Original
This old man was Rodin. It was on leaving Saint Merely’s that he went to the lunatic asylum, to assure himself that Dr. Baleinier had faithfully executed his instructions with regard to Adrienne de Cardoville.
Frances was still kneeling in the interior of the confessional. One of the slides opened, and a voice began to speak. It was that of the priest, who, for the last twenty years had been the confessor of Dagobert’s wife, and exercised over her an irresistible and all-powerful influence.
“You received my letter?” said the voice.
“Yes, father.
“Very well—I listen to you.”
“Bless me, father—for I have sinned!” said Frances.
The voice pronounced the formula of the benediction. Dagobert’s wife answered “amen,” as was proper, said her confider to “It is my fault,” gave an account of the manner in which she had performed her last penance, and then proceeded to the enumeration of the new sins, committed since she had received absolution.
For this excellent woman, a glorious martyr of industry and maternal love, always fancied herself sinning: her conscience was incessantly tormented by the fear that she had committed some incomprehensible offence. This mild and courageous creature, who, after a whole life of devotion, ought to have passed what time remained to her in calm serenity of soul, looked upon herself as a great sinner, and lived in continual anxiety, doubting much her ultimate salvation.
“Father,” said Frances, in a trembling voice, “I accuse myself of omitting my evening prayer the day before yesterday. My husband, from whom I had been separated for many years, returned home. The joy and the agitation caused by his arrival, made me commit this great sin.”
“What next?” said the voice, in a severe tone, which redoubled the poor woman’s uneasiness.
“Father, I accuse myself of falling into the same sin yesterday evening. I was in a state of mortal anxiety, for my son did not come home as usual, and I waited for him minute after minute, till the hour had passed over.”
“What next?” said the voice.
“Father, I accuse myself of having told a falsehood all this week to my son, by letting him think that on account of his reproaching me for neglecting my health, I had taken a little wine for my dinner—whereas I had left it for him, who has more need of it, because he works so much.”
“Go on!” said the voice.
“Father, I accuse myself of a momentary want of resignation this morning, when I learned that my poor son was arrested; instead of submitting with respect and gratitude to this new trial which the Lord hath sent me—alas! I rebelled against it in my grief—and of this I accuse myself.”
“A bad week,” said the priest, in a tone of still greater severity, “a bad week—for you have always put the creature before the Creator. But proceed!”
“Alas, father!” resumed Frances, much dejected, “I know that I am a great sinner; and I fear that I am on the road to sins of a still graver kind.”
“Speak!”
“My husband brought with him from Siberia two young orphans, daughters of Marshal Simon. Yesterday morning, I asked them to say their prayers, and I learned from them, with as much fright as sorrow, that they know none of the mysteries of our holy faith, though they are fifteen years old. They have never received the sacrament, nor are they even baptized, father—not even baptized!”
“They must be heathens!” cried the voice, in a tone of angry surprise.
“That is what so much grieves me, father; for, as I and my husband are in the room of parents to these young orphans, we should be guilty of the sins which they might commit—should we not, father?”
“Certainly,—since you take the place of those who ought to watch over their souls. The shepherd must answer for his flock,” said the voice.
“And if they should happen to be in mortal sin, father, I and my husband would be in mortal sin?”
“Yes,” said the voice; “you take the place of their parents; and fathers and mothers are guilty of all the sins which their children commit when those sins arise from the want of a Christian education.”
“Alas, father! what am I to do? I address myself to you as I would to heaven itself. Every day, every hour, that these poor young girls remain heathens, may contribute to bring about their eternal damnation, may it not, father?” said Frances, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
“Yes,” answered the voice; “and the weight of this terrible responsibility rests upon you and your husband; you have the charge of souls!”
“Lord, have mercy upon me!” said Frances weeping.
“You must not grieve yourself thus,” answered the voice, in a softer tone; “happily for these unfortunates, they have met you upon the way. They, will have in you and your husband good and pious examples—for I suppose that your husband, though formerly an ungodly person, now practices his religious duties!”
“We must pray for him, father,” said Frances, sorrowfully; “grace has not yet touched his heart. He is like my poor child, who has also not been called to holiness. Ah, father!” said Frances, drying her tears, “these thoughts are my heaviest cross.”
“So neither your husband nor your son practises,” resumed the voice, in a tone of reflection; “this is serious—very serious. The religious education of these two unfortunate girls has yet to begin. In your house, they will have ever before them the most deplorable examples. Take care! I have warned you. You have the charge of souls—your responsibility is immense!”
“Father, it is that which makes me wretched—I am at a loss what to do. Help me, and give me your counsels: for twenty years your voice has been to me as the voice of the Lord.”
“Well! you must agree with your husband to send these unfortunate girls to some religious house where they may be instructed.”
“We are too poor, father, to pay for their schooling, and unfortunately my son has just been put in prison for songs that he wrote.”
“Behold the fruit of impiety,” said the voice, severely; “look at Gabriel! he has followed my counsels, and is now the model of every Christian virtue.”
“My son, Agricola, has had good qualities, father; he is so kind, so devoted!”
“Without religion,” said the voice, with redoubled severity, “what you call good qualities are only vain appearances; at the least breath of the devil they will disappear—for the devil lurks in every soul that has no religion.”
“Oh! my poor son!” said Frances, weeping; “I pray for him every day, that faith may enlighten him.”
“I have always told you,” resumed the voice, “that you have been too weak with him. God now punishes you for it. You should have parted from this irreligious son, and not sanctioned his impiety by loving him as you do. ‘If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,’ saith the Scripture.”
“Alas, father! you know it is the only time I have disobeyed you; but I could not bring myself to part from my son.”
“Therefore is your salvation uncertain—but God is merciful. Do not fall into the same fault with regard to these young girls, whom Providence has sent you, that you might save them from eternal damnation. Do not plunge them into it by your own culpable indifference.”
“Oh, father! I have wept and prayed for them.”
“That is not sufficient. These unfortunate children cannot have any notion of good or evil. Their souls must be an abyss of scandal and impurity—brought up as they have been, by an impious mother, and a soldier devoid of religion.”
“As for that, father,” said Frances, with simplicity, “they are gentle as angels, and my husband, who has not quitted them since their birth, declares they have the best hearts in the world.”
“Your husband has dwelt all his life in mortal sin,” said the voice, harshly; “how can he judge of the state of souls? I repeat to you, that as you represent the parents of these unfortunates, it is not to-morrow, but it is today, and on the instant, that you must labor for their salvation, if you would not incur a terrible responsibility.”
“It is true—I know it well, father—and I suffer as much from this fear as from grief at my son’s arrest. But what is to be done? I could not instruct these young girls at home—for I have not the knowledge—I have only faith—and then my poor husband, in his blindness, makes game of sacred things, which my son, at least, respects in my presence, out of regard for me. Then, once more, father, come to my aid, I conjure you! Advise me: what is to be done?”
“We cannot abandon these two young souls to frightful perdition,” said the voice, after a moment’s silence: “there are not two ways of saving them: there is only one, and that is to place them in a religious house, where they may be surrounded by good and pious examples.”
“Oh, father! if we were not so poor, or if I could still work, I would try to gain sufficient to pay for their board, and do for them as I did for Gabriel. Unfortunately, I have quite lost my sight; but you, father, know some charitable souls, and if you could get any of them to interest them, selves for these poor orphans—”
“Where is their father?”
“He was in India; but, my husband tells me, he will soon be in France. That, however, is uncertain. Besides, it would make my heart bleed to see those poor children share our misery—which will soon be extreme—for we only live by my son’s labor.”
“Have these girls no relation here?” asked the voice.
“I believe not, father.”
“It was their mother who entrusted them to your husband, to bring them to France?”
“Yes, father; he was obliged to set out yesterday for Chartres, on some very pressing business, as he told me.”
It will be remembered that Dagobert had not thought fit to inform his wife of the hopes which the daughters of Marshall Simon founded on the possession of the medal, and that he had particularly charged them not to mention these hopes, even to Frances.
“So,” resumed the voice, after a pause of some moments’ duration, “your husband is not in Paris.”
“No, father; but he will doubtless return this evening or to-morrow morning.”
“Listen to me,” said the voice, after another pause. “Every minute lost for those two young girls is a new step on the road to perdition. At any moment the hand of God may smite them, for He alone knows the hour of our death; and were they to die in the state in which they now are, they would most probably be lost to all eternity. This very day, therefore, you must open their eyes to the divine light, and place them in a religious house. It is your duty—it should be your desire!”
“Oh, yes, father; but, unfortunately, I am too poor, as I have already told you.”
“I know it—you do not want for zeal or faith—but even were you capable of directing these young girls, the impious examples of your husband and son would daily destroy your work. Others must do for these orphans, in the name of Christian charity, that which you cannot do, though you are answerable for them before heaven.”
“Oh, father! if, thanks to you, this good work could be accomplished, how grateful I should be!”
