The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


"Turn out that beast," said Mrs. Grivois, imperiously; "he frightens my
dog, and may do him some harm."

"Do not be afraid, madame," replied Rose, with a smile; "Spoil-sport will
do no harm, if he is not attacked."

"Never mind!" cried Mrs. Grivois; "an accident soon happens. The very
sight of that enormous dog, with his wolf's head and terrible teeth, is
enough to make one tremble at the injuries he might do one. I tell you to
turn him out."

Mrs. Grivois had pronounced these last words in a tone of irritation,
which did not sound at all satisfactory in Spoil-sport's ears; so he
growled and showed his teeth, turning his head in the direction of the
stranger.

"Be quiet, Spoil-sport!" said Blanche sternly.

A new personage here entered the room, and put an end to this situation,
which was embarrassing enough for the two young girls. It was a
commissionaire, with a letter in his hand.

"What is it, sir?" asked Mother Bunch.

"A very pressing letter from the good man of the house; the dyer below
stairs told me to bring it up here."

"A letter from Dagobert!" cried Rose and Blanche, with a lively
expression of pleasure. "He is returned then? where is he?"

"I do not know whether the good man is called Dagobert or not," said the
porter; "but he is an old trooper, with a gray moustache, and may be
found close by, at the office of the Chartres coaches."

"That is he!" cried Blanche. "Give me the letter."

The porter handed it to the young girl, who opened it in all haste.

Mrs. Grivois was struck dumb with dismay; she knew that Dagobert had been
decoyed from Paris, that the Abbe Dubois might have an opportunity to act
with safety upon Frances. Hitherto, all had succeeded; the good woman had
consented to place the young girls in the hands of a religious
community--and now arrives this soldier, who was thought to be absent
from Paris for two or three days at least, and whose sudden return might
easily ruin this laborious machination, at the moment when it seemed to
promise success.

"Oh!" said Blanche, when she had read the letter. "What a misfortune!"

"What is it, then, sister?" cried Rose.

"Yesterday, half way to Chartres, Dagobert perceived that he had lost his
purse. He was unable to continue his journey; he took a place upon
credit, to return, and he asks his wife to send him some money to the
office, to pay what he owes."

"That's it," said the porter; "for the good man told me to make haste,
because he was there in pledge."

"And nothing in the house!" cried Blanche. "Dear me! what is to be done?"

At these words, Mrs. Grivois felt her hopes revive for a moment, they
were soon, however, dispelled by Mother Bunch, who exclaimed, as she
pointed to the parcel she had just made up: "Be satisfied, dear young
ladies! here is a resource. The pawnbroker's, to which I am going, is not
far off, and I will take the money direct to M. Dagobert: in half an
hour, at latest, he will be here."

"Oh, my dear friend! you are right," said Rose. "How good you are! you
think of everything."

"And here," said Blanche, "is the letter, with the address upon it. Take
that with you."

"Thank you," answered Mother Bunch: then, addressing the porter, she
added: "Return to the person who sent you, and tell him I shall be at the
coach-office very shortly."

"Infernal hunchback!" thought Mrs. Grivois, with suppressed rage, "she
thinks of everything. Without her, we should have escaped the plague of
this man's return. What is to be done now? The girls would not go with
me, before the arrival of the soldier's wife; to propose it to them would
expose me to a refusal, and might compromise all. Once more, what is to
be done?"

"Do not be uneasy, ladies," said the porter as he went out; "I will go
and assure the good man, that he will not have to remain long in pledge."

Whilst Mother Bunch was occupied in tying her parcel, in which she had
placed the silver cup, fork, and spoon, Mrs. Grivois seemed to reflect
deeply. Suddenly she started. Her countenance, which had been for some
moments expressive of anxiety and rage, brightened up on the instant. She
rose, still holding My Lord in her arms, and said to the young girls: "As
Mrs. Baudoin does not come in, I am going to pay a visit in the
neighborhood, and will return immediately. Pray tell her so!"

With these words Mr. Grivois took her departure, a few minutes before
Mother Bunch left.




CHAPTER L.

APPEARANCES.

After she had again endeavored to cheer up the orphans, the sewing-girl
descended the stairs, not without difficulty, for, in addition to the
parcel, which was already heavy, she had fetched down from her own room
the only blanket she possessed--thus leaving herself without protection
from the cold of her icy garret.

