The Wandering Jew, Complete

E >> Eugene Sue >> The Wandering Jew, Complete


"I have never had such stupid pride, you know it well," said Adrienne,
looking at the doctor with growing terror.

"Then, my dear child, to what are we to attribute your strange and
inexplicable mode of life? Can you even persuade yourself that it is
founded on reason? Oh, my child! take care?--As yet, you only indulge in
charming originalities of conduct, poetical eccentricities, sweet and
vague reveries--but the tendency is fatal, the downward course
irresistible. Take care, take care!--the healthful, graceful, spiritual
portion of your intelligence has yet the upper hand, and imprints its
stamp upon all your extravagances; but you do not know, believe me, with
what frightful force the insane portion of the mind, at a given moment,
develops itself and strangles up the rest. Then we have no longer
graceful eccentricities, like yours, but ridiculous, sordid, hideous
delusions."

"Oh! you frighten me," said the unfortunate girl, as she passed her
trembling hands across her burning brow.

"Then," continued M. Baleinier, in an agitated voice, "then the last rays
of intelligence are extinguished; then madness--for we must pronounce the
dreaded word--gets the upper hand, and displays itself in furious and
savage transports."

"Like the woman upstairs," murmured Adrienne, as, with fixed and eager
look, she raised her finger towards the ceiling.

"Sometimes," continued the doctor, alarmed himself at the terrible
consequences of his own words, but yielding to the inexorable fatality of
his situation, "sometimes madness takes a stupid and brutal form; the
unfortunate creature, who is attacked by it, preserves nothing human but
the shape--has only the instincts of the lower animals--eats with
voracity, and moves ever backwards and forwards in the cell, in which
such a being is obliged to be confined. That is all its life--all."

"Like the woman yonder." cried Adrienne, with a still wilder look, as she
slowly raised her arm towards the window that was visible on the other
side of the building.

"Why--yes," said M. Baleinier. "Like you, unhappy child, those women were
young, fair, and sensible, but like you, alas! they had in them the fatal
germ of insanity, which, not having been destroyed in time, grew, and
grew, larger and ever larger, until it overspread and destroyed their
reason."

"Oh, mercy!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose head was getting confused
with terror; "mercy! do not tell me such things!--I am afraid. Take me
from this place--oh! take me from this place!" she added, with a
heartrending accent; "for, if I remain here, I shall end by going mad!
No," added she, struggling with the terrible agony which assailed her,
"no, do not hope it! I shall not become mad. I have all my reason. I am
not blind enough to believe what you tell me. Doubtless, I live
differently from others; think differently from others; am shocked by
things that do not offend others; but what does all this prove? Only that
I am different from others. Have I a bad heart? Am I envious or selfish?
My ideas are singular, I knew--yes, I confess it--but then, M. Baleinier,
is not their tendency good, generous, noble!--Oh!" cried Adrienne's
supplicating voice, while her tears flowed abundantly, "I have never in
my life done one malicious action; my worst errors have arisen from
excess of generosity. Is it madness to wish to see everybody about one
too happy? And again, if you are mad, you must feel it yourself--and I do
not feel it--and yet--I scarcely know--you tell me such terrible things
of those two women! You ought to know these things better than I. But
then," added Mdlle, de Cardoville, with an accent of the deepest despair,
"something ought to have been done. Why, if you felt an interest for me,
did you wait so long? Why did you not take pity on me sooner? But the
most frightful fact is, that I do not know whether I ought to believe
you--for all this may be a snare--but no, no! you weep--it is true,
then!--you weep!" She looked anxiously at M. Baleinier, who,
notwithstanding his cynical philosophy, could not restrain his tears at
the sight of these nameless tortures.

"You weep over me," she continued; "so it is true! But (good heaven!)
must there not be something done? I will do all that you wish--all--so
that I may not be like those women. But if it should be too late? no, it
is not too late--say it is not too late, my good M. Baleinier! Oh, now I
ask your pardon for what I said when you came in--but then I did not
know, you see--I did not know!"

To these few broken words, interrupted by sobs, and rushing forth in a
sort of feverish excitement, succeeded a silence of some minutes, during
which the deeply affected physician dried his tears. His resolution had
almost failed him. Adrienne hid her face in her hands. Suddenly she again
lifted her head; her countenance was calmer than before, though agitated
by a nervous trembling.

