CHAPTER XXVIII.
LOVE OF COUNTRY.
It was not an easy thing to travel in Poland in the time of the revolution. The country was scoured by bands of Cossacks, and battalions of regular troops inundated the cities and villages, took possession of any place they fancied with impunity, and committed all kinds of excesses. In the ravaged fields the unfortunate farmers beheld both their friends and enemies tear from them the nourishment of their wives and children.
Mordko brought Jacob safely by a circuitous route to the post station, whence a carriage took him to the village where Jankiel dwelt.
Here he learned that the two Davids were absent. The elder lived in Warsaw, under the protection of the Russian governor, and the younger took some part in the insurrection, and had acquired the name of an ardent patriot.
Jacob surprised Jankiel, all alone, bent over a large book. He saw how suffering had emaciated the old man, who, not divining who his visitor was, did not raise his head, but signed with his hand that he wished to finish his pious meditation. At the end of a few moments he closed his book, and recognizing Jacob, received him with great cordiality.
"Do you bring me bad news?" he asked.
"No, I will tell you all frankly. I have been threatened with arrest; for what, I know not. I have been advised to absent myself, and I come to you to shelter me a little while from the storm."
"The storm is still far from its end. The clouds thicken; but come what will I receive you with all my heart, and my house is at your service."
"I am at present at the hotel."
Jankiel rose, went to the door, and called by name a Jew who was passing, and who came running to him.
"Go and get this gentleman's luggage at the hotel, and bring it to the chamber opposite mine.
"I will not permit you to dwell away from me," said he. "There is in this village a regiment of soldiers, who search every traveller. You will be safe here. But much as I desire your company, and you know how welcome you are, yet believe me it will be better for you to leave this place. There will soon be trouble here. The Russians are letting the revolution grow, so as to have a greater chance for pillage. I have been through all this before, in 1809, 1812, and 1831. What the result will be now, God only knows; but I fear the worst."
After a moment of silence and visible embarrassment, he added:--
"My wife is ill, my daughter is ill, and our house is in mourning. Only the holy books help me to bear my sorrow. Those people," he pointed to the house of the Davids, "are gone. One to the city, the other, it is said, to the insurgents. I do not congratulate them on the acquisition. Unhappy is the cause which is upheld by impure men!"
Jankiel and Jacob were reading, when suddenly there was heard in the silent street the sound of horses galloping over the uneven pavement. From the window they saw in the square below a group of Cossacks and several carts. There were savage cries, and then, in a vibrating voice, came an order for silence from the commander.
Jankiel sent out for information. A detachment of Russian soldiers, the advance guard of several regiments, escorted a chief of the rebels taken in a bloody combat, wounded and dying. The straw bed on the cart where the man lay was soaked with blood, and yet, if alive, he would be hung on the morrow! Such was the story told by the soldiers, who soon spread themselves through the dwellings of the village.
Jankiel foresaw that some of the officers would be quartered upon him, and, fearing what might follow, went to hide his daughter in her mother's room. He disposed of his money in secret places, known only to himself, keeping in his pocket a sufficient sum for urgent necessities. The precious vessels had already been carefully put in a place of safety. With perfect presence of mind he warned the servants to say that Jacob was his son-in-law, and then seated himself quietly to await events. The village was full of soldiers, who received orders to form a camp in the market square. The officers alone installed themselves in the private houses, and the night was advanced when the colonel of the regiment arrived at Jankiel's dwelling.
He was not a barbarous-looking man; his manner and bearing were those of a cultured person. Notwithstanding, the man was not necessarily a gentleman. For in the Russian army, as in Russian society, superficial culture often covers the most base corruption. Men who are charming in the drawing-room are often cruel and brutal in the exercise of authority, as if they wished to make up to themselves for the restraint placed on them by the requirements of society. The colonel bore a German name, Tendemann; his extraction was a mystery to every one, and perhaps to himself.
He was pale, excited, and angry; the reason for which was the responsibility which rested on his shoulders. He was no longer a man; he was a Russian in the full sense of the word. He entered without saluting any one, and without informing the proprietor. All he thought of was to lodge comfortably. At the door of his sick wife's room Jankiel barred the way respectfully, and said:--
"This is my wife's room, who is sick in bed."
The colonel, without noticing the old man, opened the door, examined the place indicated, looked into the next room, and then descended in silence to the lower floor. There he stopped, and said that he would stay for the night. His men soon spread themselves over the house, demanding loudly a samovar, a fire, candles, and hot water. In a spacious chamber several officers were engaged in boisterous conversation; from above it sounded like the noise of a storm accompanied by peals of thunder.
Jankiel and Jacob were seated alone, watchful and anxious. Information gathered from the servants verified the first reports. A Russian detachment, sent in the pursuit of a troop of insurgents, had surprised them in the middle of the night, surrounded and captured them. The Poles defended themselves with their usual heroism, but they lacked ammunition, and they were soon beaten. Their young chief fought valiantly until he fell grievously wounded. It was this hero whom they were taking to be hanged, a proof of his distinction, for the other officers who were captured had been simply shot on the spot. The colonel of the detachment watched this prisoner with great care, that he might not escape the scaffold, and ordered him placed in a neighbouring house under a strong guard,--an unnecessary precaution, for the unfortunate could not move and his case was a desperate one. His name the Russian soldiers mutilated after their fashion. Like most of the revolutionary chiefs, he went under one that was assumed.
The sufferings of the unknown, for whom a scaffold was being erected on the market-place, moved Jacob's sympathies strongly. If he could not serve him, he believed it his duty to at least console him. He communicated his desires to Jankiel.
"The thing seems very difficult to me," replied the old man; "but I will try and see him. After all, I do not risk much at my age."
Then Jankiel put on his long black coat, took his czapka, descended the staircase, and begged the guard at the door to announce him to the colonel.
The latter was lying on the sofa, his legs stretched out, with a cigar in his mouth, when Jankiel entered and stood respectfully at the door.
"What do you want?" asked the colonel brusquely.
"I wish to know if your lordship lacks anything."
"If I wanted anything in the house, I would take it without your permission. These are times of war."
"Certainly."
"What do they think here of the rebels?"
"Nothing, that I know of."
"Have they passed by here?"
"No."
"You all reply the same way, for you are at heart their friends. Jewish dogs!"
"We have always been loyal to our sovereign."
"And why, then, do you not chase the insurgents, and give them up to the authorities?"
"That would not be natural for Jews. We are peaceful men and have a horror of war."
The colonel rose and walked up and down the room. Jankiel bowed low, and said to him in a low voice:--
"Your lordship knows, perhaps, that, following a custom of our religion, when a man is sentenced to death, it is the duty of the Jews where the execution takes place to offer a repast to the condemned."
"What is that you are saying? The custom of which you speak no longer exists. You have invented it. Why do you wish to see the prisoner, and how dare you lie to me?"
The custom did not really exist; Jankiel had imagined it in pious thought, but how could Colonel Tendemann know about it? That is what the Jew asked himself, fixing a scrutinizing glance on the officer.
"Why do you look at me thus? What do you mean?" cried the colonel.
"It is admiration, for your lordship must be deeply learned to know what the Talmud does and does not contain. You have then, no doubt, read that which the rabbin Ichochuah said of prisoners."
The colonel, pale and trembling, listened to the old man. There seemed to be a struggle going on within him; his lips trembled, and a mist came over his eyes; the voice of Jankiel made a strange impression on him. He tried to force himself to be cruel, but in vain,--an invincible sentiment held him. The old man remarked this emotion, but did not know how to interpret it.
After a short silence the colonel wiped his forehead, and said in an angry tone:--
"Why do you remain here? What are you waiting for? Go away! Go away! Do not think of the condemned. His hours are numbered."
"May your lordship"--
"Go away before I do something to you!" cried he. At the same time he approached the Jew, and whispered in his ear in German:--
"Go away. I will come to you soon."
In the German pronunciation of the colonel, as well as in his features, there was a barely perceptible trace of Jewish origin. But why suppose this Russian officer to be a child of Israel? Jankiel refused to admit the thought. Nevertheless, he could not forget it, and was thinking of it when he entered the room. He said nothing to Jacob, who went to his chamber, a prey to the deepest anxiety.
About a half-hour later a step was heard on the stairs. The Muscovite entered, his face as white as snow. He glanced eagerly around the room, the Jewish character of which seemed to fascinate him; books, inscriptions, portraits of rabbins, all attracted his attention. He held out his hand to Jankiel, and said to him:--
"Salem alekem."
"Alekem salem," replied the old man, amazed.
No more explanation was needed. Without doubt the colonel was a Jew. His father, or he himself, in order to enter the service of the government, had adopted the orthodox Greek faith. Nevertheless, the fire of the belief of his ancestors and of his repudiated race burned beneath the ashes.
The colonel seated himself. Jankiel observed him thoughtfully.
The Russian's figure trembled with the remorse of apostasy. He was one of those numerous Jews who have adopted the belief, the customs, and the prejudices of the country in which they live, but have, in spite of themselves, often after several generations, irresistible longings for the faith of their fathers.
By a sign he indicated to Jankiel the sacred word inscribed on the door, and, approaching with veneration an open volume of the Talmud, turned the leaves respectfully. For many years he had not come in contact with the Hebrew characters and the language of the commandments, but he remembered the days of his childhood, when his father taught him secretly to read that language which had come upon earth from the mouth of God. At first he could hardly read the letters, but little by little light dawned upon him, and with intense delight he read on, oblivious to all around him; the day's combat, the tragedy of the morrow, his military rank, Russia, his Czar, and the entire world were all forgotten.
His eyes, unused to weep, were full of tears, of regret or of consolation it would have been difficult to say which; probably the two sentiments were united.
By chance his eyes fell upon this prayer for the dead:--
"God of mercy, deign to remember the men who have been more swift than the eagles and stronger than the lions in the accomplishment of thy holy will, and do not forget to show thy vengeance on those who have shed the blood of thy servants."
Jankiel contemplated with emotion that which seemed to him a miracle. The colonel, after reading for some time, seemed overcome, and leaned back in his chair. His host said to him gently:--
"God will be merciful to those who repent."
"I do not know," answered the servant of the Czar, "which I ought to regret more,--what I have been, or what I am; but is it my own fault that I am a renegade? My father chose for himself and for me. I belong to-day to an alien race. I weep when I remember Israel, until a wild madness possesses my spirit; then I tremble lest they may recognize under his new skin the cursed Jew. I tremble for fear I may betray myself by pitying a brother Jew. My children do not know that the blood of Jewish rabbis flows in their veins. Ah, may they never know that they are the children of a traitor, of an apostate!"
"Brother," said Jankiel, hastening to take advantage of his softened mood, "what are you going to do with the prisoner?"
"Do not speak of him. He is condemned by superior orders. To-morrow will be his last day on earth. I am sorry, but I can do nothing."
"It is a pity. Perhaps he has a mother, a sister, or a wife. I wish I could be permitted to see him."
"What is he to you? What have we Jews in common with the Poles? Have you forgotten their conduct toward our people?"
"I do not forget that we are born on the same soil," said the old man. "And our immortal lawgiver orders us to raise the burden from the weary beast. Should we have less compassion for a man, even if he were a pagan?"
"I am under the surveillance of a thousand evil eyes. You can, however, buy my soldiers with brandy or money. For money these wretches would sell their own father and mother. And then you may do what you can for the unfortunate man."
"You will permit it? I will send my kinsman in my place. He will be safe, will he not?"
"I permit nothing. I will shut my eyes, and I wish to know nothing of it."
Jankiel left the colonel for a moment to tell Jacob, and found him dressed ready for any emergency. He had already arranged a plan with an old Jew named Herszko, nicknamed the Madré. He put on his old clothes, with two bottles of rum in his pockets, and they went out on the street. The hour was late, the soldiers snored, and the sentinel walked slowly on his beat. Before the house where the prisoner was shut up an under officer watched, seated on a bench. He cursed and swore between his teeth. Fortunately, he was a confirmed drunkard, by name Fédor Michailovitch Chelmenko. As soon as he saw the two Jews in the distance he immediately thought that this might bring him a rouble, or at least a glass of brandy.
"Good-evening, officer," said the Madré; he saw that this was only an underling, but gave him the full title, hoping thereby to tickle his vanity.
"Pass thy way, Jew!" cried Chelmenko.
"You must be weary, seated on this bench."
"Certainly it is not very pleasant."
"Then why do you remain here?"
"What is that to you?"
"Excuse me, mere curiosity."
Herszko mischievously showed the neck of the bottle as if it were about to leap out of his pocket; Chelmenko saw it; the very sight of it made his mouth water.
"Let me taste it, miscreant," cried he.
"You guess what it is? No? Well, it is the genuine Jamaica rum, worth a rouble and a half a bottle."
"Let me see, quick!"
Madré handed him the bottle; the officer put it to his lips and swallowed some of the rum with great enjoyment, then said:--
"Now tell me what this means?"
"Officer," answered the old man, "my companion is a Jew, as well as myself. We have heard, but perhaps we are misinformed, that your prisoner is called Baïkowski; if so, he owes a large sum of money to my companion, who wishes to see him, and get his money, if possible."
"Rebels, rascals, knaves, get out of here! Don't you know that no one can see the prisoner? It is strictly forbidden."
Without hesitation Madré deposited on the bench the other bottle, and beside it three roubles.
"No one. I cannot let any one enter," murmured the Muscovite; then after a moment of reflection he added:--
"Follow me."
"Not I, but my companion," said the old man.
"Which you like. It is nothing to me."
Chelmenko, already tipsy, conducted Jacob to a door which he opened with a key. He pushed him into the room and shut the door after him.
The dark apartment was lighted by a single tallow candle, which hung in a lantern suspended from the ceiling. By this uncertain light Jacob saw stretched on a straw pallet in the corner a human form with one arm extended. From the breast of the man came deep and broken respiration like that of the dying.
The condemned made an effort to carry his hand to his wounded leg, but he fell back heavily with a sharp cry. His head was a little raised, and by the ray of light which fell on his face, Jacob, with a great cry of sorrow, recognized Ivas.
With disordered hair, foaming mouth, and wild eyes, the young man raved:--
"I am ready. March! A ball in my leg! No matter! Down with the Muscovites! Let us attack them!"
Then silence.
"Ivas! Ivas!" cried Jacob. "Don't you know me?" The sick man turned, his eyes toward him.
"You? Who are you?" said he. "Pole or Russian? A spy, perhaps. Yet that voice! Aqua Sola! Lucie Coloni! Paris--the boulevards! Who are you?"
"Jacob, your friend Jacob."
"Ah! Jacob the patriarch. Are you also a rebel? Oh, my leg, my leg! It is terrible!"
"Ivas, try to collect your thoughts," said Jacob. "Perhaps I can be useful to you."
"Certainly! More arms, more ammunition. Give them to me!"
"My brother, you are wounded; a prisoner condemned."
"Ah, yes! I remember. We were concealed in the forest. Beaten! Wounded! How dark it is here! Is it a hospital or a tomb? Can they not at least bury me decently?"
"Have you any wish to have carried out, anything to confide in me?" asked Jacob.
"The Cossack told me that I would be hanged to-morrow. No matter! I will return to the world in the form of a mad dog to murder them. Towianski teaches the transmigration of souls. He is right. If there is a God, where is he? Is he afraid of the Russians?"
"Ivas," repeated Jacob, "rouse yourself, and tell me if you have any last instructions to give me."
"Liberty or death! Have they all perished? The scaffold awaits me. A cord of hemp. After that, nothing! It will hurt my throat, like strong tobacco. Were you ever hanged, my Jacob? No? Who knows; perhaps you were, under another form, according to Towianski. It will, I think, be the first time for me. I haven't the least idea of the thing, but I will be calm; I am no coward."
"Ivas, have you any relations, any friends? tell me."
"None! My mother died a long time ago. There is no cross over her grave. She was too poor; I was a little boy. With pebbles I designed a cross. My father? I have never seen him. Other relations? They turned the cold shoulder to me because I was poor. My will? Behold it. To arms!"
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing," replied Ivas, who had somewhat regained his mind. "Nothing. I have no one in the world. Ah, yes! there is some one. You remember that old house that I showed you one day in Warsaw? On the fourth floor lives Marion, sad and thoughtful. She is a laundress, but in her former life she was, I am sure, a queen. But she has forgotten it. I think she loves me. Tell her that I thought of her when dying. She made me two shirts for the journey. Her hands are large and red, but she has the heart of an angel. Or, rather, tell her nothing. That will be better. She will forget me, and console herself with a Russian officer. The poor girl!"
"Ivas," said Jacob, "my time here is short, we shall never meet again. Be calm, and think if there is anything you wish me to do."
"I ask you to avenge me. How hot I am! Ah! Ah! An immense cemetery. They dance. The earth is freshly broken up at the sound of a violin. Some bears are dancing. The good God is looking at them from heaven through a little skylight. He strokes his mustache, and marks the measure."
"Ivas," cried Jacob, "be calm, I beg of you."
"Yes, I remember there were millions. We were a handful, and they attacked us, but we fought them. We did our duty! All dead! Requiescant! Is this death? Provided my soul does not enter into the body of a Muscovite, I do not care."
Jacob tried, without success, to make Ivas realize his situation. As soon as the dying man became more conscious, the pain of his wound was so extreme that, to prevent himself from crying aloud, he buried his head in the straw; then the delirium returned. It was a heartrending spectacle.
"Do you wish a priest?" asked the Jew.
"A priest? There was one in our band. Brave frater! A ball in his head, he is dead. A priest for me? What good? I have not confessed since my mother was no longer here to make me kneel and pray. A priest! I want none. It would do no good, for God has gone on a visit to St. Petersburg, and no one knows when he will return. They do not confess the dead, and I am already dead, although I can still speak."
Then he continued his raving.
"Do you think they could have taken me alive? Never! Tell Marion that I had one of the shirts on, and the handkerchief around my neck, and also the medal of Notre Dame de Czestokowa, but the mother of God did not aid me! They have killed me!"
Jacob tried to revive him with some cologne that he had in a little flask. He bathed his forehead and temples, and poured several drops in his mouth; but it was useless.
"You perfume me," said the poor boy. "I smell it. I cannot go to the ball, I cannot dance."
He grew worse and his ravings continued. Snatches of songs, military commands, fragments of prayers and oaths, were all mingled together in an unintelligible manner.
Jacob was kneeling, holding the burning head of his friend, when suddenly some one struck his shoulder. It was the officer.
"Enough of this! Get up and come away!" said he.
"Dear Ivas," cried Jacob, without paying attention to the man; "one word more, dear Ivas, your last word!"
The condemned raised himself, threw his arms around his friend's neck, and with an expression full of love and enthusiasm, cried:--
"My country!"
Then he fell back weeping and laughing at the same time. The delirium had returned. The officer took Jacob by the shoulder and forced him out of the room.
Madré awaited him, and before he let them depart the officer extorted a present.
Before retiring, Jacob knocked at Jankiel's door.
"Have you seen the poor man?" asked his host.
"Yes."
Then he detailed the interview with Ivas which terminated with the thrilling words, "My country!"
During this sad recital, in the silence of the night they could hear, on the square below, the blows of a hammer. It was the gibbet of the young patriot which they were finishing in the centre of the marketplace. They passed the rest of the night in prayer.
Ivas died before daybreak, and as they were unable to execute him living, they hanged his dead body. The Russians having thus proclaimed their victory quitted the village, leaving their souvenir of terrorism.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE GORDIAN KNOT.
The same morning that Jacob left his house for fear of arrest, Henri Segel returned to breakfast. It was only at meal-times that he saw his wife, and then for but a few moments. He usually went away so early in the morning that Mathilde rarely saw him until evening.
This day the poor woman, consoled by her explanation with Jacob, had more colour than usual, and appeared to have recovered her health.
"I am really distressed," said Henri, seating himself at table, "and you will share my anxiety when you hear that Mann's prophecy has been realized. They have tried to arrest Jacob."
Mathilde grew very pale, and cried:--
"Arrested? Did you say arrested?"
"Why this emotion?" replied her husband smiling.
"Answer me! I beg of you!"
"He was warned in time, and has eluded the police, but they have searched his house."
"I breathe," said Mathilde. "Is that all you know?"
"Provided with a passport he will probably leave for Austria or Prussia. He is a strange man, I never could understand his character."
His wife smiled. Henri was annoyed at this mocking smile and said:--
"It seems to amuse you that he should, be an enigma to me."
"Not at all. It is very natural. Your characters are so dissimilar, that you could not possibly understand each other."
Henri replied, with some bitterness:--
"You are very flattering. If this man, so opposite to me, has all your sympathy, what sentiment then have you for your humble servant?"
"My sentiment for you," replied Mathilde simply, "you already know. It has satisfied you, and you have never tried to awaken any other."
Henri looked at his watch, took his hat, and started to go; then he returned, and said in an offended tone:--
"My dear, if you are tired of our conjugal tie you have only to say so. It is very distressing to me to be the cause of your regret and of your secret sorrows."
Mathilde looked at him with an air of dignity.
"You wish to say," asked she, "that you do not find the situation to your taste?"
"How can it be agreeable for me to contemplate without ceasing the statue of melancholy? Is this happiness? I think not. You must at least admit that I bear my fate heroically."
"You reproach me?"
"Your sadness, your gloomy looks, say plainly that you are not happy."
"You believe, then, that the honour of being your wife ought to make me happy? What can we do? We cannot change anything, can we? We must bear it, for we have taken before God a sacred vow, and must drink from the same cup, be it bitter or sweet."
Henri grew excited, while his wife's face remained as calm as marble. He shrugged his shoulders, and hastily left the room. The carriage awaited him, and he was driven alone to Muse. She was all alone, but ready to receive company. She was elegantly dressed, perfumed, and in charming humour, and she greeted Segel warmly.
"Have you heard the news?" asked he.
"What news?"
"Jacob has fled."
"How could I, living in the same house, be ignorant of it; and I trembled for him, from what I know of Colonel Sofronof and Count Bavorof."
"He is now almost an outlaw," replied Henri. "More than once I have attempted, but unsuccessfully, to make him listen to reason. What eccentricity! He has often argued with the Russians and told all his thoughts, and the Russians did not like his sincerity; they required that men's convictions should bow to them, or else be concealed. I pity Jacob; but he is incorrigible and destitute of all prudence or policy."
Several visitors arrived. There was as usual a mixed crowd, and on one side Mann harangued a little group of friends.
"I avow to you, gentlemen," said he, "that I am delighted to be delivered from Jacob. He was a most compromising person, who belonged to neither party. He stood entirely alone, and such individuals are naturally victims of their narrow individuality; but after all I hope that nothing very bad will happen to him."
"Provided that he is not drawn into the revolution," remarked some one.
"I do not fear that," replied Mann. "Jacob is not a man of action. He knows how to think and talk only."
Just then Mathilde's father came in; he was much disturbed.
"What has become of Jacob," asked he.
"He has gone."
"Where? That is what I wish to know. He was the cause of a pretty scene at my house. His old Jewess mother came there in her ridiculous costume early this morning. She caused a general laugh in the house. That is not all. Unfortunately there arrived just then an aide of the Grand Duke Constantine. She was seated in the salon. Groans, tears, lamentations; judge of my situation! I had great trouble to rid myself of her. What a foolish visit! The good woman does not know where her son has gone but she is sure he has not crossed the frontier."
"We shall, no doubt, soon hear of his exploits," said Henri. "The laurels of Berko will prevent his sleeping. He dreamed of the picture of Kossack, and of giving the artist a new subject. That which is most deplorable in this adventure is that it prejudices the government against us all. It will be necessary for us to be very circumspect, and to furnish fresh proofs of our devotion and of our loyalty."
During these remarks from Mann the fascinating Muse questioned Colonel Sofronof about Jacob. He feigned surprise, and vowed that he had not heard of Jacob's flight, with an assurance that proved that he knew more about it than any one else. He questioned right and left, expressed some chagrin, and promised to make some inquiries, and from his face even Mann guessed that the source of the denunciation was well known to him.
"In these days," murmured Sofronof, "it is wise to be doubly prudent as to what we say. Jacob did not weigh his words. I think, however, that he is not threatened with anything terrible. Perhaps temporary exile to the borders of Russia. He will not be executed."
After the visitors had gone, Muse was going to the piano when her mother came to her.
"Let us have a chat," said she.
"Well, say on, dear mamma."
"In all probability Jacob will never return."
"No matter, he is crossed off my list."
"Against whom, then, are your batteries directed?"
"Against Henri first. Failing him, Sofronof."
"I wish to talk of this Muscovite. Under his polished exterior I can discern the Tartar; his fortune is problematic, and his character is amiable enough in society to be disagreeable in private life. I do not like him. He is a cold-blooded animal. Why do you not repulse him?"
"Alas! It may be necessary to take him as a last resort."
"Henri gives us very little hope. He will not divorce Mathilde, and she obstinately lives on. She is not consumptive; her physician has told me so. Her malady is only ennui and weakness. She may live for years."
"Never fear. Henri becomes more amorous each day. He has no secrets from me, and he has decided to divorce her; but, can you believe it, mamma, she does not wish it. As she loves, I thought the idea would please her; but no. She has I know not what strange notions of the sanctity of marriage, the marital tie, and marriage vows, such ridiculous ideas! The English governess, who often hears the conversation of the lovers, has related to me these sentimental scenes. It is a Platonic love taken from some old romance, and not from the romances of to-day,--a mystical and unintelligible love. What fools they are to refuse their own happiness! Mathilde has even told me of her theories. I adroitly led the conversation to the subject. Poor woman! I could scarcely keep from laughing in her face. Henri seeks his own desires and mine. He dreads only the explanation with his father-in-law."
"If you have gone so far with Henri, I must hesitate no longer," said the mother. "We cannot wait in this suspense until the judgment day."
"These Russians, Bavorof and Sofronof, have played me a villanous trick in forcing Jacob's flight. He would have been of great use to us. Henri counted on his presence when he put the question of divorce before his father-in-law, for Samuel would be disposed to consent on condition that Mathilde would marry Jacob immediately after the rupture. No Jacob, no divorce. We counted on him, and now he is gone."
"What a misadventure," cried Madame Wtorkowska, wringing her hands.
"Bah! We can arrange it. I will have Henri. The others? I am disgusted with them."
Her mother said in a low voice:--
"To marry Henri will be the same as to marry a widower, for a divorce is almost the same thing."
"What has that to do with it? I wonder how many times most men have been widowers before marriage."
"That is true. Then that is no objection; but you must hasten things, my child. Be quick about it."
"Ah! I understand that there is no money in the house. I will borrow some of Henri."
Madame Wtorkowska thanked Heaven that had given her so practical a daughter.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE INSURGENTS.
"H----, July, 1863.
"The Russians had scarcely vacated the village when the insurgents arrived. They marched through the streets, bearing a banner on which the national colours were surmounted by a white eagle painted on wood. They were a small band of men, armed for the most part with scythes and pike-staffs, while some had only heavy sticks with pointed iron ends. There were no uniforms. Each one was equipped and clad as circumstances had permitted at the time of his enrolment. Their forms were strong, and their faces expressed energy already clouded by dark despair. All knew that they were marching to certain death, and knew not what torture or misery awaited them.
"The body of Ivas had been cut down after the execution, but the gibbet still presented its gloomy front to the market-place. The chief of the insurgents saluted it, and inclined his head, and all his troop followed his example. It was a mute and solemn homage rendered to a martyr.
"I could not help feeling for these men a sentiment in which was mingled compassion, sympathy, and respect.
"The young commander recognized me, for he had seen me with Ivas at Warsaw. He was much affected to hear from me that the condemned man had been our mutual friend. 'One of our bravest,' murmured he; 'but our country demands such sacrifices. Oh, if only we were better armed!'
"Our conversation was not of long duration. The detachment had entered the village only to recruit, and succeeded in gaining a dozen volunteers. They also found some guns and swords, dating from 1831, covered with rust.
"This heroism in poverty transported me back several centuries to the times when the Israelites rose against Roman oppression. Here was the same self-sacrificing spirit, the same love of liberty. My eyes filled with tears, and thoughts came into my head that I had not before entertained.
"Let us go with them, thought I. Let us die in the ranks of these heroes. It is glorious to shed one's blood for his brothers.
"Yesterday I would have hesitated. To-day I felt around me such an empty void that the future appeared aimless, and the thought of action inspired me. I, who had refused money for the revolution, I would offer my life. This seems strange, does it not? But do not condemn me without reflection. It is necessary to seal the act of alliance, contracted between the Israelites and Poles. My example will prove that this alliance is accomplished.
"This letter, friend of my youth, is like my last testament.
"I recommend to you my mother. Let my brother Israelites know why I have taken this step. I owe to the mission that we have received from God to return again to the past of an elect people. This mission is, to be more noble, more devout, and more loving than other men.
"Farewell! You already know all I wish to say, for you have always been the confidante of my inmost thoughts. It is you who have inspired me with the resolution I have taken. If you had left me the shadow of a hope, I would, perhaps, have valued my life more; but you said one evening that a woman ought to be the wife of one man only, and as at the same time my brother Israelites have refused to listen to my voice, I am convinced that I am useless here below.
"Do not regret me. God will give me grace to meet death joyfully.
"To-morrow we leave here. I am well equipped. I have bought a horse and arms; I shall serve as a private soldier, for there are already too many leaders.
"God is great; the soul is immortal, and pure spirits may, perhaps, meet again in another world."
The reader has already divined that this was a letter addressed by Jacob to Mathilde. We have suppressed the commencement, which related to events spoken of in the preceding pages.
Henri Segel received it in his mail, and hastened to take it to his wife.
"What can it be?" asked he.
"A letter from Jacob," she replied, without hesitation, recognizing his writing.
She read it hastily.
"What has become of him," asked Henri again.
"He has joined the insurrection."
"Ah, it wanted only that! He has done us a great injury. The government will imagine that we are all more or less implicated in his folly. But is the thing certain?"
"There is no doubt whatever," and Mathilde read with a trembling voice a passage from the letter. The husband seeing her so agitated left her, and himself became thoughtful and gloomy.
The news spread from mouth to mouth over the city. Some refused to believe it, while others rejoiced at it. Jacob had no warm friends, and few were sorry for him.
The same evening Sofronof went in triumph to Muse.
"Well! He has joined the insurgents, this man that you accused me of suspecting without motive!"
"You jest. Was he not the enemy of the revolution?"
"Yet he has enlisted under their banner. The Poles are all the same. The sight of their eaglet always has an irresistible attraction for them."
"It is nothing to me," replied Muse; "but I will not believe it without more ample information."
Just then Henri Segel arrived and confirmed the news. He had a dejected air, and was careful not to speak of the letter the colonel had had in his hand that morning. He well knew that all suspicious letters were read before the distribution of the post.
Mathilde's father also was much chagrined on hearing the news. Without deep feeling, he had, nevertheless, a certain affection for his cousin. Perhaps, also, he counted on him for restoring to health his daughter, whom he saw daily fade before his eyes. Without saying anything, he hastened to Mathilde at the hour when he was sure to find her alone. The servant said to him that she was ill, and had given orders to admit no one; but the father, using his authority, went straight to her bedroom. He found her with disordered hair, eyes red with weeping, and cheeks burning with fever. Mathilde was no longer the marble statue, cold, resigned, impassable, inert.