The evening before, tortured with anxiety as to Agricola's fate, the girl
had been unable to work; the miseries of expectation and hope delayed had
prevented her from doing so; now another day would be lost, and yet it
was necessary to live. Those overwhelming sorrows, which deprive the poor
of the faculty of labor, are doubly dreaded; they paralyze the strength,
and, with that forced cessation from toil, want and destitution are often
added to grief.

But Mother Bunch, that complete incarnation of holiest duty, had yet
strength enough to devote herself for the service of others. Some of the
most frail and feeble creatures are endowed with extraordinary vigor of
soul; it would seem as if, in these weak, infirm organizations, the
spirit reigned absolutely over the body, and knew how to inspire it with
a factitious energy.

Thus, for the last twenty-four hours, Mother Bunch had neither slept nor
eaten; she had suffered from the cold, through the whole of a frosty
night. In the morning she had endured great fatigue, in going, amid rain
and snow, to the Rue de Babylone and back, twice crossing Paris and yet
her strength was not exhausted--so immense is the power of the human
heart!

She had just arrived at the corner of the Rue Saint Mery. Since the
recent Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy, there were stationed in this
populous quarter of the town a much larger number of police-officers than
usual. Now the young sempstress, though bending beneath the weight of her
parcel, had quickened her pace almost to a run, when, just as she passed
in front of one of the police, two five-franc pieces fell on the ground
behind her, thrown there by a stout woman in black, who followed her
closely.

Immediately after the stout woman pointed out the two pieces to the
policeman, and said something hastily to him with regard to Mother Bunch.
Then she withdrew at all speed in the direction of the Rue Brise-Miche.

The policeman, struck with what Mrs. Grivois had said to him ( for it was
that person), picked up the money, and, running after the humpback, cried
out to her: "Hi, there! young woman, I say--stop! stop!"

On this outcry, several persons turned round suddenly and, as always
happens in those quarters of the town, a nucleus of five or six persons
soon grew to a considerable crowd.

Not knowing that the policeman was calling to her, Mother Bunch only
quickened her speed, wishing to get to the pawnbroker's as soon as
possible, and trying to avoid touching any of the passers-by, so much did
she dread the brutal and cruel railleries, to which her infirmity so
often exposed her.

Suddenly, she heard many persons running after her, and at the same
instant a hand was laid rudely on her shoulder. It was the policeman,
followed by another officer, who had been drawn to the spot by the noise.
Mother Bunch turned round, struck with as much surprise as fear.

She found herself in the centre of a crowd, composed chiefly of that
hideous scum, idle and in rags, insolent and malicious, besotted with
ignorance, brutalized by want, and always loafing about the corners.
Workmen are scarcely ever met with in these mobs, for they are for the
most part engaged in their daily labors.

"Come, can't you hear? you are deaf as Punch's dog," said the policeman,
seizing Mother Bunch so rudely by the arm, that she let her parcel fall
at her feet.

When the unfortunate girl, looking round in terror, saw herself exposed
to all those insolent, mocking, malicious glances, when she beheld the
cynical and coarse grimace on so many ignoble and filthy countenances,
she trembled in all her limbs, and became fearfully pale. No doubt the
policeman had spoken roughly to her; but how could he speak otherwise to
a poor deformed girl, pale and trembling, with her features agitated by
grief and fear--to a wretched creature, miserably clad, who wore in
winter a thin cotton gown, soiled with mud, and wet with melted snow--for
the poor sempstress had walked much and far that morning. So the
policeman resumed, with great severity, following that supreme law of
appearances which makes poverty always suspected: "Stop a bit, young
woman! it seems you are in a mighty hurry, to let your money fall without
picking it up."

"Was her blunt hid in her hump?" said the hoarse voice of a match-boy, a
hideous and repulsive specimen of precocious depravity.

This sally was received with laughter, shouts, and hooting, which served
to complete the sewing-girl's dismay and terror. She was hardly able to
answer, in a feeble voice, as the policeman handed her the two pieces of
silver: "This money, sir, is not mine."

"You lie," said the other officer, approaching; "a respectable lady saw
it drop from your pocket."

"I assure you, sir, it is not so," answered Mother Bunch, trembling.

"I tell you that you lie," resumed the officer; "for the lady, struck
with your guilty and frightened air, said to me: 'Look at yonder little
hunchback, running away with that large parcel, and letting her money
fall without even stopping to pick it up--it is not natural.'"

"Bobby," resumed the match-vendor in his hoarse voice, "be on your guard!
Feel her hump, for that is her luggage-van. I'm sure that you'll find
boots, and cloaks, and umbrellas, and clocks in it--for I just heard the
hour strike in the bend of her back."

