to come to this place, to learn some news that would be of the greatest
interest to him. Thinking it concerned Marshal Simon’s daughters, he
said to me: ‘Mother Bunch, you have taken so much interest in those
dear children, that you must come with me: you shall witness my joy on
finding them, and that will be your reward.’”
Adrienne glanced at Rodin. The latter made an affirmative movement of
the head, and answered: “Yes, yes, my dear young lady: it was I who
wrote to the brave soldier, but without signing the letter, or giving
any explanation. You shall know why.”
“Then, my dear girl, why did you come alone?” said Adrienne.
“Alas, madame! on arriving here, it was your kind reception that made me
forget my fears.”
“What fears?” asked Rodin.
“Knowing that you lived here, madame, I supposed the letter was from
you; I told M. Dagobert so, and he thought the same. When we arrived,
his impatience was so great, that he asked at the door if the orphans
were in this house, and he gave their description. They told him no.
Then, in spite of my supplications, he insisted on going to the convent
to inquire about them.”
“What imprudence!” cried Adrienne.
“After what took place the other night, when he broke in,” added Rodin,
shrugging his shoulders.
“It was in vain to tell him,” returned Mother Bunch, “that the letter
did not announce positively, that the orphans would be delivered up to
him; but that, no doubt, he would gain some information about them. He
refused to hear anything, but said to me: ‘If I cannot find them, I will
rejoin you. But they were at the convent the day before yesterday, and
now that all is discovered, they cannot refuse to give them up--”
“And with such a man there is no disputing!” said Rodin, with a smile.
“I hope they will not recognize him!” said Adrienne, remembering
Baleinier’s threats.
“It is not likely,” replied Rodin; “they will only refuse him
admittance. That will be, I hope, the worst misfortune that will happen.
Besides, the magistrate will soon be here with the girls. I am no longer
wanted: other cares require my attention. I must seek out Prince Djalma.
Only tell me, my dear young lady, where I shall find you, to keep you
informed of my discoveries, and to take measures with regard to the
young prince, if my inquiries, as I hope, shall be attended with
success.”
“You will find me in my new house, Rue d’Anjou, formerly Beaulieu House.
But now I think of it,” said Adrienne, suddenly, after some moments of
reflection, “it would not be prudent or proper, on many accounts, to
lodge the Prince Djalma in the pavilion I occupied at Saint-Dizier
House. I saw, some time ago, a charming little house, all furnished and
ready; it only requires some embellishments, that could be completed in
twenty four hours, to make it a delightful residence. Yes, that will be
a thousand times preferable,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, after a new
interval of silence; “and I shall thus be able to preserve the strictest
incognito.”
“What!” cried Rodin, whose projects would be much impeded by this new
resolution of the young lady; “you do not wish him to know who you are?”
“I wish Prince Djalma to know absolutely nothing of the anonymous friend
who comes to his aid; I desire that my name should not be pronounced
before him, and that he should not even know of my existence--at
least, for the present. Hereafter--in a month, perhaps--I will see;
circumstances will guide me.”
“But this incognito,” said Rodin, hiding his disappointment, “will be
difficult to preserve.”
“If the prince had inhabited the lodge, I agree with you; the
neighborhood of my aunt would have enlightened him, and this fear is one
of the reasons that have induced me to renounce my first project. But
the prince will inhabit a distant quarter--the Rue Blanche. Who will
inform him of my secret? One of my old friends, M. Norval--you, sir--and
this dear girl,” pointing to Mother Bunch, “on whose discretion I can
depend as on your own, will be my only confidants. My secret will then
be quite safe. Besides, we will talk further on this subject to-morrow.
You must begin by discovering the retreat of this unfortunate young
prince.”
Rodin, though much vexed at Adrienne’s subtle determination with
regard to Djalma, put the best face on the matter, and replied: “Your
intentions shall be scrupulously fulfilled, my dear young lady; and
to-morrow, with your leave, I hope to give you a good account of what
you are pleased to call my providential mission.”
“To-morrow, then, I shall expect you with impatience,” said Adrienne, to
Rodin, affectionately. “Permit me always to rely upon you, as from this
day you may count upon me. You must be indulgent with me, sir; for I see
that I shall yet have many counsels, many services to ask of you--though
I already owe you so much.”
“You will never owe me enough, my dear young lady, never enough,”
said Rodin, as he moved discreetly towards the door, after bowing to
Adrienne. At the very moment he was going out, he found himself face to
face with Dagobert.
“Holloa! at last I have caught one!” shouted the soldier, as he seized
the Jesuit by the collar with a vigorous hand.
CHAPTER XXXVII. EXCUSES.
On seeing Dagobert grasp Rodin so roughly by the collar, Mdlle. de
Cardoville exclaimed in terror, as she advanced several steps towards
the soldier: “In the name of Heaven, sir! what are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” echoed the soldier, harshly, without relaxing his
hold on Rodin, and turning his head towards Adrienne, whom he did not
know; “I take this opportunity to squeeze the throat of one of the
wretches in the band of that renegade, until he tells me where my poor
children are.”
“You strangle me,” said the Jesuit, in a stifled voice, as he tried to
escape from the soldier.
“Where are the orphans, since they are not here, and the convent door
has been closed against me?” cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder.
“Help! help!” gasped Rodin.
“Oh! it is dreadful!” said Adrienne, as, pale and trembling, she held up
her clasped hands to Dagobert. “Have mercy, sir! listen to me! listen to
him!”
“M. Dagobert!” cried Mother Bunch, seizing with her weak hands the
soldier’s arm, and showing him Adrienne, “this is Mdlle. de Cardoville.
What violence in her presence! and then, you are deceived doubtless!”
At the name of Mdlle. de Cardoville, the benefactress of his son, the
soldier turned round suddenly, and loosened his hold on Rodin. The
latter, crimson with rage and suffocation, set about adjusting his
collar and his cravat.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said Dagobert, going towards Adrienne, who
was still pale with fright; “I did not known who you were, and the first
impulse of anger quite carried me away.”
“But what has this gentleman done to you?” said Adrienne. “If you had
listened to me, you would have learned--”
“Excuse me if I interrupt you, madame,” said the soldier to Adrienne, in
a hollow voice. Then addressing himself to Rodin, who had recovered his
coolness, he added: “Thank the lady, and begone!--If you remain here, I
will not answer for myself.”
“One word only, my dear sir,” said Rodin.
“I tell you that if you remain, I will not answer for myself!” cried
Dagobert, stamping his foot.
“But, for heaven’s sake, tell me the cause of this anger,” resumed
Adrienne; “above all, do not trust to appearances. Calm yourself, and
listen.”
“Calm myself, madame!” cried Dagobert, in despair; “I can think only of
one thing, ma dame--of the arrival of Marshal Simon--he will be in Paris
to-day or to-morrow.”
“Is it possible?” said Adrienne. Rodin started with surprise and joy.
“Yesterday evening,” proceeded Dagobert, “I received a letter from the
marshal: he has landed at Havre. For three days I have taken step
after step, hoping that the orphans would be restored to me, as the
machinations of those wretches have failed.” He pointed to Rodin with a
new gesture of impatience. “Well! it is not so. They are conspiring some
new infamy. I am prepared for anything.”
“But, sir,” said Rodin advancing, “permit me--”
“Begone!” cried Dagobert, whose irritation and anxiety redoubled, as he
thought how at any moment Marshal Simon might arrive in Paris. “Begone!
Were it not for this lady, I would at least be revenged on some one.”
Rodin made a nod of intelligence to Adrienne, whom he approached
prudently, and, pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of affectionate
commiseration, he said to the latter: “I will leave you, sir, and the
more willingly, as I was about to withdraw when you entered.” Then,
coming still closer to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the Jesuit whispered
to her, “Poor soldier! he is beside himself with grief, and would be
incapable of hearing me. Explain it all to him, my dear young lady;
he will be nicely caught,” added he, with a cunning air. “But in the
meantime,” resumed Rodin, feeling in the side-pocket of his great-coat
and taking out a small parcel, “let me beg you to give him this, my dear
young lady. It is my revenge, and a very good one.”
And while Adrienne, holding the little parcel in her hand looked at the
Jesuit with astonishment, the latter laying his forefinger upon his lip,
as if recommending silence, drew backward on tiptoe to the door, and
went out after again pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of pity; while
the soldier, in sullen dejection, with his head drooping, and his arms
crossed upon his bosom, remained deaf to the sewing-girl’s earnest
consolations. When Rodin had left the room, Adrienne, approaching the
soldier, said to him, in her mild voice, with an expression of deep
interest, “Your sudden entry prevented my asking you a question that
greatly concerns me. How is your wound?”
“Thank you, madame,” said Dagobert, starting from his painful lethargy,
“it is of no consequence, but I have not time to think of it. I am sorry
to have been so rough in your presence, and to have driven away that
wretch; but ‘tis more than I could master. At sight of those people, my
blood is all up.”
“And yet, believe me, you have been too hasty in your judgment. The
person who was just now here--”
“Too hasty, madame! I do not see him to-day for the first time. He was
with that renegade the Abbe d’Aigrigny--”
“No doubt!--and yet he is an honest and excellent man.”
“He!” cried Dagobert.
“Yes; for at this moment he is busy about only one thing restoring to
you those dear children!”
“He!” repeated Dagobert, as if he could not believe what he heard. “He
restore me my children?”
“Yes; and sooner, perhaps, than you think for.”
“Madame,” said Dagobert, abruptly, “he deceives you. You are the dupe of
that old rascal.”
“No,” said Adrienne, shaking her head, with a smile. “I have proofs of
his good faith. First of all, it is he who delivers me from this house.”
“Is it true?” said Dagobert, quite confounded.
“Very true; and here is, perhaps, something that will reconcile you to
him,” said Adrienne, as she delivered the small parcel which Rodin
had given her as he went out. “Not wishing to exasperate you by his
presence, he said to me: ‘Give this to that brave soldier; it is my
revenge.’”
Dagobert looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as he
mechanically opened the little parcel. When he had unfolded it, and
discovered his own silver cross, black with age, and the old red, faded
ribbon, treasures taken from him at the White Falcon Inn, at the same
time as his papers, he exclaimed in a broken voice: “My cross! my cross!
It is my cross!” In the excitement of his joy, he pressed the silver
star to his gray moustache.
Adrienne and the other were deeply affected by the emotion of the old
soldier, who continued, as he ran towards the door by which Rodin had
gone out: “Next to a service rendered to Marshal Simon, my wife, or son,
nothing could be more precious to me. And you answer for this worthy
man, madame, and I have ill used him in your presence! Oh! he is
entitled to reparation, and he shall have it.”
So saying, Dagobert left the room precipitately, hastened through two
other apartments, gained the staircase, and descending it rapidly,
overtook Rodin on the lowest step.
“Sir,” said the soldier to him, in an agitated voice, as he seized him
by the arm, “you must come upstairs directly.”
“You should make up your mind to one thing or the other, my dear sir,”
said Rodin, stopping good-naturedly; “one moment you tell me to begone,
and the next to return. How are we to decide?”
“Just now, sir, I was wrong; and when I am wrong, I acknowledge it.
I abused and ill-treated you before witnesses; I will make you my
apologies before witnesses.”
“But, my dear sir--I am much obliged to you--I am in a hurry.”
“I cannot help your being in a hurry. I tell you, I must have you come
upstairs, directly--or else--or else,” resumed Dagobert, taking the hand
of the Jesuit, and pressing it with as much cordiality as emotion, “or
else the happiness you have caused the in returning my cross will not be
complete.”
“Well, then, my good friend, let us go up.”
“And not only have you restored me my cross, for which I have wept many
tears, believe me, unknown to any one,” cried Dagobert, much affected;
“but the young lady told me, that, thanks to you, those poor children
but tell me--no false joy-is it really true?--My God! is it really
true?”
“Ah! ah! Mr. Inquisitive,” said Rodin, with a cunning smile. Then he
added: “Be perfectly tranquil, my growler; you shall have your two
angels back again.” And the Jesuit began to ascend the stairs.
“Will they be restored to me to-day?” cried Dagobert, stopping Rodin
abruptly, by catching hold of his sleeve.
“Now, really, my good friend,” said the Jesuit, “let us come to the
point. Are we to go up or down? I do not find fault, but you turn me
about like a teetotum.”
“You are right. We shall be better able to explain things upstairs. Come
with me--quick! quick!” said Dagobert, as, taking the Jesuit by the arm,
he hurried him along, and brought him triumphantly into the room, where
Adrienne and Mother Bunch had remained in much surprise at the soldier’s
sudden disappearance.
“Here he is! here he is!” cried Dagobert, as he entered. “Luckily, I
caught him at the bottom of the stairs.”
“And you have made me come up at a fine pace!” added Rodin, pretty well
out of breath.
“Now, sir,” said Dagobert, in a grave voice, “I declare, in presence of
all, that I was wrong to abuse and ill-treat you. I make you my apology
for it, sir; and I acknowledge, with joy, that I owe you--much--oh! very
much and when I owe, I pay.”
