Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Three days ago, I received a letter from him, in which he mentions your name.”

  “Is he then at Paris?”

  “He will be there soon, if not there now. He went to Italy about three months ago, and, during his absence, he received a very sad piece of news — the death of his mother, who was passing the autumn on one of the estates of the Princess de Saint-Dizier.”

  “Oh, indeed! I was not aware of it.”

  “Yes, it was a cruel grief to him; but we must all resign ourselves to the will of Providence!”

  “And with regard to what subject did the marquis do me the honor to mention my name?”

  “I am going to tell you. First of all, you must know that this house is sold. The bill of sale was signed the day before my departure from Paris.”

  “Oh, sir! that renews all my uneasiness.”

  “Pray, why?”

  “I am afraid that the new proprietors may not choose to keep me as their bailiff.”

  “Now see what a lucky chance! It is just on that subject that I am going to speak to you.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “Certainly. Knowing the interest which the marquis feels for you, I am particularly desirous that you should keep this place, and I will do all in my power to serve you, if—”

  “Ah, sir!” cried Dupont, interrupting Rodin; “what gratitude do I not owe you! It is Heaven that sends you to me!’

  “Now, my dear sir, you flatter me in your turn; but I ought to tell you, that I’m obliged to annex a small condition to my support.”

  “Oh, by all means! Only name it, sir — name it!”

  “The person who is about to inhabit this mansion, is an old lady in every way worthy of veneration; Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is the name of this respectable—”

  “What, sir?” said the bailiff, interrupting Rodin; “Madame de la Sainte Colombe the lady who has bought us out?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Yes, sir, she came last week to see the estate. My wife persists that she is a great lady; but — between ourselves — judging by certain words that I heard her speak—”

  “You are full of penetration, my dear M. Dupont. Madame de la Sainte Colombe is far from being a great lady. I believe she was neither more nor less than a milliner, under one of the wooden porticoes of the Palais Royal. You see, that I deal openly with you.”

  “And she boasted of all the noblemen, French and foreign, who used to visit her!”

  “No doubt, they came to buy bonnets for their wives! However, the fact is, that, having gained a large fortune and, after being in youth and middle age — indifferent — alas! more than indifferent to the salvation of her soul — Madame de la Sainte-Colombe is now in a likely way to experience grace — which renders her, as I told you, worthy of veneration, because nothing is so respectable as a sincere repentance — always providing it to be lasting. Now to make the good work sure and effectual, we shall need your assistance, my dear M. Dupont.”

  “Mine, sir! what can I do in it?”

  “A great deal; and I will explain to you how. There is no church in this village, which stands at an equal distance from either of two parishes. Madame de la Sainte-Colombe, wishing to make choice of one of the two clergymen, will naturally apply to you and Madame Dupont, who have long lived in these parts, for information respecting them.”

  “Oh! in that case the choice will soon be made. The incumbent of Danicourt is one of the best of men.”

  “Now that is precisely what you must not say to Madame de la Sainte Colombe.”

  “How so?”

  “You must, on the contrary, much praise, without ceasing, the curate of Roiville, the other parish, so as to decide this good lady to trust herself to his care.”

  “And why, sir, to him rather than to the other?”

  “Why? — because, if you and Madame Dupont succeed in persuading Madame de la Sainte-Colombe to make the choice I wish, you will be certain to keep your place as bailiff. I give you my word of it, and what I promise I perform.”

  “I do not doubt, sir, that you have this power,” said Dupont, convinced by Rodin’s manner, and the authority of his words; “but I should like to know—”

  “One word more,” said Rodin, interrupting him; “I will deal openly with you, and tell you why I insist on the preference which I beg you to support. I should be grieved if you saw in all this the shadow of an intrigue. It is only for the purpose of doing a good action. The curate of Roiville, for whom I ask your influence, is a man for whom M. d’Aigrigny feels a deep interest. Though very poor, he has to support an aged mother. Now, if he had the spiritual care of Madame de la Sainte Colombe, he would do more good than any one else, because he is full of zeal and patience; and then it is clear he would reap some little advantages, by which his old mother might profit — there you see is the secret of this mighty scheme. When I knew that this lady was disposed to buy an estate in the neighborhood of our friend’s parish, I wrote about it to the marquis; and he, remembering you, desired me to ask you to render him this small service, which, as you see, will not remain without a recompense. For I tell you once more, and I will prove it, that I have the power to keep you in your place as bailiff.”

