The Wandering Jew, Book III.

E >> Eugene Sue >> The Wandering Jew, Book III.


"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.