Three months have elapsed since Djalma was thrown into Batavia Prison
accused of belonging to the murderous gang of Megpunnas. The following
scene takes place in France, at the commencement of the month of
February, 1832, in Cardoville Manor House, an old feudal habitation
standing upon the tall cliffs of Picardy, not far from Saint Valery,
a dangerous coast on which almost every year many ships are totally
wrecked, being driven on shore by the northwesters, which render the
navigation of the Channel so perilous.
From the interior of the Castle is heard the howling of a violent
tempest, which has arisen during the night; a frequent formidable
noise, like the discharge of artillery, thunders in the distance, and
is repeated by the echoes of the shore; it is the sea breaking with fury
against the high rocks which are overlooked by the ancient Manor House.
It is about seven o’clock in the morning. Daylight is not yet visible
through the windows of a large room situated on the ground-floor. In
this apartment, in which a lamp is burning, a woman of about sixty years
of age, with a simple and honest countenance, dressed as a rich
farmer’s wife of Picardy, is already occupied with her needle-work,
notwithstanding the early hour. Close by, the husband of this woman,
about the same age as herself, is seated at a large table, sorting and
putting up in bags divers samples of wheat and oats. The face of this
white-haired man is intelligent and open, announcing good sense
and honesty, enlivened by a touch of rustic humor; he wears a
shooting-jacket of green cloth, and long gaiters of tan-colored leather,
which half conceal his black velveteen breeches.
The terrible storm which rages without renders still more agreeable
the picture of this peaceful interior. A rousing fire burns in a broad
chimney-place faced with white marble, and throws its joyous light on
the carefully polished floor; nothing can be more cheerful than the old
fashioned chintz hangings and curtains with red Chinese figures upon a
white ground, and the panels over the door painted with pastoral scenes
in the style of Watteau. A clock of Sevres china, and rosewood furniture
inlaid with green--quaint and portly furniture, twisted into all sorts
of grotesque shapes--complete the decorations of this apartment.
Out-doors, the gale continued to howl furiously, and sometimes a gust
of wind would rush down the chimney, or shake the fastenings of the
windows. The man who was occupied in sorting the samples of grain was M.
Dupont, bailiff of Cardoville manor.
“Holy Virgin!” said his wife; “what dreadful weather, my dear! This
M. Rodin, who is to come here this morning, as the Princess de Saint
Dizier’s steward announced to us, picked out a very bad day for it.”
“Why, in truth, I have rarely heard such a hurricane. If M. Rodin has
never seen the sea in its fury, he may feast his eyes to-day with the
sight.”
“What can it be that brings this M. Rodin, my dear?”
“Faith! I know nothing about it. The steward tells me in his letter to
show M. Rodin the greatest attention, and to obey him as if he were my
master. It will be for him to explain himself, and for me to execute his
orders, since he comes on the part of the princess.”
“By rights he should come from Mademoiselle Adrienne, as the land
belongs to her since the death of the duke her father.”
“Yes; but the princess being aunt to the young lady, her steward manages
Mademoiselle Adrienne’s affairs--so whether one or the other, it amounts
to the same thing.”
“May be M. Rodin means to buy the estate. Though, to be sure, that
stout lady who came from Paris last week on purpose to see the chateau
appeared to have a great wish for it.”
At these words the bailiff began to laugh with a sly look.
“What is there to laugh at, Dupont?” asked his wife, a very good
creature, but not famous for intelligence or penetration.
“I laugh,” answered Dupont, “to think of the face and figure of that
enormous woman: with such a look, who the devil would call themselves
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe--Mrs. Holy Dove? A pretty saint, and a
pretty dove, truly! She is round as a hogshead, with the voice of a
town-crier; has gray moustachios like an old grenadier, and without
her knowing it, I heard her say to her servant: ‘Stir your stumps, my
hearty!’--and yet she calls herself Sainte-Colombe!”
“How hard on her you are, Dupont; a body don’t choose one’s name. And,
if she has a beard, it is not the lady’s fault.”