"M. Baleinier," she resumed, with touching dignity, "I hardly know what I
said to you just now. Terror, I think, made me wander; I have again
collected myself. Hear me! I know that I am in your power; I know that
nothing can deliver me from it. Are you an implacable enemy? or are you a
friend? I am not able to determine. Do you really apprehend, as you
assure me, that what is now eccentricity will hereafter become
madness--or are you rather the accomplice in some infernal machination?
You alone can answer. In spite of my boasted courage, I confess myself
conquered. Whatever is required of me--you understand, whatever it may
be, I will subscribe to, I give you my word and you know that I hold it
sacred--you have therefore no longer any interest to keep me here. If, on
the contrary, you really think my reason in danger--and I own that you
have awakened in my mind vague, but frightful doubts--tell it me, and I
will believe you. I am alone, at your mercy, without friends, without
counsel. I trust myself blindly to you. I know not whether I address
myself to a deliverer or a destroyer--but I say to you--here is my
happiness--here is my life--take it--I have no strength to dispute it
with you!"

These touching words, full of mournful resignation and almost hopeless
reliance, gave the finishing stroke to the indecision of M. Baleinier.
Already deeply moved by this scene, and without reflecting on the
consequences of what he was about to do, he determined at all events to
dissipate the terrible and unjust fears with which he had inspired
Adrienne. Sentiments of remorse and pity, which now animated the
physician, were visible in his countenance.

Alas! they were too visible. The moment he approached to take the hand of
Mdlle. de Cardoville, a low but sharp voice exclaimed from behind the
wicket: "M. Baleinier!"

"Rodin!" muttered the startled doctor to himself; "he's been spying on
me!"

"Who calls you?" asked the lady of the physician.

"A person that I promised to meet here this morning." replied he, with
the utmost depression, "to go with him to St. Mary's Convent, which is
close at hand."

"And what answer have you to give me?" said Adrienne with mortal anguish.

After a moment's solemn silence, during which he turned his face towards
the wicket, the doctor replied, in a voice of deep emotion: "I am--what I
have always been--a friend incapable of deceiving you."

Adrienne became deadly pale. Then, extending her hand to M. Baleinier,
she said to him in a voice that she endeavored to render calm: "Thank
you--I will have courage--but will it be very long?"

"Perhaps a month. Solitude, reflection, a proper regimen, my attentive
care, may do much. You will be allowed everything that is compatible with
your situation. Every attention will be paid you. If this room displeases
you, I will see you have another."

"No--this or another--it is of little consequence," answered Adrienne,
with an air of the deepest dejection.

"Come, come! be of good courage. There is no reason to despair."

"Perhaps you flatter me," said Adrienne with the shadow of a smile.
"Return soon," she added, "my dear M. Baleinier! my only hope rests in
you now."

Her head fell upon her bosom, her hands upon her knees and she remained
sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, motionless, overwhelmed with woe.

"Mad!" she said when M. Baleinier had disappeared. "Perhaps mad!"

We have enlarged upon this episode much less romantic than it may appear.
Many times have motives of interest or vengeance or perfidious
machination led to the abuse of the imprudent facility with which inmates
are received in certain private lunatic asylums from the hands of their
families or friends.

We shall subsequently explain our views, as to the establishment of a
system of inspection, by the crown or the civil magistrates, for the
periodical survey of these institutions, and others of no less
importance, at present placed beyond the reach of all superintendence.
These latter are the nunneries of which we will presently have an
example.




CHAPTER XLVI.

PRESENTIMENTS.

Whilst the preceding events took place in Dr. Baleinier's asylum, other
scenes were passing about the same hour, at Frances Baudoin's, in the Rue
Brise-Miche.

Seven o'clock in the morning had just struck at St. Mary church; the day
was dark and gloomy, and the sleet rattled against the windows of the
joyless chamber of Dagobert's wife.

As yet ignorant of her son's arrest, Frances had waited for him the whole
of the preceding evening, and a good part of the night, with the most
anxious uneasiness; yielding at length to fatigue and sleep, about three
o'clock in the morning, she had thrown herself on a mattress beside the
bed of Rose and Blanche. But she rose with the first dawn of day, to
ascend to Agricola's garret, in the very faint hope that he might have
returned home some hours before.

Rose and Blanche had just risen, and dressed themselves. They were alone
in the sad, chilly apartment. Spoil-sport, whom Dagobert had left in
Paris, was stretched at full length near the cold stove; with his long
muzzle resting on his forepaws, he kept his eye fixed on the sisters.

