The Wandering Jew — Complete

As the notary had proceeded with the reading of the testament, Gabriel was successively agitated by divers painful impressions. At first, as we have before said, he was struck with the singular fatality which restored this immense fortune, derived from a victim of the Society of Jesus, to the hands of that very association, by the renewal of his deed of gift. Then, as his charitable and lofty soul began fully to comprehend the admirable tendency of the association so earnestly recommended by Marius de Rennepont, he reflected with bitter remorse, that, in consequence of his act of renunciation, and of the absence of any other heir, this great idea would never be realized, and a fortune, far more considerable than had even been expected, would fall to the share of an ill-omened society, in whose hands it would become a terrible means of action. At the same time, it must be said that the soul of Gabriel was too pure and noble to feel the slightest personal regret, on hearing the great probable value of the property he had renounced. He rejoiced rather in withdrawing his mind, by a touching contrast, from the thought of the wealth he had abandoned, to the humble parsonage, where he hoped to pass the remainder of his life, in the practice of most evangelical virtue.

These ideas passed confusedly through his brain. The sight of that woman’s portrait, the dark revelations contained in the testament, the grandeur of the views exhibited in this last will of M. de Rennepont, all these extraordinary incidents had thrown Gabriel into a sort of stupor, in which he was still plunged, when Samuel offered the key of the register to the notary, saying: “You will find, sir, in this register, the exact statement of the sums in my possession, derived from the investment and accumulation of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs, entrusted to my grandfather by M. Marius de Rennepont.”

“Your grandfather!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with the utmost surprise; “it is then your family that has always had the management of this property.”

“Yes, sir; and, in a few minutes, my wife will bring hither the casket which contains the vouchers.”

“And to what sum does this property amount?” asked Rodin, with an air of the most complete indifference.

“As M. Notary may convince himself by this statement,” replied Samuel, with perfect frankness, and as if he were only talking of the original one hundred and fifty thousand francs, “I have in my possession various current securities to the amount of two hundred and twelve millions, one hundred and seventy—”

“You say, sir’” cried Father d’Aigrigny, without giving Samuel time to finish, for the odd money did not at all interest his reverence.

“Yes, the sum!” added Rodin, in an agitated voice, and, for the first time, perhaps, in his life losing his presence of mind; “the sum—the sum—the sum!”

“I say, sir,” resumed the old man, “that I hold securities for two hundred and twelve millions, one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs, payable to self or bearer—as you may soon convince yourself, M. Notary, for here is my wife with the casket.”

Indeed, at this moment, Bathsheba entered, holding in her arms the cedar wood chest, which contained the securities in question; she placed it upon the table, and withdrew, after exchanging an affectionate glance with Samuel. When the latter declared the enormous amount of the sum in hand, his words were received with silent stupor. All the actors in this scene, except himself, believed that they were the sport of some delusion. Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin had counted upon forty millions. This sum, in itself enormous, was more than quintupled. Gabriel, when he heard the notary read those passages in the testament, which spoke of a princely fortune, being quite ignorant of the prodigious effects of eligible investments, had valued the property at some three or four millions. He was, therefore, struck dumb with amazement at the exorbitant amount named. Notwithstanding his admirable disinterestedness and scrupulous honor, he felt dazzled and giddy at the thought, that all these immense riches might have belonged to him—alone. The notary, almost as much amazed as Gabriel, examined the statement, and could hardly believe his eyes. The Jew also remained mute, and seemed painfully absorbed in thought, that no other heir made his appearance.

In the depth of this profound silence, the clock in the next room began slowly to strike twelve. Samuel started, and heaved a deep sigh. A few seconds more, and the fatal term would be at an end. Rodin, Father d’Aigrigny, Gabriel, and the notary, were all under the influence of such complete surprise, that not one of them even remarked how strange it was to hear the sound of this clock.

“Noon!” cried Rodin, as, by an involuntary movement, he hastily placed his two hands upon the casket, as if to take possession of it.

“At last!” cried Father d’Aigrigny, with an expression of joy, triumph transport, which it is impossible to describe. Then he added, as he threw himself into Gabriel’s arms, whom he embraced warmly: “Oh, my dear son! how the poor will bless you! You will be a second Vincent de Paul. You will be canonized, I promise you.”