“No--but it is her fault to call herself Sainte-Colombe. Do you imagine
it her true name? Ah, my poor Catherine, you are yet very green in some
things.”
“While you, my poor Dupont, are well read in slander! This lady seems
very respectable. The first thing she asked for on arriving was the
chapel of the Castle, of which she had heard speak. She even said that
she would make some embellishments in it; and, when I told her we had
no church in this little place, she appeared quite vexed not to have a
curate in the village.”
“Oh, to be sure! that’s the first thought of your upstarts--to play the
great lady of the parish, like your titled people.”
“Madame de la Sainte-Colombe need not play the great lady, because she
is one.”
“She! a great lady? Oh, lor’!”
“Yes--only see how she was dressed, in scarlet gown, and violet gloves
like a bishop’s; and, when she took off her bonnet, she had a diamond
band round her head-dress of false, light hair, and diamond ear-drops
as large as my thumb, and diamond rings on every finger! None of your
tuppenny beauties would wear so many diamonds in the middle of the day.”
“You are a pretty judge!”
“That is not all.”
“Do you mean to say there’s more?”
“She talked of nothing but dukes, and marquises, and counts, and very
rich gentlemen, who visit at her house, and are her most intimate
friends; and then, when she saw the summer house in the park, half-burnt
by the Prussians, which our late master never rebuilt, she asked, ‘What
are those ruins there?’ and I answered: ‘Madame, it was in the time of
the Allies that the pavilion was burnt.’--‘Oh, my clear,’ cried she;
‘our allies, good, dear allies! they and the Restoration began my
fortune!’ So you see, Dupont, I said to myself directly: ‘She was no
doubt one of the noble women who fled abroad--’”
“Madame de la Sainte-Colombe!” cried the bailiff, laughing heartily.
“Oh, my poor, poor wife!”
“Oh, it is all very well; but because you have been three years at
Paris, don’t think yourself a conjurer!”
“Catherine, let’s drop it: you will make me say some folly, and there
are certain things which dear, good creatures like you need never know.”
“I cannot tell what you are driving at, only try to be less
slanderous--for, after all, should Madame de la Sainte-Colombe buy the
estate, will you be sorry to remain as her bailiff, eh?”
“Not I--for we are getting old, my good Catherine; we have lived here
twenty years, and we have been too honest to provide for our old days
by pilfering--and truly, at our age, it would be hard to seek another
place, which perhaps we should not find. What I regret is, that
Mademoiselle Adrienne should not keep the land; it seems that she wished
to sell it, against the will of the princess.”
“Good gracious, Dupont! is it not very extraordinary that Mademoiselle
Adrienne should have the disposal of her large fortune so early in
life?”
“Faith! simple enough. Our young lady, having no father or mother, is
mistress of her property, besides having a famous little will of her
own. Dost remember, ten years ago, when the count brought her down here
one summer?--what an imp of mischief! and then what eyes! eh?--how they
sparkled, even then!”
“It is true that Mademoiselle Adrienne had in her look--an expression--a
very uncommon expression for her age.”
“If she has kept what her witching, luring face promised, she must be
very pretty by this time, notwithstanding the peculiar color of her
hair--for, between ourselves, if she had been a tradesman’s daughter,
instead of a young lady of high birth, they would have called it red.”
“There again! more slander.”
“What! against Mademoiselle Adrienne? Heaven forbid--I always thought
that she would be as good as pretty, and it is not speaking ill of her
to say she has red hair. On the contrary, it always appears to me so
fine, so bright, so sunny, and to suit so well her snowy complexion and
black eyes, that in truth I would not have had it other than it was;
and I am sure, that now this very color of her hair, which would be
a blemish in any one else, must only add to the charm of Mademoiselle
Adrienne’s face. She must have such a sweet vixen look!”
“Oh! to be candid, she really was a vixen--always running about the
park, aggravating her governess, climbing the trees--in fact, playing
all manner of naughty tricks.”
