The Wandering Jew, Book III.

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THE WANDERING JEW

By Eugene Sue



BOOK III.


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




CHAPTER XXXVI.

A FEMALE JESUIT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No!" replies another.

"People say very vile things about him."

"Do they? really! What then?"

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

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

"I shall avoid him in future!"

"So will I," etc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, a BLANK COMMUNION means breaking an unconsecrated wafer!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, madame?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE PLOT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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