The Wandering Jew, Book X.

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"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."