So saying, Dagobert held out his honest hand to Rodin, who pressed it
in a very affable manner, and replied: “Now, really--what is all this
about? What great service do you speak of?”
“This!” said Dagobert, holding up the cross before Rodin’s eyes. “You do
not know, then, what this cross is to me?”
“On the contrary, supposing you would set great store by it, I intended
to have the pleasure of delivering it myself. I had brought it for that
purpose; but, between ourselves, you gave me so warm a reception, that I
had not the time--”
“Sir,” said Dagobert, in confusion, “I assure you that I sincerely
repent of what I have done.”
“I know it, my good friend; do not say another word about it. You were
then much attached to this cross?”
“Attached to it, sir!” cried Dagobert. “Why, this cross,” and he kissed
it as he spoke, “is my relic. He from whom it came was my saint--my
hero--and he had touched it with his hand!”
“Oh!” said Rodin, feigning to regard the cross with as much curiosity as
respectful admiration; “did Napoleon--the Great Napoleon--indeed touch
with his own hand--that victorious hand!--this noble star of honor?”
“Yes, sir, with his own hand. He placed it there upon my bleeding
breast, as a cure for my fifth wound. So that, you see, were I dying of
hunger, I think I should not hesitate betwixt bread and my cross--that
I might, in any case, have it on my heart in death. But, enough--enough!
let us talk of something else. It is foolish in an old soldier, is it
not?” added Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, and then, as
if ashamed to deny what he really felt: “Well, then! yes,” he resumed,
raising his head proudly, and no longer seeking to conceal the tears
that rolled down his cheek; “yes, I weep for joy, to have found my
cross--my cross, that the Emperor gave me with his victorious hand, as
this worthy man has called it.”
“Then blessed be my poor old hand for having restored you the glorious
treasure!” said Rodin, with emotion. “In truth,” he added, “the day will
be a good one for everybody--as I announced to you this morning in my
letter.”
“That letter without a signature?” asked the soldier, more and more
astonished. “Was it from you?”
“It was I who wrote it. Only, fearing some new snare of the Abbe
d’Aigrigny, I did not choose, you understand, to explain myself more
clearly.”
“Then--I shall see--my orphans?”
Rodin nodded affirmatively, with an expression of great good-nature.
“Presently--perhaps immediately,” said Adrienne, with smile. “Well! was
I right in telling you that you had not judged this gentleman fairly?”
“Why did he not tell me this when I came in?” cried Dagobert, almost
beside himself with joy.
“There was one difficulty in the way, my good friend,” said Rodin; “it
was, that when you came in, you nearly throttled me.”
“True; I was too hasty. Once more, I ask your pardon. But was I to
blame? I had only seen you with that Abbe d’Aigrigny, and in the first
moment--”
“This dear young lady,” said Rodin, bowing to Adrienne, “will tell you
that I have been, without knowing it, the accomplice IN many perfidious
actions; but as soon as I began to see my way through the darkness, I
quitted the evil course on which I had entered, and returned to that
which is honest, just and true.”
Adrienne nodded affirmatively to Dagobert, who appeared to consult her
look.
“If I did not sign the letter that I wrote to you, my good friend, it
was partly from fear that my name might inspire suspicion; and if I
asked you to come hither, instead of to the convent, it was that I had
some dread--like this dear young lady--lest you might be recognized by
the porter or by the gardener, your affair of the other night rendering
such a recognition somewhat dangerous.”
“But M. Baleinier knows all; I forgot that,” said Adrienne, with
uneasiness. “He threatened to denounce M. Dagobert and his son, if I
made any complaint.”
“Do not be alarmed, my dear young lady; it will soon be for you to
dictate conditions,” replied Rodin. “Leave that to me; and as for you,
my good friend, your torments are now finished.”
“Yes,” said Adrienne, “an upright and worthy magistrate has gone to the
convent, to fetch Marshal Simon’s daughters. He will bring them hither;
but he thought with me, that it would be most proper for them to take
up their abode in my house. I cannot, however, come to this decision
without your consent, for it is to you that these orphans were entrusted
by their mother.”
“You wish to take her place with regard to them, madame?” replied
Dagobert. “I can only thank you with all my heart, for myself and for
the children. But, as the lesson has been a sharp one, I must beg to
remain at the door of their chamber, night and day. If they go out with
you, I must be allowed to follow them at a little distance, so as to
keep them in view, just like Spoil-sport, who has proved himself a
better guardian than myself. When the marshal is once here--it will be
in a day or two--my post will be relieved. Heaven grant it may be soon!”
“Yes,” replied Rodin, in a firm voice, “heaven grant he may arrive soon,
for he will have to demand a terrible reckoning of the Abbe d’Aigrigny,
for the persecution of his daughters; and yet the marshal does not know
all.”
“And don’t you tremble for the renegade?” asked Dagobert, as he thought
how the marquis would soon find himself face to face with the marshal.
“I never care for cowards and traitors,” answered Rodin; “and when
Marshal Simon returns--” Then, after a pause of some seconds, he
continued: “If he will do me the honor to hear me, he shall be edified
as to the conduct of the Abbe d’Aigrigny. The marshal knows that his
dearest friends, as well as himself, have been victims of the hatred of
that dangerous man.”
“How so?” said Dagobert.
“Why, yourself, for instance,” replied Rodin; “you are an example of
what I advance.”
“Do you think it was mere chance, that brought about the scene at the
White Falcon Inn, near Leipsic?”
“Who told you of that scene?” said Dagobert in astonishment.
“Where you accepted the challenge of Morok,” continued the Jesuit,
without answering Dagobert’s question, “and so fell into a trap, or else
refused it, and were then arrested for want of papers, and thrown into
prison as a vagabond, with these poor children. Now, do you know the
object of this violence? It was to prevent your being here on the 13th
of February.”
“But the more I hear, sir,” said Adrienne, “the more I am alarmed at the
audacity of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, and the extent of the means he has at
his command. Really,” she resumed, with increasing surprise, “if your
words were not entitled to absolute belief--”
“You would doubt their truth, madame?” said Dagobert. “It is like me.
Bad as he is. I cannot think that this renegade had relations with a
wild-beast showman as far off as Saxony; and then, how could he know
that I and the children were to pass through Leipsic? It is impossible,
my good man.”
“In fact, sir,” resumed Adrienne, “I fear that you are deceived by your
dislike (a very legitimate one) of Abbe d’Aigrigny, and that you ascribe
to him an almost fabulous degree of power and extent of influence.”
After a moment’s silence, during which Rodin looked first at Adrienne
and then at Dagobert, with a kind of pity, he resumed. “How could
the Abbe d’Aigrigny have your cross in his possession, if he had no
connection with Morok?”
“That is true, sir,” said Dagobert; “joy prevented me from reflecting.
But how indeed, did my cross come into your hands?”
“By means of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s having precisely those relations with
Leipsic, of which you and the young lady seem to doubt.”
“But how did my cross get to Paris?”
“Tell me; you were arrested at Leipsic for want of papers--is it not
so?”
“Yes; but I could never understand how my passports and money
disappeared from my knapsack. I thought I must have had the misfortune
to lose them.”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “You were robbed of them
at the White Falcon Inn, by Goliath, one of Morok’s servants, and the
latter sent the papers and the cross to the Abbe d’Aigrigny, to prove
that he had succeeded in executing his orders with respect to the
orphans and yourself. It was the day before yesterday, that I obtained
the key of that dark machination. Cross and papers were amongst the
stores of Abbe d’Aigrigny; the papers formed a considerable bundle,
and he might have missed them; but, hoping to see you this morning, and
knowing how a soldier of the Empire values his cross, his sacred relic,
as you call it, my good friend--I did not hesitate. I put the relic into
my pocket. ‘After all,’ said I, ‘it is only restitution, and my delicacy
perhaps exaggerates this breach of trust.’”
“You could not have done a better action,” said Adrienne; “and, for my
part, because of the interest I feel for M. Dagobert--I take it as a
personal favor. But, sir,” after a moment’s silence, she resumed with
anxiety: “What terrible power must be at the command of M. d’Aigrigny,
for him to have such extensive and formidable relations in a foreign
country!”
“Silence!” said Rodin, in a low voice, and looking round him with an air
of alarm. “Silence! In heaven’s name do not ask me about it!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII. REVELATIONS.
Mdlle. de Cardoville, much astonished at the alarm displayed by Rodin,
when she had asked him for some explanation of the formidable and far
reaching power of the Abby d’Aigrigny, said to him: “Why, sir, what is
there so strange in the question that I have just asked you?”
After a moment’s silence, Rodin cast his looks all around, with well
feigned uneasiness, and replied in a whisper: “Once more, madame, do not
question me on so fearful a subject. The walls of this house may have
ears.”
Adrienne and Dagobert looked at each other with growing surprise. Mother
Bunch, by an instinct of incredible force, continued to regard Rodin
with invincible suspicion. Sometimes she stole a glance at him, as if
trying to penetrate the mask of this man, who filled her with fear. At
one moment, the Jesuit encountered her anxious gaze, obstinately fixed
upon him; immediately he nodded to her with the greatest amenity. The
young girl, alarmed at finding herself observed, turned away with a
shudder.
“No, no, my dear young lady,” resumed Rodin, with a sigh, as he saw
Mdlle. de Cardoville astonished at his silence; “do not question me on
the subject of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s power!”
“But, to persist, sir,” said Adrienne; “why this hesitation to answer?
What do you fear?”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, shuddering, “those people are so
powerful! their animosity is so terrible!”
“Be satisfied, sir; I owe you too much, for my support ever to fail
you.”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” cried Rodin, as if hurt by the supposition;
“think better of me, I entreat you. Is it for myself that I fear?--No,
no; I am too obscure, too inoffensive; but it is for you, for Marshal
Simon, for the other members of your family, that all is to be feared.
Oh, my dear young lady! let me beg you to ask no questions. There are
secrets which are fatal to those who possess them.”
“But, sir, is it not better to know the perils with which one is
threatened?”
“When you know the manoeuvres of your enemy, you may at least defend
yourself,” said Dagobert. “I prefer an attack in broad daylight to an
ambuscade.”
“And I assure you,” resumed Adrienne, “the few words you have spoken
cause me a vague uneasiness.”
“Well, if I must, my dear young lady,” replied the Jesuit, appearing to
make a great effort, “since you do not understand my hints, I will be
more explicit; but remember,” added he, in a deeply serious tone, “that
you have persevered in forcing me to tell you what you had perhaps
better not have known.”
“Speak, Sir, I pray you speak,” said Adrienne.
Drawing about him Adrienne, Dagobert, and Mother Bunch, Rodin said to
them in a low voce, and with a mysterious air: “Have you never heard of
a powerful association, which extends its net over all the earth, and
counts its disciples, agents, and fanatics in every class of society
which has had, and often has still, the ear of kings and nobles--which,
in a word, can raise its creatures to the highest positions, and with a
word can reduce them again to the nothingness from which it alone could
uplift them?”
“Good heaven, sir!” said Adrienne, “what formidable association? Until
now I never heard of it.”
“I believe you; and yet your ignorance on this subject greatly
astonishes me, my dear young lady.”
“And why should it astonish you?”
“Because you lived some time with your aunt, and must have often seen
the Abbe d’Aigrigny.”
“I lived at the princess’s, but not with her; for a thousand reasons she
had inspired me with warrantable aversion.”
“In truth, my dear young lady, my remark was ill-judged. It was there,
above all, and particularly in your presence, that they would keep
silence with regard to this association--and yet to it alone did the
Princess de Saint-Dizier owe her formidable influence in the world,
during the last reign. Well, then; know this--it is the aid of that
association which renders the Abbe d’Aigrigny so dangerous a man.
“By it he was enabled to follow and to reach divers members of your
family, some in Siberia, some in India, others on the heights of the
American mountains; but, as I have told you, it was only the day before
yesterday, and by chance, that, examining the papers of Abbe d’Aigrigny,
I found the trace of his connection with this Company, of which he is
the most active and able chief.”
“But the name, sir, the name of this Company?” said Adrienne.
“Well! it is--” but Rodin stopped short.
“It is,” repeated Adrienne, who was now as much interested as Dagobert
and the sempstress; “it is--”
Rodin looked round him, beckoned all the actors in this scene to draw
nearer, and said in a whisper, laying great stress upon the words: “It
is--the Society of Jesus!” and he again shuddered.
“The Jesuits!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, unable to restrain a burst
of laughter, which was the more buoyant, as, from the mysterious
precautions of Rodin, she had expected some very different revelation.
“The Jesuits!” she resumed, still laughing. “They have no existence,
except in books; they are frightful historical personages, certainly;
but why should you put forward Madame de Saint-Dizier and M. d’Aigrigny
in that character? Such as they are, they have done quite enough to
justify my aversion and disdain.”
After listening in silence to Mdlle. de Cardoville Rodin continued, with
a grave and agitated air: “Your blindness frightens me, my dear, young
lady; the past should have given you some anxiety for the future, since,
more than any one, you have already suffered from the fatal influence of
this Company, whose existence you regard as a dream!”
“I, sir?” said Adrienne, with a smile, although a little surprised.
“You.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“You ask me this question! my dear young lady! you ask me this
question!--and yet you have been confined here as a mad person! Is it
not enough to tell you that the master of this house is one of the most
devoted lay members of the Company, and therefore the blind instrument
of the Abbe d’Aigrigny?”
“So,” said Adrienne, this time without smiling, “Dr. Baleinier”
“Obeyed the Abbe d’Aigrigny, the most formidable chief of that
formidable society. He employs his genius for evil; but I must confess
he is a man of genius. Therefore, it is upon him that you and yours must
fix all your doubts and suspicions; it is against him that you must be
upon your guard. For, believe me, I know him, and he does not look upon
the game as lost. You must be prepared for new attacks, doubtless of
another kind, but only the more dangerous on that account--”
“Luckily, you give us notice,” said Dagobert, “and you will be on our
side.”
“I can do very little, my good friends; but that little is at the
service of honest people,” said Rodin.
“Now,” said Adrienne, with a thoughtful air, completely persuaded by
Rodin’s air of conviction, “I can explain the inconceivable influence
that my aunt exercised in the world. I ascribed it chiefly to her
relations with persons in power; I thought that she, like the Abbe
d’Aigrigny, was concerned in dark intrigues, for which religion served
as a veil--but I was far from believing what you tell me.”
“How many things you have got to learn!” resumed Rodin. “If you knew, my
dear young lady, with what art these people surround you, without your
being aware of it, by agents devoted to themselves! Every one of your
steps is known to them, when they have any interest in such knowledge.
Thus, little by little, they act upon you--slowly, cautiously,
darkly. They circumvent you by every possible means, from flattery to
terror--seduce or frighten, in order at last to rule you, without your
being conscious of their authority. Such is their object, and I must
confess they pursue it with detestable ability.”
Rodin had spoken with so much sincerity, that Adrienne trembled; then,
reproaching herself with these fears, she resumed: “And yet, no--I can
never believe in so infernal a power; the might of priestly ambition
belongs to another age. Heaven be praised, it has disappeared forever!”
“Yes, certainly, it is out of sight; for they now know how to disperse
and disappear, when circumstances require it. But then are they the
most dangerous; for suspicion is laid asleep, and they keep watch in the
dark. Oh! my dear young lady, if you knew their frightful ability! In
my hatred of all that is oppressive, cowardly, and hypocritical, I had
studied the history of that terrible society, before I knew that the
Abbe d’Aigrigny belonged to it. Oh! it is dreadful. If you knew what
means they employ! When I tell you that, thanks to their diabolical
devices, the most pure and devoted appearances often conceal the most
horrible snares.” Rodin’s eye rested, as if by chance, on the hunchback;
but, seeing that Adrienne did not take the hint, the Jesuit continued:
“In a word--are you not exposed to their pursuits?--have they any
interest in gaining you over?--oh! from that moment, suspect all that
surround you, suspect the most noble attachments, the most tender
affections, for these monsters sometimes succeed in corrupting your
best friends, and making a terrible use of them, in proportion to the
blindness of your confidence.”
“Oh! it is impossible,” cried Adrienne, in horror. “You must exaggerate.
No! hell itself never dreamed of more frightful treachery!”
“Alas, my dear young lady! one of your relations, M. Hardy--the most
loyal and generous-hearted man that could be--has been the victim of
some such infamous treachery. Do you know what we learned from the
reading of your ancestor’s will? Why, that he died the victim of the
malevolence of these people; and now, at the lapse of a hundred and
fifty years, his descendants are still exposed to the hate of that
indestructible society.”
“Oh, sir! it terrifies me,” said Adrienne, feeling her heart sink within
her. “But are there no weapons against such attacks?”
“Prudence, my dear young lady--the most watchful caution--the most
incessant study and suspicion of all that approach you.”
“But such a life would be frightful! It is a torture to be the victim of
continual suspicions, doubts, and fears.”
“Without doubt! They know it well, the wretches! That constitutes their
strength. They often triumph by the very excess of the precautions
taken against them. Thus, my dear young lady, and you, brave and worthy
soldier, in the name of all that is dear to you, be on your guard, and
do not lightly impart your confidence. Be on your guard, for you have
nearly fallen the victims of those people. They will always be your
implacable enemies. And you, also, poor, interesting girl!” added the
Jesuit, speaking to Mother Bunch, “follow my advice--fear these people.
Sleep, as the proverb says, with one eye open.”
“I, sir!” said the work-girl. “What have I done? what have I to fear?”
“What have you done? Dear me! Do not you tenderly love this young lady,
your protectress? have you not attempted to assist her? Are you not the
adopted sister of the son of this intrepid soldier, the brave Agricola!
Alas, poor, girl! are not these sufficient claims to their hatred, in
spite of your obscurity? Nay, my dear young lady! do not think that I
exaggerate. Reflect! only reflect! Think what I have just said to
the faithful companion-in-arms of Marshal Simon, with regard to his
imprisonment at Leipsic. Think what happened to yourself, when, against
all law and reason, you were brought hither. Then you will see, that
there is nothing exaggerated in the picture I have drawn of the secret
power of this Company. Be always on your guard, and, in doubtful cases,
do not fear to apply to me. In three days, I have learned enough by my
own experience, with regard to their manner of acting, to be able to
point out to you many a snare, device, and danger, and to protect you
from them.”
“In any such case, sir,” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville, “my interests, as
well as gratitude, would point to you as my best counsellor.”
According to the skillful tactics of the sons of Loyola, who sometimes
deny their own existence, in order to escape from an adversary--and
sometimes proclaim with audacity the living power of their organization,
in order to intimidate the feeble-R-odin had laughed in the face of the
bailiff of Cardoville, when the latter had spoken of the existence of
the Jesuits; while now, at this moment, picturing their means of action,
he endeavored, and he succeeded in the endeavor, to impregnate the mind
of Mdlle. de Cardoville with some germs of doubt, which were gradually
to develop themselves by reflection, and serve hereafter the dark
projects that he meditated. Mother Bunch still felt considerable alarm
with regard to Rodin. Yet, since she had heard the fatal powers of the
formidable Order revealed to Adrienne, the young sempstress, far from
suspecting the Jesuit of having the audacity to speak thus of a society
of which he was himself a member, felt grateful to him, in spite of
herself, for the important advice that he had just given her patroness.
The side-glance which she now cast upon him (which Rodin also detected,
for he watched the young girl with sustained attention), was full
of gratitude, mingled with surprise. Guessing the nature of this
impression, and wishing entirely to remove her unfavorable opinion, and
also to anticipate a revelation which would be made sooner or later,
the Jesuit appeared to have forgotten something of great importance,
and exclaimed, striking his forehead: “What was I thinking of?” Then,
speaking to Mother Bunch, he added: “Do you know where your sister is,
my dear girl?” Disconcerted and saddened by this unexpected question,
the workwoman answered with a blush, for she remembered her last
interview with the brilliant Bacchanal Queen: “I have not seen my sister
for some days, sir.”
“Well, my dear girl, she is not very comfortable,” said Rodin; “I
promised one of her friends to send her some little assistance. I have
applied to a charitable person, and that is what I received for her.”
So saying, he drew from his pocket a sealed roll of coin, which he
delivered to Mother Bunch, who was now both surprised and affected.
“You have a sister in trouble, and I know nothing of it?” said Adrienne,
hastily. “This is not right of you, my child!”
“Do not blame her,” said Rodin. “First of all, she did not know that her
sister was in distress, and, secondly, she could not ask you, my dear
young lady, to interest yourself about her.”
As Mdlle. de Cardoville looked at Rodin with astonishment, he added,
again speaking to the hunchback: “Is not that true, my dear girl!”
“Yes, sir,” said the sempstress, casting down her eyes and blushing.
Then she added, hastily and anxiously: “But when did you see my sister,
sir? where is she? how did she fall into distress?”
“All that would take too long to tell you, my dear girl; but go as soon
as possible to the greengrocer’s in the Rue Clovis, and ask to speak to
your sister as from M. Charlemagne or M. Rodin, which you please, for
I am equally well known in that house by my Christian name as by my
surname, and then you will learn all about it. Only tell your sister,
that, if she behaves well, and keeps to her good resolutions, there are
some who will continue to look after her.”
More and more surprised, Mother Bunch was about to answer Rodin, when
the door opened, and M. de Gernande entered. The countenance of the
magistrate was grave and sad.
“Marshal Simon’s daughters!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Unfortunately, they are not with me,” answered the judge.
“Then, where are they, sir? What have they done with them? The day
before yesterday, they were in the convent!” cried Dagobert, overwhelmed
by this complete destruction of his hopes.
Hardly had the soldier pronounced these words, when, profiting by
the impulse which gathered all the actors in this scene about the
magistrate, Rodin withdrew discreetly towards the door, and disappeared
without any one perceiving his absence. Whilst the soldier, thus
suddenly thrown back to the depths of his despair, looked at M. de
Gernande, waiting with anxiety for the answer, Adrienne said to the
magistrate: “But, sir, when you applied at the convent, what explanation
did the superior give on the subject of these young girls?”
“The lady superior refused to give any explanation, madame. ‘You
pretend,’ said she, ‘that the young persons of whom you speak are
detained here against their will. Since the law gives you the right of
entering this house, make your search.’ ‘But, madame, please to answer
me positively,’ said I to the superior; ‘do you declare, that you know
nothing of the young girls, whom I have come to claim?’ ‘I have nothing
to say on this subject, sir. You assert, that you are authorized to
make a search: make it.’ Not being able to get any other explanation,”
continued the magistrate, “I searched all parts of the convent, and had
every door opened--but, unfortunately, I could find no trace of these
young ladies.”
“They must have sent them elsewhere,” cried Dagobert; “who
knows?--perhaps, ill. They will kill them--O God! they will kill them!”
cried he, in a heart-rending tone.
“After such a refusal, what is to be done? Pray, sir, give us your
advice; you are our providence,” said Adrienne, turning to speak to
Rodin, who she fancied was behind her. “What is your--”
Then, perceiving that the Jesuit had suddenly disappeared, she said to
Mother Bunch, with uneasiness: “Where is M. Rodin?”
“I do not know, madame,” answered the girl, looking round her; “he is no
longer here.”
“It is strange,” said Adrienne, “to disappear so abruptly!”
“I told you he was a traitor!” cried Dagobert, stamping with rage; “they
are all in a plot together.”
“No, no,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville; “do not think that. But the
absence is not the less to be regretted, for, under these difficult
circumstances, he might have given us very useful information, thanks to
the position he occupied at M. d’Aigrigny’s.”
“I confess, madame, that I rather reckoned upon it,” said M. de
Gernande; “and I returned hither, not only to inform you of the
fruitless result of my search, but also to seek from the upright and
honorable roan, who so courageously unveiled these odious machinations,
the aid of his counsels in this contingency.”
Strangely enough, for the last few moments Dagobert was so completely
absorbed in thought, that he paid no attention to the words of the
magistrate, however important to him. He did not even perceive the
departure of M. de Gernande, who retired after promising Adrienne that
he would neglect no means to arrive at the truth, in regard to the
disappearance of the orphans. Uneasy at this silence, wishing to quit
the house immediately, and induce Dagobert to accompany her, Adrienne,
after exchanging a rapid glance with Mother Bunch, was advancing towards
the soldier, when hasty steps were heard from without the chamber, and a
manly sonorous voice, exclaiming with impatience, “Where is he--where is
he?”
At the sound of this voice, Dagobert seemed to rouse himself with a
start, made a sudden bound, and with a loud cry, rushed towards the
door. It opened. Marshal Simon appeared on the threshold!
CHAPTER XXXIX. PIERRE SIMON.
Marshal Pierre Simon, Duke de Ligny, was a man of tall stature, plainly
dressed in a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the throat, with a red
ribbon tied to the top buttonhole. You could not have wished to see
a more frank, honest, and chivalrous cast of countenance than the
marshal’s. He had a broad forehead, an aquiline nose, a well formed
chin, and a complexion bronzed by exposure to the Indian sun. His hair,
cut very short, was inclined to gray about the temples; but his eyebrows
were still as black as his large, hanging moustache. His walk was free
and bold, and his decided movements showed his military impetuosity. A
man of the people, a man of war and action, the frank cordiality of
his address invited friendliness and sympathy. As enlightened as he was
intrepid as generous as he was sincere, his manly, plebeian pride was
the most remarkable part of his character. As others are proud of their
high birth, so was he of his obscure origin, because it was ennobled by
the fine qualities of his father, the rigid republican, the intelligent
and laborious artisan, who, for the space of forty years, had been the
example and the glory of his fellow-workmen. In accepting with gratitude
the aristocratic title which the Emperor had bestowed upon him, Pierre
Simon acted with that delicacy which receives from a friendly hand a
perfectly useless gift, and estimates it according to the intention of
the giver. The religious veneration of Pierre Simon for the Emperor had
never been blind; in proportion as his devotion and love for his idol
were instructive and necessary, his admiration was serious, and founded
upon reason. Far from resembling those swashbucklers who love fighting
for its own sake, Marshal Simon not only admired his hero as the
greatest captain in the world, but he admired him, above all, because he
knew that the Emperor had only accepted war in the hope of one day being
able to dictate universal peace; for if peace obtained by glory and
strength is great, fruitful, and magnificent, peace yielded by weakness
and cowardice is sterile, disastrous, and dishonoring. The son of a
workman, Pierre Simon still further admired the Emperor, because that
imperial parvenu had always known how to make that popular heart beat
nobly, and, remembering the people, from the masses of whom he first
arose, had invited them fraternally to share in regal and aristocratic
pomp.
