icy cheeks; his voice though still very weak, became less tremulous, and
he exclaimed, in a tone of conviction that startled Father d’Aigrigny
and the prelate, “This first success answers for the others. I read the
future. Yes, yes; our cause will triumph. Every member of the execrable
Rennepont family will be crushed--and that soon you will see--”
Then, pausing, Rodin threw himself back on the pillow, exclaiming: “Oh!
I am choked with joy. My voice fails me.”
“But what is it?” asked the cardinal of Father d’Aigrigny.
The latter replied, in a tone of hypocritical sanctity: “One of the
heirs of the Rennepont family, a poor fellow, worn out with excesses and
debauchery, died three days ago, at the close of some abominable
orgies, in which he had braved the cholera with sacrilegious impiety.
In consequence of the indisposition that kept me at home, and of another
circumstance, I only received to-day the certificate of the death of
this victim of intemperance and irreligion. I must proclaim it to the
praise of his reverence”--pointing to Rodin--“that he told me, the worst
enemies of the descendants of that infamous renegade would be their own
bad passions, and that the might look to them as our allies against the
whole impious race. And so it has happened with Jacques Rennepont.”
“You see,” said Rodin, in so faint a voice that it was almost
unintelligible, “the punishment begins already. One of the Renneponts
is dead--and believe me--this certificate,” and he pointed to the paper
that Father d’Aigrigny held in his hand, “will one day be worth forty
millions to the Society of Jesus--and that--because--”
The lips alone finished the sentence. During some seconds, Rodin’s
voice had become so faint, that it was at last quite imperceptible. His
larynx, contracted by violent emotion, no longer emitted any sound.
The Jesuit, far from being disconcerted by this incident, finished his
phrase, as it were, by expressive pantomime. Raising his head proudly he
tapped his forehead with his forefinger, as if to express that it was to
his ability this first success was owing. But he soon fell back again
on the bed, exhausted, breathless, sinking, with his cotton handkerchief
pressed once more to his parched lips. The good news, as Father
d’Aigrigny called it, had not cured Rodin. For a moment only, he had had
the courage to forget his pain. But the slight color on his cheek soon
disappeared; his face became once more livid. His sufferings, suspended
for a moment, were so much increased in violence, that he writhed
beneath the coverlet, and buried his face in the pillow, extending his
arms above his head, and holding them stiff as bars of iron. After this
crisis, intense as it was rapid: during which Father d’Aigrigny and the
prelate bent anxiously over him, Rodin, whose face was bathed in cold
sweat, made a sign that he suffered less, and that he wished to drink of
a potion to which he pointed. Father d’Aigrigny fetched it for him,
and while the cardinal held him up with marked disgust, the abbe
administered a few spoonfuls of the potion, which almost immediately
produced a soothing effect.
“Shall I call M. Rousselet?” said Father d’Aigrigny, when Rodin was once
more laid down in bed.
Rodin shook his head; then, with a fresh effort, he raised his right
hand, opened it, and pointed with his forefinger to a desk in a corner
of the room, to signify that, being no longer able to speak, he wished
to write.
“I understand your reverence,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “but first
calm yourself. Presently, if you require it. I will give you writing
materials.”
Two knocks at the outer door of the next room interrupted this scene.
From motives of prudence, Father d’Aigrigny had begged Rousselet to
remain in the first of the three rooms. He now went to open the door,
and Rousselet handed him a voluminous packet, saying: “I beg pardon
for disturbing you, father, but I was told to let you have these papers
instantly.”
“Thank you, M. Rousselet,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “do you know at what
hour Dr. Baleinier will return?”
“He will not be long, father, for he wishes to perform before night the
painful operation, that will have a decisive effect on the condition of
Father Rodin. I am preparing what is necessary for it,” added Rousselet,
as he pointed to a singular and formidable apparatus, which Father
d’Aigrigny examined with a kind of terror.
“I do not know if the symptom is a serious one,” said the Jesuit; “but
the reverend father has suddenly lost his voice.”
“It is the third time this has happened within the last week,” said
Rousselet; “the operation of Dr. Baleiner will act both on the larynx
and on the lungs.”
“Is the operation a very painful one?” asked Father d’Aigrigny.
“There is, perhaps, none more cruel in surgery,” answered the young
doctor; “and Dr. Baleinier has partly concealed its nature from Father
Rodin.”
“Please to wait here for Dr. Baleinier, and send him to us as soon as he
arrives,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny: and, returning to the sick chamber,
he sat down by the bedside, and said to Rodin, as he showed him the
letter: “Here are different reports with regard to different members
of the Rennepont family, whom I have had looked after by others, my
indisposition having kept me at home for the last few days. I do not
know, father, if the state of your health will permit you to hear--”
Rodin made a gesture, at once so supplicating and peremptory, that
Father d’Aigrigny felt there would be at least as much danger in
refusing as in granting his request; so, turning towards the cardinal,
still inconsolable at not having discovered the Jesuit’s secret, he
said to him with respectful deference, pointing at the same time to the
letter: “Have I the permission of your Eminence?”
The prelate bowed, and replied: “Your affairs are ours, my dear father.
The Church must always rejoice in what rejoices your glorious Company.”
Father d’Aigrigny unsealed the packet, and found in it different notes
in different handwritings. When he had read the first, his countenance
darkened, and he said, in a grave tone: “A misfortune--a great
misfortune.”
Rodin turned his head abruptly, and looked at him with an air of uneasy
questioning.
“Florine is dead of the cholera,” answered Father d’Aigrigny; “and what
is the worst,” added he, crumpling the note between his hands, “before
dying, the miserable creature confessed to Mdlle. de Cardoville that she
long acted as a spy under the orders of your reverence.”
No doubt the death of Florine, and the confession she had made, crossed
some of the plans of Rodin, for he uttered an inarticulate murmur, and
his countenance expressed great vexation.
Passing to another note, Father d’Aigrigny continued: “This relates
to Marshal Simon, and is not absolutely bad, but still far from
satisfactory, as it announces some amelioration in his position. We
shall see if it merits belief, by information from another source.”
Rodin made a sign of impatience, to hasten Father d’Aigrigny to read the
note, which he did as follows. “‘For some days, the mind of the marshal
has appeared to be less sorrowful, anxious and agitated. He lately
passed two hours with his daughters, which had not been the case for
some time before. The harsh countenance of the soldier Dagobert is
becoming smoother--a sure sign of some amelioration in the condition of
the marshal. Detected by their handwriting, the last anonymous letters
were returned by Dagobert to the postman, without having been opened by
the marshal. Some other method must be found to get them delivered.’”
Looking at Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny said to him: “Your reverence thinks
with me that this note is not very satisfactory?”
Rodin held down his head. One saw by the expression of his countenance
how much he suffered by not being able to speak. Twice he put his hand
to his throat, and looked at Father d’Aigrigny with anguish.
“Oh!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, angrily, when he had perused another
note, “for one lucky chance, to-day brings some very black ones.”
At these words turning hastily to Father d’Aigrigny, and extending
his trembling hands, Rodin questioned him with look and gesture. The
cardinal, sharing his uneasiness, exclaimed: “What do you learn by this
note, my dear father?”
“We thought the residence of M. Hardy in our house completely unknown,”
replied Father d’Aigrigny, “but we now fear that Agricola Baudoin
has discovered the retreat of his old master, and that he has even
communicated with him by letter, through a servant of the house. So,”
added the reverend father, angrily, “during the three days that I have
not been able to visit the pavilion, one of my servants must have been
bought over. There is one of them, a man blind of one eye, whom I
have always suspected--the wretch! But no: I will not yet believe this
treachery. The consequences would be too deplorable; for I know how
matters stand, and that such a correspondence might ruin everything.
By awaking in M. Hardy memories with difficulty laid asleep, they might
destroy in a single day all that has been done since he inhabits our
house. Luckily, this note contains only doubts and fears; my other
information will be more positive, and will not, I hope, confirm them.”
“My dear father,” said the cardinal, “do not despair. The Lord will not
abandon the good cause!”
Father d’Aigrigny seemed very little consoled by this assurance. He
remained still and thoughtful, whilst Rodin writhed his head in a
paroxysm of mute rage, as he reflected on this new check.
“Let us turn to the last note,” said Father d’Aigrigny, after a moment
of thoughtful silence. “I have so much confidence in the person who
sends it, that I cannot doubt the correctness of the information it
contains. May it contradict the others!”
In order not to break the chain of facts contained in this last note,
which was to have so startling an effect on the actors in this scene, we
shall leave it to the reader’s imagination to supply the exclamations
of surprise, hate, rage and fear of Father d’Aigrigny, and the terrific
pantomime of Rodin, during the perusal of this formidable document,
the result of the observations of a faithful and secret agent of
the reverend fathers. Comparing this note with the other information
received, the results appeared more distressing to the reverend fathers.
Thus Gabriel had long and frequent conferences with Adrienne, who before
was unknown to him. Agricola Baudoin had opened a communication with
Francis Hardy, and the officers of justice were on the track of the
authors and instigators of the riot which had led to the burning of the
factory of Baron Tripeaud’s rival. It seemed almost certain that Mdlle.
de Cardoville had had an interview with Prince Djalma.
This combination of facts showed that, faithful to the threats she
had uttered to Rodin, when she had unmasked the double perfidy of the
reverend father, Mdlle. de Cardoville was actively engaged in uniting
the scattered members of her family, to form a league against those
dangerous enemies, whose detestable projects, once unveiled and boldly
encountered, could hardly have a chance of success. The reader will now
understand the tremendous effect of this note on Father d’Aigrigny and
Rodin--on Rodin, stretched powerless on a bed of pain at the moment when
the scaffolding, raised with so much labor, seemed to be tumbling around
him.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE OPERATION.
We have given up the attempt to paint the countenance, attitude, and
gesticulation of Rodin during the reading of this note, which seemed to
ruin all his most cherished hopes. Everything was failing at once, at
the moment when only superhuman trust in the success of his plans could
give him sufficient energy to strive against mortal sickness. A single,
absorbing thought had agitated him even to delirium: What progress,
during his illness, had been made in this immense affair? He had first
heard a good piece of news, the death of Jacques Rennepont; but now the
advantages of this decease, which reduced the number of the heirs from
seven to six, were entirely lost. To what purpose would be this death,
if the other members of the family, dispersed and persecuted with such
infernal perseverance, were to unite and discover the enemies who had
so long aimed at them in darkness? If all those wounded hearts were to
console, enlighten, support each other, their cause would be gained, and
the inheritance rescued from the reverend fathers. What was to be done?
Strange power of the human will!--Rodin had one foot in the grave, he
was almost at the last gasp; his voice had failed him. And yet that
obstinate nature, so full of energy and resources, did not despair.
Let but a miracle restore his health, and that firm confidence in the
success of his projects which has given him power to struggle against
disease, tells him that he could yet save all--but then he must have
health and life! Health! life! His physician does not know if he will
survive the shock--if he can bear the pain--of a terrible operation.
Health! life! and just now Rodin heard talk of the solemn funeral they
had prepared for him. And yet--health, life, he will have them. Yes; he
has willed to live--and he has lived--why should he not live longer? He
will live--because he has willed it.
All that we have just written passed though Rodin’s mind in a second.
His features, convulsed by the mental torment he endured, must have
assumed a very strange expression, for Father d’Aigrigny and the
cardinal looked at him in silent consternation. Once resolved to live,
and to sustain a desperate struggle with the Rennepont family, Rodin
acted in consequence. For a few moments Father d’Aigrigny and the
prelate believed themselves under the influence of a dream. By an effort
of unparalleled energy, and as if moved by hidden mechanism, Rodin
sprang from the bed, dragging the sheet with him, and trailing it, like
a shroud, behind his livid and fleshless body. The room was cold; the
face of the Jesuit was bathed in sweat; his naked and bony feet left
their moist print upon the stones.
“What are you doing? It is death!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, rushing
towards Rodin, to force him to lie down again.
But the latter, extending one of his skeleton arms, as hard as iron,
pushed aside Father d’Aigrigny with inconceivable vigor, considering the
state of exhaustion in which he had so long been.
“He has the strength of a man in a fit of epilepsy,” said Father
d’Aigrigny, recovering his balance.
With a steady step Rodin advanced to the desk on which Dr. Baleinier
daily wrote his prescriptions. Seating himself before it, the Jesuit
took pen and paper, and began to write in a firm hand. His calm, slow,
and sure movements had in them something of the deliberateness remarked
in somnambulists. Mute and motionless, hardly knowing whether they
dreamed or not, the cardinal and Father d’Aigrigny remained staring at
the incredible coolness of Rodin, who, half-naked, continued to write
with perfect tranquillity.
“But, father,” said the Abbe d’Aigrigny, advancing towards him, “this is
madness!”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders, stopped him with a gesture and made him a
sign to read what he had just written.
The reverend father expected to see the ravings of a diseased brain; but
he took the note, whilst Rodin commenced another.
“My lord,” exclaimed Father d’Aigrigny, “read this!”
The cardinal read the paper, and returning it to the reverend father
with equal amazement, added: “It is full of reason, ability, and
resources. We shall thus be able to neutralize the dangerous combination
of Abbe Gabriel and Mdlle. de Cardoville, who appear to be the most
formidable leaders of the coalition.”
