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.
In the general management of the pecuniary affairs of the community,
Mother Sainte-Perpetue would have been a match for the most cunning
attorney. When women are possessed of what is called a talent for
business, and apply to it their keen penetration, their indefatigable
perseverance, their prudent dissimulation, and, above all, that quick
and exact insight, which is natural to them, the results are often
prodigious. To Mother Sainte-Perpetue, a woman of the coolest and
strongest intellect, the management of the vast transactions of the
community was mere child’s play. No one knew better how to purchase a
depreciated property, to restore it to its former value, and then sell
it with advantage; the price of stock, the rate of exchange, the current
value of the shares in the different companies, were all familiar to
her; she had yet never been known to make bad speculation, when the
question was to invest any of the funds which were given by pious souls
for the purposes of the convent. She had established in the house the
utmost order and discipline, and, above all, an extreme economy. The
constant aim of all her efforts was to enrich, not herself, but the
community she directed; for the spirit of association, when become a
collective egotism, gives to corporations the faults and vices of an
individual. Thus a congregation may dote upon power and money, just as
a miser loves them for their own sake. But it is chiefly with regard to
estates that congregations act like a single man. They dream of landed
property; it is their fixed idea, their fruitful monomania. They pursue
it with their most sincere, and warm, and tender wishes.
The first estate is to a rising little community what the wedding
trousseau is to a young bride, his first horse to a youth, his first
success to a poet, to a gay girl her first fifty-guinea shawl; because,
after all, in this material age, an estate gives a certain rank to a
society on the Religious Exchange, and has so much the more effect upon
the simple-minded, that all these partnerships in the work of salvation,
which end by becoming immensely rich, begin with modest poverty as
social stock-in-trade, and charity towards their neighbors as security
reserve fund. We may therefore imagine what bitter and ardent rivalry
must exist between the different congregations with regard to the
various estates that each can lay claim to; with what ineffable
satisfaction the richer society crushes the poorer beneath its inventory
of houses, and farms and paper securities! Envy and hateful jealousy,
rendered still more irritable by the leisure of a cloistered life, are
the necessary consequences of such a comparison; and yet nothing is less
Christian--in the adorable acceptation of that divine word--nothing has
less in common with the true, essential, and religiously social spirit
of the gospel, than this insatiable ardor to acquire wealth by every
possible means--this dangerous avidity, which is far from being atoned
for, in the eyes of public opinion, by a few paltry alms, bestowed in
the narrow spirit of exclusion and intolerance.
Mother Sainte-Perpetue was seated before a large cylindrical-fronted
desk in the centre of an apartment simply but comfortably furnished.
An excellent fire burned within the marble chimney, and a soft carpet
covered the floor. The superior, to whom all letters addressed to the
sisters or the boarders were every day delivered, had just been opening
she first, according to her acknowledged right, and carefully unsealing
the second, without their knowing it, according to a right that she
ascribed to herself, of course, with a view to the salvation of those
dear creatures; and partly, perhaps, a little to make herself acquainted
with their correspondence, for she also had imposed on herself the duty
of reading all letters that were sent from the convent, before they were
put into the post. The traces of this pious and innocent inquisition
were easily effaced, for the good mother possessed a whole arsenal of
steel tools, some very sharp, to cut the pager imperceptibly round the
seal--others, pretty little rods, to be slightly heated and rolled round
the edge of the seal, when the letter had been read and replaced in its
envelope, so that the wax, spreading as it melted, might cover the first
incision. Moreover, from a praiseworthy feeling of justice and equality,
there was in the arsenal of the good mother a little fumigator of the
most ingenious construction, the damp and dissolving vapor of which was
reserved for the letters humbly and modestly secured with wafers, thus
softened, they yielded to the least efforts, without any tearing of the
paper. According to the importance of the revelations, which she thus
gleaned from the writers of the letters, the superior took notes more or
less extensive. She was interrupted in this investigation by two gentle
taps at the bolted door. Mother Sainte-Perpetue immediately let down the
sliding cylinder of her cabinet, so as to cover the secret arsenal, and
went to open the door with a grave and solemn air. A lay sister came to
announce to her that the Princess de Saint-Dizier was waiting for her
in the parlor, and that Mdlle. Florine, accompanied by a young girl,
deformed and badly dressed, was waiting at the door of the little
corridor.
“Introduce the princess first,” said Mother Sainte Perpetue. And, with
charming forethought, she drew an armchair to the fire. Mme. de Saint
Dizier entered.
Without pretensions to juvenile coquetry, still the princess was
tastefully and elegantly dressed. She wore a black velvet bonnet of the
most fashionable make, a large blue cashmere shawl, and a black satin
dress, trimmed with sable, to match the fur of her muff.
“To what good fortune am I again to-day indebted for the honor of your
visit, my dear daughter?” said the superior, graciously.
“A very important recommendation, my dear mother, though I am in a
great hurry. I am expected at the house of his Eminence, and have,
unfortunately, only a few minutes to spare. I have again to speak of the
two orphans who occupied our attention so long yesterday.”
“They continue to be kept separate, according to your wish; and this
separation has had such an effect upon them that I have been obliged
to send this morning for Dr. Baleinier, from his asylum. He found much
fever joined to great depression, and, singular enough, absolutely the
same symptoms in both cases. I have again questioned these unfortunate
creatures, and have been quite confounded and terrified to find them
perfect heathens.”
“It was, you see, very urgent to place them in your care. But to the
subject of my visit, my dear mother: we have just learned the unexpected
return of the soldier who brought these girls to France, and was thought
to be absent for some days; but he is in Paris, and, notwithstanding his
age, a man of extraordinary boldness, enterprise and energy. Should he
discover that the girls are here (which, however, is fortunately
almost impossible), in his rage at seeing them removed from his impious
influence, he would be capable of anything. Therefore let me entreat
you, my dear mother, to redouble your precautions, that no one may
effect an entrance by night. This quarter of the town is so deserted!”
“Be satisfied, my dear daughter; we are sufficiently guarded. Our porter
and gardeners, all well armed, make a round every night on the side
of the Boulevard de l’Hopital. The walls are high, and furnished with
spikes at the more accessible places. But I thank you, my dear daughter,
for having warned me. We will redouble our precautions.”
“Particularly this night, my dear mother.”
“Why so?”
“Because if this infernal soldier has the audacity to attempt such a
thing, it will be this very night.”
“How do you know, my dear daughter?”
“We have information which makes us certain of it,” replied the
princess, with a slight embarrassment, which did not escape the notice
of the Superior, though she was too crafty and reserved to appear to see
it; only she suspected that many things were concealed from her.
“This night, then,” resumed Mother Sainte-Perpetue, “we will be more
than ever on our guard. But as I have the pleasure of seeing you, my
dear daughter, I will take the opportunity to say a word or two on the
subject of that marriage we mentioned.”
“Yes, my dear mother,” said the princess, hastily, “for it is very
important. The young Baron de Brisville is a man full of ardent devotion
in these times of revolutionary impiety; he practises openly, and is
able to render us great services. He is listened to in the Chamber, and
does not want for a sort of aggressive and provoking eloquence; I know
not any one whose tone is more insolent with regard to his faith, and
the plan is a good one, for this cavalier and open manner of speaking
of sacred things raises and excites the curiosity of the indifferent.
Circumstances are happily such that he may show the most audacious
violence towards our enemies, without the least danger to himself,
which, of course, redoubles his ardor as a would-be martyr. In a
word, he is altogether ours, and we, in return, must bring about this
marriage. You know, besides, my dear mother, that he proposes to offer
a donation of a hundred thousand francs to St. Mary’s the day he gains
possession of the fortune of Mdlle. Baudricourt.”
“I have never doubted the excellent intentions of M. de Brisville
with regard to an institution which merits the sympathy of all pious
persons,” answered the superior, discreetly; “but I did not expect to
meet with so many obstacles on the part of the young lady.”
“How is that?”
“This girl, whom I always believed a most simple, submissive, timid,
almost idiotic person--instead of being delighted with this proposal of
marriage, asks time to consider!”
“It is really pitiable!”
“She opposes to me an inert resistance. It is in vain for me to speak
severely, and tell her that, having no parents or friends, and being
absolutely confided to my care, she ought to see with my eyes, hear with
my ears, and when I affirm that this union is suitable in all respects,
give her adhesion to it without delay or reflection.”
“No doubt. It would be impossible to speak more sensibly.”
“She answers that she wishes to see M. de Brisville, and know his
character before being engaged.”
“It is absurd--since you undertake to answer for his morality, and
esteem this a proper marriage.”
“Therefore, I remarked to Mdlle. Baudricourt, this morning, that till
now I had only employed gentle persuasion, but that, if she forced me
to it, I should be obliged, in her own interest, to act with rigor, to
conquer so much obstinacy that I should have to separate her from her
companions, and to confine her closely in a cell, until she made up her
mind, after all, to consult her own happiness, and--marry an honorable
man.”
“And these menaces, my dear mother?”
“Will, I hope, have a good effect. She kept up a correspondence with
an old school-friend in the country. I have put a stop to this, for it
appeared to me dangerous. She is now under my sole influence, and I hope
we shall attain our ends; but you see, my dear daughter, it is never
without crosses and difficulties that we succeed in doing good!”
“And I feel certain that M. de Brisville will even go beyond his first
promise, and I will pledge myself for him, that, should he marry Mdlle.
Baudricourt--”
“You know, my dear daughter,” said the superior, interrupting the
princess, “that if I were myself concerned, I would refuse everything;
but to give to this institution is to give to Heaven, and I cannot
prevent M. de Brisville from augmenting the amount of his good works.
Then, you see, we are exposed to a sad disappointment.”
“What is that, my dear mother?”
“The Sacred Heart Convent disputes an estate with us that would have
suited us exactly. Really, some people are quite insatiable! I gave the
lady superior my opinion upon it pretty freely.”
“She told me as much,” answered Madame de Saint-Dizier, “and laid the
blame on the steward.”
“Oh! so you see her, my dear daughter?” exclaimed the superior, with an
air of great surprise.
“I met her at the bishop’s,” answered Madame de Saint-Dizier, with a
slight degree of hesitation, that Mother Sainte-Perpetue did not appear
to notice.
“I really do not know,” resumed the latter, “why our establishment
should excite so violently the jealousy of the Sacred Heart. There is
not an evil report that they have not spread with regard to St. Mary’s
Convent. Certain persons are always offended by the success of their
neighbors!”
“Come, my dear mother,” said the princess, in a conciliating tone, “we
must hope that the donation of M. de Brisville will enable you to outbid
the Sacred Heart. This marriage will have a double advantage, you see,
my dear mother; it will place a large fortune at the disposal of a man
who is devoted to us, and who will employ it as we wish; and it will
also greatly increase the importance of his position as our defender,
by the addition to his income of 100,000 francs a year. We shall have at
length an organ worthy of our cause, and shall no longer be obliged to
look for defenders amongst such people as that Dumoulin.”
“There is great power and much learning in the writings of the man you
name. It is the style of a Saint Bernard, in wrath at the impiety of the
age.”
“Alas, my dear mother! if you only knew what a strange Saint Bernard
this Dumoulin is! But I will not offend your ears; all I can tell you
is, that such defenders would compromise the most sacred cause. Adieu,
my dear mother! pray redouble your precautions to-night--the return of
this soldier is alarming.”
“Be quite satisfied, my dear daughter! Oh! I forgot. Mdlle. Florine
begged me to ask you a favor. It is to let her enter your service. You
know the fidelity she displayed in watching your unfortunate niece; I
think that, by rewarding her in this way, you will attach her to you
completely, and I shall feel grateful on her account.”
“If you interest yourself the least in the world in Florine, my dear
mother, the thing is done. I will take her into my service. And now it
strikes me, she may be more useful to me than I thought.”
“A thousand thanks, my dear daughter, for such obliging attention to my
request. I hope we shall soon meet again. The day after to-morrow, at
two o’clock, we have a long conference with his Eminence and the Bishop;
do not forget!”
“No, my dear mother; I shall take care to be exact. Only, pray, redouble
your precautions to-night for fear of a great scandal!”
After respectfully kissing the hand of the superior, the princess
went out by the great door, which led to an apartment opening on the
principal staircase. Some minutes after, Florine entered the room by
another way. The superior was seated and Florine approached her with
timid humility.
“Did you meet the Princess de Saint-Dizier?” asked Mother Sainte
Perpetue.
“No, mother; I was waiting in the passage, where the windows look out on
the garden.”
“The princess takes you into her service from to-day,” said the
superior.
Florine made a movement of sorrowful surprise, and exclaimed: “Me,
mother! but--”
“I asked her in your name, and you have only to accept,” answered the
other imperiously.
“But, mother, I had entreated you--”
“I tell you, that you accept the offer,” said the superior, in so firm
and positive a tone that Florine cast down her eyes, and replied in a
low voice: “I accept.”
“It is in M. Rodin’s name that I give you this order.”
“I thought so, mother,” replied Florine, sadly; “on what conditions am I
to serve the princess?”
“On the same conditions as those on which you served her niece.”
Florine shuddered and said: “I am, then, to make frequent secret reports
with regard to the princess?”
“You will observe, you will remember, and you will give an account.”
“Yes, my mother.”
“You will above all direct your attention to the visits that the
princess may receive from the lady superior of the Sacred Heart. You
must try and listen--for we have to preserve the princess from evil
influences.”
“I will obey, my mother.”
“You will also try and discover why two young orphans have been brought
hither, and recommended to be severely treated, by Madame Grivois, the
confidential waiting-woman of the princess.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Which must not prevent you from remembering anything else that may be
worthy of remark. To-morrow I will give you particular instructions upon
another subject.”
“It is well, mother.”
“If you conduct yourself in a satisfactory manner, and execute
faithfully the instructions of which I speak, you will soon leave the
princess to enter the service of a young bride; it will be an excellent
and lasting situation always on the same conditions. It is, therefore,
perfectly understood that you have asked me to recommend you to Madame
de Saint Dizier.”
“Yes, mother; I shall remember.”
“Who is this deformed young girl that accompanies you?”
“A poor creature without any resources, very intelligent, and with an
education above her class; she works at her needle, but is at present
without employment, and reduced to the last extremity. I have made
inquiries about her this morning; she has an excellent character.”
“She is ugly and deformed, you say?”
“She has an interesting countenance, but she is deformed.”
The superior appeared pleased at this information, and added, after a
moment’s reflection: “She appears intelligent?”
“Very intelligent.”
“And is absolutely without resources?”
“Yes, without any.”
“Is she pious?”
“She does not practice.”
“No matter,” said the superior to herself; “if she be intelligent, that
will suffice.” Then she resumed aloud. “Do you know if she is a good
workwoman?”
“I believe so, mother.”
The superior rose, took a register from a shelf, appeared to be looking
into it attentively for some time, and then said, as she replaced it:
“Fetch in this young girl, and go and wait for me in the press-room.”
“Deformed--intelligent--clever at her needle,” said the superior,
reflecting; “she will excite no suspicion. We must see.”
In about a minute, Florine returned with Mother Bunch, whom she
introduced to the superior, and then discreetly withdrew. The young
sempstress was agitated, trembling, and much troubled, for she could, as
it were, hardly believe a discovery which she had chanced to make during
Florine’s absence. It was not without a vague sense of terror that the
hunchback remained alone with the lady superior.
CHAPTER VII. THE TEMPTATION.
This was the cause of Mother Bunch’s emotion. Florine, when she went to
see the superior, had left the young sempstress in a passage supplied
with benches, and forming a sort of ante-chamber on the first story.
Being alone, the girl had mechanically approached a window which
looked upon the convent garden, shut in by a half demolished wall, and
terminating at one end in an open paling. This wall was connected with
a chapel that was still building, and bordered on the garden of a
neighboring house. The sewing-girl, at one of the windows on the ground
floor of this house--a grated window, still more remarkable by the sort
of tent-like awning above it--beheld a young female, with her eyes fixed
upon the convent, making signs with her hand, at once encouraging and
affectionate. From the window where she stood, Mother Bunch could not
see to whom these signs were addressed; but she admired the rare beauty
of the telegrapher, the brilliancy of her complexion, the shining
blackness of her large eyes, the sweet and benevolent smile which
lingered on her lips. There was, no doubt, some answer to her graceful
and expressive pantomime, for, by a movement full of elegance, the girl
laid her left hand on her bosom, and waved her right, which seemed to
indicate that her heart flew towards the place on which she kept her
eyes. One faint sunbeam, piercing the clouds, came at this moment to
play with the tresses of the pale countenance, which, now held close
to the bars of the window, was suddenly, as it were, illuminated by
the dazzling reflection of her splendid golden hair. At sight of that
charming face, set in its admirable frame of red curls, Mother Bunch
started involuntarily; the thought of Mdlle. de Cardoville crossed her
mind, and she felt persuaded (nor was she, indeed, mistaken), that
the protectress of Agricola was before her. On thus beholding, in
that gloomy asylum, this young lady, so marvellously beautiful, and
remembering the delicate kindness with which a few days before she had
received Agricola in her luxurious little palace of dazzling splendor,
the work-girl felt her heart sink within her. She believed Adrienne
insane; and yet, as she looked attentively at her, it seemed as if
intelligence and grace animated that adorable countenance. Suddenly,
Mdlle. de Cardoville laid her fingers upon her lips, blew a couple of
kisses in the direction towards which she had been looking, and all
at once disappeared. Reflecting upon the important revelations which
Agricola had to make to Mdlle. de Cardoville, Mother Bunch regretted
bitterly that she had no means of approaching her; for she felt sure
that, if the young lady were mad, the present was a lucid interval.
She was yet absorbed in these uneasy reflections, when she saw Florine
return, accompanied by one of the nuns. Mother Bunch was obliged,
therefore, to keep silence with regard to the discovery she had made,
and soon after she found herself in the superior’s presence. This
latter, after a rapid and searching examination of the countenance of
the young workwoman, judged her appearance so timid, gentle and honest,
that she thought she might repose full confidence in the information
given by Florine.
“My dear daughter,” said Mother Sainte-Perpetue, in an affectionate
voice, “Florine has told me in what a cruel situation you are placed. Is
it true that you are entirely without work?”
“Alas! yes, madame.”
“Call me mother, my dear daughter; that name is dearer to me, and it is
the rule of our house. I need not ask you what are your principles?”
“I have always lived honestly by my labor, mother,” answered the girl,
with a simplicity at once dignified and modest.
“I believe you, my dear daughter, and I have good reasons for so doing.
We must thank the Lord, who has delivered you from temptation; but tell
me--are you clever at your trade?”
“I do my best, mother, and have always satisfied my employers. If you
please to try me, you will be able to judge.”
“Your affirmation is sufficient, my dear daughter. You prefer, I think,
to go out by the day?”
“Mdlle. Florine told me, mother, that I could not have work at home.”
“Why, no--not for the present, my child. If hereafter an opportunity
should offer, I will think of it. Just now I have this to propose to
you. A very respectable old lady has asked me to recommend to her a
needle-woman by the day; introduced by me, you will certainly suit
her. The institution will undertake to clothe you becomingly, and this
advance we shall retain by degrees out of your wages, for you will look
to us for payment. We propose to give you two francs a day; does that
appear to you sufficient?”
“Oh, mother! it is much more than I could have expected.”
“You will, moreover, only be occupied from nine o’clock in the morning
till six in the evening; you will thus have still some off hours, of
which you might make use. You see, the situation is not a hard one.”
“Oh! quite the contrary, mother.”
“I must tell you, first of all, with whom the institution intends to
place you. It is a widow lady, named Mme. de Bremant, a person of the
most steadfast piety. In her house, I hope, you will meet with none but
excellent examples. If it should be otherwise, you can come and inform
me.”
“How so, mother?” said the sewing-girl, with surprise.
“Listen to me, my dear daughter,” said Mother Sainte-Perpetue, in a
tone ever more and more affectionate; “the institution of St. Mary has
a double end in view. You will perfectly understand that, if it is our
duty to give to masters and mistresses every possible security as to the
morality of the persons that we place in their families, we are likewise
bound to give to the persons that we so place out every possible
security as to the morality of their employers.”
“Nothing can be more just and of a wiser foresight, mother.”
“Naturally, my dear daughter; for even as a servant of bad morals may
cause the utmost trouble in a respectable family, so the bad conduct of
a master or mistress may have the most baneful influence on the persons
who serve them, or who come to work in their houses. Now, it is to offer
a mutual guarantee to good masters and honest servants, that we have
founded this institution.”
“Oh, madame!” cried Mother Bunch, with simplicity; “such designs merit
the thanks and blessings of every one.”
“And blessings do not fail us, my dear daughter, because we perform our
promises. Thus, an interesting workwoman--such as you, for example--is
placed with persons that we suppose irreproachable. Should she, however,
perceive, on the part of her employers, or on that of the persons who
frequent the house, any irregularity of morals, any tendency to what
would offend her modesty, or shock her religious principles, she should
immediately give us a detailed account of the circumstances that have
caused her alarm. Nothing can be more proper--don’t you think so?”
“Yes, mother,” answered Mother Bunch, timidly, for she began to find
this provision somewhat singular.
“Then,” resumed the superior, “if the case appears a serious one, we
exhort our befriended one to observe what passes more attentively, so
as to convince herself whether she had really reason to be alarmed.
She makes a new report to us, and should it confirm our first fears,
faithful to our pious guardianship, we withdraw her instantly from the
house. Moreover, as the majority of our young people, notwithstanding
their innocence and virtue, have not always sufficient experience to
distinguish what may be injurious to their soul’s health, we think it
greatly to their interest that they should confide to us once a week, as
a child would to her mother, either in person or by letter, whatever has
chanced to occur in the house in which we have placed them. Then we can
judge for them, whether to withdraw them or not. We have already about
a hundred persons, companions to ladies, young women in shops, servants,
and needlewomen by the day, whom we have placed in a great number
of families, and, for the interest of all, we have every reason to
congratulate ourselves on this mode of proceeding. You understand me, do
you not, my dear daughter?”
“Yes-yes, mother,” said the sempstress, more and more embarrassed. She
had too much uprightness and sagacity not to perceive that this plan of
mutually insuring the morality of masters and servants resembled a vast
spy system, brought home to the domestic hearth, and carried on by the
members of the institution almost without their knowledge, for it would
have been difficult to disguise more skillfully the employment for which
they were trained.
“If I have entered into these long details my dear daughter,” resumed
Mother Sainte-Perpetue, taking the hearer’s silence for consent, “it
is that you may not suppose yourself obliged to remain in the house in
question, if, against our expectation, you should not find there holy
and pious examples. I believe Mme. de Bremont’s house to be a pure and
godly place; only I have heard (though I will not believe it) that Mme.
de Bremont’s daughter, Mme. de Noisy, who has lately come to reside with
her, is not so exemplary in her conduct as could be desired, that she
does not fulfil regularly her religious duties, and that, during the
absence of her husband, who is now in America, she receives visits,
unfortunately too frequent, from one M. Hardy, a rich manufacturer.”
At the name of Agricola’s master, Mother Bunch could not suppress a
movement of surprise, and also blushed slightly. The superior
naturally mistook this surprise and confusion for a proof of the modest
susceptibility of the young sempstress, and added: “I have told you all
this, my dear daughter, that you might be on your guard. I have even
mentioned reports that I believe to be completely erroneous, for the
daughter of Mme. de Bremont has always had such good examples before
her that she cannot have so forgotten them. But, being in the house from
morning to night, you will be able, better than any one, to discover if
these reports have any foundation in truth. Should it unfortunately so
turn out, my dear daughter, you would come and confide to me all the
circumstances that have led you to such a conclusion; and, should I
then agree in your opinion, I would withdraw you instantly from the
house--for the piety of the mother would not compensate sufficiently for
the deplorable example of the daughter’s conduct. For, as soon as you
form part of the institution, I am responsible for your salvation, and,
in case your delicacy should oblige you to leave Mme. de Bremont’s, as
you might be some time without employment, the institution will allow
you, if satisfied with your zeal and conduct, one franc a day till we
could find you another place. You see, my dear daughter, that you have
everything to gain with us. It is therefore agreed that the day after
to-morrow you go to Mme. de Bremont’s.” Mother Bunch found herself in a
very hard position. Sometimes she thought that her first suspicions were
confirmed, and, notwithstanding her timidity, her pride felt hurt at the
supposition, that, because they knew her poor, they should believe
her capable of selling herself as a spy for the sake of high wages.
Sometimes, on the contrary, her natural delicacy revolted at the idea
that a woman of the age and condition of the superior could descend to
make a proposition so disgraceful both to the accepter and the proposer,
and she reproached herself with her first doubts and asked herself if
the superior had not wished to try her, before employing her, to see if
her probity would enable her to resist a comparatively brilliant offer.
Mother Bunch was naturally so inclined to think well of every one, that
she made up her mind to this last conclusion, saying to herself, that
if, after all, she were deceived, it would be the least offensive mode
of refusing these unworthy offers. With a movement, exempt from all
haughtiness, but expressive of natural dignity, the young workman raised
her head, which she had hitherto held humbly cast down, looked the
superior full in the face, that the latter might read in her countenance
the sincerity of her words, and said to her in a slightly agitated
voice, forgetting this time to call her “mother”: “Ah, madame! I cannot
blame you for exposing me to such a trial. You see that I am very poor,
and I have yet done nothing to command your confidence. But, believe
me, poor as I am, I would never stoop to so despicable an action as
that which you have thought fit to propose to me, no doubt to assure
yourself, by my refusal, that I am worthy of your kindness. No, no,
madame--I could never bring myself to be a spy at any price.”
She pronounced these last words with so much animation that her cheeks
became slightly flushed. The superior had too much tact and experience
not to perceive the sincerity of the words. Thinking herself lucky that
the young girl should put this construction upon the affair, she smiled
upon her affectionately, and stretched out her arms to her, saying: “It
is well, my dear daughter. Come and embrace me!”
“Mother--I am really confused--with so much kindness--”
“No--you deserve it--your words are so full of truth and honesty. Only
be persuaded that I have not put you to any trial, because there is no
resemblance between the act of a spy and the marks of filial confidence
that we require of our members for the sake of watching over their
morals. But certain persons--I see you are of the number, my dear
daughter--have such fixed principles, and so mature a judgment, that
they can do without our advice and guardianship, and can appreciate
themselves whatever might be dangerous to their salvation. I will
therefore leave the entire responsibility to yourself, and only ask you
for such communications as you may think proper to make.”
“Oh, madame! how good you are!” said poor Mother Bunch, for she was
not aware of the thousand devices of the monastic spirit, and thought
herself already sure of gaining just wages honorably.
“It is not goodness--but justice!” answered Mother Sainte-Perpetue,
whose tone was becoming more and more affectionate. “Too much tenderness
cannot be shown to pious young women like you, whom poverty has only
purified because they have always faithfully observed the divine laws.”
“Mother--”
“One last question, my child! how many times a month do you approach the
Lord’s table?”
“Madame,” replied the hunchback, “I have not taken the sacrament since
my first communion, eight years ago. I am hardly able, by working every
day, and all day long, to earn my bread. I have no time--”
“Gracious heaven!” cried the superior, interrupting, and clasping her
hands with all the signs of painful astonishment. “Is it possible? you
do not practise?”
“Alas, madame! I tell you that I have no time,” answered Mother Bunch,
looking disconcertedly at Mother Saint-Perpetue.
“I am grieved, my dear daughter,” said the latter sorrowfully, after a
moment’s silence, “but I told you that, as we place our friends in none
but pious houses, so we are asked to recommend none but pious persons,
who practise their religious duties. It is one of the indispensable
conditions of our institution. It will, therefore, to my great regret,
be impossible for me to employ you as I had hoped. If, hereafter, you
should renounce your present indifference to those duties, we will then
see.”
“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, her heart swollen with tears, for she
was thus forced to abandon a cheering hope, “I beg pardon for having
detained you so long--for nothing.”
“It is I, my dear daughter, who regret not to be able to attach you
to the institution; but I am not altogether hopeless, that a person,
already so worthy of interest, will one day deserve by her piety the
lasting support of religious people. Adieu, my dear daughter! go in
peace, and may God be merciful to you, until the day that you return
with your whole heart to Him!”
So saying, the superior rose, and conducted her visitor to the door,
with all the forms of the most maternal kindness. At the moment she
crossed the threshold, she said to her: “Follow the passage, go down
a few steps, and knock at the second door on the right hand. It is the
press-room, and there you will find Florine. She will show you the way
out. Adieu, my dear daughter!”
As soon as Mother Bunch had left the presence of the superior, her
tears, until now restrained, gushed forth abundantly. Not wishing to
appear before Florine and the nuns in this state, she stopped a moment
at one of the windows to dry her eyes. As she looked mechanically
towards the windows of the next house, where she fancied she had seen
Adrienne de Cardoville, she beheld the latter come from a door in the
building, and advance rapidly towards the open paling that separated the
two gardens. At the same instant, and to her great astonishment, Mother
Bunch saw one of the two sisters whose disappearance had caused the
despair of Dagobert, with pale and dejected countenance, approach the
fence that separated her from Mdlle. de Cardoville, trembling with fear
and anxiety, as though she dreaded to be discovered.
CHAPTER VIII. MOTHER BUNCH AND MDLLE. DE CARDOVILLE.
Agitated, attentive, uneasy, leaning from one of the convent-windows,
the work-girl followed with her eyes the movements of Mdlle. de
Cardoville and Rose Simon, whom she so little expected to find together
in such a place. The orphan, approaching close to the fence, which
separated the nunnery-garden from that of Dr. Baleinier’s asylum, spoke
a few words to Adrienne, whose features at once expressed astonishment,
indignation, and pity. At this juncture, a nun came running, and
looking right and left, as though anxiously seeking for some one; then,
perceiving Rose, who timidly pressed close to the paling, she seized her
by the arm, and seemed to scold her severely, and notwithstanding some
energetic words addressed to her by Mdlle. de Cardoville, she hastily
carried off the orphan, who with weeping eyes, turned several times to
look back at Adrienne; whilst the latter, after showing the interest
she took in her by expressive gestures, turned away suddenly, as if to
conceal her tears.
The passage in which the witness stood, during this touching scene, was
situated on the first story. The thought immediately occurred to the
sempstress, to go down to the ground-floor, and try to get into the
garden, so that she might have an opportunity of speaking to the fair
girl with the golden hair, and ascertaining if it were really Mdlle. de
Cardoville, to whom; if she found her in a lucid interval, she might say
that Agricola had things of the greatest importance to communicate, but
that he did not know how to inform her of them. The day was advancing,
the sun was on its decline, and fearing that Florine would be tired
of waiting for her, Mother Bunch made haste to act; with a light step,
listening anxiously as she went, she reached the end of the passage,
where three or four stairs led down to the landing-place of the press
room, and then formed a spiral descent to the ground-floor. Hearing
voices in the pressroom, the sempstress hastened down the stairs, and
found herself in a long passage, in the centre of which was a glass
door, opening on that part of the garden reserved for the superior.
A path, bordered by a high box-hedge, sheltered her from the gaze of
curious eyes, and she crept along it, till she reached the open paling;
which, at this spot, separated the convent-garden from that of Dr.
Baleinier’s asylum. She saw Mdlle. de Cardoville a few steps from her,
seated, and with her arm resting upon a rustic bench. The firmness
of Adrienne’s character had for a moment been shaken by fatigue,
astonishment, fright, despair, on the terrible night when she had
been taken to the asylum by Dr. Baleinier; and the latter, taking a
diabolical advantage of her weakness and despondency, had succeeded
for a moment in making her doubt of her own sanity. But the calm, which
necessarily follows the most painful and violent emotions, combined
with the reflection and reasoning of a clear and subtle intellect, soon
convinced Adrienne of the groundlessness of the fears inspired by the
crafty doctor. She no longer believed that it could even be a mistake on
the part of the man of science. She saw clearly in the conduct of this
man, in which detestable hypocrisy was united with rare audacity, and
both served by a skill no less remarkable, that M. Baleinier was, in
fact, the blind instrument of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. From
that moment, she remained silent and calm, but full of dignity; not a
complaint, not a reproach was allowed to pass her lips. She waited. Yet,
though they left her at liberty to walk about (carefully depriving her
of all means of communicating with any one beyond the walls), Adrienne’s
situation was harsh and painful, particularly for her, who so loved to
be surrounded by pleasant and harmonious objects. She felt, however,
that this situation could not last long. She did not thoroughly
understand the penetration and action of the laws; but her good sense
taught her, that a confinement of a few days under the plea of some
appearances of insanity, more or less plausible in themselves, might
be attempted, and even executed with impunity; but that it could not be
prolonged beyond certain limits, because, after all, a young lady of
her rank in society could not disappear suddenly from the world, without
inquiries being made on the subject--and the pretence of a sudden attack
of madness would lead to a serious investigation. Whether true or false,
this conviction had restored Adrienne to her accustomed elasticity and
energy of character. And yet she sometimes in vain asked herself the
cause of this attempt on her liberty. She knew too well the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, to believe her capable of acting in this way, without
a certain end in view, and merely for the purpose of inflicting a
momentary pang. In this, Mdlle. de Cardoville was not deceived: Father
d’Aigrigny and the princess were both persuaded, that Adrienne, better
informed than she wished to acknowledge, knew how important it was for
her to find herself in the house in the Rue Saint-Francois on the 13th
of February, and was determined to maintain her rights. In shutting up
Adrienne as mad, it was intended to strike a fatal blow at her future
prospects; but this last precaution was useless, for Adrienne, though
upon the true scent of the family-secret they lead wished to conceal
from her, had not yet entirely penetrated its meaning, for want of
certain documents, which had been lost or hidden.
Whatever had been the motives for the odious conduct of Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s enemies, she was not the less disgusted at it. No one could
be more free from hatred or revenge, than was this generous young girl,
but when she thought of all the sufferings which the Princess de Saint
Dizier, Abbe d’Aigrigny, and Dr. Baleinier had occasioned her, she
promised herself, not reprisals, but a striking reparation. If it were
refused her, she was resolved to combat--without truce or rest--this
combination of craft, hypocrisy, and cruelty, not from resentment for
what she had endured, but to preserve from the same torments other
innocent victims, who might not, like her, be able to struggle and
defend themselves. Adrienne, still under the painful impression which
had been caused by her interview with Rose Simon, was leaning against
one of the sides of the rustic bench on which she was seated, and held
her left hand over her eyes. She had laid down her bonnet beside her,
and the inclined position of her head brought the long golden curls
over her fair, shining cheeks. In this recumbent attitude, so full of
careless grace, the charming proportions of her figure were seen to
advantage beneath a watered green dress, while a broad collar, fastened
with a rose-colored satin bow, and fine lace cuffs, prevented too strong
a contrast between the hue of her dress and the dazzling whiteness of
the swan-like neck and Raphaelesque hands, imperceptibly veined with
tiny azure lines. Over the high and well-formed instep, were crossed the
delicate strings of a little, black satin shoe--for Dr. Baleinier had
allowed her to dress herself with her usual taste, and elegance of
costume was not with Adrienne a mark of coquetry, but of duty towards
herself, because she had been made so beautiful. At sight of this young
lady, whose dress and appearance she admired in all simplicity, without
any envious or bitter comparison with her own poor clothes and deformity
of person, Mother Bunch said immediately to herself, with the good sense
and sagacity peculiar to her, that it was strange a mad woman should
dress so sanely and gracefully. It was therefore with a mixture of
surprise and emotion that she approached the fence which separated her
from Adrienne--reflecting, however, that the unfortunate girl might
still be insane, and that this might turn out to be merely a lucid
interval. And now, with a timid voice, but loud enough to be heard,
Mother Bunch, in order to assure herself of Adrienne’s identity, said,
whilst her heart beat fast: “Mdlle. de Cardoville!”
“Who calls me?” said Adrienne. On hastily raising her head, and
perceiving the hunchback, she could not suppress a slight cry of
surprise, almost fright. For indeed this poor creature, pale, deformed,
miserably clad, thus appearing suddenly before her, must have inspired
Mdlle, de Cardoville, so passionately fond of grace and beauty, with a
feeling of repugnance, if not of terror--and these two sentiments were
both visible in her expressive countenance.
The other did not perceive the impression she had made. Motionless, with
her eyes fixed, and her hands clasped in a sort of adoring admiration,
she gazed on the dazzling beauty of Adrienne, whom she had only half
seen through the grated window. All that Agricola had told her of the
charms of his protectress, appeared to her a thousand times below the
reality; and never, even in her secret poetic visions, had she dreamed
of such rare perfection. Thus, by a singular contrast, a feeling of
mutual surprise came over these two girls--extreme types of deformity
and beauty, wealth and wretchedness. After rendering, as it were, this
involuntary homage to Adrienne, Mother Bunch advanced another step
towards the fence.
“What do you want?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, rising with a
sentiment of repugnance, which could not escape the work-girl’s notice;
accordingly, she held down her head timidly, and said in a soft voice:
“I beg your pardon, madame, to appear so suddenly before you. But
moments are precious, I come from Agricola.”
As she pronounced these words, the sempstress raised her eyes anxiously,
fearing that Mdlle. de Cardoville might have forgotten the name of
the workman. But, to her great surprise and joy, the fears of Adrienne
seemed to diminish at the name of Agricola, and approaching the fence,
she looked at the speaker with benevolent curiosity.
“You come from M. Agricola Baudoin?” said she. “Who are you?”
“His adopted sister, madame--a poor needlewoman, who lives in the same
house.”
Adrienne appeared to collect her thoughts, and said, smiling kindly,
after a moment’s silence: “It was you then, who persuaded M. Agricola to
apply to me to procure him bail?”
“Oh, madame, do you remember--”
“I never forget anything that is generous and noble. M. Agricola was
much affected when he spoke of your devotion. I remember it well; it
would be strange if I did not. But how came you here, in this convent?”
“They told me that I should perhaps be able to get some occupation here,
as I am out of work. Unfortunately, I have been refused by the lady
superior.”
“And how did you recognize me?”
“By your great beauty, madame, of which Agricola had told me.”
“Or rather by this,” said Adrienne, smiling as she lifted, with the tips
of her rosy fingers, one end of a long, silky ringlet of golden hair.
“You must pardon Agricola, madame,” said the sewing girl, with one of
those half smiles, which rarely settled on her lips: “he is a poet, and
omitted no single perfection in the respectful and admiring description
which he gave of his protectress.”
“And what induced you to come and speak to me?”
“The hope of being useful to you, madame. You received Agricola with so
much goodness, that I have ventured to go shares in his gratitude.”
“You may well venture to do so, my dear girl,” said Adrienne, with
ineffable grace; “until now, unfortunately, I have only been able to
serve your adopted brother by intention.”
As they exchanged these words, Adrienne and Mother Bunch looked at each
other with increasing surprise. The latter was, first of all, astonished
that a person who passed for mad should express herself as Adrienne
did; next, she was amazed at the ease and freedom with which she herself
answered the questions of Mdlle. de Cardoville--not knowing that the
latter was endowed with the precious privilege of lofty and benevolent
natures, to draw out from those who approached her whatever sympathized
with herself. On her side, Mdlle. de Cardoville was deeply moved and
astonished to hear this young, low-born girl, dressed almost like a
beggar, express herself in terms selected with so much propriety. The
more she looked at her, the more the feeling of repugnance she at
first experienced wore off, and was at length converted into quite the
opposite sentiment. With that rapid and minute power of observation
natural to women, she remarked beneath the black crape of Mother Bunch’s
cap, the smoothness and brilliancy of the fair, chestnut hair. She
remarked, too, the whiteness of the long, thin hand, though it displayed
itself at the end of a patched and tattered sleeve--an infallible proof
that care, and cleanliness, and self-respect were at least struggling
against symptoms of fearful distress. Adrienne discovered, also, in the
pale and melancholy features, in the expression of the blue eyes, at
once intelligent, mild and timid, a soft and modest dignity, which made
one forget the deformed figure. Adrienne loved physical beauty, and
admired it passionately, but she had too superior a mind, too noble a
soul, too sensitive a heart, not to know how to appreciate moral beauty,
even when it beamed from a humble and suffering countenance. Only, this
kind of appreciation was new to Mdlle. de Cardoville; until now, her
large fortune and elegant habits had kept her at a distance from persons
of Mother Bunch’s class. After a short silence, during which the fair
patrician and the poor work-girl had closely examined each other,
Adrienne said to the other: “It is easy, I think, to explain the cause
of our mutual astonishment. You have, no doubt, discovered that I speak
pretty reasonably for a mad woman--if they have told you I am one. And
I,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone of respectful commiseration,
“find that the delicacy of your language and manners so singularly
contrast with the position in which you appear to be, that my surprise
must be even greater than yours.”
“Ah, madame!” cried Mother Bunch, with a welling forth of such deep and
sincere joy that the tears started to her eyes; “is it true?--they have
deceived me--you are not mad! Just now, when I beheld you so kind
and beautiful, when I heard the sweet tone of your voice, I could not
believe that such a misfortune had happened to you. But, alas! how is it
then, madame, that you are in this place?”
“Poor child!” said Adrienne, touched by the affectionate interest of
this excellent creature; “and how is it that you, with such a heart and
head, should be in such distress? But be satisfied! I shall not always
be here--and that will suffice to tell you, that we shall both resume
the place which becomes us. Believe me, I shall never forget how, in
spite of the painful ideas which must needs occupy your mind, on seeing
yourself deprived of work--your only resource--you have still thought of
coming to me, and of trying to serve me. You may, indeed, be eminently
useful to me, and I am delighted at it, for then I shall owe you
much--and you shall see how I will take advantage of my gratitude!” said
Adrienne, with a sweet smile. “But,” resumed she, “before talking
of myself, let us think of others. Is your adopted brother still in
prison?”
“By this time, madame, I hope he has obtained his freedom; thanks to the
generosity of one of his comrades. His father went yesterday to offer
bail for him, and they promised that he should be released to-day. But,
from his prison, he wrote to me, that he had something of importance to
reveal to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes, madame. Should Agricola be released immediately by what means can
he communicate with you?”
“He has secrets to tell me!” resumed Mdlle. de Cardoville, with an air
of thoughtful surprise. “I seek in vain to imagine what they can be; but
so long as I am confined in this house, and secluded from every one, M.
Agricola must not think of addressing himself directly or indirectly
to me. He must wait till I am at liberty; but that is not all, he must
deliver from that convent two poor children, who are much more to be
pitied than I am. The daughters of Marshal Simon are detained there
against their will.”
“You know their name, madame?”
“When M. Agricola informed me of their arrival in Paris, he told me they
were fifteen years old, and that they resembled each other exactly--so
that, the day before yesterday, when I took my accustomed walk, and
observed two poor little weeping faces come close to the windows of
their separate cells, one on the ground floor, the other on the first
story, a secret presentiment told me that I saw in them the orphans
of whom M. Agricola had spoken, and in whom I already took a lively
interest, as being my relations.”
“They are your relations, madame, then?”
“Yes, certainly. So, not being able to do more, I tried to express by
signs how much I felt for them. Their tears, and the sadness of their
charming faces, sufficiently told me that they were prisoners in the
convent, as I am myself in this house.”
“Oh! I understand, madame--the victim of the animosity of your family?”
“Whatever may be my fate, I am much less to be pitied than these two
children, whose despair is really alarming. Their separation is what
chiefly oppresses them. By some words that one of them just now said to
me, I see that they are, like me, the victims of an odious machination.
But thanks to you, it will be possible to save them: Since I have been
in this house I have had no communication with any one; they have not
allowed me pen or paper, so it is impossible to write. Now listen to me
attentively, and we shall be able to defeat an odious persecution.”
“Oh, speak! speak, madame!”
“The soldier, who brought these orphans to France, the father of M.
Agricola, is still in town?”
“Yes, madame. Oh! if you only knew his fury, his despair, when, on his
return home, he no longer found the children that a dying mother had
confided to him!”
“He must take care not to act with the least violence. It would ruin
all. Take this ring,” said Adrienne, drawing it from her finger, “and
give it to him. He must go instantly--are you sure that you can remember
a name and address?”
“Oh! yes, madame. Be satisfied on that point. Agricola only mentioned
your name once, and I have not forgotten it. There is a memory of the
heart.”
“I perceive it, my dear girl. Remember, then, the name of the Count de
Montbron.”
“The Count de Montbron--I shall not forget.”
“He is one of my good old friends, and lives on the Place Vendome, No.
7.”
“Place Vendome, No. 7--I shall remember.”
“M. Agricola’s father must go to him this evening, and, if he is not at
home, wait for his coming in. He must ask to speak to him, as if from
me, and send him this ring as a proof of what he says. Once with him, he
must tell him all--the abduction of the girls, the name of the convent
where they are confined, and my own detention as a lunatic in the asylum
of Dr. Baleinier. Truth has an accent of its own, which M. de Montbron
will recognize. He is a man of much experience and judgment, and
possessed of great influence. He will immediately take the necessary
steps, and to-morrow, or the day after, these poor orphans and myself
will be restored to liberty--all thanks to you! But moments are
precious; we might be discovered; make haste, dear child!”
At the moment of drawing back, Adrienne said to Mother Bunch, with so
sweet a smile and affectionate a tone, that it was impossible not to
believe her sincere: “M. Agricola told me that I had a heart like yours.
I now understand how honorable, how flattering those words were for me.
Pray, give me your hand!” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose eyes were
filling with tears; and, passing her beautiful hand through an opening
in the fence, she offered it to the other. The words and the gesture
of the fair patrician were full of so much real cordiality, that the
sempstress, with no false shame, placed tremblingly her own poor thin
hand in Adrienne’s, while the latter, with a feeling of pious respect,
lifted it spontaneously to her lips, and said: “Since I cannot embrace
you as my sister, let me at least kiss this hand, ennobled by labor!”
Suddenly, footsteps were heard in the garden of Dr. Baleinier; Adrienne
withdrew abruptly, and disappeared behind some trees, saying: “Courage,
memory, and hope!”
All this had passed so rapidly that the young workwoman had no time
to speak or move; tears, sweet tears, flowed abundantly down her pale
cheeks. For a young lady, like Adrienne de Cardoville, to treat her as a
sister, to kiss her hand, to tell her that she was proud to resemble
her in heart--her, a poor creature, vegetating in the lowest abyss
of misery--was to show a spirit of fraternal equality, divine, as the
gospel words.
There are words and impressions which make a noble soul forget years of
suffering, and which, as by a sudden flash, reveal to it something of
its own worth and grandeur. Thus it was with the hunchback. Thanks to
this generous speech, she was for a moment conscious of her own value.
And though this feeling was rapid as it was ineffable, she clasped
her hands and raised her eyes to heaven with an expression of fervent
gratitude; for, if the poor sempstress did not practise, to use the
jargon of ultramontane cant, no one was more richly endowed with that
deep religious sentiment, which is to mere dogmas what the immensity of
the starry heaven is to the vaulted roof of a church.
Five minutes after quitting Mdlle. de Cardoville, Mother Bunch, having
left the garden without being perceived, reascended to the first story,
and knocked gently at the door of the press-room. A sister came to open
the door to her.
“Is not Mdlle. Florine, with whom I came, still here, sister?” asked the
needlewoman.
“She could not wait for you any longer. No doubt, you have come from our
mother the superior?”
“Yes, yes, sister,” answered the sempstress, casting down her eyes;
“would you have the goodness to show me the way out?”
“Come with me.”
The sewing-girl followed the nun, trembling at every step lest she
should meet the superior, who would naturally have inquired the cause of
her long stay in the convent.
At length the inner gate closed upon Mother Bunch. Passing rapidly
across the vast court-yard and approaching the porter’s lodge, to ask
him to let her out, she heard these words pronounced in a gruff voice:
“It seems, old Jerome, that we are to be doubly on our guard to-night.
Well, I shall put two extra balls in my gun. The superior says we are to
make two rounds instead of one.”
“I want no gun, Nicholas,” said the other voice; “I have my sharp
scythe, a true gardener’s weapon--and none the worse for that.”
Feeling an involuntary uneasiness at these words, which she had heard by
mere chance, Mother Bunch approached the porter’s lodge, and asked him
to open the outer gate.
“Where do you come from?” challenged the porter, leaning half way out
of his lodge, with a double barrelled gun, which he was occupied in
loading, in his hand, and at the same time examining the sempstress with
a suspicious air.
“I come from speaking to the superior,” answered Mother Bunch timidly.
“Is that true?” said Nicholas roughly. “You look like a sanctified
scarecrow. Never mind. Make haste and cut!”
The gate opened, and Mother Bunch went out. Hardly had she gone a few
steps in the sweet, when, to her great surprise, she saw the dog Spoil
sport run up to her, and his master, Dagobert, a little way behind him,
arriving also with precipitation. She was hastening to meet the soldier,
when a full, sonorous voice exclaimed from a little distance: “Oh my
good sister!” which caused the girl to turn round. From the opposite
side to that whence Dagobert was coming, she saw Agricola hurrying
towards the spot.
CHAPTER IX. THE ENCOUNTERS.
At the sight of Dagobert and Agricola, Mother Bunch remained motionless
with surprise, a few steps from the convent-gate. The soldier had not
yet perceived the sempstress. He advanced rapidly, following the dog,
who though lean, half-starved, rough-coated, and dirty, seemed to frisk
with pleasure, as he turned his intelligent face towards his master, to
whom he had gone back, after caressing Mother Bunch.
“Yes, yes; I understand you, old fellow!” said the soldier, with
emotion. “You are more faithful than I was; you did not leave the dear
children for a minute. Yes, you followed them, and watched day and
night, without food, at the door of the house to which they were
taken--and, at length, weary of waiting to see them come forth, ran home
to fetch me. Yes; whilst I was giving way to despair, like a furious
madman, you were doing what I ought to have done--discovering their
retreat. What does it all prove? Why, that beasts are better than
men--which is well known. Well, at length I shall see them again. When
I think that tomorrow is the 13th, and that without you, my did
Spoil-sport, all would be lost--it makes me shudder. But I say, shall we
soon be there? What a deserted quarter! and night coming on!”
Dagobert had held this discourse to Spoil-sport, as he walked along
following the good dog, who kept on at a rapid pace. Suddenly, seeing
the faithful animal start aside with a bound, he raised his eyes, and
perceived the dog frisking about the hunchback and Agricola, who had
just met at a little distance from the convent-gate.
“Mother Bunch?” exclaimed both father and son, as they approached the
young workwoman, and looked at her with extreme surprise.
“There is good hope, M. Dagobert,” said she with inexpressible joy.
“Rose and Blanche are found!” Then, turning towards the smith, she
added, “There is good hope, Agricola: Mdlle. de Cardoville is not mad. I
have just seen her.”
“She is not mad? what happiness!” exclaimed the smith.
“The children!” cried Dagobert, trembling with emotion, as he took the
work-girl’s hands in his own. “You have seen them?”
“Yes; just now--very sad--very unhappy--but I was not able to speak to
them.”
“Oh!” said Dagobert, stopping as if suffocated by the news, and pressing
his hands on his bosom; “I never thought that my old heart could beat
so!--And yet, thanks to my dog, I almost expected what has taken place.
Anyhow, I am quite dizzy with joy.”
“Well, father, it’s a good day,” said Agricola, looking gratefully at
the girl.
“Kiss me, my dear child!” added the soldier, as he pressed Mother Bunch
affectionately in his arms; then, full of impatience, he added: “Come,
let us go and fetch the children.”
“Ah, my good sister!” said Agricola, deeply moved; “you will restore
peace, perhaps life, to my father--and Mdlle. de Cardoville--but how do
you know?”
“A mere chance. And how did you come here?”
“Spoil-sport stops and barks,” cried Dagobert, who had already made
several steps in advance.
Indeed the dog, who was as impatient as his master to see the orphans,
and far better informed as to the place of their retreat, had posted
himself at the convent gate, and was beginning to bark, to attract the
attention of Dagobert. Understanding his dog, the latter said to
the hunchback, as he pointed in that direction with his finger: “The
children are there?”
“Yes, M. Dagobert.”
“I was sure of it. Good dog!--Oh, yes! beasts are better than
men--except you, my dear girl, who are better than either man or beast.
But my poor children! I shall see them, I shall have them once more!”
So saying, Dagobert, in spite of his age, began to run very fast towards
Spoil-sport. “Agricola,” cried Mother Bunch, “prevent thy father from
knocking at that door. He would ruin all.”
In two strides, the smith had reached his father, just as the latter was
raising his hand to the knocker. “Stop, father!” cried the smith, as he
seized Dagobert by the arm.
“What the devil is it now?”
“Mother Bunch says that to knock would ruin all.”
“How so?”
“She will explain it to you.” Although not so nimble as Agricola, Mother
Bunch soon came up, and said to the soldier: “M. Dagobert, do not let us
remain before this gate. They might open it, and see us; and that would
excite suspicion. Let us rather go away--”
“Suspicion!” cried the veteran, much surprised, but without moving from
the gate; “what suspicion?”
“I conjure you, do not remain there!” said Mother Bunch, with so much
earnestness, that Agricola joined her, and said to his father: “Since
sister rashes it, father, she has some reason for it. The Boulevard de
l’Hopital is a few steps from here; nobody passes that way; we can talk
there without being interrupted.”
“Devil take me if I understand a word of all this!” cried Dagobert,
without moving from his post. “The children are here, and I will fetch
them away with me. It is an affair of ten minutes.”
“Do not think that, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch. “It is much more
difficult than you imagine. But come! come!--I can hear them talk in the
court-yard.”
In fact, the sound of voices was now distinctly audible. “Come father!”
said Agricola, forcing away the soldier, almost in spite of himself.
Spoil-sport, who appeared much astonished at these hesitations, barked
two or three times without quitting his post, as if to protest against
this humiliating retreat; but, being called by Dagobert, he hastened to
rejoin the main body.
It was now about five o’clock in the evening. A high wind swept thick
masses of grayish, rainy cloud rapidly across the sky. The Boulevard de
l’Hopital, which bordered on this portion of the convent-garden, was,
as we before said, almost deserted. Dagobert, Agricola, and the serving
girl could hold a private conference in this solitary place.
The soldier did not disguise the extreme impatience that these delays
occasioned in him. Hardly had they turned the corner of the street, when
he said to Mother Bunch: “Come, my child, explain yourself. I am upon
hot coals.”
“The house in which the daughters of Marshal Simon are confined is a
convent, M. Dagobert.”
“A convent!” cried the soldier: “I might have suspected it.” Then he
added: “Well, what then? I will fetch them from a convent as soon as
from any other place. Once is not always.”
“But, M. Dagobert, they are confined against their will and against
yours. They will not give them up.”
“They will not give them up? Zounds! we will see about that.” And he
made a step towards the street.
“Father,” said Agricola, holding him back, “one moment’s patience; let
us hear all.”
“I will hear nothing. What! the children are there--two steps from me--I
know it--and I shall not have them, either by fair means or foul? Oh!
that would indeed be curious. Let me go.”
“Listen to me, I beseech you, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, taking
his hand: “there is another way to deliver these poor children. And that
without violence--for violence, as Mdlle. de Cardoville told me, would
ruin all.”
“If there is any other way--quick--let me know it!”
“Here is a ring of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s.”
“And who is this Mdlle. de Cardoville?”
“Father,” said Agricola, “it is the generous young lady, who offered to
be my bail, and to whom I have very important matters to communicate.”
“Good, good,” replied Dagobert; “we will talk of that presently. Well,
my dear girl--this ring?”
“You must take it directly, M. Dagobert, to the Count de Montbron,
No. 7, Place Vendome. He appears to be a person of influence, and is a
friend of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s. This ring will prove that you come on
her behalf, and you will tell him, that she is confined as a lunatic in
the asylum next door to this convent, in which the daughters of Marshal
Simon are detained against their will.”
“Well, well--what next?”
“Then the Count de Montbron will take the proper steps with persons in
authority, to restore both Mdlle. de Cardoville and the daughters of
Marshal Simon to liberty--and perhaps, to-morrow, or the day after--”
“To-morrow or the day after!” cried Dagobert; “perhaps?--It is to-day,
on the instant, that I must have them. The day after to-morrow would be
of much use! Thanks, my good girl, but keep your ring: I will manage my
own business. Wait for me here, my boy.”
“What are you going to do, father?” cried Agricola, still holding back
the soldier. “It is a convent, remember.”
“You are only a raw recruit; I have my theory of convents at my fingers’
end. In Spain, I have put it in practice a hundred times. Here is what
will happen. I knock; a portress opens the door to me; she asks me what
I want, but I make no answer; she tries to stop me, but I pass on; once
in the convent, I walk over it from top to bottom, calling my children
with all my might.”
“But, M. Dagobert, the nuns?” said Mother Bunch, still trying to detain
the soldier.
“The nuns run after me, screaming like so many magpies. I know them. At
Seville I fetched out an Andalusian girl, whom they were trying to keep
by force. Well, I walk about the convent calling for Rose and Blanche.
They hear me, and answer. If they are shut in, I take the first piece of
furniture that comes to hand, and break open the door.”
“But, M. Dagobert--the nuns--the nuns?”
“The nuns, with all their squalling, will not prevent my breaking open
the door, seizing my children in my arms, and carrying them off. Should
the outer door be shut, there will be a second smash--that’s all. So,”
added Dagobert, disengaging himself from the grasp, “wait for me here.
In ten minutes I shall be back again. Go and get a hackney-coach ready,
my boy.”
More calm than Dagobert, and, above all, better informed as to the
provisions of the Penal Code, Agricola was alarmed at the consequences
that might attend the veteran’s strange mode of proceeding. So, throwing
himself before him, he exclaimed: “One word more, I entreat you.”
“Zounds! make haste!”
“If you attempt to enter the convent by force, you will ruin all.”
“How so?”
“First of all, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, “there are men in the
convent. As I came out just now, I saw the porter loading his gun, and
heard the gardener talking of his sharp scythe, and the rounds he was to
make at night.”
“Much I care for a porter’s gun and a gardener’s scythe!”
“Well, father; but listen to me a moment, I conjure you. Suppose you
knock, and the door is opened--the porter will ask you what you want.’
“I tell him that I wish to speak to the superior, and so walk into the
convent.”
“But, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch, “when once you have crossed the
court-yard, you reach a second door, with a wicket. A nun comes to it,
to see who rings, and does not open the door till she knows the object
of the visit.”
“I will tell her that I wish to see the lady superior.”
“Then, father, as you are not known in the convent, they will go and
inform the superior.”
“Well, what then?”
“She will come down.”
“What next?”
“She will ask you what you want, M. Dagobert.”
“What I want?--the devil! my children!”
“One minute’s patience, father. You cannot doubt, from the precautions
they have taken, that they wish to detain these young ladies against
their will, and against yours.”
“Doubt! I am sure of it. To come to that point, they began by turning
the head of my poor wife.”
“Then, father, the superior will reply to you that she does not know
what you mean, and that the young ladies are not in the convent.”
“And I will reply to her, that they are in the convent witness--Mother
Bunch and Spoil-sport.”
“The superior will answer, that she does not know you; that she has no
explanations to give you; and will close the wicket.”
“Then I break it open--since one must come to that in the end--so leave
me alone, I tell you! ‘sblood! leave me alone!”
“And, on this noise and violence, the porter will run and fetch the
guard, and they will begin by arresting you.”
“And what will become of your poor children, then, M. Dagobert?” said
Mother Bunch.
Agricola’s father had too much good sense not to feel the truth of these
observations of the girl and his son; but he knew also, that, cost
what it might, the orphans must be delivered before the morrow. The
alternative was terrible--so terrible, that, pressing his two hands
to his burning forehead, Dagobert sunk back upon a stone bench, as if
struck down by the inexorable fatality of the dilemma.
Agricola and the workwoman, deeply moved by this mute despair, exchanged
a sad look. The smith, seating himself beside the soldier, said to him:
“Do not be down-hearted, father. Remember what’s been told you. By going
with this ring of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s to the influential gentleman
she named, the young ladies may be free by to-morrow, or, at worst, by
the day after.”
“Blood and thunder! you want to drive me mad!” exclaimed Dagobert,
starting up from the bench, and looking at Mother Bunch and his son with
so savage an expression that Agricola and the sempstress drew back, with
an air of surprise and uneasiness.
“Pardon me, my children!” said Dagobert, recovering himself after a long
silence. “I am wrong to get in a passion, for we do not understand one
another. What you say is true; and yet I am right to speak as I do.
Listen to me. You are an honest man, Agricola; you an honest girl; what
I tell you is meant for you alone. I have brought these children from
the depths of Siberia--do you know why? That they may be to-morrow
morning in the Rue Saint-Francois. If they are not there, I have failed
to execute the last wish of their dying mother.”
“No. 3, Rue Saint Francois?” cried Agricola, interrupting his father.
“Yes; how do you know the number?” said Dagobert.
“Is not the date inscribed on a bronze medal?”
“Yes,” replied Dagobert, more end more surprised; “who told you?”
“One instant, father!” exclaimed Agricola; “let me reflect. I think I
guess it. Did you not tell me, my good sister, that Mdlle. de Cardoville
was not mad?”
“Not mad. They detain her in this asylum to prevent her communicating
with any one. She believes herself, like the daughters of Marshal Simon,
the victim of an odious machination.”
“No doubt of it,” cried the smith. “I understand all now, Mdlle. de
Cardoville has the same interest as the orphans to appear to-morrow at
the Rue Saint-Francois. But she does not perhaps know it.”
“How so?”
“One word more, my good girl. Did Mdlle. de Cardoville tell you that she
had a powerful motive to obtain her freedom by to-morrow?”
“No; for when she gave me this ring for the Count de Montbron, she said
to me: ‘By this means both I and Marshal Simon’s daughters will be at
liberty either to-morrow or the day after--’”
“But explain yourself, then,” said Dagobert to his son, with impatience.
“Just now,” replied the smith, “when you came to seek me in prison, I
told you, father, that I had a sacred duty to perform, and that I would
rejoin you at home.”
“Yes; and I went, on my side, to take some measures, of which I will
speak to you presently.”
“I ran instantly to the house in the Rue de Babylone, not knowing that
Mdlle. de Cardoville was mad, or passed for mad. A servant, who opened
the door to me, informed me that the young lady had been seized with a
sudden attack of madness. You may conceive, father, what a blow that was
to me! I asked where she was: they answered, that they did not know.
I asked if I could speak to any of the family; as my jacket did not
inspire any great confidence, they replied that none of her family were
at present there. I was in despair, but an idea occurred to me. I said
to myself: ‘If she is mad, her family physician must know where they
have taken her; if she is in a state to hear me, he will take me to
her; if not, I will speak to her doctor, as I would to her relations.
A doctor is often a friend.’ I asked the servant, therefore, to give me
the doctor’s address. I obtained it without difficulty--Dr. Baleinier,
No. 12, Rue Taranne. I ran thither, but he had gone out; they told me
that I should find him about five o’clock at his asylum, which is next
door to the convent. That is how we have met.”
“But the medal--the medal?” said Dagobert, impatiently; “where did you
see it?”
“It is with regard to this and other things that I wished to make
important communications to Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“And what are these communications?”
“The fact is, father, I had gone to her the day of your departure, to
beg her to get me bail. I was followed; and when she learned this from
her waiting-woman, she concealed me in a hiding-place. It was a sort of
little vaulted room, in which no light was admitted, except through a
tunnel, made like a chimney; yet in a few minutes, I could see pretty
clearly. Having nothing better to do, I looked all about me and saw that
the walls were covered with wainscoting. The entrance to this room
was composed of a sliding panel, moving by means of weights and wheels
admirably contrived. As these concern my trade, I was interested in
them, so I examined the springs, spite of my emotion, with curiosity,
and understood the nature of their play; but there was one brass knob,
of which I could not discover the use. It was in vain to pull and move
it from right to left, none of the springs were touched. I said
to myself: ‘This knob, no doubt, belongs to another piece of
mechanism’--and the idea occurred to me, instead of drawing it towards
me, to push it with force. Directly after, I heard a grating sound,
and perceived, just above the entrance to the hiding-place, one of the
panels, about two feet square, fly open like the door of a secretary. As
I had, no doubt, pushed the spring rather too hard, a bronze medal and
chain fell out with a shock.”
“And you saw the address--Rue Saint-Francois?” cried Dagobert.
“Yes, father; and with this medal, a sealed letter fell to the ground.
On picking it up, I saw that it was addressed, in large letters: ‘For
Mdlle. de Cardoville. To be opened by her the moment it is delivered.’
Under these words, I saw the initials ‘R.’ and ‘C.,’ accompanied by a
flourish, and this date: ‘Paris, November the 13th, 1830.’ On the other
side of the envelope I perceived two seals, with the letters ‘R.’ and
‘C.,’ surmounted by a coronet.”
“And the seals were unbroken?” asked Mother Bunch.
“Perfectly whole.”
“No doubt, then, Mdlle. de Cardoville was ignorant of the existence of
these papers,” said the sempstress.
“That was my first idea, since she was recommended to open the letter
immediately, and, notwithstanding this recommendation, which bore date
two years back, the seals remained untouched.”
“It is evident,” said Dagobert. “What did you do?”
“I replaced the whole where it was before, promising myself to inform
Mdlle. de Cardoville of it. But, a few minutes after, they entered my
hiding-place, which had been discovered, and I did not see her again. I
was only able to whisper a few words of doubtful meaning to one of her
waiting-women, on the subject of what I had found, hoping thereby to
arouse the attention of her mistress; and, as soon as I was able to
write to you, my good sister, I begged you to go and call upon Mdlle. de
Cardoville.”
“But this medal,” said Dagobert, “is exactly like that possessed by the
daughter of Marshal Simon. How can you account for that?”
“Nothing so plain, father. Mdlle. de Cardoville is their relation. I
remember now, that she told me so.”
“A relation of Rose and Blanche?”
“Yes,” added Mother Bunch; “she told that also to me just now.”
“Well, then,” resumed Dagobert, looking anxiously at his son, “do you
now understand why I must have my children this very day? Do you now
understand, as their poor mother told me on her death-bed, that one
day’s delay might ruin all? Do you now see that I cannot be satisfied
with a perhaps to-morrow, when I have come all the way from Siberia,
only, that those children might be to-morrow in the Rue Saint-Francois?
Do you at last perceive that I must have them this night, even if I have
to set fire to the convent?”
“But, father, if you employ violence--”
“Zounds! do you know what the commissary of police answered me this
morning, when I went to renew my charge against your mother’s confessor?
He said to me that there was no proof, and that they could do nothing.”
“But now there is proof, father, for at least we know where the young
girls are. With that certainty we shall be strong. The law is more
powerful than all the superiors of convents in the world.”
“And the Count de Montbron, to whom Mdlle. de Cardoville begs you to
apply,” said Mother Bunch, “is a man of influence. Tell him the reasons
that make it so important for these young ladies, as well as Mdlle. de
Cardoville, to be at liberty this evening and he will certainly hasten
the course of justice, and to-night your children will be restored to
you.”
“Sister is in the right, father. Go to the Count. Meanwhile, I will run
to the commissary, and tell him that we now know where the young girls
are confined. Do you go home, and wait for us, my good girl. We will
meet at our own house!”
Dagobert had remained plunged in thought; suddenly, he said to Agricola:
“Be it so. I will follow your counsel. But suppose the commissary says
to you: ‘We cannot act before to-morrow’--suppose the Count de Montbron
says to me the same thing--do not think I shall stand with my arms
folded until the morning.”
“But, father--”
“It is enough,” resumed the soldier in an abrupt voice: “I have made
up my mind. Run to the commissary, my boy; wait for us at home, my good
girl; I will go to the Count. Give me the ring. Now for the address!”
“The Count de Montbron, No. 7, Place Vendome,” said she; “you come on
behalf of Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“I have a good memory,” answered the soldier. “We will meet as soon as
possible in the Rue Brise-Miche.”
“Yes, father; have good courage. You will see that the law protects and
defends honest people.”
“So much the better,” said the soldier; “because, otherwise, honest
people would be obliged to protect and defend themselves. Farewell, my
children! we will meet soon in the Rue Brise-Miche.”
When Dagobert, Agricola, and Mother Bunch separated, it was already dark
night.
CHAPTER X. THE MEETING.
It is eight o’clock in the evening, the rain dashes against the windows
of Frances Baudoin’s apartment in the Rue Brise-Miche, while violent
squalls of wind shake the badly dosed doors and casements. The disorder
and confusion of this humble abode, usually kept with so much care and
neatness, bore testimony to the serious nature of the sad events which
had thus disturbed existences hitherto peaceful in their obscurity.
The paved floor was soiled with mud, and a thick layer of dust covered
the furniture, once so bright and clean. Since Frances was taken away by
the commissary, the bed had not been made; at night Dagobert had thrown
himself upon it for a few hours in his clothes, when, worn out with
fatigue, and crushed by despair, he had returned from new and vain
attempts to discover Rose and Blanche’s prison-house. Upon the drawers
stood a bottle, a glass, and some fragments of dry bread, proving the
frugality of the soldier, whose means of subsistence were reduced to the
money lent by the pawnbroker upon the things pledged by Mother Bunch,
after the arrest of Frances.
By the faint glimmer of a candle, placed upon the little stove, now cold
as marble, for the stock of wood had long been exhausted, one might have
seen the hunchback sleeping upon a chair, her head resting on her bosom,
her hands concealed beneath her cotton apron, and her feet resting on
the lowest rung of the chair; from time to time, she shivered in her
damp, chill garments.
After that long day of fatigue and diverse emotions, the poor creature
had eaten nothing. Had she even thought of it, she would have been at a
loss for bread. Waiting for the return of Dagobert and Agricola, she
had sunk into an agitated sleep--very different, alas! from calm
and refreshing slumber. From time to time, she half opened her eyes
uneasily, and looked around her. Then, again, overcome by irresistible
heaviness, her head fell upon her bosom.
After some minutes of silence, only interrupted by the noise of the
wind, a slow and heavy step was heard on the landing-place. The door
opened, and Dagobert entered, followed by Spoil-sport.
Waking with a start, Mother Bunch raised her head hastily, sprang from
her chair, and, advancing rapidly to meet Agricola’s father, said to
him: “Well, M. Dagobert! have you good news? Have you--”
She could not continue, she was so struck with the gloomy expression of
the soldier’s features. Absorbed in his reflections, he did not at first
appear to perceive the speaker, but threw himself despondingly on a
chair, rested his elbows upon the table, and hid his face in his
hands. After a long meditation, he rose, and said in a low voice: “It
must--yes, it must be done!”
Taking a few steps up and down the room, Dagobert looked around him,
as if in search of something. At length, after about a minute’s
examination, he perceived near the stove, a bar of iron, perhaps two
feet long, serving to lift the covers, when too hot for the fingers.
Taking this in his hand, he looked at it closely, poised it to judge
of its weight, and then laid it down upon the drawers with an air of
satisfaction. Surprised at the long silence of Dagobert, the needlewoman
followed his movements with timid and uneasy curiosity. But soon her
surprise gave way to fright, when she saw the soldier take down his
knapsack, place it upon a chair, open it, and draw from it a pair of
pocket-pistols, the locks of which he tried with the utmost caution.