When Marshal Simon entered the room, his countenance was much agitated.
At sight of Dagobert, a flash of joy illumined his features; he rushed
towards the soldier, extending his arms, and exclaimed, “My friend! my
old friend!”
Dagobert answered this affectionate salute with silent emotion. Then the
marshal, disengaging himself from his arms, and fixing his moist eyes
upon him, said to him in so agitated a voice that his lips trembled,
“Well, didst arrive in time for the 13th of February?”
“Yes, general; but everything is postponed for four months.”
“And--my wife?--my child?” At this question Dagobert shuddered, hung
down his head, and was silent.
“They are not, then, here?” asked Simon, with more surprise than
uneasiness. “They told me they were not at your house, but that I should
find you here--and I came immediately. Are they not with you?”
“General,” said Dagobert, becoming deadly pale; “general--” Drying
the drops of cold sweat that stood upon his forehead, he was unable to
articulate a word, for his voice was checked in his parched throat.
“You frighten me!” exclaimed Pierre Simon, becoming pale as the soldier,
and seizing him by the arm.
At this, Adrienne advanced, with a countenance full of grief and
sympathy; seeing the cruel embarrassment of Dagobert, she wished to come
to his assistance, and she said to Pierre Simon, in a mild but agitated
voice, “Marshal, I am Mdlle. de Cardoville--a relation of your dear
children.”
Pierre Simon turned around suddenly, as much struck with the dazzling
beauty of Adrienne as with the words she had just pronounced. He
stammered out in his surprise, “You, madame--a relation--of my
children!”
He laid a stress on the last words, and looked at Dagobert in a kind of
stupor.
“Yes, marshal your children,” hastily replied Adrienne; “and the love of
those charming twin sisters--”
“Twin sisters!” cried Pierre Simon, interrupting Mdlle. de Cardoville,
with an outburst of joy impossible to describe. “Two daughters instead
of one! Oh! what happiness for their mother! Pardon me, madame, for
being so impolite,” he continued; “and so little grateful for what you
tell me. But you will understand it; I have been seventeen years without
seeing my wife; I come, and I find three loved beings, instead of two.
Thanks, madame: would I could express all the gratitude I owe you! You
are our relation; this is no doubt your house; my wife and children
are with you. Is it so? You think that my sudden appearance might be
prejudicial to them? I will wait--but madame, you, that I am certain
are good as fair--pity my impatience--will make haste to prepare them to
receive me--”
More and more agitated, Dagobert avoided the marshal’s gaze, and
trembled like a leaf. Adrienne cast down her eyes without answering.
Her heart sunk within her, at thought of dealing the terrible blow to
Marshal Simon.
The latter, astonished at this silence, looking at Adrienne, then at
the soldier, became first uneasy, and at last alarmed. “Dagobert!” he
exclaimed, “something is concealed from me!”
“General!” stammered the soldier, “I assure you--I--I--.”
“Madame!” cried Pierre Simon, “I conjure you, in pity, speak to me
frankly!--my anxiety is horrible. My first fears return upon me. What
is it? Are my wife and daughters ill? Are they in danger? Oh! speak!
speak!”
“Your daughters, marshal,” said Adrienne “have been rather unwell, since
their long journey--but they are in no danger.”
“Oh, heaven! it is my wife!”
“Have courage, sir!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, sadly. “Alas! you must
seek consolation in the affection of the two angels that remain to you.”
“General!” said Dagobert, in a firm grave tone, “I returned from
Siberia--alone with your two daughters.”
“And their mother! their mother!” cried Simon, in a voice of despair.
“I set out with the two orphans the day after her death,” said the
soldier.
“Dead?” exclaimed Pierre Simon, overwhelmed by the stroke; “dead?” A
mournful silence was the only answer. The marshal staggered beneath this
unexpected shock, leaned on the back of a chair for support, and then,
sinking into the seat, concealed his face with his hands. For same
minutes nothing was heard but stifled sobs, for not only had Pierre
Simon idolized his wife, but by one of those singular compromises, that
a man long cruelly tried sometimes makes with destiny, Pierre Simon,
with the fatalism of loving souls, thought he had a right to reckon upon
happiness after so many years of suffering, and had not for a moment
doubted that he should find his wife and child--a double consolation
reserved to him after going through so much. Very different from certain
people, whom the habit of misfortune renders less exacting, Simon had
reckoned upon happiness as complete as had been his misery. His wife and
child were the sole, indispensable conditions of this felicity, and, had
the mother survived her daughters, she would have no more replaced them
in his eyes than they did her. Weakness or avarice of the heart, so it
was; we insist upon this singularity, because the consequences of these
incessant and painful regrets exercised a great influence on the
future life of Marshal Simon. Adrienne and Dagobert had respected the
overwhelming grief of this unfortunate man. When he had given a free
course to his tears, he raised his manly countenance, now of marble
paleness, drew his hand across his blood-shot eyes, rose, and said to
Adrienne, “Pardon me, madame; I could not conquer my first emotion.
Permit me to retire. I have cruel details to ask of the worthy friend
who only quitted my wife at the last moment. Have the kindness to let
me see my children--my poor orphans!--” And the marshal’s voice again
broke.
“Marshal,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, “just now we were expecting your
dear children: unfortunately, we have been deceived in our hopes.”
Pierre Simon first looked at Adrienne without answering, as if he had
not heard or understood.--“But console yourself,” resumed the young
girl; “we have yet no reason to despair.”
“To despair?” repeated the marshaling by turns at Mdlle. de Cardoville
despair?--“of what, in heaven’s name?”
“Of seeing your children, marshal,” said Adrienne; “the presence of
their father will facilitate the search.”
“The search!” cried Pierre Simon. “Then, my daughters are not here?”
“No, sir,” said Adrienne, at length; “they have been taken from the
affectionate care of the excellent man who brought them from Russia, to
be removed to a convent.”
“Wretch!” cried Pierre Simon, advancing towards Dagobert, with a
menacing and terrible aspect; “you shall answer to me for all!”
“Oh, sir, do not blame him!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“General,” said Dagobert, in a tone of mournful resignation, “I merit
your anger. It is my fault. Forced to absent myself from Paris, I
entrusted the children to my wife; her confessor turned her head, and
persuaded her that your daughters would be better in a convent than at
our house. She believed him, and let them be conveyed there. Now they
say at the convent, that they do not know where they are. This is the
truth: do what you will with me; I have only to silently endure.”
“This is infamous!” cried Pierre Simon, pointing to Dagobert, with a
gesture of despairing indignation. “In whom can a man confide, if he has
deceived me? Oh, my God!”
“Stay, marshal! do not blame him,” repeated Mdlle. de Cardoville; “do
not think so! He has risked life and honor to rescue your children from
the convent. He is not the only one who has failed in this attempt. Just
now, a magistrate--despite his character and authority--was not more
successful. His firmness towards the superior, his minute search of the
convent, were all in vain. Up to this time it has been impossible to
find these unfortunate children.”
“But where’s this convent!” cried Marshal Simon, raising his head, his
face all pale and agitated with grief and rage. “Where is it? Do these
vermin know what a father is, deprived of his children?” At the moment
when Marshal Simon, turning towards Dagobert, pronounced these words,
Rodin, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, appeared at the open door
of the chamber. On hearing the marshal’s exclamation, he started with
surprise, and a flash of diabolical joy lit up his grim countenance--for
he had not expected to meet Pierre Simon so opportunely.
Mdlle. de Cardoville was the first to perceive the presence of Rodin.
She exclaimed, as she hastened towards him: “Oh! I was not deceived. He
is still our providence.”
“My poor children!” said Rodin, in a low voice, to the young girls, as
he pointed to Pierre Simon, “this is your father!”
“Sir!” cried Adrienne, following close upon Rose and Blanche. “Your
children are here!”
As Simon turned round abruptly, his two daughters threw themselves into
his arms. Here was a long silence, broken only by sobs, and kisses, and
exclamations of joy.
“Come forward, at least, and enjoy the good you have done!” said Mdlle.
de Cardoville, drying her eyes, and turning towards Rodin, who, leaning
against the door, seemed to contemplate this scene with deep emotion.
Dagobert, at sight of Rodin bringing back the children, was at first
struck with stupor, and unable to move a step; but hearing the words of
Adrienne, and yielding to a burst of almost insane gratitude, he threw
himself on his knees before the Jesuit, joined his hands together, and
exclaimed in a broken voice: “You have saved me, by bringing back these
children.”
“Oh, bless you, sir!” said Mother Bunch, yielding to the general
current.
“My good friends, this is too much,” said Rodin, as if his emotions were
beyond his strength; “this is really too much for me. Excuse me to the
marshal, and tell him that I am repaid by the sight of his happiness.”
“Pray, sir,” said Adrienne, “let the marshal at least have the
opportunity to see and know you.”
“Oh, remain! you that have saved us all!” cried Dagobert, trying to stop
Rodin.
“Providence, you know, my dear young lady, does not trouble itself about
the good that is done, but the good that remains to do,” said Rodin,
with an accent of playful kindness. “Must I not think of Prince Djalma?
My task is not finished, and moments are precious. Come,” he added,
disengaging himself gently from Dagobert’s hold, “come the day has been
as good a one as I had hoped.. The Abbe d’Aigrigny is unmasked; you
are free, my dear young lady; you have recovered your cross, my brave
soldier; Mother Bunch is sure of a protectress; the marshal has found
his children. I have my share in all these joys, it is a full share--my
heart is satisfied. Adieu, my friends, till we meet again.” So saying,
Rodin waved his hand affectionately to Adrienne, Dagobert, and the
hunchback, and withdrew, waving his hand with a look of delight on
Marshal Simon, who, seated between his daughters, held them in his arms,
and covered them with tears and kisses, remaining quite indifferent to
all that was passing around him.
An hour after this scene, Mdlle. de Cardoville and the sempstress,
Marshal Simon, his two daughters and Dagobert quitted Dr. Beleinier’s
asylum.
In terminating this episode, a few words by way of moral, with regard to
lunatic asylums and convents may not be out of place. We have said, and
we repeat, that the laws which apply to the superintendence of lunatic
asylums appear to us insufficient. Facts that have recently transpired
before the courts, and other facts that have been privately communicated
to us, evidently prove this insufficiency. Doubtless, magistrates have
full power to visit lunatic asylums. They are even required to make
such visits. But we know, from the best authority, that the numerous
and pressing occupations of magistrates, whose number is often out of
proportion with the labor imposed upon them, render these inspections so
rare, that they are, so to speak, illusory. It appears, therefore, to us
advisable to institute a system of inspections, at least twice a month,
especially designed for lunatic asylums, and entrusted to a physician
and a magistrate, so that every complaint may be submitted to a double
examination. Doubtless, the law is sufficient when its ministers are
fully informed; but how many formalities, how many difficulties must be
gone through, before they can be so, particularly when the unfortunate
creature who needs their assistance, already suspected, isolated, and
imprisoned, has no friend to come forward in defence, and demand, in his
or her name, the protection of the authorities! Is it not imperative,
therefore, on the civil power, to meet these necessities by a periodical
and well-organized system of inspection?
What we here say of lunatic asylums will apply with still greater force
to convents for women, seminaries, and houses inhabited by religious
bodies. Recent and notorious facts, with which all France has rung,
have, unfortunately, proved that violence, forcible detention, barbarous
usage, abduction of minors, and illegal imprisonment, accompanied by
torture, are occurrences which, if not frequent, are at least possible
in religious houses. It required singular accidents, audacious and
cynical brutalities; to bring these detestable actions to public
knowledge. How many other victims have been, and, perhaps still are,
entombed in those large silent mansions, where no profane look may
penetrate, and which, through the privileges of the clergy, escape the
superintendence of the civil power. Is it not deplorable that these
dwellings should not also be subject to periodical inspection, by
visitors consisting, if it be desired, of a priest, a magistrate, and
some delegate of the municipal authorities? If nothing takes place, but
what is legal, human, and charitable, in these establishments, which
have all the character, and incur all the responsibility, of public
institutions, why this resistance, this furious indignation of the
church party, when any mention is made of touching what they call their
privileges? There is something higher than the constitutions devised
at Rome. We mean the Law of France--the common law--which grants to all
protection, but which, in return, exacts from all respect and obedience.
