CHAPTER LII. THE COUNCIL.
The following scene took place at Saint-Dizier House, two days after the reconciliation of Marshal Simon with his daughters. The princess is listening with the most profound attention to the words of Rodin. The reverend father, according to his habit, stands leaning against the mantelpiece, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his old brown great-coat. His thick, dirty shoes have left their mark on the ermine hearth-rug. A deep sense of satisfaction is impressed on the Jesuit’s cadaverous countenance. Princess de Saint-Dizier, dressed with that sort of modest elegance which becomes a mother of the church, keeps her eyes fixed on Rodin—for the latter has completely supplanted Father d’Aigrigny in the good graces of this pious lady. The coolness, audacity lofty intelligence, and rough and imperious character of the ex-socius have overawed this proud woman, and inspired her with a sincere admiration. Even his filthy habits and often brutal repartees have their charm for her, and she now prefers them to the exquisite politeness and perfumed elegance of the accomplished Father d’Aigrigny.
“Yes, madame,” said Rodin, in a sanctified tone, for these people do not take off their masks even with their accomplices, “yes, madame, we have excellent news from our house at St. Herem. M. Hardy, the infidel, the freethinker, has at length entered the pale of the holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church.” Rodin pronounced these last word with a nasal twang, and the devout lady bowed her head respectfully.
“Grace has at length touched the heart of this impious man,” continued Rodin, “and so effectually that, in his ascetic enthusiasm, he has already wished to take the vows which will bind him forever to our divine Order.”
“So soon, father?” said the princess, in astonishment.
“Our statutes are opposed to this precipitation, unless in the case of a penitent in articulo mortis—on the very gasp of death—should such a person consider it necessary for his salvation to die in the habit of our Order, and leave us all his wealth for the greater glory of the Lord.”
“And is M. Hardy in so dangerous a condition, father?”
“He has a violent fever. After so many successive calamities, which have miraculously brought him into the path of salvation,” said Rodin, piously, “his frail and delicate constitution is almost broken up, morally and physically. Austerities, macerations, and the divine joys of ecstasy, will probably hasten his passage to eternal life, and in a few clays,” said the priest, shaking his head with a solemn air, “perhaps—”
“So soon as that, father?”
“It is almost certain. I have therefore made use of my dispensations, to receive the dear penitent, as in articulo mortis, a member of our divine Company, to which, in the usual course, he has made over all his possessions, present and to come—so that now he can devote himself entirely to the care of his soul, which will be one victim more rescued from the claws of Satan.”
“Oh, father!” cried the lady, in admiration; “it is a miraculous conversion. Father d’Aigrigny told me how you had to contend against the influence of Abbe Gabriel.”
“The Abbe Gabriel,” replied Rodin, “has been punished for meddling with what did not concern him. I have procured his suspension, and he has been deprived of his curacy. I hear that he now goes about the cholera hospitals to administer Christian consolation; we cannot oppose that—but this universal comforter is of the true heretical stamp.”
“He is a dangerous character, no doubt,” answered the princess, “for he has considerable influence over other men. It must have needed all your admirable and irresistible eloquence to combat the detestable counsels of this Abbe Gabriel, who had taken it into his head to persuade M. Hardy to return to the life of the world. Really, father, you are a second St. Chrysostom.”
“Tut, tut, madame!” said Rodin, abruptly, for he was very little sensible to flattery; “keep that for others.”
“I tell you that you’re a second St. Chrysostom father,” repeated the princess with enthusiasm; “like him, you deserve the name of Golden Mouth.”
“Stuff, madame!” said Rodin, brutally, shrugging his shoulders; “my lips are too pale, my teeth too black, for a mouth of gold. You must be only joking.”
“But, father—”
“No, madame, you will not catch old birds with chaff,” replied Rodin, harshly. “I hate compliments, and I never pay them.”
Original
“Your modesty must pardon me, father,” said the princess, humbly; “I could not resist the desire to express to you my admiration, for, as you almost predicted, or at least foresaw, two members of the Rennepont family, have, within the last few months, resigned all claim to the inheritance.”
Rodin looked at Madame de Saint-Dizier with a softened and approving air, as he heard her thus describe the position of the two defunct claimants. For, in Rodin’s view of the case, M. Hardy, in consequence of his donation and his suicidal asceticism, belonged no longer to this world.
The lady continued: “One of these men, a wretched artisan, has been led to his ruin by the exaggeration of his vices. You have brought the other into the path of salvation, by carrying out his loving and tender qualities. Honor, then to your foresight, father! for you said that you would make use of the passions to attain your end.”
“Do not boast too soon,” said Rodin, impatiently. “Have you forgotten your niece, and the Hindoo, and the daughters of Marshal Simon? Have they also made a Christian end, or resigned their claim to share in this inheritance?”
“No, doubtless.”
“Hence, you see, madame, we should not lose time in congratulating ourselves on the past, but make ready for the future. The great day approaches. The first of June is not far off. Heaven grant we may not see the four surviving members of the family continue to live impenitent up to that period, and so take possession of this enormous property—the source of perdition in their hands—but productive of the glory of the Church in the hands of our Company!”