Seized with terror, the sempstress could not forbear exclaiming: “Good
gracious, M. Dagobert! what are you going to do?”
The soldier looked at her as if he only now perceived her for the first
time, and said to her in a cordial, but abrupt voice: “Good-evening, my
good girl! What is the time?”
“Eight o’clock has just struck at Saint-Mery’s, M. Dagobert.”
“Eight o’clock,” said the soldier, speaking to himself; “only eight!”
Placing the pistols by the side of the iron bar, he appeared again to
reflect, while he cast his eyes around him.
“M. Dagobert,” ventured the girl, “you have not, then, good news?”
“No.”
That single word was uttered by the soldier in so sharp a tone, that,
not daring to question him further, Mother Bunch sat down in silence.
Spoil sport came to lean his head on the knees of the girl, and followed
the movements of Dagobert with as much curiosity as herself.
After remaining for some moments pensive and silent, the soldier
approached the bed, took a sheet from it, appeared to measure its
length, and then said, turning towards Mother Bunch: “The scissors!”
“But, M. Dagobert--”
“Come, my good girl! the scissors!” replied Dagobert, in a kind tone,
but one that commanded obedience. The sempstress took the scissors from
Frances’ work-basket, and presented them to the soldier.
“Now, hold the other end of the sheet, my girl, and draw it out tight.”
In a few minutes, Dagobert had cut the sheet into four strips, which he
twisted in the fashion of cords, fastening them here and there with bits
of tape, so as to preserve the twist, and tying them strongly together,
so as to make a rope of about twenty feet long. This, however, did not
suffice him, for he said to himself: “Now I must have a hook.”
Again he looked around him, and Mother Bunch, more and more frightened,
for she now no longer doubted Dagobert’s designs, said to him timidly:
“M. Dagobert, Agricola has not yet come in. It may be some good news
that makes him so late.”
“Yes,” said the soldier, bitterly, as he continued to cast round his
eyes in search of something he wanted; “good news like mine! But I must
have a strong iron hook.”
Still looking about, he found one of the coarse, gray sacks, that
Frances was accustomed to make. He took it, opened it, and said to the
work girl: “Put me the iron bar and the cord into this bag, my girl. It
will be easier to carry.”
“Heavens!” cried she, obeying his directions; “you will not go without
seeing Agricola, M. Dagobert? He may perhaps have some good news to tell
you.”
“Be satisfied! I shall wait for my boy. I need not start before ten
o’clock--so I have time.”
“Alas, M. Dagobert! have you last all hope?”
“On the contrary. I have good hope--but in myself.”
So saying, Dagobert twisted the upper end of the sack, for the purpose
of closing it, and placed it on the drawers, by the side of his pistols.
“At all events, you will wait for Agricola, M. Dagobert?”
“Yes, if he arrives before ten o’clock.”
“Alas; you have then quite made up your mind?”
“Quite. And yet, if I were weak enough to believe in bad omens--”
“Sometimes, M. Dagobert, omens do not deceive one,” said the girl,
hoping to induce the soldier to abandon his dangerous resolution.
“Yes,” resumed Dagobert; “old women say so--and, although I am not an
old woman, what I saw just now weighed heavily on my heart. After all, I
may have taken a feeling of anger for a presentiment.”
“What have you seen?”
“I will tell it you, my good girl; it may help to pass the time, which
appears long enough.” Then, interrupting himself, he exclaimed: “Was it
the half hour that just struck?”
“Yes, M. Dagobert; it is half-past eight.”
“Still an hour and a half,” said Dagobert, in a hollow voice. “This,”
he added, “is what I saw. As I came along the street, my notice was
attracted by a large red placard, at the head of which was a black
panther devouring a white horse. That sight gave me a turn, for you
must know, my good girl, that a black panther destroyed a poor old white
horse that I had, Spoil-sport’s companion, whose name was Jovial.”
At the sound of this name, once so familiar, Spoil-sport, who was
crouching at the workwoman’s feet, raised his head hastily, and looked
at Dagobert.
“You see that beasts have memory--he recollects,” said the soldier,
sighing himself at the remembrance. Then, addressing his dog he added:
“Dost remember Jovial?”
On hearing this name a second time pronounced by his master, in a voice
of emotion, Spoil-sport gave a low whine, as if to indicate that he had
not forgotten his old travelling companion.
“It was, indeed, a melancholy incident, M. Dagobert,” said Mother Bunch,
“to find upon this placard a panther devouring a horse.”
“That is nothing to what’s to come; you shall hear the rest. I drew near
the bill, and read in it, that one Morok, just arrived from Germany, is
about to exhibit in a theatre different wild beasts that he tamed, among
others a splendid lion, a tiger, and a black Java panther named Death.”
“What an awful name!” said the hearer.
“You will think it more awful, my child, when I tell you, that this is
the very panther which strangled my horse at Leipsic, four months ago.”
“Good Heaven! you are right, M. Dagobert,” said the girl, “it is awful.”
“Wait a little,” said Dagobert, whose countenance was growing more and
more gloomy, “that is not all. It was by means of this very Morok, the
owner of the panther, that I and my poor children were imprisoned in
Leipsic.”
“And this wicked man is in Paris, and wishes you evil?” said Mother
Bunch. “Oh! you are right, M. Dagobert; you must take care of yourself;
it is a bad omen.”
“For him, if I catch him,” said Dagobert, in a hollow tone. “We have old
accounts to settle.”
“M. Dagobert,” cried Mother Bunch, listening; “some one is running up
the stairs. It is Agricola’s footsteps. I am sure he has good news.”
“That will just do,” said the soldier, hastily, without answering.
“Agricola is a smith. He will be able to find me the iron hook.”
A few moments after, Agricola entered the room; but, alas! the
sempstress perceived at the first glance, in the dejected countenance of
the workman, the ruin of her cherished hopes.
“Well!” said Dagobert to his son, in a tone which clearly announced the
little faith he attached to the steps taken by Agricola; “well, what
news?”
“Father, it is enough to drive one mad--to make one dash one’s brains
out against the wall!” cried the smith in a rage.
Dagobert turned towards Mother Bunch, and said: “You see, my poor
child--I was sure of it.”
“Well, father,” cried Agricola; “have you seen the Court de Montbron?”
“The Count de Montbron set out for Lorraine three days ago. That is
my good news,” continued the soldier, with bitter irony; “let us have
yours--I long to know all. I need to know, if, on appealing to the laws,
which, as you told me, protect and defend honest people, it ever happens
that the rogues get the best of it. I want to know this, and then I want
an iron hook--so I count upon you for both.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“First, tell me what you have done. We have time. It is not much more
than half-past eight. On leaving me, where did you go first?”
“To the commissary, who had already received your depositions.”
“What did he say to you?”
“After having very kindly listened to all I had to state, he answered,
that these young girls were placed in a respectable house, a convent--so
that there did not appear any urgent necessity for their immediate
removal--and besides, he could not take upon himself to violate the
sanctity of a religious dwelling upon your simple testimony; to-morrow,
he will make his report to the proper authorities, and steps will be
taken accordingly.”
“Yes, yes--plenty of put offs,” said the soldier.
“‘But, sir,’ answered I to him,” resumed Agricola, “‘it is now, this
very night, that you ought to act, for if these young girls should not
be present to-morrow morning in the Rue Saint Francois, their interests
may suffer incalculable damage. ‘I am very sorry for it,’ replied he,
‘but I cannot, upon your simple declaration, or that of your father,
who--like yourself--is no relation or connection of these young persons,
act in direct opposition to forms, which could not be set aside, even on
the demand of a family. The law has its delays and its formalities, to
which we are obliged to submit.’”
“Certainly!” said Dagobert. “We must submit to them, at the risk of
becoming cowardly, ungrateful traitors!”
“Didst speak also of Mdlle. de Cardoville to him?” asked the work-girl.
“Yes--but he: answered me on this subject in much the same manner: ‘It
was very serious; there was no proof in support of my deposition. A
third party had told me that Mdlle. de Cardoville affirms she was not
mad; but all mad people pretend to be sane. He could not, therefore,
upon my sole testimony, take upon himself to enter the house of a
respectable physician. But he would report upon it, and the law would
have its course--’”
“When I wished to act just now for myself,” said Dagobert, “did I not
forsee all this? And yet I was weak enough to listen to you.”
“But, father, what you wished to attempt was impossible, and you agreed
that it would expose you to far too dangerous consequences.”
“So,” resumed the soldier, without answering his son, “they told you in
plain terms, that we must not think of obtaining legally the release of
Rose and Blanche this evening or even to-morrow morning?”
“Yes, father. In the eyes of the law, there is no special urgency. The
question may not be decided for two or three days.”
“That is all I wished to know,” said Dagobert, rising and walking up and
down the room.
“And yet,” resumed his son, “I did not consider myself beaten. In
despair, but believing that justice could not remain deaf to such
equitable claims, I ran to the Palais de Justice, hoping to find there a
judge, a magistrate who would receive my complaint, and act upon it.”
“Well?” said the soldier, stopping him.
“I was told that the courts shut every day at five o’clock, and do not
open again til ten in the morning. Thinking of your despair, and of the
position of poor Mdlle. de Cardoville, I determined to make one more
attempt. I entered a guard-house of troops of the line, commanded by a
lieutenant. I told him all. He saw that I was so much moved,
and I spoke with such warmth and conviction, that he became
interested.--‘Lieutenant,’ said I to him, ‘grant me one favor; let
a petty officer and two soldiers go to the convent to obtain a legal
entrance. Let them ask to see the daughters of Marshal Simon, and
learn whether it is their choice to remain, or return to my father, who
brought them from Russia. You will then see if they are not detained
against their will--’”
“And what answer did he give you, Agricola?” asked Mother Bunch, while
Dagobert shrugged his shoulders, and continued to walk up and down.
“‘My good fellow,’ said he, ‘what you ask me is impossible. I understand
your motives, but I cannot take upon myself so serious a measure. I
should be broke were I to enter a convent by force.--‘Then, sir, what am
I to do? It is enough to turn one’s head.’--‘Faith, I don’t know,’ said
the lieutenant; ‘it will be safest, I think, to wait.’--Then, believing
I had done all that was possible, father, I resolved to come back, in
the hope that you might have been more fortunate than I--but, alas! I
was deceived!”
So saying, the smith sank upon a chair, for he was worn out with anxiety
and fatigue. There was a moment of profound silence after these words of
Agricola, which destroyed the last hopes of the three, mute and crushed
beneath the strokes of inexorable fatality.
A new incident came to deepen the sad and painful character of this
scene.
CHAPTER XI. DISCOVERIES.
The door which Agricola had not thought of fastening opened, as it were,
timidly, and Frances Baudoin, Dagobert’s wife, pale, sinking, hardly
able to support herself, appeared on the threshold.
The soldier, Agricola, and Mother Bunch, were plunged in such deep
dejection, that neither of them at first perceived the entrance. Frances
advanced two steps into the room, fell upon her knees, clasped her
hands together, and said in a weak and humble voice; “My poor
husband--pardon!”
At these words, Agricola and the work-girl--whose backs were towards the
door--turned round suddenly, and Dagobert hastily raised his head.
“My mother!” cried Agricola, running to Frances.
“My wife!” cried Dagobert, as he also rose, and advanced to meet the
unfortunate woman.
“On your knees, dear mother!” said Agricola, stooping down to embrace
her affectionately. “Get up, I entreat you!”
“No, my child,” said Frances, in her mild, firm accents, “I will not
rise, till your father has forgiven me. I have wronged him much--now I
know it.”
“Forgive you, my poor wife?” said the soldier, as he drew near with
emotion. “Have I ever accused you, except in my first transport of
despair? No, no; it was the bad priests that I accused, and there I was
right. Well! I have you again,” added he, assisting his son to raise
Frances; “one grief the less. They have then restored you to liberty?
Yesterday, I could not even learn in what prison they had put you. I
have so many cares that I could not think of you only. But come, dear
wife: sit down!”
“How feeble you are, dear mother!--how cold--how pale!” said Agricola
with anguish, his eyes filling with tears.