“It is not impossible. I know the superior of a convent, where these young girls would be instructed as they ought. The charge for their board would be diminished in consideration of their poverty; but, however small, it must be paid and there would be also an outfit to furnish. All that would be too dear for you.”
“Alas! yes, father.”
“But, by taking a little from my poor-box, and by applying to one or two generous persons, I think I shall be able to complete the necessary sum, and so get the young girls received at the convent.”
“Ah, father! you are my deliverer, and these children’s.”
“I wish to be so—but, in the interest of their salvation, and to make these measures really efficacious, I must attach some conditions to the support I offer you.”
“Name them, father; they are accepted beforehand. Your commands shall be obeyed in everything.”
“First of all, the children must be taken this very morning to the convent, by my housekeeper, to whom you must bring them almost immediately.”
“Nay, father; that is impossible!” cried Frances.
“Impossible? why?”
“In the absence of my husband—”
“Well?”
“I dare not take a such a step without consulting him.”
“Not only must you abstain from consulting him, but the thing must be done during his absence.”
“What, father? should I not wait for his return?”
“No, for two reasons,” answered the priest, sternly: “first, because his hardened impiety would certainly lead him to oppose your pious resolution; secondly, because it is indispensable that these young girls should break off all connection with your husband, who, therefore, must be left in ignorance of the place of their retreat.”
“But, father,” said Frances, a prey to cruel doubt and embarrassment, “it is to my husband that these children were entrusted—and to dispose of them without his consent would be—”
“Can you instruct these children at your house—yes or no?” interrupted the voice.
“No, father, I cannot.”
“Are they exposed to fall into a state of final impenitence by remaining with you—yes or no?”
“Yes, father, they are so exposed.”
“Are you responsible, as you take the place of their parents, for the mortal sins they may commit—yes or no?”
“Alas, father! I am responsible before God.”
“Is it in the interest of their eternal salvation that I enjoin you to place them this very day in a convent?”
“It is for their salvation, father.”
“Well, then, choose!”
“But tell me, I entreat you, father if I have the right to dispose of them without the consent of my husband?”
“The right! you have not only the right, but it is your sacred duty. Would you not be bound, I ask you, to rescue these unfortunate creatures from a fire, against the will of your husband, or during his absence? Well! you must now rescue them, not from a fire that will only consume the body, but from one in which their souls would burn to all eternity.”
“Forgive me, I implore you, father,” said the poor woman, whose indecision and anguish increased every minute; “satisfy my doubts!—How can I act thus, when I have sworn obedience to my husband?”
“Obedience for good—yes—but never for evil. You confess, that, were it left to him, the salvation of these orphans would be doubtful, and perhaps impossible.”
“But, father,” said Frances, trembling, “when my husband returns, he will ask me where are these children? Must I tell him a falsehood?”
“Silence is not falsehood; you will tell him that you cannot answer his question.”
“My husband is the kindest of men; but such an answer will drive him almost mad. He has been a soldier, and his anger will be terrible, father,” said Frances, shuddering at the thought.
“And were his anger a hundred times more terrible, you should be proud to brave it in so sacred a cause!” cried the voice, with indignation. “Do you think that salvation is to be so easily gained on earth? Since when does the sinner, that would walk in the way of the Lord, turn aside for the stones and briars that may bruise and tear him?”
“Pardon, father, pardon!” said Frances, with the resignation of despair. “Permit me to ask one more question, one only. Alas! if you do not guide me, how shall I find the way?”
“Speak!”
“When Marshal Simon arrives, he will ask his children of my husband. What answer can he then give to their father?”
“When Marshal Simon arrives, you will let me know immediately, and then—I will see what is to be done. The rights of a father are only sacred in so far as he make use of them for the salvation of his children. Before and above the father on earth, is the Father in heaven, whom we must first serve. Reflect upon all this. By accepting what I propose to you, these young girls will be saved from perdition; they will not be at your charge; they will not partake of your misery; they will be brought up in a sacred institution, as, after all, the daughters of a Marshal of France ought to be—and, when their father arrives at Paris, if he be found worthy of seeing them again, instead of finding poor, ignorant, half savage heathens, he will behold two girls, pious, modest, and well informed, who, being acceptable with the Almighty, may invoke His mercy for their father, who, it must be owned, has great need of it—being a man of violence, war, and battle. Now decide! Will you, on peril of your soul, sacrifice the welfare of these girls in this world and the next, because of an impious dread of your husband’s anger?”
Though rude and fettered by intolerance, the confessor’s language was (taking his view of the case) reasonable and just, because the honest priest was himself convinced of what he said; a blind instrument of Rodin, ignorant of the end in view, he believed firmly, that, in forcing Frances to place these young girls in a convent, he was performing a pious duty. Such was, and is, one of the most wonderful resources of the order to which Rodin belonged—to have for accomplices good and sincere people, who are ignorant of the nature of the plots in which they are the principal actors.
Frances, long accustomed to submit to the influence of her confessor, could find nothing to object to his last words. She resigned herself to follow his directions, though she trembled to think of the furious anger of Dagobert, when he should no longer find the children that a dying mother had confided to his care. But, according to the priest’s opinion, the more terrible this anger might appear to her, the more she would show her pious humility by exposing herself to it.
“God’s will be done, father!” said she, in reply to her confessor. “Whatever may happen, I wilt do my duty as a Christian—in obedience to your commands.”
“And the Lord will reward you for what you may have to suffer in the accomplishment of this meritorious act. You promise then, before God, that you will not answer any of your husband’s questions, when he asks you for the daughters of Marshal Simon?”
“Yes, father, I promise!” said Frances, with a shudder.
“And will preserve the same silence towards Marshal Simon himself, in case he should return, before his daughters appear to me sufficiently grounded in the faith to be restored to him?”
“Yes, father,” said Frances, in a still fainter voice.
“You will come and give me an account of the scene that takes place between you and your husband, upon his return?”
“Yes, father; when must I bring the orphans to your house?”
“In an hour. I will write to the superior, and leave the letter with my housekeeper. She is a trusty person, and will conduct the young girls to the convent.”
After she had listened to the exhortations of her confessor, and received absolution for her late sins, on condition of performing penance, Dagobert’s wife left the confessional.
The church was no longer deserted. An immense crowd pressed into it, drawn thither by the pomp of the grand funeral of which the beadle had spoken to the sacristan two hours before. It was with the greatest difficulty that Frances could reach the door of the church, now hung with sumptuous drapery.
What a contrast to the poor and humble train, which had that morning so timidly presented themselves beneath the porch!
The numerous clergy of the parish, in full procession, advanced majestically to receive the coffin covered with a velvet pall; the watered silks and stuffs of their copes and stoles, their splendid silvered embroideries, sparkled in the light of a thousand tapers. The beadle strutted in all the glory of his brilliant uniform and flashing epaulets; on the opposite side walked in high glee the sacristan, carrying his whalebone staff with a magisterial air; the voice of the choristers, now clad in fresh, white surplices, rolled out in bursts of thunder; the trumpets’ blare shook the windows; and upon the countenances of all those who were to have a share in the spoils of this rich corpse, this excellent corpse, this first-class corpse, a look of satisfaction was visible, intense and yet subdued, which suited admirably with the air and attitude of the two heirs, tall, vigorous fellows with florid complexions, who, without overstepping the limits of a charming modesty of enjoyment, seemed to cuddle and hug themselves most comfortably in their mourning cloaks.
Notwithstanding her simplicity and pious faith, Dagobert’s wife was painfully impressed with this revolting difference between the reception of the rich and the poor man’s coffin at the door of the house of God—for surely, if equality be ever real, it is in the presence of death and eternity!
The two sad spectacles she had witnessed, tended still further to depress the spirits of Frances. Having succeeded with no small trouble in making her way out of the church, she hastened to return to the Rue Brise-Miche, in order to fetch the orphans and conduct them to the housekeeper of her confessor, who was in her turn to take them to St. Mary’s Convent, situated, as we know, next door to Dr. Baleinier’s lunatic-asylum, in which—Adrienne de Cardoville was confined.
CHAPTER XLIX. MY LORD AND SPOIL-SPORT.
The wife of Dagobert, having quitted the church, arrived at the corner of the Rue Brise-Miche, when she was accosted by the distributor of holy water; he came running out of breath, to beg her to return to Saint Mery’s, where the Abbe Dubois had yet something of importance to say to her.
The moment Frances turned to go back, a hackney-coach stopped in front of the house she inhabited. The coachman quitted his box to open the door.
“Driver,” said a stout woman dressed in black, who was seated in the carriage, and held a pug-dog upon her knees, “ask if Mrs. Frances Baudoin lives in this house.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the coachman.
The reader will no doubt have recognized Mrs. Grivois, head waiting-woman to the Princess de Saint-Dizier, accompanied by My Lord, who exercised a real tyranny over his mistress. The dyer, whom we have already seen performing the duties of a porter, being questioned by the coachman as to the dwelling of Frances, came out of his workshop, and advanced gallantly to the coach-door, to inform Mrs. Grivois, that Frances Baudoin did in fact live in the house, but that she was at present from home.
The arms, hands, and part of the face of Father Loriot were now of a superb gold-color. The sight of this yellow personage singularly provoked My Lord, and at the moment the dyer rested his hand upon the edge of the coach-window, the cur began to yelp frightfully, and bit him in the wrist.
“Oh! gracious heaven!” cried Mrs. Grivois, in an agony, whilst Father Loriot, withdrew his hand with precipitation; “I hope there is nothing poisonous in the dye that you have about you—my dog is so delicate!”
So saying, she carefully wiped the pug-nose, spotted with yellow. Father Loriot, not at all satisfied with this speech, when he had expected to receive some apology from Mrs. Grivois on account of her dog’s behavior, said to her, as with difficulty he restrained his anger: “If you did not belong to the fair sex, which obliges me to respect you in the person of that wretched animal I would have the pleasure of taking him by the tail, and making him in one minute a dog of the brightest orange color, by plunging him into my cauldron, which is already on the fire.”
“Dye my pet yellow!” cried Mrs. Grivois, in great wrath, as she descended from the hackney-coach, clasping My Lord tenderly to her bosom, and surveying Father Loriot with a savage look.
“I told you, Mrs. Baudoin is not at home,” said the dyer, as he saw the pug-dog’s mistress advance in the direction of the dark staircase.
“Never mind; I will wait for her,” said Mrs. Grivois tartly. “On which story does she live?”
“Up four pair!” answered Father Loriot, returning abruptly to his shop. And he added to himself, with a chuckle at the anticipation: “I hope Father Dagobert’s big prowler will be in a bad humor, and give that villainous pug a shaking by the skin of his neck.”
Original
Mrs. Grivois mounted the steep staircase with some difficulty, stopping at every landing-place to take breath, and looking about her with profound disgust. At length she reached the fourth story, and paused an instant at the door of the humble chamber, in which the two sisters and Mother Bunch then were.
The young sempstress was occupied in collecting the different articles that she was about to carry to the pawnbroker’s. Rose and Blanche seemed happier, and somewhat less uneasy about the future; for they had learned from Mother Bunch, that, when they knew how to sew, they might between them earn eight francs a week, which would at least afford some assistance to the family.
The presence of Mrs. Grivois in Baudoin’s dwelling was occasioned by a new resolution of Abbe d’Aigrigny and the Princess de Saint-Dizier; they had thought it more prudent to send Mrs. Grivois, on whom they could blindly depend, to fetch the young girls, and the confessor was charged to inform Frances that it was not to his housekeeper, but to a lady that would call on her with a note from him, that she was to deliver the orphans, to be taken to a religious establishment.
Having knocked at the door, the waiting-woman of the Princess de Saint Dizier entered the room, and asked for Frances Baudoin.
“She is not at home, madame,” said Mother Bunch timidly, not a little astonished at so unexpected a visit, and casting down her eyes before the gaze of this woman.
“Then I will wait for her, as I have important affairs to speak of,” answered Mrs. Grivois, examining with curiosity and attention the faces of the two orphans, who also cast down their eyes with an air of confusion.
So saying, Madame Grivois sat down, not without some repugnance, in the old arm-chair of Dagobert’s wife, and believing that she might now leave her favorite at liberty, she laid him carefully on the floor. Immediately, a low growl, deep and hollow, sounding from behind the armchair, made Mrs. Grivois jump from her seat, and sent the pug-dog, yelping with affright, and trembling through his fat, to take refuge close to his mistress, with all the symptoms of angry alarm.
“What! is there a dog here?” cried Mrs. Grivois, stooping precipitately to catch up My Lord, whilst, as if he wished himself to answer the question, Spoil-sport rose leisurely from his place behind the arm-chair, and appeared suddenly, yawning and stretching himself.
At sight of this powerful animal, with his double row of formidable pointed fangs, which he seemed to take delight in displaying as he opened his large jaws, Mrs. Grivois could not help giving utterance to a cry of terror. The snappish pug had at first trembled in all his limbs at the Siberian’s approach; but, finding himself in safety on the lap of his mistress, he began to growl insolently, and to throw the most provoking glances at Spoil-sport. These the worthy companion of the deceased Jovial answered disdainfully by gaping anew; after which he went smelling round Mrs. Grivois with a sort of uneasiness, turned his back upon My Lord, and stretched himself at the feet of Rose and Blanche, keeping his large, intelligent eyes fixed upon them, as if he foresaw that they were menaced with some danger.
“Turn out that beast,” said Mrs. Grivois, imperiously; “he frightens my dog, and may do him some harm.”
“Do not be afraid, madame,” replied Rose, with a smile; “Spoil-sport will do no harm, if he is not attacked.”
Original
“Never mind!” cried Mrs. Grivois; “an accident soon happens. The very sight of that enormous dog, with his wolf’s head and terrible teeth, is enough to make one tremble at the injuries he might do one. I tell you to turn him out.”
Mrs. Grivois had pronounced these last words in a tone of irritation, which did not sound at all satisfactory in Spoil-sport’s ears; so he growled and showed his teeth, turning his head in the direction of the stranger.
“Be quiet, Spoilsport!” said Blanche sternly.
A new personage here entered the room, and put an end to this situation, which was embarrassing enough for the two young girls. It was a commissionaire, with a letter in his hand.
“What is it, sir?” asked Mother Bunch.
“A very pressing letter from the good man of the house; the dyer below stairs told me to bring it up here.”
“A letter from Dagobert!” cried Rose and Blanche, with a lively expression of pleasure. “He is returned then? where is he?”
“I do not know whether the good man is called Dagobert or not,” said the porter; “but he is an old trooper, with a gray moustache, and may be found close by, at the office of the Chartres coaches.”
“That is he!” cried Blanche. “Give me the letter.”
The porter handed it to the young girl, who opened it in all haste.
Mrs. Grivois was struck dumb with dismay; she knew that Dagobert had been decoyed from Paris, that the Abbe Dubois might have an opportunity to act with safety upon Frances. Hitherto, all had succeeded; the good woman had consented to place the young girls in the hands of a religious community—and now arrives this soldier, who was thought to be absent from Paris for two or three days at least, and whose sudden return might easily ruin this laborious machination, at the moment when it seemed to promise success.
“Oh!” said Blanche, when she had read the letter. “What a misfortune!”
“What is it, then, sister?” cried Rose.
“Yesterday, half way to Chartres, Dagobert perceived that he had lost his purse. He was unable to continue his journey; he took a place upon credit, to return, and he asks his wife to send him some money to the office, to pay what he owes.”
“That’s it,” said the porter; “for the good man told me to make haste, because he was there in pledge.”
“And nothing in the house!” cried Blanche. “Dear me! what is to be done?”
At these words, Mrs. Grivois felt her hopes revive for a moment, they were soon, however, dispelled by Mother Bunch, who exclaimed, as she pointed to the parcel she had just made up: “Be satisfied, dear young ladies! here is a resource. The pawnbroker’s, to which I am going, is not far off, and I will take the money direct to M. Dagobert: in half an hour, at latest, he will be here.”
“Oh, my dear friend! you are right,” said Rose. “How good you are! you think of everything.”
“And here,” said Blanche, “is the letter, with the address upon it. Take that with you.”
“Thank you,” answered Mother Bunch: then, addressing the porter, she added: “Return to the person who sent you, and tell him I shall be at the coach-office very shortly.”
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“Infernal hunchback!” thought Mrs. Grivois, with suppressed rage, “she thinks of everything. Without her, we should have escaped the plague of this man’s return. What is to be done now? The girls would not go with me, before the arrival of the soldier’s wife; to propose it to them would expose me to a refusal, and might compromise all. Once more, what is to be done?”
“Do not be uneasy, ladies,” said the porter as he went out; “I will go and assure the good man, that he will not have to remain long in pledge.”
Whilst Mother Bunch was occupied in tying her parcel, in which she had placed the silver cup, fork, and spoon, Mrs. Grivois seemed to reflect deeply. Suddenly she started. Her countenance, which had been for some moments expressive of anxiety and rage, brightened up on the instant. She rose, still holding My Lord in her arms, and said to the young girls: “As Mrs. Baudoin does not come in, I am going to pay a visit in the neighborhood, and will return immediately. Pray tell her so!”
With these words Mr. Grivois took her departure, a few minutes before Mother Bunch left.
CHAPTER L. APPEARANCES.
After she had again endeavored to cheer up the orphans, the sewing-girl descended the stairs, not without difficulty, for, in addition to the parcel, which was already heavy, she had fetched down from her own room the only blanket she possessed—thus leaving herself without protection from the cold of her icy garret.
The evening before, tortured with anxiety as to Agricola’s fate, the girl had been unable to work; the miseries of expectation and hope delayed had prevented her from doing so; now another day would be lost, and yet it was necessary to live. Those overwhelming sorrows, which deprive the poor of the faculty of labor, are doubly dreaded; they paralyze the strength, and, with that forced cessation from toil, want and destitution are often added to grief.
But Mother Bunch, that complete incarnation of holiest duty, had yet strength enough to devote herself for the service of others. Some of the most frail and feeble creatures are endowed with extraordinary vigor of soul; it would seem as if, in these weak, infirm organizations, the spirit reigned absolutely over the body, and knew how to inspire it with a factitious energy.
Thus, for the last twenty-four hours, Mother Bunch had neither slept nor eaten; she had suffered from the cold, through the whole of a frosty night. In the morning she had endured great fatigue, in going, amid rain and snow, to the Rue de Babylone and back, twice crossing Paris and yet her strength was not exhausted—so immense is the power of the human heart!
She had just arrived at the corner of the Rue Saint Mery. Since the recent Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy, there were stationed in this populous quarter of the town a much larger number of police-officers than usual. Now the young sempstress, though bending beneath the weight of her parcel, had quickened her pace almost to a run, when, just as she passed in front of one of the police, two five-franc pieces fell on the ground behind her, thrown there by a stout woman in black, who followed her closely.
Immediately after the stout woman pointed out the two pieces to the policeman, and said something hastily to him with regard to Mother Bunch. Then she withdrew at all speed in the direction of the Rue Brise-Miche.
The policeman, struck with what Mrs. Grivois had said to him ( for it was that person), picked up the money, and, running after the humpback, cried out to her: “Hi, there! young woman, I say—stop! stop!”
On this outcry, several persons turned round suddenly and, as always happens in those quarters of the town, a nucleus of five or six persons soon grew to a considerable crowd.
Not knowing that the policeman was calling to her, Mother Bunch only quickened her speed, wishing to get to the pawnbroker’s as soon as possible, and trying to avoid touching any of the passers-by, so much did she dread the brutal and cruel railleries, to which her infirmity so often exposed her.
Suddenly, she heard many persons running after her, and at the same instant a hand was laid rudely on her shoulder. It was the policeman, followed by another officer, who had been drawn to the spot by the noise. Mother Bunch turned round, struck with as much surprise as fear.
She found herself in the centre of a crowd, composed chiefly of that hideous scum, idle and in rags, insolent and malicious, besotted with ignorance, brutalized by want, and always loafing about the corners. Workmen are scarcely ever met with in these mobs, for they are for the most part engaged in their daily labors.
“Come, can’t you hear? you are deaf as Punch’s dog,” said the policeman, seizing Mother Bunch so rudely by the arm, that she let her parcel fall at her feet.
When the unfortunate girl, looking round in terror, saw herself exposed to all those insolent, mocking, malicious glances, when she beheld the cynical and coarse grimace on so many ignoble and filthy countenances, she trembled in all her limbs, and became fearfully pale. No doubt the policeman had spoken roughly to her; but how could he speak otherwise to a poor deformed girl, pale and trembling, with her features agitated by grief and fear—to a wretched creature, miserably clad, who wore in winter a thin cotton gown, soiled with mud, and wet with melted snow—for the poor sempstress had walked much and far that morning. So the policeman resumed, with great severity, following that supreme law of appearances which makes poverty always suspected: “Stop a bit, young woman! it seems you are in a mighty hurry, to let your money fall without picking it up.”
“Was her blunt hid in her hump?” said the hoarse voice of a match-boy, a hideous and repulsive specimen of precocious depravity.
This sally was received with laughter, shouts, and hooting, which served to complete the sewing-girl’s dismay and terror. She was hardly able to answer, in a feeble voice, as the policeman handed her the two pieces of silver: “This money, sir, is not mine.”
“You lie,” said the other officer, approaching; “a respectable lady saw it drop from your pocket.”
“I assure you, sir, it is not so,” answered Mother Bunch, trembling.
“I tell you that you lie,” resumed the officer; “for the lady, struck with your guilty and frightened air, said to me: ‘Look at yonder little hunchback, running away with that large parcel, and letting her money fall without even stopping to pick it up—it is not natural.’”
“Bobby,” resumed the match-vendor in his hoarse voice, “be on your guard! Feel her hump, for that is her luggage-van. I’m sure that you’ll find boots, and cloaks, and umbrellas, and clocks in it—for I just heard the hour strike in the bend of her back.”
Then came fresh bursts of laughter and shouts and hooting, for this horrible mob has no pity for those who implore and suffer. The crowd increased more and more, and now they indulged in hoarse cries, piercing whistles, and all kinds of horse play.
“Let a fellow see her; it’s free gratis.”
“Don’t push so; I’ve paid for my place!”
“Make her stand up on something, that all may have a look.”