“True, father!”
“By the way, you were to see your lawyers on the subject of your niece?”
“I have seen them, father. However uncertain may be the chance of which I spoke, it is worth trying. I shall know to-day, I hope, if it is legally possible.”
“Perhaps then,—in the new condition of life to which she would be reduced, we might find means to effect her conversion,” said Rodin, with a strange and hideous smile; “until now, since she has been so fatally brought in contact with the Oriental, the happiness of these two pagans appears bright and changeless as the diamond. Nothing bites into it, not even Faringhea’s tooth. Let us hope that the Lord will wreak justice on their vain and guilty felicity!”
This conversation was here interrupted by Father d’Aigrigny, who entered the room with an air of triumph, and exclaimed, “Victory!”
“What do you say”’ asked the princess.
“He is gone—last night,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Who?” said Rodin.
“Marshal Simon,” replied the abbe.
“At last!” said Rodin, unable to hide his joy.
“It was no doubt his interview with General d’Havrincourt which filled up the measure,” cried the princess, “for I know he had a long conversation with the general, who like so many others, believed the reports in circulation. All means are good against the impious!” added the princess, by way of moral.
“Have you any details?” asked Rodin.
“I have just left Robert,” said Father d’Aigrigny. “His age and description agree with the marshal’s, and the latter travels with his papers. Only one thing has greatly surprised your emissary.”
“What is that?” said Rodin.
“Until now, he had always to contend with the hesitations of the marshal, and had moreover noticed his gloomy and desponding air. Yesterday, on the contrary, he found him so bright with happiness, that he could not help asking him the cause of the alteration.”
“Well?” said Rodin and the princess together, both extremely surprised.
“The marshal answered: ‘I am indeed the happiest man in the world; for I am going joyfully to accomplish a sacred duty!”
The three actors in this scene looked at each other in silence.
“And what can have produced this sudden change in the mind of the marshal?” said the princess, with a pensive air. “We rather reckon on sorrow and every kind of irritation to urge him to engage in this adventurous enterprise.”
“I cannot make it out,” said Rodin, reflecting; “but no matter—he is gone. We must not lose a moment, to commence operations on his daughters. Has he taken that infernal soldier with him?”
“No,” said Father d’Aigrigny; “unfortunately, he has not done so. Warned by the past, he will redouble his precautions; and a man, whom we might have used against him at a pinch, has just been taken with the contagion.”
“Who is that?” asked the princess.
“Morok. I could count upon him anywhere and for anything. He is lost to us; for, should he recover from the cholera, I fear he will fall a victim to a horrible and incurable disease.”
“How so?”
“A few days ago, he was bitten by one of the mastiffs of his menagerie, and, the next day, the dog showed symptoms of hydrophobia.”
“Ah! it is dreadful,” cried the princess; “and where is this unfortunate man?”
“He has been taken to one of the temporary hospitals established in Paris, for at present he has only been attacked with cholera. It is doubly unfortunate, I repeat, for he was a devoted, determined fellow, ready for anything. Now this soldier, who has the care of the orphans, will be very difficult to get at, and yet only through him can we hope to reach Marshal Simon’s daughters.”
“That is clear,” said Rodin, thoughtfully.
“Particularly since the anonymous letters have again awakened his suspicions,” added Father d’Aigrigny “and—”
“Talking of the anonymous letters,” said Rodin suddenly, interrupting Father d’Aigrigny, “there is a fact that you ought to know; I will tell you why.”
“What is it?”
“Besides the letters that you know of, Marshal Simon has received a number of others unknown to you, in which, by every possible means, it is tried to exasperate his irritation against yourself—for they remind him of all the reasons he has to hate you, and mock at him, because your sacred character shelters you from his vengeance.”
Father d’Aigrigny looked at Rodin with amazement, colored in spite of himself, and said to him: “But for what purpose has your reverence acted in this manner?”
“First of all, to clear myself of suspicion with regard to the letters; then, to excite the rage of the marshal to madness, by incessantly reminding him of the just grounds he has to hate you, and of the impossibility of being avenged upon you. This, joined to the other emotions of sorrow and anger, which ferment in the savage bosom of this man of bloodshed, tended to urge him on to the rash enterprise, which is the consequence and the punishment of his idolatry for a miserable usurper.”
“That may be,” said Father d’Aigrigny, with an air of constraint: “but I will observe to your reverence, that it was, perhaps, rather dangerous thus to excite Marshal Simon against me.”
“Why?” asked Rodin, as he fixed a piercing look upon Father d’Aigrigny.
“Because the marshal, excited beyond all bounds, and remembering only our mutual hate, might seek me out—”
“Well! and what then?”
“Well! he might forget that I am a priest—”
“Oh, you are afraid are you?” said Rodin, disdainfully, interrupting Father d’Aigrigny.
At the words: “You are afraid,” the reverend father almost started from his chair; but recovering his coolness, he answered: “Your reverence is right; yes, I should be afraid under such circumstances; I should be afraid of forgetting that I am a priest, and of remembering too well that I have been a soldier.”