“Why did you not let us know?” added he. “We would have gone to fetch
you. But how you tremble! Your hands are frozen!” continued the smith,
as he knelt down before Frances. Then, turning towards Mother Bunch:
“Pray, make a little fire directly.”
“I thought of it, as soon as your father came in, Agricola, but there is
no wood nor charcoal left.”
“Then pray borrow some of Father Loriot, my dear sister. He is too good
a fellow to refuse. My poor mother trembles so--she might fall ill.”
Hardly had he said the words, than Mother Bunch went out. The smith rose
from the ground, took the blanket from the bed, and carefully wrapped
it about the knees and feet of his mother. Then, again kneeling down, he
said to her: “Your hands, dear mother!” and, taking those feeble palms
in his own, he tried to warm them with his breath.
Nothing could be more touching than this picture: the robust young man,
with his energetic and resolute countenance, expressing by his looks
the greatest tenderness, and paying the most delicate attentions to his
poor, pale, trembling old mother.
Dagobert, kind-hearted as his son, went to fetch a pillow, and brought
it to his wife, saying: “Lean forward a little, and I will put this
pillow behind you; you will be more comfortable and warmer.”
“How you both spoil me!” said Frances, trying to smile. “And you to
be so kind, after all the ill I have done!” added she to Dagobert,
as, disengaging one of her hands from those of her son, she took the
soldier’s hand and pressed it to her tearful eyes. “In prison,” said she
in a low voice, “I had time to repent.”
Agricola’s heart was near breaking at the thought that his pious and
good mother, with her angelic purity, should for a moment have been
confined in prison with so many miserable creatures. He would have made
some attempt to console her on the subject of the painful past, but he
feared to give a new shock to Dagobert, and was silent.
“Where is Gabriel, dear mother?” inquired he. “How is he? As you have
seen him, tell us all about him.”
“I have seen Gabriel,” said Frances, drying her tears; “he is confined
at home. His superiors have rigorously forbidden his going out. Luckily,
they did not prevent his receiving me, for his words and counsels have
opened my eyes to many things. It is from him that I learned how guilty
I had been to you, my poor husband.”
“How so?” asked Dagobert.
“Why, you know that if I caused you so much grief, it was not from
wickedness. When I saw you in such despair, I suffered almost as much
myself; but I durst not tell you so, for fear of breaking my oath. I had
resolved to keep it, believing that I did well, believing that it was
my duty. And yet something told me that it could not be my duty to
cause you so much pain. ‘Alas, my God! enlighten me!’ I exclaimed in
my prison, as I knelt down and prayed, in spite of the mockeries of
the other women. ‘Why should a just and pious work, commanded by my
confessor, the most respectable of men, overwhelm me and mine with so
much misery? ‘Have mercy on me, my God, and teach me if I have done
wrong without knowing it!’ As I prayed with fervor, God heard me, and
inspired me with the idea of applying to Gabriel. ‘I thank Thee, Father!
I will obey!’ said I within myself. ‘Gabriel is like my own child; but
he is also a priest, a martyr--almost a saint. If any one in the world
imitates the charity of our blessed Saviour, it is surely he. When I
leave this prison, I will go and consult him and he will clear up my
doubts.’”
“You are right, dear mother,” cried Agricola; “it was a thought from
heaven. Gabriel is an angel of purity, courage, nobleness--the type of
the true and good priest!”
“Ah, poor wife!” said Dagobert, with bitterness; “if you had never had
any confessor but Gabriel!”
“I thought of it before he went on his journey,” said Frances, with
simplicity. “I should have liked to confess to the dear boy--but I
fancied Abbe Dubois would be offended, and that Gabriel would be too
indulgent with regard to my sins.
“Your sins, poor dear mother?” said Agricola. “As if you ever committed
any!”
“And what did Gabriel tell you?” asked the soldier.
“Alas, my dear! had I but had such an interview with him sooner! What
I told him of Abbe Dubois roused his suspicions, and he questioned me,
dear child, as to many things of which he had never spoken to me before.
Then I opened to him my whole heart, and he did the same to me, and
we both made sad discoveries with regard to persons whom we had always
thought very respectable, and who yet had deceived each of us, unknown
to the other.”
“How so?”
“Why, they used to tell him, under the seal of secrecy, things that were
supposed to come from me; and they used to tell me, under the same
seal of secrecy, things that were supposed to come from him. Thus, he
confessed to me, that he did not feel at first any vocation for the
priesthood; but they told him that I should not believe myself safe in
this world or in the next, if he did not take orders, because I felt
persuaded that I could best serve the Lord by giving Him so good a
servant; and that yet I had never dared to ask Gabriel himself to give
me this proof of his attachment, though I had taken him from the street,
a deserted orphan, and brought him up as my own son, at the cost of
labor and privations. Then, how could it be otherwise? The poor dear
child, thinking he could please me, sacrificed himself. He entered the
seminary.”
“Horrible,” said Agricola; “‘tis an infamous snare, and, for the priests
who were guilty of it, a sacrilegious lie!”
“During all that time,” resumed Frances, “they were holding very
different language to me. I was told that Gabriel felt his vocation, but
that he durst not avow it to me, for fear of my being jealous on account
of Agricola, who, being brought up as a workman, would not enjoy the
same advantages as those which the priesthood would secure to Gabriel.
So when he asked my permission to enter the seminary dear child!
he entered it with regret, but he thought he was making me so
happy!--instead of discouraging this idea, I did all in my power to
persuade him to follow it, assuring him that he could not do better, and
that it would occasion me great joy. You understand, I exaggerated, for
fear he should think me jealous on account of Agricola.”
“What an odious machination!” said Agricola, in amazement. “They were
speculating in this unworthy manner upon your mutual devotion. Thus
Gabriel saw the expression of your dearest wish in the almost forced
encouragement given to his resolution.”
“Little by little, however, as Gabriel has the best heart in the world,
the vocation really came to him. That was natural enough--he was born
to console those who suffer, and devote himself for the unfortunate.
He would never have spoken to me of the past, had it not been for this
morning’s interview. But then I beheld him, who is usually so mild and
gentle, become indignant, exasperated, against M. Rodin and another
person whom he accuses. He had serious complaints against them already,
but these discoveries, he says, will make up the measure.”
At these words of Frances, Dagobert pressed his hand to his forehead, as
if to recall something to his memory. For some minutes he had listened
with surprise, and almost terror, to the account of these secret plots,
conducted with such deep and crafty dissimulation.
Frances continued: “When at last I acknowledged to Gabriel, that by the
advice of Abbe Dubois, my confessor, I had delivered to a stranger the
children confined to my husband--General Simon’s daughters--the dear boy
blamed me, though with great regret, not for having wished to instruct
the poor orphans in the truths of our holy religion, but for having
acted without the consent of my husband, who alone was answerable before
God and man for the charge entrusted to him. Gabriel severely censured
Abbe Dubois’ conduct, who had given me, he said, bad and perfidious
counsels; and then, with the sweetness of an angel, the dear boy
consoled me, and exhorted me to come and tell you all. My poor husband!
he would fain have accompanied me, for I had scarcely courage to
come hither, so strongly did I feel the wrong I had done you; but,
unfortunately, Gabriel is confined at the seminary by the strict order
of his superiors; he could not come with me, and--”
Here Dagobert, who seemed much agitated, abruptly interrupted his wife.
“One word, Frances,” said he; “for, in truth, in the midst of so many
cares, and black, diabolical plots, one loses one’s memory, and the head
begins to wander. Didst not tell me, the day the children disappeared,
that Gabriel, when taken in by you, had round his neck a bronze medal,
and in his pocket a book filled with papers in a foreign language?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And this medal and these papers were afterwards delivered to your
confessor?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And Gabriel never spoke of them since?”
“Never.”
Agricola, hearing this from his mother, looked at her with surprise,
and exclaimed: “Then Gabriel has the same interest as the daughters of
General Simon, or Mdlle. de Cardoville, to be in the Rue Saint-Francois
to-morrow?”
“Certainly,” said Dagobert. “And now do you remember what he said to us,
just after my arrival--that, in a few days, he would need our support in
a serious matter?”
“Yes, father.”
“And he is kept a prisoner at his seminary! And he tells your mother
that he has to complain of his superiors! and he asked us for our
support with so sad and grave an air, that I said to him--”
“He would speak so, if about to engage in a deadly duel,” interrupted
Agricola. “True, father! and yet you, who are a good judge of valor,
acknowledged that Gabriel’s courage was equal to yours. For him so to
fear his superiors, the danger must be great indeed.”
“Now that I have heard your mother, I understand it all,” said Dagobert.
“Gabriel is like Rose and Blanche, like Mdlle. de Cardoville, like your
mother, like all of us, perhaps--the victim of a secret conspiracy of
wicked priests. Now that I know their dark machinations, their infernal
perseverance, I see,” added the soldier, in a whisper, “that it requires
strength to struggle against them. I had not the least idea of their
power.”
“You are right, father; for those who are hypocritical and wicked do as
much harm as those who are good and charitable, like Gabriel, do good.
There is no more implacable enemy than a bad priest.”
“I know it, and that’s what frightens me; for my poor children are
in their hands. But is all lost? Shall I bring myself to give them up
without an effort? Oh, no, no! I will not show any weakness--and yet,
since your mother told us of these diabolical plots, I do not know how
it is but I seem less strong, less resolute. What is passing around me
appears so terrible. The spiriting away of these children is no longer
an isolated fact--it is one of the ramifications of a vast conspiracy,
which surrounds and threatens us all. It seems to me as if I and those I
love walked together in darkness, in the midst of serpents, in the midst
of snares that we can neither see nor struggle against. Well! I’ll
speak out! I have never feared death--I am not a coward and yet I
confess--yes, I confess it--these black robes frighten me--”
Dagobert pronounced these words in so sincere a tone, that his son
started, for he shared the same impression. And it was quite natural.
Frank, energetic, resolute characters, accustomed to act and fight in
the light of day, never feel but one fear--and that is, to be ensnared
and struck in the dark by enemies that escape their grasp. Thus,
Dagobert had encountered death twenty times; and yet, on hearing his
wife’s simple revelation of this dark tissue of lies, and treachery, and
crime, the soldier felt a vague sense of fear; and, though nothing
was changed in the conditions of his nocturnal enterprise against the
convent, it now appeared to him in a darker and more dangerous light.
The silence, which had reigned for some moments, was interrupted by
Mother Bunch’s return. The latter, knowing that the interview between
Dagobert, his wife, and Agricola, ought not have any importunate
witness, knocked lightly at the door, and remained in the passage with
Father Loriot.
“Can we come in, Mme. Frances?” asked the sempstress. “Here is Father
Loriot, bringing some wood.”
“Yes, yes; come in, my good girl,” said Agricola, whilst his father
wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
The door opened, and the worthy dyer appeared, with his hands and arms
of an amaranthine color; on one side, he carried a basket of wood, and
on the other some live coal in a shovel.
“Good-evening to the company!” said Daddy Loriot. “Thank you for having
thought of me, Mme. Frances. You know that my shop and everything in it
are at your service. Neighbors should help one another; that’s my motto!
You were kind enough, I should think, to my late wife!”
Then, placing the wood in a corner, and giving the shovel to Agricola,
the worthy dyer, guessing from the sorrowful appearance of the different
actors in this scene, that it would be impolite to prolong his visit,
added: “You don’t want anything else, Mme. Frances?”
“No, thank you, Father Loriot.”
“Then, good-evening to the company!” said the dyer; and, addressing
Mother Bunch, he added: “Don’t forget the letter for M. Dagobert. I
durstn’t touch it for fear of leaving the marks of my four fingers and
thumb in amaranthine! But, good evening to the company!” and Father
Loriot went out.
“M. Dagobert, here is a letter,” said Mother Bunch. She set herself to
light the fire in the stove, while Agricola drew his mother’s arm-chair
to the hearth.
“See what it is, my boy,” said Dagobert to his son; “my head is so heavy
that I cannot see clear.” Agricola took the letter, which contained only
a few lines, and read it before he looked at the signature.
“At Sea, December 25th, 1831.