Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “God be blessed! Dear child, you will no longer have cause to complain of Hervé’s indifference. No, no! And when my little Odelin comes back from Italy we shall then all live together again, happy as of old. I am awaiting with impatience the return of Master Raimbaud, the armorer, who will bring us back our gentle Odelin.”

  Not receiving any answer from her daughter, Bridget looked up and said to her:

  “I have been speaking to you some time, dear daughter. You do not seem to hear me. Why are you so absentminded?”

  Hena remained silent for an instant, then she smiled and answered naïvely:

  “Singular as it may be, why should I not tell you, mother? It would be the first time in my life that I kept a secret from you.”

  “Well, my child, what is the reason of your absent-mindedness?”

  “It is — well, it is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, mother.”

  Dropping her embroidery, Bridget contemplated her daughter with extreme astonishment. Hena, however, proceeded with a candid smile:

  “Does that astonish you, mother? I am, myself, a good deal more astonished.”

  Hena uttered these words with such ingenuousness, her handsome face, clear as her soul, turned to her mother with such trustfulness, that Bridget, at once uneasy and confident — uneasy, by reason of the revelation; confident, by reason of Hena’s innocent assurance — said to her after a short pause:

  “Indeed, dear daughter, I am astonished at what I learn from you. You saw, it seems to me, Brother St. Ernest-Martyr only two or three times at our friend Mary La Catelle’s, before that unhappy affair of the other evening on the bridge.”

  “Yes, mother. And that is just the extraordinary thing about it. Since day before yesterday I constantly think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. And that is not all. Last night I dreamt of him!”

  “Dreamt of him!” exclaimed Bridget.

  So far from evading her mother’s gaze, Hena’s only answer was two affirmative nods of the head, which she gave, opening wide her beautiful blue eyes, in which the childlike and charming astonishment, that her own sentiments caused her, was depicted.

  “Yes, mother; I dreamt of him. I saw him picking up at the door of a church a poor child that shook with cold. I saw him pick up the child, hold it in his arms, warm it with his breath, and contemplate it with so pitying and tender an air, that the tears forced themselves to my eyes. I was so moved that I woke up with a start — and I really wept!”

  “That dream is singular, my daughter!”

  “Singular? No! The dream is explainable enough. Day before yesterday Hervé was telling me of the charitable nature of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. That same evening we saw the poor monk carried into our house with his face bleeding. That I should have been deeply impressed, and should have dreamt of him, I understand. But what I do not understand is that when I am awake, wide awake, I should still think of him. Look, even now, when I shut my eyes” — and, smiling, Hena suited the action to the words— “I still see him as if he stood there, with that kind face of his that he turns upon the little children.”

  “But, my dear daughter, when you think of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, what is the nature of your thoughts?”

  Hena pondered for an instant, and then answered:

  “I would not know how to explain it to you, mother. When I think of him I say to myself: ‘How good, how generous, how brave is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr! Day before yesterday he braved the sword to defend Mary La Catelle; another day, on the Notre Dame Bridge, he leaped into the water to save an unhappy man who was drowning; he picks up little deserted children, or gives them instruction with so much interest and affection that their own father could not display more solicitude in them.’”

  “Thinking over it, dear child, there is nothing in all that but what is perfectly natural. The brother is an upright man. Your thoughts turn upon his good deeds. That’s quite simple.”

  “No, mother, it is not quite so simple as you put it! Are not you all that is best in this world? Is not my father as upright a man as Brother St. Ernest-Martyr? Are not you two my beloved and venerated parents? And yet — that is what puzzles me, how comes it that I oftener think of him than of either of you?”

  And after a pause the young maid added in an accent of adorable candor:

  “I tell you, mother, it is truly extraordinary!”

  Several impatient raps, given at the street door interrupted the conversation. Bridget said to her daughter:

  “Open the window, and see who it is that knocks. Probably it is your brother.”

  “Yes, mother; it is he; it is Hervé,” said Hena, opening the window.