“Let us first thank Providence,” said Rodin, in a grave and solemn tone, as he fell upon his knees, “let us thank Providence, that He has permitted so much wealth to be employed for His glory!”’

Father d’Aigrigny, having again embraced Gabriel, took him by the hand, and said: “Rodin is right. Let us kneel, my dear son, and render thanks to Providence!”

So saying, Father d’Aigrigny knelt down, dragging Gabriel with him, and the latter, confused and giddy with so many precipitate events, yielded mechanically to the impulse. It was the last stroke of twelve when they all rose together.

Then said the notary, in a slightly agitated voice, for there was something extraordinary and solemn in this scene—

“No other heir of M. Marius de Rennepont having presented himself, before noon on this day, I execute the will of the testator, by declaring, in the name of law and justice, that M. Francois Marie Gabriel de Rennepont, here present, is the sole heir and possessor of all the estate, real and personal, bequeathed under the said will; all which estate the said Gabriel de Rennepont, priest, has freely and voluntarily made over by deed of gift to Frederic Emanuel de Bordeville, Marquis d’Aigrigny, priest, who has accepted the same, and is, therefore, the only legal holder of such property, in the room of the said Gabriel de Rennepont, by virtue of the said deed, drawn up and engrossed by me this morning, and signed in my presence by the said Gabriel de Rennepont and Frederic d’Aigrigny.”

At this moment, the sound of loud voices was heard from the garden. Bathsheba entered hastily, and said to her husband with an agitated air: “Samuel—a soldier—who insists—”

She had not time to finish. Dagobert appeared at the door of the Red Room. The soldier was fearfully pale. He seemed almost fainting; his left arm was in a sling, and he leaned upon Agricola. At sight of Dagobert, the pale and flabby eyelids of Rodin were suddenly distended, as if all the blood in his body had flowed towards the head. Then the socius threw himself upon the casket, with the haste of ferocious rage and avidity, as if he were resolved to cover it with his body, and defend it at the peril of his life.

(20) This term is sanctioned by legal usage.

CHAPTER XXV. THE DEED OF GIFT.

Father d’Aigrigny did not recognize Dagobert, and had never seen Agricola. He could not therefore, at first explain the kind of angry alarm exhibited by Rodin. But the reverend father understood it all, when he heard Gabriel utter a cry of joy, and saw him rush into the arms of the smith, exclaiming: “My brother! my second father—oh! it is heaven that sends you to me.”

Having pressed Gabriel’s hand, Dagobert advanced towards Father d’Aigrigny, with a rapid but unsteady step. As he remarked the soldier’s threatening countenance, the reverend father, strong in his acquired rights, and feeling that, since noon, he was at home here; drew back a little, and said imperiously to the veteran: “Who are you, sir!—What do you want here?”

Instead of answering, the soldier continued to advance, then, stopping just facing Father d’Aigrigny, he looked at him for a second with such an astounding mixture of curiosity, disdain, aversion, and audacity, that the ex-colonel of hussars quailed before the pale face and glowing eye of the veteran. The notary and Samuel, struck with surprise, remained mute spectators of this scene, while Agricola and Gabriel followed with anxiety Dagobert’s least movements. As for Rodin, he pretended to be leaning on the casket, in order still to cover it with his body.

Surmounting at length the embarrassment caused by the steadfast look of the soldier, Father d’Aigrigny raised his head, and repeated. “I ask you, sir, who you are, and what you want?”

“Do you not recognize me?” said Dagobert, hardly able to restrain himself.

“No, sir—”

“In truth,” returned the soldier, with profound contempt, “You cast down your eyes for shame when, at Leipsic, you fought for the Russians against the French, and when General Simon, covered with wounds, answered you, renegade that you were, when you asked him for his sword, ‘I do not surrender to a traitor!’—and dragged himself along to one of the Russian grenadiers, to whom he yielded up his weapon. Well! there was then a wounded soldier by the side of General Simon—I am he.”

“In brief, sir, what do you want?” said Father d’Aigrigny, hardly, able to control himself.

