are waiting for her.”
“Oh! there it is,” said Dagobert to himself, his features once more
assuming an expression of anxiety. Then he returned aloud, in a tone of
some embarrassment, for the worthy man was no hand at a falsehood: “My
children, our companion went out this morning--very early. She is gone
to the country--on business--she will not return for some days--so you
had better get up by yourselves for today.”
“Our good Madame Augustine!” exclaimed Blanche, with interest. “I hope
it is nothing bad that has made her leave suddenly--eh, Dagobert?”
“No, no--not at all--only business,” answered the soldier. “To see one
of her relations.”
“Oh, so much the better!” said Rose. “Well, Dagobert, when we call you
can come in.”
“I will come back in a quarter of an hour,” said the soldier as
he withdrew; and he thought to himself: “I must lecture that fool
Loony--for he is so stupid, and so fond of talking, that he will let it
all out.”
The name of the pretended simpleton will serve as a natural transition,
to inform the reader of the cause of the hilarity of the sisters. They
were laughing at the numberless absurdities of the idiot. The girls rose
and dressed themselves, each serving as lady’s-maid to the other. Rose
had combed and arranged Blanche’s hair; it was now Blanche’s turn to do
the same for her sister. Thus occupied, they formed a charming picture.
Rose was seated before the dressing-table; her sister, standing behind
her, was smoothing her beautiful brown hair. Happy age! so little
removed from childhood, that present joy instantly obliterates the
traces of past sorrow! But the sisters felt more than joy; it was
happiness, deep and unalterable, for their father loved them, and their
happiness was a delight, and not a pain to him. Assured of the affection
of his children, he, also, thanks to them, no longer feared any grief.
To those three beings, thus certain of their mutual love, what was a
momentary separation? Having explained this, we shall understand
the innocent gayety of the sisters, notwithstanding their father’s
departure, and the happy, joyous expression, which now filled with
animation their charming faces, on which the late fading rose had begun
once more to bloom. Their faith in the future gave to their countenances
something resolute and decisive, which added a degree of piquancy to the
beauty of their enchanting features.
Blanche, in smoothing her sister’s hair, let fall the comb, and, as she
was stooping to pick it up, Rose anticipated her, saying: “If it had
been broken, we would have put it into the handle-basket.”
Then the two laughed merrily at this expression, which reminded them of
an admirable piece of folly on the part of Loony.
The supposed simpleton had broken the handle of a cup, and when the
governess of the young ladies had reprimanded him for his carelessness,
he had answered: “Never mind, madame; I have put it into the handle
basket.”
“The handle-basket, what is that?”
“Yes, Madame; it is where I keep all the handles I break off the
things!”
“Dear me!” said Rose, drying her eyes; “how silly it is to laugh at such
foolishness.”
“It is droll,” replied Blanche; “how can we help it?”
“All I regret is, that father cannot hear us laugh.”
“He was so happy to see us gay!”
“We must write to him to-day, the story of the handle-basket.”
“And that of the feather-brush, to show that, according to promise, we
kept up our spirits during his absence.”
“Write to him, sister? no, he is to write to us, and we are not to
answer his letters.”
“True! well then, I have an idea. Let us address letters to him here,
Dagobert can put them into the post, and, on his return, our father will
read our correspondence.”
“That will be charming! What nonsense we will write to him, since he
takes pleasure in it!”
“And we, too, like to amuse ourselves.”
“Oh, certainly! father’s last words have given us so much courage.”
“As I listened to them, I felt quite reconciled to his going.”
“When he said to us: ‘My children, I will confide in you all I can. I
go to fulfill a sacred duty, and I must be absent for some time; for
though, when I was blind enough to doubt your affection, I could not
make up my mind to leave you, my conscience was by no means tranquil.
Grief takes such an effect on us, that I had not the strength to come to
a decision, and my days were passed in painful hesitation. But now that
I am certain of your tenderness, all this irresolution has ceased, and
I understand how one duty is not to be sacrificed to another, and that I
have to perform two duties at once, both equally sacred; and this I now
do with joy, and delight, and courage!’”
“Go on, sister!” cried Blanche, rising to draw nearer to Rose. “I think
I hear our father when I remember those words, which must console and
support us during his absence.”
“And then our father continued: ‘Instead of grieving at my departure,
you would rejoice in it, you should be proud and happy. I go to perform
a good and generous act. Fancy to yourselves, that there is somewhere a
poor orphan, oppressed and abandoned by all--and that the father of that
orphan was once my benefactor, and that I had promised him to protect
his son--and that the life of that son is now in peril--tell me, my
children; would you regret that I should leave you to fly to the aid of
such an orphan?’--”
“‘No, no, brave father!’ we answered: ‘we should not then be your
daughters!’” continued Rose, with enthusiasm. “Count upon us! We should
be indeed unhappy if we thought that our sorrow could deprive thee of
thy courage. Go! and every day we will say to ourselves proudly, ‘It was
to perform a great and noble duty that our father left us--we can wait
calmly for his return.’”
“How that idea of duty sustains one, sister!” resumed Rose, with growing
enthusiasm. “It gave our father the courage to leave us without regret,
and to us the courage to bear his absence gayly!”
“And then, how calm we are now! Those mournful dreams, which seemed to
portend such sad events, no longer afflict us.”
“I tell you, sister, this time we are really happy once for all.”
“And then, do you feel like me? I fancy, that I am stronger and more
courageous and that I could brave every danger.”
“I should think so! We are strong enough now. Our father in the midst,
you on one side, I on the other--”
“Dagobert in the vanguard, and Spoil-sport in the rear! Then the army
will be complete, and let ‘em come on by thousands!” added a gruff, but
jovial voice, interrupting the girl, as Dagobert appeared at the half
open door of the room. It was worth looking at his face, radiant with
joy; for the old fellow had somewhat indiscreetly been listening to the
conversation.
“Oh! you were listening, Paul Pry!” said Rose gayly, as she entered the
adjoining room with her sister, and both affectionately embraced the
soldier.
“To be sure, I was listening; and I only regretted not to have ears
as large as Spoil-sport’s! Brave, good girls! that’s how I like to see
you--bold as brass, and saying to care and sorrow: ‘Right about face!
march! go to the devil!’”
“He will want to make us swear, now,” said Rose to her sister, laughing
with all her might.
“Well! now and then, it does no harm,” said the soldier; “it relieves
and calms one, when if one could not swear by five hundred thousand
de--”
“That’s enough!” said Rose, covering with her pretty hand the gray
moustache, so as to stop Dagobert in his speech. “If Madame Augustine
heard you--”
“Our poor governess! so mild and timid,” resumed Blanche. “How you would
frighten her!”
“Yes,” said Dagobert, as he tried to conceal his rising embarrassment;
“but she does not hear us. She is gone into the country.”
“Good, worthy woman!” replied Blanche, with interest. “She said
something of you, which shows her excellent heart.”
“Certainly,” resumed Rose; “for she said to us, in speaking of you, ‘Ah,
young ladies! my affection must appear very little, compared with M.
Dagobert’s. But I feel that I also have the right to devote myself to
you.’”
“No doubt, no doubt! she has a heart of gold,” answered Dagobert. Then
he added to himself, “It’s as if they did it on purpose, to bring the
conversation back to this poor woman.”
“Father made a good choice,” continued Rose. “She is the widow of an old
officer, who was with him in the wars.”
“When we were out of spirits,” said Blanche, “you should have seen her
uneasiness and grief, and how earnestly she set about consoling us.”
“I have seen the tears in her eyes when she looked at us,” resumed Rose.
“Oh! she loves us tenderly, and we return her affection. With regard to
that, Dagobert, we have a plan as soon as our father comes back.”
“Be quiet, sister!” said Blanche, laughing. “Dagobert will not keep our
secret.”
“He!”
“Will you keep it for us, Dagobert?”
“I tell you what,” said the soldier, more and more embarrassed; “you had
better not tell it to me.”
“What! can you keep nothing from Madame Augustine?”
“Ah, Dagobert! Dagobert!” said Blanche, gayly holding up her finger at
the soldier; “I suspect you very much of paying court to our governess.”
“I pay court?” said the soldier--and the expression of his face was so
rueful, as he pronounced these words, that the two sisters burst out
laughing.
Their hilarity was at its height when the door opened and Loony advanced
into room announcing, with a loud voice, “M. Rodin!” In fact, the Jesuit
glided almost imperceptibly into the apartment, as if to take possession
of the ground. Once there, he thought the game his own, and his reptile
eyes sparkled with joy. It would be difficult to paint the surprise of
the two sisters, and the anger of the soldier, at this unexpected visit.
Rushing upon Loony, Dagobert seized him by the collar, and exclaimed:
“Who gave you leave to introduce any one here without my permission?”
“Pardon, M. Dagobert!” said Loony, throwing himself on his knees, and
clasping his hands with an air of idiotic entreaty.
“Leave the room!--and you too!” added the soldier, with a menacing
gesture, as he turned towards Rodin, who had already approached the
girls, with a paternal smile on his countenance.
“I am at your orders, my dear sir,” said the priest, humbly; and he made
a low bow, but without stirring from the spot.
“Will you go?” cried the soldier to Loony, who was still kneeling, and
who, thanks to the advantages of this position, was able to utter a
certain number of words before Dagobert could remove him.
“M. Dagobert,” said Loony in a doleful voice, “I beg pardon for bringing
up the gentleman without leave; but, alas, my head is turned, because of
the misfortune that happened to Madame Augustine.”
“What misfortune?” cried Rose and Blanche together, as they advanced
anxiously towards Loony.
“Will you go?” thundered Dagobert, shaking the servant by the collar, to
force him to rise.
“Speak--speak!” said Blanche, interposing between the soldier and his
prey. “What has happened to Madame Augustine?”
“Oh,” shouted Loony, in spite of the cuffs of the soldier. “Madame
Augustine was attacked in the night with cholera, and taken--”
He was unable to finish. Dagobert struck him a tremendous blow with
his fist, right on the jaw, and, putting forth his still formidable
strength, the old horse-grenadier lifted him to his legs, and with one
violent kick bestowed on the lower part of his back, sent him rolling
into the ante chamber.
Then turning to Rodin, with flushed cheek and sparkling eye, Dagobert
pointed to the door with an expressive gesture, and said in an angry
voice: “Now, be off with you and that quickly!”
“I must pay my respects another time, my dear sir,” said Rodin, as he
retired towards the door, bowing to the young girls.
CHAPTER LIV. DUTY.
Rodin, retreating slowly before the fire of Dagobert’s angry looks,
walked backwards to the door, casting oblique but piercing glances at
the orphans, who were visibly affected by the servant’s intentional
indiscretion. (Dagobert had ordered him not to speak before the girls of
the illness of their governess, and that was quite enough to induce the
simpleton to take the first opportunity of doing so.)
Rose hastily approached the soldier, and said to him: “Is it true--is
it really true that poor Madame Augustine has been attacked with the
cholera?”
“No--I do not know--I cannot tell,” replied the soldier, hesitating;
“besides, what is it to you?”
“Dagobert, you would conceal from us a calamity,” said Blanche. “I
remember now your embarrassment, when we spoke to you of our governess.”
“If she is ill, we ought not to abandon her. She had pity on our
sorrows; we ought to pity her sufferings.”
“Come, sister; come to her room,” said Blanche, advancing towards the
door, where Rodin had stopped short, and stood listening with growing
attention to this unexpected scene, which seemed to give him ample food
for thought.
“You will not leave this room,” said the soldier, sternly, addressing
the two sisters.
“Dagobert,” replied Rose, firmly, “it is a sacred duty, and it would be
cowardice not to fulfil it.”
“I tell you that you shall not leave the room,” said the soldier,
stamping his foot with impatience.
“Dagobert,” replied Blanche, with as resolute an air as her sister’s,
and with a kind of enthusiasm which brought the blood to her fair cheek,
“our father, when he left us, give us an admirable example of devotion
and duty. He would not forgive us were we to forget the lesson.”
“What,” cried Dagobert, in a rage, and advancing towards the sisters to
prevent their quitting the apartment; “you think that if your governess
had the cholera, I would let you go to her under the pretext of
duty?--Your duty is to live, to live happy, for your father’s sake--and
for mine into the bargain--so not a word more of such folly!”
“We can run no danger by going to our governess in her room,” said Rose.
“And if there were danger,” added Blanche, “we ought not to hesitate.
So, Dagobert, be good! and let us pass.”
Rodin, who had listened to what precedes, with sustained attention,
suddenly started, as if a thought had struck him; his eye shone
brightly, and an expression of fatal joy illumined his countenance.
“Dagobert, do not refuse!” said Blanche. “You would do for us what you
reproach us with wishing to do for another.”
Dagobert had as it were, till now stood in the path of the Jesuit and
the twins by keeping close to the door; but, after a moments reflection,
he shrugged his shoulders, stepped to one side, and said calmly: “I was
an old fool. Come, young ladies; if you find Madame Augustine in the
house, I will allow you to remain with her.”
Surprised at these words, the girls stood motionless and irresolute.
“If our governess is not here, where is she, then?” said Rose.
“You think, perhaps, that I am going to tell you in the excitement in
which you are!”
“She is dead!” cried Rose growing pale.
“No, no--be calm,” said the soldier, hastily; “I swear to you, by your
father’s honor, that she is not dead. At the first appearance of the
disorder, she begged to be removed from the house, fearing the contagion
for those in it.”
“Good and courageous woman!” said Rose tenderly, “And you will not allow
us--”
“I will not allow you to go out, even if I have to lock you up in your
room,” cried the soldier, again stamping with rage; then, remembering
that the blunderhead’s indiscretion was the sole cause of this
unfortunate incident, he added, with concentrated fury: “Oh! I will
break my stick upon that rascal’s back.”
So saying, he turned towards the door, where Rodin still stood, silent
and attentive, dissembling with habitual impassibility the fatal hopes
he had just conceived in his brain. The girls, no longer doubting the
removal of their governess, and convinced that Dagobert would not tell
them whither they had conveyed her, remained pensive and sad.
At sight of the priest, whom he had forgotten for the moment, the
soldier’s rage increased, and he said to him abruptly: “Are you still
there?”
“I would merely observe to you, my dear sir,” said Rodin, with that air
of perfect good nature which he knew so well how to assume, “that you
were standing before the door, which naturally prevented me from going
out.”
“Well, now nothing prevents you--so file off!”
“Certainly, I will file off, if you wish it, my dear sir though I think
I have some reason to be surprised at such a reception.”
“It is no reception at all--so begone!”
“I had come, my dear sir to speak to you--”
“I have no time for talking.”
“Upon business of great importance.”
“I have no other business of importance than to remain with these
children.”
“Very good, my dear sir,” said Rodin, pausing on the threshold. “I
will not disturb you any longer; excuse my indiscretion. The bearer of
excellent news from Marshal Simon, I came--”
“News from our father!” cried Rose, drawing nearer to Rodin.
“Oh, speak, speak, sir!” added Blanche.
“You have news of the marshal!” said Dagobert, glancing suspiciously at
Rodin. “Pray, what is this news?”
But Rodin, without immediately answering the question, returned from the
threshold into the room, and, contemplating Rose and Blanche by turns
with admiration, he resumed: “What happiness for me, to be able to bring
some pleasure to these dear young ladies. They are even as I left them
graceful, and fair, and charming--only less sad than on the day when I
fetched them from the gloomy convent in which they were kept prisoners,
to restore them to the arms of their glorious father!”
“That was their place, and this is not yours,” said Dagobert, harshly,
still holding the door open behind Rodin.
“Confess, at least that I was not so much out of place at Dr.
Baleinier’s,” said the Jesuit, with a cunning air. “You know, for it
was there that I restored to you the noble imperial cross you so much
regretted--the day when that good Mdlle. de Cardoville only prevented
you from strangling me by telling you that I was her liberator. Aye!
it was just as I have the honor of stating, young ladies,” added Rodin,
with a smile; “this brave soldier was very near strangling me, for, be
it said without offense, he has, in spite of his age, a grasp of iron.
Ha, ha! the Prussians and Cossacks must know that better than I!”
These few words reminded Dagobert and the twins of the services which
Rodin had really rendered them; and though the marshal had heard
Mdlle. de Cardoville speak of Rodin as of a very dangerous man, he
had forgotten, in the midst of so many anxieties, to communicate this
circumstance to Dagobert. But this latter, warned by experience, felt,
in spite of favorable appearances, a secret aversion for the Jesuit; so
he replied abruptly: “The strength of my grasp has nothing to do with
the matter.”
“If I allude to that little innocent playfulness on your part, my dear
sir,” said Rodin, in his softest tone, approaching the two sisters with
a wriggle which was peculiar to him; “if I allude to it, you see, it was
suggested by the involuntary recollection of the little services I
was happy enough to render you.” Dagobert looked fixedly at Rodin, who
instantly veiled his glance beneath his flabby eyelids.
“First of all,” said the soldier, after a moment’s silence, “a true man
never speaks of the services he has rendered, and you come back three
times to the subject.”
“But Dagobert,” whispered Rose, “if he brings news of our father?”
The soldier made a sign, as if to beg the girl to let him speak,
and resumed, looking full at Rodin: “You are cunning, but I’m no raw
recruit.”
“I cunning?” said Rodin, with a sanctified air.
“Yes, very. You think to puzzle me with your fine phrases; but I’m
not to be caught in that way. Just listen to me. Some of your band of
black-gowns stole my cross; you returned it to me. Some of the same band
carried off these children; you brought them back. It is also true that
you denounced the renegade D’Aigrigny. But all this only proves two
things: first, that you were vile enough to be the accomplice of these
scoundrels; and secondly, that, having been their accomplice, you were
base enough to betray them. Now, those two facts are equally bad, and I
suspect you most furiously. So march off at once; your presence is not
good for these children.”
“But, my dear sir--”
“I will have no buts,” answered Dagobert, in an angry voice. “When a man
of your look does good, it is only to hide some evil; and one must be on
guard.”
“I understand your suspicions,” said Rodin coolly, hiding his growing
disappointment, for he had hoped it would have been easy to coax the
soldier; “but, if you reflect, what interest have I in deceiving you?
And in what should the deception consist?”
“You have some interest or other in persisting to remain here, when I
tell you to go away.”
“I have already had the honor of informing you of the object of my
visit, my dear sir.”
“To bring news of Marshal Simon?”
“That is exactly the case. I am happy enough to have news of the
marshal. Yes, my dear young ladies,” added Rodin, as he again approached
the two sisters, to recover, as it were, the ground he had lost, “I have
news of your glorious father!”
“Then come to my room directly, and you can tell it to me,” replied
Dagobert.
“What! you would be cruel enough to deprive these dear ladies of the
pleasure--”
“By heaven, sir!” cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder, “you will make
me forget myself. I should be sorry to fling a man of your age down the
stairs. Will you be gone?”
“Well, well,” said Rodin mildly, “do not be angry with a poor old man.
I am really not worth the trouble. I will go with you to your room, and
tell you what I have to communicate. You will repent not having let me
speak before these dear young ladies; but that will be your punishment,
naughty man!”
So saying, Rodin again bowed very low, and, concealing his rage and
vexation, left the room before Dagobert, who made a sign to the two
sisters, and then followed, closing the door after him.
“What news of our father, Dagobert?” said Rose anxiously, when the
soldier returned, after a quarter of an hours absence.
“Well, that old conjurer knows that the marshal set out in good spirits,
and he seems acquainted with M. Robert. How could he be informed of all
this? I cannot tell,” added the soldier, with a thoughtful air; “but it
is only another reason to be on one’s guard against him.”
“But what news of our father?” asked Rose.
“One of that old rascal’s friends (I think him a rascal still) knows
your father, he tells me, and met him five-and-twenty leagues from here.
Knowing that this man was coming to Paris, the marshal charged him to
let you know that he was in perfect health, and hoped soon to see you
again.”
“Oh, what happiness!” cried Rose.
“You see, you were wrong to suspect the poor old man, Dagobert,” added
Blanche. “You treated him so harshly!”
“Possibly so; but I am not sorry for it.”
“And why?”
“I have my reasons; and one of the best is that, when I saw him came in,
and go sidling and creeping round about us, I felt chilled to the marrow
of my bones, without knowing why. Had I seen a serpent crawling towards
you, I should not have been more frightened. I knew, of course, that he
could not hurt you in my presence; but I tell you, my children, in spite
of the services he has no doubt rendered us, it was all I could do to
refrain from throwing him out of the window. Now, this manner of proving
my gratitude is not natural, and one must be on one’s guard against
people who inspire us with such ideas.”
“Good Dagobert, it is your affection for us that makes you so
suspicious,” said Rose, in a coaxing tone; “it proves how much you love
us.”
CHAPTER LV. THE IMPROVISED HOSPITAL
Among a great number of temporary hospitals opened at the time of the
cholera in every quarter of Paris, one had been established on the
ground-floor of a large house in the Rue du Mont-Blanc. The vacant
apartments had been generously placed by their proprietor at the
disposal of the authorities; and to this place were carried a number
of persons, who, being suddenly attacked with the contagion, were
considered in too dangerous a state to be removed to the principal
hospitals.
Two days had elapsed since Rodin’s visit to Marshal Simon’s daughters.
Shortly after he had been expelled, the Princess de Saint-Dizier had
entered to see them, under the cloak of being a house-to-house visitor
to collect funds for the cholera sufferers.
Choosing the moment when Dagobert, deceived by her lady-like demeanor,
had withdrawn, she counselled the twins that it was their duty to go
and see their governess, whom she stated to be in the hospital we now
describe.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning. The persons who had watched
during the night by the sick people, in the hospital established in
the Rue du Mont-Blanc, were about to be relieved by other voluntary
assistants.
“Well, gentlemen,” said one of those newly arrived, “how are we getting
on? Has there been any decrease last night in the number of the sick?”
“Unfortunately, no; but the doctors think the contagion has reached its
height.”
“Then there is some hope of seeing it decrease.”
“And have any of the gentlemen, whose places we come to take, been
attacked by the disease?”
“We came eleven strong last night; we are only nine now.”
“That is bad. Were these two persons taken off rapidly?”
“One of the victims, a young man of twenty-five years of age, a cavalry
officer on furlough, was struck as it were by lightning. In less than a
quarter of an hour he was dead. Though such facts are frequent, we were
speechless with horror.”
“Poor young man!”
“He had a word of cordial encouragement and hope for every one. He had
so far succeeded in raising the spirits of the patients, that some of
them who were less affected by the cholera than by the fear of it, were
able to quit the hospital nearly well.”
“What a pity! So good a young man! Well, he died gloriously; it requires
as much courage as on the field of battle.”
“He had only one rival in zeal and courage, and that is a Young priest,
with an angelic countenance, whom they call the Abbe Gabriel. He is
indefatigable; he hardly takes an hour’s rest, but runs from one to
the other, and offers himself to everybody. He forgets nothing. The
consolation; which he offers come from the depths of his soul, and are
not mere formalities in the way of his profession. No, no, I saw him
weep over a poor woman, whose eyes he had closed after a dreadful agony.
Oh, if all priests were like him!”
“No doubt, a good priest is most worthy of respect. But! who is the
other victim of last night?”
“Oh! his death was frightful. Do not speak of it. I have still the
horrible scene before my eyes.”
“A sudden attack of cholera?”
“If it had only been the contagion, I should not so shudder at the
remembrance.”
“What then did he die of?”
“It is a string of horrors. Three days ago, they brought here a man, who
was supposed to be only attacked with cholera. You have no doubt heard
speak of this personage. He is the lion-tamer, that drew all Paris to
the Porte-Saint-Martin.”
“I know the man you mean. Called Morok. He performed a kind of play with
a tame panther.”
“Exactly so; I was myself present at a similar scene, which a stranger,
an Indian, in consequence of a wager, was said at the time, jumped upon
the stage and killed the panther.”
“Well, this Morok, brought here as a cholera-patient, and indeed with
all the symptoms of the contagion, soon showed signs of a still more
frightful malady.”
“And this was--”
“Hydrophobia.”
“Did he become mad?”
“Yes; he confessed, that he had been bitten a few days before by one
of the mastiffs in his menagerie; unfortunately, we only learnt this
circumstance after the terrible attack, which cost the life of the poor
fellow we deplore.”
“How did it happen, then?”
“Morok was in a room with three other patients. Suddenly seized with a
sort of furious delirium, he rose, uttering ferocious cries, and rushed
raving mad into the passage. Our poor friend made an attempt to stop
him. This kind of resistance increased the frenzy of Morok, who threw
himself on the man that crossed his path, and, tearing him with his
teeth, fell down in horrible convulsions.”
“Oh! you are right. ‘Twas indeed frightful. And, not withstanding every
assistance this victim of Morok’s--”
“Died during the night, in dreadful agony; for the shock had been so
violent, that brain-fever almost instantly declared itself.”
“And is Morok dead?”
“I do not know. He was to be taken to another hospital, after being fast
bound in the state of weakness which generally succeeds the fit. But,
till he can be removed he has been confined in a room upstairs.”
“But he cannot recover.”
“I should think he must be dead by this time. The doctors did not give
him twenty-four hours to live.”
The persons engaged in this conversation were standing in an
ante-chamber on the ground-floor, in which usually assembled those who
came to offer their voluntary aid to the sick. One door of this room
communicated with the rest of the hospital, and the other with the
passage that opened upon the courtyard.
“Dear me!” said one of the two speakers, looking through the window.
“See what two charming girls have just got out of that elegant carriage.
How much alike they are! Such a resemblance is indeed extraordinary.”
“No doubt they are twins. Poor young girls! dressed in Mourning. They
have perhaps lost father or mother.”
“One would imagine they are coming this way.”
“Yes, they are coming up the steps.”
