luminous points, which diminished in brightness as the daylight
gradually increased.
“As you say, Samuel, the mystery may be thus explained,” resumed the
Hebrew’s wife. “Besides, the day is so important a one for the family
of Rennepont, that this apparition: ought not to astonish us under the
circumstances.”
“Only to think,” remarked Samuel, “that these lights have appeared at
several different times throughout a century and a half! There must,
therefore, be another family that, like ours, has devoted itself, from
generation to generation, to accomplish a pious duty.”
“But what is this duty? It will perhaps be explained today.”
“Come, come, Bathsheba,” suddenly exclaimed Samuel, as if roused from
his reverie, and reproaching himself with idleness; this is the day,
and, before eight o’clock, our cash account must be in order, and these
titles to immense property arranged, so that they may be delivered to
the rightful owners”--and he pointed to the cedar-wood box.
“You are right, Samuel; this day does not belong to us. It is a solemn
day--one that would have been sweet, oh! very sweet to you and me--if
now any days could be sweet to us,” said Bathsheba bitterly, for she was
thinking of her son.
“Bathsheba,” said Samuel, mournfully, as he laid his hand on his wife’s;
“we shall at least have the stern satisfaction of having done our duty.
And has not the Lord been very favorable to us, though He has thus
severely tried us by the death of our son? Is it not thanks to His
providence that three generations of my family have been able to
commence, continue, and finish this great work?”
“Yes, Samuel,” said the Jewess, affectionately, “and for you at least
this satisfaction will be combined with calm and quietness, for on
the stroke of noon you will be delivered from a very terrible
responsibility.”
So saying, Bathsheba pointed to the box.
“It is true,” replied the old man; “I had rather these immense riches
were in the hands of those to whom they belong, than in mine; but, to
day, I shall cease to be their trustee. Once more then, I will check the
account for the last time, and compare the register with the cash-book
that you hold in your hand.”
Bathsheba bowed her head affirmatively, and Samuel, taking up his pen,
occupied himself once more with his calculations. His wife, in spite
of herself, again yielded to the sad thoughts which that fatal date had
awakened, by reminding her of the death of her son.
Let us now trace rapidly the history, in appearance so romantic and
marvellous, in reality so simple, of the fifty thousand crowns, which,
thanks to the law of accumulation, and to a prudent, intelligent and
faithful investment, had naturally, and necessarily, been transformed,
in the space of a century and a half, into a sum far more important
than the forty millions estimated by Father d’Aigrigny--who, partially
informed on this subject, and reckoning the disastrous accidents,
losses, and bankruptcies which might have occurred during so long a
period, believed that forty millions might well b e considered enormous.
The history of this fortune being closely connected with that of the
Samuel family, by whom it had been managed for three generations, we
shall give it again in a few words.
About the period 1670, some years before his death, Marius de Rennepont,
then travelling in Portugal, had been enabled, by means of powerful
interest, to save the life of an unfortunate Jew, condemned to be burnt
alive by the Inquisition, because of his religion. This Jew was Isaac
Samuel, grandfather of the present guardian of the house in the Rue
Saint-Francois.
Generous men often attach themselves to those they have served, as much,
at least, as the obliged parties are attached to their benefactors.
Having ascertained that Isaac, who at that time carried on a petty
broker’s business at Lisbon, was industrious, honest, active, laborious,
and intelligent, M. de Rennepont, who then possessed large property
in France, proposed to the Jew to accompany him, and undertake the
management of his affairs. The same hatred and suspicion with which the
Israelites have always been followed, was then at its height. Isaac was
therefore doubly grateful for this mark of confidence on the part of
M. de Rennepont. He accepted the offer, and promised from that day to
devote his existence to the service of him who had first saved his life,
and then trusted implicitly to his good faith and uprightness, although
he was a Jew, and belonged to a race generally suspected and despised.
M. de Rennepont, a man of great soul, endowed with a good spirit, was
not deceived in his choice. Until he was deprived of his fortune, it
prospered wonderfully in the hands of Isaac Samuel, who, gifted with an
admirable aptitude for business, applied himself exclusively to advance
the interests of his benefactor.
Then came the persecution and ruin of M. de Rennepont, whose property
was confiscated and given up to the reverend fathers of the Company of
Jesus only a few days before his death. Concealed in the retreat he had
chosen, therein to put a violent end to his life, he sent secretly for
Isaac Samuel, and delivered to him fifty thousand crowns in gold, the
last remains of his fortune. This faithful servant was to invest the
money to the best advantage, and, if he should have a son, transmit to
him the same obligation; or, should he have no child, he was to seek out
some relation worthy of continuing this trust, to which would moreover
be annexed a fair reward. It was thus to be transmitted and perpetuated
from relative to relative, until the expiration of a century and a half.
M. de Rennepont also begged Isaac to take charge, during his life, of
the house in the Rue Saint-Francois, where he would be lodged gratis,
and to leave this function likewise to his descendants, if it were
possible.
If even Isaac Samuel had not had children, the powerful bond of union
which exists between certain Jewish families, would have rendered
practicable the last will of De Rennepont. The relations of Isaac would
have become partner; in his gratitude to his benefactor, and they, and
their succeeding generations, would have religiously accomplished the
task imposed upon one of their race. But, several years after the death
of De Rennepont, Isaac had a son.
This son, Levy Samuel, born in 1689, not having had any children by his
first wife, married again at nearly sixty years of age, and, in 1750, he
also had a son--David Samuel, the guardian of the house in the Rue Saint
Francois, who, in 1832 (the date of this narrative), was eighty-two
years old, and seemed likely to live as long as his father, who had died
at the age of ninety-three. Finally, Abel Samuel, the son whom Bathsheba
so bitterly regretted, born in 1790, had perished under the Russian
knout, at the age of thirty-six.
Having established this humble genealogy, we easily understand how this
successive longevity of three members of the Samuel family, all of whom
had been guardians of the walled house, by uniting, as it were, the
nineteenth with the seventeenth century, simplified and facilitated
the execution of M. de Rennepont’s will; the latter having declared his
desire to the grandfather of the Samuels, that the capital should only
be augmented by interest at five per cent.--so that the fortune might
come to his descendants free from all taint of usurious speculation.
The fellow men of the Samuel family, the first inventors of the bill of
exchange, which served them in the Middle Ages to transport mysteriously
considerable amounts from one end of the world to the other, to conceal
their fortune, and to shield it from the rapacity of their enemies--the
Jews, we say, having almost the monopoly of the trade in money and
exchanges, until the end of the eighteenth century, aided the secret
transactions and financial operations of this family, which, up to about
1820, placed their different securities, which had become progressively
immense, in the hands of the principal Israelitish bankers and merchants
of Europe. This sure and secret manner of acting had enabled the present
guardian of the house in the Rue Saint-Francois, to effect enormous
investments, unknown to all; and it was more especially during the
period of his management, that the capital sum had acquired, by the mere
fact of compound interest, an almost incalculable development. Compared
with him, his father and grandfather had only small amounts to manage.
Though it had only been necessary to find successively sure and
immediate investments, so that the money might not remain as it were
one day without bearing interest, it had acquired financial capacity to
attain this result, when so many millions were in question. The last of
the Samuels, brought up in the school of his father, had exhibited
this capacity in a very high degree, as will be seen immediately by the
results. Nothing could be more touching, noble, and respectable, than
the conduct of the members of this Jewish family, who, partners in the
engagement of gratitude taken by their ancestor, devote themselves for
long years, with as much disinterestedness as intelligence and honesty,
to the slow acquisition of a kingly fortune, of which they expect no
part themselves, but which, thanks to them, would come pure, as immense,
to the hands of the descendants of their benefactor! Nor could anything
be more honorable to him who made, and him who received this deposit,
than the simple promise by word of mouth, unaccompanied by any security
save mutual confidence and reciprocal esteem, when the result was only
to be produced at the end of a century and a half!
After once more reading his inventory with attention, Samuel said to his
wife: “I am certain of the correctness of my additions. Now please
to compare with the account-book in your hand the summary of the
investments that I have just entered in the register. I will assure
myself, at the same time, that the bonds and vouchers are properly
arranged in this casket, that, on the opening of the will, they may be
delivered in order to the notary.”
“Begin, my dear, and I will check you,” said Bathsheba.
Samuel read as follows, examining as he went on, the contents of his
casket:
Statement of the account of the heirs of M. DE RENNEPONT, delivered by
DAVID SAMUELS.
DEBIT.
2,000,000 francs per annum,
in the French 5 P. C.,
bought from 1825 to 1832,
at an average price of 99f.
50c............ 39,800,000
900,000 francs, ditto, in
the French 3 P. C.,
bought during the
same years, at an average
of 74f 25c........ 22,275,000
5;000 shares in the Bank
of France, bought at 1,900 9,500,000
3,000 shares in the Four
Canals, in a certificate
from the Company,
bought at 1,115f..... 3,345,000
125,000 ducats of
Neapolitans, at an average
of 82. 2,050,000 ducats,
at 4f. 400....... 9,020,000
5,000 Austrian Metallics,
of 1,000 florins, at 93
--say 4,650,000 florins,
at 2f. 50c........ 11,625,000
75,000 pounds sterling
per annum, English
Consolidated 3 P. C.,
at 88 3/4--say 2,218,750,
at 25f......... 55,468,750
1,200,000 florins, Dutch
2 1/2 P. C., at 60-28,
860,000 florins, at 2f.
100........... 60,606,000
Cash in banknotes, gold
and silver........ 535,250
------
Francs 212,175,000
Paris, 12th February, 1832.
CREDIT.
150,000 francs
received from M.
de Rennepont,
in 1682, by Isaac
Samuel my grandfather;
and invested by him,
my father, and myself,
in different securities,
at Five per Cent.
Interest, with a
settlement of account
and Investment of
interest every six
months, producing,
as by annexed vouchers, 225,950,000
Less losses sustained
by failures, expenses of
commission and
brokerage, and
salary of three
generations of
trustees, as per
statement annexed 13,775,000
----------
212,175,000
Francs 212,175,000
“It is quite right,” said Samuel, after examining the papers, contained
in the cedar-wood box. “There remains in hand, at the absolute disposal
of the heirs of the Rennepont family, the Sum Of TWO HUNDRED AND TWELVE
MILLIONS, ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND FRANCS.” And the old man
looked at his wife with an expression of legitimate pride. “It is hardly
credible!” cried Bathsheba, struck with surprise. “I knew that you had
immense property in your hands; but I could never have believed, that
one hundred and fifty thousand francs, left a century and a half ago,
should be the only source of this immense fortune.”
“It is even so, Bathsheba,” answered the old man, proudly. “Doubtless,
my grandfather, my father, and myself, have all been exact and faithful
in the management of these funds; doubtless, we have required some
sagacity in the choice of investments, in times of revolution and
commercial panics; but all this was easy to us, thanks to our relations
with our brethren in all countries--and never have I, or any of mine,
made an usurious investment, or even taken the full advantage of
the legal rate of interest. Such were the positive demands of M. de
Rennepont, given to my grandfather; nor is there in the world a
fortune that has been obtained by purer means. Had it not been for this
disinterestedness, we might have much augmented this two hundred
and twelve millions, only by taking advantage of a few favorable
circumstances.”
“Dear me! is it possible?”
“Nothing is more simple, Bathsheba. Every one knows, that in fourteen
years a capital will be doubled, by the mere accumulation of interest
and compound interest at five per cent. Now reflect, that in a century
and a half there are ten times fourteen years, and that these one
hundred and fifty thousands francs have thus been doubled and redoubled,
over and over again. All that astonishes you will then appear plain
enough. In 1682, M. de Rennepont entrusted my grandfather with a hundred
and fifty thousand francs; this sum, invested as I have told you, would
have produced in 1696, fourteen years after, three hundred thousand
francs. These last, doubled in 1710, would produce six hundred thousand.
On the death of my grandfather in 1719, the amount was already near a
million; in 1724, it would be twelve hundred thousand francs; in 1738,
two millions four hundred thousand; in 1752, about two years after my
birth, four millions eight hundred thousand; in 1766, nine millions six
hundred thousand; in 1780, nineteen millions two hundred thousand; in
1794, twelve years after the death of my father, thirty-eight millions
four hundred thousand; in 1808, seventy-six millions eight hundred
thousand; in 1822, one hundred and fifty-three millions six hundred
thousand; and, at this time, taking the compound interest for ten years,
it should be at least two hundred and twenty-five millions. But losses
and inevitable charges, of which the account has been strictly kept,
have reduced the sum to two hundred and twelve millions one hundred and
seventy-five thousand francs, the securities for which are in this box.”
“I now understand you, my dear,” answered Bathsheba, thoughtfully;
“but how wonderful is this power of accumulation! and what admirable
provision may be made for the future, with the smallest present
resources!”
“Such, no doubt, was the idea of M. de Rennepont; for my father has
often told me, and he derived it from his father, that M. de Rennepont
was one of the soundest intellects of his time,” said Samuel, as he
closed the cedar-box.
“God grant his descendants may be worthy of this kingly fortune, and
make a noble use of it!” said Bathsheba, rising.
It was now broad day, and the clock had just struck seven.
“The masons will soon be here,” said Samuel, as he replaced the
cedar-box in the iron safe, concealed behind the antique press. “Like
you, Bathsheba, I am curious and anxious to know, what descendants of M.
de Rennepont will now present themselves.”
Two or three loud knocks on the outer gate resounded through the house.
The barking of the watch-dogs responded to this summons.
Samuel said to his wife: “It is no doubt the masons, whom the notary has
sent with his clerk. Tie all the keys and their labels together; I will
come back and fetch them.”
So saying, Samuel went down to the door with much nimbleness,
considering his age, prudently opened a small wicket, and saw three
workmen, in the garb of masons, accompanied by a young man dressed in
black.
“What may you want, gentlemen?” said the Jew, before opening the door,
as he wished first to make sure of the identity of the personages.
“I am sent by M. Dumesnil, the notary,” answered the clerk, “to be
present at the unwalling of a door. Here is a letter from my master,
addressed to M. Samuel, guardian of the house.”
“I am he, sir,” said the Jew; “please to put the letter through the
slide, and I will take it.”
The clerk did as Samuel desired, but shrugged his shoulders at what
he considered the ridiculous precautions of a suspicious old man. The
housekeeper opened the box, took the letter, went to the end of
the vaulted passage in order to read it, and carefully compared the
signature with that of another letter which he drew from the pocket
of his long coat; then, after all these precautions, he chained up his
dogs, and returned to open the gate to the clerk and masons.
“What the devil, my good man!” said the clerk, as he entered; “there
would not be more formalities in opening the gates of a fortress!”
The Jew bowed, but without answering.
“Are you deaf, my good fellow?” cried the clerk, close to his ears.
“No, sir,” said Samuel, with a quiet smile, as he advanced several steps
beyond the passage. Then pointing to the old house, he added: “That,
sir, is the door which you will have to open; you will also have to
remove the lead and iron from the second window to the right.”
“Why not open all the windows?” asked the clerk.
“Because, sir, as guardian of this house, I have received particular
orders on the subject.”
“Who gave you these orders?”
“My father, sir, who received them from his father, who transmitted them
from the master of this house. When I cease to have the care of it, the
new proprietor will do as he pleases.”
“Oh! very well,” said the clerk, not a little surprised. Then,
addressing himself to the masons, he added: “This is your business, my
fine fellows; you are to unwall the door, and remove the iron frame-work
of the second window to the right.”
Whilst the masons set to work, under the inspection of the notary’s
clerk, a coach stopped before the outer gate, and Rodin, accompanied by
Gabriel, entered the house in the Rue Saint-Francois.
CHAPTER XIX. THE HEIR
Samuel opened the door to Gabriel and Rodin.
The latter said to the Jew, “You, sir, are the keeper of this house?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Samuel.
“This is Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont,” said Rodin, as he introduced his
companion, “one of the descendants of the family of the Renneponts.”
“Happy to hear it, sir,” said the Jew, almost involuntarily, struck with
the angelic countenance of Gabriel--for nobleness and serenity of soul
were visible in the glance of the young priest, and were written upon
his pure, white brow, already crowned with the halo of martyrdom. Samuel
looked at Gabriel with curiosity and benevolent interest; but feeling
that this silent contemplation must cause some embarrassment to his
guest, he said to him, “M. Abbe, the notary will not be here before ten
o’clock.”
Gabriel looked at him in turn, with an air of surprise, and answered,
“What notary, sir?”
“Father d’Aigrigny will explain all this to you,” said Rodin, hastily.
Then addressing Samuel, he added, “We are a little before the time. Will
you allow us to wait for the arrival of the notary?”
“Certainly,” said Samuel, “if you please to walk into my house.”
“I thank you, sir,” answered Rodin, “and accept your offer.”
“Follow me, then, gentlemen,” said the old man.
A few moments after, the young priest and the socius, preceded by
Samuel, entered one of the rooms occupied by the latter, on the
ground-floor of the building, looking out upon the court-yard.
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny, who has been the guardian of M. Gabriel, will soon
be coming to ask for us,” added Rodin; “will you have the kindness, sir
to show him into this room?”
“I will not fail to do so, sir,” said Samuel, as he went out.
The socius and Gabriel were left alone. To the adorable gentleness which
usually gave to the fine features of the missionary so touching a charm,
there had succeeded in this moment a remarkable expression of sadness,
resolution, and severity. Rodin not having seen Gabriel for some days,
was greatly struck by the change he remarked in him. He had watched him
silently all the way from the Rue des Postes to the Rue Saint-Francois.
The young priest wore, as usual, a long black cassock, which made still
more visible the transparent paleness of his countenance. When the Jew
had left the room, Gabriel said to Rodin, in a firm voice, “Will you at
length inform me, sir, why, for some days past, I have been prevented
from speaking to his reverence Father d’Aigrigny? Why has he chosen this
house to grant me an interview?”
“It is impossible for me to answer these questions,” replied Rodin,
coldly. “His reverence will soon arrive, and will listen to you. All I
can tell you is, that the reverend father lays as much stress upon this
meeting as you do. If he has chosen this house for the interview, it is
because you have an interest to be here. You know it well--though you
affected astonishment on hearing the guardian speak of a notary.”
So saying, Rodin fixed a scrutinizing, anxious look upon Gabriel, whose
countenance expressed only surprise.
“I do not understand you,” said he, in reply to Rodin. “What have I to
do with this house?”
“It is impossible that you should not know it,” answered Rodin, still
looking at him with attention.
“I have told you, sir, that I do not know it,” replied the other, almost
offended by the pertinacity of the socius.
“What, then, did your adopted mother come to tell you yesterday? Why did
you presume to receive her without permission from Father d’Aigrigny, as
I have heard this morning? Did she not speak with you of certain family
papers, found upon you when she took you in?”
“No, sir,” said Gabriel; “those papers were delivered at the time to
my adopted mother’s confessor, and they afterwards passed into Father
d’Aigrigny’s hands. This is the first I hear for a long time of these
papers.”
“So you affirm that Frances Baudoin did not come to speak to you on
this subject?” resumed Rodin, obstinately, laying great emphasis on his
words.
“This is the second time, sir, that you seem to doubt my affirmation,”
said the young priest, mildly, while he repressed a movement of
impatience, “I assure you that I speak the truth.”
“He knows nothing,” thought Rodin; for he was too well convinced of
Gabriel’s sincerity to retain the least doubt after so positive a
declaration. “I believe you,” went on he. “The idea only occurred to me
in reflecting what could be the reason of sufficient weight to induce
you to transgress Father d’Aigrigny’s orders with regard to the absolute
retirement he had commanded, which was to exclude all communication with
those without. Much more, contrary to all the rules of our house, you
ventured to shut the door of your room, whereas it ought to remain half
open, that the mutual inspection enjoined us might be the more easily
practiced. I could only explain these sins against discipline, by the
necessity of some very important conversation with your adopted mother.”
“It was to a priest, and not to her adopted son, that Madame Baudoin
wished to speak,” replied Gabriel, in a tone of deep seriousness. “I
closed my door because I was to hear a confession.”
“And what had Frances Baudoin of such importance to confess?”
“You will know that by-and-bye, when I speak to his reverence--if it be
his pleasure that you should hear me.”
These words were so firmly spoken, that a long silence ensued. Let us
remind the reader that Gabriel had hitherto been kept by his superiors
in the most complete ignorance of the importance of the family interests
which required his presence in the Rue Saint-Francois. The day before,
Frances Baudoin, absorbed in her own grief, had forgotten to tell him
that the two orphans also should be present at this meeting, and had she
even thought of it, Dagobert would have prevented her mentioning this
circumstance to the young priest.
Gabriel was therefore quite ignorant of the family ties which united him
with the daughters of Marshal Simon, with Mdlle. de Cardoville, with M.
Hardy, Prince Djalma, and Sleepinbuff. In a word, if it had then been
revealed to him that he was the heir of Marius de Rennepont, he would
have believed himself the only descendant of the family. During the
moment’s silence which succeeded his conversation with Rodin, Gabriel
observed through the windows the mason’s at their work of unwalling the
door. Having finished this first operation, they set about removing the
bars of iron by which a plate of lead was fixed over the same entrance.
At this juncture, Father d’Aigrigny, conducted by Samuel, entered the
room. Before Gabriel could turn around, Rodin had time to whisper to the
reverend father, “He knows nothing--and we have no longer anything to
fear from the Indian.”
Notwithstanding his affected calmness, Father d’Aigrigny’s countenance
was pale and contracted, like that of a player who is about to stake all
on a last, decisive game. Hitherto, all had favored the designs of the
Society; but he could not think without alarm of the four hours which
still remained before they should reach the fatal moment. Gabriel having
turned towards him, Father d’Aigrigny offered him his hand with a smile,
and said to him in an affectionate and cordial tone, “My dear son, it
has pained me a good deal to have been obliged to refuse you till now
the interview that you so much desired. It has been no less distressing
to me to impose on you a confinement of some days. Though I cannot give
any explanation of what I may think fit to order, I will just observe to
you that I have acted only for your interest.”
“I am bound to believe your reverence,” answered Gabriel, bowing his
head.
In spite of himself, the young priest felt a vague sense of fear, for
until his departure for his American mission, Father d’Aigrigny,
at whose feet he had pronounced the formidable vows which bound him
irrevocably to the Society of Jesus, had exercised over him that
frightful species of influence which, acting only by despotism,
suppression, and intimidation, breaks down all the living forces of
the soul, and leaves it inert, trembling, and terrified. Impressions of
early youth are indelible, and this was the first time, since his
return from America, that Gabriel found himself in presence of Father
d’Aigrigny; and although he did not shrink from the resolution he had
taken, he regretted not to have been able, as he had hoped, to gather
new strength and courage from an interview with Agricola and Dagobert.
Father d’Aigrigny knew mankind too well not to have remarked the emotion
of the young priest, and to have endeavored to explain its cause. This
emotion appeared to him a favorable omen; he redoubled, therefore, his
seductive arts, his air of tenderness and amenity, reserving to himself,
if necessary, the choice of assuming another mask. He sat down, while
Gabriel and Rodin remained standing in a respectful position, and said
to the former: “You desire, my dear son, to have an important interview
with me?”
“Yes, father,” said Gabriel, involuntarily casting down his eyes before
the large, glittering gray pupil of his superior.
“And I also have matters of great importance to communicate to you.
Listen to me first; you can speak afterwards.”
“I listen, father.”
“It is about twelve years ago, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny,
affectionately, “that the confessor of your adopted mother, addressing
himself to me through M. Rodin, called my attention to yourself, by
reporting the astonishing progress you had made at the school of the
Brothers. I soon found, indeed, that your excellent conduct, your
gentle, modest character, and your precocious intelligence, were worthy
of the most tender interest. From that moment I kept my eyes upon
you, and at the end of some time, seeing that you did not fall off, it
appeared to me that there was something more in you than the stuff that
makes a workman. We agreed with your adopted mother, and through my
intervention, you were admitted gratuitously to one of the schools of
our Company. Thus one burden the less weighed upon the excellent woman
who had taken charge of you, and you received from our paternal care all
the benefits of a religious education. Is not this true, my dear son?”
“It is true, father,” answered Gabriel, casting down his eyes.
“As you grew up, excellent and rare virtues displayed themselves in your
character. Your obedience and mildness were above all exemplary. You
made rapid progress in your studies. I knew not then to what career you
wished to devote yourself, but I felt certain that, in every station of
life, you would remain a faithful son of the Church. I was not deceived
in my hopes, or rather, my dear son, you surpassed them all. Learning,
by a friendly communication, that your adopted mother ardently desired
to see you take orders, you acceded generously and religiously to the
wish of the excellent woman to whom you owed so much. But as the Lord is
always just in His recompenses, He willed that the most touching work of
gratitude you could show to your adopted mother, should at the same time
be divinely profitable by making you one of the militant members of our
holy Church.”
At these words, Gabriel could not repress a significant start, as he
remembered Frances’ sad confidences. But he restrained himself, whilst
Rodin stood leaning with his elbow on the corner of the chimney-piece,
continuing to examine him with singular and obstinate attention.
Father d’Aigrigny resumed: “I do not conceal from you, my dear son,
that your resolution filled me with joy. I saw in you one of the future
lights of the Church, and I was anxious to see it shine in the midst
of our Company. You submitted courageously to our painful and difficult
tests; you were judged worthy of belonging to us, and, after taking in
my presence the irrevocable and sacred oath, which binds you for ever to
our Company for the greater glory of God, you answered the appeal of our
Holy Father(14) to willing souls, and offered yourself as a missionary,
to preach to savages the one Catholic faith. Though it was painful to us
to part with our dear son, we could not refuse to accede to such
pious wishes. You set out a humble missionary you return a glorious
martyr--and we are justly proud to reckon you amongst our number. This
rapid sketch of the past was necessary, my dear son to arrive at what
follows, for we wish now, if it be possible, to draw still closer the
bonds that unite us. Listen to me, my dear son; what I am about to say
is confidential and of the highest importance, not only for you, but the
whole Company.”
“Then, father,” cried Gabriel hastily, interrupting the Abbe d’Aigrigny,
“I cannot--I ought not to hear you.”
The young priest became deadly pale; one saw, by the alteration of
his features, that a violent struggle was taking place within him, but
recovering his first resolution, he raised his head, and casting an
assured look on Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, who glanced at each other
in mute surprise, he resumed: “I repeat to you, father, that if it
concerns confidential matters of the Company, I must not hear you.”
“Really, my dear son, you occasion me the greatest astonishment. What
is the matter?--Your countenance changes, your emotion is visible. Speak
without fear; why can you not hear me?”
“I cannot tell you, father, until I also have, in my turn, rapidly
sketched the past--such as I have learned to judge it of late. You
will then understand, father, that I am no longer entitled to your
confidence, for an abyss will doubtlessly soon separate us.”
At these words, it is impossible to paint the look rapidly exchanged
between Rodin and Father d’Aigrigny. The socius began to bite his nails,
fixing his reptile eye angrily upon Gabriel; Father d’Aigrigny grew
livid, and his brow was bathed in cold sweat. He asked himself with
terror, if, at the moment of reaching the goal, the obstacle was going
to come from Gabriel, in favor of whom all other obstacles had been
removed. This thought filled him with despair. Yet the reverend
father contained himself admirably, remained calm, and answered with
affectionate unction: “It is impossible to believe, my dear son, that
you and I can ever be separated by an abyss--unless by the abyss of
grief, which would be caused by any serious danger to your salvation.
But speak; I listen to you.”
“It is true, that, twelve years ago, father,” proceeded Gabriel, in a
firm voice, growing more animated as he proceeded, “I entered, through
your intervention, a college of the Company of Jesus. I entered it
loving, truthful, confiding. How did they encourage those precious
instincts of childhood? I will tell you. The day of my entrance, the
Superior said to me, as he pointed out two children a little older than
myself: ‘These are the companions that you will prefer. You will always
walk three together. The rules of the house forbid all intercourse
between two persons only. They also require, that you should listen
attentively to what your companions say, so that you may report it to
me; for these dear children may have, without knowing it, bad thoughts
or evil projects. Now, if you love your comrades, you must inform me of
these evil tendencies, that my paternal remonstrances may save them from
punishment; it is better to prevent evil than to punish it.’”
“Such are, indeed, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “the rules
of our house, and the language we hold to all our pupils on their
entrance.”
“I know it, father,” answered Gabriel, bitterly; “three days after,
a poor, submissive, and credulous child, I was already a spy upon my
comrades, hearing and remembering their conversation, and reporting it
to the superior, who congratulated me on my zeal. What they thus made
me do was shameful, and yet, God knows! I thought I was accomplishing a
charitable duty. I was happy in obeying the commands of a superior whom
I respected, and to whose words I listened, in my childish faith, as I
should have listened to those of Heaven. One day, that I had broken some
rule of the house, the superior said to me: ‘My child, you have deserved
a severe punishment; but you will be pardoned, if you succeed in
surprising one of your comrades in the same fault that you have
committed.’ And for that, notwithstanding my faith and blind obedience,
this encouragement to turn informer, from the motive of personal
interest, might appear odious to me, the superior added. ‘I speak to
you, my child, for the sake of your comrade’s salvation. Were he
to escape punishment, his evil habits would become habitual. But by
detecting him in a fault, and exposing him to salutary correction, you
will have the double advantage of aiding in his salvation, and escaping
yourself a merited punishment, which will have been remitted because of
your zeal for your neighbor--”
“Doubtless,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, more and more terrified by
Gabriel’s language; “and in truth, my dear son, all this is conformable
to the rule followed in our colleges, and to the habits of the members
of our Company, ‘who may denounce each other without prejudice to mutual
love and charity, and only for their greater spiritual advancement,
particularly when questioned by their superior, or commanded for the
greater glory of God,’ as our Constitution has it.”
“I know it,” cried Gabriel; “I know it. ‘Tis in the name of all that is
most sacred amongst men, that we are encouraged to do evil.”
“My dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, trying to conceal his secret and
growing terror beneath an appearance of wounded dignity, “from you to me
these words are at least strange.”
At this, Rodin quitted the mantelpiece, on which he had been leaning,
begin to walk up and down the room, with a meditative air, and without
ceasing to bite his nails.
“It is cruel to be obliged to remind you, my dear son, that your are
indebted to us for the education you have received,” added Father
d’Aigrigny.
“Such were its fruits, father,” replied Gabriel. “Until then I had been
a spy on the other children, from a sort of disinterestedness; but the
orders of the superior made me advance another step on that shameful
road. I had become an informer, to escape a merited punishment. And yet,
such was my faith, my humility, my confidence, that I performed with
innocence and candor this doubly odious part. Once, indeed, tormented by
vague scruples, the last remains of generous aspirations that they were
stifling within me, I asked myself if the charitable and religious end
could justify the means, and I communicated my doubts to the superior.
He replied, that I had not to judge, but to obey, and that to him alone
belonged the responsibility of my acts.”
“Go on, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, gelding, in spite of
himself, to the deepest dejection. “Alas! I was right in opposing your
travel to America.”
“And yet it was the will of Providence, in that new, productive, and
free country, that, enlightened by a singular chance, on past and
present, my eyes were at length opened. Yes!” cried Gabriel, “it was in
America that, released from the gloomy abode where I had spent so many
years of my youth, and finding myself for the first time face to face
with the divine majesty of Nature, in the heart of immense solitudes
through which I journeyed--it was there that, overcome by so much
magnificence and grandeur, I made a vow--” Here Gabriel interrupted
himself, to continue: “Presently, father, I will explain to you that
vow; but believe me,” added the missionary, with an accent of deep
sorrow, “it was a fatal day to me when I first learned to fear and
condemn all that I had hitherto most revered and blessed. Oh! I assure
you father,” added Gabriel, with moist eyes, “it was not for myself
alone, that I then wept.”
“I know the goodness of your heart, my dear son,” replied Father
d’Aigrigny, catching a glimpse of hope, on seeing Gabriel’s emotion; “I
fear that you have been led astray. But trust yourself to us, as to
your spiritual fathers, and I doubt not we shall confirm your faith,
so unfortunately shaken, and disperse the darkness which at present
obscures your sight. Alas, my dear son, in your vain illusions, you have
mistaken some false glimmer for the pure light of day. But go on.”
Whilst Father d’Aigrigny was thus speaking, Rodin stopped, took a pocket
book from his coat, and wrote down several notes. Gabriel was becoming
more and more pale and agitated. It required no small courage in him,
to speak as he was speaking, for, since his journey to America, he
had learned to estimate the formidable power of the Company. But this
revelation of the past, looked at from the vantage-ground of a more
enlightened present, was for the young priest the excuse, or rather the
cause of the determination he had just signified to his superior, and
he wished to explain all faithfully, notwithstanding the danger he
knowingly encountered. He continued therefore, in an agitated voice:
“You know, father, that the last days of my childhood, that happy age
of frankness and innocent joy, were spent in an atmosphere of terror,
suspicion, and restraint. Alas! how could I resign myself to the least
impulse of confiding trust, when I was recommended to shun the looks of
him who spoke with me, in order to hide the impression that his words
might cause--to conceal whatever I felt, and to observe and listen to
everything? Thus I reached the age of fifteen; by degrees, the rare
visits that I was allowed to pay, but always in presence of one of our
fathers, to my adopted mother and brother, were quite suppressed, so as
to shut my heart against all soft and tender emotions. Sad and fearful
in that large, old noiseless, gloomy house, I felt that I became more
and more isolated from the affections and the freedom of the world.
My time was divided between mutilated studies, without connection and
without object, and long hours of minute devotional exercises. I ask
you, father, did they ever seek to warm our young souls by words of
tenderness or evangelic love? Alas, no! For the words of the divine
Saviour--Love ye one another, they had substituted the command: Suspect
ye one another. Did they ever, father, speak to us of our country or of
liberty?--No! ah, no! for those words make the heart beat high; and with
them, the heart must not beat at all. To our long hours of study and
devotion, there only succeeded a few walks, three by three--never two
and two--because by threes, the spy-system is more practicable, and
because intimacies are more easily formed by two alone; and thus might
have arisen some of those generous friendships, which also make the
heart beat more than it should.15 And so, by the habitual repression of
every feeling, there came a time when I could not feel at all. For six
months, I had not seen my adopted mother and brother; they came to visit
me at the college; a few years before, I should have received them with
transports and tears; this time my eyes were dry, my heart was cold. My
mother and brother quitted me weeping. The sight of this grief struck me
and I became conscious of the icy insensibility which had been creeping
upon me since I inhabited this tomb. Frightened at myself, I wished to
leave it, while I had still strength to do so. Then, father, I spoke to
you of the choice of a profession; for sometimes, in waking moments,
I seemed to catch from afar the sound of an active and useful life,
laborious and free, surrounded by family affections. Oh! then I felt the
want of movement and liberty, of noble and warm emotions--of that life
of the soul, which fled before me. I told it you, father on my
knees, bathing your hands with my tears. The life of a workman or a
soldier--anything would have suited me. It was then you informed me,
that my adopted mother, to whom I owed my life--for she had taken me in,
dying of want, and, poor herself, had shared with me the scanty bread
of her child--admirable sacrifice for a mother!--that she,” continued
Gabriel, hesitating and casting down his eyes, for noble natures blush
for the guilt of others, and are ashamed of the infamies of which they
are themselves victims, “that she, that my adopted mother, had but one
wish, one desire--”
“That of seeing you takes orders, my dear son,” replied Father
d’Aigrigny; “for this pious and perfect creature hoped, that, in
securing your salvation, she would provide for her own: but she did not
venture to inform you of this thought, for fear you might ascribe it to
an interested motive.”
“Enough, father!” said Gabriel, interrupting the Abbe d’Aigrigny, with
a movement of involuntary indignation; “it is painful for me to hear you
assert an error. Frances Baudoin never had such a thought.”
“My dear son, you are too hasty in your judgments,” replied Father
d’Aigrigny, mildly. “I tell you, that such was the one, sole thought of
your adopted mother.”
“Yesterday, father, she told me all. She and I were equally deceived.”
“Then, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, sternly, “you take the word
of your adopted mother before mine?”
“Spare me an answer painful for both of us, father,” said Gabriel,
casting down his eyes.
“Will you now tell me,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, with anxiety, “what
you mean to--”
The reverend father was unable to finish. Samuel entered the room, and
said: “A rather old man wishes to speak to M. Rodin.”
“That is my name, sir,” answered the socius, in surprise; “I am much
obliged to you.” But, before following the Jew, he gave to Father
d’Aigrigny a few words written with a pencil upon one of the leaves of
his packet-book.
Rodin went out in very uneasy mood, to learn who could have come to seek
him in the Rue Saint-Francois. Father d’Aigrigny and Gabriel were left
alone together.
(14) It is only in respect to Missions that the Jesuits acknowledge the
papal supremacy.
(15) This rule is so strict in Jesuit Colleges, that if one of three
pupils leaves the other two, they separate out of earshot till the first
comes back.
CHAPTER XX. THE RUPTURE.
Plunged into a state of mortal anxiety, Father d’Aigrigny had taken
mechanically the note written by Rodin, and held it in his hand without
thinking of opening it. The reverend father asked himself in alarm, what
conclusion Gabriel would draw from these recriminations upon the
past; and he durst not make any answer to his reproaches, for fear of
irritating the young priest, upon whose head such immense interests now
reposed. Gabriel could possess nothing for himself, according to the
constitutions of the Society of Jesus. Moreover, the reverend father had
obtained from him, in favor of the Order, an express renunciation of
all property that might ever come to him. But the commencement of his
conversation seemed to announce so serious a change in Gabriel’s views
with regard to the Company, that he might choose to break through the
ties which attached him to it; and in that case, he would not be legally
bound to fulfil any of his engagements.(16) The donation would thus be
cancelled de facto, just at the moment of being so marvellously realized
by the possession of the immense fortune of the Rennepont family, and
d’Aigrigny’s hopes would thus be completely and for ever frustrated.
Of all these perplexities which the reverend father had experienced
for some time past, with regard to this inheritance, none had been more
unexpected and terrible than this. Fearing to interrupt or question
Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny waited, in mute terror, the end of this
interview, which already bore so threatening an aspect.
The missionary resumed: “It is my duty, father, to continue this sketch
of my past life, until the moment of my departure for America. You will
understand, presently, why I have imposed on myself this obligation.”
Father d’Aigrigny nodded for him to proceed.
“Once informed of the pretended wishes of my adopted mother, I resigned
myself to them, though at some cost of feeling. I left the gloomy abode,
in which I had passed my childhood and part of my youth, to enter one
of the seminaries of the Company. My resolution was not caused by an
irresistible religious vocation, but by a wish to discharge the sacred
debt I owed my adopted mother. Yet the true spirit of the religion of
Christ is so vivifying, that I felt myself animated and warmed by the
idea of carrying out the adorable precepts of our Blessed Saviour. To my
imagination, a seminary, instead of resembling the college where I had
lived in painful restraint, appeared like a holy place, where all that
was pure and warm in the fraternity of the Gospel would be applied to
common life--where, for example, the lessons most frequently taught
would be the ardent love of humanity, and the ineffable sweets of
commiseration and tolerance--where the everlasting words of Christ
would be interpreted in their broadest sense--and where, in fine, by
the habitual exercise and expansion of the most generous sentiments, men
were prepared for the magnificent apostolic mission of making the rich
and happy sympathize with the sufferings of their brethren, by unveiling
the frightful miseries of humanity--a sublime and sacred morality, which
none are able to withstand, when it is preached with eyes full of tears,
and hearts overflowing with tenderness and charity!”
As he delivered these last words with profound emotion, Gabriel’s eyes
became moist, and his countenance shone with angelic beauty.
“Such is, indeed, my dear son, the spirit of Christianity; but one must
also study and explain the letter,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, coldly.
“It is to this study that the seminaries of our Company are specially
destined. Now the interpretation of the letter is a work of analysis,
discipline, and submission--and not one of heart and sentiment.”
“I perceive that only too well, father. On entering this new house, I
found, alas! all my hopes defeated. Dilating for a moment, my heart soon
sunk within me. Instead of this centre of life, affection, youth, of
which I had dreamed. I found, in the silent and ice-cold seminary,
the same suppression of every generous emotion, the same inexorable
discipline, the same system of mutual prying, the same suspicion, the
same invincible obstacles to all ties of friendship. The ardor which had
warmed my soul for an instant soon died out; little by little, I fell
back into the habits of a stagnant, passive, mechanical life, governed
by a pitiless power with mechanical precision, just like the inanimate
works of a watch.”
“But order, submission and regularity are the first foundations of our
Company, my dear son.”
“Alas, father! it was death, not life, that I found thus organized. In
the midst of this destruction of every generous principle, I devoted
myself to scholastic and theological studies--gloomy studies--a wily,
menacing, and hostile science which, always awake to ideas of peril,
contest, and war, is opposed to all those of peace, progress, and
liberty.”
“Theology, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, sternly, “is at once
a buckler and a sword; a buckler, to protect and cover the Catholic
faith--a sword, to attack and combat heresy.”
“And yet, father, Christ and His apostles knew not this subtle science:
their simple and touching words regenerated mankind, and set freedom
over slavery. Does not the divine code of the Gospel suffice to teach
men to love one another? But, alas! far from speaking to us this
language, our attention was too often occupied with wars of religion,
and the rivers of blood that had flowed in honor of the Lord, and for
the destruction of heresy. These terrible lessons made our life still
more melancholy. As we grew near to manhood, our relations at the
seminary assumed a growing character of bitterness, jealousy and
suspicion. The habit of tale bearing against each other, applied to more
serious subjects, engendered silent hate and profound resentments. I
was neither better nor worse than the others. All of us, bowed down
for years beneath the iron yoke of passive obedience, unaccustomed to
reflection or free-will, humble and trembling before our superiors, had
the same pale, dull, colorless disposition. At last I took orders; once
a priest, you invited me, father, to enter the Company of Jesus, or
rather I found myself insensibly brought to this determination. How,
I do not know. For a long time before, my will was not my own. I went
through all my proofs; the most terrible was decisive; for some months,
I lived in the silence of my cell, practicing with resignation the
strange and mechanical exercises that you ordered me. With the exception
of your reverence, nobody approached me during that long space of time;
no human voice but yours sounded in my ear. Sometimes, in the night,
I felt vague terrors; my mind, weakened by fasting, austerity, and
solitude, was impressed with frightful visions. At other times, on the
contrary, I felt a sort of quiescence, in the idea that, having once
pronounced my vows, I should be delivered for ever from the burden of
thought and will. Then I abandoned myself to an insurmountable torpor,
like those unfortunate wretches, who, surprised by a snow-storm,
yield to a suicidal repose. Thus I awaited the fatal moment. At last,
according to the rule of discipline, choking with the death rattle,(17)
I hastened the moment of accomplishing the final act of my expiring
will--the vow to renounce it for ever.”
“Remember, my dear son,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, pale and tortured by
increasing anguish, “remember, that, on the eve of the day fixed for
the completion of your vows; I offered, according to the rule of our
Company, to absolve you from joining us--leaving you completely free,
for we accept none but voluntary vocations.”
“It is true, father,” answered Gabriel, with sorrowful bitterness;
“when, worn out and broken by three months of solitude and trial, I was
completely exhausted, and unable to move a step, you opened the door
of my cell, and said to me: ‘If you like, rise and walk; you are free;
Alas! I had no more strength. The only desire of my soul, inert and
paralyzed for so long a period, was the repose of the grave; and
pronouncing those irrevocable vows, I fell, like a corpse, into your
hands.”
“And, till now, my dear son, you have never failed in this corpse--like
obedience,--to use the expression of our glorious founder--because, the
more absolute this obedience, the more meritorious it must be.”
After a moment’s silence, Gabriel resumed: “You had always concealed
from me, father, the true ends of the Society into which I entered. I
was asked to abandon my free-will to my superiors, in the name of the
Greater Glory of God. My vows once pronounced, I was to be in your hands
a docile and obedient instrument; but I was to be employed, you told me,
in a holy, great and beauteous work. I believed you, father--how should
I not have believed you? but a fatal event changed my destiny--a painful
malady caused by--”
“My son,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, interrupting Gabriel, “it is useless
to recall these circumstances.”
“Pardon me, father, I must recall them. I have the right to be heard. I
cannot pass over in silence any of the facts, which have led me to take
the immutable resolution that I am about to announce to you.”
“Speak on, my son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, frowning; for he was much
alarmed at the words of the young priest, whose cheeks, until now pale,
were covered with a deep blush.
“Six months before my departure for America,” resumed Gabriel, casting
down his eyes, “you informed me, that I was destined to confess
penitents; and to prepare then for that sacred ministry, you gave me a
book.”
Gabriel again hesitated. His blushes increased. Father d’Aigrigny could
scarcely restrain a start of impatience and anger.
“You gave me a book,” resumed the young priest, with a great effort
to control himself, “a book containing questions to be addressed by
a confessor to youths, and young girls, and married women, when they
present themselves at the tribunal of penance. My God!” added Gabriel,
shuddering at the remembrance. “I shall never forget that awful moment.
It was night. I had retired to my chamber, taking with me this book,
composed, you told me, by one of our fathers, and completed by a holy
bishop.(18) Full of respect, faith, and confidence, I opened those
pages. At first, I did not understand them--afterwards I understood--and
then I was seized with shame and horror--struck with stupor--and had
hardly strength to close, with trembling hand, this abominable volume.
I ran to you, father, to accuse myself of having involuntarily cast my
eyes on those nameless pages, which, by mistake, you had placed in my
hands.”
“Remember, also, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, gravely, “that I
calmed your scruples, and told you that a priest, who is bound to
hear everything under the seal of confession, must be able to know and
appreciate everything; and that our Company imposes the task of reading
this Compendium, as a classical work, upon young deacons seminarists,
and priests, who are destined to be confessors.”
“I believed you, father. In me the habit of inert obedience was so
powerful, and I was so unaccustomed to independent reflection, that,
notwithstanding my horror (with which I now reproached myself as with
a crime), I took the volume back into my chamber, and read. Oh, father!
what a dreadful revelation of criminal fancies, guilty of guiltiest in
their refinement!”
“You speak of this book in blamable terms,” skid Father d’Aigrigny,
severely; “you were the victim of a too lively imagination. It is to it
that you must attribute this fatal impression, and not to an excellent
work, irreproachable for its special purpose, and duly authorized by the
Church. You are not able to judge of such a production.”
“I will speak of it no more, father,” said Gabriel: and he thus resumed:
“A long illness followed that terrible night. Many times, they feared
for my reason. When I recovered, the past appeared to me like a painful
dream. You told me, then, father, that I was not yet ripe for certain
functions; and it was then that I earnestly entreated you to be allowed
to go on the American missions. After having long refused my prayer,
you at length consented. From my childhood, I had always lived in the
college or seminary, to a state of continual restraint and subjection.
By constantly holding down my head and eyes, I had lost the habit of
contemplating the heavens and the splendors of nature. But, oh!
what deep, religious happiness I felt, when I found myself suddenly
transported to the centre of the imposing grandeur of the seas-half-way
between the ocean and the sky!--I seemed to come forth from a place of
thick darkness; for the first time, for many years, I felt my heart beat
freely in my bosom; for the first time, I felt myself master of my own
thoughts, and ventured to examine my past life, as from the summit of
a mountain, one looks down into a gloomy vale. Then strange doubts rose
within me. I asked myself by what right, and for what end, any beings
had so long repressed, almost annihilated, the exercise of my will, of
my liberty, of my reason, since God had endowed me with these gifts. But
I said to myself, that perhaps, one day, the great, beauteous, and holy
work, in which I was to have my share, would be revealed to me, and
would recompense my obedience and resignation.”
At this moment, Rodin re-entered the room. Father d’Aigrigny questioned
him with a significant look. The socius approached, and said to him in
a low voice, so, that Gabriel could not hear: “Nothing serious. It was
only to inform me, that Marshal Simon’s father is arrived at M. Hardy’s
factory.”
Then, glancing at Gabriel, Rodin appeared to interrogate Father
d’Aigrigny, who hung his head with a desponding air. Yet he resumed,
again addressing Gabriel, whilst Rodin took his old place, with his
elbow on the chimney-piece: “Go on, my dear son. I am anxious to learn
what resolution you have adopted.”
“I will tell you in a moment, father. I arrived at Charleston. The
superior of our establishment in that place, to whom I imparted my
doubts as to the object of our Society, took upon himself to clear them
up, and unveiled it all to me with alarming frankness. He told me the
tendency not perhaps of all the members of the Company, for a great
number must have shared my ignorance--but the objects which our leaders
have pertinaciously kept in view, ever since the foundation of the
Order. I was terrified. I read the casuists. Oh, father! that was a
new and dreadful revelation, when, at every page, I read the excuse and
justification of robbery, slander, adultery, perjury, murder, regicide.
When I considered that I, the priest of a God of charity, justice,
pardon, and love, was to belong henceforth to a Company, whose chiefs
professed and glorified in such doctrines, I made a solemn oath to break
for ever the ties which bound me to it!”(19)
On these words of Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin exchanged a look
of terror. All was lost; their prey had escaped them. Deeply moved by
the remembrances he recalled, Gabriel did not perceive the action of
the reverend father and the socius, and thus continued: “In spite of my
resolution, father, to quit the Company, the discovery I had made was
very painful to me. Oh! believe me, for the honest and loving soul,
nothing is more frightful than to have to renounce what it has long
respected!--I suffered so much, that, when I thought of the dangers of
my mission, I hoped, with a secret joy, that God would perhaps take me
to Himself under these circumstances: but, on the contrary, He watched
over me with providential solicitude.”
As he said this, Gabriel felt a thrill, for he remembered a Mysterious
Woman who had saved his life in America. After a moment’s silence, he
resumed: “My mission terminated, I returned hither to beg, father, that
you would release me from my vows. Many times but in vain, I solicited
an interview. Yesterday, it pleased Providence that I should have a long
conversation with my adopted mother; from her I learned the trick by
which my vocation had been forced upon me--and the sacrilegious abuse
of the confessional, by which she had been induced to entrust to other
persons the orphans that a dying mother had confided to the care of
an honest soldier. You understand, father, that, if even I had before
hesitated to break these bonds, what I have heard yesterday must have
rendered my decision irrevocable. But at this solemn moment, father,
I am bound to tell you, that I do not accuse the whole Society; many
simple, credulous, and confiding men, like myself, must no doubt form
part of it. Docile instruments, they see not in their blindness the work
to which they are destined. I pity them, and pray God to enlighten them,
as he has enlightened me.”
“So, my son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, rising with livid and despairing
look, “you come to ask of me to break the ties which attach you to the
Society?”
“Yes, father; you received my vows--it is for you to release me from
them.”
“So, my son, you understand that engagements once freely taken by you,
are now to be considered as null and void?”
“Yes, father.”
“So, my son, there is to be henceforth nothing in common between you and
our Company?”
“No, father--since I request you to absolve me of my vows.”
“But, you know, my son, that the Society may release you--but that you
cannot release yourself.”
“The step I take proves to you, father, the importance I attach to an
oath, since I come to you to release me from it. Nevertheless, were
you to refuse me, I should not think myself bound in the eyes of God or
man.”
“It is perfectly clear,” said Father d’Aigrigny to Rodin, his voice
expiring upon his lips, so deep was his despair.
Suddenly, whilst Gabriel, with downcast eyes, waited for the answer
of Father d’Aigrigny, who remained mute and motionless, Rodin appeared
struck with a new idea, on perceiving that the reverend father still
held in his hand the note written in pencil. The socius hastily
approached Father d’Aigrigny, and said to him in a whisper, with a look
of doubt and alarm: “Have you not read my note?”
“I did not think of it,” answered the reverend father, mechanically.
Rodin appeared to make a great effort to repress a movement of violent
rage. Then he said to Father d’Aigrigny, in a calm voice: “Read it now.”
Hardly had the reverend father cast his eyes upon this note, than
a sudden ray of hope illumined his hitherto despairing countenance.
Pressing the hand of the socius with an expression of deep gratitude, he
said to him in a low voice: “You are right. Gabriel is ours.”
(16) The statutes formally state that the Company can expel all drones
and wasps, but that no man can break his ties, if the Order wishes to
retain him.
(17) This is their own command. The constitution expressly bids the
novice wait for this decisive climax of the ordeal before taking the
vows of God.
(18) It is impossible, even in Latin, to give our readers an idea of
this infamous work.
(19) This is true. See the extracts from the Compendium for the use of
Schools, published under the title of “Discoveries by a Bibliophilist.”
Strasburg, 1843. For regicide, see Sanchez and others.
CHAPTER XXI. THE CHANGE.
Before again addressing Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny carefully reflected;
and his countenance, lately so disturbed, became gradually once more
serene. He appeared to meditate and calculate the effects of the
eloquence he was about to employ, upon an excellent and safe theme,
which the socius struck with the danger of the situation, had suggested
in a few lines rapidly written with a pencil, and which, in his despair,
the reverend father had at first neglected. Rodin resumed his post of
observation near the mantelpiece, on which he leaned his elbow,
after casting at Father d’Aigrigny a glance of disdainful and angry
superiority, accompanied by a significant shrug of the shoulders.
After this involuntary manifestation, which was luckily not perceived
by Father d’Aigrigny, the cadaverous face of the socius resumed its
icy calmness, and his flabby eyelids, raised a moment with anger and
impatience, fell, and half-veiled his little, dull eyes. It must be
confessed that Father d’Aigrigny, notwithstanding the ease and elegance
of his speech, notwithstanding the seduction of his exquisite manners,
his agreeable features, and the exterior of an accomplished and refined
man of the world, was often subdued and governed by the unpitying
firmness, the diabolical craft and depth of Rodin, the old, repulsive,
dirty, miserably dressed man, who seldom abandoned his humble part of
secretary and mute auditor. The influence of education is so powerful,
that Gabriel, notwithstanding the formal rupture he had just provoked,
felt himself still intimidated in presence of Father d’Aigrigny, and
waited with painful anxiety for the answer of the reverend father to his
express demand to be released from his old vows. His reverence having,
doubtless, regularly laid his plan of attack, at length broke silence,
heaved a deep sigh, gave to his countenance, lately so severe and
irritated, a touching expression of kindness, and said to Gabriel, in an
affectionate voice: “Forgive me, my dear son, for having kept silence
so long; but your abrupt determination has so stunned me, and has raised
within me so many painful thoughts, that I have had to reflect for some
moments, to try and penetrate the cause of this rupture, and I think
I have succeeded. You have well considered, my dear son, the serious
nature of the step you are taking?”
“Yes, father.”
“And you have absolutely decided to abandon the Society, even against my
will?”
“It would be painful to me, father--but I must resign myself to it.”
“It should be very painful to you, indeed, my dear son; for you took the
irrevocable vow freely, and this vow, according to our statutes, binds
you not to quit the Society, unless with the consent of your superiors.”
“I did not then know, father, the nature of the engagement I took. More
enlightened now, I ask to withdraw myself; my only desire is to obtain
a curacy in some village far from Paris. I feel an irresistible vocation
for such humble and useful functions. In the country, there is so much
misery, and such ignorance of all that could contribute to ameliorate
the condition of the agricultural laborer, that his existence is as
unhappy as that of a negro slave; for what liberty has he? and what
instruction? Oh! it seems to me, that, with God’s help, I might, as a
village curate, render some services to humanity. It would therefore be
painful to me, father, to see you refuse--”
“Be satisfied, my son,” answered Father d’Aigrigny; “I will no longer
seek to combat your desire to separate yourself from us.”
“Then, father, you release me from my vows?”
“I have not the power to do so, my dear son; but I will write
immediately to Rome, to ask the necessary authority from our general.”
“I thank you, father.”
“Soon, my dear son, you will be delivered from these bonds, which you
deem so heavy; and the men you abandon will not the less continue to
pray for you, that God may preserve you from still greater wanderings.
You think yourself released with regard to us, my dear son; but we do
not think ourselves released with regard to you. It is not thus that we
can get rid of the habit of paternal attachment. What would you have? We
look upon ourselves as bound to our children, by the very benefits with
which we have loaded them. You were poor, and an orphan; we stretched
out our arms to you, as much from the interest which you deserved, my
dear son, as to spare your excellent adopted mother too great a burden.”
“Father,” said Gabriel, with suppressed emotion, “I am not ungrateful.”
“I wish to believe so, my dear son. For long years, we gave to you, as
to our beloved child, food for the body and the soul. It pleases you now
to renounce and abandon us. Not only do we consent to it--but now that I
have penetrated the true motives of your rupture with us, it is my duty
to release you from your vow.”
“Of what motives do you speak, Father?”
“Alas! my dear son, I understand your fears. Dangers menace us--you know
it well.”
“Dangers, father?” cried Gabriel.
“It is impossible, my dear son, that you should not be aware that,
since the fall of our legitimate sovereigns, our natural protectors,
revolutionary impiety becomes daily more and more threatening. We
are oppressed with persecutions. I can, therefore, comprehend and
appreciate, my dear son, the motive which under such circumstances,
induces you to separate from us.”
“Father!” cried Gabriel, with as much indignation as grief, “you do not
think that of me--you cannot think it.”
Without noticing the protestations of Gabriel, Father d’Aigrigny
continued his imaginary picture of the dangers of the Company, which,
far from being really in peril, was already beginning secretly to
recover its influence.
“Oh! if our Company were now as powerful as it was some years ago,”
resumed the reverend father; “if it were still surrounded by the respect
and homage which are due to it from all true believers--in spite of the
abominable calumnies with which we are assailed--then, my dear son, we
should perhaps have hesitated to release you from your vows, and have
rather endeavored to open your eyes to the light, and save you from
the fatal delusion to which you are a prey. But now that we are weak,
oppressed, threatened on every side, it is our duty, it is an act of
charity, not to force you to share in perils from which you have the
prudence to wish to withdraw yourself.”
So, saying, Father d’Aigrigny cast a rapid glance at his socius,
who answered with a nod of approbation, accompanied by a movement of
impatience that seemed to say: “Go on! go on!”
Gabriel was quite overcome. There was not in the whole world a heart
more generous, loyal, and brave than his. We may judge of what he
must have suffered, on hearing the resolution he had come to thus
misinterpreted.
“Father,” he resumed, in an agitated voice, whilst his eyes filled
with tears, “your words are cruel and unjust. You know that I am not a
coward.”
“No,” said Rodin, in his sharp, cutting voice, addressing Father
d’Aigrigny, and pointing to Gabriel with a disdainful look; “your dear
son is only prudent.”
These words from Rodin made Gabriel start; a slight blush colored his
pale cheeks; his large and blue eyes sparkled with a generous anger;
then, faithful to the precepts of Christian humility and resignation,
he conquered this irritable impulse, hung down his head, and, too much
agitated to reply, remained silent, and brushed away an unseen tear.
This tear did not escape the notice of the socius. He saw in it no
doubt, a favorable symptom, for he exchanged a glance of satisfaction
with Father d’Aigrigny. The latter was about to touch on a question of
great interest, so, notwithstanding his self-command, his voice trembled
slightly; but encouraged, or rather pushed on by a look from Rodin,
who had become extremely attentive, he said to Gabriel: “Another motive
obliges us not to hesitate in releasing you from your vow, my dear son.
It is a question of pure delicacy. You probably learned yesterday
from your adopted mother, that you will perhaps be called upon to take
possession of an inheritance, of which the value is unknown.”
Gabriel raised his head hastily and said to Father d’Aigrigny: “As I
have already stated to M. Rodin, my adopted mother only talked of her
scruples of conscience, and I was completely ignorant of the existence
of the inheritance of which you speak.”
The expression of indifference with which the young priest pronounced
these last words, was remarked by Rodin.
“Be it so,” replied Father d’Aigrigny. “You were not aware of it--I
believe you--though all appearances would tend to prove the contrary--to
prove, indeed, that the knowledge of this inheritance was not
unconnected with your resolution to separate from us.”
“I do not understand you, Father.”
“It is very simple. Your rupture with us would then have two motives.
First, we are in danger, and you think it prudent to leave us--”
“Father!”
“Allow me to finish, my dear son, and come to the second motive. If I
am deceived, you can tell me so. These are the facts. Formerly, on the
hypothesis that your family, of which you knew nothing, might one day
leave you some property, you made, in return for the care bestowed on
you by the Company, a free gift of all you might hereafter possess, not
to us--but to the poor, of whom we are the born shepherds.”
“Well, father?” asked Gabriel, not seeing to what this preamble tended.
“Well, my dear son--now that you are sure of enjoying a competence, you
wish, no doubt, by separating from us, to annul this donation made under
other circumstances.”
“To speak plainly, you violate your oath, because we are persecuted,
and because you wish to take back your gifts,” added Rodin, in a
sharp voice, as if to describe in the clearest and plainest manner the
situation of Gabriel with regard to the Society.
At this infamous accusation, Gabriel could only raise his hands and eyes
to heaven, and exclaim, with an expression of despair, “Oh, heaven!”
Once more exchanging a look of intelligence with Rodin, Father
d’Aigrigny said to him, in a severe tone, as if reproaching him for his
too savage frankness: “I think you go too far. Our dear son could only
have acted in the base and cowardly manner you suggest, had he known his
position as an heir; but, since he affirms the contrary, we are bound to
believe him--in spite of appearances.”
“Father,” said Gabriel, pale, agitated trembling, and with half
suppressed grief and indignation, “I thank you, at least, for having
suspended your judgment. No, I am not a coward; for heaven is my
witness, that I knew of no danger to which the Society was exposed. Nor
am I base and avaricious; for heaven is also my witness, that only at
this moment I learn from you, father, that I may be destined to inherit
property, and--”
“One word, my dear son. It is quite lately that I became informed of
this circumstance, by the greatest chance in the world,” said Father
d’Aigrigny, interrupting Gabriel; “and that was thanks to some family
papers which your adopted mother had given to her confessor, and which
were entrusted to us when you entered our college. A little before your
return from America, in arranging the archives of the Company, your file
of papers fell into the hands of our father-attorney. It was examined,
and we thus learned that one of your paternal ancestors, to whom the
house in which we now are belonged, left a will which is to be opened to
day at noon. Yesterday, we believed you one of us; our statutes command
that we should possess nothing of our own; you had corroborated those
statutes, by a donation in favor of the patrimony of the poor--which we
administer. It was no longer you, therefore, but the Company, which, in
my person, presented itself as the inheritor in your place, furnished
with your titles, which I have here ready in order. But now, my clear
son, that you separate from us, you must present yourself in your own
name. We came here as the representatives of the poor, to whom in former
days you piously abandoned whatever goods might fall to your share. Now,
on the contrary, the hope of a fortune changes your sentiments. You are
free to resume your gifts.”
Gabriel had listened to Father d’Aigrigny with painful impatience. At
length he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say, father, that you think me
capable of canceling a donation freely made, in favor of the Company, to
which I am indebted for my education? You believe me infamous enough to
break my word, in the hope of possessing a modest patrimony?”
“This patrimony, my dear, son, may be small; but it may also be
considerable.”
“Well, father! if it were a king’s fortune,” cried Gabriel, with proud
and noble indifference, “I should not speak otherwise--and I have,
I think, the right to be believed listen to my fixed resolution. The
Company to which I belong runs, you say, great dangers. I will inquire
into these dangers. Should they prove threatening--strong in the
determination which morally separates me from you--I will not leave you
till I see the end of your perils. As for the inheritance, of which you
believe me so desirous, I resign it to you formally, father, as I once
freely promised. My only wish is, that this property may be employed
for the relief of the poor. I do not know what may be the amount of this
fortune, but large or small, it belongs to the Company, because I have
thereto pledged my word. I have told you, father, that my chief
desire is to obtain a humble curacy in some poor village--poor, above
all--because there my services will be most useful. Thus, father, when a
man, who never spoke falsehood in his life, affirms to you, that he only
sighs for so humble an existence, you ought, I think, to believe him
incapable of snatching back, from motives of avarice, gifts already
made.”
Father d’Aigrigny had now as much trouble to restrain his joy, as he
before had to conceal his terror. He appeared, however, tolerably calm,
and said to Gabriel: “I did not expect less from you, my dear son.”
Then he made a sign to Rodin, to invite him to interpose. The latter
perfectly understood his superior. He left the chimney, drew near
to Gabriel, and leaned against the table, upon which stood paper and
inkstand. Then, beginning mechanically to beat the tattoo with the tips
of his coarse fingers, in all their array of flat and dirty nails, he
said to Father d’Aigrigny: “All this is very fine! but your dear son
gives you no security for the fulfilment of his promise except an
oath--and that, we know, is of little value.”
“Sir!” cried Gabriel
“Allow me,” said Rodin, coldly. “The law does not acknowledge our
existence and therefore can take no cognizance of donations made in
favor of the Company. You might resume to-morrow what you are pleased to
give us to-day.”
“But my oath, sir!” cried Gabriel.
Rodin looked at him fixedly, as he answered: “Your oath? Did you not
swear eternal obedience to the Company, and never to separate from
us?--and of what weight now are these oaths?”
For a moment Gabriel was embarrassed; but, feeling how false was this
logic, he rose, calm and dignified, went to seat himself at the desk,
took up a pen, and wrote as follows:
“Before God, who sees and hears me, and in the presence of you, Father
d’Aigrigny and M. Rodin, I renew and confirm, freely and voluntarily,
the absolute donation made by me to the Society of Jesus, in the person
of the said Father d’Aigrigny, of all the property which may hereafter
belong to me, whatever may be its value. I swear, on pain of infamy, to
perform tis irrevocable promise, whose accomplishment I regard, in my
soul and conscience, as the discharge of a debt, and the fulfilment of a
pious duty.
“This donation having for its object the acknowledgment of past
services, and the relief of the poor, no future occurrences can at
all modify it. For the very reason that I know I could one day legally
cancel the present free and deliberate act, I declare, that if ever I
were to attempt such a thing, under any possible circumstances, I should
deserve the contempt and horror of all honest people.
“In witness whereof I have written this paper, on the 13th of February,
1832, in Paris, immediately before the opening of the testament of one
of my paternal ancestors.
“GABRIEL DE RENNEPONT.”
As he rose, the young priest delivered this document to Rodin, without
uttering a word. The socius read it attentively, and, still impassible,
answered, as he looked at Gabriel: “Well, it is a written oath--that is
all.”
Gabriel dwelt stupefied at the audacity of Rodin, who ventured to tell
him, that this document, in which he renewed his donation in so noble,
generous, and spontaneous a manner, was not all sufficient. The
socius was the first again to break the silence, and he said to Father
d’Aigrigny, with his usual cool impudence. “One of two things must be.
Either your dear son means to render his donation absolutely valuable
and irrevocable,--or--”
“Sir,” exclaimed Gabriel, interrupting him, and hardly able to restrain
himself, “spare yourself and me such a shameful supposition.”
“Well, then,” resumed Rodin, impassible as ever, “as you are perfectly
decided to make this donation a serious reality, what objection can you
have to secure it legally?”
“None, sir,” said Gabriel, bitterly, “since my written and sworn promise
will not suffice you.”
“My dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, affectionately, “if this were
a donation for my own advantage, believe me I should require no better
security than your word. But here I am, as it were, the agent of the
Society, or rather the trustee of the poor, who will profit by your
generosity. For the sake of humanity, therefore, we cannot secure this
gift by too many legal precautions, so that the unfortunate objects of
our care may have certainty instead of vague hopes to depend upon. God
may call you to him at any moment, and who shall say that your heirs
will be so ready to keep the oath you have taken?”
“You are right, father,” said Gabriel, sadly; “I had not thought of the
case of death, which is yet so probable.”
Hereupon, Samuel opened the door of the room, and said: “Gentlemen, the
notary has just arrived. Shall I show him in? At ten o’clock precisely,
the door of the house will be opened.”
“We are the more glad to see the notary,” said Rodin, “as we just happen
to have some business with him. Pray ask him to walk in.”
“I will bring him to you instantly,” replied Samuel, as he went out.
“Here is a notary,” said Rodin to Gabriel. “If you have still the same
intentions, you can legalize your donation in presence of this public
officer, and thus save yourself from a great burden for the future.”
“Sir,” said Gabriel, “happen what may, I am as irrevocably engaged by
this written promise, which I beg you to keep, father”--and he handed
the paper to Father d’Aigrigny “as by the legal document, which I am
about to sign,” he added, turning to Rodin.
“Silence, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “here is the notary,”
just as the latter entered the room.
During the interview of the administrative officer with Rodin, Gabriel,
and Father d’Aigrigny, we shall conduct the reader to the interior of
the walled-up house.
CHAPTER XXII. THE RED ROOM.
As Samuel had said, the door of the walled-up house had just been
disencumbered of the bricks, lead, and iron, which had kept it from
view, and its panels of carved oak appeared as fresh and sound, as on
the day when they had first been withdrawn from the influence of the air
and time. The laborers, having completed their work, stood waiting
upon the steps, as impatient and curious as the notary’s clerk, who
had superintended the operation, when they saw Samuel slowly advancing
across the garden, with a great bunch of keys in his hand.
“Now, my friends,” said the old man, when he had reached the steps,
“your work is finished. The master of this gentleman will pay you, and I
have only to show you out by the street door.”
“Come, come, my good fellow,” cried the clerk, “you don’t think. We
are just at the most interesting and curious moment; I and these honest
masons are burning to see the interior of this mysterious house, and you
would be cruel enough to send us away? Impossible!”
“I regret the necessity, sir, but so it must he. I must be the first to
enter this dwelling, absolutely alone, before introducing the heirs, in
order to read the testament.”
“And who gave you such ridiculous and barbarous orders?” cried the
clerk, singularly disappointed.
“My father, sir.”
“A most respectable authority, no doubt; but come, my worthy guardian,
my excellent guardian,” resumed the clerk, “be a good fellow, and let us
just take a peep in at the door.”
“Yes, yes, sir, only a peep!” cried the heroes of the trowel, with a
supplicating air.
“It is disagreeable to have to refuse you, gentlemen,” answered Samuel;
“but I cannot open this door, until I am alone.”
The masons, seeing the inflexibility of the old man, unwillingly
descended the steps; but the clerk had resolved to dispute the ground
inch by inch, and exclaimed: “I shall wait for my master. I do not leave
the house without him. He may want me--and whether I remain on these
steps or elsewhere, can be of little consequence to you my worthy
keeper.”
The clerk was interrupted in his appeal by his master himself, who
called out from the further side of the courtyard, with an air of
business: “M. Piston! quick, M. Piston--come directly!”
“What the devil does he want with me?” cried the clerk, in a passion.
“He calls me just at the moment when I might have seen something.”
“M. Piston,” resumed the voice, approaching, “do you not hear?”
While Samuel let out the masons, the clerk saw, through a clump of
trees, his master running towards him bareheaded, and with an air of
singular haste and importance. The clerk was therefore obliged to leave
the steps, to answer the notary’s summons, towards whom he went with a
very bad grace.
“Sir, sir,” said M. Dumesnil, “I have been calling you this hour with
all my might.”
“I did not hear you sir,” said M. Piston.
“You must be deaf, then. Have you any change about you?”
“Yes sir,” answered the clerk, with some surprise.
“Well, then, you must go instantly to the nearest stamp-office, and
fetch me three or four large sheets of stamped paper, to draw up a deed.
Run! it is wanted directly.”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk, casting a rueful and regretful glance at the
door of the walled-up house.
“But make haste, will you, M. Piston,” said the notary.
“I do not know, sir, where to get any stamped paper.”
“Here is the guardian,” replied M. Dumesnil. “He will no doubt be able
to tell you.”
At this instant, Samuel was returning, after showing the masons out by
the street-door.
“Sir,” said the notary to him, “will you please to tell me where we can
get stamped paper?”
“Close by, sir,” answered Samuel; “in the tobacconist’s, No. 17, Rue
Vieille-du-Temple.”
“You hear, M. Piston?” said the notary to his clerk. “You can get the
stamps at the tobacconist’s, No. 17, Rue Vieille-du-Temple. Be quick!
for this deed must be executed immediately before the opening of the
will. Time presses.”
“Very well, sir; I will make haste,” answered the clerk, discontentedly,
as he followed his master, who hurried back into the room where he had
left Rodin, Gabriel, and Father d’Aigrigny.
During this time, Samuel, ascending the steps, had reached the door,
now disencumbered of the stone, iron, and lead with which it had been
blocked up. It was with deep emotion that the old man having selected
from his bunch of keys the one he wanted, inserted it in the keyhole,
and made the door turn upon its hinges. Immediately he felt on his
face a current of damp, cold air, like that which exhales from a cellar
suddenly opened. Having carefully re-closed and double-locked the door,
the Jew advanced along the hall, lighted by a glass trefoil over the
arch of the door. The panes had lost their transparency by the effect of
time, and now had the appearance of ground-glass. This hall, paved with
alternate squares of black and white marble, was vast, sonorous, and
contained a broad staircase leading to the first story. The walls of
smooth stone offered not the least appearance of decay or dampness; the
stair-rail of wrought iron presented no traces of rust; it was inserted,
just above the bottom step, into a column of gray granite, which
sustained a statue of black marble, representing a negro bearing a
flambeau. This statue had a strange countenance, the pupils of the eyes
being made of white marble.
The Jew’s heavy tread echoed beneath the lofty dome of the hall.
The grandson of Isaac Samuel experienced a melancholy feeling, as he
reflected that the footsteps of his ancestor had probably been the last
which had resounded through this dwelling, of which he had closed the
doors a hundred and fifty years before; for the faithful friend,
in favor of whom M. de Rennepont had made a feigned transfer of the
property, had afterwards parted with the same, to place it in the name
of Samuel’s grandfather, who had transmitted it to his descendants, as
if it had been his own inheritance.
To these thoughts, in which Samuel was wholly absorbed, was joined the
remembrance of the light seen that morning through the seven openings in
the leaden cover of the belvedere; and, in spite of the firmness of his
character, the old man could not repress a shudder, as, taking a second
key from his bunch, and reading upon the label, The Key of the Red
Room, he opened a pair of large folding doors, leading to the inner
apartments. The window which, of all those in the house, had alone been
opened, lighted this large room, hung with damask, the deep purple of
which had undergone no alteration. A thick Turkey carpet covered the
floor, and large arm-chairs of gilded wood, in the severe Louis XIV.
style, were symmetrically arranged along the wall. A second door,
leading to the next room, was just opposite the entrance. The
wainscoting and the cornice were white, relieved with fillets and
mouldings of burnished gold. On each side of this door was a large
piece of buhl-furniture, inlaid with brass and porcelain, supporting
ornamental sets of sea crackle vases. The window was hung with heavy
deep-fringed damask curtains, surmounted by scalloped drapery, with
silk tassels, directly opposite the chimney-piece of dark-gray marble,
adorned with carved brass-work. Rich chandeliers, and a clock in the
same style as the furniture, were reflected in a large Venice glass,
with basiled edges. A round table, covered with a cloth of crimson
velvet, was placed in the centre of this saloon.
As he approached this table, Samuel perceived a piece of white vellum,
on which were inscribed these words: “My testament is to be opened in
this saloon. The other apartments are to remain closed, until after the
reading of my last will--M. De R.”
“Yes,” said the Jew, as he perused with emotion these lines traced so
long ago; “this is the same recommendation as that which I received from
my father; for it would seem that the other apartments of this house are
filled with objects, on which M. de Rennepont set a high value, not for
their intrinsic worth, but because of their origin. The Hall of Mourning
must be a strange and mysterious chamber. Well,” added Samuel, as he
drew from his pocket a register bound in black shagreen, with a brass
lock, from which he drew the key, after placing it upon the table, “here
is the statement of the property in hand, which I have been ordered to
bring hither, before the arrival of the heirs.”
The deepest silence reigned in the room, at the moment when Samuel
placed the register on the table. Suddenly a simple and yet most
startling occurrence roused him from his reverie. In the next apartment
was heard the clear, silvery tone of a clock, striking slowly ten. And
the hour was ten! Samuel had too much sense to believe in perpetual
motion, or in the possibility of constructing a clock to go far one
hundred and fifty years. He asked himself, therefore, with surprise and
alarm, how this clock could still be going, and how it could mark so
exactly the hour of the day. Urged with restless curiosity, the old man
was about to enter the room; but recollecting the recommendation of his
father, which had now been confirmed by the few lines he had just read
from De Rennepont’s pen, he stopped at the door, and listened with
extreme attention.
He heard nothing--absolutely nothing, but the last dying vibration of
the clock. After having long reflected upon this strange fact, Samuel,
comparing it with the no less extraordinary circumstance of the light
perceived that morning through the apertures in the belvedere, concluded
that there must be some connection between these two incidents. If
the old man could not penetrate the true cause of these extraordinary
appearances, he at least explained them to himself, by remembering the
subterraneous communications, which, according to tradition, were said
to exist between the cellars of this house and distant places; and he
conjectured that unknown and mysterious personages thus gained access
to it two or three times in a century. Absorbed in these thoughts Samuel
approached the fireplace, which, as we have said, was directly opposite
the window. Just then, a bright ray of sunlight, piercing the clouds,
shone full upon two large portraits, hung upon either side of the
fireplace, and not before remarked by the Jew. They were painted life
size, and represented one a woman, the other a man. By the sober yet
powerful coloring of these paintings, by the large and vigorous style,
it was easy to recognize a master’s hand. It would have been difficult
to find models more fitted to inspire a great painter. The woman
appeared to be from five-and-twenty to thirty years of age. Magnificent
brown hair, with golden tints, crooned a forehead, white, noble, and
lofty. Her head-dress, far from recalling the fashion, which Madame de
Sevigne brought in during the age of Louis XIV., reminded one rather of
some of the portraits of Paul Veronese, in which the hair encircles the
face in broad, undulating bands, surmounted by a thick plait, like a
crown, at the back of the head. The eyebrows, finely pencilled, were
arched over large eyes of bright, sapphire blue. Their gaze at once
proud and mournful, had something fatal about it. The nose, finely
formed, terminated in slight dilated nostrils: a half smile, almost
of pain, contracted the mouth; the face was a long oval, and the
complexion, extremely pale, was hardly shaded on the cheek by a light
rose-color. The position of the head and neck announced a rare mixture
of grace and dignity. A sort of tunic or robe, of glossy black material,
came as high as the commencement of her shoulders, and just marking
her lithe and tall figure, reached down to her feet, which were almost
entirely concealed by the folds of this garment.
The attitude was full of nobleness and simplicity. The head looked white
and luminous, standing out from a dark gray sky, marbled at the horizon
by purple clouds, upon which were visible the bluish summits of distant
hills, in deep shadow. The arrangement of the picture, as well as the
warm tints of the foreground, contrasting strongly with these distant
objects, showed that the woman was placed upon an eminence, from which
she could view the whole horizon. The countenance was deeply pensive and
desponding. There was an expression of supplicating and resigned grief,
particularly in her look, half raised to heaven, which one would have
thought impossible to picture. On the left side of the fireplace was the
other portrait, painted with like vigor. It represented a man, between
thirty and thirty-five years of age, of tall stature. A large brown
cloak, which hung round him in graceful folds, did not quite conceal a
black doublet, buttoned up to the neck, over which fell a square white
collar. The handsome and expressive head was marked with stern powerful
lines, which did not exclude an admirable air of suffering, resignation,
and ineffable goodness. The hair, as well as the beard and eyebrows, was
black; and the latter, by some singular caprice of nature, instead
of being separated and forming two distinct arches, extended from one
temple to the other, in a single bow, and seemed to mark the forehead of
this man with a black line.
The background of this picture also represented a stormy sky; but,
beyond some rocks in the distance, the sea was visible, and appeared to
mingle with the dark clouds. The sun, just now shining upon these two
remarkable figures (which it appeared impossible to forget, after once
seeing them), augmented their brilliancy.
Starting from his reverie, and casting his eyes by chance upon these
portraits, Samuel was greatly struck with them. They appeared almost
alive. “What noble and handsome faces!” he exclaimed, as he approached
to examine them more closely. “Whose are these portraits? They are not
those of any of the Rennepont family, for my father told me that they
are all in the Hall of Mourning. Alas!” added the old man, “one might
think, from the great sorrow expressed in their countenances, that they
ought to have a place in that mourning-chamber.”
After a moment’s silence, Samuel resumed: “Let me prepare everything for
this solemn assembly, for it has struck ten.” So saying, he placed the
gilded arm-chairs round the table, and then continued, with a pensive
air: “The hour approaches, and of the descendants of my grandfather’s
benefactor, we have seen only this young priest, with the angelic
countenance. Can he be the sole representative of the Rennepont family?
He is a priest, and this family will finish with him! Well! the moment
is come when I must open this door, that the will may be read. Bathsheba
is bringing hither the notary. They knock at the door; it is time!” And
Samuel, after casting a last glance towards the place where the clock
had struck ten, hastened to the outer door, behind which voices were now
audible.
He turned the key twice in the lock, and threw the portals open. To his
great regret, he saw only Gabriel on the steps, between Rodin and Father
d’Aigrigny. The notary, and Bathsheba, who had served them as a guide,
waited a little behind the principal group.
Samuel could not repress a sigh, as he stood bowing on the threshold,
and said to them: “All is ready, gentlemen. You may walk in.”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE TESTAMENT.
When Gabriel, Rodin, and Father d’Aigrigny entered the Red Room, they
were differently affected. Gabriel, pale and sad, felt a kind of painful
impatience. He was anxious to quit this house, though he had already
relieved himself of a great weight, by executing before the notary,
secured by every legal formality, a deed making over all his rights of
inheritance to Father d’Aigrigny. Until now it had not occurred to the
young priest, that in bestowing the care upon him, which he was about
to reward so generously, and in forcing his vocation by a sacrilegious
falsehood, the only object of Father d’Aigrigny might have been to
secure the success of a dark intrigue. In acting as he did, Gabriel was
not yielding, in his view of the question, to a sentiment of exaggerated
delicacy. He had made this donation freely, many years before. He would
have looked upon it as infamy now to withdraw it. It was hard enough
to be suspected of cowardice: for nothing in the world would he have
incurred the least reproach of cupidity.
The missionary must have been endowed with a very rare and excellent
nature, or this flower of scrupulous probity would have withered
beneath the deleterious and demoralizing influence of his education; but
happily, as cold sometimes preserves from corruption, the icy atmosphere
in which he had passed a portion of his childhood and youth had
benumbed, but not vitiated, his generous qualities, which had indeed
soon revived in the warm air of liberty. Father d’Aigrigny, much paler
and more agitated than Gabriel, strove to excuse and explain his anxiety
by attributing it to the sorrow he experienced at the rupture of his
dear son with the Order. Rodin, calm, and perfectly master of himself,
saw with secret rage the strong emotion of Father d’Aigrigny, which
might have inspired a man less confiding than Gabriel with strange
suspicions. Yet, notwithstanding his apparent indifference, the socius
was perhaps still more ardently impatient than his superior for the
success of this important affair. Samuel appeared quite desponding, no
other heir but Gabriel having presented himself. No doubt the old man
felt a lively sympathy for the young priest; but then he was a priest,
and with him would finish the line of Rennepont; and this immense
fortune, accumulated with so much labor, would either be again
distributed, or employed otherwise than the testator had desired. The
different actors in this scene were standing around the table. As they
were about to seat themselves, at the invitation of the notary, Samuel
pointed to the register bound in black shagreen, and said: “I was
ordered, sir, to deposit here this register. It is locked. I will
deliver up the key, immediately after the reading of the will.”
“This course is, in fact, directed by the note which accompanies the
will,” said M. Dumesnil, “as it was deposited, in the year 1682, in the
hands of Master Thomas Le Semelier, king’s counsel, and notary of the
Chatelet of Paris, then living at No. 13, Place Royale.”
So saying, M. Dumesnil drew from a portfolio of red morocco a large
parchment envelope, grown yellow with time; to this envelope was
annexed, by a silken thread, a note also upon vellum.
“Gentlemen,” said the notary, “if you please to sit down, I will read
the subjoined note, to regulate the formalities at the opening of the
will.”
The notary, Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny, and Gabriel, took seats. The young
priest, having his back turned to the fireplace, could not see the two
portraits. In spite of the notary’s invitation, Samuel remained standing
behind the chair of that functionary, who read as follows:
“‘On the 13th February, 1832, my will shall be carried to No. 3, in the
Rue Saint-Francois.
“‘At ten o’clock precisely, the door of the Red Room shall be opened
to my heirs, who will no doubt have arrived long before at Paris, in
anticipation of this day, and will have had time to establish their line
of descent.
“‘As soon as they are assembled, the will shall be read, and, at the
last stroke of noon, the inheritance shall be finally settled in favor
of those of my kindred, who according to my recommendation (preserved,
I hope, by tradition in my family, during a century and a half); shall
present themselves in person, and not by agents, before twelve o’clock,
on the 13th of February, in the Rue Saint-Francois.’”
Having read these words in a sonorous voice, the notary stopped an
instant, and resumed, in a solemn tone: “M. Gabriel Francois Marie de
Rennepont, priest, having established, by legal documents, his descent
on the father’s side, and his relationship to the testator, and being at
this hour the only one of the descendants of the Rennepont family here
present, I open the testament in his presence, as it has been ordered.”
So saying, the notary drew from its envelope the will, which had been
previously opened by the President of the Tribunal, with the formalities
required by law. Father d’Aigrigny leaned forward, and resting his elbow
on the table, seemed to pant for breath. Gabriel prepared himself to
listen with more curiosity than interest. Rodin was seated at some
distance from the table, with his old hat between his knees, in the
bottom of which, half hidden by the folds of a shabby blue cotton
handkerchief, he had placed his watch. The attention of the socius was
divided between the least noise from without, and the slow evolution of
the hands of the watch, which he followed with his little, wrathful eye,
as if hastening their progress, so great was his impatience for the hour
of noon.
The notary, unfolding the sheet of parchment, read what follows, in the
midst of profound attention:
Hameau de Villetaneuse,
“‘February 13th, 1682.
“‘I am about to escape, by death, from the disgrace of the galleys, to
which the implacable enemies of my family have caused me to be condemned
as a relapsed heretic.
“‘Moreover, life is too bitter for me since the death of my son, the
victim of a mysterious crime.
“‘At nineteen years of age--poor henry!--and his murderers unknown--no,
not unknown--if I may trust my presentiments.
“‘To preserve my fortune for my son, I had feigned to abjure the
Protestant faith. As long as that beloved boy lived, I scrupulously kept
up Catholic appearances. The imposture revolted me, but the interest of
my son was concerned.
“‘When they killed him, this deceit became insupportable to me. I
was watched, accused, and condemned as relapsed. My property has been
confiscated, and I am sentenced to the galleys.
“‘Tis a terrible time we live in! Misery and servitude! sanguinary
despotism and religious intolerance! Oh, it is sweet to abandon life!
sweet to rest and see no more such evils and such sorrows!
“‘In a few hours, I shall enjoy that rest. I shall die. Let me think
of those who will survive--or rather, of those who will live perhaps in
better times.
“‘Out of all my fortune, there remains to me a sum of fifty thousand
crowns, deposited in a friend’s hands.
“‘I have no longer a son; but I have numerous relations, exiled in
various parts of Europe. This sum of fifty thousand crowns, divided
between them, would profit each of them very little. I have disposed of
it differently.
“‘In this I have followed the wise counsels of a man, whom I venerate
as the image of God on earth, for his intelligence, wisdom, and goodness
are almost divine.
“‘Twice in the course of my life have I seen this man, under very fatal
circumstances--twice have I owed him safety, once of the soul, once of
the body.
“‘Alas! he might perhaps have saved my poor child, but he came too
late--too late.
“‘Before he left me, he wished to divert me from the intention of
dying--for he knew all. But his voice was powerless. My grief, my
regret, my discouragement, were too much for him.
“‘It is strange! when he was convinced of my resolution to finish my
days by violence, some words of terrible bitterness escaped him, making
me believe that he envied me--my fate--my death!
“‘Is he perhaps condemned to live?
“‘Yes; he has, no doubt, condemned himself to be useful to humanity,
and yet life is heavy on him, for I heard him repeat one day, with an
expression of despair and weariness that I have never forgotten: “Life!
life! who will deliver me from it?”
“‘Is life then so very burdensome to him?
“‘He is gone. His last words have made me look for my departure with
serenity. Thanks to him, my death shall not be without fruit.
“‘Thanks to him, these lines, written at this moment by a man who, in a
few hours, will have ceased to live, may perhaps be the parents of great
things a century and a half hence--yes! great and noble things, if my
last will is piously followed by my descendants, for it is to them that
I here address myself.
“‘That they may understand and appreciate this last will--which I
commend to the care of the unborn, who dwell in the future whither I am
hastening--they must know the persecutors of my family and avenge their
ancestor, but by a noble vengeance.
“‘My grandfather was a Catholic. Induced by perfidious counsels rather
than religious zeal, he attached himself, though a layman, to a Society
whose power has always been terrible and mysterious--the Society of
Jesus--’”
At these words of the testament, Father d’Aigrigny, Rodin, and Gabriel
looked involuntarily at each other: The notary, who had not perceived
this action, continued to read:
“‘After some years, during which he had never ceased to profess the
most absolute devotion to this Society, he was suddenly enlightened by
fearful revelations as to the secret ends it pursued, and the means it
employed.
“‘This was in 1510, a month before the assassination of Henry IV.
“‘My grandfather, terrified at the secret of which he had become the
unwilling depositary, and which was to be fully explained by the death
of the best of kings, not only broke with the Society, but, as if
Catholicism itself had been answerable for the crimes of its members,
he abandoned the Romish religion, in which he had hitherto lived, and
became a Protestant.
“‘Undeniable proofs, attesting the connivance of two members of the
Company with Ravaillac, a connivance also proved in the case of Jean
Chatel, the regicide, were in my grandfather’s possession.
“‘This was the first cause of the violent hatred of the Society for our
family. Thank Heaven, these papers have been placed in safety, and if my
last will is executed, will be found marked A. M.C. D. G., in the ebony
casket in the Hall of Mourning, in the house in the Rue Saint-Francois.
“‘My father was also exposed to these secret persecutions. His ruin, and
perhaps his death, would have been the consequence, had it not been for
the intervention of an angelic woman, towards whom he felt an almost
religious veneration.
“‘The portrait of this woman, whom I saw a few years ago, as well as
that of the man whom I hold in the greatest reverence, were painted
by me from memory, and have been placed in the Red Room in the Rue
Saint-Francois--to be gratefully valued, I hope, by the descendants of
my family.’”
For some moments Gabriel had become more and more attentive to the
reading of this testament. He thought within himself by how strange a
coincidence one of his ancestors had, two centuries before, broken with
the Society of Jesus, as he himself had just done; and that from this
rupture, two centuries old, dated also that species of hatred with which
the Society of Jesus had always pursued his family. Nor did the young
priest find it less strange that this inheritance, transmitted to him
after a lapse of a hundred and fifty years, from one of his kindred (the
victim of the Society of Jesus), should return by a voluntary act to the
coffers of this same society. When the notary read the passage relative
to the two portraits, Gabriel, who, like Father d’Aigrigny, sat with his
back towards the pictures, turned round to look at them. Hardly had the
missionary cast his eyes on the portrait of the woman, than he uttered
a loud cry of surprise, and almost terror. The notary paused in his
reading, and looked uneasily at the young priest.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST STROKE OF NOON.
At the cry uttered by Gabriel, the notary had stopped reading the
testament, and Father d’Aigrigny hastily drew near the young priest. The
latter rose trembling from his seat and gazed with increasing stupor at
the female portrait.
Then he said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself. “Good Heaven!
is it possible that nature can produce such resemblances? Those eyes--so
proud and yet so sad--that forehead--that pale complexion--yes, all her
features, are the same--all of them!”
“My dear son, what is the matter?” said Father d’Aigrigny, as astonished
as Samuel and the notary.
“Eight months ago,” replied the missionary, in a voice of deep emotion,
without once taking his eyes from the picture, “I was in the power of
the Indians, in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. They had crucified,
and were beginning to scalp me; I was on the point of death, when Divine
Providence sent me unexpected aid--sent me this woman for a deliverer.”
“That woman!” cried Samuel, Father d’Aigrigny, and the notary, all
together.
Rodin alone appeared completely indifferent to this episode of the
picture. His face contracted with angry impatience, he bit his nails to
the quick, as he contemplated with agony the slow progress of the hands
of his watch.
“What! that woman saved your life?” resumed Father d’Aigrigny.
“Yes, this woman,” replied Gabriel, in a still lower and more trembling
voice; “this woman--or rather a woman so much resembling her, that if
this picture had not been here for a century and a half, I should have
felt sure it was the same--nor can I explain to myself that so striking
a resemblance could be the effect of chance. Well,” added he, after
a moment’s silence, as he heaved a profound sigh, “the mysteries of
Nature, and the will of God, are impenetrable.”
Gabriel fell back into his chair, in the midst of a general silence,
which was broken by Father d’Aigrigny saying, “It is a case of
extraordinary resemblance; that is all, my dear son. Only, the natural
gratitude which you feel towards your benefactress, makes you take a
deep interest in this singular coincidence.”
Rodin, bursting with impatience, here said to the notary, by whose side
he stood, “It seems to me, sir, that all this little romance has nothing
to do with the testament.”
“You are right,” answered the notary, resuming his seat; “but the fact
is so extraordinary, and as you say, romantic, that one cannot help
sharing in this gentleman’s astonishment.”
He pointed to Gabriel, who, with his elbow resting on the arms of the
chair, leaned his forehead upon his hand, apparently quite absorbed in
thought. The notary continued the reading of the will, as follows:
“‘Such are the persecutions to which my family has been exposed on the
part of the Society of Jesus.
“‘The Society possesses at this hour the whole of my confiscated
property. I am about to die. May its hatred perish with me, and spare my
kindred, whose fate at this solemn moment is my last and only thought.
“‘This morning I sent for a man of long tried probity Isaac Samuel. He
owes his life to me, and every day I congratulate myself on having been
able to preserve to the world so honest and excellent a creature.
“‘Before the confiscation of my property, Isaac Samuel had long managed
it with as much intelligence as uprightness. I have entrusted him with
the fifty thousand crowns, returned to me by a faithful friend. Isaac
Samuel, and his descendants after him, to whom he will leave this debt
of gratitude, will invest the above sum, and allow it to accumulate,
until the expiration of the hundred and fiftieth year from this time.
“‘The amount thus accumulated may become enormous, and constitute a
royal fortune, if no unfavorable event should occur. May my descendants
attend to my wishes, as to the division and employment of this immense
sum!
“‘In a century and a half, there happen so many changes, so many
varieties of fortunes, such a rise and fall in the condition of the
successive generations of a family, that probably, a hundred and fifty
years hence, my descendants will belong to various classes of society,
and thus represent the divers social elements of their time.
“‘There may, perhaps, be among them men of great intelligence great
courage, or great virtue--learned men, or names illustrious in arts
and arms. There may, perhaps, also be obscure workmen, or humble
citizens--perhaps, also, alas! great criminals.
“‘However, this may be, my most earnest desire is that my descendants
should combine together, and, reconstituting one family, by a close and
sincere union, put into practice the divine words of Christ, “Love ye
one another.”
“‘This union would have a salutary tendency; for it seems to me that
upon union, upon the association of men together, must depend the future
happiness of mankind.
“‘The Company, which so long persecuted my family, is one of the most
striking examples of the power of association, even when applied to
evil.
“‘There is something so fruitful and divine in this principle, that it
sometimes forces to good the worst and most dangerous combinations.
“‘Thus, the missions have thrown a scanty but pure and generous light on
the darkness of this Company of Jesus--founded with the detestable and
impious aim of destroying, by a homicidal education, all will, thought,
liberty, and intelligence, in the people, so as to deliver them,
trembling, superstitious, brutal, and helpless, to the despotism of
kings, governed in their turn by confessors belonging to the Society.’”
At this passage of the will, there was another strange look exchanged
between Gabriel and Father d’Aigrigny. The notary continued:
“‘If a perverse association, based upon the degradation of humanity,
upon fear and despotism, and followed by the maledictions of the people,
has survived for centuries, and often governed the world by craft and
terror--how would it be with an association, which, taking fraternity
and evangelic love for its means, had for its end to deliver man
and woman from all degrading slavery, to invite to the enjoyment of
terrestrial happiness those who have hitherto known nothing of life but
its sorrows and miseries, and to glorify and enrich the labor that feeds
the state?--to enlighten those whom ignorance has depraved?--to favor
the free expansion of all the passions, which God, in His infinite
wisdom, and inexhaustible goodness, gave to man as so many powerful
levers?--to sanctify all the gifts of Heaven: love, maternity, strength,
intelligence, beauty, genius?--to make men truly religious, and deeply
grateful to their Creator, by making them understand the splendors of
Nature, and bestowing on them their rightful share in the treasures
which have been poured upon us?
“‘Oh! if it be Heaven’s will that, in a century and a half, the
descendants of my family, faithful to the last wishes of a heart that
loved humanity, meet in this sacred union!--if it be Heaven’s will
that amongst them be found charitable and passionate souls, full of
commiseration for those who suffer, and lofty minds, ardent for liberty!
warm and eloquent natures! resolute characters! women, who unite beauty
and wit with goodness--oh! then, how fruitful, how powerful will be the
harmonious union of all these ideas, and influences, and forces--of
all these attractions grouped round that princely fortune, which,
concentrated by association, and wisely managed, would render
practicable the most admirable Utopias!
“‘What a wondrous centre of fertile and generous thoughts! What precious
and life-giving rays would stream incessantly from this focus of
charity, emancipation, and love! What great things might be attempted
what magnificent examples given to the world! What a divine mission!
What an irresistible tendency towards good might be impressed on the
whole human race by a family thus situated, and in possession of such
means!
“‘And, then, such a beneficent association would be able to combat the
fatal conspiracy of which I am the victim, and which, in a century and a
half, may have lost none of its formidable power.
“‘So, to this work of darkness, restraint, and despotism, which weighs
heavily on the Christian world, my family would oppose their work of
light, expansion, and liberty!
“‘The genii of good and evil would stand face to face. The struggle
would commence, and God would protect the right.
“‘And that these immense pecuniary resources, which will give so much
power to my family, may not be exhausted by the course of years,
my heirs, following my last will, are to place out, upon the same
conditions, double the sum that I have invested--so that, a century and
a half later, a new source of power and action will be at the disposal
of their descendants. What a perpetuity of good!
“‘In the ebony cabinet of the Hall of Mourning will be found some
practical suggestions on the subject of this association.
“‘Such is my last will--or rather, such are my last hopes.
“‘When I require absolutely that the members of my family should appear
in person in the Rue Saint-Francois, on the day of the opening of this
testament, it is so that, united in that solemn moment, they may see and
know each other. My words may then, perhaps, have some effect upon them;
and, instead of living divided, they will combine together. It will be
for their own interest, and my wishes will thus be accomplished.
“‘When I sent, a few days ago, to those of my family whom exile has
dispersed over Europe, a medal on which is engravers the date of the
convocation of my heirs, a century and a half from this time, I was
forced to keep secret my true motive, and only to tell them, that my
descendants would find it greatly to their interest to attend this
meeting.
“‘I have acted thus, because I know the craft and perseverance of the
society of which I have been the victim. If they could guess that my
descendants would hereafter have to divide immense sums between them,
my family would run the risk of much fraud and malice, through the fatal
recommendations handed down from age to age in the Society of Jesus.
“‘May these precautions be successful! May the wish, expressed upon
these medals, be faithfully transmitted from generation to generation!
“‘If I fix a day and hour, in which my inheritance shall irrevocably
fall to those of my descendants who shall appear in the Rue
Saint-Francois on the 13th February, in 1832, it is that all delays
must have a term, and that my heirs will have been sufficiently informed
years before of the great importance of this meeting.
“‘After the reading of my testament, the person who shall then be the
trustee of the accumulated funds, shall make known their amount, so
that, with the last stroke of noon, they may be divided between my heirs
then and there present.
“‘The different apartments of the house shall then be opened to them.
They will see in them divers objects, well worthy of interest, pity, and
respect--particularly in the Hall of Mourning.
“‘My desire is, that the house may not be sold, but that it may remain
furnished as it is, and serve as a place of meeting for my descendants,
if, as I hope, they attend to my last wishes.
“‘If, on the contrary, they are divided amongst themselves--if, instead
of uniting for one of the most generous enterprises that ever signalized
an age, they yield to the influence of selfish passions--if they prefer
a sterile individuality to a fruitful association--if, in this immense
fortune, they see only an opportunity for frivolous dissipation, or
sordid interest--may they be accursed by all those whom they might have
loved, succored, and disfettered!--and then let this house be utterly
demolished and destroyed, and the papers, of which Isaac Samuel
possesses the inventory, as well as the two portraits in the Red Room,
be burnt by the guardian of the property.
“‘I have spoken. My duty is accomplished. In all this, I have followed
the counsels of the man whom I revere and love as the image of God upon
earth.
“‘The faithful friend, who preserved for me the fifty thousand crowns,
the wreck of my fortune, knows the use I mean to make of them. I could
not refuse his friendship this mark of confidence. But I have concealed
from him the name of Isaac Samuel--for to have mentioned it might have
exposed this latter and his descendants to great dangers.
“‘In a short time, this friend, who knows not that my resolution to die
is so near its accomplishment, will come hither with my notary. Into
their hands, after the usual formalities, I shall deliver my sealed
testament.