Then came fresh bursts of laughter and shouts and hooting, for this
horrible mob has no pity for those who implore and suffer. The crowd
increased more and more, and now they indulged in hoarse cries, piercing
whistles, and all kinds of horse play.

"Let a fellow see her; it's free gratis."

"Don't push so; I've paid for my place!"

"Make her stand up on something, that all may have a look."

"My corns are being ground: it was not worth coming."

"Show her properly--or return the money."

"That's fair, ain't it?"

"Give it us in the 'garden' style."

"Trot her out in all her paces! Kim up!"

Fancy the feelings of this unfortunate creature, with her delicate mind,
good heart, and lofty soul, and yet with so timid and nervous a
character, as she stood alone with the two policemen in the thick of the
crowd, and was forced to listen to all these coarse and savage insults.

But the young sempstress did not yet understand of what crime she was
accused. She soon discovered it, however, for the policeman, seizing the
parcel which she had picked up and now held in her trembling hands, said
to her rudely: "What is there in that bundle?"

"Sir--it is--I am going--" The unfortunate girl hesitated--unable, in her
terror, to find the word.

"If that's all you have to answer," said the policeman, "it's no great
shakes. Come, make haste! turn your bundle inside out."

So saying, the policeman snatched the parcel from her, half opened it,
and repeated, as he enumerated the divers articles it contained: "The
devil!--sheets--a spoon and fork--a silver mug--a shawl--a
blanket--you're a downy mot! it was not so bad a move. Dressed like a
beggar, and with silver plate about you. Oh, yes! you're a deep 'un."

"Those articles do not belong to you," said the other officer.

"No, sir," replied Mother Bunch, whose strength was failing her; "but--"

"Oh, vile hunchback! you have stolen more than you are big!"

"Stolen!" cried Mother Bunch, clasping her hands in horror, for she now
understood it all. "Stolen!"

"The guard! make way for the lobsters!" cried several persons at once.

"Oh, ho! here's the lobsters!"

"The fire-eaters!"

"The Arab devourers!"

"Come for their dromedary!"

In the midst of these noisy jests, two soldiers and a corporal advanced
with much difficulty. Their bayonets and the barrels of their guns were
alone visible above the heads of this hideous and compact crowd. Some
officious person had been to inform the officer at the nearest guard
house, that a considerable crowd obstructed the public way.

"Come, here is the guard--so march to the guard-house!" said the
policeman, taking Mother Bunch by the arm.

"Sir," said the poor girl, in a voice stifled by sobs, clasping her hands
in terror, and sinking upon her knees on the pavement; "sir,--have
pity--let me explain--"

"You will explain at the guard-house; so come on!"

"But, sir--I am not a thief," cried Mother Bunch, in a heart-rending
tone; "have pity upon me--do not take me away like a thief, before all
this crowd. Oh! mercy! mercy!"

"I tell you, there will be time to explain at the guard-house. The street
is blocked up; so come along!" Grasping the unfortunate creature by both
her hands, he set her, as it were, on her feet again.

At this instant, the corporal and his two soldiers, having succeeded in
making their way through the crowd, approached the policeman. "Corporal,"
said the latter, "take this girl to the guard-house. I am an officer of
the police."

"Oh, gentlemen!" cried the girl, weeping hot tears, and wringing her
hands, "do not take me away, before you let me explain myself. I am not a
thief--indeed, indeed, I am not a thief! I will tell you--it was to
render service to others--only let me tell you--"

"I tell you, you should give your explanations at the guard-house; if you
will not walk, we must drag you along," said the policeman.

We must renounce the attempt to paint this scene, at once ignoble and
terrible.

Weak, overpowered, filled with alarm, the unfortunate girl was dragged
along by the soldiers, her knees sinking under her at every step. The two
police-officers had each to lend an arm to support her, and mechanically
she accepted their assistance. Then the vociferations and hootings burst
forth with redoubled fury. Half-swooning between the two men, the hapless
creature seemed to drain the cup of bitterness to the dregs.

Beneath that foggy sky, in that dirty street, under the shadow of the
tall black houses, those hideous masses of people reminded one of the
wildest fancies of Callot and of Goya: children in rags, drunken women,
grim and blighted figures of men, rushed against each other, pushed,
fought, struggled, to follow with howls and hisses an almost inanimate
victim--the victim of a deplorable mistake.

