About ten minutes after this scene, a dozen robust men with frank,

open countenances, led by Agricola, entered the Rue de Vaugirard, and

advanced joyously towards the house of the reverend fathers. It was a

deputation from the former workmen of M. Hardy. They came to escort him,

and to congratulate him on his return amongst them. Agricola walked at

their head. Suddenly he saw a carriage with post-horses issuing from

the gateway of the house. The postilion whipped up the horses, and

they started at full gallop. Was it chance or instinct? The nearer the

carriage approached the group of which he formed a part, the more did

Agricola’s heart sink within him.

The impression became so vivid that it was soon changed into a terrible

apprehension; and at the moment when the vehicle, which had its blinds

down, was about to pass close by him, the smith, in obedience to a

resistless impulse, exclaimed, as he rushed to the horses’ heads: “Help,

friends! stop them!”

“Postilion! ten louis if you ride over him!” cried from the carriage the

military voice of Father d’Aigrigny.

The cholera was still raging. The postilion had heard of the murder of

the poisoners. Already frightened at the sudden attack of Agricola,

he struck him a heavy blow on the head with the butt of his whip which

stretched him senseless on the ground. Then, spurring with all his

might, he urged his three horses into a triple gallop, and the carriage

rapidly disappeared, whilst Agricola’s companions, who had neither

understood his actions nor the sense of his words, crowded around the

smith, and did their best to revive him.

CHAPTER XLIV. REMEMBRANCES.

Other events took place a few days after the fatal evening in which M.

Hardy, fascinated and misled by the deplorable, mystic jargon of Rodin,

had implored Father d’Aigrigny on his knees to remove him far from

Paris, into some deep solitude where he might devote himself to a life

of prayer and ascetic austerities. Marshal Simon, since his arrival

in Paris, had occupied, with his two daughters, a house in the Rue des

Trois-Freres. Before introducing the reader into this modest dwelling,

we are obliged to recall to his memory some preceding facts. The day of

the burning of Hardy ‘s factory, Marshal Simon had come to consult with

his father on a question of the highest importance, and to communicate

to him his painful apprehensions on the subject of the growing sadness

of his twin daughters, which he was unable to explain.

Marshal Simon held in religious reverence the memory of the Great

Emperor. His gratitude to the hero was boundless, his devotion blind,

his enthusiasm founded upon reason, his affection warm as the most

sincere and passionate friendship. But this was not all.

One day the emperor, in a burst of joy and paternal tenderness, had led

the marshal to the cradle of the sleeping King of Rome, and said to him,

as he proudly pointed to the beautiful child: “My old friend, swear to

me that you will serve the son as you have served the father!”

Marshal Simon took and kept that vow. During the Restoration, the chief

of a military conspiracy in favor of Napoleon II., he had attempted

in vain to secure a regiment of cavalry, at that time commanded by

the Marquis d’Aigrigny. Betrayed and denounced, the marshal, after a

desperate duel with the future Jesuit, had succeeded in reaching Poland,

and thus escaping a sentence of death. It is useless to repeat the

series of events which led the marshal from Poland to India, and then

brought him back to Paris after the Revolution of July--an epoch at

which a number of his old comrades in arms had solicited and obtained

from the government, without his knowledge, the confirmation of the rank

and title which the emperor had bestowed upon him just before Waterloo.

On his return to Paris, after his long exile, in spite of all the

happiness he felt in at length embracing his children, Marshal Simon was

deeply affected on learning the death of their mother, whom he

adored. Till the last moment, he had hoped to find her in Paris. The

disappointment was dreadful, and he felt it cruelly, though he sought

consolation in his children’s affection.

But soon new causes of trouble and anxiety were interwoven with his

life by the machinations of Rodin. Thanks to the secret intrigues of the

reverend father at the Courts of Rome and Vienna, one of his emissaries,

in a condition to inspire full confidence, and provided with undeniable

evidence to support his words, went to Marshal Simon, and said to him:

“The son of the emperor is dying, the victim of the fears with which the

name of Napoleon still inspires Europe.

“From this slow expiring, you, Marshal Simon, one of the emperor’s most

faithful friends, are able to rescue this unfortunate prince.

“The correspondence in my hand proves that it would be easy to open

relations, of the surest and most secret nature, with one of the most

influential persons about the King of Rome, and this person would be

disposed to favor the prince’s escape.

“It is possible, by a bold, unexpected stroke, to deliver Napoleon II.

from the custody of Austria, which would leave him to perish by inches

in an atmosphere that is fatal to him.

“The enterprise may be a rash one, but it has chances of success that

you Marshal Simon, more than any other, could change into certainties;

for your devotion to the emperor is well known, and we remember with

what adventurous audacity you conspired, in 1815, in favor of Napoleon

II.”

The state of languor and decline of the King of Rome was then in France

a matter of public notoriety. People even went so far as to affirm that

the son of the hero was carefully trained by priests, who kept him in

complete ignorance of the glory of his paternal name; and that, by the

most execrable machinations, they strove day by day to extinguish every

noble and generous instinct that displayed itself in the unfortunate

youth. The coldest hearts were touched and softened at the story of

so sad and fatal a destiny. When we remember the heroic character and

chivalrous loyalty of Marshal Simon, and his passionate devotion to the

emperor, we can understand how the father of Rose and Blanche was more

interested than any one else in the fate of the young prince, and how,

if occasion offered, he would feel himself obliged not to confine

his efforts to mere regrets. With regard to the reality of the

correspondence produced by Rodin’s emissary, it had been submitted by

the marshal to a searching test, by means of his intimacy with one of

his old companions in arms, who had been for a long period on a mission

to Vienna, in the time of the empire. The result of this investigation,

conducted with as much prudence as address, so that nothing should

transpire, showed that the marshal might give his serious attention to

the advances made him.

Hence, this proposition threw the father of Rose and Blanche into a

cruel perplexity; for, to attempt so bold and dangerous an enterprise,

he must once more abandon his children; whilst, on the contrary, if,

alarmed at this separation, he renounced the endeavor to save the

King of Rome, whose lingering death was perfectly true and well

authenticated, the marshal would consider himself as false to the vow

he had sworn to the emperor. To end these painful hesitations, full of

confidence in the inflexible uprightness of his father’s character, the

marshal had gone to ask his advice; unfortunately the old republican

workman, mortally wounded during the attack on M. Hardy’s factory, but

still pondering over the serious communication of his son, died with

these words upon his Lips: “My son, you have a great duty to perform,

under pain of not acting like a man of honor, and of disobeying my last

will. You must, without hesitation--”

But, by a deplorable fatality, the last words, which would have

completed the sense of the old workman’s thought, were spoken in so

feeble a voice as to be quite unintelligible. He died, leaving Marshal

Simon in a worse state of anxiety, as one of the two courses open to him

had now been formally condemned by his father, in whose judgment he had

the most implicit and merited confidence. In a word, his mind was now

tortured by the doubt whether his father had intended, in the name of

honor and duty, to advise him not to abandon his children, to engage in

so hazardous an enterprise, or whether, on the contrary, he had wished

him to leave them for a time, to perform the vow made to the emperor,

and endeavor at least to rescue Napoleon II. from a captivity that might

soon be mortal.

This perplexity, rendered more cruel by certain circumstances, to be

related hereafter, the tragical death of his father, who had expired

in his arms; the incessant and painful remembrance of his wife, who

had perished in a land of exile; and finally, the grief he felt at

perceiving the overgrowing sadness of Rose and Blanche, occasioned

severe shocks to Marshal Simon. Let us add that, in spite of his natural

intrepidity, so nobly proved by twenty years of war, the ravages of the

cholera, the same terrible malady to which his wife had fallen a victim

in Siberia, filled the marshal with involuntary dread. Yes, this man of

iron nerves, who had coolly braved death in so many battles, felt the

habitual firmness of his character give way at sight of the scenes of

desolation and mourning which Paris offered at every step. Yet, when

Mdlle. de Cardoville gathered round her the members of her family, to

warn them against the plot of their enemies, the affectionate tenderness

of Adrienne for Rose and Blanche appeared to exercise so happy an

influence on their mysterious sorrow, that the marshal, forgetting for a

moment his fatal regrets, thought only of enjoying this blessed change,

which, alas! was but of short duration. Having now recalled these facts

to the mind of the reader, we shall continue our story.

CHAPTER XLV. THE BLOCKHEAD

We have stated that Marshal Simon occupied a small house in the Rue

des Trois-Freres. Two o’clock in the afternoon had just struck in the

marshal’s sleeping-chamber, a room furnished with military simplicity.

In the recess, in which stood the bed, hung a trophy composed of the

arms used by the marshal during his campaigns. On the secretary opposite

was a small bronze bust of the emperor, the only ornament of the

apartment. Out of doors the temperature was far from warm, and the

marshal had become susceptible to cold during his long residence in

India. A good fire therefore blazed upon the hearth. A door, concealed

by the hangings, and leading to a back staircase, opened slowly, and

a man entered the chamber. He carried a basket of wood, and advanced

leisurely to the fireplace, before which he knelt clown, and began to

arrange the logs symmetrically in a box that stood besides the hearth.

After some minutes occupied in this manner, still kneeling, he gradually

approached another door, at a little distance from the chimney, and

appeared to listen with deep attention, as if he wished to hear what was

passing in the next room.

This man, employed as an inferior servant in the house, had the most

ridiculously stupid look that can be imagined. His functions consisted

in carrying wood, running errands, etc. In other respects he was a kind

of laughing-stock to the other servants. In a moment of good humor,

Dagobert, who filled the post of major-domo, had given this idiot the

name of “Loony” (lunatic), which he had retained ever since, and which

he deserved in every respect, as well for his awkwardness and folly as

for his unmeaning face, with its grotesquely flat nose, sloping chin,

and wide, staring eyes. Add to this description a jacket of red stuff,

and a triangular white apron, and we must acknowledge that the simpleton

was quite worthy of his name.

Yet, at the moment when Loony listened so attentively at the door of the

adjoining room, a ray of quick intelligence animated for an instant his

dull and stupid countenance.

When he had thus listened for a short time, Loony returned to the

fireplace, still crawling on his knees; then rising, he again took his

basket half full of wood, and once more approaching the door at which

he had listened knocked discreetly. No one answered. He knocked a second

time, and more loudly. Still there was the same silence.

Then he said, in a harsh, squeaking, laughable voice: “Ladies, do you

want any wood, if you please, for your fire?”

Receiving no answer, Loony placed his basket on the ground, opened the

door gently, and entered the next room, after casting a rapid glance

around. He came out again in a few seconds, looking from side to side

with an anxious air, like a man who had just accomplished some important

and mysterious task.

Taking up his basket, he was about to leave Marshal Simon’s room, when

the door of the private staircase was opened slowly and with precaution,

and Dagobert appeared.

The soldier, evidently surprised at the servant’s presence, knitted his

brows, and exclaimed abruptly, “What are you doing here?”

At this sudden interrogation, accompanied by a growl expressive of the

ill-humor of Spoil-sport, who followed close on his master’s heels,

Loony uttered a cry of real or pretended terror. To give, perhaps, an

appearance of greater reality to his dread, the supposed simpleton let

his basket fall on the ground, as if astonishment and fear had loosened

his hold of it.

“What are you doing, numbskull?” resumed Dagobert, whose countenance was

impressed with deep sadness, and who seemed little disposed to laugh at

the fellow’s stupidity.

“Oh, M. Dagobert! how you frighten me! Dear me! what a pity I had not an

armful of plates, to prove it was not my fault if I broke them all.”

“I ask what you are doing,” resumed the soldier.

“You see, M. Dagobert,” replied Loony, pointing to his basket, “that I

came with some wood to master’s room, so that he might burn it, if it

was cold--which it is.”

“Very well. Pick up your wood, and begone!”

“Oh, M. Dagobert! my legs tremble under me. How you did scare me, to be

sure!”

“Will you begone, brute?” resumed the veteran; and seizing Loony by the

arm, he pushed him towards the door, while Spoil-sport, with recumbent

ears, and hair standing up like the quills of a porcupine, seemed

inclined to accelerate his retreat.

“I am going, M. Dagobert, I am going,” replied the simpleton, as he

hastily gathered up his basket; “only please to tell the dog--”

“Go to the devil, you stupid chatterbox!” cried Dagobert, as he pushed

Loony through the doorway.

Then the soldier bolted the door which led to the private staircase, and

going to that which communicated with the apartments of the two sisters,

he double-locked it. Having done this, he hastened to the alcove

in which stood the bed and taking down a pair of loaded pistols, he

carefully removed the percussion caps, and, unable to repress a deep

sigh, restored the weapons to the place in which he had found them.

