The Wandering Jew, Complete

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


At this juncture, Father d'Aigrigny, conducted by Samuel, entered the
room. Before Gabriel could turn around, Rodin had time to whisper to the
reverend father, "He knows nothing--and we have no longer anything to
fear from the Indian."

Notwithstanding his affected calmness, Father d'Aigrigny's countenance
was pale and contracted, like that of a player who is about to stake all
on a last, decisive game. Hitherto, all had favored the designs of the
Society; but he could not think without alarm of the four hours which
still remained before they should reach the fatal moment. Gabriel having
turned towards him, Father d'Aigrigny offered him his hand with a smile,
and said to him in an affectionate and cordial tone, "My dear son, it has
pained me a good deal to have been obliged to refuse you till now the
interview that you so much desired. It has been no less distressing to me
to impose on you a confinement of some days. Though I cannot give any
explanation of what I may think fit to order, I will just observe to you
that I have acted only for your interest."

"I am bound to believe your reverence," answered Gabriel, bowing his
head.

In spite of himself, the young priest felt a vague sense of fear, for
until his departure for his American mission, Father d'Aigrigny, at whose
feet he had pronounced the formidable vows which bound him irrevocably to
the Society of Jesus, had exercised over him that frightful species of
influence which, acting only by despotism, suppression, and intimidation,
breaks down all the living forces of the soul, and leaves it inert,
trembling, and terrified. Impressions of early youth are indelible, and
this was the first time, since his return from America, that Gabriel
found himself in presence of Father d'Aigrigny; and although he did not
shrink from the resolution he had taken, he regretted not to have been
able, as he had hoped, to gather new strength and courage from an
interview with Agricola and Dagobert. Father d'Aigrigny knew mankind too
well not to have remarked the emotion of the young priest, and to have
endeavored to explain its cause. This emotion appeared to him a favorable
omen; he redoubled, therefore, his seductive arts, his air of tenderness
and amenity, reserving to himself, if necessary, the choice of assuming
another mask. He sat down, while Gabriel and Rodin remained standing in a
respectful position, and said to the former: "You desire, my dear son, to
have an important interview with me?"

"Yes, father," said Gabriel, involuntarily casting down his eyes before
the large, glittering gray pupil of his superior.

"And I also have matters of great importance to communicate to you.
Listen to me first; you can speak afterwards."

"I listen, father."

"It is about twelve years ago, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny,
affectionately, "that the confessor of your adopted mother, addressing
himself to me through M. Rodin, called my attention to yourself, by
reporting the astonishing progress you had made at the school of the
Brothers. I soon found, indeed, that your excellent conduct, your gentle,
modest character, and your precocious intelligence, were worthy of the
most tender interest. From that moment I kept my eyes upon you, and at
the end of some time, seeing that you did not fall off, it appeared to me
that there was something more in you than the stuff that makes a workman.
We agreed with your adopted mother, and through my intervention, you were
admitted gratuitously to one of the schools of our Company. Thus one
burden the less weighed upon the excellent woman who had taken charge of
you, and you received from our paternal care all the benefits of a
religious education. Is not this true, my dear son?"

"It is true, father," answered Gabriel, casting down his eyes.

"As you grew up, excellent and rare virtues displayed themselves in your
character. Your obedience and mildness were above all exemplary. You made
rapid progress in your studies. I knew not then to what career you wished
to devote yourself, but I felt certain that, in every station of life,
you would remain a faithful son of the Church. I was not deceived in my
hopes, or rather, my dear son, you surpassed them all. Learning, by a
friendly communication, that your adopted mother ardently desired to see
you take orders, you acceded generously and religiously to the wish of
the excellent woman to whom you owed so much. But as the Lord is always
just in His recompenses, He willed that the most touching work of
gratitude you could show to your adopted mother, should at the same time
be divinely profitable by making you one of the militant members of our
holy Church."

At these words, Gabriel could not repress a significant start, as he
remembered Frances' sad confidences. But he restrained himself, whilst
Rodin stood leaning with his elbow on the corner of the chimney-piece,
continuing to examine him with singular and obstinate attention.