And indeed Rose and Blanche soon entered the antechamber, with a timid,
anxious air, though a sort of feverish excitement was visible in their
looks. One of the two men that were talking together, moved by the
embarrassment of the girls, advanced toward them, and said, in a tone of
attentive politeness: “Is there anything I can do for you, ladies?”
“Is not this, sir,” replied Rose, “the infirmary of the Rue du Mont
Blanc?”
“Yes, miss.”
“A lady, called Madame Augustine du Tremblay, was brought here, we are
told, about two days ago. Could we see her?”
“I would observe to you, miss, that there is some danger in entering the
sick-wards.”
“It is a dear friend that we wish to see,” answered Rose, in a mild and
firm tone, which sufficiently expressed that she was determined to brave
the danger.
“I cannot be sure, miss,” resumed the other, “that the person you seek
is here; but, if you will take the trouble to walk into this room on the
left, you will find there the good Sister Martha; she has the care
of the women’s wards, and will give you all the information you can
desire.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Blanche, with a graceful bow; and she and her
sister entered together the apartment which had been pointed out to
them.
“They are really charming,” said the man, looking after the two sisters,
who soon disappeared from his view. “It would be a great pity if--”
He was unable to finish. A frightful tumult, mingled with cries of alarm
and horror, rose suddenly from the adjoining rooms. Almost instantly,
two doors were thrown open, and a number of the sick, half-naked, pale,
fleshless, and their features convulsed with terror, rushed into the
antechamber, exclaiming: “Help! help! the madman!” It is impossible to
paint the scene of despairing and furious confusion which followed this
panic of so many affrighted wretches, flying to the only other door, to
escape from the perils they dreaded, and there, struggling and trampling
on each other to pass through the narrow entrance.
At the moment when the last of these unhappy creatures succeeded in
reaching the door, dragging himself along upon his bleeding hands, for
he had been thrown down and almost crushed in the confusion--Morok,
the object of so much terror--Morok himself appeared. He was a horrible
sight. With the exception of a rag bound about his middle, his wan form
was entirely naked, and from his bare legs still hung the remnants of
the cords he had just broken. His thick, yellow hair stood almost on
end, his beard bristled, his savage eyes rolled full of blood in their
orbits, and shone with a glassy brightness; his lips were covered with
foam; from time to time, he uttered hoarse, guttural cries. The veins,
visible on his iron limbs were swollen almost to bursting. He bounded
like a wild beast, and stretched out before him his bony and quivering
hands. At the moment Morok reached the doorway, by which those he
pursued made their escape, some persons, attracted by the noise, managed
to close this door from without, whilst others secured that which
communicated with the sick-ward.
Morok thus found himself a prisoner. He ran to the window to force it
open, and threw himself into the courtyard. But, stopping suddenly, he
drew back from the glittering panes, seized with that invincible horror
which all the victims of hydrophobia feel at the sight of any shining
object, particularly glass. The unfortunate creatures whom he had
pursued, saw him from the courtyard exhausting himself in furious
efforts to open the doors that just had been closed upon him. Then,
perceiving the inutility of his attempts, he uttered savage cries, and
rushed furiously round the room, like a wild beast that seeks in vain to
escape from its cage.
But, suddenly, those spectators of this scene, who had approached
nearest to the window, uttered a loud exclamation of fear and anguish.
Morok had perceived the little door which led to the closet occupied by
Sister Martha, where Rose and Blanche had entered a few minutes before.
Hoping to get out by this way, Morok drew the door violently towards
him, and succeeded in half opening it, notwithstanding the resistance he
experienced from the inside. For an instant the affrighted crowd saw the
stiffened arms Of Sister Martha and the orphans, clinging to the door,
and holding it back with all their might.
CHAPTER LVI. HYDROPHOBIA.
When the sick people, assembled in the courtyard, saw the desperate
efforts of Morok to force the door of the room which contained Sister
Martha and the orphans, their fright redoubled. “It is all over, Sister
Martha!” cried they.
“The door will give way.”
“And the closet has no other entrance.”
“There are two young girls in mourning with her.”
“Come! we must not leave these poor women to encounter the madman.
Follow me, friends!” cried generously one of the spectators, who was
still blessed with health, and he rushed towards the steps to return to
the ante-chamber.
“It’s too late! it’s only exposing yourself in vain,” cried many
persons, holding him back by force.
At this moment, voices were heard, exclaiming: “Here is the Abbe
Gabriel.”
“He is coming downstairs. He has heard the noise.”
“He is asking what is the matter.”
“What will he do?”
Gabriel, occupied with a dying person in a neighboring room, had,
indeed, just learned that Morok, having broken his bonds, had succeeded
in escaping from the chamber in which he had been temporarily confined.
Foreseeing the terrible dangers which might result from the escape of
the lion-tamer, the missionary consulted only his courage, and hastened
down, in the hope of preventing greater misfortunes. In obedience to
his orders, an attendant followed him, bearing a brazier full of hot
cinders, on which lay several irons, at a white heat, used by the
doctors for cauterizing, in desperate cases of cholera.
The angelic countenance of Gabriel was very pale; but calm intrepidity
shone upon his noble brow. Hastily crossing the passage, and making his
way through the crowd, he went straight to the ante-chamber door. As
he approached it, one of the sick people said to him, in a lamentable
voice; “Ah, sir! it is all over. Those who can see through the window
say that Sister Martha is lost.”
Gabriel made no answer, but grasped the key of the door. Before entering
the room, however, he turned to the attendant, and said to him in a firm
voice: “Are the irons of a white heat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then wait here, and be ready. As for you, my friends,” he added,
turning to some of the sick, who shuddered with terror, “as soon as
I enter shut the door after me. I will answer for the rest. And you;
friend, only bring your irons when I call.”
And the young missionary turned the key in the lock. At this juncture,
a cry of alarm, pity, and admiration rose from every lip, and the
spectators drew back from the door, with an involuntary feeling of
fear. Raising his eyes to heaven, as if to invoke its assistance at this
terrible moment, Gabriel pushed open the door, and immediately closed it
behind him. He was alone with Morok.
The lion-tamer, by a last furious effort, had almost succeeded in
opening the door, to which Sister Martha and the orphans were clinging,
in a fit of terror, uttering piercing cries. At the sound of Gabriel’s
footsteps, Morok turned round suddenly. Then, instead of continuing
his attack on the closet, he sprang, with a roar and a bound, upon the
new-comer.
During this time, Sister Martha and the orphans, not knowing the
cause of the sudden retreat of their assailant, took advantage of the
opportunity to close and bolt the door, and thus placed themselves
in security from a new attack. Morok, with haggard eye, and teeth
convulsively clinched, had rushed upon Gabriel, his hands extended
to seize him by the throat. The missionary stood the shock valiantly.
Guessing, at a glance, the intention of his adversary, he seized him
by the wrists as he advanced, and, holding him back, bent him down
violently with a vigorous hand. For a second, Morok and Gabriel remained
mute, breathless, motionless, gazing on each other; then the missionary
strove to conquer the efforts of the madman, who, with violent jerks,
attempted to throw himself upon him, and to seize and tear him with his
teeth.
Suddenly the lion-tamer’s strength seemed to fail, his knees quivered,
his livid head sank upon his shoulder, his eyes closed. The missionary,
supposing that a momentary weakness had succeeded to the fit of rage,
and that the wretch was about to fall, relaxed his hold in order to lend
him assistance. But no sooner did he feel himself at liberty, thanks
to his crafty device, than Morok flung himself furiously upon Gabriel.
Surprised by this sudden attack, the latter stumbled, and at once felt
himself clasped into the iron arms of the madman. Yet, with redoubled
strength and energy, struggling breast to breast, foot to foot, the
missionary in his turn succeeded in tripping up his adversary, and,
throwing him with a vigorous effort, again seized his hands, and now
held him down beneath his knee. Having thus completely mastered him,
Gabriel turned his head to call for assistance, when Morok, by a
desperate strain, succeeded in raising himself a little, and seized with
his teeth the left arm of the missionary. At this sharp, deep, horrible
bite, which penetrated to the very bone, Gabriel could not restrain a
scream of anguish and horror. He strove in vain to disengage himself,
for his arm was held fast, as in a vice, between the firm-set jaws of
Morok.
This frightful scene had lasted less time than it has taken in the
description, when suddenly the door leading to the passage was violently
opened, and several courageous men, who had learned from the patients
to what danger the young priest was exposed, came rushing to his
assistance, in spite of his recommendation not to enter till he should
call. The attendant was amongst the number, with the brazier and the hot
irons. Gabriel, as soon as he perceived him, said to him in an agitated
voice: “Quick, friend! your iron. Thank God I had thought of that.”
One of the men who had entered the room was luckily provided with a
blanket; and the moment the missionary succeeded in wresting his arm
from the clinched teeth of Morok, whom he still held down with his knee,
this blanket was thrown over the madman’s head, so that he could now be
held and bound without danger, notwithstanding his desperate resistance.
Then Gabriel rose, tore open the sleeve of his cassock, and laying bare
his left arm, on which a deep bite was visible, bleeding, of a bluish
color, he beckoned the attendant to draw near, seized one of the hot
irons, and, with a firm and sure hand, twice applied the burning metal
to the wound, with a calm heroism which struck all the spectators, with
admiration. But soon so many various emotions, intrepidly sustained,
were followed by a natural reaction. Large drops of sweat stood upon
Gabriel’s brow; his long light hair clung to his temples; he grew deadly
pale, reeled, lost his senses, and was carried into the next room to
receive immediate attention.
An accidental circumstance, likely enough to occur, had converted one
of the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s falsehoods into a truth. To induce
the orphans to go to the hospital, she had told them Gabriel was there,
which at the time she was far from believing. On the contrary, she would
have wished to prevent a meeting, which, from the attachment of the
missionary to the girls, might interfere with her projects. A little
while after the terrible scene we have just related, Rose and Blanche,
accompanied by Sister Martha, entered a vast room, of a strange and
fatal aspect, containing a number of women who had suddenly been seized
with cholera.
These immense apartments, generously supplied for the purpose of a
temporary hospital, had been furnished with excessive luxury. The room
now occupied by the sick women, of whom we speak, had been used for
a ball-room. The white panels glittered with sumptuous gilding, and
magnificent pier-glasses occupied the spaces between the windows,
through which could be seen the fresh verdure of a pleasant garden,
smiling beneath the influence of budding May. In the midst of all
this gilded luxury, on a rich, inlaid floor of costly woods, were seen
arranged in regular order four rows of beds, of every shape and kind,
from the humble truckle-bed to the handsome couch in carved mahogany.
This long room was divided into two compartments by a temporary
partition, four or five feet in height. They had thus been able to
manage the four rows of beds. This partition finished at some little
distance from either end of the room, so as to leave an open space
without beds, for the volunteer attendants, when the sick did not
require their aid. At one of these extremities of the room was a lofty
and magnificent marble chimney piece, ornamented with gilt bronze.
On the fire beneath, various drinks were brewing for the patients. To
complete the singular picture, women of every class took their turns in
attending upon the sick, to whose sighs and groans they always responded
with consoling words of hope and pity. Such was the place, strange and
mournful, that Rose and Blanche entered together, hand in hand, a short
time after Gabriel had displayed such heroic courage in the struggle
against Morok. Sister Martha accompanied Marshal Simon’s daughters.
After speaking a few words to them in a whisper, she pointed out to them
the two divisions in which the beds were arranged, and herself went to
the other end of the room to give some orders.
The orphans, still under the impression of the terrible danger from
which Gabriel had rescued them without their knowing it, were both
excessively pale; yet their eyes were expressive of firm resolution.
They had determined not only to perform what they considered an
imperative duty, but to prove themselves worthy of their valiant father;
they were acting too for their mother’s sake, since they had been told
that, dying in Siberia without receiving the sacrament, her eternal
felicity might depend on the proofs they gave of Christian devotion.
Need we add that the Princess de Saint-Dizier, following the advice of
Rodin, had, in a second interview, skillfully brought about without the
knowledge of Dagobert, taken advantage of the excitable qualities
of these poor, confiding, simple, and generous souls, by a fatal
exaggeration of the most noble and courageous sentiments. The orphans
having asked Sister Martha if Madame Augustine du Tremblay had been
brought to this asylum within the last three days, that person had
answered, that she really did not know, but, if they would go through
the women’s wards, it would be easy for them to ascertain. For the
abominable hypocrite, who, in conjunction with Rodin, had sent these
two children to encounter a mortal peril, had told an impudent falsehood
when she affirmed that their governess had been removed to this
hospital. During their exile, and their toilsome journey with Dagobert,
the sisters had been exposed to many hard trials. But never had they
witnessed so sad a spectacle as that which now offered itself to their
view.
