CHAPTER XVIII.
THE COUNTRY WILLS IT.
Events precipitated themselves with frightful rapidity. Veiled promises and secret encouragements on the part of Napoleon III. contributed largely to the development of an insurrection whose instigators were too confident in the diplomatic intervention of France, England, and Austria. A bitter disappointment was the result, as we know. A brutal reply from the Russian government sufficed to make Europe fall back, and rendered harder than ever the fate of Poland.
At the point whither our story has carried us, all hope of preventing a fatal catastrophe was not lost. Several men of influence, whose foresight was better than that of the foolish masses, made heroic efforts toward this end. Among these was our Jacob, whose interview with Gromof had resulted in enlightening him as to the fatal consequences of a premature revolution.
The most of the Jews rallied around the Marquis Wielopolski, a double-faced man, half Russian, half Polish, with equivocal politics. He was clever in appearance, but deceitful at heart, and sought to please both sides. This policy was not pleasing to the nobles, whom he held of little account; it alienated the ultramontanes, and irritated the revolutionists, whom he tried to reduce by violent measures. The marquis, much more authoritative than liberal, wished to inaugurate that which he called the legal progress; but not leaning on either party, he soon had every one against him. The Jews, however, sustained him for some time with ardour; but he soon displeased them, like the others, by an absolute want of tact in his conduct toward them.
Men of exalted opinions, whose only wish was to benefit humanity, and who desired to maintain a just moderation, were alienated and were left alone.
Jacob, although of an entirely different character from Wielopolski, was equally unfortunate. In his political rôle he was no more successful than in his character of religious reformer. Admitted to all the meetings, he perceived that he had no influence whatever.
He displeased the revolutionists by his wise warnings; the conservatives, by his transports of spirit; and the partisans of legal progress, by his spirit of independence. He had no communication with the Russians, with the exception of Gromof.
Among his own people, Mann detested him because he refused to bow down to him and admire him; for vanity was this individual's ruling passion.
Mathilde's father was devoted body and soul to the palace of Brühl, which was Wielopolski's seat, and received his former pupil coldly, for he did not wish to be ranked under the same banner. For the same reason Henri Segel, a zealous servant of the marquis, looked on him with pity. Bartold, less servile, nevertheless adhered to the new régime to a certain extent, and was surprised that Jacob did not follow his example. Ivas, whose relations with his friend were growing cooler, accidentally met him one evening.
"Jacob," said he, "the moment approaches when the country will need all her children's services. I was coming to ask you to pay your tribute, and I will give you the receipt. You have only to fix the amount yourself."
"I do not dream of refusing to make all necessary sacrifices," replied Jacob after a moment of thought. "But in giving I wish to know why I give. Will you give me your word of honour that it is not to aid the revolution?"
"It is truly to buy arms."
"If it is for that, I refuse. I am ready to sacrifice half, or more than half, of my fortune for Poland, but not one cent to light the torch of incendiarism."
"Man of little faith and frozen soul, how can you be presumptuous enough to suppose that you can hinder patriotic sentiments, or strong enough to overthrow all obstacles! Am I not right? We are sure of the people; we have the Catholic clergy, thanks to the marquis, who has also reconciled the masses; and we count on the greater part of the Israelites. We shall force the nobles to come out of their intrenchments and join us. In Russia the revolution ferments. Garibaldi promises us champions; Hungary, arms, men, and money. Austria is a beneficent neighbour; and, to finish, France and England will undoubtedly aid us."
"Softly! Softly! Repeat your enumerations one by one."
"If faith does not exist in you it is useless for me to talk further. I will listen to nothing. Will you give me the money? Yes or no."
"For the revolution, no."
"But the necessity is urgent, my dear Jacob. We must have money to-day; you cannot refuse us."
"I refuse; I have said it."
"I have been your friend and defender, and I am still; but above all, I am a revolutionist. Do you know to what you are exposed by your opinions? To death, perhaps; certainly infamy."
"Infamy, never! A man can only render himself infamous; others cannot imprint this stain upon him. As for death, I do not fear it. The preservation of life or of fortune by the sacrifice of profound convictions is unworthy of a true man, is cowardly. You can obtain nothing from me by threats; kill me if you wish; I firmly believe in the justice of God and the immortality of the soul. And so I am tranquil."
Ivas laughed, and was a little touched.
"You are a great child, my dear Jacob," said he, with an air of compassion. "I pity you, for you are not a man of this century. I regard you as a phenomenon, as a mortal who awakes after a thousand years of sleep into an epoch entirely different from his own. Nevertheless, I esteem you."
Jacob held out his hand silently.
