The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


And yet, to take only one example, machinists and workers in foundries,
exposed to boiler explosions, and the contact of formidable engines, run
every day greater dangers than soldiers in time of war, display rare
practical sagacity, and render to industry--and, consequently, to their
country--the most incontestable service, during a long and honorable
career, if they do not perish by the bursting of a boiler, or have not
their limbs crushed by the iron teeth of a machine.

In this last case, does the workman receive a recompense equal to that
which awaits the soldier's praiseworthy, but sterile courage--a place in
an asylum for invalids? No.

What does the country care about it? And if the master should happen to
be ungrateful, the mutilated workman, incapable of further service, may
die of want in some corner.

Finally, in our pompous festivals of commerce, do we ever assemble any of
the skillful workmen who alone have woven those admirable stuffs, forged
and damascened those shining weapons, chiselled those goblets of gold and
silver, carved the wood and ivory of that costly furniture, and set those
dazzling jewels with such exquisite art? No.

In the obscurity of their garrets, in the midst of a miserable and
starving family, hardly able to subsist on their scanty wages, these
workmen have contributed, at least, one half to bestow those wonders upon
their country, which make its wealth, its glory, and its pride.

A minister of commerce, who had the least intelligence of his high
functions and duties, would require of every factory that exhibits on
these occasions, the selection by vote of a certain number of candidates,
amongst whom the manufacturer would point out the one that appeared most
worthy to represent the working classes in these great industrial
solemnities.

Would it not be a noble and encouraging example to see the master propose
for public recompense and distinction the workman, deputed by his peers,
as amongst the most honest, laborious, and intelligent of his profession?
Then one most grievous injustice would disappear, and the virtues of the
workman would be stimulated by a generous and noble ambition--he would
have an interest in doing well.

Doubtless, the manufacturer himself, because of the intelligence he
displays, the capital he risks, the establishment he founds, and the good
he sometimes does, has a legitimate right to the prizes bestowed upon
him. But why is the workman to be rigorously excluded from these rewards,
which have so powerful an influence upon the people? Are generals and
officers the only ones that receive rewards in the army? And when we have
remunerated the captains of this great and powerful army of industry, why
should we neglect the privates?

Why for them is there no sign of public gratitude? no kind or consoling
word from august lips? Why do we not see in France, a single workman
wearing a medal as a reward for his courageous industry, his long and
laborious career? The token and the little pension attached to it, would
be to him a double recompense, justly deserved. But, no! for humble labor
that sustains the State, there is only forgetfulness, injustice,
indifference, and disdain!

By this neglect of the public, often aggravated by individual selfishness
and ingratitude, our workmen are placed in a deplorable situation.

Some of them, notwithstanding their incessant toil, lead a life of
privations, and die before their time cursing the social system that
rides over them. Others find a temporary oblivion of their ills in
destructive intoxication. Others again--in great number--having no
interest, no advantage, no moral or physical inducement to do more or
better, confine themselves strictly to just that amount of labor which
will suffice to earn their wages. Nothing attaches them to their work,
because nothing elevates, honors, glorifies it in their eyes. They have
no defence against the reductions of indolence; and if, by some chance,
they find means of living awhile in repose, they give way by degrees to
habits of laziness and debauchery, and sometimes the worst passions soil
forever natures originally willing, healthy and honest--and all for want
of that protecting and equitable superintendence which should have
sustained, encouraged, and recompensed their first worthy and laborious
tendencies.

We now follow Mother Bunch, who after seeking for work from the person
that usually employed her, went to the Rue de Babylone, to the lodge
lately occupied by Adrienne de Cardoville.




CHAPTER V.

FLORINE.

While the Bacchanal Queen and Sleepinbuff terminated so sadly the most
joyous portion of their existence, the sempstress arrived at the door of
the summer-house in the Rue de Babylone.

Before ringing she dried her tears; a new grief weighed upon her spirits.
On quitting the tavern, she had gone to the house of the person who
usually found her in work; but she was told that she could not have any
because it could be done a third more cheaply by women in prison. Mother
Bunch, rather than lose her last resource, offered to take it at the
third less; but the linen had been already sent out; and the girl could
not hope for employment for a fortnight to come, even if submitting to
this reduction of wages. One may conceive the anguish of the poor
creature; the prospect before her was to die of hunger, if she would not
beg or steal. As for her visit to the lodge in the Rue de Babylone, it
will be explained presently.

