THE HEIR
Samuel opened the door to Gabriel and Rodin.
The latter said to the Jew, "You, sir, are the keeper of this house?"
"Yes, sir," replied Samuel.
"This is Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont," said Rodin, as he introduced his
companion, "one of the descendants of the family of the Renneponts."
"Happy to hear it, sir," said the Jew, almost involuntarily, struck with
the angelic countenance of Gabriel--for nobleness and serenity of soul
were visible in the glance of the young priest, and were written upon his
pure, white brow, already crowned with the halo of martyrdom. Samuel
looked at Gabriel with curiosity and benevolent interest; but feeling
that this silent contemplation must cause some embarrassment to his
guest, he said to him, "M. Abbe, the notary will not be here before ten
o'clock."
Gabriel looked at him in turn, with an air of surprise, and answered,
"What notary, sir?"
"Father d'Aigrigny will explain all this to you," said Rodin, hastily.
Then addressing Samuel, he added, "We are a little before the time. Will
you allow us to wait for the arrival of the notary?"
"Certainly," said Samuel, "if you please to walk into my house."
"I thank you, sir," answered Rodin, "and accept your offer."
"Follow me, then, gentlemen," said the old man.
A few moments after, the young priest and the socius, preceded by Samuel,
entered one of the rooms occupied by the latter, on the ground-floor of
the building, looking out upon the court-yard.
"The Abbe d'Aigrigny, who has been the guardian of M. Gabriel, will soon
be coming to ask for us," added Rodin; "will you have the kindness, sir
to show him into this room?"
"I will not fail to do so, sir," said Samuel, as he went out.
The socius and Gabriel were left alone. To the adorable gentleness which
usually gave to the fine features of the missionary so touching a charm,
there had succeeded in this moment a remarkable expression of sadness,
resolution, and severity. Rodin not having seen Gabriel for some days,
was greatly struck by the change he remarked in him. He had watched him
silently all the way from the Rue des Postes to the Rue Saint-Francois.
The young priest wore, as usual, a long black cassock, which made still
more visible the transparent paleness of his countenance. When the Jew
had left the room, Gabriel said to Rodin, in a firm voice, "Will you at
length inform me, sir, why, for some days past, I have been prevented
from speaking to his reverence Father d'Aigrigny? Why has he chosen this
house to grant me an interview?"
"It is impossible for me to answer these questions," replied Rodin,
coldly. "His reverence will soon arrive, and will listen to you. All I
can tell you is, that the reverend father lays as much stress upon this
meeting as you do. If he has chosen this house for the interview, it is
because you have an interest to be here. You know it well--though you
affected astonishment on hearing the guardian speak of a notary."
So saying, Rodin fixed a scrutinizing, anxious look upon Gabriel, whose
countenance expressed only surprise.
"I do not understand you," said he, in reply to Rodin. "What have I to do
with this house?"
"It is impossible that you should not know it," answered Rodin, still
looking at him with attention.
"I have told you, sir, that I do not know it," replied the other, almost
offended by the pertinacity of the socius.
"What, then, did your adopted mother come to tell you yesterday? Why did
you presume to receive her without permission from Father d'Aigrigny, as
I have heard this morning? Did she not speak with you of certain family
papers, found upon you when she took you in?"
"No, sir," said Gabriel; "those papers were delivered at the time to my
adopted mother's confessor, and they afterwards passed into Father
d'Aigrigny's hands. This is the first I hear for a long time of these
papers."
"So you affirm that Frances Baudoin did not come to speak to you on this
subject?" resumed Rodin, obstinately, laying great emphasis on his words.
"This is the second time, sir, that you seem to doubt my affirmation,"
said the young priest, mildly, while he repressed a movement of
impatience, "I assure you that I speak the truth."
"He knows nothing," thought Rodin; for he was too well convinced of
Gabriel's sincerity to retain the least doubt after so positive a
declaration. "I believe you," went on he. "The idea only occurred to me
in reflecting what could be the reason of sufficient weight to induce you
to transgress Father d'Aigrigny's orders with regard to the absolute
retirement he had commanded, which was to exclude all communication with
those without. Much more, contrary to all the rules of our house, you
ventured to shut the door of your room, whereas it ought to remain half
open, that the mutual inspection enjoined us might be the more easily
practiced. I could only explain these sins against discipline, by the
necessity of some very important conversation with your adopted mother."
"It was to a priest, and not to her adopted son, that Madame Baudoin
wished to speak," replied Gabriel, in a tone of deep seriousness. "I
closed my door because I was to hear a confession."
"And what had Frances Baudoin of such importance to confess?"
"You will know that by-and-bye, when I speak to his reverence--if it be
his pleasure that you should hear me."
These words were so firmly spoken, that a long silence ensued. Let us
remind the reader that Gabriel had hitherto been kept by his superiors in
the most complete ignorance of the importance of the family interests
which required his presence in the Rue Saint-Francois. The day before,
Frances Baudoin, absorbed in her own grief, had forgotten to tell him
that the two orphans also should be present at this meeting, and had she
even thought of it, Dagobert would have prevented her mentioning this
circumstance to the young priest.
Gabriel was therefore quite ignorant of the family ties which united him
with the daughters of Marshal Simon, with Mdlle. de Cardoville, with M.
Hardy, Prince Djalma, and Sleepinbuff. In a word, if it had then been
revealed to him that he was the heir of Marius de Rennepont, he would
have believed himself the only descendant of the family. During the
moment's silence which succeeded his conversation with Rodin, Gabriel
observed through the windows the mason's at their work of unwalling the
door. Having finished this first operation, they set about removing the
bars of iron by which a plate of lead was fixed over the same entrance.
At this juncture, Father d'Aigrigny, conducted by Samuel, entered the
room. Before Gabriel could turn around, Rodin had time to whisper to the
reverend father, "He knows nothing--and we have no longer anything to
fear from the Indian."
Notwithstanding his affected calmness, Father d'Aigrigny's countenance
was pale and contracted, like that of a player who is about to stake all
on a last, decisive game. Hitherto, all had favored the designs of the
Society; but he could not think without alarm of the four hours which
still remained before they should reach the fatal moment. Gabriel having
turned towards him, Father d'Aigrigny offered him his hand with a smile,
and said to him in an affectionate and cordial tone, "My dear son, it has
pained me a good deal to have been obliged to refuse you till now the
interview that you so much desired. It has been no less distressing to me
to impose on you a confinement of some days. Though I cannot give any
explanation of what I may think fit to order, I will just observe to you
that I have acted only for your interest."
"I am bound to believe your reverence," answered Gabriel, bowing his
head.
In spite of himself, the young priest felt a vague sense of fear, for
until his departure for his American mission, Father d'Aigrigny, at whose
feet he had pronounced the formidable vows which bound him irrevocably to
the Society of Jesus, had exercised over him that frightful species of
influence which, acting only by despotism, suppression, and intimidation,
breaks down all the living forces of the soul, and leaves it inert,
trembling, and terrified. Impressions of early youth are indelible, and
this was the first time, since his return from America, that Gabriel
found himself in presence of Father d'Aigrigny; and although he did not
shrink from the resolution he had taken, he regretted not to have been
able, as he had hoped, to gather new strength and courage from an
interview with Agricola and Dagobert. Father d'Aigrigny knew mankind too
well not to have remarked the emotion of the young priest, and to have
endeavored to explain its cause. This emotion appeared to him a favorable
omen; he redoubled, therefore, his seductive arts, his air of tenderness
and amenity, reserving to himself, if necessary, the choice of assuming
another mask. He sat down, while Gabriel and Rodin remained standing in a
respectful position, and said to the former: "You desire, my dear son, to
have an important interview with me?"
"Yes, father," said Gabriel, involuntarily casting down his eyes before
the large, glittering gray pupil of his superior.
"And I also have matters of great importance to communicate to you.
Listen to me first; you can speak afterwards."
"I listen, father."
"It is about twelve years ago, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny,
affectionately, "that the confessor of your adopted mother, addressing
himself to me through M. Rodin, called my attention to yourself, by
reporting the astonishing progress you had made at the school of the
Brothers. I soon found, indeed, that your excellent conduct, your gentle,
modest character, and your precocious intelligence, were worthy of the
most tender interest. From that moment I kept my eyes upon you, and at
the end of some time, seeing that you did not fall off, it appeared to me
that there was something more in you than the stuff that makes a workman.
We agreed with your adopted mother, and through my intervention, you were
admitted gratuitously to one of the schools of our Company. Thus one
burden the less weighed upon the excellent woman who had taken charge of
you, and you received from our paternal care all the benefits of a
religious education. Is not this true, my dear son?"
"It is true, father," answered Gabriel, casting down his eyes.
"As you grew up, excellent and rare virtues displayed themselves in your
character. Your obedience and mildness were above all exemplary. You made
rapid progress in your studies. I knew not then to what career you wished
to devote yourself, but I felt certain that, in every station of life,
you would remain a faithful son of the Church. I was not deceived in my
hopes, or rather, my dear son, you surpassed them all. Learning, by a
friendly communication, that your adopted mother ardently desired to see
you take orders, you acceded generously and religiously to the wish of
the excellent woman to whom you owed so much. But as the Lord is always
just in His recompenses, He willed that the most touching work of
gratitude you could show to your adopted mother, should at the same time
be divinely profitable by making you one of the militant members of our
holy Church."
At these words, Gabriel could not repress a significant start, as he
remembered Frances' sad confidences. But he restrained himself, whilst
Rodin stood leaning with his elbow on the corner of the chimney-piece,
continuing to examine him with singular and obstinate attention.
Father d'Aigrigny resumed: "I do not conceal from you, my dear son, that
your resolution filled me with joy. I saw in you one of the future lights
of the Church, and I was anxious to see it shine in the midst of our
Company. You submitted courageously to our painful and difficult tests;
you were judged worthy of belonging to us, and, after taking in my
presence the irrevocable and sacred oath, which binds you for ever to our
Company for the greater glory of God, you answered the appeal of our Holy
Father[14] to willing souls, and offered yourself as a missionary, to
preach to savages the one Catholic faith. Though it was painful to us to
part with our dear son, we could not refuse to accede to such pious
wishes. You set out a humble missionary you return a glorious martyr--and
we are justly proud to reckon you amongst our number. This rapid sketch
of the past was necessary, my dear son to arrive at what follows, for we
wish now, if it be possible, to draw still closer the bonds that unite
us. Listen to me, my dear son; what I am about to say is confidential and
of the highest importance, not only for you, but the whole Company."
"Then, father," cried Gabriel hastily, interrupting the Abbe d'Aigrigny,
"I cannot--I ought not to hear you."
The young priest became deadly pale; one saw, by the alteration of his
features, that a violent struggle was taking place within him, but
recovering his first resolution, he raised his head, and casting an
assured look on Father d'Aigrigny and Rodin, who glanced at each other in
mute surprise, he resumed: "I repeat to you, father, that if it concerns
confidential matters of the Company, I must not hear you."
"Really, my dear son, you occasion me the greatest astonishment. What is
the matter?--Your countenance changes, your emotion is visible. Speak
without fear; why can you not hear me?"
"I cannot tell you, father, until I also have, in my turn, rapidly
sketched the past--such as I have learned to judge it of late. You will
then understand, father, that I am no longer entitled to your confidence,
for an abyss will doubtlessly soon separate us."
At these words, it is impossible to paint the look rapidly exchanged
between Rodin and Father d'Aigrigny. The socius began to bite his nails,
fixing his reptile eye angrily upon Gabriel; Father d'Aigrigny grew
livid, and his brow was bathed in cold sweat. He asked himself with
terror, if, at the moment of reaching the goal, the obstacle was going to
come from Gabriel, in favor of whom all other obstacles had been removed.
This thought filled him with despair. Yet the reverend father contained
himself admirably, remained calm, and answered with affectionate unction:
"It is impossible to believe, my dear son, that you and I can ever be
separated by an abyss--unless by the abyss of grief, which would be
caused by any serious danger to your salvation. But speak; I listen to
you."
"It is true, that, twelve years ago, father," proceeded Gabriel, in a
firm voice, growing more animated as he proceeded, "I entered, through
your intervention, a college of the Company of Jesus. I entered it
loving, truthful, confiding. How did they encourage those precious
instincts of childhood? I will tell you. The day of my entrance, the
Superior said to me, as he pointed out two children a little older than
myself: 'These are the companions that you will prefer. You will always
walk three together. The rules of the house forbid all intercourse
between two persons only. They also require, that you should listen
attentively to what your companions say, so that you may report it to me;
for these dear children may have, without knowing it, bad thoughts or
evil projects. Now, if you love your comrades, you must inform me of
these evil tendencies, that my paternal remonstrances may save them from
punishment; it is better to prevent evil than to punish it.'"
"Such are, indeed, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, "the rules of
our house, and the language we hold to all our pupils on their entrance."