The long row of beds, on which so many poor creatures writhed in agony,
some uttering deep groans, some only a dull rattle in the throat, some
raving in the delirium of fever, or calling on those from whom they were
about to part forever--these frightful sights and sounds, which are
too much even for brave men, would inevitably, (such was the execrable
design of Rodin and his accomplices) make a fatal impression on these
young girls, urged by the most generous motives to undertake this
perilous visit. And then--sad memory! which awoke, in all its deep and
poignant bitterness, by the side of the first beds they came to--it was
of this very malady, the Cholera, that their mother had died a painful
death. Fancy the twins entering this vast room, of so fearful an
aspect, and, already much shaken by the terror which Morok had inspired,
pursuing their search in the midst of these unfortunate creatures, whose
dying pangs reminded them every instant of the dying agony of their
mother! For a moment, at sight of the funeral hall, Rose and Blanche had
felt their resolution fail them. A black presentiment made them regret
their heroic imprudence; and, moreover, since several minutes they had
begun to feel an icy shudder, and painful shootings across the temples;
but, attributing these symptoms to the fright occasioned by Morok, their
good and valiant natures soon stifled all these fears. They exchanged
glances of affection, their courage revived, and both of them--Rose
on one side of the partition, and Blanche on the other--proceeded with
their painful task. Gabriel, carried to the doctors’ private room, had
soon recovered his senses. Thanks to his courage and presence of mind,
his wound, cauterized in time, could have no dangerous consequences.
As soon as it was dressed he insisted on returning to the women’s ward,
where he had be offering pious consolations to a dying person at the
moment they had come to inform him of the frightful danger caused by the
escape of Morok.
A few minutes before the missionary entered the room, Rose and Blanche
arrived almost together at the term of their mournful search, one from
the left, the other from the right-hand row of beds, separated by the
partition which divided the hall into compartments. The sisters had not
yet seen each other. Their steps tottered as they advanced, and they
were forced, from time to time, to lean against the beds as they passed
along. Their strength was--rapidly failing them. Giddy with fear and
pain, they appeared to act almost mechanically. Alas! the orphans had
been seized almost at the same moment with the terrible symptoms of
cholera. In consequence of that species of physiological phenomenon, of
which we have already spoken--a phenomenon by no means rare in twins,
which had already been displayed on one or two occasions of their
sickness--their organizations seemed liable to the same sensations, the
same simultaneous accidents, like two flowers on one stem, which bloom
and fade together. The sight of so much suffering, and so many deaths,
had accelerated the development of this dreadful disease. Already, on
their agitated and altered countenances, they bore the mortal tokens of
the contagion, as they came forth, each on her own side, from the
two subdivisions of the room in which they had vainly sought their
governess. Until now separated by the partition, Rose and Blanche had
not yet seen each other; but, when at length their eyes met, there
ensued a heart rending scene.
CHAPTER LVII. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
To the charming freshness of the sisters’ faces had succeeded a livid
pallor. Their large blue eyes, now hollow and sunk in, appeared of
enormous dimensions. Their lips, once so rosy, were now suffused with a
violet hue, and a similar color was gradually displacing the transparent
carmine of their cheeks and fingers. It was as if all the roses in their
charming countenances were fading and turning blue before the icy blast
of death.
When the orphans met, tottering and hardly able to sustain themselves,
a cry of mutual horror burst from their lips. Each of them exclaimed, at
sight of the fearful change in her sister’s features. “Are you also ill,
sister?” And then, bursting into tears, they threw themselves into each
other’s arms, and looked anxiously at one another.
“Good heaven, Rose! how pale you are!”
“Like you, sister.”
“And do you feel a cold shudder?”
“Yes, and my sight fails me.”
“My bosom is all on fire.”
“Sister, we are perhaps going to die.”
“Let it only be together!”
“And our poor father?”
“And Dagobert?”
“Sister, our dream has come true!” cried Rose, almost deliriously, as
she threw her arms round Blanche’s neck. “Look! look! the Angel Gabriel
is here to fetch us.”
Indeed, at this moment, Gabriel entered the open space at the end of the
room. “Heaven! what do I see?” cried the young priest. “The daughters of
Marshal Simon!”
And, rushing forward, he received the sisters in his arms, for they were
no longer able to stand. Already their drooping heads, their half-closed
eyes, their painful and difficult breathing, announced the approach of
death. Sister Martha was close at hand. She hastened to respond to the
call of Gabriel. Aided by this pious woman, he was able to lift the
orphans upon a bed reserved for the doctor in attendance. For fear that
the sight of this mournful agony should make too deep an impression on
the other patients, Sister Martha drew a large curtain, and the sisters
were thus in some sort walled off from the rest of the room. Their hands
had been so tightly clasped together, during a nervous paroxysm, that it
was impossible to separate them. It was in this position that the first
remedies were applied--remedies incapable of conquering the violence
of the disease, but which at least mitigated for a few moments the
excessive pains they suffered, and restored some faint glimmer of
perception to their obscured and troubled senses. At this moment,
Gabriel was leaning over the bed with a look of inexpressible grief.
With breaking heart, and face bathed in tears, he thought of the strange
destiny, which thus made him a witness of the death of these girls, his
relations, whom but a few months before he had rescued from the horrors
of the tempest. In spite of his firmness of soul, the missionary could
not help shuddering as he reflected on the fate of the orphans, the
death of Jacques Rennepont, and the fearful devices by which M. Hardy,
retired to the cloistered solitude of St. Herein, had become a member
of the Society of Jesus almost in dying. The missionary said to himself,
that already four members of the Rennepont family--his family--had been
successively struck down by some dreadful fate; and he asked himself
with alarm, how it was that the detestable interests of the Society of
Loyola should be served by a providential fatality? The astonishment of
the young missionary would have given place to the deepest horror, could
he have known the part that Rodin and his accomplices had taken, both
in the death of Jacques Rennepont, by exciting, through Morok, the evil
propensities of the artisan, and in the approaching end of Rose and
Blanche, by converting, through the Princess de Saint-Dizier, the
generous inspirations of the orphans into suicidal heroism.
Roused for a moment from the painful stupor in which they had been
plunged, Rose and Blanche half-opened their large eyes, already dull
and faded. Then, more and more bewildered they both gazed fixedly at the
angelic countenance of Gabriel.
“Sister,” said Rose, in a faint voice, “do you see the archangel--as in
our dreams, in Germany?”
“Yes--three days ago--he appeared to us.”
“He is come to fetch us.”
“Alas! will our death save our poor mother from purgatory?”
“Angel! blessed angel! pray God for our mother--and for us!” Until
now, stupefied with amazement and sorrow, almost suffocated with sobs,
Gabriel had not been able to utter a word. But at these words of the
orphans, he exclaimed: “Dear children, why doubt of your mother’s
salvation? Oh! never did a purer soul ascend to its Creator. Your
mother? I know from my adopted father, that her virtues and courage
were the admiration of all who knew her. Oh! believe me; God has blessed
her.”
“Do you hear, sister?” cried Rose, as a ray of celestial joy illumined
for an instant the livid faces of the orphans. “God has blessed our
mother.”
“Yes, yes,” resumed Gabriel; “banish these gloomy ideas. Take courage,
poor children! You must not die. Think of your father.”
“Our father?” said Blanche, shuddering; and she continued, with a
mixture of reason and wild excitement, which would have touched the
soul of the most indifferent: “Alas! he will not find us on his return.
Forgive us, father! we did not think to do any harm. We wished, like
you, to do something generous--to help our governess.”
“And we did not think to die so quickly, and so soon. Yesterday, we were
gay and happy.”
“Oh, good angel! you will appear to our father, even as you have
appeared to us. You will tell him that, in dying--the last thought of
his children--was of him.”
“We came here without Dagobert’s knowing it--do not let our father scold
him.”
“Blessed angel!” resumed the other sister in a still more feeble voice;
“appear to Dagobert, also. Tell him, that we ask his forgiveness, for
the grief our death will occasion him.”
“And let our old friend caress our poor Spoil-sport for us--our faithful
guardian,” added Blanche, trying to smile.
“And then,” resumed Rose, in a voice that was growing still fainter,
“promise to appear to two other persons, that have been so kind to
us--good Mother Bunch--and the beautiful Lady Adrienne.”
“We forget none whom we have loved,” said Blanche, with a last effort.
“Now, God grant we may go to our mother, never to leave her more!”
“You promised it good angel--you know you did--in the dream. You said
to us: ‘Poor children--come from so far--you will have traversed the
earth--to rest on the maternal bosom!’”
“Oh! it is dreadful--dreadful! So young--and no hope!” murmured Gabriel,
as he buried his face in his hands. “Almighty Father! Thy views are
impenetrable. Alas! yet why should these children die this cruel death?”
Rose heaved a deep sigh and said in an expiring tone: “Let us be buried
together!--united in life, in death not divided--”
And the two turned their dying looks upon Gabriel, and stretched out
towards him their supplicating hands.
“Oh, blessed martyrs to a generous devotion!” cried the missionary,
raising to heaven his eyes streaming with tears. “Angelic souls!
treasures of innocence and truth! ascend, ascend to heaven--since God
calls you to him, and the earth is not worthy to possess you!”
“Sister! father!” were the last words that the orphans pronounced with
their dying voices.
And then the twins, by a last instinctive impulse, endeavored to clasp
each other, and their eyes half-opened to exchange yet another glance.
They shuddered twice or thrice, their limbs stiffened, a deep sigh
struggled from their violet-colored lips. Rose and Blanche were both
dead! Gabriel and Sister Martha, after closing the eyes of the orphans,
knelt down to pray by the side of that funeral couch. Suddenly a
great tumult was heard in the room. Rapid footsteps, mingled with
imprecations, sounded close at hand, the curtain was drawn aside from
this mournful scene, and Dagobert entered precipitately, pale, haggard,
his dress in disorder. At sight of Gabriel and the Sister of Charity
kneeling beside the corpses of his children, the soldier uttered a
terrible roar, and tried to advance--but in vain--for, before Gabriel
could reach him, Dagobert fell flat on the ground, and his gray head
struck violently on the floor.
It is night--a dark and stormy night. One o’clock in the morning has
just sounded from the church of Montmartre. It is to the cemetery of
Montmartre that is carried the coffin which, according to the last
wishes of Rose and Blanche contains them both. Through the thick shadow,
which rests upon that field of death, may be seen moving a pale light.
It is the gravedigger. He advances with caution; a dark lantern is in
his hand. A man wrapped in a cloak accompanies him. He holds down his
head and weeps. It is Samuel. The old Jew--the keeper of the house
in the Rue Saint-Francois. On the night of the funeral of Jacques
Rennepont, the first who died of the seven heirs, and who was buried
in another cemetery, Samuel had a similar mysterious interview with the
gravedigger, to obtain a favor at the price of gold. A strange and awful
favor! After passing down several paths, bordered with cypress trees, by
the side of many tombs, the Jew and the gravedigger arrived, at a little
glade, situated near the western wall of the cemetery. The night was so
dark, that scarcely anything could be seen. After moving his lantern up
and down, and all about, the gravedigger showed Samuel, at the foot of a
tall yew-tree, with long black branches, a little mound of newly-raised
earth, and said: “It is here.”
“You are sure of it?”
“Yes, yes--two bodies in one coffin! it is not such a common thing.”
“Alas! two in the same coffin!” said the Jew, with a deep sigh.
“Now that you know the place, what do you want more?” asked the
gravedigger.
Samuel did not answer. He fell on his knees, and piously kissed
the little mound. Then rising, with his cheeks bathed in tears, he
approached the gravedigger, and spoke to him for some moments in a
whisper--though they were alone, and in the centre of that deserted
place. Then began between those two men a mysterious dialogue, which the
night enveloped in shade and silence. The gravedigger, alarmed at what
Samuel asked him, at first refused his request.
But the Jew, employing persuasions, entreaties, tears, and at last the
seduction of the jingling gold, succeeded in conquering the scruples of
the gravedigger. Though the latter trembled at the thought of what he
promised, he said to Samuel in an agitated tone: “To-morrow night, then,
at two o’clock.”
“I shall be behind the wall,” answered Samuel, pointing out the place
with the aid of a lantern. “I will throw three stones into the cemetery,
for a signal.”
“Yes, three stones--as a signal,” replied the gravedigger shuddering,
and wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.
With considerable remains of vigor, notwithstanding his great age,
Samuel availed himself of the broken surface of the low wall, and
climbing over it, soon disappeared. The gravedigger returned home with
hasty strides. From time to time, he looked fearfully behind him, as
though he had been pursued by some fatal vision.
On the evening after the funeral of Rose and Blanche, Rodin wrote two
letters. The first, addressed to his mysterious correspondent at Rome,
alluded to the deaths of Jacques Rennepont, and Rose and Blanche Simon,
as well as to the cession of M. Hardy’s property, and the donation
of Gabriel--events which reduced the claimants of the inheritance to
two--Mdlle. de Cardoville and Djalma. This first note written by Rodin
for Rome, contained only the following words: “Five from seven leaves
two. Announce this result to the Cardinal-Prince. Let him go on. I
advance advance-advance!” The second note, in a feigned hand, was
addressed to Marshal Simon, to be delivered by a sure messenger,
contained these few lines: “If there is yet time, make haste to return.
Your daughters are both dead. You shall learn who killed them.”
CHAPTER LVIII. RUIN.
It is the day after the death of Marshal Simon’s daughters. Mdlle. de
Cardoville is yet ignorant of the sad end of her young relatives. Her
countenance is radiant with happiness, and never has she looked more
beautiful; her eye has never been more brilliant, her complexion more
dazzling white, her lip of a richer coral. According to her somewhat
eccentric custom of dressing herself in her own house in a picturesque
style, Adrienne wears to-day, though it is about three o’clock in the
afternoon, a pale green watered-silk dress, with a very full skirt, the
sleeves and bodice slashed with rose-colored ribbon, and adorned with
white bugle-beads, of exquisite workmanship; while a slender network,
also of white bugle-beads, concealing the thick plait of Adrienne’s
back hair, forms an oriental head-dress of charming originality, and
contrasts agreeably with the long curls which fall in front almost to
the swell of the bosom. To the expression of indescribable happiness
which marks the features of Mdlle. de Cardoville, is added a certain
resolute, cutting, satirical air, which is not habitual to her. Her
charming head, and graceful, swan-like neck, are raised in an attitude
of defiance; her small, rose-colored nostrils seem to dilate with
ill-repressed ardor, and she waits with haughty impatience for the
moment of an aggressive and ironical interview. Not far from Adrienne is
Mother Bunch. She has resumed in the house the place which she at first
occupied. The young sempstress is in mourning for her sister, but her
countenance is expressive of a mild, calm sorrow. She looks at Mdlle. de
Cardoville with surprise; for never, till now, has she seen the features
of the fair patrician impressed with such a character of ironical
audacity. Mdlle. de Cardoville was exempt from the slightest coquetry,
in the narrow and ordinary sense of the word. Yet she now cast an
inquiring look at the glass before which she was standing, and, having
restored the elastic smoothness to one of her long, golden curls, by
rolling it for a moment round her ivory finger, she carefully effaced
with her hands some almost imperceptible folds, which had formed
themselves in the thick material of her elegant corsage. This movement,
and that of turning her back to the glass, to see if her dress sat
perfectly on all points, revealed, in serpentine undulations, all the
charms and graces of her light and elegant figure; for, in spite of the
rich fulness of her shoulders, white and firm as sculptured alabaster,
Adrienne belonged to that class of privileged persons, who are able at
need to make a girdle out of a garter.
Having performed, with indescribable grace, these charming evolutions of
feminine coquetry, Adrienne turned towards Mother Bunch, whose surprise
was still on the increase, and said to her, smiling: “My dear Magdalen,
do not laugh at my question--but what would you say to a picture, that
should represent me as I am now?”
“Why, lady--”
“There you are again, with your lady-ing,” said Adrienne, in a tone of
gentle reproach.
“Well, then, Adrienne,” resumed Mother Bunch, “I think it would be a
charming picture, for you are dressed, as usual with perfect taste.”
“But am I not better dressed than on other days, my dear poetess? I
began by telling you that I do not ask the question for my own sake,”
said Adrienne, gayly.
“Well, I suppose so,” replied Mother Bunch, with a faint smile. “It is
certainly impossible to imagine anything that would suit you better. The
light green and the pale rose-color, with the soft lustre of the white
ornaments, harmonize so well with your golden hair, that I cannot
conceive, I tell you, a more graceful picture.”
The speaker felt what she said, and she was happy to be able to express
it, for we know the intense admiration of that poetic soul for all that
was beautiful.
“Well!” went on Adrienne, gayly, “I am glad, my dear, that you find me
better dressed than usual.”
“Only,” said the hunchback, hesitating.
“Only?” repeated Adrienne, looking at her with an air of interrogation.
“Why, only,” continued the other, “if I have never seen you look more
pretty, I have also never observed in your features the resolute and
ironical expression which they had just now. It was like an air of
impatient defiance.”
“And so it was, my dear little Magdalen,” said Adrienne, throwing her
arms round the girl’s neck with joyous tenderness. “I must kiss you, for
having guessed it. You see, I expect a visit from my dear aunt.”
“The Princess de Saint-Dizier?” cried Mother Bunch, in alarm. “That
wicked lady, who did you so much evil?”
“The very same. She has asked for an interview, and I shall be delighted
to receive her.”
“Delighted?”
“Yes--a somewhat ironical and malicious delight, it is true,” answered
Adrienne, still more gayly. “You shall judge for yourself. She regrets
her gallantries, her beauty, her youth--even her size afflicts the
holy woman!--and she will see me young, fair, beloved--and above all
thin--yes, thin,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, laughing merrily. “And you
may imagine, my dear, how much envy and despair, the sight of a young,
thin woman excites in a stout one of a certain age!”
“My friend,” said Mother Bunch, gravely, “you speak in jest. And yet, I
know not why, the coming of this princess alarms me.”
“Dear, gentle soul, be satisfied!” answered Adrienne, affectionately. “I
do not fear this woman--I no longer have any fear of her--and to prove
it to her confusion, I will treat her--a monster of hypocrisy and
wickedness, who comes here, no doubt, on some abominable design--I will
treat her as an inoffensive, ridiculous fat woman!” And Adrienne again
laughed.
A servant here entered the room, and interrupted the mirth of Adrienne,
by saying: “The Princess de Saint-Dizier wishes to know if you can
receive her?”
“Certainly,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville; and the servant retired. Mother
Bunch was about to rise and quit the room; but Adrienne held her back,
and said to her, taking her hand with an air of serious tenderness:
“Stay, my dear friend, I entreat you.”
“Do you wish it?”
“Yes; I wish--still in revenge, you know,” said Adrienne, with a smile,
“to prove to her highness of Saint-Dizier, that I have an affectionate
friend--that I have, in fact, every happiness.”
“But, Adrienne,” replied the other, timidly, “consider--”
“Silence! here is the princess. Remain! I ask it as a favor. The
instinct of your heart will discover any snare she may have laid. Did
not your affection warn me of the plots of Rodin?”
Mother Bunch could not refuse such a request. She remained, but was
about to draw back from the fireplace. Adrienne, however, took her by
the hand, and made her resume her seat in the arm-chair, saying: “My
dear Magdalen, keep your place. You owe nothing to the lady. With me it
is different; she comes to my house.”
Hardly had Adrienne uttered these words, than the princess entered with
head erect, and haughty air (we have said, she could carry herself most
loftily), and advanced with a firm step. The strongest minds have their
side of puerile weakness; a savage envy, excited by the elegance, wit,
and beauty of Adrienne, bore a large part in the hatred of the princess
for her niece; and though it was idle to think of eclipsing Adrienne,
and the Princess de Saint-Dizier did not seriously mean to attempt it,
she could not forbear, in preparing for the interview she had demanded,
taking more pains even than usual in the arrangement of her dress.
Beneath her robe of shot silk, she was laced in and tightened to
excess--a pressure which considerably increased the color in her cheeks.
The throng of jealous and hateful sentiments, which inspired her with
regard to Adrienne, had so troubled the clearness of her ordinarily calm
judgment, that, instead of the plain and quiet style, in which, as a
woman of tact and taste, she was generally attired, she now committed
the folly of wearing a dress of changing hues, and a crimson hat,
adorned with a magnificent bird of paradise. Hate, envy, the pride of
triumph--for she thought of the skillful perfidy with which she had
sent to almost certain death the daughters of Marshal Simon--and the
execrable hope of succeeding in new plots, were all expressed in the
countenance of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, as she entered her niece’s
apartment.
Without advancing to meet her aunt, Adrienne rose politely from the sofa
on which she was seated, made a half-curtsey, full of grace and dignity,
and immediately resumed her former posture. Then, pointing to an arm
chair near the fireplace, at one corner of which sat Mother Bunch, and
she herself at the other, she said: “Pray sit down, your highness.”
The princess turned very red, remained standing, and cast a disdainful
glance of insolent surprise at the sempstress, who, in compliance with
Adrienne’s wish, only bowed slightly at the entrance of the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, without offering to give up her place. In acting thus, the
young sempstress followed the dictates of her conscience, which told her
that the real superiority did not belong to this base, hypocritical, and
wicked princess, but rather to such a person as herself, the admirable
and devoted friend.
“Let me beg your highness to sit down,” resumed Adrienne, in a mild
tone, as she pointed to the vacant chair.
“The interview I have demanded, niece,” said the princess “must be a
private one.”
“I have no secrets, madame, from my best friend; you may speak in the
presence of this young lady.”
“I have long known,” replied Madame de Saint-Dizier, with bitter irony,
“that in all things you care little for secrecy, and that you are easy
in the choice of what you call your friends. But you will permit me to
act differently from you. If you have no secrets, madame, I have--and I
do not choose to confide them to the first comer.”
So saying, the pious lady glanced contemptuously at the sempstress. The
latter, hurt at the insolent tone of the princess, answered mildly and
simply:
“I do not see what can be the great difference between the first and the
last comer to Mdlle. de Cardoville’s.”
“What! can it speak!” cried the princess, insolently.
“It can at least answer, madame,” replied Mother Bunch, in her calm
voice.
“I wish to see you alone, niece--is that clear?” said the princess,
impatiently, to her niece.
“I beg your pardon, but I do not quite understand your highness,” said
Adrienne, with an air of surprise. “This young lady, who honors me with
her friendship, is willing to be present at this interview, which you
have asked for--I say she has consented to be present, for it needs,
I confess, the kindest condescension in her to resign herself, from
affection for me, to hear all the graceful, obliging, and charming
things which you have no doubt come hither to communicate.”
“Madame--” began the princess, angrily.
“Permit me to interrupt your highness,” returned Adrienne, in a tone
of perfect amenity, as if she were addressing the most flattering
compliments to her visitor. “To put you quite at your ease with the lady
here, I will begin by informing you that she is quite aware of all the
holy perfidies, pious wrongs, and devout infamies, of which you nearly
made me the victim. She knows that you are a mother of the Church, such
as one sees but few of in these days. May I hope, therefore, that your
highness will dispense with this delicate and interesting reserve?”
“Really,” said the princess, with a sort of incensed amazement, “I
scarcely know if I wake or sleep.”
“Dear me!” said Adrienne, in apparent alarm; “this doubt as to the state
of your faculties is very shocking, madame. I see that the blood flies
to your head, for your face sufficiently shows it; you seem oppressed,
confined, uncomfortable--perhaps (we women may say so between
ourselves), perhaps you are laced a little too tightly, madame?”
These words, pronounced by Adrienne with an air of warm interest and
perfect simplicity, almost choked the princess with rage. She became
crimson, seated herself abruptly, and exclaimed: “Be it so, madame! I
prefer this reception to any other. It puts me at my ease, as you say.”
“Does it indeed, madame?” said Adrienne, with a smile. “You may now at
least speak frankly all that you feel, which must for you have the charm
of novelty! Confess that you are obliged to me for enabling you, even
for a moment, to lay aside that mask of piety, amiability, and goodness,
which must be so troublesome to you.”
As she listened to the sarcasms of Adrienne (an innocent and excusable
revenge, if we consider all the wrongs she had suffered), Mother Bunch
felt her heart sink within her; for she dreaded the malignity of the
princess, who replied, with the utmost calmness: “A thousand thanks,
madame, for your excellent intentions and sentiments. I appreciate them
as I ought, and I hope in a short time to prove it to you.”
“Well, madame,” said Adrienne, playfully, “let us have it all at once. I
am full of impatient curiosity.”
“And yet,” said the princess, feigning in her turn a bitter and ironical
delight, “you are far from having the least notion of what I am about to
announce to you.”
“Indeed! I fear that your highness’s candor and modesty deceive you,”
replied Adrienne, with the same mocking affability; “for there are very
few things on your part that can surprise me, madame. You must be aware
that from your highness, I am prepared for anything.”
“Perhaps, madame,” said the princess, laying great stress on her
words, “if, for instance, I were to tell you that within twenty-four
hours--suppose between this and to-morrow-thou will be reduced to
poverty--”
This was so unexpected, that Mdlle. de Cardoville started in spite of
herself, and Mother Bunch shuddered.
“Ah, madame!” said the princess, with triumphant joy and cruel mildness,
as she watched the growing surprise of her niece, “confess that I have
astonished you a little. You were right in giving to our interview the
turn it has taken. I should have needed all sorts of circumlocution to
say to you, ‘Niece, to-morrow you will be as poor as you are rich to
day.’ But now I can tell you the fact quite plainly and simply.”
Recovering from her first amazement, Adrienne replied, with a calm
smile, which checked the joy of the princess: “Well, I confess frankly,
madame, that you have surprised me; I expected from you one of those
black pieces of malignity, one of those well-laid plots, in which you
are known to excel, and I did not think you would make all this fuss
about such a trifle.”
“To be ruined--completely ruined,” cried the princess, “and that by to
morrow--you that have been so prodigal, will see your house, furniture,
horses, jewels, even the ridiculous dresses of which you are so vain,
all taken from you--do you call that a trifle? You, that spend with
indifference thousands of louis, will be reduced to a pension inferior
to the wages you gave your foot-boy--do you call that a trifle?”
To her aunt’s cruel disappointment, Adrienne, who appeared quite to have
recovered her serenity was about to answer accordingly, when the door
suddenly opened, and, without being announced, Prince Djalma entered the
room. A proud and tender expression of delight beamed from the radiant
brow of Adrienne at sight of the prince, and it is impossible to
describe the look of triumphant happiness and high disdain that she cast
upon the Princess de Saint-Dizier. Djalma himself had never looked more
handsome, and never had more intense happiness been impressed on a human
countenance. The Hindoo wore a long robe of white Cashmere, adorned with
innumerable stripes of gold and purple; his turban was of the same color
and material; a magnificent figured shawl was twisted about his waist.
On seeing the Indian, whom she had not hoped to meet at Mdlle. de
Cardoville’s, the Princess de Saint-Dizier could not at first conceal
her extreme surprise. It was between these four, then, that the
following scene took place.
CHAPTER LIX. MEMORIES.
Djalma, having never before met the Princess de Saint-Dizier at
Adrienne’s, at first appeared rather astonished at her presence. The
princess, keeping silence for a moment, contemplated with implacable
hatred and envy those two beings, both so fair and young, so loving and
happy. Suddenly she started, as if she had just remembered something of
great importance, and for some seconds she remained absorbed in thought.
Adrienne and Djalma availed themselves of this interval to gaze fondly
on each other, with a sort of ardent idolatry, which filled their eyes
with sweet tears. Then, at a movement of the Princess de Saint-Dizier,
who seemed to rouse herself from her momentary trance, Mdlle. de
Cardoville said to the young prince, with a smile: “My dear cousin, I
have to repair an omission (voluntary, I confess, and for good reasons),
in never having before mentioned to you one of my relations, whom I have
now the honor to present to you. The Princess de Saint-Dizier!”
Djalma bowed; but Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed, just as her aunt was
about to make some reply: “Her Highness of Saint-Dizier came very kindly
to inform me of an event which is a most fortunate one for me, and of
which I will speak to you hereafter, cousin--unless this amiable
lady should wish to deprive me of the pleasure of making such a
communication.”
The unexpected arrival of the prince, and the recollections which had
suddenly occurred to the princess, had no doubt greatly modified her
first plans: for, instead of continuing the conversation with regard
to Adrienne’s threatened loss of fortune, the princess answered, with a
bland smile, that covered an odious meaning: “I should be sorry, prince,
to deprive my dear and amiable niece of the pleasure of announcing to
you the happy news to which she alludes, and which, as a near relative,
I lost no time in communicating to her. I have here some notes on this
subject,” added the princess, delivering a paper to Adrienne, “which I
hope will prove, to her entire satisfaction, the reality of what I have
announced to her.”
“A thousand thanks, my dear aunt,” said Adrienne, receiving the paper
with perfect indifference; “these precautions and proofs are quite
superfluous. You know that I always believe you on your word, when it
concerns your good feeling towards myself.”
Notwithstanding his ignorance of the refined perfidy and cruel
politeness of civilized life, Djalma, endowed with a tact and fineness
of perception common to most natures of extreme susceptibility, felt
some degree of mental discomfort as he listened to this exchange of
false compliments. He could not guess their full meaning, but they
sounded hollow to his ear; and moreover, whether from instinct or
presentiment, he had conceived a vague dislike for the Princess de
Saint-Dizier. That pious lady, full of the great affair in hand, was a
prey to the most violent agitation, which betrayed itself in the growing
color of her cheeks, her bitter smile, and the malicious brightness of
her glance. As he gazed on this woman, Djalma was unable to conquer
his rising antipathy, and he remained silent and attentive, whilst his
handsome countenance lost something of its former serenity. Mother Bunch
also felt the influence of a painful impression. She glanced in terror
at the princess, and then imploringly at Adrienne, as though she
entreated the latter to but an end to an interview of which the young
sempstress foresaw the fatal consequences. But, unfortunately, the
Princess de Saint-Dizier was too much interested in prolonging this
conversation; and Mdlle. de Cardoville, gathering new courage and
confidence from the presence of the man she adored, took delight in
vexing the princess with the exhibition of their happy love.
After a short silence, the Princess de Saint-Dizier observed, in a soft
and insinuating tone: “Really, prince, you cannot think how pleased I
was to learn by public report (for people talk of nothing else, and
with good reason) of your chivalrous attachment to my dear niece; for,
without knowing it, you will extricate me from a difficult position.”
Djalma made no answer, but he looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with a
surprised and almost sorrowful air, as if to ask what her aunt meant to
insinuate.
The latter, not perceiving this mute interrogation, resumed as follows:
“I will express myself more clearly, prince. You can understand that,
being the nearest relative of this dear, obstinate girl, I am more or
less responsible for her conduct in the eyes of the world; and you,
prince, seem just to have arrived on purpose, from the end of the
earth, to take charge of a destiny which had caused me considerable
apprehension. It is charming, it is excellent; and I know not which
most to admire, your courage or your good fortune.” The princess threw a
glance of diabolical malice at Adrienne, and awaited her answer with an
air of defiance.
“Listen to our good aunt, my dear cousin,” said the young lady, smiling
calmly. “Since our affectionate kinswoman sees you and me united and
happy, her heart is swelling with such a flood of joy, that it must run
over, and the effects will be delightful. Only have a little patience,
and you will behold them in their full beauty. I do not know,”
added Adrienne, in the most natural tone, “why, in thinking of these
outpourings of our dear aunt’s affection, I should remember what you
told me, cousin, of a certain viper in your country which sometimes,
in a powerless bite, breaks its fangs, and, absorbing its own venom,
becomes the victim of the poison it distills. Come, my dear aunt, you
that had so good and noble a heart, I am sure you must feel interested
in the fate of those poor vipers.”
The princess darted an implacable look at her niece, and replied, in an
agitated voice, “I do not see the object of this selection of natural
history. Do you, prince?”
Djalma made no answer; leaning with his arm on the mantelpiece, he threw
dark and piercing glances upon the princess. His involuntary hatred of
this woman filled his heart.
“Ah, my dear aunt!” resumed Adrienne, in a tone of self-reproach; “have
I presumed too much on the goodness of your heart? Have you not even
sympathy for vipers? For whom, then, have you any? After all, I can very
well understand it,” added Adrienne, as if to herself; “vipers are so
thin. But, to lay aside these follies,” she continued, gayly, as she
saw the ill-repressed rage of the pious woman, “tell us at once, my dear
aunt, all the tender things which the sight of our happiness inspires.”
“I hope to do so, my amiable niece. First, I must congratulate this dear
prince, on having come so far to take charge, in all confidence, and
with his eyes shut, of you, my poor child, whom we were obliged to
confine as mad, in order to give a decent color to your excesses. You
remember the handsome lad, that we found in your apartment. You cannot
be so faithless, as already to have forgotten his name? He was a fine,
youth, and a poet--one Agricola Baudoin--and was discovered in a secret
place, attached to your bed-chamber. All Paris was amused with the
scandal--for you are not about to marry an unknown person, dear prince;
her name has been in every mouth.”
At these unexpected and dreadful words, Adrienne, Djalma, and Mother
Bunch, though under the influence of different kinds of resentment,
remained for a moment mute with surprise; and the princess, judging it
no longer necessary to repress her infernal joy and triumphant hatred,
exclaimed, as she rose from her seat, with flushed cheek, and flashing
eyes, “Yes, I defy you to contradict me. Were we not forced to confine
you, on the plea of madness? And did we not find a workman (your lover)
concealed in your bedroom?”
On this horrible accusation, Djalma’s golden complexion, transparent as
amber, became suddenly the color of lead; his eyes, fixed and staring
showed the white round the pupil--his upper lip, red as blood,
was curled in a kind of wild convulsion, which exposed to view the
firmly-set teeth--and his whole countenance became so frightfully
threatening and ferocious, that Mother Bunch shuddered with terror.
Carried away by the ardor of his blood, the young Oriental felt a sort
of dizzy, unreflecting, involuntary rage--a fiery commotion, like that
which makes the blood leap to the brave man’s eyes and brain, when he
feels a blow upon his face. If, during that moment, rapid as the passage
of the lightning through the cloud, action could have taken the place of
thought, the princess and Adrienne, Mother Bunch and himself, would all
have been annihilated by an explosion as sudden and fatal as that of
the bursting of a mine. He would have killed the princess, because she
accused Adrienne of infamous deception he would have killed Adrienne,
because she could even be suspected of such infamy--and Mother Bunch,
for being a witness of the accusation--and himself, in order not to
survive such horrid treachery. But, oh wonder! his furious and bloodshot
gaze met the calm look of Adrienne--a look so full of dignity and serene
confidence--and the expression of ferocious rage passed away like a
flash of lightning.
Much more: to the great surprise of the princess and the young workgirl,
as the glances which Djalma cast upon Adrienne went (as it were) deeper
into that pure soul, not only did the Indian grow calm, but, by a
kind of transfiguration, his countenance seemed to borrow her serene
expression, and reflect, as in a mirror, the noble serenity impressed
on the young lady’s features. Let us explain physically this moral
revolution, as consoling to the terrified workgirl, as provoking to the
princess. Hardly had the princess distilled the atrocious calumny from
her venomous lips, than Djalma, then standing before the fireplace, had,
in the first paroxysm of his fury, advanced a step towards her;
but, wishing as it were to moderate his rage, he held by the marble
chimney-piece, which he grasped with iron strength. A convulsive
trembling shook his whole body, and his features, altered and
contracted, became almost frightful. Adrienne, on her part, when she
heard the accusation, yielding to a first impulse of just indignation,
even as Djalma had yielded to one of blind fury, rose abruptly, with
offended pride flashing from her eyes; but, almost immediately appeased
by the consciousness of her own purity, her charming face resumed its
expression of adorable serenity. It was then that her eyes met Djalma’s.
For a second, the young lady was even more afflicted than terrified
at the threatening and formidable expression of the young Indian’s
countenance. “Can stupid indignity exasperate him to this degree?” said
Adrienne to herself. “Does he suspect me; then?”
But to this reflection, as rapid as it was painful, succeeded the most
lively joy, when the eyes of Adrienne rested for a short time on those
of the Indian, and she saw his agitated countenance grow calm as if
by magic, and become radiant and beautiful as before. Thus was the
abominable plot of the princess de Saint-Dizier utterly confounded by
the sincere and confiding expression of Adrienne’s face. That was not
all. At the moment, when, as a spectator of this mute and expressive
scene (which proved so well the wondrous sympathy of those two beings,
who, without speaking a word, had understood and satisfied each other),
the princess was choking with rage and vexation--Adrienne, with a
charming smile and gesture, extended her fair hand to Djalma, who,
kneeling, imprinted on it a kiss of fire, which sent a light blush to
the forehead of the young lady.
Then the Hindoo, placing himself on the ermine carpet at the feet of
Mdlle. de Cardoville, in an attitude full of grace: and respect, rested
his chin on the palm of one of his hands, and gazed on her silently, in
a sort of mute adoration--while Adrienne, bending over him with a happy
smile “looked at the babies in his eyes,” as the song says, with as much
amorous complacency, as if the hateful princess had not been present.
But soon, as if something were wanting to complete her happiness,
Adrienne beckoned to Mother Bunch, and made her sit down by her side.
Then, with her hand clasped in that of this excellent friend, Mdlle. de
Cardoville smiled on Djalma, stretched adoringly at her feet, and cast
on the dismayed princess a look of such calm and firm serenity, so
nobly expressive of the invincible quiet of her happiness, and her lofty
disdain of all calumnious attacks, that the Princess de Saint-Dizier,
confused and stupefied, murmured some hardly intelligible words, in a
voice trembling with passion, and, completely losing her presence of
mind, rushed towards the door. But, at this moment, the hunchback, who
feared some ambush, some perfidious plot in the background, resolved,
after exchanging a glance with Adrienne, to accompany the princess to
her carriage.
The angry disappointment of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, when she saw
herself thus followed and watched, appeared so comical to Mdlle. de
Cardoville that she could not help laughing aloud; and it was to the
sound of contemptuous hilarity that the hypocritical princess, with rage
and despair in her heart, quitted the house to which she had hoped to
bring trouble end misery. Adrienne and Djalma were left alone. Before
relating the scene which took place between them, a few retrospective
words are indispensable. It will easily be imagined, that since Mdlle.
de Cardoville and the Oriental had been brought into such close contact,
after so many disappointments, their days had passed away like a dream
of happiness. Adrienne had especially taken pains to bring to light, one
by one, all the generous qualities of Djalma, of which she had read so
much in her books of travels. The young lady had imposed on herself this
tender and patient study of Djalma’s character, not only to justify
to her own mind the intensity of her love, but because this period
of trial, to which she had assigned a term, enabled her to temper and
divert the violence of Djalma’s passion--a task the more meritorious,
as she herself was of the same ardent temperament. For, in those two
lovers, the finest qualities of sense and soul seemed exactly to balance
each other, and heaven had bestowed on them the rarest beauty of form,
and the most adorable excellence of heart, as if to legitimatize the
irresistible attraction which drew and bound them together. What, then,
was to be the term of this painful trial, which Adrienne had imposed
on Djalma and on herself? This is what Mdlle. de Cardoville intended
to tell the prince, in the interview she had with him, after the abrupt
departure of the Princess de Saint-Dizier.
CHAPTER LX. THE ORDEAL.
Adrienne de Cardoville and Djalma had remained alone. Such was the
noble confidence which had succeeded in the Hindoo’s mind to his first
movement of unreflecting fury, caused by the infamous calumny, that,
once alone with Adrienne, he did not even allude to that shameful
accusation.
On her side (touching and admirable sympathy of those two hearts!),
the young lady was too proud, conscious of the purity of her love, to
descend to any justification of herself.
She would have considered it an insult both to herself and him.
Therefore, the lovers began their interview, as if the princess had
never made any such remark. The same contempt was extended to the
papers, which the princess had brought with her to prove the imminent
ruin to which Adrienne was exposed. The young lady had laid them down,
without reading them, on a stand within her reach. She made a graceful
sign to Djalma to seat himself by her side, and accordingly he quitted,
not without regret, the place he had occupied at her feet.
“My love,” said Adrienne, in a grave and tender voice, “you have often
impatiently asked me, when would come the term of the trial we have laid
upon ourselves. That moment is at hand.”
Djalma started, and could not restrain a cry of surprise and joy; but
this almost trembling exclamation was so soft and sweet, that it seemed
rather the expression of ineffable gratitude, than of exulting passion.
Adrienne continued: “Separated--surrounded by treachery and
fraud--mutually deceived as to each other’s sentiments--we yet loved
on, and in that followed an irresistible attraction, stronger than every
opposing influence. But since then, in these days of happy retirement
from the world, we have learned to value and esteem each other more.
Left to ourselves in perfect freedom, we have had the courage to resist
every temptation, that hereafter we might be happy without remorse.
During these days, in which our hearts had been laid open to each other,
we have read them thoroughly. Yes, Djalma! I believe in you, and you in
me--I find in you all that you find in me--every possible human security
for our future happiness. But this love must yet be consecrated; and in
the eyes of the world, in which we are called upon to live, marriage is
the only consecration, and marriage enchains one’s whole life.”
Djalma looked at the young lady with surprise.
“Yes, one’s whole life! and yet who can answer for the sentiments of a
whole life?” resumed Adrienne. “A God, that could see into the future,
could alone bind irrevocably certain hearts for their own happiness;
but, alas! to human eyes the future is impenetrable. Therefore, to
accept indissoluble ties, for any longer than one can answer for a
present sentiment, is to commit an act of selfish and impious folly.”
Djalma made no reply, but, with an almost respectful gesture, he urged
the speaker to continue.
“And then,” proceeded she, with a mixture of tenderness and pride, “from
respect for your dignity and mine, I would never promise to keep a law
made by man against woman, with contemptuous and brutal egotism--a
law, which denies to woman soul, mind, and heart--a law, which none can
accept, without being either a slave or perjured--a law, which takes
from the girl her name, reduces the wife to a state of degrading
inferiority, denies to the mother all rights over her own children,
and enslaves one human creature to the will of another, who is in all
respects her equal in the sight of God!--You know, my love,” added the
young lady, with passionate enthusiasm, “how much I honor you, whose
father was called the Father of the Generous. I do not then fear, noble
and valiant heart, to see you use against me these tyrannical powers;
but, throughout my life, I never uttered a falsehood, and our love is
too sacred and celestial to be purchased by a double perjury. No, never
will I swear to observe a law, that my dignity, and my reason refuse to
sanction. If, to-morrow, the freedom of divorce were established, and
the rights of women recognized, I should be willing to observe usages,
which would then be in accordance with my conscience, and with what is
just, possible, and humane.” Then, after a pause, Adrienne continued,
with such deep and sweet emotion, that a tear of tenderness veiled her
beauteous eyes: “Oh! if you knew, my love, what your love is to me: if
you knew how dear and sacred I hold your happiness--you would excuse,
you would understand, these generous superstitions of a loving and
honest heart, which could only see a fatal omen in forms degraded by
falsehood and perjury. What I wish, is, to attach you by love, to bind
you in chains of happiness--and to leave you free, that I may owe your
constancy only to your affection.”
Djalma had listened to the young girl with passionate attention. Proud
and generous himself, he admired this proud and generous character.
After a moment’s meditative silence, he answered, in his sweet, sonorous
voice, in an almost solemn tone: “Like you, I hold in detestation,
falsehood and perjury. Like you, I think that man degrades himself, by
accepting the right of being a cowardly tyrant, even though resolved
never to use the power. Like you, I could not bear the thought, that
I owed all I most valued, not to your love alone, but to the eternal
constraint of an indissoluble bond. Like you, I believe there is no
dignity but in freedom. But you have said, that, for this great and holy
love, you demand a religious consecration; and if you reject vows, that
you cannot make without folly and perjury, are there then others, which
your reason and your heart approve?--Who will pronounce the required
blessing? To whom must these vows be spoken?”
“In a few days, my love, I believe I shall be able to tell you all.
Every evening, after your departure, I have no other thought. I wish to
find the means of uniting yourself and me--in the eyes of God, not of
the law--without offending the habits and prejudices of a world, in
which it may suit us hereafter to live. Yes, my friend! when you know
whose are the noble hands, that are to join ours together, who is to
bless and glorify God in our union--a sacred union, that will leave us
worthy and free--you will say, I am sure, that never purer hands could
have been laid upon us. Forgive me, friend! all this is in earnest--yes,
earnest as our love, earnest as our happiness. If my words seem to you
strange, my thoughts unreasonable, tell it me, love! We will seek and
find some better means, to reconcile that we owe to heaven, with what
we owe to the world and to ourselves. It is said, that lovers are beside
themselves,” added the young lady, with a smile, “but I think that no
creatures are more reasonable.”
“When I hear you speak thus of our happiness,” said Djalma, deeply
moved, “with so much calm and earnest tenderness, I think I see a mother
occupied with the future prospects of her darling child--trying
to surround him with all that can make him strong, valiant, and
generous--trying to remove far from him all that is ignoble and
unworthy. You ask me to tell you if your thoughts seem strange to
me, Adrienne. You forget, that what makes my faith in our love, is
my feeling exactly as you do. What offends you, offends me also; what
disgusts you, disgusts me. Just now, when you cited to me the laws of
this country, which respect in a woman not even a mother’s right--I
thought with pride of our barbarous countries, where woman, though a
slave, is made free when she becomes a mother. No, no; such laws are not
made either for you or me. Is it not to prove your sacred respect for
our love, to wish to raise it above the shameful servitude that would
degrade it? You see, Adrienne, I have often heard said by the priests of
my country, that there were beings inferior to the gods, but superior
to every other creature. I did not believe those priests; but now I do.”
These last words were uttered, not in the tone of flattery, but with
an accent of sincere conviction, and with that sort of passionate
veneration and almost timid fervor, which mark the believer talking of
his faith; but what is impossible to describe, is the ineffable harmony
of these almost religious words, with the mild, deep tone of the
young Oriental’s voice--as well as the ardent expression of amorous
melancholy, which gave an irresistible charm to his enchanting features.
Adrienne had listened to Djalma with an indescribable mixture of joy,
gratitude, and pride. Laying her hand on her bosom, as if to keep down
its violent pulsations, she resumed, as she looked at the prince with
delight: “Behold him, ever the same!--just, good, great!--Oh, my heart!
my heart! how proudly it beats. Blessed be God, who created me for this
adored lover! He must mean to astonish the world, by the prodigies of
tenderness and charity, that such a love may produce. They do not yet
know the sovereign might of free, happy, ardent love. Yes, Djalma! on
the day when our hands are joined together, what hymns of gratitude
will ascend to heaven!--Ah! they do not know the immense, the insatiable
longing for joy aria delight, which possesses two hearts like ours; they
do not know what rays of happiness stream from the celestial halo of
such a flame!--Oh, yes! I feel it. Many tears will be dried, many cold
hearts warmed, at the divine fire of our love. And it will be by the
benedictions of those we serve, that they will learn the intoxication of
our rapture!”
To the dazzled eyes of Djalma, Adrienne appeared more and more an ideal
being--partaking of the Divinity by her goodness, of the animal nature
by passion--for, yielding to the intensity of excitement, Adrienne fixed
upon Djalma looks that sparkled with love.
‘Then, almost beside himself, the Asiatic fell prostrate at the feet of
the maiden, and exclaimed, in a supplicating voice: “Mercy! my courage
fails me. Have pity on me! do not talk thus. Oh, that day! what years of
my life would I not give to hasten it!”
“Silence! no blasphemy. Do not your years belong to me?”
“Adrienne! you love me!”
The young lady did not answer; but her half-veiled, burning glance,
dealt the last blow to reason. Seizing her hands in his own, he
exclaimed, with a tremulous voice: “That day, in which we shall mount
to heaven, in which we shall be gods in happiness--why postpone it any
longer?”
“Because our love must be consecrated by the benediction of heaven.”
“Are we not free?”
“Yes, yes, my love; we are free. Let us be worthy of our liberty!”
“Adrienne! mercy!”
“I ask you also to have mercy--to have mercy on the sacredness of our
love. Do not profane it in its very flower. Believe my heart! believe my
presentiments! to profane it would be to kill. Courage, my adored lover!
a few days longer--and then happiness--without regret, and without
remorse!”
“And, until then, hell! tortures without a name! You do not, cannot know
what I suffer when I leave your presence. Your image follows me, your
breath burns me up; I cannot sleep, but call on you every night with
sighs and tears--just as I called on, you, when I thought you did not
love me--and yet I know you love me, I know you are mine. But to see you
every day more beautiful, more adored--and every day to quit you more
impassioned--oh! you cannot tell--”
Djalma was unable to proceed. What he said of his devouring tortures,
Adrienne had felt, perhaps even more intensely. Electrified by the
passionate words of Djalma, so beautiful in his excitement, her courage
failed, and she perceived that an irresistible languor was creeping
over her. By a last chaste effort of the will, she rose abruptly, and
hastening to the door, which communicated with Mother Bunch’s chamber,
she exclaimed: “My sister! help me!”
In another moment, Mdlle. de Cardoville, her face bathed in tears,
clasped the young sempstress in her arms; while Djalma knelt
respectfully on the threshold he did not dare to pass.
CHAPTER LXI. AMBITION.
A few days after the interview of Djalma and Adrienne, just described,
Rodin was alone in his bed-chamber, in the house in the Rue de
Vaugirard, walking up and down the room where he had so valiantly
undergone the moxas of Dr. Baleinier. With his hands thrust into the
hind-pockets of his greatcoat, and his head bowed upon his breast, the
Jesuit seemed to be reflecting profoundly, and his varying walk, now
slow, now quick, betrayed the agitation of his mind.
“On the side of Rome,” said Rodin to himself, “I am tranquil. All is
going well. The abdication is as good as settled, and if I can pay them
the price agreed, the Prince Cardinal can secure me a majority of nine
voices in the conclave. Our General is with me; the doubts of Cardinal
Malipieri are at an end, or have found no echo. Yet I am not quite easy,
with regard to the reported correspondence between Father d’Aigrigny and
Malipieri. I have not been able to intercept any of it. No matter; that
soldier’s business is settled. A little patience and he will be wiped
out.”
Here the pale lips were contracted by one of those frightful smiles,
which gave to Rodin’s countenance so diabolical an expression.
After a pause, he resumed: “The funeral of the freethinker, the
philanthropist, the workman’s friend, took place yesterday at St.
Herem. Francis Hardy went off in a fit of ecstatic delirium. I had
his donation, it is true; but this is more certain. Everything may be
disputed in this world; the dead dispute nothing.”
Rodin remained in thought for some moments; then he added, in a grave
tone: “There remain this red-haired wench and her mulatto. This is the
twenty-seventh of May; the first of June approaches, and these turtle
doves still seem invulnerable. The princess thought she had hit upon
a good plan, and I should have thought so too. It was a good idea to
mention the discovery of Agricola Baudoin in the madcap’s room, for it
made the Indian tiger roar with savage jealousy. Yes: but then the
dove began to coo, and hold out her pretty beak, and the foolish tiger
sheathed his claws, and rolled on the ground before her. It’s a pity,
for there was some sense in the scheme.”
The walk of Rodin became more and more agitated. “Nothing is more
extraordinary,” continued he, “than the generative succession of ideas.
In comparing this red-haired jade to a dove (colombe), I could not
help thinking of that infamous old woman, Sainte-Colombe, whom that big
rascal Jacques Dumoulin pays his court to, and whom the Abbe Corbinet
will finish, I hope, by turning to good account. I have often remarked,
that, as a poet may find an excellent rhyme by mere chance, so the
germ of the best ideas is sometimes found in a word, or in some absurd
resemblance like the present. That abominable hag, Sainte-Colombo, and
the pretty Adrienne de Cardoville, go as well together, as a ring would
suit a cat, or a necklace a fish. Well, there is nothing in it.”
Hardly had Rodin pronounced these words, than he started suddenly,
and his face shone with a fatal joy. Then it assumed an expression of
meditative astonishment, as happens when chance reveals some unexpected
discovery to the surprised and charmed inquirer after knowledge.
Soon, with raised head and sparkling eye, his hollow cheeks swelling
with joy and pride, Rodin folded his arms in triumph on his breast,
and exclaimed: “Oh! how admirable and marvellous are these mysterious
evolutions of the mind; how incomprehensible is the chain of human
thought, which, starting from an absurd jingle of words, arrives at
a splendid or luminous idea! Is it weakness? or is it strength?
Strange--very strange! I compare the red-haired girl to a dove--a
colombe. That makes me think of the hag, who traded in the bodies and
souls of so many creatures. Vulgar proverbs occur to me, about a ring
and a cat, a fish and a necklace--and suddenly, at the word NECKLACE,
a new light dawns upon me. Yes: that one word NECKLACE shall be to me a
golden key, to open the portals of my brain, so long foolishly closed.”
And, after again walking hastily up and down, Rodin continued: “Yes, it
is worth attempting. The more I reflect upon it, the more feasible it
appears. Only how to get at that wretch, Saint-Colombe? Well, there
is Jacques Dumoulin, and the other--where to find her? That is the
stumbling-block. I must not shout before I am out of the wood.”
Rodin began again to walk, biting his nails with an air of deep thought.
For some moments, such was the tension of his mind, large drops of sweat
stood on his yellow brow. He walked up and down, stopped, stamped with
his foot, now raised his eyes as if in search of an inspiration, and now
scratched his head violently with his left hand, whilst he continued
to gnaw the nails of the right. Finally, from time to time, he uttered
exclamations of rage, despondency, or hope, as by turns they took
possession of his mind. If the cause of this monster’s agitation had not
been horrible, it would have been a curious and interesting spectacle to
watch the labors of that powerful brain--to follow, as it were, on that
shifting countenance, the progress and development of the project,
on which he was now concentrating all the resources of his strong
intellect. At length, the work appeared to be near completion, for Rodin
resumed: “Yes, yes! it is bold, hazardous--but then it is prompt, and
the consequences may be incalculable. Who can foresee the effects of the
explosion of a mine?”
Then, yielding to a movement of enthusiasm, which was hardly natural
to him, the Jesuit exclaimed, with rapture: “Oh, the passions! the
passions! what a magical instrument do they form, if you do but touch
the keys with a light, skillful, and vigorous hand! How beautiful too
is the power of thought! Talk of the acorn that becomes an oak, the seed
that grows up to the corn--the seed takes months, the acorn centuries,
to unfold its splendors--but here is a little word in eight letters,
necklace and this word, falling into my brain but a few minutes ago, has
grown and grown till it has become larger than any oak. Yes, that word
is the germ of an idea, that, like the oak, lifts itself up towards
heaven, for the greater glory of the Lord--such as they call Him,
and such as I would assert Him to be, should I attain--and I shall
attain--for these miserable Renneponts will pass away like a shadow. And
what matters it, after all, to the moral order I am reserved to guide,
whether these people live or die? What do such lives weigh in the
balance of the great destinies of the world? while this inheritance
which I shall boldly fling into the scale, will lift me to a sphere,
from which one commands many kings, many nations--let them say and make
what noise they will. The idiots--the stupid idiots! or rather, the
kind, blessed, adorable idiots! They think they have crushed us, when
they say to us men of the church: ‘You take the spiritual, but we will
keep the temporal!’--Oh, their conscience or their modesty inspires them
well, when it bids them not meddle with spiritual things! They abandon
the spiritual! they despise it, they will have nothing to do with
it--oh, the venerable asses! they do not see, that, even as they go
straight to the mill, it is by the spiritual that we go straight to
the temporal. As if the mind did not govern the body! They leave us
the spiritual--that is, command of the conscience, soul, heart, and
judgment--the spiritual--that is, the distribution of heaven’s rewards,
and punishments, and pardons--without check, without control, in the
secrecy of the confessional--and that dolt, the temporal, has nothing
but brute matter for his portion, and yet rubs his paunch for joy. Only,
from time to time, he perceives, too late, that, if he has the body, we
have the soul, and that the soul governs the body, and so the body ends
by coming with us also--to the great surprise of Master Temporal, who
stands staring with his hands on his paunch, and says: ‘Dear me! is it
possible?’”
Then, with a laugh of savage contempt, Rodin began to walk with great
strides, and thus continued: “Oh! let me reach it--let me but reach the
place of SIXTUS V.--and the world shall see (one day, when it awakes)
what it is to have the spiritual power in hands like mine--in the hands
of a priest, who, for fifty years, has lived hardly, frugally, chastely,
and who, were he pope, would continue to live hardly, frugally,
chastely!”
Rodin became terrible, as he spoke thus. All the sanguinary,
sacrilegious, execrable ambition of the worst popes seemed written in
fiery characters on the brow of this son of Ignatius. A morbid desire
of rule seemed to stir up the Jesuit’s impure blood; he was bathed in
a burning sweat, and a kind of nauseous vapor spread itself round about
him. Suddenly, the noise of a travelling-carriage, which entered
the courtyard of the house, attracted his attention. Regretting his
momentary excitement, he drew from his pocket his dirty white and red
cotton handkerchief, and dipping it in a glass of water, he applied
it to his cheeks and temples, while he approached the window, to look
through the half-open blinds at the traveller who had just arrived.
The projection of a portico, over the door at which the carriage had
stopped, intercepted Rodin’s view.
“No matter,” said he, recovering his coolness: “I shall know presently
who is there. I must write at once to Jacques Dumoulin, to come hither
immediately. He served me well, with regard to that little slut in the
Rue Clovis, who made my hair stand on end with her infernal Beranger.
This time, Dumoulin may serve me again. I have him in my clutches, and
he will obey me.”
Rodin sat down to his desk and wrote. A few seconds later, some one
knocked at the door, which was double-locked, quite contrary to the
rules of the order. But, sure of his own influence and importance,
Rodin, who had obtained from the general permission to be rid for a
time of the inconvenient company of a socius, often took upon himself to
break through a number of the rules. A servant entered and delivered
a letter to Rodin. Before opening it the latter said to the man: “What
carriage is that which just arrived?”
“It comes from Rome, father,” answered the servant, bowing.
“From Rome!” said Rodin, hastily; and in spite of himself, a vague
uneasiness was expressed in his countenance. But, still holding the
letter in his hands, he added: “Who comes in the carriage.”
“A reverend father of our blessed Company.”
Notwithstanding his ardent curiosity, for he knew that a reverend
father, travelling post, is always charged with some important mission,
Rodin asked no more questions on the subject, but said, as he pointed to
the paper in his hand: “Whence comes this letter?”
“From our house at St. Herem, father.”
Rodin looked more attentively at the writing, and recognized the hand of
Father d’Aigrigny, who had been commissioned to attend M. Hardy in his
last moments. The letter ran as follows:
“I send a despatch to inform your reverence of a fact which is, perhaps,
more singular than important. After the funeral of M. Francis Hardy, the
coffin, which contained his remains, had been provisionally deposited in
a vault beneath our chapel, until it could be removed to the cemetery of
the neighboring town. This morning, when our people went down into
the vault, to make the necessary preparations for the removal of the
body--the coffin had disappeared.
“That is strange indeed,” said Rodin with a start. Then, he continued to
read:
“All search has hitherto been vain, to discover the authors of the
sacrilegious deed. The chapel being, as you know, at a distance from the
house, they were able to effect an entry without disturbing us. We
have found traces of a four-wheeled carriage on the damp ground in the
neighborhood; but, at some little distance from the chapel, these marks
are lost in the sand, and it has been impossible to follow them any
farther.”
“Who can have carried away this body?” said Rodin, with a thoughtful
air. “Who could have any interest in doing so?”
He continued to read:
“Luckily, the certificate of death is quite correct. I sent for a doctor
from Etampes, to prove the disease, and no question can be raised on
that point. The donation is therefore good and valid in every respect,
but I think it best to inform your reverence of what has happened, that
you may take measures accordingly, etc., etc.”
After a moment’s reflection, Rodin said to himself: “D’Aigrigny is right
in his remark; it is more singular than important. Still, it makes one
think. We must have an eye to this affair.”
Turning towards the servant, who had brought him the letter, Rodin gave
him the note he had just written to Ninny Moulin, and said to him: “Let
this letter be taken instantly to its address, and let the bearer wait
for an answer.”
“Yes, father.”
At the moment the servant left the room, a reverend father entered,
and said to Rodin, “Father Caboccini of Rome has just arrived, with a
mission from our general to your reverence.”
At these words, Rodin’s blood ran cold, but he maintained his immovable
calmness, and said simply: “Where is Father Caboccini?”
“In the next room, father.”
“Beg him to walk in, and leave us,” said the other.
A second after, Father Caboccini of Rome entered the room and was left
alone with Rodin.
CHAPTER LXII. TO A SOCIUS, A SOCIUS AND A HALF.
The Reverend Father Caboccini, the Roman Jesuit who now came to visit
Rodin, was a short man of about thirty years of age, plump, in good
condition, and with an abdomen that swelled out his black cassock. The
good little father was blind with one eye, but his remaining organ of
vision sparkled with vivacity. His rosy countenance was gay, smiling,
joyous, splendidly crowned with thick chestnut hair, which curled like
a wax doll’s. His address was cordial to familiarity, and his expansive
and petulant manners harmonized well with his general appearance. In a
second, Rodin had taken his measure of the Italian emissary; and as he
knew the practice of his Company, and the ways of Rome, he felt by
no means comfortable at sight of this jolly little father, with such
affable manners. He would have less feared some tall, bony priest, with
austere and sepulchral countenance, for he knew that the Company loves
to deceive by the outward appearance of its agents; and if Rodin guessed
rightly, the cordial address of this personage would rather tend to show
that he was charged with some fatal mission.
Suspicious, attentive, with eye and mind on the watch, like an old wolf,
expecting an attack, Rodin advanced as usual, slowly and tortuously
towards the little man, so as to have time to examine him thoroughly,
and penetrate beneath his jovial outside. But the Roman left him no
space for that purpose. In his impetuous affection he threw himself
right on the neck of Rodin, pressed him in his arms with an effusion
of tenderness, and kissed him over and over again upon both cheeks, so
loudly and plentifully that the echo resounded through the apartment.
In his life Rodin had never been so treated. More and more uneasy at the
treachery which must needs lurk under such warm embraces, and irritated
by his own evil presentiments, the French Jesuit did, all he could to
extricate himself from the Roman’s exaggerated tokens of tenderness.
But the latter kept his hold; his arms, though short, were vigorous, and
Rodin was kissed over and over again, till the little one-eyed man was
quite out of breath. It is hardly necessary to state that these embraces
were accompanied by the most friendly, affectionate, and fraternal
exclamations--all in tolerably good French, but with a strong Italian
accent, which we muss beg the reader to supply for himself, after we
have given a single specimen. It will perhaps be remembered that,
fully aware of the danger he might possibly incur by his ambitious
machinations, and knowing from history that the use of poison had often
been considered at Rome as a state necessity, Rodin, on being suddenly
attacked with the cholera, had exclaimed, with a furious glance at
Cardinal Malipieri, “I am poisoned!”
The same apprehensions occurred involuntarily to the Jesuit’s mind as
he tried, by useless efforts, to escape from the embraces of the Italian
emissary; and he could not help muttering to himself, “This one-eyed
fellow is a great deal too fond. I hope there is no poison under his
Judas-kisses.” At last, little Father Caboccini, being quite out
of breath, was obliged to relinquish his hold on Rodin’s neck, who,
readjusting his dirty collar, and his old cravat and waistcoat, somewhat
in disorder in consequence of this hurricane of caresses, said in a
gruff tone, “Your humble servant, father, but you need not kiss quite so
hard.”
Without making any answer to this reproach, the little father riveted
his one eye upon Rodin with an expression of enthusiasm, and exclaimed,
whilst he accompanied his words with petulant gestures, “At lazt I
zee te zuperb light of our zacred Company, and can zalute him from my
heart--vonse more, vonse more.”
As the little father had already recovered his breath, and was about to
rush once again into Rodin’s arms, the latter stepped back hastily, and
held out his arm to keep him off, saying, in allusion to the illogical
metaphor employed by Father Caboccini, “First of all, father, one
does not embrace a light--and then I am not a light--I am a humble and
obscure laborer in the Lord’s vineyard.”
The Roman replied with enthusiasm (we shall henceforth translate his
gibberish), “You are right, father, we cannot embrace a light, but we
can prostrate ourselves before it, and admire its dazzling brightness.”