At the sight of an unexpected visitor she blushed with the timidity of a child. But her education had inculcated a respect, almost a veneration, for her father, who had repelled all familiarity, all confidence; she tried, with a forced smile, to conceal the violence of her grief.
"I pity Jacob," said the father abruptly. "He courts his ruin; I wish to save him."
"But how can you?" asked the daughter.
Samuel did not reply immediately. He took several steps about the room. It cost him something to be, for the first time in his life, frank with his child. Suddenly he stopped before her, and, looking at her fixedly, said:--
"Your secret is known to me. Common sense has until now commanded me to close my eyes. But the time has come to treat the wound by severe cauterization. Now or never. You love Jacob, and he loves you. This love has not died out. I believed that your childish affection would disappear, but, contrary to my expectations, it has remained permanent, and surpasses all my ideas of love. You are unhappy with Henri; he was not made for you; his spirit is earthly, and yours is exalted in a high degree."
"Nevertheless," said Mathilde, "I have nothing to say against Henri."
"You mean that he observes the proprieties; and yet he has let himself be fascinated by Muse, who deceives and despoils him. Do you wish to save Jacob? You can do it; you alone. I will arrange a divorce with Henri. He is anxious for it. Give your consent, and the thing is done; then I will marry you to Jacob, who will make you happy. You can live in Italy, and in a few years, when the country is again peaceful, you can return to Poland. I will obtain Jacob's amnesty; I have influence enough for that."
Mathilde kissed her father's hand, and said:--
"Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible."
"Why? Why?"
Mathilde replied with timidity:--
"I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?"
"No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do you want?"
Mathilde, sighing, replied:--
"I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness."
"Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you accept my proposition? Yes or no?"
"Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I will reply afterward."
Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said, "Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of weakness, and her heart beat violently.
"The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self."
Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an agitated voice:--
"I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please." Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging.
Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:--
"I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him, and excuse his retirement."
He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him.
When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear:--
"Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you needless annoyance."
Soon after Samuel appeared at the salon of the Wtorkowskas. The siren was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening, forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement, he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska.
"I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an important matter that concerns you."
"Very good!" replied she, rising and taking his arm. "Come to my room."
When they were alone, Samuel asked:--
"No one can hear us, I hope? I wish to speak to you with entire frankness."
"Do as you would in your own house," replied she.
"To play a part is disagreeable to me, and so to open the matter I will tell you, without reserve, that I know that you are ruined, dear madame."
"Softly, softly!"
"Softly, softly! I am aware that your only fortune is your debts. Your only hope is your daughter. To find a rich husband is not so easy. I am sure that these are your opinions."
"We have several persons in view, monsieur."
"Who are they?"
"Count Bavorof."
"Bah! A Russian who has no fortune but his position. Beside, he is married. His wife lives in Paris, and has no wish to be free, and in Russia divorce can be obtained only by special influence. I do not think you would be willing to give Muse to the count."
"What nonsense you are talking."
"Who next?"
"Colonel Sofronof is madly in love."
"In the Russian fashion. Sofronof lives by his appointments and thefts. He possesses some land, mortgaged to its full value. Let him pass. Next?"
"The counsellor of state, Pikulinski."
"What! that old fool?"
"For a husband it does not matter."
"That is true. In marriage, foolishness is at times a good quality; but his little property is pledged to the Crédit Foncier. Your counsellor is a nobody. His emoluments are too slender. Another?"
Madame Wtorkowska sighed deeply. She was at the end of her list, for it was hardly worth while to mention, after the counsellor, two petty officials who possessed only their titles and their brilliant uniforms. Naturally she dared not suggest Henri Segel to his father-in-law.
"Why, madame," replied Samuel, "are you lacking in sincerity, when I come to chat with you in the most confidential manner?"
"And whence comes, monsieur, this suddenly friendly guardianship for my daughter and myself?"
"Your question is logical. It may be possible that I am myself interested in the affair, and that may be the cause of my solicitude to serve you. Confess, then, with an open heart. Do not hesitate to mention the name of my son-in-law, whom you have so entangled."
"What do you mean? I cannot shut my door on Monsieur Segel."
"I know your plans, dear lady," replied Samuel laughing. "Let us show our cards and be friends. You have speculated--own it--on Mathilde's phthisis. You have even wished that her physician would confirm your hopes. Bitter deception! And during this time you have endeavoured to ensnare Henri, and you have made an easy conquest. Now, listen to me, madame. My daughter cannot be happy with him. I cede him to you. Take him. Try and persuade him to demand a divorce; the initiative will never come from Mathilde. You will have me for an accomplice. I give him up freely. Do what you wish, provided you rid me of him. Do you now understand the cause of my solicitude for you?"
Madame Wtorkowska was stupefied. She stood still a moment. Then her joy overcame her. She threw her arms around Samuel's neck, and kissed him several times; but, as he did not enjoy the caresses of elderly matrons, he freed himself from her embraces, and said:--
"Twenty or twenty-five years ago this exuberance of affection on your part would have charmed me. To-day it is too late. I am too old. What do you think of my proposition?"
"Dear benefactor," replied she, wiping the perspiration from her face with her handkerchief, "I cannot reply without consulting Emusia. In a few moments my rooms will be empty; she will see you herself. Wait here."
"With pleasure, madame; but I will light a cigar if you will permit it."