“I have come to unmask you—you, that are as false and hateful a priest, as Gabriel is admirable and beloved by all.”

“Sir!” cried the marquis, becoming livid with rage and emotion.

“I tell you, that you are infamous,” resumed the soldier, with still greater force. “To rob Marshal Simon’s daughters, and Gabriel, and Mdlle. de Cardoville of their inheritance, you have had recourse to the most shameful means.”

“What do you say?” cried Gabriel. “The daughters of Marshal Simon?”

“Are your relations, my dear boy, as is also that worthy Mdlle. de Cardoville, the benefactress of Agricola. Now, this priest,” he added, pointing to Father d’Aigrigny, “has had them shut up—the one as mad, in a lunatic asylum—the others in a convent. As for you, my dear boy, I did not hope to find you here, believing that they would have prevented you, like the others, from coming hither this morning. But, thank God, you are here, and I arrive in time. I should have been sooner, but for my wound. I have lost so much blood, that I have done nothing but faint all the morning.”

“Truly!” cried Gabriel, with uneasiness. “I had not remarked your arm in a sling. What is the wound?”

At a sign from Agricola, Dagobert answered: “Nothing; the consequence of a fall. But here I am, to unveil many infamies.”

It is impossible to paint the curiosity, anguish, surprise, or fear, of the different actors in this scene, as they listened to Dagobert’s threatening words. But the most overcome was Gabriel. His angelic countenance was distorted, his knees trembled under him. Struck by the communication of Dagobert which revealed the existence of other heirs, he was unable to speak for some time; at length, he cried out, in a tone of despair: “And it is I—oh, God! I—who am the cause of the spoliation of this family!”

“You, brother?” exclaimed Agricola.

“Did they not wish to rob you also?” added Dagobert.

“The will,” cried Gabriel, with increasing agony, “gave the property to those of the heirs that should appear before noon.”

“Well?” said Dagobert, alarmed at the emotion of the young priest.

“Twelve o’clock has struck,” resumed the latter. “Of all the family, I alone was present. Do you understand it now? The term is expired. The heirs have been thrust aside by me!”

“By you!” said Dagobert, stammering with joy. “By you, my brave boy! then all is well.”

“But—”

“All is well,” resumed Dagobert, radiant with delight. “You will share with the others—I know you.”

“But all this property I have irrevocably, made over to another,” cried Gabriel, in despair.

“Made over the property!” cried Dagobert, quite petrified. “To whom, then?—to whom?”

“To this gentleman,” said Gabriel, pointing to Father d’Aigrigny.

“To him!” exclaimed Dagobert, overwhelmed by the news; “to him—the renegade—who has always been the evil genius of this family!”

“But, brother,” cried Agricola, “did you then know your claim to this inheritance?”

“No,” answered the young priest, with deep dejection; “no—I only learned it this morning, from Father d’Aigrigny. He told me, that he had only recently been informed of my rights, by family papers long ago found upon me, and sent by our mother to her confessor.”

A sudden light seemed to dawn upon the mind of the smith, as he exclaimed: “I understand it all now. They discovered in these papers, that you would one day have a chance of becoming rich. Therefore, they interested themselves about you—therefore, they took you into their college, where we could never see you—therefore, they deceived you in your vocation by shameful falsehoods, to force you to become a priest, and to lead you to make this deed of gift. Oh, sir!” resumed Agricola, turning towards Father d’Aigrigny, with indignation, “my father is right—such machinations are indeed infamous!”

During this scene, the reverend father and his socius, at first alarmed and shaken in their audacity, had by degrees recovered all their coolness. Rodin, still leaning upon the casket, had said a few words in a low voice to Father d’Aigrigny. So that when Agricola, carried away by his indignation, reproached the latter with his infamous machinations, he bowed his head humbly, and answered: “We are bound to forgive injuries, and offer them to the Lord as a mark of our humility.”

Dagobert, confounded at all he had just heard, felt his reason begin to wander. After so much anxiety, his strength failed beneath this new and terrible blow. Agricola’s just and sensible words, in connection with certain passages of the testament, at once enlightened Gabriel as to the views of Father d’Aigrigny, in taking charge of his education, and leading him to join the Society of Jesus. For the first time in his life, Gabriel was able to take in at a glance all the secret springs of the dark intrigue, of which he had been the victim. Then, indignation and despair surmounting his natural timidity, the missionary, with flashing eye, and cheeks inflamed with noble wrath, exclaimed, as he addressed Father d’Aigrigny: “So, father, when you placed me in one of your colleges, it was not from any feeling of kindness or commiseration, but only in the hope of bringing me one day to renounce in favor of your Order my share in this inheritance; and it did not even suffice you to sacrifice me to your cupidity, but I must also be rendered the involuntary instrument of a shameful spoliation! If only I were concerned—if you only coveted my claim to all this wealth, I should not complain. I am the minister of a religion which honors and sanctifies poverty; I have consented to the donation in your favor, and I have not, I could never have any claim upon it. But property is concerned which belong to poor orphans, brought from a distant exile by my adopted father, and I will not see them wronged. But the benefactress of my adopted brother is concerned, and I will not see her wronged. But the last will of a dying man is concerned, who, in his ardent love of humanity, bequeathed to his descendants an evangelic mission—an admirable mission of progress, love, union, liberty—and I will not see this mission blighted in its bud. No, no; I tell you, that this his mission shall be accomplished, though I have to cancel the donation I have made.”

On these words, Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin looked at each other with a slight shrug of the shoulders. At a sign from the socius, the reverend father began to speak with immovable calmness, in a slow and sanctified voice, keeping eyes constantly cast down: “There are many incidents connected with this inheritance of M. de Rennepont, which appear very complicated—many phantoms, which seem un usually menacing—and yet, nothing could be really more simple and natural. Let us proceed in regular order. Let us put aside all these calumnious imputations; we will return to them afterwards. M. Gabriel de Rennepont—and I humbly beg him to contradict me, if I depart in the least instance from the exact truth—M. Gabriel de Rennepont, in acknowledgment of the care formerly bestowed on him by the society to which I have the honor to belong, made over to me, as its representative, freely and voluntarily, all the property that might come to him one day, the value of which was unknown to him, as well as to myself.”

Father d’Aigrigny here looked at Gabriel, as if appealing to him for the truth of this statement.

“It is true,” said the young priest: “I made this donation freely.”

“This morning, in consequence of a private conversation, which I will not repeat—and in this, I am certain beforehand, of the Abbe Gabriel—”

“True,” replied Gabriel, generously; “the subject of this conversation is of little importance.”

“It was then, in consequence of this conversation that the Abbe Gabriel manifested the desire to confirm this donation—not in my favor, for I have little to do with earthly wealth—but in favor of the sacred and charitable works of which our Company is the trustee. I appeal to the honor of M. Gabriel to declare if he have not engaged himself towards us, not only by a solemn oath, but by a perfectly legal act, executed in presence of M. Dumesnil, here present?”

“It is all true,” answered Gabriel.

“The deed was prepared by me,” added the notary.

“But Gabriel could only give you what belonged to him,” cried Dagobert. “The dear boy never supposed that you were making use of him to rob other people.”

“Do me the favor, sir, to allow me to explain myself,” replied Father d’Aigrigny, courteously; “you can afterwards make answer.”

Dagobert repressed with difficulty his painful impatience. The reverend father continued: “The Abbe Gabriel has therefore, by the double engagement of an oath and a legal act, confirmed his donation. Much more,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny: “when to his great astonishment and to ours, the enormous amount of the inheritance became known, the Abbe Gabriel, faithful to his own admirable generosity, far from repenting of his gifts, consecrated them once more by a pious movement of gratitude to Providence—for M. Notary will doubtless remember, that, after embracing the Abbe Gabriel with transport, and telling him that he was a second Vincent de Paul in charity, I took him by the hand, and we both knelt down together to thank heaven for having inspired him with the thought too offer these immense riches to the Greater Glory of the Lord.”

“That is true, also,” said Gabriel, honestly; “so long as myself was concerned, though I might be astounded for a moment by the revelation of so enormous a fortune, I did not think for an instant of cancelling the donation I had freely made.”

“Under these circumstances,” resumed Father d’Aigrigny, “the hour fixed for the settlement of the inheritance having struck, and Abbe Gabriel being the only heir that presented himself, he became necessarily the only legitimate possessor of this immense wealth—enormous, no doubt—and charity makes me rejoice that it is enormous, for, thanks to it, many miseries will be relieved and many tears wiped away. But, all on a sudden, here comes this gentleman,” said Father d’Aigrigny, pointing to Dagobert; “and, under some delusion, which I forgive from the bottom of my soul, and which I am sure he will himself regret, accuses me, with insults and threats, with having carried off (I know not where) some persons (I know not whom), in order to prevent their being here at the proper time—”

“Yes, I accuse you of this infamy!” cried the soldier exasperated by the calmness and audacity of the reverend father: “yes—and I will—”

“Once again, sir, I conjure you to be so good as to let me finish; you can reply afterwards,” said Father d’Aigrigny, humbly, in the softest and most honeyed accents.

“Yes, I will reply, and confound you!” cried Dagobert.

“Let him finish, father. You can speak presently,” said Agricola.

The soldier was silent as Father d’Aigrigny continued with new assurance: “Doubtless, if there should really be any other heirs, besides the Abbe Gabriel, it is unfortunate for them that they have not appeared in proper time. And if, instead of defending the cause of the poor and needy, I had only to look to my own interest, I should be far from availing myself of this advantage, due only to chance; but, as a trustee for the great family of the poor, I am obliged to maintain my absolute right to this inheritance; and I do not doubt that M. Notary will acknowledge the validity of my claim, and deliver to me these securities, which are now my legitimate property.”

“My only mission,” replied the notary, in an agitated voice, “is faithfully to execute the will of the testator. The Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont alone presented himself, within the term fixed by the testament. The deed of gift is in due form; I cannot refuse, therefore, to deliver to the person named in the deed the amount of the heritage—”

On these words Samuel hid his face in his hands, and heaved a deep sigh; he was obliged to acknowledge the rigorous justice of the notary’s observations.

“But, sir,” cried Dagobert, addressing the man of law, “this cannot be. You will not allow two poor orphans to be despoiled. It is in the name of their father and mother that I speak to you. I give you my honor—the honor of a soldier!—that they took advantage of the weakness of my wife to carry the daughters of Marshal Simon to a convent, and thus prevent me bringing them here this morning. It is so true, that I have already laid my charge before a magistrate.”

“And what answer did you receive?” said the notary.

“That my deposition was not sufficient for the law to remove these young girls from the convent in which they were, and that inquiries would be made—”

“Yes, sir,” added Agricola, “and it was the same with regard to Mdlle. de Cardoville, detained as mad in a lunatic asylum, though in the full enjoyment of her reason. Like Marshal Simon’s daughters, she too has a claim to this inheritance. I took the same steps for her, as my father took for Marshal Simon’s daughters.”

“Well?” asked the notary.

“Unfortunately, sir,” answered Agricola, “they told me; as they did my father, that my deposition would not suffice, and that they must make inquiries.”

At this moment, Bathsheba, having heard the street-bell ring, left the Red Room at a sign from Samuel. The notary resumed, addressing Agricola and his father: “Far be it from me, gentlemen, to call in question your good faith; but I cannot, to my great regret, attach such importance to your accusations, which are not supported by proof, as to suspend the regular legal course. According to your own confession, gentlemen, the authorities, to whom you addressed yourselves, did not see fit to interfere on your depositions, and told you they would inquire further. Now, really, gentlemen, I appeal to you: how can I, in so serious a matter, take upon myself a responsibility, which the magistrates themselves have refused to take?”

“Yes, you should do so, in the name of justice and honor?” cried Dagobert.

“It may be so, sir, in your opinion; but in my view of the case, I remain faithful to justice and honor, by executing with exactness the last will of the dead. For the rest you have no occasion to despair. If the persons, whose interests you represent, consider themselves injured, they may hereafter have recourse to an action at law, against the person receiving as donee of the Abbe Gabriel—but in the meanwhile, it is my duty to put him in immediate possession of the securities. I should be gravely injured, were I to act in any, other manner.”