Father d'Aigrigny resumed: "I do not conceal from you, my dear son, that
your resolution filled me with joy. I saw in you one of the future lights
of the Church, and I was anxious to see it shine in the midst of our
Company. You submitted courageously to our painful and difficult tests;
you were judged worthy of belonging to us, and, after taking in my
presence the irrevocable and sacred oath, which binds you for ever to our
Company for the greater glory of God, you answered the appeal of our Holy
Father[14] to willing souls, and offered yourself as a missionary, to
preach to savages the one Catholic faith. Though it was painful to us to
part with our dear son, we could not refuse to accede to such pious
wishes. You set out a humble missionary you return a glorious martyr--and
we are justly proud to reckon you amongst our number. This rapid sketch
of the past was necessary, my dear son to arrive at what follows, for we
wish now, if it be possible, to draw still closer the bonds that unite
us. Listen to me, my dear son; what I am about to say is confidential and
of the highest importance, not only for you, but the whole Company."

"Then, father," cried Gabriel hastily, interrupting the Abbe d'Aigrigny,
"I cannot--I ought not to hear you."

The young priest became deadly pale; one saw, by the alteration of his
features, that a violent struggle was taking place within him, but
recovering his first resolution, he raised his head, and casting an
assured look on Father d'Aigrigny and Rodin, who glanced at each other in
mute surprise, he resumed: "I repeat to you, father, that if it concerns
confidential matters of the Company, I must not hear you."

"Really, my dear son, you occasion me the greatest astonishment. What is
the matter?--Your countenance changes, your emotion is visible. Speak
without fear; why can you not hear me?"

"I cannot tell you, father, until I also have, in my turn, rapidly
sketched the past--such as I have learned to judge it of late. You will
then understand, father, that I am no longer entitled to your confidence,
for an abyss will doubtlessly soon separate us."

At these words, it is impossible to paint the look rapidly exchanged
between Rodin and Father d'Aigrigny. The socius began to bite his nails,
fixing his reptile eye angrily upon Gabriel; Father d'Aigrigny grew
livid, and his brow was bathed in cold sweat. He asked himself with
terror, if, at the moment of reaching the goal, the obstacle was going to
come from Gabriel, in favor of whom all other obstacles had been removed.
This thought filled him with despair. Yet the reverend father contained
himself admirably, remained calm, and answered with affectionate unction:
"It is impossible to believe, my dear son, that you and I can ever be
separated by an abyss--unless by the abyss of grief, which would be
caused by any serious danger to your salvation. But speak; I listen to
you."

"It is true, that, twelve years ago, father," proceeded Gabriel, in a
firm voice, growing more animated as he proceeded, "I entered, through
your intervention, a college of the Company of Jesus. I entered it
loving, truthful, confiding. How did they encourage those precious
instincts of childhood? I will tell you. The day of my entrance, the
Superior said to me, as he pointed out two children a little older than
myself: 'These are the companions that you will prefer. You will always
walk three together. The rules of the house forbid all intercourse
between two persons only. They also require, that you should listen
attentively to what your companions say, so that you may report it to me;
for these dear children may have, without knowing it, bad thoughts or
evil projects. Now, if you love your comrades, you must inform me of
these evil tendencies, that my paternal remonstrances may save them from
punishment; it is better to prevent evil than to punish it.'"

"Such are, indeed, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, "the rules of
our house, and the language we hold to all our pupils on their entrance."

"I know it, father," answered Gabriel, bitterly; "three days after, a
poor, submissive, and credulous child, I was already a spy upon my
comrades, hearing and remembering their conversation, and reporting it to
the superior, who congratulated me on my zeal. What they thus made me do
was shameful, and yet, God knows! I thought I was accomplishing a
charitable duty. I was happy in obeying the commands of a superior whom I
respected, and to whose words I listened, in my childish faith, as I
should have listened to those of Heaven. One day, that I had broken some
rule of the house, the superior said to me: 'My child, you have deserved
a severe punishment; but you will be pardoned, if you succeed in
surprising one of your comrades in the same fault that you have
committed.' And for that, notwithstanding my faith and blind obedience,
this encouragement to turn informer, from the motive of personal
interest, might appear odious to me, the superior added. 'I speak to you,
my child, for the sake of your comrade's salvation. Were he to escape
punishment, his evil habits would become habitual. But by detecting him
in a fault, and exposing him to salutary correction, you will have the
double advantage of aiding in his salvation, and escaping yourself a
merited punishment, which will have been remitted because of your zeal
for your neighbor--"

"Doubtless," answered Father d'Aigrigny, more and more terrified by
Gabriel's language; "and in truth, my dear son, all this is conformable
to the rule followed in our colleges, and to the habits of the members of
our Company, 'who may denounce each other without prejudice to mutual
love and charity, and only for their greater spiritual advancement,
particularly when questioned by their superior, or commanded for the
greater glory of God,' as our Constitution has it."