  She descended to the floor below.

  “My God!” thought Bridget to herself in no slight agitation. “How am I to interpret the confidence of Hena? Her soul is incapable of dissimulation. She has told me the whole truth, without being aware of the sentiments the young monk awakens in her. I can hardly wait to inform Christian of this strange discovery!”

  The sound of Hervé’s steps hurriedly ascending the stairs drew Bridget from her brown study. She saw her son rush in, followed by his sister. As he stepped into the room he cried with a troubled countenance:

  “Oh, mother! mother!” and embracing her tenderly he added: “Oh, mother! What sad news I bring you!”

  “Dear child, what is it?”

  “Our poor Mary La Catelle—”

  “What has happened to her?”

  “This evening, as I was about to leave the printing shop, father asked me to accompany him part of the way. He was going to a friend’s, with whom he was to take supper this evening. Father said: ‘La Catelle’s house is on our way, we shall drop in and inquire whether she is still suffering from her painful experience of the other evening’—”

  “Yesterday morning,” Bridget broke in, “after I took her home with your sister, we left Mary calm and at ease. She is a brave woman.”

  “Notwithstanding her firm nature and her self-control, she succumbed to the reaction of that night’s excitement. Last night she was seized with a high fever. She was bled twice to-day. A minute ago we found her in a desperate state. A fatal end is apprehended.”

  “Poor Mary!” exclaimed Hena, clasping her hands in despair, and her eyes filling with tears. “What a misfortune! This news overwhelms me with sorrow!”

  “Unhappily her sister-in-law left yesterday for Meaux with her husband,” remarked Hervé. “La Catelle, at death’s door, is left at this moment to the care of a servant.”

  “Hena, quick, my cloak!” said Bridget rising precipitately from her seat. “I can not leave that worthy friend to the care of mercenary hands. I shall run to her help.”

  “Good, dear mother, you but forestall father’s wishes,” observed Hervé, as his sister hurried to take Bridget’s cloak out of a trunk. “Father told me to hurry and notify you of this misfortune. He said he knew how attached you were to our friend, and that you would wish to spend the night at her bed, and render her the care she stands in need of.”

  Wrapping herself in her cloak, Bridget was about to leave the house.

  “Mother,” said Hena, “will you not take me with you?”

  “How can you think of such a thing, child, at this hour of night!”

  “Sister, it is for me to escort mother,” put in Hervé; and, with a tender voice, accompanied with the offer of his forehead for Bridget to kiss, the hypocrite added:

  “Is it not the sweetest of my duties to watch over you, good mother?”

  “Oh,” said Bridget, moved, and kissing her son’s forehead, “I recognize you again, my son!” With this passing allusion to the painful incidents of the last few days, which she had already forgiven, the unsuspecting mother proceeded: “A woman of my age runs no risk on the street, my son; besides, I do not wish your sister to remain alone in the house.”

  “I am not afraid, mother,” Hena responded. “I shall bolt the door from within. I shall feel easier that way than to have you go out without compan
y at this hour of night. Why, mother, remember what happened to La Catelle night before last! Let Hervé go with you.”

  “Mother,” put in Hervé, “you hear what my dear sister says.”

  “Children, we are losing precious time. Let us not forget that, at this hour, our friend may be expiring in the hands of a stranger. Good-bye!”

  “How unlucky that just to-day our uncle should have gone to St. Denis!” put in Hervé with a sigh. But seeming to be struck with an idea he added: “Mother, why could not both Hena and I accompany you?”

  “Oh, darling brother, you deserve an embrace, twenty embraces, for that bright thought,” said the young girl, throwing her arms around Hervé’s neck. “It is agreed, mother, we shall all three go together.”