She rang the bell timidly; a few minutes after, Florine opened the door
to her. The waiting-maid was no longer adorned after the charming taste
of Adrienne; on the contrary, she was dressed with an affectation of
austere simplicity. She wore a high-necked dress of a dark color, made
full enough to conceal the light elegance of her figure. Her bands of
jet-black hair were hardly visible beneath the flat border of a starched
white cap, very much resembling the head-dress of a nun. Yet, in spite of
this unornamental costume, Florine's pale countenance was still admirably
beautiful.

We have said that, placed by former misconduct at the mercy of Rodin and
M. d'Aigrigny, Florine had served them as a spy upon her mistress,
notwithstanding the marks of kindness and confidence she had received
from her. Yet Florine was not entirely corrupted; and she often suffered
painful, but vain, remorse at the thought of the infamous part she was
thus obliged to perform.

At the sight of Mother Bunch, whom she recognized--for she had told her,
the day before, of Agricola's arrest and Mdlle. de Cardoville's
madness--Florine recoiled a step, so much was she moved with pity at the
appearance of the young sempstress. In fact, the idea of being thrown out
of work, in the midst of so many other painful circumstances, had made a
terrible impression upon the young workwoman, the traces of recent tears
furrowed her cheeks--without her knowing it, her features expressed the
deepest despair--and she appeared so exhausted, so weak, so overcome,
that Florine offered her arm to support her, and said to her kindly:
"Pray walk in and rest yourself; you are very pale, and seem to be ill
and fatigued."

So saying, Florine led her into a small room; with fireplace and carpet,
and made her sit down in a tapestried armchair by the side of a good
fire. Georgette and Hebe had been dismissed, and Florine was left alone
in care of the house.

When her guest was seated, Florine said to her with an air of interest:
"Will you not take anything? A little orange flower-water and sugar,
warm."

"I thank you, mademoiselle," said Mother Bunch, with emotion, so easily
was her gratitude excited by the least mark of kindness; she felt, too, a
pleasing surprise, that her poor garments had not been the cause of
repugnance or disdain on the part of Florine.

"I thank you, mademoiselle," said she, "but I only require a little rest,
for I come from a great distance. If you will permit me--"

"Pray rest yourself as long as you like, mademoiselle; I am alone in this
pavilion since the departure of my poor mistress,"--here Florine blushed
and sighed;--"so, pray make yourself quite at home. Draw near the
fire--you wilt be more comfortable--and, gracious! how wet your feet
are!--place them upon this stool."

The cordial reception given by Florine, her handsome face and agreeable
manners, which were not those of an ordinary waiting-maid, forcibly
struck Mother Bunch, who, notwithstanding her humble condition, was
peculiarly susceptible to the influence of everything graceful and
delicate. Yielding, therefore, to these attractions, the young
sempstress, generally so timid and sensitive, felt herself almost at her
ease with Florine.

"How obliging you are, mademoiselle!" said she in a grateful tone. "I am
quite confused with your kindness."

"I wish I could do you some greater service than offer you a place at the
fire, mademoiselle. Your appearance is so good and interesting."

"Oh, mademoiselle!" said the other, with simplicity, almost in spite of
herself; "it does one so much good to sit by a warm fire!" Then, fearing,
in her extreme delicacy, that she might be thought capable of abusing the
hospitality of her entertainer, by unreasonably prolonging her visit, she
added: "the motive that has brought me here is this. Yesterday, you
informed me that a young workman, named Agricola Baudoin, had been
arrested in this house."

"Alas! yes, mademoiselle. At the moment, too, when my poor mistress was
about to render him assistance."

"I am Agricola's adopted sister," resumed Mother Bunch, with a slight
blush; "he wrote to me yesterday evening from prison. He begged me to
tell his father to come here as soon as possible, in order to inform
Mdlle. de Cardoville that he, Agricola, had important matters to
communicate to her, or to any person that she might send; but that he
could not venture to mention them in a letter, as he did not know if the
correspondence of prisoners might not be read by the governor of the
prison."

"What!" said Florine, with surprise; "to my mistress, M. Agricola has
something of importance to communicate?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; for, up to this time, Agricola is ignorant of the
great calamity that has befallen Mdlle. de Cardoville."

"True; the attack was indeed so sudden," said Florine, casting down her
eyes, "that no one could have foreseen it."

"It must have been so," answered Mother Bunch; "for, when Agricola saw
Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time, he returned home, struck with
her grace, and delicacy, and goodness."

"As were all who approached my mistress," said Florine, sorrowfully.

"This morning," resumed the sewing-girl, "when, according to Agricola's
instructions, I wished to speak to his father on the subject, I found him
already gone out, for he also is a prey to great anxieties; but my
adopted brother's letter appeared to me so pressing, and to involve
something of such consequence to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had shown
herself so generous towards him, that I came here immediately."