"Ten if you wish," replied the mother, closing the door on Samuel.
There were still some visitors in the salon. She made a secret sign to her daughter, and a few moments afterward Muse complained of a headache. Her admirers regretfully took their hats and left the house. The particulars of the interview were soon learned, and her delight was equal to that of her mother.
Nevertheless, before going to meet Samuel, she assumed a calm and dignified mien.
"Your mother has no doubt spoken of my proposition. Let us discuss, then, without restraint," said Mathilde's father.
"But, monsieur, the subject is so delicate, so embarrassing, so painful."
"Painful, mademoiselle, in what way? Not for you; nor for me, I think. Delicate. Yes! Let us treat it with delicacy."
"I like Mathilde so much," said Muse.
"Then you will give her a real proof of your friendship by delivering her of a husband who does not suit her, who will suit you, and who loves you."
Muse tried to appear very much embarrassed.
"Dear mademoiselle," said Samuel, "we can dispense with acting; you can gain nothing by it. I ask of you entire frankness. If you wish to succeed, you must act. Make Henri believe that Sofronof is a dangerous rival. I will tell everywhere that the colonel wishes to marry you at any price. Henri will be in despair; then push him to the end of the wall; exact a divorce, and advise him to take Mann for an intermediary between him and me."
"That is admirably planned," cried Madame Wtorkowska.
"Yes, the plan is excellent," added Muse, putting aside all embarrassment. "I am sure I shall play my part to the satisfaction of its author."
"Well, I will be obliged to you if you do not make the play long. I am anxious for the end."
"I will do my best."
"I do not doubt that you will accomplish wonders," said Samuel, gallantly kissing her hand. "And now, mademoiselle, do not fail to tell me if I can be in any way useful to you at any time."
He then took his leave. Madame Wtorkowska conducted him to the antechamber, and then returned to throw herself in her daughter's arms. She laughed and wept by turns for very joy. Muse was more quiet, but no less delighted, and she passed part of the night making plans for the morrow.
The news soon spread through their circle of acquaintances that Mademoiselle Wtorkowska was soon to marry Colonel Sofronof. At first Henri shrugged his shoulders; but he heard it from so many different sources, with details added by this one and that one, that he grew uneasy, and, wishing to hear the rumour denied, hastened to Muse.
She received him coldly, and was so reticent on the subject that it seemed as if she were on her guard, and afraid of committing some indiscretion.
Segel thought that there must be some truth in the rumour. He became furiously angry, and the ingenious coquette soon brought about a quarrel. He took his hat, and she did not detain him; but at the door he paused, then returned, threw his hat on the floor, and seated himself again, filled with wrath.
A violent scene ensued. Her mother appeared as the deus ex machina. She reproached Henri with compromising her daughter, and called him selfish and heartless. The comedy waxed pathetic. Finally, Henri had to choose between a dismissal or a divorce. Vanquished and subdued, he promised to take at once the steps required by them.
Muse then feigned to shed tears, and he tried to console her. Her mother disappeared, leaving the lovers alone. Segel obtained some kisses, and advice to take Monsieur Mann as an intermediary, and he promised to see Mann at once. Mann, well instructed, at first resisted, moralized, and deplored the situation, but ended by consenting.
And yet, when Henri returned home, he experienced a strange feeling of repentance for his haste. Mathilde presented herself to his mind as calm, sweet, and pure; Muse, on the contrary, under a menacing aspect. The one he did not love, but esteemed; the other he loved, but did not esteem. He loved her, if a passion which was entirely sensual merits that name.
He saw himself in the future bound to a new companion, full of coquetry and schemes, and endowed with an unendurable mother-in-law. He saw the luxury with which he would have to surround them, and the slavery to which he would be doomed. He shivered with dread at the very idea. Unhappily for him, it was now too late to draw back.
Mathilde looked for an outburst the next morning at breakfast; but none came. Henri was unusually reserved, almost timid; he looked at his watch often, and under pretext of important business soon left the house.
Mann came to dinner, and informed Segel of the happy result of his negotiations. At table the couple, already morally divorced, seemed ill at ease. Mathilde taciturn, Henri almost mute, let Mann and two other guests do the talking. At dessert came Samuel, who amused the company for some time with his witty sayings. On leaving the table he took his daughter by the hand to lead her to the garden. He insisted on her putting on her hat, saying the sun was yet warm; then he conducted her to the street, where a carriage awaited them.
"My dear child," said the father, "we will take a short ride. It will do you good, for the air is fresh and agreeable this evening." A half-hour after, the carriage stopped at the door of her father's house.
"Here," said he, embracing Mathilde, "is your home. You will not return to Segel's. I have had your old room prepared for you."
The gordian knot was thus severed with the greatest simplicity. The young woman saw no more of her former husband. Aided by the English governess, she occupied herself with household cares. With what secret satisfaction she renewed her former life! Her springtime revived. But she was at times a prey to deep anxiety, for Jacob had not written since his letter of farewell, and all traces of him were lost.
The revolution, contrary to all expectations, took on larger proportions daily.
Owing to the assumed names which the chiefs and soldiers of the insurrection bore, all steps to ascertain Jacob's whereabouts proved fruitless.
Mathilde was almost in despair, yet she seemed to hear a voice say to her:--
"God will give him back to you."
From that time she believed in God.
Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months passed. At last, early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated.
"Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but not dangerously."
Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved.