



Produced by David Widger and Pat Castevens





THE WANDERING JEW

By Eugene Sue




BOOK VI.



PART SECOND.--THE CHASTISEMENT. (Concluded.)

XXVI.     A Good Genius
XXVII.    The First Last, And the Last First
XXVIII.   The Stranger
XXIX.     The Den
XXX.      An Unexpected Visit
XXXI.     Friendly Services
XXXII.    The Advice
XXXIII.   The Accuser
XXXIV.    Father d'Aigrigny's Secretary
XXXV.     Sympathy
XXXVI.    Suspicions
XXXVII.   Excuses
XXXVIII.  Revelations
XXXIX.    Pierre Simon




CHAPTER XXVI.

A GOOD GENIUS.

The first of the two, whose arrival had interrupted the answer of the
notary, was Faringhea. At sight of this man's forbidding countenance,
Samuel approached, and said to him: "Who are you, sir?"

After casting a piercing glance at Rodin, who started but soon recovered
his habitual coolness, Faringhea replied to Samuel: "Prince Djalma
arrived lately from India, in order to be present here this day, as it
was recommended to him by an inscription on a medal, which he wore about
his neck."

"He, also!" cried Gabriel, who had been the shipmate of the Indian Prince
from the Azores, where the vessel in which he came from Alexandria had
been driven into port: "he also one of the heirs! In fact, the prince
told me during the voyage that his mother was of French origin. But,
doubtless, he thought it right to conceal from me the object of his
journey. Oh! that Indian is a noble and courageous young man. Where is
he?"

The Strangler again looked at Rodin, and said, laying strong emphasis
upon his words: "I left the prince yesterday evening. He informed me
that, although he had a great interest to be here, he might possibly
sacrifice that interest to other motives. I passed the night in the same
hotel, and this morning, when I went to call on him, they told me he was
already gone out. My friendship for him led me to come hither, hoping the
information I should be able to give might be of use to the prince."

In making no mention of the snare into which he had fallen the day
before, in concealing Rodin's machinations with regard to Djalma, and in
attributing the absence of this latter to a voluntary cause, the
Strangler evidently wished to serve the socius, trusting that Rodin would
know how to recompense his discretion. It is useless to observe, that all
this story was impudently false. Having succeeded that morning in
escaping from his prison by a prodigious effort of cunning, audacity, and
skill, he had run to the hotel where he had left Djalma; there he had
learned that a man and woman, of an advanced age, and most respectable
appearance, calling themselves relations of the young Indian, had asked
to see him--and that, alarmed at the dangerous state of somnolency in
which he seemed to be plunged, they had taken him home in their carriage,
in order to pay him the necessary attention.

"It is unfortunate," said the notary, "that this heir also did not make
his appearance--but he has, unhappily, forfeited his right to the immense
inheritance that is in question."

"Oh! an immense inheritance is in question," said Faringhea, looking
fixedly at Rodin, who prudently turned away his eyes.

The second of the two personages we have mentioned entered at this
moment. It was the father of Marshal Simon, an old man of tall stature,
still active and vigorous for his age. His hair was white and thin. His
countenance, rather fresh-colored, was expressive at once of quickness,
mildness and energy.

Agricola advanced hastily to meet him. "You here, M. Simon!" he
exclaimed.

"Yes, my boy," said the marshal's father, cordially pressing Agricola's
hand "I have just arrived from my journey. M. Hardy was to have been
here, about some matter of inheritance, as he supposed: but, as he will
still be absent from Paris for some time, he has charged me--"

"He also an heir!--M. Francis Hardy!" cried Agricola, interrupting the
old workman.

"But how pale and agitated you are, my boy!" said the marshal's father,
looking round with astonishment. "What is the matter?"

"What is the matter?" cried Dagobert, in despair, as he approached the
foreman. "The matter is that they would rob your granddaughters, and that
I have brought them from the depths of Siberia only to witness this
shameful deed!"

"Eh?" cried the old workman, trying to recognize the soldiers face, "you
are then--"

"Dagobert."

"You--the generous, devoted friend of my son!" cried the marshal's
father, pressing the hands of Dagobert in his own with strong emotion;
"but did you not speak of Simon's daughter?"

"Of his daughters; for he is more fortunate than he imagines," said
Dagobert. "The poor children are twins."

"And where are they?" asked the old man.

"In a convent."

"In a convent?"

"Yes; by the treachery of this man, who keeps them there in order to
disinherit them."

"What man?"

"The Marquis d'Aigrigny."

"My son's mortal enemy!" cried the old workman, as he threw a glance of
aversion at Father d'Aigrigny, whose audacity did not fail him.

"And that is not all," added Agricola. "M. Hardy, my worthy and excellent
master, has also lost his right to this immense inheritance."

"What?" cried Marshal Simon's father; "but M. Hardy did not know that
such important interests were concerned. He set out hastily to join one
of his friends who was in want of him."

At each of these successive revelations, Samuel felt his trouble
increase: but he could only sigh over it, for the will of the testator
was couched, unhappily, in precise and positive terms.

Father d'Aigrigny, impatient to end this scene, which caused him cruel
embarrassment, in spite of his apparent calmness, said to the notary, in
a grave and expressive voice: "It is necessary, sir, that all this should
have an end. If calumny could reach me, I would answer victoriously by
the facts that have just come to light. Why attribute to odious
conspiracies the absence of the heirs, in whose names this soldier and
his son have so uncourteously urged their demands? Why should such
absence be less explicable than the young Indian's, or than M. Hardy's,
who, as his confidential man has just told us, did not even know the
importance of the interests that called him hither? Is it not probable,
that the daughters of Marshal Simon, and Mdlle. de Cardoville have been
prevented from coming here to-day by some very natural reasons? But, once
again, this has lasted too long. I think M. Notary will agree with me,
that this discovery of new heirs does not at all affect the question,
which I had the honor to propose to him just now; namely whether, as
trustee for the poor, to whom Abbe Gabriel made a free gift of all he
possessed, I remain notwithstanding his tardy and illegal opposition, the
only possessor of this property, which I have promised, and which I now
again promise, in presence of all here assembled, to employ for the
Greater Glory of the Lord? Please to answer me plainly, M. Notary; and
thus terminate the scene which must needs be painful to us all."

"Sir," replied the notary, in a solemn tone, "on my soul and conscience,
and in the name of law and justice--as a faithful and impartial executor
of the last will of M. Marius de Rennepont, I declare that, by virtue of
the deed of gift of Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont, you, M. l'Abbe d'Aigrigny,
are the only possessor of this property, which I place at your immediate
disposal, that you may employ the same according to the intention of the
donor."

These words pronounced with conviction and gravity, destroyed the last
vague hopes that the representatives of the heirs might till then have
entertained. Samuel became paler than usual, and pressed convulsively the
hand of Bathsheba, who had drawn near to him. Large tears rolled down the
cheeks of the two old people. Dagobert and Agricola were plunged into the
deepest dejection. Struck with the reasoning of the notary, who refused
to give more credence and authority to their remonstrances than the
magistrates had done before him, they saw themselves forced to abandon
every hope. But Gabriel suffered more than any one; he felt the most
terrible remorse, in reflecting that, by his blindness, he had been the
involuntary cause and instrument of this abominable theft.

So, when the notary, after having examined and verified the amount of
securities contained in the cedar box, said to Father d'Aigrigny: "Take
possession, sir, of this casket--" Gabriel exclaimed, with bitter
disappointment and profound despair: "Alas! one would fancy, under these
circumstances, that an inexorable fatality pursues all those who are
worthy of interest, affection or respect. Oh, my God!" added the young
priest, clasping his hands with fervor, "Thy sovereign justice will never
permit the triumph of such iniquity."

It was as if heaven had listened to the prayer of the missionary. Hardly
had he spoken, when a strange event took place.

Without waiting for the end of Gabriel's invocation, Rodin, profiting by
the decision of the notary, had seized the casket in his arms, unable to
repress a deep aspiration of joy and triumph. At the very moment when
Father d'Aigrigny and his socius thought themselves at last in safe
possession of the treasure, the door of the apartment in which the clock
had been heard striking was suddenly opened.

A woman appeared upon the threshold.

At sight of her, Gabriel uttered a loud cry, and remained as if
thunderstruck. Samuel and Bathsheba fell on their knees together, and
raised their clasped hands. The Jew and Jewess felt inexplicable hopes
reviving within them.

All the other actors in this scene appeared struck with stupor.
Rodin--Rodin himself--recoiled two steps, and replaced the casket on the
table with a trembling hand. Though the incident might appear natural
enough--a woman appearing on the threshold of a door, which she had just
thrown open--there was a pause of deep and solemn silence. Every bosom
seemed oppressed, and as if struggling for breath. All experienced, at
sight of this woman, surprise mingled with fear, and indefinable
anxiety--for this woman was the living original of the portrait, which
had been placed in the room a hundred and fifty years ago. The same
head-dress, the same flowing robe, the same countenance, so full of
poignant and resigned grief! She advanced slowly, and without appearing
to perceive the deep impression she had caused. She approached one of the
pieces of furniture, inlaid with brass, touched a spring concealed in the
moulding of gilded bronze, so that an upper drawer flew open, and taking
from it a sealed parchment envelope, she walked up to the table, and
placed this packet before the notary, who, hitherto silent and
motionless, received it mechanically from her.

Then, casting upon Gabriel, who seemed fascinated by her presence, a
long, mild, melancholy look, this woman directed her steps towards the
hall, the door of which had remained open. As she passed near Samuel and
Bathsheba, who were still kneeling, she stopped an instant, bowed her
fair head towards them, and looked at them with tender solicitude. Then,
giving them her hands to kiss, she glided away as slowly as she had
entered--throwing a last glance upon Gabriel. The departure of this woman
seemed to break the spell under which all present had remained for the
last few minutes. Gabriel was the first to speak, exclaiming, in an
agitated voice. "It is she--again--here--in this house!"

"Who, brother?" said Agricola, uneasy at the pale and almost wild looks
of the missionary; for the smith had not yet remarked the strange
resemblance of the woman to the portrait, though he shared in the general
feeling of amazement, without being able to explain it to himself.
Dagobert and Faringhea were in a similar state of mind.

"Who is this woman?" resumed Agricola, as he took the hand of Gabriel,
which felt damp and icy cold.

"Look!" said the young priest. "Those portraits have been there for more
than a century and a half."

He pointed to the paintings before which he was now seated, and Agricola,
Dagobert, and Faringhea raised their eyes to either side of the
fireplace. Three exclamations were now heard at once.

"It is she--it is the same woman!" cried the smith, in amazement, "and
her portrait has been here for a hundred and fifty years!"

"What do I see?" cried Dagobert, as he gazed at the portrait of the man.
"The friend and emissary of Marshal Simon. Yes! it is the same face that
I saw last year in Siberia. Oh, yes! I recognize that wild and sorrowful
air--those black eyebrows, which make only one!"

"My eyes do not deceive me," muttered Faringhea to himself, shuddering
with horror. "It is the same man, with the black mark on his forehead,
that we strangled and buried on the banks of the Ganges--the same man,
that one of the sons of Bowanee told me, in the ruins of Tchandi, had
been met by him afterwards at one of the gates of Bombay--the man of the
fatal curse, who scatters death upon his passage--and his picture has
existed for a hundred and fifty years!"

And, like Dagobert and Agricola, the stranger could not withdraw his eyes
from that strange portrait.

"What a mysterious resemblance!" thought Father d'Aigrigny. Then, as if
struck with a sudden idea, he said to Gabriel: "But this woman is the
same that saved your life in America?"

"It is the same," answered Gabriel, with emotion; "and yet she told me
she was going towards the North," added the young priest, speaking to
himself.

"But how came she in this house?" said Father d'Aigrigny, addressing
Samuel. "Answer me! did this woman come in with you, or before you?"

"I came in first, and alone, when this door was first opened since a
century and half," said Samuel, gravely.

"Then how can you explain the presence of this woman here?" said Father
d'Aigrigny.

"I do not try to explain it," said the Jew. "I see, I believe, and now I
hope." added he, looking at Bathsheba with an indefinable expression.

"But you ought to explain the presence of this woman!" said Father
d'Aigrigny, with vague uneasiness. "Who is she? How came she hither?"

"All I know is, sir, that my father has often told me; there are
subterraneous communications between this house and distant parts of the
quarter."

"Oh! then nothing can be clearer," said Father d'Aigrigny; "it only
remains to be known what this woman intends by coming hither. As for her
singular resemblance to this portrait, it is one of the freaks of
nature."

Rodin had shared in the general emotion, at the apparition of this
mysterious woman. But when he saw that she had delivered a sealed packet
to the notary, the socius, instead of thinking of the strangeness of this
unexpected vision, was only occupied with a violent desire to quit the
house with the treasure which had just fallen to the Company. He felt a
vague anxiety at sight of the envelope with the black seal, which the
protectress of Gabriel had delivered to the notary, and was still held
mechanically in his hands. The socius, therefore, judging this a very
good opportunity to walk off with the casket, during the general silence
and stupor which still continued, slightly touched Father d'Aigrigny's
elbow, made him a sign of intelligence, and, tucking the cedar-wood chest
under his arm, was hastening towards the door.

"One moment, sir," said Samuel, rising, and standing in his path; "I
request M. Notary to examine the envelope, that has just been delivered
to him. You may then go out."

"But, sir," said Rodin, trying to force a passage, "the question is
definitively decided in favor of Father d'Aigrigny. Therefore, with your
permission--"

"I tell you, sir," answered the old man, in a loud voice, "that this
casket shall not leave the house, until M. Notary has examined the
envelope just delivered to him!"

These words drew the attention of all, Rodin was forced to retrace his
steps. Notwithstanding the firmness of his character, the Jew shuddered
at the look of implacable hate which Rodin turned upon him at this
moment.

Yielding to the wish of Samuel, the notary examined the envelope with
attention. "Good Heaven!" he cried suddenly; "what do I see?--Ah! so much
the better!"

At this exclamation all eyes turned upon the notary. "Oh! read, read,
sir!" cried Samuel, clasping his hands together. "My presentiments have
not then deceived me!"

"But, sir," said Father d'Aigrigny to the notary, for he began to share
in the anxiety of Rodin, "what is this paper?"

"A codicil," answered the notary; "a codicil, which reopens the whole
question."

"How, sir?" cried Father d'Aigrigny, in a fury, as he hastily drew nearer
to the notary, "reopens the whole question! By what right?"

"It is impossible," added Rodin. "We protest against it.

"Gabriel! father! listen," cried Agricola, "all is not lost. There is yet
hope. Do you hear, Gabriel? There is yet hope."

"What do you say?" exclaimed the young priest, rising, and hardly
believing the words of his adopted brother.

"Gentlemen," said the notary; "I will read to you the superscription of
this envelope. It changes, or rather, it adjourns, the whole of the
testamentary provisions."

"Gabriel!" cried Agricola, throwing himself on the neck of the
missionary, "all is adjourned, nothing is lost!"

"Listen, gentlemen," said the notary; and he read as follows:

"'This is a Codicil, which for reasons herein stated, adjourns and
prorogues to the 1st day of June, 1832, though without any other change,
all the provisions contained in the testament made by me, at one o'clock
this afternoon. The house shall be reclosed, and the funds left in the
hands of the same trustee, to be distributed to the rightful claimants on
the 1st of June, 1832.

"'Villetaneuse, this 13th of February, 1682, eleven o'clock at night.
"'MARIUS DE RENNEPONT.'"

"I protest against this codicil as a forgery!" cried Father d'Aigrigny
livid with rage and despair.

"The woman who delivered it to the notary is a suspicious character,"
added Rodin. "The codicil has been forged."

"No, sir," said the notary, severely; "I have just compared the two
signatures, and they are absolutely alike. For the rest--what I said this
morning, with regard to the absent heirs, is now applicable to you--the
law is open; you may dispute the authenticity of this codicil. Meanwhile,
everything will remain suspended--since the term for the adjustment of
the inheritance is prolonged for three months and a half."

When the notary had uttered these last words, Rodin's nails dripped
blood; for the first time, his wan lips became red.

"Oh, God! Thou hast heard and granted my prayer!" cried Gabriel, kneeling
down with religious fervor, and turning his angelic face towards heaven.
"Thy sovereign justice has not let iniquity triumph!"

"What do you say, my brave boy?" cried Dagobert, who, in the first tumult
of joy, had not exactly understood the meaning of the codicil.

"All is put off, father!" exclaimed the smith; "the heirs will have three
months and a half more to make their claim. And now that these people are
unmasked," added Agricola, pointing to Rodin and Father d'Aigrigny, "we
have nothing more to fear from them. We shall be on our guard; and the
orphans, Mdlle. de Cardoville, my worthy master, M. Hardy, and this young
Indian, will all recover their own."

We must renounce the attempt to paint the delight, the transport of
Gabriel and Agricola, of Dagobert, and Marshal Simon's father, of Samuel
and Bathsheba. Faringhea alone remained in gloomy silence, before the
portrait of the man with the black-barred forehead. As for the fury of
Father d'Aigrigny and Rodin, when they saw Samuel retake possession of
the casket, we must also renounce any attempt to describe it. On the
notary's suggestion, who took with him the codicil, to have it opened
according to the formalities of the law, Samuel agreed that it would be
more prudent to deposit in the Bank of France the securities of immense
value that were now known to be in his possession.

While all the generous hearts, which had for a moment suffered so much,
were overflowing with happiness, hope, and joy, Father d'Aigrigny and
Rodin quitted the house with rage and death in their souls. The reverend
father got into his carriage, and said to his servants: "To Saint-Dizier
House!"--Then, worn out and crushed, he fell back upon the seat, and hid
his face in his hands, while he uttered a deep groan. Rodin sat next to
him, and looked with a mixture of anger and disdain at this so dejected
and broken-spirited man.

"The coward!" said he to himself. "He despairs--and yet--"

A quarter of an hour later, the carriage stopped in the Rue de Babylone,
in the court-yard of Saint-Dizier House.




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE FIRST LAST, AND THE LAST FIRST.

The carriage had travelled rapidly to Saint-Dizier House. During all the
way, Rodin remained mute, contenting himself with observing Father
d'Aigrigny, and listening to him, as he poured forth his grief and fury
in a long monologue, interrupted by exclamations, lamentations, and
bursts of rage, directed against the strokes of that inexorable destiny,
which had ruined in a moment the best founded hopes. When the carriage
entered the courtyard, and stopped before the portico, the princess's
face could be seen through one of the windows, half hidden by the folds
of a curtain; in her burning anxiety, she came to see if it was really
Father d'Aigrigny who arrived at the house. Still more, in defiance of
all ordinary rules, this great lady, generally so scrupulous as to
appearances, hurried from her apartment, and descended several steps of
the staircase, to meet Father d'Aigrigny, who was coming up with a
dejected air. At sight of the livid and agitated countenance of the
reverend father, the princess stopped suddenly, and grew pale. She
suspected that all was lost. A look rapidly exchanged with her old lover
left her no doubt of the issue she so much feared. Rodin humbly followed
the reverend father, and both, preceded by the princess, entered the
room. The door once closed, the princess, addressing Father d'Aigrigny,
exclaimed with unspeakable anguish: "What has happened?"

Instead of answering this question, the reverend father, his eyes
sparkling with rage, his lips white, his features contracted, looked
fixedly at the princess, and said to her: "Do you know the amount of this
inheritance, that we estimated at forty millions?"

"I understand," cried the princess; "we have been deceived. The
inheritance amounts to nothing, and all you have dare has been in vain."

"Yes, it has indeed been in vain," answered the reverend father, grinding
his teeth with rage; "it was no question of forty millions, but of two
hundred and twelve millions.

"Two hundred and twelve millions!" repeated the princess in amazement, as
she drew back a step. "It is impossible!"

"I tell you I saw the vouchers, which were examined by the notary."

"Two hundred and twelve millions?" resumed the princess, with deep
dejection. "It is an immense and sovereign power--and you have
renounced--you have not struggled for it, by every possible means, and
till the last moment?"

"Madame, I have done all that I could!--notwithstanding the treachery of
Gabriel, who this very morning declared that he renounced us, and
separated from the Society."

"Ungrateful!" said the princess, unaffectedly.

"The deed of gift, which I had the precaution to have prepared by the
notary, was in such good, legal form, that in spite of the objections of
that accursed soldier and his son, the notary had put me in possession of
the treasure."

"Two hundred and twelve millions!" repeated the princess clasping her
hands. "Verily it is like a dream!"

"Yes," replied Father d'Aigrigny, bitterly, "for us, this possession is
indeed a dream, for a codicil has been discovered, which puts off for
three months and a half all the testamentary provisions. Now that our
very precautions have roused the suspicion of all these heirs--now that
they know the enormous amount at stake--they will be upon their guard;
and all is lost."

"But who is the wretch that produced this codicil?"

"A woman."

"What woman?"

"Some wandering creature, that Gabriel says he met in America, where she
saved his life."

"And how could this woman be there--how could she know the existence of
this codicil?"

"I think it was all arranged with a miserable Jew, the guardian of the
house, whose family has had charge of the funds for three generations; he
had no doubt some secret instructions, in case he suspected the detention
of any of the heirs, for this Marius de Rennepont had foreseen that our
Company would keep their eyes upon his race."

"But can you not dispute the validity of this codicil?"

"What, go to law in these times--litigate about a will--incur the
certainty of a thousand clamors, with no security for success?--It is bad
enough, that even this should get wind. Alas! it is terrible. So near the
goal! after so much care and trouble. An affair that had been followed up
with so much perseverance during a century and a half!"

"Two hundred and twelve millions!" said the princess. "The Order would
have had no need to look for establishments in foreign countries; with
such resources, it would have been able to impose itself upon France."

"Yes," resumed Father d'Aigrigny, with bitterness; "by means of
education, we might have possessed ourselves of the rising generation.
The power is altogether incalculable." Then, stamping with his foot, he
resumed: "I tell you, that it is enough to drive one mad with rage! an
affair so wisely, ably, patiently conducted!"

"Is there no hope?"

"Only that Gabriel may not revoke his donation, in as far as concerns
himself. That alone would be a considerable sum--not less than thirty
millions."

"It is enormous--it is almost what you hoped," said the princess; "then
why despair?"

"Because it is evident that Gabriel will dispute this donation. However
legal it may be, he will find means to annul it, now that he is free,
informed as to our designs, and surrounded by his adopted family. I tell
you, that all is lost. There is no hope left. I think it will be even
prudent to write to Rome, to obtain permission to leave Paris for a
while. This town is odious to me!"

"Oh, yes! I see that no hope is left--since you, my friend, have decided
almost to fly."

Father d'Aigrigny was completely discouraged and broken down; this
terrible blow had destroyed all life and energy within him. He threw
himself back in an arm-chair, quite overcome. During the preceding
dialogue, Rodin was standing humbly near the door, with his old hat in
his hand. Two or three times, at certain passages in the conversation
between Father d'Aigrigny and the princess, the cadaverous face of the
socius, whose wrath appeared to be concentrated, was slightly flushed,
and his flappy eyelids were tinged with red, as if the blood mounted in
consequence of an interior struggle; but, immediately after, his dull
countenance resumed its pallid blue.

"I must write instantly to Rome, to announce this defeat, which has
become an event of the first importance, because it overthrows immense
hopes," said Father d'Aigrigny, much depressed.

The reverend father had remained seated; pointing to a table, he said to
Rodin, with an abrupt and haughty air:

"Write!"

The socius placed his hat on the ground, answered with a respectful bow
the command, and with stooping head and slanting walk, went to seat
himself on a chair, that stood before a desk. Then, taking pen and paper,
he waited, silent and motionless, for the dictation of his superior.

"With your permission, princess?" said Father d'Aigrigny to Madame de
Saint-Dizier. The latter answered by an impatient wave of the hand, as if
she reproached him for the formal demand at such a time. The reverend
father bowed, and dictated these words in a hoarse and hollow voice: "All
our hopes, which of late had become almost certainties, have been
suddenly defeated. The affair of the Rennepont inheritance, in spite of
all the care and skill employed upon it, has completely and finally
failed. At the point to which matters had been brought, it is
unfortunately worse than a failure; it is a most disastrous event for the
Society, which was clearly entitled to this property, fraudulently
withdrawn from a confiscation made in our favor. My conscience at least
bears witness, that, to the last moment, I did all that was possible to
defend and secure our rights. But I repeat, we must consider this
important affair as lost absolutely and forever, and think no more about
it."

Thus dictating, Father d'Aigrigny's back was turned towards Rodin. At a
sudden movement made by the socius, in rising and throwing his pen upon
the table, instead of continuing to write, the reverend father turned
round, and, looking at Rodin with profound astonishment, said to him:
"Well! what are you doing?"

"It is time to end this--the man is mad!" said Rodin to himself, as he
advanced slowly towards the fireplace.

"What! you quit your place--you cease writing?" said the reverend father,
in amazement. Then, addressing the princess, who shared in his
astonishment, he added, as he glanced contemptuously at the socius, "He
is losing his senses."

"Forgive him," replied Mme. de Saint-Dizier; "it is, no doubt, the
emotion caused by the ruin of this affair."

"Thank the princess, return to your place, and continue to write," said
Father d'Aigrigny to Rodin, in a tone of disdainful compassion, as, with
imperious finger, he pointed to the table.

The socius, perfectly indifferent to this new order, approached the
fireplace, drew himself up to his full height as he turned his arched
back, planted himself firmly on his legs, stamped on the carpet with the
heel of his clumsy, greasy shoes, crossed his hands beneath the flaps of
his old, spotted coat, and, lifting his head, looked fixedly at Father
d'Aigrigny. The socius had not spoken a word, but his hideous
countenance, now flushed, suddenly revealed such a sense of his
superiority, and such sovereign contempt for Father d'Aigrigny, mingled
with so calm and serene a daring, that the reverend father and the
princess were quite confounded by it. They felt themselves overawed by
this little old man, so sordid and so ugly. Father d'Aigrigny knew too
well the customs of the Company, to believe his humble secretary capable
of assuming so suddenly these airs of transcendent superiority without a
motive, or rather, without a positive right. Late, too late, the reverend
father perceived, that this subordinate agent might be partly a spy,
partly an experienced assistant, who, according to the constitutions of
the Order, had the power and mission to depose and provisionally replace,
in certain urgent cases, the incapable person over whom he was stationed
as a guard. The reverend father was not deceived. From the general to the
provincials, and to the rectors of the colleges, all the superior members
of the Order have stationed near them, often without their knowledge, and
in apparently the lowest capacities, men able to assume their functions
at any given moment, and who, with this view, constantly keep up a direct
correspondence with Rome.

From the moment Rodin had assumed this position, the manners of Father
d'Aigrigny, generally so haughty, underwent a change. Though it cost him
a good deal, he said with hesitation, mingled with deference: "You have,
no doubt, the right to command me--who hitherto have commanded." Rodin,
without answering, drew from his well-rubbed and greasy pocket-book a
slip of paper, stamped upon both sides, on which were written several
lines in Latin. When he had read it, Father d'Aigrigny pressed this paper
respectfully, even religiously, to his lips: then returned it to Rodin,
with a low bow. When he again raised his head, he was purple with shame
and vexation. Notwithstanding his habits of passive obedience and
immutable respect for the will of the Order, he felt a bitter and violent
rage at seeing himself thus abruptly deposed from power. That was not
all. Though, for a long time past, all relations in gallantry had ceased
between him and Mme. de Saint-Dizier, the latter was not the less a
woman; and for him to suffer this humiliation in presence of a woman was,
undoubtedly, cruel, as, notwithstanding his entrance into the Order, he
had not wholly laid aside the character of man of the world. Moreover,
the princess, instead of appearing hurt and offended by this sudden
transformation of the superior into a subaltern, and of the subaltern
into a superior, looked at Rodin with a sort of curiosity mingled with
interest. As a woman--as a woman, intensely ambitious, seeking to connect
herself with every powerful influence--the princess loved this strange
species of contrast. She found it curious and interesting to see this
man, almost in rags, mean in appearance, and ignobly ugly, and but lately
the most humble of subordinates look down from the height of his superior
intelligence upon the nobleman by birth, distinguished for the elegance
of his manners, and just before so considerable a personage in the
Society. From that moment, as the more important personage of the two,
Rodin completely took the place of Father d'Aigrigny in the princess's
mind. The first pang of humiliation over, the reverend father, though his
pride bled inwardly, applied all his knowledge of the world to behave
with redoubled courtesy towards Rodin, who had become his superior by
this abrupt change of fortune. But the ex-socius, incapable of
appreciating, or rather of acknowledging, such delicate shades of manner,
established himself at once, firmly, imperiously, brutally, in his new
position, not from any reaction of offended pride, but from a
consciousness of what he was really worth. A long acquaintance with
Father d'Aigrigny had revealed to him the inferiority of the latter.

"You threw away your pen," said Father d'Aigrigny to Rodin with extreme
deference, "while I was dictating a note for Rome. Will you do me the
favor to tell me how I have acted wrong?"

"Directly," replied Rodin, in his sharp, cutting voice. "For a long time
this affair appeared to me above your strength; but I abstained from
interfering. And yet what mistakes! what poverty of invention; what
coarseness in the means employed to bring it to bear!"

"I can hardly understand your reproaches," answered Father d'Aigrigny,
mildly, though a secret bitterness made its way through his apparent
submission. "Was not the success certain, had it not been for this
codicil? Did you not yourself assist in the measures that you now blame?"

"You commanded, then, and it was my duty to obey. Besides, you were just
on the point of succeeding--not because of the means you had taken--but
in spite of those means, with all their awkward and revolting brutality."

"Sir--you are severe," said Father d'Aigrigny.

"I am just. One has to be prodigiously clever, truly, to shut up any one
in a room, and then lock the door! And yet, what else have you done? The
daughters of General Simon?--imprisoned at Leipsic, shut up in a convent
at Paris! Adrienne de Cardoville?--placed in confinement.
Sleepinbuff--put in prison. Djalma?--quieted by a narcotic. One only
ingenious method, and a thousand times safer, because it acted morally,
not materially, was employed to remove M. Hardy. As for your other
proceedings--they were all bad, uncertain, dangerous. Why? Because they
were violent, and violence provokes violence. Then it is no longer a
struggle of keen, skillful, persevering men, seeing through the darkness
in which they walk, but a match of fisticuffs in broad day. Though we
should be always in action, we should always shrink from view; and yet
you could find no better plan than to draw universal attention to us by
proceedings at once open and deplorably notorious. To make them more
secret, you call in the guard, the commissary of police, the jailers, for
your accomplices. It is pitiable, sir; nothing but the most brilliant
success could cover such wretched folly; and this success has been
wanting."

"Sir," said Father d'Aigrigny, deeply hurt, for the Princess de Saint
Dizier, unable to conceal the sort of admiration caused in her by the
plain, decisive words of Rodin, looked at her old lover, with an air that
seemed to say, "He is right;"--"sir, you are more than severe in your
judgment; and, notwithstanding the deference I owe to you, I must
observe, that I am not accustomed--"

"There are many other things to which you are not accustomed," said
Rodin, harshly interrupting the reverend father; "but you will accustom
yourself to them. You have hitherto had a false idea of your own value.
There is the old leaven of the soldier and the worlding fermenting within
you, which deprives your reason of the coolness, lucidity, and
penetration that it ought to possess. You have been a fine military
officer, brisk and gay, foremost in wars and festivals, with pleasures
and women. These things have half worn you out. You will never be
anything but a subaltern; you have been thoroughly tested. You will
always want that vigor and concentration of mind which governs men and
events. That vigor and concentration of mind I have--and do you know why?
It is because, solely devoted to the service of the Company, I have
always been ugly, dirty, unloved, unloving--I have all my manhood about
me!"

In pronouncing these words, full of cynical pride, Rodin was truly
fearful. The princess de Saint-Dizier thought him almost handsome by his
energy and audacity.

Father d'Aigrigny, feeling himself overawed, invincibly and inexorably,
by this diabolical being, made a last effort to resist and exclaimed,
"Oh! sir, these boastings are no proofs of valor and power. We must see
you at work."

"Yes," replied Rodin, coldly; "do you know at what work?" Rodin was fond
of this interrogative mode of expression. "Why, at the work that you so
basely abandon."

"What!" cried the Princess de Saint-Dizier; for Father d'Aigrigny,
stupefied at Rodin's audacity, was unable to utter a word.

"I say," resumed Rodin, slowly, "that I undertake to bring to a good
issue this affair of the Rennepont inheritance, which appears to you so
desperate."

"You?" cried Father d'Aigrigny. "You?"
"I."

"But they have unmasked our maneuvers."

"So much the better; we shall be obliged to invent others."

"But they; will suspect us in everything."

"So much the better; the success that is difficult is the most certain."

"What! do you hope to make Gabriel consent not to revoke his donation,
which is perhaps illegal?"

"I mean to bring in to the coffers of the Company the whole of the two
hundred and twelve millions, of which they wish to cheat us. Is that
clear?"

"It is clear--but impossible."

"And I tell you that it is, and must be possible. Do you not understand,
short-sighted as you are!" cried Rodin, animated to such a degree that
his cadaverous face became slightly flushed; "do you not understand that
it is no longer in our choice to hesitate? Either these two hundred and
twelve millions must be ours--and then the re-establishment of our
sovereign influence in France is sure--for, in these venal times, with
such a sum at command, you may bribe or overthrow a government, or light
up the flame of civil war, and restore legitimacy, which is our natural
ally, and, owing all to us, would give us all in return--"

"That is clear," cried the princess, clasping her hands in admiration.

"If, on the contrary," resumed Rodin, "these two hundred and twelve
millions fall into the hands of the family of the Renneponts, it will be
our ruin and our destruction. We shall create a stock of bitter and
implacable enemies. Have you not heard the execrable designs of that
Rennepont, with regard to the association he recommends, and which, by an
accursed fatality, his race are just in a condition to realize? Think of
the forces that would rally round these millions. There would be Marshal
Simon, acting in the name of his daughters--that is, the man of the
people become a duke, without being the vainer for it, which secures his
influence with the mob, because military spirit and Bonapartism still
represent, in the eyes of the French populace, the traditions of national
honor and glory. There would be Francis Hardy, the liberal, independent,
enlightened citizen, the type of the great manufacturer, the friend of
progress, the benefactor of his workmen. There would be Gabriel--the good
priest, as they say!--the apostle of the primitive gospel, the
representative of the democracy of the church, of the poor country curate
as opposed to the rich bishop, the tiller of the vine as opposed to him
who sits in the shade of it; the propagator of all the ideas of
fraternity, emancipation, progress--to use their own jargon--and that,
not in the name of revolutionary and incendiary politics, but in the name
of a religion of charity, love, and peace--to speak as they speak. There,
too, would be Adrienne de Cardoville, the type of elegance, grace, and
beauty, the priestess of the senses, which she deifies by refining and
cultivating them. I need not tell you of her wit and audacity; you know
them but too well. No one could be more dangerous to us than this
creature, a patrician in blood, a plebeian in heart, a poet in
imagination. Then, too, there would be Prince Djalma, chivalrous, bold,
ready for adventure, knowing nothing of civilized life, implacable in his
hate as in his affection, a terrible instrument for whoever can make use
of him. In this detestable family, even such a wretch as Sleepinbuff, who
in himself is of no value, raised and purified by the contact of these
generous and far from narrow natures (as they call them), might represent
the working class, and take a large share in the influence of that
association. Now do you not think that if all these people, already
exasperated against us, because (as they say) we have wished to rob them,
should follow the detestable counsels of this Rennepont--should unite
their forces around this immense fortune, which would strengthen them a
hundred-fold--do you not think that, if they declare a deadly war against
us, they will be the most dangerous enemies that we have ever had? I tell
you that the Company has never been in such serious peril; yes, it is now
a question of life and death. We must no longer defend ourselves, but
lead the attack, so as to annihilate this accursed race of Rennepont, and
obtain possession of these millions."

At this picture, drawn by Rodin with a feverish animation, which had only
the more influence from its unexpectedness, the princess and Father
d'Aigrigny looked at each other in confusion.

"I confess," said the reverend father to Rodin, "I had not considered all
the dangerous consequences of this association, recommended by M. de
Rennepont. I believe that the heir, from the characters we know them to
be possessed of, would wish to realize this Utopia. The peril is great
and pressing; what is to be done?"

"What, sir? You have to act upon ignorant, heroic, enthusiastic natures
like Djalma's--sensual and eccentric characters like Adrienne de
Cardoville's--simple and ingenuous minds like Rose and Blanche
Simon's--honest and frank dispositions like Francis Hardy's--angelic and
pure souls like Gabriel's--brutal and stupid instincts like Jacques--and
can you ask, 'What is to be done?'"

"In truth, I do not understand you," said Father d'Aigrigny.

"I believe it. Your past conduct shows as much," replied Rodin,
contemptuously. "You have had recourse to the lowest and most mechanical
contrivances, instead of acting upon the noble and generous passions,
which, once united, would constitute so formidable a bond; but which, now
divided and isolated, are open to every surprise, every seduction, every
attack! Do you, at length understand me? Not yet?" added Rodin, shrugging
his shoulders. "Answer me--do people die of despair?"

"Yes."

"May not the gratitude of successful love reach the last limits of insane
generosity?"

"Yes."

"May there not be such horrible deceptions, that suicide is the only
refuge from frightful realities?"

"Yes."

"May not the excess of sensuality lead to the grave by a slow and
voluptuous agony?"

"Yes."

"Are there not in life such terrible circumstances that the most worldly,
the firmest, the most impious characters, throw themselves blindly,
overwhelmed with despair, into the arms of religion, and abandon all
earthly greatness for sackcloth, and prayers, and solitude?"

"Yes."

"Are there not a thousand occasions in which the reaction of the passions
works the most extraordinary changes, and brings about the most tragic
catastrophes in the life of man and woman?"

"No doubt."

"Well, then! why ask me, 'What is to be done?' What would you say, for
example, if before three months are over, the most dangerous members of
this family of the Renneponts should come to implore, upon their knees,
admission to that very Society which they now hold in horror, and from
which Gabriel has just separated?"

"Such a conversion is impossible," cried Father d'Aigrigny.

"Impossible? What were you, sir, fifteen years ago?" said Rodin. "An
impious and debauched man of the world. And yet you came to us, and your
wealth became ours. What! we have conquered princes, kings, popes; we
have absorbed and extinguished in our unity magnificent intelligences,
which, from afar, shone with too dazzling a light; we have all but
governed two worlds; we have perpetuated our Society, full of life, rich
and formidable, even to this day, through all the hate, and all the
persecutions that have assailed us; and yet we shall not be able to get
the better of a single family, which threatens our Company, and has
despoiled us of a large fortune? What! we are not skillful enough to
obtain this result without having recourse to awkward and dangerous
violence? You do not know, then, the immense field that is thrown open by
the mutually destructive power of human passions, skillfully combined,
opposed, restrained, excited?--particularly," added Rodin, with a strange
smile, "when, thanks to a powerful ally, these passions are sure to be
redoubled in ardor and energy."

"What ally?" asked Father d'Aigrigny, who, as well as the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, felt a sort of admiration mixed with terror.

"Yes," resumed Rodin, without answering the reverend father; "this
formidable ally, who comes to our assistance, may bring about the most
astonishing transformations--make the coward brave, and the impious
credulous, and the gentle ferocious--"

"But this ally!" cried the Princess, oppressed with a vague sense of
fear. "This great and formidable ally--who is he?"

"If he comes," resumed Rodin, still impassible, "the youngest and most
vigorous, every moment in danger of death, will have no advantage over
the sick man at his last gasp."

"But who is this ally?" exclaimed Father d'Aigrigny, more and more
alarmed, for as the picture became darker, Rodin's face become more
cadaverous.

"This ally, who can decimate a population, may carry away with him in the
shroud that he drags at his heels, the whole of an accursed race; but
even he must respect the life of that great intangible body, which does
not perish with the death of its members--for the spirit of the Society
of Jesus is immortal!"

"And this ally?"

"Oh, this ally," resumed Rodin, "who advances with slow steps, and whose
terrible coming is announced by mournful presentiments--"

"Is--"

"The Cholera!"

These words, pronounced by Rodin in an abrupt voice, made the Princess
and Father d'Aigrigny grow pale and tremble. Rodin's look was gloomy and
chilling, like a spectre's. For some moments, the silence of the tomb
reigned in the saloon. Rodin was the first to break it. Still impassible,
he pointed with imperious gesture to the table, where a few minutes
before he had himself been humbly seated, and said in a sharp voice to
Father d'Aigrigny, "Write!"

The reverend father started at first with surprise; then, remembering
that from a superior he had become an inferior, he rose, bowed lowly to
Rodin, as he passed before him, seated himself at the table, took the
pen, and said, "I am ready."

Rodin dictated, and the reverend Father wrote as follows: "By the
mismanagement of the Reverend Father d'Aigrigny, the affair of the
inheritance of the Rennepont family has been seriously compromised. The
sum amounts to two hundred and twelve millions. Notwithstanding the check
we have received, we believe we may safely promise to prevent these
Renneponts from injuring the Society, and to restore the two hundred and
twelve millions to their legitimate possessors. We only ask for the most
complete and extensive powers."

A quarter of an hour after this scene, Rodin left Saint Dizier House,
brushing with his sleeve the old greasy hat, I which he had pulled off to
return the salute of the porter by a very low bow.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE STRANGER.

The following scene took place on the morrow of the day in which Father
d'Aigrigny had been so rudely degraded by Rodin to the subaltern position
formerly occupied by the socius.

It is well known that the Rue Clovis is one of the most solitary streets
in the Montagne St. Genevieve district. At the epoch of this narrative,
the house No. 4, in this street, was composed of one principal building,
through which ran a dark passage, leading to a little, gloomy court, at
the end of which was a second building, in a singularly miserable and
dilapidated condition. On the ground-floor, in front of the house, was a
half-subterraneous shop, in which was sold charcoal, fagots, vegetables,
and milk. Nine o'clock in the morning had just struck. The mistress of
the shop, one Mother Arsene, an old woman of a mild, sickly countenance,
clad in a brown stuff dress, with a red bandanna round her head, was
mounted on the top step of the stairs which led down to her door, and was
employed in setting out her goods--that is, on one side of her door she
placed a tin milk-can, and on the other some bunches of stale vegetables,
flanked with yellowed cabbages. At the bottom of the steps, in the
shadowy depths of the cellar, one could see the light of the burning
charcoal in a little stove. This shop situated at the side of the
passage, served as a porter's lodge, and the old woman acted as portress.
On a sudden, a pretty little creature, coming from the house, entered
lightly and merrily the shop. This young girl was Rose-Pompon, the
intimate friend of the Bacchanal Queen.--Rose-Pompon, a widow for the
moment, whose bacchanalian cicisbeo was Ninny Moulin, the orthodox
scapegrace, who, on occasion, after drinking his fill, could transform
himself into Jacques Dumoulin, the religious writer, and pass gayly from
dishevelled dances to ultramontane polemics, from Storm-blown Tulips to
Catholic pamphlets.

Rose-Pompon had just quitted her bed, as appeared by the negligence of
her strange morning costume; no doubt, for want of any other head-dress,
on her beautiful light hair, smooth and well-combed, was stuck jauntily a
foraging-cap, borrowed from her masquerading costume. Nothing could be
more sprightly than that face, seventeen years old, rosy, fresh, dimpled,
and brilliantly lighted up by a pair of gay, sparkling blue eyes. Rose
Pompon was so closely enveloped from the neck to the feet in a red and
green plaid cloak, rather faded, that one could guess the cause of her
modest embarrassment. Her naked feet, so white that one could not tell if
she wore stockings or not, were slipped into little morocco shoes, with
plated buckles. It was easy to perceive that her cloak concealed some
article which she held in her hand.

"Good-day, Rose-Pompon," said Mother Arsene with a kindly air; "you are
early this morning. Had you no dance last night?"

"Don't talk of it, Mother Arsene; I had no heart to dance. Poor
Cephyse--the Bacchanal Queen--has done nothing but cry all night. She
cannot console herself, that her lover should be in prison."

"Now, look here, my girl," said the old woman, "I must speak to you about
your friend Cephyse. You won't be angry?"

"Am I ever angry?" said Rose-Pompon, shrugging her shoulders.

"Don't you think that M. Philemon will scold me on his return?"

"Scold you! what for?"

"Because of his rooms, that you occupy."

"Why, Mother Arsene, did not Philemon tell you, that, in his absence, I
was to be as much mistress of his two rooms as I am of himself?"

"I do not speak of you, but of your friend Cephyse, whom you have also
brought to occupy M. Philemon's lodgings."

"And where would she have gone without me, my good Mother Arsene? Since
her lover was arrested, she has not dared to return home, because she
owes ever so many quarters. Seeing her troubles. I said to her: 'Come,
lodge at Philemon's. When he returns, we must find another place for
you.'"

"Well, little lovey--if you only assure me that M. Philemon will not be
angry--"

"Angry! for what? That we spoil his things? A fine set of things he has
to spoil! I broke his last cup yesterday--and am forced to fetch the milk
in this comic concern."

So saying, laughing with all her might, Rose-Pompon drew her pretty
little white arm from under her cloak, and presented to Mother Arsene one
of those champagne glasses of colossal capacity, which hold about a
bottle.

"Oh, dear!" said the greengrocer in amazement; "it is like a glass
trumpet."

"It is Philemon's grand gala-glass, which they gave him when he took his
degrees in boating," said Rose-Pompon, gravely.

"And to think you must put your milk in it--I am really ashamed," said
Mother Arsene.

"So am I! If I were to meet any one on the stairs, holding this glass in
my hand like a Roman candlestick, I should burst out laughing, and break
the last remnant of Philemon's bazaar, and he would give me his
malediction."

"There is no danger that you will meet any one. The first-floor is gone
out, and the second gets up very late."

"Talking of lodgers," said Rose-Pompon, "is there not a room to let on
the second-floor in the rear house? It might do for Cephyse, when
Philemon comes back."

"Yes, there is a little closet in the roof--just over the two rooms of
the mysterious old fellow," said Mother Arsene.

"Oh, yes! Father Charlemagne. Have you found out anything more about
him?"

"Dear me, no, my girl! only that he came this morning at break of day, and
knocked at my shutters. 'Have you received a letter for me, my good
lady?' said he--for he is always so polite, the dear man!--'No, sir,'
said I.'--'Well, then, pray don't disturb yourself, my good lady!' said
he; 'I will call again.' And so he went away."

"Does he never sleep in the house?"

"Never. No doubt, he lodges somewhere else--but he passes some hours
here, once every four or five days."

"And always comes alone?"

"Always."

"Are you quite sure? Does he never manage to slip in some little puss of
a woman? Take care, or Philemon will give you notice to quit," said
Rose-Pompon, with an air of mock-modesty.

"M. Charlemagne with a woman! Oh, poor dear man!" said the greengrocer,
raising her hands to heaven; "if you saw him, with his greasy hat, his
old gray coat, his patched umbrella, and his simple face, he looks more
like a saint than anything else."

"But then, Mother Arsene, what does the saint do here, all alone for
hours, in that hole at the bottom of the court, where one can hardly see
at noon-day?"

"That's what I ask myself, my dovey, what can he be doing? It can't be
that he comes to look at his furniture, for he has nothing but a flock
bed, a table, a stove, a chair, and an old trunk."

"Somewhat in the style of Philemon's establishment," said Rose-Pompon.

"Well, notwithstanding that, Rosey, he is as much afraid that any one
should come into his room, as if we were all thieves, and his furniture
was made of massy gold. He has had a patent lock put on the door, at his
own expense; he never leaves me his key; and he lights his fire himself,
rather than let anybody into his room."

"And you say he is old?"

"Yes, fifty or sixty."

"And ugly?"

"Just fancy, little viper's eyes, looking as if they had been bored with
a gimlet, in a face as pale as death--so pale, that the lips are white.
That's for his appearance. As for his character, the good old man's so
polite!--he pulls off his hat so often, and makes you such low bows, that
it is quite embarrassing."

"But, to come back to the point," resumed Rose-Pompon, "what can he do
all alone in those two rooms? If Cephyse should take the closet, on
Philemon's return, we may amuse ourselves by finding out something about
it. How much do they want for the little room?"

"Why, it is in such bad condition, that I think the landlord would let it
go for fifty or fifty-five francs a-year, for there is no room for a
stove, and the only light comes through a small pane in the roof."

"Poor Cephyse!" said Rose, sighing, and shaking her head sorrowfully.
"After having amused herself so well, and flung away so much money with
Jacques Rennepont, to live in such a place, and support herself by hard
work! She must have courage!"

"Why, indeed, there is a great difference between that closet and the
coach-and-four in which Cephyse came to fetch you the other day, with all
the fine masks, that looked so gay--particularly the fat man in the
silver paper helmet, with the plume and the top boots. What a jolly
fellow!"

"Yes, Ninny Moulin. There is no one like him to dance the forbidden
fruit. You should see him with Cephyse, the Bacchanal Queen. Poor
laughing, noisy thing!--the only noise she makes now is crying."

"Oh! these young people--these young people!" said the greengrocer.

"Easy, Mother Arsene; you were young once."

"I hardly know. I have always thought myself much the same as I am now."

"And your lovers, Mother Arsene?"

"Lovers! Oh, yes! I was too ugly for that--and too well taken care of."

"Your mother looked after you, then?"

"No, my girl; but I was harnessed."

"Harnessed!" cried Rose-Pompon, in amazement, interrupting the dealer.

"Yes,--harnessed to a water-cart, along with my brother. So, you see,
when we had drawn like a pair of horses for eight or ten hours a day, I
had no heart to think of nonsense."

"Poor Mother Arsene, what a hard life," said Rose-Pompon with interest.

"In the winter, when it froze, it was hard enough. I and my brother were
obliged to be rough-shod, for fear of slipping."

"What a trade for a woman! It breaks one's heart. And they forbid people
to harness dogs!" added Rose-Pompon, sententiously.[21]

"Why, 'tis true," resumed Mother Arsene. "Animals are sometimes better
off than people. But what would you have? One must live, you know. As you
make your bed, you must lie. It was hard enough, and I got a disease of
the lungs by it--which was not my fault. The strap, with which I was
harnessed, pressed so hard against my chest, that I could scarcely
breathe: so I left the trade, and took to a shop, which is just to tell
you, that if I had had a pretty face and opportunity, I might have done
like so many other young people, who begin with laughter and finish--"

"With a laugh t'other side of the mouth--you would say; it is true,
Mother Arsene. But, you see, every one has not the courage to go into
harness, in order to remain virtuous. A body says to herself, you must
have some amusement while you are young and pretty--you will not always
be seventeen years old--and then--and then--the world will end, or you
will get married."

"But, perhaps, it would have been better to begin by that."

"Yes, but one is too stupid; one does not know how to catch the men, or
to frighten them. One is simple, confiding, and they only laugh at us.
Why, Mother Arsene, I am myself an example that would make you shudder;
but 'tis quite enough to have had one's sorrows, without fretting one's
self at the remembrance."

"What, my beauty! you, so young and gay, have had sorrows?"

"Ah, Mother Arsene! I believe you. At fifteen and a half I began to cry,
and never left off till I was sixteen. That was enough, I think."

"They deceived you, mademoiselle?"

"They did worse. They treated me as they have treated many a poor girl,
who had no more wish to go wrong than I had. My story is not a three
volume one. My father and mother are peasants near Saint-Valery, but so
poor--so poor, that having five children to provide for, they were
obliged to send me, at eight years old, to my aunt, who was a charwoman
here in Paris. The good woman took me out of charity, and very kind it
was of her, for I earned but little. At eleven years of age she sent me
to work in one of the factories of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. I don't
wish to speak, ill of the masters of these factories; but what do they
care, if little boys and girls are mixed up pell-mell with young men and
women of eighteen to twenty? Now you see, there, as everywhere, some are
no better than they should be; they are not particular in word or deed,
and I ask you, what art example for the children, who hear and see more
than you think for. Then, what happens? They get accustomed as they grow
older, to hear and see things, that afterwards will not shock them at
all."

"What you say there is true, Rose-Pompon. Poor children! who takes any
trouble about them?--not their father or mother, for they are at their
daily work."

"Yes, yes, Mother Arsene, it is all very well; it is easy to cry down a
young girl that has gone wrong; but if they knew all the ins and outs,
they would perhaps pity rather than blame her. To come back to myself--at
fifteen years old I was tolerably pretty. One day I had something to ask
of the head clerk. I went to him in his private room. He told me he would
grant what I wanted, and even take me under his patronage, if I would
listen to him; and he began by trying to kiss me. I resisted. Then he
said to me:--'You refuse my offer? You shall have no more work; I
discharge you from the factory.'"

"Oh, the wicked man!" said Mother Arsene.

"I went home all in tears, and my poor aunt encouraged me not to yield,
and she would try to place me elsewhere. Yes--but it was impossible; the
factories were all full. Misfortunes never come single; my aunt fell ill,
and there was not a sou in the house; I plucked up my courage, and
returned to entreat the mercy of the clerk at the factory. Nothing would
do. 'So much the worse,' said he; 'you are throwing away your luck. If
you had been more complying, I should perhaps have married you.' What
could I do, Mother Arsene?--misery was staring me in the face; I had no
work; my aunt was ill; the clerk said he would marry me--I did like so
many others."

"And when, afterwards, you spoke to him about marriage?"

"Of course he laughed at me, and in six months left me. Then I wept all
the tears in my body, till none remained--then I was very ill--and
then--I console myself, as one may console one's self for anything. After
some changes, I met with Philemon. It is upon him that I revenge myself
for what others have done to me. I am his tyrant," added Rose-Pompon,
with a tragic air, as the cloud passed away which had darkened her pretty
face during her recital to Mother Arsene.

"It is true," said the latter thoughtfully. "They deceive a poor
girl--who is there to protect or defend her? Oh! the evil we do does not
always come from ourselves, and then--"

"I spy Ninny Moulin!" cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting the greengrocer,
and pointing to the other side of the street. "How early abroad! What can
he want with me?" and Rose wrapped herself still more closely and
modestly in her cloak.

It was indeed Jacques Dumoulin, who advanced with his hat stuck on one
side, with rubicund nose and sparkling eye, dressed in a loose coat,
which displayed the rotundity of his abdomen. His hands, one of which
held a huge cane shouldered like a musket, were plunged into the vast
pockets of his outer garment.

Just as he reached the threshold of the door, no doubt with the intention
of speaking to the portress, he perceived Rose-Pompon. "What!" he
exclaimed, "my pupil already stirring? That is fortunate. I came on
purpose to bless her at the rise of morn!"

So saying, Ninny Moulin advanced with open arms towards Rose-Pompon who
drew back a step.

"What, ungrateful child!" resumed the writer on divinity. "Will you
refuse me the morning's paternal kiss?"

"I accept paternal kisses from none but Philemon. I had a letter from him
yesterday, with a jar of preserves, two geese, a bottle of home-made
brandy, and an eel. What ridiculous presents! I kept the drink, and
changed the rest for two darling live pigeons, which I have installed in
Philemon's cabinet, and a very pretty dove-cote it makes me. For the
rest, my husband is coming back with seven hundred francs, which he got
from his respectable family, under pretence of learning the bass viol,
the cornet-a-piston, and the speaking trumpet, so as to make his way in
society, and a slap-up marriage--to use your expression--my good child."

"Well, my dear pupil, we will taste the family brandy, and enjoy
ourselves in expectation of Philemon and his seven hundred francs."

So saying, Ninny Moulin slapped the pockets of his waistcoat, which gave
forth a metallic sound, and added: "I come to propose to you to embellish
my life, to-day and to-morrow, and even the day after, if your heart is
willing."

"If the announcements are decent and fraternal, my heart does not say
no."

"Be satisfied; I will act by you as your grandfather, your great
grandfather, your family portrait. We will have a ride, a dinner, the
play, a fancy dress ball, and a supper afterwards. Will that suit you?"

"On condition that poor Cephyse is to go with us. It will raise her
spirits."

"Well, Cephyse shall be of the party."

"Have you come into a fortune, great apostle?"

"Better than that, most rosy and pompous of all Rose-Pom, pons! I am head
editor of a religious journal; and as I must make some appearance in so
respectable a concern, I ask every month for four weeks in advance, and
three days of liberty. On this condition, I consent to play the saint for
twenty-seven days out of thirty, and to be always as grave and heavy as
the paper itself."

"A journal! that will be something droll, and dance forbidden steps all
alone on the tables of the cafes."

"Yes, it will be droll enough; but not for everybody. They are rich
sacristans, who pay the expenses. They don't look to money, provided the
journal bites, tears, burns, pounds, exterminates and destroys. On my
word of honor, I shall never have been in such a fury!" added Ninny
Moulin, with a loud, hoarse laugh. "I shall wash the wounds of my
adversaries with venom of the finest vintage, and gall of the first
quality."

For his peroration, Ninny Moulin imitated the pop of uncorking a bottle
of champagne--which made Rose-Pompon laugh heartily.

"And what," resumed she, "will be the name of your journal of
sacristans?"

"It will be called 'Neighborly Love.'"

"Come! that is a very pretty name."