Of a mistake! How one shudders to think, that such arrests may often take
place, founded upon nothing but the suspicion caused by the appearance of
misery, or by some inaccurate description. Can we forget the case of that
young girl, who, wrongfully accused of participating in a shameful
traffic, found means to escape from the persons who were leading her to
prison, and, rushing up the stairs of a house, threw herself from a
window, in her despair, and was crushed to death upon the paving-stones?

Meanwhile, after the abominable denunciation of which Mother Bunch was
the victim, Mrs. Grivois had returned precipitately to the Rue Brise
Miche. She ascended in haste to the fourth story, opened the door of
Frances Baudoin's room, and saw--Dagobert in company with his wife and
the two orphans!




CHAPTER LI.

THE CONVENT.

Let us explain in a few words the presence of Dagobert. His countenance
was impressed with such an air of military frankness that the manager of
the coach-office would have been satisfied with his promise to return and
pay the money; but the soldier had obstinately insisted on remaining in
pledge, as he called it, till his wife had answered his letter. When,
however, on the return of the porter, he found that the money was coming,
his scruples were satisfied, and he hastened to run home.

We may imagine the stupor of Mrs. Grivois, when, upon entering the
chamber, she perceived Dagobert (whom she easily recognized by the
description she had heard of him) seated beside his wife and the orphans.
The anxiety of Frances at sight of Mrs. Grivois was equally striking.
Rose and Blanche had told her of the visit of a lady, during her absence,
upon important business; and, judging by the information received from
her confessor, Frances had no doubt that this was the person charged to
conduct the orphans to a religious establishment.

Her anxiety was terrible. Resolved to follow the counsels of Abbe Dubois,
she dreaded lest a word from Mrs. Grivois should put Dagobert on the
scent--in which case all would be lost, and the orphans would remain in
their present state of ignorance and mortal sin, for which she believed
herself responsible.

Dagobert, who held the hands of Rose and Blanche, left his seat as the
Princess de Saint-Dizier's waiting-woman entered the room and cast an
inquiring glance on Frances.

The moment was critical--nay, decisive; but Mrs. Grivois had profited by
the example of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. So, taking her resolution at
once, and turning to account the precipitation with which she had mounted
the stairs, after the odious charge she had brought against poor Mother
Bunch, and even the emotion caused by the unexpected sight of Dagobert,
which gave to her features an expression of uneasiness and alarm--she
exclaimed, in an agitated voice, after the moment's silence necessary to
collect her thoughts: "Oh, madame! I have just been the spectator of a
great misfortune. Excuse my agitation! but I am so excited--"

"Dear me! what is the matter?" said Frances, in a trembling voice, for
she dreaded every moment some indiscretion on the part of Mrs. Grivois.

"I called just now," resumed the other, "to speak to you on some
important business; whilst I was waiting for you, a poor young woman,
rather deformed, put up sundry articles in a parcel--"

"Yes," said Frances; "it was Mother Bunch, an excellent, worthy
creature."

"I thought as much, madame; well, you shall hear what has happened. As
you did not come in, I resolved to pay a visit in the neighborhood. I go
out, and get as far as the Rue St. Mery, when--Oh, madame!"

"Well?" said Dagobert, "what then?"

"I see a crowd--I inquire what is the matter--I learn that a policeman
has just arrested a young girl as a thief, because she had been seen
carrying a bundle, composed of different articles which did not appear to
belong to her--I approached--what do I behold?--the same young woman that
I had met just before in this room."

"Oh! the poor child!" exclaimed Frances, growing pale, and clasping her
hands together. "What a dreadful thing!"

"Explain, then," said Dagobert to his wife. "What was in this bundle?"

"Well, my dear--to confess the truth--I was a little short, and I asked
our poor friend to take some things for me to the pawnbroker's--"

"What! and they thought she had robbed us!" cried Dagobert; "she, the
most honest girl in the world! it is dreadful--you ought to have
interfered, madame; you ought to have said that you knew her."

"I tried to do so, sir; but, unfortunately, they would not hear me. The
crowd increased every moment, till the guard came up, and carried her
off."

"She might die of it, she is so sensitive and timid!" exclaimed Frances.

"Ah, good Mother Bunch! so gentle! so considerate!" said Blanche, turning
with tearful eyes towards her sister.

"Not being able to help her," resumed Mrs. Grivois "I hastened hither to
inform you of this misadventure--which may, indeed, easily be
repaired--as it will only be necessary to go and claim the young girl as
soon as possible."