"You cannot change me," said he. "It will be useless for you to try it. I feel that the world which surrounds me is not with me; however, as I am here, and I exist, it must be with some special design of Providence."
"I return to my pecuniary wants."
"Ivas," said Jacob, "tell me, what sum do you require, for yourself?"
"Nothing for myself; all for the country."
"And it is expressly to buy arms?"
"Yes; my conscience does not permit me to lie."
"And mine commands me to refuse."
"You are the first who has refused me so decidedly. Your conduct is a bad example. A rigorous condemnation awaits you. I leave you in sorrow, for, Jacob, you will die."
"I am not at all afraid to die, and your threat will not make me break my word."
"I beg of you, my friend."
"Do not supplicate me; it is in vain. Tell me that you will use the money to save men pursued by the Russian government, to facilitate their flight, and enable them to live, and I am ready to reduce myself to poverty for that; but for your insane revolution, not a rouble."
"I do not insist, but"--
"Very well. Have you seen Gromof?"
"Twenty times."
"What have you replied to his argument?"
"That he is a Russian; consequently, ardent in words, and timid in action. For the Russians the opportune moment never arrives. Their former conspiracies were broken up by a word from Nicholas; a word sufficed to calm a popular disturbance. A weak-kneed race, they are still as cowardly as then. I believe Gromof to be an agent of the police. He is suspected."
"What he says accords with the actual situation."
"I am one of those," said Ivas, "who will not listen to reasoning. Good sense, circumspection, are empty words for us. Hurrah for blessed exultation! Hurrah for ardour pushed almost to folly! We will march against the troops with our batons, convinced of being victorious."
"You are heroes," said Jacob, "and I admire you; but have you counted the cost? How long will this exaltation last? How many are there that feel as you do?"
"A hundred, or a million, what does it matter? The masses will follow us."
"The masses will be reduced to a handful of men, most of them adventurers who will do more harm than good."
"Stop, you weary me. Adieu, egotist, I wash my hands of what will happen to you."
"But before leaving in this hostile fashion, give me your hand as formerly, Ivas, and may God's will be done!"
Ivas hesitated.
"No," cried he. "I have ceased to be your friend, and in the future I will be your enemy."
"Are you insane, Ivas?"
"I belong entirely, body and soul, to the cause of the revolution; no more friendship. Good-night."
"Wait a moment."
"You will give us the money?"
"Impossible."
"You persist in not sacrificing your personal feelings to the interest of the country?"
"Not contrary to my convictions, my principles, never!"
Ivas was carried away by his enthusiasm, but was at heart honest and loving. At the threshold of the door strong emotion seized him; he returned and stood near Jacob.
"After all," said he with tears in his eyes, "I esteem you. Let us embrace."
They threw themselves into each other's arms.
As he was on the point of leaving he said in a grave voice:--
"But if to-morrow I receive the order to kill you for your disobedience to the revolutionary committee, I will come with cold blood to stab you. The country above everything."
"Blind heroism, which I respect without sharing. These are frightful times we are living in. How horrible is the regime which inspires hatred, and familiarizes honest souls with crime, and transforms an old friend into an assassin! What will not be the responsibility before God of governments whose tyrannous acts have engendered such despair!"
Ivas, without replying, left him with emotion.
Jacob expected to receive on the morrow his sentence of death, but it did not arrive either that day or later on. Ivas spoke on his friend's behalf, and he was not even declared a traitor to his country. All the revolutionists there understood Ivas, and ceased to have any relations with Jacob, who was considered from that day as a man from whom the revolutionary party had nothing to expect.
All this is true. The entire scene is scrupulously authentic. Author's note.
CHAPTER XIX.
A FATHER'S GRIEF.
Two days after the dramatic scene that we have just related Jacob was alone at his house, when he was surprised by a visit from Jankiel Meves, he who had furnished Ivas his first shelter. The old man, who appeared to be very sad, commenced by saying that he had profited by a sojourn in Warsaw to once more see Jacob, for whom he had the greatest esteem and whom he considered the hope of Israel. Then he spoke of the troubles of the country, and Jacob told him of the situation, and of his vain efforts to restrain the impetuous youth of the city from certain defeat; he added that he was discouraged, for his advice had been rejected with contempt, indignation, or rage.
"That is no reason," replied the visitor, "for abandoning your mission of peace, which is a divine inspiration. All truths," added he, "are at first badly received by men, but they soon take root, and often the very ones that shrugged their shoulders and refused to listen are the ones who become the most fervent converts."
"Thanks for your consoling words," replied Jacob; "you reawaken hope within my heart."