“It is really miraculous,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Oh, my dear father!” whispered the cardinal, shaking his head; “what
a pity that we are the only witnesses of this scene! What an excellent
MIRACLE we could have made of it! In one sense, it is another Raising of
Lazarus!”
“What an idea, my lord!” answered Father d’Aigrigny, in a low voice. “It
is perfect--and we must not give it up--”
This innocent little plot was interrupted by Rodin, who, turning his
head, made a sign to Father d’Aigrigny to approach, and delivered to him
another sheet, with this note attached: “To be executed within an hour.”
Having rapidly perused the paper, Father d’Aigrigny exclaimed: “Right!
I had not thought of that. Instead of being fatal, the correspondence
between Agricola and M. Hardy may thus have the best results. Really,”
added the reverend father in a low voice to the prelate, while Rodin
continued to write, “I am quite confounded. I read--I see--and yet I can
hardly believe my eyes. Just before, exhausted and dying--and now
with his mind as clear and penetrating as ever. Can this be one of the
phenomena of somnambulism, in which the mind alone governs and sustains
the body?”
Suddenly the door opened, and Dr. Baleinier entered the room. At sight
of Rodin, seated half-naked at the desk, with his feet upon the cold
stones, the doctor exclaimed, in a tone of reproach and alarm: “But, my
lord--but, father--it is murder to let the unhappy man do this!--If he
is delirious from fever, he must have the strait-waistcoat, and be tied
down in bed.”
So saying. Dr. Baleinier hastily approached Rodin, and took him by the
arm. Instead of finding the skin dry and chilly, as he expected, he
found it flexible, almost damp. Struck with surprise, the doctor sought
to feel the pulse of the left hand, which Rodin resigned, to him, whilst
he continued working with the right.
“What a prodigy!” cried the doctor, as he counted Rodin’s pulse; “for
a week past, and even this morning, the pulse has been abrupt,
intermittent, almost insensible, and now it is firm, regular--I am
really puzzled--what then has happened? I can hardly believe what
I see,” added the doctor, turning towards Father d’Aigrigny and the
cardinal.
“The reverend father, who had first lost his voice, was next seized with
such furious and violent despair caused by the receipt of bad news,”
answered Father d’Aigrigny, “that we feared a moment for his life; while
now, on the contrary, the reverend father has gained sufficient strength
to go to his desk, and write for some minutes, with a clearness of
argument and expression, which has confounded both the cardinal and
myself.”
“There is no longer any doubt of it,” cried the doctor. “The violent
despair has caused a degree of emotion, which will admirably prepare
the reactive crisis, that I am now almost certain of producing by the
operation.”
“You persist in the operation?” whispered Father d’Aigrigny, whilst
Rodin continued to write.
“I might have hesitated this morning; but, disposed as he now is for
it, I must profit by the moment of excitement, which will be followed by
greater depression.”
“Then, without the operation--” said the cardinal.
“This fortunate and unexpected crisis will soon be over, and the
reaction may kill him, my lord.”
“Have you informed him of the serious nature of the operation?”
“Pretty nearly, my lord.”
“But it is time to bring him to the point.”
“That is what I will do, my lord,” said Dr. Baleinier; and approaching
Rodin, who continued to write, he thus addressed him, in a firm voice:
“My reverend father, do you wish to be up and well in a week?”
Rodin nodded, full of confidence, as much as to say: “I am up already.”
“Do not deceive yourself,” replied the doctor. “This crisis is
excellent, but it will not last, and if we would profit by it, we must
proceed with the operation of which I have spoken to you--or, I tell you
plainly, I answer for nothing after such a shock.”
Rodin was the more struck with these words, as, half an hour ago, he had
experienced the short duration of the improvement occasioned by Father
d’Aigrigny’s good news, and as already he felt increased oppression on
the chest.
Dr. Baleinier, wishing to decide him, added: “In a word, father, will
you live or die?”
Rodin wrote rapidly this answer, which he gave to the doctor: “To live,
I would let you cut me limb from limb. I am ready for anything.” And he
made a movement to rise.
“I must tell you, reverend father, so as not to take you by surprise,”
added Dr. Baleinier, “that this operation is cruelly painful.”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders and wrote with a firm hand: “Leave me my
head; you may take all the rest.”
The doctor read these words aloud, and the cardinal and Father
d’Aigrigny looked at each other in admiration of this dauntless courage.
“Reverend father,” said Dr. Baleinier, “you must lie down.”
Rodin wrote: “Get everything ready. I have still some orders to write.
Let me know when it is time.”
Then folding up a paper, which he had sealed with a wafer, Rodin gave
these words to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send this note instantly to the agent
who addressed the anonymous letters to Marshal Simon.”
“Instantly, reverend father,” replied the abbe; “I will employ a sure
messenger.”
“Reverend father,” said Baleinier to Rodin, “since you must write, lie
down in bed, and write there, during our little preparations.”
Rodin made an affirmative gesture, and rose. But already the prognostics
of the doctor were realized. The Jesuit could hardly remain standing for
a second; he fell back into a chair, and looked at Dr. Baleinier with
anguish, whilst his breathing became more and more difficult.
The doctor said to him: “Do not be uneasy. But we must make haste. Lean
upon me and Father d’Aigrigny.”
Aided by these two supporters, Rodin was able to regain the bed. Once
there, he made signs that they should bring him pen, ink, and paper.
Then he continued to write upon his knees, pausing from time to time, to
breathe with great difficulty.
“Reverend father,” said Baleinier to d’Aigrigny, “are you capable of
acting as one of my assistants in the operation? Have you that sort of
courage?”
“No,” said the reverend father; “in the army I could never assist at an
amputation. The sight of blood is too much for me.”
“There will be no blood,” said the doctor, “but it will be worse. Please
send me three of our reverend fathers to assist me, and ask M. Rousselet
to bring in the apparatus.”
Father d’Aigrigny went out. The prelate approached the doctor, and
whispered, pointing to Rodin: “Is he out of danger?”
“If he stands the operation--yes, my lord.”
“Are you sure that he can stand it?”
“To him I should say ‘yes,’ to you ‘I hope so.’”
“And were he to die, would there be time to administer the sacraments in
public, with a certain pomp, which always causes some little delay?”
“His dying may continue, my lord--a quarter of an hour.”
“It is short, but we must be satisfied with that,” said the prelate.
And, going to one of the windows, he began to tap with his fingers on
the glass, while he thought of the illumination effects, in the event of
Rodin’s lying in state. At this moment, Rousselet entered, with a large
square box under his arm. He placed it on the drawers, and began to
arrange his apparatus.
“How many have you prepared?” said the doctor.
“Six, sir.”
“Four will do, but it is well to be fully provided. The cotton is not
too thick?”
“Look, sir.”
“Very good.”
“And how is the reverend father?” asked the pupil.
“Humph!” answered the doctor, in a whisper. “The chest is terribly
clogged, the respiration hissing, the voice gone--still there is a
change.”
“All my fear is, sir, that the reverend father will not be able to stand
the dreadful pain.”
“It is another chance; but, under the circumstances, we must risk all.
Come, my dear boy, light the--taper; I hear our assistants.”
Just then Father d’Aigrigny entered the room, accompanied by the three
Jesuits, who, in the morning, had walked in the garden. The two old men,
with their rosy cheeks, and the young one, with the ascetic countenance,
all three dressed in black, with their square caps and white bands,
appeared perfectly ready to assist Dr. Baleinier in his formidable
operation.
CHAPTER XXX. THE TORTURE.
“Reverend fathers,” said Dr. Baleinier, graciously, to the three, “I
thank you for your kind aid. What you have to do is very simple, and,
by the blessing of heaven, this operation will save the life of our dear
Father Rodin.”
The three black-gowns cast up their eyes piously, and then bowed
altogether, like one man. Rodin, indifferent to what was passing around
him, never ceased an instant to write or reflect. Nevertheless, in spite
of his apparent calmness, he felt such difficulty in breathing, that
more than once Dr. Baleinier had turned round uneasily, as he heard the
stifled rattling in the throat of the sick man. Making a sign to his
pupil, the doctor approached Rodin and said to him: “Come, reverend
father; this is the important moment. Courage!”
No sign of alarm was expressed in the Jesuit’s countenance. His features
remained impassible as those of a corpse. Only, his little reptile eyes
sparkled still more brightly in their dark cavities. For a moment,
he looked round at the spectators of this scene; then, taking his pen
between his teeth, he folded and wafered another letter, placed it on
the table beside the bed, and nodded to Dr. Baleinier, as if to say: “I
am ready.”
“You must take off your flannel waistcoat, and your shirt, father.”
Rodin hesitated an instant, and the doctor resumed: “It is absolutely
necessary, father.”
Aided by Baleinier, Rodin obeyed, whilst the doctor added, no doubt to
spare his modesty: “We shall only require the chest, right and left, my
dear father.”
And now, Rodin, stretched upon his back, with his dirty night-cap still
on his head, exposed the upper part of a livid trunk, or rather, the
bony cage of a skeleton, for the shadows of the ribs and cartilages
encircled the skin with deep, black lines. As for the arms, they
resembled bones twisted with cord and covered with tanned parchment.
“Come, M. Rousselet, the apparatus!” said Baleinier.
Then addressing the three Jesuits, he added: “Please draw near,
gentlemen; what you have to do is very simple, as you will see.”
It was indeed very simple. The doctor gave to each of his four
assistants a sort of little steel tripod about two inches in diameter
and three in height; the circular centre of this tripod was filled with
cotton; the instrument was held in the left hand by means of a wooden
handle. In the right hand each assistant held a small tin tube about
eighteen inches long; at one end was a mouthpiece to receive the lips
of the operator, and the other spread out so as to form a cover to the
little tripod. These preparations had nothing alarming in them. Father
d’Aigrigny and the prelate, who looked on from a little distance,
could not understand how this operation should be so painful. They soon
understood it.
Dr. Baleinier, having thus provided his four assistants, made them
approach Rodin, whose bed had been rolled into the middle of the room.
Two of them were placed on one side, two on the other.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Dr. Baleinier, “set light to the cotton; place
the lighted part on the skin of his reverence, by means of the tripod
which contains the wick; cover the tripod with the broad part of the
tube, and then blow through the other end to keep up the fire. It is
very simple, as you see.”
It was, in fact, full of the most patriarchal and primitive ingenuity.
Four lighted cotton rocks, so disposed as to burn very slowly, were
applied to the two sides of Rodin’s chest. This is vulgarly called the
moxa. The trick is done, when the whole thickness of the skin has been
burnt slowly through. It lasts seven or eight minutes. They say that
an amputation is nothing to it. Rodin had watched the preparations
with intrepid curiosity. But, at the first touch of the four fires,
he writhed like a serpent, without being able to utter a cry. Even the
expression of pain was denied him. The four assistants being disturbed
by, the sudden start of Rodin, it was necessary to begin again.
“Courage, my dear father! offer these sufferings to the Lord!” said Dr.
Baleinier, in a sanctified tone. “I told you the operation would be
very painful; but then it is salutary in proportion. Come; you that have
shown such decisive resolution, do not fail at the last movement!”
Rodin had closed his eyes, conquered by the first agony of pain. He now
opened them, and looked at the doctor as if ashamed of such weakness.
And yet on the sides of his chest were four large, bleeding wounds--so
violent had been the first singe. As he again extended himself on the
bed of torture, Rodin made a sign that he wished to write. The doctor
gave him the pen, and he wrote as follows, by way of memorandum; “It is
better not to lose any time. Inform Baron Tripeaud of the warrant issued
against Leonard, so that he may be on his guard.”
Having written this note, the Jesuit gave it to Dr. Baleinier, to hand
it to Father d’Aigrigny, who was as much amazed as the doctor and the
cardinal, at such extraordinary presence of mind in the midst of such
horrible pain. Rodin, with his eyes fixed on the reverend father, seemed
to wait with impatience for him to leave the room to execute his orders.
Guessing the thought of Rodin, the doctor whispered Father d’Aigrigny,
who went out.
“Come, reverend father,” said the doctor, “we must begin again. This
time do not move.”
Rodin did not answer, but clasped his hands over his head, closed his
eyes, and presented his chest. It was a strange, lugubrious, almost
fantastic spectacle. The three priests, in their long black gowns,
leaned over this body, which almost resembled a corpse, and blowing
through their tubes into the chest of the patient, seemed as if pumping
up his blood by some magic charm. A sickening odor of burnt flesh began
to spread through the silent chamber, and each assistant heard a slight
crackling beneath the smoking trivet; it was the skin of Rodin giving
way to the action of fire, and splitting open in four different parts of
his chest. The sweat poured from his livid face, which it made to shine;
a few locks of his gray hair stood up stiff and moist from his temples.
Sometimes the spasms were so violent, that the veins swelled on his
stiffened arms, and were stretched like cords ready to break.
