The Wandering Jew, Book IV.

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


"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."