"Alas! I seek consolation from you," cried Jankiel; "I am an unfortunate father, a prey to the greatest sorrow. In my house shame and mourning are unwelcome guests. A serpent has glided secretly into my home, and has left his venom."
"I dare not ask you to explain your words," said Jacob.
"But I wish to tell you all. It is no secret; evil is difficult to conceal when the malefactor is proud of it. Of what use to me is the wealth that I have amassed by the sweat of my brow? To-day my most cherished daughter is no more to me than a stranger, and Lia is dead to her father! You know the David Seebachs, father and son. Accursed house, where the holy laws are neglected and ridiculed! Why has my daughter looked towards that dwelling? Would that she had died rather than that. Lia, my Lia, has been seduced by the younger David, who afterward abandoned her to her shame. And I--I ought to refuse her a refuge under my roof, so that she may not contaminate her pure and innocent sister, who laments the poor unfortunate in the most abandoned grief. My coffers are full of money, but Lia, perhaps, will be tortured with hunger! David was married; it was not known, for he lived apart from his wife. You saw Lia when you were at my house. Poor child, she believed in him; she was beautiful, but now she is a wreck; so young, what will become of her?"
With these words the old man wept bitterly, and in his despair tore his hair.
"You are," continued he, "honest and good; do not repulse me. Aid me. I am her father; honour demands that I keep aloof from my fallen child,--I who press the chaste lips of another daughter. My heart is broken, and I come to you."
"I am at your service," said Jacob gently. "Where is the unfortunate?"
"Here in Warsaw. But I am not permitted to see her; she dares not appear before me. The vile seducer has left her dishonoured. Who knows to what degree of misery she may fall! I have brought money for her; but, for her as for myself, there must be silence as to whence it comes. Will you take charge of it?"
"Certainly. I am at your service."
"I have the money with me. Take it and procure for her a shelter and a tranquil existence, where she at least can mourn in solitude, far from mocking sneers. Let her want for nothing. This is the service I beg you to do for me."
The old man took from his pocket a wallet, and tearing it open with trembling hands placed on the table several bank-notes of value, and a piece of paper bearing in Hebrew Lia's address.
Then embracing Jacob, "I leave for home to-day," murmured he, his voice broken by his sobs. "The air of this city oppresses me. Write to me. No, no! don't write. I will return. You will tell me all. Save her. The child is weak and accustomed to tenderness. Now she must meet misery, labour, suffering."
"Cease from lacerating your heart," said Jacob. "Trust me, I will be a faithful friend."
"Do not spare expense," cried the poor father. "Don't think of economy. I will supply you with more, but I beg of you not to let her know where it comes from; rather let her believe that distant relatives have aided her, that God has touched their hearts in her behalf."
With these words Jankiel raised his eyes to heaven. A passage of the Psalms came to his mind, and he recited a prayer. Jacob was affected almost to tears.
"I thank you for your confidence," said he. "I feel honoured by it, as you know me so slightly."
"I have heard much good of you," replied Jankiel, "and I was called to open my heart to you as to a compassionate physician. Farewell!"
CHAPTER XX.
MUSE CULTIVATES THE RUSSIANS.
Since the evening when Jacob had shown himself so much like Joseph in his interview with Muse, the relations between him and that young lady had gradually cooled. This resulted from an understanding between mother and daughter. They saw that his capture was not probable, yet resolved not to break entirely with him, but to keep him as a reserve. Henri Segel, although married, was much more promising. Muse did not deceive herself as to the nature of his love for her. It was a love which was not likely to prove lasting, but often led, when at its full height, to great follies. Madame Wtorkowska, again unsettled, insisted on the necessity of enlarging their circle of acquaintances, and said to her daughter:--
"These idiots do not appreciate you at your true value, and I am inclined to seek acquaintances among the Russians. They love society, and are better judges of grace and beauty than these foolish Varsovians. Let us attract them to us."
"An excellent idea, mamma. With the Russians an accomplished woman endowed with talents is a rarity; with us she is more common, and must have all kinds of accomplishments. With a man like Jacob all efforts are thrown away. He is an honest man, but utterly insensible. Why, I almost embraced Judaism, but that did not melt him. This acting fatigues me, and I have no desire to prolong it; we can never obtain anything from him; never! I proved it in our last interview. Without having any particular affection for Henri, I avow, mamma, that I count on him. He is mine. Mathilde gets weaker every day. She fades before our very eyes; but suppose she recovers--she is no obstacle. She has no children. Divorce is common with the Jews. Here is a husband for me worth having."
"My dear child, the honeymoon would be sweet; but afterward would he make you happy? He does not altogether please me."
"As for me," said Muse, "I am not afraid. I know how to manage him; and as for Jacob, he wearies me. He is too good, too pathetic."
As the result of this conversation, Colonel Sofronof and the Major Ierasimofskoy were introduced into the house of Madame Wtorkowska, who essayed to dazzle them by the elegance of her receptions. Muse captivated them both. Sofronof fell seriously in love, but as he was a practical man, much occupied with politics, he resolved to "kill two birds with one stone," and find out as much as he could in regard to existing affairs. He questioned Muse as to the opinions of her friends, ignorant that although she cultivated all, she had none. She had adapted herself to circumstances, she had sung patriotic hymns; but with the same ardour she had learned the Russian songs "Boge tsara Khrani" ("May God preserve the Tsar") and the "Red Sarafane," and on her piano lived in harmony, Polish inspirations and the official compositions of Lvof and Glinka to the glory of holy Russia.
The assiduity of the colonel led the mother and daughter to affect conservative opinions. They mocked at the revolutionists and the patriots, and all this accorded well with their aristocratic tone and manner of living.
Sofronof was a man of consummate cunning. Before he knew these ladies well he had believed them ardent Poles, and was very careful not to shock the opinions which he supposed they held. He spoke with great respect of the glories of ancient Poland, with pity of the sorrows of Poland of today. At the beginning of his passion for Muse he had been tempted, practical Russian as he was, to implicate the young lady in some political intrigue, and to have her imprisoned for two or three months in the citadel. Then he could pursue in the gloomy shadows of a cell the first chapters of his romance. The thing would not be difficult, the arrest easy; he had so many friends in the council of war. After some reflection, however, he abandoned this fine project, which had already been more than once put in execution by the gallant officers of the Tsar. Russians are so eccentric that their love-making even is somewhat original.
After some visits the colonel decided that he could be frank in his language with these ladies, without danger of wounding their Polish susceptibilities. Madame Wtorkowska spoke with enthusiasm of the reigning dynasty, and was pleased to recall memories of the reigns of Nicholas and of Alexander I., from whom her mother, as she said, had received a present of an amethyst necklace. She did not say for what service it was given; one could divine it. Muse, as liberal in words as it is permitted to be under the Russian régime, approved the emancipation of the serfs, and exalted the other reforms of Alexander II. Like her mother, she was careful to condemn the revolutionists. Sofronof understood, after having listened to these ladies, that the salon where his good fortune had led him could easily become the centre of an active political reaction.
On intimate terms with Muse, a good musician and an ardent dilettante, he pursued a plan of conduct in which he did not forget the possibility of eventual marriage. With the usual blindness of men newly arrived in a strange country, he was thoroughly deceived as to Madame Wtorkowska's social position. Neither they, nor their manners, nor their borrowed elegance opened his eyes to their true character. He took for real their false luxury, their pretended relations with the great world. Yet he was a little surprised, without knowing why, with the silence and the smiles that always followed the name of Wtorkowska; but he attributed this to Polish malevolence at the Russian proclivities of the ladies.
Muse knew well how to attract, encourage, and put her visitors at ease. After each visit the colonel was expected to return the next day. It was a commission with which he was charged, some desired information, or some promised anecdote. The mother could not have been more accommodating. She often made the cares of housekeeping a pretext for leaving them alone, and when she did remain, she appeared a little deaf. Sofronof was delighted with her.
At the end of some weeks he one day found himself alone with Muse.
"Mademoiselle," said he, "pardon me if I inflict on you a serious conversation, for I wish to express all that is in my heart. I wish to tell you of an occupation which absorbs me. You and madame your mother can, I believe, have a happy influence on present events. Why not profit by it? The revolution is imminent. We are here, yet we are, in spite of the military forces at our disposal, in an almost unknown country, and we are embarrassed to know the right way to maintain public order. You can be of great use to us."
"How?" cried Muse. "We are only women."
"Women play a primary rôle in Poland. They are involved in everything."
"But those are women of the lower class, not of the higher order, the aristocracy."
"Why should not a woman of the upper class who has opinions suit herself?"
"Women who are comme il faut cannot compromise themselves in the streets."
"They can act without leaving their homes."
"But why plunge us into these political questions?"
"In ordinary times it would be wrong for you to take any part, but in troubled periods like these it is your duty. The government has the right to ask your aid for the general good."
"And in what way can we be useful?"
"By enlightening us as to the situation. I swear to you that I have the good of the country at heart, within just limits and a firm union with Russia. Unfortunately, I and others can find out nothing."