"I know it," cried Gabriel; "I know it. 'Tis in the name of all that is
most sacred amongst men, that we are encouraged to do evil."

"My dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, trying to conceal his secret and
growing terror beneath an appearance of wounded dignity, "from you to me
these words are at least strange."

At this, Rodin quitted the mantelpiece, on which he had been leaning,
begin to walk up and down the room, with a meditative air, and without
ceasing to bite his nails.

"It is cruel to be obliged to remind you, my dear son, that your are
indebted to us for the education you have received," added Father
d'Aigrigny.

"Such were its fruits, father," replied Gabriel. "Until then I had been a
spy on the other children, from a sort of disinterestedness; but the
orders of the superior made me advance another step on that shameful
road. I had become an informer, to escape a merited punishment. And yet,
such was my faith, my humility, my confidence, that I performed with
innocence and candor this doubly odious part. Once, indeed, tormented by
vague scruples, the last remains of generous aspirations that they were
stifling within me, I asked myself if the charitable and religious end
could justify the means, and I communicated my doubts to the superior. He
replied, that I had not to judge, but to obey, and that to him alone
belonged the responsibility of my acts."

"Go on, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, gelding, in spite of
himself, to the deepest dejection. "Alas! I was right in opposing your
travel to America."

"And yet it was the will of Providence, in that new, productive, and free
country, that, enlightened by a singular chance, on past and present, my
eyes were at length opened. Yes!" cried Gabriel, "it was in America that,
released from the gloomy abode where I had spent so many years of my
youth, and finding myself for the first time face to face with the divine
majesty of Nature, in the heart of immense solitudes through which I
journeyed--it was there that, overcome by so much magnificence and
grandeur, I made a vow--" Here Gabriel interrupted himself, to continue:
"Presently, father, I will explain to you that vow; but believe me,"
added the missionary, with an accent of deep sorrow, "it was a fatal day
to me when I first learned to fear and condemn all that I had hitherto
most revered and blessed. Oh! I assure you father," added Gabriel, with
moist eyes, "it was not for myself alone, that I then wept."

"I know the goodness of your heart, my dear son," replied Father
d'Aigrigny, catching a glimpse of hope, on seeing Gabriel's emotion; "I
fear that you have been led astray. But trust yourself to us, as to your
spiritual fathers, and I doubt not we shall confirm your faith, so
unfortunately shaken, and disperse the darkness which at present obscures
your sight. Alas, my dear son, in your vain illusions, you have mistaken
some false glimmer for the pure light of day. But go on."

Whilst Father d'Aigrigny was thus speaking, Rodin stopped, took a pocket
book from his coat, and wrote down several notes. Gabriel was becoming
more and more pale and agitated. It required no small courage in him, to
speak as he was speaking, for, since his journey to America, he had
learned to estimate the formidable power of the Company. But this
revelation of the past, looked at from the vantage-ground of a more
enlightened present, was for the young priest the excuse, or rather the
cause of the determination he had just signified to his superior, and he
wished to explain all faithfully, notwithstanding the danger he knowingly
encountered. He continued therefore, in an agitated voice:

"You know, father, that the last days of my childhood, that happy age of
frankness and innocent joy, were spent in an atmosphere of terror,
suspicion, and restraint. Alas! how could I resign myself to the least
impulse of confiding trust, when I was recommended to shun the looks of
him who spoke with me, in order to hide the impression that his words
might cause--to conceal whatever I felt, and to observe and listen to
everything? Thus I reached the age of fifteen; by degrees, the rare
visits that I was allowed to pay, but always in presence of one of our
fathers, to my adopted mother and brother, were quite suppressed, so as
to shut my heart against all soft and tender emotions. Sad and fearful in
that large, old noiseless, gloomy house, I felt that I became more and
more isolated from the affections and the freedom of the world. My time
was divided between mutilated studies, without connection and without
object, and long hours of minute devotional exercises. I ask you, father,
did they ever seek to warm our young souls by words of tenderness or
evangelic love? Alas, no! For the words of the divine Saviour--Love ye
one another, they had substituted the command: Suspect ye one another.
Did they ever, father, speak to us of our country or of liberty?--No! ah,
no! for those words make the heart beat high; and with them, the heart
must not beat at all. To our long hours of study and devotion, there only
succeeded a few walks, three by three--never two and two--because by
threes, the spy-system is more practicable, and because intimacies are
more easily formed by two alone; and thus might have arisen some of those
generous friendships, which also make the heart beat more than it
should.15 And so, by the habitual repression of every feeling, there came
a time when I could not feel at all. For six months, I had not seen my
adopted mother and brother; they came to visit me at the college; a few
years before, I should have received them with transports and tears; this
time my eyes were dry, my heart was cold. My mother and brother quitted
me weeping. The sight of this grief struck me and I became conscious of
the icy insensibility which had been creeping upon me since I inhabited
this tomb. Frightened at myself, I wished to leave it, while I had still
strength to do so. Then, father, I spoke to you of the choice of a
profession; for sometimes, in waking moments, I seemed to catch from afar
the sound of an active and useful life, laborious and free, surrounded by
family affections. Oh! then I felt the want of movement and liberty, of
noble and warm emotions--of that life of the soul, which fled before me.
I told it you, father on my knees, bathing your hands with my tears. The
life of a workman or a soldier--anything would have suited me. It was
then you informed me, that my adopted mother, to whom I owed my life--for
she had taken me in, dying of want, and, poor herself, had shared with me
the scanty bread of her child--admirable sacrifice for a mother!--that
she," continued Gabriel, hesitating and casting down his eyes, for noble
natures blush for the guilt of others, and are ashamed of the infamies of
which they are themselves victims, "that she, that my adopted mother, had
but one wish, one desire--"