Enduring this frightful torture with as much intrepid resignation as
the savage whose glory consists in despising pain, Rodin gathered his
strength and courage from the hope--we had almost said the certainty--of
life. Such was the make of this dauntless character, such the energy of
this powerful mind, that, in the midst of indescribable torments,
his one fixed idea never left him. During the rare intervals of
suffering--for pain is equal even at this degree of intensity--Rodin
still thought of the Rennepont inheritance, and calculated his chances,
and combined his measures, feeling that he had not a minute to lose. Dr.
Baleinier watched him with extreme attention, waiting for the effects
of the reaction of pain upon the patient, who seemed already to breathe
with less difficulty.
Suddenly Rodin placed his hand on his forehead, as if struck with some
new idea, and turning his head towards Dr. Baleinier, made a sign to him
to suspend the operation.
“I must tell you, reverend father,” answered the doctor, “that it is not
half finished, and, if we leave off, the renewal will be more painful--”
Rodin made a sign that he did not care, and that he wanted to write.
“Gentlemen, stop a moment,” said Dr. Baleinier; “keep down your moxas,
but do not blow the fire.”
So the fire was to burn slowly, instead of fiercely, but still upon
the skin of the patient. In spite of this pain, less intense, but still
sharp and keen, Rodin, stretched upon his back, began to write, holding
the paper above his head. On the first sheet he traced some alphabetic
signs, part of a cipher known to himself alone. In the midst of the
torture, a luminous idea had crossed his mind; fearful of forgetting it
amidst his sufferings, he now took note of it. On another paper he wrote
the following, which was instantly delivered to Father d’Aigrigny: “Send
B. immediately to Faringhea, for the report of the last few days with
regard to Djalma, and let B. bring it hither on the instant.” Father
d’Aigrigny went out to execute this new order. The cardinal approached
a little nearer to the scene of the operation, for, in spite of the bad
odor of the room, he took delight in seeing the Jesuit half roasted,
having long cherished against him the rancor of an Italian and a priest.
“Come, reverend father,” said the doctor to Rodin, “continue to be
admirably courageous, and your chest will free itself. You have still a
bitter moment to go through--and then I have good hope.”
The patient resumed his former position. The moment Father d’Aigrigny
returned, Rodin questioned him with a look, to which the reverend father
replied by a nod. At a sign from the doctor, the four assistants began
to blow through the tubes with all their might. This increase of torture
was so horrible, that, in spite of his self-control, Rodin gnashed his
teeth, started convulsively, and so expanded his palpitating chest,
that, after a violent spasm, there rose from his throat and lungs a
scream of terrific pain--but it was free, loud, sonorous.
“The chest is free!” cried the doctor, in triumph. “The lungs have
play--the voice returns--he is saved!--Blow, gentlemen, blow; and,
reverend father, cry out as much as you please: I shall be delighted to
hear you, for it will give you relief. Courage! I answer for the result.
It is a wonderful cure. I will publish it by sound of trumpet.”
“Allow me, doctor,” whispered Father d’Aigrigny, as he approached Dr.
Baleinier; “the cardinal can witness, that I claimed beforehand the
publication of this affair--as a miraculous fact.”
“Let it be miraculous then,” answered Dr. Baleinier, disappointed--for
he set some value on his own work.
On hearing he was saved, Rodin though his sufferings were perhaps worse
than ever, for the fire had now pierced the scarf-skin, assumed almost
an infernal beauty. Through the painful contraction of his features
shone the pride of savage triumph; the monster felt that he was becoming
once more strong and powerful, and he seemed conscious the evils that
his fatal resurrection was to cause. And so, of still writhing beneath
the flames, he pronounced these words, the first that struggled from his
chest: “I told you I should live!”
“You told us true,” cried the doctor, feeling his pulse; “the
circulation is now full and regular, the lungs are free. The reaction is
complete. You are saved.”
At this moment, the last shreds of cotton had burnt out. The trivets
were withdrawn, and on the skeleton trunk of Rodin were seen four large
round blisters. The skin still smoked, and the raw flesh was visible
beneath. In one of his sudden movements, a lamp had been misplaced, and
one of these burns was larger than the other, presenting as it were to
the eye a double circle. Rodin looked down upon his wounds. After
some seconds of silent contemplation, a strange smile curled his lips.
Without changing his position, he glanced at Father d’Aigrigny with an
expression impossible to describe, and said to him, as he slowly
counted the wounds touching them with his flat and dirty nail:
“Father d’Aigrigny, what an omen!--Look here! one Rennepont--two
Renneponts--three Renneponts--four Renneponts--where is then the
fifth!--Ah! here--this wound will count for two. They are twins.” (41)
And he emitted a little dry, bitter laugh. Father d’Aigrigny, the
cardinal, and Dr. Baleinier, alone understood the sense of these
mysterious and fatal words, which Rodin soon completed by a terrible
allusion, as he exclaimed, with prophetic voice, and almost inspired
air: “Yes, I say it. The impious race will be reduced to ashes, like
the fragments of this poor flesh. I say it, and it will be so. I said I
would live--and I do live!”
(41) Jacques Rennepont being dead, and Gabriel out of the field, in
consequence of his donation, there remained only five persons of the
family--Rose and Blanche, Djalma, Adrienne, and Hardy.
CHAPTER XXXI. VICE AND VIRTUE.
Two days have elapsed since Rodin was miraculously restored to life. The
reader will not have forgotten the house in the Rue Clovis, where the
reverend father had an apartment, and where also was the lodging of
Philemon, inhabited by Rose-Pompon. It is about three o’clock in the
afternoon. A bright ray of light, penetrating through a round hole in
the door Mother Arsene’s subterraneous shop, forms a striking contrast
with the darkness of this cavern. The ray streams full upon a melancholy
object. In the midst of fagots and faded vegetables, and close to a
great heap of charcoal, stands a wretched bed; beneath the sheet, which
covers it, can be traced the stiff and angular proportions of a corpse.
It is the body of Mother Arsene herself, who died two days before, of
the cholera. The burials have been so numerous, that there has been
no time to remove her remains. The Rue Clovis is almost deserted. A
mournful silence reigns without, often broken by the sharp whistling of
the north wind. Between the squalls, one hears a sort of pattering. It
is the noise of the large rats, running to and fro across the heap of
charcoal.
Suddenly, another sound is heard, and these unclean animals fly to hide
themselves in their holes. Some one is trying to force open the door,
which communicates between the shop and the passage. It offers but
little resistance, and, in a few seconds, the worn-out lock gives
way, and a woman enters. For a short time she stands motionless in the
obscurity of the damp and icy cave. After a minute’s hesitation, the
woman advances and the ray of light illumines the features of the
Bacchanal Queen. Slowly, she approached the funeral couch. Since the
death of Jacques, the alteration in the countenance of Cephyse had gone
on increasing. Fearfully pale, with her fine black hair in disorder,
her legs and feet naked, she was barely covered with an old patched
petticoat and a very ragged handkerchief.
When she came near the bed, she cast a glance of almost savage assurance
at the shroud. Suddenly she drew back, with a low cry of involuntary
terror. The sheet moved with a rapid undulation, extending from the feet
to the head of the corpse. But soon the sight of a rat, flying along the
side of the worm-eaten bedstead, explained the movement of the shroud.
Recovering from her fright, Cephyse began to look for several things,
and collected them in haste, as though she dreaded being surprised
in the miserable shop. First, she seized a basket, and filled it with
charcoal; then, looking from side to side, she discovered in a corner an
earthen pot, which she took with a burst of ominous joy.
“It is not all, it is not all,” said Cephyse, as she continued to search
with an unquiet air.
At last she perceived near the stove a little tin box, containing flint,
steel and matches. She placed these articles on the top of the basket,
and took it in one hand, and the earthen pot in the other. As she
passed near the corpse of the poor charcoal-dealer, Cephyse said, with a
strange smile: “I rob you, poor Mother Arsene, but my theft will not do
me much good.”
Cephyse left the shop, reclosed the door as well as she could, went up
the passage, and crossed the little court-yard which separated the
front of the building from that part in which Rodin had lodged. With the
exception of the windows of Philemon’s apartment, where Rose-Pompon had
so often sat perched like a bird, warbling Beranger, the other windows
of the house were open. There had been deaths on the first and second
floors, and, like many others, they were waiting for the cart piled up
with coffins.
The Bacchanal Queen gained the stairs, which led to the chambers
formerly occupied by Rodin. Arrived at the landing-place she ascended
another ruinous staircase, steep as a ladder, and with nothing but an
old rope for a rail. She at length reached the half-rotten door of
a garret, situated in the roof. The house was in such a state of
dilapidation, that, in many places the roof gave admission to the rain,
and allowed it to penetrate into this cell, which was not above ten feet
square, and lighted by an attic window. All the furniture consisted of
an old straw mattress, laid upon the ground, with the straw peeping out
from a rent in its ticking; a small earthenware pitcher, with the spout
broken, and containing a little water, stood by the side of this couch.
Dressed in rags, Mother Bunch was seated on the side of the mattress,
with her elbows on her knees, and her face concealed in her thin, white
hands. When Cephyse entered the room, the adopted sister of Agricola
raised her head; her pale, mild face seemed thinner than ever, hollow
with suffering, grief, misery; her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on
her sister with an expression of mournful tenderness.
“I have what we want, sister,” said Cephyse, in a low, deep voice; “in
this basket there is wherewith to finish our misery.”
Then, showing to Mother Bunch the articles she had just placed on the
floor, she added: “For the first time in my life, I have been a thief.
It made me ashamed and frightened; I was never intended for that or
worse. It is a pity.” added she, with a sardonic smile.
After a moment’s silence, the hunchback said to her sister, in a heart
rending tone: “Cephyse--my dear Cephyse--are you quite determined to
die?”
“How should I hesitate?” answered Cephyse, in a firm voice. “Come,
sister, let us once more make our reckoning. If even I could forget my
shame, and Jacques’ contempt in his last moments, what would remain to
me? Two courses only: first, to be honest, and work for my living. But
you know that, in spite of the best will in the world, work will often
fail, as it has failed for the last few days, and, even when I got it, I
would have to live on four to five francs a week. Live? that is to say,
die by inches. I know that already, and I prefer dying at once. The
other course would be to live a life of infamy--and that I will not do.
Frankly, sister, between frightful misery, infamy, or death, can the
choice be doubtful? Answer me!”
Then, without giving Mother Bunch time to speak, Cephyse added, in an
abrupt tone: “Besides, what is the good of discussing it? I have made up
my mind, and nothing shall prevent my purpose, since all that you, dear
sister, could obtain from me, was a delay of a few days, to see if the
cholera would not save us the trouble. To please you I consented; the
cholera has come, killed every one else in the house, but left us. You
see, it is better to do one’s own business,” added she, again smiling
bitterly. Then she resumed: “Besides, dear sister, you also wish to
finish with life.”
“It is true, Cephyse,” answered the sempstress, who seemed very much
depressed; “but alone--one has only to answer for one’s self--and to die
with you,” added she, shuddering, “appears like being an accomplice in
your death.”
“Do you wish, then, to make an end of it, I in one place, you in
another?--that would be agreeable!” said Cephyse, displaying in that
terrible moment the sort of bitter and despairing irony which is more
frequent than may be imagined in the midst of mortal anguish.
“Oh, no, no!” said the other in alarm, “not alone--I will not die
alone!”
“Do you not see, dear sister, we are right not to part? And yet,” added
Cephyse, in a voice of emotion, “my heart almost breaks sometimes, to
think that you will die like me.”
“How selfish!” said the hunchback, with a faint smile. “What reasons
have I to love life? What void shall I leave behind me?”
“But you are a martyr, sister,” resumed Cephyse. “The priests talk of
saints! Is there one of them so good as you? And yet you are about to
die like me, who have always been idle, careless, sinful--while you were
so hardworking, so devoted to all who suffered. What should I say?
You were an angel on the earth; and yet you will die like me, who have
fallen as low as a woman can fall,” added the unfortunate, casting down
her eyes.
“It is strange,” answered Mother Bunch, thoughtfully. “Starting from the
same point, we have followed different roads, and yet we have reached
the same goal--disgust of life. For you, my poor sister, but a few days
ago, life was so fair, so full of pleasure and of youth; and now it is
equally heavy with us both. After all, I have followed to the end what
was my duty,” added she, mildly. “Agricola no longer needs me. He is
married; he loves, and is beloved; his happiness is secured. Mdlle. de
Cardoville wants for nothing. Fair, rich, prosperous--what could a poor
creature like myself do for her? Those who have been kind to me are
happy. What prevents my going now to my rest? I am so weary!”
“Poor sister!” said Cephyse, with touching emotion, which seemed to
expand her contracted features; “when I think that, without informing
me, and in spite of your resolution never to see that generous young
lady, who protected you, you yet had the courage to drag yourself to
her house, dying with fatigue and want, to try to interest her in my
fate--yes, dying, for your strength failed on the Champs-Elysees.”
“And when I was able to reach the mansion, Mdlle. de Cardoville was
unfortunately absent--very unfortunately!” repeated the hunchback, as
she looked at Cephyse with anguish; “for the next day, seeing that our
last resource had failed us, thinking more of me than of yourself, and
determined at any price to procure us bread--”
She could not finish. She buried her face in her hands, and shuddered.
