cold cruelty of the few lines written by Rodin, that he started and bit
his lips with rage, as he recognized the words of the great poet, truly
Christian, who had dealt such rude blows to the false Church. Rodin
waited for some moments with angry impatience, thinking the voice would
continue; but Rose-Pompon was silent, or only continued to hum, and soon
changed to another air, that of the Good Pope, which she entoned, but
without words. Rodin, not venturing to look out of his window to see who
was this troublesome warbler, shrugged his shoulders, resumed his pen,
and continued:
“To it again. We must exasperate the independent spirits in all
countries--excite philosophic rage all over Europe make liberalism foam
at the mouth--raise all that is wild and noisy against Rome. To
effect this, we must proclaim in the face of the world these three
propositions. 1. It is abominable to assert that a man may be saved in
any faith whatever, provided his morals be pure. 2. It is odious and
absurd to grant liberty of conscience to the people. 3. The liberty of
the press cannot be held in too much horror.24
“We must bring the Pap-fed man to declare these propositions in
every respect orthodox--show him their good effect upon despotic
governments--upon true Catholics, the muzzlers of the people. He will
fall into the snare. The propositions once published, the storm will
burst forth. A general rising against Rome--a wide schism--the sacred
college divided into three parties. One approves--the other blames--the
third trembles. The Sick Man, still more frightened than he is now at
having allowed the destruction of Poland, will shrink from the clamors,
reproaches, threats, and violent ruptures that he has occasioned.
“That is well--and goes far.
“Then, set the Pope to shaking the conscience of the Sick Man, to
disturb his mind, and terrify his soul.
“To sum up. Make everything bitter to him--divide his council--isolate
him--frighten him--redouble the ferocious ardor of good Albini--revive
the appetite of the Sanfedists(25)--give them a gulf of liberals--let
there be pillage, rape, massacre, as at Cesena--a downright river
of Carbonaro blood--the Sick Man will have a surfeit of it. So many
butcheries in his name--he will shrink, be sure he will shrink--every
day will have its remorse, every night its terror, every minute
its anguish; and the abdication he already threatens will come at
last--perhaps too soon. That is now the only danger; you must provide
against it.
“In case of an abdication, the grand penitentiary has understood me.
Instead of confiding to a general the direction of our Order, the best
militia of the Holy See, I should command it myself. Thenceforward this
militia would give me no uneasiness. For instance: the Janissaries and
the Praetorian Guards were always fatal to authority--why?--because
they were able to organize themselves as defenders of the government,
independently of the government; hence their power of intimidation.
“Clement XIV. was a fool. To brand and abolish our Company was an absurd
fault. To protect and make it harmless, by declaring himself the General
of the Order, is what he should have done. The Company, then at his
mercy, would have consented to anything. He would have absorbed us, made
us vassals of the Holy See, and would no longer have had to fear our
services. Clement XIV. died of the cholic. Let him heed who hears. In a
similar case, I should not die the same death.”
Just then, the clear and liquid voice of Rose-Pompon was again heard.
Rodin bounded with rage upon his seat; but soon, as he listened to the
following verse, new to him (for, unlike Philemon’s widow, he had not
his Beranger at his fingers’ ends), the Jesuit, accessible to certain
odd, superstitious notions, was confused and almost frightened at so
singular a coincidence. It is Beranger’s Good Pope who speaks--
“What are monarchs? sheepish sots!
Or they’re robbers, puffed with pride,
Wearing badges of crime blots,
Till their certain graves gape wide.
If they’ll pour out coin for me,
I’ll absolve them--skin and bone!
If they haggle--they shall see,
My nieces dancing on their throne!
So laugh away!
Leap, my fay!
Only watch one hurt the thunder
First of all by Zeus under,
I’m the Pope, the whole world’s wonder!”
Rodin, half-risen from his chair, with outstretched neck and attentive
eye, was still listening, when Rose-Pompon, flitting like a bee from
flower to flower of her repertoire, had already begun the delightful air
of Colibri. Hearing no more, the Jesuit reseated himself, in a sort
of stupor; but, after some minutes’ reflection, his countenance again
brightened up, and he seemed to see a lucky omen in this singular
incident. He resumed his pen, and the first words he wrote partook, as
it were, of this strange confidence in fate.
“I have never had more hope of success than at this moment. Another
reason to neglect nothing. Every presentiment demands redoubled zeal. A
new thought occurred to me yesterday.
“We shall act here in concert. I have founded an ultra-Catholic paper
called Neighborly Love. From its ultramontane, tyrannical, liberticidal
fury, it will be thought the organ of Rome. I will confirm these
reports. They will cause new terrors.
“That will be well.
“I shall raise the question of the liberty of instruction. The raw
liberals will support us. Like fools, they admit us to equal rights;
when our privileges, our influence of the confessional, our obedience to
Rome, all place us beyond the circle of equal rights, by the advantages
which we enjoy. Double fools! they think us disarmed, because they have
disarmed themselves towards us.
“A burning question--irritating clamors--new cause of disgust for the
Weak Man. Every little makes a mickle.
“That also is very well.
“To sum up all in two words. The end is abdication--the means, vexation,
incessant torture. The Rennepont inheritance wilt pay for the election.
The price agreed, the merchandise will be sold.”
Rodin here paused abruptly, thinking he had heard some noise at that
door of his, which opened on the staircase; therefore he listened with
suspended breath; but all remaining silent, he thought he must have been
deceived, and took up his pen:
“I will take care of the Rennepont business--the hinge on which
will turn our temporal operations. We must begin from the
foundation--substitute the play of interests, and the springs of
passion, for the stupid club law of Father d’Aigrigny. He nearly
compromised everything--and yet he has good parts, knows the world, has
powers of seduction, quick insight--but plays ever in a single key, and
is not great enough to make himself little. In his stead, I shall know
how to make use of him. There is good stuff in the man. I availed myself
in time of the full powers given by the R. F. G.; I may inform Father
d’Aigrigny, in case of need, of the secret engagements taken by the
General towards myself. Until now, I have let him invent for this
inheritance the destination that you know of. A good thought, but
unseasonable. The same end, by other means.
“The information was false. There are over two hundred millions. Should
the eventuality occur, what was doubtful must become certain. An immense
latitude is left us. The Rennepont business is now doubly mine, and
within three months, the two hundred millions will be ours, by the
free will of the heirs themselves. It must be so; for this failing, the
temporal part would escape me, and my chances be diminished by one half.
I have asked for full powers; time presses, and I act as if I had
them. One piece of information is indispensable for the success of my
projects. I expect it from you, and I must have it; do you understand
me? The powerful influence of your brother at the Court of Vienna will
serve you in this. I wish to have the most precise details as to the
present position of the Duke de Reichstadt--the Napoleon II. of the
Imperialists. Is it possible, by means of your brother, to open a secret
correspondence with the prince, unknown to his attendants?
“Look to this promptly. It is urgent. This note will be sent off to day.
I shall complete it to-morrow. It will reach you, as usual, by the hands
of the petty shopkeeper.”
At the moment when Rodin was sealing this letter within a double
envelope, he thought that he again heard a noise at the door. He
listened. After some silence, several knocks were distinctly audible.
Rodin started. It was the first time any one had knocked at his door,
since nearly a twelve-month that he occupied this room. Hastily placing
the letter in his great-coat pocket, the Jesuit opened the old trunk
under his bed, took from it a packet of papers wrapped in a tattered
cotton handkerchief, added to them the two letters in cipher he had
just received, and carefully relocked the trunk. The knocking continued
without, and seemed to show more and more impatience. Rodin took the
greengrocer’s basket in his hand, tucked his umbrella under his arm, and
went with some uneasiness to ascertain who was this unexpected visitor.
He opened the door, and found himself face to face with Rose-Pompon, the
troublesome singer, and who now, with a light and pretty courtesy, said
to him in the most guileless manner in the world, “M. Rodin, if you
please?”
(23) On page 110 of Lamennais’ Affaires de Rome, will be seen the
following admirable scathing of Rome by the most truly evangelical
spirit of our age: “So long as the issue of the conflict between Poland
and her oppressors remained in the balances, the papal official organ
contained not one word to offend the so long victorious nation; but
hardly had she gone down under the Czar’s atrocious vengeance, and the
long torture of a whole land doomed to rack, and exile, and servitude
began, than this same journal found no language black enough to stain
those whom fortune had fled. Yet it is wrong to charge this unworthy
insult to papal power; it only cringes to the law which Russia lays down
to it, when it says:
“‘If you want to keep your own bones unbroken, bide where you are,
beside the scaffold, and, as the victims pass, hoot at them!’”
(24) See Pope Gregory XVI.’s Encyclical Letter to the Bishops in France,
1832.
(25) Hardly had the Sixteenth Gregory ascended the pontifical throne,
than news came of the rising in Bologna. His first idea was to call
the Austrians, and incite the Sanfedist volunteer bands of fanatics.
Cardinal Albini defeated the liberals at Cesena, where his followers
pillaged churches, sacked the town, and ill-treated women. At Forli,
cold-blooded murders were committed. In 1832 the Sanfedists (Holy
Faithites) openly paraded their medals, bearing the heads of the Duke
of Modena and the Pope; letters issued by the apostolic confederation;
privileges and indulgences. They took the following oath: “I. A. B.,
vow to rear the throne and altar over the bones of infamous freedom
shriekers, and exterminate these latter without pity for children’s
cries and women’s tears.” The disorders perpetrated by these marauders
went beyond all bounds; the Romish Court regularized anarchy and
organized the Sanfedists into volunteer corps, to which fresh privileges
were granted. (Revue deux Mondes, Nov. 15th, 1844.--“La Revolution en
Italie.”)
CHAPTER XXXI. FRIENDLY SERVICES.
Notwithstanding his surprise and uneasiness, Rodin did not frown. He
began by locking his door after him, as he noticed the young girl’s
inquisitive glance. Then he said to her good-naturedly, “Who do you
want, my dear?”
“M. Rodin,” repeated Rose-Pompon, stoutly, opening her bright blue eyes
to their full extent, and looking Rodin full in the face.
“It’s not here,” said he, moving towards the stairs. “I do not know him.
Inquire above or below.”
“No, you don’t! giving yourself airs at your age!” said Rose-Pompon,
shrugging her shoulders. “As if we did not know that you are M. Rodin.”
“Charlemagne,” said the socius, bowing; “Charlemagne, to serve you--if I
am able.”
“You are not able,” answered Rose-Pompon, majestically; then she added
with a mocking air, “So, we have our little pussy-cat hiding-places; we
change our name; we are afraid Mamma Rodin will find us out.”
“Come, my dear child,” said the socius, with a paternal smile; “you have
come to the right quarter. I am an old man, but I love youth--happy,
joyous youth! Amuse yourself, pray, at my expense. Only let me pass, for
I am in a hurry.” And Rodin again advanced towards the stairs.
“M. Rodin,” said Rose-Pompon, in a solemn voice, “I have very important
things to say to you, and advice to ask about a love affair.”
“Why, little madcap that you are! have you nobody to tease in your own
house, that you must come here?”
“I lodge in this house, M. Rodin,” answered Rose-Pompon, laying a
malicious stress on the name of her victim.
“You? Oh, dear, only to think I did not know I had such a pretty
neighbor.”
“Yes, I have lodged here six months, M. Rodin.”
“Really! where?”
“On the third story, front, M. Rodin.”
“It was you, then, that sang so well just now?”
“Rather.”
“You gave me great pleasure, I must say.”
“You are very polite, M. Rodin.”
“You lodge, I suppose, with your respectable family?”
“I believe you, M. Rodin,” said Rose-Pompon, casting down her eyes
with a timid air. “I lodge with Grandpapa Philemon, and Grandmamma
Bacchanal--who is a queen and no mistake.”
Rodin had hitherto been seriously uneasy, not knowing in what manner
Rose had discovered his real name. But on hearing her mention the
Bacchanal queen, with the information that she lodged in the house,
he found something to compensate for the disagreeable incident of
Rose-Pompon’s appearance. It was, indeed, important to Rodin to find
out the Bacchanal Queen, the mistress of Sleepinbuff, and the sister of
Mother Bunch, who had been noted as dangerous since her interview with
the superior of the convent, and the part she had taken in the projected
escape of Mdlle. de Cardoville. Moreover, Rodin hoped--thanks to what he
had just heard--to bring Rose-Pompon to confess to him the name of the
person from whom she had learned that “Charlemagne” masked “Rodin.”
Hardly had the young girl pronounced the name of the Bacchanal queen,
than Rodin clasped his hands, and appeared as much surprised as
interested.
“Oh, my dear child,” he exclaimed, “I conjure you not to jest on this
subject. Are you speaking of a young girl who bears that nickname, the
sister of a deformed needlewoman.”
“Yes, sir, the Bacchanal Queen is her nickname,” said Rose-Pompon,
astonished in her turn; “she is really Cephyse Soliveau, and she is my
friend.”
“Oh! she is your friend?” said Rodin, reflecting.
“Yes, sir, my bosom friend.”