Having slept but little during the night, they had perceived the
agitation and anguish of Dagobert's wife. They had seen her walk up and
down, now talking to herself, now listening to the least noise that came
up the staircase, and now kneeling before the crucifix placed at one
extremity of the room. The orphans were not aware, that, whilst she
brayed with fervor on behalf of her son, this excellent woman was praying
for them also. For the state of their souls filled her with anxiety and
alarm.

The day before, when Dagobert had set out for Chartres, Frances, having
assisted Rose and Blanche to rise, had invited them to say their morning
prayer: they answered with the utmost simplicity, that they did not know
any, and that they never more than addressed their mother, who was in
heaven. When Frances, struck with painful surprise, spoke to them of
catechism, confirmation, communion, the sisters opened widely their large
eyes with astonishment, understanding nothing of such talk.

According to her simple faith, terrified at the ignorance of the young
girls in matters of religion, Dagobert's wife believed their souls to be
in the greatest peril, the more so as, having asked them if they had ever
been baptized (at the same time explaining to them the nature of that
sacrament), the orphans answered they did not think they had, since there
was neither church nor priest in the village where they were born, during
their mother's exile in Siberia.

Placing one's self in the position of Frances, you understand how much
she was grieved and alarmed; for, in her eyes, these young girls, whom
she already loved tenderly, so charmed was she with their sweet
disposition, were nothing but poor heathens, innocently doomed to eternal
damnation. So, unable to restrain her tears, or conceal her horrors, she
had clasped them in her arms, promising immediately to attend to their
salvation, and regretting that Dagobert had not thought of having them
baptized by the way. Now, it must be confessed, that this notion had
never once occurred to the ex-grenadier.

When she went to her usual Sunday devotions, Frances had not dared to
take Rose and Blanche with her, as their complete ignorance of sacred
things would have rendered their presence at church, if not useless,
scandalous; but, in her own fervent prayers she implored celestial mercy
for these orphans, who did not themselves know the desperate position of
their souls.

Rose and Blanche were now left alone, in the absence of Dagobert's wife.
They were still dressed in mourning, their charming faces seeming even
more pensive than usual. Though they were accustomed to a life of
misfortune, they had been struck, since their arrival in the Rue Brise
Miche, with the painful contrast between the poor dwelling which they had
come to inhabit, and the wonders which their young imagination had
conceived of Paris, that golden city of their dreams. But, soon this
natural astonishment was replaced by thoughts of singular gravity for
their age. The contemplation of such honest and laborious poverty made
the orphans have reflections no longer those of children, but of young
women. Assisted by their admirable spirit of justice and of sympathy for
all that is good, by their noble heart, by a character at once delicate
and courageous, they had observed and meditated much during the last
twenty-four hours.

"Sister," said Rose to Blanche, when Frances had quitted the room,
"Dagobert's poor wife is very uneasy. Did you remark in the night, how
agitated she was? how she wept and prayed?"

"I was grieved to see it, sister, and wondered what could be the cause."

"I am almost afraid to guess. Perhaps we may be the cause of her
uneasiness?"

"Why so, sister? Because we cannot say prayers, nor tell if we have ever
been baptized?"

"That seemed to give her a good deal of pain, it is true. I was quite
touched by it, for it proves that she loves us tenderly. But I could not
understand how we ran such terrible danger as she said we did."

"Nor I either, sister. We have always tried not to displease our mother,
who sees and hears us."

"We love those who love us; we are resigned to whatever may happen to us.
So, who can reproach us with any harm?"

"No one. But, perhaps, we may do some without meaning it."

"We?"

"Yes, and therefore I thought: We may perhaps be the cause of her
uneasiness."

"How so?"

"Listen, sister! yesterday Madame Baudoin tried to work at those sacks of
coarse cloth there on the table."

"Yes; but in about an half-hour, she told us sorrowfully, that she could
not go on, because her eyes failed her, and she could not see clearly."

"So that she is not able to earn her living."

"No--but her son, M. Agricola, works for her. He looks so good, so gay,
so frank, and so happy to devote himself for his mother. Oh, indeed! he
is the worthy brother of our angel Gabriel!"

"You will see my reason for speaking of this. Our good old Dagobert told
us, that, when we arrived here, he had only a few pieces of money left."

"That is true."

"Now both he and his wife are unable to earn their living; what can a
poor old soldier like him do?"

"You are right; he only knows how to love us, and take care of us, like
his children."

"It must then be M. Agricola who will have to support his father; for
Gabriel is a poor priest, who possesses nothing, and can render no
assistance to those who have brought him up. So M. Agricola will have to
support the whole family by himself."

"Doubtless--he owes it to father and mother--it is his duty, and he will
do it with a good will."

"Yes, sister--but he owes us nothing."

"What do you say, Blanche?"

"He is obliged to work for us also, as we possess nothing in the world."

"I had not thought of that. True."

"It is all very well, sister, for our father to be Duke and Marshal of
France, as Dagobert tells us, it is all very well for us to hope great
things from this medal, but as long as father is not here, and our hopes
are not realized, we shall be merely poor orphans, obliged to remain a
burden to this honest family, to whom we already owe so much, and who
find it so hard to live, that--"

"Why do you pause, sister?"

"What I am about to say would make other people laugh; but you will
understand it. Yesterday, when Dagobert's wife saw poor Spoil-sport at
his dinner, she said, sorrowfully: 'Alas! he eats as much as a man!'--so
that I could almost have cried to hear her. They must be very poor, and
yet we have come to increase their poverty."

The sisters looked sadly at each other, while Spoil-sport pretended not
to know they were talking of his voracity.

"Sister, I understand," said Rose, after a moment's silence. "Well, we
must not be at the charge of any one. We are young, and have courage.
Till our fate is decided, let us fancy ourselves daughters of workmen.
After all, is not our grandfather a workman? Let us find some employment,
and earn our own living. It must be so proud and happy to earn one's
living!"

"Good little sister," said Blanche, kissing Rose. "What happiness! You
have forestalled my thought; kiss me!"

"How so?"

"Your project is mine exactly. Yesterday, when I heard Dagobert's wife
complain so sadly that she had lost her sight. I looked into your large
eyes, which reminded me of my own, and said to myself: 'Well! this poor
old woman may have lost her sight, but Rose and Blanche Simon can see
pretty clearly'--which is a compensation," added Blanche, with a smile.

"And, after all," resumed Rose, smiling in her turn, "the young ladies in
question are not so very awkward, as not to be able to sew up great sacks
of coarse cloth--though it may chafe their fingers a little."

"So we had both the same thought, as usual; only I wished to surprise
you, and waited till we were alone, to tell you my plan."

"Yes, but there is something teases me."

"What is that?"

"First of all, Dagobert and his wife will be sure to say to us: 'Young
ladies, you are not fitted for such work. What, daughters of a Marshal of
France sewing up great ugly bags!' And then, if we insist upon it, they
will add: 'Well, we have no work to give you. If you want any, you must
hunt for it.' What would Misses Simon do then?"

"The fact is, that when Dagobert has made up his mind to anything--"

"Oh! even then, if we coax him well--"

"Yes, in certain things; but in others he is immovable. It is just as
when upon the journey, we wished to prevent his doing so much for us."

"Sister, an idea strikes me," cried Rose, "an excellent idea!"

"What is it? quick!"

"You know the young woman they call Mother Bunch, who appears to be so
serviceable and persevering?"

"Oh yes! and so timid and discreet. She seems always to be afraid of
giving offence, even if she looks at one. Yesterday, she did not perceive
that I saw her; but her eyes were fixed on you with so good and sweet an
expression, that tears came into mine at the very sight of it."

"Well, we must ask her how she gets work, for certainly she lives by her
labor."

"You are right. She will tell us all about it; and when we know, Dagobert
may scold us, or try to make great ladies of us, but we will be as
obstinate as he is."

"That is it; we must show some spirit! We will prove to him, as he says
himself, that we have soldier's blood in our veins."

"We will say to him: 'Suppose, as you say, we should one day be rich, my
good Dagobert, we shall only remember this time with the more pleasure."

"It is agreed then, is it not, Rose? The first time we are alone with
Mother Bunch, we must make her our confidant, and ask her for
information. She is so good a person, that she will not refuse us."

"And when father comes home, he will be pleased, I am sure, with our
courage."

"And will approve our wish to support ourselves, as if we were alone in
the world."

On these words of her sister, Rose started. A cloud of sadness, almost of
alarm, passed over her charming countenance, as she exclaimed: "Oh,
sister, what a horrible idea!"