“Well, I did as so many other hapless women have done when work fails or
wages do not suffice, and hunger becomes too pressing,” replied Cephyse,
in a broken voice; “only that, unlike so many others, instead of living
on my shame, I shall die of it.”
“Alas! this terrible shame which kills you, my poor Cephyse, because you
have a heart, would have been averted, had I seen Mdlle. de Cardoville,
or had she but answered the letter which I asked leave to write to her
at the porter’s lodge. But her silence proves to me that she is justly
hurt at my abrupt departure from her house. I can understand it; she
believes me guilty of the blackest ingratitude--for she must have been
greatly offended not to have deigned to answer me--and therefore I had
not the courage to write a second time. It would have been useless, I am
sure; for, good and just as she is, her refusals are inexorable when she
believes them deserved. And besides, for what good? It was too late; you
had resolved to die!”
“Oh, yes, quite resolved: for my infamy was gnawing at my heart. Jacques
had died in my arms despising me; and I loved him--mark me, sister,”
added Cephyse, with passionate enthusiasm, “I loved him as we love only
once in life!”
“Let our fate be accomplished, then!” said Mother Bunch with a pensive
air.
“But you have never told me, sister, the cause of your departure from
Mdlle. de Cardoville’s,” resumed Cephyse, after a moment’s silence.
“It will be the only secret that I shall take with me, dear Cephyse,”
said the other, casting down her eyes. And she thought, with bitter joy,
that she would soon be delivered from the fear which had poisoned the
last days of her sad life--the fear of meeting Agricola, informed of the
fatal and ridiculous love she felt for him.
For, it must be said, this fatal and despairing love was one of
the causes of the suicide of the unfortunate creature. Since the
disappearance of her journal, she believed that the blacksmith knew
the melancholy secret contained in its sad pages. She doubted not
the generosity and good heart of Agricola; but she had such doubts of
herself, she was so ashamed of this passion, however pure and
noble, that, even in the extremity to which Cephyse and herself were
reduced--wanting work, wanting bread--no power on earth could have
induced her to meet Agricola, in an attempt to ask him for assistance.
Doubtless, she would have taken another view of the subject if her mind
had not been obscured by that sort of dizziness to which the firmest
characters are exposed when their misfortunes surpass all bounds.
Misery, hunger, the influence, almost contagious in such a moment, of
the suicidal ideas of Cephyse, and weariness of a life so long devoted
to pain and mortification, gave the last blow to the sewing-girl’s
reason. After long struggling against the fatal design of her sister,
the poor, dejected, broken-hearted creature finished by determining to
share Cephyse’s fate, and seek in death the end of so many evils.
“Of what are you thinking, sister?” said Cephyse, astonished at the long
silence. The other replied, trembling: “I think of that which made me
leave Mdlle. de Cardoville so abruptly, and appear so ungrateful in her
eyes. May the fatality which drove me from her house have made no other
victims! may my devoted service, however obscure and powerless, never be
missed by her, who extended her noble hand to the poor sempstress,
and deigned to call me sister! May she be happy--oh, ever happy!” said
Mother Bunch, clasping her hands with the ardor of a sincere invocation.
“That is noble, sister--such a wish in such a moment!” said Cephyse.
“Oh,” said her sister, with energy, “I loved, I admired that marvel
of genius, and heart, and ideal beauty--I viewed her with pious
respect--for never was the power of the Divinity revealed in a more
adorable and purer creation. At least one of my last thoughts will have
been of her.”
“Yes, you will have loved and respected your generous patroness to the
last.”
“To the last!” said the poor girl, after a moment’s silence. “It is
true--you are right--it will soon be the last!--in a few moments, all
will be finished. See how calmly we can talk of that which frightens so
many others!”
“Sister, we are calm because we are resolved.”
“Quite resolved, Cephyse,” said the hunchback, casting once more a deep
and penetrating glance upon her sister.
“Oh, yes, if you are only as determined as I am.”
“Be satisfied; if I put off from day to day the final moment,” answered
the sempstress, “it was because I wished to give you time to reflect. As
for me--”
She did not finish, but she shook her head with an air of the utmost
despondency.
“Well, sister, let us kiss each other,” said Cephyse; “and, courage!”
The hunchback rose, and threw herself into her sister’s arms. They held
one another fast in a long embrace. There followed a few seconds of deep
and solemn silence, only interrupted by the sobs of the sisters, for now
they had begun to weep.
“Oh, heaven! to love each other so, and to part forever!” said Cephyse.
“It is a cruel fate.”
“To part?” cried Mother Bunch, and her pale, mild countenance, bathed
in tears, was suddenly illumined with a ray of divine hope; “to
part, sister? oh, no! What makes me so calm is the deep and certain
expectation, which I feel here at my heart, of that better world where a
better life awaits us. God, so great, so merciful, so prodigal of good,
cannot destine His creatures to be forever miserable. Selfish men may
pervert His benevolent designs, and reduce their brethren to a state of
suffering and despair. Let us pity the wicked and leave them! Come up on
high, sister; men are nothing there, where God is all. We shall do well
there. Let us depart, for it is late.”
So saying, she pointed to the ruddy beams of the setting sun, which
began to shine upon the window.
Carried away by the religious enthusiasm of her sister, whose
countenance, transfigured, as it were, by the hope of an approaching
deliverance, gleamed brightly in the reflected sunset, Cephyse took her
hands, and, looking at her with deep emotion, exclaimed, “Oh, sister!
how beautiful you look now!”
“Then my beauty comes rather late in the day,” said Mother Bunch, with a
sad smile.
“No, sister; for you appear so happy, that the last scruples I had upon
your account are quite gone.”
“Then let us make haste,” said the hunchback, as she pointed to the
chafing-dish.
“Be satisfied, sister--it will not be long,” said Cephyse. And she took
the chafing-dish full of charcoal, which she had placed in a corner of
the garret, and brought it out into the middle of the room.
“Do you know how to manage it?” asked the sewing-girl approaching.
“Oh! it is very simple,” answered Cephyse; “we have only to close the
door and window, and light the charcoal.”
“Yes, sister; but I think I have heard that every opening must be well
stopped, so as to admit no current of air.”
“You are right, and the door shuts so badly.”
“And look at the holes in the roof.”
“What is to be done, sister?”
“I will tell you,” said Mother Bunch. “The straw of our mattress, well
twisted, will answer every purpose.”
“Certainly,” replied Cephyse. “We will keep a little to light our fire,
and with the rest we will stop up all the crevices in the roof, and make
filling for our doors and windows.”
Then, smiling with that bitter irony, so frequent, we repeat, in the
most gloomy moments, Cephyse added, “I say, sister, weather-boards
at our doors and windows, to prevent the air from getting in--what a
luxury! we are as delicate as rich people.”
“At such a time, we may as well try to make ourselves a little
comfortable,” said Mother Bunch, trying to jest like the Bacchanal
Queen.
And with incredible coolness, the two began to twist the straw into
lengths of braid, small enough to be stuffed into the cracks of the
door, and also constructed large plugs, destined to stop up the crevices
in the roof. While this mournful occupation lasted, there was no
departure from the calm and sad resignation of the two unfortunate
creatures.
CHAPTER XXXII. SUICIDE.
Cephyse and her sister continued with calmness the preparations for
their death.
Alas! how many poor young girls, like these sisters, have been, and
still will be, fatally driven to seek in suicide a refuge from despair,
from infamy, or from a too miserable existence! And upon society
will rest the terrible responsibility of these sad deaths, so long as
thousands of human creatures, unable to live upon the mockery of wages
granted to their labor, have to choose between these three gulfs of
shame and woe; a life of enervating toil and mortal privations, causes
of premature death; prostitution, which kills also, but slowly--by
contempt, brutality, and uncleanness; suicide--which kills at once.
In a few minutes, the two sisters had constructed, with the straw of
their couch, the calkings necessary to intercept the air, and to render
suffocation more expeditious and certain.
The hunchback said to her sister, “You are the taller, Cephyse, and must
look to the ceiling; I will take care of the window and door.”
“Be satisfied, sister; I shall have finished before you,” answered
Cephyse.
And the two began carefully to stop up every crevice through which a
current of air could penetrate into the ruined garret. Thanks to her
tall stature, Cephyse was able to reach the holes in the roof, and
to close them up entirely. When they had finished this sad work, the
sisters again approached, and looked at each other in silence.
The fatal moment drew near; their faces, though still calm, seemed
slightly agitated by that strange excitement which always accompanies a
double suicide.
“Now,” said Mother Bunch, “now for the fire!”
She knelt down before the little chafing-dish, filled with charcoal. But
Cephyse took hold of her under the arm, and obliged her to rise again,
saying to her, “Let me light the fire--that is my business.”
“But, Cephyse--”
“You know, poor sister, that the smell of charcoal gives you the
headache!”
At the simplicity of this speech, for the Bacchanal Queen had spoken
seriously, the sisters could not forbear smiling sadly.
“Never mind,” resumed Cephyse; “why suffer more and sooner than is
necessary?”
Then, pointing to the mattress, which still contained a little straw,
Cephyse added, “Lie down there, good little sister; when our fire is
alight, I will come and sit down by you.”
“Do not be long, Cephyse.”
“In five minutes it will be done.”
The tall building, which faced the street, was separated by a narrow
court from that which contained the retreat of the two sisters, and was
so much higher, that when the sun had once disappeared behind its lofty
roof, the garret soon became dark. The light, passing through the dirty
panes of the small window, fell faintly on the blue and white patchwork
of the old mattress, on which Mother Bunch was now stretched, covered
with rags. Leaning on her left arm, with her chin resting in the palm
of her hand, she looked after her sister with an expression of
heart-rending grief. Cephyse, kneeling over the chafing-dish, with her
face close to the black charcoal, above which already played a little
bluish flame, exerted herself to blow the newly-kindled fire, which was
reflected on the pale countenance of the unhappy girl.
The silence was deep. No sound was heard but the panting breath of
Cephyse, and, at intervals, the slight crackling of the charcoal, which
began to burn, and already sent forth a faint sickening vapor. Cephyse,
seeing the fire completely lighted, and feeling already a little dizzy,
rose from the ground, and said to her sister, as she approached her, “It
is done!”
“Sister,” answered Mother Bunch, kneeling on the mattress, whilst
Cephyse remained standing, “how shall we place ourselves? I should like
to be near you to the last.”
“Stop!” said Cephyse, half executing the measures of which she spoke,
“I will sit on the mattress with my back against the wall. Now, little
sister, you lie there. Lean your head upon my knees, and give me your
hand. Are you comfortable so?”
“Yes--but I cannot see you.”
“That is better. It seems there is a moment--very short, it is true--in
which one suffers a good deal. And,” added Cephyse, in a voice of
emotion, “it will be as well not to see each other suffer.”
“You are right, Cephyse.”
“Let me kiss that beautiful hair for the last time,” said Cephyse, as
she pressed her lips to the silky locks which crowned the hunchback’s
pale and melancholy countenance, “and then--we will remain very quiet.”
“Sister, your hand,” said the sewing-girl; “for the last time, your
hand--and then, as you say, we will move no more. We shall not have to
wait long, I think, for I begin to feel dizzy. And you, sister?”
“Not yet,” replied Cephyse; “I only perceive the smell of the charcoal.”
“Do you know where they will bury us?” said Mother Bunch, after a
moment’s silence.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because I should like it to be in Pere-la-Chaise. I went there once
with Agricola and his mother. What a fine view there is!--and then
the trees, the flowers, the marble--do you know the dead are better
lodged--than the living--and--”
“What is the matter, sister?” said Cephyse to her companion, who had
stopped short, after speaking in a slow voice.
“I am giddy--my temples throb,” was the answer. “How do you feel?”
“I only begin to be a little faint; it is strange--the effect is slower
with me than you.”
“Oh! you see,” said Mother Bunch, trying to smile, “I was always so
forward. At school, do you remember, they said I was before the others.
And, now it happens again.”
“I hope soon to overtake you this time,” said Cephyse.
What astonished the sisters was quite natural. Though weakened by sorrow
and misery, the Bacchanal Queen, with a constitution as robust as the
other was frail and delicate, was necessarily longer than her sister in
feeling the effects of the deleterious vapor. After a moment’s silence,
Cephyse resumed, as she laid her hand on the head she still held upon
her knees, “You say nothing, sister! You suffer, is it not so?”
“No,” said Mother Bunch, in a weak voice; “my eyelids are heavy as
lead--I am getting benumbed--I feel that I speak more slowly--but I have
no acute pain. And you, sister?”
“Whilst you were speaking, I felt giddy--and now my temples throb
violently.”
“As it was with me just now. One would think it was more painful and
difficult to die.”
Then after a moment’s silence, the hunchback said suddenly to her
sister, “Do you think that Agricola will much regret me, and think of me
for some time?”
“How can you ask?” said Cephyse, in a tone of reproach.
“You are right,” answered Mother Bunch, mildly; “there is a bad feeling
in such a doubt--but if you knew--”
“What, sister?”
The other hesitated for an instant, and then said, dejectedly,
“Nothing.” Afterwards, she added, “Fortunately, I die convinced that
he will never miss me. He married a charming girl, who loves him, I am
sure, and will make him perfectly happy.”