“So you love her?”
“Like a sister. Poor girl! I do what I can for her, and that’s not much.
But how comes it that a respectable man of your age should know the
Bacchanal Queen?--Ah! that shows you have a false name!”
“My dear child, I am no longer inclined to laugh,” said Rodin, with
so sorrowful an air, that Rose-Pompon, reproaching herself with her
pleasantry, said to him: “But how comes it that you know Cephyse?”
“Alas! I do not know her--but a young fellow, that I like excessively--”
“Jacques Rennepont?”
“Otherwise called Sleepinbuff. He is now in prison for debt,” sighed
Rodin. “I saw him yesterday.”
“You saw him yesterday?--how strange!” said Rose-Pompon, clapping her
hands. “Quick! quick!--come over to Philemon’s, to give Cephyse news of
her lover. She is so uneasy about him.”
“My dear child, I should like to give her good news of that worthy
fellow, whom I like in spite of his follies, for who has not been guilty
of follies?” added Rodin, with indulgent good-nature.
“To be sure,” said Rose-Pompon, twisting about as if she still wore the
costume of a debardeur.
“I will say more,” added Rodin: “I love him because of his follies; for,
talk as we may, my dear child, there is always something good at bottom,
a good heart, or something, in those who spend generously their money
for other people.”
“Well, come! you are a very good sort of a man,” said Rose-Pompon,
enchanted with Rodin’s philosophy. “But why will you not come and see
Cephyse, and talk to her of Jacques?”
“Of what use would it be to tell her what she knows already--that
Jacques is in prison? What I should like, would be to get the worthy
fellow out of his scrape.”
“Oh, sir! only do that, only get Jacques out of prison,” cried Rose
Pompon, warmly, “and we will both give you a kiss--me and Cephyse!”
“It would be throwing kisses away, dear little madcap!” said Rodin,
smiling. “But be satisfied, I want no reward to induce me to do good
when I can.”
“Then you hope to get Jacques out of prison?”
Rodin shook his head, and answered with a grieved and disappointed air.
“I did hope it. Certainly, I did hope it; but now all is changed.”
“How’s that?” asked Rose-Pompon, with surprise.
“That foolish joke of calling me M. Rodin may appear very amusing to
you, my dear child. I understand it, you being only an echo. Some one
has said to you: ‘Go and tell M. Charlemagne that he is one M. Rodin.
That will be very funny.’”
“Certainly, I should never myself have thought of calling you M. Rodin.
One does not invent such names,” answered Rose-Pompon.
“Well! that person with his foolish jokes, has done, without knowing it,
a great injury to Jacques Rennepont.”
“What! because I called you Rodin instead of Charlemagne?” cried Rose
Pompon, much regretting the pleasantry which she had carried on at the
instigation of Ninny Moulin. “But really, sir,” she added, “what can
this joke have to do with the service that you were, about to render
Jacques?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you, my child. In truth, I am very sorry
for poor Jacques. Believe me, I am; but do let me pass.
“Listen to me, sir, I beg,” said Rose-Pompon; “if I told you the name
of the person who told me to call you Rodin, would you interest yourself
again for Jacques?”
“I do not wish to know any one’s secrets, my dear child. In all this,
you have been the echo of persons who are, perhaps, very dangerous;
and, notwithstanding the interest I feel for Jacques Rennepont, I do not
wish, you understand, to make myself enemies. Heaven forbid!”
Rose-Pompon did not at all comprehend Rodin’s fears, and upon this he
had counted; for after a second’s reflection, the young girl resumed:
“Well, sir--this is too deep for me; I do not understand it. All I know
is, that I am truly sorry if I have injured a good young man by a mere
joke. I will tell you exactly how it happened. My frankness may be of
some use.”
“Frankness will often clear up the most obscure matters,” said Rodin,
sententiously.
“After all,” said Rose-Pompon, “it’s Ninny’s fault. Why does he tell
me nonsense, that might injure poor Cephyse’s lover? You see, sir, it
happened in this way. Ninny Moulin who is fond of a joke, saw you just
now in the street. The portress told him that your name was Charlemagne.
He said to me: ‘No; his name is Rodin. We must play him a trick. Go to
his room, Rose-Pompon, knock at the door, and call him M. Rodin. You
will see what a rum face he will make.’ I promised Ninny Moulin not to
name him; but I do it, rather than run the risk of injuring Jacques.”
At Ninny Moulin’s name Rodin had not been able to repress a movement of
surprise. This pamphleteer, whom he had employed to edit the “Neighborly
Love,” was not personally formidable; but, being fond of talking in
his drink, he might become troublesome, particularly if Rodin, as was
probable, had often to visit this house, to execute his project upon
Sleepinbuff, through the medium of the Bacchanal Queen. The socius
resolved, therefore, to provide against this inconvenience.
“So, my dear child,” said he to Rose-Pompon, “it is a M. Desmoulins that
persuaded you to play off this silly joke?”
“Not Desmoulins, but Dumoulin,” corrected Rose. “He writes in the
pewholders’ papers, and defends the saints for money; for, if Ninny
Moulin is a saint, his patrons are Saint Drinkard and Saint Flashette,
as he himself declares.”
“This gentleman appears to be very gay.”
“Oh! a very good fellow.”
“But stop,” resumed Rodin, appearing to recollect himself; “ain’t he a
man about thirty-six or forty, fat, with a ruddy complexion?”
“Ruddy as a glass of red wine,” said Rose-Pompon, “and with a pimpled
nose like a mulberry.”
“That’s the man--M. Dumoulin. Oh! in that case, I am quite satisfied,
my dear child. The jest no longer makes me uneasy; for M. Dumoulin is a
very worthy man--only perhaps a little too fond of his joke.”
“Then, sir, you will try to be useful to Jacques? The stupid pleasantry
of Ninny Moulin will not prevent you?”
“I hope not.”
“But I must not tell Ninny Moulin that you know it was he who sent me to
call you M. Rodin--eh, sir?”
“Why not? In every case, my dear child, it is always better to speak
frankly the truth.”
“But, sir, Ninny Moulin so strongly recommended me not to name him to
you--”
“If you have named him, it is from a very good motive; why not avow
it? However, my dear child, this concerns you, not me. Do as you think
best.”
“And may I tell Cephyse of your good intentions towards Jacques?”
“The truth, my dear child, always the truth. One need never hesitate to
say what is.”
“Poor Cephyse! how happy she will be!” cried Rose-Pompon, cheerfully;
“and the news will come just in time.”
“Only you must not exaggerate; I do not promise positively to get this
good fellow out of prison; I say, that I will do what I can. But what I
promise positively is--for, since the imprisonment of poor Jacques, your
friend must be very much straitened--”
“Alas, sir!”
“What I promise positively is some little assistance which your friend
will receive to-day, to enable her to live honestly; and if she behaves
well--hereafter--why, hereafter, we shall see.”
“Oh, sir! you do not know how welcome will be your assistance to poor
Cephyse! One might fancy you were her actual good angel. Faith! you may
call yourself Rodin, or Charlemagne; all I know is, that you are a nice,
sweet--”
“Come, come, do not exaggerate,” said Rodin; “say a good sort of old
fellow; nothing more, my dear child. But see how things fall out,
sometimes! Who could have told me, when I heard you knock at my
door--which, I must say, vexed me a great deal--that it was a pretty
little neighbor of mine, who under the pretext of playing off a joke,
was to put me in the way of doing a good action? Go and comfort your
friend; this evening she will receive some assistance; and let us have
hope and confidence. Thanks be, there are still some good people in the
world!”
“Oh, sir! you prove it yourself.”
“Not at all! The happiness of the old is to see the young happy.”
This was said by Rodin with so much apparent kindness, that Rose-Pompon
felt the tears well up to her eyes, and answered with much emotion:
“Sir, Cephyse and me are only poor girls; there are many more virtuous
in the world; but I venture to say, we have good hearts. Now, if ever
you should be ill, only send for us; there are no Sisters of Charity
that will take better care of you. It is all that we can offer you,
without reckoning Philemon, who shall go through fire and water for
you, I give you my word for it--and Cephyse, I am sure, will answer for
Jacques also, that he will be yours in life and death.”
“You see, my dear child, that I was right in saying--a fitful head and a
good heart. Adieu, till we meet again.”
Thereupon Rodin, taking up the basket, which he had placed on the ground
by the side of his umbrella, prepared to descend the stairs.
“First of all, you must give me this basket; it will be in your way
going down,” said Rose-Pompon, taking the basket from the hands of
Rodin, notwithstanding his resistance. Then she added: “Lean upon my
arm. The stairs are so dark. You might slip.”
“I will accept your offer, my dear child, for I am not very courageous.”
Leaning paternally on the right arm of Rose-Pompon, who held the
basket in her left hand, Rodin descended the stairs, and crossed the
court-yard.
“Up there, on the third story, do you see that big face close to the
window-frame?” said Rose-Pompon suddenly to Rodin, stopping in the
centre of the little court. “That is my Ninny Moulin. Do you know him?
Is he the same as yours?”
“The same as mine,” said Rodin, raising his head, and waving his hand
very affectionately to Jacques Dumoulin, who, stupefied thereat, retired
abruptly from the window.
“The poor fellow! I am sure he is afraid of me since his foolish joke,”
said Rodin, smiling. “He is very wrong.”
And he accompanied these last words with a sinister nipping of the lips,
not perceived by Rose-Pompon.
“And now, my dear child,” said he, as they both entered the passage, “I
no longer need you assistance; return to your friend, and tell her the
good news you have heard.”
“Yes, sir, you are right. I burn with impatience to tell her what a good
man you are.” And Rose-Pompon sprung towards the stairs.
“Stop, stop! how about my basket that the little madcap carries off with
her?” said Rodin.
“Oh true! I beg your pardon, sir. Poor Cephyse! how pleased she will be.
Adieu, sir!” And Rose-Pompon’s pretty figure disappeared in the darkness
of the staircase, which she mounted with an alert and impatient step.
Rodin issued from the entry. “Here is your basket, my good lady,” said
he, stopping at the threshold of Mother Arsene’s shop. “I give you my
humble thanks for your kindness.”
“For nothing, my dear sir, for nothing. It is all at your service. Well,
was the radish good?”
“Succulent, my dear madame, and excellent.”
“Oh! I am glad of it. Shall we soon see you again?”
“I hope so. But could you tell me where is the nearest post-office?”
“Turn to the left, the third house, at the grocer’s.”
“A thousand thanks.”
“I wager it’s a love letter for your sweetheart,” said Mother Arsene,
enlivened probably by Rose Pompon’s and Ninny Moulin’s proximity.
“Ha! ha! ha! the good lady!” said Rodin, with a titter. Then, suddenly
resuming his serious aspect, he made a low bow to the greengrocer,
adding: “Your most obedient humble servant!” and walked out into the
street.
We now usher the reader into Dr. Baleinier’s asylum, in which Mdlle. de
Cardoville was confined.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE ADVICE.
Adrienne de Cardoville had been still more strictly confined in Dr.
Baleinier’s house, since the double nocturnal attempt of Agricola and
Dagobert, in which the soldier, though severely wounded, had succeeded,
thanks to the intrepid devotion of his son, seconded by the heroic Spoil
sport, in gaining the little garden gate of the convent, and escaping by
way of the boulevard, along with the young smith. Four o’clock had just
struck. Adrienne, since the previous day, had been removed to a chamber
on the second story of the asylum. The grated window, with closed
shutters, only admitted a faint light to this apartment. The young lady,
since her interview with Mother Bunch, expected to be delivered any day
by the intervention of her friends. But she felt painful uneasiness on
the subject of Agricola and Dagobert, being absolutely ignorant of the
issue of the struggle in which her intended liberators had been engaged
with the people of the asylum and convent. She had in vain questioned
her keepers on the subject; they had remained perfectly mute. These new
incidents had augmented the bitter resentment of Adrienne against the
Princess de Saint Dizier, Father d’Aigrigny, and their creatures. The
slight paleness of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s charming face, and her fine
eyes a little drooping, betrayed her recent sufferings; seated before
a little table, with her forehead resting upon one of her hands, half
veiled by the long curls of her golden hair, she was turning over the
leaves of a book. Suddenly, the door opened, and M. Baleinier entered.
