THE STUNG LION.
This was the scene, the sound of which had so terrified Rose and Blanche.
At first alone in his chamber, in a state of exasperation difficult to
describe, Marshal Simon had begun to walk hastily up and down, his
handsome, manly face inflamed with rage, his eyes sparkling with
indignation, while on his broad forehead, crowned with short-cut hair
that was now turning gray, large veins, of which you might count the
pulsations, were swollen almost to bursting; and sometimes his thick,
black moustache was curled with a convulsive motion, not unlike that
which is seen in the visage of a raging lion. And even as the wounded
lion, in its fury, harassed and tortured by a thousand invisible darts,
walks up and down its den with savage wrath, so Marshal Simon paced the
floor of his room, as if bounding from side to side; sometimes he
stooped, as though bending beneath the weight of his anger; sometimes, on
the contrary, he paused abruptly, drew himself up to his full height,
crossed his arms upon his vigorous chest, and with raised brow,
threatening and terrible look, seemed to defy some invisible enemy, and
murmur confused exclamations. Then he stood like a man of war and battle
in all his intrepid fire.
And now he stamped angrily with his foot, approached the chimney-piece,
and pulled the bell so violently that the bell-rope remained in his hand.
A servant hastened to attend to this precipitate summons. "Did you not
tell Dagobert that I wished to speak to him?" cried the marshal.
"I executed your grace's orders, but M. Dagobert was accompanying his son
to the door, and--"
"Very well!" interrupted Marshal Simon, with an abrupt and imperious
gesture.
The servant went out, and his master continued to walk up and down with
impatient steps, crumpling, in his rage, a letter that he held in his
left hand. This letter had been innocently delivered by Spoil-sport, who,
seeing him come in, had run joyously to meet him. At length the door
opened, and Dagobert appeared. "I have been waiting for you a long time,
sirrah!" cried the marshal, in an irritated tone.
Dagobert, more pained than surprised at this burst of anger, which he
rightly attributed to the constant state of excitement in which the
marshal had now been for some time past, answered mildly: "I beg your
pardon, general, but I was letting out my son--"
"Read that, sir!" said the marshal abruptly, giving him the letter.
While Dagobert was reading it, the marshal resumed, with growing anger,
as he kicked over a chair that stood in his way: "Thus, even in my own
house, there are wretches bribed to harass me with incredible
perseverance. Well! have you read it, sir?"
"It is a fresh insult to add to the others," said Dagobert, coolly, as he
threw the letter into the fire.
"The letter is infamous--but it speaks the truth," replied the marshal.
Dagobert looked at him in amazement.
"And can you tell who brought me this infamous letter" continued the
marshal. "One would think the devil had a hand in it--for it was your
dog!"
"Spoil-sport?" said Dagobert, in the utmost surprise.
"Yes," answered the marshal, bitterly; "it is no doubt a joke of your
invention."
"I have no heart for joking, general," answered Dagobert, more and more
saddened by the irritable state of the marshal; "I cannot explain how it
happened. Spoil-sport is a good carrier, and no doubt found the letter in
the house--"
"And who can have left it there? Am I surrounded by traitors? Do you keep
no watch? You, in whom I have every confidence?"
"Listen to me, general--"
But the marshal proceeded, without waiting to hear him. "What! I have
made war for five-and-twenty years, I have battled with armies, I have
struggled victoriously through the evil times of exile and proscription,
I have withstood blows from maces of iron--and now I am to be killed with
pins! Pursued into my own house, harassed with impunity, worn out,
tortured every minute, to gratify some unknown, miserable hate!--When I
say unknown, I am wrong--it is d'Aigrigny, the renegade, who is at the
bottom of all this, I am sure. I have in the world but one enemy, and he
is the man. I must finish with him, for I am weary of this--it is too
much."
"But, general, remember he is a priest--"
"What do I care for that? Have I not seen him handle the sword? I will
yet make a soldier's blood rise to the forehead of the traitor!"
"But, general--"
"I tell you, that I must be avenged on some one," cried the marshal, with
an accent of the most violent exasperation; "I tell you, that I mast find
a living representative of these cowardly plots, that I may at once make
an end of him!--They press upon me from all sides; they make my life a
hell--you know it--and you do nothing to save me from these tortures,
which are killing me as by a slow fire. Can I have no one in whom to
trust?"
"General, I can't let you say that," replied Dagobert, in a calm, but
firm voice.
"And why not?"
"General, I can't let you say that you have no one to trust to. You might
end perhaps in believing it, and then it would be even worse for
yourself, than for those who well know their devotion for you, and would
go through fire and water to serve you. I am one of them--and you know
it."