Muse understood what he wished. She blushed at the suggestion, but the blush faded away rapidly. Lending herself to the colonel's views would, she thought, give her great power. It would raise her to great heights. Her imagination transported her almost to the steps of the throne, to the imperial dais. She looked at herself in the glass, and thought that her dreams of being at court had now some chance of being realized; and under this impression she replied:--
"Dear colonel, speak to me with entire freedom, I will listen."
"Be my counsellor and my guide," said Sofronof. "You have many friends. You see much society. Aid me to understand them; walk with me hand in hand."
Muse blushed, but said nothing and hung her head.
"I do not like politics and its embarrassing complications," said she. "However, if, as you think, I am capable of making myself useful, I will devote myself to the work heart and soul. But taking part in politics is like playing with fire,--one is often burned. In my situation as demoiselle, above all, this occupation might ruin my reputation and destroy my future. It is so easy now-a-days to fall under suspicion."
"Why entertain such fears," replied the colonel smiling. "You will come to Petersburg. There you will have the best reception. And every man on whom you deign to throw a glance from those irresistible black eyes will esteem himself happy, no matter how high his rank."
He paused; the hidden meaning of his words had been rendered intelligible to Muse by some foreign overtures. She judged that it was not worth while to be too particular at this crisis, and replied gayly:--
"Now, then, my dear colonel, you have not understood me. I merely wished to say that politics often cause much trouble."
Without further discussion they came to an understanding.
Some days after, Madame Wtorkowska's salon was thrown open with pomp. The assembly was, indeed, a motley one, and had been gathered from all classes; there were all kinds,--white, gray, red, blue. This was according to Sofronof's advice, and in this way was formed a neutral ground whereon all might meet on an equal footing. Jacob was there, and found himself more of a spectator than an actor. Since that famous evening when Muse reproduced scenes from the Bible, she had been very cold towards him. She no longer invited him to little games of cards, she sent him no more notes, and engaged him for no sentimental promenades. This change suited Jacob better than the attentions of former days. Henri Segel, also, was a regular visitor, and in the midst of the Russians was in his element; he paid court to them, accepted their invitations to dine, and invited them to his house. Mathilde, who under Jacob's influence had risen to a higher sphere intellectually and morally, was much disturbed by these incessant amusements. But her power was very limited, almost nothing. Absolute mistress of her own apartment, surrounded by her flowers and books, she lived a stranger in her own house. Her husband simply announced to her that such guests would dine with them that day, and often presented them to her without asking her consent. At table, the turn of the conversation was often displeasing to her. Her husband perceived it, but did not care.
Jacob, absorbed in the political situation, came rarely, as he was now sure to meet the Russians, whose frequent appearance at Mathilde's house was repugnant to him. He could not expect frankness from them; and he could not, in his turn, express himself freely before them, and this constraint put him in a disagreeable and trying situation.
Presumption and obstinacy usually accompanies a civilization as imperfect and superficial as that of the Russians. To appear progressive and liberal, they often, in conversation, express advanced ideas which they do not dream of putting in practice; to sincerity they reply by falsehoods.
Mathilde's life became more lonely and more isolated; she wasted away. Her cough increased, and she was consumed with fever. She passed entire days with her music endeavouring to forget her wearisome life. This distraction weakened her strength, but she refused to submit to any treatment. At night she read, creating thus an artificial imaginary world. Her only consolation, her only joy, was to talk with Jacob, in whom alone she had confidence; but he liked to come only when Henri and some of his new friends were amusing themselves. Then Jacob hastened to make a rapid examination of the progress of the malady which seemed to be consuming the young woman, and she looked attentively at him to discover if his brow was more gloomy, more care-worn. Afterward they pressed each other's hands, and separated.
It happened one evening at tea that no one was near Mathilde when Jacob arrived but the old English governess, who had become a friend of the house. He found Madame Segel very much changed.
"How rarely you come," cried Mathilde. "I know it is not indifference on your part, but if I had not perfect confidence in you, I should accuse Muse of depriving me of your society."
"Why do you speak of her?"
"Because it is evident that she has given entertainments in your honour."
"In my honour and in honour of a dozen others; Colonel Sofronof, and also Henri, your lord and master."
"I am not surprised that her fresh and blooming beauty pleases Henri more than my pallor and fatigue. There he finds smiles and songs, here sighs and tears. I do not wonder that he prefers her."
"Well, I do," said Jacob.
"If he were more devoted, I should reproach myself for not loving him. He is just as I wish him to be, polite, cold, and he leaves me entirely alone. It is some time now since Muse captivated him, but why should we care? What matters it to us?"
"Henri's conduct is indelicate"--
"What matters it, when I do not love him?"