  “Well, sir,” replied Dupont, after a moment’s reflection, “you are so frank and obliging, that I will imitate your sincerity. In the same degree that the curate of Danicourt is respected and loved in this country, the curate of Roiville, whom you wish me to prefer to him, is dreaded for his intolerance — and, moreover—”

  “Well, and what more?”

  “Why, then, they say—”

  “Come, what do they say?”

  “They say — he is a Jesuit.”

  Upon these words, M. Rodin burst into so hearty a laugh that the bailiff was quite struck dumb with amazement — for the countenance of M. Rodin took a singular expression when he laughed. “A Jesuit!” he repeated, with redoubled hilarity; “a Jesuit! — Now really, my dear M. Dupont, for a man of sense, experience, and intelligence, how can you believe such idle stories? — A Jesuit — are there such people as Jesuits? — in our time, above all, can you believe such romance of the Jacobins, hobgoblins of the old freedom lovers? — Come, come; I wager, you have read about them in the Constitutionnel!”

  “And yet, sir, they say—”

  “Good heavens! what will they not say? — But wise men, prudent men like you, do not meddle with what is said — they manage their own little matters, without doing injury to any one, and they never sacrifice, for the sake of nonsense, a good place, which secures them a comfortable provision for the rest of their days. I tell you frankly, however much I may regret it, that should you not succeed in getting the preference for my man, you will not remain bailiff here.

  “But, sir,” said poor Dupont, “it will not be my fault, if this lady, hearing a great deal in praise of the other curate, should prefer him to your friend.”

  “Ah! but if, on the other hand, persons who have long lived in the neighborhood — persons worthy of confidence, whom she will see every day — tell Madame de la Sainte-Colombe a great deal of good of my friend, and a great deal of harm of the other curate, she will prefer the former, and you will continue bailiff.”

  “But, sir — that would be calumny!” cried Dupont.

  “Pshaw, my dear M. Dupont!” said Rodin, with an air of sorrowful and affectionate reproach, “how can you think me capable of giving you evil counsel? — I was only making a supposition. You wish to remain bailiff on this estate. I offer you the certainty of doing so — it is for you to consider and decide.”

  “But, sir—”

  “One word more — or rather one more condition — as important as the other. Unfortunately, we have seen clergymen take advantage of the age and weakness of their penitents, unfairly to benefit either themselves or others: I believe our protege incapable of any such baseness — but, in order to discharge my responsibility — and yours also, as you will have contributed to his appoin
tment — I must request that you will write to me twice a week, giving the most exact detail of all that you have remarked in the character, habits, connections, pursuits, of Madame de la Sainte Colombe — for the influence of a confessor, you see, reveals itself in the whole conduct of life, and I should wish to be fully edified by the proceedings of my friend, without his being aware of it — or, if anything blameable were to strike you, I should be immediately informed of it by this weekly correspondence.”

  “But, sir — that would be to act as a spy?” exclaimed the unfortunate bailiff.

  “Now, my dear M. Dupont! how can you thus brand the sweetest, most wholesome of human desires — mutual confidence? — I ask of you nothing else — I ask of you to write to me confidentially the details of all that goes on here. On these two conditions, inseparable one from the other, you remain bailiff; otherwise, I shall be forced, with grief and regret, to recommend some one else to Madame de la Sainte-Colombe.”

  “I beg you, sir,” said Dupont, with emotion, “Be generous without any conditions! — I and my wife have only this place to give us bread, and we are too old to find another. Do not expose our probity of forty years’ standing to be tempted by the fear of want, which is so bad a counsellor!”

  “My dear M. Dupont, you are really a great child: you must reflect upon this, and give me your answer in the course of a week.”

  “Oh, sir! I implore you—” The conversation was here interrupted by a loud report, which was almost instantaneously repeated by the echoes of the cliffs. “What is that?” said M. Rodin. Hardly had he spoken, when the same noise was again heard more distinctly than before.

  “It is the sound of cannon,” cried Dupont, rising; “no doubt a ship in distress, or signaling for a pilot.”

  “My dear,” said the bailiffs wife, entering abruptly, “from the terrace, we can see a steamer and a large ship nearly dismasted — they are drifting right upon the shore — the ship is firing minute gulls — it will be lost.”

  “Oh, it is terrible!” cried the bailiff, taking his hat and preparing to go out, “to look on at a shipwreck, and be able to do nothing!”

  “Can no help be given to these vessels?” asked M. Rodin.

  “If they are driven upon the reefs, no human power can save them; since the last equinox two ships have been lost on this coast.”

  “Lost with all on board? — Oh, very frightful,” said M. Rodin.

  “In such a storm, there is but little chance for the crew; no matter,” said the bailiff, addressing his wife, “I will run down to the rocks with the people of the farm, and try to save some of them, poor creatures! — Light large fires in several rooms — get ready linen, clothes, cordials — I scarcely dare hope to save any, but we must do our best. Will you come with me, M. Rodin?”

  “I should think it a duty, if I could be at all useful, but I am too old and feeble to be of any service,” said M. Rodin, who was by no means anxious to encounter the storm. “Your good lady will be kind enough to show me the Green Chamber, and when I have found the articles I require, I will set out immediately for Paris, for I am in great haste.”

  “Very well, sir. Catherine will show you. Ring the big bell,” said the bailiff to his servant; “let all the people of the farm meet me at the foot of the cliff, with ropes and levers.”

  “Yes, my dear,” replied Catherine; “but do not expose yourself.”

  “Kiss me — it will bring me luck,” said the bailiff; and he started at a full run, crying: “Quick! quick; by this time not a plank may remain of the vessels.”

  “My dear madam,” said Rodin, always impassible, “will you be obliging enough to show me the Green Chamber?”

  “Please to follow me, sir,” answered Catherine, drying her tears — for she trembled on account of her husband, whose courage she well knew.

  CHAPTER XXIV. THE TEMPEST

  THE SEA IS raging. Mountainous waves of dark green, marbled with white foam, stand out, in high, deep undulations, from the broad streak of red light, which extends along the horizon. Above are piled heavy masses of black and sulphurous vapor, whilst a few lighter clouds of a reddish gray, driven by the violence of the wind, rush across the murky sky.

  The pale winter sun, before he quite disappears in the great clouds, behind which he is slowly mounting, casts here and there some oblique rays upon the troubled sea, and gilds the transparent crest of some of the tallest waves. A band of snow-white foam boils and rages as far as the eye can reach, along the line of the reefs that bristle on this dangerous coast.

  Half-way up a rugged promontory, which juts pretty far into the sea, rises Cardoville Castle; a ray of the sun glitters upon its windows; its brick walls and pointed roofs of slate are visible in the midst of this sky loaded with vapors.

  A large, disabled ship, with mere shreds of sail still fluttering from the stumps of broken masts, drives dead upon the coast. Now she rolls her monstrous hull upon the waves — now plunges into their trough. A flash is seen, followed by a dull sound, scarcely perceptible in the midst of the roar of the tempest. That gun is the last signal of distress from this lost vessel, which is fast forging on the breakers.

  At the same moment, a steamer, with its long plume of black smoke, is working her way from east to west, making every effort to keep at a distance from the shore, leaving the breakers on her left. The dismasted ship, drifting towards the rocks, at the mercy of the wind and tide, must some time pass right ahead of the steamer.

  Suddenly, the rush of a heavy sea laid the steamer upon her side; the enormous wave broke furiously on her deck; in a second the chimney was carried away, the paddle box stove in, one of the wheels rendered useless. A second white-cap, following the first, again struck the vessel amidships, and so increased the damage that, no longer answering to the helm, she also drifted towards the shore, in the same direction as the ship. But the latter, though further from the breakers, presented a greater surface to the wind and sea, and so gained upon the steamer in swiftness that a collision between the two vessels became imminent — a new clanger added to all the horrors of the now certain wreck.

  The ship was an English vessel, the “Black Eagle,” homeward bound from Alexandria, with passengers, who arriving from India and Java, via the Red Sea, had disembarked at the Isthmus of Suez, from on board the steamship “Ruyter.” The “Black Eagle,” quitting the Straits of Gibraltar, had gone to touch at the Azores. She headed thence for Portsmouth, when she was overtaken in the Channel by the northwester. The steamer was the “William Tell,” coming from Germany, by way of the Elbe, and bound, in the last place, for Hamburg to Havre.

  These two vessels, the sport of enormous rollers, driven along by tide and tempest, were now rushing upon the breakers with frightful speed. The deck of each offered a terrible spectacle; the loss of crew and passengers appeared almost certain, for before them a tremendous sea broke on jagged rocks, at the foot of a perpendicular cliff.

  The captain of the “Black Eagle,” standing on the poop, holding by the remnant of a spar, issued his last orders in this fearful extremity with courageous coolness. The smaller boats had been carried away by the waves; it was in vain to think of launching the long-boat; the only chance of escape in case the ship should not be immediately dashed to pieces on touching the rocks, was to establish a communication with the land by means of a life-line — almost the last resort for passing between the shore and a stranded vessel.

  The deck was covered with passengers, whose cries and terror augmented the general confusion. Some, struck with a kind of stupor, and clinging convulsively to the shrouds, awaited their doom in a state of stupid insensibility. Others wrung their hands in despair, or rolled upon the deck uttering horrible imprecations. Here, women knelt down to pray; there, others hid their faces in their hands, that they might not see the awful approach of death. A young mother, pale as a specter, holding her child clasped tightly to her bosom, went supplicating from sailor to sailor, and offering a purse full of gold and jewels to any one th
at would take charge of her son.

  These cries, and tears, and terror contrasted with the stern and silent resignation of the sailors. Knowing the imminence of the inevitable danger, some of them stripped themselves of part of their clothes, waiting for the moment to make a last effort, to dispute their lives with the fury of the waves; others renouncing all hope, prepared to meet death with stoical indifference.

  Here and there, touching or awful episodes rose in relief, if one may so express it, from this dark and gloomy background of despair.

  A young man of about eighteen or twenty, with shiny black hair, copper colored complexion, and perfectly regular and handsome features, contemplated this scene of dismay and horror with that sad calmness peculiar to those who have often braved great perils; wrapped in a cloak, he leaned his back against the bulwarks, with his feet resting against one of the bulkheads. Suddenly, the unhappy mother, who, with her child in her arms, and gold in her hand, had in vain addressed herself to several of the mariners, to beg them to save her boy, perceiving the young man with the copper-colored complexion, threw herself on her knees before him, and lifted her child towards him with a burst of inexpressible agony. The young man took it, mournfully shook his head, and pointed to the furious waves — but, with a meaning gesture, he appeared to promise that he would at least try to save it. Then the young mother, in a mad transport of hope, seized the hand of the youth, and bathed it with her tears.

  Further on, another passenger of the “Black Eagle,” seemed animated by sentiments of the most active pity. One would hardly have given him five-and-twenty years of age. His long, fair locks fell in curls on either side of his angelic countenance. He wore a black cassock and white neck-band. Applying himself to comfort the most desponding, he went from one to the other, and spoke to them pious words of hope and resignation; to hear him console some, and encourage others, in language full of unction, tenderness, and ineffable charity, one would have supposed him unaware or indifferent to the perils that he shared.