"Wait a little! there is a second title."

"Let us hear it."

"'Neighborly Love; or, the Exterminator of the Incredulous, the
Indifferent, the Lukewarm, and Others,' with this motto from the great
Bossuet: 'Those who are not for us are against us.'"

"That is what Philemon says in the battles at the Chaumiere, when he
shakes his cane."

"Which proves, that the genius of the Eagle of Meaux is universal. I only
reproach him for having been jealous of Moliere."

"Bah! actor's jealousy," said Rose-Pompon.

"Naughty girl!" cried Ninny Moulin, threatening her with his finger.

"But if you are going to exterminate Madame de la Sainte-Colombo, who is
somewhat lukewarm--how about your marriage?"

"My journal will advance it, on the contrary. Only think! editor-In chief
is a superb position; the sacristans will praise, and push, and support,
and bless me; I shall get La-Sainte-Colombe--and then, what a life I'll
lead!"

At this moment, a postman entered the shop, and delivered a letter to the
greengrocer, saying: "For M. Charlemagne, post-paid!"

"My!" said Rose-Pompon; "it is for the little mysterious old man, who has
such extraordinary ways. Does it come from far?"

"I believe you; it comes from Italy, from Rome," said Ninny Moulin,
looking in his turn at the letter, which the greengrocer held in her
hand. "Who is the astonishing little old man of whom you speak?"

"Just imagine to yourself, my great apostle," said Rose-Pompon, "a little
old man, who has two rooms at the bottom of that court. He never sleeps
there, but comes from time to time, and shuts himself up for hours,
without ever allowing any one to enter his lodging, and without any one
knowing what he does there."

"He is a conspirator," said Ninny Moulin, laughing, "or else a comer."

"Poor dear man," said Mother Arsene, "what has he done with his false
money? He pays me always in sous for the bit of bread and the radish I
furnish him for his breakfast."

"And what is the name of this mysterious chap?" asked Dumoulin.

"M. Charlemagne," said the greengrocer. "But look, surely one speaks of
the devil, one is sure to see his horns."

"Where's the horns?"

"There, by the side of the house--that little old man, who walks with his
neck awry, and his umbrella under his arm."

"M. Rodin!" ejaculated Ninny Moulin, retreating hastily, and descending
three steps into the shop, in order not to be seen. Then he added. "You
say, that this gentleman calls himself--"

"M. Charlemagne--do you know him?" asked the greengrocer.

"What the devil does he do here, under a false name?" said Jacques
Dumoulin to himself.

"You know him?" said Rose-Pompon, with impatience. "You are quite
confused."

"And this gentleman has two rooms in this house, and comes here
mysteriously," said Jacques Dumoulin, more and more surprised.

"Yes," resumed Rose-Pompon; "you can see his windows from Philemon's
dove-cote."

"Quick! quick! let me go into the passage, that I may not meet him," said
Dumoulin.

And, without having been perceived by Rodin, he glided from the shop into
the passage, and thence mounted to the stairs, which led to the apartment
occupied by Rose-Pompon.

"Good-morning, M. Charlemagne," said Mother Arsene to Rodin, who made his
appearance on the threshold. "You come twice in a day; that is right, for
your visits are extremely rare."

"You are too polite, my good lady," said Rodin, with a very courteous
bow; and he entered the shop of the greengrocer.

[21] There are, really, ordinances, full of a touching interest for the
canine race, which forbid the harnessing of dogs.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE DEN.

Rodin's countenance, when he entered Mother Arsene's shop, was expressive
of the most simple candor. He leaned his hands on the knob of his
umbrella, and said: "I much regret, my good lady, that I roused you so
early this morning."

"You do not come often enough, my dear sir, for me to find fault with
you."

"How can I help it, my good lady? I live in the country, and only come
hither from time to time to settle my little affairs."

"Talking of that sir, the letter you expected yesterday has arrived this
morning. It is large, and comes from far. Here it is," said the
greengrocer, drawing it from her pocket; "it cost nothing for postage."

"Thank you, my dear lady," said Rodin, taking the letter with apparent
indifference, and putting it into the side-pocket of his great-coat,
which he carefully buttoned over.

"Are you going up to your rooms, sir?"

"Yes, my good, lady."

"Then I will get ready your little provisions," said Mother Arsene; "as
usual, I suppose, my dear sir?"

"Just as usual."

"It shall be ready in the twinkling of an eye, sir."

So saying, the greengrocer took down an old basket; after throwing into
it three or four pieces of turf, a little bundle of wood, and some
charcoal, she covered all this fuel with a cabbage leaf; then, going to
the further end of the shop, she took from a chest a large round loaf,
cut off a slice, and selecting a magnificent radish with the eye of a
connoisseur, divided it in two, made a hole in it, which she filled with
gray salt joined the two pieces together again, and placed it carefully
by the side of the bread, on the cabbage leaf which separated the
eatables from the combustibles. Finally, taking some embers from the
stove, she put them into a little earthen pot, containing ashes, which
she placed also in the basket.

Then, reascending to her top step, Mother Arsene said to Rodin: "Here is
your basket, sir."

"A thousand thanks, my good lady," answered Rodin, and plunging his hand
into the pocket of his trousers, he drew forth eight sous, which he
counted out only one by one to the greengrocer, and said to her, as he
carried off his store: "Presently, when I come down again, I will return
your basket as usual."

"Quite at your service, my dear sir, quite at your service," said Mother
Arsene.

Rodin tucked his umbrella under his left arm, took up the greengrocer's
basket with his right hand, entered the dark passage, crossed the little
court and mounted with light step to the second story of a dilapidated
building; there, drawing a key from his pocket, he opened a door, which
he locked carefully after him. The first of the two rooms which he
occupied was completely unfurnished, as for the second, it is impossible
to imagine a more gloomy and miserable den. Papering so much worn, torn
and faded, that no one could recognize its primitive color, bedecked the
walls. A wretched flock-bed, covered with a moth-fretted blanket; a
stool, and a little table of worm-eaten wood; an earthenware stove, as
cracked as old china; a trunk with a padlock, placed under the bed--such
was the furniture of this desolate hole. A narrow window, with dirty
panes, hardly gave any light to this room, which was almost deprived of
air by the height of the building in front; two old cotton pocket
handkerchiefs, fastened together with pins, and made to slide upon a
string stretched across the window, served for curtains. The plaster of
the roof, coming through the broken and disjointed tiles, showed the
extreme neglect of the inhabitant of this abode. After locking his door,
Rodin threw his hat and umbrella on the bed, placed his basket on the
ground, set the radish and bread on the table, and kneeling down before
his stove, stuffed it with fuel, and lighted it by blowing with vigorous
lungs on the embers contained in his earthen pot.

When, to use the consecrated expression, the stove began to draw, Rodin
spread out the handkerchiefs, which served him for curtains; then,
thinking himself quite safe from every eye, he took from the side-pocket
of his great-coat the letter that Mother Arsene had given him. In doing
so, he brought out several papers and different articles; one of these
papers, folded into a thick and rumpled packet, fell upon the table, and
flew open. It contained a silver cross of the Legion of Honor, black with
time. The red ribbon of this cross had almost entirely lost its original
color. At sight of this cross, which he replaced in his pocket with the
medal of which Faringhea had despoiled Djalma, Rodin shrugged his
shoulders with a contemptuous and sardonic air; then, producing his large
silver watch, he laid it on the table by the side of the letter from
Rome. He looked at this letter with a singular mixture of suspicion and
hope, of fear, and impatient curiosity. After a moment's reflection, he
prepared to unseal the envelope; but suddenly he threw it down again upon
the table, as if, by a strange caprice, he had wished to prolong for a
few minutes that agony of uncertainty, as poignant and irritating as the
emotion of the gambler.

Looking at his watch, Rodin resolved not to open the letter, until the
hand should mark half-past nine, of which it still wanted seven minutes.
In one of those whims of puerile fatalism, from which great minds have
not been exempt, Rodin said to himself: "I burn with impatience to open
this letter. If I do not open it till half-past nine, the news will be
favorable." To employ these minutes, Rodin took several turns up and down
the room, and stood in admiring contemplation before two old prints,
stained with damp and age, and fastened to the wall by rusty nails. The
first of these works of art--the only ornaments with which Rodin had
decorated this hole--was one of those coarse pictures, illuminated with
red, yellow, green, and blue, such as are sold at fairs; an Italian
inscription announced that this print had been manufactured at Rome. It
represented a woman covered with rags, bearing a wallet, and having a
little child upon her knees; a horrible hag of a fortune-teller held in
her hands the hand of the little child, and seemed to read there his
future fate, for these words in large blue letters issued from her mouth:
"Sara Papa" (he shall be Pope).

The second of these works of art, which appeared to inspire Rodin with
deep meditations, was an excellent etching, whose careful finish and
bold, correct drawing, contrasted singularly with the coarse coloring of
the other picture. This rare and splendid engraving, which had cost Rodin
six louis (an enormous expense for him), represented a young boy dressed
in rags. The ugliness of his features was compensated by the intellectual
expression of his strongly marked countenance. Seated on a stone,
surrounded by a herd of swine, that he seemed employed in keeping, he was
seen in front, with his elbow resting on his knee, and his chin in the
palm of his hand. The pensive and reflective attitude of this young man,
dressed as a beggar, the power expressed in his large forehead, the
acuteness of his penetrating glance, and the firm lines of the mouth,
seemed to reveal indomitable resolution, combined with superior
intelligence and ready craft. Beneath this figure, the emblems of the
papacy encircled a medallion, in the centre of which was the head of an
old man, the lines of which, strongly marked, recalled in a striking
manner, notwithstanding their look of advanced age, the features of the
young swineherd. This engraving was entitled THE YOUTH of SIXTUS V.; the
color print was entitled The Prediction.[22]

In contemplating these prints more and more nearly, with ardent and
inquiring eye, as though he had asked for hopes or inspirations from
them, Rodin had come so close that, still standing, with his right arm
bent behind his head, he rested, as it were, against the wall, whilst,
hiding his left hand in the pocket of his black trousers, he thus held
back one of the flaps of his olive great-coat. For some minutes, he
remained in this meditative attitude.

Rodin, as we have said, came seldom to this lodging; according to the
rules of his Order, he had till now lived with Father d'Aigrigny, whom he
was specially charged to watch. No member of the Society, particularly in
the subaltern position which Rodin had hitherto held, could either shut
himself in, or possess an article of furniture made to lock. By this
means nothing interferes with the mutual spy-system, incessantly carried
on, which forms one of the most powerful resources of the Company of
Jesus. It was on account of certain combinations, purely personal to
himself, though connected on some points with the interests of the Order,
that Rodin, unknown to all, had taken these rooms in the Rue Clovis. And
it was from the depths of this obscure den that the socius corresponded
directly with the most eminent and influential personages of the sacred
college. On one occasion, when Rodin wrote to Rome, that Father
d'Aigrigny, having received orders to quit France without seeing his
dying mother, had hesitated to set out, the socius had added, in form of
postscriptum, at the bottom of the letter denouncing to the General of
the Order the hesitation of Father d'Aigrigny:

"Tell the Prince Cardinal that he may rely upon me, but I hope for his
active aid in return."

This familiar manner of corresponding with the most powerful dignitary of
the Order, the almost patronizing tone of the recommendation that Rodin
addressed to the Prince Cardinal, proved that the socius, notwithstanding
his apparently subaltern position, was looked upon, at that epoch, as a
very important personage, by many of the Princes of the Church, who wrote
to him at Paris under a false name, making use of a cipher and other
customary precautions. After some moments passed in contemplation, before
the portrait of Sixtus V., Rodin returned slowly to the table, on which
lay the letter, which, by a sort of superstitious delay, he had deferred
opening, notwithstanding his extreme curiosity. As it still wanted some
minutes of half-past nine, Rodin, in order not to lose time, set about
making preparations for his frugal breakfast. He placed on the table, by
the side of an inkstand, furnished with pens, the slice of bread and the
radish; then seating himself on his stool, with the stove, as it were,
between his legs, he drew a horn-handled knife from his pocket, and
cutting alternately a morsel of bread and a morsel of radish, with a
sharp, well-worn blade, he began his temperate repast with a vigorous
appetite, keeping his eye fixed on the hand of his watch. When it reached
the momentous hour, he unsealed the envelope with a trembling hand.

It contained two letters. The first appeared to give him little
satisfaction; for, after some minutes, he shrugged his shoulders, struck
the table impatiently with the handle of his knife, disdainfully pushed
aside the letter with the back of his dirty hand, and perused the second
epistle, holding his bread in one hand, and with the other mechanically
dipping a slice of radish into the gray salt spilt on a corner of the
table. Suddenly, Rodin's hand remained motionless. As he progressed in
his reading, he appeared more and more interested, surprised, and struck.
Rising abruptly, he ran to the window, as if to assure himself, by a
second examination of the cipher, that he was not deceived. The news
announced to him in the letter seemed to be unexpected. No doubt, Rodin
found that he had deciphered correctly, for, letting fall his arms, not
in dejection, but with the stupor of a satisfaction as unforeseen as
extraordinary, he remained for some time with his head down, and his eyes
fixed--the only mark of joy that he gave being manifested by a loud,
frequent, and prolonged respiration. Men who are as audacious in their
ambition, as they are patient and obstinate in their mining and
countermining, are surprised at their own success, when this latter
precedes and surpasses their wise and prudent expectations. Rodin was now
in this case. Thanks to prodigies of craft, address, and dissimulation,
thanks to mighty promises of corruption, thanks to the singular mixture
of admiration, fear, and confidence, with which his genius inspired many
influential persons, Rodin now learned from members of the pontifical
government, that, in case of a possible and probable occurrence, he
might, within a given time, aspire, with a good chance of success, to a
position which has too often excited the fear, the hate, or the envy of
many sovereigns, and which has in turn, been occupied by great, good men,
by abominable scoundrels, and by persons risen from the lowest grades of
society. But for Rodin to attain this end with certainty, it was
absolutely necessary for him to succeed in that project, which he had
undertaken to accomplish without violence, and only by the play and the
rebound of passions skillfully managed. The project was: To secure for
the Society of Jesus the fortune of the Rennepont family.

This possession would thus have a double and immense result; for Rodin,
acting in accordance with his personal views, intended to make of his
Order (whose chief was at his discretion) a stepping-stone and a means of
intimidation. When his first impression of surprise had passed away--an
impression that was only a sort of modesty of ambition and self
diffidence, not uncommon with men of really superior powers--Rodin looked
more coldly and logically on the matter, and almost reproached himself
for his surprise. But soon after, by a singular contradiction, yielding
to one of those puerile and absurd ideas, by which men are often carried
away when they think themselves alone and unobserved, Rodin rose
abruptly, took the letter which had caused him such glad surprise, and
went to display it, as it were, before the eyes of the young swineherd in
the picture: then, shaking his head proudly and triumphantly, casting his
reptile-glance on the portrait, he muttered between his teeth, as he
placed his dirty finger on the pontifical emblem: "Eh, brother? and I
also--perhaps!"

After this ridiculous interpolation, Rodin returned to his seat, and, as
if the happy news he had just received had increased his appetite, he
placed the letter before him, to read it once more, whilst he exercised
his teeth, with a sort of joyous fury, on his hard bread and radish,
chanting an old Litany.

There was something strange, great, and, above all, frightful, in the
contrast afforded by this immense ambition, already almost justified by
events, and contained, as it were, in so miserable an abode. Father
d'Aigrigny (who, if not a very superior man, had at least some real
value, was a person of high birth, very haughty, and placed in the best
society) would never have ventured to aspire to what Rodin thus looked to
from the first. The only aim of Father d'Aigrigny, and even this he
thought presumptuous, was to be one day elected General of his
Order--that Order which embraced the world. The difference of the
ambitious aptitudes of these two personages is conceivable. When a man of
eminent abilities, of a healthy and vivacious nature, concentrates all
the strength of his mind and body upon a single point, remaining, like
Rodin, obstinately chaste and frugal, and renouncing every gratification
of the heart and the senses--the man, who revolts against the sacred
designs of his Creator, does so almost always in favor of some monstrous
and devouring passion--some infernal divinity, which, by a sacrilegious
pact, asks of him, in return for the bestowal of formidable power, the
destruction of every noble sentiment, and of all those ineffable
attractions and tender instincts with which the Maker, in His eternal
wisdom and inexhaustible munificence, has so paternally endowed His
creatures.

During the scene that we have just described, Rodin had not perceived
that the curtain of a window on the third story of the building opposite
had been partially drawn aside, and had half-revealed the sprightly face
of Rose-Pompon, and the Silenus-like countenance of Ninny Moulin. It
ensued that Rodin, notwithstanding his barricade of cotton handkerchiefs,
had not been completely sheltered from the indiscreet and curious
examination of the two dancers of the Storm-blown Tulip.

[22] According to the tradition, it was predicted to the mother of Sixtus
V., that he would be pope; and, in his youth, he is said to have kept
swine.




CHAPTER XXX.

AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.

Though Rodin had experienced much surprise on reading the second letter
from Rome, he did not choose that his answer should betray any such
amazement. Having finished his frugal breakfast, he took a sheet of
paper, and rapidly wrote in cipher the following note, in the short,
abrupt style that was natural to him when not obliged to restrain
himself:

"The information does not surprise me. I had foreseen it all. Indecision
and cowardice always bear such fruit. This is not enough. Heretical
Russia murders Catholic Poland. Rome blesses the murderers, and curses
the victims.[23]

"Let it pass.

"In return, Russia guarantees to Rome, by Austria, the bloody suppression
of the patriots of Romagna.

"That, too, is well.

"The cut-throat band of good Cardinal Albani is not sufficient for the
massacre of the impious liberals. They are weary of the task.

"Not so well. They must go on."

When Rodin had written these last words, his attention was suddenly
attracted by the clear and sonorous voice of Rose-Pompon, who, knowing
her Beranger by heart, had opened Philemon's window, and, seated on the
sill, sang with much grace and prettiness this verse of the immortal
song-writer:

   "How wrong you are! Is't you dare say
   That heaven ever scowls on earth?
   The earth that laughs up to its blue,
   The earth that owes it joy and birth?
   Oh, may the wine from vines it warms,
   May holy love thence fluttering down,
   Lend my philosophy their charms,
   To drive away care's direful frown!
   So, firm let's stand,
   Full glass in hand,
   And all evoke
   The God of honest folk!"

This song, in its divine gentleness, contrasted so strangely with the
cold cruelty of the few lines written by Rodin, that he started and bit
his lips with rage, as he recognized the words of the great poet, truly
Christian, who had dealt such rude blows to the false Church. Rodin
waited for some moments with angry impatience, thinking the voice would
continue; but Rose-Pompon was silent, or only continued to hum, and soon
changed to another air, that of the Good Pope, which she entoned, but
without words. Rodin, not venturing to look out of his window to see who
was this troublesome warbler, shrugged his shoulders, resumed his pen,
and continued:

"To it again. We must exasperate the independent spirits in all
countries--excite philosophic rage all over Europe make liberalism foam
at the mouth--raise all that is wild and noisy against Rome. To effect
this, we must proclaim in the face of the world these three propositions.
1. It is abominable to assert that a man may be saved in any faith
whatever, provided his morals be pure. 2. It is odious and absurd to
grant liberty of conscience to the people. 3. The liberty of the press
cannot be held in too much horror.24

"We must bring the Pap-fed man to declare these propositions in every
respect orthodox--show him their good effect upon despotic
governments--upon true Catholics, the muzzlers of the people. He will
fall into the snare. The propositions once published, the storm will
burst forth. A general rising against Rome--a wide schism--the sacred
college divided into three parties. One approves--the other blames--the
third trembles. The Sick Man, still more frightened than he is now at
having allowed the destruction of Poland, will shrink from the clamors,
reproaches, threats, and violent ruptures that he has occasioned.

"That is well--and goes far.

"Then, set the Pope to shaking the conscience of the Sick Man, to disturb
his mind, and terrify his soul.

"To sum up. Make everything bitter to him--divide his council--isolate
him--frighten him--redouble the ferocious ardor of good Albini--revive
the appetite of the Sanfedists[25]--give them a gulf of liberals--let there
be pillage, rape, massacre, as at Cesena--a downright river of Carbonaro
blood--the Sick Man will have a surfeit of it. So many butcheries in his
name--he will shrink, be sure he will shrink--every day will have its
remorse, every night its terror, every minute its anguish; and the
abdication he already threatens will come at last--perhaps too soon. That
is now the only danger; you must provide against it.

"In case of an abdication, the grand penitentiary has understood me.
Instead of confiding to a general the direction of our Order, the best
militia of the Holy See, I should command it myself. Thenceforward this
militia would give me no uneasiness. For instance: the Janissaries and
the Praetorian Guards were always fatal to authority--why?--because they
were able to organize themselves as defenders of the government,
independently of the government; hence their power of intimidation.

"Clement XIV. was a fool. To brand and abolish our Company was an absurd
fault. To protect and make it harmless, by declaring himself the General
of the Order, is what he should have done. The Company, then at his
mercy, would have consented to anything. He would have absorbed us, made
us vassals of the Holy See, and would no longer have had to fear our
services. Clement XIV. died of the cholic. Let him heed who hears. In a
similar case, I should not die the same death."

Just then, the clear and liquid voice of Rose-Pompon was again heard.
Rodin bounded with rage upon his seat; but soon, as he listened to the
following verse, new to him (for, unlike Philemon's widow, he had not his
Beranger at his fingers' ends), the Jesuit, accessible to certain odd,
superstitious notions, was confused and almost frightened at so singular
a coincidence. It is Beranger's Good Pope who speaks--

   "What are monarchs? sheepish sots!
   Or they're robbers, puffed with pride,
   Wearing badges of crime blots,
   Till their certain graves gape wide.
   If they'll pour out coin for me,
   I'll absolve them--skin and bone!
   If they haggle--they shall see,
   My nieces dancing on their throne!
   So laugh away!
   Leap, my fay!
   Only watch one hurt the thunder
   First of all by Zeus under,
   I'm the Pope, the whole world's wonder!"

Rodin, half-risen from his chair, with outstretched neck and attentive
eye, was still listening, when Rose-Pompon, flitting like a bee from
flower to flower of her repertoire, had already begun the delightful air
of Colibri. Hearing no more, the Jesuit reseated himself, in a sort of
stupor; but, after some minutes' reflection, his countenance again
brightened up, and he seemed to see a lucky omen in this singular
incident. He resumed his pen, and the first words he wrote partook, as it
were, of this strange confidence in fate.

"I have never had more hope of success than at this moment. Another
reason to neglect nothing. Every presentiment demands redoubled zeal. A
new thought occurred to me yesterday.

"We shall act here in concert. I have founded an ultra-Catholic paper
called Neighborly Love. From its ultramontane, tyrannical, liberticidal
fury, it will be thought the organ of Rome. I will confirm these reports.
They will cause new terrors.

"That will be well.

"I shall raise the question of the liberty of instruction. The raw
liberals will support us. Like fools, they admit us to equal rights; when
our privileges, our influence of the confessional, our obedience to Rome,
all place us beyond the circle of equal rights, by the advantages which
we enjoy. Double fools! they think us disarmed, because they have
disarmed themselves towards us.

"A burning question--irritating clamors--new cause of disgust for the
Weak Man. Every little makes a mickle.

"That also is very well.

"To sum up all in two words. The end is abdication--the means, vexation,
incessant torture. The Rennepont inheritance wilt pay for the election.
The price agreed, the merchandise will be sold."

Rodin here paused abruptly, thinking he had heard some noise at that door
of his, which opened on the staircase; therefore he listened with
suspended breath; but all remaining silent, he thought he must have been
deceived, and took up his pen:

"I will take care of the Rennepont business--the hinge on which will turn
our temporal operations. We must begin from the foundation--substitute
the play of interests, and the springs of passion, for the stupid club
law of Father d'Aigrigny. He nearly compromised everything--and yet he
has good parts, knows the world, has powers of seduction, quick
insight--but plays ever in a single key, and is not great enough to make
himself little. In his stead, I shall know how to make use of him. There
is good stuff in the man. I availed myself in time of the full powers
given by the R. F. G.; I may inform Father d'Aigrigny, in case of need,
of the secret engagements taken by the General towards myself. Until now,
I have let him invent for this inheritance the destination that you know
of. A good thought, but unseasonable. The same end, by other means.

"The information was false. There are over two hundred millions. Should
the eventuality occur, what was doubtful must become certain. An immense
latitude is left us. The Rennepont business is now doubly mine, and
within three months, the two hundred millions will be ours, by the free
will of the heirs themselves. It must be so; for this failing, the
temporal part would escape me, and my chances be diminished by one half.
I have asked for full powers; time presses, and I act as if I had them.
One piece of information is indispensable for the success of my projects.
I expect it from you, and I must have it; do you understand me? The
powerful influence of your brother at the Court of Vienna will serve you
in this. I wish to have the most precise details as to the present
position of the Duke de Reichstadt--the Napoleon II. of the Imperialists.
Is it possible, by means of your brother, to open a secret correspondence
with the prince, unknown to his attendants?

"Look to this promptly. It is urgent. This note will be sent off to day.
I shall complete it to-morrow. It will reach you, as usual, by the hands
of the petty shopkeeper."

At the moment when Rodin was sealing this letter within a double
envelope, he thought that he again heard a noise at the door. He
listened. After some silence, several knocks were distinctly audible.
Rodin started. It was the first time any one had knocked at his door,
since nearly a twelve-month that he occupied this room. Hastily placing
the letter in his great-coat pocket, the Jesuit opened the old trunk
under his bed, took from it a packet of papers wrapped in a tattered
cotton handkerchief, added to them the two letters in cipher he had just
received, and carefully relocked the trunk. The knocking continued
without, and seemed to show more and more impatience. Rodin took the
greengrocer's basket in his hand, tucked his umbrella under his arm, and
went with some uneasiness to ascertain who was this unexpected visitor.
He opened the door, and found himself face to face with Rose-Pompon, the
troublesome singer, and who now, with a light and pretty courtesy, said
to him in the most guileless manner in the world, "M. Rodin, if you
please?"

[23] On page 110 of Lamennais' Affaires de Rome, will be seen the following
admirable scathing of Rome by the most truly evangelical spirit of our
age: "So long as the issue of the conflict between Poland and her
oppressors remained in the balances, the papal official organ contained
not one word to offend the so long victorious nation; but hardly had she
gone down under the Czar's atrocious vengeance, and the long torture of a
whole land doomed to rack, and exile, and servitude began, than this same
journal found no language black enough to stain those whom fortune had
fled. Yet it is wrong to charge this unworthy insult to papal power; it
only cringes to the law which Russia lays down to it, when it says:

"'If you want to keep your own bones unbroken, bide where you are, beside
the scaffold, and, as the victims pass, hoot at them!'"

[24] See Pope Gregory XVI.'s Encyclical Letter to the Bishops in France,
1832.

[25] Hardly had the Sixteenth Gregory ascended the pontifical throne, than
news came of the rising in Bologna. His first idea was to call the
Austrians, and incite the Sanfedist volunteer bands of fanatics. Cardinal
Albini defeated the liberals at Cesena, where his followers pillaged
churches, sacked the town, and ill-treated women. At Forli, cold-blooded
murders were committed. In 1832 the Sanfedists (Holy Faithites) openly
paraded their medals, bearing the heads of the Duke of Modena and the
Pope; letters issued by the apostolic confederation; privileges and
indulgences. They took the following oath: "I. A. B., vow to rear the
throne and altar over the bones of infamous freedom shriekers, and
exterminate these latter without pity for children's cries and women's
tears." The disorders perpetrated by these marauders went beyond all
bounds; the Romish Court regularized anarchy and organized the Sanfedists
into volunteer corps, to which fresh privileges were granted. [Revue deux
Mondes, Nov. 15th, 1844.--"La Revolution en Italie."]




CHAPTER XXXI.

FRIENDLY SERVICES.

Notwithstanding his surprise and uneasiness, Rodin did not frown. He
began by locking his door after him, as he noticed the young girl's
inquisitive glance. Then he said to her good-naturedly, "Who do you want,
my dear?"

"M. Rodin," repeated Rose-Pompon, stoutly, opening her bright blue eyes
to their full extent, and looking Rodin full in the face.

"It's not here," said he, moving towards the stairs. "I do not know him.
Inquire above or below."

"No, you don't! giving yourself airs at your age!" said Rose-Pompon,
shrugging her shoulders. "As if we did not know that you are M. Rodin."

"Charlemagne," said the socius, bowing; "Charlemagne, to serve you--if I
am able."

"You are not able," answered Rose-Pompon, majestically; then she added
with a mocking air, "So, we have our little pussy-cat hiding-places; we
change our name; we are afraid Mamma Rodin will find us out."

"Come, my dear child," said the socius, with a paternal smile; "you have
come to the right quarter. I am an old man, but I love youth--happy,
joyous youth! Amuse yourself, pray, at my expense. Only let me pass, for
I am in a hurry." And Rodin again advanced towards the stairs.

"M. Rodin," said Rose-Pompon, in a solemn voice, "I have very important
things to say to you, and advice to ask about a love affair."

"Why, little madcap that you are! have you nobody to tease in your own
house, that you must come here?"

"I lodge in this house, M. Rodin," answered Rose-Pompon, laying a
malicious stress on the name of her victim.

"You? Oh, dear, only to think I did not know I had such a pretty
neighbor."

"Yes, I have lodged here six months, M. Rodin."

"Really! where?"

"On the third story, front, M. Rodin."

"It was you, then, that sang so well just now?"

"Rather."

"You gave me great pleasure, I must say."

"You are very polite, M. Rodin."

"You lodge, I suppose, with your respectable family?"

"I believe you, M. Rodin," said Rose-Pompon, casting down her eyes with a
timid air. "I lodge with Grandpapa Philemon, and Grandmamma
Bacchanal--who is a queen and no mistake."

Rodin had hitherto been seriously uneasy, not knowing in what manner Rose
had discovered his real name. But on hearing her mention the Bacchanal
queen, with the information that she lodged in the house, he found
something to compensate for the disagreeable incident of Rose-Pompon's
appearance. It was, indeed, important to Rodin to find out the Bacchanal
Queen, the mistress of Sleepinbuff, and the sister of Mother Bunch, who
had been noted as dangerous since her interview with the superior of the
convent, and the part she had taken in the projected escape of Mdlle. de
Cardoville. Moreover, Rodin hoped--thanks to what he had just heard--to
bring Rose-Pompon to confess to him the name of the person from whom she
had learned that "Charlemagne" masked "Rodin."

Hardly had the young girl pronounced the name of the Bacchanal queen,
than Rodin clasped his hands, and appeared as much surprised as
interested.

"Oh, my dear child," he exclaimed, "I conjure you not to jest on this
subject. Are you speaking of a young girl who bears that nickname, the
sister of a deformed needlewoman."

"Yes, sir, the Bacchanal Queen is her nickname," said Rose-Pompon,
astonished in her turn; "she is really Cephyse Soliveau, and she is my
friend."

"Oh! she is your friend?" said Rodin, reflecting.

"Yes, sir, my bosom friend."

"So you love her?"

"Like a sister. Poor girl! I do what I can for her, and that's not much.
But how comes it that a respectable man of your age should know the
Bacchanal Queen?--Ah! that shows you have a false name!"

"My dear child, I am no longer inclined to laugh," said Rodin, with so
sorrowful an air, that Rose-Pompon, reproaching herself with her
pleasantry, said to him: "But how comes it that you know Cephyse?"

"Alas! I do not know her--but a young fellow, that I like excessively--"

"Jacques Rennepont?"

"Otherwise called Sleepinbuff. He is now in prison for debt," sighed
Rodin. "I saw him yesterday."

"You saw him yesterday?--how strange!" said Rose-Pompon, clapping her
hands. "Quick! quick!--come over to Philemon's, to give Cephyse news of
her lover. She is so uneasy about him."

"My dear child, I should like to give her good news of that worthy
fellow, whom I like in spite of his follies, for who has not been guilty
of follies?" added Rodin, with indulgent good-nature.

"To be sure," said Rose-Pompon, twisting about as if she still wore the
costume of a debardeur.

"I will say more," added Rodin: "I love him because of his follies; for,
talk as we may, my dear child, there is always something good at bottom,
a good heart, or something, in those who spend generously their money for
other people."

"Well, come! you are a very good sort of a man," said Rose-Pompon,
enchanted with Rodin's philosophy. "But why will you not come and see
Cephyse, and talk to her of Jacques?"

"Of what use would it be to tell her what she knows already--that Jacques
is in prison? What I should like, would be to get the worthy fellow out
of his scrape."

"Oh, sir! only do that, only get Jacques out of prison," cried Rose
Pompon, warmly, "and we will both give you a kiss--me and Cephyse!"

"It would be throwing kisses away, dear little madcap!" said Rodin,
smiling. "But be satisfied, I want no reward to induce me to do good when
I can."

"Then you hope to get Jacques out of prison?"

Rodin shook his head, and answered with a grieved and disappointed air.
"I did hope it. Certainly, I did hope it; but now all is changed."

"How's that?" asked Rose-Pompon, with surprise.

"That foolish joke of calling me M. Rodin may appear very amusing to you,
my dear child. I understand it, you being only an echo. Some one has said
to you: 'Go and tell M. Charlemagne that he is one M. Rodin. That will be
very funny.'"

"Certainly, I should never myself have thought of calling you M. Rodin.
One does not invent such names," answered Rose-Pompon.

"Well! that person with his foolish jokes, has done, without knowing it,
a great injury to Jacques Rennepont."

"What! because I called you Rodin instead of Charlemagne?" cried Rose
Pompon, much regretting the pleasantry which she had carried on at the
instigation of Ninny Moulin. "But really, sir," she added, "what can this
joke have to do with the service that you were, about to render Jacques?"

"I am not at liberty to tell you, my child. In truth, I am very sorry for
poor Jacques. Believe me, I am; but do let me pass.

"Listen to me, sir, I beg," said Rose-Pompon; "if I told you the name of
the person who told me to call you Rodin, would you interest yourself
again for Jacques?"

"I do not wish to know any one's secrets, my dear child. In all this, you
have been the echo of persons who are, perhaps, very dangerous; and,
notwithstanding the interest I feel for Jacques Rennepont, I do not wish,
you understand, to make myself enemies. Heaven forbid!"

Rose-Pompon did not at all comprehend Rodin's fears, and upon this he had
counted; for after a second's reflection, the young girl resumed: "Well,
sir--this is too deep for me; I do not understand it. All I know is, that
I am truly sorry if I have injured a good young man by a mere joke. I
will tell you exactly how it happened. My frankness may be of some use."

"Frankness will often clear up the most obscure matters," said Rodin,
sententiously.

"After all," said Rose-Pompon, "it's Ninny's fault. Why does he tell me
nonsense, that might injure poor Cephyse's lover? You see, sir, it
happened in this way. Ninny Moulin who is fond of a joke, saw you just
now in the street. The portress told him that your name was Charlemagne.
He said to me: 'No; his name is Rodin. We must play him a trick. Go to
his room, Rose-Pompon, knock at the door, and call him M. Rodin. You will
see what a rum face he will make.' I promised Ninny Moulin not to name
him; but I do it, rather than run the risk of injuring Jacques."

At Ninny Moulin's name Rodin had not been able to repress a movement of
surprise. This pamphleteer, whom he had employed to edit the "Neighborly
Love," was not personally formidable; but, being fond of talking in his
drink, he might become troublesome, particularly if Rodin, as was
probable, had often to visit this house, to execute his project upon
Sleepinbuff, through the medium of the Bacchanal Queen. The socius
resolved, therefore, to provide against this inconvenience.

"So, my dear child," said he to Rose-Pompon, "it is a M. Desmoulins that
persuaded you to play off this silly joke?"

"Not Desmoulins, but Dumoulin," corrected Rose. "He writes in the
pewholders' papers, and defends the saints for money; for, if Ninny
Moulin is a saint, his patrons are Saint Drinkard and Saint Flashette, as
he himself declares."

"This gentleman appears to be very gay."

"Oh! a very good fellow."

"But stop," resumed Rodin, appearing to recollect himself; "ain't he a
man about thirty-six or forty, fat, with a ruddy complexion?"

"Ruddy as a glass of red wine," said Rose-Pompon, "and with a pimpled
nose like a mulberry."

"That's the man--M. Dumoulin. Oh! in that case, I am quite satisfied, my
dear child. The jest no longer makes me uneasy; for M. Dumoulin is a very
worthy man--only perhaps a little too fond of his joke."

"Then, sir, you will try to be useful to Jacques? The stupid pleasantry
of Ninny Moulin will not prevent you?"

"I hope not."

"But I must not tell Ninny Moulin that you know it was he who sent me to
call you M. Rodin--eh, sir?"

"Why not? In every case, my dear child, it is always better to speak
frankly the truth."

"But, sir, Ninny Moulin so strongly recommended me not to name him to
you--"

"If you have named him, it is from a very good motive; why not avow it?
However, my dear child, this concerns you, not me. Do as you think best."

"And may I tell Cephyse of your good intentions towards Jacques?"

"The truth, my dear child, always the truth. One need never hesitate to
say what is."

"Poor Cephyse! how happy she will be!" cried Rose-Pompon, cheerfully;
"and the news will come just in time."

"Only you must not exaggerate; I do not promise positively to get this
good fellow out of prison; I say, that I will do what I can. But what I
promise positively is--for, since the imprisonment of poor Jacques, your
friend must be very much straitened--"

"Alas, sir!"

"What I promise positively is some little assistance which your friend
will receive to-day, to enable her to live honestly; and if she behaves
well--hereafter--why, hereafter, we shall see."

"Oh, sir! you do not know how welcome will be your assistance to poor
Cephyse! One might fancy you were her actual good angel. Faith! you may
call yourself Rodin, or Charlemagne; all I know is, that you are a nice,
sweet--"

"Come, come, do not exaggerate," said Rodin; "say a good sort of old
fellow; nothing more, my dear child. But see how things fall out,
sometimes! Who could have told me, when I heard you knock at my
door--which, I must say, vexed me a great deal--that it was a pretty
little neighbor of mine, who under the pretext of playing off a joke, was
to put me in the way of doing a good action? Go and comfort your friend;
this evening she will receive some assistance; and let us have hope and
confidence. Thanks be, there are still some good people in the world!"

"Oh, sir! you prove it yourself."

"Not at all! The happiness of the old is to see the young happy."

This was said by Rodin with so much apparent kindness, that Rose-Pompon
felt the tears well up to her eyes, and answered with much emotion: "Sir,
Cephyse and me are only poor girls; there are many more virtuous in the
world; but I venture to say, we have good hearts. Now, if ever you should
be ill, only send for us; there are no Sisters of Charity that will take
better care of you. It is all that we can offer you, without reckoning
Philemon, who shall go through fire and water for you, I give you my word
for it--and Cephyse, I am sure, will answer for Jacques also, that he
will be yours in life and death."

"You see, my dear child, that I was right in saying--a fitful head and a
good heart. Adieu, till we meet again."

Thereupon Rodin, taking up the basket, which he had placed on the ground
by the side of his umbrella, prepared to descend the stairs.

"First of all, you must give me this basket; it will be in your way going
down," said Rose-Pompon, taking the basket from the hands of Rodin,
notwithstanding his resistance. Then she added: "Lean upon my arm. The
stairs are so dark. You might slip."

"I will accept your offer, my dear child, for I am not very courageous."
Leaning paternally on the right arm of Rose-Pompon, who held the basket
in her left hand, Rodin descended the stairs, and crossed the court-yard.

"Up there, on the third story, do you see that big face close to the
window-frame?" said Rose-Pompon suddenly to Rodin, stopping in the centre
of the little court. "That is my Ninny Moulin. Do you know him? Is he the
same as yours?"

"The same as mine," said Rodin, raising his head, and waving his hand
very affectionately to Jacques Dumoulin, who, stupefied thereat, retired
abruptly from the window.

"The poor fellow! I am sure he is afraid of me since his foolish joke,"
said Rodin, smiling. "He is very wrong."

And he accompanied these last words with a sinister nipping of the lips,
not perceived by Rose-Pompon.

"And now, my dear child," said he, as they both entered the passage, "I
no longer need you assistance; return to your friend, and tell her the
good news you have heard."

"Yes, sir, you are right. I burn with impatience to tell her what a good
man you are." And Rose-Pompon sprung towards the stairs.

"Stop, stop! how about my basket that the little madcap carries off with
her?" said Rodin.

"Oh true! I beg your pardon, sir. Poor Cephyse! how pleased she will be.
Adieu, sir!" And Rose-Pompon's pretty figure disappeared in the darkness
of the staircase, which she mounted with an alert and impatient step.

Rodin issued from the entry. "Here is your basket, my good lady," said he,
stopping at the threshold of Mother Arsene's shop. "I give you my humble
thanks for your kindness."

"For nothing, my dear sir, for nothing. It is all at your service. Well,
was the radish good?"

"Succulent, my dear madame, and excellent."

"Oh! I am glad of it. Shall we soon see you again?"

"I hope so. But could you tell me where is the nearest post-office?"

"Turn to the left, the third house, at the grocer's."

"A thousand thanks."

"I wager it's a love letter for your sweetheart," said Mother Arsene,
enlivened probably by Rose Pompon's and Ninny Moulin's proximity.

"Ha! ha! ha! the good lady!" said Rodin, with a titter. Then, suddenly
resuming his serious aspect, he made a low bow to the greengrocer,
adding: "Your most obedient humble servant!" and walked out into the
street.

We now usher the reader into Dr. Baleinier's asylum, in which Mdlle. de
Cardoville was confined.




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE ADVICE.

Adrienne de Cardoville had been still more strictly confined in Dr.
Baleinier's house, since the double nocturnal attempt of Agricola and
Dagobert, in which the soldier, though severely wounded, had succeeded,
thanks to the intrepid devotion of his son, seconded by the heroic Spoil
sport, in gaining the little garden gate of the convent, and escaping by
way of the boulevard, along with the young smith. Four o'clock had just
struck. Adrienne, since the previous day, had been removed to a chamber
on the second story of the asylum. The grated window, with closed
shutters, only admitted a faint light to this apartment. The young lady,
since her interview with Mother Bunch, expected to be delivered any day
by the intervention of her friends. But she felt painful uneasiness on
the subject of Agricola and Dagobert, being absolutely ignorant of the
issue of the struggle in which her intended liberators had been engaged
with the people of the asylum and convent. She had in vain questioned her
keepers on the subject; they had remained perfectly mute. These new
incidents had augmented the bitter resentment of Adrienne against the
Princess de Saint Dizier, Father d'Aigrigny, and their creatures. The
slight paleness of Mdlle. de Cardoville's charming face, and her fine
eyes a little drooping, betrayed her recent sufferings; seated before a
little table, with her forehead resting upon one of her hands, half
veiled by the long curls of her golden hair, she was turning over the
leaves of a book. Suddenly, the door opened, and M. Baleinier entered.
The doctor, a Jesuit, in lay attire, a docile and passive instrument of
the will of his Order, was only half in the confidence of Father
d'Aigrigny and the Princess de Saint-Dizier. He was ignorant of the
object of the imprisonment of Mdlle. de Cardoville; he was ignorant also
of the sudden change which had taken place in the relative position of
Father d'Aigrigny and Rodin, after the reading of the testament of Marius
de Rennepont. The doctor had, only the day before, received orders from
Father d'Aigrigny (now acting under the directions of Rodin) to confine
Mdlle. de Cardoville still more strictly, to act towards her with
redoubled severity, and to endeavor to force her, it will be seen by what
expedients, to renounce the judicial proceedings, which she promised
herself to take hereafter against her persecutors. At sight of the
doctor, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not hide the aversion and disdain with
which this man inspired her. M. Baleinier, on the contrary, always
smiling, always courteous, approached Adrienne with perfect ease and
confidence, stopped a few steps from her, as if to study her features
more attentively, and then added like a man who is satisfied with the
observations he had made: "Come! the unfortunate events of the night
before last have had a less injurious influence than I feared. There is
some improvement; the complexion is less flushed, the look calmer, the
eyes still somewhat too bright, but no longer shining with such unnatural
fire. You are getting on so well! Now the cure must be prolonged--for
this unfortunate night affair threw you into a state of excitement, that
was only the more dangerous from your not being conscious of it. Happily,
with care, your recovery will not, I hope, be very much delayed."
Accustomed though she was to the audacity of this tool of the
Congregation, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not forbear saying to him, with
a smile of bitter disdain: "What impudence, sir, there is in your
probity! What effrontery in your zeal to earn your hire! Never for a
moment do you lay aside your mask; craft and falsehood are ever on your
lips. Really, if this shameful comedy causes you as much fatigue as it
does me disgust and contempt, they can never pay you enough."

"Alas!" said the doctor, in a sorrowful tone; "always this unfortunate
delusion, that you are not in want of our care!--that I am playing a
part, when I talk to you of the sad state in which you were when we were
obliged to bring you hither by stratagem. Still, with the exception of
this little sign of rebellious insanity, your condition has marvellously
improved. You are on the high-road to a complete cure. By-and-by, your
excellent heart will render me the justice that is due to me; and, one
day, I shall be judged as I deserve."

"I, believe it, sir; the day approaches, in which you will be judged as
you deserve," said Adrienne, laying great stress upon the two words.

"Always that other fixed idea," said the doctor with a sort of
commiseration. "Come, be reasonable. Do not think of this childishness."

"What! renounce my intention to demand at the hands of justice reparation
for myself, and disgrace for you and your accomplices? Never,
sir--never!"

"Well!" said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders; "once at liberty, thank
heaven, you will have many other things to think of, my fair enemy."

"You forget piously the evil that you do; but I, sir, have a better
memory."

"Let us talk seriously. Have you really the intention of applying to the
courts?" inquired Dr. Baleinier, in a grave tone.

"Yes, sir, and you know that what I intend, I firmly carry out."

"Well! I can only conjure you not to follow out this idea," replied the
doctor, in a still more solemn tone; "I ask it as a favor, in the name of
your own interest."

"I think, sir, that you are a little too ready to confound your interest
with mine."

"Now come," said Dr. Baleinier, with a feigned impatience, as if quite
certain of convincing Mdlle. de Cardoville on the instant; "would you
have the melancholy courage to plunge into despair two persons full of
goodness and generosity?"

"Only two? The jest would be complete, if you were to reckon three: you,
sir, and my aunt, and Abbe d'Aigrigny; for these are no doubt the
generous persons in whose name you implore my pity."

"No, madame; I speak neither of myself, nor of your aunt, nor of Abbe
d'Aigrigny."

"Of whom, then, sir?" asked Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise.

"Of two poor fellows, who, no doubt sent by those whom you call your
friends, got into the neighboring convent the other night, and thence
into this garden. The guns which you heard go off were fired at them."

"Alas! I thought so. They refused to tell me if either of them was
wounded," said Adrienne, with painful emotion.

"One of them received a wound, but not very serious, since he was able to
fly and escape pursuit."

"Thank God!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, clasping her hands with fervor.

"It is quite natural that you should rejoice at their escape, but by what
strange contradiction do you now wish to put the officers of justice on
their track? A singular manner, truly, of rewarding their devotion!"

"What do you say, sir?" asked Mdlle. de Cardoville.

"For if they should be arrested," resumed Dr. Baleinier, without
answering her, "as they have been guilty of housebreaking and attempted
burglary, they would be sent to the galleys."

"Heavens! and for my sake!"

"Yes; it would be for you, and what is worse, by you, that they would be
condemned."

"By me, sir?"

"Certainly; that is, if you follow up your vengeance against your aunt
and Abbe d'Aigrigny--I do not speak of myself, for I am quite safe; in a
word, if you persist in laying your complaint before the magistrates,
that you have been unjustly confined in this house."

"I do not understand you, sir. Explain yourself," said Adrienne, with
growing uneasiness.

"Child that you are!" cried the Jesuit of the short robe, with an air of
conviction; "do you think that if the law once takes cognizance of this
affair, you can stop short its action where and when you please? When you
leave this house, you lodge a complaint against me and against your
family; well, what happens? The law interferes, inquires, calls
witnesses, enters into the most minute investigations. Then, what
follows? Why, that this nocturnal escalade, which the superior of the
convent has some interest in hushing up, for fear of scandal--that this
nocturnal attempt, I say, which I also would keep quiet, is necessarily
divulged, and as it involves a serious crime, to which a heavy penalty is
attached, the law will ferret into it, and find out these unfortunate
men, and if, as is probable, they are detained in Paris by their duties
or occupations, or even by a false security, arising from the honorable
motives which they know to have actuated them, they will be arrested. And
who will be the cause of this arrest? You, by your deposition against
us."

"Oh, sir! that would be horrible; but it is impossible."

"It is very possible, on the contrary," returned M. Baleinier: "so that,
while I and the superior of the convent, who alone are really entitled to
complain, only wish to keep quiet this unpleasant affair, it is you--you,
for whom these unfortunate men have risked the galleys--that will deliver
them up to justice."

Though Mdlle. de Cardoville was not completely duped by the lay Jesuit,
she guessed that the merciful intentions which he expressed with regard
to Dagobert and his son, would be absolutely subordinate to the course
she might take in pressing or abandoning the legitimate vengeance which
she meant to claim of authority. Indeed, Rodin, whose instructions the
doctor was following without knowing it, was too cunning to have it said
to Mdlle. de Cardoville: "If you attempt any proceedings, we denounce
Dagobert and his son;" but he attained the same end, by inspiring
Adrienne with fears on the subject of her two liberators, so as to
prevent her taking any hostile measures. Without knowing the exact law on
the subject, Mdlle. de Cardoville had too much good sense not to
understand that Dagobert and Agricola might be very seriously involved in
consequence of their nocturnal adventure, and might even find themselves
in a terrible position. And yet, when she thought of all she had suffered
in that house, and of all the just resentment she entertained in the
bottom of her heart, Adrienne felt unwilling to renounce the stern
pleasure of exposing such odious machinations to the light of day. Dr.
Baleinier watched with sullen attention her whom he considered his dupe,
for he thought he could divine the cause of the silence and hesitation of
Mdlle. de Cardoville.

"But, sir," resumed the latter, unable to conceal her anxiety, "if I were
disposed, for whatever reason, to make no complaint, and to forget the
wrongs I have suffered, when should I leave this place?"

"I cannot tell; for I do not know when you will be radically cured," said
the doctor, benignantly. "You are in a very good way, but--"

"Still this insolent and stupid acting!" broke forth Mdlle. de
Cardoville, interrupting the doctor with indignation. "I ask, and if it
must be, I entreat you to tell me how long I am to be shut up in this
dreadful house, for I shall leave it some day, I suppose?"

"I hope so, certainly," said the Jesuit of the short robe, with unction;
"but when, I am unable to say. Moreover, I must tell you frankly, that
every precaution is taken against such attempts as those of the other
night; and the most vigorous watch will be maintained, to prevent your
communicating with any one. And all this in your own interest, that your
poor head may not again be dangerously excited."

"So, sir," said Adrienne, almost terrified, "compared with what awaits
me, the last few days have been days of liberty."

"Your interest before everything," answered the doctor, in a fervent
tone.

Mdlle. de Cardoville, feeling the impotence of her indignation and
despair, heaved a deep sigh, and hid her face in her hands.

At this moment, quick footsteps were heard in the passage, and one of the
nurses entered, after having knocked at the door.

"Sir," said she to the doctor, with a frightened air, "there are two
gentlemen below, who wish to see you instantly, and the lady also."

Adrienne raised her head hastily; her eyes were bathed in tears.

"What are the names of these persons?" said M. Baleinier, much
astonished.

"One of them said to me," answered the nurse: "'Go and inform Dr.
Baleinier that I am a magistrate, and that I come on a duty regarding
Mdlle. de Cardoville.'"

"A magistrate!" exclaimed the Jesuit of the short robe, growing purple in
the face, and unable to hide his surprise and uneasiness.

"Heaven be praised!" cried Adrienne, rising with vivacity, her
countenance beaming through her tears with hope and joy; "my friends have
been informed in time, and the hour of justice is arrived!"

"Ask these persons to walk up," said Dr. Baleinier, after a moment's
reflection. Then, with a still more agitated expression of countenance,
he approached Adrienne with a harsh, and almost menacing air, which
contrasted with the habitual placidity of his hypocritical smile, and
said to her in a low voice: "Take care, madame! do not rejoice too soon."

"I no longer fear you," answered Mdlle. de Cardoville, with a bright,
flashing eye. "M. de Montbron is no doubt returned to Paris, and has been
informed in time. He accompanies the magistrate, and comes to deliver me.
I pity you, sir--both you and yours," added Adrienne, with an accent of
bitter irony.

"Madame," cried M. Baleinier, no longer able to dissemble his growing
alarm, "I repeat to you, take care! Remember what I have told you. Your
accusations would necessarily involve the discovery of what took place
the other night. Beware! the fate of the soldier and his son is in your
hands. Recollect they are in danger of the convict's chains."

"Oh! I am not your dupe, sir. You are holding out a covert menace. Have
at least the courage to say to me, that, if I complain to the
magistrates, you will denounce the soldier and his son."

"I repeat, that, if you make any complaint, those two people are lost,"
answered the doctor, ambiguously.

Startled by what was really dangerous in the doctor's threats, Adrienne
asked: "Sir, if this magistrate questions me, do you think I will tell
him a falsehood?"

"You will answer what is true," said M. Baleinier, hastily, in the hope
of still attaining his end. "You will answer that you were in so excited
a state of mind a few days ago, that it was thought advisable, for your
own sake, to bring you hither, without your knowing it. But you are now
so much better, that you acknowledge the utility of the measures taken
with regard to you. I will confirm these words for, after all, it is the
truth."

"Never!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, with indignation, "never will I be
the accomplice of so infamous a falsehood; never will I be base enough to
justify the indignities that I have suffered!"

"Here is the magistrate," said M. Baleinier, as he caught the sound of
approaching footsteps. "Beware!"

The door opened, and, to the indescribable amazement of the doctor, Rodin
appeared on the threshold, accompanied by a man dressed in black, with a
dignified and severe countenance. In the interest of his projects, and
from motives of craft and prudence that will hereafter be known, Rodin
had not informed Father d'Aigrigny, and consequently the doctor, of the
unexpected visit he intended to pay to the asylum, accompanied by a
magistrate. On the contrary, he had only the day before given orders to
M. Baleinier to confine Mdlle. de Cardoville still more strictly.
Therefore, imagine the stupor of the doctor when he saw the judicial
officer, whose unexpected presence and imposing aspect were otherwise
sufficiently alarming, enter the room, accompanied by Rodin, Abbe
d'Aigrigny's humble and obscure secretary. From the door, Rodin, who was
very shabbily dressed, as usual, pointed out Mdlle. de Cardoville to the
magistrate, by a gesture at once respectful and compassionate. Then,
while the latter, who had not been able to repress a movement of
admiration at sight of the rare beauty of Adrienne, seemed to examine her
with as much surprise as interest, the Jesuit modestly receded several
steps.

Dr. Baleinier in his extreme astonishment, hoping to be understood by
Rodin, made suddenly several private signals, as if to interrogate him on
the cause of the magistrate's visit. But this was only productive of
fresh amazement to M. Baleinier; for Rodin did not appear to recognize
him, or to understand his expressive pantomime, and looked at him with
affected bewilderment. At length, as the doctor, growing impatient,
redoubled his mute questionings, Rodin advanced with a stride, stretched
forward his crooked neck, and said, in a loud voice: "What is your
pleasure, doctor?"

These words, which completely disconcerted Baleinier, broke the silence
which had reigned for some seconds, and the magistrate turned round.
Rodin added, with imperturbable coolness: "Since our arrival, the doctor
has been making all sorts of mysterious signs to me. I suppose he has
something private to communicate, but, as I have no secrets, I must beg
him to speak out loud."

This reply, so embarrassing for M. Baleinier, uttered in a tone of
aggression, and with an air of icy coldness, plunged the doctor into such
new and deep amazement, that he remained for some moments without
answering. No doubt the magistrate was struck with this incident, and
with the silence which followed it, for he cast a look of great severity
on the doctor. Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had expected to have seen M. de
Montbron, was also singularly surprised.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE ACCUSER.

Baleinier, disconcerted for a moment by the unexpected presence of a
magistrate, and by Rodin's inexplicable attitude, soon recovered his
presence of mind, and addressing his colleague of the longer robe, said
to him: "If I make signs to you, sir, it was that, while I wished to
respect the silence which this gentleman"--glancing at the
magistrate--"has preserved since his entrance, I desired to express my
surprise at the unexpected honor of this visit."

"It is to the lady that I will explain the reason for my silence, and beg
her to excuse it," replied the magistrate, as he made a half-bow to
Adrienne, whom he thus continued to address: "I have just received so
serious a declaration with regard to you, madame, that I could not
forbear looking at you for a moment in silence, to see if I could read in
your countenance or in your attitude, the truth or falsehood of the
accusation that has been placed in my hands; and I have every reason to
believe that it is but too well founded."

"May I at length be informed, sir," said Dr. Baleinier, in a polite but
firm tone, "to whom I have the honor of speaking?"

"Sir, I am juge d'instruction, and I have come to inform myself as to a
fact which has been pointed out to me--"

"Will you do me the honor to explain yourself, sir?" said the doctor,
bowing.

"Sir," resumed the magistrate, M. de Gernande, a man of about fifty years
of age, full of firmness and straightforwardness, and knowing how to
unite the austere duties of his position with benevolent politeness, "you
are accused of having committed--a very great error, not to use a harsher
expression. As for the nature of that error, I prefer believing, sir,
that you (a first rate man of science) may have been deceived in the
calculation of a medical case, rather than suspect you of having
forgotten all that is sacred in the exercise of a profession that is
almost a priesthood."

"When you specify the facts, sir," answered the Jesuit of the short robe,
with a degree of haughtiness, "it will be easy for me to prove that my
reputation as a man of science is no less free from reproach, than my
conscience as a man of honor."

"Madame," said M. de Gernande, addressing Adrienne, "is it true that you
were conveyed to this house by stratagem?"

"Sir," cried M. Baleinier, "permit me to observe, that the manner in
which you open this question is an insult to me."

"Sir, it is to the lady that I have the honor of addressing myself,"
replied M. de Gernande, sternly; "and I am the sole judge of the
propriety of my questions."

Adrienne was about to answer affirmatively to the magistrate, when an
expressive took from Dr. Baleinier reminded her that she would perhaps
expose Dagobert and his son to cruel dangers. It was no base and vulgar
feeling of vengeance by which Adrienne was animated, but a legitimate
indignation, inspired by odious hypocrisy. She would have thought it
cowardly not to unmask the criminals; but wishing to avoid compromising
others, she said to the magistrate, with an accent full of mildness and
dignity: "Permit me, sir, in my turn, rather to ask you a question."

"Speak, madame."

"Will the answer I make be considered a formal accusation?"

"I have come hither, madame, to ascertain the truth, and no consideration
should induce you to dissemble it."

"So be it, sir," resumed Adrienne; "but suppose, having just causes of
complaint, I lay them before you, in order to be allowed to leave this
house, shall I afterwards be at liberty not to press the accusations I
have made?"

"You may abandon proceedings, madame, but the law will take up your case
in the name of society, if its rights have been inured in your person."

"Shall I then not be allowed to pardon? Should I not be sufficiently
avenged by a contemptuous forgetfulness of the wrongs I have suffered?"

"Personally, madame, you may forgive and forget; but I have the honor to
repeat to you, that society cannot show the same indulgence, if it should
turn out that you have been the victim of a criminal machination--and I
have every reason to fear it is so. The manner in which you express
yourself, the generosity of your sentiments, the calmness and dignity of
your attitude, convince me that I have been well informed."

"I hope, sir," said Dr. Baleinier, recovering his coolness, "that you
will at least communicate the declaration that has been made to you."

"It has been declared to me, sir," said the magistrate, in a stern voice,
"that Mdlle. de Cardoville was brought here by stratagem."

"By stratagem?"

"Yes, sir."

"It is true. The lady was brought here by stratagem," answered the Jesuit
of the short robe, after a moment's silence.

"You confess it, then?" said M. de Gernande.

"Certainly I do, sir. I admit that I had recourse to means which we are
unfortunately too often obliged to employ, when persons who most need our
assistance are unconscious of their own sad state."

"But, sir," replied the magistrate, "it has also been declared to me,
that Mdlle. de Cardoville never required such aid."

"That, sir, is a question of medical jurisprudence, which has to be
examined and discussed," said M. Baleinier, recovering his assurance.

"It will, indeed, sir, be seriously discussed; for you are accused of
confining Mdlle. De Cardoville, while in the full possession of all her
faculties."

"And may I ask you for what purpose?" said M. de Baleinier, with a slight
shrug of the shoulders, and in a tone of irony. "What interest had I to
commit such a crime, even admitting that my reputation did not place me
above so odious and absurd a charge?"

"You are said to have acted, sir, in furtherance of a family plot,
devised against Mdlle. de Cardoville for a pecuniary motive."

"And who has dared, sir, to make so calumnious a charge?" cried Dr.
Baleinier, with indignant warmth. "Who has had the audacity to accuse a
respectable, and I dare to say, respected man, of having been the
accomplice in such infamy?"

"I," said Rodin, coldly.

"You!" cried Dr. Baleinier, falling back two steps, as if thunderstruck.

"Yes, I accuse you," repeated Rodin, in a clear sharp voice.

"Yes, it was this gentleman who came to me this morning, with ample
proofs, to demand my interference in favor of Mdlle. de Cardoville," said
the magistrate, drawing back a little, to give Adrienne the opportunity
of seeing her defender.

Throughout this scene, Rodin's name had not hitherto been mentioned.
Mdlle. de Cardoville had often heard speak of the Abbe d'Aigrigny's
secretary in no very favorable terms; but, never having seen him, she did
not know that her liberator was this very Jesuit. She therefore looked
towards him, with a glance in which were mingled curiosity, interest,
surprise and gratitude. Rodin's cadaverous countenance, his repulsive
ugliness, his sordid dress, would a few days before have occasioned
Adrienne a perhaps invincible feeling of disgust. But the young lady,
remembering how the sempstress, poor, feeble, deformed, and dressed
almost in rags was endowed notwithstanding her wretched exterior, with
one of the noblest and most admirable hearts, recalled this recollection
in favor of the Jesuit. She forgot that he was ugly and sordid, only to
remember that he was old, that he seemed poor, and that he had come to
her assistance. Dr. Baleinier, notwithstanding his craft, notwithstanding
his audacious hypocrisy, in spite even of his presence of mind, could not
conceal how much he was disturbed by Rodin's denunciation. His head
became troubled as he remembered how, on the first day of Adrienne's
confinement in this house, the implacable appeal of Rodin, through the
hole in the door, had prevented him (Baleinier) from yielding to emotions
of pity, inspired by the despair of this unfortunate young girl, driven
almost to doubt of her own reason. And yet it was this very Rodin, so
cruel, so inexorable, the devoted agent of Father d'Aigrigny, who
denounced him (Baleinier), and brought a magistrate to set Adrienne at
liberty--when, only the day before, Father d'Aigrigny had ordered an
increase of severity towards her!

The lay Jesuit felt persuaded that Rodin was betraying Father d'Aigrigny
in the most shameful manner, and that Mdlle. de Cardoville's friends had
bribed and bought over this scoundrelly secretary. Exasperated by what he
considered a monstrous piece of treachery, the doctor exclaimed, in a
voice broken with rage: "And it is you, sir, that have the impudence to
accuse me--you, who only a few days ago--"

Then, reflecting that the retort upon Rodin would be self-accusation, he
appeared to give way to an excess of emotion, and resumed with
bitterness: "Ah, sir, you are the last person that I should have thought
capable of this odious denunciation. It is shameful!"

"And who had a better right than I to denounce this infamy?" answered
Rodin, in a rude, overbearing tone. "Was I not in a position to
learn--unfortunately, too late--the nature of the conspiracy of which
Mdlle. de Cardoville and others have been the victims? Then, what was my
duty as an honest man? Why, to inform the magistrate, to prove what I set
forth, and to accompany him hither. That is what I have done."

"So, sir," said the doctor, addressing the magistrate, "it is not only
myself that this man accuses, but he dares also--"

"I accuse the Abbe d'Aigrigny," resumed Rodin, in a still louder and more
imperative tone, interrupting the doctor, "I accuse the Princess de
Saint-Dizier, I accuse you, sir--of having, from a vile motive of self
interest, confined Mdlle. de Cardoville in this house, and the two
daughters of Marshal Simon in the neighboring convent. Is that clear?"

"Alas! it is only too true," said Adrienne, hastily. "I have seen those
poor children all in tears, making signs of distress to me."

The accusation of Rodin, with regard to the orphans, was a new and
fearful blow for Dr. Baleinier. He felt perfectly convinced that the
traitor had passed clear over to the enemy's camp. Wishing therefore to
put an end to this embarrassing scene, he tried to put a good face on the
matter, in spite of his emotion, and said to the magistrate:

"I might confine myself, sir, to silence--disdaining to answer such
accusations, till a judicial decision had given them some kind of
authority. But, strong in a good conscience I address myself to Mdlle. de
Cardoville, and I beg her to say if this very morning I did not inform
her, that her health would soon be sufficiently restored to allow her to
leave this house. I conjure her, in the name of her well-known love of
truth to state if such was not my language, when I was alone with her--"

"Come, sir!" said Rodin, interrupting Baleinier with an insolent air;
"suppose that, from pure generosity, this dear young lady were to admit
as much--what will it prove in your favor?--why, nothing at all."

"What, sir," cried the doctor, "do you presume--"

"I presume to unmask you, without asking your leave. What have you just
told us? Why, that being alone with Mdlle. de Cardoville, you talked to
her as if she were really mad. How very conclusive!"

"But, sir--" cried the doctor.

"But, sir," resumed Rodin, without allowing him to continue, "it is
evident that, foreseeing the possibility of what has occurred to-day,
and, to provide yourself with a hole to creep out at, you have pretended
to believe your own execrable falsehood, in presence of this poor young
lady, that you might afterwards call in aid the evidence of your own
assumed conviction. Come, sir! such stories will not go down with people
of common sense or common humanity."

"Come now, sir!" exclaimed Baleinier, angrily.

"Well, sir," resumed Rodin, in a still louder voice, which completely
drowned that of the doctor; "is it true, or is it not, that you have
recourse to the mean evasion of ascribing this odious imprisonment to a
scientific error? I affirm that you do so, and that you think yourself
safe, because you can now say: 'Thanks to my care, the young lady has
recovered her reason. What more would you have?'"

"Yes, I do say that, sir, and I maintain it."

"You maintain a falsehood; for it is proven that the lady never lost her
reason for a moment."

"But I, sir, maintain that she did lose it."

"And I, sir, will prove the contrary," said Rodin.

"You? How will you do that?" cried the doctor.

"That I shall take care not to tell you at present, as you may well
suppose," answered Rodin, with an ironical smile, adding with
indignation: "But, really, sir, you ought to die for shame, to dare to
raise such a question in presence of the lady. You should at least have
spared her this discussion."

"Sir!"

"Oh, fie, sir! I say, fie! It is odious to maintain this argument before
her--odious if you speak truth, doubly odious if you lie," said Rodin,
with disgust.

"This violence is inconceivable!" cried the Jesuit of the short robe,
exasperated; "and I think the magistrate shows great partiality in
allowing such gross calumnies to be heaped upon me!"

"Sir," answered M. de Gernande, severely, "I am entitled not only to
hear, but to provoke any contradictory discussion that may enlighten me
in the execution of my duty; it results from all this, that, even in your
opinion, sir, Mdlle. de Cardoville's health is sufficiently good to allow
her to return home immediately."

"At least, I do not see any very serious inconvenience likely to arise
from it, sir," said the doctor: "only I maintain that the cure is not so
complete as it might have been, and, on this subject, I decline all
responsibility for the future."

"You can do so, safely," said Rodin; "it is not likely that the young
lady will ever again have recourse to your honest assistance."

"It is useless, therefore, to employ my official authority, to demand the
immediate liberation of Mdlle. de Cardoville," said the magistrate.

"She is free," said Baleinier, "perfectly free."

"As for the question whether you have imprisoned her on the plea of a
suppositious madness, the law will inquire into it, sir, and you will be
heard."

"I am quite easy, sir," answered M. Baleinier, trying to look so; "my
conscience reproaches me with nothing."

"I hope it may turn out well, sir," said M. de Gernande. "However bad
appearances may be, more especially when persons of your station in
society are concerned, we should always wish to be convinced of their
innocence." Then, turning to Adrienne, he added: "I understand, madame,
how painful this scene must be to all your feelings of delicacy and
generosity; hereafter, it will depend upon yourself, either to proceed
for damages against M. Baleinier, or to let the law take its course. One
word more. The bold and upright man"--here the magistrate pointed to
Rodin--"who has taken up your cause in so frank and disinterested a
manner, expressed a belief that you would, perhaps, take charge for the
present of Marshal Simon's daughters, whose liberation I am about to
demand from the convent where they also are confined by stratagem."

"The fact is, sir," replied Adrienne, "that, as soon as I learned the
arrival of Marshal Simon's daughters in Paris, my intention was to offer
them apartments in my house. These young ladies are my near relations. It
is at once a duty and a pleasure for me to treat them as sisters. I
shall, therefore, be doubly grateful to you, sir, if you will trust them
to my care."

"I think that I cannot serve them better," answered M. de Gernande. Then,
addressing Baleinier, he added, "Will you consent, sir, to my bringing
these two ladies hither? I will go and fetch them, while Mdlle. de
Cardoville prepares for her departure. They will then be able to leave
this house with their relation."

"I entreat the lady to make use of this house as her own, until she
leaves it," replied M. Baleinier. "My carriage shall be at her orders to
take her home."

"Madame," said the magistrate, approaching Adrienne, "without prejudging
the question, which must soon be decided by, a court of law, I may at
least regret that I was not called in sooner. Your situation must have
been a very cruel one."

"There will at least remain to me, sir, from this mournful time," said
Adrienne, with graceful dignity, "one precious and touching
remembrance--that of the interest which you have shown me. I hope that
you will one day permit me to thank you, at my own home, not for the
justice you have done me, but for the benevolent and paternal manner in
which you have done it. And moreover, sir," added Mdlle. de Cardoville,
with a sweet smile, "I should like to prove to you, that what they call
my cure is complete."

M. de Gernande bowed respectfully in reply. During the abort dialogue of
the magistrate with Adrienne, their backs were both turned to Baleinier
and Rodin. The latter, profiting by this moment's opportunity, hastily
slipped into the doctor's hand a note just written with a pencil in the
bottom of his hat. Baleinier looked at Rodin in stupefied amazement. But
the latter made a peculiar sign, by raising his thumb to his forehead,
and drawing it twice across his brow. Then he remained impassible. This
had passed so rapidly, that when M. de Gernande turned round, Rodin was
at a distance of several steps from Dr. Baleinier, and looking at Mdlle.
de Cardoville with respectful interest.

"Permit me to accompany you, sir," said the doctor, preceding the
magistrate, whom Mdlle. de Cardoville saluted with much affability. Then
both went out, and Rodin remained alone with the young lady.

After conducting M. de Gernande to the outer door of the house, M.
Baleinier made haste to read the pencil-note written by Rodin; it ran as
follows: "The magistrate is going to the convent, by way of the street.
Run round by the garden, and tell the Superior to obey the order I have
given with regard to the two young girls. It is of the utmost
importance."

The peculiar sign which Rodin had made, and the tenor of this note,
proved to Dr. Baleinier, who was passing from surprise to amazement, that
the secretary, far from betraying the reverend father, was still acting
for the Greater Glory of the Lord. However, whilst he obeyed the orders,
M. Baleinier sought in vain to penetrate the motives of Rodin's
inexplicable conduct, who had himself informed the authorities of an
affair that was to have been hushed up, and that might have the most
disastrous consequences for Father d'Aigrigny, Madame de Saint-Dizier,
and Baleinier himself. But let us return to Rodin, left alone with Mdlle,
de Cardoville.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

FATHER D'AIGRIGNY'S SECRETARY.

Hardly had the magistrate and Dr. Baleinier disappeared, than Mdlle. de
Cardoville, whose countenance was beaming with joy, exclaimed, as she
looked at Rodin with a mixture of respect and gratitude, "At length,
thanks to you, sir, I am free--free! Oh, I had never before felt how much
happiness, expansion, delight, there is in that adorable word--liberty!"

Her bosom rose and fell, her rosy nostrils dilated, her vermilion lips
were half open, as if she again inhaled with rapture pure and vivifying
air.

"I have been only a few days in this horrible place," she resumed, "but I
have suffered enough from my captivity to make me resolve never to let a
year pass without restoring to liberty some poor prisoners for debt. This
vow no doubt appears to belong a little to the Middle Ages," added she,
with a smile; "but I would fain borrow from that noble epoch something
more than its old windows and furniture. So, doubly thanks, sir!--for I
take you as a partner in that project of deliverance, which has just (you
see) unfolded itself in the midst of the happiness I owe to you, and by
which you seem so much affected. Oh! let my joy speak my gratitude, and
pay you for your generous aid!" exclaimed the young girl with enthusiasm.

Mdlle. de Cardoville had truly remarked a complete transfiguration in the
countenance of Rodin. This man, lately so harsh, severe, inflexible, with
regard to Dr. Baleinier, appeared now under the influence of the mildest
and most tender sentiments. His little, half-veiled eyes were fixed upon
Adrienne with an expression of ineffable interest. Then, as if he wished
to tear himself from these impressions, he said, speaking to himself,
"Come, come, no weakness. Time is too precious; my mission is not
fulfilled. My dear young lady," added he, addressing himself to Adrienne,
"believe what I say--we will talk hereafter of gratitude--but we have now
to talk of the present so important for you and your family. Do you know
what is taking place?"

Adrienne looked at the Jesuit with surprise, and said, "What is taking
place, sir?"

"Do you know the real motive of your imprisonment in this house? Do you
know what influenced the Princess de Saint-Dizier and Abbe d'Aigrigny?"

At the sound of those detested names, Mdlle. de Cardoville's face, now so
full of happiness, became suddenly sad, and she answered with bitterness,
"It is hatred, sir, that no doubt animated Madame de Saint-Dizier against
me."

"Yes, hatred; and, moreover, the desire to rob you with impunity of an
immense fortune."

"Me, sir! how?"

"You must be ignorant, my dear young lady, of the interest you had to be
in the Rue Saint-Francois on the 13th February, for an inheritance?"

"I was ignorant, sir, of the date and details: but I knew by some family
papers, and thanks to an extraordinary circumstance, that one of our
ancestors--"

"Had left an enormous sum to be divided between his descendants; is it
not so?"

"Yes, sir."

"But what unfortunately you did not know, my dear young lady, was that
the heirs were all bound to be present at a certain hour on the 13th
February. This day and hour once past, the absent would forfeit their
claim. Do you now understand why you have been imprisoned here, my dear
young lady?"

"Yes, yes; I understand it," cried Mdlle. de Cardoville; "cupidity was
added to the hatred which my aunt felt for me. All is explained. Marshal
Simon's daughters, having the same right as I had have, like me, been
imprisoned."

"And yet," cried Rodin, "you and they were not the only victims."

"Who, then, are the others, sir?"

"A young East Indian."

"Prince Djalma?" said Adrienne, hastily.

"For the same reason he has been nearly poisoned with a narcotic."

"Great God!" cried the young girl, clasping her hands in horror. "It is
fearful. That young prince, who was said to have so noble and generous a
character! But I had sent to Cardoville Castle--"

"A confidential person, to fetch the prince to Paris--I know it, my dear
young lady; but, by means of a trick, your friend was got out of the way,
and the young Oriental delivered to his enemies."

"And where is he now?"

"I have only vague information on the subject. I know that he is in
Paris, and do not despair of finding him. I shall pursue my researches
with an almost paternal ardor, for we cannot too much love the rare
qualities of that poor king's son. What a heart, my dear young lady! what
a heart! Oh, it is a heart of gold, pure and bright as the gold of his
country!"

"We must find the prince, sir," said Adrienne with emotion; "let me
entreat you to neglect nothing for that end. He is my relation--alone
here--without support--without assistance."

"Certainly," replied Rodin, with commiseration. "Poor boy!--for he is
almost a boy--eighteen or nineteen years of age--thrown into the heart of
Paris, of this hell--with his fresh, ardent, half-savage passions--with
his simplicity and confidence--to what perils may he not be exposed?"

"Well, we must first find him, sir," said Adrienne, hastily; "and then we
will save him from these dangers. Before I was confined here, I learned
his arrival in France, and sent a confidential person to offer him the
services of an unknown friend. I now see that this mad idea, with which I
have been so much reproached, was a very sensible one. I am more
convinced of it than ever. The prince belongs to my family, and I owe him
a generous hospitality. I had destined for him the lodge I occupied at my
aunt's."

"And you, my dear young lady?"

"To-day, I shall remove to a house, which I had prepared some time ago,
with the determination of quitting Madame de Saint-Dizier, and living
alone as I pleased. Then, sir, as you seem bent upon being the good
genius of our family, be as generous with regard to Prince Djalma, as you
have been to me and Marshal Simon's daughters. I entreat you to discover
the hiding-place of this poor king's son, as you call him; keep my secret
for me, and conduct him to the house offered by the unknown friend. Let
him not disquiet himself about anything; all his wants shall be provided
for; he shall live--like a prince."

"Yes; he will indeed live like a prince, thanks to your royal
munificence. But never was such kind interest better deserved. It is
enough to see (as I have seen) his fine, melancholy countenance--"

"You have seen him, then, sir?" said Adrienne, interrupting Rodin.

"Yes, my dear young lady; I was with him for about two hours. It was
quite enough to judge of him. His charming features are the mirror of his
soul."

"And where did you see him, sir?"

"At your old Chateau de Cardoville, my dear young lady, near which he had
been shipwrecked in a storm, and whither I had gone to--" Rodin hesitated
for a moment, and then, as if yielding to the frankness of his
disposition, added: "Whither I had gone to commit a bad action--a
shameful, miserable action, I must confess!"

"You, sir?--at Cardoville House--to commit a bad action?" cried Adrienne,
much surprised.

"Alas! yes, my dear young lady," answered Rodin with simplicity. "In one
word, I had orders from Abbe d'Aigrigny, to place your former bailiff in
the alternative either of losing his situation or lending himself to a
mean action--something, in fact, that resembled spying and calumny; but
the honest, worthy man refused."

"Why, who are you, sir?" said Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more
astonished.

"I am Rodin, lately secretary of the Abbe d'Aigrigny--a person of very
little importance, as you see."

It is impossible to describe the accent, at once humble and ingenuous, of
the Jesuit, as he pronounced these words, which he accompanied with a
respectful bow. On this revelation, Mdlle. de Cardoville drew back
abruptly. We have said that Adrienne had sometimes heard talk of Rodin,
the humble secretary of the Abbe d'Aigrigny, as a sort of obedient and
passive machine. That was not all; the bailiff of Cardoville Manor,
writing to Adrienne on the subject of Prince Djalma, had complained of
the perfidious and dishonest propositions of Rodin. She felt, therefore,
a vague suspicion, when she heard that her liberator was the man who had
played so odious a part. Yet this unfavorable feeling was balanced by the
sense of what she owed to Rodin, and by his frank denunciation of Abbe
d'Aigrigny before the magistrate. And then the Jesuit, by his own
confession, had anticipated, as it were, the reproaches that might have
been addressed to him. Still, it was with a kind of cold reserve that
Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed this dialogue, which she had commenced with
as much frankness as warmth and sympathy.

Rodin perceived the impression he had made. He expected it. He was not
the least disconcerted when Mdlle. de Cardoville said to him, as she
fixed upon him a piercing glance, "Ah! you are M. Rodin--secretary to the
Abbe d'Aigrigny?"

"Say ex-secretary, if you please, my dear young lady," answered the
Jesuit; "for you see clearly that I can never again enter the house of
the Abbe d'Aigrigny. I have made of him an implacable enemy, and I am now
without employment--but no matter--nay, so much the better--since, at
this price, the wicked are unmasked, and honest people rescued."

These words, spoken with much simplicity, and dignity, revived a feeling
of pity in Adrienne's heart. She thought within herself that, after all,
the poor old man spoke the truth. Abbe d'Aigrigny's hate, after this
exposure, would be inexorable, and Rodin had braved it for the sake of a
generous action.

Still Mdlle. de Cardoville answered coldly, "Since you knew, sir, that
the propositions you were charged to make to the bailiff of Cardoville
were shameful and perfidious, how could you undertake the mission?"

"How?" replied Rodin, with a sort of painful impatience; "why, because I
was completely under Abbe d'Aigrigny's charm, one of the most
prodigiously clever men I have ever known, and, as I only discovered the
day before yesterday, one of the most prodigiously dangerous men there is
in the world. He had conquered my scruples, by persuading me that the End
justifies the Means. I must confess that the end he seemed to propose to
himself was great and beautiful; but the day before yesterday I was
cruelly undeceived. I was awakened, as it were, by a thunder-peal. Oh, my
dear young lady!" added Rodin, with a sort of embarrassment and
confusion, "let us talk no more of my fatal journey to Cardoville. Though
I was only an ignorant and blind instrument, I feel as ashamed and
grieved at it as if I had acted for myself. It weighs upon me, it
oppresses me. I entreat you, let us speak rather of yourself, and of what
interests you--for the soul expands with generous thoughts, even as the
breast is dilated in pure and healthful air."

Rodin had confessed his fault so spontaneously, he explained it so
naturally, he appeared to regret it so sincerely, that Adrienne, whose
suspicions had no other grounds, felt her distrust a good deal
diminished.

"So," she resumed, still looking attentively at Rodin, "it was at
Cardoville that you saw Prince Djalma?"

"Yes, madame; and my affection for him dates from that interview.
Therefore I will accomplish my task. Be satisfied, my dear young lady;
like you, like Marshal Simon's daughters, the prince shall avoid being
the victim of this detestable plot, which unhappily does not stop there."

"And who besides, then, is threatened?"

"M. Hardy, a man full of honor and probity, who is also your relation,
and interested in this inheritance, but kept away from Paris by infamous
treachery. And another heir, an unfortunate artisan, who falling into a
trap cleverly baited, has been thrown into a prison for debt."

"But, sir," said Adrienne, suddenly, "for whose advantage was this
abominable plot, which really alarms me, first devised?"

"For the advantage of Abbe d'Aigrigny," answered Rodin.

"How, and by what right! Was he also an heir?"

"It would take too long to explain it to you, my dear young lady. You
will know all one day. Only be convinced that your family has no more
bitter enemy that Abbe d'Aigrigny."

"Sir," said Adrienne, giving way to one last suspicion, "I will speak
frankly to you. How can I have deserved the interest that you seem to
take in me, and that you even extend to all the members of my family?"

"My dear young lady," answered Rodin, with a smile, "were I to tell you
the cause, you would only laugh at, or misapprehend me."

"Speak, I beg of you, sir. Do not mistrust me or yourself."

"Well, then, I became interested in you--devoted to you--because your
heart is generous, your mind lofty, your character independent and proud.
Once attached to you, those of your race, who are indeed themselves
worthy of interest, were no longer indifferent to me. To serve them was
to serve you also."

"But, sir--admitting that you suppose me worthy of the too flattering
praises you bestow upon me--how could you judge of my heart, my mind, my
character?"

"I will tell you, my dear young lady; but first I must make another
confession, that fills me with shame. If you were not even so wonderfully
endowed, what you have suffered in this house should suffice to command
the interest of every honest man--don't you think so?"

"I do think it should, sir."

"I might thus explain the interest I feel in you. But no--I confess
it--that would not have sufficed with me. Had you been only Mdlle. de
Cardoville--a rich, noble, beautiful young lady--I should doubtless have
pitied your misfortune; but I should have said to myself, 'This poor
young lady is certainly much to be pitied; but what can I, poor man, do
in it? My only resource is my post of secretary to the Abbe d'Aigrigny,
and he would be the first that must be attacked. He is all-powerful, and
I am nothing. To engage in a struggle with him would be to ruin myself,
without the hope of saving this unfortunate person.' But when I learnt
what you were, my dear young lady, I revolted, in spite of my
inferiority. 'No,' I said, 'a thousand times, no! So fine an intellect,
so great a heart, shall not be the victims of an abominable plot. I may
perish in the struggle, but I will at least make the attempt.'"

No words can paint the mixture of delicacy, energy, and sensibility with
which Rodin uttered these sentiments. As it often happens with people
singularly repulsive and ill-favored, if they can once bring you to
forget their ugliness, their very deformity becomes a source of interest
and commiseration, and you say to yourself, "What a pity that such a
mind, such a soul, should inhabit so poor a body!"--and you are touched
and softened by the contrast.

It was thus that Mdlle. de Cardoville began to look upon Rodin. He had
shown himself as simple and affectionate towards her as he had been
brutal and insolent to Dr. Baleinier. One thing only excited the lively
curiosity of Mdlle. de Cardoville--she wished to know how Rodin had
conceived the devotion and admiration which she seemed to inspire.

"Forgive my indiscreet and obstinate curiosity, sir, but I wish to
know--"

"How you were morally revealed to me--is it not so? Oh, my dear young
lady! nothing is more simple. I will explain it to you in two words. The
Abbe d'Aigrigny saw in me nothing but a writing-machine, an obtuse, mute,
blind instrument--"

"I thought M. d'Aigrigny had more penetration."

"And you are right, my dear young lady; he is a man of unparalleled
sagacity; but I deceived him by affecting more than simplicity. Do not,
therefore, think me false. No; I am proud in my manner--and my pride
consists in never appearing above my position, however subaltern it may
be! Do you know why? It is that, however haughty may be my superiors, I
can say to myself, 'They do not know my value. It is the inferiority of
my condition, not me, that they humiliate.' By this I gain doubly--my
self-love is spared, and I hate no one."

"Yes, I understand that sort of pride," said Adrienne, more and more
struck with Rodin's original turn of mind.

"But let us return to what concerns you, my dear young lady. On the eve
of the 13th of February, the Abbe d'Aigrigny delivered to me a paper in
shorthand, and said to me, 'Transcribe this examination; you may add that
it is to support the decision of a family council, which has declared, in
accordance with the report of Dr. Baleinier, the state of mind of Mdlle.
de Cardoville to be sufficiently alarming to render it necessary to
confine her in a lunatic asylum.'"

"Yes," said Adrienne, with bitterness; "it related to a long interview,
which I had with the Princess de Saint-Dizier, my aunt, and which was
taken down without my knowledge."

"Behold me, then, poring over my shorthand report, and beginning to
transcribe it. At the end of the first ten lines, I was struck with
stupor. I knew not if I were awake or dreaming. 'What! mad?' They must be
themselves insane who dare assert so monstrous a proposition!--More and
more interested, I continued my reading--I finished it--Oh! then, what
shall I say? What I felt, my dear young lady, it is impossible to
express. It was sympathy, delight, enthusiasm!"

"Sir," said Adrienne.

"Yes, my dear young lady, enthusiasm! Let not the words shock your
modesty. Know that these ideas, so new, so independent, so courageous
which you expressed to your aunt with so much brilliancy, are, without
your being aware of it, common to you and another person, for whom you
will one day feel the most tender and religious respect."

"Of whom do you speak, sir?" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more
interested.

After a moment's apparent hesitation, Rodin resumed, "No, no--it is
useless now to inform you of it. All I can tell you, my dear young lady,
is that, when I had finished my reading, I ran to Abbe d'Aigrigny's, to
convince him of the error into which he had fallen with regard to you. It
was impossible then to find him; but yesterday morning I told him plainly
what I thought. He only appeared surprised to find that I could think at
all. He received my communications with contemptuous silence. I thought
him deceived; I continued my remonstrances, but quite in vain. He ordered
me to follow him to the house, where the testament of your ancestor was
to be opened. I was so blind with regard to the Abbe d'Aigrigny, that it
required the successive arrivals of the soldier, of his son, and of
Marshal Simon's father, to open my eyes thoroughly. Their indignation
unveiled to me the extent of a conspiracy, plotted long ago, and carried
on with terrible ability. Then, I understood why you were confined here
as a lunatic; why the daughters of Marshal Simon were imprisoned in a
convent. Then a thousand recollections returned to my mind; fragments of
letters and statements, which had been given me to copy or decipher, and
of which I had never been able to find the explanation, put me on the
track of this odious machination. To express then and there the sudden
horror I felt at these crimes, would have been to ruin all. I did not
make this mistake. I opposed cunning to cunning; I appeared even more
eager than Abbe d'Aigrigny. Had this immense inheritance been destined
for me alone, I could not have shown myself more grasping and merciless.
Thanks to this stratagem, Abbe d'Aigrigny had no suspicion. A
providential accident having rescued the inheritance from his hands, he
left the house in a state of profound consternation. For my part, I felt
indescribable joy; for I had now the means of saving and avenging you, my
dear young lady. As usual, I went yesterday evening to my place of
business. During the absence of the abbe, it was easy for me to peruse
the correspondence relative to the inheritance. In this way I was able to
unite all the threads of this immense plot. Oh! then, my dear young lady,
I remained, struck with horror, in presence of the discoveries that I
made, and that I never should have made under any other circumstances."

"What discoveries, sir?"

"There are some secrets which are terrible to those who possess them. Do
not ask me to explain, my dear young lady; but, in this examination, the
league formed against you and your relations, from motives of insatiable
cupidity, appeared to me in all its dark audacity. Thereupon, the lively
and deep interest which I already felt for you, my dear young lady, was
augmented greatly, and extended itself to the other innocent victims of
this infernal conspiracy. In spite of my weakness, I determined to risk
all, to unmask the Abbe d'Aigrigny. I collected the necessary proofs, to
give my declaration before the magistrate the needful authority; and,
this morning, I left the abbe's house without revealing to him my
projects. He might have employed some violent method to detain me; yet it
would have been cowardly to attack him without warning. Once out of his
house, I wrote to him, that I had in my hands proof enough of his crimes,
to attack him openly in the face of day. I would accuse, and he must
defend himself. I went directly to a magistrate, and you know the rest."

At this juncture, the door opened, and one of the nurses appeared, and
said to Rodin: "Sir, the messenger that you and the magistrate sent to
the Rue Brise-Miche has just come back."

"Has he left the letter?"

"Yes, sir; and it was taken upstairs directly."

"Very well. Leave us!" The nurse went out.




CHAPTER XXXV.

SYMPATHY.

If it had been possible for Mdlle. de Cardoville to harbor any suspicion
of the sincerity of Rodin's devotion, it must have given way before this
reasoning, unfortunately so simple and undeniable. How could she suppose
the faintest complicity between the Abbe d'Aigrigny and his secretary,
when it was the latter who completely unveiled the machinations of his
master, and exposed them to the tribunals? when in this, Rodin went even
further than Mdlle. de Cardoville would herself have gone? Of what secret
design could she suspect the Jesuit? At worst, of a desire to earn by his
services the profitable patronage of the young lady.

And then, had he not just now protested against this supposition, by
declaring his devotion, not to Mdlle. de Cardoville--not to the fair,
rich, noble lady--but to the high-souled and generous girl? Finally, as
Rodin had said himself, could any but a miserable wretch fail to be
interested in Adrienne's fate? A strange mixture of curiosity, surprise,
and interest, was joined with Mdlle. de Cardoville's feelings of
gratitude towards Rodin. Yet, as she recognized the superior mind under
that humble exterior, she was suddenly struck with a grave suspicion.
"Sir," said she to Rodin, "I always confess to the persons I esteem the
doubts they may have inspired, so that they may justify themselves, and
excuse me, if I am wrong."

Rodin looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as if mentally
calculating the suspicions than she might entertain, and replied, after a
moment's silence: "You are perhaps thinking of my journey to Cardoville,
of my base proposals to your good and worthy bailiff? Oh! if you--"

"No, no, sir," said Adrienne, interrupting him; "you made that confession
spontaneously, and I quite understand, that, blinded with regard to M.
d'Aigrigny, you passively executed instructions repugnant to your
delicacy. But how comes it, that, with your incontestable merits, you
have so long; occupied so mean a position in his service?"

"It is true," said Rodin, with a smile; "that must impress you
unfavorably, my dear young lady; for a man of any capacity, who remains
long in an inferior condition, has evidently some radical vice, some bad
or base passion--"

"It is generally true, sir."

"And personally true--with regard to myself."

"What, sir! do you make this avowal?"

"Alas! I confess that I have a bad passion, to which, for forty years, I
have sacrificed all chances of attaining to a better position."

"And this passion, sir?"

"Since I must make the unpleasant avowal, this passion is indolence--yes,
indolence--the horror of all activity of mind, of all moral
responsibility, of taking the lead in anything. With the twelve hundred
francs that Abbe d'Aigrigny gave me, I was the happiest man in the world;
I trusted to the nobleness of his views; his thoughts became mine, his
wishes mine. My work once finished, I returned to my poor little chamber,
I lighted my fire, I dined on vegetables--then, taking up some book of
philosophy, little known, and dreaming over it, I gave free course to my
imagination, which, restrained all the day long, carried me through
numberless theories to a delicious Utopia. Then, from the eminences of my
intelligence, lifted up Lord knows whither, by the audacity of my
thoughts, I seemed to look down upon my master, and upon the great men of
the earth. This fever lasted for three or four hours, after which I had a
good sleep; and, the next morning, I went lightly to my work, secure of
my daily bread, without cares for the future, living content with little,
waiting with impatience for the delights of my solitary evening, and
saying to myself as I went on writing like a stupid machine: 'And
yet--and yet--if I chose!'--"

"Doubtless, you could, like others, surer than others, have reached a
higher position," said Adrienne, greatly struck with Rodin's practical
philosophy.

"Yes, I think I could have done so; but for what purpose?--You see, my
dear young lady, what often renders people of some merit puzzles to the
vulgar, is that they are frequently content to say: 'If I chose!'"

"But, sir, without attaching much importance to the luxuries of life,
there is a certain degree of comfort, which age renders almost
indispensable, and which you seem to have utterly renounced."

"Undeceive yourself, if you please, my dear young lady," said Rodin, with
a playful smile. "I am a true Sybarite; I require absolutely warm
clothes, a good stove, a soft mattress, a good piece of bread, a fresh
radish, flavored with good cheap salt, and some good, clear water; and,
notwithstanding this complication of wants, my twelve hundred francs have
always more than sufficed, for I have been able to make some little
savings."

"But now that you are without employment, how will you manage to live,
sir?" said Adrienne, more and more interested by the singularities of
this man, and wishing to put his disinterestedness to the proof.

"I have laid by a little, which will serve me till I have unravelled the
last thread of Father d'Aigrigny's dark designs. I owe myself this
reparation, for having been his dupe; three or four days, I hope, will
complete the work. After that, I have the certainty of meeting with a
situation, in my native province, under a collector of taxes: some time
ago, the offer was made me by a friend; but then I would not leave Father
d'Aigrigny, notwithstanding the advantages proposed. Fancy, my dear young
lady--eight hundred francs, with board and lodging! As I am a little of
the roughest, I should have preferred lodging apart; but, as they give me
so much, I must submit to this little inconvenience."

Nothing could exceed Rodin's ingenuity, in making these little household
confidences (so abominably false) to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who felt her
last suspicions give way.

"What, sir?" said she to the Jesuit, with interest; "in three or four
days, you mean to quit Paris?"

"I hope to do so, my dear young lady; and that," added he, in a
mysterious tone, "and that for many reasons. But what would be very
precious to me," he resumed, in a serious voice, as he looked at Adrienne
with emotion, "would be to carry with me the conviction, that you did me
the justice to believe, that, on merely reading your interview with the
Princess de Saint-Dizier, I recognized at once qualities quite unexampled
in our day, in a young person of your age and condition."

"Ah, sir!" said Adrienne, with a smile, "do not think yourself obliged to
return so soon the sincere praises that I bestowed on your superiority of
mind. I should be better pleased with ingratitude."

"Oh, no! I do not flatter you, my dear young lady. Why should I? We may
probably never meet again. I do not flatter you; I understand you--that's
all--and what will seem strange to you, is, that your appearance
complete, the idea which I had already formed of you, my dear young lady,
in reading your interview with your aunt: and some parts of your
character, hitherto obscure to me, are now fully displayed."

"Really, sir, you astonish me more and more."

"I can't help it! I merely describe my impressions. I can now explain
perfectly, for example, your passionate love of the beautiful, your eager
worship of the refinements of the senses, your ardent aspirations for a
better state of things, your courageous contempt of many degrading and
servile customs, to which woman is condemned; yes, now I understand the
noble pride with which you contemplate the mob of vain, self-sufficient,
ridiculous men, who look upon woman as a creature destined for their
service, according to the laws made after their own not very handsome
image. In the eyes of these hedge-tyrants, woman, a kind of inferior
being to whom a council of cardinals deigned to grant a soul by a
majority of two voices, ought to think herself supremely happy in being
the servant of these petty pachas, old at thirty, worn-out, used up,
weary with excesses, wishing only for repose, and seeking, as they say,
to make an end of it, which they set about by marrying some poor girl,
who is on her side desirous to make a beginning."

Mdlle. de Cardoville would certainly have smiled at these satirical
remarks, if she had not been greatly struck by hearing Rodin express in
such appropriate terms her own ideas, though it was the first time in her
life that she saw this dangerous man. Adrienne forgot, or rather, she was
not aware, that she had to deal with a Jesuit of rare intelligence,
uniting the information and the mysterious resources of the police-spy
with the profound sagacity of the confessor; one of those diabolic
priests, who, by the help of a few hints, avowals, letters, reconstruct a
character, as Cuvier could reconstruct a body from zoological fragments.
Far from interrupting Rodin, Adrienne listened to him with growing
curiosity. Sure of the effect he produced, he continued, in a tone of
indignation: "And your aunt and the Abbe d'Aigrigny treated you as mad,
because you revolted against the yoke of such tyrants! because, hating
the shameful vices of slavery, you chose to be independent with the
suitable qualities of independence, free with the proud virtues of
liberty!"

"But, sir," said Adrienne, more and more surprised, "how can my thoughts
be so familiar to you?"

"First, I know you perfectly, thanks to your interview with the Princess
de Saint-Dizier: and next, if it should happen that we both pursue the
same end, though by different means," resumed Rodin, artfully, as he
looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with an air of intelligence, "why should
not our convictions be the same?"

"I do not understand you, sir. Of what end do you speak?"

"The end pursued incessantly by all lofty, generous, independent
spirits--some acting, like you, my dear young lady, from passion, from
instinct, without perhaps explaining to themselves the high mission they
are called on to ful, fil. Thus, for example, when you take pleasure in
the most refined delights, when you surround yourself with all that
charms the senses, do you think that you only yield to the attractions of
the beautiful, to the desire of exquisite enjoyments? No! ah, no! for
then you would be incomplete, odiously selfish, a dry egotist, with a
fine taste--nothing more--and at your age, it would be hideous, my dear
young lady, it would be hideous!"

"And do you really think thus severely of me?" said Adrienne, with
uneasiness, so much influence had this man irresistibly attained over
her.

"Certainly, I should think thus of you, if you loved luxury for luxury's
sake; but, no--quite another sentiment animates you," resumed the Jesuit.
"Let us reason a little. Feeling a passionate desire for all these
enjoyments, you know their value and their need more than any one--is it
not so?"

"It is so," replied Adrienne, deeply interested.

"Your gratitude and favor are then necessarily acquired by those who,
poor, laborious, and unknown, have procured for you these marvels of
luxury, which you could not do without?"

"This feeling of gratitude is so strong in me, sir," replied Adrienne,
more and more pleased to find herself so well understood, "that I once
had inscribed on a masterpiece of goldsmith's work, instead of the name
of the seller, that of the poor unknown artist who designed it, and who
has since risen to his true place."

"There you see, I was not deceived," went on Rodin; "the taste for
enjoyment renders you grateful to those who procure it for you; and that
is not all; here am I, an example, neither better nor worse than my
neighbors, but accustomed to privations, which cause me no suffering--so
that the privations of others necessarily touch me less nearly than they
do you, my dear young lady; for your habits of comfort must needs render
you more compassionate towards misfortune. You would yourself suffer too
much from poverty, not to pity and succor those who are its victims."

"Really, sir," said Adrienne, who began to feel herself under the fatal
charm of Rodin, "the more I listen to you, the more I am convinced that
you would defend a thousand times better than I could those ideas for
which I was so harshly reproached by Madame de Saint-Dizier and Abbe
d'Aigrigny. Oh! speak, speak, sir! I cannot tell you with what happiness,
with what pride I listen."

Attentive and moved, her eyes fixed on the Jesuit with as much interest
as sympathy and curiosity, Adrienne, by a graceful toss of the head that
was habitual to her, threw hack her long, golden curls, the better to
contemplate Rodin, who thus resumed: "You are astonished, my dear young
lady, that you were not understood by your aunt or by Abbe d'Aigrigny!
What point of contact had you with these hypocritical, jealous, crafty
minds, such as I can judge them to be now? Do you wish a new proof of
their hateful blindness? Among what they called your monstrous follies,
which was the worst, the most damnable? Why, your resolution to live
alone and in your own way, to dispose freely of the present and the
future. They declared this to be odious, detestable, immoral. And
yet--was this resolution dictated by a mad love of liberty? no!--by a
disordered aversion to all restraint? no!--by the desire of
singularity?--no!--for then I, too, should have blamed you severely."

"Other reasons have indeed guided me, sir, I assure you," said Adrienne
eagerly, for she had become very eager for the esteem with which her
character might inspire Rodin.

"Oh! I know it well; your motives could only be excellent ones," replied
the Jesuit. "Why then did you take this resolution, so much called in
question? Was it to brave established etiquette? no! for you respected
them until the hate of Mme. de Saint-Dizier forced you to withdraw
yourself from her unbearable guardianship. Was it to live alone, to
escape the eyes of the world? no! you would be a hundred times more open
to observation in this than any other condition. Was it to make a bad use
of your liberty? no, ah, no! those who design evil seek for darkness and
solitude; while you place yourself right before the jealous anal envious
eyes of the vulgar crowd. Why then do you take this determination, so
courageous and rare, unexampled in a young person of your age? Shall I
tell you, my dear young lady? It is, that you wish to prove, by your
example, that a woman of pure heart and honest mind, with a firm
character and independence of soul, may nobly and proudly throw off the
humiliating guardianship that custom has imposed upon her. Yes, instead
of accepting the fate of a revolted slave, a life only destined to
hypocrisy or vice, you wish to live freely in presence of all the world,
independent, honorable, and respected. You wish to have, like man, the
exercise of your own free will, the entire responsibility of all your
actions, so as to establish the fact, that a woman left completely to
herself, may equal man in reason, wisdom, uprightness, and surpass him
indelicacy and dignity. That is your design, my dear young lady. It is
noble and great. Will your example be imitated? I hope it may; but
whether it be so or not, your generous attempt, believe me, will place
you in a high and worthy position."

Mdlle. de Cardoville's eyes shone with a proud and gentle brightness, her
cheeks were slightly colored, her bosom heaved, she raised her charming
head with a movement of involuntary pride; at length completely under the
charm of that diabolical man she exclaimed: "But, sir, who are you that
can thus know and analyze my most secret thoughts, and read my soul more
clearly than myself, so as to give new life and action to those ideas of
independence which have long stirred within me? Who are you, that can
thus elevate me in my own eyes, for now I am conscious of accomplishing a
mission, honorable to myself, and perhaps useful to my sisters immersed
in slavery? Once again, sir, who are you?"

"Who am I, madame?" answered Rodin, with a smile of the greatest good
nature; "I have already told you that I am a poor old man, who for the
last forty years, having served in the day time as a writing machine to
record the ideas of others, went home every evening to work out ideas of
his own--a good kind of man who, from his garret, watches and even takes
some little share in the movement of generous spirits, advancing towards
an end that is nearer than is commonly thought. And thus, my dear young
lady, as I told you just now, you and I are both tending towards the same
objects, though you may do the same without reflection, and merely in
obedience to your rare and divine instincts. So continue so to live,
fair, free, and happy!--it is your mission--more providential than you
may think it. Yes; continue to surround yourself with all the marvels of
luxury and art; refine your senses, purify your tastes, by the exquisite
choice of your enjoyments; by genius, grace, and purity raise yourself
above the stupid and ill-favored mob of men, that will instantly surround
you, when they behold you alone and free; they will consider you an easy
prey, destined to please their cupidity, their egotism, their folly.

"Laugh at them, and mock these idiotic and sordid pretensions. Be the
queen of your own world, and make yourself respected as a queen.
Love--shine--enjoy--it is your part upon earth. All the flowers, with
which you are whelmed in profusion, will one day bear fruit. You think
that you have lived only for pleasure; in reality, you will have lived
for the noblest aims that could tempt a great and lofty soul. And
so--some years hence--we may meet again, perhaps; you, fairer and more
followed than ever; I, older and more obscure. But, no matter--a secret
voice, I am sure, says to you at this moment, that between us two,
however different, there exists an invisible bond, a mysterious
communion, which nothing hereafter will ever be able to destroy!"

He uttered these final words in a tone of such profound emotion, that
Adrienne started. Rodin had approached without her perceiving it, and
without, as it were, walking at all, for he dragged his steps along the
floor, with a sort of serpent motion; and he had spoken with so much
warmth and enthusiasm, that his pale face had become slightly tinged, and
his repulsive ugliness had almost disappeared before the brilliancy of
his small sharp eyes, now wide open, and fixed full upon Adrienne. The
latter leaned forward, with half-open lips and deep-drawn breath, nor
could she take her eyes from the Jesuit's; he had ceased to speak, and
yet she was still listening. The feelings of the fair young lady, in
presence of this little old man, dirty, ugly, and poor, were
inexplicable. That comparison so common, and yet so true, of the
frightful fascination of the bird by the serpent, might give some idea of
the singular impression made upon her. Rodin's tactics were skillful and
sure. Until now, Mdlle. de Cardoville had never analyzed her tastes or
instincts. She had followed them, because they were inoffensive and
charming. How happy and proud she then was sure to be to hear a man of
superior mind not only praise these tendencies, for which she had been
heretofore so severely blamed, but congratulate her upon them, as upon
something great, noble, and divine! If Rodin had only addressed himself
to Adrienne's self-conceit, he would have failed in his perfidious
designs, for she had not the least spark of vanity. But he addressed
himself to all that was enthusiastic and generous in her heart; that
which he appeared to encourage and admire in her was really worthy of
encouragement and admiration. How could she fail to be the dupe of such
language, concealing though it did such dark and fatal projects?

Struck with the Jesuit's rare intelligence, feeling her curiosity greatly
excited by some mysterious words that he had purposely uttered, hardly
explaining to herself the strange influence which this pernicious
counsellor already exercised over her, and animated by respectful
compassion for a man of his age and talents placed in so precarious a
position, Adrienne said to him, with all her natural cordiality, "A man
of your merit and character, sir, ought not to be at the mercy of the
caprice of circumstances. Some of your words have opened a new horizon
before me; I feel that, on many points, your counsels may be of the
greatest use to me. Moreover, in coming to fetch me from this house, and
in devoting yourself to the service of other persons of my family, you
have shown me marks of interest which I cannot forget without
ingratitude. You have lost a humble but secure situation. Permit me--"

"Not a word more, my dear young lady," said Rodin, interrupting Mdlle. de
Cardoville, with an air of chagrin. "I feel for you the deepest sympathy;
I am honored by having ideas in common with you; I believe firmly that
some day you will have to ask advice of the poor old philosopher; and,
precisely because of all that, I must and ought to maintain towards you
the most complete independence."

"But, sir, it is I that would be the obliged party, if you deigned to
accept what I offer."

"Oh, my dear young lady," said Rodin, with a smile: "I know that your
generosity would always know how to make gratitude light and easy; but,
once more, I cannot accept anything from you. One day, perhaps, you will
know why."

"One day?"

"It is impossible for me to tell you more. And then, supposing I were
under an obligation to you, how could I tell you all that was good and
beautiful in your actions? Hereafter, if you are somewhat indebted to me
for my advice, so much the better; I shall be the more ready to blame
you, if I find anything to blame."

"In this way, sir, you would forbid me to be grateful to you."

"No, no," said Rodin, with apparent emotion. "Oh, believe me! there will
come a solemn moment, in which you may repay all, in a manner worthy of
yourself and me."

This conversation was here interrupted by the nurse, who said to Adrienne
as she entered: "Madame, there is a little humpback workwoman downstairs,
who wishes to speak to you. As, according to the doctor's new orders, you
are to do as you like, I have come to ask, if I am to bring her up to
you. She is so badly dressed, that I did not venture."

"Bring her up, by all means," said Adrienne, hastily, for she had
recognized Mother Bunch by the nurse's description. "Bring her up
directly."

"The doctor has also left word, that his carriage is to be at your
orders, madame; are the horses to be put to?"

"Yes, in a quarter of an hour," answered Adrienne to the nurse, who went
out; then, addressing Rodin, she continued: "I do not think the
magistrate can now be long, before he returns with Marshal Simon's
daughters?"

"I think not, my dear young lady; but who is this deformed workwoman?"
asked Rodin, with an air of indifference.

"The adopted sister of a gallant fellow, who risked all in endeavoring to
rescue me from this house. And, sir," said Adrienne, with emotion, "this
young workwoman is a rare and excellent creature. Never was a nobler
mind, a more generous heart, concealed beneath an exterior less--"

But reflecting, that Rodin seemed to unite in his own person the same
moral and physical contrasts as the sewing-girl, Adrienne stopped short,
and then added, with inimitable grace, as she looked at the Jesuit, who
was somewhat astonished at the sudden pause: "No; this noble girl is not
the only person who proves how loftiness of soul, and superiority of
mind, can make us indifferent to the vain advantages which belong only to
the accidents of birth or fortune." At the moment of Adrienne speaking
these last words, Mother Bunch entered the room.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

SUSPICIONS.

Mdlle. de Cardoville sprang hastily to meet the visitor, and said to her,
in a voice of emotion, as she extended her arms towards her:
"Come--come--there is no grating to separate us now!"

On this allusion, which reminded her how her poor, laborious hand had
been respectfully kissed by the fair and rich patrician, the young
workwoman felt a sentiment of gratitude, which was at once ineffable and
proud. But, as she hesitated to respond to the cordial reception,
Adrienne embraced her with touching affection. When Mother Bunch found
herself clasped in the fair arms of Mdlle. de Cardoville, when she felt
the fresh and rosy lips of the young lady fraternally pressed to her own
pale and sickly cheek, she burst into tears without being able to utter a
word. Rodin, retired in a corner of the chamber, locked on this scene
with secret uneasiness. Informed of the refusal, so full of dignity,
which Mother Bunch had opposed to the perfidious temptations of the
superior of St. Mary's Convent, and knowing the deep devotion of this
generous creature for Agricola--a devotion which for some days she had so
bravely extended to Mdlle. de Cardoville--the Jesuit did not like to see
the latter thus laboring to increase that affection. He thought, wisely,
that one should never despise friend or enemy, however small they may
appear. Now, devotion to Mdlle. de Cardoville constituted an enemy in his
eyes; and we know, moreover, that Rodin combined in his character rare
firmness, with a certain degree of superstitious weakness, and he now
felt uneasy at the singular impression of fear which Mother Bunch
inspired in him. He determined to recollect this presentiment.

Delicate natures sometimes display in the smallest things the most
charming instincts of grace and goodness. Thus, when the sewing-girl was
shedding abundant and sweet tears of gratitude, Adrienne took a richly
embroidered handkerchief, and dried the pale and melancholy face. This
action, so simple and spontaneous, spared the work-girl one humiliation;
for, alas! humiliation and suffering are the two gulfs, along the edge of
which misfortune continually passes. Therefore, the least kindness is in
general a double benefit to the unfortunate. Perhaps the reader may smile
in disdain at the puerile circumstance we mention. But poor Mother Bunch,
not venturing to take from her pocket her old ragged handkerchief, would
long have remained blinded by her tears, if Mdlle. de Cardoville had not
come to her aid.

"Oh! you are so good--so nobly charitable, lady!" was all that the
sempstress could say, in a tone of deep emotion; for she was still more
touched by the attention of the young lady, than she would perhaps have
been by a service rendered.

"Look there, sir," said Adrienne to Rodin, who drew near hastily. "Yes,"
added the young patrician, proudly, "I have indeed discovered a treasure.
Look at her, sir; and love her as I love her, honor as I honor. She has
one of those hearts for which we are seeking."

"And which, thank heaven, we are still able to find, my dear young lady!"
said Rodin, as he bowed to the needle-woman.

The latter raised her eyes slowly, and locked at the Jesuit. At sight of
that cadaverous countenance, which was smiling benignantly upon her, the
young girl started. It was strange! she had never seen this man, and yet
she felt instantly the same fear and repulsion that he had felt with
regard to her. Generally timid and confused, the work-girl could not
withdraw her eyes from Rodin's; her heart beat violently, as at the
coming of some great danger, and, as the excellent creature feared only
for those she loved, she approached Adrienne involuntarily, keeping her
eyes fixed on Rodin. The Jesuit was too good a physiognomist not to
perceive the formidable impression he had made, and he felt an increase
of his instinctive aversion for the sempstress. Instead of casting down
his eyes, he appeared to examine her with such sustained attention, that
Mdlle. de Cardoville was astonished at it.

"I beg your pardon, my dear girl," said Rodin, as if recalling his
recollections, and addressing himself to Mother Bunch, "I beg your
pardon--but I think--if I am not deceived--did you not go a few days
since to St. Mary's Convent, hard by?"

"Yes, sir."

"No doubt, it was you. Where then was my head?" cried Rodin. "It was
you--I should have guessed it sooner."

"Of what do you speak, sir?" asked Adrienne.

"Oh! you are right, my dear young lady," said Rodin, pointing to the
hunchback. "She has indeed a noble heart, such as we seek. If you knew
with what dignity, with what courage this poor girl, who was out of work
and, for her, to want work is to want everything--if you knew, I say,
with what dignity she rejected the shameful wages that the superior of
the convent was unprincipled enough to offer, on condition of her acting
as a spy in a family where it was proposed to place her."