“My corns are being ground: it was not worth coming.”
“Show her properly—or return the money.”
“That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Give it us in the ‘garden’ style.”
“Trot her out in all her paces! Kim up!”
Fancy the feelings of this unfortunate creature, with her delicate mind, good heart, and lofty soul, and yet with so timid and nervous a character, as she stood alone with the two policemen in the thick of the crowd, and was forced to listen to all these coarse and savage insults.
But the young sempstress did not yet understand of what crime she was accused. She soon discovered it, however, for the policeman, seizing the parcel which she had picked up and now held in her trembling hands, said to her rudely: “What is there in that bundle?”
“Sir—it is—I am going—” The unfortunate girl hesitated—unable, in her terror, to find the word.
“If that’s all you have to answer,” said the policeman, “it’s no great shakes. Come, make haste! turn your bundle inside out.”
So saying, the policeman snatched the parcel from her, half opened it, and repeated, as he enumerated the divers articles it contained: “The devil!—sheets—a spoon and fork—a silver mug—a shawl—a blanket—you’re a downy mot! it was not so bad a move. Dressed like a beggar, and with silver plate about you. Oh, yes! you’re a deep ‘un.”
“Those articles do not belong to you,” said the other officer.
“No, sir,” replied Mother Bunch, whose strength was failing her; “but—”
“Oh, vile hunchback! you have stolen more than you are big!”
“Stolen!” cried Mother Bunch, clasping her hands in horror, for she now understood it all. “Stolen!”
“The guard! make way for the lobsters!” cried several persons at once.
“Oh, ho! here’s the lobsters!”
“The fire-eaters!”
“The Arab devourers!”
“Come for their dromedary!”
In the midst of these noisy jests, two soldiers and a corporal advanced with much difficulty. Their bayonets and the barrels of their guns were alone visible above the heads of this hideous and compact crowd. Some officious person had been to inform the officer at the nearest guard house, that a considerable crowd obstructed the public way.
“Come, here is the guard—so march to the guard-house!” said the policeman, taking Mother Bunch by the arm.
“Sir,” said the poor girl, in a voice stifled by sobs, clasping her hands in terror, and sinking upon her knees on the pavement; “sir,—have pity—let me explain—”
“You will explain at the guard-house; so come on!”
“But, sir—I am not a thief,” cried Mother Bunch, in a heart-rending tone; “have pity upon me—do not take me away like a thief, before all this crowd. Oh! mercy! mercy!”
“I tell you, there will be time to explain at the guard-house. The street is blocked up; so come along!” Grasping the unfortunate creature by both her hands, he set her, as it were, on her feet again.
At this instant, the corporal and his two soldiers, having succeeded in making their way through the crowd, approached the policeman. “Corporal,” said the latter, “take this girl to the guard-house. I am an officer of the police.”
“Oh, gentlemen!” cried the girl, weeping hot tears, and wringing her hands, “do not take me away, before you let me explain myself. I am not a thief—indeed, indeed, I am not a thief! I will tell you—it was to render service to others—only let me tell you—”
“I tell you, you should give your explanations at the guard-house; if you will not walk, we must drag you along,” said the policeman.
We must renounce the attempt to paint this scene, at once ignoble and terrible.
Weak, overpowered, filled with alarm, the unfortunate girl was dragged along by the soldiers, her knees sinking under her at every step. The two police-officers had each to lend an arm to support her, and mechanically she accepted their assistance. Then the vociferations and hootings burst forth with redoubled fury. Half-swooning between the two men, the hapless creature seemed to drain the cup of bitterness to the dregs.
Beneath that foggy sky, in that dirty street, under the shadow of the tall black houses, those hideous masses of people reminded one of the wildest fancies of Callot and of Goya: children in rags, drunken women, grim and blighted figures of men, rushed against each other, pushed, fought, struggled, to follow with howls and hisses an almost inanimate victim—the victim of a deplorable mistake.
Of a mistake! How one shudders to think, that such arrests may often take place, founded upon nothing but the suspicion caused by the appearance of misery, or by some inaccurate description. Can we forget the case of that young girl, who, wrongfully accused of participating in a shameful traffic, found means to escape from the persons who were leading her to prison, and, rushing up the stairs of a house, threw herself from a window, in her despair, and was crushed to death upon the paving-stones?
Meanwhile, after the abominable denunciation of which Mother Bunch was the victim, Mrs. Grivois had returned precipitately to the Rue Brise Miche. She ascended in haste to the fourth story, opened the door of Frances Baudoin’s room, and saw—Dagobert in company with his wife and the two orphans!