"What is the matter? your look frightens me."

"At the moment I heard you say, that our father would approve our wish to
support ourselves, as if we were alone in the world--a frightful thought
struck me--I know not why--but feel how my heart beats--just as if some
misfortune were about to happen us."

"It is true; your poor heart beats violently. But what was this thought?
You alarm me."

"When we were prisoners, they did not at least separate us, and, besides,
the prison was a kind of shelter--"

"A sad one, though shared with you."

"But if, when arrived here, any accident had parted us from Dagobert--if
we had been left alone, without help, in this great town?"

"Oh, sister! do not speak of that. It would indeed be terrible. What
would become of us, kind heaven?"

This cruel thought made the girls remain for a moment speechless with
emotion. Their sweet faces, which had just before glowed with a noble
hope, grew pale and sad. After a pretty long silence, Rose uplifted her
eyes, now filled with tears, "Why does this thought," she said,
trembling, "affect us so deeply, sister? My heart sinks within me, as if
it were really to happen to us."

"I feel as frightened as you yourself. Alas! were we both to be lost in
this immense city, what would become of us?"

"Do not let us give way to such ideas, Blanche! Are we not here in
Dagobert's house, in the midst of good people?"

"And yet, sister," said Rose, with a pensive air, "it is perhaps good for
us to have had this thought."

"Why so?"

"Because we shall now find this poor lodging all the better, as it
affords a shelter from all our fears. And when, thanks to our labor, we
are no longer a burden to any one, what more can we need until the
arrival of our father?"

"We shall want for nothing--there you are right--but still, why did this
thought occur to us, and why does it weigh so heavily on our minds?"

"Yes, indeed--why? Are we not here in the midst of friends that love us?
How could we suppose that we should ever be left alone in Paris? It is
impossible that such a misfortune should happen to us--is it not, my dear
sister?"

"Impossible!" said Rose, shuddering. "If the day before we reached that
village in Germany, where poor Jovial was killed, any one had said to us:
'To-morrow, you will be in prison'--we should have answered as now: 'It
is impossible. Is not Dagobert here to protect us; what have we to fear?'
And yet, sister, the day after we were in prison at Leipsic."

"Oh! do not speak thus, my dear sister! It frightens me."

By a sympathetic impulse, the orphans took one another by the hand, while
they pressed close together, and looked around with involuntary fear. The
sensation they felt was in fact deep, strange, inexplicable, and yet
lowering--one of those dark presentiments which come over us, in spite of
ourselves--those fatal gleams of prescience, which throw a lurid light on
the mysterious profundities of the future.

Unaccountable glimpses of divination! often no sooner perceived than
forgotten--but, when justified by the event, appearing with all the
attributes of an awful fatality!

The daughters of Marshal Simon were still absorbed in the mournful
reverie which these singular thoughts had awakened, when Dagobert's wife,
returning from her son's chamber, entered the room with a painfully
agitated countenance.




CHAPTER XLVII.

THE LETTER.

Frances' agitation was so perceptible that Rose could not help
exclaiming: "Good gracious, what is the matter?"

"Alas, my dear young ladies! I can no longer conceal it from you," said
Frances, bursting into tears. "Since yesterday I have not seen him. I
expected my son to supper as usual, and he never came; but I would not
let you see how much I suffered. I continued to expect him, minute after
minute; for ten years he has never gone up to bed without coming to kiss
me; so I spent a good part of the night close to the door, listening if I
could hear his step. But he did not come; and, at last, about three
o'clock in the morning, I threw myself down upon the mattress. I have
just been to see (for I still had a faint hope), if my son had come in
this morning--"

"Well, madame!"

"There is no sign of him!" said the poor mother, drying her eyes.

Rose and Blanche looked at each other with emotion; the same thought
filled the minds of both; if Agricola should not return, how would this
family live? would they not, in such an event, become doubly burdensome?

"But, perhaps, madame," said Blanche, "M. Agricola remained too late at
his work to return home last night."

"Oh! no, no! he would have returned in the middle of the night, because
he knew what uneasiness he would cause me by stopping out. Alas! some
misfortune must have happened to him! Perhaps he has been injured at the
forge, he is so persevering at his work. Oh, my poor boy! and, as if I
did not feel enough anxiety about him, I am also uneasy about the poor
young woman who lives upstairs."

"Why so, madame?"