"That of seeing you takes orders, my dear son," replied Father
d'Aigrigny; "for this pious and perfect creature hoped, that, in securing
your salvation, she would provide for her own: but she did not venture to
inform you of this thought, for fear you might ascribe it to an
interested motive."

"Enough, father!" said Gabriel, interrupting the Abbe d'Aigrigny, with a
movement of involuntary indignation; "it is painful for me to hear you
assert an error. Frances Baudoin never had such a thought."

"My dear son, you are too hasty in your judgments," replied Father
d'Aigrigny, mildly. "I tell you, that such was the one, sole thought of
your adopted mother."

"Yesterday, father, she told me all. She and I were equally deceived."

"Then, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, sternly, "you take the word
of your adopted mother before mine?"

"Spare me an answer painful for both of us, father," said Gabriel,
casting down his eyes.

"Will you now tell me," resumed Father d'Aigrigny, with anxiety, "what
you mean to--"

The reverend father was unable to finish. Samuel entered the room, and
said: "A rather old man wishes to speak to M. Rodin."

"That is my name, sir," answered the socius, in surprise; "I am much
obliged to you." But, before following the Jew, he gave to Father
d'Aigrigny a few words written with a pencil upon one of the leaves of
his packet-book.

Rodin went out in very uneasy mood, to learn who could have come to seek
him in the Rue Saint-Francois. Father d'Aigrigny and Gabriel were left
alone together.

[14] It is only in respect to Missions that the Jesuits acknowledge the
papal supremacy.

[15] This rule is so strict in Jesuit Colleges, that if one of three pupils
leaves the other two, they separate out of earshot till the first comes
back.




CHAPTER XX.

THE RUPTURE.

Plunged into a state of mortal anxiety, Father d'Aigrigny had taken
mechanically the note written by Rodin, and held it in his hand without
thinking of opening it. The reverend father asked himself in alarm, what
conclusion Gabriel would draw from these recriminations upon the past;
and he durst not make any answer to his reproaches, for fear of
irritating the young priest, upon whose head such immense interests now
reposed. Gabriel could possess nothing for himself, according to the
constitutions of the Society of Jesus. Moreover, the reverend father had
obtained from him, in favor of the Order, an express renunciation of all
property that might ever come to him. But the commencement of his
conversation seemed to announce so serious a change in Gabriel's views
with regard to the Company, that he might choose to break through the
ties which attached him to it; and in that case, he would not be legally
bound to fulfil any of his engagements.[16] The donation would thus be
cancelled de facto, just at the moment of being so marvellously realized
by the possession of the immense fortune of the Rennepont family, and
d'Aigrigny's hopes would thus be completely and for ever frustrated. Of
all these perplexities which the reverend father had experienced for some
time past, with regard to this inheritance, none had been more unexpected
and terrible than this. Fearing to interrupt or question Gabriel, Father
d'Aigrigny waited, in mute terror, the end of this interview, which
already bore so threatening an aspect.

The missionary resumed: "It is my duty, father, to continue this sketch
of my past life, until the moment of my departure for America. You will
understand, presently, why I have imposed on myself this obligation."

Father d'Aigrigny nodded for him to proceed.