As she pronounced these last words, the speaker’s voice grew fainter
and fainter. Suddenly she started and said to Cephyse, in a
trembling, almost frightened tone, “Sister! Hold me in your arms--I am
afraid--everything looks dark--everything is turning round.” And the
unfortunate girl, raising herself a little, hid her face in her sister’s
bosom, and threw his weak arms around her.
“Courage, sister!” said Cephyse, in a voice which was also growing
faint, as she pressed her closer to her bosom; “it will soon be over.”
And Cephyse added, with a kind of envy, “Oh! why does my sister’s
strength fail so much sooner than mine? I have still my perfect
senses and I suffer less than she does. Oh! if I thought she would
die first!--But, no--I will go and hold my face over the chafing-dish
rather.”
At the movement Cephyse made to rise, a feeble pressure from her sister
held her back. “You suffer, my poor child!” said Cephyse, trembling.
“Oh yes! a good deal now--do not leave me!”
“And I scarcely at all,” said Cephyse, gazing wildly at the
chafing-dish. “Ah!” added she, with a kind of fatal! joy; “now I begin
to feel it--I choke--my head is ready to split.”
And indeed the destructive gas now filled the little chamber, from which
it had, by degrees, driven all the air fit for respiration. The day was
closing in, and the gloomy garret was only lighted by the reflection of
the burning charcoal, which threw a red glare on the sisters, locked
in each other’s arms. Suddenly Mother Bunch made some slight
convulsive movements, and pronounced these words in a failing voice:
“Agricola--Mademoiselle de Cardoville--Oh! farewell!--Agricola--I--”
Then she murmured some unintelligible words; the convulsive moments
ceased, and her arms, which had been clasped round Cephyse, fell inert
upon the mattress.
“Sister!” cried Cephyse, in alarm, as she raised Mother Bunch’s head, to
look at her face. “Not already, sister!--And I?--and I?”
The sewing-girl’s mild countenance was not paler than usual. Only her
eyes, half-closed, seemed no longer to see anything, and a half-smile
of mingled grief and goodness lingered an instant about her violet lips,
from which stole the almost imperceptible breath--and then the mouth
became motionless, and the face assumed a great serenity of expression.
“But you must not die before me!” cried Cephyse, in a heart-rending
tone, as she covered with kisses the cold cheek. “Wait for me, sister!
wait for me!”
Mother Bunch did not answer. The head, which Cephyse let slip from her
hands, fell back gently on the mattress.
“My God. It is not my fault, if we do not die together!” cried Cephyse
in despair, as she knelt beside the couch, on which the other lay
motionless.
“Dead!” she murmured in terror. “Dead before me!--Perhaps it is that I
am the strongest. Ah! it begins--fortunately--like her, I see everything
dark-blue--I suffer--what happiness!--I can scarcely breathe. Sister!”
she added, as she threw her arms round her loved one’s neck; “I am
coming--I am here!”
At the same instant the sound of footsteps and voices was heard from the
staircase. Cephyse had still presence of mind enough to distinguish
the sound. Stretched beside the body of her sister, she raised her head
hastily.
The noise approached, and a voice was heard exclaiming, not far from the
doer: “Good heavens! what a smell of fire!”
And, at the same instant, the door was violently shaken, and another
voice exclaimed: “Open! open!”
“They will come in--they will save me--and my sister is dead--Oh, no! I
will not have the baseness to survive her!”
Such was the last thought of Cephyse. Using what little strength she had
left, she ran to the window and opened it--and, at the same instant
that the half-broken door yielded to a vigorous effort from without, the
unfortunate creature precipitated herself from that third story into the
court below. Just then, Adrienne and Agricola appeared on the threshold
of the chamber. In spite of the stifling odor of the charcoal, Mdlle. de
Cardoville rushed into the garret, and, seeing the stove, she exclaimed,
“The unhappy girl has killed herself!”
“No, she has thrown herself from the window,” cried Agricola: for, at
the moment of breaking open the door, he had seen a human form disappear
in that direction, and he now ran to the window.
“Oh! this is frightful!” he exclaimed, with a cry of horror, as he put
his hand before his eyes, and returned pale and terrified to Mdlle. de
Cardoville.
But, misunderstanding the cause of his terror, Adrienne, who had just
perceived Mother Bunch through the darkness, hastened to answer: “No!
she is here.”
And she pointed to the pale form stretched on the mattress, beside which
Adrienne now threw herself on her knees. Grasping the hands of the poor
sempstress, she found them as cold as ice. Laying her hand on her heart,
she could not feel it beat. Yet, in a few seconds, as the fresh air
rushed into the room from the door and window, Adrienne thought she
remarked an almost imperceptible pulsation, and she exclaimed: “Her
heart beats! Run quickly for help! Luckily, I have my smelling bottle.”
“Yes, yes! help for her--and for the other too, if it is yet time!”
cried the smith in despair, as he rushed down the stairs, leaving Mdlle.
de Cardoville still kneeling by the side of the mattress.
BOOK X.
XXXIII. Confessions XXXIV. More Confessions XXXV. The Rivals
XXXVI. The Interview XXXVII. Soothing Words XXXVIII. The Two
Carriages XXXIX. The Appointment XL. Anxiety XLI. Adrienne
and Djalma XLII. “The Imitation” XLIII. Prayer XLIV.
Remembrances XLV. The Blockhead XLVI. The Anonymous Letters
XLVII. The Golden City XLVIII. The Stung Lion XLIX. The Test
CHAPTER XXXIII. CONFESSIONS.
During the painful scene that we have just described, a lively emotion
glowed in the countenance of Mdlle. de Cardoville, grown pale and thin
with sorrow. Her cheeks, once so full, were now slightly hollowed,
whilst a faint line of transparent azure encircled those large black
eyes, no longer so bright as formerly. But the charming lips, though
contracted by painful anxiety, had retained their rich and velvet
moisture. To attend more easily to Mother Bunch, Adrienne had thrown
aside her bonnet, and the silky waves of her beautiful golden hair
almost concealed her face as she bent over the mattress, rubbing the
thin, ivory hands of the poor sempstress, completely called to life by
the salubrious freshness of the air, and by the strong action of the
salts which Adrienne carried in her smelling-bottle. Luckily, Mother
Bunch had fainted, rather from emotion and weakness than from the
effects of suffocation, the senses of the unfortunate girl having
failed her before the deleterious gas had attained its highest degree of
intensity.
Before continuing the recital of the scene between the sempstress and
the patrician, a few retrospective words will be necessary. Since
the strange adventure at the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, where
Djalma, at peril of his life, rushed upon the black panther in sight of
Mdlle. de Cardoville, the young lady had been deeply affected in various
ways. Forgetting her jealousy, and the humiliation she had suffered in
presence of Djalma--of Djalma exhibiting himself before every one with a
woman so little worthy of him--Adrienne was for a moment dazzled by the
chivalrous and heroic action of the prince, and said to herself: “In
spite of odious appearances, Djalma loves me enough to brave death in
order to pick up my nosegay.”
But with a soul so delicate as that of this young lady, a character so
generous, and a mind so true, reflection was certain soon to demonstrate
the vanity of such consolations, powerless to cure the cruel wounds of
offended dignity an love.
“How many times,” said Adrienne to herself, and with reason, “has the
prince encountered, in hunting, from pure caprice and with no gain, such
danger as he braved in picking up my bouquet! and then, who tells me he
did not mean to offer it to the woman who accompanied him?”
Singular (it may be) in the eyes of the world, but just and great in
those of heaven, the ideas which Adrienne cherished with regard to love,
joined to her natural pride, presented an invincible obstacle to the
thought of her succeeding this woman (whoever she might be), thus
publicly displayed by the prince as his mistress. And yet Adrienne
hardly dared avow to herself, that she experienced a feeling of
jealousy, only the more painful and humiliating, the less her rival
appeared worthy to be compared to her.
At other times, on the contrary, in spite of a conscious sense of her
own value, Mdlle. de Cardoville, remembering the charming countenance of
Rose-Pompon, asked herself if the bad taste and improper manners of this
pretty creature resulted from precocious and depraved effrontery, or
from a complete ignorance of the usages of society. In the latter case,
such ignorance, arising from a simple and ingenuous nature, might in
itself have a great charm; and if to this attraction, combined with that
of incontestable beauty, were added sincere love and a pure soul, the
obscure birth, or neglected education of the girl might be of little
consequence, and she might be capable of inspiring Djalma with a
profound passion. If Adrienne hesitated to see a lost creature in
Rose-Pompon, notwithstanding unfavorable appearances, it was because,
remembering what so many travellers had related of Djalma’s greatness of
soul, and recalling the conversation she had overheard between him
and Rodin, she could not bring herself to believe that a man of
such remarkable intelligence, with so tender a heart, so poetical,
imaginative and enthusiastic a mind could be capable of loving a
depraved and vulgar creature, and of openly exhibiting himself in public
along with her. There was a mystery in the transaction, which Adrienne
sought in vain to penetrate. These trying doubts, this cruel curiosity,
only served to nourish Adrienne’s fatal love; and we may imagine her
incurable despair, when she found that the indifference, or even disdain
of Djalma, was unable to stifle a passion that now burned more fiercely
than ever. Sometimes, having recourse to notions of fatality, she
fancied that she was destined to feel this love; that Djalma must
therefore deserve it, and that one day whatever was incomprehensible in
the conduct of the prince would be explained to his advantage. At other
times, on the contrary, she felt ashamed of excusing Djalma, and the
consciousness of this weakness was for Adrienne a constant occasion
for remorse and torture. The victim of all these agonies, she lived in
perfect solitude.
The cholera soon broke out, startling as a clap of thunder. Too unhappy
to fear the pestilence on her own account, Adrienne was only moved by
the sorrows of others. She was amongst the first to contribute to those
charitable donations, which were now flowing in from all sides in the
admirable spirit of benevolence. Florine was suddenly attacked by the
epidemic. In spite of the danger, her mistress insisted on seeing her,
and endeavored to revive her failing courage. Conquered by this new mark
of kindness, Florine could no longer conceal the treachery in which she
had borne a part. Death was about to deliver her from the odious tyranny
of the people whose yoke weighed upon her, and she was at length in a
position to reveal everything to Adrienne. The latter thus learned how
she had been continually betrayed by Florine, and also the cause of the
sewing-girl’s abrupt departure. At these revelations, Adrienne felt her
affection and tender pity for the poor sempstress greatly increase. By
her command, the most active steps were taken to discover traces of the
hunchback; but Florine’s confession had a still more important result.
Justly alarmed at this new evidence of Rodin’s machinations, Adrienne
remembered the projects formed, when, believing herself beloved, the
instinct of affection had revealed to her the perils to which Djalma and
other members of the Rennepont family were exposed. To assemble the
race around her, and bid them rally against the common enemy, such was
Adrienne’s first thought, when she heard the confession of Florine. She
regarded it as a duty to accomplish this project. In a struggle with
such dangerous and powerful adversaries as Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny, and
the Princess de Saint-Dizier, and their allies, Adrienne saw not only
the praiseworthy and perilous task of unmasking hypocrisy and cupidity,
but also, if not a consolation, at least a generous diversion in the
midst of terrible sorrows.
From this moment, a restless, feverish activity took the place of the
mournful apathy in which the young lady had languished. She called round
her all the members of her family capable of answering the appeal, and,
as had been mentioned in the secret note delivered to Father d’Aigrigny,
Cardoville House soon became the centre of the most active and unceasing
operations, and also a place of meeting, in which the modes of attack
and defence were fully discussed. Perfectly correct in all points, the
secret note of which we have spoken stated, as a mere conjecture, that
Mdlle. de Cardoville had granted an interview to Djalma. This fact was
untrue, but the cause which led to the supposition will be explained
hereafter. Far from such being the case, Mdlle. de Cardoville scarcely
found, in attending to the great family interests now at stake, a
momentary diversion from the fatal love, which was slowly undermining
her health, and with which she so bitterly reproached herself.
The morning of the day on which Adrienne, at length discovering Mother
Bunch’s residence, came so miraculously to rescue her from death,
Agricola Baudoin had been to Cardoville House to confer on the subject
of Francis Hardy, and had begged Adrienne to permit him to accompany her
to the Rue Clovis, whither they repaired in haste.
Thus, once again, there was a noble spectacle, a touching symbol! Mdlle.
de Cardoville and Mother Bunch, the two extremities of the social chain,
were united on equal terms--for the sempstress and the fair patrician
were equal in intelligence and heart--and equal also, because the one
was the ideal of riches, grace, and beauty, and the other the ideal
of resignation and unmerited misfortune--and does not a halo rest on
misfortune borne with courage and dignity? Stretched on her mattress,
the hunchback appeared so weak, that even if Agricola had not been
detained on the ground floor with Cephyse, now dying a dreadful death,
Mdlle. de Cardoville would have waited some time, before inducing Mother
Bunch to rise and accompany her to her carriage. Thanks to the presence
of mind and pious fraud of Adrienne, the sewing-girl was persuaded
that Cephyse had been carried to a neighboring hospital, to receive
the necessary succors, which promised to be crowned with success. The
hunchback’s faculties recovering slowly from their stupor, she at first
received this fable without the least suspicion--for she did not even
know that Agricola had accompanied Mdlle. de Cardoville.
“And it is to you, lady, that Cephyse and I owe our lives,” said she,
turning her mild and melancholy face towards Adrienne, “you, kneeling in
this garret, near this couch of misery, where I and my sister meant to
die--for you assure me, lady, that Cephyse was succored in time.”
“Be satisfied! I was told just now that she was recovering her senses.”
“And they told her I was living, did they not, lady? Otherwise, she
would perhaps regret having survived me.”
“Be quite easy, my dear girl!” said Adrienne, pressing the poor hands in
her own, and gazing on her with eyes full of tears; “they have told her
all that was proper. Do not trouble yourself about anything; only think
of recovering--and I hope you will yet enjoy that happiness of which you
have known so little, my poor child.”
“How kind you are, lady! After flying from your house--and when you must
think me so ungrateful!”
“Presently, when you are not so weak, I have a great deal to tell you.
Just now, it would fatigue you too much. But how do you feel?”
“Better, lady. This fresh air--and then the thought, that, since you are
come--my poor sister will no more be reduced to despair; for I will
tell you all, and I am sure you will have pity on Cephyse--will you not,
lady?”
“Rely upon me, my child,” answered Adrienne, forced to dissemble her
painful embarrassment; “you know I am interested in all that interests
you. But tell me,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a voice of emotion,
“before taking this desperate resolution, did you not write to me?”
“Yes, lady.”
“Alas!” resumed Adrienne, sorrowfully; “and when you received no
answer--how cruel, how ungrateful you must have thought me!”
“Oh! never, lady, did I accuse you of such feelings; my poor sister will
tell you so. You had my gratitude to the last.”
“I believe you--for I knew your heart. But how then did you explain my
silence?”
“I had justly offended you by my sudden departure, lady.”
“Offended!--Alas! I never received your letter.”
“And yet you know that I wrote to you, lady.”
“Yes, my poor girl; I know, also, that you wrote to me at my porter’s
lodge. Unfortunately, he delivered your letter to one of my women, named
Florine, telling her it came from you.”
“Florine! the young woman that was so kind to me!”
“Florine deceived me shamefully; she was sold to my enemies, and acted
as a spy on my actions.”
“She!--Good Heavens!” cried Mother Bunch. “Is it possible?”
“She herself,” answered Adrienne, bitterly; “but, after all, we
must pity as well as blame her. She was forced to obey by a terrible
necessity, and her confession and repentance secured my pardon before
her death.”
“Then she is dead--so young! so fair!”
“In spite of her faults, I was greatly moved by her end. She confessed
what she had done, with such heart-rending regrets. Amongst her avowals,
she told me she had intercepted a letter, in which you asked for an
interview that might save your sister’s life.”
“It is true, lady; such were the terms of my letter. What interest had
they to keep it from you?”
“They feared to see you return to me, my good guardian angel. You loved
me so tenderly, and my enemies dreaded your faithful affection, so
wonderfully aided by the admirable instinct of your heart. Ah! I shall
never forget how well-deserved was the horror with which you were
inspired by a wretch whom I defended against your suspicions.”
“M. Rodin?” said Mother Bunch, with a shudder.
“Yes,” replied Adrienne; “but we will not talk of these people now.
Their odious remembrance would spoil the joy I feel in seeing you
restored to life--for your voice is less feeble, your cheeks are
beginning to regain a little color. Thank God! I am so happy to have
found you once more;--if you knew all that I hope, all that I expect
from our reunion--for we will not part again--promise me that, in the
name of our friendship.”
“I--your friend!” said Mother Bunch, timidly casting down her eyes.
“A few days before your departure from my house, did I not call you
my friend, my sister? What is there changed? Nothing, nothing,”
added Mdlle. de Cardoville, with deep emotion. “One might say, on
the contrary, that a fatal resemblance in our positions renders your
friendship even dearer to me. And I shall have it, shall I not. Oh, do
not refuse it me--I am so much in want of a friend!”
“You, lady? you in want of the friendship of a poor creature like me?”
“Yes,” answered Adrienne, as she gazed on the other with an expression
of intense grief; “nay, more, you are perhaps the only person, to whom
I could venture to confide my bitter sorrows.” So saying, Mdlle. de
Cardoville colored deeply.
“And how do I deserve such marks of confidence?” asked Mother Bunch,
more and more surprised.
“You deserve it by the delicacy of your heart, by the steadiness of your
character,” answered Adrienne, with some hesitation; “then--you are a
woman--and I am certain you will understand what I suffer, and pity me.”
“Pity you, lady?” said the other, whose astonishment continued to
increase. “You, a great lady, and so much envied--I, so humble and
despised, pity you?”
“Tell me, my poor friend,” resumed Adrienne, after some moments of
silence, “are not the worst griefs those which we dare not avow to
any one, for fear of raillery and contempt? How can we venture to ask
interest or pity, for sufferings that we hardly dare avow to ourselves,
because they make us blush?”
The sewing-girl could hardly believe what she heard. Had her
benefactress felt, like her, the effects of an unfortunate passion, she
could not have held any other language. But the sempstress could not
admit such a supposition; so, attributing to some other cause the
sorrows of Adrienne, she answered mournfully, whilst she thought of her
own fatal love for Agricola, “Oh! yes, lady. A secret grief, of which we
are ashamed, must be frightful--very frightful!”
“But then what happiness to meet, not only a heart noble enough to
inspire complete confidence, but one which has itself been tried by
a thousand sorrows, and is capable of affording you pity, support and
counsel!--Tell me, my dear child,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, as she
looked attentively at Mother Bunch, “if you were weighed down by one of
those sorrows, at which one blushes, would you not be happy, very happy,
to find a kindred soul, to whom you might entrust your griefs, and half
relieve them by entire and merited confidence?”
For the first time in her life, Mother Bunch regarded Mdlle. de
Cardoville with a feeling of suspicion and sadness.
The last words of the young lady seemed to her full of meaning
“Doubtless, she knows my secret,” said Mother Bunch to herself;
“doubtless, my journal has fallen into her hands.--She knows my love
for Agricola, or at least suspects it. What she has been saying to me is
intended to provoke my confidence, and to assure herself if she has been
rightly informed.”
These thoughts excited in the workgirl’s mind no bitter or ungrateful
feeling towards her benefactress; but the heart of the unfortunate girl
was so delicately susceptible on the subject of her fatal passion, that,
in spite of her deep and tender affection for Mdlle. de Cardoville,
she suffered cruelly at the thought of Adrienne’s being mistress of her
secret.
CHAPTER XXXIV. MORE CONFESSIONS.
The fancy, at first so painful, that Mdlle. de Cardoville was informed
of her love for Agricola was soon exchanged in the hunchbacks heart,
thanks to the generous instincts of that rare and excellent creature,
for a touching regret, which showed all her attachment and veneration
for Adrienne.
“Perhaps,” said Mother Bunch to herself, “conquered by the influence
of the adorable kindness of my protectress, I might have made to her a
confession which I could make to none other, and revealed a secret which
I thought to carry with me to my grave. It would, at least, have been a
mark of gratitude to Mdlle. de Cardoville; but, unfortunately, I am
now deprived of the sad comfort of confiding my only secret to my
benefactress. And then--however generous may be her pity for me, however
intelligent her affection, she cannot--she, that is so fair and so
much admired--she cannot understand how frightful is the position of a
creature like myself, hiding in the depth of a wounded heart, a love at
once hopeless and ridiculous. No, no--in spite of the delicacy of her
attachment, my benefactress must unconsciously hurt my feelings, even
whilst she pities me--for only sympathetic sorrows can console each
other. Alas! why did she not leave me to die?”
These reflections presented themselves to the thinker’s mind as rapidly
as thought could travel. Adrienne observed her attentively; she remarked
that the sewing-girl’s countenance, which had lately brightened up, was
again clouded, and expressed a feeling of painful humiliation. Terrified
at this relapse into gloomy dejection, the consequences of which might
be serious, for Mother Bunch was still very weak, and, as it were,
hovering on the brink of the grave, Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed
hastily: “My friend, do not you think with me, that the most cruel and
humiliating grief admits of consolation, when it can be entrusted to a
faithful and devoted heart?”
“Yes, lady,” said the young sempstress, bitterly; “but the heart which
suffers in silence, should be the only judge of the moment for making
so painful a confession. Until then, it would perhaps be more humane to
respect its fatal secret, even if one had by chance discovered it.”
“You are right, my child,” said Adrienne, sorrowfully, “if I choose this
solemn moment to entrust you with a very painful secret, it is that,
when you have heard me, I am sure you will set more value on your life,
as knowing how much I need your tenderness, consolation, and pity.”
At these words, the other half raised herself on the mattress, and
looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville in amazement. She could scarcely believe
what she heard; far from designing to intrude upon her confidence, it
was her protectress who was to make the painful confession, and who came
to implore pity and consolation from her!
“What!” stammered she; “you, lady!”
“I come to tell you that I suffer, and am ashamed of my sufferings.
Yes,” added the young lady, with a touching expression, “yes--of all
confessions, I am about to make the most painful--I love--and I blush
for my love.”
“Like myself!” cried Mother Bunch, involuntarily, clasping her hands
together.
“I love,” resumed Adrienne, with a long-pent-up grief; “I love, and am
not beloved--and my love is miserable, is impossible--it consumes me--it
kills me--and I dare not confide to any one the fatal secret!”
“Like me,” repeated the other, with a fixed look. “She--a queen in
beauty, rank, wealth, intelligence--suffers like me. Like me, poor
unfortunate creature! she loves, and is not loved again.”
“Well, yes! like you, I love and am not loved again,” cried Mdlle. de
Cardoville; “was I wrong in saying, that to you alone I could confide
my secret--because, having suffered the same pangs, you alone can pity
them?”
“Then, lady,” said Mother Bunch, casting down her eyes, and recovering
from her first amazement, “you knew--”
“I knew all, my poor child--but never should I have mentioned your
secret, had I not had one to entrust you with, of a still more painful
nature. Yours is cruel, but mine is humiliating. Oh, my sister!” added
Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone impossible to describe, “misfortune,
you, see, blends and confounds together what are called distinctions of
rank and fortune--and often those whom the world envies are reduced by
suffering far below the poorest and most humble, and have to seek from
the latter pity and consolation.”
Then, drying her tears, which nosy flowed abundantly, Mdlle. de
Cardoville resumed, in a voice of emotion: “Come, sister! courage,
courage! let us love and sustain each other. Let this sad and mysterious
bond unite us forever.”
“Oh, lady! forgive me. But now that you know the secret of my life,”
said the workgirl, casting down her eyes, and unable to vanquish
her confusion, “it seems to me, that I can never look at you without
blushing.”
“And why? because you love Agricola?” said Adrienne. “Then I must die
of shame before you, since, less courageous than you, I had not the
strength to suffer and be resigned, and so conceal my love in the depths
of my heart. He that I love, with a love henceforth deprived of hope,
knew of that love and despised it--preferring to me a woman, the very
choice of whom was a new and grievous insult, if I am not much deceived
by appearances. I sometimes hope that I am deceived on this point. Now
tell me--is it for you to blush?”
“Alas, lady! who could tell you all this?”
“Which you only entrusted to your journal? Well, then--it was the dying
Florine who confessed her misdeeds. She had been base enough to steal
your papers, forced to this odious act, by the people who had dominion
over her. But she had read your journal--and as every good feeling was
not dead within her, your admirable resignation, your melancholy and
pious love, had left such an impression on her mind, that she was able
to repeat whole passages to me on her death bed, and thus to explain the
cause of your sudden disappearance--for she had no doubt that the fear
of seeing your love for Agricola divulged had been the cause of your
flight.”
“Alas! it is but too true, lady.”
“Oh, yes!” answered Adrienne, bitterly; “those who employed the wretched
girl to act as she did, well knew the effect of the blow. It was not
their first attempt. They reduced you to despair, they would have killed
you, because you were devoted to me, and because you had guessed their
intentions. Oh! these black-gowns are implacable, and their power is
great!” said Adrienne, shuddering.
“It is fearful, lady.”
“But do not be alarmed, dear child; you see, that the arms of the wicked
have turned against themselves; for the moment I knew the cause of your
flight, you became dearer to me than ever. From that time I made every
exertion to find out where you were; after long efforts, it was only
this morning that the person I had employed succeeded in discovering
that you inhabited this house. Agricola was with me when I heard it, and
instantly asked to accompany me.”
“Agricola!” said Mother Bunch, clasping her hands; “he came--”
“Yes, my child--be calm. Whilst I attended to you, he was busy with your
poor sister. You will soon see him.”
“Alas, lady!” resumed the hunchback, in alarm. “He doubtless knows--”
“Your love! No, no; be satisfied. Only think of the happiness of again
seeing your good and worthy brother.”
“Ah, lady! may he never know what caused me so much shame, that I was
like to die of it. Thank God, he is not aware of it!”
“Then let us have no more sad thoughts, my child. Only remember, that
this worthy brother came here in time to save us from everlasting
regrets--and you from a great fault. Oh! I do not speak of the
prejudices of the world, with regard to the right of every creature to
return to heaven a life that has become too burdensome!--I only say that
you ought not to have died, because those who love you, and whom you
love, were still in need of your assistance.”