Then, as if on second thoughts, he took down an Indian dagger with a

very sharp blade, and drawing it from its silver-gilt sheath, proceeded

to break the point of this murderous instrument, by twisting it beneath

one of the iron castors of the bed.

Dagobert then proceeded to unfasten the two doors, and, returning slowly

to the marble chimney-piece, he leaned against it with a gloomy and

pensive air. Crouching before the fire, Spoil-sport followed with an

attentive eye the least movement of his master. The good dog displayed

a rare and intelligent sagacity. The soldier, having drawn out his

handkerchief, let fall, without perceiving it, a paper containing a roll

of tobacco. Spoil-sport, who had all the qualities of a retriever of

the Rutland race, took the paper between his teeth, and, rising upon

his hind-legs, presented it respectfully to Dagobert. But the latter

received it mechanically, and appeared indifferent to the dexterity of

his dog. The grenadier’s countenance revealed as much sorrow as

anxiety. After remaining for some minutes near the fire, with fixed and

meditative look, he began to walk about the room in great agitation, one

of his hands thrust into the bosom of his long blue frock-coat, which

was buttoned up to the chin, and the other into one of his hind-pockets.

From time to time he stopped abruptly, and seemed to make reply to his

own thoughts, or uttered an exclamation of doubt and uneasiness; then,

turning towards the trophy of arms, he shook his head mournfully,

and murmured, “No matter--this fear may be idle; but he has acted so

extraordinarily these two days, that it is at all events more prudent--”

He continued his walk, and said, after a new and prolonged silence: “Yes

he must tell me. It makes me too uneasy. And then the poor children--it

is enough to break one’s heart.”

And Dagobert hastily drew his moustache between his thumb and

forefinger, a nervous movement, which with him was an evident symptom

of extreme agitation. Some minutes after, the soldier resumed, still

answering his inward thoughts: “What can it be? It is hardly possible to

be the letters, they are too infamous; he despises them. And yet But no,

no--he is above that!”

And Dagobert again began to walk with hasty steps. Suddenly, Spoil-sport

pricked up his ears, turned his head in the direction of the staircase

door, and growled hoarsely. A few seconds after, some one knocked at the

door.

“Who is there?” said Dagobert. There was no answer, but the person

knocked again. Losing patience, the soldier went hastily to open it, and

saw the servant’s stupid face.

“Why don’t you answer, when I ask who knocks!” said the soldier,

angrily.

“M. Dagobert, you sent me away just now, and I was afraid of making you

cross, if I said I had come again.”

“What do you want? Speak then--come in, stupid!” cried the exasperated.

Dagobert, as he pulled him into the room.

“M. Dagobert, don’t be angry--I’ll tell you all about it--it is a young

man.”

“Well?”

“He wants to speak to you directly, Mr. Dagobert.”

“His name?”

“His name, M. Dagobert?” replied Loony, rolling about and laughing with

an idiotic air.

“Yes, his name. Speak, idiot!”

“Oh, M. Dagobert! it’s all in joke that you ask me his name!”

“You are determined, fool that you are, to drive me out of my senses!”

cried the soldier, seizing Loony by the collar. “The name of this young

man!”

“Don’t be angry, M. Dagobert. I didn’t tell you the name because you

know it.”

“Beast!” said Dagobert, shaking his fist at him.

“Yes, you do know it, M. Dagobert, for the young man is your own son. He

is downstairs, and wants to speak to you directly--yes, directly.”

The stupidity was so well assumed, that Dagobert was the dupe of it.

Moved to compassion rather than anger by such imbecility, he looked

fixedly at the servant, shrugged his shoulders, and said, as he advanced

towards the staircase, “Follow me!”

Loony obeyed; but, before closing the door, he drew a letter secretly

from his pocket, and dropped it behind him without turning his head,

saying all the while to Dagobert, for the purpose of occupying his

attention: “Your son is in the court, M. Dagobert. He would not come

up--that’s why he is still downstairs!”

Thus talking, he closed the door, believing he had left the letter

on the floor of Marshal Simon’s room. But he had reckoned without

Spoil-sport. Whether he thought it more prudent to bring up the rear,

or, from respectful deference for a biped, the worthy dog had been the

last to leave the room, and, being a famous carrier, as soon as he saw

the letter dropped by Loony, he took it delicately between his teeth,

and followed close on the heels of the servant, without the latter

perceiving this new proof of the intelligence and sagacity of

Spoil-sport.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS.

We will explain presently what became of the letter, which Spoil-sport

held between his teeth, and why he left his master, when the latter ran

to meet Agricola. Dagobert had not seen his son for some days. Embracing

him cordially, he led him into one of the rooms on the ground floor,

which he usually occupied. “And how is your wife?” said the soldier to

his son.

“She is well, father, thank you.”

Perceiving a great change in Agricola’s countenance, Dagobert resumed:

“You look sad. Has anything gone wrong since I saw you last?”

“All is over, father. We have lost him,” said the smith, in a tone of

despair.

“Lost whom?”

“M. Hardy.”

“M. Hardy!--why, three days ago, you told me you were going to see him.”

“Yes, father, I have seen him--and my dear brother Gabriel saw him

and spoke to him--how he speaks! with a voice that comes from the

heart!--and he had so revived and encouraged him, that M. Hardy

consented to return amongst us. Then I, wild with joy, ran to tell the

good news to some of my mates, who were waiting to hear the result of

nay interview with M. Hardy. I brought them all with me to thank and

bless him. We were within a hundred yards of the house belonging to the

black-gowns--”

“Ali, the black-gowns!” said Dagobert, with a gloomy air. “Then some

mischief will happen. I know them.”

“You are not mistaken, father,” answered Agricola, with a sigh. “I was

running on with my comrades, when I saw a carriage coming towards us.

Some presentiment told me that they were taking away M. Hardy.”

“By force!” said Dagobert, hastily.

“No,” answered Agricola, bitterly; “no--the priests are too cunning for

that. They know how to make you an accomplice in the evil they do you.

Shall I not always remember how they managed with my good mother?”

“Yes, the worthy woman! there was a poor fly caught in the spider’s web.

But this carriage, of which you speak?”

“On seeing it start from the house of the black-gowns,” replied

Agricola, “my heart sank within me; and, by an impulse stronger than

myself, I rushed to the horses’ heads, calling on my comrades to help

me. But the postilion knocked me down and stunned me with a blow from

his whip. When I recovered my senses, the carriage was already far

away.”

“You were not hurt?” cried Dagobert, anxiously, as he examined his son

from top to toe.

“No, father; a mere scratch.”

“What did you next, my boy?”

“I hastened to our good angel, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and told her all.

‘You must follow M. Hardy on the instant,’ said she to me. ‘Take my

carriage and post-horses. Dupont will accompany you; follow M. Hardy

from stage to stage; should you succeed in overtaking him your presence

and your prayers may perhaps conquer the fatal influence that these

priests have acquired over him.’”

“It was the best advice she could give you. That excellent young lady is

always right.”

“An hour after, we were upon our way, for we learned by the returned

postilions, that M. Hardy had taken the Orleans road. We followed him as

far as Etampes. There we heard that he had taken a cross-road, to reach

a solitary house in a valley about four leagues from the highway. They

told us that this house called the Val-de-St. Herem, belonged to certain

priests, and that, as the night was so dark, and the road so bad, we

had better sleep at the inn, and start early in the morning. We followed

this advice, and set out at dawn. In a quarter of an hour, we quitted

the high-road for a mountainous and desert track. We saw nothing but

brown rocks, and a few birch trees. As we advanced, the scene became

wilder and wilder. We might have fancied ourselves a hundred leagues

from Paris. At last we stopped in front of a large, old, black-looking

house with only a few small windows in it, and built at the foot of a

high, rocky mountain. In my whole life I have never seen anything so

deserted and sad. We got out of the carriage, and I rang the bell. A

man opened the door. ‘Did not the Abbe d’Aigrigny arrive here last night

with a gentleman?’ said I to this man, with a confidential air. ‘Inform

the gentleman directly, that I come on business of importance, and that

I must see him forthwith.’--The man, believing me an accomplice, showed

us in immediately; a moment after, the Abbe d’Aigrigny opened the door,

saw me, and drew back; yet, in five minutes more, I was in presence of

M. Hardy.”

“Well!” said Dagobert, with interest.

Agricola shook his head sorrowfully, and replied: “I knew by the very

countenance of M. Hardy, that all was over. Addressing me in a mild but

firm voice, he said to me: ‘I understand, I can even excuse, the motives

that bring you hither. But I am quite determined to live henceforth

in solitude and prayer. I take this resolution freely and voluntarily,

because I would fain provide for the salvation of my soul. Tell your

fellows that my arrangements will be such as to leave them a good

remembrance of me.’--And as I was about to speak, M. Hardy interrupted

me, saying: ‘It is useless, my friend. My determination is unalterable.

Do not write to me, for your letters would remain unanswered. Prayer

will henceforth be my only occupation. Excuse me for leaving you, but I

am fatigued from my journey!’--He spoke the truth for he was as pale as

a spectre, with a kind of wildness about the eyes, and so changed since

the day before, as to be hardly the same man. His hand, when he offered

it on parting from me, was dry and burning. The Abbe d’Aigrigny soon

came in. ‘Father,’ said M. Hardy to him, ‘have the goodness to see M.

Baudoin to the door.’--So saying, he waved his hand to me in token of

farewell, and retired to the next chamber. All was over; he is lost to

us forever.”

“Yes,” said Dagobert, “those black-gowns have enchanted him, like so

many others.”

“In despair,” resumed Agricola, “I returned hither with M. Dupont. This,

then, is what the priests have made of M. Hardy--of that generous man,

who supported nearly three hundred industrious workmen in order and

happiness, increasing their knowledge, improving their hearts, and

earning the benediction of that little people, of which he was the

providence. Instead of all this, M. Hardy is now forever reduced to a

gloomy and unavailing life of contemplation.”

“Oh, the black-gowns!” said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to conceal

a vague sense of fear. “The longer I live, the more I am afraid of them.

You have seen what those people did to your poor mother; you see what

they have just done to M. Hardy; you know their plots against my two

poor orphans, and against that generous young lady. Oh, these people are

very powerful! I would rather face a battalion of Russian grenadiers,

than a dozen of these cassocks. But don’t let’s talk of it. I have

causes enough beside for grief and fear.”

Then seeing the astonished look of Agricola, the soldier, unable to

restrain his emotion, threw himself into the arms of his son, exclaiming

with a choking voice: “I can hold out no longer. My heart is too full. I

must speak; and whom shall I trust if not you?”

“Father, you frighten me!” said Agricola, “What is the matter?”

“Why, you see, had it not been for you and the two poor girls, I should

have blown out my brains twenty times over rather than see what I

see--and dread what I do.”

“What do you dread, father?”

“Since the last few days, I do not know what has come over the

marshal--but he frightens me.”

“Yet in his last interviews with Mdlle. de Cardoville--”

“Yes, he was a little better. By her kind words, this generous young

lady poured balm into his wounds; the presence of the young Indian

cheered him; he appeared to shake off his cares, and his poor little

girls felt the benefit of the change. But for some days, I know not what

demon has been loosed against his family. It is enough to turn one’s

head. First of all, I am sure that the anonymous letters have begun

again.”

“What letters, father?”

“The anonymous letters.”

“But what are they about?”

“You know how the marshal hated that renegade, the Abbe d’Aigrigny. When

he found that the traitor was here, and that he had persecuted the two

orphans, even as he persecuted their mother to the death--but that now

he had become a priest--I thought the marshal would have gone mad with

indignation and fury. He wishes to go in search of the renegade. With

one word I calmed him. ‘He is a priest,’ I said; ‘you may do what you

will, insult or strike him--he will not fight. He began by serving

against his country, he ends by becoming a bad priest. It is all in

character. He is not worth spitting upon.’--‘But surely I may punish the

wrong done to my children, and avenge the death of my wife,’ cried the

marshal, much exasperated.--‘They say, as you well know, that there are

courts of law to avenge your wrongs,’ answered I; ‘Mdlle. de Cardoville

has lodged a charge against the renegade, for having attempted to

confine your daughters in a convent. We must champ the bit and wait.”’

“Yes,” said Agricola, mournfully, “and unfortunately there lacks proof

to bring it home to the Abbe d’Aigrigny. The other day, when I was

examined by Mdlle. de Cardoville’s lawyer, with regard to our attempt

on the convent, he told me that we should meet with obstacles at every

step, for want of legal evidence, and that the priests had taken their

precautions with so much skill that the indictment would be quashed.”