"Once informed of the pretended wishes of my adopted mother, I resigned
myself to them, though at some cost of feeling. I left the gloomy abode,
in which I had passed my childhood and part of my youth, to enter one of
the seminaries of the Company. My resolution was not caused by an
irresistible religious vocation, but by a wish to discharge the sacred
debt I owed my adopted mother. Yet the true spirit of the religion of
Christ is so vivifying, that I felt myself animated and warmed by the
idea of carrying out the adorable precepts of our Blessed Saviour. To my
imagination, a seminary, instead of resembling the college where I had
lived in painful restraint, appeared like a holy place, where all that
was pure and warm in the fraternity of the Gospel would be applied to
common life--where, for example, the lessons most frequently taught would
be the ardent love of humanity, and the ineffable sweets of commiseration
and tolerance--where the everlasting words of Christ would be interpreted
in their broadest sense--and where, in fine, by the habitual exercise and
expansion of the most generous sentiments, men were prepared for the
magnificent apostolic mission of making the rich and happy sympathize
with the sufferings of their brethren, by unveiling the frightful
miseries of humanity--a sublime and sacred morality, which none are able
to withstand, when it is preached with eyes full of tears, and hearts
overflowing with tenderness and charity!"

As he delivered these last words with profound emotion, Gabriel's eyes
became moist, and his countenance shone with angelic beauty.

"Such is, indeed, my dear son, the spirit of Christianity; but one must
also study and explain the letter," answered Father d'Aigrigny, coldly.
"It is to this study that the seminaries of our Company are specially
destined. Now the interpretation of the letter is a work of analysis,
discipline, and submission--and not one of heart and sentiment."

"I perceive that only too well, father. On entering this new house, I
found, alas! all my hopes defeated. Dilating for a moment, my heart soon
sunk within me. Instead of this centre of life, affection, youth, of
which I had dreamed. I found, in the silent and ice-cold seminary, the
same suppression of every generous emotion, the same inexorable
discipline, the same system of mutual prying, the same suspicion, the
same invincible obstacles to all ties of friendship. The ardor which had
warmed my soul for an instant soon died out; little by little, I fell
back into the habits of a stagnant, passive, mechanical life, governed by
a pitiless power with mechanical precision, just like the inanimate works
of a watch."

"But order, submission and regularity are the first foundations of our
Company, my dear son."

"Alas, father! it was death, not life, that I found thus organized. In
the midst of this destruction of every generous principle, I devoted
myself to scholastic and theological studies--gloomy studies--a wily,
menacing, and hostile science which, always awake to ideas of peril,
contest, and war, is opposed to all those of peace, progress, and
liberty."

"Theology, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, sternly, "is at once a
buckler and a sword; a buckler, to protect and cover the Catholic
faith--a sword, to attack and combat heresy."

"And yet, father, Christ and His apostles knew not this subtle science:
their simple and touching words regenerated mankind, and set freedom over
slavery. Does not the divine code of the Gospel suffice to teach men to
love one another? But, alas! far from speaking to us this language, our
attention was too often occupied with wars of religion, and the rivers of
blood that had flowed in honor of the Lord, and for the destruction of
heresy. These terrible lessons made our life still more melancholy. As we
grew near to manhood, our relations at the seminary assumed a growing
character of bitterness, jealousy and suspicion. The habit of tale
bearing against each other, applied to more serious subjects, engendered
silent hate and profound resentments. I was neither better nor worse than
the others. All of us, bowed down for years beneath the iron yoke of
passive obedience, unaccustomed to reflection or free-will, humble and
trembling before our superiors, had the same pale, dull, colorless
disposition. At last I took orders; once a priest, you invited me,
father, to enter the Company of Jesus, or rather I found myself
insensibly brought to this determination. How, I do not know. For a long
time before, my will was not my own. I went through all my proofs; the
most terrible was decisive; for some months, I lived in the silence of my
cell, practicing with resignation the strange and mechanical exercises
that you ordered me. With the exception of your reverence, nobody
approached me during that long space of time; no human voice but yours
sounded in my ear. Sometimes, in the night, I felt vague terrors; my
mind, weakened by fasting, austerity, and solitude, was impressed with
frightful visions. At other times, on the contrary, I felt a sort of
quiescence, in the idea that, having once pronounced my vows, I should be
delivered for ever from the burden of thought and will. Then I abandoned
myself to an insurmountable torpor, like those unfortunate wretches, who,
surprised by a snow-storm, yield to a suicidal repose. Thus I awaited the
fatal moment. At last, according to the rule of discipline, choking with
the death rattle,[17] I hastened the moment of accomplishing the final act
of my expiring will--the vow to renounce it for ever."