"I know it, father," answered Gabriel, bitterly; "three days after, a
poor, submissive, and credulous child, I was already a spy upon my
comrades, hearing and remembering their conversation, and reporting it to
the superior, who congratulated me on my zeal. What they thus made me do
was shameful, and yet, God knows! I thought I was accomplishing a
charitable duty. I was happy in obeying the commands of a superior whom I
respected, and to whose words I listened, in my childish faith, as I
should have listened to those of Heaven. One day, that I had broken some
rule of the house, the superior said to me: 'My child, you have deserved
a severe punishment; but you will be pardoned, if you succeed in
surprising one of your comrades in the same fault that you have
committed.' And for that, notwithstanding my faith and blind obedience,
this encouragement to turn informer, from the motive of personal
interest, might appear odious to me, the superior added. 'I speak to you,
my child, for the sake of your comrade's salvation. Were he to escape
punishment, his evil habits would become habitual. But by detecting him
in a fault, and exposing him to salutary correction, you will have the
double advantage of aiding in his salvation, and escaping yourself a
merited punishment, which will have been remitted because of your zeal
for your neighbor--"
"Doubtless," answered Father d'Aigrigny, more and more terrified by
Gabriel's language; "and in truth, my dear son, all this is conformable
to the rule followed in our colleges, and to the habits of the members of
our Company, 'who may denounce each other without prejudice to mutual
love and charity, and only for their greater spiritual advancement,
particularly when questioned by their superior, or commanded for the
greater glory of God,' as our Constitution has it."
"I know it," cried Gabriel; "I know it. 'Tis in the name of all that is
most sacred amongst men, that we are encouraged to do evil."
"My dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, trying to conceal his secret and
growing terror beneath an appearance of wounded dignity, "from you to me
these words are at least strange."
At this, Rodin quitted the mantelpiece, on which he had been leaning,
begin to walk up and down the room, with a meditative air, and without
ceasing to bite his nails.
"It is cruel to be obliged to remind you, my dear son, that your are
indebted to us for the education you have received," added Father
d'Aigrigny.
"Such were its fruits, father," replied Gabriel. "Until then I had been a
spy on the other children, from a sort of disinterestedness; but the
orders of the superior made me advance another step on that shameful
road. I had become an informer, to escape a merited punishment. And yet,
such was my faith, my humility, my confidence, that I performed with
innocence and candor this doubly odious part. Once, indeed, tormented by
vague scruples, the last remains of generous aspirations that they were
stifling within me, I asked myself if the charitable and religious end
could justify the means, and I communicated my doubts to the superior. He
replied, that I had not to judge, but to obey, and that to him alone
belonged the responsibility of my acts."
"Go on, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, gelding, in spite of
himself, to the deepest dejection. "Alas! I was right in opposing your
travel to America."
"And yet it was the will of Providence, in that new, productive, and free
country, that, enlightened by a singular chance, on past and present, my
eyes were at length opened. Yes!" cried Gabriel, "it was in America that,
released from the gloomy abode where I had spent so many years of my
youth, and finding myself for the first time face to face with the divine
majesty of Nature, in the heart of immense solitudes through which I
journeyed--it was there that, overcome by so much magnificence and
grandeur, I made a vow--" Here Gabriel interrupted himself, to continue:
"Presently, father, I will explain to you that vow; but believe me,"
added the missionary, with an accent of deep sorrow, "it was a fatal day
to me when I first learned to fear and condemn all that I had hitherto
most revered and blessed. Oh! I assure you father," added Gabriel, with
moist eyes, "it was not for myself alone, that I then wept."
"I know the goodness of your heart, my dear son," replied Father
d'Aigrigny, catching a glimpse of hope, on seeing Gabriel's emotion; "I
fear that you have been led astray. But trust yourself to us, as to your
spiritual fathers, and I doubt not we shall confirm your faith, so
unfortunately shaken, and disperse the darkness which at present obscures
your sight. Alas, my dear son, in your vain illusions, you have mistaken
some false glimmer for the pure light of day. But go on."