“I grant you, Mademoiselle Adrienne was a chip of the old block; but
then what wit, what engaging ways, and above all, what a good heart!”
“Yes--that she certainly had. Once I remember she gave her shawl and
her new merino frock to a poor little beggar girl, and came back to the
house in her petticoat, and bare arms.”
“Oh, an excellent heart--but headstrong--terribly headstrong!”
“Yes--that she was; and ‘tis likely to finish badly, for it seems that
she does things at Paris--oh! such things--”
“What things?”
“Oh, my dear; I can hardly venture--”
“Fell, but what are they?”
“Why,” said the worthy dame, with a sort of embarrassment and confusion,
which showed how much she was shocked by such enormities, “they say,
that Mademoiselle Adrienne never sets foot in a church, but lives in a
kind of heathen temple in her aunt’s garden, where she has masked women
to dress her up like a goddess, and scratches them very often, because
she gets tipsy--without mentioning, that every night she plays on a
hunting horn of massive gold--all which causes the utmost grief and
despair to her poor aunt the princess.”
Here the bailiff burst into a fit of laughter, which interrupted his
wife.
“Now tell me,” said he, when this first access of hilarity was over,
“where did you get these fine stories about Mademoiselle Adrienne?”
“From Rene’s wife, who went to Paris to look for a child to nurse; she
called at Saint-Dizier House, to see Madame Grivois, her godmother.--Now
Madame Grivois is first bedchamber woman to the princess--and she it
was who told her all this--and surely she ought to know, being in the
house.”
“Yes, a fine piece of goods that Grivois! once she was a regular bad
‘un, but now she professes to be as over-nice as her mistress; like
master like man, they say. The princess herself, who is now so stiff and
starched, knew how to carry on a lively game in her time. Fifteen years
ago, she was no such prude: do you remember that handsome colonel of
hussars, who was in garrison at Abbeville? an exiled noble who had
served in Russia, whom the Bourbons gave a regiment on the Restoration?”
“Yes, yes--I remember him; but you are really too backbiting.”
“Not a bit--I only speak the truth. The colonel spent his whole time
here, and every one said he was very warm with this same princess, who
is now such a saint. Oh! those were the jolly times. Every evening, some
new entertainment at the chateau. What a fellow that colonel was, to set
things going; how well he could act a play!--I remember--”
The bailiff was unable to proceed. A stout maid-servant, wearing the
costume and cap of Picardy, entered in haste, and thus addressed her
mistress: “Madame, there is a person here that wants to speak to master;
he has come in the postmaster’s calash from Saint-Valery, and he says
that he is M. Rodin.”
“M. Rodin?” said the bailiff rising. “Show him in directly!”
A moment after, M. Rodin made his appearance. According to his custom,
he was dressed even more than plainly. With an air of great humility,
he saluted the bailiff and his wife, and at a sign from her husband,
the latter withdrew. The cadaverous countenance of M. Rodin, his almost
invisible lips, his little reptile eyes, half concealed by their flabby
lids, and the sordid style of his dress, rendered his general aspect
far from prepossessing; yet this man knew how, when it was necessary,
to affect, with diabolical art, so much sincerity and good-nature--his
words were so affectionate and subtly penetrating--that the disagreeable
feeling of repugnance, which the first sight of him generally inspired,
wore off little by little, and he almost always finished by involving
his dupe or victim in the tortuous windings of an eloquence as pliant
as it was honeyed and perfidious; for ugliness and evil have their
fascination, as well as what is good and fair.
The honest bailiff looked at this man with surprise, when he thought
of the pressing recommendation of the steward of the Princess de Saint
Dizier; he had expected to see quite another sort of personage, and,
hardly able to dissemble his astonishment, he said to him: “Is it to M.
Rodin that I have the honor to speak?”
“Yes, sir; and here is another letter from the steward of the Princess
de Saint-Dizier.”