  “Impossible. The house can not be left alone, children. Who will open the door to your father when he comes home? Besides, did not Master Simon send us yesterday a little bag of pearls to embroider on the velvet gown for the Duchess of Etampes? The pearls are of considerable value. I would feel very uneasy if these valuable articles remained without anybody to watch them. Knowing you are here, Hervé, I shall feel easy on that score,” remarked Bridget with a look of affectionate confidence that seemed to say to her son: “Yesterday you committed larceny; but you are now again an honorable boy; to-day I can entrust you with the guardianship of my treasure.”

  Hervé divined his mother’s thoughts. He raised her hand to his lips and said:

  “Your trust in me shall be justified.”

  “Still, this very evening, shortly before nightfall, we left the house all alone for a walk along the river,” objected Hena. “Why should we run any greater risk now, if we go out all three of us?”

  “Dear daughter, it was then still light; the shops of our neighbors were still open; burglars would not have dared to make a descent upon us at such a time. At this hour, on the contrary, all the shops being closed, and the streets almost deserted, thieves are in season.”

  “And it is just at such an hour that you are going to expose yourself, mother.”

  “I have nothing about me to tempt the cupidity of thieves. Good-bye! Good-bye, my children!” Bridget said hastily, and embracing Hena and her brother: “To-morrow morning, my dear girl, your father will take you to La Catelle’s, where you will find me. We shall return home together. Hervé, light me downstairs.”

  Preceded by her son, who carried the lamp, Bridget quickly descended the stairs and left the house.

  CHAPTER XII.

  HERVE’S DEMENTIA.

  NO SOONER HAD Hervé closed the street door upon his mother than he slowly re-ascended the stairs to the upper chamber, saying to himself:

  “It will take my mother an hour to reach La Catelle’s house; at least as long to return; father will not be home until midnight; I have two full hours to myself. They shall be turned to profit.”

  Pressing with a convulsive hand against his heart the scapulary containing Tezel’s letter of absolution, Hervé entered the room in which Hena was left alone.

  From the threshold Hervé saw his sister on her knees. Astonished at her posture, he stepped towards her and asked:

  “Hena, what are you doing?”

  “I was praying to God that He may guard mother, and restore our friend to health,” answered the young girl, rising; and she proceeded with a sigh: “My heart feels heavy. May no misfortune threaten us.”

  Saying this, the confiding girl sat down to her embroidery. Her brother took a seat beside her on a stool. After a few seconds he broke the silence:

  “Hena, do you remember that about three months ago I suddenly changed towards you?”

  Not a little surprised at these opening words, the young girl answered:

  “Why recall those evil days, brother? Thank heaven, they are over; they will not return.”

  “Do you remember,” Hervé proceeded without noticing his sister’s words, “do you remember that, so far from returning, I repelled your caresses?”

  “I do not wish to remember that, Hervé; I do not think of it now.”

  “Hena, the reason was I had made a strange discovery in my heart — I loved you!”

  The young girl dropped her needle, turned suddenly towards her brother, and, fixing upon him her astonished eyes, looked at him for a moment in silence. Thereupon, smiling, and in accents of tender reproach, she said:

  “How! Were you so long making the discovery that you loved me? And did the discovery seem to you — strange?”

  “Yes,” answered Hervé, ignoring the childlike reproach implied in his sister’s words; “yes, the discovery was slow — yes, it seemed to me strange. Long did I struggle against that sentiment; my nights were passed sleepless.”

  “You slept no more because you loved me? That’s odd!”

  “Because I loved you—”

  “Come, Hervé, it is not handsome to joke about so painful a subject. Do you forget the sorrow that fell on us all when, all of a sudden, we saw you become so somber, so silent, and almost to seem indifferent to us? Our dear little Odelin, who departed since then to Milan with Master Raimbaud, was probably less saddened by the thought of leaving us, than by your coolness for us all.”

  “Remorse gave me neither peace, nor rest. Alas, I say correctly, remorse.”

  “Remorse?” repeated the young girl stupefied. “I do not understand you.”