"Oh, that is infamous!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, with disgust. "Such a
proposal to this poor girl--to her!"

"Madame," said Mother Bunch, bitterly, "I had no work, I was poor, they
did not know me--and they thought they might propose anything to the
likes of me."

"And I tell you," said Rodin, "that it was a double baseness on the part
of the superior, to offer such temptation to misery, and it was doubly
noble in you to refuse."

"Sir," said the sewing-girl, with modest embarrassment.

"Oh! I am not to be intimidated," resumed Rod in. "Praise or blame, I
speak out roughly what I think. Ask this dear young lady," he added, with
a glance at Adrienne. "I tell you plainly, that I think as well of you as
she does herself."

"Believe me, dear," said Adrienne, "there are some sorts of praise which
honor, recompense, and encourage; and M. Rodin's is of the number. I know
it,--yes, I know it."

"Nay, my dear young lady, you must not ascribe to me all the honor of
this judgment."

"How so, sir?"

"Is not this dear girl the adopted sister of Agricola Baudoin, the
gallant workman, the energetic and popular poet? Is not the affection of
such a man the best of guarantees, and does it not enable us to judge, as
it were, by the label?" added Rodin, with a smile.

"You are right, sir," said Adrienne; "for, before knowing this dear girl,
I began to feel deeply interested in her, from the day that her adopted
brother spoke to me about her. He expressed himself with so much warmth,
so much enthusiasm, that I at once conceived an esteem for the person
capable of inspiring so noble an attachment."

These words of Adrienne, joined to another circumstance, had such an
effect upon their hearer, that her pale face became crimson. The
unfortunate hunchback loved Agricola, with love as passionate as it was
secret and painful: the most indirect allusion to this fatal sentiment
occasioned her the most cruel embarrassment. Now, the moment Mdlle. de
Cardoville spoke of Agricola's attachment for Mother Bunch, the latter
had encountered Rodin's observing and penetrating look fixed upon her.
Alone with Adrienne, the sempstress would have felt only a momentary
confusion on hearing the name of the smith; but unfortunately she fancied
that the Jesuit, who already filled her with involuntary fear, had seen
into her heart, and read the secrets of that fatal love, of which she was
the victim. Thence the deep blushes of the poor girl, and the
embarrassment so painfully visible, that Adrienne was struck with it.

A subtle and prompt mind, like Rodin's on perceiving the smallest effect,
immediately seeks the cause. Proceeding by comparison, the Jesuit saw on
one side a deformed, but intelligent young girl, capable of passionate
devotion; on the other, a young workman, handsome, bold, frank, and full
of talent. "Brought up together, sympathizing with each other on many
points, there must be some fraternal affection between them," said he to
himself; "but fraternal affection does not blush, and the hunchback
blushed and grew troubled beneath my look; does she, then, Love
Agricola?"

Once on the scent of this discovery, Rodin wished to pursue the
investigation. Remarking the surprise and visible uneasiness that Mother
Bunch had caused in Adrienne, he said to the latter, with a smile,
looking significantly at the needlewoman: "You see, my dear young lady,
how she blushes. The good girl is troubled by what we said of the
attachment of this gallant workman."

The needlewoman hung down her head, overcome with confusion. After the
pause of a second, during which Rodin preserved silence, so as to give
time for his cruel remark to pierce the heart of the victim, the savage
resumed: "Look at the dear girl! how embarrassed she appears!"

Again, after another silence, perceiving that Mother Bunch from crimson
had become deadly pale, and was trembling in all her limbs, the Jesuit
feared he had gone too far, whilst Adrienne said to her friend, with
anxiety: "Why, dear child, are you so agitated?"

"Oh! it is clear enough," resumed Rodin, with an air of perfect
simplicity; for having discovered what he wished to know, he now chose to
appear unconscious. "It is quite clear and plain. This good girl has the
modesty of a kind and tender sister for a brother. When you praise him,
she fancies that she is herself praised."

"And she is as modest as she is excellent," added Adrienne, taking bath
of the girl's hands, "the least praise, either of her adopted brother or
of herself, troubles her in this way. But it is mere childishness, and I
must scold her for it."

Mdlle. de Cardoville spoke sincerely, for the explanation given by Rodin
appeared to her very plausible. Like all other persons who, dreading
every moment the discovery of some painful secret have their courage as
easily restored as shaken, Mother Bunch persuaded herself (and she needed
to do so, to escape dying of shame), that the last words of Rodin were
sincere, and that he had no idea of the love she felt for Agricola. So
her agony diminished, and she found words to reply to Mdlle. de
Cardoville.

"Excuse me, madame," she said timidly, "I am so little accustomed to such
kindness as that with which you overwhelm me, that I make a sorry return
for all your goodness."

"Kindness, my poor girl?" said Adrienne. "I have done nothing for you
yet. But, thank heaven! from this day I shall be able to keep my promise,
and reward your devotion to me, your courageous resignation, your sacred
love of labor, and the dignity of which you have given so many proofs,
under the most cruel privations. In a word, from this day, if you do not
object to it, we will part no more."

"Madame, you are too kind," said Mother Bunch, in a trembling voice; "but
I--"

"Oh! be satisfied," said Adrienne, anticipating her meaning. "If you
accept my offer, I shall know how to reconcile with my desire (not a
little selfish) of having you near me, the independence of your
character, your habits of labor, your taste for retirement, and your
anxiety to devote yourself to those who deserve commiseration; it is, I
confess, by affording you the means of satisfying these generous
tendencies, that I hope to seduce and keep you by me."

"But what have I done?" asked the other, simply, "to merit any gratitude
from you? Did you not begin, on the contrary, by acting so generously to
my adopted brother?"

"Oh! I do not speak of gratitude," said Adrienne; "we are quits. I speak
of friendship and sincere affection, which I now offer you."

"Friendship to me, madame?"

"Come, come," said Adrienne, with a charming smile, "do not be proud
because your position gives you the advantage. I have set my heart on
having you for a friend, and you will see that it shall be so. But now
that I think of it (a little late, you will say), what good wind brings
you hither?"

"This morning M. Dagobert received a letter, in which he was requested to
come to this place, to learn some news that would be of the greatest
interest to him. Thinking it concerned Marshal Simon's daughters, he said
to me: 'Mother Bunch, you have taken so much interest in those dear
children, that you must come with me: you shall witness my joy on finding
them, and that will be your reward.'"

Adrienne glanced at Rodin. The latter made an affirmative movement of the
head, and answered: "Yes, yes, my dear young lady: it was I who wrote to
the brave soldier, but without signing the letter, or giving any
explanation. You shall know why."

"Then, my dear girl, why did you come alone?" said Adrienne.

"Alas, madame! on arriving here, it was your kind reception that made me
forget my fears."

"What fears?" asked Rodin.

"Knowing that you lived here, madame, I supposed the letter was from you;
I told M. Dagobert so, and he thought the same. When we arrived, his
impatience was so great, that he asked at the door if the orphans were in
this house, and he gave their description. They told him no. Then, in
spite of my supplications, he insisted on going to the convent to inquire
about them."

"What imprudence!" cried Adrienne.

"After what took place the other night, when he broke in," added Rodin,
shrugging his shoulders.

"It was in vain to tell him," returned Mother Bunch, "that the letter did
not announce positively, that the orphans would be delivered up to him;
but that, no doubt, he would gain some information about them. He refused
to hear anything, but said to me: 'If I cannot find them, I will rejoin
you. But they were at the convent the day before yesterday, and now that
all is discovered, they cannot refuse to give them up--"

"And with such a man there is no disputing!" said Rodin, with a smile.

"I hope they will not recognize him!" said Adrienne, remembering
Baleinier's threats.

"It is not likely," replied Rodin; "they will only refuse him admittance.
That will be, I hope, the worst misfortune that will happen. Besides, the
magistrate will soon be here with the girls. I am no longer wanted: other
cares require my attention. I must seek out Prince Djalma. Only tell me,
my dear young lady, where I shall find you, to keep you informed of my
discoveries, and to take measures with regard to the young prince, if my
inquiries, as I hope, shall be attended with success."

"You will find me in my new house, Rue d'Anjou, formerly Beaulieu House.
But now I think of it," said Adrienne, suddenly, after some moments of
reflection, "it would not be prudent or proper, on many accounts, to
lodge the Prince Djalma in the pavilion I occupied at Saint-Dizier House.
I saw, some time ago, a charming little house, all furnished and ready;
it only requires some embellishments, that could be completed in twenty
four hours, to make it a delightful residence. Yes, that will be a
thousand times preferable," added Mdlle. de Cardoville, after a new
interval of silence; "and I shall thus be able to preserve the strictest
incognito."

"What!" cried Rodin, whose projects would be much impeded by this new
resolution of the young lady; "you do not wish him to know who you are?"

"I wish Prince Djalma to know absolutely nothing of the anonymous friend
who comes to his aid; I desire that my name should not be pronounced
before him, and that he should not even know of my existence--at least,
for the present. Hereafter--in a month, perhaps--I will see;
circumstances will guide me."

"But this incognito," said Rodin, hiding his disappointment, "will be
difficult to preserve."

"If the prince had inhabited the lodge, I agree with you; the
neighborhood of my aunt would have enlightened him, and this fear is one
of the reasons that have induced me to renounce my first project. But the
prince will inhabit a distant quarter--the Rue Blanche. Who will inform
him of my secret? One of my old friends, M. Norval--you, sir--and this
dear girl," pointing to Mother Bunch, "on whose discretion I can depend
as on your own, will be my only confidants. My secret will then be quite
safe. Besides, we will talk further on this subject to-morrow. You must
begin by discovering the retreat of this unfortunate young prince."

Rodin, though much vexed at Adrienne's subtle determination with regard
to Djalma, put the best face on the matter, and replied: "Your intentions
shall be scrupulously fulfilled, my dear young lady; and to-morrow, with
your leave, I hope to give you a good account of what you are pleased to
call my providential mission."

"To-morrow, then, I shall expect you with impatience," said Adrienne, to
Rodin, affectionately. "Permit me always to rely upon you, as from this
day you may count upon me. You must be indulgent with me, sir; for I see
that I shall yet have many counsels, many services to ask of you--though
I already owe you so much."

"You will never owe me enough, my dear young lady, never enough," said
Rodin, as he moved discreetly towards the door, after bowing to Adrienne.
At the very moment he was going out, he found himself face to face with
Dagobert.

"Holloa! at last I have caught one!" shouted the soldier, as he seized
the Jesuit by the collar with a vigorous hand.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

EXCUSES.

On seeing Dagobert grasp Rodin so roughly by the collar, Mdlle. de
Cardoville exclaimed in terror, as she advanced several steps towards the
soldier: "In the name of Heaven, sir! what are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" echoed the soldier, harshly, without relaxing his hold
on Rodin, and turning his head towards Adrienne, whom he did not know; "I
take this opportunity to squeeze the throat of one of the wretches in the
band of that renegade, until he tells me where my poor children are."

"You strangle me," said the Jesuit, in a stifled voice, as he tried to
escape from the soldier.

"Where are the orphans, since they are not here, and the convent door has
been closed against me?" cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder.

"Help! help!" gasped Rodin.

"Oh! it is dreadful!" said Adrienne, as, pale and trembling, she held up
her clasped hands to Dagobert. "Have mercy, sir! listen to me! listen to
him!"

"M. Dagobert!" cried Mother Bunch, seizing with her weak hands the
soldier's arm, and showing him Adrienne, "this is Mdlle. de Cardoville.
What violence in her presence! and then, you are deceived doubtless!"

At the name of Mdlle. de Cardoville, the benefactress of his son, the
soldier turned round suddenly, and loosened his hold on Rodin. The
latter, crimson with rage and suffocation, set about adjusting his collar
and his cravat.

"I beg your pardon, madame," said Dagobert, going towards Adrienne, who
was still pale with fright; "I did not known who you were, and the first
impulse of anger quite carried me away."

"But what has this gentleman done to you?" said Adrienne. "If you had
listened to me, you would have learned--"

"Excuse me if I interrupt you, madame," said the soldier to Adrienne, in
a hollow voice. Then addressing himself to Rodin, who had recovered his
coolness, he added: "Thank the lady, and begone!--If you remain here, I
will not answer for myself."

"One word only, my dear sir," said Rodin.

"I tell you that if you remain, I will not answer for myself!" cried
Dagobert, stamping his foot.

"But, for heaven's sake, tell me the cause of this anger," resumed
Adrienne; "above all, do not trust to appearances. Calm yourself, and
listen."

"Calm myself, madame!" cried Dagobert, in despair; "I can think only of
one thing, ma dame--of the arrival of Marshal Simon--he will be in Paris
to-day or to-morrow."

"Is it possible?" said Adrienne. Rodin started with surprise and joy.

"Yesterday evening," proceeded Dagobert, "I received a letter from the
marshal: he has landed at Havre. For three days I have taken step after
step, hoping that the orphans would be restored to me, as the
machinations of those wretches have failed." He pointed to Rodin with a
new gesture of impatience. "Well! it is not so. They are conspiring some
new infamy. I am prepared for anything."

"But, sir," said Rodin advancing, "permit me--"

"Begone!" cried Dagobert, whose irritation and anxiety redoubled, as he
thought how at any moment Marshal Simon might arrive in Paris. "Begone!
Were it not for this lady, I would at least be revenged on some one."

Rodin made a nod of intelligence to Adrienne, whom he approached
prudently, and, pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of affectionate
commiseration, he said to the latter: "I will leave you, sir, and the
more willingly, as I was about to withdraw when you entered." Then,
coming still closer to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the Jesuit whispered to her,
"Poor soldier! he is beside himself with grief, and would be incapable of
hearing me. Explain it all to him, my dear young lady; he will be nicely
caught," added he, with a cunning air. "But in the meantime," resumed
Rodin, feeling in the side-pocket of his great-coat and taking out a
small parcel, "let me beg you to give him this, my dear young lady. It is
my revenge, and a very good one."

And while Adrienne, holding the little parcel in her hand looked at the
Jesuit with astonishment, the latter laying his forefinger upon his lip,
as if recommending silence, drew backward on tiptoe to the door, and went
out after again pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of pity; while the
soldier, in sullen dejection, with his head drooping, and his arms
crossed upon his bosom, remained deaf to the sewing-girl's earnest
consolations. When Rodin had left the room, Adrienne, approaching the
soldier, said to him, in her mild voice, with an expression of deep
interest, "Your sudden entry prevented my asking you a question that
greatly concerns me. How is your wound?"

"Thank you, madame," said Dagobert, starting from his painful lethargy,
"it is of no consequence, but I have not time to think of it. I am sorry
to have been so rough in your presence, and to have driven away that
wretch; but 'tis more than I could master. At sight of those people, my
blood is all up."

"And yet, believe me, you have been too hasty in your judgment. The
person who was just now here--"

"Too hasty, madame! I do not see him to-day for the first time. He was
with that renegade the Abbe d'Aigrigny--"

"No doubt!--and yet he is an honest and excellent man."

"He!" cried Dagobert.

"Yes; for at this moment he is busy about only one thing restoring to you
those dear children!"

"He!" repeated Dagobert, as if he could not believe what he heard. "He
restore me my children?"

"Yes; and sooner, perhaps, than you think for."

"Madame," said Dagobert, abruptly, "he deceives you. You are the dupe of
that old rascal."

"No," said Adrienne, shaking her head, with a smile. "I have proofs of
his good faith. First of all, it is he who delivers me from this house."

"Is it true?" said Dagobert, quite confounded.

"Very true; and here is, perhaps, something that will reconcile you to
him," said Adrienne, as she delivered the small parcel which Rodin had
given her as he went out. "Not wishing to exasperate you by his presence,
he said to me: 'Give this to that brave soldier; it is my revenge.'"

Dagobert looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as he mechanically
opened the little parcel. When he had unfolded it, and discovered his own
silver cross, black with age, and the old red, faded ribbon, treasures
taken from him at the White Falcon Inn, at the same time as his papers,
he exclaimed in a broken voice: "My cross! my cross! It is my cross!" In
the excitement of his joy, he pressed the silver star to his gray
moustache.

Adrienne and the other were deeply affected by the emotion of the old
soldier, who continued, as he ran towards the door by which Rodin had
gone out: "Next to a service rendered to Marshal Simon, my wife, or son,
nothing could be more precious to me. And you answer for this worthy man,
madame, and I have ill used him in your presence! Oh! he is entitled to
reparation, and he shall have it."

So saying, Dagobert left the room precipitately, hastened through two
other apartments, gained the staircase, and descending it rapidly,
overtook Rodin on the lowest step.

"Sir," said the soldier to him, in an agitated voice, as he seized him by
the arm, "you must come upstairs directly."

"You should make up your mind to one thing or the other, my dear sir,"
said Rodin, stopping good-naturedly; "one moment you tell me to begone,
and the next to return. How are we to decide?"

"Just now, sir, I was wrong; and when I am wrong, I acknowledge it. I
abused and ill-treated you before witnesses; I will make you my apologies
before witnesses."

"But, my dear sir--I am much obliged to you--I am in a hurry."

"I cannot help your being in a hurry. I tell you, I must have you come
upstairs, directly--or else--or else," resumed Dagobert, taking the hand
of the Jesuit, and pressing it with as much cordiality as emotion, "or
else the happiness you have caused the in returning my cross will not be
complete."

"Well, then, my good friend, let us go up."

"And not only have you restored me my cross, for which I have wept many
tears, believe me, unknown to any one," cried Dagobert, much affected;
"but the young lady told me, that, thanks to you, those poor children but
tell me--no false joy-is it really true?--My God! is it really true?"

"Ah! ah! Mr. Inquisitive," said Rodin, with a cunning smile. Then he
added: "Be perfectly tranquil, my growler; you shall have your two angels
back again." And the Jesuit began to ascend the stairs.

"Will they be restored to me to-day?" cried Dagobert, stopping Rodin
abruptly, by catching hold of his sleeve.

"Now, really, my good friend," said the Jesuit, "let us come to the
point. Are we to go up or down? I do not find fault, but you turn me
about like a teetotum."

"You are right. We shall be better able to explain things upstairs. Come
with me--quick! quick!" said Dagobert, as, taking the Jesuit by the arm,
he hurried him along, and brought him triumphantly into the room, where
Adrienne and Mother Bunch had remained in much surprise at the soldier's
sudden disappearance.

"Here he is! here he is!" cried Dagobert, as he entered. "Luckily, I
caught him at the bottom of the stairs."

"And you have made me come up at a fine pace!" added Rodin, pretty well
out of breath.

"Now, sir," said Dagobert, in a grave voice, "I declare, in presence of
all, that I was wrong to abuse and ill-treat you. I make you my apology
for it, sir; and I acknowledge, with joy, that I owe you--much--oh! very
much and when I owe, I pay."

So saying, Dagobert held out his honest hand to Rodin, who pressed it in
a very affable manner, and replied: "Now, really--what is all this about?
What great service do you speak of?"

"This!" said Dagobert, holding up the cross before Rodin's eyes. "You do
not know, then, what this cross is to me?"

"On the contrary, supposing you would set great store by it, I intended
to have the pleasure of delivering it myself. I had brought it for that
purpose; but, between ourselves, you gave me so warm a reception, that I
had not the time--"

"Sir," said Dagobert, in confusion, "I assure you that I sincerely repent
of what I have done."

"I know it, my good friend; do not say another word about it. You were
then much attached to this cross?"

"Attached to it, sir!" cried Dagobert. "Why, this cross," and he kissed
it as he spoke, "is my relic. He from whom it came was my saint--my
hero--and he had touched it with his hand!"

"Oh!" said Rodin, feigning to regard the cross with as much curiosity as
respectful admiration; "did Napoleon--the Great Napoleon--indeed touch
with his own hand--that victorious hand!--this noble star of honor?"

"Yes, sir, with his own hand. He placed it there upon my bleeding breast,
as a cure for my fifth wound. So that, you see, were I dying of hunger, I
think I should not hesitate betwixt bread and my cross--that I might, in
any case, have it on my heart in death. But, enough--enough! let us talk
of something else. It is foolish in an old soldier, is it not?" added
Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, and then, as if ashamed to
deny what he really felt: "Well, then! yes," he resumed, raising his head
proudly, and no longer seeking to conceal the tears that rolled down his
cheek; "yes, I weep for joy, to have found my cross--my cross, that the
Emperor gave me with his victorious hand, as this worthy man has called
it."

"Then blessed be my poor old hand for having restored you the glorious
treasure!" said Rodin, with emotion. "In truth," he added, "the day will
be a good one for everybody--as I announced to you this morning in my
letter."

"That letter without a signature?" asked the soldier, more and more
astonished. "Was it from you?"

"It was I who wrote it. Only, fearing some new snare of the Abbe
d'Aigrigny, I did not choose, you understand, to explain myself more
clearly."

"Then--I shall see--my orphans?"

Rodin nodded affirmatively, with an expression of great good-nature.

"Presently--perhaps immediately," said Adrienne, with smile. "Well! was I
right in telling you that you had not judged this gentleman fairly?"

"Why did he not tell me this when I came in?" cried Dagobert, almost
beside himself with joy.

"There was one difficulty in the way, my good friend," said Rodin; "it
was, that when you came in, you nearly throttled me."

"True; I was too hasty. Once more, I ask your pardon. But was I to blame?
I had only seen you with that Abbe d'Aigrigny, and in the first moment--"

"This dear young lady," said Rodin, bowing to Adrienne, "will tell you
that I have been, without knowing it, the accomplice IN many perfidious
actions; but as soon as I began to see my way through the darkness, I
quitted the evil course on which I had entered, and returned to that
which is honest, just and true."

Adrienne nodded affirmatively to Dagobert, who appeared to consult her
look.

"If I did not sign the letter that I wrote to you, my good friend, it was
partly from fear that my name might inspire suspicion; and if I asked you
to come hither, instead of to the convent, it was that I had some
dread--like this dear young lady--lest you might be recognized by the
porter or by the gardener, your affair of the other night rendering such
a recognition somewhat dangerous."

"But M. Baleinier knows all; I forgot that," said Adrienne, with
uneasiness. "He threatened to denounce M. Dagobert and his son, if I made
any complaint."

"Do not be alarmed, my dear young lady; it will soon be for you to
dictate conditions," replied Rodin. "Leave that to me; and as for you, my
good friend, your torments are now finished."

"Yes," said Adrienne, "an upright and worthy magistrate has gone to the
convent, to fetch Marshal Simon's daughters. He will bring them hither;
but he thought with me, that it would be most proper for them to take up
their abode in my house. I cannot, however, come to this decision without
your consent, for it is to you that these orphans were entrusted by their
mother."

"You wish to take her place with regard to them, madame?" replied
Dagobert. "I can only thank you with all my heart, for myself and for the
children. But, as the lesson has been a sharp one, I must beg to remain
at the door of their chamber, night and day. If they go out with you, I
must be allowed to follow them at a little distance, so as to keep them
in view, just like Spoil-sport, who has proved himself a better guardian
than myself. When the marshal is once here--it will be in a day or
two--my post will be relieved. Heaven grant it may be soon!"

"Yes," replied Rodin, in a firm voice, "heaven grant he may arrive soon,
for he will have to demand a terrible reckoning of the Abbe d'Aigrigny,
for the persecution of his daughters; and yet the marshal does not know
all."

"And don't you tremble for the renegade?" asked Dagobert, as he thought
how the marquis would soon find himself face to face with the marshal.

"I never care for cowards and traitors," answered Rodin; "and when
Marshal Simon returns--" Then, after a pause of some seconds, he
continued: "If he will do me the honor to hear me, he shall be edified as
to the conduct of the Abbe d'Aigrigny. The marshal knows that his dearest
friends, as well as himself, have been victims of the hatred of that
dangerous man."

"How so?" said Dagobert.

"Why, yourself, for instance," replied Rodin; "you are an example of what
I advance."

"Do you think it was mere chance, that brought about the scene at the
White Falcon Inn, near Leipsic?"

"Who told you of that scene?" said Dagobert in astonishment.

"Where you accepted the challenge of Morok," continued the Jesuit,
without answering Dagobert's question, "and so fell into a trap, or else
refused it, and were then arrested for want of papers, and thrown into
prison as a vagabond, with these poor children. Now, do you know the
object of this violence? It was to prevent your being here on the 13th of
February."

"But the more I hear, sir," said Adrienne, "the more I am alarmed at the
audacity of the Abbe d'Aigrigny, and the extent of the means he has at
his command. Really," she resumed, with increasing surprise, "if your
words were not entitled to absolute belief--"

"You would doubt their truth, madame?" said Dagobert. "It is like me. Bad
as he is. I cannot think that this renegade had relations with a
wild-beast showman as far off as Saxony; and then, how could he know that
I and the children were to pass through Leipsic? It is impossible, my
good man."

"In fact, sir," resumed Adrienne, "I fear that you are deceived by your
dislike (a very legitimate one) of Abbe d'Aigrigny, and that you ascribe
to him an almost fabulous degree of power and extent of influence."

After a moment's silence, during which Rodin looked first at Adrienne and
then at Dagobert, with a kind of pity, he resumed. "How could the Abbe
d'Aigrigny have your cross in his possession, if he had no connection
with Morok?"

"That is true, sir," said Dagobert; "joy prevented me from reflecting.
But how indeed, did my cross come into your hands?"

"By means of the Abbe d'Aigrigny's having precisely those relations with
Leipsic, of which you and the young lady seem to doubt."

"But how did my cross get to Paris?"

"Tell me; you were arrested at Leipsic for want of papers--is it not so?"

"Yes; but I could never understand how my passports and money disappeared
from my knapsack. I thought I must have had the misfortune to lose them."

Rodin shrugged his shoulders, and replied: "You were robbed of them at
the White Falcon Inn, by Goliath, one of Morok's servants, and the latter
sent the papers and the cross to the Abbe d'Aigrigny, to prove that he
had succeeded in executing his orders with respect to the orphans and
yourself. It was the day before yesterday, that I obtained the key of
that dark machination. Cross and papers were amongst the stores of Abbe
d'Aigrigny; the papers formed a considerable bundle, and he might have
missed them; but, hoping to see you this morning, and knowing how a
soldier of the Empire values his cross, his sacred relic, as you call it,
my good friend--I did not hesitate. I put the relic into my pocket.
'After all,' said I, 'it is only restitution, and my delicacy perhaps
exaggerates this breach of trust.'"

"You could not have done a better action," said Adrienne; "and, for my
part, because of the interest I feel for M. Dagobert--I take it as a
personal favor. But, sir," after a moment's silence, she resumed with
anxiety: "What terrible power must be at the command of M. d'Aigrigny,
for him to have such extensive and formidable relations in a foreign
country!"

"Silence!" said Rodin, in a low voice, and looking round him with an air
of alarm. "Silence! In heaven's name do not ask me about it!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

REVELATIONS.

Mdlle. de Cardoville, much astonished at the alarm displayed by Rodin,
when she had asked him for some explanation of the formidable and far
reaching power of the Abby d'Aigrigny, said to him: "Why, sir, what is
there so strange in the question that I have just asked you?"

After a moment's silence, Rodin cast his looks all around, with well
feigned uneasiness, and replied in a whisper: "Once more, madame, do not
question me on so fearful a subject. The walls of this house may have
ears."

Adrienne and Dagobert looked at each other with growing surprise. Mother
Bunch, by an instinct of incredible force, continued to regard Rodin with
invincible suspicion. Sometimes she stole a glance at him, as if trying
to penetrate the mask of this man, who filled her with fear. At one
moment, the Jesuit encountered her anxious gaze, obstinately fixed upon
him; immediately he nodded to her with the greatest amenity. The young
girl, alarmed at finding herself observed, turned away with a shudder.

"No, no, my dear young lady," resumed Rodin, with a sigh, as he saw
Mdlle. de Cardoville astonished at his silence; "do not question me on
the subject of the Abbe d'Aigrigny's power!"

"But, to persist, sir," said Adrienne; "why this hesitation to answer?
What do you fear?"

"Ah, my dear young lady," said Rodin, shuddering, "those people are so
powerful! their animosity is so terrible!"

"Be satisfied, sir; I owe you too much, for my support ever to fail you."

"Ah, my dear young lady," cried Rodin, as if hurt by the supposition;
"think better of me, I entreat you. Is it for myself that I fear?--No,
no; I am too obscure, too inoffensive; but it is for you, for Marshal
Simon, for the other members of your family, that all is to be feared.
Oh, my dear young lady! let me beg you to ask no questions. There are
secrets which are fatal to those who possess them."

"But, sir, is it not better to know the perils with which one is
threatened?"

"When you know the manoeuvres of your enemy, you may at least defend
yourself," said Dagobert. "I prefer an attack in broad daylight to an
ambuscade."

"And I assure you," resumed Adrienne, "the few words you have spoken
cause me a vague uneasiness."

"Well, if I must, my dear young lady," replied the Jesuit, appearing to
make a great effort, "since you do not understand my hints, I will be
more explicit; but remember," added he, in a deeply serious tone, "that
you have persevered in forcing me to tell you what you had perhaps better
not have known."

"Speak, Sir, I pray you speak," said Adrienne.

Drawing about him Adrienne, Dagobert, and Mother Bunch, Rodin said to
them in a low voce, and with a mysterious air: "Have you never heard of a
powerful association, which extends its net over all the earth, and
counts its disciples, agents, and fanatics in every class of society
which has had, and often has still, the ear of kings and nobles--which,
in a word, can raise its creatures to the highest positions, and with a
word can reduce them again to the nothingness from which it alone could
uplift them?"

"Good heaven, sir!" said Adrienne, "what formidable association? Until
now I never heard of it."

"I believe you; and yet your ignorance on this subject greatly astonishes
me, my dear young lady."

"And why should it astonish you?"

"Because you lived some time with your aunt, and must have often seen the
Abbe d'Aigrigny."

"I lived at the princess's, but not with her; for a thousand reasons she
had inspired me with warrantable aversion."

"In truth, my dear young lady, my remark was ill-judged. It was there,
above all, and particularly in your presence, that they would keep
silence with regard to this association--and yet to it alone did the
Princess de Saint-Dizier owe her formidable influence in the world,
during the last reign. Well, then; know this--it is the aid of that
association which renders the Abbe d'Aigrigny so dangerous a man.

"By it he was enabled to follow and to reach divers members of your
family, some in Siberia, some in India, others on the heights of the
American mountains; but, as I have told you, it was only the day before
yesterday, and by chance, that, examining the papers of Abbe d'Aigrigny,
I found the trace of his connection with this Company, of which he is the
most active and able chief."

"But the name, sir, the name of this Company?" said Adrienne.

"Well! it is--" but Rodin stopped short.

"It is," repeated Adrienne, who was now as much interested as Dagobert
and the sempstress; "it is--"

Rodin looked round him, beckoned all the actors in this scene to draw
nearer, and said in a whisper, laying great stress upon the words: "It
is--the Society of Jesus!" and he again shuddered.

"The Jesuits!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, unable to restrain a burst of
laughter, which was the more buoyant, as, from the mysterious precautions
of Rodin, she had expected some very different revelation. "The Jesuits!"
she resumed, still laughing. "They have no existence, except in books;
they are frightful historical personages, certainly; but why should you
put forward Madame de Saint-Dizier and M. d'Aigrigny in that character?
Such as they are, they have done quite enough to justify my aversion and
disdain."

After listening in silence to Mdlle. de Cardoville Rodin continued, with
a grave and agitated air: "Your blindness frightens me, my dear, young
lady; the past should have given you some anxiety for the future, since,
more than any one, you have already suffered from the fatal influence of
this Company, whose existence you regard as a dream!"

"I, sir?" said Adrienne, with a smile, although a little surprised.

"You."

"Under what circumstances?"

"You ask me this question! my dear young lady! you ask me this
question!--and yet you have been confined here as a mad person! Is it not
enough to tell you that the master of this house is one of the most
devoted lay members of the Company, and therefore the blind instrument of
the Abbe d'Aigrigny?"

"So," said Adrienne, this time without smiling, "Dr. Baleinier"

"Obeyed the Abbe d'Aigrigny, the most formidable chief of that formidable
society. He employs his genius for evil; but I must confess he is a man
of genius. Therefore, it is upon him that you and yours must fix all your
doubts and suspicions; it is against him that you must be upon your
guard. For, believe me, I know him, and he does not look upon the game as
lost. You must be prepared for new attacks, doubtless of another kind,
but only the more dangerous on that account--"

"Luckily, you give us notice," said Dagobert, "and you will be on our
side."

"I can do very little, my good friends; but that little is at the service
of honest people," said Rodin.

"Now," said Adrienne, with a thoughtful air, completely persuaded by
Rodin's air of conviction, "I can explain the inconceivable influence
that my aunt exercised in the world. I ascribed it chiefly to her
relations with persons in power; I thought that she, like the Abbe
d'Aigrigny, was concerned in dark intrigues, for which religion served as
a veil--but I was far from believing what you tell me."

"How many things you have got to learn!" resumed Rodin. "If you knew, my
dear young lady, with what art these people surround you, without your
being aware of it, by agents devoted to themselves! Every one of your
steps is known to them, when they have any interest in such knowledge.
Thus, little by little, they act upon you--slowly, cautiously, darkly.
They circumvent you by every possible means, from flattery to
terror--seduce or frighten, in order at last to rule you, without your
being conscious of their authority. Such is their object, and I must
confess they pursue it with detestable ability."

Rodin had spoken with so much sincerity, that Adrienne trembled; then,
reproaching herself with these fears, she resumed: "And yet, no--I can
never believe in so infernal a power; the might of priestly ambition
belongs to another age. Heaven be praised, it has disappeared forever!"

"Yes, certainly, it is out of sight; for they now know how to disperse
and disappear, when circumstances require it. But then are they the most
dangerous; for suspicion is laid asleep, and they keep watch in the dark.
Oh! my dear young lady, if you knew their frightful ability! In my hatred
of all that is oppressive, cowardly, and hypocritical, I had studied the
history of that terrible society, before I knew that the Abbe d'Aigrigny
belonged to it. Oh! it is dreadful. If you knew what means they employ!
When I tell you that, thanks to their diabolical devices, the most pure
and devoted appearances often conceal the most horrible snares." Rodin's
eye rested, as if by chance, on the hunchback; but, seeing that Adrienne
did not take the hint, the Jesuit continued: "In a word--are you not
exposed to their pursuits?--have they any interest in gaining you
over?--oh! from that moment, suspect all that surround you, suspect the
most noble attachments, the most tender affections, for these monsters
sometimes succeed in corrupting your best friends, and making a terrible
use of them, in proportion to the blindness of your confidence."

"Oh! it is impossible," cried Adrienne, in horror. "You must exaggerate.
No! hell itself never dreamed of more frightful treachery!"

"Alas, my dear young lady! one of your relations, M. Hardy--the most
loyal and generous-hearted man that could be--has been the victim of some
such infamous treachery. Do you know what we learned from the reading of
your ancestor's will? Why, that he died the victim of the malevolence of
these people; and now, at the lapse of a hundred and fifty years, his
descendants are still exposed to the hate of that indestructible
society."

"Oh, sir! it terrifies me," said Adrienne, feeling her heart sink within
her. "But are there no weapons against such attacks?"

"Prudence, my dear young lady--the most watchful caution--the most
incessant study and suspicion of all that approach you."

"But such a life would be frightful! It is a torture to be the victim of
continual suspicions, doubts, and fears."

"Without doubt! They know it well, the wretches! That constitutes their
strength. They often triumph by the very excess of the precautions taken
against them. Thus, my dear young lady, and you, brave and worthy
soldier, in the name of all that is dear to you, be on your guard, and do
not lightly impart your confidence. Be on your guard, for you have nearly
fallen the victims of those people. They will always be your implacable
enemies. And you, also, poor, interesting girl!" added the Jesuit,
speaking to Mother Bunch, "follow my advice--fear these people. Sleep, as
the proverb says, with one eye open."

"I, sir!" said the work-girl. "What have I done? what have I to fear?"

"What have you done? Dear me! Do not you tenderly love this young lady,
your protectress? have you not attempted to assist her? Are you not the
adopted sister of the son of this intrepid soldier, the brave Agricola!
Alas, poor, girl! are not these sufficient claims to their hatred, in
spite of your obscurity? Nay, my dear young lady! do not think that I
exaggerate. Reflect! only reflect! Think what I have just said to the
faithful companion-in-arms of Marshal Simon, with regard to his
imprisonment at Leipsic. Think what happened to yourself, when, against
all law and reason, you were brought hither. Then you will see, that
there is nothing exaggerated in the picture I have drawn of the secret
power of this Company. Be always on your guard, and, in doubtful cases,
do not fear to apply to me. In three days, I have learned enough by my
own experience, with regard to their manner of acting, to be able to
point out to you many a snare, device, and danger, and to protect you
from them."

"In any such case, sir," replied Mdlle. de Cardoville, "my interests, as
well as gratitude, would point to you as my best counsellor."

According to the skillful tactics of the sons of Loyola, who sometimes
deny their own existence, in order to escape from an adversary--and
sometimes proclaim with audacity the living power of their organization,
in order to intimidate the feeble-R-odin had laughed in the face of the
bailiff of Cardoville, when the latter had spoken of the existence of the
Jesuits; while now, at this moment, picturing their means of action, he
endeavored, and he succeeded in the endeavor, to impregnate the mind of
Mdlle. de Cardoville with some germs of doubt, which were gradually to
develop themselves by reflection, and serve hereafter the dark projects
that he meditated. Mother Bunch still felt considerable alarm with regard
to Rodin. Yet, since she had heard the fatal powers of the formidable
Order revealed to Adrienne, the young sempstress, far from suspecting the
Jesuit of having the audacity to speak thus of a society of which he was
himself a member, felt grateful to him, in spite of herself, for the
important advice that he had just given her patroness. The side-glance
which she now cast upon him (which Rodin also detected, for he watched
the young girl with sustained attention), was full of gratitude, mingled
with surprise. Guessing the nature of this impression, and wishing
entirely to remove her unfavorable opinion, and also to anticipate a
revelation which would be made sooner or later, the Jesuit appeared to
have forgotten something of great importance, and exclaimed, striking his
forehead: "What was I thinking of?" Then, speaking to Mother Bunch, he
added: "Do you know where your sister is, my dear girl?" Disconcerted and
saddened by this unexpected question, the workwoman answered with a
blush, for she remembered her last interview with the brilliant Bacchanal
Queen: "I have not seen my sister for some days, sir."

"Well, my dear girl, she is not very comfortable," said Rodin; "I
promised one of her friends to send her some little assistance. I have
applied to a charitable person, and that is what I received for her." So
saying, he drew from his pocket a sealed roll of coin, which he delivered
to Mother Bunch, who was now both surprised and affected.

"You have a sister in trouble, and I know nothing of it?" said Adrienne,
hastily. "This is not right of you, my child!"

"Do not blame her," said Rodin. "First of all, she did not know that her
sister was in distress, and, secondly, she could not ask you, my dear
young lady, to interest yourself about her."

As Mdlle. de Cardoville looked at Rodin with astonishment, he added,
again speaking to the hunchback: "Is not that true, my dear girl!"

"Yes, sir," said the sempstress, casting down her eyes and blushing. Then
she added, hastily and anxiously: "But when did you see my sister, sir?
where is she? how did she fall into distress?"

"All that would take too long to tell you, my dear girl; but go as soon
as possible to the greengrocer's in the Rue Clovis, and ask to speak to
your sister as from M. Charlemagne or M. Rodin, which you please, for I
am equally well known in that house by my Christian name as by my
surname, and then you will learn all about it. Only tell your sister,
that, if she behaves well, and keeps to her good resolutions, there are
some who will continue to look after her."

More and more surprised, Mother Bunch was about to answer Rodin, when the
door opened, and M. de Gernande entered. The countenance of the
magistrate was grave and sad.

"Marshal Simon's daughters!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.

"Unfortunately, they are not with me," answered the judge.

"Then, where are they, sir? What have they done with them? The day before
yesterday, they were in the convent!" cried Dagobert, overwhelmed by this
complete destruction of his hopes.

Hardly had the soldier pronounced these words, when, profiting by the
impulse which gathered all the actors in this scene about the magistrate,
Rodin withdrew discreetly towards the door, and disappeared without any
one perceiving his absence. Whilst the soldier, thus suddenly thrown back
to the depths of his despair, looked at M. de Gernande, waiting with
anxiety for the answer, Adrienne said to the magistrate: "But, sir, when
you applied at the convent, what explanation did the superior give on the
subject of these young girls?"

"The lady superior refused to give any explanation, madame. 'You
pretend,' said she, 'that the young persons of whom you speak are
detained here against their will. Since the law gives you the right of
entering this house, make your search.' 'But, madame, please to answer me
positively,' said I to the superior; 'do you declare, that you know
nothing of the young girls, whom I have come to claim?' 'I have nothing
to say on this subject, sir. You assert, that you are authorized to make
a search: make it.' Not being able to get any other explanation,"
continued the magistrate, "I searched all parts of the convent, and had
every door opened--but, unfortunately, I could find no trace of these
young ladies."

"They must have sent them elsewhere," cried Dagobert; "who
knows?--perhaps, ill. They will kill them--O God! they will kill them!"
cried he, in a heart-rending tone.

"After such a refusal, what is to be done? Pray, sir, give us your
advice; you are our providence," said Adrienne, turning to speak to
Rodin, who she fancied was behind her. "What is your--"

Then, perceiving that the Jesuit had suddenly disappeared, she said to
Mother Bunch, with uneasiness: "Where is M. Rodin?"

"I do not know, madame," answered the girl, looking round her; "he is no
longer here."

"It is strange," said Adrienne, "to disappear so abruptly!"

"I told you he was a traitor!" cried Dagobert, stamping with rage; "they
are all in a plot together."

"No, no," said Mdlle. de Cardoville; "do not think that. But the absence
is not the less to be regretted, for, under these difficult
circumstances, he might have given us very useful information, thanks to
the position he occupied at M. d'Aigrigny's."

"I confess, madame, that I rather reckoned upon it," said M. de Gernande;
"and I returned hither, not only to inform you of the fruitless result of
my search, but also to seek from the upright and honorable roan, who so
courageously unveiled these odious machinations, the aid of his counsels
in this contingency."

Strangely enough, for the last few moments Dagobert was so completely
absorbed in thought, that he paid no attention to the words of the
magistrate, however important to him. He did not even perceive the
departure of M. de Gernande, who retired after promising Adrienne that he
would neglect no means to arrive at the truth, in regard to the
disappearance of the orphans. Uneasy at this silence, wishing to quit the
house immediately, and induce Dagobert to accompany her, Adrienne, after
exchanging a rapid glance with Mother Bunch, was advancing towards the
soldier, when hasty steps were heard from without the chamber, and a
manly sonorous voice, exclaiming with impatience, "Where is he--where is
he?"

At the sound of this voice, Dagobert seemed to rouse himself with a
start, made a sudden bound, and with a loud cry, rushed towards the door.
It opened. Marshal Simon appeared on the threshold!




CHAPTER XXXIX.

PIERRE SIMON.

Marshal Pierre Simon, Duke de Ligny, was a man of tall stature, plainly
dressed in a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the throat, with a red
ribbon tied to the top buttonhole. You could not have wished to see a
more frank, honest, and chivalrous cast of countenance than the
marshal's. He had a broad forehead, an aquiline nose, a well formed chin,
and a complexion bronzed by exposure to the Indian sun. His hair, cut
very short, was inclined to gray about the temples; but his eyebrows were
still as black as his large, hanging moustache. His walk was free and
bold, and his decided movements showed his military impetuosity. A man of
the people, a man of war and action, the frank cordiality of his address
invited friendliness and sympathy. As enlightened as he was intrepid as
generous as he was sincere, his manly, plebeian pride was the most
remarkable part of his character. As others are proud of their high
birth, so was he of his obscure origin, because it was ennobled by the
fine qualities of his father, the rigid republican, the intelligent and
laborious artisan, who, for the space of forty years, had been the
example and the glory of his fellow-workmen. In accepting with gratitude
the aristocratic title which the Emperor had bestowed upon him, Pierre
Simon acted with that delicacy which receives from a friendly hand a
perfectly useless gift, and estimates it according to the intention of
the giver. The religious veneration of Pierre Simon for the Emperor had
never been blind; in proportion as his devotion and love for his idol
were instructive and necessary, his admiration was serious, and founded
upon reason. Far from resembling those swashbucklers who love fighting
for its own sake, Marshal Simon not only admired his hero as the greatest
captain in the world, but he admired him, above all, because he knew that
the Emperor had only accepted war in the hope of one day being able to
dictate universal peace; for if peace obtained by glory and strength is
great, fruitful, and magnificent, peace yielded by weakness and cowardice
is sterile, disastrous, and dishonoring. The son of a workman, Pierre
Simon still further admired the Emperor, because that imperial parvenu
had always known how to make that popular heart beat nobly, and,
remembering the people, from the masses of whom he first arose, had
invited them fraternally to share in regal and aristocratic pomp.

When Marshal Simon entered the room, his countenance was much agitated.
At sight of Dagobert, a flash of joy illumined his features; he rushed
towards the soldier, extending his arms, and exclaimed, "My friend! my
old friend!"

Dagobert answered this affectionate salute with silent emotion. Then the
marshal, disengaging himself from his arms, and fixing his moist eyes
upon him, said to him in so agitated a voice that his lips trembled,
"Well, didst arrive in time for the 13th of February?"

"Yes, general; but everything is postponed for four months."

"And--my wife?--my child?" At this question Dagobert shuddered, hung down
his head, and was silent.

"They are not, then, here?" asked Simon, with more surprise than
uneasiness. "They told me they were not at your house, but that I should
find you here--and I came immediately. Are they not with you?"

"General," said Dagobert, becoming deadly pale; "general--" Drying the
drops of cold sweat that stood upon his forehead, he was unable to
articulate a word, for his voice was checked in his parched throat.

"You frighten me!" exclaimed Pierre Simon, becoming pale as the soldier,
and seizing him by the arm.

At this, Adrienne advanced, with a countenance full of grief and
sympathy; seeing the cruel embarrassment of Dagobert, she wished to come
to his assistance, and she said to Pierre Simon, in a mild but agitated
voice, "Marshal, I am Mdlle. de Cardoville--a relation of your dear
children."

Pierre Simon turned around suddenly, as much struck with the dazzling
beauty of Adrienne as with the words she had just pronounced. He
stammered out in his surprise, "You, madame--a relation--of my children!"

He laid a stress on the last words, and looked at Dagobert in a kind of
stupor.

"Yes, marshal your children," hastily replied Adrienne; "and the love of
those charming twin sisters--"

"Twin sisters!" cried Pierre Simon, interrupting Mdlle. de Cardoville,
with an outburst of joy impossible to describe. "Two daughters instead of
one! Oh! what happiness for their mother! Pardon me, madame, for being so
impolite," he continued; "and so little grateful for what you tell me.
But you will understand it; I have been seventeen years without seeing my
wife; I come, and I find three loved beings, instead of two. Thanks,
madame: would I could express all the gratitude I owe you! You are our
relation; this is no doubt your house; my wife and children are with you.
Is it so? You think that my sudden appearance might be prejudicial to
them? I will wait--but madame, you, that I am certain are good as
fair--pity my impatience--will make haste to prepare them to receive
me--"

More and more agitated, Dagobert avoided the marshal's gaze, and trembled
like a leaf. Adrienne cast down her eyes without answering. Her heart
sunk within her, at thought of dealing the terrible blow to Marshal
Simon.

The latter, astonished at this silence, looking at Adrienne, then at the
soldier, became first uneasy, and at last alarmed. "Dagobert!" he
exclaimed, "something is concealed from me!"

"General!" stammered the soldier, "I assure you--I--I--."

"Madame!" cried Pierre Simon, "I conjure you, in pity, speak to me
frankly!--my anxiety is horrible. My first fears return upon me. What is
it? Are my wife and daughters ill? Are they in danger? Oh! speak! speak!"

"Your daughters, marshal," said Adrienne "have been rather unwell, since
their long journey--but they are in no danger."

"Oh, heaven! it is my wife!"

"Have courage, sir!" said Mdlle. de Cardoville, sadly. "Alas! you must
seek consolation in the affection of the two angels that remain to you."

"General!" said Dagobert, in a firm grave tone, "I returned from
Siberia--alone with your two daughters."

"And their mother! their mother!" cried Simon, in a voice of despair.

"I set out with the two orphans the day after her death," said the
soldier.

"Dead?" exclaimed Pierre Simon, overwhelmed by the stroke; "dead?" A
mournful silence was the only answer. The marshal staggered beneath this
unexpected shock, leaned on the back of a chair for support, and then,
sinking into the seat, concealed his face with his hands. For same
minutes nothing was heard but stifled sobs, for not only had Pierre Simon
idolized his wife, but by one of those singular compromises, that a man
long cruelly tried sometimes makes with destiny, Pierre Simon, with the
fatalism of loving souls, thought he had a right to reckon upon happiness
after so many years of suffering, and had not for a moment doubted that
he should find his wife and child--a double consolation reserved to him
after going through so much. Very different from certain people, whom the
habit of misfortune renders less exacting, Simon had reckoned upon
happiness as complete as had been his misery. His wife and child were the
sole, indispensable conditions of this felicity, and, had the mother
survived her daughters, she would have no more replaced them in his eyes
than they did her. Weakness or avarice of the heart, so it was; we insist
upon this singularity, because the consequences of these incessant and
painful regrets exercised a great influence on the future life of Marshal
Simon. Adrienne and Dagobert had respected the overwhelming grief of this
unfortunate man. When he had given a free course to his tears, he raised
his manly countenance, now of marble paleness, drew his hand across his
blood-shot eyes, rose, and said to Adrienne, "Pardon me, madame; I could
not conquer my first emotion. Permit me to retire. I have cruel details
to ask of the worthy friend who only quitted my wife at the last moment.
Have the kindness to let me see my children--my poor orphans!--" And the
marshal's voice again broke.

"Marshal," said Mdlle. de Cardoville, "just now we were expecting your
dear children: unfortunately, we have been deceived in our hopes." Pierre
Simon first looked at Adrienne without answering, as if he had not heard
or understood.--"But console yourself," resumed the young girl; "we have
yet no reason to despair."

"To despair?" repeated the marshaling by turns at Mdlle. de Cardoville
despair?--"of what, in heaven's name?"

"Of seeing your children, marshal," said Adrienne; "the presence of their
father will facilitate the search."

"The search!" cried Pierre Simon. "Then, my daughters are not here?"

"No, sir," said Adrienne, at length; "they have been taken from the
affectionate care of the excellent man who brought them from Russia, to
be removed to a convent."

"Wretch!" cried Pierre Simon, advancing towards Dagobert, with a menacing
and terrible aspect; "you shall answer to me for all!"

"Oh, sir, do not blame him!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.

"General," said Dagobert, in a tone of mournful resignation, "I merit
your anger. It is my fault. Forced to absent myself from Paris, I
entrusted the children to my wife; her confessor turned her head, and
persuaded her that your daughters would be better in a convent than at
our house. She believed him, and let them be conveyed there. Now they say
at the convent, that they do not know where they are. This is the truth:
do what you will with me; I have only to silently endure."

"This is infamous!" cried Pierre Simon, pointing to Dagobert, with a
gesture of despairing indignation. "In whom can a man confide, if he has
deceived me? Oh, my God!"

"Stay, marshal! do not blame him," repeated Mdlle. de Cardoville; "do not
think so! He has risked life and honor to rescue your children from the
convent. He is not the only one who has failed in this attempt. Just now,
a magistrate--despite his character and authority--was not more
successful. His firmness towards the superior, his minute search of the
convent, were all in vain. Up to this time it has been impossible to find
these unfortunate children."

"But where's this convent!" cried Marshal Simon, raising his head, his
face all pale and agitated with grief and rage. "Where is it? Do these
vermin know what a father is, deprived of his children?" At the moment
when Marshal Simon, turning towards Dagobert, pronounced these words,
Rodin, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, appeared at the open door of
the chamber. On hearing the marshal's exclamation, he started with
surprise, and a flash of diabolical joy lit up his grim countenance--for
he had not expected to meet Pierre Simon so opportunely.

Mdlle. de Cardoville was the first to perceive the presence of Rodin. She
exclaimed, as she hastened towards him: "Oh! I was not deceived. He is
still our providence."

"My poor children!" said Rodin, in a low voice, to the young girls, as he
pointed to Pierre Simon, "this is your father!"

"Sir!" cried Adrienne, following close upon Rose and Blanche. "Your
children are here!"

As Simon turned round abruptly, his two daughters threw themselves into
his arms. Here was a long silence, broken only by sobs, and kisses, and
exclamations of joy.

"Come forward, at least, and enjoy the good you have done!" said Mdlle.
de Cardoville, drying her eyes, and turning towards Rodin, who, leaning
against the door, seemed to contemplate this scene with deep emotion.

Dagobert, at sight of Rodin bringing back the children, was at first
struck with stupor, and unable to move a step; but hearing the words of
Adrienne, and yielding to a burst of almost insane gratitude, he threw
himself on his knees before the Jesuit, joined his hands together, and
exclaimed in a broken voice: "You have saved me, by bringing back these
children."

"Oh, bless you, sir!" said Mother Bunch, yielding to the general current.

"My good friends, this is too much," said Rodin, as if his emotions were
beyond his strength; "this is really too much for me. Excuse me to the
marshal, and tell him that I am repaid by the sight of his happiness."

"Pray, sir," said Adrienne, "let the marshal at least have the
opportunity to see and know you."

"Oh, remain! you that have saved us all!" cried Dagobert, trying to stop
Rodin.

"Providence, you know, my dear young lady, does not trouble itself about
the good that is done, but the good that remains to do," said Rodin, with
an accent of playful kindness. "Must I not think of Prince Djalma? My
task is not finished, and moments are precious. Come," he added,
disengaging himself gently from Dagobert's hold, "come the day has been
as good a one as I had hoped.. The Abbe d'Aigrigny is unmasked; you are
free, my dear young lady; you have recovered your cross, my brave
soldier; Mother Bunch is sure of a protectress; the marshal has found his
children. I have my share in all these joys, it is a full share--my heart
is satisfied. Adieu, my friends, till we meet again." So saying, Rodin
waved his hand affectionately to Adrienne, Dagobert, and the hunchback,
and withdrew, waving his hand with a look of delight on Marshal Simon,
who, seated between his daughters, held them in his arms, and covered
them with tears and kisses, remaining quite indifferent to all that was
passing around him.

An hour after this scene, Mdlle. de Cardoville and the sempstress,
Marshal Simon, his two daughters and Dagobert quitted Dr. Beleinier's
asylum.

In terminating this episode, a few words by way of moral, with regard to
lunatic asylums and convents may not be out of place. We have said, and
we repeat, that the laws which apply to the superintendence of lunatic
asylums appear to us insufficient. Facts that have recently transpired
before the courts, and other facts that have been privately communicated
to us, evidently prove this insufficiency. Doubtless, magistrates have
full power to visit lunatic asylums. They are even required to make such
visits. But we know, from the best authority, that the numerous and
pressing occupations of magistrates, whose number is often out of
proportion with the labor imposed upon them, render these inspections so
rare, that they are, so to speak, illusory. It appears, therefore, to us
advisable to institute a system of inspections, at least twice a month,
especially designed for lunatic asylums, and entrusted to a physician and
a magistrate, so that every complaint may be submitted to a double
examination. Doubtless, the law is sufficient when its ministers are
fully informed; but how many formalities, how many difficulties must be
gone through, before they can be so, particularly when the unfortunate
creature who needs their assistance, already suspected, isolated, and
imprisoned, has no friend to come forward in defence, and demand, in his
or her name, the protection of the authorities! Is it not imperative,
therefore, on the civil power, to meet these necessities by a periodical
and well-organized system of inspection?

What we here say of lunatic asylums will apply with still greater force
to convents for women, seminaries, and houses inhabited by religious
bodies. Recent and notorious facts, with which all France has rung, have,
unfortunately, proved that violence, forcible detention, barbarous usage,
abduction of minors, and illegal imprisonment, accompanied by torture,
are occurrences which, if not frequent, are at least possible in
religious houses. It required singular accidents, audacious and cynical
brutalities; to bring these detestable actions to public knowledge. How
many other victims have been, and, perhaps still are, entombed in those
large silent mansions, where no profane look may penetrate, and which,
through the privileges of the clergy, escape the superintendence of the
civil power. Is it not deplorable that these dwellings should not also be
subject to periodical inspection, by visitors consisting, if it be
desired, of a priest, a magistrate, and some delegate of the municipal
authorities? If nothing takes place, but what is legal, human, and
charitable, in these establishments, which have all the character, and
incur all the responsibility, of public institutions, why this
resistance, this furious indignation of the church party, when any
mention is made of touching what they call their privileges? There is
something higher than the constitutions devised at Rome. We mean the Law
of France--the common law--which grants to all protection, but which, in
return, exacts from all respect and obedience.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Wandering Jew, Book VI., by Eugene Sue

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