The doctor, a Jesuit, in lay attire, a docile and passive instrument
of the will of his Order, was only half in the confidence of Father
d’Aigrigny and the Princess de Saint-Dizier. He was ignorant of the
object of the imprisonment of Mdlle. de Cardoville; he was ignorant also
of the sudden change which had taken place in the relative position
of Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, after the reading of the testament
of Marius de Rennepont. The doctor had, only the day before, received
orders from Father d’Aigrigny (now acting under the directions of Rodin)
to confine Mdlle. de Cardoville still more strictly, to act towards her
with redoubled severity, and to endeavor to force her, it will be seen
by what expedients, to renounce the judicial proceedings, which she
promised herself to take hereafter against her persecutors. At sight of
the doctor, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not hide the aversion and disdain
with which this man inspired her. M. Baleinier, on the contrary, always
smiling, always courteous, approached Adrienne with perfect ease and
confidence, stopped a few steps from her, as if to study her features
more attentively, and then added like a man who is satisfied with the
observations he had made: “Come! the unfortunate events of the night
before last have had a less injurious influence than I feared. There is
some improvement; the complexion is less flushed, the look calmer,
the eyes still somewhat too bright, but no longer shining with such
unnatural fire. You are getting on so well! Now the cure must be
prolonged--for this unfortunate night affair threw you into a state
of excitement, that was only the more dangerous from your not being
conscious of it. Happily, with care, your recovery will not, I hope, be
very much delayed.” Accustomed though she was to the audacity of this
tool of the Congregation, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not forbear saying
to him, with a smile of bitter disdain: “What impudence, sir, there is
in your probity! What effrontery in your zeal to earn your hire! Never
for a moment do you lay aside your mask; craft and falsehood are ever on
your lips. Really, if this shameful comedy causes you as much fatigue as
it does me disgust and contempt, they can never pay you enough.”
“Alas!” said the doctor, in a sorrowful tone; “always this unfortunate
delusion, that you are not in want of our care!--that I am playing a
part, when I talk to you of the sad state in which you were when we were
obliged to bring you hither by stratagem. Still, with the exception of
this little sign of rebellious insanity, your condition has marvellously
improved. You are on the high-road to a complete cure. By-and-by, your
excellent heart will render me the justice that is due to me; and, one
day, I shall be judged as I deserve.”
“I, believe it, sir; the day approaches, in which you will be judged as
you deserve,” said Adrienne, laying great stress upon the two words.
“Always that other fixed idea,” said the doctor with a sort of
commiseration. “Come, be reasonable. Do not think of this childishness.”
“What! renounce my intention to demand at the hands of justice
reparation for myself, and disgrace for you and your accomplices? Never,
sir--never!”
“Well!” said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders; “once at liberty,
thank heaven, you will have many other things to think of, my fair
enemy.”
“You forget piously the evil that you do; but I, sir, have a better
memory.”
“Let us talk seriously. Have you really the intention of applying to the
courts?” inquired Dr. Baleinier, in a grave tone.
“Yes, sir, and you know that what I intend, I firmly carry out.”
“Well! I can only conjure you not to follow out this idea,” replied the
doctor, in a still more solemn tone; “I ask it as a favor, in the name
of your own interest.”
“I think, sir, that you are a little too ready to confound your interest
with mine.”
“Now come,” said Dr. Baleinier, with a feigned impatience, as if quite
certain of convincing Mdlle. de Cardoville on the instant; “would you
have the melancholy courage to plunge into despair two persons full of
goodness and generosity?”
“Only two? The jest would be complete, if you were to reckon three:
you, sir, and my aunt, and Abbe d’Aigrigny; for these are no doubt the
generous persons in whose name you implore my pity.”
“No, madame; I speak neither of myself, nor of your aunt, nor of Abbe
d’Aigrigny.”
“Of whom, then, sir?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise.
“Of two poor fellows, who, no doubt sent by those whom you call your
friends, got into the neighboring convent the other night, and thence
into this garden. The guns which you heard go off were fired at them.”
“Alas! I thought so. They refused to tell me if either of them was
wounded,” said Adrienne, with painful emotion.
“One of them received a wound, but not very serious, since he was able
to fly and escape pursuit.”
“Thank God!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, clasping her hands with fervor.
“It is quite natural that you should rejoice at their escape, but
by what strange contradiction do you now wish to put the officers of
justice on their track? A singular manner, truly, of rewarding their
devotion!”
“What do you say, sir?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“For if they should be arrested,” resumed Dr. Baleinier, without
answering her, “as they have been guilty of housebreaking and attempted
burglary, they would be sent to the galleys.”
“Heavens! and for my sake!”
“Yes; it would be for you, and what is worse, by you, that they would be
condemned.”
“By me, sir?”
“Certainly; that is, if you follow up your vengeance against your aunt
and Abbe d’Aigrigny--I do not speak of myself, for I am quite safe; in
a word, if you persist in laying your complaint before the magistrates,
that you have been unjustly confined in this house.”
“I do not understand you, sir. Explain yourself,” said Adrienne, with
growing uneasiness.
“Child that you are!” cried the Jesuit of the short robe, with an air of
conviction; “do you think that if the law once takes cognizance of this
affair, you can stop short its action where and when you please? When
you leave this house, you lodge a complaint against me and against
your family; well, what happens? The law interferes, inquires, calls
witnesses, enters into the most minute investigations. Then, what
follows? Why, that this nocturnal escalade, which the superior of the
convent has some interest in hushing up, for fear of scandal--that this
nocturnal attempt, I say, which I also would keep quiet, is necessarily
divulged, and as it involves a serious crime, to which a heavy penalty
is attached, the law will ferret into it, and find out these unfortunate
men, and if, as is probable, they are detained in Paris by their duties
or occupations, or even by a false security, arising from the honorable
motives which they know to have actuated them, they will be arrested.
And who will be the cause of this arrest? You, by your deposition
against us.”
“Oh, sir! that would be horrible; but it is impossible.”
“It is very possible, on the contrary,” returned M. Baleinier: “so that,
while I and the superior of the convent, who alone are really entitled
to complain, only wish to keep quiet this unpleasant affair, it is
you--you, for whom these unfortunate men have risked the galleys--that
will deliver them up to justice.”
Though Mdlle. de Cardoville was not completely duped by the lay Jesuit,
she guessed that the merciful intentions which he expressed with regard
to Dagobert and his son, would be absolutely subordinate to the course
she might take in pressing or abandoning the legitimate vengeance which
she meant to claim of authority. Indeed, Rodin, whose instructions the
doctor was following without knowing it, was too cunning to have it said
to Mdlle. de Cardoville: “If you attempt any proceedings, we denounce
Dagobert and his son;” but he attained the same end, by inspiring
Adrienne with fears on the subject of her two liberators, so as to
prevent her taking any hostile measures. Without knowing the exact law
on the subject, Mdlle. de Cardoville had too much good sense not to
understand that Dagobert and Agricola might be very seriously involved
in consequence of their nocturnal adventure, and might even find
themselves in a terrible position. And yet, when she thought of all
she had suffered in that house, and of all the just resentment she
entertained in the bottom of her heart, Adrienne felt unwilling to
renounce the stern pleasure of exposing such odious machinations to the
light of day. Dr. Baleinier watched with sullen attention her whom he
considered his dupe, for he thought he could divine the cause of the
silence and hesitation of Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“But, sir,” resumed the latter, unable to conceal her anxiety, “if I
were disposed, for whatever reason, to make no complaint, and to forget
the wrongs I have suffered, when should I leave this place?”
“I cannot tell; for I do not know when you will be radically cured,”
said the doctor, benignantly. “You are in a very good way, but--”
“Still this insolent and stupid acting!” broke forth Mdlle. de
Cardoville, interrupting the doctor with indignation. “I ask, and if it
must be, I entreat you to tell me how long I am to be shut up in this
dreadful house, for I shall leave it some day, I suppose?”
“I hope so, certainly,” said the Jesuit of the short robe, with unction;
“but when, I am unable to say. Moreover, I must tell you frankly, that
every precaution is taken against such attempts as those of the other
night; and the most vigorous watch will be maintained, to prevent your
communicating with any one. And all this in your own interest, that your
poor head may not again be dangerously excited.”
“So, sir,” said Adrienne, almost terrified, “compared with what awaits
me, the last few days have been days of liberty.”
“Your interest before everything,” answered the doctor, in a fervent
tone.
Mdlle. de Cardoville, feeling the impotence of her indignation and
despair, heaved a deep sigh, and hid her face in her hands.
At this moment, quick footsteps were heard in the passage, and one of
the nurses entered, after having knocked at the door.
“Sir,” said she to the doctor, with a frightened air, “there are two
gentlemen below, who wish to see you instantly, and the lady also.”
Adrienne raised her head hastily; her eyes were bathed in tears.
“What are the names of these persons?” said M. Baleinier, much
astonished.
“One of them said to me,” answered the nurse: “‘Go and inform Dr.
Baleinier that I am a magistrate, and that I come on a duty regarding
Mdlle. de Cardoville.’”
“A magistrate!” exclaimed the Jesuit of the short robe, growing purple
in the face, and unable to hide his surprise and uneasiness.
“Heaven be praised!” cried Adrienne, rising with vivacity, her
countenance beaming through her tears with hope and joy; “my friends
have been informed in time, and the hour of justice is arrived!”
“Ask these persons to walk up,” said Dr. Baleinier, after a moment’s
reflection. Then, with a still more agitated expression of countenance,
he approached Adrienne with a harsh, and almost menacing air, which
contrasted with the habitual placidity of his hypocritical smile, and
said to her in a low voice: “Take care, madame! do not rejoice too
soon.”
“I no longer fear you,” answered Mdlle. de Cardoville, with a bright,
flashing eye. “M. de Montbron is no doubt returned to Paris, and has
been informed in time. He accompanies the magistrate, and comes to
deliver me. I pity you, sir--both you and yours,” added Adrienne, with
an accent of bitter irony.
“Madame,” cried M. Baleinier, no longer able to dissemble his growing
alarm, “I repeat to you, take care! Remember what I have told you. Your
accusations would necessarily involve the discovery of what took place
the other night. Beware! the fate of the soldier and his son is in your
hands. Recollect they are in danger of the convict’s chains.”
“Oh! I am not your dupe, sir. You are holding out a covert menace.
Have at least the courage to say to me, that, if I complain to the
magistrates, you will denounce the soldier and his son.”
“I repeat, that, if you make any complaint, those two people are lost,”
answered the doctor, ambiguously.
Startled by what was really dangerous in the doctor’s threats, Adrienne
asked: “Sir, if this magistrate questions me, do you think I will tell
him a falsehood?”
“You will answer what is true,” said M. Baleinier, hastily, in the hope
of still attaining his end. “You will answer that you were in so excited
a state of mind a few days ago, that it was thought advisable, for your
own sake, to bring you hither, without your knowing it. But you are now
so much better, that you acknowledge the utility of the measures taken
with regard to you. I will confirm these words for, after all, it is the
truth.”
“Never!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, with indignation, “never will I be
the accomplice of so infamous a falsehood; never will I be base enough
to justify the indignities that I have suffered!”
“Here is the magistrate,” said M. Baleinier, as he caught the sound of
approaching footsteps. “Beware!”
The door opened, and, to the indescribable amazement of the doctor,
Rodin appeared on the threshold, accompanied by a man dressed in
black, with a dignified and severe countenance. In the interest of his
projects, and from motives of craft and prudence that will hereafter be
known, Rodin had not informed Father d’Aigrigny, and consequently
the doctor, of the unexpected visit he intended to pay to the asylum,
accompanied by a magistrate. On the contrary, he had only the day before
given orders to M. Baleinier to confine Mdlle. de Cardoville still more
strictly. Therefore, imagine the stupor of the doctor when he saw the
judicial officer, whose unexpected presence and imposing aspect were
otherwise sufficiently alarming, enter the room, accompanied by Rodin,
Abbe d’Aigrigny’s humble and obscure secretary. From the door,
Rodin, who was very shabbily dressed, as usual, pointed out Mdlle.
de Cardoville to the magistrate, by a gesture at once respectful and
compassionate. Then, while the latter, who had not been able to repress
a movement of admiration at sight of the rare beauty of Adrienne, seemed
to examine her with as much surprise as interest, the Jesuit modestly
receded several steps.
Dr. Baleinier in his extreme astonishment, hoping to be understood by
Rodin, made suddenly several private signals, as if to interrogate him
on the cause of the magistrate’s visit. But this was only productive of
fresh amazement to M. Baleinier; for Rodin did not appear to recognize
him, or to understand his expressive pantomime, and looked at him with
affected bewilderment. At length, as the doctor, growing impatient,
redoubled his mute questionings, Rodin advanced with a stride, stretched
forward his crooked neck, and said, in a loud voice: “What is your
pleasure, doctor?”
These words, which completely disconcerted Baleinier, broke the silence
which had reigned for some seconds, and the magistrate turned round.
Rodin added, with imperturbable coolness: “Since our arrival, the doctor
has been making all sorts of mysterious signs to me. I suppose he has
something private to communicate, but, as I have no secrets, I must beg
him to speak out loud.”
This reply, so embarrassing for M. Baleinier, uttered in a tone of
aggression, and with an air of icy coldness, plunged the doctor into
such new and deep amazement, that he remained for some moments without
answering. No doubt the magistrate was struck with this incident, and
with the silence which followed it, for he cast a look of great severity
on the doctor. Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had expected to have seen M. de
Montbron, was also singularly surprised.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE ACCUSER.
Baleinier, disconcerted for a moment by the unexpected presence of a
magistrate, and by Rodin’s inexplicable attitude, soon recovered his
presence of mind, and addressing his colleague of the longer robe, said
to him: “If I make signs to you, sir, it was that, while I wished
to respect the silence which this gentleman”--glancing at the
magistrate--“has preserved since his entrance, I desired to express my
surprise at the unexpected honor of this visit.”
“It is to the lady that I will explain the reason for my silence, and
beg her to excuse it,” replied the magistrate, as he made a half-bow to
Adrienne, whom he thus continued to address: “I have just received
so serious a declaration with regard to you, madame, that I could not
forbear looking at you for a moment in silence, to see if I could read
in your countenance or in your attitude, the truth or falsehood of the
accusation that has been placed in my hands; and I have every reason to
believe that it is but too well founded.”
“May I at length be informed, sir,” said Dr. Baleinier, in a polite but
firm tone, “to whom I have the honor of speaking?”
“Sir, I am juge d’instruction, and I have come to inform myself as to a
fact which has been pointed out to me--”
“Will you do me the honor to explain yourself, sir?” said the doctor,
bowing.
“Sir,” resumed the magistrate, M. de Gernande, a man of about fifty
years of age, full of firmness and straightforwardness, and knowing how
to unite the austere duties of his position with benevolent politeness,
“you are accused of having committed--a very great error, not to use a
harsher expression. As for the nature of that error, I prefer believing,
sir, that you (a first rate man of science) may have been deceived in
the calculation of a medical case, rather than suspect you of having
forgotten all that is sacred in the exercise of a profession that is
almost a priesthood.”
“When you specify the facts, sir,” answered the Jesuit of the short
robe, with a degree of haughtiness, “it will be easy for me to prove
that my reputation as a man of science is no less free from reproach,
than my conscience as a man of honor.”
“Madame,” said M. de Gernande, addressing Adrienne, “is it true that you
were conveyed to this house by stratagem?”
“Sir,” cried M. Baleinier, “permit me to observe, that the manner in
which you open this question is an insult to me.”
“Sir, it is to the lady that I have the honor of addressing myself,”
replied M. de Gernande, sternly; “and I am the sole judge of the
propriety of my questions.”
Adrienne was about to answer affirmatively to the magistrate, when an
expressive took from Dr. Baleinier reminded her that she would perhaps
expose Dagobert and his son to cruel dangers. It was no base and vulgar
feeling of vengeance by which Adrienne was animated, but a legitimate
indignation, inspired by odious hypocrisy. She would have thought it
cowardly not to unmask the criminals; but wishing to avoid compromising
others, she said to the magistrate, with an accent full of mildness and
dignity: “Permit me, sir, in my turn, rather to ask you a question.”
“Speak, madame.”
“Will the answer I make be considered a formal accusation?”
“I have come hither, madame, to ascertain the truth, and no
consideration should induce you to dissemble it.”
“So be it, sir,” resumed Adrienne; “but suppose, having just causes of
complaint, I lay them before you, in order to be allowed to leave this
house, shall I afterwards be at liberty not to press the accusations I
have made?”
“You may abandon proceedings, madame, but the law will take up your case
in the name of society, if its rights have been inured in your person.”
“Shall I then not be allowed to pardon? Should I not be sufficiently
avenged by a contemptuous forgetfulness of the wrongs I have suffered?”
“Personally, madame, you may forgive and forget; but I have the honor
to repeat to you, that society cannot show the same indulgence, if
it should turn out that you have been the victim of a criminal
machination--and I have every reason to fear it is so. The manner in
which you express yourself, the generosity of your sentiments, the
calmness and dignity of your attitude, convince me that I have been well
informed.”
“I hope, sir,” said Dr. Baleinier, recovering his coolness, “that you
will at least communicate the declaration that has been made to you.”
“It has been declared to me, sir,” said the magistrate, in a stern
voice, “that Mdlle. de Cardoville was brought here by stratagem.”
“By stratagem?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is true. The lady was brought here by stratagem,” answered the
Jesuit of the short robe, after a moment’s silence.
“You confess it, then?” said M. de Gernande.
“Certainly I do, sir. I admit that I had recourse to means which we are
unfortunately too often obliged to employ, when persons who most need
our assistance are unconscious of their own sad state.”
“But, sir,” replied the magistrate, “it has also been declared to me,
that Mdlle. de Cardoville never required such aid.”
“That, sir, is a question of medical jurisprudence, which has to be
examined and discussed,” said M. Baleinier, recovering his assurance.
“It will, indeed, sir, be seriously discussed; for you are accused of
confining Mdlle. De Cardoville, while in the full possession of all her
faculties.”
“And may I ask you for what purpose?” said M. de Baleinier, with a
slight shrug of the shoulders, and in a tone of irony. “What interest
had I to commit such a crime, even admitting that my reputation did not
place me above so odious and absurd a charge?”
“You are said to have acted, sir, in furtherance of a family plot,
devised against Mdlle. de Cardoville for a pecuniary motive.”
“And who has dared, sir, to make so calumnious a charge?” cried Dr.
Baleinier, with indignant warmth. “Who has had the audacity to accuse
a respectable, and I dare to say, respected man, of having been the
accomplice in such infamy?”
“I,” said Rodin, coldly.
“You!” cried Dr. Baleinier, falling back two steps, as if thunderstruck.
“Yes, I accuse you,” repeated Rodin, in a clear sharp voice.
“Yes, it was this gentleman who came to me this morning, with ample
proofs, to demand my interference in favor of Mdlle. de Cardoville,”
said the magistrate, drawing back a little, to give Adrienne the
opportunity of seeing her defender.
Throughout this scene, Rodin’s name had not hitherto been mentioned.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had often heard speak of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s
secretary in no very favorable terms; but, never having seen him, she
did not know that her liberator was this very Jesuit. She therefore
looked towards him, with a glance in which were mingled curiosity,
interest, surprise and gratitude. Rodin’s cadaverous countenance, his
repulsive ugliness, his sordid dress, would a few days before have
occasioned Adrienne a perhaps invincible feeling of disgust. But the
young lady, remembering how the sempstress, poor, feeble, deformed,
and dressed almost in rags was endowed notwithstanding her wretched
exterior, with one of the noblest and most admirable hearts, recalled
this recollection in favor of the Jesuit. She forgot that he was ugly
and sordid, only to remember that he was old, that he seemed poor, and
that he had come to her assistance. Dr. Baleinier, notwithstanding his
craft, notwithstanding his audacious hypocrisy, in spite even of his
presence of mind, could not conceal how much he was disturbed by Rodin’s
denunciation. His head became troubled as he remembered how, on the
first day of Adrienne’s confinement in this house, the implacable appeal
of Rodin, through the hole in the door, had prevented him (Baleinier)
from yielding to emotions of pity, inspired by the despair of this
unfortunate young girl, driven almost to doubt of her own reason. And
yet it was this very Rodin, so cruel, so inexorable, the devoted agent
of Father d’Aigrigny, who denounced him (Baleinier), and brought a
magistrate to set Adrienne at liberty--when, only the day before, Father
d’Aigrigny had ordered an increase of severity towards her!
The lay Jesuit felt persuaded that Rodin was betraying Father d’Aigrigny
in the most shameful manner, and that Mdlle. de Cardoville’s friends had
bribed and bought over this scoundrelly secretary. Exasperated by what
he considered a monstrous piece of treachery, the doctor exclaimed, in a
voice broken with rage: “And it is you, sir, that have the impudence to
accuse me--you, who only a few days ago--”
Then, reflecting that the retort upon Rodin would be self-accusation,
he appeared to give way to an excess of emotion, and resumed with
bitterness: “Ah, sir, you are the last person that I should have thought
capable of this odious denunciation. It is shameful!”
“And who had a better right than I to denounce this infamy?” answered
Rodin, in a rude, overbearing tone. “Was I not in a position to
learn--unfortunately, too late--the nature of the conspiracy of which
Mdlle. de Cardoville and others have been the victims? Then, what was
my duty as an honest man? Why, to inform the magistrate, to prove what I
set forth, and to accompany him hither. That is what I have done.”
“So, sir,” said the doctor, addressing the magistrate, “it is not only
myself that this man accuses, but he dares also--”
“I accuse the Abbe d’Aigrigny,” resumed Rodin, in a still louder and
more imperative tone, interrupting the doctor, “I accuse the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, I accuse you, sir--of having, from a vile motive of self
interest, confined Mdlle. de Cardoville in this house, and the two
daughters of Marshal Simon in the neighboring convent. Is that clear?”
“Alas! it is only too true,” said Adrienne, hastily. “I have seen those
poor children all in tears, making signs of distress to me.”
The accusation of Rodin, with regard to the orphans, was a new and
fearful blow for Dr. Baleinier. He felt perfectly convinced that the
traitor had passed clear over to the enemy’s camp. Wishing therefore to
put an end to this embarrassing scene, he tried to put a good face on
the matter, in spite of his emotion, and said to the magistrate:
“I might confine myself, sir, to silence--disdaining to answer such
accusations, till a judicial decision had given them some kind of
authority. But, strong in a good conscience I address myself to Mdlle.
de Cardoville, and I beg her to say if this very morning I did not
inform her, that her health would soon be sufficiently restored to allow
her to leave this house. I conjure her, in the name of her well-known
love of truth to state if such was not my language, when I was alone
with her--”
“Come, sir!” said Rodin, interrupting Baleinier with an insolent air;
“suppose that, from pure generosity, this dear young lady were to admit
as much--what will it prove in your favor?--why, nothing at all.”
“What, sir,” cried the doctor, “do you presume--”
“I presume to unmask you, without asking your leave. What have you just
told us? Why, that being alone with Mdlle. de Cardoville, you talked to
her as if she were really mad. How very conclusive!”
“But, sir--” cried the doctor.
“But, sir,” resumed Rodin, without allowing him to continue, “it is
evident that, foreseeing the possibility of what has occurred to-day,
and, to provide yourself with a hole to creep out at, you have pretended
to believe your own execrable falsehood, in presence of this poor young
lady, that you might afterwards call in aid the evidence of your own
assumed conviction. Come, sir! such stories will not go down with people
of common sense or common humanity.”
“Come now, sir!” exclaimed Baleinier, angrily.
“Well, sir,” resumed Rodin, in a still louder voice, which completely
drowned that of the doctor; “is it true, or is it not, that you have
recourse to the mean evasion of ascribing this odious imprisonment to a
scientific error? I affirm that you do so, and that you think yourself
safe, because you can now say: ‘Thanks to my care, the young lady has
recovered her reason. What more would you have?’”
“Yes, I do say that, sir, and I maintain it.”
“You maintain a falsehood; for it is proven that the lady never lost her
reason for a moment.”
“But I, sir, maintain that she did lose it.”
“And I, sir, will prove the contrary,” said Rodin.
“You? How will you do that?” cried the doctor.
“That I shall take care not to tell you at present, as you may
well suppose,” answered Rodin, with an ironical smile, adding with
indignation: “But, really, sir, you ought to die for shame, to dare to
raise such a question in presence of the lady. You should at least have
spared her this discussion.”
“Sir!”
“Oh, fie, sir! I say, fie! It is odious to maintain this argument before
her--odious if you speak truth, doubly odious if you lie,” said Rodin,
with disgust.
“This violence is inconceivable!” cried the Jesuit of the short robe,
exasperated; “and I think the magistrate shows great partiality in
allowing such gross calumnies to be heaped upon me!”
“Sir,” answered M. de Gernande, severely, “I am entitled not only to
hear, but to provoke any contradictory discussion that may enlighten
me in the execution of my duty; it results from all this, that, even in
your opinion, sir, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s health is sufficiently good to
allow her to return home immediately.”
“At least, I do not see any very serious inconvenience likely to arise
from it, sir,” said the doctor: “only I maintain that the cure is not
so complete as it might have been, and, on this subject, I decline all
responsibility for the future.”
“You can do so, safely,” said Rodin; “it is not likely that the young
lady will ever again have recourse to your honest assistance.”
“It is useless, therefore, to employ my official authority, to demand
the immediate liberation of Mdlle. de Cardoville,” said the magistrate.
“She is free,” said Baleinier, “perfectly free.”
“As for the question whether you have imprisoned her on the plea of a
suppositious madness, the law will inquire into it, sir, and you will be
heard.”
“I am quite easy, sir,” answered M. Baleinier, trying to look so; “my
conscience reproaches me with nothing.”
“I hope it may turn out well, sir,” said M. de Gernande. “However bad
appearances may be, more especially when persons of your station in
society are concerned, we should always wish to be convinced of their
innocence.” Then, turning to Adrienne, he added: “I understand, madame,
how painful this scene must be to all your feelings of delicacy and
generosity; hereafter, it will depend upon yourself, either to proceed
for damages against M. Baleinier, or to let the law take its course.
One word more. The bold and upright man”--here the magistrate pointed
to Rodin--“who has taken up your cause in so frank and disinterested a
manner, expressed a belief that you would, perhaps, take charge for the
present of Marshal Simon’s daughters, whose liberation I am about to
demand from the convent where they also are confined by stratagem.”
“The fact is, sir,” replied Adrienne, “that, as soon as I learned the
arrival of Marshal Simon’s daughters in Paris, my intention was to offer
them apartments in my house. These young ladies are my near relations.
It is at once a duty and a pleasure for me to treat them as sisters. I
shall, therefore, be doubly grateful to you, sir, if you will trust them
to my care.”
“I think that I cannot serve them better,” answered M. de Gernande.
Then, addressing Baleinier, he added, “Will you consent, sir, to my
bringing these two ladies hither? I will go and fetch them, while Mdlle.
de Cardoville prepares for her departure. They will then be able to
leave this house with their relation.”
“I entreat the lady to make use of this house as her own, until she
leaves it,” replied M. Baleinier. “My carriage shall be at her orders to
take her home.”
“Madame,” said the magistrate, approaching Adrienne, “without prejudging
the question, which must soon be decided by, a court of law, I may at
least regret that I was not called in sooner. Your situation must have
been a very cruel one.”
“There will at least remain to me, sir, from this mournful time,”
said Adrienne, with graceful dignity, “one precious and touching
remembrance--that of the interest which you have shown me. I hope that
you will one day permit me to thank you, at my own home, not for the
justice you have done me, but for the benevolent and paternal manner in
which you have done it. And moreover, sir,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville,
with a sweet smile, “I should like to prove to you, that what they call
my cure is complete.”
M. de Gernande bowed respectfully in reply. During the abort dialogue of
the magistrate with Adrienne, their backs were both turned to Baleinier
and Rodin. The latter, profiting by this moment’s opportunity, hastily
slipped into the doctor’s hand a note just written with a pencil in the
bottom of his hat. Baleinier looked at Rodin in stupefied amazement. But
the latter made a peculiar sign, by raising his thumb to his forehead,
and drawing it twice across his brow. Then he remained impassible. This
had passed so rapidly, that when M. de Gernande turned round, Rodin was
at a distance of several steps from Dr. Baleinier, and looking at Mdlle.
de Cardoville with respectful interest.
“Permit me to accompany you, sir,” said the doctor, preceding the
magistrate, whom Mdlle. de Cardoville saluted with much affability. Then
both went out, and Rodin remained alone with the young lady.
After conducting M. de Gernande to the outer door of the house, M.
Baleinier made haste to read the pencil-note written by Rodin; it ran as
follows: “The magistrate is going to the convent, by way of the street.
Run round by the garden, and tell the Superior to obey the order I
have given with regard to the two young girls. It is of the utmost
importance.”
The peculiar sign which Rodin had made, and the tenor of this note,
proved to Dr. Baleinier, who was passing from surprise to amazement,
that the secretary, far from betraying the reverend father, was still
acting for the Greater Glory of the Lord. However, whilst he obeyed the
orders, M. Baleinier sought in vain to penetrate the motives of Rodin’s
inexplicable conduct, who had himself informed the authorities of an
affair that was to have been hushed up, and that might have the most
disastrous consequences for Father d’Aigrigny, Madame de Saint-Dizier,
and Baleinier himself. But let us return to Rodin, left alone with
Mdlle, de Cardoville.
CHAPTER XXXIV. FATHER D’AIGRIGNY’S SECRETARY.
Hardly had the magistrate and Dr. Baleinier disappeared, than Mdlle. de
Cardoville, whose countenance was beaming with joy, exclaimed, as she
looked at Rodin with a mixture of respect and gratitude, “At length,
thanks to you, sir, I am free--free! Oh, I had never before felt
how much happiness, expansion, delight, there is in that adorable
word--liberty!”
Her bosom rose and fell, her rosy nostrils dilated, her vermilion lips
were half open, as if she again inhaled with rapture pure and vivifying
air.
“I have been only a few days in this horrible place,” she resumed, “but
I have suffered enough from my captivity to make me resolve never to let
a year pass without restoring to liberty some poor prisoners for debt.
This vow no doubt appears to belong a little to the Middle Ages,”
added she, with a smile; “but I would fain borrow from that noble epoch
something more than its old windows and furniture. So, doubly thanks,
sir!--for I take you as a partner in that project of deliverance, which
has just (you see) unfolded itself in the midst of the happiness I owe
to you, and by which you seem so much affected. Oh! let my joy speak my
gratitude, and pay you for your generous aid!” exclaimed the young girl
with enthusiasm.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had truly remarked a complete transfiguration in
the countenance of Rodin. This man, lately so harsh, severe, inflexible,
with regard to Dr. Baleinier, appeared now under the influence of the
mildest and most tender sentiments. His little, half-veiled eyes were
fixed upon Adrienne with an expression of ineffable interest. Then, as
if he wished to tear himself from these impressions, he said, speaking
to himself, “Come, come, no weakness. Time is too precious; my mission
is not fulfilled. My dear young lady,” added he, addressing himself to
Adrienne, “believe what I say--we will talk hereafter of gratitude--but
we have now to talk of the present so important for you and your family.
Do you know what is taking place?”
Adrienne looked at the Jesuit with surprise, and said, “What is taking
place, sir?”
“Do you know the real motive of your imprisonment in this house? Do you
know what influenced the Princess de Saint-Dizier and Abbe d’Aigrigny?”
At the sound of those detested names, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s face,
now so full of happiness, became suddenly sad, and she answered with
bitterness, “It is hatred, sir, that no doubt animated Madame de
Saint-Dizier against me.”
“Yes, hatred; and, moreover, the desire to rob you with impunity of an
immense fortune.”
“Me, sir! how?”
“You must be ignorant, my dear young lady, of the interest you had to be
in the Rue Saint-Francois on the 13th February, for an inheritance?”
“I was ignorant, sir, of the date and details: but I knew by some family
papers, and thanks to an extraordinary circumstance, that one of our
ancestors--”
“Had left an enormous sum to be divided between his descendants; is it
not so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But what unfortunately you did not know, my dear young lady, was that
the heirs were all bound to be present at a certain hour on the 13th
February. This day and hour once past, the absent would forfeit their
claim. Do you now understand why you have been imprisoned here, my dear
young lady?”
“Yes, yes; I understand it,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville; “cupidity was
added to the hatred which my aunt felt for me. All is explained. Marshal
Simon’s daughters, having the same right as I had have, like me, been
imprisoned.”
“And yet,” cried Rodin, “you and they were not the only victims.”
“Who, then, are the others, sir?”
“A young East Indian.”
“Prince Djalma?” said Adrienne, hastily.
“For the same reason he has been nearly poisoned with a narcotic.”
“Great God!” cried the young girl, clasping her hands in horror. “It is
fearful. That young prince, who was said to have so noble and generous a
character! But I had sent to Cardoville Castle--”
“A confidential person, to fetch the prince to Paris--I know it, my dear
young lady; but, by means of a trick, your friend was got out of the
way, and the young Oriental delivered to his enemies.”
“And where is he now?”
“I have only vague information on the subject. I know that he is in
Paris, and do not despair of finding him. I shall pursue my researches
with an almost paternal ardor, for we cannot too much love the rare
qualities of that poor king’s son. What a heart, my dear young lady!
what a heart! Oh, it is a heart of gold, pure and bright as the gold of
his country!”
“We must find the prince, sir,” said Adrienne with emotion; “let me
entreat you to neglect nothing for that end. He is my relation--alone
here--without support--without assistance.”
“Certainly,” replied Rodin, with commiseration. “Poor boy!--for he is
almost a boy--eighteen or nineteen years of age--thrown into the
heart of Paris, of this hell--with his fresh, ardent, half-savage
passions--with his simplicity and confidence--to what perils may he not
be exposed?”
“Well, we must first find him, sir,” said Adrienne, hastily; “and then
we will save him from these dangers. Before I was confined here, I
learned his arrival in France, and sent a confidential person to offer
him the services of an unknown friend. I now see that this mad idea,
with which I have been so much reproached, was a very sensible one. I am
more convinced of it than ever. The prince belongs to my family, and
I owe him a generous hospitality. I had destined for him the lodge I
occupied at my aunt’s.”
“And you, my dear young lady?”
“To-day, I shall remove to a house, which I had prepared some time ago,
with the determination of quitting Madame de Saint-Dizier, and living
alone as I pleased. Then, sir, as you seem bent upon being the good
genius of our family, be as generous with regard to Prince Djalma, as
you have been to me and Marshal Simon’s daughters. I entreat you to
discover the hiding-place of this poor king’s son, as you call him; keep
my secret for me, and conduct him to the house offered by the unknown
friend. Let him not disquiet himself about anything; all his wants shall
be provided for; he shall live--like a prince.”
“Yes; he will indeed live like a prince, thanks to your royal
munificence. But never was such kind interest better deserved. It is
enough to see (as I have seen) his fine, melancholy countenance--”
“You have seen him, then, sir?” said Adrienne, interrupting Rodin.
“Yes, my dear young lady; I was with him for about two hours. It was
quite enough to judge of him. His charming features are the mirror of
his soul.”
“And where did you see him, sir?”
“At your old Chateau de Cardoville, my dear young lady, near which he
had been shipwrecked in a storm, and whither I had gone to--” Rodin
hesitated for a moment, and then, as if yielding to the frankness of
his disposition, added: “Whither I had gone to commit a bad action--a
shameful, miserable action, I must confess!”
“You, sir?--at Cardoville House--to commit a bad action?” cried
Adrienne, much surprised.
“Alas! yes, my dear young lady,” answered Rodin with simplicity. “In one
word, I had orders from Abbe d’Aigrigny, to place your former bailiff in
the alternative either of losing his situation or lending himself to a
mean action--something, in fact, that resembled spying and calumny; but
the honest, worthy man refused.”
“Why, who are you, sir?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more
astonished.
“I am Rodin, lately secretary of the Abbe d’Aigrigny--a person of very
little importance, as you see.”
It is impossible to describe the accent, at once humble and ingenuous,
of the Jesuit, as he pronounced these words, which he accompanied with
a respectful bow. On this revelation, Mdlle. de Cardoville drew back
abruptly. We have said that Adrienne had sometimes heard talk of Rodin,
the humble secretary of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, as a sort of obedient and
passive machine. That was not all; the bailiff of Cardoville Manor,
writing to Adrienne on the subject of Prince Djalma, had complained of
the perfidious and dishonest propositions of Rodin. She felt, therefore,
a vague suspicion, when she heard that her liberator was the man who had
played so odious a part. Yet this unfavorable feeling was balanced by
the sense of what she owed to Rodin, and by his frank denunciation of
Abbe d’Aigrigny before the magistrate. And then the Jesuit, by his own
confession, had anticipated, as it were, the reproaches that might have
been addressed to him. Still, it was with a kind of cold reserve that
Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed this dialogue, which she had commenced with
as much frankness as warmth and sympathy.
Rodin perceived the impression he had made. He expected it. He was not
the least disconcerted when Mdlle. de Cardoville said to him, as she
fixed upon him a piercing glance, “Ah! you are M. Rodin--secretary to
the Abbe d’Aigrigny?”
“Say ex-secretary, if you please, my dear young lady,” answered the
Jesuit; “for you see clearly that I can never again enter the house of
the Abbe d’Aigrigny. I have made of him an implacable enemy, and I am
now without employment--but no matter--nay, so much the better--since,
at this price, the wicked are unmasked, and honest people rescued.”
These words, spoken with much simplicity, and dignity, revived a feeling
of pity in Adrienne’s heart. She thought within herself that, after all,
the poor old man spoke the truth. Abbe d’Aigrigny’s hate, after this
exposure, would be inexorable, and Rodin had braved it for the sake of a
generous action.
Still Mdlle. de Cardoville answered coldly, “Since you knew, sir, that
the propositions you were charged to make to the bailiff of Cardoville
were shameful and perfidious, how could you undertake the mission?”
“How?” replied Rodin, with a sort of painful impatience; “why, because
I was completely under Abbe d’Aigrigny’s charm, one of the most
prodigiously clever men I have ever known, and, as I only discovered the
day before yesterday, one of the most prodigiously dangerous men there
is in the world. He had conquered my scruples, by persuading me that
the End justifies the Means. I must confess that the end he seemed to
propose to himself was great and beautiful; but the day before yesterday
I was cruelly undeceived. I was awakened, as it were, by a thunder-peal.
Oh, my dear young lady!” added Rodin, with a sort of embarrassment
and confusion, “let us talk no more of my fatal journey to Cardoville.
Though I was only an ignorant and blind instrument, I feel as ashamed
and grieved at it as if I had acted for myself. It weighs upon me, it
oppresses me. I entreat you, let us speak rather of yourself, and of
what interests you--for the soul expands with generous thoughts, even as
the breast is dilated in pure and healthful air.”
Rodin had confessed his fault so spontaneously, he explained it so
naturally, he appeared to regret it so sincerely, that Adrienne,
whose suspicions had no other grounds, felt her distrust a good deal
diminished.
“So,” she resumed, still looking attentively at Rodin, “it was at
Cardoville that you saw Prince Djalma?”
“Yes, madame; and my affection for him dates from that interview.
Therefore I will accomplish my task. Be satisfied, my dear young lady;
like you, like Marshal Simon’s daughters, the prince shall avoid being
the victim of this detestable plot, which unhappily does not stop
there.”
“And who besides, then, is threatened?”
“M. Hardy, a man full of honor and probity, who is also your relation,
and interested in this inheritance, but kept away from Paris by infamous
treachery. And another heir, an unfortunate artisan, who falling into a
trap cleverly baited, has been thrown into a prison for debt.”
“But, sir,” said Adrienne, suddenly, “for whose advantage was this
abominable plot, which really alarms me, first devised?”
“For the advantage of Abbe d’Aigrigny,” answered Rodin.
“How, and by what right! Was he also an heir?”
“It would take too long to explain it to you, my dear young lady. You
will know all one day. Only be convinced that your family has no more
bitter enemy that Abbe d’Aigrigny.”
“Sir,” said Adrienne, giving way to one last suspicion, “I will speak
frankly to you. How can I have deserved the interest that you seem to
take in me, and that you even extend to all the members of my family?”
“My dear young lady,” answered Rodin, with a smile, “were I to tell you
the cause, you would only laugh at, or misapprehend me.”
“Speak, I beg of you, sir. Do not mistrust me or yourself.”
“Well, then, I became interested in you--devoted to you--because your
heart is generous, your mind lofty, your character independent and
proud. Once attached to you, those of your race, who are indeed
themselves worthy of interest, were no longer indifferent to me. To
serve them was to serve you also.”
“But, sir--admitting that you suppose me worthy of the too flattering
praises you bestow upon me--how could you judge of my heart, my mind, my
character?”
“I will tell you, my dear young lady; but first I must make another
confession, that fills me with shame. If you were not even so
wonderfully endowed, what you have suffered in this house should suffice
to command the interest of every honest man--don’t you think so?”
“I do think it should, sir.”
“I might thus explain the interest I feel in you. But no--I confess
it--that would not have sufficed with me. Had you been only Mdlle. de
Cardoville--a rich, noble, beautiful young lady--I should doubtless have
pitied your misfortune; but I should have said to myself, ‘This poor
young lady is certainly much to be pitied; but what can I, poor man, do
in it? My only resource is my post of secretary to the Abbe d’Aigrigny,
and he would be the first that must be attacked. He is all-powerful, and
I am nothing. To engage in a struggle with him would be to ruin myself,
without the hope of saving this unfortunate person.’ But when I
learnt what you were, my dear young lady, I revolted, in spite of my
inferiority. ‘No,’ I said, ‘a thousand times, no! So fine an intellect,
so great a heart, shall not be the victims of an abominable plot. I may
perish in the struggle, but I will at least make the attempt.’”
No words can paint the mixture of delicacy, energy, and sensibility with
which Rodin uttered these sentiments. As it often happens with people
singularly repulsive and ill-favored, if they can once bring you to
forget their ugliness, their very deformity becomes a source of interest
and commiseration, and you say to yourself, “What a pity that such a
mind, such a soul, should inhabit so poor a body!”--and you are touched
and softened by the contrast.
It was thus that Mdlle. de Cardoville began to look upon Rodin. He had
shown himself as simple and affectionate towards her as he had been
brutal and insolent to Dr. Baleinier. One thing only excited the lively
curiosity of Mdlle. de Cardoville--she wished to know how Rodin had
conceived the devotion and admiration which she seemed to inspire.
“Forgive my indiscreet and obstinate curiosity, sir, but I wish to
know--”
“How you were morally revealed to me--is it not so? Oh, my dear young
lady! nothing is more simple. I will explain it to you in two words.
The Abbe d’Aigrigny saw in me nothing but a writing-machine, an obtuse,
mute, blind instrument--”
“I thought M. d’Aigrigny had more penetration.”
“And you are right, my dear young lady; he is a man of unparalleled
sagacity; but I deceived him by affecting more than simplicity. Do not,
therefore, think me false. No; I am proud in my manner--and my pride
consists in never appearing above my position, however subaltern it may
be! Do you know why? It is that, however haughty may be my superiors, I
can say to myself, ‘They do not know my value. It is the inferiority of
my condition, not me, that they humiliate.’ By this I gain doubly--my
self-love is spared, and I hate no one.”
“Yes, I understand that sort of pride,” said Adrienne, more and more
struck with Rodin’s original turn of mind.
“But let us return to what concerns you, my dear young lady. On the eve
of the 13th of February, the Abbe d’Aigrigny delivered to me a paper
in shorthand, and said to me, ‘Transcribe this examination; you may
add that it is to support the decision of a family council, which has
declared, in accordance with the report of Dr. Baleinier, the state of
mind of Mdlle. de Cardoville to be sufficiently alarming to render it
necessary to confine her in a lunatic asylum.’”
“Yes,” said Adrienne, with bitterness; “it related to a long interview,
which I had with the Princess de Saint-Dizier, my aunt, and which was
taken down without my knowledge.”
“Behold me, then, poring over my shorthand report, and beginning to
transcribe it. At the end of the first ten lines, I was struck with
stupor. I knew not if I were awake or dreaming. ‘What! mad?’ They must
be themselves insane who dare assert so monstrous a proposition!--More
and more interested, I continued my reading--I finished it--Oh! then,
what shall I say? What I felt, my dear young lady, it is impossible to
express. It was sympathy, delight, enthusiasm!”
“Sir,” said Adrienne.
“Yes, my dear young lady, enthusiasm! Let not the words shock your
modesty. Know that these ideas, so new, so independent, so courageous
which you expressed to your aunt with so much brilliancy, are, without
your being aware of it, common to you and another person, for whom you
will one day feel the most tender and religious respect.”
“Of whom do you speak, sir?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more
interested.
After a moment’s apparent hesitation, Rodin resumed, “No, no--it is
useless now to inform you of it. All I can tell you, my dear young lady,
is that, when I had finished my reading, I ran to Abbe d’Aigrigny’s, to
convince him of the error into which he had fallen with regard to you.
It was impossible then to find him; but yesterday morning I told him
plainly what I thought. He only appeared surprised to find that I could
think at all. He received my communications with contemptuous silence.
I thought him deceived; I continued my remonstrances, but quite in vain.
He ordered me to follow him to the house, where the testament of your
ancestor was to be opened. I was so blind with regard to the Abbe
d’Aigrigny, that it required the successive arrivals of the soldier,
of his son, and of Marshal Simon’s father, to open my eyes thoroughly.
Their indignation unveiled to me the extent of a conspiracy, plotted
long ago, and carried on with terrible ability. Then, I understood why
you were confined here as a lunatic; why the daughters of Marshal Simon
were imprisoned in a convent. Then a thousand recollections returned to
my mind; fragments of letters and statements, which had been given me
to copy or decipher, and of which I had never been able to find the
explanation, put me on the track of this odious machination. To express
then and there the sudden horror I felt at these crimes, would have been
to ruin all. I did not make this mistake. I opposed cunning to cunning;
I appeared even more eager than Abbe d’Aigrigny. Had this immense
inheritance been destined for me alone, I could not have shown myself
more grasping and merciless. Thanks to this stratagem, Abbe d’Aigrigny
had no suspicion. A providential accident having rescued the inheritance
from his hands, he left the house in a state of profound consternation.
For my part, I felt indescribable joy; for I had now the means of saving
and avenging you, my dear young lady. As usual, I went yesterday evening
to my place of business. During the absence of the abbe, it was easy for
me to peruse the correspondence relative to the inheritance. In this way
I was able to unite all the threads of this immense plot. Oh! then,
my dear young lady, I remained, struck with horror, in presence of the
discoveries that I made, and that I never should have made under any
other circumstances.”
“What discoveries, sir?”
“There are some secrets which are terrible to those who possess them. Do
not ask me to explain, my dear young lady; but, in this examination, the
league formed against you and your relations, from motives of insatiable
cupidity, appeared to me in all its dark audacity. Thereupon, the lively
and deep interest which I already felt for you, my dear young lady, was
augmented greatly, and extended itself to the other innocent victims of
this infernal conspiracy. In spite of my weakness, I determined to risk
all, to unmask the Abbe d’Aigrigny. I collected the necessary proofs,
to give my declaration before the magistrate the needful authority;
and, this morning, I left the abbe’s house without revealing to him my
projects. He might have employed some violent method to detain me; yet
it would have been cowardly to attack him without warning. Once out of
his house, I wrote to him, that I had in my hands proof enough of his
crimes, to attack him openly in the face of day. I would accuse, and he
must defend himself. I went directly to a magistrate, and you know the
rest.”
At this juncture, the door opened, and one of the nurses appeared, and
said to Rodin: “Sir, the messenger that you and the magistrate sent to
the Rue Brise-Miche has just come back.”
“Has he left the letter?”
“Yes, sir; and it was taken upstairs directly.”
“Very well. Leave us!” The nurse went out.
CHAPTER XXXV. SYMPATHY.
If it had been possible for Mdlle. de Cardoville to harbor any suspicion
of the sincerity of Rodin’s devotion, it must have given way before this
reasoning, unfortunately so simple and undeniable. How could she suppose
the faintest complicity between the Abbe d’Aigrigny and his secretary,
when it was the latter who completely unveiled the machinations of his
master, and exposed them to the tribunals? when in this, Rodin went
even further than Mdlle. de Cardoville would herself have gone? Of what
secret design could she suspect the Jesuit? At worst, of a desire to
earn by his services the profitable patronage of the young lady.
And then, had he not just now protested against this supposition, by
declaring his devotion, not to Mdlle. de Cardoville--not to the fair,
rich, noble lady--but to the high-souled and generous girl? Finally,
as Rodin had said himself, could any but a miserable wretch fail to be
interested in Adrienne’s fate? A strange mixture of curiosity, surprise,
and interest, was joined with Mdlle. de Cardoville’s feelings of
gratitude towards Rodin. Yet, as she recognized the superior mind under
that humble exterior, she was suddenly struck with a grave suspicion.
“Sir,” said she to Rodin, “I always confess to the persons I esteem the
doubts they may have inspired, so that they may justify themselves, and
excuse me, if I am wrong.”
Rodin looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as if mentally
calculating the suspicions than she might entertain, and replied,
after a moment’s silence: “You are perhaps thinking of my journey to
Cardoville, of my base proposals to your good and worthy bailiff? Oh! if
you--”
“No, no, sir,” said Adrienne, interrupting him; “you made that
confession spontaneously, and I quite understand, that, blinded with
regard to M. d’Aigrigny, you passively executed instructions repugnant
to your delicacy. But how comes it, that, with your incontestable
merits, you have so long; occupied so mean a position in his service?”
“It is true,” said Rodin, with a smile; “that must impress you
unfavorably, my dear young lady; for a man of any capacity, who remains
long in an inferior condition, has evidently some radical vice, some bad
or base passion--”
“It is generally true, sir.”
“And personally true--with regard to myself.”
“What, sir! do you make this avowal?”
“Alas! I confess that I have a bad passion, to which, for forty years, I
have sacrificed all chances of attaining to a better position.”
“And this passion, sir?”
“Since I must make the unpleasant avowal, this passion is
indolence--yes, indolence--the horror of all activity of mind, of all
moral responsibility, of taking the lead in anything. With the twelve
hundred francs that Abbe d’Aigrigny gave me, I was the happiest man in
the world; I trusted to the nobleness of his views; his thoughts became
mine, his wishes mine. My work once finished, I returned to my poor
little chamber, I lighted my fire, I dined on vegetables--then, taking
up some book of philosophy, little known, and dreaming over it, I gave
free course to my imagination, which, restrained all the day long,
carried me through numberless theories to a delicious Utopia. Then, from
the eminences of my intelligence, lifted up Lord knows whither, by the
audacity of my thoughts, I seemed to look down upon my master, and upon
the great men of the earth. This fever lasted for three or four hours,
after which I had a good sleep; and, the next morning, I went lightly to
my work, secure of my daily bread, without cares for the future, living
content with little, waiting with impatience for the delights of my
solitary evening, and saying to myself as I went on writing like a
stupid machine: ‘And yet--and yet--if I chose!’--”
“Doubtless, you could, like others, surer than others, have reached a
higher position,” said Adrienne, greatly struck with Rodin’s practical
philosophy.
“Yes, I think I could have done so; but for what purpose?--You see, my
dear young lady, what often renders people of some merit puzzles to the
vulgar, is that they are frequently content to say: ‘If I chose!’”
“But, sir, without attaching much importance to the luxuries of
life, there is a certain degree of comfort, which age renders almost
indispensable, and which you seem to have utterly renounced.”
“Undeceive yourself, if you please, my dear young lady,” said Rodin,
with a playful smile. “I am a true Sybarite; I require absolutely warm
clothes, a good stove, a soft mattress, a good piece of bread, a fresh
radish, flavored with good cheap salt, and some good, clear water; and,
notwithstanding this complication of wants, my twelve hundred francs
have always more than sufficed, for I have been able to make some little
savings.”
“But now that you are without employment, how will you manage to live,
sir?” said Adrienne, more and more interested by the singularities of
this man, and wishing to put his disinterestedness to the proof.
“I have laid by a little, which will serve me till I have unravelled
the last thread of Father d’Aigrigny’s dark designs. I owe myself this
reparation, for having been his dupe; three or four days, I hope, will
complete the work. After that, I have the certainty of meeting with a
situation, in my native province, under a collector of taxes: some
time ago, the offer was made me by a friend; but then I would not leave
Father d’Aigrigny, notwithstanding the advantages proposed. Fancy, my
dear young lady--eight hundred francs, with board and lodging! As I am
a little of the roughest, I should have preferred lodging apart; but, as
they give me so much, I must submit to this little inconvenience.”
Nothing could exceed Rodin’s ingenuity, in making these little household
confidences (so abominably false) to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who felt her
last suspicions give way.
“What, sir?” said she to the Jesuit, with interest; “in three or four
days, you mean to quit Paris?”
“I hope to do so, my dear young lady; and that,” added he, in a
mysterious tone, “and that for many reasons. But what would be very
precious to me,” he resumed, in a serious voice, as he looked at
Adrienne with emotion, “would be to carry with me the conviction,
that you did me the justice to believe, that, on merely reading your
interview with the Princess de Saint-Dizier, I recognized at once
qualities quite unexampled in our day, in a young person of your age and
condition.”
“Ah, sir!” said Adrienne, with a smile, “do not think yourself
obliged to return so soon the sincere praises that I bestowed on your
superiority of mind. I should be better pleased with ingratitude.”
“Oh, no! I do not flatter you, my dear young lady. Why should I? We
may probably never meet again. I do not flatter you; I understand
you--that’s all--and what will seem strange to you, is, that your
appearance complete, the idea which I had already formed of you, my dear
young lady, in reading your interview with your aunt: and some parts of
your character, hitherto obscure to me, are now fully displayed.”
“Really, sir, you astonish me more and more.”
“I can’t help it! I merely describe my impressions. I can now explain
perfectly, for example, your passionate love of the beautiful, your
eager worship of the refinements of the senses, your ardent aspirations
for a better state of things, your courageous contempt of many degrading
and servile customs, to which woman is condemned; yes, now I
understand the noble pride with which you contemplate the mob of vain,
self-sufficient, ridiculous men, who look upon woman as a creature
destined for their service, according to the laws made after their own
not very handsome image. In the eyes of these hedge-tyrants, woman, a
kind of inferior being to whom a council of cardinals deigned to grant a
soul by a majority of two voices, ought to think herself supremely happy
in being the servant of these petty pachas, old at thirty, worn-out,
used up, weary with excesses, wishing only for repose, and seeking, as
they say, to make an end of it, which they set about by marrying some
poor girl, who is on her side desirous to make a beginning.”
Mdlle. de Cardoville would certainly have smiled at these satirical
remarks, if she had not been greatly struck by hearing Rodin express in
such appropriate terms her own ideas, though it was the first time in
her life that she saw this dangerous man. Adrienne forgot, or
rather, she was not aware, that she had to deal with a Jesuit of rare
intelligence, uniting the information and the mysterious resources of
the police-spy with the profound sagacity of the confessor; one of those
diabolic priests, who, by the help of a few hints, avowals, letters,
reconstruct a character, as Cuvier could reconstruct a body from
zoological fragments. Far from interrupting Rodin, Adrienne listened
to him with growing curiosity. Sure of the effect he produced, he
continued, in a tone of indignation: “And your aunt and the Abbe
d’Aigrigny treated you as mad, because you revolted against the yoke of
such tyrants! because, hating the shameful vices of slavery, you chose
to be independent with the suitable qualities of independence, free with
the proud virtues of liberty!”
“But, sir,” said Adrienne, more and more surprised, “how can my thoughts
be so familiar to you?”
“First, I know you perfectly, thanks to your interview with the Princess
de Saint-Dizier: and next, if it should happen that we both pursue the
same end, though by different means,” resumed Rodin, artfully, as he
looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with an air of intelligence, “why should
not our convictions be the same?”
“I do not understand you, sir. Of what end do you speak?”
“The end pursued incessantly by all lofty, generous, independent
spirits--some acting, like you, my dear young lady, from passion, from
instinct, without perhaps explaining to themselves the high mission they
are called on to ful, fil. Thus, for example, when you take pleasure
in the most refined delights, when you surround yourself with all that
charms the senses, do you think that you only yield to the attractions
of the beautiful, to the desire of exquisite enjoyments? No! ah, no! for
then you would be incomplete, odiously selfish, a dry egotist, with a
fine taste--nothing more--and at your age, it would be hideous, my dear
young lady, it would be hideous!”
“And do you really think thus severely of me?” said Adrienne, with
uneasiness, so much influence had this man irresistibly attained over
her.
“Certainly, I should think thus of you, if you loved luxury for luxury’s
sake; but, no--quite another sentiment animates you,” resumed the
Jesuit. “Let us reason a little. Feeling a passionate desire for all
these enjoyments, you know their value and their need more than any
one--is it not so?”
“It is so,” replied Adrienne, deeply interested.
“Your gratitude and favor are then necessarily acquired by those who,
poor, laborious, and unknown, have procured for you these marvels of
luxury, which you could not do without?”
“This feeling of gratitude is so strong in me, sir,” replied Adrienne,
more and more pleased to find herself so well understood, “that I once
had inscribed on a masterpiece of goldsmith’s work, instead of the name
of the seller, that of the poor unknown artist who designed it, and who
has since risen to his true place.”
“There you see, I was not deceived,” went on Rodin; “the taste for
enjoyment renders you grateful to those who procure it for you; and
that is not all; here am I, an example, neither better nor worse than my
neighbors, but accustomed to privations, which cause me no suffering--so
that the privations of others necessarily touch me less nearly than they
do you, my dear young lady; for your habits of comfort must needs render
you more compassionate towards misfortune. You would yourself suffer too
much from poverty, not to pity and succor those who are its victims.”
“Really, sir,” said Adrienne, who began to feel herself under the fatal
charm of Rodin, “the more I listen to you, the more I am convinced that
you would defend a thousand times better than I could those ideas for
which I was so harshly reproached by Madame de Saint-Dizier and
Abbe d’Aigrigny. Oh! speak, speak, sir! I cannot tell you with what
happiness, with what pride I listen.”
Attentive and moved, her eyes fixed on the Jesuit with as much interest
as sympathy and curiosity, Adrienne, by a graceful toss of the head that
was habitual to her, threw hack her long, golden curls, the better to
contemplate Rodin, who thus resumed: “You are astonished, my dear young
lady, that you were not understood by your aunt or by Abbe d’Aigrigny!
What point of contact had you with these hypocritical, jealous, crafty
minds, such as I can judge them to be now? Do you wish a new proof of
their hateful blindness? Among what they called your monstrous follies,
which was the worst, the most damnable? Why, your resolution to live
alone and in your own way, to dispose freely of the present and the
future. They declared this to be odious, detestable, immoral. And
yet--was this resolution dictated by a mad love of liberty? no!--by
a disordered aversion to all restraint? no!--by the desire of
singularity?--no!--for then I, too, should have blamed you severely.”
“Other reasons have indeed guided me, sir, I assure you,” said Adrienne
eagerly, for she had become very eager for the esteem with which her
character might inspire Rodin.
“Oh! I know it well; your motives could only be excellent ones,” replied
the Jesuit. “Why then did you take this resolution, so much called in
question? Was it to brave established etiquette? no! for you respected
them until the hate of Mme. de Saint-Dizier forced you to withdraw
yourself from her unbearable guardianship. Was it to live alone, to
escape the eyes of the world? no! you would be a hundred times more open
to observation in this than any other condition. Was it to make a bad
use of your liberty? no, ah, no! those who design evil seek for darkness
and solitude; while you place yourself right before the jealous
anal envious eyes of the vulgar crowd. Why then do you take this
determination, so courageous and rare, unexampled in a young person of
your age? Shall I tell you, my dear young lady? It is, that you wish to
prove, by your example, that a woman of pure heart and honest mind, with
a firm character and independence of soul, may nobly and proudly throw
off the humiliating guardianship that custom has imposed upon her. Yes,
instead of accepting the fate of a revolted slave, a life only destined
to hypocrisy or vice, you wish to live freely in presence of all the
world, independent, honorable, and respected. You wish to have, like
man, the exercise of your own free will, the entire responsibility
of all your actions, so as to establish the fact, that a woman left
completely to herself, may equal man in reason, wisdom, uprightness, and
surpass him indelicacy and dignity. That is your design, my dear young
lady. It is noble and great. Will your example be imitated? I hope it
may; but whether it be so or not, your generous attempt, believe me,
will place you in a high and worthy position.”
Mdlle. de Cardoville’s eyes shone with a proud and gentle brightness,
her cheeks were slightly colored, her bosom heaved, she raised her
charming head with a movement of involuntary pride; at length completely
under the charm of that diabolical man she exclaimed: “But, sir, who are
you that can thus know and analyze my most secret thoughts, and read
my soul more clearly than myself, so as to give new life and action to
those ideas of independence which have long stirred within me? Who are
you, that can thus elevate me in my own eyes, for now I am conscious of
accomplishing a mission, honorable to myself, and perhaps useful to my
sisters immersed in slavery? Once again, sir, who are you?”
“Who am I, madame?” answered Rodin, with a smile of the greatest good
nature; “I have already told you that I am a poor old man, who for the
last forty years, having served in the day time as a writing machine to
record the ideas of others, went home every evening to work out ideas of
his own--a good kind of man who, from his garret, watches and even takes
some little share in the movement of generous spirits, advancing towards
an end that is nearer than is commonly thought. And thus, my dear young
lady, as I told you just now, you and I are both tending towards the
same objects, though you may do the same without reflection, and merely
in obedience to your rare and divine instincts. So continue so to live,
fair, free, and happy!--it is your mission--more providential than you
may think it. Yes; continue to surround yourself with all the marvels of
luxury and art; refine your senses, purify your tastes, by the exquisite
choice of your enjoyments; by genius, grace, and purity raise yourself
above the stupid and ill-favored mob of men, that will instantly
surround you, when they behold you alone and free; they will consider
you an easy prey, destined to please their cupidity, their egotism,
their folly.
“Laugh at them, and mock these idiotic and sordid pretensions. Be
the queen of your own world, and make yourself respected as a queen.
Love--shine--enjoy--it is your part upon earth. All the flowers, with
which you are whelmed in profusion, will one day bear fruit. You think
that you have lived only for pleasure; in reality, you will have lived
for the noblest aims that could tempt a great and lofty soul. And
so--some years hence--we may meet again, perhaps; you, fairer and more
followed than ever; I, older and more obscure. But, no matter--a secret
voice, I am sure, says to you at this moment, that between us two,
however different, there exists an invisible bond, a mysterious
communion, which nothing hereafter will ever be able to destroy!”
He uttered these final words in a tone of such profound emotion, that
Adrienne started. Rodin had approached without her perceiving it, and
without, as it were, walking at all, for he dragged his steps along the
floor, with a sort of serpent motion; and he had spoken with so much
warmth and enthusiasm, that his pale face had become slightly tinged,
and his repulsive ugliness had almost disappeared before the brilliancy
of his small sharp eyes, now wide open, and fixed full upon Adrienne.
The latter leaned forward, with half-open lips and deep-drawn breath,
nor could she take her eyes from the Jesuit’s; he had ceased to speak,
and yet she was still listening. The feelings of the fair young lady,
in presence of this little old man, dirty, ugly, and poor, were
inexplicable. That comparison so common, and yet so true, of the
frightful fascination of the bird by the serpent, might give some idea
of the singular impression made upon her. Rodin’s tactics were skillful
and sure. Until now, Mdlle. de Cardoville had never analyzed her tastes
or instincts. She had followed them, because they were inoffensive and
charming. How happy and proud she then was sure to be to hear a man of
superior mind not only praise these tendencies, for which she had been
heretofore so severely blamed, but congratulate her upon them, as upon
something great, noble, and divine! If Rodin had only addressed himself
to Adrienne’s self-conceit, he would have failed in his perfidious
designs, for she had not the least spark of vanity. But he addressed
himself to all that was enthusiastic and generous in her heart; that
which he appeared to encourage and admire in her was really worthy of
encouragement and admiration. How could she fail to be the dupe of such
language, concealing though it did such dark and fatal projects?
Struck with the Jesuit’s rare intelligence, feeling her curiosity
greatly excited by some mysterious words that he had purposely uttered,
hardly explaining to herself the strange influence which this pernicious
counsellor already exercised over her, and animated by respectful
compassion for a man of his age and talents placed in so precarious a
position, Adrienne said to him, with all her natural cordiality, “A man
of your merit and character, sir, ought not to be at the mercy of the
caprice of circumstances. Some of your words have opened a new horizon
before me; I feel that, on many points, your counsels may be of the
greatest use to me. Moreover, in coming to fetch me from this house, and
in devoting yourself to the service of other persons of my family,
you have shown me marks of interest which I cannot forget without
ingratitude. You have lost a humble but secure situation. Permit me--”
“Not a word more, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, interrupting Mdlle.
de Cardoville, with an air of chagrin. “I feel for you the deepest
sympathy; I am honored by having ideas in common with you; I believe
firmly that some day you will have to ask advice of the poor old
philosopher; and, precisely because of all that, I must and ought to
maintain towards you the most complete independence.”