“Really?” said Rodin, with sovereign contempt. “You are still no further than that stupid and savage point of honor? Your cassock has not yet extinguished the warlike fire? So that if this brawling swordsman, whose poor, weak head, empty and sonorous as a drum, is so easily turned with the stupid jargon of ‘Military honor, oaths, Napoleon II.’—if this brawling bravo, I say, were to commit some violence against you, it would require a great effort, I suppose, for you to remain calm?”
“It is useless, I think,” said Father d’Aigrigny, quite unable to control his agitation, “for your reverence to enter upon such questions.”
“As your superior,” answered Rodin, severely, “I have the right to ask. If Marshal Simon had lifted his hand against you—”
“Sir,” cried the reverend father.
“There are no sirs here—we are only priests,” said Rodin, harshly. Father d’Aigrigny held down his head, scarcely able to repress his rage.
“I ask you,” continued Rodin, obstinately, “if Marshal Simon had struck you? Is that clear?”
“Enough! in mercy,” said Father d’Aigrigny, “enough!”
“Or, if you like it better, had Marshal Simon left the marks of his fingers on your cheek?” resumed Rodin, with the utmost pertinacity.
Father d’Aigrigny, pale as death, ground his teeth in a kind of fury at the very idea of such an insult, while Rodin, who had no doubt his object in asking the question, raised his flabby eyelids, and seemed to watch attentively the significant symptoms revealed in the agitated countenance of the ex-colonel.
At length, recovering partly his presence of mind, Father d’Aigrigny replied, in a forcedly calm tone: “If I were to be exposed to such an insult, I would pray heaven to give me resignation and humility.”
“And no doubt heaven would hear your prayers,” said Rodin, coldly, satisfied with the trial to which he had just put him. “Besides, you are now warned, and it is not very probable,” added he, with a grim smile, “that Marshal Simon will ever return to test your humility. But if he were to return,” said Rodin, fixing on the reverend father a long and piercing look, “you would know how to show this brutal swordsman, in spite of all his violence, what resignation and humility there is in a Christian soul!”
Two humble knocks at the door here interrupted the conversation for a moment. A footman entered, bearing a large sealed packet on a salver, which he presented to the princess. After this, he withdrew. Princess de Saint-Dizier, having by a look asked Rodin’s permission to open the letter, began to read it—and a cruel satisfaction was soon visible on her face.
“There is hope,” cried she addressing herself to Rodin: “the demand is rigorously legal, and the consequence may be such as we desire. In a word, my niece may, any day, be exposed to complete destitution. She, who is so extravagant! what a change in her life!”
“We shall then no doubt have some hold on that untamable character,” said Rodin with a meditative air; “for, till now, all has failed in that direction, and one would suppose some kinds of happiness are invulnerable,” added the Jesuit, gnawing his flat and dirty nails.
“But, to obtain the result we desire, we must exasperate my niece’s pride. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary, that I should see and talk to her,” said the Princess de Saint-Dizier, reflecting.
“Mdlle. de Cardoville will refuse this interview,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Perhaps,” replied the princess. “But she is so happy that her audacity must be at its height. Yes, yes—I know her—and I will write in such a manner, that she will come.”
“You think so?” asked Rodin, with a doubtful air.
“Do not fear it, father,” answered the lady, “she will come. And her pride once brought into play, we may hope a good deal from it.”
“We must then act, lady,” resumed Rodin; “yes, act promptly. The moment approaches. Hate and suspicion are awake. There is not a moment to lose.”
“As for hate,” replied the princess, “Mdlle. de Cardoville must have seen to what her lawsuit would lead, about what she called her illegal detention in a lunatic asylum, and that of the two young ladies in St. Mary’s Convent. Thank heaven, we have friends everywhere! I know from good authority, that the case will break down from want of evidence, in spite of the animosity of certain parliamentary magistrates, who shall be well remembered.”
“Under these circumstances,” replied Rodin, “the departure of the marshal gives us every latitude. We must act immediately on his daughters.”
“But how?” said the princess.
“We must see them,” resumed Rodin, “talk with them, study them. Then we shall act in consequence.”
“But the soldier will not leave them a second,” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“Then,” replied Rodin, “we must talk to them in presence of the soldier, and get him on our side.”
“That hope is idle,” cried Father d’Aigrigny. “You do not know the military honor of his character. You do not know this man.”
“Don’t I know him?” said Rodin, shrugging his shoulders. “Did not Mdlle. de Cardoville present me to him as her liberator, when I denounced you as the soul of the conspiracy? Did I not restore to him his ridiculous imperial relic—his cross of honor—when we met at Dr. Baleinier’s? Did I not bring him back the girls from the convent, and place them in the arms of their father?”
“Yes,” replied the princess; “but, since that time, my abominable niece has either guessed or discovered all. She told you so herself, father.”
“She told me, that she considered me her most mortal enemy,” said Rodin. “Be it so. But did she tell the same to the marshal? Has she ever mentioned me to him? and if she have done so, has the marshal communicated this circumstance to his soldier? It may be so; but it is by no means sure; in any case. I must ascertain the fact; if the soldier treats me as an enemy, we shall see what is next to be done—but I will first try to be received as a friend.”