BOOK VII.
XL. The East Indian in Paris XLI. Rising XLII. Doubts XLIII.
The Letter XLIV. Adrienne and Djalma XLV. The Consultation
XLVI. Mother Bunch’s Diary XLVII. The Diary Continued
XLVIII. The Discovery XLIX. The Trysting-Place of the Wolves
L. The Common Dwelling-House LI. The Secret LII. Revelations
CHAPTER XL. THE EAST INDIAN IN PARIS.
Since three days, Mdlle. de Cardoville had left Dr. Baleinier’s. The
following scene took place in a little dwelling in the Rue Blanche, to
which Djalma had been conducted in the name of his unknown protector.
Fancy to yourself a pretty, circular apartment, hung with Indian
drapery, with purple figures on a gray ground, just relieved by a
few threads of gold. The ceiling, towards the centre, is concealed by
similar hangings, tied together by a thick, silken cord; the two ends
of this cord, unequal in length, terminated, instead of tassels, in two
tiny Indian lamps of gold filigreed-work, marvellously finished. By one
of those ingenious combinations, so common in barbarous countries,
these lamps served also to burn perfumes. Plates of blue crystal, let
in between the openings of the arabesque, and illumined by the interior
light, shone with so limpid an azure, that the golden lamps seemed
starred with transparent sapphires. Light clouds, of whitish vapor rose
incessantly from these lamps, and spread all around their balmy odor.
Daylight was only admitted to this room (it was about two o’clock in the
afternoon) through a little greenhouse, on the other side of a door of
plate-glass, made to slide into the thickness of the wall, by means of a
groove. A Chinese shade was arranged so as to hide or replace this
glass at pleasure. Some dwarf palm tress, plantains, and other Indian
productions, with thick leaves of a metallic green, arranged in clusters
in this conservatory, formed, as it were, the background to two large
variegated bushes of exotic flowers, which were separated by a narrow
path, paved with yellow and blue Japanese tiles, running to the foot of
the glass. The daylight, already much dimmed by the leaves through which
it passed, took a hue of singular mildness as it mingled with the azure
lustre of the perfumed lamps, and the crimson brightness of the fire
in the tall chimney of oriental porphyry. In the obscurity of this
apartment, impregnated with sweet odors and the aromatic vapor of
Persian tobacco, a man with brown, hanging locks, dressed in a long robe
of dark green, fastened round the waist by a parti-colored sash, was
kneeling upon a magnificent Turkey carpet, filling the golden bowl of
a hookah; the long, flexible tube of this pipe, after rolling its folds
upon the carpet, like a scarlet serpent with silver scales, rested
between the slender fingers of Djalma, who was reclining negligently on
a divan. The young prince was bareheaded; his jet-black hair, parted on
the middle of his forehead, streamed waving about his face and neck of
antique beauty--their warm transparent colors resembling amber or topaz.
Leaning his elbow on a cushion, he supported his chin with the palm of
his right hand. The flowing sleeve of his robe, falling back from his
arm, which was round as that of a woman, revealed mysterious signs
formerly tattooed there in India by a Thug’s needle. The son of
Radja-sing held in his left hand the amber mouthpiece of his pipe. His
robe of magnificent cashmere, with a border of a thousand hues, reaching
to his knee, was fastened about his slim and well-formed figure by the
large folds of an orange-colored shawl. This robe was half withdrawn
from one of the elegant legs of this Asiatic Antinous, clad in a kind
of very close fitting gaiter of crimson velvet, embroidered with silver,
and terminating in a small white morocco slipper, with a scarlet heel.
At once mild and manly, the countenance of Djalma was expressive of that
melancholy and contemplative calmness habitual to the Indian and the
Arab, who possess the happy privilege of uniting, by a rare combination,
the meditative indolence of the dreamer with the fiery energy of the
man of action--now delicate, nervous, impressionable as women--now
determined, ferocious, and sanguinary as bandits.
And this semi-feminine comparison, applicable to the moral nature of the
Arab and the Indian, so long as they are not carried away by the ardor
of battle and the excitement of carnage, is almost equally applicable to
their physical constitution; for if, like women of good blood, they have
small extremities, slender limbs, fine and supple forms, this delicate
and often charming exterior always covers muscles of steel, full of an
elasticity, and vigor truly masculine. Djalma’s oblong eyes, like black
diamonds set in bluish mother-of-pearl, wandered mechanically from the
exotic flowers to the ceiling; from time to time he raised the amber
mouthpiece of the hookah to his lips; then, after a slow aspiration,
half opening his rosy lips, strongly contrasted with the shining enamel
of his teeth, he sent forth a little spiral line of smoke, freshly
scented by the rose-water through which it had passed.
“Shall I put more tobacco in the hookah?” said the kneeling figure,
turning towards Djalma, and revealing the marked and sinister features
of Faringhea the Strangler.
The young prince remained dumb, either that, from an oriental contempt
for certain races, he disdained to answer the half-caste, or that,
absorbed in his reverie, he did not even hear him. The Strangler became
again silent; crouching cross-legged upon the carpet, with his elbows
resting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, he kept his eyes
fixed on Djalma, and seemed to await the reply or the orders of him
whose sire had been surnamed the Father of the Generous. How had
Faringhea, the sanguinary worshipper of Bowanee, the Divinity of Murder,
been brought to seek or to accept such humble functions? How came this
man, possessed of no vulgar talents, whose passionate eloquence and
ferocious energy had recruited many assassins for the service of the
Good Work, to resign himself to so base a condition? Why, too, had
this man, who, profiting by the young prince’s blindness with regard
to himself, might have so easily sacrificed him as an offering to
Bowanee--why had he spared the life of Radja-sings son? Why, in fine,
did he expose himself to such frequent encounters with Rodin, whom he
had only known under the most unfavorable auspices? The sequel of this
story will answer all these questions. We can only say at present,
that, after a long interview with Rodin, two nights before, the Thug had
quitted him with downcast eyes and cautious bearing.
After having remained silent for some time, Djalma, following with his
eye the cloud of whitish smoke that he had just sent forth into space,
addressed Faringhea, without looking at him, and said to him in the
language, as hyperbolical as concise, of Orientals: “Time passes. The
old man with the good heart does not come. But he will come. His word is
his word.”
“His word is his word, my lord,” repeated Faringhea, in an affirmative
tone. “When he came to fetch you, three days ago, from the house whither
those wretches, in furtherance of their wicked designs, had conveyed you
in a deep sleep--after throwing me, your watchful and devoted servant,
into a similar state--he said to you: ‘The unknown friend, who sent for
you to Cardoville Castle, bids me come to you, prince. Have confidence,
and follow me. A worthy abode is prepared for you.’--And again, he said
to you, my lord: ‘Consent not to leave the house, until my return. Your
interest requires it. In three days you will see me again, and then be
restored to perfect freedom.’ You consented to those terms, my lord, and
for three days you have not left the house.”
“And I wait for the old man with impatience,” said Djalma, “for this
solitude is heavy with me. There must be so many things to admire in
Paris. Above all.”
Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie. After
some moments’ silence, the son of Radja-sing said suddenly to Faringhea,
in the tone of an impatient yet indolent sultan: “Speak to me!”
“Of what shall I speak, my lord?”
“Of what you will,” said Djalma, with careless contempt, as he fixed
on the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor. “One thought pursues
me--I wish to be diverted from it. Speak to me.”
Faringhea threw a piercing glance on the countenance of the young
Indian, and saw that his cheeks were colored with a slight blush. “My
lord,” said the half-caste, “I can guess your thought.”
Djalma shook his head, without looking at the Strangler. The latter
resumed: “You are thinking of the women of Paris, my lord.”
“Be silent, slave!” said Djalma, turning abruptly on the sofa, as if
some painful wound had been touched to the quick. Faringhea obeyed.
After the lapse of some moments. Djalma broke forth again with
impatience, throwing aside the tube of the hookah, and veiling both
eyes with his hands: “Your words are better than silence. Cursed be my
thoughts, and the spirit which calls up these phantoms!”
“Why should you fly these thoughts, my lord? You are nineteen years of
age, and hitherto all your youth has been spent in war and captivity.
Up to this time, you have remained as chaste as Gabriel, that young
Christian priest, who accompanied us on our voyage.”
Though Faringhea did not at all depart from his respectful deference
for the prince, the latter felt that there was something of irony in the
tone of the half-caste, as he pronounced the word “chaste.”
Djalma said to him with a mixture of pride and severity: “I do not wish
to pass for a barbarian, as they call us, with these civilized people;
therefore I glory in my chastity.”
“I do not understand, my lord.”
“I may perhaps love some woman, pure as was my mother when she married
my father; and to ask for purity from a woman, a man must be chaste as
she.”
At this, Faringhea could not refrain from a sardonic smile.
“Why do you laugh, slave?” said the young prince, imperiously.
“Among civilized people, as you call them, my lord, the man who married
in the flower of his innocence would be mortally wounded with ridicule.”
“It is false, slave! He would only be ridiculous if he married one that
was not pure as himself.”
“Then, my lord, he would not only be wounded--he would be killed
outright, for he would be doubly and unmercifully laughed at.”
“It is false! it is false. Where did you learn all this?”
“I have seen Parisian women at the Isle of France, and at Pondicherry,
my lord. Moreover, I learned a good deal during our voyage; I talked
with a young officer, while you conversed with the young priest.”
“So, like the sultans of our harems, civilized men require of women the
innocence they have themselves lost.”
“They require it the more, the less they have of it, my lord.”
“To require without any return, is to act as a master to his slave; by
what right?”
“By the right of the strongest--as it is among us, my lord.”
“And what do the women do?”
“They prevent the men from being too ridiculous, when they marry, in the
eyes of the world.”
“But they kill a woman that is false?” said Djalma, raising himself
abruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled with
lurid fire.
“They kill her, my lord, as with us--when they find her out.”
“Despots like ourselves! Why then do these civilized men not shut up
their women, to force them to a fidelity which they do not practise?”
“Because their civilization is barbarous, and their barbarism civilized,
my lord.”
“All this is sad enough, if true,” observed Djalma, with a pensive air,
adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mystic
and figurative language familiar to the people of his country; “yes,
your talk afflicts me, slave--for two drops of dew blending in the cup
of a flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two
rays of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning
and eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock.”
Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible
grace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes
shone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale
gold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into
a deep reverie.
Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: “If, like the proud
and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied
pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours--handsome, young, rich
as you are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive
Parisians--voluptuous phantoms of your nights--charming tormentors
of your dreams--were you to cast upon them looks bold as a challenge,
supplicating as prayers, ardent as desires--do you not think that many
a half-veiled eye would borrow fire from your glance? Then it would no
longer be the monotonous delights of a single love, the heavy chain of
our life--no, it would be the thousand pleasures of the harem--a harem
peopled with free and proud beauties, whom happy love would make your
slaves. So long constrained, there is no such thing as excess to you.
Believe me, it would then be you, the ardent, the magnificent son of our
country, that would become the love and pride of these women--the most
seductive in the world, who would soon have for you no looks but those
of languor and passion.”
Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness. The expression
of his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy
and dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother,
and finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images
sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it
was no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the
thought of the permitted joys of a legitimate union. No! the incitements
of Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance
of Djalma, his eyes now sparkling and now veiled, his manly and sonorous
respiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up of
the passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hitherto
restrained.
So, springing suddenly from the divan, supple, vigorous, and light as
a young tiger, Djalma clutched Faringhea by the throat exclaiming: “Thy
words are burning poison!”
“My lord,” said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, “your
slave is your slave.” This submission disarmed the prince.
“My life belongs to you,” repeated the half-caste.
“I belong to you, slave!” cried Djalma, repulsing him. “Just now, I hung
upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies.”
“Lies, my lord? Only appear before these women, and their looks will
confirm my words.”
“These women love me!--me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?”
“The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on men
and tigers, will make them adore, my lord.”
“You lie!”
“I tell you, my lord, on seeing your hand, as delicate as theirs, but
which has been so often bathed in hostile blood, they will wish to
caress it; and they will kiss it again, when they think that, in our
forests, with loaded rifle, and a poniard between your teeth, you smiled
at the roaring of a lion or panther for whom you lay in wait.”
“But I am a savage--a barbarian.”
“And for that very reason you will have them at your feet. They will
feel themselves both terrified and charmed by all the violence and fury,
the rage of jealousy, the passion and the love, to which a man of your
blood, your youth, your ardor must be subject. To-day mild and tender,
to-morrow fierce and suspicious, another time ardent and passionate,
such you will be--and such you ought to be, if you wish to win them.
Yes; let a kiss of rage be heard between two kisses: let a dagger
glitter in the midst of caresses, and they will fall before you,
palpitating with pleasure, love, and fear--and you will be to them, not
a man, but a god.”
“Dost think so?” cried Djalma, carried away in spite of himself by the
Thug’s wild eloquence.
“You know, you feel, that I speak the truth,” cried the latter,
extending his arm towards the young Indian.
“Why, yes!” exclaimed Djalma, his eyes sparkling, his nostrils swelling,
as he moved about the apartment with savage bounds. “I know not if I
possess my reason, or if I am intoxicated, but it seems to me that you
speak truth. Yes, I feel that they will love me with madness and fury,
because my love will be mad and furious they will tremble with pleasure
and fear, because the very thought of it makes me tremble with delight
and terror. Slave, it is true; there is something exciting and fearful
in such a love!” As he spoke forth these words, Djalma was superb in his
impetuous sensuality. It is a rare thing to see a young man arrive
in his native purity, at the age in which are developed, in all their
powerful energy, those admirable instincts of love, which God has
implanted in the heart of his creatures, and which, repressed,
disguised, or perverted, may unseat the reason, or generate mad excesses
and frightful crimes--but which, directed towards a great and noble
passion, may and must, by their very violence, elevate man, through
devotion and tenderness, to the limits of the ideal.
“Oh! this woman--this woman, before whom I am to tremble--and who,
in turn, must tremble before me--where is she?” cried Djalma, with
redoubled excitement. “Shall I ever find her?”
“One is a good deal, my lord,” replied Faringhea, with his sardonic
coolness; “he who looks for one woman, will rarely succeed in this
country; he who seeks women, is only at a loss to choose.”
As the half-caste made this impertinent answer to Djalma, a very elegant
blue-and-white carriage stopped before the garden-gate of the house,
which opened upon a deserted street. It was drawn by a pair of beautiful
blood-horses, of a cream color, with black manes and tails. The
scutcheons on the harness were of silver, as were also the buttons of
the servants’ livery, which was blue with white collars. On the blue
hammercloth, also laced with white, as well as on the panels of the
doors, were lozenge-shaped coats of arms, without crest or coronet, as
usually borne by unmarried daughters of noble families. Two women were
in this carriage--Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine.
CHAPTER XLI. RISING.
To explain the arrival of Mdlle. de Cardoville at the garden-door of
the house occupied by Djalma, we must cast a retrospective glance at
previous events. On leaving Doctor Baleinier’s, Mdlle. de Cardoville had
gone to take up her residence in the Rue d’Anjou. During the last few
months of her stay with her aunt, Adrienne had secretly caused this
handsome dwelling to be repaired and furnished, and its luxury
and elegance were now increased by all the wonders of the lodge of
Saint-Dizier House. The world found it very strange, that a lady of the
age and condition of Mdlle. de Cardoville should take the resolution of
living completely alone and free, and, in fact, of keeping house exactly
like a bachelor, a young widow, or an emancipated minor. The world
pretended not to know that Mdlle. de Cardoville possessed what is often
wanting in men, whether of age or twice of age--a firm character, a
lofty mind, a generous heart, strong and vigorous good sense.
Judging that she would require faithful assistance in the internal
management of her house, Adrienne had written to the bailiff of
Cardoville, and his wife, old family servants, to come immediately to
Paris: M. Dupont thus filled the office of steward, and Mme. Dupont
that of housekeeper. An old friend of Adrienne’s father, the Count de
Montbron, an accomplished old man, once very much in fashion, and still
a connoisseur in all sorts of elegances, had advised Adrienne to act
like a princess, and take an equerry; recommended for this office a man
of good rearing and ripe age, who, himself an amateur in horses, had
been ruined in England, at Newmarket, the Derby, and Tattersall’s, and
reduced, as sometimes happened to gentlemen in that country, to drive
the stage coaches, thus finding an honest method of earning his bread,
and at the same time gratifying his taste for horses. Such was M. de
Bonneville, M. de Montbron’s choice. Both from age and habits, this
equerry could accompany Mdlle. de Cardoville on horseback, and better
than any one else, superintend the stable. He accepted, therefore, the
employment with gratitude, and, thanks to his skill and attention, the
equipages of Mdlle. de Cardoville were not eclipsed in style by anything
of the kind in Paris. Mdlle. de Cardoville had taken back her women,
Hebe, Georgette, and Florine. The latter was at first to have re-entered
the service of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, to continue her part of spy
for the superior of St. Mary’s Convent; but, in consequence of the new
direction given by Rodin to the Rennepont affair, it was decided
that Florine, if possible, should return to the service of Mdlle. de
Cardoville. This confidential place, enabling this unfortunate creature
to render important and mysterious services to the people who held her
fate in their hands, forced her to infamous treachery. Unfortunately,
all things favored this machination. We know that Florine, in her
interview with Mother Bunch, a few days after Mdlle. de Cardoville was
imprisoned at Dr. Baleinier’s, had yielded to a twinge of remorse,
and given to the sempstress advice likely to be of use to Adrienne’s
interests--sending word to Agricola not to deliver to Madame de Saint
Dizier the papers found in the hiding-place of the pavilion, but only
to entrust them to Mdlle. de Cardoville herself. The latter, afterwards
informed of these details by Mother Bunch, felt a double degree of
confidence and interest in Florine, took her back into her service
with gratitude, and almost immediately charged her with a confidential
mission--that of superintending the arrangements of the house hired for
Djalma’s habitation. As for Mother Bunch (yielding to the solicitations
of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and finding she was no longer of use to
Dagobert’s wife, of whom we shall speak hereafter), she had consented to
take up her abode in the hotel on the Rue d’Anjou, along with Adrienne,
who with that rare sagacity of the heart peculiar to her, entrusted
the young sempstress, who served her also as a secretary, with the
department of alms-giving.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had at first thought of entertaining her merely
as a friend, wishing to pay homage in her person to probity with labor,
resignation in sorrow, and intelligence in poverty; but knowing
the workgirl’s natural dignity, she feared, with reason that,
notwithstanding the delicate circumspection with which the hospitality
would be offered, Mother Bunch might perceive in it alms in disguise.
Adrienne preferred, therefore, whilst she treated her as a friend, to
give her a confidential employment. In this manner the great delicacy of
the needlewoman would be spared, since she could earn her livelihood by
performing duties which would at the same time satisfy her praiseworthy
instincts of charity. In fact, she could fulfil, better than any one,
the sacred mission confided to her by Adrienne. Her cruel experience in
misfortune, the goodness of her angelic soul, the elevation of her mind,
her rare activity, her penetration with regard to the painful secrets
of poverty, her perfect knowledge of the industrial classes, were
sufficient security for the tact and intelligence with which the
excellent creature would second the generous intentions of Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
Let us now speak of the divers events which, on that day, preceded the
coming of Mdlle. de Cardoville to the garden-gate of the house in the
Rue Blanche. About ten o’clock in the morning, the blinds of Adrienne’s
bedchamber, closely shut, admitted no ray of daylight to this apartment,
which was only lighted by a spherical lamp of oriental alabaster,
suspended from the ceiling by three long silver chains. This apartment,
terminating in a dome, was in the form of a tent with eight sides. From
the ceiling to the floor, it was hung with white silk, covered with
long draperies of muslin, fastened in large puffs to the wall, by bands
caught in at regular distances by plates of ivory. Two doors, also
of ivory, admirably encrusted with mother-of-pearl, led, one to the
bath-room, the other to the toilet-chamber, a sort of little temple
dedicated to the worship of beauty, and furnished as it had been at the
pavilion of Saint Dizier House. Two other compartments of the wall were
occupied by windows, completely veiled with drapery. Opposite the bed,
enclosing splendid fire-dogs of chased silver, was a chimney-piece
of white marble, like crystallized snow, on which were sculptured two
magnificent caryatides, and a frieze representing birds and flowers.
Above this frieze, carved in openwork with extreme delicacy, was a
marble basket, filled with red camellias. Their leaves of shining
green their flowers of a delicate rosy hue, were the only colors that
disturbed the harmonious whiteness of this virgin retreat. Finally, half
surrounded by waves of white muslin, which poured down from the dome
like a mass of light clouds, the bed was visible--very low, and resting
on feet of carved ivory, which stood upon the ermine carpet that covered
the floor. With the exception of a plinth, also in ivory, admirably
inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the bed was entirely covered with white
satin, wadded and quilted like an immense scent-bag. The cambric sheets,
trimmed with lace, being a little disturbed on one side, discovered the
corner of a white taffety mattress, and a light counterpane of watered
stuff--for an equal temperature always reigned in this apartment, warm
as a fine spring day.
From a singular scruple, arising from the same sentiment which had
caused Adrienne to have inscribed on a masterpiece of goldsmith’s work
the name of the maker instead of that of the seller, she had wished all
these articles, so costly and sumptuous, to be manufactured by workmen
chosen amongst the most intelligent, honest, and industrious of their
class, whom she had supplied with the necessary materials. In this
manner she had been able to add to the price of the work the profit
usually gained by the middle man, who speculates in such labor; this
notable augmentation of wages had spread happiness and comfort through a
hundred necessitous families, who, blessing the munificence of Adrienne,
gave her, as she said, the right to enjoy her luxury as a good action.
Nothing could be fresher or more charming than the interior of this
bedchamber. Mdlle. de Cardoville had just awoke; she reposed in the
middle of this flood of muslin, lace, cambric, and white silk, in a
position full of sweet grace. Never during the night did she cover that
beautiful golden hair (a certain recipe, said the Greeks, for preserving
it for a long while in magnificence). Every evening, her women arranged
her long silky curls in flat tresses, forming two broad bands, which,
descending sufficiently low almost entirely to conceal the small ear,
the rosy lobe of which was alone visible, were joined to the large plait
behind the head.
This head-dress, borrowed from Greek antiquity, set off to admiration
the pure, fine features of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and made her look so
much younger, that, instead of eighteen, one would hardly have given her
fifteen years of age. Gathered thus closely about the temples, the hair
lost its transparent and brilliant hues, and would have appeared almost
brown, but for the golden tints which played here and there, amid the
undulations of the tresses. Lulled in that morning torpor, the warm
languor of which is so favorable to soft reveries, Adrienne leaned
with her elbow on the pillow, and her head a little on one side,
which displayed to advantage the ideal contour of her bared neck and
shoulders; her smiling lips, moist and rosy, were, like her cheeks, cold
as if they had just been bathed in ice-water; her snow-white lids
half veiled the large, dark, soft eyes, which now gazed languidly upon
vacancy, and now fixed themselves with pleasure upon the rosy flowers
and green leaves in the basket of camellias. Who can paint the matchless
serenity of Adrienne’s awaking--when the fair and chaste soul roused
itself in the fair and chaste body? It was the awakening of a heart as
pure as the fresh and balmy breath of youth, that made her bosom rise
and fall in its white, immaculate purity. What creed, what dogma, what
formula, what religious symbol, oh! paternal and divine Creator! can
ever give a more complete idea of Thy harmonious and ineffable power,
than the image of a young maiden awaking in the bloom of her beauty,
and in all the grace of that modesty with which Thou hast endowed her,
seeking, in her dreamy innocence, for the secret of that celestial
instinct of love, which Thou hast placed in the bosom of all Thy
creatures--oh! Thou whose love is eternal, and goodness infinite!
The confused thoughts which, since her sleep, had appeared gently to
agitate Adrienne, absorbed her more and more; her head resting on her
bosom, her beautiful arm upon the couch, her features without becoming
precisely sad, assumed an expression of touching melancholy. Her dearest
desire was accomplished; she was about to live independent and alone.
But this affectionate, delicate, expansive, and marvellously complete
nature, felt that God had not given her such rare treasures, to bury
them in a cold and selfish solitude. She felt how much that was great
and beautiful might be inspired by love, both in herself, and in
him that should be worthy of her. Confiding in her courage, and the
nobleness of her character, proud of the example that she wished to give
to other women, knowing that all eyes would be fixed enviously upon her,
she felt, as it were, only too sure of herself; far from fearing that
she should make a bad choice, she rather feared, that she should not
find any from whom to choose, so pure and perfect was her taste. And,
even had she met with her own ideal, she had views so singular and
so just, so extraordinary and yet so sensible, with regard to the
independence and dignity of woman, that, inexorably determined to make
no concession upon this head, she asked herself if the man of her choice
would ever accept the hitherto unheard-of conditions that she meant to
impose. In recalling to her remembrance the possible suitors that she
had met in the world, she remembered also the dark, but true picture,
which Rodin had drawn with so much caustic bitterness. She remembered,
too, not without a certain pride, the encouragement this man had given
her, not by flattery, but by advising her to follow out and accomplish
a great, generous, and beautiful design. The current or the caprice of
fancy soon brought Adrienne to think of Djalma. Whilst she congratulated
herself on having paid to her royal kinsman the duties of a kingly
hospitality, the young lady was far from regarding the prince as the
hero of her future.