“Pray, sir, draw near the fire, whilst I just see what is in this
letter. The weather is so bad,” continued the bailiff, obligingly, “may
I not offer you some refreshment?”
“A thousand thanks, my dear sir; I am off again in an hour.”
Whilst M. Dupont read, M. Rodin threw inquisitive glances round the
chamber; like a man of skill and experience, he had frequently drawn
just and useful inductions from those little appearances, which,
revealing a taste or habit, give at the same time some notion of a
character; on this occasion, however, his curiosity was at fault.
“Very good, sir,” said the bailiff, when he had finished reading; “the
steward renews his recommendation, and tells me to attend implicitly to
your commands.”
“Well, sir, they will amount to very little, and I shall not trouble you
long.”
“It will be no trouble, but an honor.”
“Nay, I know how much your time must be occupied, for, as soon as one
enters this chateau, one is struck with the good order and perfect
keeping of everything in it--which proves, my dear sir, what excellent
care you take of it.”
“Oh, sir, you flatter me.”
“Flatter you?--a poor old man like myself has something else to think
of. But to come to business: there is a room here which is called the
Green Chamber?”
“Yes, sir; the room which the late Count-Duke de Cardoville used for a
study.”
“You will have the goodness to take me there.”
“Unfortunately, it is not in my power to do so. After the death of the
Count-Duke, and when the seals were removed, a number of papers were
shut up in a cabinet in that room, and the lawyers took the keys with
them to Paris.”
“Here are those keys,” said M. Rodin, showing to the bailiff a large and
a small key tied together.
“Oh, sir! that is different. You come to look for papers?”
“Yes--for certain papers--and also far a small mahogany casket, with
silver clasps--do you happen to know it?”
“Yes, sir; I have often seen it on the count’s writing-table. It must be
in the large, lacquered cabinet, of which you have the key.”
“You will conduct me to this chamber, as authorized by the Princess de
Saint-Dizier?”
“Yes, sir; the princess continues in good health?”
“Perfectly so. She lives altogether above worldly things.”
“And Mademoiselle Adrienne?”
“Alas, my dear sir!” said M. Rodin, with a sigh of deep contrition and
grief.
“Good heaven, sir! has any calamity happened to Mademoiselle Adrienne?”
“In what sense do you mean it?”
“Is she ill?”
“No, no--she is, unfortunately, as well as she is beautiful.”
“Unfortunately!” cried the bailiff, in surprise.
“Alas, yes! for when beauty, youth, and health are joined to an evil
spirit of revolt and perversity--to a character which certainly has not
its equal upon earth--it would be far better to be deprived of those
dangerous advantages, which only become so many causes of perdition. But
I conjure you, my dear sir, let us talk of something else: this subject
is too painful,” said M. Rodin, with a voice of deep emotion, lifting
the tip of his little finger to the corner of his right eye, as if to
stop a rising tear.
The bailiff did not see the tear, but he saw the gesture, and he was
struck with the change in M. Rodin’s voice. He answered him, therefore,
with much sympathy: “Pardon my indiscretion, sir; I really did not
know--”
“It is I who should ask pardon for this involuntary display of
feeling--tears are so rare with old men--but if you had seen, as I have,
the despair of that excellent princess, whose only fault has been too
much kindness, too much weakness, with regard to her niece--by which she
has encouraged her--but, once more, let us talk of something else, my
dear sir!”
After a moment’s pause, during which M. Rodin seemed to recover from his
emotion, he said to Dupont: “One part of my mission, my dear sir--that
which relates to the Green Chamber--I have now told you; but there
is yet another. Before coming to it, however, I must remind you of a
circumstance you have perhaps forgotten--namely, that some fifteen or
sixteen years ago, the Marquis d’Aigrigny, then colonel of the hussars
in garrison at Abbeville, spent some time in this house.”
“Oh, sir! what a dashing officer was there! It was only just now, that
I was talking about him to my wife. He was the life of the house!--how
well he could perform plays--particularly the character of a scapegrace.