"Unfortunately, as you already know, my mistress is no longer here."

"But is there no member of her family to whom, if I could not speak
myself, I might at least send word by you, that Agricola has something to
communicate of importance to this young lady?"

"It is strange!" said Florine, reflecting, and without replying. Then,
turning towards the sempstress, she added: "You are quite ignorant of the
nature of these revelations?"

"Completely so, mademoiselle; but I know Agricola. He is all honor and
truth, and you may believe whatever he affirms. Besides, he would have no
interest--"

"Good gracious!" interrupted Florine, suddenly, as if struck with a
sadden light; "I have just remembered something. When he was arrested in
a hiding-place where my mistress had concealed him, I happened to be
close at hand, and M. Agricola said to me, in a quick whisper: 'Tell your
generous mistress that her goodness to me will not go unrewarded, and
that my stay in that hiding-place may not be useless to her.' That was
all he could say to me, for they hurried him off instantly. I confess
that I saw in those words only the expression of his gratitude, and his
hope of proving it one day to my mistress; but now that I connect them
with the letter he has written you--" said Florine, reflecting.

"Indeed!" remarked Mother Bunch, "there is certainly some connection
between his hiding-place here and the important secrets which he wishes
to communicate to your mistress, or one of her family."

"The hiding-place had neither been inhabited nor visited for some time,"
said Florine, with a thoughtful air; "M. Agricola may have found therein
something of interest to my mistress."

"If his letter had not appeared to me so pressing," resumed the other, "I
should not have come hither; but have left him to do so himself, on his
release from prison, which now, thanks to the generosity of one of his
old fellow-workmen, cannot be very distant. But, not knowing if bail
would be accepted to-day, I have wished faithfully to perform his
instructions. The generous kindness of your mistress made it my first
duty."

Like all persons whose better instincts are still roused from time to
time, Florine felt a sort of consolation in doing good whenever she could
with impunity--that is to say, without exposing herself to the inexorable
resentments of those on whom she depended. Thanks to Mother Bunch, she
might now have an opportunity of rendering a great service to her
mistress. She knew enough of the Princess de Saint-Dizier's hatred of her
niece, to feel certain that Agricola's communication could not, from its
very importance, be made with safety to any but Mdlle. de Cardoville
herself. She therefore said very gravely: "Listen to me, mademoiselle! I
will give you a piece of advice which will, I think, be useful to my poor
mistress--but which would be very fatal to me if you did not attend to my
recommendations."

"How so, mademoiselle?" said the hunchback, looking at Florine with
extreme surprise.

"For the sake of my mistress, M. Agricola must confide to no one, except
herself, the important things he has to communicate."

"But, if he cannot see Mdlle. Adrienne, may he not address himself to
some of her family?"

"It is from her family, above all, that he must conceal whatever he
knows. Mdlle. Adrienne may recover, and then M. Agricola can speak to
her. But should she never get well again, tell your adopted brother that
it is better for him to keep his secret than to place it (which would
infallibly happen) at the disposal of the enemies of my mistress."

"I understand you, mademoiselle," said Mother Bunch, sadly. "The family
of your generous mistress do not love her, and perhaps persecute her?"

"I cannot tell you more on this subject now; and, as regards myself, let
me conjure you to obtain M. Agricola's promise that he will not mention
to any one in the world the step you have taken, or the advice I have
given you. The happiness--no, not the happiness," resumed Florine
bitterly, as if that were a lost hope, "not the happiness--but the peace
of my life depends upon your discretion."

"Oh! be satisfied!" said the sewing-girl, both affected and amazed by the
sorrowful expression of Florine's countenance; "I will not be ungrateful.
No one in the world but Agricola shall know that I have seen you."

"Thank you--thank you, mademoiselle," cried Florine, with emotion.

"Do you thank me?" said the other, astonished to see the large tears roll
down her cheeks.

"Yes! I am indebted to you for a moment of pure, unmixed happiness; for I
have perhaps rendered a service to my dear mistress, without risking the
increase of the troubles that already overwhelm me."

"You are not happy, then?"

"That astonishes you; but, believe me, whatever may be, your fate, I
would gladly change with you."

"Alas, mademoiselle!" said the sempstress: "you appear to have too good a
heart, for me to let you entertain such a wish--particularly now."

"What do you mean?"

"I hope sincerely, mademoiselle," proceeded Mother Bunch, with deep
sadness, "that you may never know what it is to want work, when labor is
your only resource."

"Are you reduced to that extremity?" cried Florine, looking anxiously at
the young sempstress, who hung her head, and made no answer. She
reproached herself, in her excessive delicacy, with having made a
communication which resembled a complaint, though it had only been wrung
from her by the thought of her dreadful situation.

"If it is so," went on Florine, "I pity you with all my heart; and yet I
know not, if my misfortunes are not still greater than yours."

Then, after a moment's reflection, Florine exclaimed, suddenly: "But let
me see! If you are really in that position, I think I can procure you
some work."

"Is it possible, mademoiselle?" cried Mother Bunch. "I should never have
dared to ask you such a service; but your generous offer commands my
confidence, and may save me from destruction. I will confess to you,
that, only this morning, I was thrown out of an employment which enabled
me to earn four francs a week."

"Four francs a week!" exclaimed Florine, hardly able to believe what she
heard.

"It was little, doubtless," replied the other; "but enough for me.
Unfortunately, the person who employed me, has found out where it can be
done still cheaper."

"Four francs a week!" repeated Florine, deeply touched by so much misery
and resignation. "Well! I think I can introduce you to persons, who will
secure you wages of at least two francs a day."

"I could earn two francs a day? Is it possible?"

"Yes, there is no doubt of it; only, you will have to go out by the day,
unless you chose to take a pace as servant."

"In my position," said Mother Bunch, with a mixture of timidity and
pride, "one has no right, I know, to be overnice; yet I should prefer to
go out by the day, and still more to remain at home, if possible, even
though I were to gain less."

"To go out is unfortunately an indispensable condition," said Florine.

"Then I must renounce this hope," answered Mother Bunch, timidly; "not
that I refuse to go out to work--but those who do so, are expected to be
decently clad--and I confess without shame, because there is no disgrace
in honest poverty, that I have no better clothes than these."

"If that be all," said Florine, hastily, "they will find you the means of
dressing yourself properly."

Mother Bunch looked at Florine with increasing surprise. These offers
were so much above what she could have hoped, and what indeed was
generally earned by needlewomen, that she could hardly credit them.

"But," resumed she, with hesitation, "why should any one be so generous
to me, mademoiselle? How should I deserve such high wages?"

Florine started. A natural impulse of the heart, a desire to be useful to
the sempstress, whose mildness and resignation greatly interested her,
had led her to make a hasty proposition; she knew at what price would
have to be purchased the advantages she proposed, and she now asked
herself, if the hunchback would ever accept them on such terms. But
Florine had gone too far to recede, and she durst not tell all. She
resolved, therefore, to leave the future to chance and as those, who have
themselves fallen, are little disposed to believe in the infallibility of
others, Florine said to herself, that perhaps in the desperate position
in which she was, Mother Bunch would not be so scrupulous after all.
Therefore she said: "I see, mademoiselle, that you are astonished at
offers so much above what you usually gain; but I must tell you, that I
am now speaking of a pious institution, founded to procure work for
deserving young women. This establishment, which is called St. Mary's
Society, undertakes to place them out as servants, or by the day as
needlewomen. Now this institution is managed by such charitable persons,
that they themselves undertake to supply an outfit, when the young women,
received under their protection are not sufficiently well clothed to
accept the places destined for them."

This plausible explanation of Florine's magnificent offers appeared to
satisfy the hearer. "I can now understand the high wages of which you
speak, mademoiselle," resumed she; "only I have no claim to be patronized
by the charitable persons who direct this establishment."

"You suffer--you are laborious and honest--those are sufficient claims;
only, I must tell you, they will ask if you perform regularly your
religious duties."

"No one loves and blesses God more fervently than I do, mademoiselle,"
said the hunchback, with mild firmness; "but certain duties are an affair
of conscience, and I would rather renounce this patronage, than be
compelled--"

"Not the least in the world. Only, as I told you, there are very pious
persons at the head of this institution, and you must not be astonished
at their questions on such a subject. Make the trial, at all events; what
do you risk? If the propositions are suitable--accept them; if, on the
contrary, they should appear to touch your liberty of conscience, you can
always refuse--your position will not be the worse for it."

Mother Bunch had nothing to object to this reasoning which left her at
perfect freedom, and disarmed her of all suspicion. "On these terms,
mademoiselle," said she, "I accept your offer, and thank you with all my
heart. But who will introduce me?"

"I will--to-morrow, if you please."

"But they will perhaps desire to make some inquiries about me."

"The venerable Mother Sainte-Perpetue, Superior of St, Mary's Convent,
where the institution is established, will, I am sure, appreciate your
good qualities without inquiry; but if otherwise, she will tell you, and
you can easily satisfy her. It is then agreed--to-morrow."