And first she said to herself, not unreasonably, that this half-savage
boy, with passions, if not untamable, yet untamed, transported on a
sudden into the midst of a refined civilization, would be inevitably
destined to fiery trials and violent transformations. Now Mdlle. de
Cardoville, having nothing masculine or despotic in her character, had
no wish to civilize the young savage. Therefore, notwithstanding the
interest, or rather because of the interest, which she felt for the
young Indian, she was firmly resolved, not to make herself known to him,
till after the lapse of two or three months; and she determined also,
that, even if Djalma should learn by chance that she was his relation,
she would not receive his visit. She desired, if not to try him, at
least to leave him free in all his acts, so that he might expend the
first fire of his passions, good or bad. But not wishing to abandon him
quite without defence to the perils of Parisian life, she requested the
Count de Montbron, in confidence, to introduce Prince Djalma to the
best company in Paris, and to enlighten him by the counsels of his
long experience. M. de Montbron had received the request of Mdlle.
de Cardoville with the greatest pleasure, taking delight, he said, in
starting his royal tiger in drawing-rooms, and bringing him into contact
with the flower of the fine ladies and gentlemen of Paris, offering at
the same time to wager any amount in favor of his half-savage pupil.
“As for myself, my dear Count,” said Adrienne to M. de Montbron, with
her usual frankness, “my resolution is not to be shaken. You have told
me the effect that will be produced in the fashionable world, by the
first appearance of Prince Djalma, an Indian nineteen years of age,
of surprising beauty, proud and wild as a young lion arriving from his
forest; it is new, it is extraordinary, you added; and, therefore, all
the coquetries of civilized life will pursue him with an eagerness which
makes me tremble for him. Now, seriously, my dear count it will not
suit me to appear as the rival of so many fine ladies, who are about
to expose themselves intrepidly to the claws of the young tiger. I take
great interest in him, because he is my cousin, because he is handsome,
because he is brave, and above all because he does not wear that
horrible European dress. No doubt these are rare qualities--but not
sufficient to make me change my mind. Besides, the good old philosopher,
my new friend, has given me advice about this Indian, which you, my
dear Count, who are not a philosopher, will yet approve. It is, for some
time, to receive visits at home, but not to visit other people--which
will spare me the awkwardness of meeting my royal cousin, and allow me
to make a careful choice, even amongst my usual society. As my house
will be an excellent one, my position most unusual, and as I shall be
suspected of all sorts of naughty secrets, I shall be in no want of
inquisitive visitors, who will amuse me a good deal, I assure you.”
And as M. de Montbron asked, if the exile of the poor young Indian
tiger was to last long, Adrienne answered: “As I shall see most of the
persons, to whom you will introduce him, I shall be pleased to hear
different opinions about him. If certain men speak well of him, and
certain women ill, I shall have good hope of him. In a word, the opinion
that I come to, in sifting the true from the false (you may leave that
to my sagacity), will shorten or prolong the exile of my royal cousin.”
Such were the formal intentions of Mdlle. de Cardoville with regard to
Djalma, even on the day she went with Florine to the house he occupied.
In a word, she had positively resolved not to be known to him for some
months to come.
After long reflecting that morning, on the chances that might yet offer
themselves to satisfy the wants of her heart, Adrienne fell into a new,
deep reverie. This charming creature, so full of life and youth, heaved
a low sigh, raised her arms above her head, turned her profile
towards the pillow, and remained for some moments as if powerless and
vanquished. Motionless beneath the white tissues that wrapped her round,
she looked like a fair, marble statue, visible beneath a light layer
of snow. Suddenly, Adrienne raised herself up, drew her hand across her
brow, and rang for her women. At the first silver tone of the bell,
the two ivory doors opened. Georgette appeared on the threshold of the
dressing-room, from which Frisky, a little black and-tan dog, with his
golden collar, escaped with a joyful barking. Hebe appeared at the
same time on the threshold of the bath-room. At the further end of this
apartment, lighted from above, might be seen upon a green mat of Spanish
leather, with golden ornaments, a crystal bath in the form of a long
shell. The three only divisions in this masterpiece of glass work, were
concealed by the elegant device of several large reeds in silver,
which rose from the wide base of the bath, also of wrought silver,
representing children and dolphins playing, among branches of natural
coral, and azure shells. Nothing could be more pleasing than the effect
of these purple reeds and ultramarine shells, upon a dull ground of
silver; the balsamic vapor, which rose from the warm, limpid, and
perfumed water, that filled the crystal shell, spread through the
bath-room, and floated like a light cloud into the sleeping-chamber.
Seeing Hebe in her fresh and pretty costume, bringing her a long bathing
gown, hanging upon a bare and dimpled arm, Adrienne said to her: “Where
is Florine, my child?”
“Madame, she went downstairs two hours ago; she was wanted for something
very pressing.”
“Who wanted her?”
“The young person who serves Madame as secretary. She went out this
morning very early; and, as soon as she returned, she sent for Florine,
who has not come back since.”
“This absence no doubt relates to some important affair of my angelic
minister of succor,” said Adrienne, smiling, and thinking of the
hunchback. Then she made a sign to Hebe to approach her bed.
About two hours after rising, Adrienne, having had herself dressed,
as usual, with rare elegance, dismissed her women, and sent for Mother
Bunch, whom she treated with marked deference, always receiving her
alone. The young sempstress entered hastily, with a pale, agitated
countenance, and said, in a trembling voice: “Oh, madame! my
presentiments were justified. You are betrayed.”
“Of what presentiments do you speak, my dear child!” said Adrienne, with
surprise. “Who betrays me?”
“M. Rodin!” answered the workgirl.
CHAPTER XLII. DOUBTS.
On hearing the accusation brought against Rodin, Mdlle. de Cardoville
looked at the denunciator with new astonishment. Before continuing this
scene, we may say that Mother Bunch was no longer clad in her poor, old
clothes, but was dressed in black, with as much simplicity as taste. The
sad color seemed to indicate her renunciation of all human vanity, the
eternal mourning of her heart, and the austere duties imposed upon her
by her devotion to misfortune. With her black gown, she wore a large
falling collar, white and neat as her little gauze cap, with its gray
ribbons, which, revealing her bands of fine brown hair, set off to
advantage her pale and melancholy countenance, with its soft blue eyes.
Her long, delicate hands, preserved from the cold by gloves, were no
longer, as formerly, of a violet hue, but of an almost transparent
whiteness.
Her agitated features expressed a lively uneasiness. Extremely
surprised, Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed: “What do you say?”
“M. Rodin betrays you, madame.”
“M. Rodin? Impossible!”
“Oh, madame! my presentiments did not deceive me.”
“Your presentiments?”
“The first time I saw M. Rodin, I was frightened in spite of myself. My
heart sank within me, and I trembled--for you, madame.”
“For me?” said Adrienne. “Why did you not tremble for yourself, my poor
friend?”
“I do not know, madame; but such was my first impression. And this fear
was so invincible, that, notwithstanding the kindness that M. Rodin
showed my sister, he frightened me, none the less.”
“That is strange. I can understand as well as any one the almost
irresistible influence of sympathies or aversions; but, in this
instance--However,” resumed Adrienne, after a moment’s reflection, “no
matter for that; how have these suspicions been changed to certainty?”
“Yesterday, I went to take to my sister Cephyse, the assistance that M.
Rodin had given me, in the name of a charitable person. I did not find
Cephyse at the friend’s who had taken care of her; I therefore begged
the portress, to inform my sister that I would call again this morning.
That is what I did; but you must excuse me, madame, some necessary
details.”
“Speak, speak, my dear.”
“The young girl who had received my sister,” said Mother Bunch, with
embarrassment, casting down her eyes and blushing, “does not lead a very
regular life. A person, with whom she has gone on several parties of
pleasure, one M. Dumoulin, had informed her of the real name of M.
Rodin, who has a kind of lodging in that house, and there goes by the
name of Charlemagne.”
“That is just what he told us at Dr. Baleinier’s; and, the day before
yesterday, when I again alluded to the circumstance, he explained to
me the necessity in which he was, for certain reasons, to have a humble
retreat in that remote quarter--and I could not but approve of his
motives.”
“Well, then! yesterday, M. Rodin received a visit from the Abbe
d’Aigrigny.”
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny!” exclaimed Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Yes, madame; he remained for two hours shut up with M. Rodin.”
“My child, you must have been deceived.”
“I was told, madame, that the Abbe d’Aigrigny had called in the morning
to see M. Rodin; not finding him at home, he had left with the portress
his name written on a slip of paper, with the words, ‘I shall return
in two hours.’ The girl of whom I spoke, madame, had seen this slip of
paper. As all that concerns M. Rodin appears mysterious enough, she
had the curiosity to wait for M. d’Aigrigny in the porter’s lodge, and,
about two hours afterwards, he indeed returned, and saw M. Rodin.”
“No, no,” said Adrienne, shuddering; “it is impossible. There must be
some mistake.”
“I think not, madame; for, knowing how serious such a discovery would
be, I begged the young girl to describe to me the appearance of M.
d’Aigrigny.”
“Well?”
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny, she told me, is about forty years of age. He is
tall and upright, dresses plainly, but with care; has gray eyes, very
large and piercing, thick eyebrows, chestnut-colored hair, a face
closely shaved, and a very decided aspect.”
“It is true,” said Adrienne, hardly able to believe what she heard. “The
description is exact.”
“Wishing to have all possible details,” resumed Mother Bunch, “I asked
the portress if M. Rodin and the Abbe d’Aigrigny appeared to be at
variance when they quitted the house? She replied no, but that the
Abbe said to M. Rodin, as they parted at the door: ‘I will write to you
tomorrow, as agreed.’”
“Is it a dream? Good heaven!” said Adrienne, drawing her hands across
her forehead in a sort of stupor. “I cannot doubt your word, my poor
friend; and yet it is M. Rodin who himself sent you to that house, to
give assistance to your sister: would he have wilfully laid open to you
his secret interviews with the Abbe d’Aigrigny? It would have been bad
policy in a traitor.”
“That is true, and the same reflection occurred to me. And yet the
meeting of these two men appeared so dangerous to you, madame, that I
returned home full of terror.”
Characters of extreme honesty are very hard to convince of the treachery
of others: the more infamous the deception, the more they are inclined
to doubt it. Adrienne was one of these characters, rectitude being a
prime quality of her mind. Though deeply impressed by the communication,
she remarked: “Come, my dear, do not let us frighten ourselves too soon,
or be over-hasty in believing evil. Let us try to enlighten ourselves by
reasoning, and first of all remember facts. M. Rodin opened for me the
doors of Dr. Baleinier’s asylum; in my presence, he brought, his charge
against the Abbe d’Aigrigny; he forced the superior of the convent
to restore Marshal Simon’s daughters, he succeeded in discovering the
retreat of Prince Djalma--he faithfully executed my intentions with
regard to my young cousin; only yesterday, he gave me the most useful
advice. All this is true--is it not?”
“Certainly, madame.”
“Now suppose that M. Rodin, putting things in their worst light,
had some after-thought--that he hopes to be liberally rewarded, for
instance; hitherto, at least, he has shown complete disinterestedness.”
“That also is true, madame,” said poor Mother Bunch, obliged, like
Adrienne, to admit the evidence of fixed facts.
“Now let us look to the possibility of treachery. Unite with the Abbe
d’Aigrigny to betray me! Betray me?--how? and for what purpose? What
have I to fear? Is it not the Abbe d’Aigrigny, on the contrary, is
it not Madame de Saint-Dizier, who have to render an account for the
injuries they have done me?”
“But, then, madame, how do you explain the meeting of these two men,
who have so many motives for mutual aversion? May there not be some dark
project still behind? Besides, madame, I am not the only one to think
so.”
“How is that?”
“This morning, on my return, I was so much agitated, that Mdlle. Florine
asked me the cause of my trouble. I know, madame, how much she is
devoted to you.”
“Nobody could be more so; only recently, you yourself informed me of the
signal service she rendered, during my confinement at Dr. Baleinier’s.”
“Well, madame, this morning, on my return, thinking it necessary to have
you informed as soon as possible, I told all to Mdlle. Florine. Like
me--even more, perhaps--she was terrified at the meeting of Rodin and M.
d’Aigrigny.
“After a moment’s reflection, she said to me: ‘It is, I think, useless
to disturb my mistress at present; it can be of no importance whether
she is informed of this treachery two or three hours sooner or later;
during that time I may be able to discover something more. I have an
idea, which I think a good one. Make my excuses to my mistress; I shall
soon be back.’ Then Florine sent for a hackney-coach, and went out.”
“Florine is an excellent girl,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, with a smile,
for further reflection had quite reassured her: “but, on this occasion,
I think that her zeal and good heart have deceived her, as they have
you, my poor friend. Do you know, that we are two madcaps, you and I,
not to have thought of one thing, which would have put us quite at our
ease?”
“How so, madame?”
“The Abbe d’Aigrigny fears M. Rodin; he may have sought him out,
to entreat his forbearance. Do you not find this explanation both
satisfactory and reasonable?”
“Perhaps so, madame,” said Mother Bunch, after a moment’s reflection;
“yes, it is probable.” But after another silence, and as if yielding to
a conviction superior to every possible argument, she exclaimed:
“And yet, no; believe me, madame, you are deceived. I feel it. All
appearances may be against what I affirm; yet, believe me, these
presentiments are too strong not to be true. And have you not guessed
the most secret instincts of my heart? Why should I not be able to guess
the dangers with which you are menaced?”
“What do you say? what have I guessed?” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville,
involuntarily impressed by the other’s tone of conviction and alarm.
“What have you guessed?” resumed the latter. “All the troublesome
susceptibility of an unfortunate creature, to whom destiny has decreed a
life apart. If I have hitherto been silent, it is not from ignorance
of what I owe you. Who told you, madame, that the only way to make me
accept your favors without blushing, was to give me some employment,
that would enable me to soothe the misfortunes I had so long shared? Who
told you, when you wished me to have a seat at your table, and to treat
as your friend the poor needlewoman, in whose person you sought to
honor, resignation and honest industry--who told you, when I answered
with tears of gratitude and regret, that it was not false modesty, but
a consciousness of my own ridiculous deformity, that made me refuse
your offer? Who told you that, but for this, I should have accepted it
proudly, in the name of all my low-born sisters? But you replied to me
with the touching words: ‘I understand your refusal, my friend; it is
not occasioned by false modesty, but by a sentiment of dignity that
I love and respect.’ Who told you,” continued the workgirl, with
increasing animation, “that I should be so happy to find a little
solitary retreat in this magnificent house, which dazzles me with its
splendor? Who guided you in the choice of the apartment (still far
too good) that you have provided for me? Who taught you, that, without
envying the beauty of the charming creatures that surround you, and whom
I love because they love you, I should always feel, by an involuntary
comparison, embarrassed and ashamed before them? Who told you therefore
to send them away, whenever you wished to speak with me? Yes! who
has revealed to you all the painful and secret susceptibilities of a
position like mine! Who has revealed them to you? God, no doubt! who in
His infinite majesty creates worlds, and yet cares for the poor little
insect hidden beneath the grass. And you think, that the gratitude of
a heart you have understood so well, cannot rise in its turn to the
knowledge of what may be hurtful to you? No, no, lady; some people have
the instinct of self preservation; others have the still more precious
instinct that enables them to preserve those they love. God has given
me this instinct. I tell you that you are betrayed!” And with animated
look, and cheeks slightly colored with emotion, the speaker laid such
stress upon the last words, and accompanied them with such energetic
gesture, that Mdlle. de Cardoville already shaken by the girl’s warmth,
began almost to share in her apprehensions. Then, although she had
before learned to appreciate the superior intelligence of this poor
child of the people, Mdlle. de Cardoville had never till now heard her
friend express herself with so much eloquence--an eloquence, too, that
was inspired by the noblest sentiments. This circumstance added to
the impression made upon Adrienne. But at the moment she was about to
answer, a knock was heard at the door of the room, and Florine entered.
On seeing the alarmed countenance of her waiting-maid, Mdlle. de
Cardoville said hastily: “Well, Florine! what news? Whence come you, my
child?”
“From Saint-Dizier House, madame.”
“And why did you go there?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville, with surprise.
“This morning,” said Florine, glancing at the workgirl, “madame, there,
confided to me her suspicions and uneasiness. I shared in them. The
visit of the Abbe d’Aigrigny to M. Rodin appeared to me very serious.
I thought, if it should turn out that M. Rodin had been during the last
few days to Saint-Dizier House, there would be no longer any doubt of
his treachery.”
“True,” said Adrienne, more and more uneasy. “Well?”
“As I had been charged to superintend the removal from the lodge, I knew
that several things had remained there. To obtain admittance, I had to
apply to Mrs. Grivois. I had thus a pretext for returning to the hotel.”
“What next, Florine, what next?”
“I endeavored to get Mrs. Grivois to talk of M. Rodin; but it was in
vain.”
“She suspected you,” said the workgirl. “It was to be anticipated.”
“I asked her,” continued Florine, “if they had seen M. Rodin at the
hotel lately. She answered evasively. Then despairing of getting
anything out of her,” continued Florine, “I left Mrs. Grivois, and that
my visit might excite no suspicion, I went to the pavilion--when, as I
turn down the avenue--whom do I see? why, M. Rodin himself, hastening
towards the little garden-door, wishing no doubt to depart unnoticed by
that way.”
“Madame, you hear,” cried Mother Bunch, clasping her hands with a
supplicating air; “such evidence should convince you.”
“M. Rodin at the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s!” cried Mdlle. de
Cardoville, whose glance, generally so mild, now suddenly flashed with
vehement indignation. Then she added, in a tone of considerable emotion,
“Continue, Florine.”
“At sight of M. Rodin, I stopped,” proceeded Florine, “and keeping a
little on one side, I gained the pavilion without being seen. I looked
out into the street, through the closed blinds, and perceived a hackney
coach. It was waiting for M. Rodin, for, a minute after, he got into it,
saying to the coachman, ‘No. 39, Rue Blanche.’
“The prince’s!” exclaimed Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Yes, madame.”
“Yes, M. Rodin was to see him to-day,” said Adrienne, reflecting.
“No doubt he betrays you, madame, and the prince also; the latter will
be made his victim more easily than you.”
“Shame! shame!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, on a sudden, as she rose,
all her features contracted with painful anger. “After such a piece
of treachery, it is enough to make us doubt of everything--even of
ourselves.”
“Oh, madame! is it not dreadful?” said Mother Bunch, shuddering.
“But, then, why did he rescue me and mine, and accuse the Abbe
d’Aigrigny?” wondered Mdlle. de Cardoville. “Of a truth, it is enough
to make one lose one’s reason. It is an abyss--but, oh! how frightful is
doubt!”
“As I returned,” said Florine, casting a look of affectionate devotion
on her mistress, “I thought of a way to make all clear; but there is not
a minute to lose.”
“What do you mean?” said Adrienne, looking at Florine with surprise.
“M. Rodin will soon be alone with the prince,” said Florine.
“No doubt,” replied Adrienne.
“The prince always sits in a little room that opens upon a greenhouse.
It is there that he will receive M. Rodin.”
“What then?” resumed Adrienne.
“This greenhouse, which I had arranged according to your orders, has
only one issue--by a door leading into a little lane. The gardener
gets in that way every morning, so as not to have to pass through the
apartments. Having finished his work, he does not return thither during
the day.”
“What do you mean? what is your project?” said Adrienne, looking at
Florine with growing surprise.
“The plants are so disposed, that, I think, if even the shade were
not there, which screens the glass that separates the saloon from the
greenhouse, one might get near enough to hear what was passing in the
room, without being seen. When I was superintending the arrangements, I
always entered by this greenhouse door. The gardener had one key, and I
another. Luckily, I have not yet parted with mine. Within an hour, you
may know how far to trust M. Rodin. If he betrays the prince, he betrays
you also.”
“What say you?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“Set out instantly with me; we reach the side door; I enter alone, for
precaution sake--if all is right, I return--”
“You would have me turn spy?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, haughtily,
interrupting Florine. “You cannot think it.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said the girl, casting down her eyes, with
confused and sorrowful air; “you had suspicions, and me seems ‘tis the
only way to confirm or destroy them.”
“Stoop to listen to a conversation--never!” replied Adrienne.
“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, suddenly, after same moments’ thought,
“permit me to tell you that Mdlle. Florine is right. The plan proposed
is a painful one, but it is the only way in which you can clear up,
perhaps, for ever, your doubts as to M. Rodin. Notwithstanding the
evidence of facts, in spite of the almost certainty of my presentiments,
appearances may deceive us. I was the first who accused M. Rodin to you.
I should not forgive myself all the rest of my life, did I accuse him
wrongfully. Beyond doubt, it is painful, as you say, madame, to listen
to a conversation--” Then, with a violent effort to console herself, she
added, as she strove to repress her tears, “Yet, as your safety is
at stake, madame--for, if this be treachery, the future prospect is
dreadful--I will go in your place--to--”
“Not a word more, I entreat you,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville,
interrupting. “Let you, my poor friend, do for me what I thought
degrading to do myself? Never!”
Then, turning to Florine, she added, “Tell M. de Bonneville to have the
carriage got ready on the instant.”
“You consent, then!” cried Florine, clasping her hands, and not seeking
to conceal her joy; and her eyes also became full of tears.
“Yes, I consent,” answered Adrienne, with emotion. “If it is to be
war--war to the knife, that they would wage with me--I must be prepared
for it; and, come to think of it, it would only be weakness and folly
not to put myself on my guard. No doubt this step costs me much, and is
very repugnant to me, but it is the only way to put an end to suspicions
that would be a continual torment to me, and perhaps to prevent still
greater evils. Yes! for many important reasons, this interview of
M. Rodin with Prince Djalma may be doubly decisive to me--as to the
confidence, or the inexorable hate, that I must henceforth feel for M.
Rodin. So, Florine, quick!--my cloak and bonnet, and the carriage. You
will go with me. As for you, my dear, pray wait for me here,” she added,
turning to the work girl.
Half an hour after this conversation, Adrienne’s carriage stopped, as
we have before seen, at the little garden-gate of the house in the
Rue Blanche. Florine entered the greenhouse and soon returned to her
mistress. “The shade is down, madame. M. Rodin has just entered the
prince’s room.” Mdlle. de Cardoville was, therefore, present, though
invisible, at the following scene, which took place between Rodin and
Djalma.
CHAPTER XLIII. THE LETTER.
Some minutes before the entrance of Mdlle. de Cardoville into the
greenhouse, Rodin had been introduced by Faringhea into the presence
of the prince, who, still under the influence of the burning excitement
into which he had been plunged by the words of the half-caste, did not
appear to perceive the Jesuit. The latter, surprised at the animated
expression of Djalma’s countenance, and his almost frantic air, made a
sign of interrogation to Faringhea, who answered him privately in the
following symbolical manner:--After laying his forefinger on his head
and heart, he pointed to the fire burning in the chimney, signifying
by his pantomimic action that the head and heart of Djalma were both
in flames. No doubt Rodin understood him, for an imperceptible smile of
satisfaction played upon his wan lips; then he said aloud to Faringhea,
“I wish to be alone with the prince. Let down the shade and see that we
are not interrupted.” The half-caste bowed, and touched a spring
near the sheet of plate-glass, which slid into the wall as the blind
descended; then, again bowing, Faringhea left the room. It was shortly
after that Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine entered the greenhouse,
which was now only separated from the room in which was Djalma, by the
transparent thickness of a shade of white silk, embroidered with large
colored birds. The noise of the door, which Faringhea closed as he went
out, seemed to recall the young Indian to himself; his features, though
still animated, recovered their habitual expression of mildness and
gentleness; he started, drew his hand across his brow, looked around
him, as if waking up from a deep reverie, and then, advancing towards
Rodin, with an air as respectful as confused, he said to him, using
the expression commonly applied to old men in his country, “Pardon me,
father.” Still following the customs of his nation, so full of deference
towards age, he took Rodin’s hand to raise it to his lips, but the
Jesuit drew back a step, and refused his homage.
“For what do you ask pardon, my dear prince?” said he to Djalma.
“When you entered, I was in a dream; I did not come to meet you. Once
more, pardon me, father!”
“Once more, I forgive you with all my heart, my dear prince. But let us
have some talk. Pray resume your place on the couch, and your pipe, too,
if you like it.”
But Djalma, instead of adopting the suggestion, and throwing himself
on the divan, according to his custom, insisted on seating himself in a
chair, notwithstanding all the persuasions of “the Old Man with the Good
Heart,” as he always called the Jesuit.
“Really, your politeness troubles me, my dear prince,” said Rodin; “you
are here at home in India; at least, we wish you to think so.”
“Many things remind me of my country,” said Djalma, in a mild grave
tone. “Your goodness reminds me of my father, and of him who was a
father to me,” added the Indian, as he thought of Marshal Simon, whose
arrival in Paris had been purposely concealed from him.
After a moment’s silence, he resumed in a tone full of affectionate
warmth, as he stretched out his hand to Rodin, “You are come, and I am
happy!”
“I understand your joy, my dear prince, for I come to take you out of
prison--to open your cage for you. I had begged you to submit to a brief
seclusion, entirely for your own interest.”
“Can I go out to-morrow?”
“To-day, my dear prince, if you please.”
The young Indian reflected for a moment, and then resumed, “I must have
friends, since I am here in a palace that does not belong to me.”
“Certainly you have friends--excellent friends,” answered Rodin. At
these words, Djalma’s countenance seemed to acquire fresh beauty. The
most noble sentiments were expressed in his fine features; his large
black eyes became slightly humid, and, after another interval of
silence, he rose and said to Rodin with emotion: “Come!”
“Whither, dear prince?” said the other, much surprised.
“To thank my friends. I have waited three days. It is long.”
“Permit me dear prince--I have much to tell you on this subject--please
to be seated.”
Djalma resumed his seat with docility. Rodin continued: “It is true that
you have friends; or rather, you have a friend. Friends are rare.”