Jacob walked up and down the room, and then stopped near Mathilde and looked at her fixedly.
"Pardon me," said he; "but a wild idea has just come into my mind."
"What idea? Tell me quickly."
"Divorce."
"No, no!" cried she. "I do not wish to bring to one whom I love with all my soul the miserable remains of my life, a broken heart and a sick body. Your idea is wicked and foolish. We have no right to seek happiness through scandal. Happiness gained thus will soon cease. Are we not happy as we are? What more can we wish? We can see each other often, talk, and press each other's hands, and we ought to be satisfied. To come nearer would, perhaps, prove a disenchantment for us both. Let us not renounce a supportable existence for dreams. Humiliated, faded, and weak, I am no longer the girl you formerly loved. No, no! Jacob, in the name of our love, never mention that word again. Do not tempt me; do not make me dream of happiness that can never be realized; it is impossible."
"The impossibility is only in your imagination. The thing is very feasible, dear Mathilde. What is there to bind you to your husband. He is as indifferent to you as you are to him. You have no children."
"Do not make me blush, Jacob. A woman should belong to but one man; whatever be her lot, happy or unhappy, she should submit, and be humble and resigned. I cannot commence life over again, and, moreover, I am standing on the threshold of the tomb, while your life has just begun."
"I thought that you loved me, Mathilde, as much as I love you!"
"More, for I have courage to sacrifice myself for your happiness. You cannot imagine how this idea of belonging to you has troubled my spirit. I assure you it has tempted me more than once, and I have always put it from me, as I do now. Have pity on me, do not oblige me to weep. I am weak, do not take advantage of my weakness."
"But this man is unworthy of you."
"Unworthy or not, I married him."
"And if he himself desired the divorce, would you hinder him?"
"Have you any reason for saying that?"
"No."
"Very well, then, say no more. Even if he desert me, I will refuse to be yours."
"This is folly, Mathilde."
"No, it is love. The true love of a woman who can love chastely. To give you my hand would be to put you in his place. After him; oh, no! that would be too humiliating."
"You are an angel, but I wish you to be a woman."
"Let us seek rather to elevate ourselves above this idle humanity."
"Perhaps you can attain this ideal, but I cannot."
"I can understand," said Mathilde with a slight blush. "I can understand an instant of aberration, a sudden and unforeseen fall; but I have no sympathy with the profanation of conscience by a designing woman. She who has pressed two men to her bosom, becomes afterward like an inn open to all. One only! only one for life and death!"
"And that only one, Henri!"
"No, it is not he! It is you, Jacob; he has only my body, you have my soul."
After a moment of exaltation she continued:--
"Tell me," said she, "do you really believe in the immortality of the soul and a life beyond the tomb?"
"Yes, I believe it. Otherwise man would have been an aspiration that God would not have realized. How else can we account for the desire for immortality that each one bears within his soul? Why should we suppose that this presentiment, this divination of a future existence, should be an illusion? As to the conditions of the future life we are ignorant. Man dreams that he will awaken the same as when he closes his eyes here below. That is perhaps an error; but one sure thing is, that the soul will not lose acquired virtues nor the reward for suffering, courageously endured. Certainly there is another world."
"You throw balm on my spirit; I desire to believe, but it is in vain that I search for faith in books. They puzzle me, and I always end by being confirmed in an ignorance which can be expressed in these words: I know nothing."
"Yes; but one does not draw faith from books, it proceeds from an inner voice."
"But this uncertainty; everywhere this dreadful uncertainty. Virtue, science, reason itself are so many spider webs which are torn by every wind. Yet it is frightful to die with this idea of annihilation in one's heart."
"Belief in God warrants us in this hope for the future. God cannot be unjust. He could not have implanted in us such strong and persistent hopes to make a cruel mockery of us. It is inadmissible if one believe in him. Have confidence in God and keep his commandments."
"But where is this law of God? In the books called holy? They differ; some of them are supposed to be revelation, others simple popular legends. How uncertain everything is, cold, empty, frightful!"
With these words she trembled, as if the spectre of death had appeared before her. Then she went to the piano, and played one of Chopin's touching fantasies, while Jacob listened. Some one put a hand on her shoulder, and Mathilde gave a little cry of fright. The dream was over. This was reality. Henri, with a cigar in his mouth, appeared before her.
"You have at last deigned to remember us," said he jokingly to Jacob. "You haven't been here for a long while. Mathilde, will you order the tea? What time is it? Nine o'clock. At ten I must be at the chateau. I have scarcely time to dress and to take tea, which is much better than I get there, in spite of their golden cups; but how can you stay in this room, it is freezing."
"I have not felt cold," said Jacob.