These simple words, pronounced by Dagobert with a tone of deep
conviction, recalled the marshal to himself; for although his honorable
and generous character might from time to time be embittered by
irritation and grief, he soon recovered his natural equanimity. So,
addressing Dagobert in a less abrupt tone, he said to him, though still
much agitated: "You are right. I could never doubt your fidelity. But
anger deprives me of my senses. This infamous letter is enough to drive
one mad. I am unjust, ungrateful--yes, ungrateful--and to you!"
"Do not think of me, general. With a kind word at the end, you might blow
me up all the year round. But what has happened?"
The general's countenance again darkened, as he answered rapidly: "I am
looked down upon, and despised!"
"You?"
"Yes I. After all," resumed the marshal bitterly, "why should I conceal
from you this new wound? If I doubted you a moment, I owe you some
compensation, and you shall know all. For some time past, I perceived
that, when I meet any of my old companions in arms, they try to avoid
me--"
"What! was it to this that the anonymous letter alluded?"
"Yes; and it spoke the truth," replied the marshal, with a sigh of grief
and indignation.
"But it is impossible, general--you are so loved and respected--"
"Those are mere words; I speak of positive facts. When I appear, the
conversation is often interrupted. Instead of treating me as an old
comrade, they affect towards me a rigorously cold politeness. There are a
thousand little shades, a thousand trifles, which wound the heart, but
which it is impossible to notice--"
"What you are now saying, general, quite confounds me," replied Dagobert.
"You assure me of it, and I am forced to believe you."
"Oh, it is intolerable! I was resolved to ease my heart of it; so, this
morning, I went to General d'Havrincourt, who was colonel with me in the
Imperial Guard; he is honor and honesty itself. I went to him with open
heart. 'I perceive,' said I, 'the coldness that is shown me. Some calumny
must be circulating to my disadvantage. Tell me all about it. Knowing the
attack, I shall be able to defend myself--'
"Well, general?"
"D'Havrincourt remained impassible ceremoniously polite. To all my
questions he answered coldly: 'I am not aware, my lord duke, that any
calumny has been circulated with regard to you.'--'Do not call me "my
lord duke," my dear D'Havrincourt; we are old fellow-soldiers and
friends, my honor is somewhat touchy, I confess, and I find that you and
our comrades do not receive me so cordially, as in times past. You do not
deny it; I see, I know, I feel it.' To all this D'Havrincourt answered,
with the same coldness: 'I have never seen any one wanting in respect
towards you.'--'I am not talking of respect,' exclaimed I, as I clasped
his hand affectionately, though I observed that he but feebly returned
the pressure; 'I speak of cordiality, confidence, which I once enjoyed,
while now I am treated like a stranger. Why is it? What has occasioned
this change?'--Still cold and reserved, he answered: 'These distinctions
are so nice, marshal, that it is impossible for me to give you any
opinion on the subject.'--My heart swelled with grief and anger. What was
I to do? To quarrel with D'Havrincourt would have been absurd. A sense of
dignity forced me to break off the interview, but it has only confirmed
my fears. Thus," added the marshal, getting more and more animated, "thus
am I fallen from the esteem to which I am entitled, thus am I despised,
without even knowing the cause! Is it not odious? If they would only
utter a charge against me--I should at least be able to defend myself,
and to find an answer. But no, no! not even a word--only the cold
politeness that is worse than any insult. Oh! it is too much, too much!
for all this comes but in addition to other cares. What a life is mine
since the death of my father! If I did but find rest and happiness at
home--but no! I come in, but to read shameful letters; and still worse,"
added the marshal, in a heartrending tone, and after a moment's
hesitation, "to find my children grow more and more indifferent towards
me--"Yes," continued he, perceiving the amazement of Dagobert, "and yet
they know how much I love them!"
"Your daughters indifferent!" exclaimed Dagobert, in astonishment. "You
make them such a reproach?"
"Oh! I do not blame them. They have hardly had time to know me."
"Not had time to know you?" returned the soldier, in a tone of
remonstrance, and warming up in his turn. "Ah! of what did their mother
talk to them, except you? and I too! what could I teach your children
except to know and love you?"
"You take their part--that is natural--they love you better than they do
me," said the marshal, with growing bitterness. Dagobert felt himself so
painfully affected, that he looked at the marshal without answering.
"Yes!" continued the other; "yes! it may be base and ungrateful--but no
matter!--Twenty times I have felt jealous of the affectionate confidence
which my children display towards you, while with me they seem always to
be in fear. If their melancholy faces ever grow animated for a moment, it
is in talking to you, in seeing you; while for me they have nothing but
cold respect--and that kills me. Sure of the affection of my children, I
would have braved and surmounted every difficulty--" Then, seeing that
Dagobert rushed towards the door which led to the chamber of Rose and
Blanche, the marshal asked: "Where are you going?"
"For your daughters, general."
"What for?"
"To bring them face to face with you--to tell them: 'My children, your
father thinks that you do not love him.'--I will only say that--and then
you will see."
"Dagobert! I forbid you to do it," cried the marshal, hastily.
"I don't care for that--you have no right to be unjust to the poor
children," said the soldier, as he again advanced towards the door.
"Dagobert, I command you to remain here," cried the marshal.
"Listen to me, general. I am your soldier, your inferior, your servant,
if you will," said the old grenadier, roughly; "but neither rank nor
station shall keep me silent, when I have to defend your daughters. All
must be explained--I know but one way--and that is to bring honest people
face to face."
If the marshal had not seized him by the arm, Dagobert would have entered
the apartment of the young girls.
"Remain!" said the marshal, so imperiously that the soldier, accustomed
to obedience, hung his head, and stood still.
"What would you do?" resumed the marshal. "Tell my children, that I think
they do not love me? induce them to affect a tenderness they do not
feel--when it is not their fault, but mine?"
"Oh, general!" said Dagobert, in a tone of despair, "I no longer feel
anger, in hearing you speak thus of your children. It is such grief, that
it breaks my heart!"
Touched by the expression of the soldier's countenance, the marshal
continued, less abruptly: "Come, I may be wrong; and yet I ask you,
without bitterness or jealousy, are not my children more confiding, more
familiar, with you than with me?"
"God bless me, general!" cried Dagobert; "if you come to that, they are
more familiar with Spoil-sport than with either of us. You are their
father; and, however kind a father may be, he must always command some
respect. Familiar with me! I should think so. A fine story! What the
devil should they respect in me, who, except that I am six feet high, and
wear a moustache, might pass for the old woman that nursed them?--and
then I must say, that, even before the death of your worthy father, you
were sad and full of thought; the children have remarked that; and what
you take for coldness on their part, is, I am sure, anxiety for you.
Come, general; you are not just. You complain, because they love you too
much."
"I complain, because I suffer," said the marshal, in an agony of
excitement. "I alone know my sufferings."
"They must indeed be grievous, general," said Dagobert, carried further
than he would otherwise have gone by his attachment for the orphans,
"since those who love you feel them so cruelly."
"What, sir! more reproaches?"
"Yes, general, reproaches," cried Dagobert. "Your children have the right
to complain of you, since you accuse them so unjustly."
"Sir," said the marshal, scarcely able to contain himself, "this is
enough--this is too much!"
"Oh, yes! it is enough," replied Dagobert, with rising emotion. "Why
defend unfortunate children, who can only love and submit? Why defend
them against your unhappy blindness?"
The marshal started with anger and impatience, but then replied, with a
forced calmness: "I needs must remember all that I owe you--and I will
not forget it, say what you will."
"But, general," cried Dagobert, "why will you not let me fetch your
children?"
"Do you not see that this scene is killing me?" cried the exasperated
marshal. "Do you not understand, that I will not have my children witness
what I suffer? A father's grief has its dignity, sir; and you ought to
feel for and respect it."
"Respect it? no--not when it is founded on injustice!"
"Enough, sir--enough!"
"And not content with tormenting yourself," cried Dagobert, unable any
longer to control his feelings, "do you know what you will do? You will
make your children die of sorrow. Was it for this, that I brought them to
you from the depths of Siberia?"
"More reproaches!"
"Yes; for the worst ingratitude towards me, is to make your children
unhappy."
"Leave the room, sir!" cried the marshal, quite beside himself, and so
terrible with rage and grief, that Dagobert, regretting that he had gone
so far, resumed: "I was wrong, general. I have perhaps been wanting in
respect to you--forgive me--but--"
"I forgive you--only leave me!" said the marshal, hardly restraining
himself.
"One word, general--"
"I entreat you to leave me--I ask it as a service--is that enough?" said
the marshal, with renewed efforts to control the violence of his
emotions.
A deadly paleness succeeded to the high color which during this painful
scene had inflamed the cheeks of the marshal. Alarmed at this symptom,
Dagobert redoubled his entreaties. "I implore you, general," said he, in
an agitated mice, "to permit me for one moment--"
"Since you will have it so, sir, I must be the one to leave," said the
marshal, making a step towards the door.
These words were said in such a manner, that Dagobert could no longer
resist. He hung his head in despair, looked for a moment in silent
supplication at the marshal, and then, as the latter seemed yielding to a
new movement of rage, the soldier slowly quitted the room.
A few minutes had scarcely elapsed since the departure of Dagobert, when
the marshal, who, after a long and gloomy silence, had repeatedly drawn
near the door of his daughters' apartment with a mixture of hesitation
and anguish, suddenly made a violent effort, wiped the cold sweat from
his brow, and entered the chamber in which Rose and Blanche had taken
refuge.