Whilst Father d'Aigrigny was thus speaking, Rodin stopped, took a pocket
book from his coat, and wrote down several notes. Gabriel was becoming
more and more pale and agitated. It required no small courage in him, to
speak as he was speaking, for, since his journey to America, he had
learned to estimate the formidable power of the Company. But this
revelation of the past, looked at from the vantage-ground of a more
enlightened present, was for the young priest the excuse, or rather the
cause of the determination he had just signified to his superior, and he
wished to explain all faithfully, notwithstanding the danger he knowingly
encountered. He continued therefore, in an agitated voice:
"You know, father, that the last days of my childhood, that happy age of
frankness and innocent joy, were spent in an atmosphere of terror,
suspicion, and restraint. Alas! how could I resign myself to the least
impulse of confiding trust, when I was recommended to shun the looks of
him who spoke with me, in order to hide the impression that his words
might cause--to conceal whatever I felt, and to observe and listen to
everything? Thus I reached the age of fifteen; by degrees, the rare
visits that I was allowed to pay, but always in presence of one of our
fathers, to my adopted mother and brother, were quite suppressed, so as
to shut my heart against all soft and tender emotions. Sad and fearful in
that large, old noiseless, gloomy house, I felt that I became more and
more isolated from the affections and the freedom of the world. My time
was divided between mutilated studies, without connection and without
object, and long hours of minute devotional exercises. I ask you, father,
did they ever seek to warm our young souls by words of tenderness or
evangelic love? Alas, no! For the words of the divine Saviour--Love ye
one another, they had substituted the command: Suspect ye one another.
Did they ever, father, speak to us of our country or of liberty?--No! ah,
no! for those words make the heart beat high; and with them, the heart
must not beat at all. To our long hours of study and devotion, there only
succeeded a few walks, three by three--never two and two--because by
threes, the spy-system is more practicable, and because intimacies are
more easily formed by two alone; and thus might have arisen some of those
generous friendships, which also make the heart beat more than it
should.15 And so, by the habitual repression of every feeling, there came
a time when I could not feel at all. For six months, I had not seen my
adopted mother and brother; they came to visit me at the college; a few
years before, I should have received them with transports and tears; this
time my eyes were dry, my heart was cold. My mother and brother quitted
me weeping. The sight of this grief struck me and I became conscious of
the icy insensibility which had been creeping upon me since I inhabited
this tomb. Frightened at myself, I wished to leave it, while I had still
strength to do so. Then, father, I spoke to you of the choice of a
profession; for sometimes, in waking moments, I seemed to catch from afar
the sound of an active and useful life, laborious and free, surrounded by
family affections. Oh! then I felt the want of movement and liberty, of
noble and warm emotions--of that life of the soul, which fled before me.
I told it you, father on my knees, bathing your hands with my tears. The
life of a workman or a soldier--anything would have suited me. It was
then you informed me, that my adopted mother, to whom I owed my life--for
she had taken me in, dying of want, and, poor herself, had shared with me
the scanty bread of her child--admirable sacrifice for a mother!--that
she," continued Gabriel, hesitating and casting down his eyes, for noble
natures blush for the guilt of others, and are ashamed of the infamies of
which they are themselves victims, "that she, that my adopted mother, had
but one wish, one desire--"
"That of seeing you takes orders, my dear son," replied Father
d'Aigrigny; "for this pious and perfect creature hoped, that, in securing
your salvation, she would provide for her own: but she did not venture to
inform you of this thought, for fear you might ascribe it to an
interested motive."
"Enough, father!" said Gabriel, interrupting the Abbe d'Aigrigny, with a
movement of involuntary indignation; "it is painful for me to hear you
assert an error. Frances Baudoin never had such a thought."
"My dear son, you are too hasty in your judgments," replied Father
d'Aigrigny, mildly. "I tell you, that such was the one, sole thought of
your adopted mother."
"Yesterday, father, she told me all. She and I were equally deceived."
"Then, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, sternly, "you take the word
of your adopted mother before mine?"
"Spare me an answer painful for both of us, father," said Gabriel,
casting down his eyes.
"Will you now tell me," resumed Father d'Aigrigny, with anxiety, "what
you mean to--"
The reverend father was unable to finish. Samuel entered the room, and
said: "A rather old man wishes to speak to M. Rodin."
"That is my name, sir," answered the socius, in surprise; "I am much
obliged to you." But, before following the Jew, he gave to Father
d'Aigrigny a few words written with a pencil upon one of the leaves of
his packet-book.
Rodin went out in very uneasy mood, to learn who could have come to seek
him in the Rue Saint-Francois. Father d'Aigrigny and Gabriel were left
alone together.
[14] It is only in respect to Missions that the Jesuits acknowledge the
papal supremacy.
[15] This rule is so strict in Jesuit Colleges, that if one of three pupils
leaves the other two, they separate out of earshot till the first comes
back.