"The music has warmed you, then. Have you heard Muse play Liszt's last fantasie? It is stupefying."
"Muse's execution is marvellous, but she plays without expression."
"Profane blasphemer!"
Jacob said no more, and Henri looked at his watch.
"That which exasperates me is the white cravat; but one meets the best society at the chateau. The Namiestnik is one of the most courteous men in the world."
"Good-night," said Jacob, taking his hat.
"Good-night."
CHAPTER XXI.
LIA.
Jacob sought for two days the place where Lia had concealed herself. He at last obtained some information about her, and found that the poor girl's misery was horrible, but that she had endured it uncomplainingly and with angelic patience. She lived in the rue des Jardins, called thus because of the gardens which formerly abounded there, most of which had long since disappeared. The house was old and in bad repair, but it still possessed a small garden planted with fruit-trees. Under the shadow of the apple and pear trees grew beets, carrots, potatoes, and onions, also strawberries and raspberry bushes. In the centre rose a magnificent linden-tree, the pride of the proprietor. This tree gave shade, as well as some profit from its flowers and its bees. In many places the old and ruined house was propped up to keep it from falling, and the shingles on the roof were covered with a thick moss. In the lower part lived Jewish families blessed with many children; Lia lived on the floor above.
At the door Jacob met the landlady. She was very fat, and muffled up in an apron of foulard, on which the portrait of Napoleon I. was printed. At his first question regarding the lodger he sought, she looked at him suspiciously, and replied:--
"The woman for whom you ask lives here, but she receives no one. If, however, monsieur, your business is important"--
"Yes; I come on business."
"In that case you will find her in her room. She occasionally comes down to the garden, and sits under the shade of our linden. She has no right to the garden, but she is a poor girl, sweet and quiet. I pity her. Do you know her, monsieur?"
"Very little, hardly at all; but I have been sent by the family," said Jacob, somewhat embarrassed.
"Her family! At last, then, they have remembered the poor abandoned one. Oh, my good monsieur, she has suffered greatly! Go! Take the stairs. You will find a bell near her room; but if you prefer it, I will announce you. Your name? Perhaps she will refuse to see you."
"She will not recognize my name," replied Jacob.
"In that case, do as you think best, monsieur; to the right."
The staircase was old and dirty, with broken and uneven steps, and in place of a balustrade a rope was strung from one end to the other. Through the open doors of the rooms he could see large chinks in the walls through which came the heat and rain in summer, the cold and snow in winter.
Jacob knocked two or three times at the door; receiving no response, he decided to open it gently. The spectacle which met his eyes was heartrending. A chamber, or rather a miserable garret, destitute of furniture, was dimly lighted by a little window sunk in the wall. In one corner was a pallet, and by its side an old broken-down cradle which had done service for several generations. With her head leaning on a table a young woman slept. She had evidently been overcome suddenly by fatigue, for she still held in her hand some coarse cloth on which she had been working. Her feet touched the cradle in which reposed a feeble and sickly babe. The nourishment that the poor little thing drew from the maternal breast was not sufficient to develop its strength and vitality.
Lia opened her eyes, swollen with slumber; she believed that the intruder had made a mistake in the room, and remained silent and inert. Her sunken eyes and sad but calm expression denoted habitual suffering with resignation to misery.
Jacob stood on the threshold, undecided. Lia spoke at last and said: "Monsieur, what do you wish? Why do you come here? Who are you?"
"I come from your relations."
"I have no relations; I am an orphan," replied she apprehensively.
"I am sent for your good," said Jacob. "Do not be afraid. I do not bring bad news," said he tenderly.
"I do not expect news from anybody," cried she; "leave me, I implore you!"
With these words her terror increased, yet her slightest movement was graceful, full of candour and charm.
Jacob commenced by speaking of her native place. She began to weep bitterly.
"They have forgotten me there," murmured she. "Oh, do not try to deceive me! Yet," added she, looking at him fixedly, "you have the appearance of a good and honest man. Why should I fear you?"
"You have no occasion for fear, my poor girl."
Just then the babe awoke and commenced to stretch out its little arms. The mother forgot her sorrows and the presence of a stranger; she leaned over the cradle, over the only link that bound her to life, and caressed the frail creature, smiled, and spoke to him in a language which listeners do not comprehend, but which is intelligible to babies before they can speak. In this dark picture it seemed like a ray of sunshine. The infant soon slept again, soothed by his mother's caresses. During this scene Lia's beautiful hair became unloosed; it fell over her shoulders in thick tresses whose length denoted that she was unmarried, for the Jewish law obliges married women to wear their hair short. She blushingly repaired the disorder of her toilet and offered her visitor the only chair in the room, while she sat down timidly on the edge of the bed.