“But, sir, it is I that would be the obliged party, if you deigned to
accept what I offer.”
“Oh, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, with a smile: “I know that your
generosity would always know how to make gratitude light and easy; but,
once more, I cannot accept anything from you. One day, perhaps, you will
know why.”
“One day?”
“It is impossible for me to tell you more. And then, supposing I were
under an obligation to you, how could I tell you all that was good and
beautiful in your actions? Hereafter, if you are somewhat indebted to
me for my advice, so much the better; I shall be the more ready to blame
you, if I find anything to blame.”
“In this way, sir, you would forbid me to be grateful to you.”
“No, no,” said Rodin, with apparent emotion. “Oh, believe me! there will
come a solemn moment, in which you may repay all, in a manner worthy of
yourself and me.”
This conversation was here interrupted by the nurse, who said to
Adrienne as she entered: “Madame, there is a little humpback workwoman
downstairs, who wishes to speak to you. As, according to the doctor’s
new orders, you are to do as you like, I have come to ask, if I am to
bring her up to you. She is so badly dressed, that I did not venture.”
“Bring her up, by all means,” said Adrienne, hastily, for she had
recognized Mother Bunch by the nurse’s description. “Bring her up
directly.”
“The doctor has also left word, that his carriage is to be at your
orders, madame; are the horses to be put to?”
“Yes, in a quarter of an hour,” answered Adrienne to the nurse, who
went out; then, addressing Rodin, she continued: “I do not think the
magistrate can now be long, before he returns with Marshal Simon’s
daughters?”
“I think not, my dear young lady; but who is this deformed workwoman?”
asked Rodin, with an air of indifference.
“The adopted sister of a gallant fellow, who risked all in endeavoring
to rescue me from this house. And, sir,” said Adrienne, with emotion,
“this young workwoman is a rare and excellent creature. Never was
a nobler mind, a more generous heart, concealed beneath an exterior
less--”
But reflecting, that Rodin seemed to unite in his own person the same
moral and physical contrasts as the sewing-girl, Adrienne stopped short,
and then added, with inimitable grace, as she looked at the Jesuit, who
was somewhat astonished at the sudden pause: “No; this noble girl is
not the only person who proves how loftiness of soul, and superiority of
mind, can make us indifferent to the vain advantages which belong
only to the accidents of birth or fortune.” At the moment of Adrienne
speaking these last words, Mother Bunch entered the room.
CHAPTER XXXVI. SUSPICIONS.
Mdlle. de Cardoville sprang hastily to meet the visitor, and said
to her, in a voice of emotion, as she extended her arms towards her:
“Come--come--there is no grating to separate us now!”
On this allusion, which reminded her how her poor, laborious hand had
been respectfully kissed by the fair and rich patrician, the young
workwoman felt a sentiment of gratitude, which was at once ineffable
and proud. But, as she hesitated to respond to the cordial reception,
Adrienne embraced her with touching affection. When Mother Bunch found
herself clasped in the fair arms of Mdlle. de Cardoville, when she felt
the fresh and rosy lips of the young lady fraternally pressed to her own
pale and sickly cheek, she burst into tears without being able to utter
a word. Rodin, retired in a corner of the chamber, locked on this scene
with secret uneasiness. Informed of the refusal, so full of dignity,
which Mother Bunch had opposed to the perfidious temptations of the
superior of St. Mary’s Convent, and knowing the deep devotion of this
generous creature for Agricola--a devotion which for some days she had
so bravely extended to Mdlle. de Cardoville--the Jesuit did not like
to see the latter thus laboring to increase that affection. He thought,
wisely, that one should never despise friend or enemy, however small
they may appear. Now, devotion to Mdlle. de Cardoville constituted an
enemy in his eyes; and we know, moreover, that Rodin combined in
his character rare firmness, with a certain degree of superstitious
weakness, and he now felt uneasy at the singular impression of fear
which Mother Bunch inspired in him. He determined to recollect this
presentiment.
Delicate natures sometimes display in the smallest things the most
charming instincts of grace and goodness. Thus, when the sewing-girl was
shedding abundant and sweet tears of gratitude, Adrienne took a richly
embroidered handkerchief, and dried the pale and melancholy face. This
action, so simple and spontaneous, spared the work-girl one humiliation;
for, alas! humiliation and suffering are the two gulfs, along the edge
of which misfortune continually passes. Therefore, the least kindness is
in general a double benefit to the unfortunate. Perhaps the reader may
smile in disdain at the puerile circumstance we mention. But poor
Mother Bunch, not venturing to take from her pocket her old ragged
handkerchief, would long have remained blinded by her tears, if Mdlle.
de Cardoville had not come to her aid.
“Oh! you are so good--so nobly charitable, lady!” was all that the
sempstress could say, in a tone of deep emotion; for she was still more
touched by the attention of the young lady, than she would perhaps have
been by a service rendered.
“Look there, sir,” said Adrienne to Rodin, who drew near hastily.
“Yes,” added the young patrician, proudly, “I have indeed discovered
a treasure. Look at her, sir; and love her as I love her, honor as I
honor. She has one of those hearts for which we are seeking.”
“And which, thank heaven, we are still able to find, my dear young
lady!” said Rodin, as he bowed to the needle-woman.
The latter raised her eyes slowly, and locked at the Jesuit. At sight of
that cadaverous countenance, which was smiling benignantly upon her, the
young girl started. It was strange! she had never seen this man, and
yet she felt instantly the same fear and repulsion that he had felt with
regard to her. Generally timid and confused, the work-girl could not
withdraw her eyes from Rodin’s; her heart beat violently, as at the
coming of some great danger, and, as the excellent creature feared only
for those she loved, she approached Adrienne involuntarily, keeping
her eyes fixed on Rodin. The Jesuit was too good a physiognomist not to
perceive the formidable impression he had made, and he felt an increase
of his instinctive aversion for the sempstress. Instead of casting down
his eyes, he appeared to examine her with such sustained attention, that
Mdlle. de Cardoville was astonished at it.
“I beg your pardon, my dear girl,” said Rodin, as if recalling his
recollections, and addressing himself to Mother Bunch, “I beg your
pardon--but I think--if I am not deceived--did you not go a few days
since to St. Mary’s Convent, hard by?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No doubt, it was you. Where then was my head?” cried Rodin. “It was
you--I should have guessed it sooner.”
“Of what do you speak, sir?” asked Adrienne.
“Oh! you are right, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, pointing to the
hunchback. “She has indeed a noble heart, such as we seek. If you knew
with what dignity, with what courage this poor girl, who was out of work
and, for her, to want work is to want everything--if you knew, I say,
with what dignity she rejected the shameful wages that the superior of
the convent was unprincipled enough to offer, on condition of her acting
as a spy in a family where it was proposed to place her.”
“Oh, that is infamous!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, with disgust. “Such
a proposal to this poor girl--to her!”
“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, bitterly, “I had no work, I was poor, they
did not know me--and they thought they might propose anything to the
likes of me.”
“And I tell you,” said Rodin, “that it was a double baseness on the part
of the superior, to offer such temptation to misery, and it was doubly
noble in you to refuse.”
“Sir,” said the sewing-girl, with modest embarrassment.
“Oh! I am not to be intimidated,” resumed Rod in. “Praise or blame, I
speak out roughly what I think. Ask this dear young lady,” he added,
with a glance at Adrienne. “I tell you plainly, that I think as well of
you as she does herself.”
“Believe me, dear,” said Adrienne, “there are some sorts of praise which
honor, recompense, and encourage; and M. Rodin’s is of the number. I
know it,--yes, I know it.”
“Nay, my dear young lady, you must not ascribe to me all the honor of
this judgment.”
“How so, sir?”
“Is not this dear girl the adopted sister of Agricola Baudoin, the
gallant workman, the energetic and popular poet? Is not the affection of
such a man the best of guarantees, and does it not enable us to judge,
as it were, by the label?” added Rodin, with a smile.
“You are right, sir,” said Adrienne; “for, before knowing this dear
girl, I began to feel deeply interested in her, from the day that her
adopted brother spoke to me about her. He expressed himself with so much
warmth, so much enthusiasm, that I at once conceived an esteem for the
person capable of inspiring so noble an attachment.”
These words of Adrienne, joined to another circumstance, had such
an effect upon their hearer, that her pale face became crimson. The
unfortunate hunchback loved Agricola, with love as passionate as it was
secret and painful: the most indirect allusion to this fatal sentiment
occasioned her the most cruel embarrassment. Now, the moment Mdlle. de
Cardoville spoke of Agricola’s attachment for Mother Bunch, the latter
had encountered Rodin’s observing and penetrating look fixed upon her.
Alone with Adrienne, the sempstress would have felt only a momentary
confusion on hearing the name of the smith; but unfortunately she
fancied that the Jesuit, who already filled her with involuntary fear,
had seen into her heart, and read the secrets of that fatal love, of
which she was the victim. Thence the deep blushes of the poor girl, and
the embarrassment so painfully visible, that Adrienne was struck with
it.
A subtle and prompt mind, like Rodin’s on perceiving the smallest
effect, immediately seeks the cause. Proceeding by comparison, the
Jesuit saw on one side a deformed, but intelligent young girl, capable
of passionate devotion; on the other, a young workman, handsome, bold,
frank, and full of talent. “Brought up together, sympathizing with each
other on many points, there must be some fraternal affection between
them,” said he to himself; “but fraternal affection does not blush, and
the hunchback blushed and grew troubled beneath my look; does she, then,
Love Agricola?”
Once on the scent of this discovery, Rodin wished to pursue the
investigation. Remarking the surprise and visible uneasiness that Mother
Bunch had caused in Adrienne, he said to the latter, with a smile,
looking significantly at the needlewoman: “You see, my dear young
lady, how she blushes. The good girl is troubled by what we said of the
attachment of this gallant workman.”
The needlewoman hung down her head, overcome with confusion. After the
pause of a second, during which Rodin preserved silence, so as to give
time for his cruel remark to pierce the heart of the victim, the savage
resumed: “Look at the dear girl! how embarrassed she appears!”
Again, after another silence, perceiving that Mother Bunch from crimson
had become deadly pale, and was trembling in all her limbs, the Jesuit
feared he had gone too far, whilst Adrienne said to her friend, with
anxiety: “Why, dear child, are you so agitated?”
“Oh! it is clear enough,” resumed Rodin, with an air of perfect
simplicity; for having discovered what he wished to know, he now chose
to appear unconscious. “It is quite clear and plain. This good girl has
the modesty of a kind and tender sister for a brother. When you praise
him, she fancies that she is herself praised.”
“And she is as modest as she is excellent,” added Adrienne, taking bath
of the girl’s hands, “the least praise, either of her adopted brother or
of herself, troubles her in this way. But it is mere childishness, and I
must scold her for it.”
Mdlle. de Cardoville spoke sincerely, for the explanation given by Rodin
appeared to her very plausible. Like all other persons who, dreading
every moment the discovery of some painful secret have their courage
as easily restored as shaken, Mother Bunch persuaded herself (and she
needed to do so, to escape dying of shame), that the last words of Rodin
were sincere, and that he had no idea of the love she felt for Agricola.
So her agony diminished, and she found words to reply to Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
“Excuse me, madame,” she said timidly, “I am so little accustomed to
such kindness as that with which you overwhelm me, that I make a sorry
return for all your goodness.”
“Kindness, my poor girl?” said Adrienne. “I have done nothing for
you yet. But, thank heaven! from this day I shall be able to keep my
promise, and reward your devotion to me, your courageous resignation,
your sacred love of labor, and the dignity of which you have given so
many proofs, under the most cruel privations. In a word, from this day,
if you do not object to it, we will part no more.”
“Madame, you are too kind,” said Mother Bunch, in a trembling voice;
“but I--”
“Oh! be satisfied,” said Adrienne, anticipating her meaning. “If you
accept my offer, I shall know how to reconcile with my desire (not
a little selfish) of having you near me, the independence of your
character, your habits of labor, your taste for retirement, and your
anxiety to devote yourself to those who deserve commiseration; it is,
I confess, by affording you the means of satisfying these generous
tendencies, that I hope to seduce and keep you by me.”
“But what have I done?” asked the other, simply, “to merit any gratitude
from you? Did you not begin, on the contrary, by acting so generously to
my adopted brother?”
“Oh! I do not speak of gratitude,” said Adrienne; “we are quits. I speak
of friendship and sincere affection, which I now offer you.”
“Friendship to me, madame?”
“Come, come,” said Adrienne, with a charming smile, “do not be proud
because your position gives you the advantage. I have set my heart on
having you for a friend, and you will see that it shall be so. But now
that I think of it (a little late, you will say), what good wind brings
you hither?”