The notary’s observations seemed so reasonable, that Samuel, Dagobert and Agricola were quite confounded. After a moment’s thought, Gabriel appeared to take a desperate resolution, and said to the notary, in a firm voice—

“Since, under these circumstances, the law is powerless to obtain the right, I must adopt, sir, an extreme course. Before doing so, I will ask M. l’Abbe d’Aigrigny, for the last time, if he will content himself with that portion of the property which falls justly to me, on condition that the rest shall be placed in safe hands, till the heirs, whose names have been brought forward, shall prove their claim.”

“To this proposition I must answer as I have done already,” replied Father d’Aigrigny; “it is not I who am concerned, but an immense work of charity. I am, therefore, obliged to refuse the part-offer of the Abbe Gabriel, and to remind him of his engagements of every kind.”

“Then you refuse this arrangement?” asked Gabriel, in an agitated voice.

“Charity commands me to do so.”

“You refuse it—absolutely?”

“I think of all the good and pious institutions that these treasures will enable us to establish for the Greater Glory of the Lord, and I have neither the courage nor the desire to make the least concession.”

“Then, sir,” resumed the good priest, in a still more agitated manner, “since you force me to do it, I revoke my donation. I only intended to dispose of my own property, and not of that which did not belong to me.”

“Take care M. l’Abbe,” said rather d’Aigrigny; “I would observe that I hold in my hand a written, formal promise.”

“I know it, sir; you have a written paper, in which I take an oath never to revoke this donation, upon any pretext whatever, and on pain of incurring the aversion and contempt of all honest men. Well, sir! be it so,” said Gabriel, with deep bitterness; “I will expose myself to all the consequences of perjury; you may proclaim it everywhere. I may be hated and despised by all—but God will judge me!” The young priest dried a tear, which trickled from his eye.

“Oh! do not be afraid, my dear boy!” cried Dagobert, with reviving hope. “All honest men will be on your side!”

“Well done, brother!” said Agricola.

“M. Notary,” said Rodin, in his little sharp voice, “please to explain to Abbe Gabriel, that he may perjure himself as much as he thinks fit, but that the Civil Code is much less easy to violate than a mere promise, which is only—sacred!”

“Speak, sir,” said Gabriel.

“Please to inform Abbe Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “that a deed of gift, like that made in favor of Father d’Aigrigny, can only be cancelled for one of three reasons—is it not so?”

“Yes, sir, for three reasons,” said the notary.

“The first is in case of the birth of a child,” said Rodin, “and I should blush to mention such a contingency to the Abbe Gabriel. The second is the ingratitude of the donee—and the Abbe Gabriel may be certain of our deep and lasting gratitude. The last case is the non-fulfilment of the wishes of the donor, with regard to the employment of his gifts.

“Now, although the Abbe Gabriel may have suddenly conceived a very bad opinion of us, he will at least give us some time to show that his gifts have been disposed of according to his wishes, and applied to the Greater Glory of the Lord.”

“Now, M. Notary,” added Father d’Aigrigny, “it is for you to decide and say, if Abbe Gabriel can revoke the donation he has made.”

Just as the notary was going to answer, Bathsheba reentered the room, followed by two more personages, who appeared in the Red Room at a little distance from each other.

BOOK VI.

PART SECOND.—THE CHASTISEMENT. (Concluded.)

CHAPTER XXVI. A GOOD GENIUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He also an heir!—M. Francis Hardy!” cried Agricola, interrupting the old workman.

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

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

“Eh?” cried the old workman, trying to recognize the soldiers face, “you are then—”

“Dagobert.”

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

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

“And where are they?” asked the old man.

“In a convent.”

“In a convent?”

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

Original

“What man?”

“The Marquis d’Aigrigny.”

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

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

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

Original

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A woman appeared upon the threshold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then how can you explain the presence of this woman here?” said Father d’Aigrigny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, sir,” said Rodin, trying to force a passage, “the question is definitively decided in favor of Father d’Aigrigny. Therefore, with your permission—”

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

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

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

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

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

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