with surprise, the doctor sought
to feel the pulse of the left hand, which Rodin resigned, to him, whilst
he continued working with the right.
“What a prodigy!” cried the doctor, as he counted Rodin’s pulse; “for
a week past, and even this morning, the pulse has been abrupt,
intermittent, almost insensible, and now it is firm, regular--I am
really puzzled--what then has happened? I can hardly believe what
I see,” added the doctor, turning towards Father d’Aigrigny and the
cardinal.
“The reverend father, who had first lost his voice, was next seized with
such furious and violent despair caused by the receipt of bad news,”
answered Father d’Aigrigny, “that we feared a moment for his life; while
now, on the contrary, the reverend father has gained sufficient strength
to go to his desk, and write for some minutes, with a clearness of
argument and expression, which has confounded both the cardinal and
myself.”
“There is no longer any doubt of it,” cried the doctor. “The violent
despair has caused a degree of emotion, which will admirably prepare
the reactive crisis, that I am now almost certain of producing by the
operation.”
“You persist in the operation?” whispered Father d’Aigrigny, whilst
Rodin continued to write.
“I might have hesitated this morning; but, disposed as he now is for
it, I must profit by the moment of excitement, which will be followed by
greater depression.”
“Then, without the operation--” said the cardinal.
“This fortunate and unexpected crisis will soon be over, and the
reaction may kill him, my lord.”
“Have you informed him of the serious nature of the operation?”
“Pretty nearly, my lord.”
“But it is time to bring him to the point.”
“That is what I will do, my lord,” said Dr. Baleinier; and approaching
Rodin, who continued to write, he thus addressed him, in a firm voice:
“My reverend father, do you wish to be up and well in a week?”
Rodin nodded, full of confidence, as much as to say: “I am up already.”
“Do not deceive yourself,” replied the doctor. “This crisis is
excellent, but it will not last, and if we would profit by it, we must
proceed with the operation of which I have spoken to you--or, I tell you
plainly, I answer for nothing after such a shock.”
Rodin was the more struck with these words, as, half an hour ago, he had
experienced the short duration of the improvement occasioned by Father
d’Aigrigny’s good news, and as already he felt increased oppression on
the chest.
Dr. Baleinier, wishing to decide him, added: “In a word, father, will
you live or die?”
Rodin wrote rapidly this answer, which he gave to the doctor: “To live,
I would let you cut me limb from limb. I am ready for anything.” And he
made a movement to rise.
“I must tell you, reverend father, so as not to take you by surprise,”
added Dr. Baleinier, “that this operation is cruelly painful.”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders and wrote with a firm hand: “Leave me my
head; you may take all the rest.”
The doctor read these words aloud, and the cardinal and Father
d’Aigrigny looked at each other in admiration of this dauntless courage.
“Reverend father,” said Dr. Baleinier, “you must lie down.”
Rodin wrote: “Get everything ready. I have still some orders to write.
Let me know when it is time.”
Then folding up a paper, which he had sealed with a wafer, Rodin gave
these words to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send this note instantly to the agent
who addressed the anonymous letters to Marshal Simon.”
“Instantly, reverend father,” replied the abbe; “I will employ a sure
messenger.”
“Reverend father,” said Baleinier to Rodin, “since you must write, lie
down in bed, and write there, during our little preparations.”
Rodin made an affirmative gesture, and rose. But already the prognostics
of the doctor were realized. The Jesuit could hardly remain standing for
a second; he fell back into a chair, and looked at Dr. Baleinier with
anguish, whilst his breathing became more and more difficult.
The doctor said to him: “Do not be uneasy. But we must make haste. Lean
upon me and Father d’Aigrigny.”
Aided by these two supporters, Rodin was able to regain the bed. Once
there, he made signs that they should bring him pen, ink, and paper.
Then he continued to write upon his knees, pausing from time to time, to
breathe with great difficulty.
“Reverend father,” said Baleinier to d’Aigrigny, “are you capable of
acting as one of my assistants in the operation? Have you that sort of
courage?”
“No,” said the reverend father; “in the army I could never assist at an
amputation. The sight of blood is too much for me.”
“There will be no blood,” said the doctor, “but it will be worse. Please
send me three of our reverend fathers to assist me, and ask M. Rousselet
to bring in the apparatus.”
Father d’Aigrigny went out. The prelate approached the doctor, and
whispered, pointing to Rodin: “Is he out of danger?”
“If he stands the operation--yes, my lord.”
“Are you sure that he can stand it?”
“To him I should say ‘yes,’ to you ‘I hope so.’”
“And were he to die, would there be time to administer the sacraments in
public, with a certain pomp, which always causes some little delay?”
“His dying may continue, my lord--a quarter of an hour.”
“It is short, but we must be satisfied with that,” said the prelate.
And, going to one of the windows, he began to tap with his fingers on
the glass, while he thought of the illumination effects, in the event of
Rodin’s lying in state. At this moment, Rousselet entered, with a large
square box under his arm. He placed it on the drawers, and began to
arrange his apparatus.
“How many have you prepared?” said the doctor.
“Six, sir.”
“Four will do, but it is well to be fully provided. The cotton is not
too thick?”
“Look, sir.”
“Very good.”
“And how is the reverend father?” asked the pupil.
“Humph!” answered the doctor, in a whisper. “The chest is terribly
clogged, the respiration hissing, the voice gone--still there is a
change.”
“All my fear is, sir, that the reverend father will not be able to stand
the dreadful pain.”
“It is another chance; but, under the circumstances, we must risk all.
Come, my dear boy, light the--taper; I hear our assistants.”
Just then Father d’Aigrigny entered the room, accompanied by the three
Jesuits, who, in the morning, had walked in the garden. The two old men,
with their rosy cheeks, and the young one, with the ascetic countenance,
all three dressed in black, with their square caps and white bands,
appeared perfectly ready to assist Dr. Baleinier in his formidable
operation.
CHAPTER XXX. THE TORTURE.
“Reverend fathers,” said Dr. Baleinier, graciously, to the three, “I
thank you for your kind aid. What you have to do is very simple, and,
by the blessing of heaven, this operation will save the life of our dear
Father Rodin.”
The three black-gowns cast up their eyes piously, and then bowed
altogether, like one man. Rodin, indifferent to what was passing around
him, never ceased an instant to write or reflect. Nevertheless, in spite
of his apparent calmness, he felt such difficulty in breathing, that
more than once Dr. Baleinier had turned round uneasily, as he heard the
stifled rattling in the throat of the sick man. Making a sign to his
pupil, the doctor approached Rodin and said to him: “Come, reverend
father; this is the important moment. Courage!”
No sign of alarm was expressed in the Jesuit’s countenance. His features
remained impassible as those of a corpse. Only, his little reptile eyes
sparkled still more brightly in their dark cavities. For a moment,
he looked round at the spectators of this scene; then, taking his pen
between his teeth, he folded and wafered another letter, placed it on
the table beside the bed, and nodded to Dr. Baleinier, as if to say: “I
am ready.”
“You must take off your flannel waistcoat, and your shirt, father.”
Rodin hesitated an instant, and the doctor resumed: “It is absolutely
necessary, father.”
Aided by Baleinier, Rodin obeyed, whilst the doctor added, no doubt to
spare his modesty: “We shall only require the chest, right and left, my
dear father.”
And now, Rodin, stretched upon his back, with his dirty night-cap still
on his head, exposed the upper part of a livid trunk, or rather, the
bony cage of a skeleton, for the shadows of the ribs and cartilages
encircled the skin with deep, black lines. As for the arms, they
resembled bones twisted with cord and covered with tanned parchment.
“Come, M. Rousselet, the apparatus!” said Baleinier.
Then addressing the three Jesuits, he added: “Please draw near,
gentlemen; what you have to do is very simple, as you will see.”
It was indeed very simple. The doctor gave to each of his four
assistants a sort of little steel tripod about two inches in diameter
and three in height; the circular centre of this tripod was filled with
cotton; the instrument was held in the left hand by means of a wooden
handle. In the right hand each assistant held a small tin tube about
eighteen inches long; at one end was a mouthpiece to receive the lips
of the operator, and the other spread out so as to form a cover to the
little tripod. These preparations had nothing alarming in them. Father
d’Aigrigny and the prelate, who looked on from a little distance,
could not understand how this operation should be so painful. They soon
understood it.
Dr. Baleinier, having thus provided his four assistants, made them
approach Rodin, whose bed had been rolled into the middle of the room.
Two of them were placed on one side, two on the other.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Dr. Baleinier, “set light to the cotton; place
the lighted part on the skin of his reverence, by means of the tripod
which contains the wick; cover the tripod with the broad part of the
tube, and then blow through the other end to keep up the fire. It is
very simple, as you see.”
It was, in fact, full of the most patriarchal and primitive ingenuity.
Four lighted cotton rocks, so disposed as to burn very slowly, were
applied to the two sides of Rodin’s chest. This is vulgarly called the
moxa. The trick is done, when the whole thickness of the skin has been
burnt slowly through. It lasts seven or eight minutes. They say that
an amputation is nothing to it. Rodin had watched the preparations
with intrepid curiosity. But, at the first touch of the four fires,
he writhed like a serpent, without being able to utter a cry. Even the
expression of pain was denied him. The four assistants being disturbed
by, the sudden start of Rodin, it was necessary to begin again.
“Courage, my dear father! offer these sufferings to the Lord!” said Dr.
Baleinier, in a sanctified tone. “I told you the operation would be
very painful; but then it is salutary in proportion. Come; you that have
shown such decisive resolution, do not fail at the last movement!”
Rodin had closed his eyes, conquered by the first agony of pain. He now
opened them, and looked at the doctor as if ashamed of such weakness.
And yet on the sides of his chest were four large, bleeding wounds--so
violent had been the first singe. As he again extended himself on the
bed of torture, Rodin made a sign that he wished to write. The doctor
gave him the pen, and he wrote as follows, by way of memorandum; “It is
better not to lose any time. Inform Baron Tripeaud of the warrant issued
against Leonard, so that he may be on his guard.”
Having written this note, the Jesuit gave it to Dr. Baleinier, to hand
it to Father d’Aigrigny, who was as much amazed as the doctor and the
cardinal, at such extraordinary presence of mind in the midst of such
horrible pain. Rodin, with his eyes fixed on the reverend father, seemed
to wait with impatience for him to leave the room to execute his orders.
Guessing the thought of Rodin, the doctor whispered Father d’Aigrigny,
who went out.
“Come, reverend father,” said the doctor, “we must begin again. This
time do not move.”
Rodin did not answer, but clasped his hands over his head, closed his
eyes, and presented his chest. It was a strange, lugubrious, almost
fantastic spectacle. The three priests, in their long black gowns,
leaned over this body, which almost resembled a corpse, and blowing
through their tubes into the chest of the patient, seemed as if pumping
up his blood by some magic charm. A sickening odor of burnt flesh began
to spread through the silent chamber, and each assistant heard a slight
crackling beneath the smoking trivet; it was the skin of Rodin giving
way to the action of fire, and splitting open in four different parts of
his chest. The sweat poured from his livid face, which it made to shine;
a few locks of his gray hair stood up stiff and moist from his temples.
Sometimes the spasms were so violent, that the veins swelled on his
stiffened arms, and were stretched like cords ready to break.
Enduring this frightful torture with as much intrepid resignation as
the savage whose glory consists in despising pain, Rodin gathered his
strength and courage from the hope--we had almost said the certainty--of
life. Such was the make of this dauntless character, such the energy of
this powerful mind, that, in the midst of indescribable torments,
his one fixed idea never left him. During the rare intervals of
suffering--for pain is equal even at this degree of intensity--Rodin
still thought of the Rennepont inheritance, and calculated his chances,
and combined his measures, feeling that he had not a minute to lose. Dr.
Baleinier watched him with extreme attention, waiting for the effects
of the reaction of pain upon the patient, who seemed already to breathe
with less difficulty.
Suddenly Rodin placed his hand on his forehead, as if struck with some
new idea, and turning his head towards Dr. Baleinier, made a sign to him
to suspend the operation.
“I must tell you, reverend father,” answered the doctor, “that it is not
half finished, and, if we leave off, the renewal will be more painful--”
Rodin made a sign that he did not care, and that he wanted to write.
“Gentlemen, stop a moment,” said Dr. Baleinier; “keep down your moxas,
but do not blow the fire.”
So the fire was to burn slowly, instead of fiercely, but still upon
the skin of the patient. In spite of this pain, less intense, but still
sharp and keen, Rodin, stretched upon his back, began to write, holding
the paper above his head. On the first sheet he traced some alphabetic
signs, part of a cipher known to himself alone. In the midst of the
torture, a luminous idea had crossed his mind; fearful of forgetting it
amidst his sufferings, he now took note of it. On another paper he wrote
the following, which was instantly delivered to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send
B. immediately to Faringhea, for the report of the last few days with
regard to Djalma, and let B. bring it hither on the instant.” Father
d’Aigrigny went out to execute this new order. The cardinal approached
a little nearer to the scene of the operation, for, in spite of the bad
odor of the room, he took delight in seeing the Jesuit half roasted,
having long cherished against him the rancor of an Italian and a priest.
“Come, reverend father,” said the doctor to Rodin, “continue to be
admirably courageous, and your chest will free itself. You have still a
bitter moment to go through--and then I have good hope.”
The patient resumed his former position. The moment Father d’Aigrigny
returned, Rodin questioned him with a look, to which the reverend father
replied by a nod. At a sign from the doctor, the four assistants began
to blow through the tubes with all their might. This increase of torture
was so horrible, that, in spite of his self-control, Rodin gnashed his
teeth, started convulsively, and so expanded his palpitating chest,
that, after a violent spasm, there rose from his throat and lungs a
scream of terrific pain--but it was free, loud, sonorous.
“The chest is free!” cried the doctor, in triumph. “The lungs have
play--the voice returns--he is saved!--Blow, gentlemen, blow; and,
reverend father, cry out as much as you please: I shall be delighted to
hear you, for it will give you relief. Courage! I answer for the result.
It is a wonderful cure. I will publish it by sound of trumpet.”
“Allow me, doctor,” whispered Father d’Aigrigny, as he approached Dr.
Baleinier; “the cardinal can witness, that I claimed beforehand the
publication of this affair--as a miraculous fact.”
“Let it be miraculous then,” answered Dr. Baleinier, disappointed--for
he set some value on his own work.
On hearing he was saved, Rodin though his sufferings were perhaps worse
than ever, for the fire had now pierced the scarf-skin, assumed almost
an infernal beauty. Through the painful contraction of his features
shone the pride of savage triumph; the monster felt that he was becoming
once more strong and powerful, and he seemed conscious the evils that
his fatal resurrection was to cause. And so, of still writhing beneath
the flames, he pronounced these words, the first that struggled from his
chest: “I told you I should live!”
“You told us true,” cried the doctor, feeling his pulse; “the
circulation is now full and regular, the lungs are free. The reaction is
complete. You are saved.”
At this moment, the last shreds of cotton had burnt out. The trivets
were withdrawn, and on the skeleton trunk of Rodin were seen four large
round blisters. The skin still smoked, and the raw flesh was visible
beneath. In one of his sudden movements, a lamp had been misplaced, and
one of these burns was larger than the other, presenting as it were to
the eye a double circle. Rodin looked down upon his wounds. After
some seconds of silent contemplation, a strange smile curled his lips.
Without changing his position, he glanced at Father d’Aigrigny with an
expression impossible to describe, and said to him, as he slowly
counted the wounds touching them with his flat and dirty nail:
“Father d’Aigrigny, what an omen!--Look here! one Rennepont--two
Renneponts--three Renneponts--four Renneponts--where is then the
fifth!--Ah! here--this wound will count for two. They are twins.” (41)
And he emitted a little dry, bitter laugh. Father d’Aigrigny, the
cardinal, and Dr. Baleinier, alone understood the sense of these
mysterious and fatal words, which Rodin soon completed by a terrible
allusion, as he exclaimed, with prophetic voice, and almost inspired
air: “Yes, I say it. The impious race will be reduced to ashes, like
the fragments of this poor flesh. I say it, and it will be so. I said I
would live--and I do live!”
(41) Jacques Rennepont being dead, and Gabriel out of the field, in
consequence of his donation, there remained only five persons of the
family--Rose and Blanche, Djalma, Adrienne, and Hardy.
CHAPTER XXXI. VICE AND VIRTUE.
Two days have elapsed since Rodin was miraculously restored to life. The
reader will not have forgotten the house in the Rue Clovis, where the
reverend father had an apartment, and where also was the lodging of
Philemon, inhabited by Rose-Pompon. It is about three o’clock in the
afternoon. A bright ray of light, penetrating through a round hole in
the door Mother Arsene’s subterraneous shop, forms a striking contrast
with the darkness of this cavern. The ray streams full upon a melancholy
object. In the midst of fagots and faded vegetables, and close to a
great heap of charcoal, stands a wretched bed; beneath the sheet, which
covers it, can be traced the stiff and angular proportions of a corpse.
It is the body of Mother Arsene herself, who died two days before, of
the cholera. The burials have been so numerous, that there has been
no time to remove her remains. The Rue Clovis is almost deserted. A
mournful silence reigns without, often broken by the sharp whistling of
the north wind. Between the squalls, one hears a sort of pattering. It
is the noise of the large rats, running to and fro across the heap of
charcoal.
Suddenly, another sound is heard, and these unclean animals fly to hide
themselves in their holes. Some one is trying to force open the door,
which communicates between the shop and the passage. It offers but
little resistance, and, in a few seconds, the worn-out lock gives
way, and a woman enters. For a short time she stands motionless in the
obscurity of the damp and icy cave. After a minute’s hesitation, the
woman advances and the ray of light illumines the features of the
Bacchanal Queen. Slowly, she approached the funeral couch. Since the
death of Jacques, the alteration in the countenance of Cephyse had gone
on increasing. Fearfully pale, with her fine black hair in disorder,
her legs and feet naked, she was barely covered with an old patched
petticoat and a very ragged handkerchief.
When she came near the bed, she cast a glance of almost savage assurance
at the shroud. Suddenly she drew back, with a low cry of involuntary
terror. The sheet moved with a rapid undulation, extending from the feet
to the head of the corpse. But soon the sight of a rat, flying along the
side of the worm-eaten bedstead, explained the movement of the shroud.
Recovering from her fright, Cephyse began to look for several things,
and collected them in haste, as though she dreaded being surprised
in the miserable shop. First, she seized a basket, and filled it with
charcoal; then, looking from side to side, she discovered in a corner an
earthen pot, which she took with a burst of ominous joy.
“It is not all, it is not all,” said Cephyse, as she continued to search
with an unquiet air.
At last she perceived near the stove a little tin box, containing flint,
steel and matches. She placed these articles on the top of the basket,
and took it in one hand, and the earthen pot in the other. As she
passed near the corpse of the poor charcoal-dealer, Cephyse said, with a
strange smile: “I rob you, poor Mother Arsene, but my theft will not do
me much good.”
Cephyse left the shop, reclosed the door as well as she could, went up
the passage, and crossed the little court-yard which separated the
front of the building from that part in which Rodin had lodged. With the
exception of the windows of Philemon’s apartment, where Rose-Pompon had
so often sat perched like a bird, warbling Beranger, the other windows
of the house were open. There had been deaths on the first and second
floors, and, like many others, they were waiting for the cart piled up
with coffins.
The Bacchanal Queen gained the stairs, which led to the chambers
formerly occupied by Rodin. Arrived at the landing-place she ascended
another ruinous staircase, steep as a ladder, and with nothing but an
old rope for a rail. She at length reached the half-rotten door of
a garret, situated in the roof. The house was in such a state of
dilapidation, that, in many places the roof gave admission to the rain,
and allowed it to penetrate into this cell, which was not above ten feet
square, and lighted by an attic window. All the furniture consisted of
an old straw mattress, laid upon the ground, with the straw peeping out
from a rent in its ticking; a small earthenware pitcher, with the spout
broken, and containing a little water, stood by the side of this couch.
Dressed in rags, Mother Bunch was seated on the side of the mattress,
with her elbows on her knees, and her face concealed in her thin, white
hands. When Cephyse entered the room, the adopted sister of Agricola
raised her head; her pale, mild face seemed thinner than ever, hollow
with suffering, grief, misery; her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on
her sister with an expression of mournful tenderness.
“I have what we want, sister,” said Cephyse, in a low, deep voice; “in
this basket there is wherewith to finish our misery.”
Then, showing to Mother Bunch the articles she had just placed on the
floor, she added: “For the first time in my life, I have been a thief.
It made me ashamed and frightened; I was never intended for that or
worse. It is a pity.” added she, with a sardonic smile.
After a moment’s silence, the hunchback said to her sister, in a heart
rending tone: “Cephyse--my dear Cephyse--are you quite determined to
die?”
“How should I hesitate?” answered Cephyse, in a firm voice. “Come,
sister, let us once more make our reckoning. If even I could forget my
shame, and Jacques’ contempt in his last moments, what would remain to
me? Two courses only: first, to be honest, and work for my living. But
you know that, in spite of the best will in the world, work will often
fail, as it has failed for the last few days, and, even when I got it, I
would have to live on four to five francs a week. Live? that is to say,
die by inches. I know that already, and I prefer dying at once. The
other course would be to live a life of infamy--and that I will not do.
Frankly, sister, between frightful misery, infamy, or death, can the
choice be doubtful? Answer me!”
Then, without giving Mother Bunch time to speak, Cephyse added, in an
abrupt tone: “Besides, what is the good of discussing it? I have made up
my mind, and nothing shall prevent my purpose, since all that you, dear
sister, could obtain from me, was a delay of a few days, to see if the
cholera would not save us the trouble. To please you I consented; the
cholera has come, killed every one else in the house, but left us. You
see, it is better to do one’s own business,” added she, again smiling
bitterly. Then she resumed: “Besides, dear sister, you also wish to
finish with life.”
“It is true, Cephyse,” answered the sempstress, who seemed very much
depressed; “but alone--one has only to answer for one’s self--and to die
with you,” added she, shuddering, “appears like being an accomplice in
your death.”
“Do you wish, then, to make an end of it, I in one place, you in
another?--that would be agreeable!” said Cephyse, displaying in that
terrible moment the sort of bitter and despairing irony which is more
frequent than may be imagined in the midst of mortal anguish.
“Oh, no, no!” said the other in alarm, “not alone--I will not die
alone!”
“Do you not see, dear sister, we are right not to part? And yet,” added
Cephyse, in a voice of emotion, “my heart almost breaks sometimes, to
think that you will die like me.”
“How selfish!” said the hunchback, with a faint smile. “What reasons
have I to love life? What void shall I leave behind me?”
“But you are a martyr, sister,” resumed Cephyse. “The priests talk of
saints! Is there one of them so good as you? And yet you are about to
die like me, who have always been idle, careless, sinful--while you were
so hardworking, so devoted to all who suffered. What should I say?
You were an angel on the earth; and yet you will die like me, who have
fallen as low as a woman can fall,” added the unfortunate, casting down
her eyes.
“It is strange,” answered Mother Bunch, thoughtfully. “Starting from the
same point, we have followed different roads, and yet we have reached
the same goal--disgust of life. For you, my poor sister, but a few days
ago, life was so fair, so full of pleasure and of youth; and now it is
equally heavy with us both. After all, I have followed to the end what
was my duty,” added she, mildly. “Agricola no longer needs me. He is
married; he loves, and is beloved; his happiness is secured. Mdlle. de
Cardoville wants for nothing. Fair, rich, prosperous--what could a poor
creature like myself do for her? Those who have been kind to me are
happy. What prevents my going now to my rest? I am so weary!”
“Poor sister!” said Cephyse, with touching emotion, which seemed to
expand her contracted features; “when I think that, without informing
me, and in spite of your resolution never to see that generous young
lady, who protected you, you yet had the courage to drag yourself to
her house, dying with fatigue and want, to try to interest her in my
fate--yes, dying, for your strength failed on the Champs-Elysees.”
“And when I was able to reach the mansion, Mdlle. de Cardoville was
unfortunately absent--very unfortunately!” repeated the hunchback, as
she looked at Cephyse with anguish; “for the next day, seeing that our
last resource had failed us, thinking more of me than of yourself, and
determined at any price to procure us bread--”
She could not finish. She buried her face in her hands, and shuddered.
“Well, I did as so many other hapless women have done when work fails or
wages do not suffice, and hunger becomes too pressing,” replied Cephyse,
in a broken voice; “only that, unlike so many others, instead of living
on my shame, I shall die of it.”
“Alas! this terrible shame which kills you, my poor Cephyse, because you
have a heart, would have been averted, had I seen Mdlle. de Cardoville,
or had she but answered the letter which I asked leave to write to her
at the porter’s lodge. But her silence proves to me that she is justly
hurt at my abrupt departure from her house. I can understand it; she
believes me guilty of the blackest ingratitude--for she must have been
greatly offended not to have deigned to answer me--and therefore I had
not the courage to write a second time. It would have been useless, I am
sure; for, good and just as she is, her refusals are inexorable when she
believes them deserved. And besides, for what good? It was too late; you
had resolved to die!”
“Oh, yes, quite resolved: for my infamy was gnawing at my heart. Jacques
had died in my arms despising me; and I loved him--mark me, sister,”
added Cephyse, with passionate enthusiasm, “I loved him as we love only
once in life!”
“Let our fate be accomplished, then!” said Mother Bunch with a pensive
air.
“But you have never told me, sister, the cause of your departure from
Mdlle. de Cardoville’s,” resumed Cephyse, after a moment’s silence.
“It will be the only secret that I shall take with me, dear Cephyse,”
said the other, casting down her eyes. And she thought, with bitter joy,
that she would soon be delivered from the fear which had poisoned the
last days of her sad life--the fear of meeting Agricola, informed of the
fatal and ridiculous love she felt for him.
For, it must be said, this fatal and despairing love was one of
the causes of the suicide of the unfortunate creature. Since the
disappearance of her journal, she believed that the blacksmith knew
the melancholy secret contained in its sad pages. She doubted not
the generosity and good heart of Agricola; but she had such doubts of
herself, she was so ashamed of this passion, however pure and
noble, that, even in the extremity to which Cephyse and herself were
reduced--wanting work, wanting bread--no power on earth could have
induced her to meet Agricola, in an attempt to ask him for assistance.
Doubtless, she would have taken another view of the subject if her mind
had not been obscured by that sort of dizziness to which the firmest
characters are exposed when their misfortunes surpass all bounds.
Misery, hunger, the influence, almost contagious in such a moment, of
the suicidal ideas of Cephyse, and weariness of a life so long devoted
to pain and mortification, gave the last blow to the sewing-girl’s
reason. After long struggling against the fatal design of her sister,
the poor, dejected, broken-hearted creature finished by determining to
share Cephyse’s fate, and seek in death the end of so many evils.
“Of what are you thinking, sister?” said Cephyse, astonished at the long
silence. The other replied, trembling: “I think of that which made me
leave Mdlle. de Cardoville so abruptly, and appear so ungrateful in her
eyes. May the fatality which drove me from her house have made no other
victims! may my devoted service, however obscure and powerless, never be
missed by her, who extended her noble hand to the poor sempstress,
and deigned to call me sister! May she be happy--oh, ever happy!” said
Mother Bunch, clasping her hands with the ardor of a sincere invocation.
“That is noble, sister--such a wish in such a moment!” said Cephyse.
“Oh,” said her sister, with energy, “I loved, I admired that marvel
of genius, and heart, and ideal beauty--I viewed her with pious
respect--for never was the power of the Divinity revealed in a more
adorable and purer creation. At least one of my last thoughts will have
been of her.”
“Yes, you will have loved and respected your generous patroness to the
last.”
“To the last!” said the poor girl, after a moment’s silence. “It is
true--you are right--it will soon be the last!--in a few moments, all
will be finished. See how calmly we can talk of that which frightens so
many others!”
“Sister, we are calm because we are resolved.”
“Quite resolved, Cephyse,” said the hunchback, casting once more a deep
and penetrating glance upon her sister.
“Oh, yes, if you are only as determined as I am.”
“Be satisfied; if I put off from day to day the final moment,” answered
the sempstress, “it was because I wished to give you time to reflect. As
for me--”
She did not finish, but she shook her head with an air of the utmost
despondency.
“Well, sister, let us kiss each other,” said Cephyse; “and, courage!”
The hunchback rose, and threw herself into her sister’s arms. They held
one another fast in a long embrace. There followed a few seconds of deep
and solemn silence, only interrupted by the sobs of the sisters, for now
they had begun to weep.
“Oh, heaven! to love each other so, and to part forever!” said Cephyse.
“It is a cruel fate.”
“To part?” cried Mother Bunch, and her pale, mild countenance, bathed
in tears, was suddenly illumined with a ray of divine hope; “to
part, sister? oh, no! What makes me so calm is the deep and certain
expectation, which I feel here at my heart, of that better world where a
better life awaits us. God, so great, so merciful, so prodigal of good,
cannot destine His creatures to be forever miserable. Selfish men may
pervert His benevolent designs, and reduce their brethren to a state of
suffering and despair. Let us pity the wicked and leave them! Come up on
high, sister; men are nothing there, where God is all. We shall do well
there. Let us depart, for it is late.”
So saying, she pointed to the ruddy beams of the setting sun, which
began to shine upon the window.
Carried away by the religious enthusiasm of her sister, whose
countenance, transfigured, as it were, by the hope of an approaching
deliverance, gleamed brightly in the reflected sunset, Cephyse took her
hands, and, looking at her with deep emotion, exclaimed, “Oh, sister!
how beautiful you look now!”
“Then my beauty comes rather late in the day,” said Mother Bunch, with a
sad smile.
“No, sister; for you appear so happy, that the last scruples I had upon
your account are quite gone.”
“Then let us make haste,” said the hunchback, as she pointed to the
chafing-dish.
“Be satisfied, sister--it will not be long,” said Cephyse. And she took
the chafing-dish full of charcoal, which she had placed in a corner of
the garret, and brought it out into the middle of the room.
“Do you know how to manage it?” asked the sewing-girl approaching.
“Oh! it is very simple,” answered Cephyse; “we have only to close the
door and window, and light the charcoal.”
“Yes, sister; but I think I have heard that every opening must be well
stopped, so as to admit no current of air.”
“You are right, and the door shuts so badly.”
“And look at the holes in the roof.”
“What is to be done, sister?”
“I will tell you,” said Mother Bunch. “The straw of our mattress, well
twisted, will answer every purpose.”
“Certainly,” replied Cephyse. “We will keep a little to light our fire,
and with the rest we will stop up all the crevices in the roof, and make
filling for our doors and windows.”
Then, smiling with that bitter irony, so frequent, we repeat, in the
most gloomy moments, Cephyse added, “I say, sister, weather-boards
at our doors and windows, to prevent the air from getting in--what a
luxury! we are as delicate as rich people.”
“At such a time, we may as well try to make ourselves a little
comfortable,” said Mother Bunch, trying to jest like the Bacchanal
Queen.
And with incredible coolness, the two began to twist the straw into
lengths of braid, small enough to be stuffed into the cracks of the
door, and also constructed large plugs, destined to stop up the crevices
in the roof. While this mournful occupation lasted, there was no
departure from the calm and sad resignation of the two unfortunate
creatures.
CHAPTER XXXII. SUICIDE.
Cephyse and her sister continued with calmness the preparations for
their death.
Alas! how many poor young girls, like these sisters, have been, and
still will be, fatally driven to seek in suicide a refuge from despair,
from infamy, or from a too miserable existence! And upon society
will rest the terrible responsibility of these sad deaths, so long as
thousands of human creatures, unable to live upon the mockery of wages
granted to their labor, have to choose between these three gulfs of
shame and woe; a life of enervating toil and mortal privations, causes
of premature death; prostitution, which kills also, but slowly--by
contempt, brutality, and uncleanness; suicide--which kills at once.
In a few minutes, the two sisters had constructed, with the straw of
their couch, the calkings necessary to intercept the air, and to render
suffocation more expeditious and certain.
The hunchback said to her sister, “You are the taller, Cephyse, and must
look to the ceiling; I will take care of the window and door.”
“Be satisfied, sister; I shall have finished before you,” answered
Cephyse.
And the two began carefully to stop up every crevice through which a
current of air could penetrate into the ruined garret. Thanks to her
tall stature, Cephyse was able to reach the holes in the roof, and
to close them up entirely. When they had finished this sad work, the
sisters again approached, and looked at each other in silence.
The fatal moment drew near; their faces, though still calm, seemed
slightly agitated by that strange excitement which always accompanies a
double suicide.
“Now,” said Mother Bunch, “now for the fire!”
She knelt down before the little chafing-dish, filled with charcoal. But
Cephyse took hold of her under the arm, and obliged her to rise again,
saying to her, “Let me light the fire--that is my business.”
“But, Cephyse--”
“You know, poor sister, that the smell of charcoal gives you the
headache!”
At the simplicity of this speech, for the Bacchanal Queen had spoken
seriously, the sisters could not forbear smiling sadly.
“Never mind,” resumed Cephyse; “why suffer more and sooner than is
necessary?”
Then, pointing to the mattress, which still contained a little straw,
Cephyse added, “Lie down there, good little sister; when our fire is
alight, I will come and sit down by you.”
“Do not be long, Cephyse.”
“In five minutes it will be done.”
The tall building, which faced the street, was separated by a narrow
court from that which contained the retreat of the two sisters, and was
so much higher, that when the sun had once disappeared behind its lofty
roof, the garret soon became dark. The light, passing through the dirty
panes of the small window, fell faintly on the blue and white patchwork
of the old mattress, on which Mother Bunch was now stretched, covered
with rags. Leaning on her left arm, with her chin resting in the palm
of her hand, she looked after her sister with an expression of
heart-rending grief. Cephyse, kneeling over the chafing-dish, with her
face close to the black charcoal, above which already played a little
bluish flame, exerted herself to blow the newly-kindled fire, which was
reflected on the pale countenance of the unhappy girl.
The silence was deep. No sound was heard but the panting breath of
Cephyse, and, at intervals, the slight crackling of the charcoal, which
began to burn, and already sent forth a faint sickening vapor. Cephyse,
seeing the fire completely lighted, and feeling already a little dizzy,
rose from the ground, and said to her sister, as she approached her, “It
is done!”
“Sister,” answered Mother Bunch, kneeling on the mattress, whilst
Cephyse remained standing, “how shall we place ourselves? I should like
to be near you to the last.”
“Stop!” said Cephyse, half executing the measures of which she spoke,
“I will sit on the mattress with my back against the wall. Now, little
sister, you lie there. Lean your head upon my knees, and give me your
hand. Are you comfortable so?”
“Yes--but I cannot see you.”
“That is better. It seems there is a moment--very short, it is true--in
which one suffers a good deal. And,” added Cephyse, in a voice of
emotion, “it will be as well not to see each other suffer.”
“You are right, Cephyse.”
“Let me kiss that beautiful hair for the last time,” said Cephyse, as
she pressed her lips to the silky locks which crowned the hunchback’s
pale and melancholy countenance, “and then--we will remain very quiet.”
“Sister, your hand,” said the sewing-girl; “for the last time, your
hand--and then, as you say, we will move no more. We shall not have to
wait long, I think, for I begin to feel dizzy. And you, sister?”
“Not yet,” replied Cephyse; “I only perceive the smell of the charcoal.”
“Do you know where they will bury us?” said Mother Bunch, after a
moment’s silence.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because I should like it to be in Pere-la-Chaise. I went there once
with Agricola and his mother. What a fine view there is!--and then
the trees, the flowers, the marble--do you know the dead are better
lodged--than the living--and--”
“What is the matter, sister?” said Cephyse to her companion, who had
stopped short, after speaking in a slow voice.
“I am giddy--my temples throb,” was the answer. “How do you feel?”
“I only begin to be a little faint; it is strange--the effect is slower
with me than you.”
“Oh! you see,” said Mother Bunch, trying to smile, “I was always so
forward. At school, do you remember, they said I was before the others.
And, now it happens again.”
“I hope soon to overtake you this time,” said Cephyse.
What astonished the sisters was quite natural. Though weakened by sorrow
and misery, the Bacchanal Queen, with a constitution as robust as the
other was frail and delicate, was necessarily longer than her sister in
feeling the effects of the deleterious vapor. After a moment’s silence,
Cephyse resumed, as she laid her hand on the head she still held upon
her knees, “You say nothing, sister! You suffer, is it not so?”
“No,” said Mother Bunch, in a weak voice; “my eyelids are heavy as
lead--I am getting benumbed--I feel that I speak more slowly--but I have
no acute pain. And you, sister?”
“Whilst you were speaking, I felt giddy--and now my temples throb
violently.”
“As it was with me just now. One would think it was more painful and
difficult to die.”
Then after a moment’s silence, the hunchback said suddenly to her
sister, “Do you think that Agricola will much regret me, and think of me
for some time?”
“How can you ask?” said Cephyse, in a tone of reproach.
“You are right,” answered Mother Bunch, mildly; “there is a bad feeling
in such a doubt--but if you knew--”
“What, sister?”
The other hesitated for an instant, and then said, dejectedly,
“Nothing.” Afterwards, she added, “Fortunately, I die convinced that
he will never miss me. He married a charming girl, who loves him, I am
sure, and will make him perfectly happy.”
As she pronounced these last words, the speaker’s voice grew fainter
and fainter. Suddenly she started and said to Cephyse, in a
trembling, almost frightened tone, “Sister! Hold me in your arms--I am
afraid--everything looks dark--everything is turning round.” And the
unfortunate girl, raising herself a little, hid her face in her sister’s
bosom, and threw his weak arms around her.
“Courage, sister!” said Cephyse, in a voice which was also growing
faint, as she pressed her closer to her bosom; “it will soon be over.”
And Cephyse added, with a kind of envy, “Oh! why does my sister’s
strength fail so much sooner than mine? I have still my perfect
senses and I suffer less than she does. Oh! if I thought she would
die first!--But, no--I will go and hold my face over the chafing-dish
rather.”
At the movement Cephyse made to rise, a feeble pressure from her sister
held her back. “You suffer, my poor child!” said Cephyse, trembling.
“Oh yes! a good deal now--do not leave me!”
“And I scarcely at all,” said Cephyse, gazing wildly at the
chafing-dish. “Ah!” added she, with a kind of fatal! joy; “now I begin
to feel it--I choke--my head is ready to split.”
And indeed the destructive gas now filled the little chamber, from which
it had, by degrees, driven all the air fit for respiration. The day was
closing in, and the gloomy garret was only lighted by the reflection of
the burning charcoal, which threw a red glare on the sisters, locked
in each other’s arms. Suddenly Mother Bunch made some slight
convulsive movements, and pronounced these words in a failing voice:
“Agricola--Mademoiselle de Cardoville--Oh! farewell!--Agricola--I--”
Then she murmured some unintelligible words; the convulsive moments
ceased, and her arms, which had been clasped round Cephyse, fell inert
upon the mattress.
“Sister!” cried Cephyse, in alarm, as she raised Mother Bunch’s head, to
look at her face. “Not already, sister!--And I?--and I?”
The sewing-girl’s mild countenance was not paler than usual. Only her
eyes, half-closed, seemed no longer to see anything, and a half-smile
of mingled grief and goodness lingered an instant about her violet lips,
from which stole the almost imperceptible breath--and then the mouth
became motionless, and the face assumed a great serenity of expression.
“But you must not die before me!” cried Cephyse, in a heart-rending
tone, as she covered with kisses the cold cheek. “Wait for me, sister!
wait for me!”
Mother Bunch did not answer. The head, which Cephyse let slip from her
hands, fell back gently on the mattress.
“My God. It is not my fault, if we do not die together!” cried Cephyse
in despair, as she knelt beside the couch, on which the other lay
motionless.
“Dead!” she murmured in terror. “Dead before me!--Perhaps it is that I
am the strongest. Ah! it begins--fortunately--like her, I see everything
dark-blue--I suffer--what happiness!--I can scarcely breathe. Sister!”
she added, as she threw her arms round her loved one’s neck; “I am
coming--I am here!”
At the same instant the sound of footsteps and voices was heard from the
staircase. Cephyse had still presence of mind enough to distinguish
the sound. Stretched beside the body of her sister, she raised her head
hastily.
The noise approached, and a voice was heard exclaiming, not far from the
doer: “Good heavens! what a smell of fire!”
And, at the same instant, the door was violently shaken, and another
voice exclaimed: “Open! open!”
“They will come in--they will save me--and my sister is dead--Oh, no! I
will not have the baseness to survive her!”
Such was the last thought of Cephyse. Using what little strength she had
left, she ran to the window and opened it--and, at the same instant
that the half-broken door yielded to a vigorous effort from without, the
unfortunate creature precipitated herself from that third story into the
court below. Just then, Adrienne and Agricola appeared on the threshold
of the chamber. In spite of the stifling odor of the charcoal, Mdlle. de
Cardoville rushed into the garret, and, seeing the stove, she exclaimed,
“The unhappy girl has killed herself!”
“No, she has thrown herself from the window,” cried Agricola: for, at
the moment of breaking open the door, he had seen a human form disappear
in that direction, and he now ran to the window.
“Oh! this is frightful!” he exclaimed, with a cry of horror, as he put
his hand before his eyes, and returned pale and terrified to Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
But, misunderstanding the cause of his terror, Adrienne, who had just
perceived Mother Bunch through the darkness, hastened to answer: “No!
she is here.”
And she pointed to the pale form stretched on the mattress, beside which
Adrienne now threw herself on her knees. Grasping the hands of the poor
sempstress, she found them as cold as ice. Laying her hand on her heart,
she could not feel it beat. Yet, in a few seconds, as the fresh air
rushed into the room from the door and window, Adrienne thought she
remarked an almost imperceptible pulsation, and she exclaimed: “Her
heart beats! Run quickly for help! Luckily, I have my smelling bottle.”
“Yes, yes! help for her--and for the other too, if it is yet time!”
cried the smith in despair, as he rushed down the stairs, leaving Mdlle.
de Cardoville still kneeling by the side of the mattress.
BOOK X.
XXXIII. Confessions XXXIV. More Confessions XXXV. The Rivals
XXXVI. The Interview XXXVII. Soothing Words XXXVIII. The Two
Carriages XXXIX. The Appointment XL. Anxiety XLI. Adrienne
and Djalma XLII. “The Imitation” XLIII. Prayer XLIV.
Remembrances XLV. The Blockhead XLVI. The Anonymous Letters
XLVII. The Golden City XLVIII. The Stung Lion XLIX. The Test
CHAPTER XXXIII. CONFESSIONS.
During the painful scene that we have just described, a lively emotion
glowed in the countenance of Mdlle. de Cardoville, grown pale and thin
with sorrow. Her cheeks, once so full, were now slightly hollowed,
whilst a faint line of transparent azure encircled those large black
eyes, no longer so bright as formerly. But the charming lips, though
contracted by painful anxiety, had retained their rich and velvet
moisture. To attend more easily to Mother Bunch, Adrienne had thrown
aside her bonnet, and the silky waves of her beautiful golden hair
almost concealed her face as she bent over the mattress, rubbing the
thin, ivory hands of the poor sempstress, completely called to life by
the salubrious freshness of the air, and by the strong action of the
salts which Adrienne carried in her smelling-bottle. Luckily, Mother
Bunch had fainted, rather from emotion and weakness than from the
effects of suffocation, the senses of the unfortunate girl having
failed her before the deleterious gas had attained its highest degree of
intensity.
Before continuing the recital of the scene between the sempstress and
the patrician, a few retrospective words will be necessary. Since
the strange adventure at the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, where
Djalma, at peril of his life, rushed upon the black panther in sight of
Mdlle. de Cardoville, the young lady had been deeply affected in various
ways. Forgetting her jealousy, and the humiliation she had suffered in
presence of Djalma--of Djalma exhibiting himself before every one with a
woman so little worthy of him--Adrienne was for a moment dazzled by the
chivalrous and heroic action of the prince, and said to herself: “In
spite of odious appearances, Djalma loves me enough to brave death in
order to pick up my nosegay.”
But with a soul so delicate as that of this young lady, a character so
generous, and a mind so true, reflection was certain soon to demonstrate
the vanity of such consolations, powerless to cure the cruel wounds of
offended dignity an love.
“How many times,” said Adrienne to herself, and with reason, “has the
prince encountered, in hunting, from pure caprice and with no gain, such
danger as he braved in picking up my bouquet! and then, who tells me he
did not mean to offer it to the woman who accompanied him?”
Singular (it may be) in the eyes of the world, but just and great in
those of heaven, the ideas which Adrienne cherished with regard to love,
joined to her natural pride, presented an invincible obstacle to the
thought of her succeeding this woman (whoever she might be), thus
publicly displayed by the prince as his mistress. And yet Adrienne
hardly dared avow to herself, that she experienced a feeling of
jealousy, only the more painful and humiliating, the less her rival
appeared worthy to be compared to her.
At other times, on the contrary, in spite of a conscious sense of her
own value, Mdlle. de Cardoville, remembering the charming countenance of
Rose-Pompon, asked herself if the bad taste and improper manners of this
pretty creature resulted from precocious and depraved effrontery, or
from a complete ignorance of the usages of society. In the latter case,
such ignorance, arising from a simple and ingenuous nature, might in
itself have a great charm; and if to this attraction, combined with that
of incontestable beauty, were added sincere love and a pure soul, the
obscure birth, or neglected education of the girl might be of little
consequence, and she might be capable of inspiring Djalma with a
profound passion. If Adrienne hesitated to see a lost creature in
Rose-Pompon, notwithstanding unfavorable appearances, it was because,
remembering what so many travellers had related of Djalma’s greatness of
soul, and recalling the conversation she had overheard between him
and Rodin, she could not bring herself to believe that a man of
such remarkable intelligence, with so tender a heart, so poetical,
imaginative and enthusiastic a mind could be capable of loving a
depraved and vulgar creature, and of openly exhibiting himself in public
along with her. There was a mystery in the transaction, which Adrienne
sought in vain to penetrate. These trying doubts, this cruel curiosity,
only served to nourish Adrienne’s fatal love; and we may imagine her
incurable despair, when she found that the indifference, or even disdain
of Djalma, was unable to stifle a passion that now burned more fiercely
than ever. Sometimes, having recourse to notions of fatality, she
fancied that she was destined to feel this love; that Djalma must
therefore deserve it, and that one day whatever was incomprehensible in
the conduct of the prince would be explained to his advantage. At other
times, on the contrary, she felt ashamed of excusing Djalma, and the
consciousness of this weakness was for Adrienne a constant occasion
for remorse and torture. The victim of all these agonies, she lived in
perfect solitude.
The cholera soon broke out, startling as a clap of thunder. Too unhappy
to fear the pestilence on her own account, Adrienne was only moved by
the sorrows of others. She was amongst the first to contribute to those
charitable donations, which were now flowing in from all sides in the
admirable spirit of benevolence. Florine was suddenly attacked by the
epidemic. In spite of the danger, her mistress insisted on seeing her,
and endeavored to revive her failing courage. Conquered by this new mark
of kindness, Florine could no longer conceal the treachery in which she
had borne a part. Death was about to deliver her from the odious tyranny
of the people whose yoke weighed upon her, and she was at length in a
position to reveal everything to Adrienne. The latter thus learned how
she had been continually betrayed by Florine, and also the cause of the
sewing-girl’s abrupt departure. At these revelations, Adrienne felt her
affection and tender pity for the poor sempstress greatly increase. By
her command, the most active steps were taken to discover traces of the
hunchback; but Florine’s confession had a still more important result.
Justly alarmed at this new evidence of Rodin’s machinations, Adrienne
remembered the projects formed, when, believing herself beloved, the
instinct of affection had revealed to her the perils to which Djalma and
other members of the Rennepont family were exposed. To assemble the
race around her, and bid them rally against the common enemy, such was
Adrienne’s first thought, when she heard the confession of Florine. She
regarded it as a duty to accomplish this project. In a struggle with
such dangerous and powerful adversaries as Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny, and
the Princess de Saint-Dizier, and their allies, Adrienne saw not only
the praiseworthy and perilous task of unmasking hypocrisy and cupidity,
but also, if not a consolation, at least a generous diversion in the
midst of terrible sorrows.
From this moment, a restless, feverish activity took the place of the
mournful apathy in which the young lady had languished. She called round
her all the members of her family capable of answering the appeal, and,
as had been mentioned in the secret note delivered to Father d’Aigrigny,
Cardoville House soon became the centre of the most active and unceasing
operations, and also a place of meeting, in which the modes of attack
and defence were fully discussed. Perfectly correct in all points, the
secret note of which we have spoken stated, as a mere conjecture, that
Mdlle. de Cardoville had granted an interview to Djalma. This fact was
untrue, but the cause which led to the supposition will be explained
hereafter. Far from such being the case, Mdlle. de Cardoville scarcely
found, in attending to the great family interests now at stake, a
momentary diversion from the fatal love, which was slowly undermining
her health, and with which she so bitterly reproached herself.
The morning of the day on which Adrienne, at length discovering Mother
Bunch’s residence, came so miraculously to rescue her from death,
Agricola Baudoin had been to Cardoville House to confer on the subject
of Francis Hardy, and had begged Adrienne to permit him to accompany her
to the Rue Clovis, whither they repaired in haste.
Thus, once again, there was a noble spectacle, a touching symbol! Mdlle.
de Cardoville and Mother Bunch, the two extremities of the social chain,
were united on equal terms--for the sempstress and the fair patrician
were equal in intelligence and heart--and equal also, because the one
was the ideal of riches, grace, and beauty, and the other the ideal
of resignation and unmerited misfortune--and does not a halo rest on
misfortune borne with courage and dignity? Stretched on her mattress,
the hunchback appeared so weak, that even if Agricola had not been
detained on the ground floor with Cephyse, now dying a dreadful death,
Mdlle. de Cardoville would have waited some time, before inducing Mother
Bunch to rise and accompany her to her carriage. Thanks to the presence
of mind and pious fraud of Adrienne, the sewing-girl was persuaded
that Cephyse had been carried to a neighboring hospital, to receive
the necessary succors, which promised to be crowned with success. The
hunchback’s faculties recovering slowly from their stupor, she at first
received this fable without the least suspicion--for she did not even
know that Agricola had accompanied Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“And it is to you, lady, that Cephyse and I owe our lives,” said she,
turning her mild and melancholy face towards Adrienne, “you, kneeling in
this garret, near this couch of misery, where I and my sister meant to
die--for you assure me, lady, that Cephyse was succored in time.”
“Be satisfied! I was told just now that she was recovering her senses.”
“And they told her I was living, did they not, lady? Otherwise, she
would perhaps regret having survived me.”
“Be quite easy, my dear girl!” said Adrienne, pressing the poor hands in
her own, and gazing on her with eyes full of tears; “they have told her
all that was proper. Do not trouble yourself about anything; only think
of recovering--and I hope you will yet enjoy that happiness of which you
have known so little, my poor child.”
“How kind you are, lady! After flying from your house--and when you must
think me so ungrateful!”
“Presently, when you are not so weak, I have a great deal to tell you.
Just now, it would fatigue you too much. But how do you feel?”
“Better, lady. This fresh air--and then the thought, that, since you are
come--my poor sister will no more be reduced to despair; for I will
tell you all, and I am sure you will have pity on Cephyse--will you not,
lady?”
“Rely upon me, my child,” answered Adrienne, forced to dissemble her
painful embarrassment; “you know I am interested in all that interests
you. But tell me,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a voice of emotion,
“before taking this desperate resolution, did you not write to me?”
“Yes, lady.”
“Alas!” resumed Adrienne, sorrowfully; “and when you received no
answer--how cruel, how ungrateful you must have thought me!”
“Oh! never, lady, did I accuse you of such feelings; my poor sister will
tell you so. You had my gratitude to the last.”
“I believe you--for I knew your heart. But how then did you explain my
silence?”
“I had justly offended you by my sudden departure, lady.”
“Offended!--Alas! I never received your letter.”
“And yet you know that I wrote to you, lady.”
“Yes, my poor girl; I know, also, that you wrote to me at my porter’s
lodge. Unfortunately, he delivered your letter to one of my women, named
Florine, telling her it came from you.”
“Florine! the young woman that was so kind to me!”
“Florine deceived me shamefully; she was sold to my enemies, and acted
as a spy on my actions.”
“She!--Good Heavens!” cried Mother Bunch. “Is it possible?”
“She herself,” answered Adrienne, bitterly; “but, after all, we
must pity as well as blame her. She was forced to obey by a terrible
necessity, and her confession and repentance secured my pardon before
her death.”
“Then she is dead--so young! so fair!”
“In spite of her faults, I was greatly moved by her end. She confessed
what she had done, with such heart-rending regrets. Amongst her avowals,
she told me she had intercepted a letter, in which you asked for an
interview that might save your sister’s life.”
“It is true, lady; such were the terms of my letter. What interest had
they to keep it from you?”
“They feared to see you return to me, my good guardian angel. You loved
me so tenderly, and my enemies dreaded your faithful affection, so
wonderfully aided by the admirable instinct of your heart. Ah! I shall
never forget how well-deserved was the horror with which you were
inspired by a wretch whom I defended against your suspicions.”
“M. Rodin?” said Mother Bunch, with a shudder.
“Yes,” replied Adrienne; “but we will not talk of these people now.
Their odious remembrance would spoil the joy I feel in seeing you
restored to life--for your voice is less feeble, your cheeks are
beginning to regain a little color. Thank God! I am so happy to have
found you once more;--if you knew all that I hope, all that I expect
from our reunion--for we will not part again--promise me that, in the
name of our friendship.”
“I--your friend!” said Mother Bunch, timidly casting down her eyes.
“A few days before your departure from my house, did I not call you
my friend, my sister? What is there changed? Nothing, nothing,”
added Mdlle. de Cardoville, with deep emotion. “One might say, on
the contrary, that a fatal resemblance in our positions renders your
friendship even dearer to me. And I shall have it, shall I not. Oh, do
not refuse it me--I am so much in want of a friend!”
“You, lady? you in want of the friendship of a poor creature like me?”
“Yes,” answered Adrienne, as she gazed on the other with an expression
of intense grief; “nay, more, you are perhaps the only person, to whom
I could venture to confide my bitter sorrows.” So saying, Mdlle. de
Cardoville colored deeply.
“And how do I deserve such marks of confidence?” asked Mother Bunch,
more and more surprised.
“You deserve it by the delicacy of your heart, by the steadiness of your
character,” answered Adrienne, with some hesitation; “then--you are a
woman--and I am certain you will understand what I suffer, and pity me.”
“Pity you, lady?” said the other, whose astonishment continued to
increase. “You, a great lady, and so much envied--I, so humble and
despised, pity you?”
“Tell me, my poor friend,” resumed Adrienne, after some moments of
silence, “are not the worst griefs those which we dare not avow to
any one, for fear of raillery and contempt? How can we venture to ask
interest or pity, for sufferings that we hardly dare avow to ourselves,
because they make us blush?”
The sewing-girl could hardly believe what she heard. Had her
benefactress felt, like her, the effects of an unfortunate passion, she
could not have held any other language. But the sempstress could not
admit such a supposition; so, attributing to some other cause the
sorrows of Adrienne, she answered mournfully, whilst she thought of her
own fatal love for Agricola, “Oh! yes, lady. A secret grief, of which we
are ashamed, must be frightful--very frightful!”
“But then what happiness to meet, not only a heart noble enough to
inspire complete confidence, but one which has itself been tried by
a thousand sorrows, and is capable of affording you pity, support and
counsel!--Tell me, my dear child,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, as she
looked attentively at Mother Bunch, “if you were weighed down by one of
those sorrows, at which one blushes, would you not be happy, very happy,
to find a kindred soul, to whom you might entrust your griefs, and half
relieve them by entire and merited confidence?”
For the first time in her life, Mother Bunch regarded Mdlle. de
Cardoville with a feeling of suspicion and sadness.
The last words of the young lady seemed to her full of meaning
“Doubtless, she knows my secret,” said Mother Bunch to herself;
“doubtless, my journal has fallen into her hands.--She knows my love
for Agricola, or at least suspects it. What she has been saying to me is
intended to provoke my confidence, and to assure herself if she has been
rightly informed.”
These thoughts excited in the workgirl’s mind no bitter or ungrateful
feeling towards her benefactress; but the heart of the unfortunate girl
was so delicately susceptible on the subject of her fatal passion, that,
in spite of her deep and tender affection for Mdlle. de Cardoville,
she suffered cruelly at the thought of Adrienne’s being mistress of her
secret.
CHAPTER XXXIV. MORE CONFESSIONS.
The fancy, at first so painful, that Mdlle. de Cardoville was informed
of her love for Agricola was soon exchanged in the hunchbacks heart,
thanks to the generous instincts of that rare and excellent creature,
for a touching regret, which showed all her attachment and veneration
for Adrienne.
“Perhaps,” said Mother Bunch to herself, “conquered by the influence
of the adorable kindness of my protectress, I might have made to her a
confession which I could make to none other, and revealed a secret which
I thought to carry with me to my grave. It would, at least, have been a
mark of gratitude to Mdlle. de Cardoville; but, unfortunately, I am
now deprived of the sad comfort of confiding my only secret to my
benefactress. And then--however generous may be her pity for me, however
intelligent her affection, she cannot--she, that is so fair and so
much admired--she cannot understand how frightful is the position of a
creature like myself, hiding in the depth of a wounded heart, a love at
once hopeless and ridiculous. No, no--in spite of the delicacy of her
attachment, my benefactress must unconsciously hurt my feelings, even
whilst she pities me--for only sympathetic sorrows can console each
other. Alas! why did she not leave me to die?”
These reflections presented themselves to the thinker’s mind as rapidly
as thought could travel. Adrienne observed her attentively; she remarked
that the sewing-girl’s countenance, which had lately brightened up, was
again clouded, and expressed a feeling of painful humiliation. Terrified
at this relapse into gloomy dejection, the consequences of which might
be serious, for Mother Bunch was still very weak, and, as it were,
hovering on the brink of the grave, Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed
hastily: “My friend, do not you think with me, that the most cruel and
humiliating grief admits of consolation, when it can be entrusted to a
faithful and devoted heart?”
“Yes, lady,” said the young sempstress, bitterly; “but the heart which
suffers in silence, should be the only judge of the moment for making
so painful a confession. Until then, it would perhaps be more humane to
respect its fatal secret, even if one had by chance discovered it.”
“You are right, my child,” said Adrienne, sorrowfully, “if I choose this
solemn moment to entrust you with a very painful secret, it is that,
when you have heard me, I am sure you will set more value on your life,
as knowing how much I need your tenderness, consolation, and pity.”
At these words, the other half raised herself on the mattress, and
looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville in amazement. She could scarcely believe
what she heard; far from designing to intrude upon her confidence, it
was her protectress who was to make the painful confession, and who came
to implore pity and consolation from her!
“What!” stammered she; “you, lady!”
“I come to tell you that I suffer, and am ashamed of my sufferings.
Yes,” added the young lady, with a touching expression, “yes--of all
confessions, I am about to make the most painful--I love--and I blush
for my love.”
“Like myself!” cried Mother Bunch, involuntarily, clasping her hands
together.
“I love,” resumed Adrienne, with a long-pent-up grief; “I love, and am
not beloved--and my love is miserable, is impossible--it consumes me--it
kills me--and I dare not confide to any one the fatal secret!”
“Like me,” repeated the other, with a fixed look. “She--a queen in
beauty, rank, wealth, intelligence--suffers like me. Like me, poor
unfortunate creature! she loves, and is not loved again.”
“Well, yes! like you, I love and am not loved again,” cried Mdlle. de
Cardoville; “was I wrong in saying, that to you alone I could confide
my secret--because, having suffered the same pangs, you alone can pity
them?”
“Then, lady,” said Mother Bunch, casting down her eyes, and recovering
from her first amazement, “you knew--”
“I knew all, my poor child--but never should I have mentioned your
secret, had I not had one to entrust you with, of a still more painful
nature. Yours is cruel, but mine is humiliating. Oh, my sister!” added
Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone impossible to describe, “misfortune,
you, see, blends and confounds together what are called distinctions of
rank and fortune--and often those whom the world envies are reduced by
suffering far below the poorest and most humble, and have to seek from
the latter pity and consolation.”
Then, drying her tears, which nosy flowed abundantly, Mdlle. de
Cardoville resumed, in a voice of emotion: “Come, sister! courage,
courage! let us love and sustain each other. Let this sad and mysterious
bond unite us forever.”
“Oh, lady! forgive me. But now that you know the secret of my life,”
said the workgirl, casting down her eyes, and unable to vanquish
her confusion, “it seems to me, that I can never look at you without
blushing.”
“And why? because you love Agricola?” said Adrienne. “Then I must die
of shame before you, since, less courageous than you, I had not the
strength to suffer and be resigned, and so conceal my love in the depths
of my heart. He that I love, with a love henceforth deprived of hope,
knew of that love and despised it--preferring to me a woman, the very
choice of whom was a new and grievous insult, if I am not much deceived
by appearances. I sometimes hope that I am deceived on this point. Now
tell me--is it for you to blush?”
“Alas, lady! who could tell you all this?”
“Which you only entrusted to your journal? Well, then--it was the dying
Florine who confessed her misdeeds. She had been base enough to steal
your papers, forced to this odious act, by the people who had dominion
over her. But she had read your journal--and as every good feeling was
not dead within her, your admirable resignation, your melancholy and
pious love, had left such an impression on her mind, that she was able
to repeat whole passages to me on her death bed, and thus to explain the
cause of your sudden disappearance--for she had no doubt that the fear
of seeing your love for Agricola divulged had been the cause of your
flight.”
“Alas! it is but too true, lady.”
“Oh, yes!” answered Adrienne, bitterly; “those who employed the wretched
girl to act as she did, well knew the effect of the blow. It was not
their first attempt. They reduced you to despair, they would have killed
you, because you were devoted to me, and because you had guessed their
intentions. Oh! these black-gowns are implacable, and their power is
great!” said Adrienne, shuddering.
“It is fearful, lady.”
“But do not be alarmed, dear child; you see, that the arms of the wicked
have turned against themselves; for the moment I knew the cause of your
flight, you became dearer to me than ever. From that time I made every
exertion to find out where you were; after long efforts, it was only
this morning that the person I had employed succeeded in discovering
that you inhabited this house. Agricola was with me when I heard it, and
instantly asked to accompany me.”
“Agricola!” said Mother Bunch, clasping her hands; “he came--”
“Yes, my child--be calm. Whilst I attended to you, he was busy with your
poor sister. You will soon see him.”
“Alas, lady!” resumed the hunchback, in alarm. “He doubtless knows--”
“Your love! No, no; be satisfied. Only think of the happiness of again
seeing your good and worthy brother.”
“Ah, lady! may he never know what caused me so much shame, that I was
like to die of it. Thank God, he is not aware of it!”
“Then let us have no more sad thoughts, my child. Only remember, that
this worthy brother came here in time to save us from everlasting
regrets--and you from a great fault. Oh! I do not speak of the
prejudices of the world, with regard to the right of every creature to
return to heaven a life that has become too burdensome!--I only say that
you ought not to have died, because those who love you, and whom you
love, were still in need of your assistance.”
“I thought you happy; Agricola was married to the girl of his choice,
who will, I am sure, make him happy. To whom could I be useful?”
“First, to myself, as you see--and then, who tells you that Agricola
will never have need of you? Who tells you, that his happiness, or that
of his family, will last forever, and will not be tried by cruel shocks?
And even if those you love had been destined to be always happy, could
their happiness be complete without you? And would not your death, with
which they would perhaps have reproached themselves, have left behind it
endless regrets?”
“It is true, lady,” answered the other, “I was wrong--the dizziness of
despair had seized me--frightful misery weighed upon us--we had not
been able to find work for some days--we lived on the charity of a poor
woman, and her the cholera carried off. To-morrow or next day, we must
have died of hunger.”
“Die of hunger!--and you knew where I lived!”
“I had written to you, lady, and receiving no answer, I thought you
offended at my abrupt departure.”
“Poor, dear child! you must have been, as you say, seized with dizziness
in that terrible moment; so that I have not the courage to reproach you
for doubting me a single instant. How can I blame you? Did I not myself
think of terminating my life?”
“You, lady!” cried the hunchback.
“Yes, I thought of it--when they came to tell me, that Florine, dying,
wished to speak to me. I heard what she had to say; her revelations
changed my projects. This dark and mournful life which had become
insupportable to me, was suddenly lighted up. The sense of duty woke
within me. You were no doubt a prey to horrible misery; it was my duty
to seek and save you. Florine’s confessions unveiled to me the new plots
of the enemies of my scattered family, dispersed by sorrows and cruel
losses; it was my duty to warn them of their danger, and to unite them
against the common enemy. I had been the victim of odious manoeuvres:
it was my duty to punish their authors, for fear that, encouraged by
impunity, these black-gowns should make other victims. Then the sense of
duty gave me strength, and I was able to rouse myself from my lethargy.
With the help of Abbe Gabriel, a sublime, oh! a sublime priest--the
ideal of a true Christian--the worthy brother of Agricola--I
courageously entered on the struggle. What shall I say to you, my child?
The performance of these duties, the hope of finding you again, have
been some relief to me in my trouble. If I was not consoled, I was at
least occupied. Your tender friendship, the example of your resignation,
will do the rest--I think so--I am sure so--and I shall forget this
fatal love.”
At the moment Adrienne pronounced these words, rapid footsteps were
heard upon the stairs, and a young, clear voice exclaimed: “Oh! dear me,
poor Mother Bunch! How lucky I have come just now! If only I could be of
some use to her!”
Almost immediately, Rose-Pompon entered the garret with precipitation.
Agricola soon followed the grisette, and pointing to the open window,
tried to make Adrienne understand by signs, that she was not to mention
to the girl the deplorable end of the Bacchanal Queen. This pantomime
was lost on Mdlle. de Cardoville. Adrienne’s heart swelled with grief,
indignation, pride, as she recognized the girl she had seen at the Porte
Saint-Martin in company with Djalma, and who alone was the cause of the
dreadful sufferings she endured since that fatal evening. And, strange
irony of fate! it was at the very moment when Adrienne had just made the
humiliating and cruel confession of her despised love, that the woman,
to whom she believed herself sacrificed, appeared before her.
If the surprise of Mdlle. de Cardoville was great, Rose-Pompon’s was not
less so. Not only did she recognize in Adrienne the fair young lady with
the golden locks, who had sat opposite to her at the theatre, on the
night of the adventure of the black panther, but she had serious reasons
for desiring most ardently this unexpected interview. It is impossible
to paint the look of malignant joy and triumph, that she affected to
cast upon Adrienne. The first impulse of Mdlle. de Cardoville was to
quit the room. But she could not bear to leave Mother Bunch at this
moment, or to give, in the presence of Agricola, her reasons for such an
abrupt departure, and moreover, an inexplicable and fatal curiosity held
her back, in spite of her offended pride. She remained, therefore, and
was about to examine closely, to hear and to judge, this rival, who
had nearly occasioned her death, to whom, in her jealous agony, she had
ascribed so many different aspects, in order to explain Djalma’s love
for such a creature.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE RIVALS.
Rose-Pompon, whose presence caused such deep emotion in Mdlle. de
Cardoville, was dressed in the most showy and extravagant bad taste. Her
very small, narrow, rose-colored satin bonnet, placed so forward over
her face as almost to touch the tip of her little nose, left uncovered
behind half of her light, silky hair; her plaid dress, of an excessively
broad pattern, was open in front, and the almost transparent gauze,
rather too honest in its revelations, hardly covered the charms of the
form beneath.
The grisette having run all the way upstairs, held in her hands the ends
of her large blue shawl, which, falling from her shoulders, had slid
down to her wasp-like waist, and there been stopped by the swell of the
figure. If we enter into these details, it is to explain how, at the
sight of this pretty creature, dressed in so impertinent and almost
indecent, a fashion, Mdlle. de Cardoville, who thought she saw in her a
successful rival, felt her indignation, grief, and shame redoubled.
But judge of the surprise and confusion of Adrienne, when Mdlle.
Rose Pompon said to her, with the utmost freedom and pertness, “I am
delighted to see you, madame. You and I must have a long talk together.
Only I must begin by kissing poor Mother Bunch--with your permission,
madame!”
To understand the tone and manner with which this word, “madame” was
pronounced, you must have been present at some stormy discussion between
two Rose-Pompons, jealous of each other; then you would be able to judge
how much provoking hostility may be compressed into the word “madame,”
under certain circumstances. Amazed at the impudence of Rose-Pompon,
Mdlle. de Cardoville remained mute; whilst Agricola, entirely occupied
with the interest he took in the workgirl, who had never withdrawn her
eyes from him since he entered the room, and with the remembrance of
the painful scene he had just quitted, whispered to Adrienne, without
remarking the grisette’s effrontery, “Alas, lady! it is all over.
Cephyse has just breathed her last sigh, without recovering her senses.”
“Unfortunate girl!” said Adrienne, with emotion; and for the moment she
forgot Rose-Pompon.
“We must keep this sad news from Mother Bunch, and only let her know it
hereafter, with great caution,” resumed Agricola. “Luckily, little Rose
Pompon knows nothing about it.”
And he pointed to the grisette, who was now stooping down by the side
of the workgirl. On hearing Agricola speak so familiarly of Rose-Pompon,
Adrienne’s amazement increased. It is impossible to describe what she
felt; yet, strangely enough, her sufferings grew less and less, and her
anxiety diminished, as she listened to the chatter of the grisette.
“Oh, my good dear!” said the latter, with as much volubility as emotion,
while her pretty blue eyes were filled with tears; “is it possible that
you did so stupid a thing? Do not poor people help one another? Could
you not apply to me? You knew that others are welcome to whatever is
mine, and I would have made a raffle of Philemon’s bazaar,” added this
singular girl, with a burst of feeling, at once sincere, touching, and
grotesque; “I would have sold his three boots, pipes, boating-costume,
bed, and even his great drinking-glass, and at all events you should not
have been brought to such an ugly pass. Philemon would not have minded,
for he is a good fellow; and if he had minded, it would have been all
the same. Thank heaven! we are not married. I am only wishing to remind
you that you should have thought of little Rose-Pompon.”
“I know you are obliging and kind, miss,” said Mother Bunch: for she had
heard from her sister that Rose-Pompon, like so many of her class, had a
warm and generous heart.
“After all,” resumed the grisette, wiping with the back of her hand the
tip of her little nose, down which a tear was trickling, “you may tell
me that you did not know where I had taken up my quarters. It’s a queer
story, I can tell you. When I say queer,” added Rose-Pompon, with a deep
sigh, “it is quite the contrary--but no matter: I need not trouble you
with that. One thing is certain; you are getting better--and you and
Cephyse will not do such a thing again. She is said to be very weak. Can
I not see her yet, M. Agricola?
“No,” said the smith, with embarrassment, for Mother Bunch kept her eyes
fixed upon him; “you must have patience.”
“But I may see her to-day, Agricola?” exclaimed the hunchback.
“We will talk about that. Only be calm, I entreat.”
“Agricola is right; you must be reasonable, my good dear,” resumed Rose
Pompon; “we will wait patiently. I can wait too, for I have to talk
presently to this lady;” and Rose-Pompon glanced at Adrienne with the
expression of an angry cat. “Yes, yes; I can wait; for I long to tell
Cephyse also that she may reckon upon me.” Here Rose-Pompon bridled up
very prettily, and thus continued, “Do not be uneasy! It is the least
one can do, when one is in a good position, to share the advantages with
one’s friends, who are not so well off. It would be a fine thing to keep
one’s happiness to one’s self! to stuff it with straw, and put it under
a glass, and let no one touch it! When I talk of happiness, it’s only
to make talk; it is true in one sense; but to another, you see, my good
dear--Bah! I am only seventeen--but no matter--I might go on talking
till tomorrow, and you would not be any the wiser. So let me kiss you
once more, and don’t be down-hearted--nor Cephyse either, do you hear?
for I shall be close at hand.”
And, stooping still lower, Rose-Pompon cordially embraced Mother Bunch.
It is impossible to express what Mdlle. de Cardoville felt during this
conversation, or rather during this monologue of the grisette on the
subject of the attempted suicide. The eccentric jargon of Mdlle. Rose
Pompon, her liberal facility in disposing of Philemon’s bazaar, to the
owner of which (as she said) she was luckily not married--the goodness
of her heart, which revealed itself in her offers of service--her
contrasts, her impertinence, her drollery--all this was so new and
inexplicable to Mdlle. de Cardoville, that she remained for some time
mute and motionless with surprise. Such, then, was the creature to whom
Djalma had sacrificed her!
If Adrienne’s first impression at sight of Rose-Pompon had been horribly
painful, reflection soon awakened doubts, which were to become shortly
ineffable hopes. Remembering the interview she had overheard between
Rodin and Djalma, when, concealed in the conservatory, she had wished
to prove the Jesuit’s fidelity, Adrienne, asked herself if it was
reasonable, if it was possible to believe, that the prince, whose ideas
of love seemed to be so poetical, so elevated, so pure, could find any
charm in the disjointed and silly chat of this young girl? Adrienne
could not hesitate; she pronounced the thing impossible, from the moment
she had seen her rival near, and witnessed her style both of manners
and conversation, which, without detracting from the prettiness of
her features, gave them a trivial and not very attractive character.
Adrienne’s doubts with regard to the deep love of the prince for Rose
Pompon were hence soon changed to complete incredulity. Endowed with
too much sense and penetration, not to perceive that this apparent
connection, so inconceivable on the part of Djalma, must conceal some
mystery, Mdlle. de Cardoville felt her hopes revive. As this consoling
thought arose in her mind, her heart, until now so painfully oppressed,
began once more to dilate; she felt vague aspirations towards a better
future; and yet, cruelly warned by the past, she feared to yield too
readily to a mere illusion, for she remembered the notorious fact that
the prince had really appeared in public with this girl. But now that
Mdlle. de Cardoville could fully appreciate what she was, she found the
conduct of the prince only the more incomprehensible. And how can we
judge soundly and surely of that which is enveloped in mystery? And then
a secret presentiment told her, that it would, perhaps, be beside the
couch of the poor sempstress, whom she had just saved from death, that,
by a providential coincidence, she would learn the secret on which
depended the happiness of her life.
The emotions which agitated she heart of Adrienne, became so violent,
that her fine face was flushed with a bright red, her bosom heaved, and
her large, black eyes, lately dimmed by sadness, once more shone with a
mild radiance. She waited with inexpressible impatience for what was to
follow. In the interview, with which Rose-Pompon had threatened her,
and which a few minutes before Adrienne would have declined with all the
dignity of legitimate indignation, she now hoped to find the explanation
of a mystery, which it was of such importance for her to clear up. After
once more tenderly embracing Mother Bunch, Rose-Pompon got up from the
ground, and, turning towards Adrienne, eyed her from head to foot, with
the utmost coolness, and said to her, in a somewhat impertinent tone:
“It is now our turn, madame”--the word “madame” still pronounced
with the accent before described--“we have a little matter to settle
together.”
“I am at your order,” answered Adrienne, with much mildness and
simplicity.
At sight of the triumphant and decisive air of Rose-Pompon, and on
hearing her challenge to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the worthy Agricola,
after exchanging a few words with Mother Bunch, opened his eyes and ears
very wide, and remained staring in amazement at the effrontery of the
grisette; then, advancing towards her, he whispered, as he plucked her
by the sleeve: “I say, are you mad? Do you know to whom you speak?”
“Well! what then? Is not one pretty woman worth another! I say that for
the lady. She will not eat me, I suppose,” replied Rose-Pompon, aloud,
and with an air of defiance. “I have to talk with madame, here. I am
sure, she knows why and wherefore. If not, I will tell her; it will not
take me long.”
Adrienne, who feared some ridiculous exposure on the subject of Djalma,
in the presence of Agricola, made a sign to the latter, and thus
answered the grisette: “I am ready to hear you, miss, but not in this
place. You will understand why.”
“Very well, madame, I have my key. You can come to any apartments”--the
last word pronounced with an air of ostentatious importance.
“Let us go then to your apartments, miss since you to me the honor to
receive me there,” answered Mdlle. de Cardoville, in her mild, sweet
voice, and with a slight inclination of the head, so full of exquisite
politeness, that Rose-Pompon was daunted, notwithstanding all her
effrontery.
“What, lady!” said Agricola to Adrienne; “you are good enough--”
“M. Agricola,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, interrupting him, “please to
remain with our poor friend: I shall soon be back.”
Then, approaching Mother Bunch, who shared in Agricola’s astonishment
she said to her: “Excuse me for leaving you a few seconds. Only regain a
little strength, and, when I return, I will take you home with me, dear
sister.”
Then, turning towards Rose-Pompon, who was more and more surprised at
hearing so fine a lady call the workgirl her sister, she added: “I am
ready whenever you please, mademoiselle.”
“Beg pardon, madame, if I go first to show you the way, but it’s a
regular break-neck sort of a place,” answered Rose-Pompon, pressing her
elbows to her sides, and screwing up her lips to prove that she was no
stranger to polite manners and fine language. And the two rivals quitted
the garret together, leaving Agricola alone with Mother Bunch.
Luckily, the disfigured remains of the Bacchanal Queen had been
carried into Mother Arsene’s subterraneous shop, so that the crowd of
spectators, always attracted by any fatal event, had assembled in front
of the house; and Rose-Pompon, meeting no one in the little court she
had to traverse with Adrienne, continued in ignorance of the tragical
death of her old friend Cephyse. In a few moments the grisette and
Mdlle. de Cardoville had reached Philemon’s apartment. This singular
abode remained in the same state of picturesque disorder in which
Rose-Pompon had left it, when Ninny Moulin came to fetch her to act the
heroine of a mysterious adventure.
Adrienne, completely ignorant of the eccentric modes of life of students
and their companions, could not, in spite of the thoughts which occupied
her mind, forebear examining, with a mixture of surprise and curiosity,
this strange and grotesque chaos, composed of the most dissimilar
objects--disguises for masked balls, skulls with pipes in their mouths,
odd boots standing on book shelves, monstrous bottles, women’s clothes,
ends of tobacco pipes, etc., etc. To the first astonishment of Adrienne
succeeded an impression of painful repugnance. The young lady felt
herself uneasy and out of place in this abode, not of poverty, but
disorder; whilst, on the contrary, the sewing-girl’s miserable garret
had caused her no such feeling.
Rose-Pompon, notwithstanding all her airs, was considerably troubled
when she found herself alone with Mdlle, de Cardoville; the rare beauty
of the young patrician, her fashionable look, the elegance of her
manners, the style, both dignified and affable, with which she had
answered the impertinent address of the grisette, began to have their
effect upon the latter, who, being moreover a good-natured girl, had
been touched at hearing Mdlle. de Cardoville call the hunchback “friend
and sister.” Without knowing exactly who Adrienne was, Rose-Pompon
was not ignorant that she belonged to the richest and highest class
of society; she felt already some remorse at having attacked her so
cavalierly; and her intentions, at first very hostile with regard to
Mdlle. de Cardoville, were gradually much modified. Yet, being very
obstinate, and not wishing to appear to submit to an influence that
offended her pride, Rose-Pompon endeavored to recover her assurance;
and, having bolted the door, she said to Adrienne: “Pray do me the favor
to sit down, madame”--still with the intention of showing that she was
no stranger to refined manners and conversation.
Mdlle. de Cardoville was about mechanically to take a chair, when Rose
Pompon, worthy to practise those ancient virtues of hospitality, which
regarded even an enemy as sacred in the person of a guest, cried out
hastily: “Don’t take that chair, madame; it wants a leg.”
Adrienne laid her hand on another chair.
“Nor that either; the back is quite loose,” again exclaimed Rose-Pompon.
And she spoke the truth; for the chair-back, which was made in the form
of a lyre, remained in the hands of Mdlle. de Cardoville, who said, as
she replaced it discreetly in its former position: “I think, miss, that
we can very well talk standing.”
“As you please, madame,” replied Rose-Pompon, steadying herself the more
bravely the more uneasy she felt. And the interview of the lady and the
grisette began in this fashion.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE INTERVIEW.
After a minute’s hesitation, Rose-Pompon said to Adrienne, whose heart
was beating violently: “I will tell you directly, madame, what I have
on my mind. I should not have gone out of my way to seek you, but, as I
happen to fall in with you, it is very natural I should take advantage
of it.”
“But, miss,” said Adrienne, mildly, “may I at least know the subject of
the conversation we are to have together?”
“Yes, madame,” replied Rose-Pompon, affecting an air of still more
decided confidence; “first of all, you must not suppose I am unhappy, or
going to make a scene of jealousy, or cry like a forsaken damsel. Do not
flatter yourself! Thank heaven, I have no reason to complain of Prince
Charming--that is the pet name I gave him--on the contrary, he has made
me very happy. If I left him, it was against his will, and because I
chose.”
So saying, Rose-Pompon, whose heart was swelling in spite of her fine
airs, could not repress a sigh.
“Yes, madame,” she resumed, “I left him because I chose--for he quite
doted on me. If I had liked, he would have married me--yes, madame,
married me--so much the worse, if that gives you pain. Though, when I
say ‘so much the worse,’ it is true that I meant to pain you. To be sure
I did--but then, just now when I saw you so kind to poor Mother Bunch,
though I was certainly in the right, still I felt something. However, to
cut matters short, it is clear that I detest you, and that you deserve
it,” added Rose-Pompon, stamping her foot.
From all this it resulted, even for a person much less sagacious than
Adrienne, and much less interested in discovering the truth, that Rose
Pompon, notwithstanding her triumphant airs in speaking of him whom she
represented as so much attached to her, and even anxious to wed her,
was in reality completely disappointed, and was now taking refuge in a
deliberate falsehood. It was evident that she was not loved, and that
nothing but violent jealousy had induced her to desire this interview
with Mdlle. de Cardoville, in order to make what is vulgarly called a
scene, considering Adrienne (the reason will be explained presently) as
her successful rival. But Rose-Pompon, having recovered her good-nature,
found it very difficult to continue the scene in question, particularly
as, for many reasons, she felt overawed by Adrienne.
Though she had expected, if not the singular speech of the grisette, at
least something of the same result--for she felt it was impossible that
the prince could entertain a serious attachment for this girl--Mdlle. de
Cardoville was at first delighted to hear the confirmation of her hopes
from the lips of her rival; but suddenly these hopes were succeeded by a
cruel apprehension, which we will endeavor to explain. What Adrienne had
just heard ought to have satisfied her completely. Sure that the heart
of Djalma had never ceased to belong to her, she ought, according to
the customs and opinions of the world, to have cared little if, in
the effervescence of an ardent youth, he had chanced to yield to some
ephemeral caprice for this creature, who was, after all, very pretty
and desirable--the more especially as he had now repaired his error by
separating from her.
Notwithstanding these good reasons, such an error of the senses would
not have been pardoned by Adrienne. She did not understand that complete
separation of the body and soul that would make the one exempt from the
stains of the other. She did not think it a matter of indifference
to toy with one woman whilst you were thinking of another. Her young,
chaste, passionate love demanded an absolute fealty--a fealty as just in
the eyes of heaven and nature as it may be ridiculous and foolish in the
eyes of man. For the very reason that she cherished a refined religion
of the senses, and revered them as an adorable and divine manifestation,
Adrienne had all sorts of delicate scruples and nice repugnances,
unknown to the austere spirituality of those ascetic prudes who despise
vile matter too much to take notice of its errors, and allow it to
grovel in filth, to show the contempt in which they hold it. Mdlle. de
Cardoville was not one of those wonderfully modest creatures who would
die of confusion rather than say plainly that they wished for a young
and handsome husband, at once ardent and pure. It is true that they
generally marry old, ugly, and corrupted men, and make up for it
by taking two or three lovers six months after. But Adrienne felt
instinctively how much of virginal and celestial freshness there is in
the equal innocence of two loving and passionate beings--what guarantees
for the future in the remembrance which a man preserves of his first
love!
We say, then, that Adrienne was only half-satisfied, though convinced by
the vexation of Rose-Pompon that Djalma had never entertained a serious
attachment for the grisette.
“And why do you detest me, miss?” said Adrienne mildly, when Rose-Pompon
had finished her speech.
“Oh! bless me, madame!” replied the latter, forgetting altogether her
assumption of triumph, and yielding to the natural sincerity of her
character; “pretend that you don’t know why I detest you!--Oh, yes!
people go and pick bouquets from the jaws of a panther for people that
they care nothing about, don’t they? And if it was only that!” added
Rose-Pompon, who was gradually getting animated, and whose pretty face,
at first contracted into a sullen pout, now assumed an expression of
real and yet half-comic sorrow.
“And if it was only the nosegay!” resumed she. “Though it gave me a
dreadful turn to see Prince Charming leap like a kid upon the stage, I
might have said to myself: ‘Pooh! these Indians have their own way of
showing politeness. Here, a lady drops her nosegay, and a gentleman
picks it up and gives it to her; but in India it is quite another thing;
the man picks up the nosegay, and does not return it to the woman--he
only kills a panther before her eyes.’ Those are good manners in that
country, I suppose; but what cannot be good manners anywhere is to treat
a woman as I have been treated. And all thanks to you, madame!”
These complaints of Rose-Pompon, at once bitter and laughable, did
not at all agree with what she had previously stated as to Djalma’s
passionate love for her; but Adrienne took care not to point out this
contradiction, and said to her, mildly: “You must be mistaken, miss,
when you suppose that I had anything to do with your troubles. But, in
any case, I regret sincerely that you should have been ill-treated by
any one.”
“If you think I have been beaten, you are quite wrong,” exclaimed Rose
Pompon. “Ah! well, I am sure! No, it is not that. But I am certain that,
had it not been for you, Prince Charming would have got to love me
a little. I am worthy of the trouble, after all--and then there are
different sorts of love--I am not so very particular--not even so much
as that,” added Rose-Pompon, snapping her fingers.
“Ah!” she continued, “when Ninny Moulin came to fetch me, and brought
me jewels and laces to persuade me to go with him, he was quite right in
saying there was no harm in his offers.”
“Ninny Moulin?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville, becoming more and more
interested; “who is this Ninny Moulin, miss?”
“A religious writer,” answered Rose-Pompon, pouting; “the right-hand man
of a lot of old sacristans, whose money he takes on pretense of writing
about morality and religion. A fine morality it is!”
At these words--“a religious writer”--“sacristans” Adrienne instantly
divined some new plot of Rodin or Father d’Aigrigny, of which she and
Djalma were to have been the victims. She began vaguely to perceive the
real state of the case, as she resumed: “But, miss, under what pretence
could this man take you away with him?”
“He came to fetch me, and said I need not fear for my virtue, and was
only to make myself look pretty. So I said to myself: ‘Philemon’s out of
town, and it’s very dull here all alone: This seems a droll affair;
what can I risk by it?’--Alas! I didn’t know what I risked,” added
Rose Pompon, with a sigh. “Well! Ninny Moulin takes me away in a fine
carriage. We stop in the Place du Palais-Royal. A sullen-looking man,
with a yellow face, gets up in the room of Ninny Moulin, and takes me to
the house of Prince Charming. When I saw him--la! he was so handsome,
so very handsome, that I was quite dizzy-like; and he had such a kind,
noble air, that I said to myself, ‘Well! there will be some credit if
I remain a good girl now!’--I did not know what a true word I was
speaking. I have been good--oh! worse than good.”
“What, miss! do you regret having been so virtuous?”
“Why, you see, I regret, at least, that I have not had the pleasure of
refusing. But how can you refuse, when nothing is asked--when you are
not even thought worth one little loving word?”
“But, miss, allow me to observe to you that the indifference of which
you complain does not see to have prevented your making a long stay in
the house in question.”
“How should I know why the prince kept me there, or took me out riding
with him, or to the play? Perhaps it is the fashion in his savage
country to have a pretty girl by your side, and to pay no attention to
her at all!”
“But why, then, did you remain, miss?”
“Why did I remain?” said Rose-Pompon, stamping her loot with vexation.
“I remained because, without knowing how it happened, I began to get
very fond of Prince Charming; and what is queer enough, I, who am as gay
as a lark, loved him because he was so sorrowful, which shows that it
was a serious matter. At last, one day, I could hold out no longer. I
said: ‘Never mind; I don’t care for the consequences. Philemon, I am
sure, is having his fun in the country.’ That set my mind at ease. So
one morning, I dress myself in my best, all very pretty, look in my
glass, and say: ‘Well, that will do--he can’t stand that! and, going to
his room, I tell him all that passes through my head; I laugh, I cry--at
last I tell him that I adore him. What do you think he answers, in his
mild voice, and as cold as a piece of marble? Why, ‘Poor child--poor
child--poor child!’” added Rose-Pompon, with indignation; “neither more
nor less than if I had come to complain to him of the toothache. But
the worst of it is that I am sure, if he were not in love elsewhere, he
would be all fire and gunpowder. Only now he is so sad, so dejected!”
Then, pausing a moment, Rose-Pompon added: “No, I will not tell
you that; you would be too pleased.” But, after another pause, she
continued: “Well, never mind; I will tell you, though”; and this
singular girl looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with a mixture of sympathy
and deference. “Why should I keep it from you? I began by riding
the high horse, and saying that the prince wished to marry me; and I
finished by confessing that he almost turned me out. Well, it’s not my
fault; when I try to fib, I am sure to get confused. So, madame, this is
the plain truth:--When I met you at poor Mother Bunch’s, I was at first
as angry as a little turkey-cock; but when I heard you, that are such a
fine great lady, speak so kindly to the poor girl, and treat her as your
sister, do what I would, my anger began to go away. Since we have
been here, I have done my utmost to get it up again; but I find it
impossible, and the more I see the difference between us, the more I
perceive that Prince Charming was right in thinking so much of you. For
you must know, madame, that he is over head and ears in love with you.
I don’t say so merely because he killed the panther for you at the
Porte-Saint-Martin; but if you knew all the tricks he played with your
bouquet, and how he will sit up all night weeping in that room where he
saw you for the first time--and then your portrait, that he has
drawn upon glass, after the fashion of his country, and so many other
things--the fact is, that I, who was fond of him, and saw all this was
at first in a great rage; but afterwards it was so touching that it
brought the tears into my eyes. Yes, madame, just as it does now, when
I merely think of the poor prince. Oh, madame!” added Rose-Pompon, her
eyes swimming in tears, and with such an expression of sincere interest,
that Adrienne was much moved by it; “oh, madame, you look so mild and
good, that you will not make this poor prince miserable. Pray love him a
little bit; what can it matter to you?”
So saying, Rose-Pompon, with a perfectly simple, though too familiar,
gesture, took hold of Adrienne’s hand, as if to enforce her request. It
had required great self-command in Mdlle. de Cardoville to repress the
rush of joy that was mounting from her heart to her lips, to check the
torrent of questions which she burned to address to Rose-Pompon, and to
restrain the sweet tears of happiness that for some seconds had trembled
in her eyes; and, strangely enough, when Rose-Pompon took her hand,
Adrienne, instead of withdrawing it, pressed the offered hand almost
affectionately, and led her towards the window, as if to examine her
sweet face more attentively.
On entering the room, the grisette had thrown her bonnet and shawl down
upon the bed, so that Adrienne could admire the thick and silky masses
of light hair that crowned the fresh face of the charming girl, with
its firm, rosy cheeks, its mouth as red as a cherry, and its large blue
laughing eyes; and, thanks to the somewhat scanty dress of Rose-Pompon,
Adrienne could fully appreciate the various graces of her nymph-like
figure. Strange as it may appear, Adrienne was delighted at finding
the girl still prettier than she had at first imagined. The stoical
indifference of Djalma to so attractive a creature was the best proof of
the sincerity of the passion by which he was actuated.
Having taken the hand of Adrienne, Rose-Pompon was herself confused and
surprised at the kindness with which Mdlle. de Cardoville permitted
this familiarity. Emboldened by this indulgence, and by the silence of
Adrienne, who for some moments had been contemplating her with almost
grateful benevolence, the grisette resumed: “Oh, you will not refuse,
madame? You will take pity on this poor prince?”
We cannot tell how Adrienne would have answered this indiscreet question
of Rose-Pompon, for suddenly a loud, wild, shrill, piercing sound,
evidently intended to imitate the crowing of a cock, was heard close to
the door of the room.
Adrienne started in alarm; but the countenance of Rose Pompon, just now
so sad, brightened up joyously at this signal, and, clapping her hands
she exclaimed, “It is Philemon!”
“What--who?” said Adrienne, hastily.
“My lover; oh, the monster! he must have come upstairs on tiptoe, to
take me by surprise with his crowing. Just like him!”
A second cock-a-doodle-doo, still louder than the first, was heard close
to the door. “What a stupid, droll creature it is! Always the same joke,
and yet it always amuses me,” said Rose-Pompon.
And drying her tears with the back of her hand, she began to laugh
like one bewitched at Philemon’s jest, which, though well known to her,
always seemed new and agreeable.
“Do not open the door,” whispered Adrienne, much embarrassed; “do not
answer, I beg of you.”
“Though the door is bolted, the key is on the outside; Philemon can see
that there is some one at home.”
“No matter--do not let him in.”
“But, madame, he lives here; the room belongs to him.”
In fact, Philemon, probably growing tired of the little effect produced
by his two ornithological imitations, turned the key in the lock, and
finding himself unable to open the door, said in a deep bass voice:
“What, dearest puss, have you shut yourself in? Are you praying Saint
Flambard for the return of Philly?” (short for Philemon.)
Adrienne, not coshing to increase, by prolonging it, the awkwardness of
this ridiculous situation, went straight to the door and opened it,
to the great surprise of Philemon, who recoiled two or three steps.
Notwithstanding the annoyance of this incident, Mdlle. de Cardoville
could not help smiling at sight of Rose-Pompon’s lover, and of the
articles he carried in his hand or under his arm.
Philemon was a tall fellow, with dark hair and a very fresh color, and,
being just arrived from a journey, he wore a white cap; his thick, black
beard flowed down on his sky-blue waistcoat; and a short olive-colored
velvet shooting-coat, with extravagantly large plaid trousers, completed
his costume. As for the accessories which had provoked a smile from
Adrienne, they consisted: first, of a portmanteau tucked under his arm,
with the head and neck of a goose protruding from it; secondly, of a
cage held in his hand, with an enormous white rabbit all alive within
it.
“Oh! the darling white rabbit! what pretty red eyes!” Such, it must be
confessed, was the first exclamation of Rose-Pompon, though Philemon,
to whom it was not addressed, had returned after a long absence; but the
student far from being shocked at seeing himself thus sacrificed to his
long-earned companion, smiled complacently, rejoicing at the success of
his attempt to please his mistress.
All this passed very rapidly. While Rose-Pompon, kneeling before the
cage, was still occupied with her admiration of the rabbit, Philemon,
struck with the lofty air of Mdlle. de Cardoville, raised his hand to
his cap, and bowed respectfully as he made way for her to pass. Adrienne
returned his salutation with politeness, full of grace and dignity, and,
lightly descending the stairs, soon disappeared. Dazzled by her beauty,
as well as impressed with her noble and lofty bearing, and curious
to know how in the world Rose-Pompon had fallen in with such an
acquaintance, Philemon said to her, in his amorous jargon: “Dearest
puss! tell her Philly who is that fine lady?”
“One of my school-fellows, you great satyr!” said Rose-Pompon, still
playing with the rabbit.
Then, glancing at a box, which Philemon deposited close to the cage and
the portmanteau, she added: “I’ll wager anything you have brought me
some more preserves!”
“Philly has brought something better to his dear puss,” said the
student, imprinting two vigorous kisses on the rosy cheeks of
Rose-Pompon, who had at length, consented to stand up; “Philly has
brought her his heart.”
“Fudge!” said the grisette, delicately placing the thumb of her left
hand on the tip of her nose, and opening the fingers, which she slightly
moved to and fro. Philemon answered this provocation by putting his arm
around her waist; and then the happy pair shut their door.
CHAPTER XXXVII. SOOTHING WORDS.
During the interview of Adrienne with Rose-Pompon a touching scene took
place between Agricola and Mother Bunch, who had been much surprised
at Mdlle. de Cardoville’s condescension with regard to the grisette.
Immediately after the departure of Adrienne, Agricola had knelt down
beside Mother Bunch, and said to her, with profound emotion: “We are
alone, and I can at length tell you what weighs upon my heart. This act
is too cruel--to die of misery and despair, and not to send to me for
assistance.”
“Listen to me, Agricola--”
“No, there is no excuse for this. What! we called each other by the
names of brother and sister, and for fifteen years gave every proof of
sincere affection--and, when the day of misfortune comes, you quit life
without caring for those you must leave behind--without considering that
to kill yourself is to tell them they are indifferent to you!”
“Forgive me, Agricola! it is true. I had never thought of that,” said
the workgirl, casting down her eyes; “but poverty--want of work--”
“Misery! want of work! and was I not here?”
“And despair!”
“But why despair? This generous young lady had received you in her
house; she knew your worth, and treated you as her friend--and just at
the moment when you had every chance of happiness, you leave the house
abruptly, and we remain in the most horrible anxiety on your account.”
“I feared--to be--to be a burden to my benefactress,” stammered she.
“You a burden to Mdlle. de Cardoville, that is so rich and good!”
“I feared to be indiscreet,” said the sewing-girl, more and more
embarrassed.
Instead of answering his adopted sister, Agricola remained silent, and
contemplated her for some moments with an undefinable expression; then
he exclaimed suddenly, as if replying to a question put by himself: “She
will forgive me for disobeying her.--I am sure of it.”
He next turned towards Mother Bunch, who was looking at him in
astonishment, and said to her in a voice of emotion: “I am too frank
to keep up this deception. I am reproaching you--blaming you--and my
thoughts are quite different.”
“How so, Agricola?”
“My heart aches, when I think of the evil I have done you.”
“I do not understand you, my friend; you have never done me any evil.”
“What! never? even in little things? when, for instance, yielding to a
detestable habit, I, who loved and respected you as my sister, insulted
you a hundred times a day?”
“Insulted me!”
“Yes--when I gave you an odious and ridiculous nickname, instead of
calling you properly.”
At these words, Mother Bunch looked at the smith in the utmost alarm,
trembling lest he had discovered her painful secret, notwithstanding
the assurance she had received from Mdlle. de Cardoville. Yet she calmed
herself a little when she reflected, that Agricola might of himself have
thought of the humiliation inflicted on her by calling her Mother Bunch,
and she answered him with a forced smile. “Can you be grieved at so
small a thing? It was a habit, Agricola, from childhood. When did your
good and affectionate mother, who nevertheless loved me as her daughter,
ever call me anything else?”
“And did my mother consult you about my marriage, speak to you of the
rare beauty of my bride, beg you to come and see her, and study her
character, in the hope that the instinct of your affection for me would
warn you--if I made a bad choice? Did my mother have this cruelty?--No;
it was I, who thus pierced your heart!”
The fears of the hearer were again aroused; there could be but little
doubt that Agricola knew her secret. She felt herself sinking with
confusion; yet, making a last effort not to believe the discovery, she
murmured in a feeble voice: “True, Agricola! It was not your mother, but
yourself, who made me that request--and I was grateful to you for such a
mark of confidence.”
“Grateful, my poor girl!” cried the smith, whilst his eyes filled
with tears; “no, it is not true. I pained you fearfully--I was
merciless--heaven knows, without being aware of it!”
“But,” said the other, in a voice now almost unintelligible, “what makes
you think so?”
“Your love for me!” cried the smith, trembling with emotion, as he
clasped Mother Bunch in a brotherly embrace.
“Oh heaven!” murmured the unfortunate creature, as she covered her face
with her hands, “he knows all.”
“Yes, I know all,” resumed Agricola, with an expression of ineffable
tenderness and respect: “yes, I know all, and I will not have you blush
for a sentiment, which honors me, and of which I feel so justly proud.
Yes, I know all; and I say to myself with joy and pride, that the best,
the most noble heart in the world is mine--will be mine always. Come,
Magdalen; let us leave shame to evil passions. Raise your eyes, and look
at me! You know, if my countenance was ever false--if it ever reflected
a feigned emotion. Then look and tell me, if you cannot read in my
features, how proud I am, Magdalen, how justly proud of your love!”
Overwhelmed with grief and confusion, Mother Bunch had not dared to look
on Agricola; but his words expressed so deep a conviction, the tones of
his voice revealed so tender an emotion, that the poor creature felt her
shame gradually diminish, particularly when Agricola added, with rising
animation: “Be satisfied, my sweet, my noble Magdalen; I will be worthy
of this love. Believe me, it shall yet cause you as much happiness as it
has occasioned tears. Why should this love be a motive for estrangement,
confusion, fear? For what is love, in the sense in which it is held
by your generous heart? Is it not a continual exchange of devotion,
tenderness, esteem, of mutual and blind confidence?--Why, Magdalen!
we may have all this for one another--devotion, tenderness,
confidence--even more than in times past; for, on a thousand occasions,
your secret inspired you with fear and suspicion--while, for the future,
on the contrary, you will see me take such delight in the place I fill
in your good and valiant heart, that you will be happy in the happiness
you bestow. What I have just said may seem very selfish and conceited;
so much the worse! I do not know how to lie.”
The longer the smith spoke, the less troubled became Mother Bunch. What
she had above all feared in the discovery of her secret was to see it
received with raillery, contempt, or humiliating compassion; far from
this, joy and happiness were distinctly visible on the manly and
honest face of Agricola. The hunchback knew him incapable of deception;
therefore she exclaimed, this time without shame or confusion, but
rather with a sort of pride.
“Every sincere and pure passion is so far good and con soling as to end
by deserving interest and sympathy, when it has triumphed over its first
excess! It is alike honorable to the heart which feels and that which
inspires it!--Thanks to you, Agricola--thanks to the kind words, which
have raised me in my own esteem--I feel that, instead of blushing, I
ought to be proud of this love. My benefactress is right--you are right:
why should I be ashamed of it? Is it not a true and sacred love? To be
near you, to love you, to tell you so, to prove it by constant devotion,
what did I ever desire more? And yet shame and fear, joined with that
dizziness of the brain which extreme misery produces, drove me to
suicide!--But then some allowance must be made for the suspicions of a
poor creature, who has been the subject of ridicule from her cradle.
So my secret was to die with me, unless some unforeseen accident should
reveal it to you; and, in that case, you are right--sure of myself, sure
of you, I ought to have feared nothing. But I may claim some indulgence;
mistrust, cruel mistrust of one’s self makes one doubt others also. Let
us forget all that. Agricola, my generous brother, I will say to you,
as you said to me just now, ‘Look at me; you know my countenance cannot
lie. Look at me: see if I shun your gaze; see if, ever in my life, I
looked so happy’--and yet, even now, I was about to die!”
She spoke the truth. Agricola himself could not have hoped so prompt an
effect from his words. In spite of the deep traces which misery, grief,
and sickness had imprinted on the girl’s features, they now shone with
radiant happiness and serenity, whilst her blue eyes, gentle and pure as
her soul, were fixed, without embarrassment, on those of Agricola.
“Oh! thanks, thanks!” cried the smith, in a rapture of delight: “when I
see you so calm, and so happy, Magdalen, I am indeed grateful.”
“Yes, I am calm, I am happy,” replied she; “and happy I shall be, for
I can now tell you my most secret thoughts. Yes, happy; for this day,
which began so fatally, ends like a divine dream. Far from being afraid,
I now look at you with hope and joy. I have again found my generous
benefactress, and I am tranquil as to the fate of my poor sister.
Oh! shall we not soon see her? I should like her to take part in this
happiness.”
She seemed so happy, that the smith did not dare to inform her of the
death of Cephyse, and reserved himself to communicate the same at a
more fitting opportunity. Therefore he answered: “Cephyse, being the
stronger, has been the more shaken; it will not be prudent, I am told,
to see her to-day.”
“I will wait then. I can repress my impatience, I have so much to say to
you.”
“Dear, gentle Magdalen!”
“Oh, my friend!” cried the girl, interrupting Agricola, with tears of
joy: “I cannot tell you what I feel, when I hear you call me Magdalen.
It is so sweet, so soothing, that my heart expands with delight.”
“Poor girl! how dreadfully she must have suffered!” cried the smith,
with inexpressible emotion, “when she displays so much happiness, so
much gratitude, at being called by her own poor name!”
“But consider, my friend; that word in your mouth contains a new life
for me. If you only knew what hopes, what pleasures I can now see
gleaming in the future! If you knew all the cherished longings of my
tenderness! Your wife, the charming Angela, with her angel face and
angel-soul--oh! in my turn, I can say to, you, ‘Look at me, and see how
sweet that name is to my lips and heart!’ Yes, your charming, your
good Angela will call me Magdalen--and your children, Agricola,
your children!--dear little creatures!--to them also I shall be
Magdalen--their good Magdalen--and the love I shall bear them will make
them mine, as well as their mother’s--and I shall have my part in
every maternal care--and they will belong to us three; will they not,
Agricola?--Oh! let me, let me weep! These tears without bitterness do me
so much good; they are tears that need not be concealed. Thank heaven!
thank you, my friend! those other tears are I trust dried forever.”
For some seconds, this affecting scene had been overlooked by an
invisible witness. The smith and Mother Bunch had not perceived Mdlle.
de Cardoville standing on the threshold of the door. As Mother Bunch
had said, this day, which dawned with all under such fatal auspices, had
become for all a day of ineffable felicity. Adrienne, too, was full of
joy, for Djalma had been faithful to her, Djalma loved her with passion.
The odious appearances, of which she had been the dupe and victim,
evidently formed part of a new plot of Rodin, and it only remained for
Mdlle. de Cardoville to discover the end of these machinations.
Another joy was reserved for her. The happy are quick in detecting
happiness in others, and Adrienne guessed, by the hunchback’s last
words, that there was no longer any secret between the smith and the
sempstress. She could not therefore help exclaiming, as she entered:
“Oh! this will be the brightest day of my life, for I shall not be happy
alone!”
Agricola and Mother Bunch turned round hastily. “Lady,” said the smith,
“in spite of the promise I made you, I could not conceal from Magdalen
that I knew she loved me!”
“Now that I no longer blush for this love before Agricola, why should I
blush for it before you, lady, that told me to be proud of it, because
it is noble and pure?” said Mother Bunch, to whom her happiness gave
strength enough to rise, and to lean upon Agricola’s arm.
“It is well, my friend,” said Adrienne, as she threw her arms round her
to support her; “only one word, to excuse the indiscretion with which
you will perhaps reproach me. If I told your secret to M. Agricola--”
“Do you know why it was, Magdalen?” cried the smith, interrupting
Adrienne. “It was only another proof of the lady’s delicate generosity.
‘I long hesitate to confide to you this secret,’ said she to me this
morning, ‘but I have at length made up my mind to it. We shall probably
find your adopted sister; you have been to her the best of brothers:
but many times, without knowing it, you have wounded her feelings
cruelly--and now that you know her secret, I trust in your kind heart to
keep it faithfully, and so spare the poor child a thousand pangs--pangs
the more bitter, because they come from you, and are suffered in
silence. Hence, when you speak to her of your wife, your domestic
happiness, take care not to gall that noble and tender heart.’--Yes,
Magdalen, these were the reasons that led the lady to commit what she
called an indiscretion.”
“I want words to thank you now and ever,” said Mother Bunch.
“See, my friend,” replied Adrienne, “how often the designs of the wicked
turn against themselves. They feared your devotion to me, and therefore
employed that unhappy Florine to steal your journal--”
“So as to drive me from your house with shame, lady, When I supposed my
most secret thoughts an object of ridicule to all. There can be no doubt
such was their plan,” said Mother Bunch.
“None, my child. Well! this horrible wickedness, which nearly caused
your death, now turns to the confusion of the criminals. Their plot is
discovered--and, luckily, many other of their designs,” said Adrienne,
as she thought of Rose-Pompon.
Then she resumed, with heartfelt joy: “At last, we are again united,
happier than ever, and in our very happiness we shall find new resources
to combat our enemies. I say our enemies--for all that love me are
odious to these wretches. But courage, the hour is come, and the good
people will have their turn.”
“Thank heaven, lady,” said the smith; “or my part, I shall not be
wanting in zeal. What delight to strip them of their mask!”
“Let me remind you, M. Baudoin, that you have an appointment for to
morrow with M. Hardy.”
“I have not forgotten it, lady, any more than the generous offers I am
to convey to him.”
“That is nothing. He belongs to my family. Tell him (what indeed I
shall write to him this evening), that the funds necessary to reopen his
factory are at his disposal; I do not say so for his sake only, but for
that of a hundred families reduced to want. Beg him to quit immediately
the fatal abode to which they have taken him: for a thousand reasons he
should be on his guard against all that surround him.”
“Be satisfied, lady. The letter he wrote to me in reply to the one I got
secretly delivered to him, was short, affectionate, sad--but he grants
me the interview I had asked for, and I am sure I shall be able to
persuade him to leave that melancholy dwelling, and perhaps to depart
with me, he has always had so much confidence in my attachment.”
“Well, M. Baudoin, courage!” said Adrienne, as she threw her cloak over
the workgirl’s shoulders, and wrapped her round with care. “Let us be
gone, for it is late. As soon as we get home, I will give you a letter
for M. Hardy, and to-morrow you will come and tell me the result of your
visit. No, not to-morrow,” she added, blushing slightly. “Write to me
to-morrow, and the day after, about twelve, come to me.”
Some minutes later, the young sempstress, supported by Agricola and
Adrienne, had descended the stairs of that gloomy house, and, being
placed in the carriage by the side of Mdlle. de Cardoville, she
earnestly entreated to be allowed to see Cephyse; it was in vain that
Agricola assured her it was impossible, and that she should see her the
next day. Thanks to the information derived from Rose-Pompon, Mdlle. de
Cardoville was reasonably suspicious of all those who surrounded Djalma,
and she therefore took measures, that, very evening, to have a letter
delivered to the prince by what she considered a sure hand.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE TWO CARRIAGES.
It is the evening of the day on which Mdlle. de Cardoville prevented the
sewing-girl’s suicide. It strikes eleven; the night is dark; the
wind blows with violence, and drives along great black clouds, which
completely hide the pale lustre of the moon. A hackney-coach, drawn by
two broken-winded horses, ascends slowly and with difficulty the slope
of the Rue Blanche, which is pretty steep near the barrier, in the part
where is situated the house occupied by Djalma.
The coach stops. The coachman, cursing the length of an interminable
drive “within the circuit,” leading at last to this difficult ascent,
turns round on his box, leans over towards the front window of the
vehicle, and says in a gruff tone to the person he is driving: “Come!
are we almost there? From the Rue de Vaugirard to the Barriere Blanche,
is a pretty good stretch, I think, without reckoning that the night
is so dark, that one can hardly see two steps before one--and the
street-lamps not lighted because of the moon, which doesn’t shine, after
all!”
“Look out for a little door with a portico-drive on about twenty yards
beyond--and then stop close to the wall,” answered a squeaking voice,
impatiently, and with an Italian accent.
“Here is a beggarly Dutchman, that will make me as savage as a bear?”
muttered the angry Jehu to himself. Then he added: “Thousand thunders!
I tell you that I can’t see. How the devil can I find out your little
door?”
“Have you no sense? Follow the wall to the right, brush against it, and
you will easily find the little door. It is next to No. 50. If you do
not find it, you must be drunk,” answered the Italian, with increased
bitterness.
The coachman only replied by swearing like a trooper, and whipping up
his jaded horses. Then, keeping close to the wall, he strained his eyes
in trying to read the numbers of the houses, by the aid of his carriage
lamps.
After some moments, the coach again stopped. “I have passed No. 50, and
here is a little door with a portico,” said the coachman. “Is that the
one?”
“Yes,” said the voice. “Now go forward some twenty yards, and then
stop.”
“Well! I never--”
“Then get down from your box, and give twice three knocks at the little
door we have just passed--you understand me?--twice three knocks.”
“Is that all you give me to drink?” cried the exasperated coachman.
“When you have taken me back to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where I
live, you shall have something handsome, if you do but manage matters
well.”
“Ha! now the Faubourg Saint-Germain! Only that little bit of distance!”
said the driver, with repressed rage. “And I who have winded my horses,
wanted to be on the boulevard by the time the play was out. Well,
I’m blowed!” Then, putting a good face on his bad luck, and consoling
himself with the thought of the promised drink-money, he resumed: “I am
to give twice three knocks at the little door?”
“Yes; three knocks first--then pause--then three other knocks. Do you
understand?”
“What next?”
“Tell the person who comes, that he is waited for, and bring him here to
the coach.”
“The devil burn you!” said the coachman to himself, as he turned round
on the box, and whipped up his horses, adding: “this crusty old Dutchman
has something to do with Free-masons, or, perhaps, smugglers, seeing we
are so near the gates. He deserves my giving him in charge, for bringing
me all the way from the Rue de Vaugirard.”
At twenty steps beyond the little door, the coach again stopped, and the
coachman descended from the box to execute the orders he had received.
Going to the little door, he knocked three times; then paused, as he had
been desired, and then knocked three times more. The clouds, which had
hitherto been so thick as entirely to conceal the disk of the moon, just
then withdrew sufficiently to afford a glimmering light, so that when
the door opened at the signal, the coachman saw a middle-sized person
issue from it, wrapped in a cloak, and wearing a colored cap.
This man carefully locked the door, and then advanced two steps into the
street. “They are waiting for you,” said the coachman; “I am to take you
along with me to the coach.”
Preceding the man with the cloak, who only answered him by a nod, he led
him to the coach-door, which he was about to open, and to let down the
step, when the voice exclaimed from the inside: “It is not necessary.
The gentleman may talk to me through the window. I will call you when it
is time to start.”
“Which means that I shall be kept here long enough to send you to all
the devils!” murmured the driver. “However, I may as well walk about,
just to stretch my legs.”
So saying, he began to walk up and down, by the side of the wall in
which was the little door. Presently he heard the distant sound of
wheels, which soon came nearer and nearer, and a carriage, rapidly
ascending the slope, stopped on the other side of the little
garden-door.
“Come, I say! a private carriage!” said the coachman. “Good horses
those, to come up the Rue Blanche at a trot.”
The coachman was just making this observation, when, by favor of a
momentary gleam of light, he saw a man step from the carriage, advance
rapidly to the little door, open it, and go in, closing it after him.
“It gets thicker and thicker!” said the coachman. “One comes out, and
the other goes in.”
So saying, he walked up to the carriage. It was splendidly harnessed,
and drawn by two handsome and vigorous horses. The driver sat
motionless, in his great box-coat, with the handle of his whip resting
on his right knee.
“Here’s weather to drive about in, with such tidy dukes as yours,
comrade!” said the humble hackney-coachman to this automaton, who
remained mute and impassible, without even appearing to know that he was
spoken to.
“He doesn’t understand French--he’s an Englishman. One could tell that
by his horses,” said the coachman, putting this interpretation on the
silence of his brother whip. Then, perceiving a tall footman at a little
distance, dressed in a long gray livery coat, with blue collar and
silver buttons, the coachman addressed himself to him, by way of
compensation, but without much varying his phrase: “Here’s nice weather
to stand about in, comrade!” On the part of the footman, he was met with
the same imperturbable silence.
“They’re both Englishmen,” resumed the coachman, philosophically;
and, though somewhat astonished at the incident of the little door, he
recommenced his walk in the direction of his own vehicle.
While these facts were passing, the man in the cloak, and the man with
the Italian accent continued their conversation, the one still in the
coach, and the other leaning with his hand on the door. It had already
lasted for some time, and was carried on in Italian. They were evidently
talking of some absent person, as will appear from the following.
“So,” said the voice from the coach, “that is agreed to?”
“Yes, my lord,” answered the man in the cloak; “but only in case the
eagle should become a serpent.”
“And, in the contrary event, you will receive the other half of the
ivory crucifix I gave you.”
“I shall know what it means, my lord.”
“Continue to merit and preserve his confidence.”
“I will merit and preserve it, my lord, because I admire and respect
this man, who is stronger than the strongest, by craft, and courage, and
will. I have knelt before him with humility, as I would kneel before one
of the three black idols that stand between Bowanee and her worshippers;
for his religion, like mine, teaches to change life into nothingness.”
“Humph!” said the voice, in a tone of some embarrassment; “these
comparisons are useless and inaccurate. Only think of obeying him,
without explaining your obedience.”
“Let him speak, and I perform his will! I am in his hands like a corpse,
as he himself expresses it. He has seen, he sees every day, my devotion
to his interests with regard to Prince Djalma. He has only to say: ‘Kill
him!’ and this son of a king--”
“For heaven’s salve, do not have such ideas!” cried the voice,
interrupting the man in the cloak. “Thank heaven, you will never be
asked for such proofs of your submission.”
“What I am ordered I do. Bowanee sees me.”
“I do not doubt your zeal. I know that you are a loving and intelligent
barrier, placed between the prince and many guilty interests; and it is
because I have heard of that zeal, of your skill in circumventing this
young Indian, and, above all, of the motives of your blind devotion,
that I have wished to inform you of everything. You are the fanatical
worshipper of him you serve. That is well; man should be the obedient
slave of the god he chooses for himself.”
“Yes, my lord; so long as the god remains a god.”
“We understand each other perfectly. As for your recompense, you know
what I have promised.”
“My lord, I have my reward already.”
“How so?”
“I know what I know.”
“Very well. Then as for secrecy--”
“You have securities, my lord.”
“Yes--and sufficient ones.”
“The interest of the cause I serve, my lord, would alone be enough to
secure my zeal and discretion.”
“True; you are a man of firm and ardent convictions.”
“I strive to be so, my lord.”
“And, after all, a very religious man in your way. It is very
praiseworthy, in these irreligious times, to have any views at all on
such matters--particularly when those views will just enable me to count
upon your aid.”
“You may count upon it, my lord, for the same reason that the intrepid
hunter prefers a jackal to ten foxes, a tiger to ten jackals, a lion to
ten tigers, and the welmiss to ten lions.”
“What is the welmiss?”
“It is what spirit is to matter, the blade to the scabbard, the perfume
to the flower, the head to the body.”
“I understand. There never was a more just comparison. You are a man of
sound judgment. Always recollect what you have just told me, and make
yourself more and more worthy of the confidence of--your idol.”
“Will he soon be in a state to hear me, my lord?”
“In two or three days, at most. Yesterday a providential crisis saved
his life; and he is endowed with so energetic a will, that his cure will
be very rapid.”
“Shall you see him again to-morrow, my lord?”
“Yes, before my departure, to bid him farewell.”
“Then tell him a strange circumstance, of which I have not been able to
inform him, but which happened yesterday.”
“What was it?”
“I had gone to the garden of the dead. I saw funerals everywhere, and
lighted torches, in the midst of the black night, shining upon tombs.
Bowanee smiled in her ebon sky. As I thought of that divinity of
destruction, I beheld with joy the dead-cart emptied of its coffins.
The immense pit yawned like the mouth of hell; corpses were heaped
upon corpses, and still it yawned the same. Suddenly, by the light of a
torch, I saw an old man beside me. He wept. I had seen him before. He is
a Jew--the keeper of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois--you know what
I mean.” Here the man in the cloak started.
“Yes, I know; but what is the matter? why do you stop short?”
“Because in that house there has been for a hundred and fifty years the
portrait of a man whom I once met in the centre of India, on the banks
of the Ganges.” And the man in the cloak again paused and shuddered.
“A singular resemblance, no doubt.”
“Yes, my lord, a singular resemblance--nothing more.”
“But the Jew--the old Jew?”
“I am coming to that, my lord. Still weeping, he said to a gravedigger,
‘Well! and the coffin?’ ‘You were right,’ answered the man; ‘I found it
in the second row of the other grave. It had the figure of a cross on
it, formed by seven black nails. But how could you know the place and
the mark?’ ‘Alas! it is no matter,’ replied the old Jew, with bitter
melancholy. ‘You see that I was but too well informed on the subject.
But where is the coffin?’ ‘Behind the great tomb of black marble; I have
hidden it there. So make haste; for, in the confusion, nothing will be
noticed. You have paid me well, and I wish you to succeed in what you
require.’”
“And what did the old Jew do with the coffin marked with the seven black
nails?”
“Two men accompanied him, my lord, bearing a covered litter, with
curtains drawn round it. He lighted a lantern, and, followed by these
two men, went towards the place pointed out by the gravedigger. A
stoppage, occasioned by the dead-carts, made me lose sight of the old
Jew, whom I was following amongst the tombs. Afterwards I was unable to
find him.”
“It is indeed a strange affair. What could this old Jew want with the
coffin?”
“It is said, my lord, that they use dead bodies in preparing their magic
charms.”
“Those unbelievers are capable of anything--even of holding
communication with the Enemy of mankind. However, we will look after
this: the discovery may be of importance.”
At this instant a clock struck twelve in the distance.
“Midnight! already?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I must be gone. Good-bye--but for the last time swear to me that,
should matters so turn out, as soon as you receive the other half of the
ivory crucifix I have just given you, you will keep your promise.”
“I have sworn it by Bowanee, my lord.”
“Don’t forget that, to make all sure, the person who will deliver to you
the other half of the crucifix is to say--come, what is he to say?”
“He is to say, my lord: ‘There is many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the
lip.’”
“Very well. Adieu! secrecy and fidelity!”
“Secrecy and fidelity, my lord,” answered the man in the cloak.
Some seconds after the hackney-coach started, carrying with it Cardinal
Malipieri, one of the speakers in the above dialogue. The other, whom
the reader has no doubt recognized as Faringhea, returned to the little
garden-door of the house occupied by Djalma. At the moment he
was putting the key into the lock, the door opened, to his great
astonishment, and a man came forth. Faringhea rushed upon the unknown,
seized him violently by the collar, and exclaimed: “Who are you? whence
came you?”
The stranger evidently found the tone of this question anything but
satisfactory; for, instead of answering, he struggled to disengage
himself from Faringhea’s hold, and cried out, in a loud voice: “Help!
Peter!”
Instantly the carriage, which had been standing a few yards off, dashed
up at full speed, and Peter, the tall footman, seizing the half-breed by
the shoulders, flung him back several paces, and thus made a seasonable
diversion in favor of the unknown.
“Now, sir,” said the latter to Faringhea, shaking himself, and still
protected by the gigantic footman, “I am in a state to answer your
questions, though you certainly have a very rough way of receiving an
old acquaintance. I am Dupont, ex-bailiff of the estate of Cardoville,
and it was I who helped to fish you out of the water, when the ship was
wrecked in which you had embarked.”
By the light of the carriage-lamps, indeed, the half-caste
recognized the good, honest face of Dupont, formerly bailiff, and now
house-steward, to Mdlle. de Cardoville. It must not be forgotten that
Dupont had been the first to write to Mdlle. de Cardoville, to ask her
to interest herself for Djalma, who was then detained at Cardoville
Castle by the injuries he had received during the shipwreck.
“But, sir, what is your business here? Why do you introduce yourself
clandestinely into this house?” said Faringhea, in an abrupt and
suspicious tone.
“I will--just observe to you that there is nothing clandestine in the
matter. I came here in a carriage, with servants in the livery of my
excellent mistress, Mdlle. de Cardoville, charged by her, without any
disguise or mystery, to deliver a letter to Prince Djalma, her cousin,”
replied Dupont, with dignity.
On these words, Faringhea trembled with mute rage, as he answered: “And
why, sir, come at this late hour, and introduce yourself by this little
door?”
“I came at this hour, my dear sir, because such was Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s command, and I entered by this little gate because there is
every reason to believe that if I had gone around to the other I should
not have been permitted to see the prince.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied the half-caste.
“It is possible: but as we knew that the prince usually passed a good
portion of the night in the little saloon, which communicates with the
greenhouse, and as Mdlle. de Cardoville had kept a duplicate key of this
door, I was pretty certain, by taking this course, to be able to deliver
into the prince’s own hands the letter from Mdlle. de Cardoville, his
cousin, which I have now had the honor of doing, my dear sir; and I have
been deeply touched by the kindness with which the prince deigned to
receive me and to remember our last interview.”
“And who kept you so well informed, sir, of the prince’s habits?” said
Faringhea, unable to control his vexation.
“If I have been well informed as to his habits, my dear sir, I have had
no such correct knowledge of yours,” answered Dupont, with a mocking
air; “for I assure you that I had no more notion of seeing you than you
had of seeing me.”