In the meanwhile Jacob had examined the room; a few iron pots on the little stove showed that Lia did her own cooking; stretched on a ladder against the wall some linen was drying. In spite of poverty the room was exquisitely clean, and from the open window could be seen the trees, while the birds sang in the garden.
"Your family have sent me," said Jacob. "Your friends have perhaps been too severe, but they still love you. You are in want of"--
"No, I am very well where I am. The house is quiet, no one disturbs me, no one questions me; at first it was a little trying, but now I am accustomed to it."
"If not for yourself, it is necessary for your child that you should leave this unwholesome place. That is the object of my visit; you must take a better lodging and a maid to help you."
Lia looked at Jacob, and her eyes filled with tears.
"But I desire nothing," said she.
"I bring you money," replied Jacob.
"I will not have it. I refuse this charity. I can work for my baby and myself."
"Your work will kill the poor little one who is dying for want of nourishment."
"Why should he live with my shame graven on his brow? He is my consolation, my only joy, but how much better would it have been for him never to have been born!"
"Do not despair; have confidence in divine goodness. You have been deceived by a wicked man."
"Wicked! Ah, yes, very wicked! I, who believed his words; I, who loved him so--perhaps he has sent you?"
"No."
"Swear it!" cried Lia.
"I swear it," replied Jacob.
"Then who is the charitable person?"
"It is enough for you to know that it is not he. As for the person from whom I come, it is a near relation, but you must not ask the name; I am not permitted to tell you. Confide in me. I will find you a quiet house where you will be protected."
"Oh, no! no protector, I wish to be alone."
"As you please; but at least you must leave here, and permit me to leave you a small sum for your immediate expenses."
"God is merciful, but man is wicked! I cannot believe that I can find a better place than this, where I am concealed and ignored; elsewhere they may be curious."
"Do not fear. I assure you I will find an asylum as retired as this, but more commodious."
"God is merciful!" repeated Lia. She kissed the infant's brow, and held out to Jacob a wasted hand, wasted by fatigue and poverty.
"I have been deceived once," said she; "but notwithstanding all that, I have confidence in you. Some one has thought of me enough to send you; perhaps they weep and love me still; but if it were not for my baby I would not leave this place. I cannot earn enough for two. I have had frightful days: only a cup of water, a crust of dry bread, and not a cent for milk. I knew not where to find work. I lost my head. I wished to die, yet the child demanded life. What terrible nights have I passed in cold and hunger while the child tore my heart with its cries. Oh, you cannot imagine greater torture!"
"You will be delivered now," said Jacob gently. "But one thing that I cannot understand is why you did not demand of the seducer aid for his child."
"I!" cried she. "I accept anything from that wretch! Before doing that I would a thousand times rather die, and see my child die. He wished to give me an income for life, and I threw his money in his face. He is a stranger to me, and my child shall never know him; he would have reason to blush for his father. Never shall my lips utter his cursed name, and I will efface it from my memory."
Jacob soothed her, and gradually reassured she asked:--
"Have you come from my house? Have you seen the old man whose name I dare not utter, the old man with a white beard, and the afflicted mother, and the sister who suffers for my shame, and the house where all were so happy before my folly converted it into a house of mourning and covered it with shame?"
"No, I have not been there recently."
"I believe I recognize you now. I saw you once when we were all so happy. You came one Sabbath, did you not? and you had a long and serious interview with the aged man."
"Yes. And I have not been there since that time."
"But he lives, does he not? They have completely forgotten me?"
"Yes, they are all living. God is pitiful, and his pity will extend to you."
"His greatest mercy for me and for my child would be for us to die."
"Life may yet have many pleasant things in store for you."
"Never!"
Jacob tried to divert her thoughts, and rose to go, saying:--
"To-morrow or the next day I will return myself or I will send for you. I will seek a more commodious lodging and a servant for you. Here is money for your urgent expenses and for new clothes."
He placed the money on the table. Lia was really so poorly clad that it was unpleasant for her to show herself on the streets.
"Cheer up," added Jacob; "I will look out for you."
Lia became frightened again; she wished to speak, but the words died on her lips, and her heart beat violently; her doubts returned, and Jacob divined it and said:--
"All that I have told you is absolutely true. I will never trouble you; it will be from a distance and invisible that I shall protect you. I beg of you do not misjudge me."
He bowed respectfully, and Lia, seeing that he had read her thoughts, repented of her unjust suspicions, and bowed in return. After he had gone she returned to the cradle and embraced the sleeping infant.