“When?” asked the princess.
“To-morrow morning,” replied Rodin.
“Good heaven, my clear father!” cried the Princess de Saint-Dizier, in alarm; “if this soldier were to treat you as an enemy—beware—”
“I always beware, madame. I have had to face worse enemies than he is,” said the Jesuit showing his black teeth; “the cholera to begin with.”
“But he may refuse to see you, and in what way will you then get at Marshal Simon’s daughters?” said Father d’Aigrigny.
“I do not yet know.” answered Rodin. “But as I intend to do it, I shall find the means.”
“Father,” said the princess, suddenly, on reflection, “these girls have never seen me, and I might obtain admittance to them, without sending in my name.”
“That would be perfectly useless at present, madame, for I must first know what course to take with respect to them. I must see and converse with them, at any cost, and then, after I have fixed my plan, your assistance may be very useful. In any case, please to be ready to morrow, madame, to accompany me.”
“To what place, father?”
“To Marshal Simon’s.”
“To the marshal’s?”
“Not exactly. You will get into your carriage, and I will take a hackney-coach. I will then try to obtain an interview with the girls, and, during that time, you will wait for me at a few yards from the house. If I succeed, and require your aid, I will come and fetch you; I can give you my instructions without any appearance of concert between us.”
“I am content, reverend father; but, in truth, I tremble at the thought of your interview with that rough trooper.”
“The Lord will watch over his servant, madame!” replied Rodin. “As for you, father,” added he, addressing the Abbe d’Aigrigny, “despatch instantly to Vienna the note which is all prepared to announce the departure and speedy arrival of the marshal. Every precaution has been taken. I shall write more fully this evening.”
The next morning, about eight o’clock, the Princess de Saint-Dizier, in her carriage, and Rodin, in his hackney-coach, took the direction of Marshal Simon’s house.
Original
CHAPTER LIII. HAPPINESS.
Marshal Simon has been absent two days. It is eight o’clock in the morning. Dagobert, walking on tip-toe with the greatest caution, so as not to make the floor creak beneath his tread, crosses the room which leads to the bedchamber of Rose and Blanche and applies his ear to the door of the apartment. With equal caution, Spoil-sport follows exactly the movements of his master. The countenance of the soldier is uneasy and full of thought. As he approaches the door, he says to himself: “I hope the dear children heard nothing of what happened in the night! It would alarm them, and it is much better that they should not know it at present. It might afflict them sadly, poor dears! and they are so gay, so happy, since they feel sure of their father’s love for them. They bore his departure so bravely! I would not for the world that they should know of this unfortunate event.”
Then as he listened, the soldier resumed: “I hear nothing—and yet they are always awake so early. Can it be sorrow?”
Dagobert’s reflections were here interrupted by two frank, hearty bursts of laughter, from the interior of the bedroom.
“Come! they are not so sad as I thought,” said the soldier, breathing more freely. “Probably they know nothing about it.”
Soon, the laughter was again heard with redoubled force, and the soldier, delighted at this gayety, so rare on the part of “his children,” was much affected by it: the tears started to his eyes at the thought that the orphans had at length recovered the serenity natural to their age; then, passing from one emotion to the other, still listening at the door, with his body leaning forward, and his hands resting on his knees, Dagobert’s lip quivered with an expression of mute joy, and, shaking his head a little, he accompanied with his silent laughter, the increasing hilarity of the young girls. At last, as nothing is so contagious as gayety, and as the worthy soldier was in an ecstasy of joy, he finished by laughing aloud with all his might, without knowing why, and only because Rose and Blanche were laughing. Spoil-sport had never seen his master in such a transport of delight; he looked at him for a while in deep and silent astonishment, and then began to bark in a questioning way.
At this well-known sound, the laughter within suddenly ceased, and a sweet voice, still trembling with joyous emotion, exclaimed: “Is it you, Spoil-sport, that have come to wake us?” The dog understood what was said, wagged his tail, held down his ears, and, approaching close to the door, answered the appeal of his young mistress by a kind of friendly growl.
“Spoil-sport,” said Rose, hardly able to restrain her laughter, “you are very early this morning.”
“Tell us what o’clock it is, if you please, old fellow?” added Blanche.
“Young ladies, it is past eight,” said suddenly the gruff voice of Dagobert, accompanying this piece of humor with a loud laugh.
A cry of gay surprise was heard, and then Rose resumed: “Good-morning, Dagobert.”
“Good-morning, my children. You are very lazy to-day, I must tell you.”
“It is not our fault. Our dear Augustine has not yet been to call us. We are waiting for her.”
“Oh! there it is,” said Dagobert to himself, his features once more assuming an expression of anxiety. Then he returned aloud, in a tone of some embarrassment, for the worthy man was no hand at a falsehood: “My children, our companion went out this morning—very early. She is gone to the country—on business—she will not return for some days—so you had better get up by yourselves for today.”
“Our good Madame Augustine!” exclaimed Blanche, with interest. “I hope it is nothing bad that has made her leave suddenly—eh, Dagobert?”
“No, no—not at all—only business,” answered the soldier. “To see one of her relations.”
“Oh, so much the better!” said Rose. “Well, Dagobert, when we call you can come in.”
“I will come back in a quarter of an hour,” said the soldier as he withdrew; and he thought to himself: “I must lecture that fool Loony—for he is so stupid, and so fond of talking, that he will let it all out.”
The name of the pretended simpleton will serve as a natural transition, to inform the reader of the cause of the hilarity of the sisters. They were laughing at the numberless absurdities of the idiot. The girls rose and dressed themselves, each serving as lady’s-maid to the other. Rose had combed and arranged Blanche’s hair; it was now Blanche’s turn to do the same for her sister. Thus occupied, they formed a charming picture. Rose was seated before the dressing-table; her sister, standing behind her, was smoothing her beautiful brown hair. Happy age! so little removed from childhood, that present joy instantly obliterates the traces of past sorrow! But the sisters felt more than joy; it was happiness, deep and unalterable, for their father loved them, and their happiness was a delight, and not a pain to him. Assured of the affection of his children, he, also, thanks to them, no longer feared any grief. To those three beings, thus certain of their mutual love, what was a momentary separation? Having explained this, we shall understand the innocent gayety of the sisters, notwithstanding their father’s departure, and the happy, joyous expression, which now filled with animation their charming faces, on which the late fading rose had begun once more to bloom. Their faith in the future gave to their countenances something resolute and decisive, which added a degree of piquancy to the beauty of their enchanting features.
Blanche, in smoothing her sister’s hair, let fall the comb, and, as she was stooping to pick it up, Rose anticipated her, saying: “If it had been broken, we would have put it into the handle-basket.”
Then the two laughed merrily at this expression, which reminded them of an admirable piece of folly on the part of Loony.
The supposed simpleton had broken the handle of a cup, and when the governess of the young ladies had reprimanded him for his carelessness, he had answered: “Never mind, madame; I have put it into the handle basket.”
“The handle-basket, what is that?”
“Yes, Madame; it is where I keep all the handles I break off the things!”
“Dear me!” said Rose, drying her eyes; “how silly it is to laugh at such foolishness.”
“It is droll,” replied Blanche; “how can we help it?”
“All I regret is, that father cannot hear us laugh.”
“He was so happy to see us gay!”
“We must write to him to-day, the story of the handle-basket.”
“And that of the feather-brush, to show that, according to promise, we kept up our spirits during his absence.”
“Write to him, sister? no, he is to write to us, and we are not to answer his letters.”
“True! well then, I have an idea. Let us address letters to him here, Dagobert can put them into the post, and, on his return, our father will read our correspondence.”
“That will be charming! What nonsense we will write to him, since he takes pleasure in it!”
“And we, too, like to amuse ourselves.”
“Oh, certainly! father’s last words have given us so much courage.”
“As I listened to them, I felt quite reconciled to his going.”
“When he said to us: ‘My children, I will confide in you all I can. I go to fulfill a sacred duty, and I must be absent for some time; for though, when I was blind enough to doubt your affection, I could not make up my mind to leave you, my conscience was by no means tranquil. Grief takes such an effect on us, that I had not the strength to come to a decision, and my days were passed in painful hesitation. But now that I am certain of your tenderness, all this irresolution has ceased, and I understand how one duty is not to be sacrificed to another, and that I have to perform two duties at once, both equally sacred; and this I now do with joy, and delight, and courage!’”
“Go on, sister!” cried Blanche, rising to draw nearer to Rose. “I think I hear our father when I remember those words, which must console and support us during his absence.”
“And then our father continued: ‘Instead of grieving at my departure, you would rejoice in it, you should be proud and happy. I go to perform a good and generous act. Fancy to yourselves, that there is somewhere a poor orphan, oppressed and abandoned by all—and that the father of that orphan was once my benefactor, and that I had promised him to protect his son—and that the life of that son is now in peril—tell me, my children; would you regret that I should leave you to fly to the aid of such an orphan?’—”
“‘No, no, brave father!’ we answered: ‘we should not then be your daughters!’” continued Rose, with enthusiasm. “Count upon us! We should be indeed unhappy if we thought that our sorrow could deprive thee of thy courage. Go! and every day we will say to ourselves proudly, ‘It was to perform a great and noble duty that our father left us—we can wait calmly for his return.’”
“How that idea of duty sustains one, sister!” resumed Rose, with growing enthusiasm. “It gave our father the courage to leave us without regret, and to us the courage to bear his absence gayly!”
“And then, how calm we are now! Those mournful dreams, which seemed to portend such sad events, no longer afflict us.”
“I tell you, sister, this time we are really happy once for all.”
“And then, do you feel like me? I fancy, that I am stronger and more courageous and that I could brave every danger.”
“I should think so! We are strong enough now. Our father in the midst, you on one side, I on the other—”
“Dagobert in the vanguard, and Spoil-sport in the rear! Then the army will be complete, and let ‘em come on by thousands!” added a gruff, but jovial voice, interrupting the girl, as Dagobert appeared at the half open door of the room. It was worth looking at his face, radiant with joy; for the old fellow had somewhat indiscreetly been listening to the conversation.
“Oh! you were listening, Paul Pry!” said Rose gayly, as she entered the adjoining room with her sister, and both affectionately embraced the soldier.
“To be sure, I was listening; and I only regretted not to have ears as large as Spoil-sport’s! Brave, good girls! that’s how I like to see you—bold as brass, and saying to care and sorrow: ‘Right about face! march! go to the devil!’”
“He will want to make us swear, now,” said Rose to her sister, laughing with all her might.
“Well! now and then, it does no harm,” said the soldier; “it relieves and calms one, when if one could not swear by five hundred thousand de—”
“That’s enough!” said Rose, covering with her pretty hand the gray moustache, so as to stop Dagobert in his speech. “If Madame Augustine heard you—”
“Our poor governess! so mild and timid,” resumed Blanche. “How you would frighten her!”
“Yes,” said Dagobert, as he tried to conceal his rising embarrassment; “but she does not hear us. She is gone into the country.”
“Good, worthy woman!” replied Blanche, with interest. “She said something of you, which shows her excellent heart.”
“Certainly,” resumed Rose; “for she said to us, in speaking of you, ‘Ah, young ladies! my affection must appear very little, compared with M. Dagobert’s. But I feel that I also have the right to devote myself to you.’”
“No doubt, no doubt! she has a heart of gold,” answered Dagobert. Then he added to himself, “It’s as if they did it on purpose, to bring the conversation back to this poor woman.”
“Father made a good choice,” continued Rose. “She is the widow of an old officer, who was with him in the wars.”
“When we were out of spirits,” said Blanche, “you should have seen her uneasiness and grief, and how earnestly she set about consoling us.”
“I have seen the tears in her eyes when she looked at us,” resumed Rose. “Oh! she loves us tenderly, and we return her affection. With regard to that, Dagobert, we have a plan as soon as our father comes back.”
“Be quiet, sister!” said Blanche, laughing. “Dagobert will not keep our secret.”
“He!”
“Will you keep it for us, Dagobert?”
“I tell you what,” said the soldier, more and more embarrassed; “you had better not tell it to me.”
“What! can you keep nothing from Madame Augustine?”
“Ah, Dagobert! Dagobert!” said Blanche, gayly holding up her finger at the soldier; “I suspect you very much of paying court to our governess.”
“I pay court?” said the soldier—and the expression of his face was so rueful, as he pronounced these words, that the two sisters burst out laughing.
Their hilarity was at its height when the door opened and Loony advanced into room announcing, with a loud voice, “M. Rodin!” In fact, the Jesuit glided almost imperceptibly into the apartment, as if to take possession of the ground. Once there, he thought the game his own, and his reptile eyes sparkled with joy. It would be difficult to paint the surprise of the two sisters, and the anger of the soldier, at this unexpected visit.
Rushing upon Loony, Dagobert seized him by the collar, and exclaimed: “Who gave you leave to introduce any one here without my permission?”
“Pardon, M. Dagobert!” said Loony, throwing himself on his knees, and clasping his hands with an air of idiotic entreaty.
“Leave the room!—and you too!” added the soldier, with a menacing gesture, as he turned towards Rodin, who had already approached the girls, with a paternal smile on his countenance.
“I am at your orders, my dear sir,” said the priest, humbly; and he made a low bow, but without stirring from the spot.
“Will you go?” cried the soldier to Loony, who was still kneeling, and who, thanks to the advantages of this position, was able to utter a certain number of words before Dagobert could remove him.
“M. Dagobert,” said Loony in a doleful voice, “I beg pardon for bringing up the gentleman without leave; but, alas, my head is turned, because of the misfortune that happened to Madame Augustine.”
“What misfortune?” cried Rose and Blanche together, as they advanced anxiously towards Loony.
Original
“Will you go?” thundered Dagobert, shaking the servant by the collar, to force him to rise.
“Speak—speak!” said Blanche, interposing between the soldier and his prey. “What has happened to Madame Augustine?”
“Oh,” shouted Loony, in spite of the cuffs of the soldier. “Madame Augustine was attacked in the night with cholera, and taken—”
He was unable to finish. Dagobert struck him a tremendous blow with his fist, right on the jaw, and, putting forth his still formidable strength, the old horse-grenadier lifted him to his legs, and with one violent kick bestowed on the lower part of his back, sent him rolling into the ante chamber.
Then turning to Rodin, with flushed cheek and sparkling eye, Dagobert pointed to the door with an expressive gesture, and said in an angry voice: “Now, be off with you and that quickly!”
“I must pay my respects another time, my dear sir,” said Rodin, as he retired towards the door, bowing to the young girls.
Original
CHAPTER LIV. DUTY.
Rodin, retreating slowly before the fire of Dagobert’s angry looks, walked backwards to the door, casting oblique but piercing glances at the orphans, who were visibly affected by the servant’s intentional indiscretion. (Dagobert had ordered him not to speak before the girls of the illness of their governess, and that was quite enough to induce the simpleton to take the first opportunity of doing so.)
Rose hastily approached the soldier, and said to him: “Is it true—is it really true that poor Madame Augustine has been attacked with the cholera?”
“No—I do not know—I cannot tell,” replied the soldier, hesitating; “besides, what is it to you?”
“Dagobert, you would conceal from us a calamity,” said Blanche. “I remember now your embarrassment, when we spoke to you of our governess.”
“If she is ill, we ought not to abandon her. She had pity on our sorrows; we ought to pity her sufferings.”
“Come, sister; come to her room,” said Blanche, advancing towards the door, where Rodin had stopped short, and stood listening with growing attention to this unexpected scene, which seemed to give him ample food for thought.
“You will not leave this room,” said the soldier, sternly, addressing the two sisters.
“Dagobert,” replied Rose, firmly, “it is a sacred duty, and it would be cowardice not to fulfil it.”
“I tell you that you shall not leave the room,” said the soldier, stamping his foot with impatience.
“Dagobert,” replied Blanche, with as resolute an air as her sister’s, and with a kind of enthusiasm which brought the blood to her fair cheek, “our father, when he left us, give us an admirable example of devotion and duty. He would not forgive us were we to forget the lesson.”
“What,” cried Dagobert, in a rage, and advancing towards the sisters to prevent their quitting the apartment; “you think that if your governess had the cholera, I would let you go to her under the pretext of duty?—Your duty is to live, to live happy, for your father’s sake—and for mine into the bargain—so not a word more of such folly!”
“We can run no danger by going to our governess in her room,” said Rose.
“And if there were danger,” added Blanche, “we ought not to hesitate. So, Dagobert, be good! and let us pass.”
Rodin, who had listened to what precedes, with sustained attention, suddenly started, as if a thought had struck him; his eye shone brightly, and an expression of fatal joy illumined his countenance.
“Dagobert, do not refuse!” said Blanche. “You would do for us what you reproach us with wishing to do for another.”
Dagobert had as it were, till now stood in the path of the Jesuit and the twins by keeping close to the door; but, after a moments reflection, he shrugged his shoulders, stepped to one side, and said calmly: “I was an old fool. Come, young ladies; if you find Madame Augustine in the house, I will allow you to remain with her.”
Surprised at these words, the girls stood motionless and irresolute.
“If our governess is not here, where is she, then?” said Rose.
“You think, perhaps, that I am going to tell you in the excitement in which you are!”
“She is dead!” cried Rose growing pale.
“No, no—be calm,” said the soldier, hastily; “I swear to you, by your father’s honor, that she is not dead. At the first appearance of the disorder, she begged to be removed from the house, fearing the contagion for those in it.”
“Good and courageous woman!” said Rose tenderly, “And you will not allow us—”
“I will not allow you to go out, even if I have to lock you up in your room,” cried the soldier, again stamping with rage; then, remembering that the blunderhead’s indiscretion was the sole cause of this unfortunate incident, he added, with concentrated fury: “Oh! I will break my stick upon that rascal’s back.”
So saying, he turned towards the door, where Rodin still stood, silent and attentive, dissembling with habitual impassibility the fatal hopes he had just conceived in his brain. The girls, no longer doubting the removal of their governess, and convinced that Dagobert would not tell them whither they had conveyed her, remained pensive and sad.
At sight of the priest, whom he had forgotten for the moment, the soldier’s rage increased, and he said to him abruptly: “Are you still there?”
“I would merely observe to you, my dear sir,” said Rodin, with that air of perfect good nature which he knew so well how to assume, “that you were standing before the door, which naturally prevented me from going out.”
“Well, now nothing prevents you—so file off!”
“Certainly, I will file off, if you wish it, my dear sir though I think I have some reason to be surprised at such a reception.”
“It is no reception at all—so begone!”
“I had come, my dear sir to speak to you—”
“I have no time for talking.”
“Upon business of great importance.”
“I have no other business of importance than to remain with these children.”
“Very good, my dear sir,” said Rodin, pausing on the threshold. “I will not disturb you any longer; excuse my indiscretion. The bearer of excellent news from Marshal Simon, I came—”
“News from our father!” cried Rose, drawing nearer to Rodin.
“Oh, speak, speak, sir!” added Blanche.
“You have news of the marshal!” said Dagobert, glancing suspiciously at Rodin. “Pray, what is this news?”
But Rodin, without immediately answering the question, returned from the threshold into the room, and, contemplating Rose and Blanche by turns with admiration, he resumed: “What happiness for me, to be able to bring some pleasure to these dear young ladies. They are even as I left them graceful, and fair, and charming—only less sad than on the day when I fetched them from the gloomy convent in which they were kept prisoners, to restore them to the arms of their glorious father!”
“That was their place, and this is not yours,” said Dagobert, harshly, still holding the door open behind Rodin.
“Confess, at least that I was not so much out of place at Dr. Baleinier’s,” said the Jesuit, with a cunning air. “You know, for it was there that I restored to you the noble imperial cross you so much regretted—the day when that good Mdlle. de Cardoville only prevented you from strangling me by telling you that I was her liberator. Aye! it was just as I have the honor of stating, young ladies,” added Rodin, with a smile; “this brave soldier was very near strangling me, for, be it said without offense, he has, in spite of his age, a grasp of iron. Ha, ha! the Prussians and Cossacks must know that better than I!”
These few words reminded Dagobert and the twins of the services which Rodin had really rendered them; and though the marshal had heard Mdlle. de Cardoville speak of Rodin as of a very dangerous man, he had forgotten, in the midst of so many anxieties, to communicate this circumstance to Dagobert. But this latter, warned by experience, felt, in spite of favorable appearances, a secret aversion for the Jesuit; so he replied abruptly: “The strength of my grasp has nothing to do with the matter.”
“If I allude to that little innocent playfulness on your part, my dear sir,” said Rodin, in his softest tone, approaching the two sisters with a wriggle which was peculiar to him; “if I allude to it, you see, it was suggested by the involuntary recollection of the little services I was happy enough to render you.” Dagobert looked fixedly at Rodin, who instantly veiled his glance beneath his flabby eyelids.
“First of all,” said the soldier, after a moment’s silence, “a true man never speaks of the services he has rendered, and you come back three times to the subject.”
“But Dagobert,” whispered Rose, “if he brings news of our father?”
The soldier made a sign, as if to beg the girl to let him speak, and resumed, looking full at Rodin: “You are cunning, but I’m no raw recruit.”
“I cunning?” said Rodin, with a sanctified air.
“Yes, very. You think to puzzle me with your fine phrases; but I’m not to be caught in that way. Just listen to me. Some of your band of black-gowns stole my cross; you returned it to me. Some of the same band carried off these children; you brought them back. It is also true that you denounced the renegade D’Aigrigny. But all this only proves two things: first, that you were vile enough to be the accomplice of these scoundrels; and secondly, that, having been their accomplice, you were base enough to betray them. Now, those two facts are equally bad, and I suspect you most furiously. So march off at once; your presence is not good for these children.”
“But, my dear sir—”
“I will have no buts,” answered Dagobert, in an angry voice. “When a man of your look does good, it is only to hide some evil; and one must be on guard.”
“I understand your suspicions,” said Rodin coolly, hiding his growing disappointment, for he had hoped it would have been easy to coax the soldier; “but, if you reflect, what interest have I in deceiving you? And in what should the deception consist?”
“You have some interest or other in persisting to remain here, when I tell you to go away.”
“I have already had the honor of informing you of the object of my visit, my dear sir.”
“To bring news of Marshal Simon?”
“That is exactly the case. I am happy enough to have news of the marshal. Yes, my dear young ladies,” added Rodin, as he again approached the two sisters, to recover, as it were, the ground he had lost, “I have news of your glorious father!”
“Then come to my room directly, and you can tell it to me,” replied Dagobert.
“What! you would be cruel enough to deprive these dear ladies of the pleasure—”
“By heaven, sir!” cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder, “you will make me forget myself. I should be sorry to fling a man of your age down the stairs. Will you be gone?”
“Well, well,” said Rodin mildly, “do not be angry with a poor old man. I am really not worth the trouble. I will go with you to your room, and tell you what I have to communicate. You will repent not having let me speak before these dear young ladies; but that will be your punishment, naughty man!”
So saying, Rodin again bowed very low, and, concealing his rage and vexation, left the room before Dagobert, who made a sign to the two sisters, and then followed, closing the door after him.
“What news of our father, Dagobert?” said Rose anxiously, when the soldier returned, after a quarter of an hours absence.
“Well, that old conjurer knows that the marshal set out in good spirits, and he seems acquainted with M. Robert. How could he be informed of all this? I cannot tell,” added the soldier, with a thoughtful air; “but it is only another reason to be on one’s guard against him.”
“But what news of our father?” asked Rose.
“One of that old rascal’s friends (I think him a rascal still) knows your father, he tells me, and met him five-and-twenty leagues from here. Knowing that this man was coming to Paris, the marshal charged him to let you know that he was in perfect health, and hoped soon to see you again.”
“Oh, what happiness!” cried Rose.
“You see, you were wrong to suspect the poor old man, Dagobert,” added Blanche. “You treated him so harshly!”
“Possibly so; but I am not sorry for it.”
“And why?”
“I have my reasons; and one of the best is that, when I saw him came in, and go sidling and creeping round about us, I felt chilled to the marrow of my bones, without knowing why. Had I seen a serpent crawling towards you, I should not have been more frightened. I knew, of course, that he could not hurt you in my presence; but I tell you, my children, in spite of the services he has no doubt rendered us, it was all I could do to refrain from throwing him out of the window. Now, this manner of proving my gratitude is not natural, and one must be on one’s guard against people who inspire us with such ideas.”
“Good Dagobert, it is your affection for us that makes you so suspicious,” said Rose, in a coaxing tone; “it proves how much you love us.”