“I thought you happy; Agricola was married to the girl of his choice,
who will, I am sure, make him happy. To whom could I be useful?”
“First, to myself, as you see--and then, who tells you that Agricola
will never have need of you? Who tells you, that his happiness, or that
of his family, will last forever, and will not be tried by cruel shocks?
And even if those you love had been destined to be always happy, could
their happiness be complete without you? And would not your death, with
which they would perhaps have reproached themselves, have left behind it
endless regrets?”
“It is true, lady,” answered the other, “I was wrong--the dizziness of
despair had seized me--frightful misery weighed upon us--we had not
been able to find work for some days--we lived on the charity of a poor
woman, and her the cholera carried off. To-morrow or next day, we must
have died of hunger.”
“Die of hunger!--and you knew where I lived!”
“I had written to you, lady, and receiving no answer, I thought you
offended at my abrupt departure.”
“Poor, dear child! you must have been, as you say, seized with dizziness
in that terrible moment; so that I have not the courage to reproach you
for doubting me a single instant. How can I blame you? Did I not myself
think of terminating my life?”
“You, lady!” cried the hunchback.
“Yes, I thought of it--when they came to tell me, that Florine, dying,
wished to speak to me. I heard what she had to say; her revelations
changed my projects. This dark and mournful life which had become
insupportable to me, was suddenly lighted up. The sense of duty woke
within me. You were no doubt a prey to horrible misery; it was my duty
to seek and save you. Florine’s confessions unveiled to me the new plots
of the enemies of my scattered family, dispersed by sorrows and cruel
losses; it was my duty to warn them of their danger, and to unite them
against the common enemy. I had been the victim of odious manoeuvres:
it was my duty to punish their authors, for fear that, encouraged by
impunity, these black-gowns should make other victims. Then the sense of
duty gave me strength, and I was able to rouse myself from my lethargy.
With the help of Abbe Gabriel, a sublime, oh! a sublime priest--the
ideal of a true Christian--the worthy brother of Agricola--I
courageously entered on the struggle. What shall I say to you, my child?
The performance of these duties, the hope of finding you again, have
been some relief to me in my trouble. If I was not consoled, I was at
least occupied. Your tender friendship, the example of your resignation,
will do the rest--I think so--I am sure so--and I shall forget this
fatal love.”
At the moment Adrienne pronounced these words, rapid footsteps were
heard upon the stairs, and a young, clear voice exclaimed: “Oh! dear me,
poor Mother Bunch! How lucky I have come just now! If only I could be of
some use to her!”
Almost immediately, Rose-Pompon entered the garret with precipitation.
Agricola soon followed the grisette, and pointing to the open window,
tried to make Adrienne understand by signs, that she was not to mention
to the girl the deplorable end of the Bacchanal Queen. This pantomime
was lost on Mdlle. de Cardoville. Adrienne’s heart swelled with grief,
indignation, pride, as she recognized the girl she had seen at the Porte
Saint-Martin in company with Djalma, and who alone was the cause of the
dreadful sufferings she endured since that fatal evening. And, strange
irony of fate! it was at the very moment when Adrienne had just made the
humiliating and cruel confession of her despised love, that the woman,
to whom she believed herself sacrificed, appeared before her.
If the surprise of Mdlle. de Cardoville was great, Rose-Pompon’s was not
less so. Not only did she recognize in Adrienne the fair young lady with
the golden locks, who had sat opposite to her at the theatre, on the
night of the adventure of the black panther, but she had serious reasons
for desiring most ardently this unexpected interview. It is impossible
to paint the look of malignant joy and triumph, that she affected to
cast upon Adrienne. The first impulse of Mdlle. de Cardoville was to
quit the room. But she could not bear to leave Mother Bunch at this
moment, or to give, in the presence of Agricola, her reasons for such an
abrupt departure, and moreover, an inexplicable and fatal curiosity held
her back, in spite of her offended pride. She remained, therefore, and
was about to examine closely, to hear and to judge, this rival, who
had nearly occasioned her death, to whom, in her jealous agony, she had
ascribed so many different aspects, in order to explain Djalma’s love
for such a creature.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE RIVALS.
Rose-Pompon, whose presence caused such deep emotion in Mdlle. de
Cardoville, was dressed in the most showy and extravagant bad taste. Her
very small, narrow, rose-colored satin bonnet, placed so forward over
her face as almost to touch the tip of her little nose, left uncovered
behind half of her light, silky hair; her plaid dress, of an excessively
broad pattern, was open in front, and the almost transparent gauze,
rather too honest in its revelations, hardly covered the charms of the
form beneath.
The grisette having run all the way upstairs, held in her hands the ends
of her large blue shawl, which, falling from her shoulders, had slid
down to her wasp-like waist, and there been stopped by the swell of the
figure. If we enter into these details, it is to explain how, at the
sight of this pretty creature, dressed in so impertinent and almost
indecent, a fashion, Mdlle. de Cardoville, who thought she saw in her a
successful rival, felt her indignation, grief, and shame redoubled.
But judge of the surprise and confusion of Adrienne, when Mdlle.
Rose Pompon said to her, with the utmost freedom and pertness, “I am
delighted to see you, madame. You and I must have a long talk together.
Only I must begin by kissing poor Mother Bunch--with your permission,
madame!”
To understand the tone and manner with which this word, “madame” was
pronounced, you must have been present at some stormy discussion between
two Rose-Pompons, jealous of each other; then you would be able to judge
how much provoking hostility may be compressed into the word “madame,”
under certain circumstances. Amazed at the impudence of Rose-Pompon,
Mdlle. de Cardoville remained mute; whilst Agricola, entirely occupied
with the interest he took in the workgirl, who had never withdrawn her
eyes from him since he entered the room, and with the remembrance of
the painful scene he had just quitted, whispered to Adrienne, without
remarking the grisette’s effrontery, “Alas, lady! it is all over.
Cephyse has just breathed her last sigh, without recovering her senses.”
“Unfortunate girl!” said Adrienne, with emotion; and for the moment she
forgot Rose-Pompon.
“We must keep this sad news from Mother Bunch, and only let her know it
hereafter, with great caution,” resumed Agricola. “Luckily, little Rose
Pompon knows nothing about it.”
And he pointed to the grisette, who was now stooping down by the side
of the workgirl. On hearing Agricola speak so familiarly of Rose-Pompon,
Adrienne’s amazement increased. It is impossible to describe what she
felt; yet, strangely enough, her sufferings grew less and less, and her
anxiety diminished, as she listened to the chatter of the grisette.
“Oh, my good dear!” said the latter, with as much volubility as emotion,
while her pretty blue eyes were filled with tears; “is it possible that
you did so stupid a thing? Do not poor people help one another? Could
you not apply to me? You knew that others are welcome to whatever is
mine, and I would have made a raffle of Philemon’s bazaar,” added this
singular girl, with a burst of feeling, at once sincere, touching, and
grotesque; “I would have sold his three boots, pipes, boating-costume,
bed, and even his great drinking-glass, and at all events you should not
have been brought to such an ugly pass. Philemon would not have minded,
for he is a good fellow; and if he had minded, it would have been all
the same. Thank heaven! we are not married. I am only wishing to remind
you that you should have thought of little Rose-Pompon.”
“I know you are obliging and kind, miss,” said Mother Bunch: for she had
heard from her sister that Rose-Pompon, like so many of her class, had a
warm and generous heart.
“After all,” resumed the grisette, wiping with the back of her hand the
tip of her little nose, down which a tear was trickling, “you may tell
me that you did not know where I had taken up my quarters. It’s a queer
story, I can tell you. When I say queer,” added Rose-Pompon, with a deep
sigh, “it is quite the contrary--but no matter: I need not trouble you
with that. One thing is certain; you are getting better--and you and
Cephyse will not do such a thing again. She is said to be very weak. Can
I not see her yet, M. Agricola?
“No,” said the smith, with embarrassment, for Mother Bunch kept her eyes
fixed upon him; “you must have patience.”
“But I may see her to-day, Agricola?” exclaimed the hunchback.
“We will talk about that. Only be calm, I entreat.”
“Agricola is right; you must be reasonable, my good dear,” resumed Rose
Pompon; “we will wait patiently. I can wait too, for I have to talk
presently to this lady;” and Rose-Pompon glanced at Adrienne with the
expression of an angry cat. “Yes, yes; I can wait; for I long to tell
Cephyse also that she may reckon upon me.” Here Rose-Pompon bridled up
very prettily, and thus continued, “Do not be uneasy! It is the least
one can do, when one is in a good position, to share the advantages with
one’s friends, who are not so well off. It would be a fine thing to keep
one’s happiness to one’s self! to stuff it with straw, and put it under
a glass, and let no one touch it! When I talk of happiness, it’s only
to make talk; it is true in one sense; but to another, you see, my good
dear--Bah! I am only seventeen--but no matter--I might go on talking
till tomorrow, and you would not be any the wiser. So let me kiss you
once more, and don’t be down-hearted--nor Cephyse either, do you hear?
for I shall be close at hand.”
And, stooping still lower, Rose-Pompon cordially embraced Mother Bunch.
It is impossible to express what Mdlle. de Cardoville felt during this
conversation, or rather during this monologue of the grisette on the
subject of the attempted suicide. The eccentric jargon of Mdlle. Rose
Pompon, her liberal facility in disposing of Philemon’s bazaar, to the
owner of which (as she said) she was luckily not married--the goodness
of her heart, which revealed itself in her offers of service--her
contrasts, her impertinence, her drollery--all this was so new and
inexplicable to Mdlle. de Cardoville, that she remained for some time
mute and motionless with surprise. Such, then, was the creature to whom
Djalma had sacrificed her!
If Adrienne’s first impression at sight of Rose-Pompon had been horribly
painful, reflection soon awakened doubts, which were to become shortly
ineffable hopes. Remembering the interview she had overheard between
Rodin and Djalma, when, concealed in the conservatory, she had wished
to prove the Jesuit’s fidelity, Adrienne, asked herself if it was
reasonable, if it was possible to believe, that the prince, whose ideas
of love seemed to be so poetical, so elevated, so pure, could find any
charm in the disjointed and silly chat of this young girl? Adrienne
could not hesitate; she pronounced the thing impossible, from the moment
she had seen her rival near, and witnessed her style both of manners
and conversation, which, without detracting from the prettiness of
her features, gave them a trivial and not very attractive character.
Adrienne’s doubts with regard to the deep love of the prince for Rose
Pompon were hence soon changed to complete incredulity. Endowed with
too much sense and penetration, not to perceive that this apparent
connection, so inconceivable on the part of Djalma, must conceal some
mystery, Mdlle. de Cardoville felt her hopes revive. As this consoling
thought arose in her mind, her heart, until now so painfully oppressed,
began once more to dilate; she felt vague aspirations towards a better
future; and yet, cruelly warned by the past, she feared to yield too
readily to a mere illusion, for she remembered the notorious fact that
the prince had really appeared in public with this girl. But now that
Mdlle. de Cardoville could fully appreciate what she was, she found the
conduct of the prince only the more incomprehensible. And how can we
judge soundly and surely of that which is enveloped in mystery? And then
a secret presentiment told her, that it would, perhaps, be beside the
couch of the poor sempstress, whom she had just saved from death, that,
by a providential coincidence, she would learn the secret on which
depended the happiness of her life.
The emotions which agitated she heart of Adrienne, became so violent,
that her fine face was flushed with a bright red, her bosom heaved, and
her large, black eyes, lately dimmed by sadness, once more shone with a
mild radiance. She waited with inexpressible impatience for what was to
follow. In the interview, with which Rose-Pompon had threatened her,
and which a few minutes before Adrienne would have declined with all the
dignity of legitimate indignation, she now hoped to find the explanation
of a mystery, which it was of such importance for her to clear up. After
once more tenderly embracing Mother Bunch, Rose-Pompon got up from the
ground, and, turning towards Adrienne, eyed her from head to foot, with
the utmost coolness, and said to her, in a somewhat impertinent tone:
“It is now our turn, madame”--the word “madame” still pronounced
with the accent before described--“we have a little matter to settle
together.”
“I am at your order,” answered Adrienne, with much mildness and
simplicity.
At sight of the triumphant and decisive air of Rose-Pompon, and on
hearing her challenge to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the worthy Agricola,
after exchanging a few words with Mother Bunch, opened his eyes and ears
very wide, and remained staring in amazement at the effrontery of the
grisette; then, advancing towards her, he whispered, as he plucked her
by the sleeve: “I say, are you mad? Do you know to whom you speak?”
“Well! what then? Is not one pretty woman worth another! I say that for
the lady. She will not eat me, I suppose,” replied Rose-Pompon, aloud,
and with an air of defiance. “I have to talk with madame, here. I am
sure, she knows why and wherefore. If not, I will tell her; it will not
take me long.”
Adrienne, who feared some ridiculous exposure on the subject of Djalma,
in the presence of Agricola, made a sign to the latter, and thus
answered the grisette: “I am ready to hear you, miss, but not in this
place. You will understand why.”
“Very well, madame, I have my key. You can come to any apartments”--the
last word pronounced with an air of ostentatious importance.
“Let us go then to your apartments, miss since you to me the honor to
receive me there,” answered Mdlle. de Cardoville, in her mild, sweet
voice, and with a slight inclination of the head, so full of exquisite
politeness, that Rose-Pompon was daunted, notwithstanding all her
effrontery.
“What, lady!” said Agricola to Adrienne; “you are good enough--”
“M. Agricola,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, interrupting him, “please to
remain with our poor friend: I shall soon be back.”
Then, approaching Mother Bunch, who shared in Agricola’s astonishment
she said to her: “Excuse me for leaving you a few seconds. Only regain a
little strength, and, when I return, I will take you home with me, dear
sister.”
Then, turning towards Rose-Pompon, who was more and more surprised at
hearing so fine a lady call the workgirl her sister, she added: “I am
ready whenever you please, mademoiselle.”
“Beg pardon, madame, if I go first to show you the way, but it’s a
regular break-neck sort of a place,” answered Rose-Pompon, pressing her
elbows to her sides, and screwing up her lips to prove that she was no
stranger to polite manners and fine language. And the two rivals quitted
the garret together, leaving Agricola alone with Mother Bunch.
Luckily, the disfigured remains of the Bacchanal Queen had been
carried into Mother Arsene’s subterraneous shop, so that the crowd of
spectators, always attracted by any fatal event, had assembled in front
of the house; and Rose-Pompon, meeting no one in the little court she
had to traverse with Adrienne, continued in ignorance of the tragical
death of her old friend Cephyse. In a few moments the grisette and
Mdlle. de Cardoville had reached Philemon’s apartment. This singular
abode remained in the same state of picturesque disorder in which
Rose-Pompon had left it, when Ninny Moulin came to fetch her to act the
heroine of a mysterious adventure.
Adrienne, completely ignorant of the eccentric modes of life of students
and their companions, could not, in spite of the thoughts which occupied
her mind, forebear examining, with a mixture of surprise and curiosity,
this strange and grotesque chaos, composed of the most dissimilar
objects--disguises for masked balls, skulls with pipes in their mouths,
odd boots standing on book shelves, monstrous bottles, women’s clothes,
ends of tobacco pipes, etc., etc. To the first astonishment of Adrienne
succeeded an impression of painful repugnance. The young lady felt
herself uneasy and out of place in this abode, not of poverty, but
disorder; whilst, on the contrary, the sewing-girl’s miserable garret
had caused her no such feeling.
Rose-Pompon, notwithstanding all her airs, was considerably troubled
when she found herself alone with Mdlle, de Cardoville; the rare beauty
of the young patrician, her fashionable look, the elegance of her
manners, the style, both dignified and affable, with which she had
answered the impertinent address of the grisette, began to have their
effect upon the latter, who, being moreover a good-natured girl, had
been touched at hearing Mdlle. de Cardoville call the hunchback “friend
and sister.” Without knowing exactly who Adrienne was, Rose-Pompon
was not ignorant that she belonged to the richest and highest class
of society; she felt already some remorse at having attacked her so
cavalierly; and her intentions, at first very hostile with regard to
Mdlle. de Cardoville, were gradually much modified. Yet, being very
obstinate, and not wishing to appear to submit to an influence that
offended her pride, Rose-Pompon endeavored to recover her assurance;
and, having bolted the door, she said to Adrienne: “Pray do me the favor
to sit down, madame”--still with the intention of showing that she was
no stranger to refined manners and conversation.
Mdlle. de Cardoville was about mechanically to take a chair, when Rose
Pompon, worthy to practise those ancient virtues of hospitality, which
regarded even an enemy as sacred in the person of a guest, cried out
hastily: “Don’t take that chair, madame; it wants a leg.”
Adrienne laid her hand on another chair.
“Nor that either; the back is quite loose,” again exclaimed Rose-Pompon.
And she spoke the truth; for the chair-back, which was made in the form
of a lyre, remained in the hands of Mdlle. de Cardoville, who said, as
she replaced it discreetly in its former position: “I think, miss, that
we can very well talk standing.”
“As you please, madame,” replied Rose-Pompon, steadying herself the more
bravely the more uneasy she felt. And the interview of the lady and the
grisette began in this fashion.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE INTERVIEW.
After a minute’s hesitation, Rose-Pompon said to Adrienne, whose heart
was beating violently: “I will tell you directly, madame, what I have
on my mind. I should not have gone out of my way to seek you, but, as I
happen to fall in with you, it is very natural I should take advantage
of it.”
“But, miss,” said Adrienne, mildly, “may I at least know the subject of
the conversation we are to have together?”
“Yes, madame,” replied Rose-Pompon, affecting an air of still more
decided confidence; “first of all, you must not suppose I am unhappy, or
going to make a scene of jealousy, or cry like a forsaken damsel. Do not
flatter yourself! Thank heaven, I have no reason to complain of Prince
Charming--that is the pet name I gave him--on the contrary, he has made
me very happy. If I left him, it was against his will, and because I
chose.”
So saying, Rose-Pompon, whose heart was swelling in spite of her fine
airs, could not repress a sigh.
“Yes, madame,” she resumed, “I left him because I chose--for he quite
doted on me. If I had liked, he would have married me--yes, madame,
married me--so much the worse, if that gives you pain. Though, when I
say ‘so much the worse,’ it is true that I meant to pain you. To be sure
I did--but then, just now when I saw you so kind to poor Mother Bunch,
though I was certainly in the right, still I felt something. However, to
cut matters short, it is clear that I detest you, and that you deserve
it,” added Rose-Pompon, stamping her foot.
From all this it resulted, even for a person much less sagacious than
Adrienne, and much less interested in discovering the truth, that Rose
Pompon, notwithstanding her triumphant airs in speaking of him whom she
represented as so much attached to her, and even anxious to wed her,
was in reality completely disappointed, and was now taking refuge in a
deliberate falsehood. It was evident that she was not loved, and that
nothing but violent jealousy had induced her to desire this interview
with Mdlle. de Cardoville, in order to make what is vulgarly called a
scene, considering Adrienne (the reason will be explained presently) as
her successful rival. But Rose-Pompon, having recovered her good-nature,
found it very difficult to continue the scene in question, particularly
as, for many reasons, she felt overawed by Adrienne.
Though she had expected, if not the singular speech of the grisette, at
least something of the same result--for she felt it was impossible that
the prince could entertain a serious attachment for this girl--Mdlle. de
Cardoville was at first delighted to hear the confirmation of her hopes
from the lips of her rival; but suddenly these hopes were succeeded by a
cruel apprehension, which we will endeavor to explain. What Adrienne had
just heard ought to have satisfied her completely. Sure that the heart
of Djalma had never ceased to belong to her, she ought, according to
the customs and opinions of the world, to have cared little if, in
the effervescence of an ardent youth, he had chanced to yield to some
ephemeral caprice for this creature, who was, after all, very pretty
and desirable--the more especially as he had now repaired his error by
separating from her.
Notwithstanding these good reasons, such an error of the senses would
not have been pardoned by Adrienne. She did not understand that complete
separation of the body and soul that would make the one exempt from the
stains of the other. She did not think it a matter of indifference
to toy with one woman whilst you were thinking of another. Her young,
chaste, passionate love demanded an absolute fealty--a fealty as just in
the eyes of heaven and nature as it may be ridiculous and foolish in the
eyes of man. For the very reason that she cherished a refined religion
of the senses, and revered them as an adorable and divine manifestation,
Adrienne had all sorts of delicate scruples and nice repugnances,
unknown to the austere spirituality of those ascetic prudes who despise
vile matter too much to take notice of its errors, and allow it to
grovel in filth, to show the contempt in which they hold it. Mdlle. de
Cardoville was not one of those wonderfully modest creatures who would
die of confusion rather than say plainly that they wished for a young
and handsome husband, at once ardent and pure. It is true that they
generally marry old, ugly, and corrupted men, and make up for it
by taking two or three lovers six months after. But Adrienne felt
instinctively how much of virginal and celestial freshness there is in
the equal innocence of two loving and passionate beings--what guarantees
for the future in the remembrance which a man preserves of his first
love!
We say, then, that Adrienne was only half-satisfied, though convinced by
the vexation of Rose-Pompon that Djalma had never entertained a serious
attachment for the grisette.
“And why do you detest me, miss?” said Adrienne mildly, when Rose-Pompon
had finished her speech.
“Oh! bless me, madame!” replied the latter, forgetting altogether her
assumption of triumph, and yielding to the natural sincerity of her
character; “pretend that you don’t know why I detest you!--Oh, yes!
people go and pick bouquets from the jaws of a panther for people that
they care nothing about, don’t they? And if it was only that!” added
Rose-Pompon, who was gradually getting animated, and whose pretty face,
at first contracted into a sullen pout, now assumed an expression of
real and yet half-comic sorrow.
“And if it was only the nosegay!” resumed she. “Though it gave me a
dreadful turn to see Prince Charming leap like a kid upon the stage, I
might have said to myself: ‘Pooh! these Indians have their own way of
showing politeness. Here, a lady drops her nosegay, and a gentleman
picks it up and gives it to her; but in India it is quite another thing;
the man picks up the nosegay, and does not return it to the woman--he
only kills a panther before her eyes.’ Those are good manners in that
country, I suppose; but what cannot be good manners anywhere is to treat
a woman as I have been treated. And all thanks to you, madame!”
These complaints of Rose-Pompon, at once bitter and laughable, did
not at all agree with what she had previously stated as to Djalma’s
passionate love for her; but Adrienne took care not to point out this
contradiction, and said to her, mildly: “You must be mistaken, miss,
when you suppose that I had anything to do with your troubles. But, in
any case, I regret sincerely that you should have been ill-treated by
any one.”
“If you think I have been beaten, you are quite wrong,” exclaimed Rose
Pompon. “Ah! well, I am sure! No, it is not that. But I am certain that,
had it not been for you, Prince Charming would have got to love me
a little. I am worthy of the trouble, after all--and then there are
different sorts of love--I am not so very particular--not even so much
as that,” added Rose-Pompon, snapping her fingers.
“Ah!” she continued, “when Ninny Moulin came to fetch me, and brought
me jewels and laces to persuade me to go with him, he was quite right in
saying there was no harm in his offers.”
“Ninny Moulin?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville, becoming more and more
interested; “who is this Ninny Moulin, miss?”
“A religious writer,” answered Rose-Pompon, pouting; “the right-hand man
of a lot of old sacristans, whose money he takes on pretense of writing
about morality and religion. A fine morality it is!”
At these words--“a religious writer”--“sacristans” Adrienne instantly
divined some new plot of Rodin or Father d’Aigrigny, of which she and
Djalma were to have been the victims. She began vaguely to perceive the
real state of the case, as she resumed: “But, miss, under what pretence
could this man take you away with him?”
“He came to fetch me, and said I need not fear for my virtue, and was
only to make myself look pretty. So I said to myself: ‘Philemon’s out of
town, and it’s very dull here all alone: This seems a droll affair;
what can I risk by it?’--Alas! I didn’t know what I risked,” added
Rose Pompon, with a sigh. “Well! Ninny Moulin takes me away in a fine
carriage. We stop in the Place du Palais-Royal. A sullen-looking man,
with a yellow face, gets up in the room of Ninny Moulin, and takes me to
the house of Prince Charming. When I saw him--la! he was so handsome,
so very handsome, that I was quite dizzy-like; and he had such a kind,
noble air, that I said to myself, ‘Well! there will be some credit if
I remain a good girl now!’--I did not know what a true word I was
speaking. I have been good--oh! worse than good.”
“What, miss! do you regret having been so virtuous?”
“Why, you see, I regret, at least, that I have not had the pleasure of
refusing. But how can you refuse, when nothing is asked--when you are
not even thought worth one little loving word?”
“But, miss, allow me to observe to you that the indifference of which
you complain does not see to have prevented your making a long stay in
the house in question.”
“How should I know why the prince kept me there, or took me out riding
with him, or to the play? Perhaps it is the fashion in his savage
country to have a pretty girl by your side, and to pay no attention to
her at all!”
“But why, then, did you remain, miss?”
“Why did I remain?” said Rose-Pompon, stamping her loot with vexation.
“I remained because, without knowing how it happened, I began to get
very fond of Prince Charming; and what is queer enough, I, who am as gay
as a lark, loved him because he was so sorrowful, which shows that it
was a serious matter. At last, one day, I could hold out no longer. I
said: ‘Never mind; I don’t care for the consequences. Philemon, I am
sure, is having his fun in the country.’ That set my mind at ease. So
one morning, I dress myself in my best, all very pretty, look in my
glass, and say: ‘Well, that will do--he can’t stand that! and, going to
his room, I tell him all that passes through my head; I laugh, I cry--at
last I tell him that I adore him. What do you think he answers, in his
mild voice, and as cold as a piece of marble? Why, ‘Poor child--poor
child--poor child!’” added Rose-Pompon, with indignation; “neither more
nor less than if I had come to complain to him of the toothache. But
the worst of it is that I am sure, if he were not in love elsewhere, he
would be all fire and gunpowder. Only now he is so sad, so dejected!”