So saying, M. Dupont bowed with something like mock politeness to the
half-caste, and got into the carriage, which drove off rapidly, leaving
Faringhea in a state of the utmost surprise and anger.
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE APPOINTMENT.
The morning after--Dupont’s mission to Prince Djalma, the latter was
walking with hasty and impatient step up and down the little saloon,
which communicated, as we already know, with the greenhouse from which
Adrienne had entered when she first appeared to him. In remembrance of
that day, he had chosen to dress himself as on the occasion in question;
he wore the same tunic of white cashmere, with a cherry-colored turban,
to match with his girdle; his gaiters, of scarlet velvet, embroidered
with silver, displayed the fine form of his leg, and terminated in small
white morocco slippers, with red heels. Happiness has so instantaneous,
and, as it were, material an influence upon young, lively, and ardent
natures, that Djalma, dejected and despairing only the day before,
was no longer like the same person. The pale, transparent gold of his
complexion was no longer tarnished by a livid hue. His large eyes, of
late obscured like black diamonds by a humid vapor, now shone with mild
radiance in the centre of their pearly setting; his lips, long pale,
had recovered their natural color, which was rich and soft as the fine
purple flowers of his country.
Ever and anon, pausing in his hasty walk, he stopped suddenly, and
drew from his bosom a little piece of paper, carefully folded, which he
pressed to his lips with enthusiastic ardor. Then, unable to restrain
the expression of his full happiness, he uttered a full and sonorous
cry of joy, and with a bound he was in front of the plate-glass which
separated the saloon from the conservatory, in which he had first seen
Mdlle. de Cardoville. By a singular power of remembrance, or marvellous
hallucination of a mind possessed by a fixed idea, Djalma had often
seen, or fancied he saw, the adored semblance of Adrienne appear to him
through this sheet of crystal. The illusion had been so complete, that,
with his eyes ardently fixed on the vision he invoked, he had been able,
with the aid of a pencil dipped in carmine, to trace with astonishing
exactness, the profile of the ideal countenance which the delirium
of his imagination had presented to his view.(42) It was before
these delicate lines of bright carmine that Djalma now stood in deep
contemplation, after perusing and reperusing, and raising twenty times
to his lips, the letter he had received the night before from the hands
of Dupont. Djalma was not alone. Faringhea watched all the movements
of the prince, with a subtle, attentive, and gloomy aspect. Standing
respectfully in a corner of the saloon, the half-caste appeared to be
occupied in unfolding and spreading out Djalma’s sash, light, silky
Indian web, the brown ground of which was almost entirely concealed by
the exquisite gold and silver embroidery with which it was overlaid.
The countenance of the half-caste wore a dark and gloomy expression.
He could not deceive himself. The letter from Mdlle. de Cardoville,
delivered by Dupont to Djalma, must have been the cause of the delight
he now experienced, for, without doubt, he knew himself beloved. In that
event, his obstinate silence towards Faringhea, ever since the latter
had entered the saloon, greatly alarmed the half-caste, who could not
tell what interpretation to put upon it. The night before, after parting
with Dupont, he had hastened, in a state of anxiety easily understood,
to look for the prince, in the hope of ascertaining the effect produced
by Mdlle. de Cardoville’s letter. But he found the parlor door closed,
and when he knocked, he received no answer from within. Then, though the
night was far advanced, he had dispatched a note to Rodin, in which he
informed him of Dupont’s visit and its probable intention. Djalma had
indeed passed the night in a tumult of happiness and hope, and a fever
of impatience quite impossible to describe. Repairing to his bed-chamber
only towards the morning, he had taken a few moments of repose, and had
then dressed himself without assistance.
Many times, but in vain, the half-caste had discreetly knocked at
the door of Djalma’s apartment. It was only in the early part of the
afternoon that the prince had rung the bell to order his carriage to be
ready by half-past two. Faringhea having presented himself, the prince
had given him the order without looking at him, as he might have done to
any other of his servants. Was this suspicion, aversion, or mere absence
of mind on the part of Djalma? Such were the questions which the half
caste put to himself with growing anguish; for the designs of which he
was the most active and immediate instrument might all be ruined by the
least suspicion in the prince.
“Oh! the hours--the hours--how slow they are!” cried the young Indian,
suddenly, in a low and trembling voice.
“The day before yesterday, my lord, you said the hours were very long,”
observed Faringhea, as he drew near Djalma in order to attract his
attention. Seeing that he did not succeed in this he advanced a few
steps nearer, and resumed: “Your joy seems very great, my lord; tell the
cause of it to your poor and faithful servant, that he also may rejoice
with you.”
If he heard the words, Djalma did not pay any attention to them. He made
no answer, and his large black eyes gazed upon vacancy. He seemed to
smile admiringly upon some enchanting vision, and he folded his two
hands upon his bosom, in the attitude which his countrymen assume at
the hour of prayer. After some instants of contemplation, he said: “What
o’clock is it?”--but he asked this question of himself, rather than of
any third person.
“It will soon be two o’clock, my lord,” said Faringhea.
Having heard this answer, Djalma seated himself, and hid his face in his
hands, as if completely absorbed in some ineffable meditation. Urged on
by his growing anxiety, and wishing at any cost to attract the attention
of Djalma, Faringhea approached still nearer to him, and, almost certain
of the effect of the words he was about to utter, said to him in a slow
and emphatic voice: “My lord, I am sure that you owe the happiness which
now transports you to Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
Hardly had this name been pronounced, than Djalma started from his
chair, looked the half-breed full in the face, and exclaimed, as if only
just aware of his presence, “Faringhea! you here!--what is the matter?”
“Your faithful servant shares in your joy, my lord.”
“What joy?”
“That which the letter of Mdlle. de Cardoville has occasioned, my lord.”
Djalma returned no answer, but his eye shone with so much serene
happiness, that the half-caste recovered from his apprehensions. No
cloud of doubt or suspicion obscured the radiant features of the prince.
After a few moments of silence, Djalma fixed upon the half-caste a look
half-veiled with a tear of joy, and said to him, with the expression of
one whose heart overflows with love and happiness: “Oh! such delight is
good--great--like heaven!--for it is heaven which--”
“You deserve this happiness, my lord, after so many sufferings.”
“What sufferings?--Oh! yes. I formerly suffered at Java; but that was
years ago.”
“My lord, this great good fortune does not astonish me. What have I
always told you? Do not despair; feign a violent passion for some other
woman, and then this proud young lady--”
At these words Djalma looked at the half-caste with so piercing a
glance, that the latter stopped short; but the prince said to him with
affectionate goodness, “Go on! I listen.”
Then, leaning his chin upon his hand, and his elbow on his knee, he
gazed so intently on Faringhea, and yet with such unutterable mildness,
that even that iron soul was touched for a moment with a slight feeling
of remorse.
“I was saying, my lord,” he resumed, “that by following the counsels of
your faithful slave, who persuaded you to feign a passionate love for
another woman, you have brought the proud Mdlle. de Cardoville to come
to you. Did I not tell you it would be so?”
“Yes, you did tell me so,” answered Djalma, still maintaining the same
position, and examining the half-caste with the same fixed and mild
attention.
The surprise of Faringhea increased; generally, the prince, without
treating him with the least harshness, preserved the somewhat distant
and imperious manners of their common country, and he had never before
spoken to him with such extreme mildness. Knowing all the evil he
had done the prince, and suspicious as the wicked must ever be, the
half-caste thought for a moment, that his master’s apparent kindness
might conceal a snare. He continued, therefore, with less assurance,
“Believe me, my lord, this day, if you do but know how to profit by your
advantages, will console you for all your troubles, which have indeed
been great--for only yesterday, though you were generous enough to
forget it, only yesterday you suffered cruelly--but you were not alone
in your sufferings. This proud young lady suffered also!”
“Do you think so?” said Djalma.
“Oh! it is quite sure, my lord. What must she not have felt, when she
saw you at the theatre with another woman!--If she loved you only a
little, she must have been deeply wounded in her self-esteem; if she
loved you with passion, she must have been struck to the heart. At
length, you see, wearied out with suffering, she has come to you.”
“So that, any way, she must have suffered--and that does not move your
pity?” said Djalma, in a constrained, but still very mild voice.
“Before thinking of others, my lord, I think of your distresses; and
they touch me too nearly to leave me any pity for other woes,” added
Faringhea hypocritically, so greatly had the influence of Rodin already
modified the character of the Phansegar.
“It is strange!” said Djalma, speaking to himself, as he viewed the half
caste with a glance still kind but piercing.
“What is strange, my lord?”
“Nothing. But tell me, since your advice has hitherto prospered so well,
what think you of the future?”
“Of the future, my lord?”
“Yes; in an hour I shall be with Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“That is a serious matter, my lord. The whole future will depend upon
this interview.”
“That is what I was just thinking.”
“Believe me, my lord, women never love any so well, as the bold man who
spares them the embarrassment of a refusal.”
“Explain more fully.”
“Well, my lord, they despise the timid and languishing lover, who asks
humbly for what he might take by force.”
“But to-day I shall meet Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time.”
“You have met her a thousand times in your dreams, my lord; and depend
upon it, she has seen you also in her dreams, since she loves you. Every
one of your amorous thoughts has found an echo in her heart. All your
ardent adorations have been responded to by her. Love has not two
languages, and, without meeting, you have said all that you had to say
to each other. Now, it is for you to act as her master, and she will be
yours entirely.”
“It is strange--very strange!” said Djalma, a second time, without
removing his eyes from Faringhea’s face.
Mistaking the sense which the prince attached to these words, the half
caste resumed: “Believe me, my lord, however strange it may appear, this
is the wisest course. Remember the past. Was it by playing the part of a
timid lover that you have brought to your feet this proud young lady,
my lord? No, it was by pretending to despise her, in favor of another
woman. Therefore, let us have no weakness. The lion does not woo like
the poor turtle-dove. What cares the sultan of the desert for a few
plaintive howls from the lioness, who is more pleased than angry at his
rude and wild caresses? Soon submissive, fearful and happy, she follows
in the track of her master. Believe me, my lord--try everything--dare
everything--and to-day you will become the adored sultan of this young
lady, whose beauty all Paris admires.”
After some minutes’ silence, Djalma, shaking his head with an expression
of tender pity, said to the half-caste, in his mild, sonorous voice:
“Why betray me thus? Why advise me thus wickedly to use violence,
terror, and surprise, towards an angel of purity, whom I respect as
my mother? Is it not enough for you to have been so long devoted to my
enemies, whose hatred has followed me from Java?”
Had Djalma sprung upon the half-caste with bloodshot eye, menacing
brow, and lifted poniard, the latter would have been less surprised,
and perhaps less frightened, than when he heard the prince speak of his
treachery in this tone of mild reproach.
He drew back hastily, as if about to stand on his guard. But Djalma
resumed, with the same gentleness, “Fear nothing. Yesterday I should
have killed you! But to-day happy love renders me too just, too merciful
for that. I pity you, without any feeling of bitterness--for you must
have been very unhappy, or you could not have become so wicked.”
“My lord!” said the half-caste, with growing amazement.
“Yes, you must have suffered much, and met with little mercy, poor
creature, to have become so merciless, in your hate, and proof against
the sight of a happiness like mine. When I listened to you just now,
and saw the sad perseverance of your hatred, I felt the deepest
commiseration for you.”
“I do not know, my lord--but--” stammered the half-caste, and was unable
to find words to proceed.
“Come, now--what harm have I ever done you?”
“None, my lord,” answered Faringhea.
“Then why do you hate me thus? why pursue me with so much animosity? Was
it not enough to give me the perfidious counsel to feign a shameful love
for the young girl that was brought hither, and who quitted the house
disgusted at the miserable part she was to play?”
“Your feigned love for that young girl, my lord,” replied Faringhea,
gradually recovering his presence of mind, “conquered the coldness of--”
“Do not say that,” resumed the prince, interrupting him with the same
mildness. “If I enjoy this happiness, which makes me compassionate
towards you, and raises me above myself, it is because Mdlle de
Cardoville now knows that I have never for a moment ceased to love her
as she ought to be loved, with adoration and reverence. It was your
intention to have parted us forever, and you had nearly succeeded.”
“If you think this of me, my lord, you must look upon me as your most
mortal enemy.”
“Fear nothing, I tell you. I have no right to blame you. In the madness
of my grief, I listened to you and followed your advice. I was not only
your dupe, but your accomplice. Only confess that, when you saw me at
your mercy, dejected, crushed, despairing, it was cruel in you to advise
the course that might have been most fatal to me.”
“The ardor of my zeal may have deceived me, my lord.”
“I am willing to believe it. And yet again to-day there were the same
evil counsels. You had no more pity for my happiness than for my sorrow.
The rapture of my heart inspires you with only one desire--that of
changing this rapture into despair.”
“I, my lord!”
“Yes, you. It was your intention to ruin me--to dishonor me forever in
the eyes of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Now, tell me--why this furious hate?
what have I done to you?”
“You misjudge me, my lord--and--”
“Listen to me. I do not wish you to be any longer wicked and
treacherous. I wish to make you good. In our country, they charm
serpents, and tame the wildest tigers. You are a man, with a mind to
reason, a heart to love, and I will tame you too by gentleness. This day
has bestowed on me divine happiness; you shall have good cause to bless
this day. What can I do for you? what would you have--gold? You shall
have it. Do you desire more than gold? Do you desire a friend, to
console you for the sorrows that made you wicked, and to teach you to
be good? Though a king’s son, I will be that friend--in spite of the
evil--ay, because of the evil you have done me. Yes; I will be your
sincere friend, and it shall be my delight to say to myself: ‘The day
on which I learned that my angel loved me, my happiness was great
indeed--for, in the morning, I had an implacable enemy, and, ere night,
his hatred was changed to friendship.’ Believe me, Faringhea, misery
makes crime, but happiness produces virtue. Be happy!”
At this moment the clock struck two. The prince started. It was time to
go on his visit to Adrienne. The handsome countenance of Djalma, doubly
embellished by the mild, ineffable expression with which it had been
animated whilst he was talking to the half-caste, now seemed illumined
with almost divine radiance.
Approaching Faringhea, he extended his hand with the utmost, grace and
courtesy, saying to him, “Your hand!”
The half-caste, whose brow was bathed with a cold sweat, whose
countenance was pale and agitated, seemed to hesitate for an instant;
then, overawed, conquered, fascinated, he offered his trembling hand to
the prince, who pressed it, and said to him, in their country’s fashion,
“You have laid your hand honestly in a friend’s; this hand shall never
be closed against you. Faringhea, farewell! I now feel myself more
worthy to kneel before my angel.”
And Djalma went out, on his way to the appointment with Adrienne. In
spite of his ferocity, in spite of the pitiless hate he bore to the
whole human race, the dark sectary of Bowanee was staggered by the noble
and clement words of Djalma, and said to himself, with terror, “I have
taken his hand. He is now sacred for me.”
Then, after a moment’s silence, a thought occurred to him, and he
exclaimed, “Yes--but he will not be sacred for him who, according to the
answer of last night, waits for him at the door of the house.”
So saying, the half-caste hastened into the next room, which looked upon
the street, and, raising a corner of the curtain, muttered anxiously to
himself, “The carriage moves off--the man approaches. Perdition! it is
gone and I see no more.”
CHAPTER XL. ANXIETY.
By a singular coincidence of ideas, Adrienne, like Djalma, had wished
to be dressed exactly in the same costume as at their interview in
the house in the Rue Blanche. For the site of this solemn meeting, so
important to her future happiness, Adrienne had chosen, with habitual
tact, the grand drawing-room of Cardoville House, in which hung many
family portraits. The most apparent were those of her father and mother.
The room was large and lofty, and furnished, like those which preceded
it, with all the imposing splendor of the age of Louis XIV. The ceiling,
painted by Lebrun, to represent the Triumph of Apollo, displayed his
bold designing and vigorous coloring, in the centre of a wide cornice,
magnificently carved and gilt, and supported at its angles by four
large gilt figures, representing the Seasons. Huge panels, covered
with crimson damask, and set in frames, served as the background to the
family portraits which adorned this apartment. It is easier to conceive
than describe the thousand conflicting emotions which agitated the bosom
of Mdlle. de Cardoville as the moment approached for her interview with
Djalma. Their meeting had been hitherto prevented by so many painful
obstacles, and Adrienne was so well aware of the vigilant and active
perfidy of her enemies, that even now she doubted of her happiness.
Every instant, in spite of herself, her eyes wandered to the clock.
A few minutes more, and the hour of the appointment would strike.
It struck at last. Every reverberation was echoed from the depth of
Adrienne’s heart. She considered that Djalma’s modest reserve had,
doubtless, prevented his coming before the moment fixed by herself. Far
from blaming this discretion, she fully appreciated it. But, from that
moment, at the least noise in the adjoining apartments, she held her
breath and listened with the anxiety of expectation.
For the first few minutes which followed the hour at which she expected
Djalma, Mdlle. de Cardoville felt no serious apprehension, and calmed
her impatience by the notion (which appears childish enough to those who
have never known the feverish agitation of waiting for a happy meeting),
that perhaps the clocks in the Rue Blanche might vary a little from
those in the Rue d’Anjou. But when this supposed variation, conceivable
enough in itself, could no longer explain a delay of a quarter of an
hour, of twenty minutes, of more, Adrienne felt her anxiety gradually
increase. Two or three times the young girl rose, with palpitating
heart, and went on tip-toe to listen at the door of the saloon. She
heard nothing. The clock struck half-past three.
Unable to suppress her growing terror, and clinging to a last hope,
Adrienne returned towards the fireplace and rang the bell. After which
she endeavored to compose her features, so as to betray no outward sign
of emotion. In a few seconds, a gray-haired footman, dressed in black,
opened the door, and waited in respectful silence for the orders of his
mistress. The latter said to him, in a calm voice, “Andrew, request Hebe
to give you the smelling bottle that I left on the chimney-piece in my
room, and bring it me here.” Andrew bowed; but just as he was about
to withdraw to execute Adrienne’s orders, which was only a pretext to
enable her to ask a question without appearing to attach much importance
to it in her servant’s eyes, already informed of the expected visit of
the prince, Mdlle. de Cardoville added, with an air of indifference.
“Pray, is that clock right?”
Andrew drew out his watch, and replied as he cast his eyes upon it,
“Yes, mademoiselle. I set my watch by the Tuileries. It is more than
half past three.”
“Very well--thank you!” said Adrienne kindly.
Andrew again bowed; but, before going out, he said to Adrienne, “I
forgot to tell you, lady, that Marshal Simon called about an hour ago;
but, as you were only to be at home to Prince Djalma, we told him that
you received no company.”
“Very well,” said Adrienne. With another low bow, Andrew quitted the
room, and all returned to silence.
For the precise reason that, up to the last minute of the hour previous
to the time fixed for her interview with Djalma, the hopes of
Adrienne had not been disturbed by the slightest shadow of doubt, the
disappointment she now felt was the more dreadful. Casting a desponding
look at one of the portraits placed above her, she murmured, with a
plaintive and despairing accent, “Oh, mother!”
Hardly had Mdlle. de Cardoville uttered the words than the windows were
slightly shaken by a carriage rolling into the courtyard. The young lady
started, and was unable to repress a low cry of joy. Her heart bounded
at the thought of meeting Djalma, for this time she felt that he was
really come. She was quite as certain of it as if she had seen him.
She resumed her seat and brushed away a tear suspended from her long
eyelashes. Her hand trembled like a leaf. The sound of several doors
opening and shutting proved that the young lady was right in her
conjecture. The gilded panels of the drawing-room door soon turned upon
their hinges, and the prince appeared.
While a second footman ushered in Djalma, Andrew placed on a gilded
table, within reach of his mistress, a little silver salver, on which
stood the crystal smelling-bottle. Then he withdrew, and the door of
the room was closed. The prince and Mdlle. de Cardoville were left alone
together.
CHAPTER XLI. ADRIENNE AND DJALMA.
The prince had slowly approached Mdlle. de Cardoville. Notwithstanding
the impetuosity of the Oriental’s passions, his uncertain and timid
step--timid, yet graceful--betrayed his profound emotion. He did not
venture to lift his eyes to Adrienne’s face; he had suddenly become very
pale, and his finely formed hands, folded over his bosom in the attitude
of adoration, trembled violently. With head bent down, he remained
standing at a little distance from Adrienne. This embarrassment,
ridiculous in any other person, appeared touching in this prince of
twenty years of age, endowed with an almost fabulous intrepidity, and of
so heroic and generous a character, that no traveller could speak of
the son of Kadja sing without a tribute of admiration and respect. Sweet
emotion! chaste reserve! doubly interesting if we consider that the
burning passions of this youth were all the more inflammable, because
they had hitherto been held in check.
No less embarrassed than her cousin, Adrienne de Cardoville remained
seated. Like Djalma, she cast down her eyes; but the burning blush on
her cheeks, the quick heaving of her virgin bosom, revealed an emotion
that she did not even attempt to hide. Notwithstanding the powers of her
mind, by turns gay, graceful, and witty--notwithstanding the decision of
her proud and independent character, and her complete acquaintance with
the manners of the world--Adrienne shared Djalma’s simple and enchanting
awkwardness, and partook of that kind of temporary weakness, beneath
which these two pure, ardent, and loving beings appeared sinking--as if
unable to support the boiling agitation of the senses, combined with the
intoxicating excitement of the heart. And yet their eyes had not met.
Each seemed to fear the first electric shock of the other’s glance--that
invincible attraction of two impassioned beings--that sacred fire, which
suddenly kindles the blood, and lifts two mortals from earth to heaven;
for it is to approach the Divinity to give one’s self up with religious
fervor to the most noble and irresistible sentiment that He has
implanted within us--the only sentiment that, in His adorable wisdom,
the Dispenser of all good has vouchsafed to sanctify, by endowing it
with a spark of His own creative energy.
Djalma was the first to raise his eyes. They were moist and sparkling.
The excitement of passionate love, the burning ardor of his age, so long
repressed, the intense admiration in which he held ideal beauty, were
all expressed in his look, mingled with respectful timidity, and gave
to the countenance of this youth an undefinable, irresistible character.
Yes, irresistible!--for, when Adrienne encountered his glance, she
trembled in every limb, and felt herself attracted by a magnetic power.
Already, her eyes were heavy with a kind of intoxicating languor, when,
by a great effort of will and dignity, she succeeded in overcoming
this delicious confusion, rose from her chair, and said to Djalma in
a trembling voice: “Prince, I am happy to receive you here.” Then,
pointing to one of the portraits suspended above her, she added, as if
introducing him to a living person: “Prince--my mother!”
With an instinct of rare delicacy, Adrienne had thus summoned her mother
to be present at her interview with Djalma. It seemed a security
for herself and the prince, against the seductions of a first
interview--which was likely to be all the more perilous, that they both
knew themselves madly loved that they both were free, and had only to
answer to Providence for the treasures of happiness and enjoyment
with which He had so magnificently endowed them. The prince understood
Adrienne’s thoughts; so that, when the young lady pointed to the
portrait, Djalma, by a spontaneous movement full of grace and
simplicity, knelt down before the picture, and said to it in a gentle,
but manly voice: “I will love and revere you as my mother. And, in
thought, my mother too shall be present, and stand like you, beside your
child!”
No better answer could have been given to the feeling which induced
Mdlle. de Cardoville to place herself, as it were, under the protection
of her mother. From that moment, confident in Djalma, confident in
herself, the young lady felt more at her ease, and the delicious sense
of happiness replaced those exciting emotions, which had at first so
violently agitated her.
Then, seating herself once more, she said to Djalma, as she pointed to
the opposite chair: “Pray take a seat, my dear cousin; and allow me to
call you so, for there is too much ceremony in the word prince; and
do you call me cousin also, for I find other names too grave. Having
settled this point, we can talk together like old friends.”
“Yes cousin,” answered Djalma, blushing.
“And, as frankness is proper between friends,” resumed Adrienne, “I have
first to make you a reproach,” she added, with a half-smile.
The prince had remained standing, with his arm resting on the chimney
piece, in an attitude full of grace and respect.
“Yes, cousin,” continued Adrienne, “a reproach, that you will perhaps
forgive me for making. I had expected you a little sooner.”
“Perhaps, cousin, you may blame me for having come so soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“At the moment when I left home, a man, whom I did not know, approached
my carriage, and said to me, with such an air of sincerity that I
believed him: ‘You are able to save the life of a person who has been a
second father to you. Marshal Simon is in great danger, and, to rescue
him, you must follow me on the instant--’”
“It was a snare,” cried Adrienne, hastily. “Marshal Simon was here,
scarcely an hour ago.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Djalma, joyfully, and as if he had been relieved
from a great weight. “Then there will be nothing to sadden this happy
day!”
“But, cousin,” resumed Adrienne, “how came you not to suspect this
emissary?”
“Some words, which afterwards escaped from him, inspired me with
doubts,” answered Djalma: “but at first I followed him, fearing the
marshal might be in danger--for I know that he also has enemies.”
“Now that I reflect on it, you were quite right, cousin, for some new
plot against the marshal was probable enough; and the least doubt was
enough to induce you to go to him.”
“I did so--even though you were waiting for me.”
“It was a generous sacrifice; and my esteem for you is increased by it,
if it could be increased,” said Adrienne, with emotion. “But what became
of this man?”
“At my desire, he got into the carriage with me. Anxious about the
marshal, and in despair at seeing the time wasted, that I was to have
passed with you, cousin, I pressed him with all sorts of questions.
Several times, he replied to me with embarrassment, and then the idea
struck me that the whole might be a snare. Remembering all that they had
already attempted, to ruin me in your opinion, I immediately changed
my course. The vexation of the man who accompanied me then because so
visible, that I ought to have had no doubt upon the subject. Still, when
I thought of Marshal Simon, I felt a kind of vague remorse, which you,
cousin, have now happily set at rest.”
“Those people are implacable!” said Adrienne; “but our happiness will be
stronger than their hate.”
After a moment’s silence, she resumed, with her habitual frankness: “My
dear cousin, it is impossible for me to conceal what I have at heart.
Let us talk for a few seconds of the past, which was made so painful to
us, and then we will forget it forever, like an evil dream.”
“I will answer you sincerely, at the risk of injuring myself,” said the
prince.
“How could you make up your mind to exhibit yourself in public with--?”
“With that young girl?” interrupted Djalma.
“Yes, cousin,” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville, and she waited for Djalma’s
answer with anxious curiosity.
“A stranger to the customs of this country,” said Djalma, without
any embarrassment, for he spoke the truth, “with a mind weakened
with despair, and misled by the fatal counsels of a man devoted to my
enemies, I believed, even as I was told, that, by displaying before
you the semblance of another love, I should excite your jealousy, and
thus--”
“Enough, cousin; I understand it all,” said Adrienne hastily,
interrupting Djalma in her turn, that she might spare him a painful
confession. “I too must have been blinded by despair, not to have
seen through this wicked plot, especially after your rash and intrepid
action. To risk death for the sake of my bouquet!” added Adrienne,
shuddering at the mere remembrance. “But one last question,” she
resumed, “though I am already sure of your answer. Did you receive a
letter that I wrote to you, on the morning of the day in which I saw you
at the theatre?”
Djalma made no reply. A dark cloud passed over his fine countenance,
and, for a second, his features assumed so menacing an expression, that
Adrienne was terrified at the effect produced by her words. But this
violent agitation soon passed away, and Djalma’s brow became once more
calm and serene.
“I have been more merciful that I thought,” said the prince to Adrienne,
who looked at him with astonishment. “I wished to come hither worthy of
you, my cousin. I pardoned the man who, to serve my enemies, had given
me all those fatal counsels. The same person, I am sure, must have
intercepted your letter. Just now, at the memory of the evils he thus
caused me, I, for a moment, regretted my clemency. But then, again, I
thought of your letter of yesterday--and my anger is all gone.”
“Then the sad time of fear and suspicion is over--suspicion, that made
me doubt of your sentiments, and you of mine. Oh, yes! far removed from
us be that fatal past!” cried Adrienne de Cardoville, with deep joy..
Then, as if she had relieved her heart from the last thought of sadness,
she continued: “The future is all your own--the radiant future, without
cloud or obstacle, pure in the immensity of its horizon, and extending
beyond the reach of sight!”
It is impossible to describe the tone of enthusiastic hope which
accompanied these words. But suddenly Adrienne’s features assumed an
expression of touching melancholy, and she added, in a voice of profound
emotion: “And yet--at this hour--so many unfortunate creatures suffer
pain!”
This simple touch of pity for the misfortunes of others, at the
moment when the noble maiden herself attained to the highest point of
happiness, had such an effect on Djalma, that involuntarily he fell
on his knees before Adrienne, clasped his hands together, and turned
towards her his fine countenance, with an almost daring expression.
Then, hiding his face in his hands, he bowed his head without speaking a
single word. There was a moment of deep silence. Adrienne was the first
to break it, as she saw a tear steal through the slender fingers of the
prince.
“My friend! what is the matter?” she exclaimed, as with a movement rapid
as thought, she stooped forward, and taking hold of Djalma’s hands, drew
them from before his face. That face was bathed in tears.
“You weep!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, so much agitated that she kept
the hands of Djalma in her own; and, unable to dry his tears, the young
Hindoo allowed them to flow like so many drops of crystal over the pale
gold of his cheeks.
“There is not in this wide world a happiness like to mine!” said the
prince, in his soft, melodious voice, and with a kind of exhaustion:
“therefore do I feel great sadness, and so it should be. You give me
heaven--and were I to give you the whole earth, it would be but a poor
return. Alas! what can man do for a divinity, but humbly bless and
adore? He can never hope to return the gifts bestowed: and this makes
him suffer--not in his pride--but in his heart!”
Djalma did not exaggerate. He said what he really felt: and the rather
hyperbolical form, familiar to Oriental nations, could alone express his
thought. The tone of his regret was so sincere, his humility so gentle
and full of simplicity, that Adrienne, also moved to tears, answered him
with an effusion of serious tenderness, “My friend, we are both at
the supreme point of happiness. Our future felicity appears to have no
limits, and yet, though derived from different sources, sad reflections
have come to both of us. It is, you see, that there are some sorts of
happiness, which make you dizzy with their own immensity. For a moment,
the heart, the mind, the soul, are incapable of containing so much
bliss; it overflows and drowns us. Thus the flowers sometimes hang their
heads, oppressed by the too ardent rays of the sun, which is yet their
love and life. Oh, my friend! this sadness may be great, but it also
sweet!”
As she uttered these words, the voice of Adrienne grew fainter and
fainter, and her head bowed lower, as if she were indeed sinking beneath
the weight of her happiness. Djalma had remained kneeling before her,
his hands in hers--so that as she thus bent forward, her ivory forehead
and golden hair touched the amber-colored brow and ebon curls of Djalma.
And the sweet, silent tears of the two young lovers flowed together, and
mingled as they fell on their clasped hands.
Whilst this scene was passing in Cardoville House, Agricola had gone to
the Rue de Vaugirard, to deliver a letter from Adrienne to M. Hardy.
CHAPTER XLII. “THE IMITATION.”
As we have already said, M. Hardy occupied a pavilion in the “Retreat”
annexed to the house in the Rue de Vaugirard, inhabited by a goodly
number of the reverend fathers of the Company of Jesus. Nothing could be
calmer and more silent than this dwelling. Every one spoke in whispers,
and the servants themselves had something oily in their words, something
sanctified in their very walk.
Like all that is subject to the chilling and destructive influences of
these men, this mournfully quiet house was entirely wanting in life
and animation. The boarders passed an existence of wearisome and icy
monotony, only broken by the use of certain devotional exercises;
and thus, in accordance with the selfish calculation of the reverend
fathers, the mind, deprived of all nourishment and all external support,
soon began to droop and pine away in solitude. The heart seemed to beat
more slowly, the soul was benumbed, the character weakened; at last,
all freewill, all power of discrimination, was extinguished, and the
boarders, submitting to the same process of self-annihilation as the
novices of the Company, became, like them, mere “corpses” in the hands
of the brotherhood.
The object of these manoeuvres was clear and simple. They secured the
means of obtaining all kinds of donations, the constant aim of the
skillful policy and merciless cupidity of these priests. By the aid of
enormous sums, of which they thus become the possessors or the trustees,
they follow out and obtain the success of their projects, even though
murder, incendiarism, revolt, and all the horrors of civil war, excited
by and through them, should drench in blood the lands over which they
seek to extend their dark dominion.
Such, then, was the asylum of peace and innocence in which Francois
Hardy had taken refuge. He occupied the ground-floor of a summer-house,
which opened upon a portion of the garden. His apartments had been
judiciously chosen, for we know with what profound and diabolical craft
the reverend fathers avail themselves of material influences, to make
a deep impression upon the minds they are moulding to their purpose.
Imagine a prospect bounded by a high wall, of a blackish gray,
half-covered with ivy, the plant peculiar to ruins. A dark avenue of
old yew-trees, so fit to shade the grave with their sepulchral verdure,
extended from this wall to a little semicircle, in front of the
apartment generally occupied by M. Hardy. Two or three mounds of earth,
bordered with box, symmetrically cut, completed the charms of this
garden, which in every respect resembled a cemetery.
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. Though the April sun shone
brightly, its rays, intercepted by the high wall of which we have
spoken, could not penetrate into that portion of the garden, obscure,
damp, and cold as a cavern, which communicated with M. Hardy’s
apartment. The room was furnished with a perfect sense of the
comfortable. A soft carpet covered the floor; thick curtains of dark
green baize, the same color as the walls, sheltered an excellent bed,
and hung in folds about the glass door, which opened on the garden. Some
pieces of mahogany furniture, plain, but very clean and bright, stood
round the room. Above the secretary, placed just in front of the
bed, was a large ivory crucifix, upon a black velvet ground. The
chimney-piece was adorned with a clock, in an ebony case, with
ivory ornaments representing all sorts of gloomy emblems, such as
hour-glasses, scythes, death’s-heads, etc. Now imagine this scene in
twilight, with its solitary and mournful silence, only broken at the
hour of prayer by the lugubrious sound of the bells of the neighboring
chapel, and you will recognize the infernal skill, with which these
dangerous priests know how to turn to account every external object,
when they wish to influence the mind of those they are anxious to gain
over.
And this was not all. After appealing to the senses, it was necessary to
address themselves to the intellect--and this was the method adopted by
the reverend fathers. A single book--but one--was left, as if by chance,
within reach. This book was Thomas a Kempis’ “Imitation.” But as it
might happen that M. Hardy would not have the courage or the desire to
read this book, thoughts and reflections borrowed from its merciless
pages, and written in very large characters, were suspended in black
frames close to the bed, or at other parts within sight, so that,
involuntarily, in the sad leisure of his inactive dejection, the
dweller’s eyes were almost necessarily attracted by them. To that fatal
circle of despairing thoughts they confined the already weakened mind of
this unfortunate man, so long a prey to the most acute sorrow. What
he read mechanically, every instant of the day and night, whenever the
blessed sleep fled from his eyes inflamed with tears, was not enough
merely to plunge the soul of the victim into incurable despair, but also
to reduce him to the corpse-like obedience required by the Society of
Jesus. In that awful book may be found a thousand terrors to operate
on weak minds, a thousand slavish maxims to chain and degrade the
pusillanimous soul.
And now imagine M. Hardy carried wounded into this house; while his
heart, torn by bitter grief and the sense of horrible treachery, bled
even faster than his external injuries. Attended with the utmost care,
and thanks to the acknowledged skill of Dr. Baleinier, M. Hardy soon
recovered from the hurts he had received when he threw himself into the
embers of his burning factory. Yet, in order to favor the projects
of the reverend fathers, a drug, harmless enough in its effects, but
destined to act for a time upon the mind of the patient, and often
employed for that purpose in similar important cases by the pious
doctor, was administered to Hardy, and had kept him pretty long in
a state of mental torpor. To a soul agonized by cruel deceptions, it
appears an inestimable benefit to be plunged into that kind of torpor,
which at least prevents one from dwelling upon the past.
Hardy resigned himself entirely to this profound apathy, and at length
came to regard it as the supreme good. Thus do unfortunate wretches,
tortured by cruel diseases, accept with gratitude the opiate which kills
them slowly, but which at least deadens the sense of pain.
In sketching the portrait of M. Hardy, we tried to give some idea of
the exquisite delicacy of his tender soul, of his painful susceptibility
with regard to anything base or wicked, and of his extreme goodness,
uprightness, and generosity. We now allude to these admirable qualities,
because we must observe, that with him, as with almost all who possess
them, they were not, and could not be, united with an energetic and
resolute character. Admirably persevering in good deeds, the influence
of this excellent man, was insinuating rather than commanding; it was
not by the bold energy and somewhat overbearing will, peculiar to other
men of great and noble heart, that Hardy had realized the prodigy of his
Common Dwelling-house; it was by affectionate persuasion, for with him
mildness took the place of force. At sight of any baseness or injustice,
he did not rouse himself, furious and threatening; but he suffered
intense pain. He did not boldly attack the criminal, but he turned
away from him in pity and sorrow. And then his loving heart, so full of
feminine delicacy, had an irresistible longing for the blessed contact
of dear affections; they alone could keep it alive. Even as a poor,
frail bird dies with the cold, when it can no longer lie close to its
brethren, and receive and communicate the sweet warmth of the maternal
nest. And now this sensitive organization, this extremely susceptible
nature, receives blow after blow from sorrows and deceptions, one of
which would suffice to shake, if it did not conquer, the firmest and
most resolute character. Hardy’s best friend has infamously betrayed
him. His adored mistress has abandoned him.
The house which he had founded for the benefit of his workmen, whom he
loved as brethren, is reduced to a heap of ashes. What then happens? All
the springs of his soul are at once broken. Too feeble to resist
such frightful attacks, too fatally deceived to seek refuge in other
affections, too much discouraged to think of laying the first stone
of any new edifice--this poor heart, isolated from every salutary
influence, finds oblivion of the world and of itself in a kind of gloomy
torpor. And if some remaining instincts of life and affection, at
long intervals, endeavored to rouse themselves within him, and if,
half-opening his mind’s eye, which he had kept closed against the
present, the past, and the future, Hardy looks around him--what does he
see? Only these sentences, so full of terrible despair:
“Thou art nothing but dust and ashes. Grief and tears art thy portion.
Believe not in any son of man. There are no such things as friendship or
ties of kindred. All human affections are false. Die in the morning, and
thou wilt be forgotten before night. Be humble--despise thyself--and
let others despise thee. Think not, reason not, live not--but commit
thy fate to the hands of a superior, who will think and reason for thee.
Weep, suffer, think upon death. Yes, death! always death--that should
be thy thought when thou thinkest--but it is better not to think at all.
Let a feeling of ceaseless woe prepare thy way to heaven. It is only by
sorrow that we are welcome to the terrible God whom we adore!”
Such were the consolations offered to this unfortunate man. Affrighted,
he again closed his eyes, and fell back into his lethargy. As for
leaving this gloomy retreat, he could not, or rather he did not desire
to do so. He had lost the power of will; and then, it must be confessed,
he had finished by getting accustomed to this house, and liked it
well--they paid him such discreet attentions, and yet left him so
much alone with his grief--there reigned all around such a death-like
silence, which harmonized closely with the silence of his heart; and
that was now the tomb of his last love, last friendship, last hope.
All energy was dead within him! Then began that slow, but inevitable
transformation, so judiciously foreseen by Rodin, who directed the whole
of this machination, even in its smallest details. At first alarmed
by the dreadful maxims which surrounded him, M. Hardy had at length
accustomed himself to read them over almost mechanically, just as the
captive, in his mournful hours of leisure, counts the nails in the door
of his prison, or the bars of the grated window. This was already a
great point gained by the reverend fathers.
And soon his weakened mind was struck with the apparent correctness of
these false and melancholy aphorisms.
Thus he read: “Do not count upon the affection of any human
creature”--and he had himself been shamefully betrayed.
“Man is born to sorrow and despair”--and he was himself despairing.
“There is no rest save in the cessation of thought”--and the slumber of
his mind had brought some relief to his pain.
Peepholes, skillfully concealed by the hangings and in the wainscoting
of these apartments, enabled the reverend fathers at all times to see
and hear the boarders, and above all to observe their countenance and
manner, when they believed themselves to be alone. Every exclamation of
grief which escaped Hardy in his gloomy solitude, was repeated to Father
d’Aigrigny by a mysterious listener. The reverend father, following
scrupulously Rodin’s instructions, had at first visited his boarder very
rarely. We have said, that when Father d’Aigrigny wished it, he could
display an almost irresistible power of charming, and accordingly he
threw all his tact and skill into the interviews he had with Hardy,
when he came from time to time to inquire after his health. Informed of
everything by his spies, and aided by his natural sagacity, he soon saw
all the use that might be made of the physical and moral prostration of
the boarder. Certain beforehand that Hardy would not take the hint,
he spoke to him frequently of the gloom of the house, advising him
affectionately to leave it, if he felt oppressed by its monotony, or at
all events to seek beyond its walls for some pleasure and amusement.
To speak of pleasure and amusement to this unfortunate man, was in his
present state to insure a refusal, and so it of course happened. Father
d’Aigrigny did not at first try to gain the recluse’s confidence, nor
did he speak to him of sorrow; but every time he came, he appeared to
take such a tender interest in him, and showed it by a few simple and
well timed words. By degrees, these interviews, at first so rare, became
more frequent and longer. Endowed with a flow of honeyed, insinuating,
and persuasive eloquence, Father d’Aigrigny naturally took for his
theme those gloomy maxims, to which Hardy’s attention was now so often
directed.
Supple, prudent, skillful, knowing that the hermit had hitherto
professed that generous natural religion which teaches the grateful
adoration of God, the love of humanity, the worship of what is just and
good, and which, disdaining dogmas, professes the same veneration for
Marcus Aurelius as for Confucius, for Plato as for Christ, for Moses as
for Lycurgus--Father d’Aigrigny did not at first attempt to convert
him, but began by incessantly reminding him of the abominable deceptions
practised upon him; and, instead of describing such treachery as an
exception in life--instead of trying to calm, encourage, and revive
his drooping soul--instead of exhorting Hardy to seek oblivion and
consolation in the discharge of his duties toward humanity, towards his
brethren, whom he had previously loved and succored--Father d’Aigrigny
strove to inflame the bleeding wounds of the unfortunate man, painted
the human race in the most atrocious blackness, and, by declaring all
men treacherous, ungrateful, wicked, succeeded in rendering his despair
incurable. Having attained this object, the Jesuit took another step.
Knowing Hardy’s admirable goodness of heart, and profiting by the
weakened state of his mind, he spoke to him of the consolation to be
derived by a man overwhelmed with sorrow, from the belief that every one
of his tears, instead of being unfruitful, was in fact agreeable to God,
and might aid in the salvation of souls--the belief, as the reverend
father adroitly added, that by faith alone can sorrow be made useful to
humanity, and acceptable to Divinity.
Whatever impiety, whatever atrocious Machiavelism there was in these
detestable maxims, which make of a loving-kind Deity a being delighted
with the tears of his creatures, was thus skillfully concealed from
Hardy’s eyes, whose generous instincts were still alive. Soon did this
loving and tender soul, whom unworthy priests were driving to a sort of
moral suicide, find a mournful charm in the fiction, that his sorrows
would at least be profitable to other men. It was at first only a
fiction; but the enfeebled mind which takes pleasure in such a fable,
finishes by receiving it as a reality, and by degrees will submit to the
consequences. Such was Hardy’s moral and physical state, when, by means
of a servant who had been bought over, he received from Agricola Baudoin
a letter requesting an interview. Alone, the workman could not have
broken the band of the Jesuit’s pleadings, but he was accompanied by
Gabriel, whose eloquence and reasonings were of a most convincing nature
to a spirit like Hardy’s.
It is unnecessary to point out to the reader, with what dignified
reserve Gabriel had confined himself to the most generous means of
rescuing Hardy from the deadly influence of the reverend fathers. It
was repugnant to the great soul of the young missionary, to stoop to
a revelation of the odious plots of these priests. He would only have
taken this extreme course, had his powerful and sympathetic words have
failed to have any effect on Hardy’s blindness. About a quarter of an
hour had elapsed since Gabriel’s departure, when the servant appointed
to wait on this boarder of the reverend fathers entered and delivered to
him a letter.
“From whom is this?” asked Hardy.
“From a boarder in the house, sir,” answered the servant bowing.
This man had a crafty hypocritical face; he wore his hair combed over
his forehead, spoke in a low voice, and always cast clown his eyes.
Waiting the answer, he joined his hands, and began to twiddle his
thumbs. Hardy opened the letter, and read as follows:
“SIR,--I have only just heard, by mere chance, that you also inhabit
this respectable house: a long illness, and the retirement in which I
live, will explain my ignorance of your being so near. Though we have
only met once, sir, the circumstance which led to that meeting was of so
serious a nature, that I cannot think you have forgotten it.”
Hardy stopped, and tasked his memory for an explanation, and not finding
anything to put him on the right track, he continued to read:
“This circumstance excited in me a feeling of such deep and respectful
sympathy for you, sir, that I cannot resist my anxious desire to wait
upon you, particularly as I learn, that you intend leaving this house to
day--a piece of information I have just derived from the excellent and
worthy Abbe Gabriel, one of the men I most love, esteem, and reverence.
May I venture to hope, sir, that just at the moment of quitting our
common retreat to return to the world, you will deign to receive
favorably the request, however intrusive, of a poor old man, whose life
will henceforth be passed in solitude, and who cannot therefore have
any prospect of meeting you, in that vortex of society which he has
abandoned forever. Waiting the honor of your answer, I beg you to
accept, sir, the assurance of the sentiments of high esteem with which I
remain, sir, with the deepest respect,
“Your very humble and most obedient servant,
“RODIN.”
After reading this letter and the signature of the writer, Hardy
remained for some time in deep thought, without being able to recollect
the name of Rodin, or to what serious circumstances he alluded.
After a silence of some duration, he said to the servant “M. Rodin gave
you this letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And who is M. Rodin?”
“A good old gentleman, who is just recovering from a long illness, that
almost carried him off. Lately, he has been getting better, but he is
still so weak and melancholy, that it makes one sad to see him. It is a
great pity, for there is not a better and more worthy gentleman in the
house--unless it be you, sir,” added the servant, bowing with an air of
flattering respect.
“M. Rodin;” said Hardy, thoughtfully. “It is singular, that I should not
remember the name nor any circumstance connected with it.”
“If you will give me your answer, sir,” resumed the servant, “I will
take it to M. Rodin. He is now with Father d’Aigrigny, to whom he is
bidding farewell.”
“Farewell?”
“Yes, sir, the post-horses have just come.”
“Post-horses for whom?” asked Hardy.
“For Father d’Aigrigny, sir.”
“He is going on a journey then!” said Hardy, with some surprise.
“Oh! he will not, I think be long absent,” said the servant, with a
confidential air, “for the reverend father takes no one with him, and
but very light luggage. No doubt, the reverend father will come to say
farewell to you, sir, before he starts. But what answer shall I give M.
Rodin?”
The letter, just received, was couched in such polite terms--it spoke
of Gabriel with so much respect--that Hardy, urged moreover by a natural
curiosity, and seeing no motive to refuse this interview before quitting
the house, said to the servant: “Please tell M. Rodin, that if he will
give himself the trouble to come to me, I shall be glad to see him.”
“I will let him know immediately, sir,” answered the servant, bowing as
he left the room.
When alone, Hardy, while wondering who this M. Rodin could be, began
to make some slight preparations for his departure. For nothing in the
world would he have passed another night in this house; and, in order
to keep up his courage, he recalled every instant the mild, evangelical
language of Gabriel, just as the superstitious recite certain litanies,
with a view of escaping from temptation.
The servant soon returned, and said: “M. Rodin is here, sir.”
“Beg him to walk in.”
Rodin entered, clad in his long black dressing-gown, and with his
old silk cap in his hand. The servant then withdrew. The day was just
closing. Hardy rose to meet Rodin, whose features he did not at first
distinguish. But as the reverend father approached the window, Hardy
looked narrowly at him for an instant, and then uttered an exclamation,
wrung from him by surprise and painful remembrance. But, recovering
himself from this first movement, Hardy said to the Jesuit, in an
agitated voice: “You here, sir? Oh, you are right! It was indeed a very
serious circumstance that first brought us together.”
“Oh, my dear sir!” said Rodin, in a kindly and unctuous tone; “I was
sure you would not have forgotten me.”
CHAPTER XLIII. PRAYER.
It will doubtless be remembered that Rodin had gone (although a stranger
to Hardy) to visit him at his factory, and inform him of De Blessac’s
shameful treachery--a dreadful blow, which had only preceded by a few
moments a second no less horrible misfortune; for it was in the presence
of Rodin that Hardy had learned the unexpected departure of the woman
he adored. Painful to him must have been the sudden appearance of
Rodin. Yes, thanks to the salutary influence of Gabriel’s counsels, he
recovered himself by degrees, and the contraction of his features being
succeeded by a melancholy calm, he said to Rodin: “I did not indeed
expect to meet you, sir, in this house.”
“Alas, sir!” answered Rodin, with a sigh, “I did not expect to come
hither, probably to end my days beneath this roof, when I went, without
being acquainted with you, but only as one honest man should serve
another, to unveil to you a great infamy.”
“Indeed, sir, you then rendered me a true service; perhaps, in that
painful moment, I did not fully express my gratitude; for, at the same
moment in which you revealed to me the treachery of M. de Blessac--”
“You were overwhelmed by another piece of painful intelligence,” said
Rodin, interrupting M. Hardy; “I shall never forget the sudden arrival
of that poor woman, who, pale and affrighted, and without considering my
presence, came to inform you that a person who was exceedingly dear to
you had quitted Paris abruptly.”
“Yes, sir; and, without stopping to thank you, I set out immediately,”
answered Hardy, with a mournful air.
“Do you know, sir,” said Rodin, after a moment’s silence, “that there
are sometimes very strange coincidences?”
“To what do you allude, sir?”
“While I went to inform you that you were betrayed in so infamous a
manner--I was myself--”
Rodin paused, as if unable to control his deep emotion, and his
countenance wore the expression of such overpowering grief that Hardy
said to him, with interest: “What ails you, sir?”
“Forgive me,” replied Rodin, with a bitter smile. “Thanks to the
ghostly counsels of the angelic Abbe Gabriel, I have reached a sort of
resignation. Still, there are certain memories which affect me with the
most acute pain. I told you,” resumed Rodin, in a firmer voice, “or was
going to tell you, that the very day after that on which I informed you
of the treachery practised against you, I was myself the victim of a
frightful deception. An adopted son--a poor unfortunate child, whom
I had brought up--” He paused again, drew his trembling hand over his
eyes, and added: “Pardon me, sir, for speaking of matters which must
be indifferent to you. Excuse the intrusive sorrow of a poor, broken
hearted old man!”
“I have suffered too much myself, sir, to be indifferent to any kind of
sorrow,” replied Hardy. “Besides, you are no stranger to me--for you
did me a real service--and we both agree in our veneration for the same
young priest.”
“The Abbe Gabriel!” cried Rodin, interrupting Hardy; “ah, sir! he is my
deliverer, my benefactor. If you knew all his care and devotion, during
my long illness, caused by intense grief--if you knew the ineffable
sweetness of his counsels--”
“I know them, sir,” cried Hardy; “oh, yes! I know how salutary is the
influence.”
“In his mouth, sir, the precepts of religion are full of mildness,”
resumed Rodin, with excitement. “Do they not heal and console? do they
not make us love and hope, instead of fear and tremble?”
“Alas, sir! in this very house,” said Hardy, “I have been able to make
the comparison.”
“I was happy enough,” said Rodin, “to have the angelic Abbe Gabriel for
my confessor, or, rather, my confidant.”
“Yes,” replied Hardy, “for he prefers confidence to confession.”
“How well you know him!” said Rodin, in a tone of the utmost simplicity.
Then he resumed: “He is not a man but an angel. His words would convert
the most hardened sinner. Without being exactly impious, I had myself
lived in the profession of what is called Natural Religion; but the
angelic Abbe Gabriel has, by degrees, fixed my wavering belief, given it
body and soul, and, in fact, endowed me with faith.”
“Yes! he is a truly Christian priest--a priest of love and pardon!”
cried Hardy.
“What you say is perfectly true,” replied Rodin; “for I came here almost
mad with grief, thinking only of the unhappy boy who had repaid my
paternal goodness with the most monstrous ingratitude, and sometimes I
yielded to violent bursts of despair, and sometimes sank into a state
of mournful dejection, cold as the grave itself. But, suddenly, the
Abbe Gabriel appeared--and the darkness fled before the dawning of a new
day.”
“You were right, sir; there are strange coincidences,” said Hardy,
yielding more and more to the feeling of confidence and sympathy,
produced by the resemblance of his real position to Rodin’s pretended
one. “And to speak frankly,” he added, “I am very glad I have seen you
before quitting this house. Were I capable of falling back into fits of
cowardly weakness, your example alone would prevent me. Since I listen
to you, I feel myself stronger in the noble path which the angelic Abbe
Gabriel has opened before me, as you so well express it.”
“The poor old man will not then regret having listened to the first
impulse of his heart, which urged him to come to you,” said Robin, with
a touching expression. “You will sometimes remember me in that world to
which you are returning?”
“Be sure of it, sir; but allow me to ask one question: You remain, you
say, in this house?”
“What would you have me do? There reigns here a calm repose, and one is
not disturbed in one’s prayers,” said Rodin, in a very gentle tone. “You
see, I have suffered so much--the conduct of that unhappy youth was
so horrible--he plunged into such shocking excesses--that the wrath of
heaven must be kindled against him. Now I am very old, and it is only by
passing the few days that are left me in fervent prayer that I can hope
to disarm the just anger of the Lord. Oh! prayer--prayer! It was
the Abbe Gabriel who revealed to me all its power and sweetness--and
therewith the formidable duties it imposes.”
“Its duties are indeed great and sacred,” answered Hardy, with a pensive
air.
“Do you remember the life of Rancey?” said Rodin, abruptly, as he darted
a peculiar glance at Hardy.
“The founder of La Trappe?” said Hardy, surprised at Rodin’s question.
“I remember hearing a very vague account, some time ago, of the motives
of his conversion.”
“There is, mark you, no more striking an example of the power of prayer,
and of the state of almost divine ecstasy, to which it may lead a
religious soul. In a few words, I will relate to you this instructive
and tragic history. Rancey--but I beg your pardon; I fear I am
trespassing on your time.”
“No, no,” answered Hardy, hastily; “You cannot think how interested I
am in what you tell me. My interview with the Abbe Gabriel was abruptly
broken off, and in listening to you I fancy that I hear the further
development of his views. Go on, I conjure you.
“With all my heart. I only wish that the instruction which, thanks
to our angelic priest, I derived from the story of Rancey might be as
profitable to you as it was to me.”
“This, then, also came from the Abbe Gabriel?”
“He related to me this kind of parable in support of his exhortations,”
replied Rodin. “Oh, sir! do I not owe to the consoling words of that
young priest all that has strengthened and revived my poor old broken
heart?”
“Then I shall listen to you with a double interest.”
“Rancey was a man of the world,” resumed Rodin, as he looked attentively
at Hardy; “a gentleman--young, ardent, handsome. He loved a young lady
of high rank. I cannot tell what impediments stood in the way of their
union. But this love, though successful, was kept secret, and every
evening Rancey visited his mistress by means of a private staircase. It
was, they say, one of those passionate loves which men feel but once
in their lives. The mystery, even the sacrifice made by the unfortunate
girl, who forgot every duty, seemed to give new charms to this guilty
passion. In the silence and darkness of secrecy, these two lovers passed
two years of voluptuous delirium, which amounted almost to ecstasy.”
At these words Hardy started. For the first time of late his brow was
suffused with a deep blush; his heart throbbed violently; he remembered
that he too had once known the ardent intoxication of a guilty and
hidden love. Though the day was closing rapidly, Rodin cast a sidelong
glance at Hardy, and perceived the impression he had made. “Some
times,” he continued, “thinking of the dangers to which his mistress
was exposed, if their connection should be discovered, Rancey wished to
sever these delicious ties; but the girl, beside herself with passion,
threw herself on the neck of her lover, and threatened him, in the
language of intense excitement, to reveal and to brave all, if he
thought of leaving her. Too weak and loving to resist the prayers of his
mistress, Rancey again and again yielded, and they both gave themselves
up to a torrent of delight, which carried them along, forgetful of earth
and heaven!”
M. Hardy listened to Rodin with feverish and devouring avidity. The
Jesuit, in painting, with these almost sensual colors, an ardent and
secret love, revived in Hardy burning memories, which till now had been
drowned in tears. To the beneficent calm produced by the mild language
of Gabriel had succeeded a painful agitation, which, mingled with the
reaction of the shocks received that day, began to throw his mind into a
strange state of confusion.
Rodin, having so far succeeded in his object, continued as follows: “A
fatal day came at last. Rancey, obliged to go to the wars, quitted the
girl; but, after a short campaign, he returned, more in love than ever.
He had written privately, to say he would arrive almost immediately
after his letter. He came accordingly. It was night. He ascended, as
usual, the private staircase which led to the chamber of his mistress;
he entered the room, his heart beating with love and hope. His mistress
had died that morning!”
“Ah!” cried Hardy, covering his face with his hands, in terror.
“She was dead,” resumed Rodin. “Two wax-candles were burning beside the
funeral couch. Rancey could not, would not believe that she was dead.
He threw himself on his knees by the corpse. In his delirium, he seized
that fair, beloved head, to cover it with kisses. The head parted from
the body, and remained in his hands! Yes,” resumed Rodin as Hardy drew
back, pale and mute with terror, “yes, the girl had fallen a victim
to so swift and extraordinary a disease, that she had not been able to
receive the last sacraments. After her death, the doctors, in the hope
of discovering the cause of this unknown malady, had begun to dissect
that fair form--”
As Rodin reached this part of his narrative, night was almost come.
A sort of hazy twilight alone reigned in this silent chamber, in the
centre of which appeared the pale and ghastly form of Rodin, clad in his
long black gown, whilst his eyes seemed to sparkle with diabolic fire.
Overcome by the violent emotions occasioned by this story, in which
thoughts of death and voluptuousness, love and horror, were so strangely
mingled, Hardy remained fixed and motionless, waiting for the words of
Rodin, with a combination of curiosity, anguish and alarm.
“And Rancey?” said he, at last, in an agitated voice, whilst he wiped
the cold sweat from his brow.
“After two days of furious delirium,” resumed Rodin, “he renounced the
world, and shut himself up in impenetrable solitude. The first period
of his retreat was frightful; in his despair, he uttered loud yells of
grief and rage, that were audible at some distance. Twice he attempted
suicide, to escape from the terrible visions.”
“He had visions, then?” said Hardy, with an increased agony of
curiosity.
“Yes,” replied Rodin, in a solemn tone, “he had fearful visions. He saw
the girl, who, for his sake, had died in mortal sin, plunged in the
heat of the everlasting flames of hell! On that fair face, disfigured by
infernal tortures, was stamped the despairing laugh of the damned! Her
teeth gnashed with pain; her arms writhed in anguish! She wept tears
of blood, and, with an agonized and avenging voice, she cried to her
seducer: ‘Thou art the cause of my perdition--my curse, my curse be upon
thee!’”
As he pronounced these last words, Rodin advanced three steps nearer to
Hardy, accompanying each step with a menacing gesture. If we remember
the state of weakness, trouble, and fear, in which M. Hardy was--if we
remember that the Jesuit had just roused in the soul of this unfortunate
man all the sensual and spiritual memories of a love, cooled, but not
extinguished, in tears--if we remember, too, that Hardy reproached
himself with the seduction of a beloved object, whom her departure from
her duties might (according to the Catholic faith) doom to
everlasting flames--we shall not wonder at the terrible effect of this
phantasmagoria, conjured up in silence and solitude, in the evening
dusk, by this fearful priest.
The effect on Hardy was indeed striking, and the more dangerous, that
the Jesuit, with diabolical craft, seemed only to be carrying out, from
another point of view, the ideas of Gabriel. Had not the young
priest convinced Hardy that nothing is sweeter, than to ask of heaven
forgiveness for those who have sinned, or whom we have led astray? But
forgiveness implies punishment; and it was to the punishment alone that
Rodin drew the attention of his victim, by painting it in these terrible
hues. With hands clasped together, and eye fixed and dilated, Hardy
trembled in all his limbs, and seemed still listening to Rodin, though
the latter had ceased to speak. Mechanically, he repeated: “My curse, my
curse be upon thee?”
Then suddenly he exclaimed, in a kind of frenzy: “The curse is on me
also! The woman, whom I taught to forget her sacred duties, and to
commit mortal sin--one day plunged in the everlasting flames--her arms
writhing in agony--weeping tears of blood--will cry to me from the
bottomless pit: ‘My curse, my curse be upon thee!’--One day,” he
added, with redoubled terror, “one day?--who knows? perhaps at
this moment!--for if the sea voyage had been fatal to her--if a
shipwreck--oh, God! she too would have died in mortal sin--lost, lost,
forever!--Oh, have mercy on her, my God! Crush me in Thy wrath--but have
mercy on her--for I alone am guilty!”
And the unfortunate man, almost delirious, sank with clasped hands upon
the ground.
“Sir,” cried Rodin, in an affectionate voice, as he hastened to lift him
up, “my dear sir--my dear friend--be calm! Comfort yourself. I cannot
bear to see you despond. Alas! my intention was quite the contrary to
that.”
“The curse! the curse! yes, she will curse me also--she, that I loved
so much--in the everlasting flames!” murmured Hardy, shuddering, and
apparently insensible to the other’s words.
“But, my dear sir, listen to me, I entreat you,” resumed the latter;
“let me finish my story, and then you will find it as consoling as it
now seems terrible. For heaven’s sake, remember the adorable words of
our angelic Abbe Gabriel, with regard to the sweetness of prayer.”
At the name of Gabriel, Hardy recovered himself a little, and exclaimed,
in a heart-rending tone: “Ay! his words were sweet and beneficent. Where
are they now? For mercy’s sake, repeat to me those consoling words.”
“Our angelic Abbe Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “spoke to you of the
sweetness of prayer--”
“Oh, yes! prayer!”
“Well, my dear sir, listen to me, and you shall see how prayer saved
Rancey, and made a saint of him. Yes, these frightful torments, that I
have just described, these threatening visions, were all conquered by
prayer, and changed into celestial delights.”
“I beg of you,” said Hardy, in a faint voice, “speak to me of Gabriel,
speak to me of heaven--but no more flames--no more hell--where sinful
women weep tears of blood--”
“No, no,” replied Rodin; and even as, in describing hell, his tone had
been harsh and threatening, it now became warm and tender, as he uttered
the following words: “No; we will have no more images of despair--for,
as I have told you, after suffering infernal tortures, Rancey, thanks to
the power of prayer, enjoyed the delights of paradise.”
“The delights of paradise?” repeated Hardy, listening with anxious
attention.
“One day, at the height of his grief, a priest, a good priest--another
Abbe Gabriel--came to Rancey. Oh, happiness! oh, providential change! In
a few days, he taught the sufferer the sacred mysteries of prayer--that
pious intercession of the creature, addressed to the Creator, in
favor of a soul exposed to the wrath of heaven. Then Rancey seemed
transformed. His grief was at once appeased. He prayed; and the more
he prayed, the greater was his hope. He felt that God listened to his
prayer. Instead of trying to forget his beloved, he now thought of her
constantly, and prayed for her salvation. Happy in his obscure cell,
alone with that adored remembrance, he passed days and nights in praying
for her--plunged in an ineffable, burning, I had almost said amorous
ecstasy.”
It is impossible to give an idea of the tone of almost sensual energy
with which Rodin pronounced the word “amorous.” Hardy started, changing
from hot to cold. For the first time, his weakened mind caught a glimpse
of the fatal pleasures of asceticism, and of that deplorable catalepsy,
described in the lives of St. Theresa, St. Aubierge and others.
Rodin perceived the other’s thoughts, and continued “Oh, Rancey was not
now the man to content himself with a vague, passing prayer, uttered in
the whirl of the world’s business, which swallows it up, and prevents
it from reaching the ear of heaven. No, no; in the depth of solitude, he
endeavored to make his prayers even more efficacious, so ardently did he
desire the eternal salvation of his mistress.”
“What did he do then--oh! what did he do in his solitude?” cried Hardy,
who was now powerless in the hands of the Jesuit.
“First of all,” said Rodin, with a slight emphasis, “he became a monk.”
“A monk!” repeated Hardy, with a pensive air.
“Yes,” resumed Rodin, “he became a monk, because his prayers were thus
more likely to be favorably accepted. And then, as in solitude our
thoughts are apt to wander, he fasted, and mortified his flesh, and
brought into subjection all that was carnal within him, so that,
becoming all spirit, his prayers might issue like a pure flame from his
bosom, and ascend like the perfume of incense to the throne of the Most
High!”
“Oh! what a delicious dream!” cried Hardy, more and more under the
influence of the spell; “to pray for the woman we have adored, and to
become spirit--perfume--light!”
“Yes; spirit, perfume, light!” said Rodin, with emphasis. “But it is no
dream. How many monks, how many hermits, like Rancey, have, by prayers,
and austerity, and macerations, attained a divine ecstasy! and if you
only knew the celestial pleasures of such ecstasies!--Thus, after he
became a monk, the terrible dreams were succeeded by enchanting visions.
Many times, after a day of fasting, and a night passed in prayers and
macerations, Rancey sank down exhausted on the floor of his cell! Then
the spirit freed itself from the vile clogs of matter. His senses were
absorbed in pleasure; the sound of heavenly harmony struck upon his
ravished car; a bright, mild light, which was not of this world,
dawned upon his half-closed eyes; and, at the height of the melodious
vibrations of the golden harps of the Seraphim, in the centre of a
glory, compared to which the sun is pale, the monk beheld the image of
that beloved woman--”
“Whom by his prayers he had at length rescued from the eternal flames?”
said Hardy, in a trembling voice.
“Yes, herself,” replied Rodin, with eloquent enthusiasm, for this
monster was skilled in every style of speech. “Thanks to the prayers of
her lover, which the Lord had granted, this woman no longer shed tears
of blood--no longer writhed her beautiful arms in the convulsions of
infernal anguish. No, no; still fair--oh! a thousand times fairer than
when she dwelt on earth--fair with the everlasting beauty of angels--she
smiled on her lover with ineffable ardor, and, her eyes beaming with a
mild radiance, she said to him in a tender and passionate voice: ‘Glory
to the Lord! glory to thee, O my beloved! Thy prayers and austerities
have saved me. I am numbered amongst the chosen. Thanks, my beloved, and
glory!’--And therewith, radiant in her felicity, she stooped to
kiss, with lips fragrant with immortality, the lips of the enraptured
monk--and their souls mingled in that kiss, burning as love, chaste as
divine grace immense as eternity!”
“Oh!” cried Hardy, completely beside himself; “a whole life of prayer,
fasting, torture, for such a moment--with her, whom I mourn--with her,
whom I have perhaps led to perdition!”
“What do you say? such a moment!” cried Rodin, whose yellow forehead was
bathed in sweat like that of a magnetizer, and who now took Hardy by
the hand, and drew still closer, as if to breathe into him the burning
delirium; “it was not once in his religious life--it was almost every
day, that Rancey, plunged in divine ecstasy, enjoyed these delicious,
ineffable, superhuman pleasures, which are to the pleasures of earth
what eternity is to man’s existence!”
Seeing, no doubt, that Hardy was now at the point to which he wished to
bring him, and the night being almost entirely come, the reverend father
coughed two or three times in a significant manner, and looked towards
the door. At this moment, Hardy, in the height of his frenzy, exclaimed,
with a supplicating voice: “A cell--a tomb--and the Ecstatic Vision!”
The door of the room opened, and Father d’Aigrigny entered, with a cloak
under his arm. A servant followed him, bearing a light.
About ten minutes after this scene, a dozen robust men with frank,
open countenances, led by Agricola, entered the Rue de Vaugirard, and
advanced joyously towards the house of the reverend fathers. It was a
deputation from the former workmen of M. Hardy. They came to escort him,
and to congratulate him on his return amongst them. Agricola walked at
their head. Suddenly he saw a carriage with post-horses issuing from
the gateway of the house. The postilion whipped up the horses, and
they started at full gallop. Was it chance or instinct? The nearer the
carriage approached the group of which he formed a part, the more did
Agricola’s heart sink within him.
The impression became so vivid that it was soon changed into a terrible
apprehension; and at the moment when the vehicle, which had its blinds
down, was about to pass close by him, the smith, in obedience to a
resistless impulse, exclaimed, as he rushed to the horses’ heads: “Help,
friends! stop them!”
“Postilion! ten louis if you ride over him!” cried from the carriage the
military voice of Father d’Aigrigny.
The cholera was still raging. The postilion had heard of the murder of
the poisoners. Already frightened at the sudden attack of Agricola,
he struck him a heavy blow on the head with the butt of his whip which
stretched him senseless on the ground. Then, spurring with all his
might, he urged his three horses into a triple gallop, and the carriage
rapidly disappeared, whilst Agricola’s companions, who had neither
understood his actions nor the sense of his words, crowded around the
smith, and did their best to revive him.
CHAPTER XLIV. REMEMBRANCES.
Other events took place a few days after the fatal evening in which M.
Hardy, fascinated and misled by the deplorable, mystic jargon of Rodin,
had implored Father d’Aigrigny on his knees to remove him far from
Paris, into some deep solitude where he might devote himself to a life
of prayer and ascetic austerities. Marshal Simon, since his arrival
in Paris, had occupied, with his two daughters, a house in the Rue des
Trois-Freres. Before introducing the reader into this modest dwelling,
we are obliged to recall to his memory some preceding facts. The day of
the burning of Hardy ‘s factory, Marshal Simon had come to consult with
his father on a question of the highest importance, and to communicate
to him his painful apprehensions on the subject of the growing sadness
of his twin daughters, which he was unable to explain.
Marshal Simon held in religious reverence the memory of the Great
Emperor. His gratitude to the hero was boundless, his devotion blind,
his enthusiasm founded upon reason, his affection warm as the most
sincere and passionate friendship. But this was not all.
One day the emperor, in a burst of joy and paternal tenderness, had led
the marshal to the cradle of the sleeping King of Rome, and said to him,
as he proudly pointed to the beautiful child: “My old friend, swear to
me that you will serve the son as you have served the father!”
Marshal Simon took and kept that vow. During the Restoration, the chief
of a military conspiracy in favor of Napoleon II., he had attempted
in vain to secure a regiment of cavalry, at that time commanded by
the Marquis d’Aigrigny. Betrayed and denounced, the marshal, after a
desperate duel with the future Jesuit, had succeeded in reaching Poland,
and thus escaping a sentence of death. It is useless to repeat the
series of events which led the marshal from Poland to India, and then
brought him back to Paris after the Revolution of July--an epoch at
which a number of his old comrades in arms had solicited and obtained
from the government, without his knowledge, the confirmation of the rank
and title which the emperor had bestowed upon him just before Waterloo.
On his return to Paris, after his long exile, in spite of all the
happiness he felt in at length embracing his children, Marshal Simon was
deeply affected on learning the death of their mother, whom he
adored. Till the last moment, he had hoped to find her in Paris. The
disappointment was dreadful, and he felt it cruelly, though he sought
consolation in his children’s affection.
But soon new causes of trouble and anxiety were interwoven with his
life by the machinations of Rodin. Thanks to the secret intrigues of the
reverend father at the Courts of Rome and Vienna, one of his emissaries,
in a condition to inspire full confidence, and provided with undeniable
evidence to support his words, went to Marshal Simon, and said to him:
“The son of the emperor is dying, the victim of the fears with which the
name of Napoleon still inspires Europe.
“From this slow expiring, you, Marshal Simon, one of the emperor’s most
faithful friends, are able to rescue this unfortunate prince.
“The correspondence in my hand proves that it would be easy to open
relations, of the surest and most secret nature, with one of the most
influential persons about the King of Rome, and this person would be
disposed to favor the prince’s escape.
“It is possible, by a bold, unexpected stroke, to deliver Napoleon II.
from the custody of Austria, which would leave him to perish by inches
in an atmosphere that is fatal to him.
“The enterprise may be a rash one, but it has chances of success that
you Marshal Simon, more than any other, could change into certainties;
for your devotion to the emperor is well known, and we remember with
what adventurous audacity you conspired, in 1815, in favor of Napoleon
II.”
The state of languor and decline of the King of Rome was then in France
a matter of public notoriety. People even went so far as to affirm that
the son of the hero was carefully trained by priests, who kept him in
complete ignorance of the glory of his paternal name; and that, by the
most execrable machinations, they strove day by day to extinguish every
noble and generous instinct that displayed itself in the unfortunate
youth. The coldest hearts were touched and softened at the story of
so sad and fatal a destiny. When we remember the heroic character and
chivalrous loyalty of Marshal Simon, and his passionate devotion to the
emperor, we can understand how the father of Rose and Blanche was more
interested than any one else in the fate of the young prince, and how,
if occasion offered, he would feel himself obliged not to confine
his efforts to mere regrets. With regard to the reality of the
correspondence produced by Rodin’s emissary, it had been submitted by
the marshal to a searching test, by means of his intimacy with one of
his old companions in arms, who had been for a long period on a mission
to Vienna, in the time of the empire. The result of this investigation,
conducted with as much prudence as address, so that nothing should
transpire, showed that the marshal might give his serious attention to
the advances made him.
Hence, this proposition threw the father of Rose and Blanche into a
cruel perplexity; for, to attempt so bold and dangerous an enterprise,
he must once more abandon his children; whilst, on the contrary, if,
alarmed at this separation, he renounced the endeavor to save the
King of Rome, whose lingering death was perfectly true and well
authenticated, the marshal would consider himself as false to the vow
he had sworn to the emperor. To end these painful hesitations, full of
confidence in the inflexible uprightness of his father’s character, the
marshal had gone to ask his advice; unfortunately the old republican
workman, mortally wounded during the attack on M. Hardy’s factory, but
still pondering over the serious communication of his son, died with
these words upon his Lips: “My son, you have a great duty to perform,
under pain of not acting like a man of honor, and of disobeying my last
will. You must, without hesitation--”
But, by a deplorable fatality, the last words, which would have
completed the sense of the old workman’s thought, were spoken in so
feeble a voice as to be quite unintelligible. He died, leaving Marshal
Simon in a worse state of anxiety, as one of the two courses open to him
had now been formally condemned by his father, in whose judgment he had
the most implicit and merited confidence. In a word, his mind was now
tortured by the doubt whether his father had intended, in the name of
honor and duty, to advise him not to abandon his children, to engage in
so hazardous an enterprise, or whether, on the contrary, he had wished
him to leave them for a time, to perform the vow made to the emperor,
and endeavor at least to rescue Napoleon II. from a captivity that might
soon be mortal.
This perplexity, rendered more cruel by certain circumstances, to be
related hereafter, the tragical death of his father, who had expired
in his arms; the incessant and painful remembrance of his wife, who
had perished in a land of exile; and finally, the grief he felt at
perceiving the overgrowing sadness of Rose and Blanche, occasioned
severe shocks to Marshal Simon. Let us add that, in spite of his natural
intrepidity, so nobly proved by twenty years of war, the ravages of the
cholera, the same terrible malady to which his wife had fallen a victim
in Siberia, filled the marshal with involuntary dread. Yes, this man of
iron nerves, who had coolly braved death in so many battles, felt the
habitual firmness of his character give way at sight of the scenes of
desolation and mourning which Paris offered at every step. Yet, when
Mdlle. de Cardoville gathered round her the members of her family, to
warn them against the plot of their enemies, the affectionate tenderness
of Adrienne for Rose and Blanche appeared to exercise so happy an
influence on their mysterious sorrow, that the marshal, forgetting for a
moment his fatal regrets, thought only of enjoying this blessed change,
which, alas! was but of short duration. Having now recalled these facts
to the mind of the reader, we shall continue our story.
CHAPTER XLV. THE BLOCKHEAD
We have stated that Marshal Simon occupied a small house in the Rue
des Trois-Freres. Two o’clock in the afternoon had just struck in the
marshal’s sleeping-chamber, a room furnished with military simplicity.
In the recess, in which stood the bed, hung a trophy composed of the
arms used by the marshal during his campaigns. On the secretary opposite
was a small bronze bust of the emperor, the only ornament of the
apartment. Out of doors the temperature was far from warm, and the
marshal had become susceptible to cold during his long residence in
India. A good fire therefore blazed upon the hearth. A door, concealed
by the hangings, and leading to a back staircase, opened slowly, and
a man entered the chamber. He carried a basket of wood, and advanced
leisurely to the fireplace, before which he knelt clown, and began to
arrange the logs symmetrically in a box that stood besides the hearth.
After some minutes occupied in this manner, still kneeling, he gradually
approached another door, at a little distance from the chimney, and
appeared to listen with deep attention, as if he wished to hear what was
passing in the next room.
This man, employed as an inferior servant in the house, had the most
ridiculously stupid look that can be imagined. His functions consisted
in carrying wood, running errands, etc. In other respects he was a kind
of laughing-stock to the other servants. In a moment of good humor,
Dagobert, who filled the post of major-domo, had given this idiot the
name of “Loony” (lunatic), which he had retained ever since, and which
he deserved in every respect, as well for his awkwardness and folly as
for his unmeaning face, with its grotesquely flat nose, sloping chin,
and wide, staring eyes. Add to this description a jacket of red stuff,
and a triangular white apron, and we must acknowledge that the simpleton
was quite worthy of his name.
Yet, at the moment when Loony listened so attentively at the door of the
adjoining room, a ray of quick intelligence animated for an instant his
dull and stupid countenance.
When he had thus listened for a short time, Loony returned to the
fireplace, still crawling on his knees; then rising, he again took his
basket half full of wood, and once more approaching the door at which
he had listened knocked discreetly. No one answered. He knocked a second
time, and more loudly. Still there was the same silence.
Then he said, in a harsh, squeaking, laughable voice: “Ladies, do you
want any wood, if you please, for your fire?”
Receiving no answer, Loony placed his basket on the ground, opened the
door gently, and entered the next room, after casting a rapid glance
around. He came out again in a few seconds, looking from side to side
with an anxious air, like a man who had just accomplished some important
and mysterious task.
Taking up his basket, he was about to leave Marshal Simon’s room, when
the door of the private staircase was opened slowly and with precaution,
and Dagobert appeared.
The soldier, evidently surprised at the servant’s presence, knitted his
brows, and exclaimed abruptly, “What are you doing here?”
At this sudden interrogation, accompanied by a growl expressive of the
ill-humor of Spoil-sport, who followed close on his master’s heels,
Loony uttered a cry of real or pretended terror. To give, perhaps, an
appearance of greater reality to his dread, the supposed simpleton let
his basket fall on the ground, as if astonishment and fear had loosened
his hold of it.
“What are you doing, numbskull?” resumed Dagobert, whose countenance was
impressed with deep sadness, and who seemed little disposed to laugh at
the fellow’s stupidity.
“Oh, M. Dagobert! how you frighten me! Dear me! what a pity I had not an
armful of plates, to prove it was not my fault if I broke them all.”
“I ask what you are doing,” resumed the soldier.
“You see, M. Dagobert,” replied Loony, pointing to his basket, “that I
came with some wood to master’s room, so that he might burn it, if it
was cold--which it is.”
“Very well. Pick up your wood, and begone!”
“Oh, M. Dagobert! my legs tremble under me. How you did scare me, to be
sure!”
“Will you begone, brute?” resumed the veteran; and seizing Loony by the
arm, he pushed him towards the door, while Spoil-sport, with recumbent
ears, and hair standing up like the quills of a porcupine, seemed
inclined to accelerate his retreat.
“I am going, M. Dagobert, I am going,” replied the simpleton, as he
hastily gathered up his basket; “only please to tell the dog--”
“Go to the devil, you stupid chatterbox!” cried Dagobert, as he pushed
Loony through the doorway.
Then the soldier bolted the door which led to the private staircase, and
going to that which communicated with the apartments of the two sisters,
he double-locked it. Having done this, he hastened to the alcove
in which stood the bed and taking down a pair of loaded pistols, he
carefully removed the percussion caps, and, unable to repress a deep
sigh, restored the weapons to the place in which he had found them.
Then, as if on second thoughts, he took down an Indian dagger with a
very sharp blade, and drawing it from its silver-gilt sheath, proceeded
to break the point of this murderous instrument, by twisting it beneath
one of the iron castors of the bed.
Dagobert then proceeded to unfasten the two doors, and, returning slowly
to the marble chimney-piece, he leaned against it with a gloomy and
pensive air. Crouching before the fire, Spoil-sport followed with an
attentive eye the least movement of his master. The good dog displayed
a rare and intelligent sagacity. The soldier, having drawn out his
handkerchief, let fall, without perceiving it, a paper containing a roll
of tobacco. Spoil-sport, who had all the qualities of a retriever of
the Rutland race, took the paper between his teeth, and, rising upon
his hind-legs, presented it respectfully to Dagobert. But the latter
received it mechanically, and appeared indifferent to the dexterity of
his dog. The grenadier’s countenance revealed as much sorrow as
anxiety. After remaining for some minutes near the fire, with fixed and
meditative look, he began to walk about the room in great agitation, one
of his hands thrust into the bosom of his long blue frock-coat, which
was buttoned up to the chin, and the other into one of his hind-pockets.
From time to time he stopped abruptly, and seemed to make reply to his
own thoughts, or uttered an exclamation of doubt and uneasiness; then,
turning towards the trophy of arms, he shook his head mournfully,
and murmured, “No matter--this fear may be idle; but he has acted so
extraordinarily these two days, that it is at all events more prudent--”
He continued his walk, and said, after a new and prolonged silence: “Yes
he must tell me. It makes me too uneasy. And then the poor children--it
is enough to break one’s heart.”
And Dagobert hastily drew his moustache between his thumb and
forefinger, a nervous movement, which with him was an evident symptom
of extreme agitation. Some minutes after, the soldier resumed, still
answering his inward thoughts: “What can it be? It is hardly possible to
be the letters, they are too infamous; he despises them. And yet But no,
no--he is above that!”
And Dagobert again began to walk with hasty steps. Suddenly, Spoil-sport
pricked up his ears, turned his head in the direction of the staircase
door, and growled hoarsely. A few seconds after, some one knocked at the
door.
“Who is there?” said Dagobert. There was no answer, but the person
knocked again. Losing patience, the soldier went hastily to open it, and
saw the servant’s stupid face.
“Why don’t you answer, when I ask who knocks!” said the soldier,
angrily.
“M. Dagobert, you sent me away just now, and I was afraid of making you
cross, if I said I had come again.”
“What do you want? Speak then--come in, stupid!” cried the exasperated.
Dagobert, as he pulled him into the room.
“M. Dagobert, don’t be angry--I’ll tell you all about it--it is a young
man.”
“Well?”
“He wants to speak to you directly, Mr. Dagobert.”
“His name?”
“His name, M. Dagobert?” replied Loony, rolling about and laughing with
an idiotic air.
“Yes, his name. Speak, idiot!”
“Oh, M. Dagobert! it’s all in joke that you ask me his name!”
“You are determined, fool that you are, to drive me out of my senses!”
cried the soldier, seizing Loony by the collar. “The name of this young
man!”
“Don’t be angry, M. Dagobert. I didn’t tell you the name because you
know it.”
“Beast!” said Dagobert, shaking his fist at him.
“Yes, you do know it, M. Dagobert, for the young man is your own son. He
is downstairs, and wants to speak to you directly--yes, directly.”
The stupidity was so well assumed, that Dagobert was the dupe of it.
Moved to compassion rather than anger by such imbecility, he looked
fixedly at the servant, shrugged his shoulders, and said, as he advanced
towards the staircase, “Follow me!”
Loony obeyed; but, before closing the door, he drew a letter secretly
from his pocket, and dropped it behind him without turning his head,
saying all the while to Dagobert, for the purpose of occupying his
attention: “Your son is in the court, M. Dagobert. He would not come
up--that’s why he is still downstairs!”
Thus talking, he closed the door, believing he had left the letter
on the floor of Marshal Simon’s room. But he had reckoned without
Spoil-sport. Whether he thought it more prudent to bring up the rear,
or, from respectful deference for a biped, the worthy dog had been the
last to leave the room, and, being a famous carrier, as soon as he saw
the letter dropped by Loony, he took it delicately between his teeth,
and followed close on the heels of the servant, without the latter
perceiving this new proof of the intelligence and sagacity of
Spoil-sport.
CHAPTER XLVI. THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS.
We will explain presently what became of the letter, which Spoil-sport
held between his teeth, and why he left his master, when the latter ran
to meet Agricola. Dagobert had not seen his son for some days. Embracing
him cordially, he led him into one of the rooms on the ground floor,
which he usually occupied. “And how is your wife?” said the soldier to
his son.
“She is well, father, thank you.”
Perceiving a great change in Agricola’s countenance, Dagobert resumed:
“You look sad. Has anything gone wrong since I saw you last?”
“All is over, father. We have lost him,” said the smith, in a tone of
despair.
“Lost whom?”
“M. Hardy.”
“M. Hardy!--why, three days ago, you told me you were going to see him.”
“Yes, father, I have seen him--and my dear brother Gabriel saw him
and spoke to him--how he speaks! with a voice that comes from the
heart!--and he had so revived and encouraged him, that M. Hardy
consented to return amongst us. Then I, wild with joy, ran to tell the
good news to some of my mates, who were waiting to hear the result of
nay interview with M. Hardy. I brought them all with me to thank and
bless him. We were within a hundred yards of the house belonging to the
black-gowns--”
“Ali, the black-gowns!” said Dagobert, with a gloomy air. “Then some
mischief will happen. I know them.”
“You are not mistaken, father,” answered Agricola, with a sigh. “I was
running on with my comrades, when I saw a carriage coming towards us.
Some presentiment told me that they were taking away M. Hardy.”
“By force!” said Dagobert, hastily.
“No,” answered Agricola, bitterly; “no--the priests are too cunning for
that. They know how to make you an accomplice in the evil they do you.
Shall I not always remember how they managed with my good mother?”
“Yes, the worthy woman! there was a poor fly caught in the spider’s web.
But this carriage, of which you speak?”
“On seeing it start from the house of the black-gowns,” replied
Agricola, “my heart sank within me; and, by an impulse stronger than
myself, I rushed to the horses’ heads, calling on my comrades to help
me. But the postilion knocked me down and stunned me with a blow from
his whip. When I recovered my senses, the carriage was already far
away.”
“You were not hurt?” cried Dagobert, anxiously, as he examined his son
from top to toe.
“No, father; a mere scratch.”
“What did you next, my boy?”
“I hastened to our good angel, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and told her all.
‘You must follow M. Hardy on the instant,’ said she to me. ‘Take my
carriage and post-horses. Dupont will accompany you; follow M. Hardy
from stage to stage; should you succeed in overtaking him your presence
and your prayers may perhaps conquer the fatal influence that these
priests have acquired over him.’”
“It was the best advice she could give you. That excellent young lady is
always right.”
“An hour after, we were upon our way, for we learned by the returned
postilions, that M. Hardy had taken the Orleans road. We followed him as
far as Etampes. There we heard that he had taken a cross-road, to reach
a solitary house in a valley about four leagues from the highway. They
told us that this house called the Val-de-St. Herem, belonged to certain
priests, and that, as the night was so dark, and the road so bad, we
had better sleep at the inn, and start early in the morning. We followed
this advice, and set out at dawn. In a quarter of an hour, we quitted
the high-road for a mountainous and desert track. We saw nothing but
brown rocks, and a few birch trees. As we advanced, the scene became
wilder and wilder. We might have fancied ourselves a hundred leagues
from Paris. At last we stopped in front of a large, old, black-looking
house with only a few small windows in it, and built at the foot of a
high, rocky mountain. In my whole life I have never seen anything so
deserted and sad. We got out of the carriage, and I rang the bell. A
man opened the door. ‘Did not the Abbe d’Aigrigny arrive here last night
with a gentleman?’ said I to this man, with a confidential air. ‘Inform
the gentleman directly, that I come on business of importance, and that
I must see him forthwith.’--The man, believing me an accomplice, showed
us in immediately; a moment after, the Abbe d’Aigrigny opened the door,
saw me, and drew back; yet, in five minutes more, I was in presence of
M. Hardy.”
“Well!” said Dagobert, with interest.
Agricola shook his head sorrowfully, and replied: “I knew by the very
countenance of M. Hardy, that all was over. Addressing me in a mild but
firm voice, he said to me: ‘I understand, I can even excuse, the motives
that bring you hither. But I am quite determined to live henceforth
in solitude and prayer. I take this resolution freely and voluntarily,
because I would fain provide for the salvation of my soul. Tell your
fellows that my arrangements will be such as to leave them a good
remembrance of me.’--And as I was about to speak, M. Hardy interrupted
me, saying: ‘It is useless, my friend. My determination is unalterable.
Do not write to me, for your letters would remain unanswered. Prayer
will henceforth be my only occupation. Excuse me for leaving you, but I
am fatigued from my journey!’--He spoke the truth for he was as pale as
a spectre, with a kind of wildness about the eyes, and so changed since
the day before, as to be hardly the same man. His hand, when he offered
it on parting from me, was dry and burning. The Abbe d’Aigrigny soon
came in. ‘Father,’ said M. Hardy to him, ‘have the goodness to see M.
Baudoin to the door.’--So saying, he waved his hand to me in token of
farewell, and retired to the next chamber. All was over; he is lost to
us forever.”
“Yes,” said Dagobert, “those black-gowns have enchanted him, like so
many others.”
“In despair,” resumed Agricola, “I returned hither with M. Dupont. This,
then, is what the priests have made of M. Hardy--of that generous man,
who supported nearly three hundred industrious workmen in order and
happiness, increasing their knowledge, improving their hearts, and
earning the benediction of that little people, of which he was the
providence. Instead of all this, M. Hardy is now forever reduced to a
gloomy and unavailing life of contemplation.”
“Oh, the black-gowns!” said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to conceal
a vague sense of fear. “The longer I live, the more I am afraid of them.
You have seen what those people did to your poor mother; you see what
they have just done to M. Hardy; you know their plots against my two
poor orphans, and against that generous young lady. Oh, these people are
very powerful! I would rather face a battalion of Russian grenadiers,
than a dozen of these cassocks. But don’t let’s talk of it. I have
causes enough beside for grief and fear.”
Then seeing the astonished look of Agricola, the soldier, unable to
restrain his emotion, threw himself into the arms of his son, exclaiming
with a choking voice: “I can hold out no longer. My heart is too full. I
must speak; and whom shall I trust if not you?”
“Father, you frighten me!” said Agricola, “What is the matter?”
“Why, you see, had it not been for you and the two poor girls, I should
have blown out my brains twenty times over rather than see what I
see--and dread what I do.”
“What do you dread, father?”
“Since the last few days, I do not know what has come over the
marshal--but he frightens me.”
“Yet in his last interviews with Mdlle. de Cardoville--”
“Yes, he was a little better. By her kind words, this generous young
lady poured balm into his wounds; the presence of the young Indian
cheered him; he appeared to shake off his cares, and his poor little
girls felt the benefit of the change. But for some days, I know not what
demon has been loosed against his family. It is enough to turn one’s
head. First of all, I am sure that the anonymous letters have begun
again.”
“What letters, father?”
“The anonymous letters.”
“But what are they about?”
“You know how the marshal hated that renegade, the Abbe d’Aigrigny. When
he found that the traitor was here, and that he had persecuted the two
orphans, even as he persecuted their mother to the death--but that now
he had become a priest--I thought the marshal would have gone mad with
indignation and fury. He wishes to go in search of the renegade. With
one word I calmed him. ‘He is a priest,’ I said; ‘you may do what you
will, insult or strike him--he will not fight. He began by serving
against his country, he ends by becoming a bad priest. It is all in
character. He is not worth spitting upon.’--‘But surely I may punish the
wrong done to my children, and avenge the death of my wife,’ cried the
marshal, much exasperated.--‘They say, as you well know, that there are
courts of law to avenge your wrongs,’ answered I; ‘Mdlle. de Cardoville
has lodged a charge against the renegade, for having attempted to
confine your daughters in a convent. We must champ the bit and wait.”’
“Yes,” said Agricola, mournfully, “and unfortunately there lacks proof
to bring it home to the Abbe d’Aigrigny. The other day, when I was
examined by Mdlle. de Cardoville’s lawyer, with regard to our attempt
on the convent, he told me that we should meet with obstacles at every
step, for want of legal evidence, and that the priests had taken their
precautions with so much skill that the indictment would be quashed.”
“That is just what the marshal thinks, my boy, and this increases his
irritation at such injustice.”
“He should despise the wretches.”
“But the anonymous letters!”
“Well, what of them, father?”
“You shall know all. A brave and honorable man like the marshal, when
his first movement of indignation was over, felt that to insult the
renegade disguised in the garb of a priest, would be like insulting
an old man or a woman. He determined therefore to despise him, and to
forget him as soon as possible. But then, almost every day, there
came by the post anonymous letters, in which all sorts of devices were
employed, to revive and excite the anger of the marshal against
the renegade by reminding him of all the evil contrived by the Abbe
d’Aigrigny against him and his family. The marshal was reproached with
cowardice for not taking vengeance on this priest, the persecutor of his
wife and children, the insolent mocker at his misfortunes.”
“And from whom do you suspect these letters to come, father?”
“I cannot tell--it is that which turns one’s brain. They must come from
the enemies of the marshal, and he has no enemies but the black-gowns.”
“But, father, since these letters are to excite his anger against the
Abbe d’Aigrigny, they can hardly have been written by priests.”
“That is what I have said to myself.”
“But what, then, can be their object?”
“Their object? oh, it is too plain!” cried Dagobert. “The marshal is
hasty, ardent; he has a thousand reasons to desire vengeance on the
renegade. But he cannot do himself justice, and the other sort of
justice fails him. Then what does he do? He endeavors to forget, he
forgets. But every day there comes to him an insolent letter, to provoke
and exasperate his legitimate hatred, by mockeries and insults. Devil
take me! my head is not the weakest--but, at such a game, I should go
mad.”
“Father, such a plot would be horrible, and only worthy of hell!”
“And that is not all.”
“What more?”
“The marshal has received other letters; those he has not shown me--but,
after he had read the first, he remained like a man struck motionless,
and murmured to himself: ‘They do not even respect that--oh! it is too
much--too much!’--And, hiding his face in his hands he wept.”
“The marshal wept!” cried the blacksmith, hardly able to believe what he
heard.
“Yes,” answered Dagobert, “he wept like a child.”
“And what could these letters contain, father?”
“I did not venture to ask him, he appeared so miserable and dejected.”
“But thus harassed and tormented incessantly, the marshal must lead a
wretched life.”
“And his poor little girls too! he sees them grow sadder and sadder,
without being able to guess the cause. And the death of his father,
killed almost in his arms! Perhaps, you will think all this enough; but,
no! I am sure there is something still more painful behind. Lately, you
would hardly know the marshal. He is irritable about nothing, and falls
into such fits of passion, that--” After a moment’s hesitation, the
soldier resumed: “I way tell this to you, my poor boy. I have just been
upstairs, to take the caps from his pistols.”
“What, father!” cried Agricola; “you fear--”
“In the state of exasperation in which I saw him yesterday, there is
everything to fear.”
“What then happened?”
“Since some time, he has often long secret interviews with a gentleman,
who looks like an old soldier and a worthy man. I have remarked that
the gloom and agitation of the marshal are always redoubled after one of
these visits. Two or three times, I have spoken to him about it; but I
saw by his look, that I displeased him, and therefore I desisted.
“Well! yesterday, this gentleman came in the evening. He remained here
until eleven o’clock, and his wife came to fetch him, and waited for him
in a coach. After his departure, I went up to see if the marshal wanted
anything. He was very pale, but calm; he thanked me, and I came down
again. You know that my room is just under his. I could hear the marshal
walking about as if much agitated, and soon after he seemed to be
knocking down the furniture. In alarm, I once more went upstairs. He
asked me, with an irritated air, what I wanted, and ordered me to leave
the room. Seeing him in that way, I remained; he grew more angry, still
I remained; perceiving a chair and table thrown down, I pointed to them
with so sad an air that he understood me. You know that he has the best
heart in the world, so, taking me by the hand, he said to me: ‘Forgive
me for causing you this uneasiness, my good Dagobert; but just now, I
lost my senses, and gave way to a burst of absurd fury; I think I should
have thrown myself out of the window, had it been open. I only hope,
that my poor dear girls have not heard me,’ added he, as he went on
tip-toe to open the door which communicates with his daughters’ bedroom.
When he had listened anxiously for a moment, he returned to me, and
said: ‘Luckily, they are asleep.’--Then I asked him what was the cause
of his agitation, and if, in spite of my precautions, he had received
any more anonymous letters. ‘No,’ replied he, with a gloomy air; ‘but
leave me, my friend. I am now better. It has done me good to see you.
Good--night, old comrade! go downstairs to bed.’--I took care not to
contradict him; but, pretending to go down, I came up again, and seated
myself on the top stair, listening. No doubt, to calm himself entirely,
the marshal went to embrace his children, for I heard him open and shut
their door. Then he returned to his room, and walked about for a long
time, but with a more quiet step. At last, I heard him throw himself on
his bed, and I came down about break of day. After that, all remained
tranquil.”
“But whatever can be the matter with him, father?”
“I do not know. When I went up to him, I was astonished at the agitation
of his countenance, and the brilliancy of his eyes. He would have looked
much the same, had he been delirious, or in a burning fever--so that,
when I heard him say, he could have thrown himself out of the window,
had it been open, I thought it more prudent to remove the caps from his
pistols.”
“I cannot understand it!” said Agricola. “So firm, intrepid, and cool a
man as the marshal, a prey to such violence!”
“I tell you that something very extraordinary is passing within him.
For two days, he has not been to see his children, which is always a bad
sign with him--to say nothing of the poor little angels themselves, who
are miserable at the notion that they have displeased their father. They
displease him! If you only knew the life they lead, dear creatures! a
walk or ride with me and their companion, for I never let them go
out alone, and, the rest of their time, at their studies, reading, or
needlework--always together--and then to bed. Yet their duenna, who is,
I think, a worthy woman, tells me that sometimes at night, she has seen
them shed tears in their sleep. Poor children! they have hitherto known
but little happiness,” added the soldier, with a sigh.
At this moment, hearing some one walk hastily across the courtyard,
Dagobert raised his eyes, and saw Marshal Simon, with pale face and
bewildered air, holding in his two hands a letter, which he seemed to
read with devouring anxiety.
CHAPTER XLVII. THE GOLDEN CITY.
While Marshal Simon was crossing the little court with so agitated
an air, reading the anonymous letter, which he had received by
Spoil-sport’s unexpected medium, Rose and Blanche were alone together,
in the sitting room they usually occupied, which had been entered for a
moment by Loony during their absence. The poor children seemed destined
to a succession of sorrows. At the moment their mourning for their
mother drew near its close, the tragical death of their grandfather had
again dressed them in funereal weeds. They were seated together upon a
couch, in front of their work-table. Grief often produces the effect of
years. Hence, in a few months, Rose and Blanche had become quite young
women. To the infantine grace of their charming faces, formerly so plump
and rosy, but now pale and thin, had succeeded an expression of grave
and touching sadness. Their large, mild eyes of limpid azure, which
always had a dreamy character, were now never bathed in those joyous
tears, with which a burst of frank and hearty laughter used of old to
adorn their silky lashes, when the comic coolness of Dagobert, or some
funny trick of Spoil-sport, cheered them in the course of their long and
weary pilgrimage.
In a word, those delightful faces, which the flowery pencil of Greuze
could alone have painted in all their velvet freshness, were now worthy
of inspiring the melancholy ideal of the immortal Ary Scheffer, who gave
us Mignon aspiring to Paradise, and Margaret dreaming of Faust. Rose,
leaning back on the couch, held her head somewhat bowed upon her
bosom, over which was crossed a handkerchief of black crape. The light
streaming from a window opposite, shone softly on her pure, white
forehead, crowned by two thick bands of chestnut hair. Her look was
fixed, and the open arch of her eyebrows, now somewhat contracted,
announced a mind occupied with painful thoughts. Her thin, white little
hands had fallen upon her knees, but still held the embroidery, on which
she had been engaged. The profile of Blanche was visible, leaning a
little towards her sister, with an expression of tender and anxious
solicitude, whilst her needle remained in the canvas, as if she had just
ceased to work.
“Sister,” said Blanche, in a low voice, after some moments of silence,
during which the tears seemed to mount to her eyes, “tell me what you
are thinking of. You look so sad.”
“I think of the Golden City of our dreams,” replied Rose, almost in a
whisper, after another short silence.
Blanche understood the bitterness of these words. Without speaking, she
threw herself on her sister’s neck, and wept. Poor girls! the Golden
City of their dreams was Paris, with their father in it--Paris, the
marvellous city of joys and festivals, through all of which the orphans
had beheld the radiant and smiling countenance of their sire! But, alas!
the Beautiful City had been changed into a place of tears, and death,
and mourning. The same terrible pestilence which had struck down their
mother in the heart of Siberia, seemed to have followed them like a dark
and fatal cloud, which, always hovering above them, hid the mild blue of
the sky, and the joyous light of the sun.
The Golden City of their dreams! It was the place, where perhaps one day
their father would present to them two young lovers, good and fair as
themselves. “They love you,” he was to say; “they are worthy of you.
Let each of you have a brother, and me two sons.” Then what chaste,
enchanting confusion for those two orphans, whose hearts, pure as
crystal, had never reflected any image but that of Gabriel, the
celestial messenger sent by their mother to protect them!
We can therefore understand the painful emotion of Blanche, when she
heard her sister repeat, with bitter melancholy, those words which
described their whole situation: “I think of the Golden City of our
dreams!”
“Who knows?” proceeded Blanche, drying her sister’s tears; “perhaps,
happiness may yet be in store for us.”
“Alas! if we are not happy with our father by us--shall we ever be so?”
“Yes, when we rejoin our mother,” said Blanche, lifting her eyes to
heaven.
“Then, sister, this dream may be a warning--it is so like that we had in
Germany.”
“The difference being that then the Angel Gabriel came down from heaven
to us, and that this time he takes us from earth, to our mother.”
“And this dream will perhaps come true, like the other, my sister. We
dreamt that the Angel Gabriel would protect us, and he came to save us
from the shipwreck.”
“And, this time, we dream that he will lead us to heaven. Why should not
that happen also?”
“But to bring that about, sister, our Gabriel, who saved us from the
shipwreck, must die also. No, no; that must not happen. Let us pray that
it may not happen.”
“No, it will not happen--for it is only Gabriel’s good angel, who is so
like him, that we saw in our dreams.”
“Sister, dear, how singular is this dream!--Here, as in Germany, we have
both dreamt the same--three times, the very same!”
“It is true. The Angel Gabriel bent over us, and looked at us with so
mild and sad an air, saying: ‘Come, my children! come, my sisters! Your
mother waits for you. Poor children, arrived from so far!’ added he in
his tender voice: ‘You have passed over the earth, gentle and innocent
as two doves, to repose forever in the maternal nest.’”
“Yes, those were the words of the archangel,” said the other orphan,
with a pensive air; “we have done no harm to any one, and we have loved
those who loved us--why should we fear to die?”
“Therefore, dear sister, we rather smiled than wept, when he took us
by the hand, and, spreading wide his beautiful white wings, carried us
along with him to the blue depths of the sky.”
“To heaven, where our dear mother waited for us with open arms, her face
all bathed in tears.”
“Oh, sweet sister! one has not dreams like ours for nothing. And then,”
added she, looking at Rose, with a sad smile that went to the heart,
“our death might perhaps end the sorrow, of which we have been the
cause.”
“Alas! it is not our fault. We love him so much. But we are so timid and
sorrowful before him, that he may perhaps think we love him not.”
So saying, Rose took her handkerchief from her workbasket, to dry her
fears; a paper, folded in the form of a letter, fell out.
At this sight, the two shuddered, and pressed close to one mother,
and Rose said to Blanche, in a trembling voice: “Another of these
letters!--Oh, I am afraid! It will doubtless be like the last.”
“We must pick it up quickly, that it may not be seen,” said Blanche,
hastily stooping to seize the letter; “the people who take interest in
us might otherwise be exposed to great danger.”
“But how could this letter come to us?”
“How did the others come to be placed right under our hand, and always
in the absence of our duenna?”
“It is true. Why seek to explain the mystery? We should never be able to
do so. Let us read the letter. It will perhaps be more favorable to us
than the last.” And the two sisters read as follows:-“Continue to love
your father, dear children, for he is very miserable, and you are the
involuntary cause of his distress. You will never know the terrible
sacrifices that your presence imposes on him; but, alas! he is the
victim of his paternal duties. His sufferings are more cruel than ever;
spare him at least those marks of tenderness, which occasion him so much
more pain than pleasure. Each caress is a dagger-stroke, for he sees in
you the innocent cause of his misfortunes. Dear children, you must not
therefore despair. If you have enough command over yourselves, not to
torture him by the display of too warm a tenderness, if you can mingle
some reserve with your affection, you will greatly alleviate his sorrow.
Keep these letters a secret from every one, even from good Dagobert,
who loves you so much; otherwise, both he and you, your father, and
the unknown friend who is writing to you, will be exposed to the utmost
peril, for your enemies are indeed formidable. Courage and hope! May
your father’s tenderness be once more free from sorrow and regret!--That
happy day is perhaps not so far distant. Burn this letter like all the
others!”
The above note was written with so much cunning that, even supposing the
orphans had communicated it to their father or Dagobert, it would at the
worst have been considered a strange, intrusive proceeding, but almost
excusable from the spirit in which it was conceived. Nothing could
have been contrived with more perfidious art, if we consider the cruel
perplexity in which Marshal Simon was struggling between the fear
of again leaving his children and the shame of neglecting what he
considered a sacred duty. All the tenderness, all the susceptibility
of heart which distinguished the orphans, had been called into play by
these diabolical counsels, and the sisters soon perceived that their
presence was in fact both sweet and painful to their father; for
sometimes he felt himself incapable of leaving them, and sometimes the
thought of a neglected duty spread a cloud of sadness over his brow.
Hence the poor twins could not fail to value the fatal meaning of the
anonymous letters they received. They were persuaded that, from some
mysterious motive, which they were unable to penetrate, their presence
was often importunate and even painful to their father. Hence the
growing sadness of Rose and Blanche--hence the sort of fear and reserve
which restrained the expression of their filial tenderness. A most
painful situation for the marshal, who deceived by inexplicable
appearances, mistook, in his turn, their manner of indifference to
him--and so, with breaking heart, and bitter grief upon his face, often
abruptly quitted his children to conceal his tears!
And the desponding orphans said to each other: “We are the cause of our
father’s grief. It is our presence which makes him so unhappy.”
The reader may new judge what ravages such a thought, when fixed and
incessant, must have made on these young, loving, timid, and simple
hearts. Haw could the orphans be on their guard against such anonymous
communications, which spoke with reverence of all they loved, and seemed
every day justified by the conduct of their father? Already victims of
numerous plots, and hearing that they were surrounded by enemies, we
can understand, how faithful to the advice of their unknown friend, they
forbore to confide to Dagobert these letters, in which he was so justly
appreciated. The object of the proceeding was very plain. By continually
harassing the marshal on all sides, and persuading him of the coldness
of his children, the conspirators might naturally hope to conquer the
hesitation which had hitherto prevented his again quitting his daughters
to embark in a dangerous enterprise. To render the marshal’s life so
burdensome that he would desire to seek relief from his torments in airy
project of daring and generous chivalry, was one of the ends proposed by
Rodin--and, as we have seen, it wanted neither logic nor possibility.
After having read the letter, the two remained for a moment silent
and dejected. Then Rose, who held the paper in her hand, started up
suddenly, approached the chimneypiece, and threw the letter into the
fire, saying, with a timid air: “We must burn it quickly, or perhaps
some great danger will ensue.”
“What greater misfortune can happen to us,” said Blanche, despondingly,
“than to cause such sorrow to our father? What can be the reason of it?”
“Perhaps,” said Rose, whose tears were slowly trickling down her cheek,
“he does not find us what he could have desired. He may love us well
as the children of our poor mother, but we are not the daughters he had
dreamed of. Do you understand me, sister?”
“Yes, yes--that is perhaps what occasioned all his sorrow. We are so
badly informed, so wild, so awkward, that he is no doubt ashamed of us;
and, as he loves us in spite of all, it makes him suffer.”
“Alas! it is not our fault. Our dear mother brought us up in the deserts
of Siberia as well as she could.”
“Oh! father himself does not reproach us with it; only it gives him
pain.”
“Particularly if he has friends whose daughters are very beautiful, and
possessed of all sorts of talents. Then he must bitterly regret that we
are not the same.”
“Dost remember when he took us to see our cousin, Mdlle. Adrienne, who
was so affectionate and kind to us, that he said to us, with admiration:
‘Did you notice her, my children? How beautiful she is, and what talent,
what a noble heart, and therewith such grace and elegance!’”
“Oh, it is very true! Mdlle. de Cardoville is so beautiful, her voice
is so sweet and gentle, that, when we saw and heard her, we fancied that
all our troubles were at an end.”
“And it is because of such beauty, no doubt, that our father, comparing
us with our cousin and so many other handsome young ladies, cannot be
very proud of us. And he, who is so loved and honored, would have liked
to have been proud of his daughters.”
Suddenly Rose laid her hand on her sister’s arm, and said to her,
with anxiety: “Listen! listen! they are talking very loud in father’s
bedroom.”
“Yes,” said Blanche, listening in her turn; “and I can hear him walking.
That is his step.”
“Good heaven! how he raises his voice; he seems to be in a great
passion; he will perhaps come this way.”
And at the thought of their father’s coming--that father who really
adored them--the unhappy children looked in terror at each other. The
sound of a loud and angry voice became more and more distinct; and Rose,
trembling through all her frame, said to her sister: “Do not let us
remain here! Come into our room.”
“Why?”
“We should hear, without designing it, the words of our father--and he
does not perhaps know that we are so near.”
“You are right. Come, come!” answered Blanche, as she rose hastily from
her seat.
“Oh! I am afraid. I have never heard him speak in so angry a tone.”
“Oh! kind heaven!” said Blanche, growing pale, as she stopped
involuntarily. “It is to Dagobert that he is talking so loud.”
“What can be the matter--to make our father speak to him in that way?”
“Alas! some great misfortune must have happened.”
“Oh, sister! do not let us remain here! It pains me too much to hear
Dagobert thus spoken to.”
The crash of some article, hurled with violence and broken to pieces in
the next room, so frightened the orphans, that, pale and trembling with
emotion, they rushed into their own apartment, and fastened the door. We
must now explain the cause of Marshal Simon’s violent anger.
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE STUNG LION.
This was the scene, the sound of which had so terrified Rose and
Blanche. At first alone in his chamber, in a state of exasperation
difficult to describe, Marshal Simon had begun to walk hastily up and
down, his handsome, manly face inflamed with rage, his eyes sparkling
with indignation, while on his broad forehead, crowned with short-cut
hair that was now turning gray, large veins, of which you might count
the pulsations, were swollen almost to bursting; and sometimes his
thick, black moustache was curled with a convulsive motion, not unlike
that which is seen in the visage of a raging lion. And even as the
wounded lion, in its fury, harassed and tortured by a thousand invisible
darts, walks up and down its den with savage wrath, so Marshal Simon
paced the floor of his room, as if bounding from side to side;
sometimes he stooped, as though bending beneath the weight of his anger;
sometimes, on the contrary, he paused abruptly, drew himself up to his
full height, crossed his arms upon his vigorous chest, and with raised
brow, threatening and terrible look, seemed to defy some invisible
enemy, and murmur confused exclamations. Then he stood like a man of war
and battle in all his intrepid fire.
And now he stamped angrily with his foot, approached the chimney-piece,
and pulled the bell so violently that the bell-rope remained in his
hand. A servant hastened to attend to this precipitate summons. “Did you
not tell Dagobert that I wished to speak to him?” cried the marshal.
“I executed your grace’s orders, but M. Dagobert was accompanying his
son to the door, and--”
“Very well!” interrupted Marshal Simon, with an abrupt and imperious
gesture.
The servant went out, and his master continued to walk up and down with
impatient steps, crumpling, in his rage, a letter that he held in his
left hand. This letter had been innocently delivered by Spoil-sport,
who, seeing him come in, had run joyously to meet him. At length the
door opened, and Dagobert appeared. “I have been waiting for you a long
time, sirrah!” cried the marshal, in an irritated tone.
Dagobert, more pained than surprised at this burst of anger, which he
rightly attributed to the constant state of excitement in which the
marshal had now been for some time past, answered mildly: “I beg your
pardon, general, but I was letting out my son--”
“Read that, sir!” said the marshal abruptly, giving him the letter.
While Dagobert was reading it, the marshal resumed, with growing anger,
as he kicked over a chair that stood in his way: “Thus, even in my
own house, there are wretches bribed to harass me with incredible
perseverance. Well! have you read it, sir?”
“It is a fresh insult to add to the others,” said Dagobert, coolly, as
he threw the letter into the fire.
“The letter is infamous--but it speaks the truth,” replied the marshal.
Dagobert looked at him in amazement.
“And can you tell who brought me this infamous letter” continued the
marshal. “One would think the devil had a hand in it--for it was your
dog!”
“Spoil-sport?” said Dagobert, in the utmost surprise.
“Yes,” answered the marshal, bitterly; “it is no doubt a joke of your
invention.”
“I have no heart for joking, general,” answered Dagobert, more and more
saddened by the irritable state of the marshal; “I cannot explain how it
happened. Spoil-sport is a good carrier, and no doubt found the letter
in the house--”
“And who can have left it there? Am I surrounded by traitors? Do you
keep no watch? You, in whom I have every confidence?”
“Listen to me, general--”
But the marshal proceeded, without waiting to hear him. “What! I have
made war for five-and-twenty years, I have battled with armies, I have
struggled victoriously through the evil times of exile and proscription,
I have withstood blows from maces of iron--and now I am to be killed
with pins! Pursued into my own house, harassed with impunity, worn out,
tortured every minute, to gratify some unknown, miserable hate!--When I
say unknown, I am wrong--it is d’Aigrigny, the renegade, who is at the
bottom of all this, I am sure. I have in the world but one enemy, and
he is the man. I must finish with him, for I am weary of this--it is too
much.”
“But, general, remember he is a priest--”
“What do I care for that? Have I not seen him handle the sword? I will
yet make a soldier’s blood rise to the forehead of the traitor!”
“But, general--”
“I tell you, that I must be avenged on some one,” cried the marshal,
with an accent of the most violent exasperation; “I tell you, that I
mast find a living representative of these cowardly plots, that I may at
once make an end of him!--They press upon me from all sides; they make
my life a hell--you know it--and you do nothing to save me from these
tortures, which are killing me as by a slow fire. Can I have no one in
whom to trust?”
“General, I can’t let you say that,” replied Dagobert, in a calm, but
firm voice.
“And why not?”
“General, I can’t let you say that you have no one to trust to. You
might end perhaps in believing it, and then it would be even worse for
yourself, than for those who well know their devotion for you, and would
go through fire and water to serve you. I am one of them--and you know
it.”
These simple words, pronounced by Dagobert with a tone of deep
conviction, recalled the marshal to himself; for although his honorable
and generous character might from time to time be embittered by
irritation and grief, he soon recovered his natural equanimity. So,
addressing Dagobert in a less abrupt tone, he said to him, though still
much agitated: “You are right. I could never doubt your fidelity. But
anger deprives me of my senses. This infamous letter is enough to drive
one mad. I am unjust, ungrateful--yes, ungrateful--and to you!”
“Do not think of me, general. With a kind word at the end, you might
blow me up all the year round. But what has happened?”
The general’s countenance again darkened, as he answered rapidly: “I am
looked down upon, and despised!”
“You?”
“Yes I. After all,” resumed the marshal bitterly, “why should I conceal
from you this new wound? If I doubted you a moment, I owe you some
compensation, and you shall know all. For some time past, I perceived
that, when I meet any of my old companions in arms, they try to avoid
me--”
“What! was it to this that the anonymous letter alluded?”
“Yes; and it spoke the truth,” replied the marshal, with a sigh of grief
and indignation.
“But it is impossible, general--you are so loved and respected--”
“Those are mere words; I speak of positive facts. When I appear, the
conversation is often interrupted. Instead of treating me as an old
comrade, they affect towards me a rigorously cold politeness. There are
a thousand little shades, a thousand trifles, which wound the heart, but
which it is impossible to notice--”
“What you are now saying, general, quite confounds me,” replied
Dagobert. “You assure me of it, and I am forced to believe you.”
“Oh, it is intolerable! I was resolved to ease my heart of it; so, this
morning, I went to General d’Havrincourt, who was colonel with me in the
Imperial Guard; he is honor and honesty itself. I went to him with
open heart. ‘I perceive,’ said I, ‘the coldness that is shown me. Some
calumny must be circulating to my disadvantage. Tell me all about it.
Knowing the attack, I shall be able to defend myself--’
“Well, general?”
“D’Havrincourt remained impassible ceremoniously polite. To all my
questions he answered coldly: ‘I am not aware, my lord duke, that any
calumny has been circulated with regard to you.’--‘Do not call me
“my lord duke,” my dear D’Havrincourt; we are old fellow-soldiers and
friends, my honor is somewhat touchy, I confess, and I find that you and
our comrades do not receive me so cordially, as in times past. You
do not deny it; I see, I know, I feel it.’ To all this D’Havrincourt
answered, with the same coldness: ‘I have never seen any one wanting in
respect towards you.’--‘I am not talking of respect,’ exclaimed I, as
I clasped his hand affectionately, though I observed that he but feebly
returned the pressure; ‘I speak of cordiality, confidence, which I once
enjoyed, while now I am treated like a stranger. Why is it? What has
occasioned this change?’--Still cold and reserved, he answered: ‘These
distinctions are so nice, marshal, that it is impossible for me to give
you any opinion on the subject.’--My heart swelled with grief and anger.
What was I to do? To quarrel with D’Havrincourt would have been absurd.
A sense of dignity forced me to break off the interview, but it has
only confirmed my fears. Thus,” added the marshal, getting more and more
animated, “thus am I fallen from the esteem to which I am entitled, thus
am I despised, without even knowing the cause! Is it not odious? If
they would only utter a charge against me--I should at least be able to
defend myself, and to find an answer. But no, no! not even a word--only
the cold politeness that is worse than any insult. Oh! it is too much,
too much! for all this comes but in addition to other cares. What a
life is mine since the death of my father! If I did but find rest and
happiness at home--but no! I come in, but to read shameful letters; and
still worse,” added the marshal, in a heartrending tone, and after a
moment’s hesitation, “to find my children grow more and more indifferent
towards me--“Yes,” continued he, perceiving the amazement of Dagobert,
“and yet they know how much I love them!”
“Your daughters indifferent!” exclaimed Dagobert, in astonishment. “You
make them such a reproach?”
“Oh! I do not blame them. They have hardly had time to know me.”
“Not had time to know you?” returned the soldier, in a tone of
remonstrance, and warming up in his turn. “Ah! of what did their mother
talk to them, except you? and I too! what could I teach your children
except to know and love you?”
“You take their part--that is natural--they love you better than they do
me,” said the marshal, with growing bitterness. Dagobert felt himself so
painfully affected, that he looked at the marshal without answering.
“Yes!” continued the other; “yes! it may be base and ungrateful--but no
matter!--Twenty times I have felt jealous of the affectionate confidence
which my children display towards you, while with me they seem always to
be in fear. If their melancholy faces ever grow animated for a moment,
it is in talking to you, in seeing you; while for me they have nothing
but cold respect--and that kills me. Sure of the affection of my
children, I would have braved and surmounted every difficulty--” Then,
seeing that Dagobert rushed towards the door which led to the chamber of
Rose and Blanche, the marshal asked: “Where are you going?”
“For your daughters, general.”
“What for?”
“To bring them face to face with you--to tell them: ‘My children, your
father thinks that you do not love him.’--I will only say that--and then
you will see.”
“Dagobert! I forbid you to do it,” cried the marshal, hastily.
“I don’t care for that--you have no right to be unjust to the poor
children,” said the soldier, as he again advanced towards the door.
“Dagobert, I command you to remain here,” cried the marshal.
“Listen to me, general. I am your soldier, your inferior, your servant,
if you will,” said the old grenadier, roughly; “but neither rank nor
station shall keep me silent, when I have to defend your daughters.
All must be explained--I know but one way--and that is to bring honest
people face to face.”
If the marshal had not seized him by the arm, Dagobert would have
entered the apartment of the young girls.
“Remain!” said the marshal, so imperiously that the soldier, accustomed
to obedience, hung his head, and stood still.
“What would you do?” resumed the marshal. “Tell my children, that I
think they do not love me? induce them to affect a tenderness they do
not feel--when it is not their fault, but mine?”
“Oh, general!” said Dagobert, in a tone of despair, “I no longer feel
anger, in hearing you speak thus of your children. It is such grief,
that it breaks my heart!”
Touched by the expression of the soldier’s countenance, the marshal
continued, less abruptly: “Come, I may be wrong; and yet I ask you,
without bitterness or jealousy, are not my children more confiding, more
familiar, with you than with me?”
“God bless me, general!” cried Dagobert; “if you come to that, they are
more familiar with Spoil-sport than with either of us. You are their
father; and, however kind a father may be, he must always command some
respect. Familiar with me! I should think so. A fine story! What the
devil should they respect in me, who, except that I am six feet
high, and wear a moustache, might pass for the old woman that nursed
them?--and then I must say, that, even before the death of your worthy
father, you were sad and full of thought; the children have remarked
that; and what you take for coldness on their part, is, I am sure,
anxiety for you. Come, general; you are not just. You complain, because
they love you too much.”
“I complain, because I suffer,” said the marshal, in an agony of
excitement. “I alone know my sufferings.”
“They must indeed be grievous, general,” said Dagobert, carried further
than he would otherwise have gone by his attachment for the orphans,
“since those who love you feel them so cruelly.”
“What, sir! more reproaches?”
“Yes, general, reproaches,” cried Dagobert. “Your children have the
right to complain of you, since you accuse them so unjustly.”
“Sir,” said the marshal, scarcely able to contain himself, “this is
enough--this is too much!”
“Oh, yes! it is enough,” replied Dagobert, with rising emotion. “Why
defend unfortunate children, who can only love and submit? Why defend
them against your unhappy blindness?”
The marshal started with anger and impatience, but then replied, with a
forced calmness: “I needs must remember all that I owe you--and I will
not forget it, say what you will.”
“But, general,” cried Dagobert, “why will you not let me fetch your
children?”
“Do you not see that this scene is killing me?” cried the exasperated
marshal. “Do you not understand, that I will not have my children
witness what I suffer? A father’s grief has its dignity, sir; and you
ought to feel for and respect it.”
“Respect it? no--not when it is founded on injustice!”
“Enough, sir--enough!”
“And not content with tormenting yourself,” cried Dagobert, unable any
longer to control his feelings, “do you know what you will do? You will
make your children die of sorrow. Was it for this, that I brought them
to you from the depths of Siberia?”
“More reproaches!”
“Yes; for the worst ingratitude towards me, is to make your children
unhappy.”
“Leave the room, sir!” cried the marshal, quite beside himself, and so
terrible with rage and grief, that Dagobert, regretting that he had gone
so far, resumed: “I was wrong, general. I have perhaps been wanting in
respect to you--forgive me--but--”
“I forgive you--only leave me!” said the marshal, hardly restraining
himself.
“One word, general--”
“I entreat you to leave me--I ask it as a service--is that enough?”
said the marshal, with renewed efforts to control the violence of his
emotions.
A deadly paleness succeeded to the high color which during this painful
scene had inflamed the cheeks of the marshal. Alarmed at this symptom,
Dagobert redoubled his entreaties. “I implore you, general,” said he, in
an agitated mice, “to permit me for one moment--”
“Since you will have it so, sir, I must be the one to leave,” said the
marshal, making a step towards the door.
These words were said in such a manner, that Dagobert could no longer
resist. He hung his head in despair, looked for a moment in silent
supplication at the marshal, and then, as the latter seemed yielding to
a new movement of rage, the soldier slowly quitted the room.
A few minutes had scarcely elapsed since the departure of Dagobert, when
the marshal, who, after a long and gloomy silence, had repeatedly drawn
near the door of his daughters’ apartment with a mixture of hesitation
and anguish, suddenly made a violent effort, wiped the cold sweat from
his brow, and entered the chamber in which Rose and Blanche had taken
refuge.
CHAPTER XLIX. THE TEST.
Dagobert was right in defending his children, as he paternally called
Rose and Blanche, and yet the apprehensions of the marshal with regard
to the coldness of his daughters, were unfortunately justified by
appearances. As he had told his father, unable to explain the sad,
and almost trembling embarrassment, which his daughters felt in his
presence, he sought in vain for the cause of what he termed their
indifference. Now reproaching himself bitterly for not concealing from
them his grief at the death of their mother, he feared he might have
given them to understand that they would be unable to console him; now
supposing that he had not shown himself sufficiently tender, and that
had chilled them with his military sternness; and now repeating with
bitter regret, that, having always lived away from them, he must be
always a stranger to them. In a word, the most unlikely suppositions
presented themselves by turns to his mind, and whenever such seeds of
doubt, suspicion, or fear, are blended with a warm affection, they
will sooner or later develop themselves with fatal effect. Yet,
notwithstanding this fancied coldness, from which he suffered so much,
the affection of the marshal for his daughters was so true and deep,
that the thought of again quitting them caused the hesitations which
were the torment of his life, and provoked an incessant struggle between
his paternal love and the duty he held most sacred.
The injurious calumnies, which had been so skillfully propagated, that
men of honor, like his old brothers in arms, were found to attach
some credit to them, had been spread with frightful pertinacity by the
friends of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. We shall describe hereafter the
meaning and object of these odious reports, which, joined with so
many other fatal injuries, had filled up the measure of the marshal’s
indignation. Inflamed with anger, excited almost to madness by this
incessant “stabbing with pins” (as he had himself called it), and
offended at some of Dagobert’s words, he had spoken harshly to him.
But, after the soldier’s departure, when left to reflect in silence, the
marshal remembered the warm and earnest expressions of the defender
of his children, and doubt crossed his mind, as to the reality of the
coldness of which he accused them. Therefore, having taken a terrible
resolution in case a new trial should confirm his desponding doubts, he
entered, as we before said, his, daughters’ chamber. The discussion with
Dagobert had been so loud, that the sound of the voices had confusedly
reached the ears of the two sisters, even after they had taken refuge in
their bedroom. So that, on the arrival of their father, their pale
faces betrayed their fear and anxiety. At sight of the marshal, whose
countenance was also much agitated, the girls rose respectfully, but
remained close together, trembling in each other’s arms. And yet there
was neither anger nor severity on their father’s face--only a deep,
almost supplicating grief, which seemed to say: “My children, I
suffer--I have come to you--console me, love me! or I shall die!”
The marshal’s countenance was at this moment so expressive, that, the
first impulse of fear once surmounted, the sisters were about to throw
themselves into his arms; but remembering the recommendations of the
anonymous letter, which told them how painful any effusion of their
tenderness was to their father, they exchanged a rapid glance, and
remained motionless. By a cruel fatality, the marshal at this moment
burned to open his arms to his children. He looked at them with love, he
even made a slight movement as if to call them to him; but he would
not attempt more, for fear of meeting with no response. Still the poor
children, paralyzed by perfidious counsels, remained mute, motionless,
trembling!
“It is all over,” thought he, as he gazed upon them. “No chord of
sympathy stirs in their bosom. Whether I go---whether I remain--matters
not to them. No, I am nothing to these children--since, at this awful
moment, when they see me perhaps for the last time, no filial instinct
tells them that their affection might save me still!”
During these terrible reflections, the marshal had not taken his eyes
off his children, and his manly countenance assumed an expression
at once so touching and mournful--his look revealed so painfully the
tortures of his despairing soul--that Rose and Blanche, confused,
alarmed, but yielding together to a spontaneous movement, threw
themselves on their father’s neck, and covered him with tears and
caresses. Marshal Simon had not spoken a word; his daughters had not
uttered a sound; and yet all three had at length understood one another.
A sympathetic shock had electrified and mingled those three hearts. Vain
fears, false doubts, lying counsel, all had yielded to the irresistible
emotion which had brought the daughters to their father’s arms. A sudden
revelation gave them faith, at the fatal moment when incurable suspicion
was about to separate them forever.
In a second, the marshal felt all this, but words failed him. Pale,
bewildered, kissing the brows, the hair, the hands of his daughters,
weeping, sighing, smiling all in turn, he was wild, delirious, drunk
with happiness. At length, he exclaimed: “I have found them--or rather,
I have never lost them. They loved me, and did not dare to tell me so.
I overawed them. And I thought it was my fault. Heavens! what good that
does! what strength, what heart, what hope!--Ha! ha!” cried he, laughing
and weeping at the same time, whilst he covered his children with
caresses; “they may despise me now, they may harass me now--I defy them
all. My own blue eyes! my sweet blue eyes! look at me well, and inspire
me with new life.”
“Oh, father! you love us then as much as we love you?” cried Rose, with
enchanting simplicity.
“And we may often, very often, perhaps every day, throw ourselves on
your neck, embrace you, and prove how glad we are to be with you?”
“Show you, dear father, all the store of love we were heaping up in our
hearts--so sad, alas! that we could not spend it upon you?”
“Tell you aloud all that we think in secret?”
“Yes--you may do so--you may do so,” said Marshal Simon, faltering with
joy; “what prevented you, my children? But no; do not answer; enough of
the past!--I know all, I understand all. You misinterpreted my gloom,
and it made you sad; I, in my turn, misinterpreted your sadness. But
never mind; I scarcely know what I am saying to you. I only think of
looking at you--and it dazzles me--it confuses me--it is the dizziness
of joy!”
“Oh, look at us, father! look into our eyes, into our hearts,” cried
Rose, with rapture.
“And you will read there, happiness for us, and love for you, sir!”
added Blanche.
“Sir, sir!” said the marshal, in a tone of affectionate reproach; “what
does that mean? Will you call me father, if you please?”
“Dear father, your hand!” said Blanche, as she took it, and placed it on
her heart.
“Dear father, your hand!” said Rose, as she took the other hand of the
marshal. “Do you believe now in our love and happiness?” she continued.
It is impossible to describe the charming expression of filial pride in
the divine faces of the girls, as their father, slightly pressing their
virgin bosoms, seemed to count with delight the joyous pulsations of
their hearts.
“Oh, yes! happiness and affection can alone make the heart beat thus!”
cried the marshal.
A hoarse sob, heard in the direction of the open door, made the three
turn round, and there they saw the tall figure of Dagobert, with the
black nose of Spoil-sport reaching to his master’s knee. The soldier,
drying his eyes and moustache with his little blue cotton handkerchief,
remained motionless as the god Terminus. When he could speak, he
addressed himself to the marshal, and, shaking his head, muttered, in a
hoarse voice, for the good man was swallowing his tears: “Did I not tell
you so?”
“Silence!” said the marshal, with a sign of intelligence. “You were a
better father than myself, my old friend. Come and kiss them! I shall
not be jealous.”
The marshal stretched out his hand to the soldier, who pressed it
cordially, whilst the two sisters threw themselves on his neck, and
Spoil-sport, according to custom wishing to have his share in the
general joy, raised himself on his hind legs, and rested his fore-paws
against his master’s back. There was a moment of profound silence.
The celestial felicity enjoyed during that moment, by the marshal,
his daughters, and the soldier, was interrupted by the barking of
Spoil-sort, who suddenly quitted the attitude of a biped. The happy
group separated, looked round, and saw Loony’s stupid face. He looked
even duller than usual, as he stood quite still in the doorway, staring
with wide stretched eyes, and holding a feather-broom under his arm, and
in his hand the ever-present basket of wood.
Nothing makes one so gay as happiness; and, though this grotesque figure
appeared at a very unseasonable moment, it was received with frank
laughter from the blooming lips of Rose and Blanche. Having made the
marshal’s daughters laugh, after their long sadness, Loony at once
acquired a claim to the indulgence of the marshal, who said to him, good
humoredly: “What do you want, my lad?”
“It’s not me, my lord duke!” answered Loony, laying his hand on his
breast, as if it were taking a vow, so that his feather-brush fell down
from under his arm. The laughter of the girls redoubled.
“It is not you?” said the marshal.
“Here! Spoil-sport!” Dagobert called, for the honest dog seemed to have
a secret dislike for the pretended idiot, and approached him with an
angry air.
“No, my lord duke, it is not me!” resumed Loony. “It is the footman who
told me to tell M. Dagobert, when I brought up the wood to tell my lord
duke, as I was coming up with the basket, that M. Robert wants to see
him.”
The girls laughed still more at this new stupidity. But, at the name of
Robert, Marshal Simon started.
M. Robert was the secret emissary of Rodin, with regard to the possible,
but adventurous, enterprise of attempting the liberation of Napoleon II.
After a moment’s silence, the marshal, whose face was still radiant with
joy and happiness, said to Loony: “Beg M. Robert to wait for me a moment
in my study.”
“Yes, my lord duke,” answered Loony, bowing almost to the ground.
The simpleton withdrew, and the marshal said to his daughters, in a
joyous tone, “You see, that, in a moment like this, one does not leave
one’s children, even for M. Robert.”
“Oh! that’s right, father!” cried Blanche, gayly; “for I was already
very angry with this M. Robert.”
“Have you pen and paper at hand?” asked the marshal.
“Yes, father; there on the table,” said Rose, hastily, as she pointed
to a little desk near one of the windows, towards which the marshal now
advanced rapidly.
From motives of delicacy, the girls remained where they were, close to
the fireplace, and caressed each other tenderly, as if to congratulate
themselves in private on the unexpected happiness of this day.
The marshal seated himself at the desk, and made a sign to Dagobert to
draw near.
While he wrote rapidly a few words in a firm hand, he said to the
soldier with a smile, in so low a tone that it was impossible for his
daughters to hear: “Do you know what I had almost resolved upon, before
entering this room?”
“What, general?”
“To blow my brains out. It is to my children that I owe my life.” And
the marshal continued writing.
Dagobert started at this communication, and then replied, also in a
whisper: “It would not have been with your pistols. I took off the
caps.”
The marshal turned round hastily, and looked at him with an air of
surprise. But the soldier only nodded his head affirmatively, and added:
“Thank heaven, we have now done with all those ideas!”
The marshal’s only answer was to glance at his children, his eyes
swimming with tenderness, and sparkling with delight; then, sealing the
note he had written, he gave it to the soldier, and said to him, “Give
that to M. Robert. I will see him to-morrow.”
Dagobert took the letter, and went out. Returning towards his daughters,
the marshal joyfully extended his arms to them, and said, “Now, young
ladies, two nice kisses for having sacrificed M. Robert to you. Have
I not earned them?” And Rose and Blanche threw themselves on their
father’s neck.
About the time that these events were taking place at Paris, two
travellers, wide apart from each other, exchanged mysterious thoughts
through the breadth of space.
BOOK XI.
L. The Ruins of the Abbey of St. John the Baptist LI. The
Calvary LII. The Council LIII. Happiness LIV. Duty LV. The
Improvised Hospital LVI. Hydrophobia LVII. The Guardian
Angel LVIII. Ruin LIX. Memories LX. The Ordeal LXI. Ambition
LXII. To a Socius, a Socius and a Half LXIII. Faringhea’s
Affection LXIV. An Evening at St. Colombe’s LXV. The Nuptial
Bed LXVI. A Duel to the Death LXVII. A Message LXVIII. The
First of June
EPILOGUE.
I. Four Years After II. The Redemption
CHAPTER L. THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST.
The sun is fast sinking. In the depths of an immense piny wood, in the
midst of profound solitude, rise the ruins of an abbey, once sacred to
St. John the Baptist. Ivy, moss, and creeping plants, almost entirely
conceal the stones, now black with age. Some broken arches, some
walls pierced with ovals, still remain standing, visible on the dark
background of the thick wood. Looking down upon this mass of ruins from
a broken pedestal, half-covered with ivy, a mutilated, but colossal
statue of stone still keeps its place. This statue is strange and awful.
It represents a headless human figure. Clad in the antique toga, it
holds in its hand a dish and on that dish is a head. This head is its
own. It is the statue of St. John the Baptist and Martyr, put to death
by wish of Herodias.
The silence around is solemn. From time to time, however, is heard the
dull rustling of the enormous branches of the pine-trees, shaken by the
wind. Copper-colored clouds, reddened by the setting sun, pass slowly
over the forest, and are reflected in the current of a brook, which,
deriving its source from a neighboring mass of rocks, flows through the
ruins. The water flows, the clouds pass on, the ancient trees tremble,
the breeze murmurs.
Suddenly, through the shadow thrown by the overhanging wood, which
stretches far into endless depths, a human form appears. It is a woman.
She advances slowly towards the ruins. She has reached them. She treads
the once sacred ground. This woman is pale, her look sad, her long
robe floats on the wind, her feet covered with dust. She walks with
difficulty and pain. A block of stone is placed near the stream, almost
at the foot of the statue of John the Baptist. Upon this stone she sinks
breathless and exhausted, worn out with fatigue. And yet, for many days,
many years, many centuries, she has walked on unwearied.
For the first time, she feels an unconquerable sense of lassitude. For
the first time, her feet begin to fail her. For the first time, she,
who traversed, with firm and equal footsteps, the moving lava of torrid
deserts, while whole caravans were buried in drifts of fiery sand--who
passed, with steady and disdainful tread, over the eternal snows of
Arctic regions, over icy solitudes, in which no other human being could
live--who had been spared by the devouring flames of conflagrations, and
by the impetuous waters of torrents--she, in brief, who for centuries
had had nothing in common with humanity--for the first time suffers
mortal pain.
Her feet bleed, her limbs ache with fatigue, she is devoured by burning
thirst. She feels these infirmities, yet scarcely dares to believe them
real. Her joy would be too immense! But now, her throat becomes dry,
contracted, all on fire. She sees the stream, and throws herself on her
knees, to quench her thirst in that crystal current, transparent as
a mirror. What happens then? Hardly have her fevered lips touched the
fresh, pure water, than, still kneeling, supported on her hands, she
suddenly ceases to drink, and gazes eagerly on the limpid stream.
Forgetting the thirst which devours her, she utters a loud cry--a cry
of deep, earnest, religious joy, like a note of praise and infinite
gratitude to heaven. In that deep mirror, she perceives that she has
grown older.
In a few days, a few hours, a few minutes, perhaps in a single second,
she has attained the maturity of age. She, who for more than eighteen
centuries has been as a woman of twenty, carrying through successive
generations the load of her imperishable youth--she has grown old, and
may, perhaps, at length, hope to die. Every minute of her life may now
bring her nearer to the last home! Transported by that ineffable hope,
she rises, and lifts her eyes to heaven, clasping her hands in an
attitude of fervent prayer. Then her eyes rest on the tall statue of
stone, representing St. John. The head, which the martyr carries in his
hand, seems, from beneath its half-closed granite eyelid, to cast upon
the Wandering Jewess a glance of commiseration and pity. And it was she,
Herodias who, in the cruel intoxication of a pagan festival, demanded
the murder of the saint! And it is at the foot of the martyr’s image,
that, for the first time, the immortality, which weighed on her for so
many centuries, seems likely to find a term!
“Oh, impenetrable mystery! oh, divine hope!” she cries. “The wrath of
heaven is at length appeased. The hand of the Lord brings me to the
feet of the blessed martyr, and I begin once more to feel myself a
human creature. And yet it was to avenge his death, that the same heaven
condemned me to eternal wanderings!
“Oh, Lord! grant that I may not be the only one forgiven. May
he--the artisan, who like me, daughter of a king, wanders on for
centuries--likewise hope to reach the end of that immense journey!
“Where is he, Lord? where is he? Hast thou deprived me of the power once
bestowed, to see and hear him through the vastness of intervening space?
Oh, in this mighty moment, restore me that divine gift--for the more I
feel these human infirmities, which I hail and bless as the end of
my eternity of ills, the more my sight loses the power to traverse
immensity, and my ear to catch the sound of that wanderer’s accent, from
the other extremity of the globe?”
Night had fallen, dark and stormy. The wind rose in the midst of the
great pine-trees. Behind their black summits, through masses of dark
cloud, slowly sailed the silver disk of the moon. The invocation of the
Wandering Jewess had perhaps been heard. Suddenly, her eyes closed--with
hands clasped together, she remained kneeling in the heart of the
ruins--motionless as a statue upon a tomb. And then she had a wondrous
dream!
CHAPTER LI. THE CALVARY.
This was the vision of Herodias: On the summit of a high, steep, rocky
mountain, there stands a cross. The sun is sinking, even as when the
Jewess herself, worn out with fatigue, entered the ruins of St. John’s
Abbey. The great figure on the cross--which looks down from this
Calvary, on the mountain, and on the vast, dreary plain beyond--stands
out white and pale against the dark, blue clouds, which stretch across
the heavens, and assume a violent tint towards the horizon. There, where
the setting sun has left a long track of lurid light, almost of the
hue of blood--as far as the eye can reach, no vegetation appears on the
surface of the gloomy desert, covered with sand and stones, like the
ancient bed of some dried-up ocean. A silence as of death broods over
this desolate tract. Sometimes, gigantic black vultures, with red
unfeathered necks, luminous yellow eyes, stooping from their lofty
flight in the midst of these solitudes, come to make their bloody feast
on the prey they have carried off from less uncultivated regions.
How, then, did this Calvary, this place of prayer, come to be erected so
far from the abodes of men? This Calvary was prepared at a great cost by
a repentant sinner. He had done much harm to his fellow-creatures, and,
in the hope of obtaining pardon for his crimes, he had climbed this
mountain on his knees, and become a hermit, and lived there till his
death, at the foot of this cross, only sheltered by a roof of thatch,
now long since swept away by the wind. The sun is still sinking. The
sky becomes darker. The luminous lines on the horizon grow fainter and
fainter, like heated bars of iron that gradually grow cool. Suddenly,
on the eastern side of the Calvary, is heard the noise of some falling
stones, which, loosened from the side of the mountain, roll down
rebounding to its base. These stones have been loosened by the foot of
a traveller, who, after traversing the plain below, has, during the last
hour, been climbing the steep ascent. He is not yet visible--but one
hears the echo of his tread--slow, steady, and firm. At length, he
reaches the top of the mountain, and his tall figure stands out against
the stormy sky.
The traveller is pale as the great figure on the cross. On his broad
forehead a black line extends from one temple to the other. It is
the cobbler of Jerusalem. The poor artisan, who hardened by misery,
injustice and oppression, without pity for the suffering of the Divine
Being who bore the cross, repulsed him from his dwelling, and bade him:
“Go ON! GO ON! GO ON!” And, from that day, the avenging Deity has in his
turn said to the artisan of Jerusalem: “GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!”
And he has gone on, without end or rest. Nor did the divine vengeance
stop there. From time to time death has followed the steps of the
wanderer, and innumerable graves have been even as mile-stones on his
fatal path. And if ever he found periods of repose in the midst of
his infinite grief, it was when the hand of the Lord led him into deep
solitudes, like that where he now dragged his steps along. In passing
over that dreary plain, or climbing to that rude Calvary, he at least
heard no more the funeral knell, which always, always sounded behind him
in every inhabited region.
All day long, even at this hour, plunged in the black abyss of his
thoughts, following the fatal track--going whither he was guided by the
invisible hand, with head bowed on his breast, and eyes fixed upon
the ground, the wanderer had passed over the plain, and ascended the
mountain, without once looking at the sky--without even perceiving the
Calvary--without seeing the image upon the cross. He thought of the
last descendants of his race. He felt, by the sinking of his heart,
that great perils continued to threaten him. And in the bitterness of
a despair, wild and deep as the ocean, the cobbler of Jerusalem seated
himself at the foot of the cross. At this moment a farewell ray of the
setting sun, piercing the dark mass of clouds, threw a refection upon
the Calvary, vivid as a conflagration’s glare. The Jew rested his
forehead upon his hand. His long hair, shaken by the evening breeze,
fell over his pale face--when sweeping it back from his brow, he started
with surprise--he, who had long ceased to wonder at anything. With eager
glance he contemplated the long lock of hair that he held between his
fingers. That hair, until now black as night, had become gray. He also,
like unto Herodias, was growing older.
His progress towards old age, stopped for eighteen hundred years, had
resumed its course. Like the Wandering Jewess, he might henceforth hope
for the rest of the grave. Throwing himself on his knees, he stretched
his hands towards heaven, to ask for the explanation of the mystery
which filled him with hope. Then, for the first time, his eyes rested on
the Crucified One, looking down upon the Calvary, even as the Wandering
Jewess had fixed her gaze on the granite eyelids of the Blessed Martyr.
The Saviour, his head bowed under the weight of his crown of thorns,
seemed from the cross to view with pity, and pardon the artisan, who for
so many centuries had felt his curse--and who, kneeling, with his body
thrown backward in an attitude of fear and supplication, now lifted
towards the crucifix his imploring hands.
“Oh, Messiah!” cried the Jew, “the avenging arm of heaven brings me back
to the foot of this heavy cross, which thou didst bear, when, stopping
at the door of my poor dwelling, thou wert repulsed with merciless
harshness, and I said unto thee: ‘Go on! go on!’--After my long life of
wanderings, I am again before this cross, and my hair begins to whiten.
Oh Lord! in thy divine mercy, hast thou at length pardoned me? Have I
reached the term of my endless march? Will thy celestial clemency grant
me at length the repose of the sepulchre, which, until now, alas! has
ever fled before me?--Oh! if thy mercy should descend upon me, let it
fall likewise upon that woman, whose woes are equal to mine own! Protect
also the last descendants of my race! What will be their fate? Already,
Lord, one of them--the only one that misfortune had perverted--has
perished from the face of the earth. Is it for this that my hair grows
gray? Will my crime only be expiated when there no longer remains in
this world one member of our accursed race? Or does this proof of thy
powerful goodness, Lord, which restores me to the condition of humanity,
serve also as a sign of the pardon and happiness of my family? Will
they at length triumph over the perils which beset them? Will they,
accomplishing the good which their ancestor designed for his fellow
creatures, merit forgiveness both for themselves and me? Or will they,
inexorably condemned as the accursed scions of an accursed stock,
expiate the original stain of my detested crime?
“Oh, tell me--tell me, gracious Lord! shall I be forgiven with them, or
will they be punished with me?”
The twilight gave place to a dark and stormy night, yet the Jew
continued to pray, kneeling at the foot of the cross.
CHAPTER LII. THE COUNCIL.
The following scene took place at Saint-Dizier House, two days after
the reconciliation of Marshal Simon with his daughters. The princess is
listening with the most profound attention to the words of Rodin. The
reverend father, according to his habit, stands leaning against the
mantelpiece, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his old brown
great-coat. His thick, dirty shoes have left their mark on the ermine
hearth-rug. A deep sense of satisfaction is impressed on the Jesuit’s
cadaverous countenance. Princess de Saint-Dizier, dressed with that sort
of modest elegance which becomes a mother of the church, keeps her
eyes fixed on Rodin--for the latter has completely supplanted Father
d’Aigrigny in the good graces of this pious lady. The coolness, audacity
lofty intelligence, and rough and imperious character of the ex-socius
have overawed this proud woman, and inspired her with a sincere
admiration. Even his filthy habits and often brutal repartees have their
charm for her, and she now prefers them to the exquisite politeness and
perfumed elegance of the accomplished Father d’Aigrigny.
“Yes, madame,” said Rodin, in a sanctified tone, for these people do not
take off their masks even with their accomplices, “yes, madame, we have
excellent news from our house at St. Herem. M. Hardy, the infidel, the
freethinker, has at length entered the pale of the holy Roman Catholic
and Apostolic Church.” Rodin pronounced these last word with a nasal
twang, and the devout lady bowed her head respectfully.
“Grace has at length touched the heart of this impious man,” continued
Rodin, “and so effectually that, in his ascetic enthusiasm, he has
already wished to take the vows which will bind him forever to our
divine Order.”
“So soon, father?” said the princess, in astonishment.
“Our statutes are opposed to this precipitation, unless in the case of
a penitent in articulo mortis--on the very gasp of death--should such
a person consider it necessary for his salvation to die in the habit
of our Order, and leave us all his wealth for the greater glory of the
Lord.”
“And is M. Hardy in so dangerous a condition, father?”
“He has a violent fever. After so many successive calamities, which
have miraculously brought him into the path of salvation,” said Rodin,
piously, “his frail and delicate constitution is almost broken up,
morally and physically. Austerities, macerations, and the divine joys of
ecstasy, will probably hasten his passage to eternal life, and in a few
clays,” said the priest, shaking his head with a solemn air, “perhaps--”
“So soon as that, father?”
“It is almost certain. I have therefore made use of my dispensations, to
receive the dear penitent, as in articulo mortis, a member of our
divine Company, to which, in the usual course, he has made over all
his possessions, present and to come--so that now he can devote himself
entirely to the care of his soul, which will be one victim more rescued
from the claws of Satan.”
“Oh, father!” cried the lady, in admiration; “it is a miraculous
conversion. Father d’Aigrigny told me how you had to contend against the
influence of Abbe Gabriel.”
“The Abbe Gabriel,” replied Rodin, “has been punished for meddling with
what did not concern him. I have procured his suspension, and he has
been deprived of his curacy. I hear that he now goes about the cholera
hospitals to administer Christian consolation; we cannot oppose
that--but this universal comforter is of the true heretical stamp.”
“He is a dangerous character, no doubt,” answered the princess, “for he
has considerable influence over other men. It must have needed all your
admirable and irresistible eloquence to combat the detestable counsels
of this Abbe Gabriel, who had taken it into his head to persuade M.
Hardy to return to the life of the world. Really, father, you are a
second St. Chrysostom.”
“Tut, tut, madame!” said Rodin, abruptly, for he was very little
sensible to flattery; “keep that for others.”
“I tell you that you’re a second St. Chrysostom father,” repeated the
princess with enthusiasm; “like him, you deserve the name of Golden
Mouth.”
“Stuff, madame!” said Rodin, brutally, shrugging his shoulders; “my lips
are too pale, my teeth too black, for a mouth of gold. You must be only
joking.”
“But, father--”
“No, madame, you will not catch old birds with chaff,” replied Rodin,
harshly. “I hate compliments, and I never pay them.”
“Your modesty must pardon me, father,” said the princess, humbly; “I
could not resist the desire to express to you my admiration, for, as
you almost predicted, or at least foresaw, two members of the Rennepont
family, have, within the last few months, resigned all claim to the
inheritance.”
Rodin looked at Madame de Saint-Dizier with a softened and approving
air, as he heard her thus describe the position of the two defunct
claimants. For, in Rodin’s view of the case, M. Hardy, in consequence
of his donation and his suicidal asceticism, belonged no longer to this
world.
The lady continued: “One of these men, a wretched artisan, has been led
to his ruin by the exaggeration of his vices. You have brought the
other into the path of salvation, by carrying out his loving and tender
qualities. Honor, then to your foresight, father! for you said that you
would make use of the passions to attain your end.”
“Do not boast too soon,” said Rodin, impatiently. “Have you forgotten
your niece, and the Hindoo, and the daughters of Marshal Simon? Have
they also made a Christian end, or resigned their claim to share in this
inheritance?”
“No, doubtless.”
“Hence, you see, madame, we should not lose time in congratulating
ourselves on the past, but make ready for the future. The great day
approaches. The first of June is not far off. Heaven grant we may not
see the four surviving members of the family continue to live impenitent
up to that period, and so take possession of this enormous property--the
source of perdition in their hands--but productive of the glory of the
Church in the hands of our Company!”
“True, father!”
“By the way, you were to see your lawyers on the subject of your niece?”
“I have seen them, father. However uncertain may be the chance of which
I spoke, it is worth trying. I shall know to-day, I hope, if it is
legally possible.”
“Perhaps then,--in the new condition of life to which she would be
reduced, we might find means to effect her conversion,” said Rodin, with
a strange and hideous smile; “until now, since she has been so fatally
brought in contact with the Oriental, the happiness of these two pagans
appears bright and changeless as the diamond. Nothing bites into it, not
even Faringhea’s tooth. Let us hope that the Lord will wreak justice on
their vain and guilty felicity!”
This conversation was here interrupted by Father d’Aigrigny, who entered
the room with an air of triumph, and exclaimed, “Victory!”
“What do you say”’ asked the princess.
“He is gone--last night,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Who?” said Rodin.
“Marshal Simon,” replied the abbe.
“At last!” said Rodin, unable to hide his joy.
“It was no doubt his interview with General d’Havrincourt which
filled up the measure,” cried the princess, “for I know he had a long
conversation with the general, who like so many others, believed the
reports in circulation. All means are good against the impious!” added
the princess, by way of moral.
“Have you any details?” asked Rodin.
“I have just left Robert,” said Father d’Aigrigny. “His age and
description agree with the marshal’s, and the latter travels with his
papers. Only one thing has greatly surprised your emissary.”
“What is that?” said Rodin.
“Until now, he had always to contend with the hesitations of the
marshal, and had moreover noticed his gloomy and desponding air.
Yesterday, on the contrary, he found him so bright with happiness, that
he could not help asking him the cause of the alteration.”
“Well?” said Rodin and the princess together, both extremely surprised.
“The marshal answered: ‘I am indeed the happiest man in the world; for I
am going joyfully to accomplish a sacred duty!”
The three actors in this scene looked at each other in silence.
“And what can have produced this sudden change in the mind of the
marshal?” said the princess, with a pensive air. “We rather reckon
on sorrow and every kind of irritation to urge him to engage in this
adventurous enterprise.”
“I cannot make it out,” said Rodin, reflecting; “but no matter--he
is gone. We must not lose a moment, to commence operations on his
daughters. Has he taken that infernal soldier with him?”
“No,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “unfortunately, he has not done so. Warned
by the past, he will redouble his precautions; and a man, whom we
might have used against him at a pinch, has just been taken with the
contagion.”
“Who is that?” asked the princess.
“Morok. I could count upon him anywhere and for anything. He is lost
to us; for, should he recover from the cholera, I fear he will fall a
victim to a horrible and incurable disease.”
“How so?”
“A few days ago, he was bitten by one of the mastiffs of his menagerie,
and, the next day, the dog showed symptoms of hydrophobia.”
“Ah! it is dreadful,” cried the princess; “and where is this unfortunate
man?”
“He has been taken to one of the temporary hospitals established in
Paris, for at present he has only been attacked with cholera. It is
doubly unfortunate, I repeat, for he was a devoted, determined fellow,
ready for anything. Now this soldier, who has the care of the orphans,
will be very difficult to get at, and yet only through him can we hope
to reach Marshal Simon’s daughters.”
“That is clear,” said Rodin, thoughtfully.
“Particularly since the anonymous letters have again awakened his
suspicions,” added Father d’Aigrigny “and--”
“Talking of the anonymous letters,” said Rodin suddenly, interrupting
Father d’Aigrigny, “there is a fact that you ought to know; I will tell
you why.”
“What is it?”
“Besides the letters that you know of, Marshal Simon has received a
number of others unknown to you, in which, by every possible means, it
is tried to exasperate his irritation against yourself--for they remind
him of all the reasons he has to hate you, and mock at him, because your
sacred character shelters you from his vengeance.”
Father d’Aigrigny looked at Rodin with amazement, colored in spite of
himself, and said to him: “But for what purpose has your reverence acted
in this manner?”
“First of all, to clear myself of suspicion with regard to the letters;
then, to excite the rage of the marshal to madness, by incessantly
reminding him of the just grounds he has to hate you, and of the
impossibility of being avenged upon you. This, joined to the other
emotions of sorrow and anger, which ferment in the savage bosom of this
man of bloodshed, tended to urge him on to the rash enterprise, which
is the consequence and the punishment of his idolatry for a miserable
usurper.”
“That may be,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with an air of constraint: “but
I will observe to your reverence, that it was, perhaps, rather dangerous
thus to excite Marshal Simon against me.”
“Why?” asked Rodin, as he fixed a piercing look upon Father d’Aigrigny.
“Because the marshal, excited beyond all bounds, and remembering only
our mutual hate, might seek me out--”
“Well! and what then?”
“Well! he might forget that I am a priest--”
“Oh, you are afraid are you?” said Rodin, disdainfully, interrupting
Father d’Aigrigny.
At the words: “You are afraid,” the reverend father almost started from
his chair; but recovering his coolness, he answered: “Your reverence
is right; yes, I should be afraid under such circumstances; I should
be afraid of forgetting that I am a priest, and of remembering too well
that I have been a soldier.”
“Really?” said Rodin, with sovereign contempt. “You are still no further
than that stupid and savage point of honor? Your cassock has not yet
extinguished the warlike fire? So that if this brawling swordsman, whose
poor, weak head, empty and sonorous as a drum, is so easily turned with
the stupid jargon of ‘Military honor, oaths, Napoleon II.’--if this
brawling bravo, I say, were to commit some violence against you, it
would require a great effort, I suppose, for you to remain calm?”
“It is useless, I think,” said Father d’Aigrigny, quite unable
to control his agitation, “for your reverence to enter upon such
questions.”
“As your superior,” answered Rodin, severely, “I have the right to ask.
If Marshal Simon had lifted his hand against you--”
“Sir,” cried the reverend father.
“There are no sirs here--we are only priests,” said Rodin, harshly.
Father d’Aigrigny held down his head, scarcely able to repress his rage.
“I ask you,” continued Rodin, obstinately, “if Marshal Simon had struck
you? Is that clear?”
“Enough! in mercy,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “enough!”
“Or, if you like it better, had Marshal Simon left the marks of his
fingers on your cheek?” resumed Rodin, with the utmost pertinacity.
Father d’Aigrigny, pale as death, ground his teeth in a kind of fury
at the very idea of such an insult, while Rodin, who had no doubt his
object in asking the question, raised his flabby eyelids, and seemed
to watch attentively the significant symptoms revealed in the agitated
countenance of the ex-colonel.
At length, recovering partly his presence of mind, Father d’Aigrigny
replied, in a forcedly calm tone: “If I were to be exposed to such an
insult, I would pray heaven to give me resignation and humility.”
“And no doubt heaven would hear your prayers,” said Rodin, coldly,
satisfied with the trial to which he had just put him. “Besides, you are
now warned, and it is not very probable,” added he, with a grim smile,
“that Marshal Simon will ever return to test your humility. But if he
were to return,” said Rodin, fixing on the reverend father a long and
piercing look, “you would know how to show this brutal swordsman, in
spite of all his violence, what resignation and humility there is in a
Christian soul!”
Two humble knocks at the door here interrupted the conversation for a
moment. A footman entered, bearing a large sealed packet on a salver,
which he presented to the princess. After this, he withdrew. Princess
de Saint-Dizier, having by a look asked Rodin’s permission to open the
letter, began to read it--and a cruel satisfaction was soon visible on
her face.
“There is hope,” cried she addressing herself to Rodin: “the demand is
rigorously legal, and the consequence may be such as we desire. In a
word, my niece may, any day, be exposed to complete destitution. She,
who is so extravagant! what a change in her life!”
“We shall then no doubt have some hold on that untamable character,”
said Rodin with a meditative air; “for, till now, all has failed in
that direction, and one would suppose some kinds of happiness are
invulnerable,” added the Jesuit, gnawing his flat and dirty nails.
“But, to obtain the result we desire, we must exasperate my niece’s
pride. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary, that I should see and
talk to her,” said the Princess de Saint-Dizier, reflecting.
“Mdlle. de Cardoville will refuse this interview,” said Father
d’Aigrigny.
“Perhaps,” replied the princess. “But she is so happy that her audacity
must be at its height. Yes, yes--I know her--and I will write in such a
manner, that she will come.”
“You think so?” asked Rodin, with a doubtful air.
“Do not fear it, father,” answered the lady, “she will come. And her
pride once brought into play, we may hope a good deal from it.”
“We must then act, lady,” resumed Rodin; “yes, act promptly. The moment
approaches. Hate and suspicion are awake. There is not a moment to
lose.”
“As for hate,” replied the princess, “Mdlle. de Cardoville must have
seen to what her lawsuit would lead, about what she called her illegal
detention in a lunatic asylum, and that of the two young ladies in St.
Mary’s Convent. Thank heaven, we have friends everywhere! I know from
good authority, that the case will break down from want of evidence, in
spite of the animosity of certain parliamentary magistrates, who shall
be well remembered.”
“Under these circumstances,” replied Rodin, “the departure of the
marshal gives us every latitude. We must act immediately on his
daughters.”
“But how?” said the princess.
“We must see them,” resumed Rodin, “talk with them, study them. Then we
shall act in consequence.”
“But the soldier will not leave them a second,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Then,” replied Rodin, “we must talk to them in presence of the soldier,
and get him on our side.”
“That hope is idle,” cried Father d’Aigrigny. “You do not know the
military honor of his character. You do not know this man.”
“Don’t I know him?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. “Did not Mdlle.
de Cardoville present me to him as her liberator, when I denounced you
as the soul of the conspiracy? Did I not restore to him his ridiculous
imperial relic--his cross of honor--when we met at Dr. Baleinier’s? Did
I not bring him back the girls from the convent, and place them in the
arms of their father?”
“Yes,” replied the princess; “but, since that time, my abominable niece
has either guessed or discovered all. She told you so herself, father.”
“She told me, that she considered me her most mortal enemy,” said
Rodin. “Be it so. But did she tell the same to the marshal? Has she
ever mentioned me to him? and if she have done so, has the marshal
communicated this circumstance to his soldier? It may be so; but it is
by no means sure; in any case. I must ascertain the fact; if the soldier
treats me as an enemy, we shall see what is next to be done--but I will
first try to be received as a friend.”
“When?” asked the princess.
“To-morrow morning,” replied Rodin.
“Good heaven, my clear father!” cried the Princess de Saint-Dizier, in
alarm; “if this soldier were to treat you as an enemy--beware--”
“I always beware, madame. I have had to face worse enemies than he is,”
said the Jesuit showing his black teeth; “the cholera to begin with.”
“But he may refuse to see you, and in what way will you then get at
Marshal Simon’s daughters?” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“I do not yet know.” answered Rodin. “But as I intend to do it, I shall
find the means.”
“Father,” said the princess, suddenly, on reflection, “these girls have
never seen me, and I might obtain admittance to them, without sending in
my name.”
“That would be perfectly useless at present, madame, for I must first
know what course to take with respect to them. I must see and converse
with them, at any cost, and then, after I have fixed my plan, your
assistance may be very useful. In any case, please to be ready to
morrow, madame, to accompany me.”
“To what place, father?”
“To Marshal Simon’s.”
“To the marshal’s?”
“Not exactly. You will get into your carriage, and I will take a
hackney-coach. I will then try to obtain an interview with the girls,
and, during that time, you will wait for me at a few yards from the
house. If I succeed, and require your aid, I will come and fetch you; I
can give you my instructions without any appearance of concert between
us.”
“I am content, reverend father; but, in truth, I tremble at the thought
of your interview with that rough trooper.”
“The Lord will watch over his servant, madame!” replied Rodin. “As
for you, father,” added he, addressing the Abbe d’Aigrigny, “despatch
instantly to Vienna the note which is all prepared to announce the
departure and speedy arrival of the marshal. Every precaution has been
taken. I shall write more fully this evening.”
The next morning, about eight o’clock, the Princess de Saint-Dizier,
in her carriage, and Rodin, in his hackney-coach, took the direction of
Marshal Simon’s house.
CHAPTER LIII. HAPPINESS.
Marshal Simon has been absent two days. It is eight o’clock in the
morning. Dagobert, walking on tip-toe with the greatest caution, so as
not to make the floor creak beneath his tread, crosses the room which
leads to the bedchamber of Rose and Blanche and applies his ear to the
door of the apartment. With equal caution, Spoil-sport follows exactly
the movements of his master. The countenance of the soldier is uneasy
and full of thought. As he approaches the door, he says to himself: “I
hope the dear children heard nothing of what happened in the night! It
would alarm them, and it is much better that they should not know it at
present. It might afflict them sadly, poor dears! and they are so gay,
so happy, since they feel sure of their father’s love for them. They
bore his departure so bravely! I would not for the world that they
should know of this unfortunate event.”
Then as he listened, the soldier resumed: “I hear nothing--and yet they
are always awake so early. Can it be sorrow?”
Dagobert’s reflections were here interrupted by two frank, hearty bursts
of laughter, from the interior of the bedroom.
“Come! they are not so sad as I thought,” said the soldier, breathing
more freely. “Probably they know nothing about it.”
Soon, the laughter was again heard with redoubled force, and the
soldier, delighted at this gayety, so rare on the part of “his
children,” was much affected by it: the tears started to his eyes at the
thought that the orphans had at length recovered the serenity natural to
their age; then, passing from one emotion to the other, still listening
at the door, with his body leaning forward, and his hands resting on
his knees, Dagobert’s lip quivered with an expression of mute joy, and,
shaking his head a little, he accompanied with his silent laughter,
the increasing hilarity of the young girls. At last, as nothing is so
contagious as gayety, and as the worthy soldier was in an ecstasy of
joy, he finished by laughing aloud with all his might, without knowing
why, and only because Rose and Blanche were laughing. Spoil-sport had
never seen his master in such a transport of delight; he looked at him
for a while in deep and silent astonishment, and then began to bark in a
questioning way.
At this well-known sound, the laughter within suddenly ceased, and a
sweet voice, still trembling with joyous emotion, exclaimed: “Is it you,
Spoil-sport, that have come to wake us?” The dog understood what was
said, wagged his tail, held down his ears, and, approaching close to the
door, answered the appeal of his young mistress by a kind of friendly
growl.
“Spoil-sport,” said Rose, hardly able to restrain her laughter, “you are
very early this morning.”
“Tell us what o’clock it is, if you please, old fellow?” added Blanche.
“Young ladies, it is past eight,” said suddenly the gruff voice of
Dagobert, accompanying this piece of humor with a loud laugh.
A cry of gay surprise was heard, and then Rose resumed: “Good-morning,
Dagobert.”
“Good-morning, my children. You are very lazy to-day, I must tell you.”
“It is not our fault. Our dear Augustine has not yet been to call us. We
are waiting for her.”
“Oh! there it is,” said Dagobert to himself, his features once more
assuming an expression of anxiety. Then he returned aloud, in a tone of
some embarrassment, for the worthy man was no hand at a falsehood: “My
children, our companion went out this morning--very early. She is gone
to the country--on business--she will not return for some days--so you
had better get up by yourselves for today.”
“Our good Madame Augustine!” exclaimed Blanche, with interest. “I hope
it is nothing bad that has made her leave suddenly--eh, Dagobert?”
“No, no--not at all--only business,” answered the soldier. “To see one
of her relations.”
“Oh, so much the better!” said Rose. “Well, Dagobert, when we call you
can come in.”
“I will come back in a quarter of an hour,” said the soldier as
he withdrew; and he thought to himself: “I must lecture that fool
Loony--for he is so stupid, and so fond of talking, that he will let it
all out.”
The name of the pretended simpleton will serve as a natural transition,
to inform the reader of the cause of the hilarity of the sisters. They
were laughing at the numberless absurdities of the idiot. The girls rose
and dressed themselves, each serving as lady’s-maid to the other. Rose
had combed and arranged Blanche’s hair; it was now Blanche’s turn to do
the same for her sister. Thus occupied, they formed a charming picture.
Rose was seated before the dressing-table; her sister, standing behind
her, was smoothing her beautiful brown hair. Happy age! so little
removed from childhood, that present joy instantly obliterates the
traces of past sorrow! But the sisters felt more than joy; it was
happiness, deep and unalterable, for their father loved them, and their
happiness was a delight, and not a pain to him. Assured of the affection
of his children, he, also, thanks to them, no longer feared any grief.
To those three beings, thus certain of their mutual love, what was a
momentary separation? Having explained this, we shall understand
the innocent gayety of the sisters, notwithstanding their father’s
departure, and the happy, joyous expression, which now filled with
animation their charming faces, on which the late fading rose had begun
once more to bloom. Their faith in the future gave to their countenances
something resolute and decisive, which added a degree of piquancy to the
beauty of their enchanting features.
Blanche, in smoothing her sister’s hair, let fall the comb, and, as she
was stooping to pick it up, Rose anticipated her, saying: “If it had
been broken, we would have put it into the handle-basket.”
Then the two laughed merrily at this expression, which reminded them of
an admirable piece of folly on the part of Loony.
The supposed simpleton had broken the handle of a cup, and when the
governess of the young ladies had reprimanded him for his carelessness,
he had answered: “Never mind, madame; I have put it into the handle
basket.”
“The handle-basket, what is that?”
“Yes, Madame; it is where I keep all the handles I break off the
things!”
“Dear me!” said Rose, drying her eyes; “how silly it is to laugh at such
foolishness.”
“It is droll,” replied Blanche; “how can we help it?”
“All I regret is, that father cannot hear us laugh.”
“He was so happy to see us gay!”
“We must write to him to-day, the story of the handle-basket.”
“And that of the feather-brush, to show that, according to promise, we
kept up our spirits during his absence.”
“Write to him, sister? no, he is to write to us, and we are not to
answer his letters.”
“True! well then, I have an idea. Let us address letters to him here,
Dagobert can put them into the post, and, on his return, our father will
read our correspondence.”
“That will be charming! What nonsense we will write to him, since he
takes pleasure in it!”
“And we, too, like to amuse ourselves.”
“Oh, certainly! father’s last words have given us so much courage.”
“As I listened to them, I felt quite reconciled to his going.”
“When he said to us: ‘My children, I will confide in you all I can. I
go to fulfill a sacred duty, and I must be absent for some time; for
though, when I was blind enough to doubt your affection, I could not
make up my mind to leave you, my conscience was by no means tranquil.
Grief takes such an effect on us, that I had not the strength to come to
a decision, and my days were passed in painful hesitation. But now that
I am certain of your tenderness, all this irresolution has ceased, and
I understand how one duty is not to be sacrificed to another, and that I
have to perform two duties at once, both equally sacred; and this I now
do with joy, and delight, and courage!’”
“Go on, sister!” cried Blanche, rising to draw nearer to Rose. “I think
I hear our father when I remember those words, which must console and
support us during his absence.”
“And then our father continued: ‘Instead of grieving at my departure,
you would rejoice in it, you should be proud and happy. I go to perform
a good and generous act. Fancy to yourselves, that there is somewhere a
poor orphan, oppressed and abandoned by all--and that the father of that
orphan was once my benefactor, and that I had promised him to protect
his son--and that the life of that son is now in peril--tell me, my
children; would you regret that I should leave you to fly to the aid of
such an orphan?’--”
“‘No, no, brave father!’ we answered: ‘we should not then be your
daughters!’” continued Rose, with enthusiasm. “Count upon us! We should
be indeed unhappy if we thought that our sorrow could deprive thee of
thy courage. Go! and every day we will say to ourselves proudly, ‘It was
to perform a great and noble duty that our father left us--we can wait
calmly for his return.’”
“How that idea of duty sustains one, sister!” resumed Rose, with growing
enthusiasm. “It gave our father the courage to leave us without regret,
and to us the courage to bear his absence gayly!”
“And then, how calm we are now! Those mournful dreams, which seemed to
portend such sad events, no longer afflict us.”
“I tell you, sister, this time we are really happy once for all.”
“And then, do you feel like me? I fancy, that I am stronger and more
courageous and that I could brave every danger.”
“I should think so! We are strong enough now. Our father in the midst,
you on one side, I on the other--”
“Dagobert in the vanguard, and Spoil-sport in the rear! Then the army
will be complete, and let ‘em come on by thousands!” added a gruff, but
jovial voice, interrupting the girl, as Dagobert appeared at the half
open door of the room. It was worth looking at his face, radiant with
joy; for the old fellow had somewhat indiscreetly been listening to the
conversation.
“Oh! you were listening, Paul Pry!” said Rose gayly, as she entered the
adjoining room with her sister, and both affectionately embraced the
soldier.
“To be sure, I was listening; and I only regretted not to have ears
as large as Spoil-sport’s! Brave, good girls! that’s how I like to see
you--bold as brass, and saying to care and sorrow: ‘Right about face!
march! go to the devil!’”
“He will want to make us swear, now,” said Rose to her sister, laughing
with all her might.
“Well! now and then, it does no harm,” said the soldier; “it relieves
and calms one, when if one could not swear by five hundred thousand
de--”
“That’s enough!” said Rose, covering with her pretty hand the gray
moustache, so as to stop Dagobert in his speech. “If Madame Augustine
heard you--”
“Our poor governess! so mild and timid,” resumed Blanche. “How you would
frighten her!”
“Yes,” said Dagobert, as he tried to conceal his rising embarrassment;
“but she does not hear us. She is gone into the country.”
“Good, worthy woman!” replied Blanche, with interest. “She said
something of you, which shows her excellent heart.”
“Certainly,” resumed Rose; “for she said to us, in speaking of you, ‘Ah,
young ladies! my affection must appear very little, compared with M.
Dagobert’s. But I feel that I also have the right to devote myself to
you.’”
“No doubt, no doubt! she has a heart of gold,” answered Dagobert. Then
he added to himself, “It’s as if they did it on purpose, to bring the
conversation back to this poor woman.”
“Father made a good choice,” continued Rose. “She is the widow of an old
officer, who was with him in the wars.”
“When we were out of spirits,” said Blanche, “you should have seen her
uneasiness and grief, and how earnestly she set about consoling us.”
“I have seen the tears in her eyes when she looked at us,” resumed Rose.
“Oh! she loves us tenderly, and we return her affection. With regard to
that, Dagobert, we have a plan as soon as our father comes back.”
“Be quiet, sister!” said Blanche, laughing. “Dagobert will not keep our
secret.”
“He!”
“Will you keep it for us, Dagobert?”
“I tell you what,” said the soldier, more and more embarrassed; “you had
better not tell it to me.”
“What! can you keep nothing from Madame Augustine?”
“Ah, Dagobert! Dagobert!” said Blanche, gayly holding up her finger at
the soldier; “I suspect you very much of paying court to our governess.”
“I pay court?” said the soldier--and the expression of his face was so
rueful, as he pronounced these words, that the two sisters burst out
laughing.
Their hilarity was at its height when the door opened and Loony advanced
into room announcing, with a loud voice, “M. Rodin!” In fact, the Jesuit
glided almost imperceptibly into the apartment, as if to take possession
of the ground. Once there, he thought the game his own, and his reptile
eyes sparkled with joy. It would be difficult to paint the surprise of
the two sisters, and the anger of the soldier, at this unexpected visit.
Rushing upon Loony, Dagobert seized him by the collar, and exclaimed:
“Who gave you leave to introduce any one here without my permission?”
“Pardon, M. Dagobert!” said Loony, throwing himself on his knees, and
clasping his hands with an air of idiotic entreaty.
“Leave the room!--and you too!” added the soldier, with a menacing
gesture, as he turned towards Rodin, who had already approached the
girls, with a paternal smile on his countenance.
“I am at your orders, my dear sir,” said the priest, humbly; and he made
a low bow, but without stirring from the spot.
“Will you go?” cried the soldier to Loony, who was still kneeling, and
who, thanks to the advantages of this position, was able to utter a
certain number of words before Dagobert could remove him.
“M. Dagobert,” said Loony in a doleful voice, “I beg pardon for bringing
up the gentleman without leave; but, alas, my head is turned, because of
the misfortune that happened to Madame Augustine.”
“What misfortune?” cried Rose and Blanche together, as they advanced
anxiously towards Loony.
“Will you go?” thundered Dagobert, shaking the servant by the collar, to
force him to rise.
“Speak--speak!” said Blanche, interposing between the soldier and his
prey. “What has happened to Madame Augustine?”
“Oh,” shouted Loony, in spite of the cuffs of the soldier. “Madame
Augustine was attacked in the night with cholera, and taken--”
He was unable to finish. Dagobert struck him a tremendous blow with
his fist, right on the jaw, and, putting forth his still formidable
strength, the old horse-grenadier lifted him to his legs, and with one
violent kick bestowed on the lower part of his back, sent him rolling
into the ante chamber.
Then turning to Rodin, with flushed cheek and sparkling eye, Dagobert
pointed to the door with an expressive gesture, and said in an angry
voice: “Now, be off with you and that quickly!”
“I must pay my respects another time, my dear sir,” said Rodin, as he
retired towards the door, bowing to the young girls.
CHAPTER LIV. DUTY.
Rodin, retreating slowly before the fire of Dagobert’s angry looks,
walked backwards to the door, casting oblique but piercing glances at
the orphans, who were visibly affected by the servant’s intentional
indiscretion. (Dagobert had ordered him not to speak before the girls of
the illness of their governess, and that was quite enough to induce the
simpleton to take the first opportunity of doing so.)
Rose hastily approached the soldier, and said to him: “Is it true--is
it really true that poor Madame Augustine has been attacked with the
cholera?”
“No--I do not know--I cannot tell,” replied the soldier, hesitating;
“besides, what is it to you?”
“Dagobert, you would conceal from us a calamity,” said Blanche. “I
remember now your embarrassment, when we spoke to you of our governess.”
“If she is ill, we ought not to abandon her. She had pity on our
sorrows; we ought to pity her sufferings.”
“Come, sister; come to her room,” said Blanche, advancing towards the
door, where Rodin had stopped short, and stood listening with growing
attention to this unexpected scene, which seemed to give him ample food
for thought.
“You will not leave this room,” said the soldier, sternly, addressing
the two sisters.
“Dagobert,” replied Rose, firmly, “it is a sacred duty, and it would be
cowardice not to fulfil it.”
“I tell you that you shall not leave the room,” said the soldier,
stamping his foot with impatience.
“Dagobert,” replied Blanche, with as resolute an air as her sister’s,
and with a kind of enthusiasm which brought the blood to her fair cheek,
“our father, when he left us, give us an admirable example of devotion
and duty. He would not forgive us were we to forget the lesson.”
“What,” cried Dagobert, in a rage, and advancing towards the sisters to
prevent their quitting the apartment; “you think that if your governess
had the cholera, I would let you go to her under the pretext of
duty?--Your duty is to live, to live happy, for your father’s sake--and
for mine into the bargain--so not a word more of such folly!”
“We can run no danger by going to our governess in her room,” said Rose.
“And if there were danger,” added Blanche, “we ought not to hesitate.
So, Dagobert, be good! and let us pass.”
Rodin, who had listened to what precedes, with sustained attention,
suddenly started, as if a thought had struck him; his eye shone
brightly, and an expression of fatal joy illumined his countenance.
“Dagobert, do not refuse!” said Blanche. “You would do for us what you
reproach us with wishing to do for another.”
Dagobert had as it were, till now stood in the path of the Jesuit and
the twins by keeping close to the door; but, after a moments reflection,
he shrugged his shoulders, stepped to one side, and said calmly: “I was
an old fool. Come, young ladies; if you find Madame Augustine in the
house, I will allow you to remain with her.”
Surprised at these words, the girls stood motionless and irresolute.
“If our governess is not here, where is she, then?” said Rose.
“You think, perhaps, that I am going to tell you in the excitement in
which you are!”
“She is dead!” cried Rose growing pale.
“No, no--be calm,” said the soldier, hastily; “I swear to you, by your
father’s honor, that she is not dead. At the first appearance of the
disorder, she begged to be removed from the house, fearing the contagion
for those in it.”
“Good and courageous woman!” said Rose tenderly, “And you will not allow
us--”
“I will not allow you to go out, even if I have to lock you up in your
room,” cried the soldier, again stamping with rage; then, remembering
that the blunderhead’s indiscretion was the sole cause of this
unfortunate incident, he added, with concentrated fury: “Oh! I will
break my stick upon that rascal’s back.”
So saying, he turned towards the door, where Rodin still stood, silent
and attentive, dissembling with habitual impassibility the fatal hopes
he had just conceived in his brain. The girls, no longer doubting the
removal of their governess, and convinced that Dagobert would not tell
them whither they had conveyed her, remained pensive and sad.
At sight of the priest, whom he had forgotten for the moment, the
soldier’s rage increased, and he said to him abruptly: “Are you still
there?”
“I would merely observe to you, my dear sir,” said Rodin, with that air
of perfect good nature which he knew so well how to assume, “that you
were standing before the door, which naturally prevented me from going
out.”
“Well, now nothing prevents you--so file off!”
“Certainly, I will file off, if you wish it, my dear sir though I think
I have some reason to be surprised at such a reception.”
“It is no reception at all--so begone!”
“I had come, my dear sir to speak to you--”
“I have no time for talking.”
“Upon business of great importance.”
“I have no other business of importance than to remain with these
children.”
“Very good, my dear sir,” said Rodin, pausing on the threshold. “I
will not disturb you any longer; excuse my indiscretion. The bearer of
excellent news from Marshal Simon, I came--”
“News from our father!” cried Rose, drawing nearer to Rodin.
“Oh, speak, speak, sir!” added Blanche.
“You have news of the marshal!” said Dagobert, glancing suspiciously at
Rodin. “Pray, what is this news?”
But Rodin, without immediately answering the question, returned from the
threshold into the room, and, contemplating Rose and Blanche by turns
with admiration, he resumed: “What happiness for me, to be able to bring
some pleasure to these dear young ladies. They are even as I left them
graceful, and fair, and charming--only less sad than on the day when I
fetched them from the gloomy convent in which they were kept prisoners,
to restore them to the arms of their glorious father!”
“That was their place, and this is not yours,” said Dagobert, harshly,
still holding the door open behind Rodin.
“Confess, at least that I was not so much out of place at Dr.
Baleinier’s,” said the Jesuit, with a cunning air. “You know, for it
was there that I restored to you the noble imperial cross you so much
regretted--the day when that good Mdlle. de Cardoville only prevented
you from strangling me by telling you that I was her liberator. Aye!
it was just as I have the honor of stating, young ladies,” added Rodin,
with a smile; “this brave soldier was very near strangling me, for, be
it said without offense, he has, in spite of his age, a grasp of iron.
Ha, ha! the Prussians and Cossacks must know that better than I!”
These few words reminded Dagobert and the twins of the services which
Rodin had really rendered them; and though the marshal had heard
Mdlle. de Cardoville speak of Rodin as of a very dangerous man, he
had forgotten, in the midst of so many anxieties, to communicate this
circumstance to Dagobert. But this latter, warned by experience, felt,
in spite of favorable appearances, a secret aversion for the Jesuit; so
he replied abruptly: “The strength of my grasp has nothing to do with
the matter.”
“If I allude to that little innocent playfulness on your part, my dear
sir,” said Rodin, in his softest tone, approaching the two sisters with
a wriggle which was peculiar to him; “if I allude to it, you see, it was
suggested by the involuntary recollection of the little services I
was happy enough to render you.” Dagobert looked fixedly at Rodin, who
instantly veiled his glance beneath his flabby eyelids.
“First of all,” said the soldier, after a moment’s silence, “a true man
never speaks of the services he has rendered, and you come back three
times to the subject.”
“But Dagobert,” whispered Rose, “if he brings news of our father?”
The soldier made a sign, as if to beg the girl to let him speak,
and resumed, looking full at Rodin: “You are cunning, but I’m no raw
recruit.”
“I cunning?” said Rodin, with a sanctified air.
“Yes, very. You think to puzzle me with your fine phrases; but I’m
not to be caught in that way. Just listen to me. Some of your band of
black-gowns stole my cross; you returned it to me. Some of the same band
carried off these children; you brought them back. It is also true that
you denounced the renegade D’Aigrigny. But all this only proves two
things: first, that you were vile enough to be the accomplice of these
scoundrels; and secondly, that, having been their accomplice, you were
base enough to betray them. Now, those two facts are equally bad, and I
suspect you most furiously. So march off at once; your presence is not
good for these children.”
“But, my dear sir--”
“I will have no buts,” answered Dagobert, in an angry voice. “When a man
of your look does good, it is only to hide some evil; and one must be on
guard.”
“I understand your suspicions,” said Rodin coolly, hiding his growing
disappointment, for he had hoped it would have been easy to coax the
soldier; “but, if you reflect, what interest have I in deceiving you?
And in what should the deception consist?”
“You have some interest or other in persisting to remain here, when I
tell you to go away.”
“I have already had the honor of informing you of the object of my
visit, my dear sir.”
“To bring news of Marshal Simon?”
“That is exactly the case. I am happy enough to have news of the
marshal. Yes, my dear young ladies,” added Rodin, as he again approached
the two sisters, to recover, as it were, the ground he had lost, “I have
news of your glorious father!”
“Then come to my room directly, and you can tell it to me,” replied
Dagobert.
“What! you would be cruel enough to deprive these dear ladies of the
pleasure--”
“By heaven, sir!” cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder, “you will make
me forget myself. I should be sorry to fling a man of your age down the
stairs. Will you be gone?”
“Well, well,” said Rodin mildly, “do not be angry with a poor old man.
I am really not worth the trouble. I will go with you to your room, and
tell you what I have to communicate. You will repent not having let me
speak before these dear young ladies; but that will be your punishment,
naughty man!”
So saying, Rodin again bowed very low, and, concealing his rage and
vexation, left the room before Dagobert, who made a sign to the two
sisters, and then followed, closing the door after him.
“What news of our father, Dagobert?” said Rose anxiously, when the
soldier returned, after a quarter of an hours absence.
“Well, that old conjurer knows that the marshal set out in good spirits,
and he seems acquainted with M. Robert. How could he be informed of all
this? I cannot tell,” added the soldier, with a thoughtful air; “but it
is only another reason to be on one’s guard against him.”
“But what news of our father?” asked Rose.
“One of that old rascal’s friends (I think him a rascal still) knows
your father, he tells me, and met him five-and-twenty leagues from here.
Knowing that this man was coming to Paris, the marshal charged him to
let you know that he was in perfect health, and hoped soon to see you
again.”
“Oh, what happiness!” cried Rose.
“You see, you were wrong to suspect the poor old man, Dagobert,” added
Blanche. “You treated him so harshly!”
“Possibly so; but I am not sorry for it.”
“And why?”
“I have my reasons; and one of the best is that, when I saw him came in,
and go sidling and creeping round about us, I felt chilled to the marrow
of my bones, without knowing why. Had I seen a serpent crawling towards
you, I should not have been more frightened. I knew, of course, that he
could not hurt you in my presence; but I tell you, my children, in spite
of the services he has no doubt rendered us, it was all I could do to
refrain from throwing him out of the window. Now, this manner of proving
my gratitude is not natural, and one must be on one’s guard against
people who inspire us with such ideas.”
“Good Dagobert, it is your affection for us that makes you so
suspicious,” said Rose, in a coaxing tone; “it proves how much you love
us.”
CHAPTER LV. THE IMPROVISED HOSPITAL
Among a great number of temporary hospitals opened at the time of the
cholera in every quarter of Paris, one had been established on the
ground-floor of a large house in the Rue du Mont-Blanc. The vacant
apartments had been generously placed by their proprietor at the
disposal of the authorities; and to this place were carried a number
of persons, who, being suddenly attacked with the contagion, were
considered in too dangerous a state to be removed to the principal
hospitals.
Two days had elapsed since Rodin’s visit to Marshal Simon’s daughters.
Shortly after he had been expelled, the Princess de Saint-Dizier had
entered to see them, under the cloak of being a house-to-house visitor
to collect funds for the cholera sufferers.
Choosing the moment when Dagobert, deceived by her lady-like demeanor,
had withdrawn, she counselled the twins that it was their duty to go
and see their governess, whom she stated to be in the hospital we now
describe.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning. The persons who had watched
during the night by the sick people, in the hospital established in
the Rue du Mont-Blanc, were about to be relieved by other voluntary
assistants.
“Well, gentlemen,” said one of those newly arrived, “how are we getting
on? Has there been any decrease last night in the number of the sick?”
“Unfortunately, no; but the doctors think the contagion has reached its
height.”
“Then there is some hope of seeing it decrease.”
“And have any of the gentlemen, whose places we come to take, been
attacked by the disease?”
“We came eleven strong last night; we are only nine now.”
“That is bad. Were these two persons taken off rapidly?”
“One of the victims, a young man of twenty-five years of age, a cavalry
officer on furlough, was struck as it were by lightning. In less than a
quarter of an hour he was dead. Though such facts are frequent, we were
speechless with horror.”
“Poor young man!”
“He had a word of cordial encouragement and hope for every one. He had
so far succeeded in raising the spirits of the patients, that some of
them who were less affected by the cholera than by the fear of it, were
able to quit the hospital nearly well.”
“What a pity! So good a young man! Well, he died gloriously; it requires
as much courage as on the field of battle.”
“He had only one rival in zeal and courage, and that is a Young priest,
with an angelic countenance, whom they call the Abbe Gabriel. He is
indefatigable; he hardly takes an hour’s rest, but runs from one to
the other, and offers himself to everybody. He forgets nothing. The
consolation; which he offers come from the depths of his soul, and are
not mere formalities in the way of his profession. No, no, I saw him
weep over a poor woman, whose eyes he had closed after a dreadful agony.
Oh, if all priests were like him!”
“No doubt, a good priest is most worthy of respect. But! who is the
other victim of last night?”
“Oh! his death was frightful. Do not speak of it. I have still the
horrible scene before my eyes.”
“A sudden attack of cholera?”
“If it had only been the contagion, I should not so shudder at the
remembrance.”
“What then did he die of?”
“It is a string of horrors. Three days ago, they brought here a man, who
was supposed to be only attacked with cholera. You have no doubt heard
speak of this personage. He is the lion-tamer, that drew all Paris to
the Porte-Saint-Martin.”
“I know the man you mean. Called Morok. He performed a kind of play with
a tame panther.”
“Exactly so; I was myself present at a similar scene, which a stranger,
an Indian, in consequence of a wager, was said at the time, jumped upon
the stage and killed the panther.”
“Well, this Morok, brought here as a cholera-patient, and indeed with
all the symptoms of the contagion, soon showed signs of a still more
frightful malady.”
“And this was--”
“Hydrophobia.”
“Did he become mad?”
“Yes; he confessed, that he had been bitten a few days before by one
of the mastiffs in his menagerie; unfortunately, we only learnt this
circumstance after the terrible attack, which cost the life of the poor
fellow we deplore.”
“How did it happen, then?”
“Morok was in a room with three other patients. Suddenly seized with a
sort of furious delirium, he rose, uttering ferocious cries, and rushed
raving mad into the passage. Our poor friend made an attempt to stop
him. This kind of resistance increased the frenzy of Morok, who threw
himself on the man that crossed his path, and, tearing him with his
teeth, fell down in horrible convulsions.”
“Oh! you are right. ‘Twas indeed frightful. And, not withstanding every
assistance this victim of Morok’s--”
“Died during the night, in dreadful agony; for the shock had been so
violent, that brain-fever almost instantly declared itself.”
“And is Morok dead?”
“I do not know. He was to be taken to another hospital, after being fast
bound in the state of weakness which generally succeeds the fit. But,
till he can be removed he has been confined in a room upstairs.”
“But he cannot recover.”
“I should think he must be dead by this time. The doctors did not give
him twenty-four hours to live.”
The persons engaged in this conversation were standing in an
ante-chamber on the ground-floor, in which usually assembled those who
came to offer their voluntary aid to the sick. One door of this room
communicated with the rest of the hospital, and the other with the
passage that opened upon the courtyard.
“Dear me!” said one of the two speakers, looking through the window.
“See what two charming girls have just got out of that elegant carriage.
How much alike they are! Such a resemblance is indeed extraordinary.”
“No doubt they are twins. Poor young girls! dressed in Mourning. They
have perhaps lost father or mother.”
“One would imagine they are coming this way.”
“Yes, they are coming up the steps.”
And indeed Rose and Blanche soon entered the antechamber, with a timid,
anxious air, though a sort of feverish excitement was visible in their
looks. One of the two men that were talking together, moved by the
embarrassment of the girls, advanced toward them, and said, in a tone of
attentive politeness: “Is there anything I can do for you, ladies?”
“Is not this, sir,” replied Rose, “the infirmary of the Rue du Mont
Blanc?”
“Yes, miss.”
“A lady, called Madame Augustine du Tremblay, was brought here, we are
told, about two days ago. Could we see her?”
“I would observe to you, miss, that there is some danger in entering the
sick-wards.”
“It is a dear friend that we wish to see,” answered Rose, in a mild and
firm tone, which sufficiently expressed that she was determined to brave
the danger.
“I cannot be sure, miss,” resumed the other, “that the person you seek
is here; but, if you will take the trouble to walk into this room on the
left, you will find there the good Sister Martha; she has the care
of the women’s wards, and will give you all the information you can
desire.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Blanche, with a graceful bow; and she and her
sister entered together the apartment which had been pointed out to
them.
“They are really charming,” said the man, looking after the two sisters,
who soon disappeared from his view. “It would be a great pity if--”
He was unable to finish. A frightful tumult, mingled with cries of alarm
and horror, rose suddenly from the adjoining rooms. Almost instantly,
two doors were thrown open, and a number of the sick, half-naked, pale,
fleshless, and their features convulsed with terror, rushed into the
antechamber, exclaiming: “Help! help! the madman!” It is impossible to
paint the scene of despairing and furious confusion which followed this
panic of so many affrighted wretches, flying to the only other door, to
escape from the perils they dreaded, and there, struggling and trampling
on each other to pass through the narrow entrance.
At the moment when the last of these unhappy creatures succeeded in
reaching the door, dragging himself along upon his bleeding hands, for
he had been thrown down and almost crushed in the confusion--Morok,
the object of so much terror--Morok himself appeared. He was a horrible
sight. With the exception of a rag bound about his middle, his wan form
was entirely naked, and from his bare legs still hung the remnants of
the cords he had just broken. His thick, yellow hair stood almost on
end, his beard bristled, his savage eyes rolled full of blood in their
orbits, and shone with a glassy brightness; his lips were covered with
foam; from time to time, he uttered hoarse, guttural cries. The veins,
visible on his iron limbs were swollen almost to bursting. He bounded
like a wild beast, and stretched out before him his bony and quivering
hands. At the moment Morok reached the doorway, by which those he
pursued made their escape, some persons, attracted by the noise, managed
to close this door from without, whilst others secured that which
communicated with the sick-ward.
Morok thus found himself a prisoner. He ran to the window to force it
open, and threw himself into the courtyard. But, stopping suddenly, he
drew back from the glittering panes, seized with that invincible horror
which all the victims of hydrophobia feel at the sight of any shining
object, particularly glass. The unfortunate creatures whom he had
pursued, saw him from the courtyard exhausting himself in furious
efforts to open the doors that just had been closed upon him. Then,
perceiving the inutility of his attempts, he uttered savage cries, and
rushed furiously round the room, like a wild beast that seeks in vain to
escape from its cage.
But, suddenly, those spectators of this scene, who had approached
nearest to the window, uttered a loud exclamation of fear and anguish.
Morok had perceived the little door which led to the closet occupied by
Sister Martha, where Rose and Blanche had entered a few minutes before.
Hoping to get out by this way, Morok drew the door violently towards
him, and succeeded in half opening it, notwithstanding the resistance he
experienced from the inside. For an instant the affrighted crowd saw the
stiffened arms Of Sister Martha and the orphans, clinging to the door,
and holding it back with all their might.
CHAPTER LVI. HYDROPHOBIA.
When the sick people, assembled in the courtyard, saw the desperate
efforts of Morok to force the door of the room which contained Sister
Martha and the orphans, their fright redoubled. “It is all over, Sister
Martha!” cried they.
“The door will give way.”
“And the closet has no other entrance.”
“There are two young girls in mourning with her.”
“Come! we must not leave these poor women to encounter the madman.
Follow me, friends!” cried generously one of the spectators, who was
still blessed with health, and he rushed towards the steps to return to
the ante-chamber.
“It’s too late! it’s only exposing yourself in vain,” cried many
persons, holding him back by force.
At this moment, voices were heard, exclaiming: “Here is the Abbe
Gabriel.”
“He is coming downstairs. He has heard the noise.”
“He is asking what is the matter.”
“What will he do?”
Gabriel, occupied with a dying person in a neighboring room, had,
indeed, just learned that Morok, having broken his bonds, had succeeded
in escaping from the chamber in which he had been temporarily confined.
Foreseeing the terrible dangers which might result from the escape of
the lion-tamer, the missionary consulted only his courage, and hastened
down, in the hope of preventing greater misfortunes. In obedience to
his orders, an attendant followed him, bearing a brazier full of hot
cinders, on which lay several irons, at a white heat, used by the
doctors for cauterizing, in desperate cases of cholera.
The angelic countenance of Gabriel was very pale; but calm intrepidity
shone upon his noble brow. Hastily crossing the passage, and making his
way through the crowd, he went straight to the ante-chamber door. As
he approached it, one of the sick people said to him, in a lamentable
voice; “Ah, sir! it is all over. Those who can see through the window
say that Sister Martha is lost.”
Gabriel made no answer, but grasped the key of the door. Before entering
the room, however, he turned to the attendant, and said to him in a firm
voice: “Are the irons of a white heat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then wait here, and be ready. As for you, my friends,” he added,
turning to some of the sick, who shuddered with terror, “as soon as
I enter shut the door after me. I will answer for the rest. And you;
friend, only bring your irons when I call.”
And the young missionary turned the key in the lock. At this juncture,
a cry of alarm, pity, and admiration rose from every lip, and the
spectators drew back from the door, with an involuntary feeling of
fear. Raising his eyes to heaven, as if to invoke its assistance at this
terrible moment, Gabriel pushed open the door, and immediately closed it
behind him. He was alone with Morok.
The lion-tamer, by a last furious effort, had almost succeeded in
opening the door, to which Sister Martha and the orphans were clinging,
in a fit of terror, uttering piercing cries. At the sound of Gabriel’s
footsteps, Morok turned round suddenly. Then, instead of continuing
his attack on the closet, he sprang, with a roar and a bound, upon the
new-comer.
During this time, Sister Martha and the orphans, not knowing the
cause of the sudden retreat of their assailant, took advantage of the
opportunity to close and bolt the door, and thus placed themselves
in security from a new attack. Morok, with haggard eye, and teeth
convulsively clinched, had rushed upon Gabriel, his hands extended
to seize him by the throat. The missionary stood the shock valiantly.
Guessing, at a glance, the intention of his adversary, he seized him
by the wrists as he advanced, and, holding him back, bent him down
violently with a vigorous hand. For a second, Morok and Gabriel remained
mute, breathless, motionless, gazing on each other; then the missionary
strove to conquer the efforts of the madman, who, with violent jerks,
attempted to throw himself upon him, and to seize and tear him with his
teeth.
Suddenly the lion-tamer’s strength seemed to fail, his knees quivered,
his livid head sank upon his shoulder, his eyes closed. The missionary,
supposing that a momentary weakness had succeeded to the fit of rage,
and that the wretch was about to fall, relaxed his hold in order to lend
him assistance. But no sooner did he feel himself at liberty, thanks
to his crafty device, than Morok flung himself furiously upon Gabriel.
Surprised by this sudden attack, the latter stumbled, and at once felt
himself clasped into the iron arms of the madman. Yet, with redoubled
strength and energy, struggling breast to breast, foot to foot, the
missionary in his turn succeeded in tripping up his adversary, and,
throwing him with a vigorous effort, again seized his hands, and now
held him down beneath his knee. Having thus completely mastered him,
Gabriel turned his head to call for assistance, when Morok, by a
desperate strain, succeeded in raising himself a little, and seized with
his teeth the left arm of the missionary. At this sharp, deep, horrible
bite, which penetrated to the very bone, Gabriel could not restrain a
scream of anguish and horror. He strove in vain to disengage himself,
for his arm was held fast, as in a vice, between the firm-set jaws of
Morok.
This frightful scene had lasted less time than it has taken in the
description, when suddenly the door leading to the passage was violently
opened, and several courageous men, who had learned from the patients
to what danger the young priest was exposed, came rushing to his
assistance, in spite of his recommendation not to enter till he should
call. The attendant was amongst the number, with the brazier and the hot
irons. Gabriel, as soon as he perceived him, said to him in an agitated
voice: “Quick, friend! your iron. Thank God I had thought of that.”
One of the men who had entered the room was luckily provided with a
blanket; and the moment the missionary succeeded in wresting his arm
from the clinched teeth of Morok, whom he still held down with his knee,
this blanket was thrown over the madman’s head, so that he could now be
held and bound without danger, notwithstanding his desperate resistance.
Then Gabriel rose, tore open the sleeve of his cassock, and laying bare
his left arm, on which a deep bite was visible, bleeding, of a bluish
color, he beckoned the attendant to draw near, seized one of the hot
irons, and, with a firm and sure hand, twice applied the burning metal
to the wound, with a calm heroism which struck all the spectators, with
admiration. But soon so many various emotions, intrepidly sustained,
were followed by a natural reaction. Large drops of sweat stood upon
Gabriel’s brow; his long light hair clung to his temples; he grew deadly
pale, reeled, lost his senses, and was carried into the next room to
receive immediate attention.
An accidental circumstance, likely enough to occur, had converted one
of the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s falsehoods into a truth. To induce
the orphans to go to the hospital, she had told them Gabriel was there,
which at the time she was far from believing. On the contrary, she would
have wished to prevent a meeting, which, from the attachment of the
missionary to the girls, might interfere with her projects. A little
while after the terrible scene we have just related, Rose and Blanche,
accompanied by Sister Martha, entered a vast room, of a strange and
fatal aspect, containing a number of women who had suddenly been seized
with cholera.
These immense apartments, generously supplied for the purpose of a
temporary hospital, had been furnished with excessive luxury. The room
now occupied by the sick women, of whom we speak, had been used for
a ball-room. The white panels glittered with sumptuous gilding, and
magnificent pier-glasses occupied the spaces between the windows,
through which could be seen the fresh verdure of a pleasant garden,
smiling beneath the influence of budding May. In the midst of all
this gilded luxury, on a rich, inlaid floor of costly woods, were seen
arranged in regular order four rows of beds, of every shape and kind,
from the humble truckle-bed to the handsome couch in carved mahogany.
This long room was divided into two compartments by a temporary
partition, four or five feet in height. They had thus been able to
manage the four rows of beds. This partition finished at some little
distance from either end of the room, so as to leave an open space
without beds, for the volunteer attendants, when the sick did not
require their aid. At one of these extremities of the room was a lofty
and magnificent marble chimney piece, ornamented with gilt bronze.
On the fire beneath, various drinks were brewing for the patients. To
complete the singular picture, women of every class took their turns in
attending upon the sick, to whose sighs and groans they always responded
with consoling words of hope and pity. Such was the place, strange and
mournful, that Rose and Blanche entered together, hand in hand, a short
time after Gabriel had displayed such heroic courage in the struggle
against Morok. Sister Martha accompanied Marshal Simon’s daughters.
After speaking a few words to them in a whisper, she pointed out to them
the two divisions in which the beds were arranged, and herself went to
the other end of the room to give some orders.
The orphans, still under the impression of the terrible danger from
which Gabriel had rescued them without their knowing it, were both
excessively pale; yet their eyes were expressive of firm resolution.
They had determined not only to perform what they considered an
imperative duty, but to prove themselves worthy of their valiant father;
they were acting too for their mother’s sake, since they had been told
that, dying in Siberia without receiving the sacrament, her eternal
felicity might depend on the proofs they gave of Christian devotion.
Need we add that the Princess de Saint-Dizier, following the advice of
Rodin, had, in a second interview, skillfully brought about without the
knowledge of Dagobert, taken advantage of the excitable qualities
of these poor, confiding, simple, and generous souls, by a fatal
exaggeration of the most noble and courageous sentiments. The orphans
having asked Sister Martha if Madame Augustine du Tremblay had been
brought to this asylum within the last three days, that person had
answered, that she really did not know, but, if they would go through
the women’s wards, it would be easy for them to ascertain. For the
abominable hypocrite, who, in conjunction with Rodin, had sent these
two children to encounter a mortal peril, had told an impudent falsehood
when she affirmed that their governess had been removed to this
hospital. During their exile, and their toilsome journey with Dagobert,
the sisters had been exposed to many hard trials. But never had they
witnessed so sad a spectacle as that which now offered itself to their
view.
The long row of beds, on which so many poor creatures writhed in agony,
some uttering deep groans, some only a dull rattle in the throat, some
raving in the delirium of fever, or calling on those from whom they were
about to part forever--these frightful sights and sounds, which are
too much even for brave men, would inevitably, (such was the execrable
design of Rodin and his accomplices) make a fatal impression on these
young girls, urged by the most generous motives to undertake this
perilous visit. And then--sad memory! which awoke, in all its deep and
poignant bitterness, by the side of the first beds they came to--it was
of this very malady, the Cholera, that their mother had died a painful
death. Fancy the twins entering this vast room, of so fearful an
aspect, and, already much shaken by the terror which Morok had inspired,
pursuing their search in the midst of these unfortunate creatures, whose
dying pangs reminded them every instant of the dying agony of their
mother! For a moment, at sight of the funeral hall, Rose and Blanche had
felt their resolution fail them. A black presentiment made them regret
their heroic imprudence; and, moreover, since several minutes they had
begun to feel an icy shudder, and painful shootings across the temples;
but, attributing these symptoms to the fright occasioned by Morok, their
good and valiant natures soon stifled all these fears. They exchanged
glances of affection, their courage revived, and both of them--Rose
on one side of the partition, and Blanche on the other--proceeded with
their painful task. Gabriel, carried to the doctors’ private room, had
soon recovered his senses. Thanks to his courage and presence of mind,
his wound, cauterized in time, could have no dangerous consequences.
As soon as it was dressed he insisted on returning to the women’s ward,
where he had be offering pious consolations to a dying person at the
moment they had come to inform him of the frightful danger caused by the
escape of Morok.
A few minutes before the missionary entered the room, Rose and Blanche
arrived almost together at the term of their mournful search, one from
the left, the other from the right-hand row of beds, separated by the
partition which divided the hall into compartments. The sisters had not
yet seen each other. Their steps tottered as they advanced, and they
were forced, from time to time, to lean against the beds as they passed
along. Their strength was--rapidly failing them. Giddy with fear and
pain, they appeared to act almost mechanically. Alas! the orphans had
been seized almost at the same moment with the terrible symptoms of
cholera. In consequence of that species of physiological phenomenon, of
which we have already spoken--a phenomenon by no means rare in twins,
which had already been displayed on one or two occasions of their
sickness--their organizations seemed liable to the same sensations, the
same simultaneous accidents, like two flowers on one stem, which bloom
and fade together. The sight of so much suffering, and so many deaths,
had accelerated the development of this dreadful disease. Already, on
their agitated and altered countenances, they bore the mortal tokens of
the contagion, as they came forth, each on her own side, from the
two subdivisions of the room in which they had vainly sought their
governess. Until now separated by the partition, Rose and Blanche had
not yet seen each other; but, when at length their eyes met, there
ensued a heart rending scene.
CHAPTER LVII. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
To the charming freshness of the sisters’ faces had succeeded a livid
pallor. Their large blue eyes, now hollow and sunk in, appeared of
enormous dimensions. Their lips, once so rosy, were now suffused with a
violet hue, and a similar color was gradually displacing the transparent
carmine of their cheeks and fingers. It was as if all the roses in their
charming countenances were fading and turning blue before the icy blast
of death.
When the orphans met, tottering and hardly able to sustain themselves,
a cry of mutual horror burst from their lips. Each of them exclaimed, at
sight of the fearful change in her sister’s features. “Are you also ill,
sister?” And then, bursting into tears, they threw themselves into each
other’s arms, and looked anxiously at one another.
“Good heaven, Rose! how pale you are!”
“Like you, sister.”
“And do you feel a cold shudder?”
“Yes, and my sight fails me.”
“My bosom is all on fire.”
“Sister, we are perhaps going to die.”
“Let it only be together!”
“And our poor father?”
“And Dagobert?”
“Sister, our dream has come true!” cried Rose, almost deliriously, as
she threw her arms round Blanche’s neck. “Look! look! the Angel Gabriel
is here to fetch us.”
Indeed, at this moment, Gabriel entered the open space at the end of the
room. “Heaven! what do I see?” cried the young priest. “The daughters of
Marshal Simon!”
And, rushing forward, he received the sisters in his arms, for they were
no longer able to stand. Already their drooping heads, their half-closed
eyes, their painful and difficult breathing, announced the approach of
death. Sister Martha was close at hand. She hastened to respond to the
call of Gabriel. Aided by this pious woman, he was able to lift the
orphans upon a bed reserved for the doctor in attendance. For fear that
the sight of this mournful agony should make too deep an impression on
the other patients, Sister Martha drew a large curtain, and the sisters
were thus in some sort walled off from the rest of the room. Their hands
had been so tightly clasped together, during a nervous paroxysm, that it
was impossible to separate them. It was in this position that the first
remedies were applied--remedies incapable of conquering the violence
of the disease, but which at least mitigated for a few moments the
excessive pains they suffered, and restored some faint glimmer of
perception to their obscured and troubled senses. At this moment,
Gabriel was leaning over the bed with a look of inexpressible grief.
With breaking heart, and face bathed in tears, he thought of the strange
destiny, which thus made him a witness of the death of these girls, his
relations, whom but a few months before he had rescued from the horrors
of the tempest. In spite of his firmness of soul, the missionary could
not help shuddering as he reflected on the fate of the orphans, the
death of Jacques Rennepont, and the fearful devices by which M. Hardy,
retired to the cloistered solitude of St. Herein, had become a member
of the Society of Jesus almost in dying. The missionary said to himself,
that already four members of the Rennepont family--his family--had been
successively struck down by some dreadful fate; and he asked himself
with alarm, how it was that the detestable interests of the Society of
Loyola should be served by a providential fatality? The astonishment of
the young missionary would have given place to the deepest horror, could
he have known the part that Rodin and his accomplices had taken, both
in the death of Jacques Rennepont, by exciting, through Morok, the evil
propensities of the artisan, and in the approaching end of Rose and
Blanche, by converting, through the Princess de Saint-Dizier, the
generous inspirations of the orphans into suicidal heroism.
Roused for a moment from the painful stupor in which they had been
plunged, Rose and Blanche half-opened their large eyes, already dull
and faded. Then, more and more bewildered they both gazed fixedly at the
angelic countenance of Gabriel.
“Sister,” said Rose, in a faint voice, “do you see the archangel--as in
our dreams, in Germany?”
“Yes--three days ago--he appeared to us.”
“He is come to fetch us.”
“Alas! will our death save our poor mother from purgatory?”
“Angel! blessed angel! pray God for our mother--and for us!” Until
now, stupefied with amazement and sorrow, almost suffocated with sobs,
Gabriel had not been able to utter a word. But at these words of the
orphans, he exclaimed: “Dear children, why doubt of your mother’s
salvation? Oh! never did a purer soul ascend to its Creator. Your
mother? I know from my adopted father, that her virtues and courage
were the admiration of all who knew her. Oh! believe me; God has blessed
her.”
“Do you hear, sister?” cried Rose, as a ray of celestial joy illumined
for an instant the livid faces of the orphans. “God has blessed our
mother.”
“Yes, yes,” resumed Gabriel; “banish these gloomy ideas. Take courage,
poor children! You must not die. Think of your father.”
“Our father?” said Blanche, shuddering; and she continued, with a
mixture of reason and wild excitement, which would have touched the
soul of the most indifferent: “Alas! he will not find us on his return.
Forgive us, father! we did not think to do any harm. We wished, like
you, to do something generous--to help our governess.”
“And we did not think to die so quickly, and so soon. Yesterday, we were
gay and happy.”
“Oh, good angel! you will appear to our father, even as you have
appeared to us. You will tell him that, in dying--the last thought of
his children--was of him.”
“We came here without Dagobert’s knowing it--do not let our father scold
him.”
“Blessed angel!” resumed the other sister in a still more feeble voice;
“appear to Dagobert, also. Tell him, that we ask his forgiveness, for
the grief our death will occasion him.”
“And let our old friend caress our poor Spoil-sport for us--our faithful
guardian,” added Blanche, trying to smile.
“And then,” resumed Rose, in a voice that was growing still fainter,
“promise to appear to two other persons, that have been so kind to
us--good Mother Bunch--and the beautiful Lady Adrienne.”
“We forget none whom we have loved,” said Blanche, with a last effort.
“Now, God grant we may go to our mother, never to leave her more!”
“You promised it good angel--you know you did--in the dream. You said
to us: ‘Poor children--come from so far--you will have traversed the
earth--to rest on the maternal bosom!’”
“Oh! it is dreadful--dreadful! So young--and no hope!” murmured Gabriel,
as he buried his face in his hands. “Almighty Father! Thy views are
impenetrable. Alas! yet why should these children die this cruel death?”
Rose heaved a deep sigh and said in an expiring tone: “Let us be buried
together!--united in life, in death not divided--”
And the two turned their dying looks upon Gabriel, and stretched out
towards him their supplicating hands.
“Oh, blessed martyrs to a generous devotion!” cried the missionary,
raising to heaven his eyes streaming with tears. “Angelic souls!
treasures of innocence and truth! ascend, ascend to heaven--since God
calls you to him, and the earth is not worthy to possess you!”
“Sister! father!” were the last words that the orphans pronounced with
their dying voices.
And then the twins, by a last instinctive impulse, endeavored to clasp
each other, and their eyes half-opened to exchange yet another glance.
They shuddered twice or thrice, their limbs stiffened, a deep sigh
struggled from their violet-colored lips. Rose and Blanche were both
dead! Gabriel and Sister Martha, after closing the eyes of the orphans,
knelt down to pray by the side of that funeral couch. Suddenly a
great tumult was heard in the room. Rapid footsteps, mingled with
imprecations, sounded close at hand, the curtain was drawn aside from
this mournful scene, and Dagobert entered precipitately, pale, haggard,
his dress in disorder. At sight of Gabriel and the Sister of Charity
kneeling beside the corpses of his children, the soldier uttered a
terrible roar, and tried to advance--but in vain--for, before Gabriel
could reach him, Dagobert fell flat on the ground, and his gray head
struck violently on the floor.
It is night--a dark and stormy night. One o’clock in the morning has
just sounded from the church of Montmartre. It is to the cemetery of
Montmartre that is carried the coffin which, according to the last
wishes of Rose and Blanche contains them both. Through the thick shadow,
which rests upon that field of death, may be seen moving a pale light.
It is the gravedigger. He advances with caution; a dark lantern is in
his hand. A man wrapped in a cloak accompanies him. He holds down his
head and weeps. It is Samuel. The old Jew--the keeper of the house
in the Rue Saint-Francois. On the night of the funeral of Jacques
Rennepont, the first who died of the seven heirs, and who was buried
in another cemetery, Samuel had a similar mysterious interview with the
gravedigger, to obtain a favor at the price of gold. A strange and awful
favor! After passing down several paths, bordered with cypress trees, by
the side of many tombs, the Jew and the gravedigger arrived, at a little
glade, situated near the western wall of the cemetery. The night was so
dark, that scarcely anything could be seen. After moving his lantern up
and down, and all about, the gravedigger showed Samuel, at the foot of a
tall yew-tree, with long black branches, a little mound of newly-raised
earth, and said: “It is here.”
“You are sure of it?”
“Yes, yes--two bodies in one coffin! it is not such a common thing.”
“Alas! two in the same coffin!” said the Jew, with a deep sigh.
“Now that you know the place, what do you want more?” asked the
gravedigger.
Samuel did not answer. He fell on his knees, and piously kissed
the little mound. Then rising, with his cheeks bathed in tears, he
approached the gravedigger, and spoke to him for some moments in a
whisper--though they were alone, and in the centre of that deserted
place. Then began between those two men a mysterious dialogue, which the
night enveloped in shade and silence. The gravedigger, alarmed at what
Samuel asked him, at first refused his request.
But the Jew, employing persuasions, entreaties, tears, and at last the
seduction of the jingling gold, succeeded in conquering the scruples of
the gravedigger. Though the latter trembled at the thought of what he
promised, he said to Samuel in an agitated tone: “To-morrow night, then,
at two o’clock.”
“I shall be behind the wall,” answered Samuel, pointing out the place
with the aid of a lantern. “I will throw three stones into the cemetery,
for a signal.”
“Yes, three stones--as a signal,” replied the gravedigger shuddering,
and wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.
With considerable remains of vigor, notwithstanding his great age,
Samuel availed himself of the broken surface of the low wall, and
climbing over it, soon disappeared. The gravedigger returned home with
hasty strides. From time to time, he looked fearfully behind him, as
though he had been pursued by some fatal vision.
On the evening after the funeral of Rose and Blanche, Rodin wrote two
letters. The first, addressed to his mysterious correspondent at Rome,
alluded to the deaths of Jacques Rennepont, and Rose and Blanche Simon,
as well as to the cession of M. Hardy’s property, and the donation
of Gabriel--events which reduced the claimants of the inheritance to
two--Mdlle. de Cardoville and Djalma. This first note written by Rodin
for Rome, contained only the following words: “Five from seven leaves
two. Announce this result to the Cardinal-Prince. Let him go on. I
advance advance-advance!” The second note, in a feigned hand, was
addressed to Marshal Simon, to be delivered by a sure messenger,
contained these few lines: “If there is yet time, make haste to return.
Your daughters are both dead. You shall learn who killed them.”
CHAPTER LVIII. RUIN.
It is the day after the death of Marshal Simon’s daughters. Mdlle. de
Cardoville is yet ignorant of the sad end of her young relatives. Her
countenance is radiant with happiness, and never has she looked more
beautiful; her eye has never been more brilliant, her complexion more
dazzling white, her lip of a richer coral. According to her somewhat
eccentric custom of dressing herself in her own house in a picturesque
style, Adrienne wears to-day, though it is about three o’clock in the
afternoon, a pale green watered-silk dress, with a very full skirt, the
sleeves and bodice slashed with rose-colored ribbon, and adorned with
white bugle-beads, of exquisite workmanship; while a slender network,
also of white bugle-beads, concealing the thick plait of Adrienne’s
back hair, forms an oriental head-dress of charming originality, and
contrasts agreeably with the long curls which fall in front almost to
the swell of the bosom. To the expression of indescribable happiness
which marks the features of Mdlle. de Cardoville, is added a certain
resolute, cutting, satirical air, which is not habitual to her. Her
charming head, and graceful, swan-like neck, are raised in an attitude
of defiance; her small, rose-colored nostrils seem to dilate with
ill-repressed ardor, and she waits with haughty impatience for the
moment of an aggressive and ironical interview. Not far from Adrienne is
Mother Bunch. She has resumed in the house the place which she at first
occupied. The young sempstress is in mourning for her sister, but her
countenance is expressive of a mild, calm sorrow. She looks at Mdlle. de
Cardoville with surprise; for never, till now, has she seen the features
of the fair patrician impressed with such a character of ironical
audacity. Mdlle. de Cardoville was exempt from the slightest coquetry,
in the narrow and ordinary sense of the word. Yet she now cast an
inquiring look at the glass before which she was standing, and, having
restored the elastic smoothness to one of her long, golden curls, by
rolling it for a moment round her ivory finger, she carefully effaced
with her hands some almost imperceptible folds, which had formed
themselves in the thick material of her elegant corsage. This movement,
and that of turning her back to the glass, to see if her dress sat
perfectly on all points, revealed, in serpentine undulations, all the
charms and graces of her light and elegant figure; for, in spite of the
rich fulness of her shoulders, white and firm as sculptured alabaster,
Adrienne belonged to that class of privileged persons, who are able at
need to make a girdle out of a garter.
Having performed, with indescribable grace, these charming evolutions of
feminine coquetry, Adrienne turned towards Mother Bunch, whose surprise
was still on the increase, and said to her, smiling: “My dear Magdalen,
do not laugh at my question--but what would you say to a picture, that
should represent me as I am now?”
“Why, lady--”
“There you are again, with your lady-ing,” said Adrienne, in a tone of
gentle reproach.
“Well, then, Adrienne,” resumed Mother Bunch, “I think it would be a
charming picture, for you are dressed, as usual with perfect taste.”
“But am I not better dressed than on other days, my dear poetess? I
began by telling you that I do not ask the question for my own sake,”
said Adrienne, gayly.
“Well, I suppose so,” replied Mother Bunch, with a faint smile. “It is
certainly impossible to imagine anything that would suit you better. The
light green and the pale rose-color, with the soft lustre of the white
ornaments, harmonize so well with your golden hair, that I cannot
conceive, I tell you, a more graceful picture.”
The speaker felt what she said, and she was happy to be able to express
it, for we know the intense admiration of that poetic soul for all that
was beautiful.
“Well!” went on Adrienne, gayly, “I am glad, my dear, that you find me
better dressed than usual.”
“Only,” said the hunchback, hesitating.
“Only?” repeated Adrienne, looking at her with an air of interrogation.
“Why, only,” continued the other, “if I have never seen you look more
pretty, I have also never observed in your features the resolute and
ironical expression which they had just now. It was like an air of
impatient defiance.”
“And so it was, my dear little Magdalen,” said Adrienne, throwing her
arms round the girl’s neck with joyous tenderness. “I must kiss you, for
having guessed it. You see, I expect a visit from my dear aunt.”
“The Princess de Saint-Dizier?” cried Mother Bunch, in alarm. “That
wicked lady, who did you so much evil?”
“The very same. She has asked for an interview, and I shall be delighted
to receive her.”
“Delighted?”
“Yes--a somewhat ironical and malicious delight, it is true,” answered
Adrienne, still more gayly. “You shall judge for yourself. She regrets
her gallantries, her beauty, her youth--even her size afflicts the
holy woman!--and she will see me young, fair, beloved--and above all
thin--yes, thin,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, laughing merrily. “And you
may imagine, my dear, how much envy and despair, the sight of a young,
thin woman excites in a stout one of a certain age!”
“My friend,” said Mother Bunch, gravely, “you speak in jest. And yet, I
know not why, the coming of this princess alarms me.”
“Dear, gentle soul, be satisfied!” answered Adrienne, affectionately. “I
do not fear this woman--I no longer have any fear of her--and to prove
it to her confusion, I will treat her--a monster of hypocrisy and
wickedness, who comes here, no doubt, on some abominable design--I will
treat her as an inoffensive, ridiculous fat woman!” And Adrienne again
laughed.
A servant here entered the room, and interrupted the mirth of Adrienne,
by saying: “The Princess de Saint-Dizier wishes to know if you can
receive her?”
“Certainly,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville; and the servant retired. Mother
Bunch was about to rise and quit the room; but Adrienne held her back,
and said to her, taking her hand with an air of serious tenderness:
“Stay, my dear friend, I entreat you.”
“Do you wish it?”
“Yes; I wish--still in revenge, you know,” said Adrienne, with a smile,
“to prove to her highness of Saint-Dizier, that I have an affectionate
friend--that I have, in fact, every happiness.”
“But, Adrienne,” replied the other, timidly, “consider--”
“Silence! here is the princess. Remain! I ask it as a favor. The
instinct of your heart will discover any snare she may have laid. Did
not your affection warn me of the plots of Rodin?”
Mother Bunch could not refuse such a request. She remained, but was
about to draw back from the fireplace. Adrienne, however, took her by
the hand, and made her resume her seat in the arm-chair, saying: “My
dear Magdalen, keep your place. You owe nothing to the lady. With me it
is different; she comes to my house.”
Hardly had Adrienne uttered these words, than the princess entered with
head erect, and haughty air (we have said, she could carry herself most
loftily), and advanced with a firm step. The strongest minds have their
side of puerile weakness; a savage envy, excited by the elegance, wit,
and beauty of Adrienne, bore a large part in the hatred of the princess
for her niece; and though it was idle to think of eclipsing Adrienne,
and the Princess de Saint-Dizier did not seriously mean to attempt it,
she could not forbear, in preparing for the interview she had demanded,
taking more pains even than usual in the arrangement of her dress.
Beneath her robe of shot silk, she was laced in and tightened to
excess--a pressure which considerably increased the color in her cheeks.
The throng of jealous and hateful sentiments, which inspired her with
regard to Adrienne, had so troubled the clearness of her ordinarily calm
judgment, that, instead of the plain and quiet style, in which, as a
woman of tact and taste, she was generally attired, she now committed
the folly of wearing a dress of changing hues, and a crimson hat,
adorned with a magnificent bird of paradise. Hate, envy, the pride of
triumph--for she thought of the skillful perfidy with which she had
sent to almost certain death the daughters of Marshal Simon--and the
execrable hope of succeeding in new plots, were all expressed in the
countenance of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, as she entered her niece’s
apartment.
Without advancing to meet her aunt, Adrienne rose politely from the sofa
on which she was seated, made a half-curtsey, full of grace and dignity,
and immediately resumed her former posture. Then, pointing to an arm
chair near the fireplace, at one corner of which sat Mother Bunch, and
she herself at the other, she said: “Pray sit down, your highness.”
The princess turned very red, remained standing, and cast a disdainful
glance of insolent surprise at the sempstress, who, in compliance with
Adrienne’s wish, only bowed slightly at the entrance of the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, without offering to give up her place. In acting thus, the
young sempstress followed the dictates of her conscience, which told her
that the real superiority did not belong to this base, hypocritical, and
wicked princess, but rather to such a person as herself, the admirable
and devoted friend.
“Let me beg your highness to sit down,” resumed Adrienne, in a mild
tone, as she pointed to the vacant chair.
“The interview I have demanded, niece,” said the princess “must be a
private one.”
“I have no secrets, madame, from my best friend; you may speak in the
presence of this young lady.”
“I have long known,” replied Madame de Saint-Dizier, with bitter irony,
“that in all things you care little for secrecy, and that you are easy
in the choice of what you call your friends. But you will permit me to
act differently from you. If you have no secrets, madame, I have--and I
do not choose to confide them to the first comer.”
So saying, the pious lady glanced contemptuously at the sempstress. The
latter, hurt at the insolent tone of the princess, answered mildly and
simply:
“I do not see what can be the great difference between the first and the
last comer to Mdlle. de Cardoville’s.”
“What! can it speak!” cried the princess, insolently.
“It can at least answer, madame,” replied Mother Bunch, in her calm
voice.
“I wish to see you alone, niece--is that clear?” said the princess,
impatiently, to her niece.
“I beg your pardon, but I do not quite understand your highness,” said
Adrienne, with an air of surprise. “This young lady, who honors me with
her friendship, is willing to be present at this interview, which you
have asked for--I say she has consented to be present, for it needs,
I confess, the kindest condescension in her to resign herself, from
affection for me, to hear all the graceful, obliging, and charming
things which you have no doubt come hither to communicate.”
“Madame--” began the princess, angrily.
“Permit me to interrupt your highness,” returned Adrienne, in a tone
of perfect amenity, as if she were addressing the most flattering
compliments to her visitor. “To put you quite at your ease with the lady
here, I will begin by informing you that she is quite aware of all the
holy perfidies, pious wrongs, and devout infamies, of which you nearly
made me the victim. She knows that you are a mother of the Church, such
as one sees but few of in these days. May I hope, therefore, that your
highness will dispense with this delicate and interesting reserve?”
“Really,” said the princess, with a sort of incensed amazement, “I
scarcely know if I wake or sleep.”
“Dear me!” said Adrienne, in apparent alarm; “this doubt as to the state
of your faculties is very shocking, madame. I see that the blood flies
to your head, for your face sufficiently shows it; you seem oppressed,
confined, uncomfortable--perhaps (we women may say so between
ourselves), perhaps you are laced a little too tightly, madame?”
These words, pronounced by Adrienne with an air of warm interest and
perfect simplicity, almost choked the princess with rage. She became
crimson, seated herself abruptly, and exclaimed: “Be it so, madame! I
prefer this reception to any other. It puts me at my ease, as you say.”
“Does it indeed, madame?” said Adrienne, with a smile. “You may now at
least speak frankly all that you feel, which must for you have the charm
of novelty! Confess that you are obliged to me for enabling you, even
for a moment, to lay aside that mask of piety, amiability, and goodness,
which must be so troublesome to you.”
As she listened to the sarcasms of Adrienne (an innocent and excusable
revenge, if we consider all the wrongs she had suffered), Mother Bunch
felt her heart sink within her; for she dreaded the malignity of the
princess, who replied, with the utmost calmness: “A thousand thanks,
madame, for your excellent intentions and sentiments. I appreciate them
as I ought, and I hope in a short time to prove it to you.”
“Well, madame,” said Adrienne, playfully, “let us have it all at once. I
am full of impatient curiosity.”
“And yet,” said the princess, feigning in her turn a bitter and ironical
delight, “you are far from having the least notion of what I am about to
announce to you.”
“Indeed! I fear that your highness’s candor and modesty deceive you,”
replied Adrienne, with the same mocking affability; “for there are very
few things on your part that can surprise me, madame. You must be aware
that from your highness, I am prepared for anything.”
“Perhaps, madame,” said the princess, laying great stress on her
words, “if, for instance, I were to tell you that within twenty-four
hours--suppose between this and to-morrow-thou will be reduced to
poverty--”
This was so unexpected, that Mdlle. de Cardoville started in spite of
herself, and Mother Bunch shuddered.
“Ah, madame!” said the princess, with triumphant joy and cruel mildness,
as she watched the growing surprise of her niece, “confess that I have
astonished you a little. You were right in giving to our interview the
turn it has taken. I should have needed all sorts of circumlocution to
say to you, ‘Niece, to-morrow you will be as poor as you are rich to
day.’ But now I can tell you the fact quite plainly and simply.”
Recovering from her first amazement, Adrienne replied, with a calm
smile, which checked the joy of the princess: “Well, I confess frankly,
madame, that you have surprised me; I expected from you one of those
black pieces of malignity, one of those well-laid plots, in which you
are known to excel, and I did not think you would make all this fuss
about such a trifle.”
“To be ruined--completely ruined,” cried the princess, “and that by to
morrow--you that have been so prodigal, will see your house, furniture,
horses, jewels, even the ridiculous dresses of which you are so vain,
all taken from you--do you call that a trifle? You, that spend with
indifference thousands of louis, will be reduced to a pension inferior
to the wages you gave your foot-boy--do you call that a trifle?”
To her aunt’s cruel disappointment, Adrienne, who appeared quite to have
recovered her serenity was about to answer accordingly, when the door
suddenly opened, and, without being announced, Prince Djalma entered the
room. A proud and tender expression of delight beamed from the radiant
brow of Adrienne at sight of the prince, and it is impossible to
describe the look of triumphant happiness and high disdain that she cast
upon the Princess de Saint-Dizier. Djalma himself had never looked more
handsome, and never had more intense happiness been impressed on a human
countenance. The Hindoo wore a long robe of white Cashmere, adorned with
innumerable stripes of gold and purple; his turban was of the same color
and material; a magnificent figured shawl was twisted about his waist.
On seeing the Indian, whom she had not hoped to meet at Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s, the Princess de Saint-Dizier could not at first conceal
her extreme surprise. It was between these four, then, that the
following scene took place.
CHAPTER LIX. MEMORIES.
Djalma, having never before met the Princess de Saint-Dizier at
Adrienne’s, at first appeared rather astonished at her presence. The
princess, keeping silence for a moment, contemplated with implacable
hatred and envy those two beings, both so fair and young, so loving and
happy. Suddenly she started, as if she had just remembered something of
great importance, and for some seconds she remained absorbed in thought.
Adrienne and Djalma availed themselves of this interval to gaze fondly
on each other, with a sort of ardent idolatry, which filled their eyes
with sweet tears. Then, at a movement of the Princess de Saint-Dizier,
who seemed to rouse herself from her momentary trance, Mdlle. de
Cardoville said to the young prince, with a smile: “My dear cousin, I
have to repair an omission (voluntary, I confess, and for good reasons),
in never having before mentioned to you one of my relations, whom I have
now the honor to present to you. The Princess de Saint-Dizier!”
Djalma bowed; but Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed, just as her aunt was
about to make some reply: “Her Highness of Saint-Dizier came very kindly
to inform me of an event which is a most fortunate one for me, and of
which I will speak to you hereafter, cousin--unless this amiable
lady should wish to deprive me of the pleasure of making such a
communication.”
The unexpected arrival of the prince, and the recollections which had
suddenly occurred to the princess, had no doubt greatly modified her
first plans: for, instead of continuing the conversation with regard
to Adrienne’s threatened loss of fortune, the princess answered, with a
bland smile, that covered an odious meaning: “I should be sorry, prince,
to deprive my dear and amiable niece of the pleasure of announcing to
you the happy news to which she alludes, and which, as a near relative,
I lost no time in communicating to her. I have here some notes on this
subject,” added the princess, delivering a paper to Adrienne, “which I
hope will prove, to her entire satisfaction, the reality of what I have
announced to her.”
“A thousand thanks, my dear aunt,” said Adrienne, receiving the paper
with perfect indifference; “these precautions and proofs are quite
superfluous. You know that I always believe you on your word, when it
concerns your good feeling towards myself.”
Notwithstanding his ignorance of the refined perfidy and cruel
politeness of civilized life, Djalma, endowed with a tact and fineness
of perception common to most natures of extreme susceptibility, felt
some degree of mental discomfort as he listened to this exchange of
false compliments. He could not guess their full meaning, but they
sounded hollow to his ear; and moreover, whether from instinct or
presentiment, he had conceived a vague dislike for the Princess de
Saint-Dizier. That pious lady, full of the great affair in hand, was a
prey to the most violent agitation, which betrayed itself in the growing
color of her cheeks, her bitter smile, and the malicious brightness of
her glance. As he gazed on this woman, Djalma was unable to conquer
his rising antipathy, and he remained silent and attentive, whilst his
handsome countenance lost something of its former serenity. Mother Bunch
also felt the influence of a painful impression. She glanced in terror
at the princess, and then imploringly at Adrienne, as though she
entreated the latter to but an end to an interview of which the young
sempstress foresaw the fatal consequences. But, unfortunately, the
Princess de Saint-Dizier was too much interested in prolonging this
conversation; and Mdlle. de Cardoville, gathering new courage and
confidence from the presence of the man she adored, took delight in
vexing the princess with the exhibition of their happy love.
After a short silence, the Princess de Saint-Dizier observed, in a soft
and insinuating tone: “Really, prince, you cannot think how pleased I
was to learn by public report (for people talk of nothing else, and
with good reason) of your chivalrous attachment to my dear niece; for,
without knowing it, you will extricate me from a difficult position.”
Djalma made no answer, but he looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with a
surprised and almost sorrowful air, as if to ask what her aunt meant to
insinuate.
The latter, not perceiving this mute interrogation, resumed as follows:
“I will express myself more clearly, prince. You can understand that,
being the nearest relative of this dear, obstinate girl, I am more or
less responsible for her conduct in the eyes of the world; and you,
prince, seem just to have arrived on purpose, from the end of the
earth, to take charge of a destiny which had caused me considerable
apprehension. It is charming, it is excellent; and I know not which
most to admire, your courage or your good fortune.” The princess threw a
glance of diabolical malice at Adrienne, and awaited her answer with an
air of defiance.
“Listen to our good aunt, my dear cousin,” said the young lady, smiling
calmly. “Since our affectionate kinswoman sees you and me united and
happy, her heart is swelling with such a flood of joy, that it must run
over, and the effects will be delightful. Only have a little patience,
and you will behold them in their full beauty. I do not know,”
added Adrienne, in the most natural tone, “why, in thinking of these
outpourings of our dear aunt’s affection, I should remember what you
told me, cousin, of a certain viper in your country which sometimes,
in a powerless bite, breaks its fangs, and, absorbing its own venom,
becomes the victim of the poison it distills. Come, my dear aunt, you
that had so good and noble a heart, I am sure you must feel interested
in the fate of those poor vipers.”
The princess darted an implacable look at her niece, and replied, in an
agitated voice, “I do not see the object of this selection of natural
history. Do you, prince?”
Djalma made no answer; leaning with his arm on the mantelpiece, he threw
dark and piercing glances upon the princess. His involuntary hatred of
this woman filled his heart.
“Ah, my dear aunt!” resumed Adrienne, in a tone of self-reproach; “have
I presumed too much on the goodness of your heart? Have you not even
sympathy for vipers? For whom, then, have you any? After all, I can very
well understand it,” added Adrienne, as if to herself; “vipers are so
thin. But, to lay aside these follies,” she continued, gayly, as she
saw the ill-repressed rage of the pious woman, “tell us at once, my dear
aunt, all the tender things which the sight of our happiness inspires.”
“I hope to do so, my amiable niece. First, I must congratulate this dear
prince, on having come so far to take charge, in all confidence, and
with his eyes shut, of you, my poor child, whom we were obliged to
confine as mad, in order to give a decent color to your excesses. You
remember the handsome lad, that we found in your apartment. You cannot
be so faithless, as already to have forgotten his name? He was a fine,
youth, and a poet--one Agricola Baudoin--and was discovered in a secret
place, attached to your bed-chamber. All Paris was amused with the
scandal--for you are not about to marry an unknown person, dear prince;
her name has been in every mouth.”
At these unexpected and dreadful words, Adrienne, Djalma, and Mother
Bunch, though under the influence of different kinds of resentment,
remained for a moment mute with surprise; and the princess, judging it
no longer necessary to repress her infernal joy and triumphant hatred,
exclaimed, as she rose from her seat, with flushed cheek, and flashing
eyes, “Yes, I defy you to contradict me. Were we not forced to confine
you, on the plea of madness? And did we not find a workman (your lover)
concealed in your bedroom?”
On this horrible accusation, Djalma’s golden complexion, transparent as
amber, became suddenly the color of lead; his eyes, fixed and staring
showed the white round the pupil--his upper lip, red as blood,
was curled in a kind of wild convulsion, which exposed to view the
firmly-set teeth--and his whole countenance became so frightfully
threatening and ferocious, that Mother Bunch shuddered with terror.
Carried away by the ardor of his blood, the young Oriental felt a sort
of dizzy, unreflecting, involuntary rage--a fiery commotion, like that
which makes the blood leap to the brave man’s eyes and brain, when he
feels a blow upon his face. If, during that moment, rapid as the passage
of the lightning through the cloud, action could have taken the place of
thought, the princess and Adrienne, Mother Bunch and himself, would all
have been annihilated by an explosion as sudden and fatal as that of
the bursting of a mine. He would have killed the princess, because she
accused Adrienne of infamous deception he would have killed Adrienne,
because she could even be suspected of such infamy--and Mother Bunch,
for being a witness of the accusation--and himself, in order not to
survive such horrid treachery. But, oh wonder! his furious and bloodshot
gaze met the calm look of Adrienne--a look so full of dignity and serene
confidence--and the expression of ferocious rage passed away like a
flash of lightning.
Much more: to the great surprise of the princess and the young workgirl,
as the glances which Djalma cast upon Adrienne went (as it were) deeper
into that pure soul, not only did the Indian grow calm, but, by a
kind of transfiguration, his countenance seemed to borrow her serene
expression, and reflect, as in a mirror, the noble serenity impressed
on the young lady’s features. Let us explain physically this moral
revolution, as consoling to the terrified workgirl, as provoking to the
princess. Hardly had the princess distilled the atrocious calumny from
her venomous lips, than Djalma, then standing before the fireplace, had,
in the first paroxysm of his fury, advanced a step towards her;
but, wishing as it were to moderate his rage, he held by the marble
chimney-piece, which he grasped with iron strength. A convulsive
trembling shook his whole body, and his features, altered and
contracted, became almost frightful. Adrienne, on her part, when she
heard the accusation, yielding to a first impulse of just indignation,
even as Djalma had yielded to one of blind fury, rose abruptly, with
offended pride flashing from her eyes; but, almost immediately appeased
by the consciousness of her own purity, her charming face resumed its
expression of adorable serenity. It was then that her eyes met Djalma’s.
For a second, the young lady was even more afflicted than terrified
at the threatening and formidable expression of the young Indian’s
countenance. “Can stupid indignity exasperate him to this degree?” said
Adrienne to herself. “Does he suspect me; then?”
But to this reflection, as rapid as it was painful, succeeded the most
lively joy, when the eyes of Adrienne rested for a short time on those
of the Indian, and she saw his agitated countenance grow calm as if
by magic, and become radiant and beautiful as before. Thus was the
abominable plot of the princess de Saint-Dizier utterly confounded by
the sincere and confiding expression of Adrienne’s face. That was not
all. At the moment, when, as a spectator of this mute and expressive
scene (which proved so well the wondrous sympathy of those two beings,
who, without speaking a word, had understood and satisfied each other),
the princess was choking with rage and vexation--Adrienne, with a
charming smile and gesture, extended her fair hand to Djalma, who,
kneeling, imprinted on it a kiss of fire, which sent a light blush to
the forehead of the young lady.
Then the Hindoo, placing himself on the ermine carpet at the feet of
Mdlle. de Cardoville, in an attitude full of grace: and respect, rested
his chin on the palm of one of his hands, and gazed on her silently, in
a sort of mute adoration--while Adrienne, bending over him with a happy
smile “looked at the babies in his eyes,” as the song says, with as much
amorous complacency, as if the hateful princess had not been present.
But soon, as if something were wanting to complete her happiness,
Adrienne beckoned to Mother Bunch, and made her sit down by her side.
Then, with her hand clasped in that of this excellent friend, Mdlle. de
Cardoville smiled on Djalma, stretched adoringly at her feet, and cast
on the dismayed princess a look of such calm and firm serenity, so
nobly expressive of the invincible quiet of her happiness, and her lofty
disdain of all calumnious attacks, that the Princess de Saint-Dizier,
confused and stupefied, murmured some hardly intelligible words, in a
voice trembling with passion, and, completely losing her presence of
mind, rushed towards the door. But, at this moment, the hunchback, who
feared some ambush, some perfidious plot in the background, resolved,
after exchanging a glance with Adrienne, to accompany the princess to
her carriage.
The angry disappointment of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, when she saw
herself thus followed and watched, appeared so comical to Mdlle. de
Cardoville that she could not help laughing aloud; and it was to the
sound of contemptuous hilarity that the hypocritical princess, with rage
and despair in her heart, quitted the house to which she had hoped to
bring trouble end misery. Adrienne and Djalma were left alone. Before
relating the scene which took place between them, a few retrospective
words are indispensable. It will easily be imagined, that since Mdlle.
de Cardoville and the Oriental had been brought into such close contact,
after so many disappointments, their days had passed away like a dream
of happiness. Adrienne had especially taken pains to bring to light, one
by one, all the generous qualities of Djalma, of which she had read so
much in her books of travels. The young lady had imposed on herself this
tender and patient study of Djalma’s character, not only to justify
to her own mind the intensity of her love, but because this period
of trial, to which she had assigned a term, enabled her to temper and
divert the violence of Djalma’s passion--a task the more meritorious,
as she herself was of the same ardent temperament. For, in those two
lovers, the finest qualities of sense and soul seemed exactly to balance
each other, and heaven had bestowed on them the rarest beauty of form,
and the most adorable excellence of heart, as if to legitimatize the
irresistible attraction which drew and bound them together. What, then,
was to be the term of this painful trial, which Adrienne had imposed
on Djalma and on herself? This is what Mdlle. de Cardoville intended
to tell the prince, in the interview she had with him, after the abrupt
departure of the Princess de Saint-Dizier.
CHAPTER LX. THE ORDEAL.
Adrienne de Cardoville and Djalma had remained alone. Such was the
noble confidence which had succeeded in the Hindoo’s mind to his first
movement of unreflecting fury, caused by the infamous calumny, that,
once alone with Adrienne, he did not even allude to that shameful
accusation.
On her side (touching and admirable sympathy of those two hearts!),
the young lady was too proud, conscious of the purity of her love, to
descend to any justification of herself.
She would have considered it an insult both to herself and him.
Therefore, the lovers began their interview, as if the princess had
never made any such remark. The same contempt was extended to the
papers, which the princess had brought with her to prove the imminent
ruin to which Adrienne was exposed. The young lady had laid them down,
without reading them, on a stand within her reach. She made a graceful
sign to Djalma to seat himself by her side, and accordingly he quitted,
not without regret, the place he had occupied at her feet.
“My love,” said Adrienne, in a grave and tender voice, “you have often
impatiently asked me, when would come the term of the trial we have laid
upon ourselves. That moment is at hand.”
Djalma started, and could not restrain a cry of surprise and joy; but
this almost trembling exclamation was so soft and sweet, that it seemed
rather the expression of ineffable gratitude, than of exulting passion.
Adrienne continued: “Separated--surrounded by treachery and
fraud--mutually deceived as to each other’s sentiments--we yet loved
on, and in that followed an irresistible attraction, stronger than every
opposing influence. But since then, in these days of happy retirement
from the world, we have learned to value and esteem each other more.
Left to ourselves in perfect freedom, we have had the courage to resist
every temptation, that hereafter we might be happy without remorse.
During these days, in which our hearts had been laid open to each other,
we have read them thoroughly. Yes, Djalma! I believe in you, and you in
me--I find in you all that you find in me--every possible human security
for our future happiness. But this love must yet be consecrated; and in
the eyes of the world, in which we are called upon to live, marriage is
the only consecration, and marriage enchains one’s whole life.”
Djalma looked at the young lady with surprise.
“Yes, one’s whole life! and yet who can answer for the sentiments of a
whole life?” resumed Adrienne. “A God, that could see into the future,
could alone bind irrevocably certain hearts for their own happiness;
but, alas! to human eyes the future is impenetrable. Therefore, to
accept indissoluble ties, for any longer than one can answer for a
present sentiment, is to commit an act of selfish and impious folly.”
Djalma made no reply, but, with an almost respectful gesture, he urged
the speaker to continue.
“And then,” proceeded she, with a mixture of tenderness and pride, “from
respect for your dignity and mine, I would never promise to keep a law
made by man against woman, with contemptuous and brutal egotism--a
law, which denies to woman soul, mind, and heart--a law, which none can
accept, without being either a slave or perjured--a law, which takes
from the girl her name, reduces the wife to a state of degrading
inferiority, denies to the mother all rights over her own children,
and enslaves one human creature to the will of another, who is in all
respects her equal in the sight of God!--You know, my love,” added the
young lady, with passionate enthusiasm, “how much I honor you, whose
father was called the Father of the Generous. I do not then fear, noble
and valiant heart, to see you use against me these tyrannical powers;
but, throughout my life, I never uttered a falsehood, and our love is
too sacred and celestial to be purchased by a double perjury. No, never
will I swear to observe a law, that my dignity, and my reason refuse to
sanction. If, to-morrow, the freedom of divorce were established, and
the rights of women recognized, I should be willing to observe usages,
which would then be in accordance with my conscience, and with what is
just, possible, and humane.” Then, after a pause, Adrienne continued,
with such deep and sweet emotion, that a tear of tenderness veiled her
beauteous eyes: “Oh! if you knew, my love, what your love is to me: if
you knew how dear and sacred I hold your happiness--you would excuse,
you would understand, these generous superstitions of a loving and
honest heart, which could only see a fatal omen in forms degraded by
falsehood and perjury. What I wish, is, to attach you by love, to bind
you in chains of happiness--and to leave you free, that I may owe your
constancy only to your affection.”
Djalma had listened to the young girl with passionate attention. Proud
and generous himself, he admired this proud and generous character.
After a moment’s meditative silence, he answered, in his sweet, sonorous
voice, in an almost solemn tone: “Like you, I hold in detestation,
falsehood and perjury. Like you, I think that man degrades himself, by
accepting the right of being a cowardly tyrant, even though resolved
never to use the power. Like you, I could not bear the thought, that
I owed all I most valued, not to your love alone, but to the eternal
constraint of an indissoluble bond. Like you, I believe there is no
dignity but in freedom. But you have said, that, for this great and holy
love, you demand a religious consecration; and if you reject vows, that
you cannot make without folly and perjury, are there then others, which
your reason and your heart approve?--Who will pronounce the required
blessing? To whom must these vows be spoken?”
“In a few days, my love, I believe I shall be able to tell you all.