At these words, Dagobert hastily seized his hat, and said abruptly to
Mrs. Grivois: "Zounds, madame! you should have begun by telling us that.
Where is the poor child? Do you know?"

"I do not, sir; but there are still so many excited people in the street
that, if you will have the kindness to step out, you will be sure to
learn."

"Why the devil do you talk of kindness? It is my duty, madame. Poor
child!" repeated Dagobert. "Taken up as a thief!--it is really horrible.
I will go to the guard-house, and to the commissary of police for this
neighborhood, and, by hook or crook, I will find her, and have her out,
and bring her home with me."

So saying, Dagobert hastily departed. Frances, now that she felt more
tranquil as to the fate of Mother Bunch, thanked the Lord that this
circumstance had obliged her husband to go out, for his presence at this
juncture caused her a terrible embarrassment.

Mrs. Grivois had left My Lord in the coach below, for the moments were
precious. Casting a significant glance at Frances she handed her Abbe
Dubois' letter, and said to her, with strong emphasis on every word: "You
will see by this letter, madame, what was the object of my visit, which I
have not before been able to explain to you, but on which I truly
congratulate myself, as it brings me into connection with these two
charming young ladies." Rose and Blanche looked at each other in
surprise. Frances took the letter with a trembling hand. It required all
the pressing and threatening injunctions of her confessor to conquer the
last scruples of the poor woman, for she shuddered at the thought of
Dagobert's terrible indignation. Moreover, in her simplicity, she knew
not how to announce to the young girls that they were to accompany this
lady.

Mrs. Grivois guessed her embarrassment, made a sign to her to be at her
ease, and said to Rose, whilst Frances was reading the letter of her
confessor: "How happy your relation will be to see you, my dear young
lady!'

"Our relation, madame?" said Rose, more and more astonished.

"Certainly. She knew of your arrival here, but, as she is still suffering
from the effects of a long illness, she was not able to come herself
to-day, and has sent me to fetch you to her. Unfortunately," added Mrs.
Grivois, perceiving a movement of uneasiness on the part of the two
sisters, "it will not be in her power, as she tells Mrs. Baudoin in her
letter, to see you for more than a very short time--so you may be back
here in about an hour. But to-morrow or the next day after, she will be
well enough to leave home, and then she will come and make arrangements
with Mrs. Baudoin and her husband, to take you into her house--for she
could not bear to leave you at the charge of the worthy people who have
been so kind to you."

These last words of Mrs. Grivois made a favorable impression upon the two
sisters, and banished their fears of becoming a heavy burden to
Dagobert's family. If it had been proposed to them to quit altogether the
house in the Rue Bris-Miche, without first asking the consent of their
old friend, they would certainly have hesitated; but Mrs. Grivois had
only spoken of an hour's visit. They felt no suspicion, therefore, and
Rose said to Frances: "We may go and see our relation, I suppose, madame,
without waiting for Dagobert's return?"

"Certainly," said Frances, in a feeble voice, "since you are to be back
almost directly."

"Then, madame, I would beg these dear young ladies to come with me as
soon as possible, as I should like to bring them back before noon.

"We are ready, madame," said Rose.

"Well then, young ladies, embrace your second mother, and come," said
Mrs. Grivois, who was hardly able to control her uneasiness, for she
trembled lest Dagobert should return from one moment to the other.

Rose and Blanche embraced Frances, who, clasping in her arms the two
charming and innocent creatures that she was about to deliver up, could
with difficulty restrain her tears, though she was fully convinced that
she was acting for their salvation.

"Come, young ladies," said Mrs. Grivois, in the most affable tone, "let
us make haste--you will excuse my impatience, I am sure--but it is in the
name of your relation that I speak."

Having once more tenderly kissed the wife of Dagobert, the sisters
quitted the room hand in hand, and descended the staircase close behind
Mrs. Grivois, followed (without their being aware of it), by Spoil-sport.
The intelligent animal cautiously watched their movements, for, in the
absence of his master, he never let them out of his sight.

For greater security, no doubt, the waiting-woman of Madame de Saint
Dizier had ordered the hackney-coach to wait for her at a little distance
from the Rue Brise-Miche, in the cloister square. In a few seconds, the
orphans and their conductress reached the carriage.

"Oh, missus!" said the coachman, opening the door; "no offence, I
hope--but you have the most ill-tempered rascal of a dog! Since you put
him into my coach, he has never ceased howling like a roasted cat, and
looks as if he would eat us all up alive!" In fact, My Lord, who detested
solitude, was yelling in the most deplorable manner.