“That is just what the marshal thinks, my boy, and this increases his

irritation at such injustice.”

“He should despise the wretches.”

“But the anonymous letters!”

“Well, what of them, father?”

“You shall know all. A brave and honorable man like the marshal, when

his first movement of indignation was over, felt that to insult the

renegade disguised in the garb of a priest, would be like insulting

an old man or a woman. He determined therefore to despise him, and to

forget him as soon as possible. But then, almost every day, there

came by the post anonymous letters, in which all sorts of devices were

employed, to revive and excite the anger of the marshal against

the renegade by reminding him of all the evil contrived by the Abbe

d’Aigrigny against him and his family. The marshal was reproached with

cowardice for not taking vengeance on this priest, the persecutor of his

wife and children, the insolent mocker at his misfortunes.”

“And from whom do you suspect these letters to come, father?”

“I cannot tell--it is that which turns one’s brain. They must come from

the enemies of the marshal, and he has no enemies but the black-gowns.”

“But, father, since these letters are to excite his anger against the

Abbe d’Aigrigny, they can hardly have been written by priests.”

“That is what I have said to myself.”

“But what, then, can be their object?”

“Their object? oh, it is too plain!” cried Dagobert. “The marshal is

hasty, ardent; he has a thousand reasons to desire vengeance on the

renegade. But he cannot do himself justice, and the other sort of

justice fails him. Then what does he do? He endeavors to forget, he

forgets. But every day there comes to him an insolent letter, to provoke

and exasperate his legitimate hatred, by mockeries and insults. Devil

take me! my head is not the weakest--but, at such a game, I should go

mad.”

“Father, such a plot would be horrible, and only worthy of hell!”

“And that is not all.”

“What more?”

“The marshal has received other letters; those he has not shown me--but,

after he had read the first, he remained like a man struck motionless,

and murmured to himself: ‘They do not even respect that--oh! it is too

much--too much!’--And, hiding his face in his hands he wept.”

“The marshal wept!” cried the blacksmith, hardly able to believe what he

heard.

“Yes,” answered Dagobert, “he wept like a child.”

“And what could these letters contain, father?”

“I did not venture to ask him, he appeared so miserable and dejected.”

“But thus harassed and tormented incessantly, the marshal must lead a

wretched life.”

“And his poor little girls too! he sees them grow sadder and sadder,

without being able to guess the cause. And the death of his father,

killed almost in his arms! Perhaps, you will think all this enough; but,

no! I am sure there is something still more painful behind. Lately, you

would hardly know the marshal. He is irritable about nothing, and falls

into such fits of passion, that--” After a moment’s hesitation, the

soldier resumed: “I way tell this to you, my poor boy. I have just been

upstairs, to take the caps from his pistols.”

“What, father!” cried Agricola; “you fear--”

“In the state of exasperation in which I saw him yesterday, there is

everything to fear.”

“What then happened?”

“Since some time, he has often long secret interviews with a gentleman,

who looks like an old soldier and a worthy man. I have remarked that

the gloom and agitation of the marshal are always redoubled after one of

these visits. Two or three times, I have spoken to him about it; but I

saw by his look, that I displeased him, and therefore I desisted.

“Well! yesterday, this gentleman came in the evening. He remained here

until eleven o’clock, and his wife came to fetch him, and waited for him

in a coach. After his departure, I went up to see if the marshal wanted

anything. He was very pale, but calm; he thanked me, and I came down

again. You know that my room is just under his. I could hear the marshal

walking about as if much agitated, and soon after he seemed to be

knocking down the furniture. In alarm, I once more went upstairs. He

asked me, with an irritated air, what I wanted, and ordered me to leave

the room. Seeing him in that way, I remained; he grew more angry, still

I remained; perceiving a chair and table thrown down, I pointed to them

with so sad an air that he understood me. You know that he has the best

heart in the world, so, taking me by the hand, he said to me: ‘Forgive

me for causing you this uneasiness, my good Dagobert; but just now, I

lost my senses, and gave way to a burst of absurd fury; I think I should

have thrown myself out of the window, had it been open. I only hope,

that my poor dear girls have not heard me,’ added he, as he went on

tip-toe to open the door which communicates with his daughters’ bedroom.

When he had listened anxiously for a moment, he returned to me, and

said: ‘Luckily, they are asleep.’--Then I asked him what was the cause

of his agitation, and if, in spite of my precautions, he had received

any more anonymous letters. ‘No,’ replied he, with a gloomy air; ‘but

leave me, my friend. I am now better. It has done me good to see you.

Good--night, old comrade! go downstairs to bed.’--I took care not to

contradict him; but, pretending to go down, I came up again, and seated

myself on the top stair, listening. No doubt, to calm himself entirely,

the marshal went to embrace his children, for I heard him open and shut

their door. Then he returned to his room, and walked about for a long

time, but with a more quiet step. At last, I heard him throw himself on

his bed, and I came down about break of day. After that, all remained

tranquil.”

“But whatever can be the matter with him, father?”

“I do not know. When I went up to him, I was astonished at the agitation

of his countenance, and the brilliancy of his eyes. He would have looked

much the same, had he been delirious, or in a burning fever--so that,

when I heard him say, he could have thrown himself out of the window,

had it been open, I thought it more prudent to remove the caps from his

pistols.”

“I cannot understand it!” said Agricola. “So firm, intrepid, and cool a

man as the marshal, a prey to such violence!”

“I tell you that something very extraordinary is passing within him.

For two days, he has not been to see his children, which is always a bad

sign with him--to say nothing of the poor little angels themselves, who

are miserable at the notion that they have displeased their father. They

displease him! If you only knew the life they lead, dear creatures! a

walk or ride with me and their companion, for I never let them go

out alone, and, the rest of their time, at their studies, reading, or

needlework--always together--and then to bed. Yet their duenna, who is,

I think, a worthy woman, tells me that sometimes at night, she has seen

them shed tears in their sleep. Poor children! they have hitherto known

but little happiness,” added the soldier, with a sigh.

At this moment, hearing some one walk hastily across the courtyard,

Dagobert raised his eyes, and saw Marshal Simon, with pale face and

bewildered air, holding in his two hands a letter, which he seemed to

read with devouring anxiety.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE GOLDEN CITY.

While Marshal Simon was crossing the little court with so agitated

an air, reading the anonymous letter, which he had received by

Spoil-sport’s unexpected medium, Rose and Blanche were alone together,

in the sitting room they usually occupied, which had been entered for a

moment by Loony during their absence. The poor children seemed destined

to a succession of sorrows. At the moment their mourning for their

mother drew near its close, the tragical death of their grandfather had

again dressed them in funereal weeds. They were seated together upon a

couch, in front of their work-table. Grief often produces the effect of

years. Hence, in a few months, Rose and Blanche had become quite young

women. To the infantine grace of their charming faces, formerly so plump

and rosy, but now pale and thin, had succeeded an expression of grave

and touching sadness. Their large, mild eyes of limpid azure, which

always had a dreamy character, were now never bathed in those joyous

tears, with which a burst of frank and hearty laughter used of old to

adorn their silky lashes, when the comic coolness of Dagobert, or some

funny trick of Spoil-sport, cheered them in the course of their long and

weary pilgrimage.

In a word, those delightful faces, which the flowery pencil of Greuze

could alone have painted in all their velvet freshness, were now worthy

of inspiring the melancholy ideal of the immortal Ary Scheffer, who gave

us Mignon aspiring to Paradise, and Margaret dreaming of Faust. Rose,

leaning back on the couch, held her head somewhat bowed upon her

bosom, over which was crossed a handkerchief of black crape. The light

streaming from a window opposite, shone softly on her pure, white

forehead, crowned by two thick bands of chestnut hair. Her look was

fixed, and the open arch of her eyebrows, now somewhat contracted,

announced a mind occupied with painful thoughts. Her thin, white little

hands had fallen upon her knees, but still held the embroidery, on which

she had been engaged. The profile of Blanche was visible, leaning a

little towards her sister, with an expression of tender and anxious

solicitude, whilst her needle remained in the canvas, as if she had just

ceased to work.

“Sister,” said Blanche, in a low voice, after some moments of silence,

during which the tears seemed to mount to her eyes, “tell me what you

are thinking of. You look so sad.”

“I think of the Golden City of our dreams,” replied Rose, almost in a

whisper, after another short silence.

Blanche understood the bitterness of these words. Without speaking, she

threw herself on her sister’s neck, and wept. Poor girls! the Golden

City of their dreams was Paris, with their father in it--Paris, the

marvellous city of joys and festivals, through all of which the orphans

had beheld the radiant and smiling countenance of their sire! But, alas!

the Beautiful City had been changed into a place of tears, and death,

and mourning. The same terrible pestilence which had struck down their

mother in the heart of Siberia, seemed to have followed them like a dark

and fatal cloud, which, always hovering above them, hid the mild blue of

the sky, and the joyous light of the sun.

The Golden City of their dreams! It was the place, where perhaps one day

their father would present to them two young lovers, good and fair as

themselves. “They love you,” he was to say; “they are worthy of you.

Let each of you have a brother, and me two sons.” Then what chaste,

enchanting confusion for those two orphans, whose hearts, pure as

crystal, had never reflected any image but that of Gabriel, the

celestial messenger sent by their mother to protect them!

We can therefore understand the painful emotion of Blanche, when she

heard her sister repeat, with bitter melancholy, those words which

described their whole situation: “I think of the Golden City of our

dreams!”

“Who knows?” proceeded Blanche, drying her sister’s tears; “perhaps,

happiness may yet be in store for us.”

“Alas! if we are not happy with our father by us--shall we ever be so?”

“Yes, when we rejoin our mother,” said Blanche, lifting her eyes to

heaven.

“Then, sister, this dream may be a warning--it is so like that we had in

Germany.”

“The difference being that then the Angel Gabriel came down from heaven

to us, and that this time he takes us from earth, to our mother.”

“And this dream will perhaps come true, like the other, my sister. We

dreamt that the Angel Gabriel would protect us, and he came to save us

from the shipwreck.”

“And, this time, we dream that he will lead us to heaven. Why should not

that happen also?”

“But to bring that about, sister, our Gabriel, who saved us from the

shipwreck, must die also. No, no; that must not happen. Let us pray that

it may not happen.”

“No, it will not happen--for it is only Gabriel’s good angel, who is so

like him, that we saw in our dreams.”

“Sister, dear, how singular is this dream!--Here, as in Germany, we have

both dreamt the same--three times, the very same!”

“It is true. The Angel Gabriel bent over us, and looked at us with so

mild and sad an air, saying: ‘Come, my children! come, my sisters! Your

mother waits for you. Poor children, arrived from so far!’ added he in

his tender voice: ‘You have passed over the earth, gentle and innocent

as two doves, to repose forever in the maternal nest.’”

“Yes, those were the words of the archangel,” said the other orphan,

with a pensive air; “we have done no harm to any one, and we have loved

those who loved us--why should we fear to die?”

“Therefore, dear sister, we rather smiled than wept, when he took us

by the hand, and, spreading wide his beautiful white wings, carried us

along with him to the blue depths of the sky.”

“To heaven, where our dear mother waited for us with open arms, her face

all bathed in tears.”

“Oh, sweet sister! one has not dreams like ours for nothing. And then,”

added she, looking at Rose, with a sad smile that went to the heart,

“our death might perhaps end the sorrow, of which we have been the

cause.”

“Alas! it is not our fault. We love him so much. But we are so timid and

sorrowful before him, that he may perhaps think we love him not.”

So saying, Rose took her handkerchief from her workbasket, to dry her

fears; a paper, folded in the form of a letter, fell out.

At this sight, the two shuddered, and pressed close to one mother,

and Rose said to Blanche, in a trembling voice: “Another of these

letters!--Oh, I am afraid! It will doubtless be like the last.”

“We must pick it up quickly, that it may not be seen,” said Blanche,

hastily stooping to seize the letter; “the people who take interest in

us might otherwise be exposed to great danger.”

“But how could this letter come to us?”

“How did the others come to be placed right under our hand, and always

in the absence of our duenna?”

“It is true. Why seek to explain the mystery? We should never be able to

do so. Let us read the letter. It will perhaps be more favorable to us

than the last.” And the two sisters read as follows:-“Continue to love

your father, dear children, for he is very miserable, and you are the

involuntary cause of his distress. You will never know the terrible

sacrifices that your presence imposes on him; but, alas! he is the

victim of his paternal duties. His sufferings are more cruel than ever;

spare him at least those marks of tenderness, which occasion him so much

more pain than pleasure. Each caress is a dagger-stroke, for he sees in

you the innocent cause of his misfortunes. Dear children, you must not

therefore despair. If you have enough command over yourselves, not to

torture him by the display of too warm a tenderness, if you can mingle

some reserve with your affection, you will greatly alleviate his sorrow.

Keep these letters a secret from every one, even from good Dagobert,

who loves you so much; otherwise, both he and you, your father, and

the unknown friend who is writing to you, will be exposed to the utmost

peril, for your enemies are indeed formidable. Courage and hope! May

your father’s tenderness be once more free from sorrow and regret!--That

happy day is perhaps not so far distant. Burn this letter like all the

others!”

The above note was written with so much cunning that, even supposing the

orphans had communicated it to their father or Dagobert, it would at the

worst have been considered a strange, intrusive proceeding, but almost

excusable from the spirit in which it was conceived. Nothing could

have been contrived with more perfidious art, if we consider the cruel

perplexity in which Marshal Simon was struggling between the fear

of again leaving his children and the shame of neglecting what he

considered a sacred duty. All the tenderness, all the susceptibility

of heart which distinguished the orphans, had been called into play by

these diabolical counsels, and the sisters soon perceived that their

presence was in fact both sweet and painful to their father; for

sometimes he felt himself incapable of leaving them, and sometimes the

thought of a neglected duty spread a cloud of sadness over his brow.

Hence the poor twins could not fail to value the fatal meaning of the

anonymous letters they received. They were persuaded that, from some

mysterious motive, which they were unable to penetrate, their presence

was often importunate and even painful to their father. Hence the

growing sadness of Rose and Blanche--hence the sort of fear and reserve

which restrained the expression of their filial tenderness. A most

painful situation for the marshal, who deceived by inexplicable

appearances, mistook, in his turn, their manner of indifference to

him--and so, with breaking heart, and bitter grief upon his face, often

abruptly quitted his children to conceal his tears!

And the desponding orphans said to each other: “We are the cause of our

father’s grief. It is our presence which makes him so unhappy.”

The reader may new judge what ravages such a thought, when fixed and

incessant, must have made on these young, loving, timid, and simple

hearts. Haw could the orphans be on their guard against such anonymous

communications, which spoke with reverence of all they loved, and seemed

every day justified by the conduct of their father? Already victims of

numerous plots, and hearing that they were surrounded by enemies, we

can understand, how faithful to the advice of their unknown friend, they

forbore to confide to Dagobert these letters, in which he was so justly

appreciated. The object of the proceeding was very plain. By continually

harassing the marshal on all sides, and persuading him of the coldness

of his children, the conspirators might naturally hope to conquer the

hesitation which had hitherto prevented his again quitting his daughters

to embark in a dangerous enterprise. To render the marshal’s life so

burdensome that he would desire to seek relief from his torments in airy

project of daring and generous chivalry, was one of the ends proposed by

Rodin--and, as we have seen, it wanted neither logic nor possibility.

After having read the letter, the two remained for a moment silent

and dejected. Then Rose, who held the paper in her hand, started up

suddenly, approached the chimneypiece, and threw the letter into the

fire, saying, with a timid air: “We must burn it quickly, or perhaps

some great danger will ensue.”

“What greater misfortune can happen to us,” said Blanche, despondingly,

“than to cause such sorrow to our father? What can be the reason of it?”

“Perhaps,” said Rose, whose tears were slowly trickling down her cheek,

“he does not find us what he could have desired. He may love us well

as the children of our poor mother, but we are not the daughters he had

dreamed of. Do you understand me, sister?”

“Yes, yes--that is perhaps what occasioned all his sorrow. We are so

badly informed, so wild, so awkward, that he is no doubt ashamed of us;

and, as he loves us in spite of all, it makes him suffer.”

“Alas! it is not our fault. Our dear mother brought us up in the deserts

of Siberia as well as she could.”

“Oh! father himself does not reproach us with it; only it gives him

pain.”

“Particularly if he has friends whose daughters are very beautiful, and

possessed of all sorts of talents. Then he must bitterly regret that we

are not the same.”

“Dost remember when he took us to see our cousin, Mdlle. Adrienne, who

was so affectionate and kind to us, that he said to us, with admiration:

‘Did you notice her, my children? How beautiful she is, and what talent,

what a noble heart, and therewith such grace and elegance!’”

“Oh, it is very true! Mdlle. de Cardoville is so beautiful, her voice

is so sweet and gentle, that, when we saw and heard her, we fancied that

all our troubles were at an end.”

“And it is because of such beauty, no doubt, that our father, comparing

us with our cousin and so many other handsome young ladies, cannot be

very proud of us. And he, who is so loved and honored, would have liked

to have been proud of his daughters.”

Suddenly Rose laid her hand on her sister’s arm, and said to her,

with anxiety: “Listen! listen! they are talking very loud in father’s

bedroom.”

“Yes,” said Blanche, listening in her turn; “and I can hear him walking.

That is his step.”

“Good heaven! how he raises his voice; he seems to be in a great

passion; he will perhaps come this way.”

And at the thought of their father’s coming--that father who really

adored them--the unhappy children looked in terror at each other. The

sound of a loud and angry voice became more and more distinct; and Rose,

trembling through all her frame, said to her sister: “Do not let us

remain here! Come into our room.”

“Why?”

“We should hear, without designing it, the words of our father--and he

does not perhaps know that we are so near.”

“You are right. Come, come!” answered Blanche, as she rose hastily from

her seat.

“Oh! I am afraid. I have never heard him speak in so angry a tone.”

“Oh! kind heaven!” said Blanche, growing pale, as she stopped

involuntarily. “It is to Dagobert that he is talking so loud.”

“What can be the matter--to make our father speak to him in that way?”

“Alas! some great misfortune must have happened.”

“Oh, sister! do not let us remain here! It pains me too much to hear

Dagobert thus spoken to.”

The crash of some article, hurled with violence and broken to pieces in

the next room, so frightened the orphans, that, pale and trembling with

emotion, they rushed into their own apartment, and fastened the door. We

must now explain the cause of Marshal Simon’s violent anger.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE STUNG LION.

This was the scene, the sound of which had so terrified Rose and

Blanche. At first alone in his chamber, in a state of exasperation

difficult to describe, Marshal Simon had begun to walk hastily up and

down, his handsome, manly face inflamed with rage, his eyes sparkling

with indignation, while on his broad forehead, crowned with short-cut

hair that was now turning gray, large veins, of which you might count

the pulsations, were swollen almost to bursting; and sometimes his

thick, black moustache was curled with a convulsive motion, not unlike

that which is seen in the visage of a raging lion. And even as the

wounded lion, in its fury, harassed and tortured by a thousand invisible

darts, walks up and down its den with savage wrath, so Marshal Simon

paced the floor of his room, as if bounding from side to side;

sometimes he stooped, as though bending beneath the weight of his anger;

sometimes, on the contrary, he paused abruptly, drew himself up to his

full height, crossed his arms upon his vigorous chest, and with raised

brow, threatening and terrible look, seemed to defy some invisible

enemy, and murmur confused exclamations. Then he stood like a man of war

and battle in all his intrepid fire.

And now he stamped angrily with his foot, approached the chimney-piece,

and pulled the bell so violently that the bell-rope remained in his

hand. A servant hastened to attend to this precipitate summons. “Did you

not tell Dagobert that I wished to speak to him?” cried the marshal.

“I executed your grace’s orders, but M. Dagobert was accompanying his

son to the door, and--”

“Very well!” interrupted Marshal Simon, with an abrupt and imperious

gesture.

The servant went out, and his master continued to walk up and down with

impatient steps, crumpling, in his rage, a letter that he held in his

left hand. This letter had been innocently delivered by Spoil-sport,

who, seeing him come in, had run joyously to meet him. At length the

door opened, and Dagobert appeared. “I have been waiting for you a long

time, sirrah!” cried the marshal, in an irritated tone.

Dagobert, more pained than surprised at this burst of anger, which he

rightly attributed to the constant state of excitement in which the

marshal had now been for some time past, answered mildly: “I beg your

pardon, general, but I was letting out my son--”

“Read that, sir!” said the marshal abruptly, giving him the letter.

While Dagobert was reading it, the marshal resumed, with growing anger,

as he kicked over a chair that stood in his way: “Thus, even in my

own house, there are wretches bribed to harass me with incredible

perseverance. Well! have you read it, sir?”

“It is a fresh insult to add to the others,” said Dagobert, coolly, as

he threw the letter into the fire.

“The letter is infamous--but it speaks the truth,” replied the marshal.

Dagobert looked at him in amazement.

“And can you tell who brought me this infamous letter” continued the

marshal. “One would think the devil had a hand in it--for it was your

dog!”

“Spoil-sport?” said Dagobert, in the utmost surprise.

“Yes,” answered the marshal, bitterly; “it is no doubt a joke of your

invention.”

“I have no heart for joking, general,” answered Dagobert, more and more

saddened by the irritable state of the marshal; “I cannot explain how it

happened. Spoil-sport is a good carrier, and no doubt found the letter

in the house--”

“And who can have left it there? Am I surrounded by traitors? Do you

keep no watch? You, in whom I have every confidence?”

“Listen to me, general--”

But the marshal proceeded, without waiting to hear him. “What! I have

made war for five-and-twenty years, I have battled with armies, I have

struggled victoriously through the evil times of exile and proscription,

I have withstood blows from maces of iron--and now I am to be killed

with pins! Pursued into my own house, harassed with impunity, worn out,

tortured every minute, to gratify some unknown, miserable hate!--When I

say unknown, I am wrong--it is d’Aigrigny, the renegade, who is at the

bottom of all this, I am sure. I have in the world but one enemy, and

he is the man. I must finish with him, for I am weary of this--it is too

much.”

“But, general, remember he is a priest--”

“What do I care for that? Have I not seen him handle the sword? I will

yet make a soldier’s blood rise to the forehead of the traitor!”

“But, general--”

“I tell you, that I must be avenged on some one,” cried the marshal,

with an accent of the most violent exasperation; “I tell you, that I

mast find a living representative of these cowardly plots, that I may at

once make an end of him!--They press upon me from all sides; they make

my life a hell--you know it--and you do nothing to save me from these

tortures, which are killing me as by a slow fire. Can I have no one in

whom to trust?”

“General, I can’t let you say that,” replied Dagobert, in a calm, but

firm voice.

“And why not?”

“General, I can’t let you say that you have no one to trust to. You

might end perhaps in believing it, and then it would be even worse for

yourself, than for those who well know their devotion for you, and would

go through fire and water to serve you. I am one of them--and you know

it.”

These simple words, pronounced by Dagobert with a tone of deep

conviction, recalled the marshal to himself; for although his honorable

and generous character might from time to time be embittered by

irritation and grief, he soon recovered his natural equanimity. So,

addressing Dagobert in a less abrupt tone, he said to him, though still

much agitated: “You are right. I could never doubt your fidelity. But

anger deprives me of my senses. This infamous letter is enough to drive

one mad. I am unjust, ungrateful--yes, ungrateful--and to you!”

“Do not think of me, general. With a kind word at the end, you might

blow me up all the year round. But what has happened?”

The general’s countenance again darkened, as he answered rapidly: “I am

looked down upon, and despised!”

“You?”

“Yes I. After all,” resumed the marshal bitterly, “why should I conceal

from you this new wound? If I doubted you a moment, I owe you some

compensation, and you shall know all. For some time past, I perceived

that, when I meet any of my old companions in arms, they try to avoid

me--”

“What! was it to this that the anonymous letter alluded?”

“Yes; and it spoke the truth,” replied the marshal, with a sigh of grief

and indignation.

“But it is impossible, general--you are so loved and respected--”

“Those are mere words; I speak of positive facts. When I appear, the

conversation is often interrupted. Instead of treating me as an old

comrade, they affect towards me a rigorously cold politeness. There are

a thousand little shades, a thousand trifles, which wound the heart, but

which it is impossible to notice--”

“What you are now saying, general, quite confounds me,” replied

Dagobert. “You assure me of it, and I am forced to believe you.”

“Oh, it is intolerable! I was resolved to ease my heart of it; so, this

morning, I went to General d’Havrincourt, who was colonel with me in the

Imperial Guard; he is honor and honesty itself. I went to him with

open heart. ‘I perceive,’ said I, ‘the coldness that is shown me. Some

calumny must be circulating to my disadvantage. Tell me all about it.

Knowing the attack, I shall be able to defend myself--’

“Well, general?”

“D’Havrincourt remained impassible ceremoniously polite. To all my

questions he answered coldly: ‘I am not aware, my lord duke, that any

calumny has been circulated with regard to you.’--‘Do not call me

“my lord duke,” my dear D’Havrincourt; we are old fellow-soldiers and

friends, my honor is somewhat touchy, I confess, and I find that you and

our comrades do not receive me so cordially, as in times past. You

do not deny it; I see, I know, I feel it.’ To all this D’Havrincourt

answered, with the same coldness: ‘I have never seen any one wanting in

respect towards you.’--‘I am not talking of respect,’ exclaimed I, as

I clasped his hand affectionately, though I observed that he but feebly

returned the pressure; ‘I speak of cordiality, confidence, which I once

enjoyed, while now I am treated like a stranger. Why is it? What has

occasioned this change?’--Still cold and reserved, he answered: ‘These

distinctions are so nice, marshal, that it is impossible for me to give

you any opinion on the subject.’--My heart swelled with grief and anger.

What was I to do? To quarrel with D’Havrincourt would have been absurd.

A sense of dignity forced me to break off the interview, but it has

only confirmed my fears. Thus,” added the marshal, getting more and more

animated, “thus am I fallen from the esteem to which I am entitled, thus

am I despised, without even knowing the cause! Is it not odious? If

they would only utter a charge against me--I should at least be able to

defend myself, and to find an answer. But no, no! not even a word--only

the cold politeness that is worse than any insult. Oh! it is too much,

too much! for all this comes but in addition to other cares. What a

life is mine since the death of my father! If I did but find rest and

happiness at home--but no! I come in, but to read shameful letters; and

still worse,” added the marshal, in a heartrending tone, and after a

moment’s hesitation, “to find my children grow more and more indifferent

towards me--“Yes,” continued he, perceiving the amazement of Dagobert,

“and yet they know how much I love them!”

“Your daughters indifferent!” exclaimed Dagobert, in astonishment. “You

make them such a reproach?”

“Oh! I do not blame them. They have hardly had time to know me.”

“Not had time to know you?” returned the soldier, in a tone of

remonstrance, and warming up in his turn. “Ah! of what did their mother

talk to them, except you? and I too! what could I teach your children

except to know and love you?”

“You take their part--that is natural--they love you better than they do

me,” said the marshal, with growing bitterness. Dagobert felt himself so

painfully affected, that he looked at the marshal without answering.

“Yes!” continued the other; “yes! it may be base and ungrateful--but no

matter!--Twenty times I have felt jealous of the affectionate confidence

which my children display towards you, while with me they seem always to

be in fear. If their melancholy faces ever grow animated for a moment,

it is in talking to you, in seeing you; while for me they have nothing

but cold respect--and that kills me. Sure of the affection of my

children, I would have braved and surmounted every difficulty--” Then,

seeing that Dagobert rushed towards the door which led to the chamber of

Rose and Blanche, the marshal asked: “Where are you going?”

“For your daughters, general.”

“What for?”

“To bring them face to face with you--to tell them: ‘My children, your

father thinks that you do not love him.’--I will only say that--and then

you will see.”

“Dagobert! I forbid you to do it,” cried the marshal, hastily.

“I don’t care for that--you have no right to be unjust to the poor

children,” said the soldier, as he again advanced towards the door.

“Dagobert, I command you to remain here,” cried the marshal.

“Listen to me, general. I am your soldier, your inferior, your servant,

if you will,” said the old grenadier, roughly; “but neither rank nor

station shall keep me silent, when I have to defend your daughters.

All must be explained--I know but one way--and that is to bring honest

people face to face.”

If the marshal had not seized him by the arm, Dagobert would have

entered the apartment of the young girls.

“Remain!” said the marshal, so imperiously that the soldier, accustomed

to obedience, hung his head, and stood still.

“What would you do?” resumed the marshal. “Tell my children, that I

think they do not love me? induce them to affect a tenderness they do

not feel--when it is not their fault, but mine?”

“Oh, general!” said Dagobert, in a tone of despair, “I no longer feel

anger, in hearing you speak thus of your children. It is such grief,

that it breaks my heart!”

Touched by the expression of the soldier’s countenance, the marshal

continued, less abruptly: “Come, I may be wrong; and yet I ask you,

without bitterness or jealousy, are not my children more confiding, more

familiar, with you than with me?”

“God bless me, general!” cried Dagobert; “if you come to that, they are

more familiar with Spoil-sport than with either of us. You are their

father; and, however kind a father may be, he must always command some

respect. Familiar with me! I should think so. A fine story! What the

devil should they respect in me, who, except that I am six feet

high, and wear a moustache, might pass for the old woman that nursed

them?--and then I must say, that, even before the death of your worthy

father, you were sad and full of thought; the children have remarked

that; and what you take for coldness on their part, is, I am sure,

anxiety for you. Come, general; you are not just. You complain, because

they love you too much.”

“I complain, because I suffer,” said the marshal, in an agony of

excitement. “I alone know my sufferings.”

“They must indeed be grievous, general,” said Dagobert, carried further

than he would otherwise have gone by his attachment for the orphans,

“since those who love you feel them so cruelly.”

“What, sir! more reproaches?”

“Yes, general, reproaches,” cried Dagobert. “Your children have the

right to complain of you, since you accuse them so unjustly.”

“Sir,” said the marshal, scarcely able to contain himself, “this is

enough--this is too much!”

“Oh, yes! it is enough,” replied Dagobert, with rising emotion. “Why

defend unfortunate children, who can only love and submit? Why defend

them against your unhappy blindness?”

The marshal started with anger and impatience, but then replied, with a

forced calmness: “I needs must remember all that I owe you--and I will

not forget it, say what you will.”

“But, general,” cried Dagobert, “why will you not let me fetch your

children?”

“Do you not see that this scene is killing me?” cried the exasperated

marshal. “Do you not understand, that I will not have my children

witness what I suffer? A father’s grief has its dignity, sir; and you

ought to feel for and respect it.”

“Respect it? no--not when it is founded on injustice!”

“Enough, sir--enough!”

“And not content with tormenting yourself,” cried Dagobert, unable any

longer to control his feelings, “do you know what you will do? You will

make your children die of sorrow. Was it for this, that I brought them

to you from the depths of Siberia?”

“More reproaches!”

“Yes; for the worst ingratitude towards me, is to make your children

unhappy.”

“Leave the room, sir!” cried the marshal, quite beside himself, and so

terrible with rage and grief, that Dagobert, regretting that he had gone

so far, resumed: “I was wrong, general. I have perhaps been wanting in

respect to you--forgive me--but--”

“I forgive you--only leave me!” said the marshal, hardly restraining

himself.

“One word, general--”

“I entreat you to leave me--I ask it as a service--is that enough?”

said the marshal, with renewed efforts to control the violence of his

emotions.

A deadly paleness succeeded to the high color which during this painful

scene had inflamed the cheeks of the marshal. Alarmed at this symptom,

Dagobert redoubled his entreaties. “I implore you, general,” said he, in

an agitated mice, “to permit me for one moment--”

“Since you will have it so, sir, I must be the one to leave,” said the

marshal, making a step towards the door.

These words were said in such a manner, that Dagobert could no longer

resist. He hung his head in despair, looked for a moment in silent

supplication at the marshal, and then, as the latter seemed yielding to

a new movement of rage, the soldier slowly quitted the room.

A few minutes had scarcely elapsed since the departure of Dagobert, when

the marshal, who, after a long and gloomy silence, had repeatedly drawn

near the door of his daughters’ apartment with a mixture of hesitation

and anguish, suddenly made a violent effort, wiped the cold sweat from

his brow, and entered the chamber in which Rose and Blanche had taken

refuge.

CHAPTER XLIX. THE TEST.

Dagobert was right in defending his children, as he paternally called

Rose and Blanche, and yet the apprehensions of the marshal with regard

to the coldness of his daughters, were unfortunately justified by

appearances. As he had told his father, unable to explain the sad,

and almost trembling embarrassment, which his daughters felt in his

presence, he sought in vain for the cause of what he termed their

indifference. Now reproaching himself bitterly for not concealing from

them his grief at the death of their mother, he feared he might have

given them to understand that they would be unable to console him; now

supposing that he had not shown himself sufficiently tender, and that

had chilled them with his military sternness; and now repeating with

bitter regret, that, having always lived away from them, he must be

always a stranger to them. In a word, the most unlikely suppositions

presented themselves by turns to his mind, and whenever such seeds of

doubt, suspicion, or fear, are blended with a warm affection, they

will sooner or later develop themselves with fatal effect. Yet,

notwithstanding this fancied coldness, from which he suffered so much,

the affection of the marshal for his daughters was so true and deep,

that the thought of again quitting them caused the hesitations which

were the torment of his life, and provoked an incessant struggle between

his paternal love and the duty he held most sacred.

The injurious calumnies, which had been so skillfully propagated, that

men of honor, like his old brothers in arms, were found to attach

some credit to them, had been spread with frightful pertinacity by the

friends of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. We shall describe hereafter the

meaning and object of these odious reports, which, joined with so

many other fatal injuries, had filled up the measure of the marshal’s

indignation. Inflamed with anger, excited almost to madness by this

incessant “stabbing with pins” (as he had himself called it), and

offended at some of Dagobert’s words, he had spoken harshly to him.

But, after the soldier’s departure, when left to reflect in silence, the

marshal remembered the warm and earnest expressions of the defender

of his children, and doubt crossed his mind, as to the reality of the

coldness of which he accused them. Therefore, having taken a terrible

resolution in case a new trial should confirm his desponding doubts, he

entered, as we before said, his, daughters’ chamber. The discussion with

Dagobert had been so loud, that the sound of the voices had confusedly

reached the ears of the two sisters, even after they had taken refuge in

their bedroom. So that, on the arrival of their father, their pale

faces betrayed their fear and anxiety. At sight of the marshal, whose

countenance was also much agitated, the girls rose respectfully, but

remained close together, trembling in each other’s arms. And yet there

was neither anger nor severity on their father’s face--only a deep,

almost supplicating grief, which seemed to say: “My children, I

suffer--I have come to you--console me, love me! or I shall die!”

The marshal’s countenance was at this moment so expressive, that, the

first impulse of fear once surmounted, the sisters were about to throw

themselves into his arms; but remembering the recommendations of the

anonymous letter, which told them how painful any effusion of their

tenderness was to their father, they exchanged a rapid glance, and

remained motionless. By a cruel fatality, the marshal at this moment

burned to open his arms to his children. He looked at them with love, he

even made a slight movement as if to call them to him; but he would

not attempt more, for fear of meeting with no response. Still the poor

children, paralyzed by perfidious counsels, remained mute, motionless,

trembling!

“It is all over,” thought he, as he gazed upon them. “No chord of

sympathy stirs in their bosom. Whether I go---whether I remain--matters

not to them. No, I am nothing to these children--since, at this awful

moment, when they see me perhaps for the last time, no filial instinct

tells them that their affection might save me still!”

During these terrible reflections, the marshal had not taken his eyes

off his children, and his manly countenance assumed an expression

at once so touching and mournful--his look revealed so painfully the

tortures of his despairing soul--that Rose and Blanche, confused,

alarmed, but yielding together to a spontaneous movement, threw

themselves on their father’s neck, and covered him with tears and

caresses. Marshal Simon had not spoken a word; his daughters had not

uttered a sound; and yet all three had at length understood one another.

A sympathetic shock had electrified and mingled those three hearts. Vain

fears, false doubts, lying counsel, all had yielded to the irresistible

emotion which had brought the daughters to their father’s arms. A sudden

revelation gave them faith, at the fatal moment when incurable suspicion

was about to separate them forever.

In a second, the marshal felt all this, but words failed him. Pale,

bewildered, kissing the brows, the hair, the hands of his daughters,

weeping, sighing, smiling all in turn, he was wild, delirious, drunk

with happiness. At length, he exclaimed: “I have found them--or rather,

I have never lost them. They loved me, and did not dare to tell me so.

I overawed them. And I thought it was my fault. Heavens! what good that

does! what strength, what heart, what hope!--Ha! ha!” cried he, laughing

and weeping at the same time, whilst he covered his children with

caresses; “they may despise me now, they may harass me now--I defy them

all. My own blue eyes! my sweet blue eyes! look at me well, and inspire

me with new life.”

“Oh, father! you love us then as much as we love you?” cried Rose, with

enchanting simplicity.

“And we may often, very often, perhaps every day, throw ourselves on

your neck, embrace you, and prove how glad we are to be with you?”

“Show you, dear father, all the store of love we were heaping up in our

hearts--so sad, alas! that we could not spend it upon you?”

“Tell you aloud all that we think in secret?”

“Yes--you may do so--you may do so,” said Marshal Simon, faltering with

joy; “what prevented you, my children? But no; do not answer; enough of

the past!--I know all, I understand all. You misinterpreted my gloom,

and it made you sad; I, in my turn, misinterpreted your sadness. But

never mind; I scarcely know what I am saying to you. I only think of

looking at you--and it dazzles me--it confuses me--it is the dizziness

of joy!”

“Oh, look at us, father! look into our eyes, into our hearts,” cried

Rose, with rapture.

“And you will read there, happiness for us, and love for you, sir!”

added Blanche.

“Sir, sir!” said the marshal, in a tone of affectionate reproach; “what

does that mean? Will you call me father, if you please?”

“Dear father, your hand!” said Blanche, as she took it, and placed it on

her heart.

“Dear father, your hand!” said Rose, as she took the other hand of the

marshal. “Do you believe now in our love and happiness?” she continued.

It is impossible to describe the charming expression of filial pride in

the divine faces of the girls, as their father, slightly pressing their

virgin bosoms, seemed to count with delight the joyous pulsations of

their hearts.

“Oh, yes! happiness and affection can alone make the heart beat thus!”

cried the marshal.

A hoarse sob, heard in the direction of the open door, made the three

turn round, and there they saw the tall figure of Dagobert, with the

black nose of Spoil-sport reaching to his master’s knee. The soldier,

drying his eyes and moustache with his little blue cotton handkerchief,

remained motionless as the god Terminus. When he could speak, he

addressed himself to the marshal, and, shaking his head, muttered, in a

hoarse voice, for the good man was swallowing his tears: “Did I not tell

you so?”

“Silence!” said the marshal, with a sign of intelligence. “You were a

better father than myself, my old friend. Come and kiss them! I shall

not be jealous.”

The marshal stretched out his hand to the soldier, who pressed it

cordially, whilst the two sisters threw themselves on his neck, and

Spoil-sport, according to custom wishing to have his share in the

general joy, raised himself on his hind legs, and rested his fore-paws

against his master’s back. There was a moment of profound silence.

The celestial felicity enjoyed during that moment, by the marshal,

his daughters, and the soldier, was interrupted by the barking of

Spoil-sort, who suddenly quitted the attitude of a biped. The happy

group separated, looked round, and saw Loony’s stupid face. He looked

even duller than usual, as he stood quite still in the doorway, staring

with wide stretched eyes, and holding a feather-broom under his arm, and

in his hand the ever-present basket of wood.

Nothing makes one so gay as happiness; and, though this grotesque figure

appeared at a very unseasonable moment, it was received with frank

laughter from the blooming lips of Rose and Blanche. Having made the

marshal’s daughters laugh, after their long sadness, Loony at once

acquired a claim to the indulgence of the marshal, who said to him, good

humoredly: “What do you want, my lad?”

“It’s not me, my lord duke!” answered Loony, laying his hand on his

breast, as if it were taking a vow, so that his feather-brush fell down

from under his arm. The laughter of the girls redoubled.

“It is not you?” said the marshal.

“Here! Spoil-sport!” Dagobert called, for the honest dog seemed to have

a secret dislike for the pretended idiot, and approached him with an

angry air.

“No, my lord duke, it is not me!” resumed Loony. “It is the footman who

told me to tell M. Dagobert, when I brought up the wood to tell my lord

duke, as I was coming up with the basket, that M. Robert wants to see

him.”

The girls laughed still more at this new stupidity. But, at the name of

Robert, Marshal Simon started.

M. Robert was the secret emissary of Rodin, with regard to the possible,

but adventurous, enterprise of attempting the liberation of Napoleon II.

After a moment’s silence, the marshal, whose face was still radiant with

joy and happiness, said to Loony: “Beg M. Robert to wait for me a moment

in my study.”

“Yes, my lord duke,” answered Loony, bowing almost to the ground.

The simpleton withdrew, and the marshal said to his daughters, in a

joyous tone, “You see, that, in a moment like this, one does not leave

one’s children, even for M. Robert.”

“Oh! that’s right, father!” cried Blanche, gayly; “for I was already

very angry with this M. Robert.”

“Have you pen and paper at hand?” asked the marshal.

“Yes, father; there on the table,” said Rose, hastily, as she pointed

to a little desk near one of the windows, towards which the marshal now

advanced rapidly.

From motives of delicacy, the girls remained where they were, close to

the fireplace, and caressed each other tenderly, as if to congratulate

themselves in private on the unexpected happiness of this day.

The marshal seated himself at the desk, and made a sign to Dagobert to

draw near.

While he wrote rapidly a few words in a firm hand, he said to the

soldier with a smile, in so low a tone that it was impossible for his

daughters to hear: “Do you know what I had almost resolved upon, before

entering this room?”

“What, general?”

“To blow my brains out. It is to my children that I owe my life.” And

the marshal continued writing.

Dagobert started at this communication, and then replied, also in a

whisper: “It would not have been with your pistols. I took off the

caps.”

The marshal turned round hastily, and looked at him with an air of

surprise. But the soldier only nodded his head affirmatively, and added:

“Thank heaven, we have now done with all those ideas!”

The marshal’s only answer was to glance at his children, his eyes

swimming with tenderness, and sparkling with delight; then, sealing the

note he had written, he gave it to the soldier, and said to him, “Give

that to M. Robert. I will see him to-morrow.”

Dagobert took the letter, and went out. Returning towards his daughters,

the marshal joyfully extended his arms to them, and said, “Now, young

ladies, two nice kisses for having sacrificed M. Robert to you. Have

I not earned them?” And Rose and Blanche threw themselves on their

father’s neck.

About the time that these events were taking place at Paris, two

travellers, wide apart from each other, exchanged mysterious thoughts

through the breadth of space.

BOOK XI.

L. The Ruins of the Abbey of St. John the Baptist LI. The

Calvary LII. The Council LIII. Happiness LIV. Duty LV. The

Improvised Hospital LVI. Hydrophobia LVII. The Guardian

Angel LVIII. Ruin LIX. Memories LX. The Ordeal LXI. Ambition

LXII. To a Socius, a Socius and a Half LXIII. Faringhea’s

Affection LXIV. An Evening at St. Colombe’s LXV. The Nuptial

Bed LXVI. A Duel to the Death LXVII. A Message LXVIII. The

First of June

EPILOGUE.

I. Four Years After II. The Redemption

CHAPTER L. THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST.

The sun is fast sinking. In the depths of an immense piny wood, in the

midst of profound solitude, rise the ruins of an abbey, once sacred to

St. John the Baptist. Ivy, moss, and creeping plants, almost entirely

conceal the stones, now black with age. Some broken arches, some

walls pierced with ovals, still remain standing, visible on the dark

background of the thick wood. Looking down upon this mass of ruins from

a broken pedestal, half-covered with ivy, a mutilated, but colossal

statue of stone still keeps its place. This statue is strange and awful.

It represents a headless human figure. Clad in the antique toga, it

holds in its hand a dish and on that dish is a head. This head is its

own. It is the statue of St. John the Baptist and Martyr, put to death

by wish of Herodias.

The silence around is solemn. From time to time, however, is heard the

dull rustling of the enormous branches of the pine-trees, shaken by the

wind. Copper-colored clouds, reddened by the setting sun, pass slowly

over the forest, and are reflected in the current of a brook, which,

deriving its source from a neighboring mass of rocks, flows through the

ruins. The water flows, the clouds pass on, the ancient trees tremble,

the breeze murmurs.

Suddenly, through the shadow thrown by the overhanging wood, which

stretches far into endless depths, a human form appears. It is a woman.

She advances slowly towards the ruins. She has reached them. She treads

the once sacred ground. This woman is pale, her look sad, her long

robe floats on the wind, her feet covered with dust. She walks with

difficulty and pain. A block of stone is placed near the stream, almost

at the foot of the statue of John the Baptist. Upon this stone she sinks

breathless and exhausted, worn out with fatigue. And yet, for many days,

many years, many centuries, she has walked on unwearied.

For the first time, she feels an unconquerable sense of lassitude. For

the first time, her feet begin to fail her. For the first time, she,

who traversed, with firm and equal footsteps, the moving lava of torrid

deserts, while whole caravans were buried in drifts of fiery sand--who

passed, with steady and disdainful tread, over the eternal snows of

Arctic regions, over icy solitudes, in which no other human being could

live--who had been spared by the devouring flames of conflagrations, and

by the impetuous waters of torrents--she, in brief, who for centuries

had had nothing in common with humanity--for the first time suffers

mortal pain.

Her feet bleed, her limbs ache with fatigue, she is devoured by burning

thirst. She feels these infirmities, yet scarcely dares to believe them

real. Her joy would be too immense! But now, her throat becomes dry,

contracted, all on fire. She sees the stream, and throws herself on her

knees, to quench her thirst in that crystal current, transparent as

a mirror. What happens then? Hardly have her fevered lips touched the

fresh, pure water, than, still kneeling, supported on her hands, she

suddenly ceases to drink, and gazes eagerly on the limpid stream.

Forgetting the thirst which devours her, she utters a loud cry--a cry

of deep, earnest, religious joy, like a note of praise and infinite

gratitude to heaven. In that deep mirror, she perceives that she has

grown older.

In a few days, a few hours, a few minutes, perhaps in a single second,

she has attained the maturity of age. She, who for more than eighteen

centuries has been as a woman of twenty, carrying through successive

generations the load of her imperishable youth--she has grown old, and

may, perhaps, at length, hope to die. Every minute of her life may now

bring her nearer to the last home! Transported by that ineffable hope,

she rises, and lifts her eyes to heaven, clasping her hands in an

attitude of fervent prayer. Then her eyes rest on the tall statue of

stone, representing St. John. The head, which the martyr carries in his

hand, seems, from beneath its half-closed granite eyelid, to cast upon

the Wandering Jewess a glance of commiseration and pity. And it was she,

Herodias who, in the cruel intoxication of a pagan festival, demanded

the murder of the saint! And it is at the foot of the martyr’s image,

that, for the first time, the immortality, which weighed on her for so

many centuries, seems likely to find a term!

“Oh, impenetrable mystery! oh, divine hope!” she cries. “The wrath of

heaven is at length appeased. The hand of the Lord brings me to the

feet of the blessed martyr, and I begin once more to feel myself a

human creature. And yet it was to avenge his death, that the same heaven

condemned me to eternal wanderings!

“Oh, Lord! grant that I may not be the only one forgiven. May

he--the artisan, who like me, daughter of a king, wanders on for

centuries--likewise hope to reach the end of that immense journey!

“Where is he, Lord? where is he? Hast thou deprived me of the power once

bestowed, to see and hear him through the vastness of intervening space?

Oh, in this mighty moment, restore me that divine gift--for the more I

feel these human infirmities, which I hail and bless as the end of

my eternity of ills, the more my sight loses the power to traverse

immensity, and my ear to catch the sound of that wanderer’s accent, from

the other extremity of the globe?”

Night had fallen, dark and stormy. The wind rose in the midst of the

great pine-trees. Behind their black summits, through masses of dark

cloud, slowly sailed the silver disk of the moon. The invocation of the

Wandering Jewess had perhaps been heard. Suddenly, her eyes closed--with

hands clasped together, she remained kneeling in the heart of the

ruins--motionless as a statue upon a tomb. And then she had a wondrous

dream!

CHAPTER LI. THE CALVARY.

This was the vision of Herodias: On the summit of a high, steep, rocky

mountain, there stands a cross. The sun is sinking, even as when the

Jewess herself, worn out with fatigue, entered the ruins of St. John’s

Abbey. The great figure on the cross--which looks down from this

Calvary, on the mountain, and on the vast, dreary plain beyond--stands

out white and pale against the dark, blue clouds, which stretch across

the heavens, and assume a violent tint towards the horizon. There, where

the setting sun has left a long track of lurid light, almost of the

hue of blood--as far as the eye can reach, no vegetation appears on the

surface of the gloomy desert, covered with sand and stones, like the

ancient bed of some dried-up ocean. A silence as of death broods over

this desolate tract. Sometimes, gigantic black vultures, with red

unfeathered necks, luminous yellow eyes, stooping from their lofty

flight in the midst of these solitudes, come to make their bloody feast

on the prey they have carried off from less uncultivated regions.

How, then, did this Calvary, this place of prayer, come to be erected so

far from the abodes of men? This Calvary was prepared at a great cost by

a repentant sinner. He had done much harm to his fellow-creatures, and,

in the hope of obtaining pardon for his crimes, he had climbed this

mountain on his knees, and become a hermit, and lived there till his

death, at the foot of this cross, only sheltered by a roof of thatch,

now long since swept away by the wind. The sun is still sinking. The

sky becomes darker. The luminous lines on the horizon grow fainter and

fainter, like heated bars of iron that gradually grow cool. Suddenly,

on the eastern side of the Calvary, is heard the noise of some falling

stones, which, loosened from the side of the mountain, roll down

rebounding to its base. These stones have been loosened by the foot of

a traveller, who, after traversing the plain below, has, during the last

hour, been climbing the steep ascent. He is not yet visible--but one

hears the echo of his tread--slow, steady, and firm. At length, he

reaches the top of the mountain, and his tall figure stands out against

the stormy sky.

The traveller is pale as the great figure on the cross. On his broad

forehead a black line extends from one temple to the other. It is

the cobbler of Jerusalem. The poor artisan, who hardened by misery,

injustice and oppression, without pity for the suffering of the Divine

Being who bore the cross, repulsed him from his dwelling, and bade him:

“Go ON! GO ON! GO ON!” And, from that day, the avenging Deity has in his

turn said to the artisan of Jerusalem: “GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!”

And he has gone on, without end or rest. Nor did the divine vengeance

stop there. From time to time death has followed the steps of the

wanderer, and innumerable graves have been even as mile-stones on his

fatal path. And if ever he found periods of repose in the midst of

his infinite grief, it was when the hand of the Lord led him into deep

solitudes, like that where he now dragged his steps along. In passing

over that dreary plain, or climbing to that rude Calvary, he at least

heard no more the funeral knell, which always, always sounded behind him

in every inhabited region.

All day long, even at this hour, plunged in the black abyss of his

thoughts, following the fatal track--going whither he was guided by the

invisible hand, with head bowed on his breast, and eyes fixed upon

the ground, the wanderer had passed over the plain, and ascended the

mountain, without once looking at the sky--without even perceiving the

Calvary--without seeing the image upon the cross. He thought of the

last descendants of his race. He felt, by the sinking of his heart,

that great perils continued to threaten him. And in the bitterness of

a despair, wild and deep as the ocean, the cobbler of Jerusalem seated

himself at the foot of the cross. At this moment a farewell ray of the

setting sun, piercing the dark mass of clouds, threw a refection upon

the Calvary, vivid as a conflagration’s glare. The Jew rested his

forehead upon his hand. His long hair, shaken by the evening breeze,

fell over his pale face--when sweeping it back from his brow, he started

with surprise--he, who had long ceased to wonder at anything. With eager

glance he contemplated the long lock of hair that he held between his

fingers. That hair, until now black as night, had become gray. He also,

like unto Herodias, was growing older.

His progress towards old age, stopped for eighteen hundred years, had

resumed its course. Like the Wandering Jewess, he might henceforth hope

for the rest of the grave. Throwing himself on his knees, he stretched

his hands towards heaven, to ask for the explanation of the mystery

which filled him with hope. Then, for the first time, his eyes rested on

the Crucified One, looking down upon the Calvary, even as the Wandering

Jewess had fixed her gaze on the granite eyelids of the Blessed Martyr.

The Saviour, his head bowed under the weight of his crown of thorns,

seemed from the cross to view with pity, and pardon the artisan, who for

so many centuries had felt his curse--and who, kneeling, with his body

thrown backward in an attitude of fear and supplication, now lifted

towards the crucifix his imploring hands.

“Oh, Messiah!” cried the Jew, “the avenging arm of heaven brings me back

to the foot of this heavy cross, which thou didst bear, when, stopping

at the door of my poor dwelling, thou wert repulsed with merciless

harshness, and I said unto thee: ‘Go on! go on!’--After my long life of

wanderings, I am again before this cross, and my hair begins to whiten.

Oh Lord! in thy divine mercy, hast thou at length pardoned me? Have I

reached the term of my endless march? Will thy celestial clemency grant

me at length the repose of the sepulchre, which, until now, alas! has

ever fled before me?--Oh! if thy mercy should descend upon me, let it

fall likewise upon that woman, whose woes are equal to mine own! Protect

also the last descendants of my race! What will be their fate? Already,

Lord, one of them--the only one that misfortune had perverted--has

perished from the face of the earth. Is it for this that my hair grows

gray? Will my crime only be expiated when there no longer remains in

this world one member of our accursed race? Or does this proof of thy

powerful goodness, Lord, which restores me to the condition of humanity,

serve also as a sign of the pardon and happiness of my family? Will

they at length triumph over the perils which beset them? Will they,

accomplishing the good which their ancestor designed for his fellow

creatures, merit forgiveness both for themselves and me? Or will they,

inexorably condemned as the accursed scions of an accursed stock,

expiate the original stain of my detested crime?

“Oh, tell me--tell me, gracious Lord! shall I be forgiven with them, or

will they be punished with me?”

The twilight gave place to a dark and stormy night, yet the Jew

continued to pray, kneeling at the foot of the cross.

CHAPTER LII. THE COUNCIL.

The following scene took place at Saint-Dizier House, two days after

the reconciliation of Marshal Simon with his daughters. The princess is

listening with the most profound attention to the words of Rodin. The

reverend father, according to his habit, stands leaning against the

mantelpiece, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his old brown

great-coat. His thick, dirty shoes have left their mark on the ermine

hearth-rug. A deep sense of satisfaction is impressed on the Jesuit’s

cadaverous countenance. Princess de Saint-Dizier, dressed with that sort

of modest elegance which becomes a mother of the church, keeps her

eyes fixed on Rodin--for the latter has completely supplanted Father

d’Aigrigny in the good graces of this pious lady. The coolness, audacity

lofty intelligence, and rough and imperious character of the ex-socius

have overawed this proud woman, and inspired her with a sincere

admiration. Even his filthy habits and often brutal repartees have their

charm for her, and she now prefers them to the exquisite politeness and

perfumed elegance of the accomplished Father d’Aigrigny.

“Yes, madame,” said Rodin, in a sanctified tone, for these people do not

take off their masks even with their accomplices, “yes, madame, we have

excellent news from our house at St. Herem. M. Hardy, the infidel, the

freethinker, has at length entered the pale of the holy Roman Catholic

and Apostolic Church.” Rodin pronounced these last word with a nasal

twang, and the devout lady bowed her head respectfully.

“Grace has at length touched the heart of this impious man,” continued

Rodin, “and so effectually that, in his ascetic enthusiasm, he has

already wished to take the vows which will bind him forever to our

divine Order.”

“So soon, father?” said the princess, in astonishment.

“Our statutes are opposed to this precipitation, unless in the case of

a penitent in articulo mortis--on the very gasp of death--should such

a person consider it necessary for his salvation to die in the habit

of our Order, and leave us all his wealth for the greater glory of the

Lord.”

“And is M. Hardy in so dangerous a condition, father?”

“He has a violent fever. After so many successive calamities, which

have miraculously brought him into the path of salvation,” said Rodin,

piously, “his frail and delicate constitution is almost broken up,

morally and physically. Austerities, macerations, and the divine joys of

ecstasy, will probably hasten his passage to eternal life, and in a few

clays,” said the priest, shaking his head with a solemn air, “perhaps--”

“So soon as that, father?”

“It is almost certain. I have therefore made use of my dispensations, to

receive the dear penitent, as in articulo mortis, a member of our

divine Company, to which, in the usual course, he has made over all

his possessions, present and to come--so that now he can devote himself

entirely to the care of his soul, which will be one victim more rescued

from the claws of Satan.”

“Oh, father!” cried the lady, in admiration; “it is a miraculous

conversion. Father d’Aigrigny told me how you had to contend against the

influence of Abbe Gabriel.”

“The Abbe Gabriel,” replied Rodin, “has been punished for meddling with

what did not concern him. I have procured his suspension, and he has

been deprived of his curacy. I hear that he now goes about the cholera

hospitals to administer Christian consolation; we cannot oppose

that--but this universal comforter is of the true heretical stamp.”

“He is a dangerous character, no doubt,” answered the princess, “for he

has considerable influence over other men. It must have needed all your

admirable and irresistible eloquence to combat the detestable counsels

of this Abbe Gabriel, who had taken it into his head to persuade M.

Hardy to return to the life of the world. Really, father, you are a

second St. Chrysostom.”

“Tut, tut, madame!” said Rodin, abruptly, for he was very little

sensible to flattery; “keep that for others.”

“I tell you that you’re a second St. Chrysostom father,” repeated the

princess with enthusiasm; “like him, you deserve the name of Golden

Mouth.”

“Stuff, madame!” said Rodin, brutally, shrugging his shoulders; “my lips

are too pale, my teeth too black, for a mouth of gold. You must be only

joking.”

“But, father--”

“No, madame, you will not catch old birds with chaff,” replied Rodin,

harshly. “I hate compliments, and I never pay them.”

“Your modesty must pardon me, father,” said the princess, humbly; “I

could not resist the desire to express to you my admiration, for, as

you almost predicted, or at least foresaw, two members of the Rennepont

family, have, within the last few months, resigned all claim to the

inheritance.”

Rodin looked at Madame de Saint-Dizier with a softened and approving

air, as he heard her thus describe the position of the two defunct

claimants. For, in Rodin’s view of the case, M. Hardy, in consequence

of his donation and his suicidal asceticism, belonged no longer to this

world.

The lady continued: “One of these men, a wretched artisan, has been led

to his ruin by the exaggeration of his vices. You have brought the

other into the path of salvation, by carrying out his loving and tender

qualities. Honor, then to your foresight, father! for you said that you

would make use of the passions to attain your end.”

“Do not boast too soon,” said Rodin, impatiently. “Have you forgotten

your niece, and the Hindoo, and the daughters of Marshal Simon? Have

they also made a Christian end, or resigned their claim to share in this

inheritance?”

“No, doubtless.”

“Hence, you see, madame, we should not lose time in congratulating

ourselves on the past, but make ready for the future. The great day

approaches. The first of June is not far off. Heaven grant we may not

see the four surviving members of the family continue to live impenitent

up to that period, and so take possession of this enormous property--the

source of perdition in their hands--but productive of the glory of the

Church in the hands of our Company!”

“True, father!”

“By the way, you were to see your lawyers on the subject of your niece?”

“I have seen them, father. However uncertain may be the chance of which

I spoke, it is worth trying. I shall know to-day, I hope, if it is

legally possible.”

“Perhaps then,--in the new condition of life to which she would be

reduced, we might find means to effect her conversion,” said Rodin, with

a strange and hideous smile; “until now, since she has been so fatally

brought in contact with the Oriental, the happiness of these two pagans

appears bright and changeless as the diamond. Nothing bites into it, not

even Faringhea’s tooth. Let us hope that the Lord will wreak justice on

their vain and guilty felicity!”

This conversation was here interrupted by Father d’Aigrigny, who entered

the room with an air of triumph, and exclaimed, “Victory!”

“What do you say”’ asked the princess.

“He is gone--last night,” said Father d’Aigrigny.

“Who?” said Rodin.

“Marshal Simon,” replied the abbe.

“At last!” said Rodin, unable to hide his joy.

“It was no doubt his interview with General d’Havrincourt which

filled up the measure,” cried the princess, “for I know he had a long

conversation with the general, who like so many others, believed the

reports in circulation. All means are good against the impious!” added

the princess, by way of moral.

“Have you any details?” asked Rodin.

“I have just left Robert,” said Father d’Aigrigny. “His age and

description agree with the marshal’s, and the latter travels with his

papers. Only one thing has greatly surprised your emissary.”

“What is that?” said Rodin.

“Until now, he had always to contend with the hesitations of the

marshal, and had moreover noticed his gloomy and desponding air.

Yesterday, on the contrary, he found him so bright with happiness, that

he could not help asking him the cause of the alteration.”

“Well?” said Rodin and the princess together, both extremely surprised.

“The marshal answered: ‘I am indeed the happiest man in the world; for I

am going joyfully to accomplish a sacred duty!”

The three actors in this scene looked at each other in silence.

“And what can have produced this sudden change in the mind of the

marshal?” said the princess, with a pensive air. “We rather reckon

on sorrow and every kind of irritation to urge him to engage in this

adventurous enterprise.”

“I cannot make it out,” said Rodin, reflecting; “but no matter--he

is gone. We must not lose a moment, to commence operations on his

daughters. Has he taken that infernal soldier with him?”