Every evening, after your departure, I have no other thought. I wish to
find the means of uniting yourself and me--in the eyes of God, not of
the law--without offending the habits and prejudices of a world, in
which it may suit us hereafter to live. Yes, my friend! when you know
whose are the noble hands, that are to join ours together, who is to
bless and glorify God in our union--a sacred union, that will leave us
worthy and free--you will say, I am sure, that never purer hands could
have been laid upon us. Forgive me, friend! all this is in earnest--yes,
earnest as our love, earnest as our happiness. If my words seem to you
strange, my thoughts unreasonable, tell it me, love! We will seek and
find some better means, to reconcile that we owe to heaven, with what
we owe to the world and to ourselves. It is said, that lovers are beside
themselves,” added the young lady, with a smile, “but I think that no
creatures are more reasonable.”
“When I hear you speak thus of our happiness,” said Djalma, deeply
moved, “with so much calm and earnest tenderness, I think I see a mother
occupied with the future prospects of her darling child--trying
to surround him with all that can make him strong, valiant, and
generous--trying to remove far from him all that is ignoble and
unworthy. You ask me to tell you if your thoughts seem strange to
me, Adrienne. You forget, that what makes my faith in our love, is
my feeling exactly as you do. What offends you, offends me also; what
disgusts you, disgusts me. Just now, when you cited to me the laws of
this country, which respect in a woman not even a mother’s right--I
thought with pride of our barbarous countries, where woman, though a
slave, is made free when she becomes a mother. No, no; such laws are not
made either for you or me. Is it not to prove your sacred respect for
our love, to wish to raise it above the shameful servitude that would
degrade it? You see, Adrienne, I have often heard said by the priests of
my country, that there were beings inferior to the gods, but superior
to every other creature. I did not believe those priests; but now I do.”
These last words were uttered, not in the tone of flattery, but with
an accent of sincere conviction, and with that sort of passionate
veneration and almost timid fervor, which mark the believer talking of
his faith; but what is impossible to describe, is the ineffable harmony
of these almost religious words, with the mild, deep tone of the
young Oriental’s voice--as well as the ardent expression of amorous
melancholy, which gave an irresistible charm to his enchanting features.
Adrienne had listened to Djalma with an indescribable mixture of joy,
gratitude, and pride. Laying her hand on her bosom, as if to keep down
its violent pulsations, she resumed, as she looked at the prince with
delight: “Behold him, ever the same!--just, good, great!--Oh, my heart!
my heart! how proudly it beats. Blessed be God, who created me for this
adored lover! He must mean to astonish the world, by the prodigies of
tenderness and charity, that such a love may produce. They do not yet
know the sovereign might of free, happy, ardent love. Yes, Djalma! on
the day when our hands are joined together, what hymns of gratitude
will ascend to heaven!--Ah! they do not know the immense, the insatiable
longing for joy aria delight, which possesses two hearts like ours; they
do not know what rays of happiness stream from the celestial halo of
such a flame!--Oh, yes! I feel it. Many tears will be dried, many cold
hearts warmed, at the divine fire of our love. And it will be by the
benedictions of those we serve, that they will learn the intoxication of
our rapture!”
To the dazzled eyes of Djalma, Adrienne appeared more and more an ideal
being--partaking of the Divinity by her goodness, of the animal nature
by passion--for, yielding to the intensity of excitement, Adrienne fixed
upon Djalma looks that sparkled with love.
‘Then, almost beside himself, the Asiatic fell prostrate at the feet of
the maiden, and exclaimed, in a supplicating voice: “Mercy! my courage
fails me. Have pity on me! do not talk thus. Oh, that day! what years of
my life would I not give to hasten it!”
“Silence! no blasphemy. Do not your years belong to me?”
“Adrienne! you love me!”
The young lady did not answer; but her half-veiled, burning glance,
dealt the last blow to reason. Seizing her hands in his own, he
exclaimed, with a tremulous voice: “That day, in which we shall mount
to heaven, in which we shall be gods in happiness--why postpone it any
longer?”
“Because our love must be consecrated by the benediction of heaven.”
“Are we not free?”
“Yes, yes, my love; we are free. Let us be worthy of our liberty!”
“Adrienne! mercy!”
“I ask you also to have mercy--to have mercy on the sacredness of our
love. Do not profane it in its very flower. Believe my heart! believe my
presentiments! to profane it would be to kill. Courage, my adored lover!
a few days longer--and then happiness--without regret, and without
remorse!”
“And, until then, hell! tortures without a name! You do not, cannot know
what I suffer when I leave your presence. Your image follows me, your
breath burns me up; I cannot sleep, but call on you every night with
sighs and tears--just as I called on, you, when I thought you did not
love me--and yet I know you love me, I know you are mine. But to see you
every day more beautiful, more adored--and every day to quit you more
impassioned--oh! you cannot tell--”
Djalma was unable to proceed. What he said of his devouring tortures,
Adrienne had felt, perhaps even more intensely. Electrified by the
passionate words of Djalma, so beautiful in his excitement, her courage
failed, and she perceived that an irresistible languor was creeping
over her. By a last chaste effort of the will, she rose abruptly, and
hastening to the door, which communicated with Mother Bunch’s chamber,
she exclaimed: “My sister! help me!”
In another moment, Mdlle. de Cardoville, her face bathed in tears,
clasped the young sempstress in her arms; while Djalma knelt
respectfully on the threshold he did not dare to pass.
CHAPTER LXI. AMBITION.
A few days after the interview of Djalma and Adrienne, just described,
Rodin was alone in his bed-chamber, in the house in the Rue de
Vaugirard, walking up and down the room where he had so valiantly
undergone the moxas of Dr. Baleinier. With his hands thrust into the
hind-pockets of his greatcoat, and his head bowed upon his breast, the
Jesuit seemed to be reflecting profoundly, and his varying walk, now
slow, now quick, betrayed the agitation of his mind.
“On the side of Rome,” said Rodin to himself, “I am tranquil. All is
going well. The abdication is as good as settled, and if I can pay them
the price agreed, the Prince Cardinal can secure me a majority of nine
voices in the conclave. Our General is with me; the doubts of Cardinal
Malipieri are at an end, or have found no echo. Yet I am not quite easy,
with regard to the reported correspondence between Father d’Aigrigny and
Malipieri. I have not been able to intercept any of it. No matter; that
soldier’s business is settled. A little patience and he will be wiped
out.”
Here the pale lips were contracted by one of those frightful smiles,
which gave to Rodin’s countenance so diabolical an expression.
After a pause, he resumed: “The funeral of the freethinker, the
philanthropist, the workman’s friend, took place yesterday at St.
Herem. Francis Hardy went off in a fit of ecstatic delirium. I had
his donation, it is true; but this is more certain. Everything may be
disputed in this world; the dead dispute nothing.”
Rodin remained in thought for some moments; then he added, in a grave
tone: “There remain this red-haired wench and her mulatto. This is the
twenty-seventh of May; the first of June approaches, and these turtle
doves still seem invulnerable. The princess thought she had hit upon
a good plan, and I should have thought so too. It was a good idea to
mention the discovery of Agricola Baudoin in the madcap’s room, for it
made the Indian tiger roar with savage jealousy. Yes: but then the
dove began to coo, and hold out her pretty beak, and the foolish tiger
sheathed his claws, and rolled on the ground before her. It’s a pity,
for there was some sense in the scheme.”
The walk of Rodin became more and more agitated. “Nothing is more
extraordinary,” continued he, “than the generative succession of ideas.
In comparing this red-haired jade to a dove (colombe), I could not
help thinking of that infamous old woman, Sainte-Colombe, whom that big
rascal Jacques Dumoulin pays his court to, and whom the Abbe Corbinet
will finish, I hope, by turning to good account. I have often remarked,
that, as a poet may find an excellent rhyme by mere chance, so the
germ of the best ideas is sometimes found in a word, or in some absurd
resemblance like the present. That abominable hag, Sainte-Colombo, and
the pretty Adrienne de Cardoville, go as well together, as a ring would
suit a cat, or a necklace a fish. Well, there is nothing in it.”
Hardly had Rodin pronounced these words, than he started suddenly,
and his face shone with a fatal joy. Then it assumed an expression of
meditative astonishment, as happens when chance reveals some unexpected
discovery to the surprised and charmed inquirer after knowledge.
Soon, with raised head and sparkling eye, his hollow cheeks swelling
with joy and pride, Rodin folded his arms in triumph on his breast,
and exclaimed: “Oh! how admirable and marvellous are these mysterious
evolutions of the mind; how incomprehensible is the chain of human
thought, which, starting from an absurd jingle of words, arrives at
a splendid or luminous idea! Is it weakness? or is it strength?
Strange--very strange! I compare the red-haired girl to a dove--a
colombe. That makes me think of the hag, who traded in the bodies and
souls of so many creatures. Vulgar proverbs occur to me, about a ring
and a cat, a fish and a necklace--and suddenly, at the word NECKLACE,
a new light dawns upon me. Yes: that one word NECKLACE shall be to me a
golden key, to open the portals of my brain, so long foolishly closed.”
And, after again walking hastily up and down, Rodin continued: “Yes, it
is worth attempting. The more I reflect upon it, the more feasible it
appears. Only how to get at that wretch, Saint-Colombe? Well, there
is Jacques Dumoulin, and the other--where to find her? That is the
stumbling-block. I must not shout before I am out of the wood.”
Rodin began again to walk, biting his nails with an air of deep thought.
For some moments, such was the tension of his mind, large drops of sweat
stood on his yellow brow. He walked up and down, stopped, stamped with
his foot, now raised his eyes as if in search of an inspiration, and now
scratched his head violently with his left hand, whilst he continued
to gnaw the nails of the right. Finally, from time to time, he uttered
exclamations of rage, despondency, or hope, as by turns they took
possession of his mind. If the cause of this monster’s agitation had not
been horrible, it would have been a curious and interesting spectacle to
watch the labors of that powerful brain--to follow, as it were, on that
shifting countenance, the progress and development of the project,
on which he was now concentrating all the resources of his strong
intellect. At length, the work appeared to be near completion, for Rodin
resumed: “Yes, yes! it is bold, hazardous--but then it is prompt, and
the consequences may be incalculable. Who can foresee the effects of the
explosion of a mine?”
Then, yielding to a movement of enthusiasm, which was hardly natural
to him, the Jesuit exclaimed, with rapture: “Oh, the passions! the
passions! what a magical instrument do they form, if you do but touch
the keys with a light, skillful, and vigorous hand! How beautiful too
is the power of thought! Talk of the acorn that becomes an oak, the seed
that grows up to the corn--the seed takes months, the acorn centuries,
to unfold its splendors--but here is a little word in eight letters,
necklace and this word, falling into my brain but a few minutes ago, has
grown and grown till it has become larger than any oak. Yes, that word
is the germ of an idea, that, like the oak, lifts itself up towards
heaven, for the greater glory of the Lord--such as they call Him,
and such as I would assert Him to be, should I attain--and I shall
attain--for these miserable Renneponts will pass away like a shadow. And
what matters it, after all, to the moral order I am reserved to guide,
whether these people live or die? What do such lives weigh in the
balance of the great destinies of the world? while this inheritance
which I shall boldly fling into the scale, will lift me to a sphere,
from which one commands many kings, many nations--let them say and make
what noise they will. The idiots--the stupid idiots! or rather, the
kind, blessed, adorable idiots! They think they have crushed us, when
they say to us men of the church: ‘You take the spiritual, but we will
keep the temporal!’--Oh, their conscience or their modesty inspires them
well, when it bids them not meddle with spiritual things! They abandon
the spiritual! they despise it, they will have nothing to do with
it--oh, the venerable asses! they do not see, that, even as they go
straight to the mill, it is by the spiritual that we go straight to
the temporal. As if the mind did not govern the body! They leave us
the spiritual--that is, command of the conscience, soul, heart, and
judgment--the spiritual--that is, the distribution of heaven’s rewards,
and punishments, and pardons--without check, without control, in the
secrecy of the confessional--and that dolt, the temporal, has nothing
but brute matter for his portion, and yet rubs his paunch for joy. Only,
from time to time, he perceives, too late, that, if he has the body, we
have the soul, and that the soul governs the body, and so the body ends
by coming with us also--to the great surprise of Master Temporal, who
stands staring with his hands on his paunch, and says: ‘Dear me! is it
possible?’”
Then, with a laugh of savage contempt, Rodin began to walk with great
strides, and thus continued: “Oh! let me reach it--let me but reach the
place of SIXTUS V.--and the world shall see (one day, when it awakes)
what it is to have the spiritual power in hands like mine--in the hands
of a priest, who, for fifty years, has lived hardly, frugally, chastely,
and who, were he pope, would continue to live hardly, frugally,
chastely!”
Rodin became terrible, as he spoke thus. All the sanguinary,
sacrilegious, execrable ambition of the worst popes seemed written in
fiery characters on the brow of this son of Ignatius. A morbid desire
of rule seemed to stir up the Jesuit’s impure blood; he was bathed in
a burning sweat, and a kind of nauseous vapor spread itself round about
him. Suddenly, the noise of a travelling-carriage, which entered
the courtyard of the house, attracted his attention. Regretting his
momentary excitement, he drew from his pocket his dirty white and red
cotton handkerchief, and dipping it in a glass of water, he applied
it to his cheeks and temples, while he approached the window, to look
through the half-open blinds at the traveller who had just arrived.
The projection of a portico, over the door at which the carriage had
stopped, intercepted Rodin’s view.
“No matter,” said he, recovering his coolness: “I shall know presently
who is there. I must write at once to Jacques Dumoulin, to come hither
immediately. He served me well, with regard to that little slut in the
Rue Clovis, who made my hair stand on end with her infernal Beranger.
This time, Dumoulin may serve me again. I have him in my clutches, and
he will obey me.”
Rodin sat down to his desk and wrote. A few seconds later, some one
knocked at the door, which was double-locked, quite contrary to the
rules of the order. But, sure of his own influence and importance,
Rodin, who had obtained from the general permission to be rid for a
time of the inconvenient company of a socius, often took upon himself to
break through a number of the rules. A servant entered and delivered
a letter to Rodin. Before opening it the latter said to the man: “What
carriage is that which just arrived?”
“It comes from Rome, father,” answered the servant, bowing.
“From Rome!” said Rodin, hastily; and in spite of himself, a vague
uneasiness was expressed in his countenance. But, still holding the
letter in his hands, he added: “Who comes in the carriage.”
“A reverend father of our blessed Company.”
Notwithstanding his ardent curiosity, for he knew that a reverend
father, travelling post, is always charged with some important mission,
Rodin asked no more questions on the subject, but said, as he pointed to
the paper in his hand: “Whence comes this letter?”
“From our house at St. Herem, father.”
Rodin looked more attentively at the writing, and recognized the hand of
Father d’Aigrigny, who had been commissioned to attend M. Hardy in his
last moments. The letter ran as follows:
“I send a despatch to inform your reverence of a fact which is, perhaps,
more singular than important. After the funeral of M. Francis Hardy, the
coffin, which contained his remains, had been provisionally deposited in
a vault beneath our chapel, until it could be removed to the cemetery of
the neighboring town. This morning, when our people went down into
the vault, to make the necessary preparations for the removal of the
body--the coffin had disappeared.
“That is strange indeed,” said Rodin with a start. Then, he continued to
read:
“All search has hitherto been vain, to discover the authors of the
sacrilegious deed. The chapel being, as you know, at a distance from the
house, they were able to effect an entry without disturbing us. We
have found traces of a four-wheeled carriage on the damp ground in the
neighborhood; but, at some little distance from the chapel, these marks
are lost in the sand, and it has been impossible to follow them any
farther.”
“Who can have carried away this body?” said Rodin, with a thoughtful
air. “Who could have any interest in doing so?”
He continued to read:
“Luckily, the certificate of death is quite correct. I sent for a doctor
from Etampes, to prove the disease, and no question can be raised on
that point. The donation is therefore good and valid in every respect,
but I think it best to inform your reverence of what has happened, that
you may take measures accordingly, etc., etc.”
After a moment’s reflection, Rodin said to himself: “D’Aigrigny is right
in his remark; it is more singular than important. Still, it makes one
think. We must have an eye to this affair.”
Turning towards the servant, who had brought him the letter, Rodin gave
him the note he had just written to Ninny Moulin, and said to him: “Let
this letter be taken instantly to its address, and let the bearer wait
for an answer.”
“Yes, father.”
At the moment the servant left the room, a reverend father entered,
and said to Rodin, “Father Caboccini of Rome has just arrived, with a
mission from our general to your reverence.”
At these words, Rodin’s blood ran cold, but he maintained his immovable
calmness, and said simply: “Where is Father Caboccini?”
“In the next room, father.”
“Beg him to walk in, and leave us,” said the other.
A second after, Father Caboccini of Rome entered the room and was left
alone with Rodin.
CHAPTER LXII. TO A SOCIUS, A SOCIUS AND A HALF.
The Reverend Father Caboccini, the Roman Jesuit who now came to visit
Rodin, was a short man of about thirty years of age, plump, in good
condition, and with an abdomen that swelled out his black cassock. The
good little father was blind with one eye, but his remaining organ of
vision sparkled with vivacity. His rosy countenance was gay, smiling,
joyous, splendidly crowned with thick chestnut hair, which curled like
a wax doll’s. His address was cordial to familiarity, and his expansive
and petulant manners harmonized well with his general appearance. In a
second, Rodin had taken his measure of the Italian emissary; and as he
knew the practice of his Company, and the ways of Rome, he felt by
no means comfortable at sight of this jolly little father, with such
affable manners. He would have less feared some tall, bony priest, with
austere and sepulchral countenance, for he knew that the Company loves
to deceive by the outward appearance of its agents; and if Rodin guessed
rightly, the cordial address of this personage would rather tend to show
that he was charged with some fatal mission.
Suspicious, attentive, with eye and mind on the watch, like an old wolf,
expecting an attack, Rodin advanced as usual, slowly and tortuously
towards the little man, so as to have time to examine him thoroughly,
and penetrate beneath his jovial outside. But the Roman left him no
space for that purpose. In his impetuous affection he threw himself
right on the neck of Rodin, pressed him in his arms with an effusion
of tenderness, and kissed him over and over again upon both cheeks, so
loudly and plentifully that the echo resounded through the apartment.
In his life Rodin had never been so treated. More and more uneasy at the
treachery which must needs lurk under such warm embraces, and irritated
by his own evil presentiments, the French Jesuit did, all he could to
extricate himself from the Roman’s exaggerated tokens of tenderness.
But the latter kept his hold; his arms, though short, were vigorous, and
Rodin was kissed over and over again, till the little one-eyed man was
quite out of breath. It is hardly necessary to state that these embraces
were accompanied by the most friendly, affectionate, and fraternal
exclamations--all in tolerably good French, but with a strong Italian
accent, which we muss beg the reader to supply for himself, after we
have given a single specimen. It will perhaps be remembered that,
fully aware of the danger he might possibly incur by his ambitious
machinations, and knowing from history that the use of poison had often
been considered at Rome as a state necessity, Rodin, on being suddenly
attacked with the cholera, had exclaimed, with a furious glance at
Cardinal Malipieri, “I am poisoned!”
The same apprehensions occurred involuntarily to the Jesuit’s mind as
he tried, by useless efforts, to escape from the embraces of the Italian
emissary; and he could not help muttering to himself, “This one-eyed
fellow is a great deal too fond. I hope there is no poison under his
Judas-kisses.” At last, little Father Caboccini, being quite out
of breath, was obliged to relinquish his hold on Rodin’s neck, who,
readjusting his dirty collar, and his old cravat and waistcoat, somewhat
in disorder in consequence of this hurricane of caresses, said in a
gruff tone, “Your humble servant, father, but you need not kiss quite so
hard.”
Without making any answer to this reproach, the little father riveted
his one eye upon Rodin with an expression of enthusiasm, and exclaimed,
whilst he accompanied his words with petulant gestures, “At lazt I
zee te zuperb light of our zacred Company, and can zalute him from my
heart--vonse more, vonse more.”
As the little father had already recovered his breath, and was about to
rush once again into Rodin’s arms, the latter stepped back hastily, and
held out his arm to keep him off, saying, in allusion to the illogical
metaphor employed by Father Caboccini, “First of all, father, one
does not embrace a light--and then I am not a light--I am a humble and
obscure laborer in the Lord’s vineyard.”
The Roman replied with enthusiasm (we shall henceforth translate his
gibberish), “You are right, father, we cannot embrace a light, but we
can prostrate ourselves before it, and admire its dazzling brightness.”
So saying, Caboccini was about to suit the action to the word, and to
prostrate himself before Rodin, had not the latter prevented this mode
of adulation by seizing the Roman by the arm and exclaiming, “This is
mere idolatry, father. Pass over my qualities, and tell me what is the
object of your journey.”
“The object, my dear father, fills me with joy and happiness. I have
endeavored to show you my affection by my caresses, for my heart is
overflowing. I have hardly been able to restrain myself during my
journey hither, for my heart rushed to meet you. The object transports,
delights, enchants me--”
“But what enchants you?” cried Rodin, exasperated by these Italian
exaggerations. “What is the object?”
“This rescript of our very reverend and excellent General will inform
you, my clear father.”
Caboccini drew from his pocket-book a folded paper, with three seals,
which he kissed respectfully, and delivered to Rodin, who himself kissed
it in his turn, and opened it with visible anxiety. While he read it the
countenance of the Jesuit remained impassible, but the pulsation of the
arteries on his temples announced his internal agitation. Yet he put the
letter coolly into his pocket, and looking at the Roman, said to him,
“Be it as our excellent General has commanded!”
“Then, father,” cried Caboccini, with a new effusion of tenderness and
admiration, “I shall be the shadow of your light, and, in fact, your
second self. I shall have the happiness of being always with you, day
and night, and of acting as your socius, since, after having allowed
you to be without one for some time, according to your wish, and for the
interest of our blessed Company, our excellent General now thinks fit to
send me from Rome, to fill that post about your person--an unexpected,
an immense favor, which fills me with gratitude to our General, and with
love to you, my dear, my excellent father!”
“It is well played,” thought Rodin; “but I am not so soft, and ‘tis only
among the blind that your Cyclops are kings!”
The evening of the day in which this scene took place between the
Jesuit and his new socius, Ninny Moulin, after receiving in presence
of Caboccini the instructions of Rodin, went straight to Madame de la
Sainte-Colombe’s.
This woman had made her fortune, at the time of the allies taking Paris,
by keeping one of those “pretty milliner’s shops,” whose “pink bonnets”
have run into a proverb not extinct in these days when bonnets are not
known. Ninny Moulin had no better well to draw inspiration from when,
as now, he had to find out, as per Rodin’s order, a girl of an age and
appearance which, singularly enough, were closely resembling those of
Mdlle. de Cardoville.
No doubt of Ninny Moulin’s success in this mission, for the next morning
Rodin, whose countenance wore a triumphant expression, put with his own
hand a letter into the post.
This letter was addressed:
“To M. Agricola Baudoin, “No. 2, Rue Brise-Miche, “Paris.”
CHAPTER LXIII. FARINGHEA’S AFFECTION.
It will, perhaps, be remembered that Djalma, when he heard for the first
time that he was beloved by Adrienne, had, in the fulness of his joy,
spoken thus to Faringhea, whose treachery he had just discovered, “You
leagued with my enemies, and I had done you no harm. You are wicked,
because you are no doubt unhappy. I will strive to make you happy, so
that you may be good. Would you have gold?--you shall have it. Would
you have a friend?--though you are a slave, a king’s son offers you his
friendship.”
Faringhea had refused the gold, and appeared to accept the friendship
of the son of Kadja-sing. Endowed with remarkable intelligence, and
extraordinary power of dissimulation the half-breed had easily persuaded
the prince of the sincerity of his repentance, and obtained credit for
his gratitude and attachment from so confiding and generous a character.
Besides, what motives could Djalma have to suspect the slave, now become
his friend? Certain of the love of Mdlle. de Cardoville, with whom he
passed a portion of every day, her salutary influence would have guarded
him against any dangerous counsels or calumnies of the half-caste, a
faithful and secret instrument of Rodin, and attached by him to the
Company. But Faringhea, whose tact was amazing, did not act so lightly;
he never spoke to the prince of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and waited
unobtrusively for the confidential communications into which Djalma was
sometimes hurried by his excessive joy. A few days after the interview
last described between Adrienne and Djalma, and on the morrow of the day
when Rodin, certain of the success of Ninny Moulin’s mission to Sainte
Colombe, had himself put a letter in the post to the address of Agricola
Baudoin, the half-caste, who for some time had appeared oppressed with a
violent grief, seemed to get so much worse, that the prince, struck with
the desponding air of the man, asked him kindly and repeatedly the cause
of his sorrow. But Faringhea, while he gratefully thanked the prince for
the interest he took in him, maintained the most absolute silence and
reserve on the subject of his grief.
These preliminaries will enable the reader to understand the following
scene, which took place about noon in the house in the Rue de Clichy
occupied by the Hindoo. Contrary to his habit, Djalma had not passed
that morning with Adrienne. He had been informed the evening before,
by the young lady, that she must ask of him the sacrifice of this whole
day, to take the necessary measures to make their marriage sacred and
acceptable in the eyes of the world, and yet free from the restrictions
which she and Djalma disapproved. As for the means to be employed by
Mdlle. de Cardoville to attain this end, and the name of the pure and
honorable person who was to consecrate their union, these were secrets
which, not belonging exclusively to the young lady, could not yet be
communicated to Djalma. To the Indian, so long accustomed to devote
every instant to Adrienne, this day seemed interminable. By turns a
prey to the most burning agitation, and to a kind of stupor, in which
he plunged himself to escape from the thoughts that caused his tortures,
Djalma lay stretched upon a divan, with his face buried in his hands,
as if to shut out the view of a too enchanting vision. Suddenly,
without knocking at the door, as usual, Faringhea entered the prince’s
apartment.
At the noise the half-caste made in entering Djalma started, raised
his head, and looked round him with surprise; but, on seeing the pale
agitated countenance of the slave, he rose hastily, and advancing
towards him, exclaimed, “What is the matter, Faringhea!”
After a moment’s silence, and as if struggling with a painful feeling of
hesitation, Faringhea threw himself at the feet of Djalma, and murmured
in a weak, despairing, almost supplicating voice: “I am very miserable.
Pity me, my good lord!”
The tone was so touching, the grief under which the half-breed suffered
seemed to give to his features, generally fixed and hard as bronze,
such a heart-rending expression, that Djalma was deeply affected, and,
bending to raise him from the ground, said to him, in a kindly voice:
“Speak to me! Confidence appeases the torments of the heart. Trust me,
friend--for my angel herself said to me, that happy love cannot bear to
see tears about him.”
“But unhappy love, miserable love, betrayed love--weeps tears of blood,”
replied Faringhea, with painful dejection.
“Of what love dost thou speak?” asked Djalma, in surprise.
“I speak of my love,” answered the half-caste, with a gloomy air.
“Of your love?” said Djalma, more and more astonished; not that the half
caste, still young, and with a countenance of sombre beauty, appeared
to him incapable of inspiring or feeling the tender passion, but that,
until now, he had never imagined him capable of conceiving so deep a
sorrow.
“My lord,” resumed the half-caste, “you told me, that misfortune had
made me wicked, and that happiness would make me good. In those words,
I saw a presentiment, and a noble love entered my heart, at the moment
when hatred and treachery departed from it. I, the half-savage, found a
woman, beautiful and young, to respond to my passion. At least I thought
so. But I had betrayed you, my lord, and there is no happiness for
a traitor, even though he repent. In my turn, I have been shamefully
betrayed.”
Then, seeing the surprise of the prince, the half-caste added, as if
overwhelmed with confusion: “Do not mock me, my lord! The most frightful
tortures would not have wrung this confession from me; but you, the son
of a king, deigned to call the poor slave your friend!”
“And your friend thanks you for the confidence,” answered Djalma. “Far
from mocking, he will console you. Mock you! do you think it possible?”
“Betrayed love merits contempt and insult,” said Faringhea, bitterly.
“Even cowards may point at one with scorn--for, in this country, the
sight of the man deceived in what is dearest to his soul, the very life
blood of his life, only makes people shrug their shoulders and laugh.”
“But are you certain of this treachery?” said Djalma, mildly. Then he
added, with visible hesitation, that proved the goodness of his heart:
“Listen to me, and forgive me for speaking of the past! It will only be
another proof, that I cherish no evil memories, and that I fully believe
in your repentance and affection. Remember, that I also once thought,
that she, who is the angel of my life, did not love me--and yet it
was false. Who tells you, that you are not, like me, deceived by false
appearances?”
“Alas, my lord! could I only believe so! But I dare not hope it. My
brain wanders uncertain, I cannot come to any resolution, and therefore
I have recourse to you.”
“But what causes your suspicions?”
“Her coldness, which sometimes succeeds to apparent tenderness. The
refusals she gives me in the name of duty. Yes,” added the half-caste,
after a moment’s silence, “she reasons about her love--a proof, that she
has never loved me, or that she loves me no more.”
“On the contrary, she perhaps loves you all the more, that she takes
into consideration the interest and the dignity of her love.”
“That is what they all say,” replied the half-caste, with bitter irony,
as he fixed a penetrating look on Djalma; “thus speak all those who love
weakly, coldly; but those who love valiantly, never show these insulting
suspicions. For them, a word from the man they adore is a command;
they do not haggle and bargain, for the cruel pleasure of exciting the
passion of their lover to madness, and so ruling him more surely. No,
what their lover asks of them, were it to cost life and honor, they
would grant it without hesitation--because, with them, the will of the
man they love is above every other consideration, divine and human. But
those crafty women, whose pride it is to tame and conquer man--who take
delight in irritating his passion, and sometimes appear on the point of
yielding to it--are demons, who rejoice in the tears and torments of the
wretch, that loves them with the miserable weakness of a child. While we
expire with love at their feet, the perfidious creatures are calculating
the effects of their refusals, and seeing how far they can go, without
quite driving their victim to despair. Oh! how cold and cowardly are
they, compared to the valiant, true-hearted women, who say to the men
of their choice: ‘Let me be thine to-day-and to-morrow, come shame,
despair, and death--it matters little! Be happy! my life is not worth
one tear of thine!”
Djalma’s brow had darkened, as he listened. Having kept inviolable the
secret of the various incidents of his passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville,
he could not but see in these words a quite involuntary allusion to the
delays and refusals of Adrienne. And yet Djalma suffered a moment in his
pride, at the thought of considerations and duties, that a woman holds
dearer than her love. But this bitter and painful thought was soon
effaced from the oriental’s mind, thanks to the beneficent influence of
the remembrance of Adrienne. His brow again cleared, and he answered
the half-caste, who was watching him attentively with a sidelong glance:
“You are deluded by grief. If you have no other reason to doubt her you
love, than these refusals and vague suspicions, be satisfied! You are
perhaps loved better than you can imagine.”
“Alas! would it were so, my lord!” replied the half-caste, dejectedly,
as if he had been deeply touched by the words of Djalma. “Yet I say
to myself: There is for this woman something stronger than her
love--delicacy, dignity, honor, what you will--but she does not love me
enough to sacrifice for me this something!”
“Friend, you are deceived,” answered Djalma, mildly, though the words
affected him with a painful impression. “The greater the love of a
woman, the more it should be chaste and noble. It is love itself that
awakens this delicacy and these scruples. He rules, instead of being
ruled.”
“That is true,” replied the half-caste, with bitter irony, “Love so
rules me, that this woman bids me love in her own fashion, and I have
only to submit.”
Pausing suddenly, Faringhea hid his face in his hands, and heaved a deep
drawn sigh. His features expressed a mixture of hate, rage, and despair,
at once so terrible and so painful, that Djalma, more and more affected,
exclaimed, as he seized the other’s hand: “Calm this fury, and listen to
the voice of friendship! It will disperse this evil influence. Speak to
me!”
“No, no! it is too dreadful!”
“Speak, I bid thee.”
“No! leave the wretch to his despair!”
“Do you think me capable of that?” said Djalma, with a mixture of
mildness and dignity, which seemed to make an impression on the half
caste.
“Alas!” replied he, hesitating; “do you wish to hear more, my lord?”
“I wish to hear all.”
“Well, then! I have not told you all--for, at the moment of making this
confession, shame and the fear of ridicule kept me back. You asked me
what reason I had to believe myself betrayed. I spoke to you of vague
suspicions, refusals, coldness. That is not all--this evening--”
“Go on!”
“This evening--she made an appointment--with a man that she prefers to
me.”
“Who told you so?”
“A stranger who pitied my blindness.”
“And suppose the man deceived you--or deceives himself?”
“He has offered me proofs of what he advances.”
“What proofs?”
“He will enable me this evening to witness the interview. ‘It may be,’
said he, ‘that this appointment may have no guilt in it, notwithstanding
appearances to the contrary. Judge for yourself, have courage, and your
cruel indecision will be at an end.’”
“And what did you answer?”
“Nothing, my lord. My head wandered as it does now and I came to you for
advice.”
Then, making a gesture of despair, he proceeded with a savage laugh:
“Advice? It is from the blade of my kand-jiar that I should ask counsel!
It would answer: ‘Blood! blood!’”
Faringhea grasped convulsively the long dagger attached to his girdle.
There is a sort of contagion in certain forms of passion. At sight of
Faringhea’s countenance, agitated by jealous fury, Djalma shuddered--for
he remembered the fit of insane rage, with which he had been possessed,
when the Princess de Saint-Dizier had defied Adrienne to contradict her,
as to the discovery of Agricola Baudoin in her bed-chamber. But then,
reassured by the lady’s proud and noble bearing, Djalma had soon learned
to despise the horrible calumny, which Adrienne had not even thought
worthy of an answer. Still, two or three times, as the lightning will
flash suddenly across the clearest sky, the remembrance of that shameful
accusation had crossed the prince’s mind, like a streak of fire, but
had almost instantly vanished, in the serenity and happiness of his
ineffable confidence in Adrienne’s heart. These memories, however,
whilst they saddened the mind of Djalma, only made him more
compassionate with regard to Faringhea, than he might have been without
this strange coincidence between the position of the half-caste and his
own. Knowing, by his own experience, to what madness a blind fury may
be carried, and wishing to tame the half-caste by affectionate
kindness, Djalma said to him in a grave and mild tone: “I offered you my
friendship. I will now act towards you a friend.”
But Faringhea, seemingly a prey to a dull and mute frenzy, stood with
fixed and haggard eyes, as though he did not hear Djalma.
The latter laid his hand on his shoulder, and resumed: “Faringhea,
listen to me!”
“My lord,” said the half-caste, starting abruptly, as from a dream,
“forgive me--but--”
“In the anguish occasioned by these cruel suspicions, it is not of your
kandjiar that you must take counsel--but of your friend.”
“My lord--”
“To this interview, which will prove the innocence or the treachery of
your beloved, you will do well to go.”
“Oh, yes!” said the half-caste, in a hollow voice, and with a bitter
smile: “I shall be there.”
“But you must not go alone.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” cried the half-caste. “Who will accompany
me?”
“I will.”
“You, my lord?”
“Yes--perhaps, to save you from a crime--for I know how blind and unjust
is the earliest outburst of rage.”
“But that transport gives us revenge!” cried the half-caste, with a
cruel smile.
“Faringhea, this day is all my own. I shall not leave you,” said the
prince, resolutely. “Either you shall not go to this interview, or I
will accompany you.”
The half-caste appeared conquered by this generous perseverance. He fell
at the feet of Djalma, pressed the prince’s hand respectfully to his
forehead and to his lips, and said: “My lord, be generous to the end!
forgive me!”
“For what should I forgive you?”
“Before I spoke to you, I had the audacity to think of asking for what
you have just freely offered. Not knowing to what extent my fury might
carry me, I had thought of asking you this favor, which you would not
perhaps grant to an equal, but I did not dare to do it. I shrunk even
from the avowal of the treachery I have cause to fear, and I came only
to tell you of my misery--because to you alone in all the world I could
tell it.”
It is impossible to describe the almost candid simplicity, with which
the half-breed pronounced these words, and the soft tones, mingled with
tears, which had succeeded his savage fury. Deeply affected, Djalma
raised him from the ground, and said: “You were entitled to ask of me a
mark of friendship. I am happy in having forestalled you. Courage! be of
good cheer! I will accompany you to this interview, and if my hopes
do not deceive me, you will find you have been deluded by false
appearances.”
When the night was come, the half-breed and Djalma, wrapped in their
cloaks, got into a hackney-coach. Faringhea ordered the coachman to
drive to the house inhabited by Sainte-Colombe.
CHAPTER LXIV. AN EVENING AT SAINTE-COLOMBE’S.
Leaving Djalma and Faringhea in the coach, on their way, a few words are
indispensable before continuing this scene. Ninny Moulin, ignorant of
the real object of the step he took at the instigation of Rodin, had,
on the evening before, according to orders received from the latter,
offered a considerable sum to Sainte-Colombe, to obtain from that
creature (still singularly rapacious) the use of her apartments for
whole day. Sainte-Colombe, having accepted this proposition, too
advantageous to be refused, had set out that morning with her servants,
to whom she wished, she said, in return for their good services, to give
a day’s pleasure in the country. Master of the house, Rodin, in a black
wig, blue spectacles, and a cloak, and with his mouth and chin buried
in a worsted comforter--in a word, perfectly disguised--had gone that
morning to take a look at the apartments, and to give his instructions
to the half-caste. The latter, in two hours from the departure of the
Jesuit, had, thanks to his address and intelligence, completed the most
important preparation and returned in haste to Djalma, to play with
detestable hypocrisy the scene at which we have just been present.
During the ride from the Rue de Clichy to the Rue de Richelieu,
Faringhea appeared plunged in a mournful reverie. Suddenly, he said
to Djalma to a quick tone: “My lord, if I am betrayed, I must have
vengeance.”
“Contempt is a terrible revenge,” answered Djalma.
“No, no,” replied the half-caste, with an accent of repressed rage. “It
is not enough. The nearer the moment approaches, the more I feel I must
have blood.”
“Listen to me--”
“My lord, have pity on me! I was a coward to draw back from my revenge.
Let me leave you, my lord! I will go alone to this interview.”
So saying, Faringhea made a movement, as if he would spring from the
carriage.
Djalma held him by the arm, and said: “Remain! I wilt not leave you.
If you are betrayed, you shall not shed blood. Contempt will avenge and
friendship will console you.”
“No, no, my lord; I am resolved. When I have killed--then I will kill
myself,” cried the half-caste, with savage excitement. “This kandjiar
for the false ones!” added he, laying his hand on his dagger. “The
poison in the hilt for me.”
“Faringhea--”
“If I resist you, my lord, forgive me! My destiny must be accomplished.”
Time pressed, and Djalma, despairing to calm the other’s ferocious rage,
resolved to have recourse to a stratagem.
After some minutes’ silence, he said to Faringhea: “I will not leave
you. I will do all I can to save you from a crime. If I do not succeed,
the blood you shed be on your own head. This hand shall never again be
locked in yours.”
These words appeared to make a deep impression on Faringhea. He breathed
a long sigh, and, bowing his head upon his breast, remained silent
and full of thought. Djalma prepared, by the faint light of the lamps,
reflected in the interior of the coach, to throw himself suddenly on
the half-caste, and disarm him. But the latter, who saw at a glance the
intention of the prince, drew his kandjiar abruptly from his girdle,
and holding it still in its sheath, said to the prince in a half-solemn,
half-savage tone: “This dagger, in a strong hand, is terrible; and in
this phial is one of the most subtle poisons of our country.”
He touched a spring, and the knob at the top of the hilt rose like a
lid, discovering the mouth of a small crystal phial concealed in this
murderous weapon.
“Two or three drops of this poison upon the lips,” resumed the half
caste, “and death comes slowly and peacefully, in a few hours, and
without pain. Only, for the first symptom, the nails turn blue. But he
who emptied this phial at a draught would fall dead, as if struck by
lightning.”
“Yes,” replied Djalma; “I know that our country produces such mysterious
poisons. But why lay such stress on the murderous properties of this
weapon?”
“To show you, my lord, that this kandjiar would ensure the success and
impunity of my vengeance. With the blade I could destroy, and by the
poison escape from human justice. Well, my lord! this kandjiar--take
it--I give it up to you--I renounce my vengeance--rather than render
myself unworthy to clasp again your hand!”
He presented the dagger to the prince, who, as pleased as surprised
at this unexpected determination, hastily secured the terrible weapon
beneath his own girdle; whilst the half-breed continued, in a voice of
emotion: “Deep this kandjiar, my lord--and when you have seen and heard
all that we go to hear and see--you shall either give me the dagger
to strike a wretch--or the poison, to die without striking. You shall
command; I will obey.”
Djalma was about to reply, when the coach stopped at the house inhabited
by Sainte-Colombe. The prince and the half-caste, well enveloped in
their mantles, entered a dark porch, and the door was closed after them.
Faringhea exchanged a few words with the porter, and the latter gave him
a key. The two Orientals soon arrived at Sainte-Colombe’s apartments,
which had two doors opening upon the landing-place, besides a private
entrance from the courtyard. As he put the key into the lock, Faringhea
said to Djalma, in an agitated voice: “Pity my weakness, my lord--but,
at this terrible moment, I tremble and hesitate. It were perhaps better
to doubt--or to forget!”
Then, as the prince was about to answer, the half-caste exclaimed: “No!
we must have no cowardice!” and, opening the door precipitately, he
entered, followed by Djalma.
When the door was again closed, the prince and the half-caste found
themselves in a dark and narrow passage. “Your hand, my lord--let me
guide you--walk lightly,” said Faringhea, in a low whisper.
He extended his hand to the prince, who took hold of it, and they
both advanced silently through the darkness. After leading Djalma some
distance, and opening and closing several doors, the half-caste stopped
abruptly, and abandoning the hand which he had hitherto held, said to
the prince: “My lord, the decisive moment approaches; let us wait here
for a few seconds.”
A profound silence followed these words of the half-caste. The darkness
was so complete, that Djalma could distinguish nothing. In about a
minute, he heard Faringhea moving away from him; and then a door was
suddenly opened, and as abruptly closed and locked. This circumstance
made Djalma somewhat uneasy. By a mechanical movement, he laid his hand
upon his dagger, and advanced cautiously towards the side, where he
supposed the door to be.
Suddenly, the half-caste’s voice struck upon his ear, though it was
impossible to guess whence it came. “My lord,” it said, “you told me,
you were my friend. I act as a friend. If I have employed stratagem
to bring you hither, it is because the blindness of your fatal passion
would otherwise have prevented your accompanying me. The Princess de
Saint Dizier named to you Agricola Baudoin, the lover of Adrienne de
Cardoville. Listen--look--judge!”
The voice ceased. It appeared to have issued from one corner of the
room. Djalma, still in darkness, perceived too late into what a snare he
had fallen, and trembled with rage--almost with alarm.
“Faringhea!” he exclaimed; “where am I? where are you? Open the door on
your life! I would leave this place instantly.”
Extending his arms, the prince advanced hastily several steps, but he
only touched a tapestried wall; he followed it, hoping to find the
door, and he at length found it; but it was locked, and resisted all his
efforts. He continued his researches, and came to a fireplace with no
fire in it, and to a second door, equally fast. In a few moments, he
had thus made the circle of the room, and found himself again at the
fireplace. The anxiety of the prince increased more and more. He called
Faringhea, in a voice trembling with passion. There was no answer.
Profound silence reigned without, and complete darkness within. Ere
long, a perfumed vapor, of indescribable sweetness, but very subtle and
penetrating, spread itself insensibly through the little room in which
Djalma was. It might be, that the orifice of a tube, passing through one
of the doors of the room, introduced this balmy current. At the height
of angry and terrible thoughts, Djalma paid no attention to this
odor--but soon the arteries of his temples began to beat violently, a
burning heat seemed to circulate rapidly through his veins, he felt a
sensation of pleasure, his resentment died gradually away, and a mild,
ineffable torpor crept over him, without his being fully conscious of
the mental transformation that was taking place. Yet, by a last effort
of the wavering will, Djalma advanced once more to try and open one
of the doors; he found it indeed, but at this place the vapor was so
strong, that its action redoubled, and, unable to move a step further,
Djalma was obliged to support himself by leaning against the wall.(43)
Then a strange thing happened. A faint light spread itself gradually
through an adjoining apartment, and Djalma now perceived, for the first
time, the existence of a little round window, in the wall of the room in
which he was. On the side of the prince, this opening was protected by
a slight but strong railing, which hardly intercepted the view. On the
other side a thick piece of plate-glass was fixed at the distance of two
or three inches from the railing in question. The room, which Djalma saw
through this window, and through which the faint light was now gradually
spreading, was richly furnished. Between two windows, hung with crimson
silk curtains, stood a kind of wardrobe, with a looking-glass front;
opposite the fireplace in which glowed the burning coals, was a long,
wide divan, furnished with cushions.
In another second a woman entered this apartment. Her face and figure
were invisible, being wrapped in a long, hooded mantle, of peculiar
form, and a dark color. The sight of this mantle made Djalma start. To
the pleasure he at first felt succeeded a feverish anxiety, like the
growing fumes of intoxication. There was that strange buzzing in his
ears which we experience when we plunge into deep waters. It was in a
kind of delirium that Djalma looked on at what was passing in the next
room. The woman who had just appeared entered with caution, almost with
fear. Drawing aside one of the window curtains, she glanced through
the closed blinds into the street. Then she returned slowly to the
fireplace, where she stood for a moment pensive, still carefully
enveloped in her mantle. Completely yielding to the influence of the
vapor, which deprived him of his presence of mind--forgetting Faringhea,
and all the circumstances that had accompanied his arrival at this
house--Djalma concentrated all the powers of his attention on the
spectacle before him, at which he seemed to be present as in a dream.
Suddenly Djalma saw the woman leave the fireplace and advance towards
the looking-glass. Turning her face toward it, she allowed the mantle
to glide down to her feet. Djalma was thunderstruck. He saw the face
of Adrienne de Cardoville. Yes, Adrienne, as he had seen her the night
before, attired as during her interview with the Princess de Saint
Dizier--the light green dress, the rose-colored ribbons, the white
head ornaments. A network of white beads concealed her back hair, and
harmonized admirably with the shining gold of her ringlets. Finally, as
far as the Hindoo could judge through the railing and the thick glass,
and in the faint light, it was the figure of Adrienne, with her marble
shoulders and swan-like neck, so proud and so graceful. In a word, he
could not, he did not doubt that it was Adrienne de Cardoville. Djalma
was bathed in a burning dew, his dizzy excitement increased, and, with
bloodshot eye and heaving bosom, he remained motionless, gazing almost
without the power of thought. The young lady, with her back still
turned towards Djalma, arranged her hair with graceful art, took off the
network which formed her head-dress, placed it on the chimney-piece, and
began to unfasten her gown; then, withdrawing from the looking-glass,
she disappeared for an instant from Djalma’s view.
“She is expecting Agricola Baudoin, her lover,” said a voice, which
seemed to proceed from the wall of the dark room in which Djalma was.
Notwithstanding his bewilderment, these terrible words, “She is
expecting Agricola Baudoin, her lover,” passed like a stream of fire
through the brain and heart of the prince. A cloud of blood came over
his eyes, he uttered a hollow moan, which the thickness of the glass
prevented from being heard in the next room, and broke his nails in
attempting to tear down the iron railing before the window.
Having reached this paroxysm of delirious rage, Djalma saw the uncertain
light grow still fainter, as if it had been discreetly obscured, and,
through the vapory shadow that hung before him, he perceived the young
lady returning, clad in a long white dressing-gown, and with her
golden curls floating over her naked arms and shoulders. She advanced
cautiously in the direction of a door which was hid from Djalma’s view.
At this moment, one of the doors of the apartment in which the prince
was concealed was gently opened by an invisible hand. Djalma noticed it
by the click of the lock, and by the current of fresh air which streamed
upon his face, for he could see nothing. This door, left open for
Djalma, like that in the next room, to which the young lady had drawn
near, led to a sort of ante-chamber communicating with the stairs, which
some one now rapidly ascended, and, stopping short, knocked twice at the
outer door.
“Here comes Agricola Baudoin. Look and listen!” said the same voice that
the prince had already heard.
Mad, intoxicated, but with the fixed idea and reckless determination of
a madman or a drunkard, Djalma drew the dagger which Faringhea had left
in his possession, and stood in motionless expectation. Hardly were the
two knocks heard before the young lady quitted the apartment, from which
streamed a faint ray of light, ran to the door of the staircase, so that
some faint glimmer reached the place where Djalma stood watching, his
dagger in his hand. He saw the young lady pass across the ante-chamber,
and approach the door of the staircase, where she said in a whisper:
“Who is there?”
“It is I--Agricola Baudoin,” answered, from, without, a manly voice.
What followed was rapid as lightning, and must be conceived rather than
described. Hardly had the young lady drawn the bolt of the door, hardly
had Agricola Baudoin stepped across the threshold, than Djalma, with the
bound of a tiger, stabbed as it were at once, so rapid were the strokes,
both the young lady, who fell dead on the floor, and Agricola, who sank,
dangerously wounded, by the side of the unfortunate victim. This
scene of murder, rapid as thought, took place in the midst of a half
obscurity. Suddenly the faint light from the chamber was completely
extinguished, and a second after, Djalma felt his arm seized in the
darkness by an iron grasp, and the voice of Faringhea whispered: “You
are avenged. Come; we can secure our retreat.” Inert, stupefied at what
he had done, Djalma offered no resistance, and let himself be dragged
by the half-caste into the inner apartment, from which there was another
way out.
When Rodin had exclaimed, in his admiration of the generative power
of thought, that the word NECKLACE had been the germ of the infernal
project he then contemplated, it was, that chance had brought to his
mind the remembrance of the too famous affair of the diamond necklace,
in which a woman, thanks to her vague resemblance to Queen Marie
Antoinette, being dressed like that princess, and favored by the
uncertainty of a twilight, had played so skillfully the part of her
unfortunate sovereign, as to make the Cardinal Prince de Rohan, though
familiar with the court, the complete dupe of the illusion. Having once
determined on his execrable design, Rodin had sent Jacques Dumoulin to
Sainte-Colombe, without telling him the real object of his mission, to
ask this experienced woman to procure a fine young girl, tall, and
with red hair. Once found, a costume exactly resembling that worn by
Adrienne, and of which the Princess de Saint-Dizier gave the description
to Rodin (though herself ignorant of this new plot), was to complete the
deception. The rest is known, or may be guessed. The unfortunate girl,
who acted as Adrienne’s double, believed she was only aiding in a jest.
As for Agricola, he had received a letter, in which he was invited to
a meeting that might be of the greatest importance to Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
(43) See the strange effect of hasheesh. To the effect of this is
attributed the kind of hallucination which seized on those unhappy
persons, whom the Prince of the Assassins (the Old Man of the Mountain)
used as the instruments of his vengeance.
CHAPTER LXV. THE NUPTIAL BED.
The mild light of a circular lamp of oriental alabaster, suspended from
the ceiling by three silver chains, spreads a faint lustre through the
bed-chamber of Adrienne de Cardoville.
The large ivory bedstead, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, is not at present
occupied, and almost disappears beneath snowy curtains of lace
and muslin, transparent and vapory as clouds. On the white marble
mantlepiece, from beneath which the fire throws ruddy beams on the
ermine carpet, is the usual basket filled with a bush of red camellias,
in the midst of their shining green leaves. A pleasant aromatic odor,
rising from a warm and perfumed bath in the next room, penetrates every
corner of the bed-chamber. All without is calm and silent. It is hardly
eleven o’clock. The ivory door, opposite to that which leads to the
bath-room, opens slowly. Djalma appears. Two hours have elapsed since he
committed a double murder, and believed that he had killed Adrienne in a
fit of jealous fury.
The servants of Mdlle. de Cardoville, accustomed to Djalma’s daily
visits, no longer announced his arrival, and admitted him without
difficulty, having received no orders to the contrary from their
mistress. He had never before entered the bed-chamber, but, knowing that
the apartment the lady occupied was on the first floor of the house,
he had easily found it. As he entered that virgin sanctuary, his
countenance was pretty calm, so well did he control his feelings, only a
slight paleness tarnished the brilliant amber of his complexion. He wore
that day a robe of purple cashmere, striped with silver--a color which
did not show the stains of blood upon it. Djalma closed the door after
him, and tore off his white turban, for it seemed to him as if a band of
hot iron encircled his brow. His dark hair streamed around his handsome
face. He crossed his arms upon his bosom, and looked slowly about him.
When his eyes rested on Adrienne’s bed, he started suddenly, and his
cheek grew purple. Then he drew his hand across his brow, hung down his
head, and remained standing for some moments in a dream, motionless as a
statue.
After a mournful silence of a few seconds’ duration, Djalma fell upon
his knees, and raised his eyes to heaven. The Asiatic’s countenance was
bathed in tears, and no longer expressed any violent passion. On his
features was no longer the stamp of hate, or despair, or the ferocious
joy of vengeance gratified. It was rather the expression of grief at
once simple and immense. For several minutes he was almost choked with
sobs, and tears ran freely down his cheeks.
“Dead! dead!” he murmured, in a half-stifled voice. “She, who this
morning slept so peacefully in this chamber! And I have killed her. Now
that she is dead, what is her treachery to me? I should not have killed
her for that. She had betrayed me; she loved the man whom I slew--she
loved him! Alas! I could not hope to gain the preference,” added he,
with a touching mixture of resignation and remorse; “I, poor, untaught
youth--how could I merit her love? It was my fault that she did not love
me; but, always generous, she concealed from me her indifference, that
she might not make me too unhappy--and for that I killed her. What
was her crime? Did she not meet me freely? Did she not open to me her
dwelling? Did she not allow me to pass whole days with her? No doubt she
tried to love me, and could not. I loved her with all the faculties of
my soul, but my love was not such as she required. For that, I should
not have killed her. But a fatal delusion seized me and, after it was
done, I woke as from a dream. Alas! it was not a dream: I have killed
her. And yet--until this evening--what happiness I owed to her--what
hope--what joy! She made my heart better, nobler, more generous. All
came from her,” added the Indian, with a new burst of grief. “That
remained with me--no one could take from me that treasure of the
past--that ought to have consoled me. But why think of it? I struck them
both--her and the man--without a struggle. It was a cowardly murder--the
ferocity of the tiger that tears its innocent prey!”
Djalma buried his face in his hands. Then, drying his tears, he resumed,
“I know, clearly, that I mean to die also. But my death will not restore
her to life!”
He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea’s bloody
dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood
stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which
was thus slightly stained with red.
“Yes,” resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, “I
know well that I am about to die. It is right. Blood for blood; my life
for hers. How happens it that my steel did not turn aside? How could I
kill her?--but it is done--and my heart is full of remorse, and sorrow,
an inexpressible tenderness--and I have come here--to die!
“Here, in this chamber,” he continued, “the heaven of my burning
visions!” And then he added, with a heartrending accent, as he again
buried his face in his hands, “Dead! dead!”
“Well! I too shall soon be dead,” he resumed, in a firmer voice.
“But, no! I will die slowly, gradually. A few drops of the poison will
suffice; and, when I am quite certain of dying, my remorse will perhaps
be less terrible. Yesterday, she pressed my hand when we parted. Who
could have foretold me this?” The Indian raised the phial resolutely to
his lips. He drank a few drops of the liquor it contained, and replaced
it on a little ivory table close to Adrienne’s bed.
“This liquor is sharp and hot,” said he. “Now I am certain to die. Oh!
that I may still have time to feast on the sight and perfume of this
chamber--to lay my dying head on the couch where she has reposed.”
Djalma fell on his knees beside the bed, and leaned against it his
burning brow. At this moment, the ivory door, which communicated with
the bath-room, rolled gently on its hinges, and Adrienne entered. The
young lady had just sent away her woman, who had assisted to undress
her. She wore a long muslin wrapper of lustrous whiteness. Her golden
hair, neatly arranged in little plaits, formed two bands, which gave
to her sweet face an extremely juvenile air. Her snowy complexion was
slightly tinged with rose-color, from the warmth of the perfumed bath,
which she used for a few seconds every evening. When she opened the
ivory door, and placed her little naked foot, in its white satin
slipper, upon the ermine carpet, Adrienne was dazzlingly beautiful.
Happiness sparkled in her eyes, and adorned her brow. All the
difficulties relative to her union with Djalma had now been removed. In
two days she would be his. The sight of the nuptial chamber oppressed
her with a vague and ineffable languor. The ivory door had been opened
so gently, the lady’s first steps were so soft upon the fur carpet, that
Djalma, still leaning against the bed, had heard nothing. But suddenly a
cry of surprise and alarm struck upon his ear. He turned round abruptly.
Adrienne stood before him.
With an impulse of modesty, Adrienne closed her nightdress over her
bosom, and hastily drew back, still more afflicted than angry at what
she considered a guilty attempt on the part of Djalma. Cruelly hurt
and offended, she was about to reproach him with his conduct, when she
perceived the dagger, which he had thrown down upon the ermine carpet.
At sight of this weapon, and the expression of fear and stupor which
petrified the features of Djalma, who remained kneeling, motionless,
with his body thrown back, hands stretched out, his eyes fixed and
wildly staring Adrienne, no longer dreading an amorous surprise, was
seized with an indescribable terror, and, instead of flying from the
prince, advanced several steps towards him, and said, in an agitated
voice, whilst she pointed to the kandjiar, “My friend, why are you here?
what ails you? why this dagger?”
Djalma made no answer. At first, the presence of Adrienne seemed to him
a vision, which he attributed to the excitement of his brain, already
(it might be) under the influence of the poison. But when the soft voice
sounded in his ears--when his heart bounded with the species of electric
shock, which he always felt when he met the gaze of that woman so
ardently beloved--when he had contemplated for an instant that
adorable face, so fresh and fair, in spite of its expression of deep
uneasiness--Djalma understood that he was not the sport of a dream, but
that Mdlle. de Cardoville was really before his eyes.
Then, as he began fully to grasp the thought that Adrienne was not dead,
though he could not at all explain the prodigy of her resurrection, the
Hindoo’s countenance was transfigured, the pale gold of his complexion
became warm and red, his eyes (tarnished by tears of remorse) shone with
new radiance, and his features, so lately contracted with terror and
despair, expressed all the phases of the most ecstatic joy. Advancing,
still on his knees, towards Adrienne, he lifted up to her his trembling
hands, and, too deeply affected to pronounce a word, he gazed on her
with so much amazement, love, adoration, gratitude, that the young lady,
fascinated by those inexplicable looks, remained mute also, motionless
also, and felt, by the precipitate beating of her heart, and by the
shudder which ran through her frame, that there was here some dreadful
mystery to be unfolded.
At last, Djalma, clasping his hands together, exclaimed with an accent
impossible to describe, “Thou art not dead!”
“Dead!” repeated the young lady, in amazement.
“It was not thou, really not thou, whom I killed? God is kind and just!”
And as he pronounced these words with intense joy, the unfortunate youth
forgot the victim whom he had sacrificed in error.
More and more alarmed, and again glancing at the dagger en which she now
perceived marks of blood--a terrible evidence, in confirmation of the
words of Djalma--Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed, “You have killed some
one, Djalma! Oh! what does he say? It is dreadful!”
“You are alive--I see you--you are here,” said Djalma, in a voice
trembling with rapture. “You are here--beautiful! pure! for it was not
you! Oh, no! had it been you, the steel would have turned back upon
myself.”
“You have killed some one?” cried the young lady, beside her with this
unforeseen revelation, and clasping her hands in horror. “Why? whom did
you kill?”
“I do not know. A woman that was like you--a man that I thought your
lover--it was an illusion, a frightful dream--you are alive--you are
here!”
And the oriental wept for joy.
“A dream? but no, it is not a dream. There is blood upon that dagger!”
cried the young lady, as she pointed wildly to the kandjiar. “I tell you
there is blood upon it!”
“Yes. I threw it down just now, when I took the poison from it, thinking
that I had killed you.”
“The poison!” exclaimed Adrienne, and her teeth chattered convulsively.
“What poison?”
“I thought I had killed you, and I came here to die.”
“To die? Oh! wherefore? who is to die?” cried the young lady, almost in
delirium.
“I,” replied Djalma, with inexpressible tenderness, “I thought I had
killed you--and I took poison.”
“You!” exclaimed Adrienne, becoming pale as death. “You!”
“Yes.”
“Oh! it is not true!” said the young lady, shaking her head.
“Look!” said the Asiatic. Mechanically, he turned towards the
bed--towards the little ivory table, on which sparkled the crystal
phial.
With a sudden movement, swifter than thought, swifter, it may be, than
the will, Adrienne rushed to the table, seized the phial, and applied it
eagerly to her lips.
Djalma had hitherto remained on his knees; but he now uttered a terrible
cry, made one spring to the drinker’s side, and dragged away the phial,
which seemed almost glued to her mouth.
“No matter! I have swallowed as much as you,” said Adrienne, with an air
of gloomy triumph.
For an instant, there followed an awful silence. Adrienne and Djalma
gazed upon each other, mute, motionless, horror-struck. The young lady
was the first to break this mournful silence, and said in a tone which
she tried to make calm and steady, “Well! what is there extraordinary in
this? You have killed, and death most expiate your crime. It is just. I
will not survive you. That also is natural enough. Why look at me thus?
This poison has a sharp taste--does it act quickly! Tell me, my Djalma!”
The prince did not answer. Shuddering through all his frame, he looked
down upon his hands. Faringhea had told the truth; a slight violet
tint appeared already beneath the nails. Death was approaching, slowly,
almost insensibly, but not the less certain. Overwhelmed with despair
at the thought that Adrienne, too, was about to die, Djalma felt his
courage fail him. He uttered a long groan, and hid his face in his
hands. His knees shook under him, and he felt down upon the bed, near
which he was standing.
“Already?” cried the young lady in horror, as she threw herself on her
knees at Djalma’s feet. “Death already? Do you hide your face from me?”
In her fright, she pulled his hands from before his face. That face was
bathed in tears.
“No, not yet,” murmured he, through his sobs. “The poison is slow.”
“Really!” cried Adrienne, with ineffable joy. Then, kissing the hands of
Djalma, she added tenderly, “If the poison is slow, why do you weep?”
“For you! for you!” said the Indian, in a heart-rending tone.
“Think not of me,” replied Adrienne, resolutely. “You have killed, and
we must expiate the crime. I know not what has taken place; but I swear
by our love that you did not do evil for evil’s sake. There is some
horrible mystery in all this.”
“On a pretence which I felt bound to believe,” replied Djalma, speaking
quickly, and panting for breath, “Faringhea led me to a certain house.