  “The tortures of my soul, coupled with a vague instinct of hope, drove me to the feet of a holy man. He listened to me at the confessional. He unrolled before my eyes the inexhaustible resources of the faith. Well, my remorse vanished; peace re-entered my heart. Now, Hena, I love you without remorse and without internal struggles. I love you in security.”

  “Well, if that is the game, I shall proceed with my embroidery,” said the young girl; and picking up her needle, she resumed her work, adding in a playful tone: “Seeing that the Seigneur Hervé loves me without remorse and in security, all is said — although, for my part, I do not fathom those big words ‘struggles’ and ‘tortures’ with regard to the return of the affection of the Seigneur Hervé for a sister who loves him as much as she is beloved.” But speedily dropping the spirit of banter and sadly raising her eyes to her brother’s, she continued: “Here, my friend, I must quit jesting. You have long suffered. You seemed whelmed with a secret sorrow. Come, what was the cause? I am still in the dark thereon. Acquaint me with it.”

  “The cause was love for you, Hena!”

  “Still at it? Come, Hervé, I am but a very ignorant girl, beside you who know Latin. But when you say that the cause of your secret sorrow was your attachment for me—”

  “I said love, Hena—”

  “Love, attachment, tenderness — is it not all one?”

  “You spoke to me day before yesterday of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr.”

  “I did. And only a short time ago I was talking about him with mother—” Suddenly breaking off, Hena exclaimed: “Good God! Dear, good mother! When I think of her being all alone at this hour on the street, without anyone to protect her!”

  “Be not alarmed. Our mother runs no danger whatever.”

  “May heaven hear you, Hervé!”

  “Let us return to Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, of whom you were just before speaking with mother. Do you love the monk in the same manner that you love me?”

  “Can the two things be compared? I have spent my life beside you; you are my brother — on the other hand, I have seen that poor monk but five or six times, and then for a minute only.”

  “You love him — do not lie!”

  “My God! In what a tone you speak, Hervé. I have nothing to conceal.”

  “Do you love that monk?”

  “Certainly — just as one loves all that is good and just. I know the generous actions of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. You, yourself, only a few days ago, told me a very touching deed done by him.”

  “Do you constantly think of the monk?”

  “Constantly, no. But this very evening I was say
ing to mother that I was astonished I thought so frequently of him.”

  “Hena, suppose our parents thought of marrying you, and that the young monk, instead of being a clergyman, was free, could become your husband and loved you — would you wed him?”

  “What a crazy supposition!”

  “Let us suppose all I have said — that he is not a monk and loves you; if our parents gave their consent to the marriage, would you accept that man for your husband?”

  “Dear brother, you are putting questions to me—”

  “You would wed him with joy,” Hervé broke in with hollow voice, fixing upon his sister a jealous and enraged eye that escaped her, seeing the embroidery on which she was engaged helped her conceal the embarrassment that the singular interrogatory to which she was being subjected threw her into. Nevertheless, the girl’s natural frankness regained the upper hand, and without raising her eyes to her brother, Hena answered:

  “Why should I not consent to wed an honorable man, if our parents approved the marriage?”

  “Accordingly, you love the monk! Yes, you love him passionately! The thought of him obsesses you. Your grief and the sorrow that day before yesterday you felt when he was carried wounded into the house, the tears I surprised in your eyes — all these are so many symptoms of your love for him!”

  “Hervé, I know not why, but your words alarm me, they disconcert me, they freeze my heart, they make me feel like weeping. I did not feel that way this evening when I conversed with mother about Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. Besides, your face looks gloomy, almost enraged.”

  “I hate that monk to death!”

  “My God! What has he done to you?”

  “What has he done to me?” repeated Hervé. “You love him! That is his crime!”

  “Brother!” cried Hena, rising from her work to throw herself on the neck of her brother and holding him in a tight embrace. “Utter not such words! You make me wretched!”

  Convulsed with despair, Hervé pressed his sister passionately to his breast and covered her forehead and hair with kisses, while Hena, innocently responding to his caresses, whispered with gentle emotion: