direct for Europe, to write to you, my old comrade, a few hasty
lines, which will reach you probably by way of Havre, before the
arrival of my last letters from India. You must by this time be at
Paris, with my wife and child--tell them--I am unable to say more
--the boat is departing. Only one word; I shall soon be in France.
Do not forget the 13th February; the future of my wife and child
depends upon it.
“Adieu, my friend! Believe in my eternal gratitude.
“SIMON.”
“Agricola--quick! look to your father!” cried the hunchback.
From the first words of this letter, which present circumstances made so
cruelly applicable, Dagobert had become deadly pale. Emotion, fatigue,
exhaustion, joined to this last blow, made him stagger.
His son hastened to him, and supported him in his arms. But soon the
momentary weakness passed away, and Dagobert, drawing his hand across
his brow, raised his tall figure to its full height. Then, whilst his
eye sparkled, his rough countenance took an expression of determined
resolution, and he exclaimed, in wild excitement: “No, no! I will not
be a traitor; I will not be a coward. The black robes shall not frighten
me; and, this night, Rose and Blanche Simon shall be free!”
CHAPTER XII. THE PENAL CODE.
Startled for a moment by the dark and secret machinations of the black
robes, as he called them, against the persons he most loved, Dagobert
might have hesitated an instant to attempt the deliverance of Rose and
Blanche; but his indecision ceased directly on the reading of Marshal
Simon’s letter, which came so timely to remind him of his sacred duties.
To the soldier’s passing dejection had succeeded a resolution full of
calm and collected energy.
“Agricola, what o’clock is it?” asked he of his son.
“Just struck nine, father.”
“You must make me, directly, an iron hook--strong enough to support my
weight, and wide enough to hold on the coping of a wall. This stove will
be forge and anvil; you will find a hammer in the house; and, for iron,”
said the soldier, hesitating, and looking around him, “as for iron--here
is some!”
So saying, the soldier took from the hearth a strong pair of tongs, and
presented them to his son, adding: “Come, my boy! blow up the fire, blow
it to a white heat, and forge me this iron!”
On these words, Frances and Agricola looked at each other with surprise;
the smith remained mute and confounded, not knowing the resolution
of his father, and the preparations he had already commenced with the
needlewoman’s aid.
“Don’t you hear me, Agricola,” repeated Dagobert, still holding the pair
of tongs in his hand; “you must make me a hook directly.”
“A hook, father?--for what purpose?”
“To tie to the end of a cord that I have here. There must be a loop at
one end large enough to fix it securely.”
“But this cord--this hook--for what purpose are they?”
“To scale the walls of the convent, if I cannot get in by the door.”
“What convent?” asked Frances of her son.
“How, father?” cried the latter, rising abruptly. “You still think of
that?”
“Why! what else should I think of?”
“But, father, it is impossible; you will never attempt such an
enterprise.”
“What is it, my child?” asked Frances, with anxiety. “Where is father
going?”
“He is going to break into the convent where Marshal Simon’s daughters
are confined, and carry them off.”
“Great God! my poor husband--a sacrilege!” cried Frances, faithful to
her pious traditions, and, clasping her hands together, she endeavored
to rise and approach Dagobert.
The soldier, forseeing that he would have to contend with observations
and prayers of all sorts, and resolved not to yield, determined to cut
short all useless supplications, which would only make him lose precious
time. He said, therefore, with a grave, severe, and almost solemn air,
which showed the inflexibility of his determination: “Listen to me,
wife--and you also, my son--when, at my age, a man makes up his mind to
do anything, he knows the reason why. And when a man has once made up
his mind, neither wife nor child can alter it. I have resolved to do my
duty; so spare yourselves useless words. It may be your duty to talk to
me as you have done; but it is over now, and we will say no more about
it. This evening I must be master in my own house.”
Timid and alarmed, Frances did not dare to utter a word, but she turned
a supplicating glance towards her son.
“Father,” said the latter, “one word more--only one.”
“Let us hear,” replied Dagobert, impatiently.
“I will not combat your resolution; but I will prove to you that you do
not know to what you expose yourself.”
“I know it all,” replied the soldier, in an abrupt tone. “The
undertaking is a serious one; but it shall not be said that I neglected
any means to accomplish what I promised to do.”
“But father, you do not know to what danger you expose yourself,” said
the smith, much alarmed.
“Talk of danger! talk of the porter’s gun and the gardener’s scythe!”
said Dagobert, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. “Talk of them,
and have done with it for, after all, suppose I were to leave my carcass
in the convent, would not you remain to your mother? For twenty years,
you were accustomed to do without me. It will be all the less trying to
you.”
“And I, alas! am the cause of these misfortunes!” cried the poor mother.
“Ah! Gabriel had good reason to blame me.”
“Mme. Frances, be comforted,” whispered the sempstress, who had drawn
near to Dagobert’s wife. “Agricola will not suffer his father to expose
himself thus.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the smith resumed, in an agitated voice:
“I know you too well, father, to think of stopping you by the fear of
death.”
“Of what danger, then, do you speak?”
“Of a danger from which even you will shrink, brave as you are,” said
the young man, in a voice of emotion, that forcibly struck his father.
“Agricola,” said the soldier, roughly and severely, “that remark is
cowardly, you are insulting.”
“Father--”
“Cowardly!” resumed the soldier, angrily; “because it is cowardice to
wish to frighten a man from his duty--insulting! because you think me
capable of being so frightened.”
“Oh, M. Dagobert!” exclaimed the sewing-girl, “you do not understand
Agricola.”
“I understand him too well,” answered the soldier harshly.
Painfully affected by the severity of his father, but firm in his
resolution, which sprang from love and respect, Agricola resumed, whilst
his heart beat violently. “Forgive me, if I disobey you, father; but,
were you to hate me for it, I must tell you to what you expose yourself
by scaling at night the walls of a convent--”
“My son! do you dare?” cried Dagobert, his countenance inflamed with
rage-“Agricola!” exclaimed Frances, in tears. “My husband!”
“M. Dagobert, listen to Agricola!” exclaimed Mother Bunch. “It is only
in your interest that he speaks.”
“Not one word more!” replied the soldier, stamping his foot with anger.
“I tell you, father,” exclaimed the smith, growing fearfully pale as he
spoke, “that you risk being sent to the galleys!”
“Unhappy boy!” cried Dagobert, seizing his son by the arm; “could you
not keep that from me--rather than expose me to become a traitor and a
coward?” And the soldier shuddered, as he repeated: “The galleys!”--and,
bending down his head, remained mute, pensive, withered, as it were, by
those blasting words.
“Yes, to enter an inhabited place by night, in such a manner, is what
the law calls burglary, and punishes with the galleys,” cried Agricola,
at once grieved and rejoicing at his father’s depression of mind--“yes,
father, the galleys, if you are taken in the act; and there are ten
chances to one that you would be so. Mother Bunch has told you, the
convent is guarded. This morning, had you attempted to carry off the two
young ladies in broad daylight, you would have been arrested; but, at
least, the attempt would have been an open one, with a character of
honest audacity about it, that hereafter might have procured your
acquittal. But to enter by night, and by scaling the walls--I tell you,
the galleys would be the consequence. Now, father, decide. Whatever you
do, I will do also--for you shall not go alone. Say but the word, and I
will forge the hook for you--I have here hammer and pincers--and in an
hour we will set out.”
A profound silence followed these words--a silence that was only
interrupted by the stifled sobs of Frances, who muttered to herself in
despair: “Alas! this is the consequence of listening to Abbe Dubois!”
It was in vain that Mother Bunch tried to console Frances. She was
herself alarmed, for the soldier was capable of braving even infamy, and
Agricola had determined to share the perils of his father.
In spite of his energetic and resolute character, Dagobert remained for
some time in a kind of stupor. According to his military habits, he had
looked at this nocturnal enterprise only as a ruse de guerre, authorized
by his good cause, and by the inexorable fatality of his position; but
the words of his son brought him back to the fearful reality, and
left him the choice of a terrible alternative--either to betray the
confidence of Marshal Simon, and set at naught the last wishes of the
mother of the orphan--or else to expose himself, and above all his
son, to lasting disgrace--without even the certainty of delivering the
orphans after all.
Drying her eyes, bathed in tears, Frances exclaimed, as if by a sudden
inspiration: “Dear me! I have just thought of it. There is perhaps a way
of getting these dear children from the convent without violence.”
“How so, mother?” said Agricola, hastily.
“It is Abbe Dubois, who had them conveyed thither; but Gabriel supposes,
that he probably acted by the advice of M. Rodin.
“And if that were so, mother, it would be in vain to apply to M. Rodin.
We should get nothing from him.”
“Not from him--but perhaps from that powerful abbe, who is Gabriel’s
superior, and has always patronized him since his first entrance at the
seminary.”
“What abbe, mother?”
“Abbe d’Aigrigny.”
“True mother; before being a priest, he was a soldier he may be more
accessible than others--and yet--”
“D’Aigrigny!” cried Dagobert, with an expression of hate and horror.
“There is then mixed up with these treasons, a man who was a soldier
before being a priest, and whose name is D’Aigrigny?”
“Yes, father; the Marquis d’Aigrigny--before the Restoration, in the
service of Russia--but, in 1815, the Bourbons gave him a regiment.”
“It is he!” said Dagobert, in a hollow voice. “Always the same! like an
evil spirit--to the mother, father, children.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“The Marquis d’Aigrigny!” replied Dagobert. “Do you know what is this
man? Before he was a priest, he was the murderer of Rose and Blanche’s
mother, because she despised his love. Before he was a priest, he fought
against his country, and twice met General Simon face to face in war.
Yes; while the general was prisoner at Leipsic, covered with wounds
at Waterloo, the turncoat marquis triumphed with the Russians and
English!--Under the Bourbons, this same renegade, loaded with honors,
found himself once more face to face with the persecuted soldier of the
empire. Between them, this time, there was a mortal duel--the marquis
was wounded--General Simon was proscribed, condemned, driven into exile.
The renegade, you say, has become a priest. Well! I am now certain, that
it is he who has carried off Rose and Blanche, in order to wreak on them
his hatred of their father and mother. It is the infamous D’Aigrigny,
who holds them in his power. It is no longer the fortune of these
children that I have to defend; it is their life--do you hear what I
say?--their very life?”
“What, father! do you think this man capable--”
“A traitor to his country, who finishes by becoming a mock priest, is
capable of anything. I tell you, that, perhaps at this moment he may
be killing those children by a slow-fire!” exclaimed the soldier, in a
voice of agony. “To separate them from one another was to begin to kill
them. Yes!” added Dagobert, with an exasperation impossible to describe;
“the daughters of Marshal Simon are in the power of the Marquis
d’Aigrigny and his band, and I hesitate to attempt their rescue, for
fear of the galleys! The galleys!” added he, with a convulsive burst of
laughter; “what do I care for the galleys? Can they send a corpse there?
If this last attempt fail, shall I not have the right to blow my brains
out?--Put the iron in the fire, my boy--quick! time presses--and strike
while the iron’s hot!”
“But your son goes with you!” exclaimed Frances, with a cry of maternal
despair. Then rising, she threw herself at the feet of Dagobert, and
said: “If you are arrested, he will be arrested also.”
“To escape the galleys, he will do as I do. I have two pistols.”
“And without you--without him,” cried the unhappy mother, extending her
hands in supplication, “what will become of me?”
“You are right--I was too selfish,” said Dagobert. “I will go alone.”
“You shall not go alone, father,” replied Agricola.
“But your mother?”
“Mother Bunch sees what is passing; she will go to Mr. Hardy, my master,
and tell him all. He is the most generous of men, and my mother will
have food and shelter for the rest of her days.”
“And I am the cause of all!” cried Frances, wringing her hands in
despair. “Punish me, oh, heaven! for it is my fault. I gave up those
children. I shall be punished by the death of my child!”
“Agricola, you shall not go with me--I forbid it!” said Dagobert,
clasping his son closely to his breast.
“What! when I have pointed out the danger, am I to be the first to
shrink from it? you cannot think thus lowly of me, father! Have I not
also some one to deliver? The good, the generous Mdlle. de Cardoville,
who tried to save me from a prison, is a captive in her turn. I will
follow you, father. It is my right, my duty, my determination.”
So saying, Agricola put into the heated stove the tongs that were
intended to form the hook. “Alas! may heaven have pity upon us!” cried
his poor mother, sobbing as she still knelt, whilst the soldier seemed a
prey to the most violent internal struggle.
“Do not cry so, dear mother; you will break my heart,” said Agricola,
as he raised her with the sempstress’s help. “Be comforted! I have
exaggerated the danger of my father. By acting prudently, we two may
succeed in our enterprise; without much risk--eh, father?” added he,
with a significant glance at Dagobert. “Once more, be comforted, dear
mother. I will answer for everything. We will deliver Marshal Simon’s
daughters, and Mdlle. de Cardoville too. Sister, give me the hammer and
pincers, there in the press.”
The sempstress, drying her tears, did as desired, while Agricola, by the
help of bellows, revived the fire in which the tongs were heating.
“Here are your tools, Agricola,” said the hunchback, in a
deeply-agitated voice, as she presented them with trembling hands to
the smith, who, with the aid of the pincers, soon drew from the fire
the white-hot tongs, and, with vigorous blows of the hammer, formed them
into a hook, taking the stove for his anvil.
Dagobert had remained silent and pensive. Suddenly he said to Frances,
taking her by the hand: “You know what metal your son is. To prevent his
following me would now be impossible. But do not be afraid, dear wife;
we shall succeed--at least, I hope so. And if we should not succeed--if
Agricola and me should be arrested--well! we are not cowards; we shall
not commit suicide; but father and son will go arm in arm to prison,
with heads high and proud, look like two brave men who have done their
duty. The day of trial must come, and we will explain all, honestly,
openly--we will say, that, driven to the last extremity, finding no
support, no protection in the law, we were forced to have recourse to
violence. So hammer away, my boy!” added Dagobert, addressing his son,
pounding the hot iron; “forge, forge, without fear. Honest judges will
absolve honest men.”
“Yes, father, you are right, be at ease dear mother! The judges will see
the difference between rascals who scale walls in order to rob, and
an old soldier and his son who, at peril of their liberty, their life,
their honor, have sought only to deliver unhappy victims.”
“And if this language should not be heard,” resumed Dagobert, “so much
the worse for them! It will not be your son, or husband, who will be
dishonored in the eyes of honest people. If they send us to the galleys,
and we have courage to survive--the young and the old convict will wear
their chains proudly--and the renegade marquis, the traitor priest,
will bear more shame than we. So, forge without fear, my boy! There are
things which the galleys themselves cannot disgrace--our good conscience
and our honor! But now,” he added, “two words with my good Mother Bunch.
It grows late, and time presses. On entering the garden, did you remark
if the windows of the convent were far from the ground?”
“No, not very far, M. Dagobert--particularly on that side which is
opposite to the madhouse, where Mdlle. de Cardoville is confined.”
“How did you manage to speak to that young lady?”
“She was on the other side of an open paling, which separates the two
gardens.”
“Excellent!” said Agricola, as he continued to hammer the iron: “we can
easily pass from one garden to the other. The madhouse may perhaps
be the readier way out. Unfortunately, you do not know, Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s chamber.”
“Yes, I do,” returned the work-girl, recollecting herself. “She is
lodged in one of the wings, and there is a shade over her window,
painted like canvas, with blue and white stripes.”
“Good! I shall not forget that.”
“And can you form no guess as to where are the rooms of my poor
children?” said Dagobert.
After a moment’s reflection, Mother Bunch answered, “They are opposite
to the chamber occupied by Mdlle. de Cardoville, for she makes signs
to them from her window: and I now remember she told me, that their two
rooms are on different stories, one on the ground-floor, and the other
up one pair of stairs.”
“Are these windows grated?” asked the smith.
“I do not know.”
“Never mind, my good girl: with these indications we shall do very
well,” said Dagobert. “For the rest, I have my plans.”
“Some water, my little sister,” said Agricola, “that I may cool my
iron.” Then addressing his father: “Will this hook do?”
“Yes, my boy; as soon as it is cold we will fasten the cord.”
For some time, Frances Baudoin had remained upon her knees, praying with
fervor. She implored Heaven to have pity on Agricola and Dagobert,
who, in their ignorance, were about to commit a great crime; and she
entreated that the celestial vengeance might fall upon her only, as she
alone had been the cause of the fatal resolution of her son and husband.
Dagobert and Agricola finished their preparations in silence. They
were both very pale, and solemnly grave. They felt all the danger of so
desperate an enterprise.
The clock at Saint-Mery’s struck ten. The sound of the bell was faint,
and almost drowned by the lashing of the wind and rain, which had not
ceased for a moment.
“Ten o’clock!” said Dagobert, with a start. “There is not a minute to
lose. Take the sack, Agricola.”
“Yes, father.”
As he went to fetch the sack, Agricola approached Mother Bunch, who was
hardly able to sustain herself, and said to her in a rapid whisper: “If
we are not here to-morrow, take care of my mother. Go to M. Hardy, who
will perhaps have returned from his journey. Courage, my sister! embrace
me. I leave poor mother to you.” The smith, deeply affected, pressed the
almost fainting girl in his arms.
“Come, old Spoil-sport,” said Dagobert: “you shall be our scout.”
Approaching his wife, who, just risen from the ground, was clasping her
son’s head to her bosom, and covering it with tears and kisses, he said
to her, with a semblance of calmness and serenity: “Come, my dear wife,
be reasonable! Make us a good fire. In two or three hours we will bring
home the two poor children, and a fine young lady. Kiss me! that will
bring me luck.”
Frances threw herself on her husband’s neck, without uttering a word.
This mute despair, mingled with convulsive sobs, was heart-rending.
Dagobert was obliged to tear himself from his wife’s arms, and striving
to conceal his emotion, he said to his son, in an agitated voice:
“Let us go--she unmans me. Take care of her, my good Mother Bunch.
Agricola--come!”
The soldier slipped the pistols into the pocket of his great coat, and
rushed towards the door, followed by Spoil-sport.
“My son, let me embrace you once more--alas! it is perhaps for the last
time!” cried the unfortunate mother, incapable of rising, but stretching
out her arms to Agricola. “Forgive me! it is all my fault.”
The smith turned back, mingled his tears with those of his mother--for
he also wept--and murmured, in a stifled voice: “Adieu, dear mother! Be
comforted. We shall soon meet again.”
Then, escaping from the embrace, he joined his father upon the stairs.
Frances Baudoin heaved a long sigh, and fell almost lifeless into the
needlewoman’s arms.
Dagobert and Agricola left the Rue Brise-Miche in the height of
the storm, and hastened with great strides towards the Boulevard de
l’Hopital, followed by the dog.
CHAPTER XIII. BURGLARY.
Half-past eleven had just struck, when Dagobert and his son arrived on
the Boulevard de l’Hopital.
The wind blew violently, and the rain fell down in torrents, but
notwithstanding the thickness of the watery clouds, it was tolerably
light, thanks to the late rising of the moon. The tall, dark trees, and
the white walls of the convent garden, were distinguishable in the midst
of the pale glimmer. Afar off, a street lamp, acted on by the wind, with
its red lights hardly visible through the mist and rain, swung backwards
and forwards over the dirty causeway of the solitary boulevard.
At rare intervals, they heard, at a very great distance, the rattle and
rumble of a coach, returning home late; then all was again silent.
Since their departure from the Rue Brise-Miche, Dagobert and his son had
hardly exchanged a word. The design of these two brave men was noble
and generous, and yet, resolute but pensive, they glided through the
darkness like bandits, at the hour of nocturnal crimes.
Agricola carried on his shoulders the sack containing the cord, the
hook, and the iron bar; Dagobert leaned upon the arm of his son, and
Spoil sport followed his master.
“The bench, where we sat down, must be close by,” said Dagobert,
stopping.
“Yes,” said Agricola, looking around; “here it is, father.”
“It is oily half-past eleven--we must wait for midnight,” resumed
Dagobert. “Let us be seated for an instant, to rest ourselves, and
decide upon our plan.”
After a moment’s silence, the soldier took his son’s hands between his
own, and thus continued: “Agricola, my child--it is yet time. Let me
go alone, I entreat you. I shall know very well how to get through the
business; but the nearer the moment comes, the more I fear to drag you
into this dangerous enterprise.”
“And the nearer the moment comes, father, the more I feel I may be
of some use; but, be it good or bad, I will share the fortune of your
adventure. Our object is praiseworthy; it is a debt of honor that you
have to pay, and I will take one half of it. Do not fancy that I will
now draw back. And so, dear father, let us think of our plan of action.”
“Then you will come?” said Dagobert, stifling a sigh.
“We must do everything,” proceeded Agricola, “to secure success. You
have already noticed the little garden-door, near the angle of the
wall--that is excellent.”
“We shall get by that way into the garden, and look immediately for the
open paling.”
“Yes; for on one side of this paling is the wing inhabited by Mdlle.
de Cardoville, and on the other that part of the convent in which the
general’s daughters are confined.”
At this moment, Spoil-sport, who was crouching at Dagobert’s feet, rose
suddenly, and pricked up his ears, as if to listen.
“One would think that Spoil-sport heard something,” said Agricola. They
listened--but heard only the wind, sounding through the tall trees of
the boulevard.
“Now I think of it, father--when the garden-door is once open, shall we
take Spoil-sport with us?”
“Yes; for if there is a watch-dog, he will settle him. And then he will
give us notice of the approach of those who go the rounds. Besides, he
is so intelligent, so attached to Rose and Blanche, that (who knows?) he
may help to discover the place where they are. Twenty times I have seen
him find them in the woods, by the most extraordinary instinct.”
A slow and solemn knell here rose above the noise of the wind: it was
the first stroke of twelve.
That note seemed to echo mournfully through the souls of Agricola and
his father. Mute with emotion, they shuddered, and by a spontaneous
movement, each grasped the hand of the other. In spite of themselves,
their hearts kept time to every stroke of the clock, as each successive
vibration was prolonged through the gloomy silence of the night.
At the last strobe, Dagobert said to his son, in a firm voice: “It is
midnight. Shake hands, and let us forward!”
The moment was decisive and solemn. “Now, father,” said Agricola, “we
will act with as much craft and daring as thieves going to pillage a
strong box.”
So saying, the smith took from the sack the cord and hook; Dagobert
armed himself with the iron bar, and both advanced cautiously, following
the wall in the direction of the little door, situated not far from the
angle formed by the street and the boulevard. They stopped from time to
time, to listen attentively, trying to distinguish those noises which
were not caused either by the high wind or the rain.
It continued light enough for them to be able to see surrounding
objects, and the smith and the soldier soon gained the little door,
which appeared much decayed, and not very strong.
“Good!” said Agricola to his father. “It will yield at one blow.”
The smith was about to apply his shoulder vigorously to the door, when
Spoil-sport growled hoarsely, and made a “point.” Dagobert silenced the
dog with a word, and grasping his son’s arm, said to him in a whisper:
“Do not stir. The dog has scented some one in the garden.”
Agricola and his father remained for some minutes motionless, holding
their breath and listening. The dog, in obedience to his master, no
longer growled, but his uneasiness and agitation were displayed more and
more. Yet they heard nothing.
“The dog must have been deceived, father,” whispered Agricola.
“I am sure of the contrary. Do not move.”
After some seconds of expectation, Spoil-sport crouched down abruptly,
and pushed his nose as far as possible under the door, snuffling up the
air.
“They are coming,” said Dagobert hastily, to his son.
“Let us draw off a little distance,” replied Agricola.
“No,” said his father; “we must listen. It will be time to retire, if
they open the door. Here, Spoil-sport! down!”
The dog obeyed, and withdrawing from the door, crouched down at the feet
of his master. Some seconds after, they heard a sort of splashing on the
damp ground, caused by heavy footsteps in puddles of water, and then the
sound of words, which carried away by the wind, did not reach distinctly
the ears of the soldier and the smith.
“They are the people of whom Mother Bunch told us, going their round,”
said Agricola to his father.
“So much the better. There will be an interval before they come round
again, and we shall have some two hours before us, without interruption.
Our affair is all right now.”
By degrees, the sound of the footsteps became less and less distinct,
and at last died away altogether.
“Now, quick! we must not lose any time,” said Dagobert to his son, after
waiting about ten minutes; “they are far enough. Let us try to open the
door.”
Agricola leaned his powerful shoulder against it, and pushed vigorously;
but the door did not give way, notwithstanding its age.
“Confound it!” said Agricola; “there is a bar on the inside. I am sure
of it, or these old planks would not have resisted my weight.”
“What is to be done?”
“I will scale the wall by means of the cord and hook, and open the door
from the other side.”
So saying, Agricola took the cord, and after several attempts, succeeded
in fixing the hook on the coping of the wall.
“Now, father, give me a leg up; I will help myself up with the cord;
once astride on the wall, I can easily turn the hook and get down into
the garden.”
The soldier leaned against the wall, and joined his two hands, in the
hollow of which his son placed one of his feet, then mounting upon the
robust shoulders of his father, he was able, by help of the cord, and
some irregularities in the wall, to reach the top. Unfortunately, the
smith had not perceived that the coping of the wall was strewed with
broken bottles, so that he wounded his knees and hands; but, for fear of
alarming Dagobert, he repressed every exclamation of pain, and replacing
the hook, he glided down the cord to the ground. The door was close by,
and he hastened to it; a strong wooden bar had indeed secured it on the
inside. This was removed, and the lock was in so bad a state, that it
offered no resistance to a violent effort from Agricola.
The door was opened, and Dagobert entered the garden with Spoil-sport.
“Now,” said the soldier to his son, “thanks to you, the worst is
over. Here is a means of escape for the poor children, and Mdlle. de
Cardoville. The thing is now to find them, without accident or delay.
Spoil-sport will go before as a scout. Come, my good dog!” added
Dagobert, “above all--fair and softly!”
Immediately, the intelligent animal advanced a few steps, sniffing and
listening with the care and caution of a hound searching for the game.
By the half-light of the clouded moon, Dagobert and his son perceived
round them a V-shaped grove of tall trees, at which several paths met.
Uncertain which to choose, Agricola said to his father: “Let us take
the path that runs alongside the wall. It will surely lead to some
building.”
“Right! Let us walk on the strips of grass, instead of through the mud.
It will make less noise.”
The father and son, preceded by the Siberian dog, kept for some time in
a winding path, at no great distance from the wall. They stopped now
and then to listen, or to satisfy themselves, before continuing their
advance, with regard to the changing aspects of the trees and bushes,
which, shaken by the wind, and faintly illumined by the pale light of
the moon, often took strange and doubtful forms.
Half-past twelve struck as Agricola and his father reached a large
iron gate which shut in that part of the garden reserved for the
Superior--the same into which Mother Bunch had intruded herself, after
seeing Rose Simon converse with Adrienne de Cardoville.
Through the bars of this gate, Agricola and his father perceived at a
little distance an open paling, which joined a half-finished chapel, and
beyond it a little square building.
“That is no doubt the building occupied by Mdlle. de Cardoville,” said
Agricola.
“And the building which contains the chambers of Rose and Blanche, but
which we cannot see from here, is no doubt opposite it,” said Dagobert.
“Poor children! they are there, weeping tears of despair,” added he,
with profound emotion.
“Provided the gate be but open,” said Agricola.
“It will probably be so--being within the walls.”
“Let us go on gently.”
The gate was only fastened by the catch of the lock. Dagobert was about
to open it, when Agricola said to him: “Take care! do not make it creak
on its hinges.”
“Shall I push it slowly or suddenly?”
“Let me manage it,” said Agricola; and he opened the gate so quickly,
that it creaked very little; still the noise might have been plainly
heard, in the silence of the night, during one of the lulls between the
squalls of wind.
Agricola and his father remained motionless for a moment, listening
uneasily, before they ventured to pass through the gate. Nothing
stirred, however; all remained calm and still. With fresh courage, they
entered the reserved garden.
Hardly had the dog arrived on this spot, when he exhibited tokens of
extraordinary delight. Picking up his ears, wagging his tail, bounding
rather than running, he had soon reached the paling where, in
the morning, Rose Simon had for a moment conversed with Mdlle. de
Cardoville. He stopped an instant at this place, as if at fault, and
turned round and round like a dog seeking the scent.
Dagobert and his son, leaving Spoil-sport to his instinct, followed
his least movements with intense interest, hoping everything from his
intelligence and his attachment to the orphans.
“It was no doubt near this paling that Rose stood when Mother Bunch saw
her,” said Dagobert. “Spoil-sport is on her track. Let him alone.”
After a few seconds, the dog turned his head towards Dagobert, and
started at full trot in the direction of a door on the ground-floor of
a building, opposite to that occupied by Adrienne. Arrived at this door,
the dog lay down, seemingly waiting for Dagobert.
“No doubt of it! the children are there!” said Dagobert, hastening to
rejoin Spoil-sport; “it was by this door that they took Rose into the
house.”
“We must see if the windows are grated,” said Agricola, following his
father.
“Well, old fellow!” whispered the soldier, as he came up to the dog and
pointed to the building, “are Rose and Blanche there?”
The dog lifted his head, and answered by a joyful bark. Dagobert had
just time to seize the mouth of the animal with his hands.
“He will ruin all!” exclaimed the smith. “They have, perhaps, heard
him.”
“No,” said Dagobert. “But there is no longer any doubt--the children are
here.”
At this instant, the iron gate, by which the soldier and his son had
entered the reserved garden, and which they had left open, fell to with
a loud noise.
“They’ve shut us in,” said Agricola, hastily; “and there is no other
issue.”
For a moment, the father and son looked in dismay at each other; but
Agricola instantly resumed: “The gate has perhaps shut of itself. I will
make haste to assure myself of this, and to open it again if possible.”
“Go quickly; I will examine the windows.”
Agricola flew towards the gate, whilst Dagobert, gliding along the wall,
soon reached the windows on the ground floor. They were four in number,
and two of them were not grated. He looked up at the first story; it was
not very far from the ground, and none of the windows had bars. It would
then be easy for that one of the two sisters, who inhabited this story,
once informed of their presence, to let herself down by means of a
sheet, as the orphans had already done to escape from the inn of
the White Falcon. But the difficult thing was to know which room she
occupied. Dagobert thought they might learn this from the sister on the
ground floor; but then there was another difficulty--at which of the
four windows should they knock?
Agricola returned precipitately. “It was the wind, no doubt, which shut
the gate,” said he. “I have opened it again, and made it fast with a
stone. But we have no time to lose.”
“And how shall we know the windows of the poor children?” said Dagobert,
anxiously.
“That is true,” said Agricola, with uneasiness. “What is to be done?”
“To call them at hap-hazard,” continued Dagobert, “would be to give the
alarm.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Agricola, with increasing anguish. “To have arrived
here, under their windows, and yet not to know!”
“Time presses,” said Dagobert, hastily, interrupting his son; “we must
run all risks.”
“But how, father?”
“I will call out loud, ‘Rose and Blanche’--in their state of despair, I
am sure they do not sleep. They will be stirring at my first summons. By
means of a sheet, fastened to the window, she who is on the first
story will in five minutes be in our arms. As for the one on the ground
floor--if her window is not grated, we can have her in a second. If it
is, we shall soon loosen one of the bars.”
“But, father--this calling out aloud?”
“Will not perhaps be heard.”
“But if it is heard--all will be lost.”
“Who knows? Before they have time to call the watch, and open several
doors, the children may be delivered. Once at the entrance of the
boulevard, and we shall be safe.”
“It is a dangerous course; but I see no other.”
“If there are only two men, I and Spoil-sport will keep them in check,
while you will have time to carry off the children.”
“Father, there is a better way--a surer one,” cried Agricola, suddenly.
“From what Mother Bunch told us, Mdlle. de Cardoville has corresponded
by signs with Rose and Blanche.”
“Yes.”
“Hence she knows where they are lodged, as the poor children answered
her from their windows.”
“You are right. There is only that course to take. But how find her
room?”
“Mother Bunch told me there was a shade over the window.”
“Quick! we have only to break through a wooden fence. Have you the iron
bar?”
“Here it is.”
“Then, quick!”
In a few steps, Dagobert and his son had reached the paling. Three
planks, torn away by Agricola, opened an easy passage.
“Remain here, father, and keep watch,” said he to Dagobert, as he
entered Dr. Baleinier’s garden.
The indicated window was easily recognized. It was high and broad; a
sort of shade surmounted it, for this window had once been a door, since
walled in to the third of its height. It was protected by bars of iron,
pretty far apart. Since some minutes, the rain had ceased. The moon,
breaking through the clouds, shone full upon the building. Agricola,
approaching the window, saw that the room was perfectly dark; but light
came from a room beyond, through a door left half open. The smith,
hoping that Mdlle. de Cardoville might be still awake, tapped lightly at
the window. Soon after, the door in the background opened entirely, and
Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had not yet gone to bed, came from the other
chamber, dressed as she had been at her interview with Mother Bunch. Her
charming features were visible by the light of the taper she held in
her hand. Their present expression was that of surprise and anxiety. The
young girl set down the candlestick on the table, and appeared to listen
attentively as she approached the window. Suddenly she started and
stopped abruptly. She had just discerned the face of a man, looking
at her through the window. Agricola, fearing that Mdlle. de Cardoville
would retire in terror to the next room, again tapped on the glass, and
running the risk of being heard by others, said in a pretty loud voice:
“It is Agricola Baudoin.”
These words reached the ears of Adrienne. Instantly remembering her
interview with Mother Bunch, she thought that Agricola and Dagobert
must have entered the convent for the purpose of carrying off Rose
and Blanche. She ran to the window, recognized Agricola in the clear
moonlight, and cautiously opened the casement.
“Madame,” said the smith, hastily; “there is not an instant to lose.
The Count de Montbron is not in Paris. My father and myself have come to
deliver you.”
“Thanks, thanks, M. Agricola!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone
expressive of the most touching gratitude; “but think first of the
daughters of General Simon.”
“We do think of them, madame, I have come to ask you which are their
windows.”
“One is on the ground floor, the last on the garden-side; the other is
exactly over it, on the first story.”
“Then they are saved!” cried the smith.
“But let me see!” resumed Adrienne, hastily; “the first story is pretty
high. You will find, near the chapel they are building, some long poles
belonging to the scaffolding. They may be of use to you.”
“They will be as good as a ladder, to reach the upstairs window. But now
to think of you madame.”
“Think only of the dear orphans. Time presses. Provided they are
delivered to-night, it makes little difference to me to remain a day or
two longer in this house.”
“No, mademoiselle,” cried the smith, “it is of the first importance that
you should leave this place to-night. Interests are concerned, of which
you know nothing. I am now sure of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have not time to explain myself further; but I conjure you madame, to
come. I can wrench out two of these bars; I will fetch a piece of iron.”
“It is not necessary. They are satisfied with locking the outer door
of this building, which I inhabit alone. You can easily break open the
lock.”
“And, in ten minutes, we shall be on the boulevard,” said the smith.
“Make yourself ready, madame; take a shawl, a bonnet, for the night is
cold. I will return instantly.”
“M. Agricola,” said Adrienne, with tears in her eyes, “I know what you
risk for my sake. I shall prove to you, I hope, that I have as good a
memory as you have. You and your adopted sister are noble and valiant
creatures, and I am proud to be indebted to you. But do not return for
me till the daughters of Marshal Simon are in safety.”
“Thanks to your directions, the thing will be done directly, madame. I
fly to rejoin my father, and we will come together to fetch you.”
Following the excellent advice of Mdlle. de Cardoville, Agricola took
one of the long, strong poles that rested against the wall of the
chapel, and, bearing it on his robust shoulders, hastened to rejoin
his father. Hardly had Agricola passed the fence, to direct his steps
towards the chapel, obscured in shadow, than Mdlle. de Cardoville
thought she perceived a human form issue from one of the clumps of trees
in the convent-garden, cross the path hastily, and disappear behind
a high hedge of box. Alarmed at the sight, Adrienne in vain called to
Agricola in a low voice, to bid him beware. He could not hear her; he
had already rejoined his father, who, devoured by impatience, went from
window to window with ever-increasing anguish.
“We are saved,” whispered Agricola. “Those are the windows of the poor
children--one on the ground floor, the other on the first story.”
“At last!” said Dagobert, with a burst of joy impossible to describe. He
ran to examine the windows. “They are not grated!” he exclaimed.
“Let us make sure, that one of them is there,” said Agricola; “then, by
placing this pole against the wall, I will climb up to the first story,
which is not so very high.”
“Right, my boy!--once there, tap at the window, and call Rose or
Blanche. When she answers, come down. We will rest the pole against
the window, and the poor child will slide along it. They are bold and
active. Quick, quick! to work!”
“And then we will deliver Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
Whilst Agricola placed his pole against the wall, and prepares to mount,
Dagobert tapped at the panes of the last window on the ground floor, and
said aloud: “It is I--Dagobert.”
Rose Simon indeed occupied the chamber. The unhappy child, in despair
at being separated from her sister, was a prey to a burning fever, and,
unable to sleep, watered her pillow with her tears. At the sound of the
tapping on the glass, she started up affrighted, then, hearing the voice
of the soldier--that voice so familiar and so dear--she sat up in bed,
pressed her hands across her forehead, to assure herself that she was
not the plaything of a dream, and, wrapped in her long night-dress, ran
to the window with a cry of joy. But suddenly--and before she could open
the casement--two reports of fire-arms were heard, accompanied by loud
cries of “Help! thieves!”
The orphan stood petrified with terror, her eyes mechanically fixed upon
the window, through which she saw confusedly, by the light of the moon,
several men engaged in a mortal struggle, whilst the furious barking
of Spoil-sport was heard above all the incessant cries of “Help! Help!
Thieves! Murder!”
BOOK V.
XIV. The Eve of a Great Day XV. The Thug XVI. The Two
Brothers of the Good Work XVII. The House in the Rue Saint-
Francois XVIII. Debit and Credit XIX. The Heir XX. The
Rupture XXI. The Change XXII. The Red Room XXIII. The
Testament XXIV. The Last Stroke of Noon XXV. The Deed of
Gift
CHAPTER XIV. THE EVE OF A GREAT DAY.
About two hours before the event last related took place at St. Mary’s
Convent, Rodin and Abbe d’Aigrigny met in the room where we have already
seen them, in the Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins. Since the Revolution of
July, Father d’Aigrigny had thought proper to remove for the moment to
this temporary habitation all the secret archives and correspondence of
his Order--a prudent measure, since he had every reason to fear that the
reverend fathers would be expelled by the state from that magnificent
establishment, with which the restoration had so liberally endowed their
society. (11)
Rodin, dressed in his usual sordid style, mean and dirty as ever, was
writing modestly at his desk, faithful to his humble part of secretary,
which concealed, as we have already seen a far more important
office--that of Socius--a function which, according to the constitutions
of the Order, consists in never quitting his superior, watching his
least actions, spying into his very thoughts, and reporting all to Rome.
In spite of his usual impassibility, Rodin appeared visibly uneasy and
absent in mind; he answered even more briefly than usual to the commands
and questions of Father d’Aigrigny, who had but just entered the room.
“Has anything new occurred during my absence?” asked he. “Are the
reports still favorable?”
“Very favorable.”
“Read them to me.”
“Before giving this account to your reverence,” said Rodin, “I must
inform you that Morok has been two days in Paris.”
“Morok?” said Abbe d’Aigrigny, with surprise. “I thought, on leaving
Germany and Switzerland, he had received from Friburg the order to
proceed southward. At Nismes, or Avignon, he would at this moment be
useful as an agent; for the Protestants begin to move, and we fear a
reaction against the Catholics.”
“I do not know,” said Rodin, “if Morok may not have had private reasons
for changing his route. His ostensible reasons are, that he comes here
to give performances.”
“How so?”
“A dramatic agent, passing through Lyons, engaged him and his menagerie
for the Port Saint-Martin Theatre at a very high price. He says that he
did not like to refuse such an offer.”
“Well,” said Father d’Aigrigny, shrugging his shoulders, “but by
distributing his little books, and selling prints and chaplets, as
well as by the influence he would certainly exercise over the pious and
ignorant people of the South or of Brittany, he might render services,
such as he can never perform in Paris.”
“He is now below, with a kind of giant, who travels about with him. In
his capacity of your reverence’s old servant, Morok hoped to have the
honor of kissing your hand this evening.”
“Impossible--impossible--you know how much I am occupied. Have you sent
to the Rue Saint-Francois?”
“Yes, I have. The old Jew guardian has had notice from the notary. To
morrow, at six in the morning, the masons will unwall the door, and,
for the first time since one hundred and fifty years, the house will be
opened.”
Father d’Aigrigny remained in thought for a moment, and then said to
Rodin: “On the eve of such a decisive day, we must neglect nothing,
and call every circumstance to memory. Read me the copy of the note,
inserted in the archives of the society, a century and a half ago, on
the subject of Rennepont.”
The secretary took the note from the case, and read as follows:
“‘This 19th day of February, 1682, the Reverend Father-Provincial
Alexander Bourdon sent the following advice, with these words in the
margin: Of extreme importance for the future.
“‘We have just discovered, by the confession of a dying person to one of
our fathers, a very close secret.
“‘Marius de Rennepont, one of the most active and redoubtable partisans
of the Reformed Religion, and one of the most determined enemies of our
Holy Society, had apparently re-entered the pale of our Mother Church,
but with the sole design of saving his worldly goods, threatened with
confiscation because of his irreligious and damnable errors. Evidence
having been furnished by different persons of our company to prove that
the conversion of Rennepont was not sincere, and in reality covered a
sacrilegious lure, the possessions of the said gentleman, now considered
a relapsed heretic, were confiscated by our gracious sovereign, his
Majesty King Louis XIV, and the said Rennepont was condemned to the
galleys for life.(12) He escaped his doom by a voluntary death; in
consequence of which abominable crime, his body was dragged upon a
hurdle, and flung to the dogs on the highway.
“‘From these preliminaries, we come to the great secret, which is of
such importance to the future interests of our Society.
“‘His Majesty Louis XIV., in his paternal and Catholic goodness towards
the Church in general, and our Order in particular, had granted to us
the profit of this confiscation, in acknowledgment of our services in
discovering the infamous and sacrilegious relapse of the said Rennepont.
“‘But we have just learned, for certain, that a house situated in Paris,
No. 3, Rue Saint-Francois, and a sum of fifty thousand gold crowns, have
escaped this confiscation, and have consequently been stolen from our
Society.
“‘The house was conveyed, before the confiscation, by means of a feigned
purchase, to a friend of Rennepont’s a good Catholic, unfortunately, as
against him we cannot take any severe measures. Thanks to the culpable,
but secure connivance of his friend, the house has been walled up, and
is only to be opened in a century and a half, according to the last
will of Rennepont. As for the fifty thousand gold crowns, they have been
placed in hands which, unfortunately, are hitherto unknown to us, in
order to be invested and put out to use for one hundred and fifty years,
at the expiration of which time they are to be divided between the then
existing descendants of the said Rennepont; and it is calculated that
this sum, increased by so many accumulations, will by then have become
enormous, and will amount to at least forty or fifty millions of livres
tournois. From motives which are not known, but which are duly stated
in a testamentary document, the said Rennepont has concealed from his
family, whom the edicts against the Protestants have driven out of
France, the investment of these fifty thousand crowns; and has only
desired his relations to preserve in their line from generation to
generation, the charge to the last survivors, to meet in Paris, Rue
Saint-Francois, a hundred and fifty years hence, on February the 13th,
1832. And that this charge might not be forgotten, he employed a person,
whose description is known, but not his real occupation, to cause to
be manufactured sundry bronze medals, on which the request and date are
engraved, and to deliver one to each member of the family--a measure the
more necessary, as, from some other motive equally unknown, but probably
explained in the testament, the heirs are to present themselves on the
day in question, before noon, in person, and not by any attorney, or
representative, or to forfeit all claim to the inheritance. The stranger
who undertook to distribute the medals to the different members of the
family of Rennepont is a man of thirty to thirty-six years of age, of
tall stature, and with a proud and sad expression of countenance. He has
black eyebrows, very thick, and singularly joined together. He is
known as JOSEPH, and is much suspected of being an active and dangerous
emissary of the wretched republicans and heretics of the Seven
United Provinces. It results from these premises, that this sum,
surreptitiously confided by a relapsed heretic to unknown hands, has
escaped the confiscation decreed in our favor by our well-beloved king.
A serious fraud and injury has therefore been committed, and we are
bound to take every means to recover this our right, if not immediately,
at least in some future time. Our Society being (for the greater glory
of God and our Holy Father) imperishable, it will be easy, thanks to the
connections we keep up with all parts of the world, by means of missions
and other establishments, to follow the line of this family of Rennepont
from generation to generation, without ever losing sight of it--so that
a hundred and fifty years hence, at the moment of the division of this
immense accumulation of property, our Company may claim the inheritance
of which it has been so treacherously deprived, and recover it by
any means in its power, fas aut nefas, even by craft or violence--our
Company not being bound to act tenderly with the future detainers of
our goods, of which we have been maliciously deprived by an infamous and
sacrilegious heretic--and because it is right to defend, preserve,
and recover one’s own property by every means which the Lord may place
within one’s reach. Until, therefore, the complete restitution of this
wealth, the family of Rennepont must be considered as reprobate and
damnable, as the cursed seed of a Cain, and always to be watched with
the utmost caution. And it is to be recommended, that, every year
from this present date, a sort of inquisition should be held as to the
situation of the successive members of this family.’”
Rodin paused, and said to Father d’Aigrigny: “Here follows the account,
year by year, of the history of this family, from the year 1682, to our
own day. It will be useless to read this to your reverence.”
“Quite useless,” said Abbe d’Aigrigny. “The note contains all the
important facts.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he exclaimed, with
an expression of triumphant pride: “How great is the power of the
Association, when founded upon tradition and perpetuity! Thanks to this
note, inserted in our archives a century and a half ago, this family has
been watched from generation to generation--our Order has always had
its eyes upon them, following them to all points of the globe, to which
exile had distributed them--and at last, to-morrow, we shall obtain
possession of this property, at first inconsiderable, but which a
hundred and fifty years have raised to a royal fortune. Yes, we shall
succeed, for we have foreseen every eventuality. One thing only troubles
me.”
“What is that?” asked Rodin.
“The information that we have in vain tried to obtain from the guardian
of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois. Has the attempt been once more
made, as I directed?”
“It has been made.”
“Well?”
“This time, as always before, the old Jew has remained impenetrable.
Besides he is almost in his second childhood, and his wife not much
better.”
“When I think,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “that for a century and a
half, this house in the Rue Saint-Francois has remained walled up, and
that the care of it has been transmitted from generation to generation
in this family of the Samuels--I cannot suppose that they have all been
ignorant as to who were and are the successive holders of these funds,
now become immense by accumulation.”
“You have seen,” said Rodin, “by the notes upon this affair, that the
Order has always carefully followed it up ever since 1682. At different
periods attempts have been made to obtain information upon subjects
not fully explained in the note of Father Bourdon. But this race of Jew
guardians has ever remained dumb, and we must therefore conclude that
they know nothing about it.”
“That has always struck me as impossible; for the ancestor of these
Samuels was present at the closing of the house, a hundred and fifty
years ago. He was according to the file, a servant or confidential clerk
of De Rennepont. It is impossible that he should not have known many
things, the tradition of which must have been preserved in the family.”
“If I were allowed to hazard a brief observation,” began Rodin, humbly.
“Speak.”
“A few years ago we obtained certain information through the
confessional, that the funds were in existence, and that they had risen
to an enormous amount.”
“Doubtless; and it was that which called the attention of the Reverend
Father-General so strongly to this affair.”
“We know, then, what probably the descendants of the family do not--the
immense value of this inheritance?”
“Yes,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, “the person who certified this fact
in confession is worthy of all belief. Only lately, the same declaration
was renewed; but all the efforts of the confessor could not obtain the
name of the trustee, or anything beyond the assertion, that the money
could not be in more honest hands.”
“It seems to me, then,” resumed Rodin, “that we are certain of what is
most important.”
“And who knows if the holder of this enormous sum will appear to-morrow,
in spite of the honesty ascribed to him? The nearer the moment the more
my anxiety increases. Ah!” continued Father d’Aigrigny, after a moment’s
silence, “the interests concerned are so immense that the consequences
of success are quite incalculable. However, all that it was possible to
do, has been at least tried.”
To these words, which Father d’Aigrigny addressed to Rodin, as if asking
for his assent, the socius returned no answer.
The abbe looked at him with surprise, and said: “Are you not of my
opinion--could more have been attempted? Have we not gone to the extreme
limit of the possible?”
Rodin bowed respectfully, but remained mute.
“If you think we have omitted some precaution,” cried Father d’Aigrigny,
with a sort of uneasy impatience, “speak out! We have still time. Once
more, do you think it is possible to do more than I have done? All the
other descendants being removed, when Gabriel appears to-morrow in
the Rue Saint-Francois, will he not be the only representative of this
family, and consequently the rightful possessor of this immense fortune?
Now, according to his act of renunciation, and the provisions of our
statutes, it is not to him, but to the Order, that these possessions
must fall. Could I have acted better, or in any other manner? Speak
frankly!”
“I cannot permit myself to offer an opinion on this subject,” replied
Rodin, humbly, and again bowing; “the success of the measures taken must
answer your reverence.”
Father d’Aigrigny shrugged his shoulders, and reproached himself for
having asked advice of this writing-machine, that served him for
a secretary, and to whom he only ascribed three qualities--memory,
discretion, and exactness.
(11) This was an idle fear, for we read in the Constitutionnel, Feb. 1st
1832, as follows: “When in 1822, M. de Corbiere abruptly abolished that
splendid Normal School, which, during its few years’ existence, had
called forth or developed such a variety of talent, it was decided,
as some compensation, that a house in the Rue des Postes should be
purchased, where the congregation of the Holy Ghost should be located
and endowed. The Minister of Marine supplied the funds for this purpose,
and its management was placed at the disposal of the Society, which then
reigned over France. From that period it has held quiet possession of
the place, which at once became a sort of house of entertainment, where
Jesuitism sheltered, and provided for, the numerous novitiates that
flocked from all parts of the country, to receive instructions from
Father Ronsin. Matters were in this state when the Revolution of
July broke out, which threatened to deprive the Society of this
establishment. But it will hardly be believed; this was not done. It
is true that they suppressed their practice, but they left them in
possession of the house in the Rue des Postes; and to this very day, the
31st of January, 1832, the members of the Sacred Heart are housed at the
expense of government, during the whole of which time the Normal School
has been without a shelter--and on its reorganization, thrust into a
dirty hole, in a narrow corner of the College of Louis the Great.”
The above appeared in the Constitutionnel, respecting the house in
the Rue des Posses. We are certainly ignorant as to the nature of the
transactions, since that period, that have taken place between the
reverend fathers and the government; but we read further, in a recently
published article that appeared in a journal, in reference to the
Society of Jesus, that the house in the Rue des Postes, still forms a
part of their landed property. We will here give some portions of the
article in question.
“The following is a list of the property belonging to this branch of
Jesuits: Fr.
House in the Rue de Postes, worth about 500,000
One in the Rue de Sevres, estimated at 300,000
Farm, two leagues from Paris.....150,000
House and church at Bourges..... 100,000
Notre Dame de Liesse, donation in 1843 60,000
Saint Acheul, House for Novitiates.. 400,000
Nantes, a house...........100,000
Quimper, ditto........... 40,000
Laval, house and church...... 150,000
Rennes, a house.......... 20,000
Vannes, ditto........... 20,000
Metz, ditto............ 40,000
Strasbourg............ 60,000
Rouen, ditto........... 15,000
“By this it appears that these various items amount to little less than
two millions. Teaching, moreover, is another important source of revenue
to the Jesuits. The college at Broyclette alone brings in 200,000
francs. The two provinces in France (for the general of the Jesuits at
Rome has divided France into two provinces, Lyons and Paris) possess,
besides a large sum in ready money, Austrian bonds of more than 260,000
francs. Their Propagation of Faith furnishes annually some 50,000
francs; and the harvest which the priests collect by their sermons
amounts to 150,000 francs. The alms given for charity may be estimated
at the same figure, producing together a revenue of 540,000 francs. Now,
to this revenue may be added the produce of the sale of the Society’s
works, and the profit obtained by hawking pictures. Each plate costs,
design and engraving included, about 600 francs, off which are struck
about 10,000 copies, at 40 francs per thousand, and there is a further
expense of 250 francs to their publisher; and they obtain a net profit
of 210 francs on every thousand. This, indeed, is working to advantage.
And it can easily be imagined with what rapidity all these are sold. The
fathers themselves are the travellers for the Society, and it would be
difficult to find more zealous or persevering ones. They are always well
received, and do not know what it is to meet with a refusal. They always
take care that the publisher should be one of their own body. The first
person whom they selected for this occupation was one of their members,
possessing some money; but they were obliged, notwithstanding, to make
certain advances to enable him to defray the expenses of its first
establishment. But, when they became fully convinced of the success of
their undertaking, they suddenly called in these advances, which the
publisher was not in a condition to pay. They were perfectly aware of
this, and superseded him by a wealthy successor, with whom they could
make a better bargain; and thus, without remorse, they ruined the
man, by thrusting him from an appointment of which they had morally
guaranteed the continuance.”
(12) Louis XIV., the great King, punished with the Galleys those
Protestants who, once converted, often by force, afterwards returned
to their first belief. As for those Protestants who remained in France,
notwithstanding the rigor of the edicts against them, they were deprived
of burial, dragged upon a hurdle, and given to the dogs.--E. S.
CHAPTER XV. THE THUG.
After a moment’s silence, Father d’Aigrigny resumed “Read me to-day’s
report on the situation of each of the persons designated.”
“Here is that of this evening; it has just come.”
“Let us hear.”
Rodin read as follows: “Jacques Rennepont, alias Sleepinbuff, was seen
in the interior of the debtors’ prison at eight o’clock this evening.”
“He will not disturb us to-morrow. One; go on.”
“The lady superior of St. Mary’s Convent, warned by the Princess
de Saint-Dizier, has thought fit to confine still more strictly the
Demoiselles Rose and Blanche Simon. This evening, at nine o’clock, they
have been carefully locked in their cells, and armed men will make their
round in the convent garden during the night.”
“Thanks to these precautions, there is nothing to fear from that side,”
said Father d’Aigrigny. “Go on.”
“Dr. Baleinier, also warned by the Princess de Saint-Dizier, continues
to have Mdlle. de Cardoville very closely watched. At a quarter to nine
the door of the building in which she is lodged was locked and bolted.”
“That is still another cause the less for uneasiness.”
“As for M. Hardy,” resumed Rodin “I have received this morning, from
Toulouse, a letter from his intimate friend, M. de Bressac, who has been
of such service to us in keeping the manufacturer away for some
days longer. This letter contains a note, addressed by M. Hardy to a
confidential person, which M. de Bressac has thought fit to intercept,
and send to us as another proof of the success of the steps he has
taken, and for which he hopes we shall give him credit--as to serve us,
he adds, he betrays his friend in the most shameful manner, and acts a
part in an odious comedy. M. de Bressac trusts that, in return for these
good offices, we will deliver up to him those papers, which place him
in our absolute dependence, as they might ruin for ever a woman he loves
with an adulterous passion. He says that we ought to have pity on the
horrible alternative in which he is placed--either to dishonor and ruin
the woman he adores, or infamously to betray the confidence of his bosom
friend.”
“These adulterous lamentations are not deserving of pity,” answered
Father d’Aigrigny, with contempt. “We will see about that; M. de Bressac
may still be useful to us. But let us hear this letter of M. Hardy, that
impious and republican manufacturer, worthy descendant of an accursed
race, whom it is of the first importance to keep away.”
“Here is M. Hardy’s letter,” resumed Rodin. “To-morrow, we will send it
to the person to whom it is addressed.” Rodin read as follows:
“TOULOUSE, February the 10th.
“At length I find a moment to write to you, and to explain the cause
of the sudden departure which, without alarming, must at least have
astonished you. I write also to ask you a service; the facts may be
stated in a few words. I have often spoken to you of Felix de Bressac,
one of my boyhood mates, though not nearly so old as myself. We have
always loved each other tenderly, and have shown too many proofs of
mutual affection not to count upon one another. He is a brother to me.
You know all I mean by that expression. Well--a few days ago, he wrote
to me from Toulouse, where he was to spend some time: ‘If you love me,
come; I have the greatest need of you. At once! Your consolations
may perhaps give me the courage to live. If you arrive too late--why,
forgive me--and think sometimes of him who will be yours to the last.’
Judge of my grief and fear on receipt of the above. I seat instantly
for post-horses. My old foreman, whom I esteem and revere (the father of
General Simon), hearing that I was going to the south, begged me to take
him with me, and to leave him for some days in the department of the
Creuse, to examine some ironworks recently founded there. I consented
willingly to this proposition, as I should thus at least have some one
to whom I could pour out the grief and anxiety which had been caused
by this letter from Bressac. I arrive at Toulouse; they tell me that
he left the evening before, taking arms with him, a prey to the most
violent despair. It was impossible at first to tell whither he had gone;
after two days, some indications, collected with great trouble, put me
upon his track. At last, after a thousand adventures, I found him in a
miserable village. Never--no, never, have I seen despair like this.
No violence, but a dreadful dejection, a savage silence. At first, he
almost repulsed me; then, this horrible agony having reached its height,
he softened by degrees, and, in about a quarter of an hour, threw
himself into my arms, bathed in tears. Beside him were his loaded
pistols: one day later, and all would have been over. I cannot tell you
the reason of his despair; I am not at liberty to do so; but it did not
greatly astonish me. Now there is a complete cure to effect. We must
calm, and soothe, and heal this poor soul, which has been cruelly
wounded. The hand of friendship is alone equal to this delicate task,
and I have good hope of success. I have therefore persuaded him to
travel for some time; movement and change of scene will be favorable to
him. I shall take him first to Nice; we set out tomorrow. If he wishes
to prolong this excursion. I shall do so too, for my affairs do not
imperiously demand my presence in Paris before the end of March. As
for the service I have to ask of you, it is conditional. These are the
facts. According to some family papers that belonged to my mother,
it seems I have a certain interest to present myself at No. 3, Rue
Saint-Francois, in Paris, on the 13th of February. I had inquired about
it, and could learn nothing, except that this house of very antique
appearance, has been shut up for the last hundred and fifty years,
through a whim of one of my maternal ancestors, and that it is to be
opened on the 13th of this month, in presence of the co-heirs who, if
I have any, are quite unknown to me. Not being able to attend myself, I
have written to my foreman, the father of General Simon, in whom I have
the greatest confidence, and whom I had left behind in the department
of the Creuse, to set out for Paris, and to be present at the opening
of this house, not as an agent (which would be useless), but as a
spectator, and inform me at Nice what has been the result of this
romantic notion of my ancestor’s. As it is possible that my foreman may
arrive too late to accomplish this mission, I should be much obliged
if you would inquire at my house at Plessy, if he has yet come, and,
in case of his still being absent, if you would take his place at the
opening of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois. I believe that I have
made a very small sacrifice for my friend Bressac, in not being in Paris
on that day. But had the sacrifice been immense, I should have made it
with pleasure, for my care and friendship are at present most necessary
to the man whom I look upon as a brother. I count upon your compliance
with my request, and, begging you to be kind enough to write me, ‘to
be called for,’ at Nice, the result of your visit of inquiry, I remain,
etc., etc.
“FRANCIS HARDY.”
“Though his presence cannot be of any great importance, it would be
preferable that Marshal Simon’s father should not attend at the opening
of this house to-morrow,” said Father d’Aigrigny. “But no matter. M.
Hardy himself is out of the way. There only remains the young Indian.”
“As for him,” continued the abbe, with a thoughtful air, “we acted
wisely in letting M. Norval set out with the presents of Mdlle. de
Cardoville. The doctor who accompanies M. Norval, and who was chosen by
M. Baleinier, will inspire no suspicion?”
“None,” answered Rodin. “His letter of yesterday is completely
satisfactory.”
“There is nothing, then, to fear from the Indian prince,” said
D’Aigrigny. “All goes well.”
“As for Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “he has again written this morning, to
obtain from your reverence the interview that he has vainly solicited
for the last three days. He is affected by the rigor exercised towards
him, in forbidding him to leave the house for these five days past.”
“To-morrow, when we take him to the Rue Saint-Francois, I will hear what
he has to say. It will be time enough. Thus, at this hour,” said Father
d’Aigrigny, with an air of triumphant satisfaction, “all the descendants
of this family, whose presence might ruin our projects, are so
placed that it is absolutely impossible for them to be at the Rue
Saint-Francois to-morrow before noon, while Gabriel will be sure to be
there. At last our end is gained.”
Two cautious knocks at the door interrupted Father d’Aigrigny. “Come
in,” said he.
An old servant in black presented himself, and said: “There is a man
downstairs who wishes to speak instantly to M. Rodin on very urgent
business.”
“His name?” asked Father d’Aigrigny.
“He would not tell his name; but he says that he comes from M. Van Dael,
a merchant in Java.”
Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin exchanged a glance of surprise, almost of
alarm.
“See what this man is,” said D’Aigrigny to Rodin, unable to conceal
his uneasiness, “and then come and give me an account of it.” Then,
addressing the servant, he added: “Show him in”--and exchanging
another expressive sign with Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny disappeared by a
side-door.
A minute after, Faringhea, the ex-chief of the Stranglers, appeared
before Rodin, who instantly remembered having seen him at Cardoville
Castle.
The socius started, but he did not wish to appear to recollect his
visitor. Still bending over his desk, he seemed not to seen Faringhea,
but wrote hastily some words on a sheet of paper that lay before him.
“Sir,” said the servant, astonished at the silence of Rodin, “here is
the person.”
Rodin folded the note that he had so precipitately written, and said to
the servant: “Let this be taken to its address. Wait for an answer.”
The servant bowed, and went out. Then Rodin, without rising, fixed his
little reptile-eyes on Faringhea, and said to him courteously: “To whom,
sir, have I the honor of speaking?”
CHAPTER XVI. THE TWO BROTHERS OF THE GOOD WORK.
Faringhea, as we have before stated, though born in India, had travelled
a good deal, and frequented the European factories in different parts
of Asia. Speaking well both English and French, and full of intelligence
and sagacity, he was perfectly civilized.
Instead of answering Rodin’s question, he turned upon him a fixed and
searching look. The socius, provoked by this silence, and forseeing
vaguely that Faringhea’s arrival had some connection--direct or
indirect--with Djalma, repeated, though still with the greatest
coolness: “To whom, sir, have I the honor of speaking?”
“Do you not recognize me,” said Faringhea, advancing two steps nearer to
Rodin’s chair.
“I do not think I have ever had the honor of seeing you,” answered the
other, coldly.
“But I recognize you,” said Faringhea; “I saw you at Cardoville Castle
the day that a ship and a steamer were wrecked together.”
“At Cardoville Castle? It is very possible, sir. I was there when a
shipwreck took place.”
“And that day I called you by your name, and you asked me what I
wanted. I replied: ‘Nothing now, brother--hereafter, much.’ The time has
arrived. I have come to ask for much.”
“My dear sir,” said Rodin, still impassible, “before we continue this
conversation, which appears hitherto tolerably obscure, I must repeat my
wish to be informed to whom I have the advantage of speaking. You have
introduced yourself here under pretext of a commission from Mynheer
Joshua Van Dael, a respectable merchant of Batavia, and--”
“You know the writing of M. Van Dael?” said Faringhea, interrupting
Rodin.
“I know it perfectly.”
“Look!” The half-caste drew from his pocket (he was shabbily dressed in
European clothes) a long dispatch, which he had taken from one Mahal the
Smuggler, after strangling him on the beach near Batavia. These papers
he placed before Rodin’s eyes, but without quitting his hold of them.
“It is, indeed, M. Van Dael’s writing,” said Rodin, and he stretched
out his hard towards the letter, which Faringhea quickly and prudently
returned to his pocket.
“Allow me to observe, my dear sir, that you have a singular manner of
executing a commission,” said Rodin. “This letter, being to my address,
and having been entrusted to you by M. Van Dael, you ought--”
“This letter was not entrusted to me by M. Van Dael,” said Faringhea,
interrupting Rodin.
“How, then, is it in your possession?”
“A Javanese smuggler betrayed me. Van Dael had secured a passage to
Alexandria for this man, and had given him this letter to carry with him
for the European mail. I strangled the smuggler, took the letter, made
the passage--and here I am.”
The Thug had pronounced these words with an air of savage boasting; his
wild, intrepid glance did not quail before the piercing look of Rodin,
who, at this strange confession, had hastily raised his head to observe
the speaker.
Faringhea thought to astonish or intimidate Rodin by these ferocious
words; but, to his great surprise, the socius, impassible as a corpse,
said to him, quite simply: “Oh! they strangle people in Java?”
“Yes, there and elsewhere,” answered Faringhea, with a bitter smile.
“I would prefer to disbelieve you; but I am surprised at your sincerity
M.--, what is your name?”
“Faringhea.”
“Well, then, M. Faringhea, what do you wish to come to? You have
obtained by an abominable crime, a letter addressed to me, and now you
hesitate to deliver it.”
“Because I have read it, and it may be useful to me.”
“Oh! you have read it?” said Rodin, disconcerted for a moment. Then he
resumed: “It is true, that judging by your mode of possessing yourself
of other people’s correspondence, we cannot expect any great amount of
honesty on your part. And pray what have you found so useful to you in
this letter?”
“I have found, brother, that you are, like myself, a son of the Good
Work.”
“Of what good work do you speak” asked Rodin not a little surprised.
Faringhea replied with an expression of bitter irony. “Joshua says to
you in his letter--‘Obedience and courage, secrecy and patience, craft
and audacity, union between us, who have the world for our country, the
brethren for our family, Rome for our queen.’”
“It is possible that M. Van Dael has written thus to me Pray, sir, what
do you conclude from it?”
“We, too, have the world for our country, brother, our accomplices for
our family, and for our queen Bowanee.”
“I do not know that saint,” said Rodin, humbly.
“It is our Rome,” answered the Strangler. “Van Dael speaks to you of
those of your Order, who, scattered over all the earth, labor for
the glory of Rome, your queen. Those of our band labor also in divers
countries, for the glory of Bowanee.”
“And who are these sons of Bowanee, M. Faringhea?”
“Men of resolution, audacious, patient, crafty, obstinate, who, to make
the Good Work succeed, would sacrifice country and parents, and sister
and brother, and who regard as enemies all not of their band!”
“There seems to be much that is good in the persevering and exclusively
religious spirit of such an order,” said Rodin, with a modest and
sanctified air; “only, one must know your ends and objects.”
“The same as your own, brother--we make corpses.” (13)
“Corpses!” cried Rodin.
“In this letter,” resumed Faringhea, “Van Dael tells you that the
greatest glory of your Order is to make ‘a corpse of man.’ Our work also
is to make corpses of men. Man’s death is sweet to Bowanee.”
“But sir,” cried Rodin, “M. Van Dael speaks of the soul, of the will, of
the mind, which are to be brought down by discipline.”
“It is true--you kill the soul, and we the body. Give me your hand,
brother, for you also are hunters of men.”
“But once more, sir,--understand, that we only meddle with the will, the
mind,” said Rodin.
“And what are bodies deprived of soul, will, thought, but mere corpses?
Come--come, brother; the dead we make by the cord are not more icy and
inanimate than those you make by your discipline. Take my hand, brother;
Rome and Bowanee are sisters.”
Notwithstanding his apparent calmness, Rodin could not behold, without
some secret alarm, a wretch like Faringhea in possession of a long
letter from Van Dael, wherein mention must necessarily have been made of
Djalma. Rodin believed, indeed, that he had rendered it impossible for
the young Indian to be at Paris on the morrow, but not knowing what
connection might have been formed, since the shipwreck, between the
prince and the half-caste, he looked upon Faringhea as a man who might
probably be very dangerous. But the more uneasy the socius felt in
himself, the more he affected to appear calm and disdainful. He replied,
therefore: “This comparison between Rome and Bowanee is no doubt very
amusing; but what, sir, do you deduce from it?”
“I wish to show you, brother, what I am, and of what I am capable, to
convince you that it is better to have me for a friend than an enemy.”
“In other terms, sir,” said Rodin, with contemptuous irony, “you belong
to a murderous sect in India, and, you wish, by a transparent allegory,
to lead me to reflect on the fate of the man from whom you have stolen
the letter addressed to me. In my turn, I will take the freedom just
to observe to you, in all humility, M. Faringhea, that here it is not
permitted to strangle anybody, and that if you were to think fit to make
any corpses for the love of Bowanee, your goddess, we should make you a
head shorter, for the love of another divinity commonly called justice.”
“And what would they do to me, if I tried to poison any one?”
“I will again humbly observe to you, M. Faringhea, that I have no time
to give you a course of criminal jurisprudence; but, believe me, you
had better resist the temptation to strangle or poison any one. One word
more: will you deliver up to me the letters of M. Van Dael, or not?”
“The letters relative to Prince Djalma?” said the half-caste, looking
fixedly at Rodin, who, notwithstanding a sharp and sudden twinge,
remained impenetrable, and answered with the utmost simplicity: “Not
knowing what the letters which you, sir, are pleased to keep from me,
may contain, it is impossible for me to answer your question. I beg, and
if necessary, I demand, that you will hand me those letters--or that you
will retire.”
“In a few minutes, brother, you will entreat me to remain.”
“I doubt it.”
“A few words will operate--this miracle. If just now I spoke to you
about poisoning, brother, it was because you sent a doctor to Cardoville
Castle, to poison (at least for a time) Prince Djalma.”
In spite of himself, Rodin started almost imperceptibly, as he replied:
“I do not understand you.”
“It is true, that I am a poor foreigner, and doubtless speak with an
accent; I will try and explain myself better. I know, by Van Dael’s
letters, the interest you have that Prince Djalma should not be here to
morrow, and all that you have done with this view. Do you understand me
now?”
“I have no answer for you.”
Two cautious taps at the door here interrupted the conversation. “Come
in,” said Rodin.
“The letter has been taken to its address, sir,” said the old servant,
bowing, “and here is the answer.”
Rodin took the paper, and, before he opened it, said courteously to
Faringhea: “With your permission, sir?”
“Make no ceremonies,” said the half-caste.
“You are very kind,” replied Rodin, as, having read the letter he
received, he wrote hastily some words at the bottom, saying: “Send this
back to the same address.”
The servant bowed respectfully, and withdrew.
“Now can I continue”’ asked the half-caste, of Rodin.
“Certainly.”
“I will continue, then,” resumed Faringhea:
“The day before yesterday, just as the prince, all wounded as he
was, was about, by my advice, to take his departure for Paris, a fine
carriage arrived, with superb presents for Djalma, from an unknown
friend. In this carriage were two men--one sent by the unknown
friend--the other a doctor, sent by you to attend upon Djalma, and
accompany him to Paris. It was a charitable act, brother--was it not
so?”
“Go on with your story, sir.”
“Djalma set out yesterday. By declaring that the prince’s wound would
grow seriously worse, if he did not lie down in the carriage during all
the journey, the doctor got rid of the envoy of the unknown friend, who
went away by himself. The doctor wished to get rid of me too; but Djalma
so strongly insisted upon it, that I accompanied the prince and doctor.
Yesterday evening, we had come about half the distance. The doctor
proposed we should pass the night at an inn. ‘We have plenty of time,’
said he, ‘to reach Paris by to-morrow evening’--the prince having told
him, that he must absolutely be in Paris by the evening of the 12th. The
doctor had been very pressing to set out alone with the prince. I knew
by Van Dael’s letter, that it was of great importance to you for Djalma
not to be here on the 13th; I had my suspicions, and I asked the
doctor if he knew you; he answered with an embarrassed air, and then my
suspicion became certainty. When we reached the inn, whilst the doctor
was occupied with Djalma, I went up to the room of the former, and
examined a box full of phials that he had brought with him. One of them
contained opium--and then I guessed--”
“What did you guess, sir?”
“You shall know. The doctor said to Djalma, before he left him: ‘Your
wound is doing well, but the fatigue of the journey might bring on
inflammation; it will be good for you, in the course of to-morrow, to
take a soothing potion, that I will make ready this evening, to have
with us in the carriage.’ The doctor’s plan was a simple one,” added
Faringhea; “to-day the prince was to take the potion at four or five
o’clock in the afternoon--and fall into a deep sleep--the doctor to grow
uneasy, and stop the carriage--to declare that it would be dangerous to
continue the journey--to pass the night at an inn, and keep close watch
over the prince, whose stupor was only, to cease when it suited your
purposes. That was your design--it was cleverly planned--I chose to make
use of it myself, and I have succeeded.”
“All that you are talking about, my dear sir,” said Rodin, biting his
nails, “is pure Hebrew to me.”
“No doubt, because of my accent. But tell me, have you heard speak of
array--mow?”
“No.”
“Your loss! It is an admirable production of the Island of Java, so
fertile in poisons.”
“What is that to me?” said Rodin, in a sharp voice, but hardly able to
dissemble his growing anxiety.
“It concerns you nearly. We sons of Bowanee have a horror of shedding
blood,” resumed Faringhea; “to pass the cord round the neck of our
victims, we wait till they are asleep. When their sleep is not deep
enough, we know how to make it deeper. We are skillful at our work; the
serpent is not more cunning, or the lion more valiant, Djalma himself
bears our mark. The array-mow is an impalpable powder, and, by letting
the sleeper inhale a few grains of it, or by mixing it with the tobacco
to be smoked by a waking man, we can throw our victim into a stupor,
from which nothing will rouse him. If we fear to administer too strong a
dose at once, we let the sleeper inhale a little at different times, and
we can thus prolong the trance at pleasure, and without any danger,
as long as a man does not require meat and drink--say, thirty or
forty hours. You see, that opium is mere trash compared to this divine
narcotic. I had brought some of this with me from Java--as a mere
curiosity, you know--without forgetting the counter poison.”
“Oh! there is a counter-poison, then?” said Rodin, mechanically.
“Just as there are people quite contrary to what we are, brother of
the good work. The Javanese call the juice of this root tooboe; it
dissipates the stupor caused by the array-mow, as the sun disperses the
clouds. Now, yesterday evening, being certain of the projects of your
emissary against Djalma, I waited till the doctor was in bed and
asleep. I crept into his room, and made him inhale such a dose of
array-mow--that he is probably sleeping still.”
“Miscreant!” cried Rodin, more and more alarmed by this narrative, for
Faringhea had dealt a terrible blow at the machinations of the socius
and his friends. “You risk poisoning the doctor.”
“Yes, brother; just as he ran the risk of poisoning Djalma. This morning
we set out, leaving your doctor at the inn, plunged in a deep sleep.
I was alone in the carriage with Djalma. He smoked like a true Indian;
some grains of array-mow, mixed with the tobacco in his long pipe, first
made him drowsy; a second dose, that he inhaled, sent him to sleep; and
so I left him at the inn where we stopped. Now, brother, it depends
upon me, to leave Djalma in his trance, which will last till to-morrow
evening or to rouse him from it on the instant. Exactly as you
comply with my demands or not, Djalma will or will not be in the Rue
Saint-Francois to morrow.”
So saying, Faringhea drew from his pocket the medal belonging to Djalma,
and observed, as he showed it to Rodin: “You see that I tell you
the truth. During Djalma’s sleep, took from him this medal, the only
indication he has of the place where he ought to be to-morrow. I finish,
then as I began: Brother, I have come to ask you for a great deal.”
For some minutes, Rodin had been biting his nails to the quick, as was
his custom when seized with a fit of dumb and concentrated rage. Just
then, the bell of the porter’s lodge rang three times in a particular
manner. Rodin did not appear to notice it, and yet a sudden light
sparkled in his small reptile eyes; while Faringhea, with his arms
folded, looked at him with an expression of triumph and disdainful
superiority. The socius bent down his head, remained silent for some
seconds, took mechanically a pen from his desk, and began to gnaw the
feather, as if in deep reflection upon what Faringhea had just said.
Then, throwing down the pen upon the desk, he turned suddenly towards
the half-caste, and addressed him with an air of profound contempt “Now,
really, M. Faringhea--do you think to make game of us with your cock-and
bull stories?”
Amazed, in spite of his audacity, the half-caste recoiled a step.
“What, sir!” resumed Rodin. “You come here into a respectable house,
to boast that you have stolen letters, strangled this man, drugged that
other?--Why, sir, it is downright madness. I wished to hear you to the
end, to see to what extent you would carry your audacity--for none but a
monstrous rascal would venture to plume himself on such infamous crimes.
But I prefer believing, that they exist only in your imagination.”
As he barked out these words, with a degree of animation not usual
in him, Rodin rose from his seat, and approached the chimney, while
Faringhea, who had not yet recovered from his surprise, looked at him
in silence. In a few seconds, however, the half-caste returned, with a
gloomy and savage mien: “Take care, brother; do not force me to prove to
you that I have told the truth.”
“Come, come, sir; you must be fresh from the Antipodes, to believe us
Frenchmen such easy dupes. You have, you say, the prudence of a serpent,
and the courage of a lion. I do not know if you are a courageous lion,
but you are certainly not a prudent serpent. What! you have about you a
letter from M. Van Dael, by which I might be compromised--supposing all
this not to be a fable--you have left Prince Djalma in a stupor, which
would serve my projects, and from which you alone can rouse him--you are
able, you say, to strike a terrible blow at my interests--and yet you do
not consider (bold lion! crafty serpent as you are!) that I only want to
gain twenty-four hours upon you. Now, you come from the end of India to
Paris, an unknown stranger--you believe me to be as great a scoundrel as
yourself,--since you call me brother--and do not once consider, that you
are here in my power--that this street and house are solitary, and
that I could have three or four persons to bind you in a second, savage
Strangler though you are!--and that just by pulling this bell-rope,”
said Rodin, as he took it in his hand. “Do not be alarmed,” added he,
with a diabolical smile, as he saw Faringhea make an abrupt movement of
surprise and fright; “would I give you notice, if I meant to act in
this manner?--But just answer me. Once bound and put in confinement for
twenty-four hours, how could you injure me? Would it not be easy for
me to possess myself of Van Dael’s letter, and Djalma’s medal? and the
latter, plunged in a stupor till to-morrow evening, need not trouble me
at all. You see, therefore, that your threats are vain because they rest
upon falsehood--because it is not true, that Prince Djalma is here and
in your power. Begone, sir--leave the house; and when next you wish to
make dupes, show more judgment in the selection.”
Faringhea seemed struck with astonishment. All that he had just heard
seemed very probable. Rodin might seize upon him, the letter, and the
medal, and, by keeping him prisoner, prevent Djalma from being awakened.
And yet Rodin ordered him to leave the house, at the moment when
Faringhea had imagined himself so formidable. As he thought for
the motives of this inexplicable conduct, it struck him that Rodin,
notwithstanding the proofs he had brought him, did not yet believe that
Djalma was in his power. On that theory, the contempt of Van Dael’s
correspondent admitted of a natural explanation. But Rodin was playing a
bold and skillful game; and, while he appeared to mutter to himself,
as in anger, he was observing, with intense anxiety, the Strangler’s
countenance.
The latter, almost certain that he had divined the secret motive of
Rodin, replied: “I am going--but one word more. You think I deceive
you?”
“I am certain of it. You have told me nothing but a tissue of fables,
and I have lost much time in listening to them. Spare me the rest; it is
late--and I should like to be alone.”
“One minute more: you are a man, I see, from whom nothing should be
hid,” said Faringhea, “from Djalma, I could now only expect alms and
disdain--for, with a character like this, to say to him, ‘Pay me,
because I might have betrayed you and did not,’ would be to provoke his
anger and contempt. I could have killed him twenty times over, but his
day is not yet come,” said the Thug, with a gloomy air; “and to wait for
that and other fatal days, I must have gold, much gold. You alone can
pay me for the betrayal of Djalma, for you alone profit by it. You
refuse to hear me, because you think I am deceiving you. But I took the
direction of the inn where we stopped--and here it is. Send some one to
ascertain the truth of what I tell you, and then you will believe me.
But the price of my services will be high; for I told you that I wanted
much.”
So saying, Faringhea offered a printed card to Rodin: the socius, who,
out of the corner of his eye, followed all the half-caste’s movements,
appeared to be absorbed in thought, and taking no heed of anything.
“Here is the address,” repeated Faringhea, as he held out the card to
Rodin; “assure yourself that I do not lie.”
“Eh? what is it?” said the other, casting a rapid but stolen glance at
the address, which he read greedily, without touching the card.
“Take this address,” repeated the half-caste, “and you may then assure
yourself--”
“Really, sir,” cried Rodin, pushing back the card with his hand, “your
impudence confounds me. I repeat that I wish to have nothing in common
with you. For the last time, I tell you to leave the house. I know
nothing about your Prince Djalma. You say you can injure me--do so--make
no ceremonies--but, in heaven’s name, leave me to myself.”
So saying, Rodin rang the bell violently. Faringhea made a movement as
if to stand upon the defensive; but only the old servant, with his quiet
and placid mien, appeared at the door.
“Lapierre, light the gentleman out,” said Rodin, pointing to Faringhea.
Terrified at Rodin’s calmness, the half-caste hesitated to leave the
room.
“Why do you wait, sir?” said Rodin, remarking his hesitation. “I wish to
be alone.”
“So, sir,” said Faringhea, as he withdrew, slowly, “you refuse my
offers? Take care! to-morrow it will be too late.”
“I have the honor to be your most humble servant, sir,” said Rodin,
bowing courteously. The Strangler went out, and the door closed upon
him.
Immediately, Father d’Aigrigny entered from the next room. His
countenance was pale and agitated.
“What have you done?” exclaimed he addressing Rodin.
“I have heard all. I am unfortunately too sure that this wretch spoke
the truth. The Indian is in his power, and he goes to rejoin him.”
“I think not,” said Rodin, humbly, as bowing, he reassumed his dull and
submissive countenance.
“What will prevent this man from rejoining the prince?”
“Allow me. As soon as the rascal was shown in, I knew him; and so,
before speaking a word to him, I wrote a few lines to Morok, who was
waiting below with Goliath till your reverence should be at leisure.
Afterwards, in the course of the conversation, when they brought me
Morok’s answer, I added some fresh instructions, seeing the turn that
affairs were taking.”
“And what was the use of all this, since you have let the man leave the
house?”
“Your reverence will perhaps deign to observe that he did not leave it;
till he had given me the direction of the hotel where the Indian now is,
thanks to my innocent stratagem of appearing to despise him. But, if it
had failed, Faringhea would still have fallen into the hands of Goliath
and Morok, who are waiting for him in the street, a few steps from the
door. Only we should have been rather embarrassed, as we should not have
known where to find Prince Djalma.”
“More violence!” said Father d’Aigrigny, with repugnance.
“It is to be regretted, very much regretted,” replied Rodin; “but it was
necessary to follow out the system already adopted.”
“Is that meant for a reproach?” said Father d’Aigrigny, who began to
think that Rodin was something more than a mere writing-machine.
“I could not permit myself to blame your reverence,” said Rodin,
cringing almost to the ground. “But all that will be required is to
confine this man for twenty-four hours.”
“And afterwards--his complaints?”
“Such a scoundrel as he is will not dare to complain. Besides, he left
this house in freedom. Morok and Goliath will bandage his eyes when they
seize him. The house has another entrance in the Rue Vieille-des-Ursins.
At this hour, and in such a storm, no one will be passing through this
deserted quarter of the town. The knave will be confused by the change
of place; they will put him into a cellar, of the new building, and to
morrow night, about the same hour, they will restore him to liberty with
the like precautions. As for the East Indian, we now know where to find
him; we must send to him a confidential person, and, if he recovers from
his trance, there would be, in my humble opinion,” said Rodin, modestly,
“a very simple and quiet manner of keeping him away from the Rue Saint
Francois all day to-morrow.”
The same servant with the mild countenance, who had introduced and shown
out Faringhea, here entered the room, after knocking discreetly at the
door. He held in his hand a sort of game-bag, which he gave to Rodin,
saying: “Here is what M. Morok has just brought; he came in by the Rue
Vieille.”
The servant withdrew, and Rodin, opening the bag, said to Father
d’Aigrigny, as he showed him the contents: “The medal, and Van Dael’s
letter. Morok has been quick at his work.”
“One more danger avoided,” said the marquis; “it is a pity to be forced
to such measures.”
“We must only blame the rascal who has obliged us to have recourse to
them. I will send instantly to the hotel where the Indian lodges.”
“And, at seven in the morning, you will conduct Gabriel to the Rue Saint
Francois. It is there that I must have with him the interview which he
has so earnestly demanded these three days.”
“I informed him of it this evening, and he awaits your orders.”
“At last, then,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “after so many struggles, and
fears, and crosses, only a few hours separate us from the moment which
we have so long desired.”
We now conduct the reader to the house in the Rue Saint-Francois.
(13) The doctrine of passive and absolute obedience, the principal tool
in the hands of the Jesuits, as summed up in these terrible words of the
dying Loyola--that every member of the order should be in the hands of
his superiors as a dead body--‘perinde ad cadaver’.
CHAPTER XVII. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-FRANCOIS.
On entering the Rue Saint-Gervais, by the Rue Dore (in the Marais),
you would have found yourself, at the epoch of this narrative, directly
opposite to an enormously high wall, the stones of which were black and
worm-eaten with age. This wall, which extended nearly the whole length
of that solitary street, served to support a terrace shaded by trees
of some hundred years old, which thus grew about forty feet above the
causeway. Through their thick branches appeared the stone front, peaked
roof and tall brick chimneys of an antique house, the entrance of which
was situated in the Rue Saint-Francois, not far from the Rue Saint
Gervais corner. Nothing could be more gloomy than the exterior of this
abode. On the entrance-side also was a very high wall, pierced with two
or three loop-holes, strongly grated. A carriage gateway in massive oak,
barred with iron, and studded with large nail-heads, whose primitive
color disappeared beneath a thick layer of mud, dust, and rust, fitted
close into the arch of a deep recess, forming the swell of a bay window
above. In one of these massive gates was a smaller door, which served
for ingress and egress to Samuel the Jew, the guardian of this dreary
abode. On passing the threshold, you came to a passage, formed in the
building which faced in the street. In this building was the lodging of
Samuel, with its windows opening upon the rather spacious inner court
yard, through the railing of which you perceived the garden. In the
middle of this garden stood a two-storied stone house, so strangely
built, that you had to mount a flight of steps, or rather a
double-flight of at least twenty steps, to reach the door, which had
been walled up a hundred and fifty years before. The window-blinds
of this habitation had been replaced by large thick plates of lead,
hermetically soldered and kept in by frames of iron clamped in the
stone. Moreover, completely to intercept air and light, and thus to
guard against decay within and without, the roof had been covered with
thick sheets of lead, as well as the vents of the tall chimneys, which
had previously been bricked up. The same precautions had been taken with
respect to a small square belvedere, situated on the top of the house;
this glass cage was covered with a sort of dome, soldered to the roof.
Only, in consequence of some singular fancy, in every one of the leaden
plates, which concealed the four sides of the belvedere, corresponding
to the cardinal points, seven little round holes had been bored in
the form of a cross, and were easily distinguishable from the outside.
Everywhere else the plates of lead were completely unpierced. Thanks
to these precautions, and to the substantial structure of the
building, nothing but a few outward repairs had been necessary; and the
apartments, entirely removed from the influence of the external air, no
doubt remained, during a century and a half, exactly in the same state
as at the time of their being shut up. The aspect of walls in crevices,
of broken, worm-eaten shutters, of a roof half fallen in, and windows
covered with wall-flowers, would perhaps have been less sad than the
appearance of this stone house, plated with iron and lead, and preserved
like a mausoleum. The garden, completely deserted, and only regularly
visited once a week by Samuel, presented to the view, particularly in
summer, an incredible confusion of parasites and brambles. The trees,
left to themselves, had shot forth and mingled their branches in all
directions; some straggling vines, reproduced from offshoots, had
crept along the ground to the foot of the trees, and, climbing up their
trunks, had twined themselves about them, and encircled their highest
branches with their inextricable net. You could only pass through this
virgin forest by following the path made by the guardian, to go from the
grating to the house, the approaches to which were a little sloped to
let the water run off, and carefully paved to the width of about ten
feet. Another narrow path which extended all around the enclosure, was
every night perambulated by two or three Pyrenees dogs--a faithful race,
which had been perpetuated in the house during a century and a half.
Such was the habitation destined for the meeting of the descendants of
the family of Rennepont. The night which separated the 12th from the
13th day of February was near its close. A calm had succeeded the storm,
and the rain had ceased; the sky was clear and full of stars; the moon,
on its decline, shone with a mild lustre, and threw a melancholy light
over that deserted, silent house, whose threshold for so many years no
human footstep had crossed.
A bright gleam of light, issuing from one of the windows of the
guardian’s dwelling, announced that Samuel was awake. Figure to yourself
a tolerably large room, lined from top to bottom with old walnut
wainscoting browned to an almost black, with age. Two half-extinguished
brands are smoking amid the cinders on the hearth. On the stone
mantelpiece, painted to resemble gray granite, stands an old iron
candlestick, furnished with a meagre candle, capped by an extinguisher.
Near it one sees a pair of double-barrelled pistols, and a sharp
cutlass, with a hilt of carved bronze, belonging to the seventeenth
century. Moreover, a heavy rifle rests against one of the chimney jambs.
Four stools, an old oak press, and a square table with twisted legs,
formed the sole furniture of this apartment. Against the wall were
systematically suspended a number of keys of different sizes, the shape
of which bore evidence to their antiquity, whilst to their rings were
affixed divers labels. The back of the old press, which moved by a
secret spring, had been pushed aside, and discovered, built in the wall,
a large and deep iron chest, the lid of which, being open, displayed
the wondrous mechanism of one of those Florentine locks of the sixteenth
century, which, better than any modern invention, set all picklocks
at defiance; and, moreover, according to the notions of that age, are
supplied with a thick lining of asbestos cloth, suspended by gold wire
at a distance from the sides of the chest, for the purpose of rendering
incombustible the articles contained in it. A large cedar-wood box
had been taken from the chest, and placed upon a stool; it contained
numerous papers, carefully arranged and docketed. By the light of a
brass lamp, the old keeper Samuel, was writing in a small register,
whilst Bathsheba, his wife, was dictating to him from an account. Samuel
was about eighty two years old, and, notwithstanding his advanced age, a
mass of gray curling hair covered his head. He was short, thin, nervous,
and the involuntary petulance of his movements proved that years had not
weakened his energy and activity; though, out of doors, where, however,
he made his appearance very seldom, he affected a sort of second
childhood, as had been remarked by Rodin to Father d’Aigrigny. An old
dressing-gown, of maroon-colored camlet, with large sleeves, completely
enveloped the old man, and reached to his feet.
Samuel’s features were cast in the pure, Eastern mould of his race. His
complexion was of a dead yellow, his nose aquiline, his chin shaded by
a little tuft of white beard, while projecting cheek-bones threw a harsh
shadow upon the hollow and wrinkled cheeks. His countenance was full of
intelligence, fine sharpness, and sagacity. On his broad, high forehead
one might read frankness, honesty, and firmness; his eyes, black and
brilliant as an Arab’s, were at once mild and piercing.
His wife, Bathsheba, some fifteen years younger than himself, was of
tall stature, and dressed entirely in black. A low cap, of starched
lawn, which reminded one of the grave head-dresses of Dutch matrons,
encircled a pale and austere countenance, formerly of a rare and haughty
beauty, and impressed with the Scriptural character. Some lines in the
forehead, caused by the almost continual knitting of her gray brows,
showed that this woman had often suffered from the pressure of intense
grief.
At this very moment her countenance betrayed inexpressible sorrow. Her
look was fixed, her head resting on her bosom. She had let her right
hand, which held a small account-book, fall upon her lap, while the
other hand grasped convulsively a long tress of jet-black hair, which
she bore about her neck. It was fastened by a golden clasp, about an
inch square, in which, under a plate of crystal, that shut in one side
of it like a relic-case, could be seen a piece of linen, folded square,
and almost entirely covered with dark red spots that resembled blood a
long time dried.
After a short silence, during which Samuel was occupied with his
register, he read aloud what he had just been writing: “Per contra,
5,000 Austrian Metallics of 1,000 florins, under date of October 19th,
1826.”
After which enumeration, Samuel raised his head, and said to his wife:
“Well, is it right, Bathsheba? Have you compared it with the account
book?”
Bathsheba did not answer. Samuel looked at her, and, seeing that she was
absorbed in grief, said to her, with an expression of tender anxiety:
“What is the matter? Good heaven! what is the matter with you?”
“The 19th of October, 1826,” said she, slowly, with her eyes still
fixed, and pressing yet more closely the lock of black hair which she
wore about her neck; “It was a fatal day--for, Samuel, it was the date
of the last letter which we received from--”
Bathsheba was unable to proceed. She uttered a long sigh, and concealed
her face in her hands.
“Oh! I understand you,” observed the old man, in a tremulous voice; “a
father may be taken up by the thought of other cares; but the heart of
a mother is ever wakeful.” Throwing his pen down upon the table, Samuel
leaned his forehead upon his hands in sorrow.
Bathsheba resumed, as if she found a melancholy pleasure in these cruel
remembrances: “Yes; that was the last day on which our son, Abel, wrote
to us from Germany, to announce to us that he had invested the funds
according to your desire and was going thence into Poland, to effect
another operation.”
“And in Poland he met the death of a martyr,” added Samuel. “With no
motive and no proof, they accused him falsely of coming to organize
smuggling, and the Russian governor, treating him as they treat our
brothers in that land of cruel tyranny, condemned him to the dreadful
punishment of the knout, without even hearing him in his defence. Why
should they hear a Jew? What is a Jew? A creature below a serf, whom
they reproach for all the vices that a degrading slavery has engendered.
A Jew beaten to death? Who would trouble themselves about it?”
“And poor Abel, so good, so faithful, died beneath their stripes, partly
from shame, partly from the wounds,” said Bathsheba, shuddering. “One
of our Polish brethren obtained with great difficulty permission to
bury him. He cut off this lock of beautiful black hair--which, with this
scrap of linen, bathed in the blood of our dear son, is all that
now remains to us of him.” Bathsheba covered the hair and clasp with
convulsive kisses.
“Alas!” said Samuel, drying his tears, which had burst forth at these
sad recollections, “the Lord did not at last remove our child, until the
task which our family has accomplished faithfully for a century and a
half was nearly at an end. Of what use will our race be henceforth upon
earth?” added Samuel, most bitterly. “Our duty is performed. This casket
contains a royal fortune--and yonder house, walled up for a hundred
and fifty years, will be opened to-morrow to the descendants of my
ancestor’s benefactor.” So saying, Samuel turned his face sorrowfully
towards the house, which he could see through the window. The dawn was
just about to appear. The moon had set; belvedere, roof, and chimneys
formed a black mass upon the dark blue of the starry firmament.
Suddenly, Samuel grew pale, and, rising abruptly, said to his wife in
a tremulous tone, whilst he still pointed to the house: “Bathsheba! the
seven points of light--just as it was thirty years ago. Look! look:”
Indeed, the seven round holes, bored in the form of a cross in the
leaden plates which covered the window of the belvedere, sparkled like
so many luminous points, as if some one in the house ascended with a
light to the roof.
CHAPTER XVIII. DEBIT AND CREDIT.
For some seconds, Samuel and Bathsheba remained motionless, with their
eyes fixed in fear and uneasiness on the seven luminous points,
which shone through the darkness of the night from the summit of the
belvedere; while, on the horizon, behind the house, a pale, rosy hue
announced the dawn of day.
Samuel was the first to break silence, and he said to his wife, as he
drew his hand across his brow: “The grief caused by the remembrance of
our poor child has prevented us from reflecting that, after all, there
should be nothing to alarm us in what we see.”
“How so, Samuel?”
“My father always told me that he, and my grandfather before him, had
seen such lights at long intervals.”
“Yes, Samuel--but without being able, any more than ourselves, to
explain the cause.”
“Like my father and grandfather, we can only suppose that some secret
passage gives admittance to persons who, like us, have some mysterious
duty to fulfil in this dwelling. Besides, my father warned me not to be
uneasy at these appearances, foretold by him, and now visible for the
second time in thirty years.”
“No matter for that, Samuel, it does strike one as if it was something
supernatural.”
“The days of miracles are over.” said the Jew, shaking his head
sorrowfully: “many of the old houses in this quarter have subterraneous
communications with distant places--some extending even to the Seine and
the Catacombs. Doubtless, this house is so situated, and the persons who
make these rare visits enter by some such means.”
“But that the belvedere should be thus lighted up?”
“According to the plan of the building, you know that the belvedere
forms a kind of skylight to the apartment called the Great Hall of
Mourning, situated on the upper story. As it is completely dark, in
consequence of the closing of all the windows, they must use a light to
visit this Hall of Mourning--a room which is said to contain some very
strange and gloomy things,” added the Jew, with a shudder.