"Shall I call upon you here, mademoiselle?"

"No; as I told you before, they must not know that you came here on the
part of M. Agricola, and a second visit might be discovered, and excite
suspicion. I will come and fetch you in a coach; where do you live?"

"At No. 3, Rue Brise-Miche; as you are pleased to give yourself so much
trouble, mademoiselle, you have only to ask the dyer, who acts as porter,
to call down Mother Bunch."

"Mother Bunch?" said Florine, with surprise.

"Yes, mademoiselle," answered the sempstress, with a sad smile; "it is
the name every one gives me. And you see," added the hunchback, unable to
restrain a tear, "it is because of my ridiculous infirmity, to which this
name alludes, that I dread going out to work among strangers, because
there are so many people who laugh at one, without knowing the pain they
occasion. But," continued she, drying her eyes, "I have no choice, and
must make up my mind to it."

Florine, deeply affected, took the speaker's hand, and said to her: "Do
not fear. Misfortunes like yours must inspire compassion, not ridicule.
May I not inquire for you by your real name?"

"It is Magdalen Soliveau; but I repeat, mademoiselle, that you had better
ask for Mother Bunch, as I am hardly known by any other name."

"I will, then, be in the Rue Brise-Miche to-morrow, at twelve o'clock."

"Oh, mademoiselle! How can I ever requite your goodness?"

"Don't speak of it: I only hope my interference may be of use to you. But
of this you must judge for yourself. As for M. Agricola, do not answer
his letter; wait till he is out of prison, and then tell him to keep his
secret till he can see my poor mistress."

"And where is the dear young lady now?"

"I cannot tell you. I do not know where they took her, when she was
attacked with this frenzy. You will expect me to-morrow?"

"Yes--to-morrow," said Mother Bunch.

The convent whither Florine was to conduct the hunchback contained the
daughters of Marshal Simon, and was next door to the lunatic asylum of
Dr. Baleinier, in which Adrienne de Cardoville was confined.




CHAPTER VI.

MOTHER SAINTE-PERPETUE.

St. Mary's Convent, whither the daughters of Marshal Simon had been
conveyed, was a large old building, the vast garden of which was on the
Boulevard de l'Hopital, one of the most retired places in Paris,
particularly at this period. The following scenes took place on the 12th
February, the eve of the fatal day, on which the members of the family of
Rennepont, the last descendants of the sister of the Wandering Jew, were
to meet together in the Rue St. Francois. St. Mary's Convent was a model
of perfect regularity. A superior council, composed of influential
ecclesiastics, with Father d'Aigrigny for president, and of women of
great reputed piety, at the head of whom was the Princess de Saint
Dizier, frequently assembled in deliberation, to consult on the means of
extending and strengthening the secret and powerful influence of this
establishment, which had already made remarkable progress.

Skillful combinations and deep foresight had presided at the foundation
of St. Mary's Convent, which, in consequence of numerous donations,
possessed already real estate to a great extent, and was daily augmenting
its acquisitions. The religious community was only a pretext; but, thanks
to an extensive connection, kept up by means of the most decided members
of the ultramontane (i. e. high-church) party, a great number of rich
orphans were placed in the convent, there to receive a solid, austere,
religious education, very preferable, it was said, to the frivolous
instruction which might be had in the fashionable boarding schools,
infected by the corruption of the age. To widows also, and lone women who
happened moreover to be rich, the convent offered a sure asylum from the
dangers and temptations of the world; in this peaceful retreat, they
enjoyed a delightful calm, and secured their salvation, whilst surrounded
by the most tender and affectionate attentions. Nor was this all. Mother
Sainte-Perpetue, the superior of the convent, undertook in the name of
the institution to procure for the faithful, who wished to preserve the
interior of their houses from the depravity of the age, companions for
aged ladies, domestic servants, or needlewomen working by the day, all
selected persons whose morality could be warranted. Nothing would seem
more worthy of sympathy and encouragement than such an institution; but
we shall presently unveil the vast and dangerous network of intrigue
concealed under these charitable and holy appearances. The lady Superior,
Mother Sainte-Perpetue, was a tall woman of about forty years of age,
clad in a stuff dress of the Carmelite tan color, and wearing a long
rosary at her waist; a white cap tied under the chin, and a long black
veil, closely encircled her thin, sallow face. A number of deep wrinkles
had impressed their transverse furrows in her forehead of yellow ivory;
her marked and prominent nose was bent like the beak of a bird of prey;
her black eye was knowing and piercing; the expression of her countenance
was at once intelligent, cold and firm.