In the Two Edmonds, for instance, he would make you die with laughing,
in that part of a drunken soldier--and then, with what a charming voice
he sang Joconde, sir--better than they could sing it at Paris!”
Rodin, having listened complacently to the bailiff, said to him:
“You doubtless know that, after a fierce duel he had with a furious
Bonapartist, one General Simon, the Marquis d’Aigrigny (whose private
secretary I have now the honor to be) left the world for the church.”
“No, sir! is it possible? That fine officer!”
“That fine officer--brave, noble, rich, esteemed, and
flattered--abandoned all those advantages for the sorry black gown; and,
notwithstanding his name, position, high connections, his reputation as
a great preacher, he is still what he was fourteen years ago--a plain
abbe--whilst so many, who have neither his merit nor his virtues, are
archbishops and cardinals.”
M. Rodin expressed himself with so much goodness, with such an air of
conviction, and the facts he cited appeared to be so incontestable,
that M. Dupont could not help exclaiming: “Well, sir, that is splendid
conduct!”
“Splendid? Oh, no!” said M. Rodin, with an inimitable expression of
simplicity; “it is quite a matter of course when one has a heart like
M. d’Aigrigny’s. But amongst all his good qualities, he has particularly
that of never forgetting worthy people--people of integrity, honor,
conscience--and therefore, my dear M. Dupont, he has not forgotten you.”
“What, the most noble marquis deigns to remember--”
“Three days ago, I received a letter from him, in which he mentions your
name.”
“Is he then at Paris?”
“He will be there soon, if not there now. He went to Italy about three
months ago, and, during his absence, he received a very sad piece of
news--the death of his mother, who was passing the autumn on one of the
estates of the Princess de Saint-Dizier.”
“Oh, indeed! I was not aware of it.”
“Yes, it was a cruel grief to him; but we must all resign ourselves to
the will of Providence!”
“And with regard to what subject did the marquis do me the honor to
mention my name?”
“I am going to tell you. First of all, you must know that this house
is sold. The bill of sale was signed the day before my departure from
Paris.”
“Oh, sir! that renews all my uneasiness.”
“Pray, why?”
“I am afraid that the new proprietors may not choose to keep me as their
bailiff.”
“Now see what a lucky chance! It is just on that subject that I am going
to speak to you.”
“Is it possible?”
“Certainly. Knowing the interest which the marquis feels for you, I am
particularly desirous that you should keep this place, and I will do all
in my power to serve you, if--”
“Ah, sir!” cried Dupont, interrupting Rodin; “what gratitude do I not
owe you! It is Heaven that sends you to me!’
“Now, my dear sir, you flatter me in your turn; but I ought to tell you,
that I’m obliged to annex a small condition to my support.”
“Oh, by all means! Only name it, sir--name it!”
“The person who is about to inhabit this mansion, is an old lady in
every way worthy of veneration; Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is the name
of this respectable--”
“What, sir?” said the bailiff, interrupting Rodin; “Madame de la Sainte
Colombe the lady who has bought us out?”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes, sir, she came last week to see the estate. My wife persists that
she is a great lady; but--between ourselves--judging by certain words
that I heard her speak--”
“You are full of penetration, my dear M. Dupont. Madame de la Sainte
Colombe is far from being a great lady. I believe she was neither more
nor less than a milliner, under one of the wooden porticoes of the
Palais Royal. You see, that I deal openly with you.”
“And she boasted of all the noblemen, French and foreign, who used to
visit her!”
“No doubt, they came to buy bonnets for their wives! However, the fact
is, that, having gained a large fortune and, after being in youth and
middle age--indifferent--alas! more than indifferent to the salvation
of her soul--Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is now in a likely way
to experience grace--which renders her, as I told you, worthy
of veneration, because nothing is so respectable as a sincere
repentance--always providing it to be lasting. Now to make the good work
sure and effectual, we shall need your assistance, my dear M. Dupont.”
“Mine, sir! what can I do in it?”
“A great deal; and I will explain to you how. There is no church in this
village, which stands at an equal distance from either of two parishes.
Madame de la Sainte-Colombe, wishing to make choice of one of the two
clergymen, will naturally apply to you and Madame Dupont, who have long
lived in these parts, for information respecting them.”
“Oh! in that case the choice will soon be made. The incumbent of
Danicourt is one of the best of men.”
“Now that is precisely what you must not say to Madame de la Sainte
Colombe.”
“How so?”
“You must, on the contrary, much praise, without ceasing, the curate
of Roiville, the other parish, so as to decide this good lady to trust
herself to his care.”
“And why, sir, to him rather than to the other?”
“Why?--because, if you and Madame Dupont succeed in persuading Madame de
la Sainte-Colombe to make the choice I wish, you will be certain to keep
your place as bailiff. I give you my word of it, and what I promise I
perform.”
“I do not doubt, sir, that you have this power,” said Dupont, convinced
by Rodin’s manner, and the authority of his words; “but I should like to
know--”
“One word more,” said Rodin, interrupting him; “I will deal openly with
you, and tell you why I insist on the preference which I beg you to
support. I should be grieved if you saw in all this the shadow of an
intrigue. It is only for the purpose of doing a good action. The
curate of Roiville, for whom I ask your influence, is a man for whom M.
d’Aigrigny feels a deep interest. Though very poor, he has to support
an aged mother. Now, if he had the spiritual care of Madame de la Sainte
Colombe, he would do more good than any one else, because he is full
of zeal and patience; and then it is clear he would reap some little
advantages, by which his old mother might profit--there you see is the
secret of this mighty scheme. When I knew that this lady was disposed to
buy an estate in the neighborhood of our friend’s parish, I wrote about
it to the marquis; and he, remembering you, desired me to ask you
to render him this small service, which, as you see, will not remain
without a recompense. For I tell you once more, and I will prove it,
that I have the power to keep you in your place as bailiff.”
“Well, sir,” replied Dupont, after a moment’s reflection, “you are so
frank and obliging, that I will imitate your sincerity. In the same
degree that the curate of Danicourt is respected and loved in this
country, the curate of Roiville, whom you wish me to prefer to him, is
dreaded for his intolerance--and, moreover--”
“Well, and what more?”
“Why, then, they say--”
“Come, what do they say?”
“They say--he is a Jesuit.”
Upon these words, M. Rodin burst into so hearty a laugh that the bailiff
was quite struck dumb with amazement--for the countenance of M. Rodin
took a singular expression when he laughed. “A Jesuit!” he repeated,
with redoubled hilarity; “a Jesuit!--Now really, my dear M. Dupont, for
a man of sense, experience, and intelligence, how can you believe such
idle stories?--A Jesuit--are there such people as Jesuits?--in our time,
above all, can you believe such romance of the Jacobins, hobgoblins of
the old freedom lovers?--Come, come; I wager, you have read about them
in the Constitutionnel!”
“And yet, sir, they say--”
“Good heavens! what will they not say?--But wise men, prudent men like
you, do not meddle with what is said--they manage their own little
matters, without doing injury to any one, and they never sacrifice, for
the sake of nonsense, a good place, which secures them a comfortable
provision for the rest of their days. I tell you frankly, however much I
may regret it, that should you not succeed in getting the preference for
my man, you will not remain bailiff here.
“But, sir,” said poor Dupont, “it will not be my fault, if this lady,
hearing a great deal in praise of the other curate, should prefer him to
your friend.”
“Ah! but if, on the other hand, persons who have long lived in the
neighborhood--persons worthy of confidence, whom she will see every
day--tell Madame de la Sainte-Colombe a great deal of good of my friend,
and a great deal of harm of the other curate, she will prefer the
former, and you will continue bailiff.”
“But, sir--that would be calumny!” cried Dupont.
“Pshaw, my dear M. Dupont!” said Rodin, with an air of sorrowful and
affectionate reproach, “how can you think me capable of giving you evil
counsel?--I was only making a supposition. You wish to remain bailiff
on this estate. I offer you the certainty of doing so--it is for you to
consider and decide.”
“But, sir--”
“One word more--or rather one more condition--as important as the other.
Unfortunately, we have seen clergymen take advantage of the age and
weakness of their penitents, unfairly to benefit either themselves or
others: I believe our protege incapable of any such baseness--but, in
order to discharge my responsibility--and yours also, as you will have
contributed to his appointment--I must request that you will write to me
twice a week, giving the most exact detail of all that you have remarked
in the character, habits, connections, pursuits, of Madame de la Sainte
Colombe--for the influence of a confessor, you see, reveals itself in
the whole conduct of life, and I should wish to be fully edified by the
proceedings of my friend, without his being aware of it--or, if anything
blameable were to strike you, I should be immediately informed of it by
this weekly correspondence.”
“But, sir--that would be to act as a spy?” exclaimed the unfortunate
bailiff.
“Now, my dear M. Dupont! how can you thus brand the sweetest, most
wholesome of human desires--mutual confidence?--I ask of you nothing
else--I ask of you to write to me confidentially the details of all that
goes on here. On these two conditions, inseparable one from the other,
you remain bailiff; otherwise, I shall be forced, with grief and regret,
to recommend some one else to Madame de la Sainte-Colombe.”
“I beg you, sir,” said Dupont, with emotion, “Be generous without any
conditions!--I and my wife have only this place to give us bread, and we
are too old to find another. Do not expose our probity of forty
years’ standing to be tempted by the fear of want, which is so bad a
counsellor!”
“My dear M. Dupont, you are really a great child: you must reflect upon
this, and give me your answer in the course of a week.”
“Oh, sir! I implore you--” The conversation was here interrupted by a
loud report, which was almost instantaneously repeated by the echoes of
the cliffs. “What is that?” said M. Rodin. Hardly had he spoken, when
the same noise was again heard more distinctly than before.
“It is the sound of cannon,” cried Dupont, rising; “no doubt a ship in
distress, or signaling for a pilot.”
“My dear,” said the bailiffs wife, entering abruptly, “from the terrace,
we can see a steamer and a large ship nearly dismasted--they are
drifting right upon the shore--the ship is firing minute gulls--it will
be lost.”
“Oh, it is terrible!” cried the bailiff, taking his hat and preparing to
go out, “to look on at a shipwreck, and be able to do nothing!”
“Can no help be given to these vessels?” asked M. Rodin.
“If they are driven upon the reefs, no human power can save them; since
the last equinox two ships have been lost on this coast.”
“Lost with all on board?--Oh, very frightful,” said M. Rodin.
“In such a storm, there is but little chance for the crew; no matter,”
said the bailiff, addressing his wife, “I will run down to the rocks
with the people of the farm, and try to save some of them, poor
creatures!--Light large fires in several rooms--get ready linen,
clothes, cordials--I scarcely dare hope to save any, but we must do our
best. Will you come with me, M. Rodin?”
“I should think it a duty, if I could be at all useful, but I am too
old and feeble to be of any service,” said M. Rodin, who was by no means
anxious to encounter the storm. “Your good lady will be kind enough to
show me the Green Chamber, and when I have found the articles I require,
I will set out immediately for Paris, for I am in great haste.”
“Very well, sir. Catherine will show you. Ring the big bell,” said the
bailiff to his servant; “let all the people of the farm meet me at the
foot of the cliff, with ropes and levers.”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Catherine; “but do not expose yourself.”
“Kiss me--it will bring me luck,” said the bailiff; and he started at a
full run, crying: “Quick! quick; by this time not a plank may remain of
the vessels.”
“My dear madam,” said Rodin, always impassible, “will you be obliging
enough to show me the Green Chamber?”
“Please to follow me, sir,” answered Catherine, drying her tears--for
she trembled on account of her husband, whose courage she well knew.