Once there, he told me that you had betrayed me. I did not believe him,
but I know not what strange dizziness seized upon me--and then, through
a half-obscurity, I saw you--”
“Me!”
“No--not you--but a woman resembling you, dressed like you, so that I
believed the illusion--and then there came a man--and you flew to meet
him--and I--mad with rage--stabbed her, stabbed him, saw them fall--and
so came here to die. And now I find you only to cause your death. Oh,
misery! misery! that you should die through me!”
And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with
the weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate
despair, Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess
in love, thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman
passion, as the prince revealed to her this infernal plot, the lady’s
countenance became so splendid with an expression of love and happiness,
that the East Indian looked at her in amazement, fearing for an instant
that he must have lost his reason.
“No more tears, my adored!” cried the young lady, exultingly. “No more
tears--but only smiles of joy and love! Our cruel enemies shall not
triumph!”
“What do you say?”
“They wished to make us miserable. We pity them. Our felicity shall be
the envy of the world!”
“Adrienne--bethink you--”
“Oh! I have all my senses about me. Listen to me, my adored! I now
understand it all. Falling into a snare, which these wretches spread for
you, you have committed murder. Now, in this country, murder leads to
infamy, or the scaffold--and to-morrow--to-night, perhaps--you would be
thrown into prison. But our enemies have said: ‘A man like Prince Djalma
does not wait for infamy--he kills himself. A woman like Adrienne de
Cardoville does not survive the disgrace or death of her lover--she
prefers to die.’”
“Therefore a frightful death awaits them both,” said the black-robed
men; “and that immense inheritance, which we covet--’”
“And for you--so young, so beautiful so innocent--death is frightful,
and these monsters triumph!” cried Djalma. “They have spoken the truth!”
“They have lied!” answered Adrienne. “Our death shall be celestial. This
poison is slow--and I adore you, my Djalma!”
She spoke those words in a low voice, trembling with passionate love,
and, leaning upon Djalma’s knees, approached so near, that he felt her
warm breath upon his cheek. As he felt that breath, and saw the humid
flame that darted from the large, swimming eyes of Adrienne, whose half
opened lips were becoming of a still deeper and brighter hue, the Indian
started--his young blood boiled in his veins--he forgot everything--his
despair, and the approach of death, which as yet (as with Adrienne),
only showed itself in a kind of feverish ardor. His face, like the young
girl’s, became once more splendidly beautiful.
“Oh, my lover! my husband! how beautiful you are!” said Adrienne, with
idolatry. “Those eyes--that brow--those lips--how I love them!--How many
times has the remembrance of your grace and beauty, coupled with your
love, unsettled my reason, and shaken my resolves--even to this moment,
when I am wholly yours!--Yes, heaven wills that we should be united.
Only this morning, I gave to the apostolic man, that was to bless our
union, in thy name and mine, a royal gift--a gift, that will bring joy
and peace to the heart of many an unfortunate creature. Then what have
we to regret, my beloved? Our immortal souls will pass away in a kiss,
and ascend, full of love, to that God who is all love!”
“Adrienne!”
“Djalma!”
The light, transparent curtains fell like a cloud over that nuptial and
funereal couch. Yes, funereal; for, two hours after, Adrienne and Djalma
breathed their last sigh in a voluptuous agony.
CHAPTER LXVI. A DUEL TO THE DEATH.
Adrienne and Djalma died on the 30th of May. The following scene took
place on the 31st, the eve of the day appointed for the last convocation
of the heirs of Marius de Rennepont. The reader will no doubt remember
the room occupied by M. Hardy, in the “house of retreat,” in the Rue de
Vaugirard--a gloomy and retired apartment, opening on a dreary little
garden, planted with yew-trees, and surrounded by high walls. To reach
this chamber, it was necessary to cross two vast rooms, the doors of
which, once shut, intercepted all noise and communication from without.
Bearing this in mind, we may go on with our narrative. For the last
three or four days, Father d’Aigrigny occupied this apartment. He had
not chosen it, but had been induced to accept it, under most plausible
pretexts, given him at the instigation of Rodin. It was about noon.
Seated in an arm-chair, by the window opening on the little garden,
Father d’Aigrigny held in his hand a newspaper, in which he read as
follows, under the head of “Paris:”
“Eleven p.m.--A most horrible and tragical event has just excited the
greatest consternation in the quarter of the Rue de Richelieu. A double
murder has been committed, on the person of a young man and woman.
The girl was killed on the spot, by the stroke of a dagger; hopes are
entertained of saving the life of the young man. The crime is attributed
to jealousy. The officers of justice are investigating the matter. We
shall give full particulars tomorrow.”
When he had read these lines, Father d’Aigrigny threw down the paper and
remained in deep thought.
“It is incredible,” said he, with bitter envy, in allusion to Rodin. “He
has attained his end. Hardly one of his anticipations has been defeated.
This family is annihilated, by the mere play of the passions, good and
evil that he has known how to set in motion. He said it would be so.
Oh! I must confess,” added Father d’Aigrigny, with a jealous and hateful
smile, “that Rodin is a man of rare dissimulation, patience, energy,
obstinacy and intelligence. Who would have told a few months ago, when
he wrote under my orders, a discreet and humble socius, that he had
already conceived the most audacious ambition, and dared to lift his
eyes to the Holy See itself? that, thanks to intrigues and corruption,
pursued with wondrous ability, these views were not so unreasonable?
Nay, that this infernal ambition would soon be realized, were it not
that the secret proceedings of this dangerous man have long been as
secretly watched?--Ah!” sneered Father d’Aigrigny, with a smile of
irony and triumph, “you wish to be a second Sixtus V., do you? And,
not content with this audacious pretension, you mean, if successful, to
absorb our Company in the Papacy, even as the Sultan has absorbed the
Janissaries. Ah! You would make us your stepping-stone to power! And you
have thought to humiliate and crush me with your insolent disdain! But
patience, patience: the day of retribution approaches. I alone am the
depository of our General’s will. Father Caboccini himself does not
know that. The fate of Rodin is in my hands. Oh! it will not be what he
expects. In this Rennepont affair (which, I must needs confess, he has
managed admirably), he thinks to outwit us all, and to work only for
himself. But to-morrow--”
Father d’Aigrigny was suddenly disturbed in these agreeable reflections.
He heard the door of the next room open, and, as he turned round to see
who was coming, the door of the apartment in which he was turned upon
its hinges. Father d’Aigrigny started with surprise, and became almost
purple. Marshal Simon stood before him. And, behind the marshal, in the
shadow of the door, Father d’Aigrigny perceived the cadaverous face
of Rodin. The latter cast on him one glance of diabolical delight, and
instantly disappeared. The door was again closed, and Father d’Aigrigny
and Marshal Simon were left alone together. The father of Rose and
Blanche was hardly recognizable. His gray hair had become completely
white. His pale, thin face had not been shaved for some days. His hollow
eyes were bloodshot and restless, and had in them something wild and
haggard. He was wrapped in a large cloak, and his black cravat was tied
loosely about his neck. In withdrawing from the apartment, Rodin had (as
if by inadvertence) double-locked the door on the outside. When he
was alone with the Jesuit, the marshal threw back his cloak from his
shoulders, and Father d’Aigrigny could see two naked swords, stuck
through a silk handkerchief which served him as a belt.
Father d’Aigrigny understood it all. He remembered how, a few days
before, Rodin had obstinately pressed him to say what he would do if the
marshal were to strike him in the face. There could be no doubt that
he, who thought to have held the fate of Rodin in his hands, had been
brought by the latter into a fearful peril; for he knew that, the two
outer rooms being closed, there was no possibility of making himself
heard, and that the high walls of the garden only bordered upon some
vacant lots. The first thought which occurred to him, one by no means
destitute of probability, was that Rodin, either by his agents at Rome,
or by his own incredible penetration, had learned that his fate
depended on Father d’Aigrigny, and hoped therefore to get rid of him,
by delivering him over to the inexorable vengeance of the father of
Rose and Blanche. Without speaking a word, the marshal unbound the
handkerchief from his waist, laid the two swords upon the table,
and, folding his arms upon his breast, advanced slowly towards Father
d’Aigrigny. Thus these two men, who through life had pursued each other
with implacable hatred, at length met face to face--they, who had fought
in hostile armies, and measured swords in single combat, and one of whom
now came to seek vengeance for the death of his children. As the marshal
approached, Father d’Aigrigny rose from his seat. He wore that day a
black cassock, which rendered still more visible the pale hue, which had
now succeeded to the sudden flush on his cheek. For a few seconds, the
two men stood face to face without speaking. The marshal was terrific
in his paternal despair. His calmness, inexorable as fate, was more
impressive than the most furious burst of anger.
“My children are dead,” said he at last, in a slow and hollow tone. “I
come to kill you.”
“Sir,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, “listen to me. Do not believe--”
“I must kill you,” resumed the marshal, interrupting the Jesuit; “your
hate followed my wife into exile, where she perished. You and your
accomplices sent my children to certain death. For twenty years you have
been my evil genius. I must have your life, and I will have it.”
“My life belongs, first, to God,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, piously,
“and then to who likes to take it.”
“We will fight to the death in this room,” said the marshal; “and, as I
have to avenge my wife and children, I am tranquil as to the result.”
“Sir,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, coldly, “you forget that my
profession forbids me to fight. Once I accepted your challenge--but my
position is changed since then.”
“Ah!” said the marshal, with a bitter smile; “you refuse to fight
because you are a priest?”
“Yes, sir--because I am a priest.”
“So that, because he is a priest, a wretch like you may commit any
crime, any baseness, under shelter of his black gown?”
“I do not understand a word of your accusations. In any case, the law is
open,” said Father d’Aigrigny, biting his pale lips, for he felt deeply
the insult offered by the marshal; “if you have anything to complain of,
appeal to that law, before which all are equal.”
Marshal Simon shrugged his shoulders in angry disdain. “Your crimes
escape the law--and, could it even reach you, that would not satisfy my
vengeance, after all the evil you have done me, after all you have taken
from me,” said the marshal; and, at the memory of his children, his
voice slightly trembled; but he soon proceeded, with terrible calmness:
“You must feel that I now only live for vengeance. And I must have
such revenge as is worth the seeking--I must have your coward’s heart
palpitating on the point of my sword. Our last duel was play; this will
be earnest--oh! you shall see.”
The marshal walked up to the table, where he had laid the two swords.
Father d’Aigrigny needed all his resolution to restrain himself. The
implacable hate which he had always felt for Marshal Simon, added to
these insults, filled him with savage ardor. Yet he answered, in a tone
that was still calm: “For the last time, sir, I repeat to you, that my
profession forbids me to fight.”
“Then you refuse?” said the marshal, turning abruptly towards him.
“I refuse.”
“Positively?”
“Positively. Nothing on earth should force me to it.”
“Nothing.”
“No, sir; nothing.”
“We shall see,” said the marshal, as his hand fell with its full force
on the cheek of Father d’Aigrigny.
The Jesuit uttered a cry of fury; all his blood rushed to his face, so
roughly handled; the courage of the man (for he was brave), his ancient
military ardor, carried him away; his eyes sparkled, and, with teeth
firmly set, and clenched fists, he advanced towards the marshal,
exclaiming: “The swords! the swords!”
But suddenly, remembering the appearance of Rodin, and the interest
which the latter had in bringing about this encounter, he determined to
avoid the diabolical snare laid by his former socius, and so gathered
sufficient resolution to restrain his terrible resentment.
To his passing fury succeeded a calm, full of contrition; and, wishing
to play his part out to the end, he knelt down, and bowing his head
and beating his bosom, repeated: “Forgive me, Lord, for yielding to a
movement of rage! and, above all, forgive him who has injured me!”
In spite of his apparent resignation, the Jesuit’s voice was neatly
agitated. He seemed to feel a hot iron upon his cheek, for never before
in his life, whether as a soldier or a priest, had he suffered such
an insult. He had thrown himself upon his knees, partly from religious
mummery, and partly to avoid the gaze of the marshal, fearing that, were
he to meet his eye, he should not be able to answer for himself, but
give way to his impetuous feelings. On seeing the Jesuit kneel down, and
on hearing his hypocritical invocation, the marshal, whose sword was in
his hand, shook with indignation.
“Stand up, scoundrel!” he said, “stand up, wretch!” And he spurned the
Jesuit with his boot.
At this new insult, Father d’Aigrigny leaped up, as if he had been moved
by steel springs. It was too much; he could bear no more. Blinded with
rage, he rushed to the able, caught up the other sword, and exclaimed,
grinding his teeth together: “Ah! you will have blood. Well then! it
shall be yours--if possible!”
And the Jesuit, still in all the vigor of manhood, his face purple, his
large gray eyes sparkling with hate, fell upon his guard with the ease
and skill of a finished swordsman.
“At last!” cried the marshal, as their blades were about to cross.
But once more reflection came to damp the fire of the Jesuit. He
remembered how this hazardous duel would gratify the wishes of Rodin,
whose fate was in his hands, and whom he hated perhaps even more than
the marshal. Therefore, in spite of the fury which possessed him,
in spite of his secret hope to conquer in this combat, so strong and
healthy did he feel himself, and so fatal had been the effects of grief
on the constitution of Marshal Simon, he succeeded in mastering his
rage, and, to the amazement of the marshal, dropped the point of his
sword, exclaiming: “I am a minister of the Lord, and must not shed
blood. Forgive ne, heaven! and, oh! forgive my brother also.”
Then placing the blade beneath his heel, he drew the hilt suddenly
towards him, and broke the weapon into two pieces. The duel was no
longer possible. Father d’Aigrigny had put it out of his own power to
yield to a new burst of violence, of which he saw the imminent danger.
Marshal Simon remained for an instant mute and motionless with surprise
and indignation, for he also saw that the duel was now impossible. But,
suddenly, imitating the Jesuit, the marshal placed his blade also
under his heel, broke it in half, and picking up the pointed end, about
eighteen inches in length tore off his black silk cravat, rolled
it round the broken part so as to form a handle, and said to Father
d’Aigrigny: “Then we will fight with daggers.”
Struck with this mixture of coolness and ferocity, the Jesuit exclaimed:
“Is this then a demon of hell?”
“No; it is a father, whose children have been murdered,” said the
marshal, in a hollow voice, whilst he fitted the blade to his hand, and
a tear stood in the eye, that instantly after became fierce and ardent.
The Jesuit saw that tear. There was in this mixture of vindictive rage
and paternal grief something so awful, and yet so sacred, that for the
first time in his life Father d’Aigrigny felt fear--cowardly, ignoble
fear--fear for his own safety. While a combat with swords was in
question, in which skill, agility, and experience are such powerful
auxiliaries to courage, his only difficulty had been to repress the
ardor of his hate--but when he thought of the combat proposed, body
to body, face to face, heart to heart, he trembled, grew pale, and
exclaimed: “A butchery with knives?--never!”
His countenance and the accent betrayed his alarm, so that the marshal
himself was struck with it, and fearing to lose his revenge, he cried:
“After all, he is a coward! The wretch had only the courage or
the vanity of a fencer. This pitiful renegade--this traitor to
his country--whom I have cuffed, kicked--yes, kicked, most noble
marquis!--shame of your ancient house--disgrace to the rank of
gentleman, old or new--ah! it is not hypocrisy, it is not calculation,
as I at first thought--it is fear! You need the noise of war, and the
eyes of spectators to give you courage--”
“Sir--have a care!” said Father d’Aigrigny, stammering through his
clenched teeth, for rage and hate now made him forget his fear-“Must I
then spit on you, to make the little blood you have left rise to your
face?” cried the exasperated marshal.
“Oh! this is too much! too much!” said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed
piece of the blade that lay at his feet.
“It is not enough!” said the marshal, panting for breath. “There,
Judas!” and he spat in his face.
“If you will not fight now,” added the marshal, “I will beat you like a
dog, base child-murderer!”
On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered to an already
insulted man, Father d’Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot
his interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin--felt only
the frenzied ardor of revenge--and, recovering his courage, rejoiced
in the prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength
promised success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this
kind of brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense
advantage. In an instant, Father d’Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief
round the broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the
shock with intrepidity. For the short time that this unequal struggle
lasted--unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a
devouring fever, which had undermined his strength--the two combatants,
mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry. Had any one been
present at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him
to tell how they dealt their blows. He would have seen two
heads--frightful, livid, convulsed--rising, falling, now here,
now there--arms, now stiff as bars of iron, and now twisting like
serpents--and, in the midst of the undulation of the blue coat of the
marshal and the black cassock of the Jesuit, from time to time the
sudden gleam of the steel. He would have heard only a dull stamping,
and now and then a deep breath. In about two minutes at most, the two
adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other. One of them--it was
Father d’Aigrigny--contrived to disengage himself with a violent effort,
and to rise upon his knees. His arms fell powerless by his side; and
then the dying voice of the marshal murmured: “My children! Dagobert!”
“I have killed him,” said Father d’Aigrigny, in a weak voice; “but I
feel--that I am wounded--to death.”
Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed the other to
his bosom. His black cassock was pierced through and through, but the
blades, which had served for the combat, being triangular and very
sharp, the blood instead of issuing from the wounds, was flowing
inwards.
“Oh! I die--I choke,” said Father d’Aigrigny, whose features were
already changing with the approach of death.
At this moment, the key turned twice in the door, Rodin appeared on the
threshold, and, thrusting in his head, he said in a humble and discreet
voice: “May I come in?”
At this dreadful irony, Father d’Aigrigny strove to rise, and rush upon
Rodin; but he fell back exhausted; the blood was choking him.
“Monster of hell!” he muttered, casting on Rodin a terrible glance of
rage and agony. “Thou art the cause of my death.”
“I always told you, my dear father, that your old military habits would
be fatal to you,” answered Rodin with a frightful smile. “Only a few
days ago, I gave you warning, and advised you take a blow patiently from
this old swordsman--who seems to have done with that work forever, which
is well--for the Scripture says: ‘All they that take the sword shall
perish with the sword.’ And then this Marshal Simon might have had some
claim on his daughter’s inheritance. And, between ourselves, my dear
father, what was I to do? It was necessary to sacrifice you for the
common interest; the rather, that I well knew what you had in pickle for
me to-morrow. But I am not so easily caught napping.”
“Before I die,” said Father d’Aigrigny, in a failing voice, “I will
unmask you.”
“Oh, no, you will not,” said Rodin, shaking his head with a knowing air;
“I alone, if you please, will receive your last confession.”
“Oh! this is horrible,” moaned Father d’Aigrigny, whose eyes were
closing. “May God have mercy on me, if it is not too late!--Alas! at
this awful moment, I feel that I have been a great sinner--”
“And, above all, a great fool,” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders, and
watching with cold disdain the dying moments of his accomplice.
Father d’Aigrigny had now but a few minutes more to live. Rodin
perceived it, and said: “It is time to call for help.” And the Jesuit
ran, with an air of alarm and consternation, into the courtyard of the
house.
Others came at his cries; but, as he had promised, Rodin had only
quitted Father d’Aigrigny as the latter had breathed his last sigh.
That evening, alone in his chamber, by the glimmer of a little lamp,
Rodin sat plunged in a sort of ecstatic contemplation, before the print
representing Sixtus V. The great house-clock struck twelve. At the last
stroke, Rodin drew himself up in all the savage majesty of his infernal
triumph, and exclaimed: “This is the first of June. There are no more
Renneponts!--Methinks, I hear the hour from the clock of St. Peter’s at
Rome striking!”
CHAPTER LXVII. A MESSAGE.
While Rodin sat plunged in ambitious reverie, contemplating the portrait
of Sixtus V., good little Father Caboccini, whose warm embraces had
so much irritated the first mentioned personage, went secretly to
Faringhea, to deliver to him a fragment of an ivory crucifix, and
said to him with his usual air of jovial good-nature: “His Excellency
Cardinal Malipieri, on my departure from Rome, charged me to give you
this only on the 31st of May.”
The half-caste, who was seldom affected by anything, started abruptly,
almost with an expression of pain. His face darkened, and bending upon
the little father a piercing look, he said to him: “You were to add
something.”
“True,” replied Father Caboccini; “the words I was to add are these:
‘There is many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.’”
“It is well,” said the other. Heaving a deep sigh, he joined the
fragment of the ivory crucifix to a piece already in his possession; it
fitted exactly.
Father Caboccini looked at him with curiosity, for the cardinal had only
told him to deliver the ivory fragment to Faringhea, and to repeat the
above words. Being somewhat mystified with all this, the reverend father
said to the half-caste: “What are you going to do with that crucifix?”
“Nothing,” said Faringhea, still absorbed in painful thought.
“Nothing?” resumed the reverend father, in astonishment. “What, then,
was the use of bringing it so far?”
Without satisfying his curiosity, Faringhea replied: “At what hour to
morrow does Father Rodin go to the Rue Saint Francois?”
“Very early.”
“Before leaving home, he will go to say prayers in the chapel?”
“Yes, according to the habit of our reverend fathers.”
“You sleep near him?”
“Being his socius, I occupy the room next to his.”
“It is possible,” said Faringhea, after a moment’s silence, “that the
reverend father, full of the great interests which occupy his mind,
might forget to go to the chapel. In that case, pray remind him of this
pious duty.”
“I shall not fail.”
“Pray do not fail,” repeated Faringhea, anxiously.
“Be satisfied,” said the good little father; “I see that you take great
interest in his salvation.”
“Great interest.”
“It is very praiseworthy in you. Continue as you have begun, and you
may one day belong, completely to our Company,” said Father Caboccini,
affectionately.
“I am as yet but a poor auxiliary member,” said Faringhea, humbly; “but
no one is more devoted to the Society, body and soul. Bowanee is nothing
to it.”
“Bowanee! who is that, my good friend?”
“Bowanee makes corpses which rot in the ground. The Society makes
corpses which walk about.”
“Ah, yes! Perinde ac cadaver--they were the last words of our great
saint, Ignatius de Loyola. But who is this Bowanee?”
“Bowanee is to the Society what a child is to a man,” replied the
Asiatic, with growing excitement. “Glory to the Company--glory! Were my
father its enemy, I would kill my father. The man whose genius inspires
me most with admiration, respect, and terror--were he its enemy, I would
kill, in spite of all,” said the half-caste, with an effort. Then, after
a moment’s silence, he looked full in Caboccini’s face, and added: “I
say this, that you may report my words to Cardinal Malipieri, and beg
him to mention them to--”
Faringhea stopped short. “To whom should the cardinal mention your
words?” asked Caboccini.
“He knows,” replied the half-caste, abruptly. “Good night!”
“Good-night, my friend! I can only approve of your excellent sentiments
with regard to our Company. Alas! it is in want of energetic defenders,
for there are said to be traitors in its bosom.”
“For those,” said Faringhea, “we must have no pity.”
“Certainly,” said the good little father; “we understand one another.”
“Perhaps,” said the half-caste. “Do not, at all events, forget to remind
Father Rodin to go to chapel to-morrow morning.”
“I will take care of that,” said Father Caboccini.
The two men parted. On his return to the house, Caboccini learned that
a courier, only arrived that night from Rome, had brought despatches to
Rodin.
CHAPTER LXVIII. THE FIRST OF JUNE.
The chapel belonging to the house of the reverend fathers in the Rue de
Vaugirard, was gay and elegant. Large panes of stained glass admitted
a mysterious light; the altar shone with gold and silver; and at the
entrance of this little church, in an obscure corner beneath the organ
loft, was a font for holy water in sculptured marble. It was close to
this font, in a dark nook where he could hardly be seen, that Faringhea
knelt down, early on the 1st of June, as soon indeed as the chapel doors
were opened. The half-caste was exceedingly sad. From time to time he
started and sighed, as if agitated by a violent internal struggle.
This wild, untamable being, possessed with the monomania of evil and
destruction, felt, as may be imagined, a profound admiration for Rodin,
who exercised over him a kind of magnetic fascination. The half-caste,
almost a wild beast in human form, saw something supernatural in the
infernal genius of Rodin. And the latter, too sagacious not to have
discovered the savage devotion of this wretch, had made, as we have
seen, good use of him, is bringing about the tragical termination of the
loves of Adrienne and Djalma. But what excited to an incredible degree
the admiration of Faringhea, was what he knew of the Society of
Jesus. This immense, occult power, which undermined the world by its
subterraneous ramifications, and reached its ends by diabolical means,
had inspired the half-caste with a wild enthusiasm. And if anything in
the world surpassed his fanatical admiration for Rodin, it was his blind
devotion to the Company of Ignatius de Loyola, which, as he said, could
make corpses that walk about. Hid in the shadow of the organ-loft,
Faringhea was reflecting deeply on these things, when footsteps were
heard, and Rodin entered the chapel, accompanied by his socius, the
little one-eyed father.
Whether from absence of mind, or that the shadow of the orange-loft
completely concealed the half-caste, Rodin dipped his fingers into the
font without perceiving Faringhea, who stood motionless as a statue,
though a cold sweat streamed from his brow. The prayer of Rodin was,
as may be supposed, short; he was in haste to get to the Rue
Saint-Francois. After kneeling down with Father Caboccini for a few
seconds, he rose, bowed respectfully to the altar, and returned towards
the door, followed by his socius. At the moment Rodin approached the
font he perceived the tall figure of the half-caste standing out from
the midst of the dark shadow; advancing a little, Faringhea bowed
respectfully to Rodin, who said to him, in a low voice; “Come to me at
two o’clock.”
So saying, Rodin stretched forth his hand to dip it into the holy water;
but Faringhea spared him the trouble, by offering him the sprinkling
brush, which generally stood in the font.
Pressing between his dirty fingers the damp hairs of the brush,
which the half-caste held by the handle, Rodin wetted his thumb and
forefinger, and, according to custom, traced the sign of the cross upon
his forehead. Then, opening the door of the chapel, he went out, after
again repeating to Faringhea: “Come to me at two o’clock.”
Thinking he would also make use of the sprinkling-brush, which,
Faringhea, still motionless, held with a trembling hand, Father
Caboccini stretched out his fingers to reach it, when the half-breed,
as if determined to confine his favors to Rodin, hastily withdrew the
instrument. Deceived in his expectation, Father Caboccini lost no time
in following Rodin, whom he was not to leave that day for a single
moment, and, getting into a hackney-coach with him, set out for the Rue
Saint-Francois. It is impossible to describe the look which the half
breed fixed upon Rodin as the latter quitted the chapel. Left alone in
the sacred edifice, Faringhea sank upon the stones, half kneeling, half
crouching, with his face buried in his hands. As the coach drew near
the quarter of the Marais, in which was situated the house of Marius
de Rennepont, a feverish agitation, and the devouring impatience of
triumph, were visible on the countenance of Rodin. Two or three times he
opened his pocketbook, and read and arranged the different certificates
of death of the various members of the Rennepont family; and from time
to time he thrust his head anxiously from the coach-window, as if he had
wished to hasten the slow progress of the vehicle.
The good little father, his socius, did not take his eye off Rodin, and
his look had a strange and crafty expression. At last the coach entered
the Rue Saint-Francois, and stopped before the iron-studded door of the
old house, which had been closed for a century and a half. Rodin sprang
from the coach with the agility of a young man, and knocked violently
at the door, whilst Father Caboccini, less light of foot, descended more
prudently to the ground. No answer was returned to the loud knocking
of Rodin. Trembling with anxiety, he knocked again. This time, as he
listened attentively, he heard slow steps approaching. They stopped at
some distance from the door, which was not yet opened.
“It is keeping one upon red-hot coals,” said Rodin, for he felt as
if there was a burning fire in his chest. He again shook the door
violently, and began to gnaw his nails according to his custom.
Suddenly the door opened, and Samuel, the Jew guardian, appeared beneath
the porch. The countenance of the old man expressed bitter grief. Upon
his venerable cheeks were the traces of recent tears, which he strove to
dry with his trembling hands, as he opened the door to Rodin.
“Who are you, gentlemen?” said Samuel.
“I am the bearer of a power of attorney from the Abbe Gabriel, the only
living representative of the Rennepont family,” answered Rodin,
hastily. “This gentleman is my secretary,” added he, pointing to Father
Caboccini, who bowed.
After looking attentively at Rodin, Samuel resumed: “I recognize you,
sir. Please to follow me.” And the old guardian advanced towards the
house in the garden, making a sign to the two reverend fathers to
follow.
“That confounded old man kept me so long at the door,” said Rodin to his
socius, “that I think I have caught a cold in consequence. My lips and
throat are dried up, like parchment baked at the fire.”
“Will you not take something, my dear, good father? Suppose you were to
ask this man for a glass of water,” cried the little one-eyed priest,
with tender solicitude.
“No, no,” answered Rodin; “it is nothing. I am devoured by impatience.
That is all.”
Pale and desolate, Bathsheba, the wife of Samuel, was standing at the
door of the apartment she occupied with her husband, in the building
next the street. As the Jew passed before her, he said, in Hebrew: “The
curtains of the Hall of Mourning?”
“Are closed.”
“And the iron casket?”
“Is prepared,” answered Bathsheba, also in Hebrew.
After pronouncing these words, completely unintelligible to Rodin
and Caboccini, Samuel and Bathsheba exchanged a bitter smile,
notwithstanding the despair impressed on their countenances.
Ascending the steps, followed by the two reverend fathers, Samuel
entered the vestibule of the house, in which a lamp was burning. Endowed
with an excellent local memory, Rodin was about to take the direction
of the Red Saloon, in which had been held the first convocation of the
heirs, when Samuel stopped him, and said: “It is not that way.”
Then, taking the lamp, he advanced towards a dark staircase, for the
windows of the house had not been un-bricked.
“But,” said Rodin, “the last time, we met in a saloon on the ground
floor.”
“To-day, we must go higher,” answered Samuel, as he began slowly to
ascend the stairs.
“Where to? higher!” said Rodin, following him.
“To the Hall of Mourning,” replied the Jew, and he continued to ascend.
“What is the Hall of Mourning?” resumed Rodin, in some surprise.
“A place of tears and death,” answered the Israelite; and he kept on
ascending through the darkness, for the little lamp threw but a faint
light around.
“But,” said Rodin, more and more astonished, and stopping short on the
stairs, “why go to this place?”
“The money is there,” answered Samuel, and he went on,
“Oh? if the money is there, that alters the case,” replied Rodin; and he
made haste to regain the few steps he had lost by stopping.
Samuel continued to ascend, and, at a turn of the staircase, the two
Jesuits could see by the pale light of the little lamp, the profile of
the old Israelite, in the space left between the iron balustrade and the
wall, as he climbed on with difficulty above them. Rodin was struck with
the expression of Samuel’s countenance. His black eyes, generally
so calm, sparkled with ardor. His features, usually impressed with a
mixture of sorrow, intelligence, and goodness, seemed to grow harsh and
stern, and his thin lips wore a strange smile.
“It is not so very high,” whispered Rodin to Caboccini, “and yet my legs
ache, and I am quite out of breath. There is a strange throbbing too in
my temples.”
In fact, Rodin breathed hard, and with difficulty. To this confidential
communication, good little Father Caboccini, in general so full of
tender care for his colleague, made no answer. He seemed to be in deep
thought.
“Will we soon be there?” said Rodin, impatiently, to Samuel.
“We are there,” replied the Israelite.
“And a good thing too,” said Rodin.
“Very good,” said the Jew.
Stopping in the midst of a corridor, he pointed with the hand in which
he held the lamp to a large door from which streamed a faint light. In
spite of his growing surprise. Rodin entered resolutely, followed
by Father Caboccini and Samuel. The apartment in which these three
personage, now found themselves was very large. The daylight only
entered from a belvedere in the roof, the four sides of which had been
covered with leaden plates, each of which was pierced with seven holes,
forming a cross, thus:
*
* * *
*
*
*
Now, the light being only admitted through these holes, the obscurity
would have been complete, had it not been for a lamp, which burned on a
large massive slab of black marble, fixed against one of the walls.
One would have taken it for a funeral chamber, for it was all hung with
black curtains, fringed with white. There was no furniture, save the
slab of black marble we have already mentioned. On this slab was an iron
casket, of the manufacture of the seventeenth century, admirably adorned
with open work, like lace made of metal.
Addressing Rodin, who was wiping his forehead with his dirty
handkerchief, and looking round him with surprise, but not fear, Samuel
said to him: “The will of the testator, however strange it may appear,
is sacred with me, and must be accomplished in all things.”
“Certainly,” said Rodin; “but what are we to do here?”
“You will know presently, sir. You are the representative of the only
remaining heir of the Rennepont family, the Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont?”
“Yes, sir, and here are my papers,” replied Rodin.
“To save time,” resumed Samuel, “I will, previous to the arrival of the
magistrate, go through the inventory of the securities contained in
this casket, which I withdrew yesterday from the custody of the Bank of
France.”
“The securities are there?” cried Rodin, advancing eagerly towards the
casket.
“Yes, sir,” replied Samuel, “as by the list. Your secretary will call
them over, and I will produce each in turn. They can then be replaced
in the casket, which I will deliver up to you in presence of the
magistrate.”
“All this seems perfectly correct,” said Rodin.
Samuel delivered the list to Father Caboccini, and approaching the
casket, touched a spring, which was not seen by Rodin. The heavy lid
flew open, and, while Father Caboccini read the names of the different
securities, Samuel showed them to Rodin, who returned them to the old
Jew, after a careful examination. This verification did not last long,
for this immense fortune was all comprised, as we already know, in eight
government securities, five hundred thousand francs in bank-note,
thirty five thousand francs in gold, and two hundred and fifty francs in
silver--making in all an amount of two hundred and twelve millions, one
hundred and seventy-five thousand francs. When Rodin had counted the
last of the five hundred bank-notes, of a thousand francs each, he
said, as he returned them to Samuel: “It is quite right. Two hundred and
twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs!”
He was no doubt almost choked with joy, for he breathed with difficulty,
his eyes closed, and he was obliged to lean upon Father Caboccini’s arm,
as he said to him in an altered voice: “It is singular. I thought myself
proof against all such emotions; but what I feel is extraordinary.”
The natural paleness of the Jesuit increased so much, and he seemed
so much agitated with convulsive movements, that Father Caboccini
exclaimed: “My dear father, collect yourself; do not let success
overcome you thus.”
Whilst the little one-eyed man was, attending to Rodin, Samuel carefully
replaced the securities in the iron casket. Thanks to his unconquerable
energy, and to the joy he felt at seeing himself so near the term of his
labors, Rodin mastered this attack of weakness, and drawing himself up,
calm and proud, he said to Caboccini: “It is nothing. I did not survive
the cholera to die of joy on the first of June.”
And, though still frightfully pale, the countenance of the Jesuit shone
with audacious confidence. But now, when Rodin appeared to be quite
recovered, Father Caboccini seemed suddenly transformed. Though short,
fat, and one-eyed, his features assumed on the instant so firm, harsh,
and commanding an expression, that Rodin recoiled a step as he looked at
him. Then Father Caboccini, drawing a paper from his pocket, kissed it
respectfully, glanced sternly at Rodin, and read as follows, in a severe
and menacing tone:
“‘On receipt of the present rescript, the Reverend Father Rodin will
deliver up all his powers to the Reverend Father Caboccini, who is
alone commissioned, with the Reverend Father d’Aigrigny, to receive the
inheritance of the Rennepont family, if, in His eternal justice,
the Lord should restore this property, of which our Company has been
wronged.
“‘Moreover, on receipt of the present rescript, the Reverend Father
Rodin, in charge of a person to be named by the Reverend Father
Caboccini, shall be conveyed to our house in the Town of Laval, to be
kept in strict seclusion in his cell until further orders.’”
Then Father Caboccini handed the rescript to Rodin, that the latter
might read the signature of the General of the Company. Samuel, greatly
interested by this scene, drew a few steps nearer, leaving the casket
half-open. Suddenly, Rodin burst into a loud laugh--a laugh of joy,
contempt and triumph, impossible to describe. Father Caboccini looked
at him with angry astonishment; when Rodin, growing still more imperious
and haughty, and with an air of more sovereign disdain than ever, pushed
aside the paper with the back of his dirty hand and said: “What is the
date of that scribble?”
“The eleventh of May,” answered Father Caboccini in amazement.
“Here is a brief, that I received last night from Rome, under date of
the eighteenth. It informs me that I am appointed GENERAL OF THE ORDER.
Read!”
Father Caboccini took the paper, read it, and remained thunderstruck.
Then, returning it humbly to Rodin, he respectfully bent his knee before
him. Thus seemed the ambitious views of Rodin accomplished. In spite of
the hatred and suspicion of that party, of which Cardinal Malipieri was
the representative and the chief, Rodin, by address and craft, audacity
and persuasion, and in consequence of the high esteem in which his
partisans at Rome held his rare capacity, had succeeded in deposing his
General, and in procuring his own elevation to that eminent post. Now,
according to his calculation, aided by the millions he was about to
possess, it would be but one step from that post to the pontifical
throne. A mute witness of this scene, Samuel smiled also with an air of
triumph, as he closed the casket by means of the spring known only to
himself. That metallic sound recalled Rodin from the heights of his
mad ambition to the realities of life, and he said to Samuel in a sharp
voice: “You have heard? These millions must be delivered to me alone.”
He extended his hands eagerly and impatiently towards the casket, as
if he would have taken possession of it, before the arrival of the
magistrate. Then Samuel in his turn seemed transfigured, and, folding
his arms upon his breast, and drawing up his aged form to its full
height, he assumed a threatening and imposing air. His eyes flashed with
indignation, and he said in a solemn tone: “This fortune--at first the
humble remains of the inheritance of the most noble of men, whom the
plots of the sons of Loyola drove to suicide--this fortune, which has
since become royal in amount, thanks to the sacred probity of three
generations of faithful servants--this fortune shall never be the reward
of falsehood, hypocrisy and murder. No! the eternal justice of heaven
will not allow it.”
“On murder? what do you mean, sir?” asked Rodin, boldly.
Samuel made no answer. He stamped his foot, and extended his arm slowly
towards the extremity of the apartment. Then Rodin and Father Caboccini
beheld an awful spectacle. The draperies on the wall were drawn aside,
as if by an invisible hand. Round a funeral vault, faintly illumined-by
the bluish light of a silver lamp, six dead bodies were ranged
upon black biers, dressed in long black robes. They were: Jacques
Rennepont--Francois Hardy--Rose and Blanche Simon--Adrienne and Djalma.
They appeared to be asleep. Their eyelids were closed, their hands
crossed over their breasts. Father Caboccini, trembling in every limb,
made the sign of the cross, and retreating to the opposite wall, buried
his face in his hands. Rodin on the contrary, with agitated countenance,
staring eyes, and hair standing on end, yielding to an invincible
attraction, advanced towards those inanimate forms. One would have said
that these last of the Renneponts had only just expired. They seemed to
be in the first hour of the eternal sleep.(44)
“Behold those whom thou host slain!” cried Samuel, in a voice broken
with sobs. “Yea! your detestable plots caused their death--and, as they
fell one by one, it was my pious care to obtain possession of their
poor remains, that they may all repose in the same sepulchre.
Oh!--cursed--cursed--cursed--be thou who has killed them! But their
spoils shall escape thy murderous hands.”
Rodin, still drawn forward in spite of himself, had approached the
funeral couch of Djalma. Surmounting his first alarm, the Jesuit, to
assure himself that he was not the sport of frightful dream, ventured
to touch the hands of the Asiatic--and found that they were damp and
pliant, though cold as ice.
The Jesuit drew back in horror. For some seconds, he trembled
convulsively. But, his first amazement over, reflection returned, and,
with reflection came that invincible energy, that infernal obstinacy of
character, that gave him so much power. Steadying himself on his legs,
drawing his hand across his brow, raising his head, moistening his lips
two or three times before he spoke--for his throat and mouth grew
ever drier and hotter, without his being able to explain the cause--he
succeeded in giving to his features an imperious and ironical
expression, and, turning towards Samuel, who wept in silence, he said to
him, in a hoarse, guttural voice: “I need not show you the certificates
of their death. There they are in person.” And he pointed with his bony
hand to the six dead bodies.
At these words of his General, Father Caboccini again made the sign of
the cross, as if he had seen a fiend.
“Oh, my God!” cried Samuel; “Thou hast quite abandoned this man. With
what a calm look he contemplates his victims!”
“Come, sir!” said Rodin, with a horrid smile; “this is a natural waxwork
exhibition, that is all. My calmness proves my innocence--and we had
best come at once to business. I have an appointment at two o’clock. So
let us carry down this casket.”
He advanced towards the marble slab. Seized with indignation and horror,
Samuel threw himself before him, and, pressing with all his might on a
knob in the lid of the casket--a knob which yielded to the pressure--he
exclaimed: “Since your infernal soul is incapable of remorse, it may
perhaps be shaken by disappointed avarice.”
“What does he say?” cried Rodin. “What is he doing?”
“Look!” said Samuel, in his turn assuming an air of savage triumph. “I
told you, that the spoils of your victims should escape your murderous
hands.”
Hardly had he uttered these words, before through the open-work of the
iron casket rose a light cloud of smoke, and an odor as of burnt paper
spread itself through the room. Rodin understood it instantly. “Fire!”
he exclaimed, as he rushed forward to seize the casket. It had been made
fast to the heavy marble slab.
“Yes, fire,” said Samuel. “In a few minutes, of that immense treasure
there will remain nothing but ashes. And better so, than that it should
belong to you or yours. This treasure is not mine, and it only remains
for me to destroy it--since Gabriel de Rennepont will be faithful to the
oath he has taken.”
“Help! water! water!” cried Rodin, as he covered the casket with his
body, trying in vain to extinguish the flames, which, fanned by the
current of air, now issued from the thousand apertures in the lid; but
soon the intensity of the fire diminished, a few threads of bluish smoke
alone mounted upwards--and then, all was extinct.
The work was done! Breathless and faint, Rodin leaned against the marble
slab. For the first time in his life, he wept; large tears of rage
rolled down his cadaverous cheeks. But suddenly, dreadful pains, at
first dull, but gradually augmenting in intensity, seized on him with so
much fury, though he employed all his energy to struggle against them,
that he fell on his knees, and, pressing his two hands to his chest,
murmured with an attempt to smile: “It is nothing. Do not be alarmed. A
few spasms--that is all. The treasure is destroyed--but I remain General
of the Order. Oh! I suffer. What a furnace!” he added, writhing in
agony. “Since I entered this cursed house, I know not what ails me.
If--I had not lived on roots--water--bread--which I go myself to buy--I
should think--I was poisoned--for I triumph--and Cardinal Malipieri has
long arms. Yes--I still triumph--for I will not die--this time no more
than the other--I will not die!”
Then, as he stretched out his arms convulsively, he continued: “It is
fire that devours my entrails. No doubt, they have tried to poison me.
But when? but how?”
After another pause, Rodin again cried out, in a stifled voice: “Help!
help me, you that stand looking on--like, spectres!--Help me, I say!”
Horror-struck at this dreadful agony, Samuel and Father Caboccini were
unable to stir.
“Help!” repeated Rodin, in a tone of strangulation, “This poison is
horrible.--But how--” Then, with a terrific cry of rage, as if a sudden
idea had struck him, he exclaimed: “Ha! Faringhea--this morning--the
holy water--he knows such subtle poisons. Yes--it is he--he had an
interview with Malipieri. The demon!--Oh! it was well played. The
Borgias are still the same. Oh! it is all over. I die. They will regret
me, the fools!--Oh! hell! hell! The Church knows not its loss--but I
burn--help!”
They came to his assistance. Quick steps were heard upon the stairs, and
Dr. Baleinier, followed by the Princess de Saint-Dizier, appeared at the
entrance of the Hall of Mourning. The princess had learned vaguely that
morning the death of Father d’Aigrigny, and had come to question Rodin
upon the subject. When this woman, entering the room, suddenly saw the
frightful spectacle that offered itself to her view--when she saw
Rodin writhing in horrible agony, and, further on, by the light of the
sepulchral lamp, those six corpses--and, amongst them, her own niece,
and the two orphans whom she had sent to meet their death--she stood
petrified with horror, and her reason was unable to withstand the shock.
She looked slowly round her, and then raised her arms on high, and burst
into a wild fit of laughter. She had gone mad. Whilst Dr. Baleinier
supported the head of Rodin, who expired in his arms, Faringhea appeared
at the door; remaining in the shade, he cast a ferocious glance at
the corpse of the Jesuit. “He would have made himself the chief of the
Company of Jesus, to destroy it,” said he; “with me, the Company of
Jesus stands in the place of Bowanee. I have obeyed the cardinal!”
(44) Should this appear incredible, we would remind the reader of
the marvellous discoveries in the art of embalming--particularly Dr.
Gannal’s.
EPILOGUE.
CHAPTER I. FOUR YEARS AFTER.
Four years had elapsed, since the events we have just related,
when Gabriel de Rennepont wrote the following letter to Abbe Joseph
Charpentier, curate of the Parish of Saint-Aubin, a hamlet of Sologne:
“Springwater Farm, “June 2d, 1836.
“Intending to write to you yesterday, my bear Joseph, I seated myself
at the little old black table, that you will remember well. My window
looks, you know, upon the farmyard, and I can see all that takes place
there. These are grave preliminaries, my friend, but I am coming to the
point. I had just taken my seat at the table, when, looking from the
window, this is what I saw. You, my dear Joseph, who can draw so well,
should have been there to have sketched the charming scene. The sun was
sinking, the sky serene, the air warm and balmy with the breath of the
hawthorn, which, flowering by the side of a little rivulet, forms the
edge which borders the yard. Under the large pear-tree, close to the
wall of the barn, sat upon the stone bench my adopted father, Dagobert,
that brave and honest soldier whom you love so much. He appeared
thoughtful, his white head was bowed on his bosom; with absent mind,
he patted old Spoil-sport, whose intelligent face was resting on his
master’s knees. By his side was his wife, my dear adopted mother,
occupied with her sewing; and near them, on a stool, sat Angela,
the wife of Agricola, nursing her last-born child, while the gentle
Magdalen, with the eldest boy in her lap, was occupied in teaching him
the letters of the alphabet. Agricola had just returned from the fields,
and was beginning to unyoke his cattle, when, struck, like me, no doubt,
with this picture, he stood gazing on it for a moment, with his hand
still leaning on the yoke, beneath which bent submissive the broad
foreheads of his two large black oxen. I cannot express to you, my
friend, the enchanting repose of this picture, lighted by the last rays
of the sun, here and there broken by the thick foliage. What various
and touching types! The venerable face of the soldier--the good, loving
countenance of my adopted mother--the fresh beauty of Angela, smiling
on her little child--the soft melancholy of the hunchback, now and
then pressing her lips to the fair, laughing cheek of Agricola’s eldest
son--and then Agricola himself, in his manly beauty, which seems to
reflect so well the valor and honesty of his heart! Oh, my Friend!
in contemplating this assemblage of good, devoted, noble, and loving
beings, so dear to each other, living retired in a little farm of our
poor Sologne, my heart rose towards heaven with a feeling of ineffable
gratitude. This peace of the family circle--this clear evening, with the
perfume of the woods and wild flowers wafted on the breeze--this deep
silence, only broken by the murmur of the neighboring rill--all affected
me with one of these passing fits of vague and sweet emotion, which
one feels but cannot express. You well know it, my friend, who, in your
solitary walks, in the midst of your immense plains of flowering heath,
surrounded by forests of fir trees, often feel your eyes grow moist,
without being able to explain the cause of that sweet melancholy, which
I, too, have often felt, during those glorious nights passed in the
profound solitudes of America.
“But, alas! a painful incident disturbed the serenity of the picture.
Suddenly I heard Dagobert’s wife say to him: ‘My dear--you are weeping!’
“At these words, Agricola, Angela, and Magdalen gathered round the
soldier. Anxiety was visible upon every face. Then, as he raised his
head abruptly, one could see two large tears trickle down his cheek to
his white moustache. ‘It is nothing, my children,’ said he, in a voice
of emotion ‘it is nothing. Only, to-day is the first of June--and this
day four years--’ He could not complete the sentence; and, as he raised
his hands to his eyes, to brush away the tears, we saw that he held
between his fingers a little bronze chain, with a medal suspended to it.
That is his dearest relic. Four years ago, almost dying with despair at
the loss of the two angels, of whom I have so often spoken to you, my
friend, he took from the neck of Marshal Simon, brought home dead from a
fatal duel, this chain and medal which his children had so long worn.
I went down instantly, as you may suppose, to endeavor to soothe the
painful remembrances of this excellent man; gradually, he grew calmer,
and the evening was passed in a pious and quiet sadness.
“You cannot imagine, my friend, when I returned to my chamber, what
cruel thoughts came to my mind, as I recalled those past events, from
which I generally turn away with fear and horror. Then I saw once more
the victims of those terrible and mysterious plots, the awful depths of
which have never been penetrated thanks to the death of Father d’A.
and Father R., and the incurable madness of Madame de St.-D., the three
authors or accomplices of the dreadful deeds. The calamities occasioned
by them are irreparable; for those who were thus sacrificed to a
criminal ambition, would have been the pride of humanity by the good
they would have done. Ah, my friend! if you had known those noble
hearts; if you had known the projects of splendid charity, formed by
that young lady, whose heart was so generous, whose mind so elevated,
whose soul so great! On the eve of her death, as a kind of prelude to
her magnificent designs, after a conversation, the subject of which I
must keep secret, even from you, she put into my hands a considerable
sum, saying, with her usual grace and goodness: ‘I have been threatened
with ruin, and it might perhaps come. What I now confide to you will at
least be safe--safe--for those who suffer. Give much--give freely--make
as many happy hearts as you can. My happiness shall have a royal
inauguration!!’ I do not know whether I ever told you, my friend,
that, after those fatal events, seeing Dagobert and his wife reduced to
misery, poor ‘Mother Bunch’ hardly able to earn a wretched subsistence,
Agricola soon to become a father, and myself deprived of my curacy, and
suspended by my bishop, for having given religious consolations to
a Protestant, and offered up prayers at the tomb of an unfortunate
suicide--I considered myself justified in employing a small portion of
the sum intrusted to me by Mdlle. de Cardoville in the purchase of this
farm in Dagobert’s name.
“Yes, my friend, such is the origin of my fortune. The farmer to
whom these few acres formerly belonged, gave us the rudiments of our
agricultural education, and common sense, and the study of a few good
practical books, completed it. From an excellent workman, Agricola has
become an equally excellent husbandman; I have tried to imitate him, and
have put my hand also to the plough there is no derogation in it, for
the labor which provides food for man is thrice hallowed, and it is
truly to serve and glorify God, to cultivate and enrich the earth He has
created. Dagobert, when his first grief was a little appeased, seemed to
gather new vigor from this healthy life of the fields; and, during his
exile in Siberia, he had already learned to till the ground. Finally, my
dear adopted mother and sister, and Agricola’s good wife, have divided
between them the household cares; and God has blessed this little colony
of people, who, alas! have been sorely tried by misfortune, and who now
only ask of toil and solitude, a quite, laborious, innocent life, and
oblivion of great sorrows. Sometimes, in our winter evenings, you have
been able to appreciate the delicate and charming mind of the gentle
‘Mother Bunch,’ the rare poetical imagination of Agricola, the
tenderness of his mother, the good sense of his father, the exquisite
natural grace of Angela. Tell me, my friend, was it possible to unite
more elements of domestic happiness? What long evenings have we passed
round the fire of crackling wood, reading, or commenting on a few
immortal works, which always warm the heart, and enlarge the soul!
What sweet talk have we had, prolonged far into the night! And then
Agricola’s pastorals, and the timid literary confidences of Magdalen!
And the fresh, clear voice of Angela, joined to the deep manly tones of
Agricola, in songs of simple melody! And the old stories of Dagobert,
so energetic and picturesque in their warlike spirit! And the adorable
gayety of the children, in their sports with good old Spoil-sport,
who rather lends himself to their play than takes part in it--for the
faithful, intelligent creature seems always to be looking for somebody,
as Dagobert says--and he is right. Yes, the dog also regrets those two
angels, of whom he was the devoted guardian!
“Do not think, my friend, that our happiness makes us forgetful. No, no;
not a day passes without our repeating, with pious and tender respect,
those names so dear to our heart. And these painful memories, hovering
forever about us, give to our calm and happy existence that shade of
mild seriousness which struck you so much. No doubt, my friend, this
kind of life, bounded by the family circle, and not extending beyond,
for the happiness or improvement of our brethren, may be set down as
selfish; but, alas! we have not the means--and though the poor man
always finds a place at our frugal table, and shelter beneath our roof,
we must renounce all great projects of fraternal action. The little
revenue of our farm just suffices to supply our wants. Alas! when I
think over it, notwithstanding a momentary regret, I cannot blame my
resolution to keep faithfully my sacred oath, and to renounce that great
inheritance, which, alas! had become immense by the death of my kindred.
Yes, I believe I performed a duty, when I begged the guardian of that
treasure to reduce it to ashes, rather than let it fall into the hands
of people, who would have made an execrable use of it, or to perjure
myself by disputing a donation which I had granted freely, voluntarily,
sincerely. And yet, when I picture to myself the realization of the
magnificent views of--my ancestor--an admirable Utopia, only possible
with immense resources--and which Mdlle. de Cardoville hoped to carry
into execution, with the aid of M. Francois Hardy, of Prince Djalma,
of Marshal Simon and his daughters, and of myself--when I think of the
dazzling focus of living forces, which such an association would have
been, and of the immense influence it might have had on the happiness of
the whole human race--my indignation and horror, as an honest man and
a Christian, are excited against that abominable Company, whose black
plots nipped in their bud all those great hopes, which promised so much
for futurity. What remains now of all these splendid projects? Seven
tombs. For my grave also is dug in that mausoleum, which Samuel has
erected on the site of the house in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Francois, and of
which he remains the keeper--faithful to the end!
“I had written thus far, my friend, when I received your letter. So,
after having forbidden you to see me, your bishop now orders that you
shall cease to correspond with me. Your touching, painful regrets
have deeply moved me, my friend. Often have we talked together of
ecclesiastical discipline, and of the absolute power of the bishops
over, us, the poor working clergy, left to their mercy without remedy.
It is painful, but it is the law of the church, my friend, and you have
sworn to observe it. Submit as I have submitted. Every engagement is
binding upon the man of honor! My poor, dear Joseph! would that you had
the compensations which remained to me, after the rupture of ties that I
so much value. But I know too well what you must feel--I cannot go on
I find it impossible to continue this letter, I might be bitter against
those whose orders we are bound to respect. Since it must be so, this
letter shall be my last. Farewell, my friend! farewell forever. My heart
is almost broken.
“GABRIEL DE RENNEPONT.”
CHAPTER II. THE REDEMPTION.
Day was about to dawn. A rosy light, almost imperceptible, began to
glimmer in the east; but the stars still shone, sparkling with radiance,
upon the azure of the zenith. The birds awoke beneath the fresh foliage
of the great woods; and, with isolated warblings, sang the prelude of
their morning-concert. A light mist rose from the high grass, bathed in
nocturnal dew, while the calm and limpid waters of a vast lake reflected
the whitening dawn in their deep, blue mirror. Everything promised one
of those warm and joyous days, that belong to the opening of summer.
Half-way up the slope of a hill, facing the east, a tuft of old, moss
grown willows, whose rugged bark disappeared beneath the climbing
branches of wild honeysuckle and harebells, formed a natural harbor;
and on their gnarled and enormous roots, covered with thick moss, were
seated a man and a woman, whose white hair, deep wrinkles, and bending
figures, announced extreme old age. And yet this woman had only lately
been young and beautiful, with long black hair overshadowing her pale
forehead. And yet this man had, a short time ago, been still in the
vigor of his age. From the spot where this man and woman were reposing,
could be seen the valley, the lake, the woods, and, soaring above the
woods, the blue summit of a high mountain, from behind which the sun was
about to rise. This picture, half veiled by the pale transparency of the
morning twilight, was pleasing, melancholy, and solemn.
“Oh, my sister!” said the old man to the woman, who was reposing with
him beneath the rustic arbor formed by the tuft of willow-trees; “oh,
my sister! how many times during the centuries in which the hand of the
Lord carried us onward, and, separated from each other, we traversed the
world from pole to pole--how many times we have witnessed this awakening
of nature with a sentiment of incurable grief!--Alas! it was but another
day of wandering--another useless day added to our life, since it
brought death no nearer!”
“But now what happiness, oh, my brother! since the Lord has had mercy on
us, and, with us, as with all other creatures, every returning day is a
step nearer to the grave. Glory to Him! yes, glory!”
“Glory to Him, my sister! for since yesterday, when we again met, I feel
that indescribable languor which announces the approach of death.”
“Like you, my brother, I feel my strength, already shaken, passing away
in a sweet exhaustion. Doubtless, the term of our life approaches. The
wrath of the Lord is satisfied.”
“Alas, my sister! doubtless also, the last of my doomed race, will, at
the same time, complete our redemption by his death; for the will of
heaven is manifest, that I can only be pardoned, when the last of
my family shall have disappeared from the face of the earth. To him,
holiest amongst the holiest--was reserved the favor of accomplishing
this end he who has done so much for the salvation of his brethren!”
“Oh, yes, my brother! he who has suffered so much, and without
complaining, drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of woe--he, the minister
of the Lord, who has been his Master’s image upon earth--he was fitted
for the last instrument of this redemption!”
“Yes, for I feel, my sister, that, at this hour, the last of my race,
touching victim of slow persecution, is on the point of resigning his
angelic soul to God. Thus, even to the end, have I been fatal to
my doomed family. Lord, if Thy mercy is great, Thy anger is great
likewise!”
“Courage and hope, my brother! Think how after the expiration cometh
pardon, and pardon is followed by a blessing. The Lord punished, in
you and your posterity, the artisan rendered wicked by misfortune and
injustice. He said to you: ‘Go on! without truce or rest--and your labor
shall be vain--and every evening, throwing yourself on the hard ground,
you shall be no nearer to the end of your eternal course!’--And so, for
centuries, men without pity have said to the artisan: ‘Work! work! work!
without truce or rest--and your labor shall be fruitful for all others,
but fruitless for yourself--and every evening, throwing yourself on the
hard ground, you shall be no nearer to happiness and repose; and your
wages shall only suffice to keep you alive in pain, privation, and
poverty!’”
“Alas! alas! will it be always thus?”
“No, no, my brother! and instead of weeping over your lost race, rejoice
for them--since their death was needed for your redemption, and in
redeeming you, heaven will redeem the artisan, cursed and feared by
those--who have laid on him the iron yoke. Yes, my brother! the time
draweth nigh--heaven’s mercy will not stop with us alone. Yes, I tell
you; in us will be rescued both the WOMAN and the SLAVE of these
modern ages. The trial has been hard, brother; it has lasted throughout
eighteen centuries; but it will last no longer. Look, my brother!
see that rosy light, there in the east, gradually spreading over the
firmament! Thus will rise the sun of the new emancipation--peaceful,
holy, great, salutary, fruitful, filling the world with light and
vivifying heat, like the day-star that will soon appear in heaven!”
“Yes, yes, my sister! I feel it. Your words are prophetic. We
shall close our heavy eyes just as we see the aurora of the day of
deliverance--a fair, a splendid day, like that which is about to dawn.
Henceforth I will only shed tears of pride and glory for those of my
race, who have died the martyrs of humanity, sacrificed by humanity’s
eternal enemies--for the true ancestors of the sacrilegious wretches,
who blaspheme the name of Jesus by giving it to their Company, were the
false Scribes and Pharisees, whom the Saviour cursed!--Yes! glory to the
descendants of my family, who have been the last martyrs offered up by
the accomplices of all slavery and all despotism, the pitiless enemies
of those who wish to think, and not to suffer in silence--of those that
would feign enjoy, as children of heaven, the gifts which the Creator
has bestowed upon all the human family. Yes, the day approaches--the end
of the reign of our modern Pharisees--the false priests, who lend their
sacrilegious aid to the merciless selfishness of the strong against the
weak, by daring to maintain in the face of the exhaustless treasures
of the creation, that God has made man for tears, and sorrow, and
suffering--the false priests, who are the agents of all oppression, and
would bow to the earth, in brutish and hopeless humiliation, the brow of
every creature. No, no! let man lift his head proudly! God made him to
be noble and intelligent free and happy.”
“Oh, my brother! your words also are prophetic. Yes, yes! the dawn of
that bright day approaches, even as the dawn of the natural day which,
by the mercy of God, will be our last on earth.”
“The last, my sister; for a strange weakness creeps over me, all matter
seems dissolving in me, and my soul aspires to mount to heaven.”
“Mine eyes are growing dim, brother; I can scarcely see that light in
the east, which lately appeared so red.”
“Sister! it is through a confused vapor that I now see the valley--the
lake--the woods. My strength fails me.”
“Blessed be God, brother! the moment of eternal rest is at hand.”
“Yes, it comes, my sister! the sweetness of the everlasting sleep takes
possession of my senses.”
“Oh, happiness! I am dying--”
“These eyes are closing, sister!”
“We are then forgiven!”
“Forgiven!”
“Oh, my brother! may this Divine redemption extend to all those who
suffer upon the earth!”
“Die in peace, my sister! The great day has dawned--the sun is
rising--behold!”
“Blessed be God!”
“Blessed be God!”
And at the moment when those two voices ceased forever, the sun rose
radiant and dazzling, and deluged the valley with its beams.
To M. C--P--.
To you, my friend, I dedicated this book. To inscribe it with your name,
was to assume an engagement that, in the absence of talent, it should
be at least conscientious, sincere, and of a salutary influence, however
limited. My object is attained. Some select hearts, like yours, my
friend, have put into practice the legitimate association of labor,
capital, and intelligence, and have already granted to their workmen a
proportionate share in the profits of their industry. Others have
laid the foundations of Common Dwelling-houses, and one of the chief
capitalists of Hamburg has favored me with his views respecting an
establishment of this kind, on the most gigantic scale.
As for the dispersion of the members of the Company of Jesus, I have
taken less part in it than other enemies of the detestable doctrines of
Loyola, whose influence and authority were far greater than mine.
Adieu, my friend. I could have wished this work more worthy of you; but
you are indulgent, and will at least give me credit for the intentions
which dictated it.
Believe me, Yours truly,
EUGENE SUE.
Paris, 25th August, 1845. Paris, 25th August, 1845.
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