“No,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “unfortunately, he has not done so. Warned

by the past, he will redouble his precautions; and a man, whom we

might have used against him at a pinch, has just been taken with the

contagion.”

“Who is that?” asked the princess.

“Morok. I could count upon him anywhere and for anything. He is lost

to us; for, should he recover from the cholera, I fear he will fall a

victim to a horrible and incurable disease.”

“How so?”

“A few days ago, he was bitten by one of the mastiffs of his menagerie,

and, the next day, the dog showed symptoms of hydrophobia.”

“Ah! it is dreadful,” cried the princess; “and where is this unfortunate

man?”

“He has been taken to one of the temporary hospitals established in

Paris, for at present he has only been attacked with cholera. It is

doubly unfortunate, I repeat, for he was a devoted, determined fellow,

ready for anything. Now this soldier, who has the care of the orphans,

will be very difficult to get at, and yet only through him can we hope

to reach Marshal Simon’s daughters.”

“That is clear,” said Rodin, thoughtfully.

“Particularly since the anonymous letters have again awakened his

suspicions,” added Father d’Aigrigny “and--”

“Talking of the anonymous letters,” said Rodin suddenly, interrupting

Father d’Aigrigny, “there is a fact that you ought to know; I will tell

you why.”

“What is it?”

“Besides the letters that you know of, Marshal Simon has received a

number of others unknown to you, in which, by every possible means, it

is tried to exasperate his irritation against yourself--for they remind

him of all the reasons he has to hate you, and mock at him, because your

sacred character shelters you from his vengeance.”

Father d’Aigrigny looked at Rodin with amazement, colored in spite of

himself, and said to him: “But for what purpose has your reverence acted

in this manner?”

“First of all, to clear myself of suspicion with regard to the letters;

then, to excite the rage of the marshal to madness, by incessantly

reminding him of the just grounds he has to hate you, and of the

impossibility of being avenged upon you. This, joined to the other

emotions of sorrow and anger, which ferment in the savage bosom of this

man of bloodshed, tended to urge him on to the rash enterprise, which

is the consequence and the punishment of his idolatry for a miserable

usurper.”

“That may be,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with an air of constraint: “but

I will observe to your reverence, that it was, perhaps, rather dangerous

thus to excite Marshal Simon against me.”

“Why?” asked Rodin, as he fixed a piercing look upon Father d’Aigrigny.

“Because the marshal, excited beyond all bounds, and remembering only

our mutual hate, might seek me out--”

“Well! and what then?”

“Well! he might forget that I am a priest--”

“Oh, you are afraid are you?” said Rodin, disdainfully, interrupting

Father d’Aigrigny.

At the words: “You are afraid,” the reverend father almost started from

his chair; but recovering his coolness, he answered: “Your reverence

is right; yes, I should be afraid under such circumstances; I should

be afraid of forgetting that I am a priest, and of remembering too well

that I have been a soldier.”

“Really?” said Rodin, with sovereign contempt. “You are still no further

than that stupid and savage point of honor? Your cassock has not yet

extinguished the warlike fire? So that if this brawling swordsman, whose

poor, weak head, empty and sonorous as a drum, is so easily turned with

the stupid jargon of ‘Military honor, oaths, Napoleon II.’--if this

brawling bravo, I say, were to commit some violence against you, it

would require a great effort, I suppose, for you to remain calm?”

“It is useless, I think,” said Father d’Aigrigny, quite unable

to control his agitation, “for your reverence to enter upon such

questions.”

“As your superior,” answered Rodin, severely, “I have the right to ask.

If Marshal Simon had lifted his hand against you--”

“Sir,” cried the reverend father.

“There are no sirs here--we are only priests,” said Rodin, harshly.

Father d’Aigrigny held down his head, scarcely able to repress his rage.

“I ask you,” continued Rodin, obstinately, “if Marshal Simon had struck

you? Is that clear?”

“Enough! in mercy,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “enough!”

“Or, if you like it better, had Marshal Simon left the marks of his

fingers on your cheek?” resumed Rodin, with the utmost pertinacity.

Father d’Aigrigny, pale as death, ground his teeth in a kind of fury

at the very idea of such an insult, while Rodin, who had no doubt his

object in asking the question, raised his flabby eyelids, and seemed

to watch attentively the significant symptoms revealed in the agitated

countenance of the ex-colonel.

At length, recovering partly his presence of mind, Father d’Aigrigny

replied, in a forcedly calm tone: “If I were to be exposed to such an

insult, I would pray heaven to give me resignation and humility.”

“And no doubt heaven would hear your prayers,” said Rodin, coldly,

satisfied with the trial to which he had just put him. “Besides, you are

now warned, and it is not very probable,” added he, with a grim smile,

“that Marshal Simon will ever return to test your humility. But if he

were to return,” said Rodin, fixing on the reverend father a long and

piercing look, “you would know how to show this brutal swordsman, in

spite of all his violence, what resignation and humility there is in a

Christian soul!”

Two humble knocks at the door here interrupted the conversation for a

moment. A footman entered, bearing a large sealed packet on a salver,

which he presented to the princess. After this, he withdrew. Princess

de Saint-Dizier, having by a look asked Rodin’s permission to open the

letter, began to read it--and a cruel satisfaction was soon visible on

her face.

“There is hope,” cried she addressing herself to Rodin: “the demand is

rigorously legal, and the consequence may be such as we desire. In a

word, my niece may, any day, be exposed to complete destitution. She,

who is so extravagant! what a change in her life!”

“We shall then no doubt have some hold on that untamable character,”

said Rodin with a meditative air; “for, till now, all has failed in

that direction, and one would suppose some kinds of happiness are

invulnerable,” added the Jesuit, gnawing his flat and dirty nails.

“But, to obtain the result we desire, we must exasperate my niece’s

pride. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary, that I should see and

talk to her,” said the Princess de Saint-Dizier, reflecting.

“Mdlle. de Cardoville will refuse this interview,” said Father

d’Aigrigny.

“Perhaps,” replied the princess. “But she is so happy that her audacity

must be at its height. Yes, yes--I know her--and I will write in such a

manner, that she will come.”

“You think so?” asked Rodin, with a doubtful air.

“Do not fear it, father,” answered the lady, “she will come. And her

pride once brought into play, we may hope a good deal from it.”

“We must then act, lady,” resumed Rodin; “yes, act promptly. The moment

approaches. Hate and suspicion are awake. There is not a moment to

lose.”

“As for hate,” replied the princess, “Mdlle. de Cardoville must have

seen to what her lawsuit would lead, about what she called her illegal

detention in a lunatic asylum, and that of the two young ladies in St.

Mary’s Convent. Thank heaven, we have friends everywhere! I know from

good authority, that the case will break down from want of evidence, in

spite of the animosity of certain parliamentary magistrates, who shall

be well remembered.”

“Under these circumstances,” replied Rodin, “the departure of the

marshal gives us every latitude. We must act immediately on his

daughters.”

“But how?” said the princess.

“We must see them,” resumed Rodin, “talk with them, study them. Then we

shall act in consequence.”

“But the soldier will not leave them a second,” said Father d’Aigrigny.

“Then,” replied Rodin, “we must talk to them in presence of the soldier,

and get him on our side.”

“That hope is idle,” cried Father d’Aigrigny. “You do not know the

military honor of his character. You do not know this man.”

“Don’t I know him?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. “Did not Mdlle.

de Cardoville present me to him as her liberator, when I denounced you

as the soul of the conspiracy? Did I not restore to him his ridiculous

imperial relic--his cross of honor--when we met at Dr. Baleinier’s? Did

I not bring him back the girls from the convent, and place them in the

arms of their father?”

“Yes,” replied the princess; “but, since that time, my abominable niece

has either guessed or discovered all. She told you so herself, father.”

“She told me, that she considered me her most mortal enemy,” said

Rodin. “Be it so. But did she tell the same to the marshal? Has she

ever mentioned me to him? and if she have done so, has the marshal

communicated this circumstance to his soldier? It may be so; but it is

by no means sure; in any case. I must ascertain the fact; if the soldier

treats me as an enemy, we shall see what is next to be done--but I will

first try to be received as a friend.”

“When?” asked the princess.

“To-morrow morning,” replied Rodin.

“Good heaven, my clear father!” cried the Princess de Saint-Dizier, in

alarm; “if this soldier were to treat you as an enemy--beware--”

“I always beware, madame. I have had to face worse enemies than he is,”

said the Jesuit showing his black teeth; “the cholera to begin with.”

“But he may refuse to see you, and in what way will you then get at

Marshal Simon’s daughters?” said Father d’Aigrigny.

“I do not yet know.” answered Rodin. “But as I intend to do it, I shall

find the means.”

“Father,” said the princess, suddenly, on reflection, “these girls have

never seen me, and I might obtain admittance to them, without sending in

my name.”

“That would be perfectly useless at present, madame, for I must first

know what course to take with respect to them. I must see and converse

with them, at any cost, and then, after I have fixed my plan, your

assistance may be very useful. In any case, please to be ready to

morrow, madame, to accompany me.”

“To what place, father?”

“To Marshal Simon’s.”

“To the marshal’s?”

“Not exactly. You will get into your carriage, and I will take a

hackney-coach. I will then try to obtain an interview with the girls,

and, during that time, you will wait for me at a few yards from the

house. If I succeed, and require your aid, I will come and fetch you; I

can give you my instructions without any appearance of concert between

us.”

“I am content, reverend father; but, in truth, I tremble at the thought

of your interview with that rough trooper.”

“The Lord will watch over his servant, madame!” replied Rodin. “As

for you, father,” added he, addressing the Abbe d’Aigrigny, “despatch

instantly to Vienna the note which is all prepared to announce the

departure and speedy arrival of the marshal. Every precaution has been

taken. I shall write more fully this evening.”

The next morning, about eight o’clock, the Princess de Saint-Dizier,

in her carriage, and Rodin, in his hackney-coach, took the direction of

Marshal Simon’s house.

CHAPTER LIII. HAPPINESS.

Marshal Simon has been absent two days. It is eight o’clock in the

morning. Dagobert, walking on tip-toe with the greatest caution, so as

not to make the floor creak beneath his tread, crosses the room which

leads to the bedchamber of Rose and Blanche and applies his ear to the

door of the apartment. With equal caution, Spoil-sport follows exactly

the movements of his master. The countenance of the soldier is uneasy

and full of thought. As he approaches the door, he says to himself: “I

hope the dear children heard nothing of what happened in the night! It

would alarm them, and it is much better that they should not know it at

present. It might afflict them sadly, poor dears! and they are so gay,

so happy, since they feel sure of their father’s love for them. They

bore his departure so bravely! I would not for the world that they

should know of this unfortunate event.”

Then as he listened, the soldier resumed: “I hear nothing--and yet they

are always awake so early. Can it be sorrow?”

Dagobert’s reflections were here interrupted by two frank, hearty bursts

of laughter, from the interior of the bedroom.

“Come! they are not so sad as I thought,” said the soldier, breathing

more freely. “Probably they know nothing about it.”

Soon, the laughter was again heard with redoubled force, and the

soldier, delighted at this gayety, so rare on the part of “his

children,” was much affected by it: the tears started to his eyes at the

thought that the orphans had at length recovered the serenity natural to

their age; then, passing from one emotion to the other, still listening

at the door, with his body leaning forward, and his hands resting on

his knees, Dagobert’s lip quivered with an expression of mute joy, and,

shaking his head a little, he accompanied with his silent laughter,

the increasing hilarity of the young girls. At last, as nothing is so

contagious as gayety, and as the worthy soldier was in an ecstasy of

joy, he finished by laughing aloud with all his might, without knowing

why, and only because Rose and Blanche were laughing. Spoil-sport had

never seen his master in such a transport of delight; he looked at him

for a while in deep and silent astonishment, and then began to bark in a

questioning way.

At this well-known sound, the laughter within suddenly ceased, and a

sweet voice, still trembling with joyous emotion, exclaimed: “Is it you,

Spoil-sport, that have come to wake us?” The dog understood what was

said, wagged his tail, held down his ears, and, approaching close to the

door, answered the appeal of his young mistress by a kind of friendly

growl.

“Spoil-sport,” said Rose, hardly able to restrain her laughter, “you are

very early this morning.”

“Tell us what o’clock it is, if you please, old fellow?” added Blanche.

“Young ladies, it is past eight,” said suddenly the gruff voice of

Dagobert, accompanying this piece of humor with a loud laugh.

A cry of gay surprise was heard, and then Rose resumed: “Good-morning,

Dagobert.”

“Good-morning, my children. You are very lazy to-day, I must tell you.”