Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Was it not you, who delivered us from the prison at Leipsic, in that dark night, when we were not able to see you?”

  “I!”

  “What other but you would thus have come to our help, and to that of our old friend?”

  “We told him, that you would love him, because he loved us, although he would not believe in angels.”

  “And this morning, during the tempest, we had hardly any fear.”

  “Because we expected you.”

  “This morning — yes, my sisters — it pleased heaven to send me to your assistance. I was coming from America, but I have never been in Leipsic. I could not, therefore, have let you out of prison. Tell me, my sisters,” added he, with a benevolent smile, “for whom do you take me?”

  “For a good angel whom we have seen already in dreams, sent by our mother from heaven to protect us.”

  “My dear sisters, I am only a poor priest. It is by mere chance, no doubt, that I bear some resemblance to the angel you have seen in your dreams, and whom you could not see in any other manner — for angels are not visible to mortal eye.

  “Angels are not visible?” said the orphans, looking sorrowfully at each other.

  “No matter, my dear sisters,” said Gabriel, taking them affectionately by the hand; “dreams, like everything else, come from above. Since the remembrance of your mother was mixed up with this dream, it is twice blessed.”

  At this moment a door opened, and Dagobert made his appearance. Up to this time, the orphans, in their innocent ambition to be protected by an archangel, had quite forgotten the circumstance that Dagobert’s wife had adopted a forsaken child, who was called Gabriel, and who was now a priest and missionary.

  The soldier, though obstinate in maintaining that his hurt was only a blank wound (to use a term of General Simon’s), had allowed it to be carefully dressed by the surgeon of the village, and now wore a black bandage, which concealed one half of his forehead, and added to the natural grimness of his features. On entering the room, he was not a little surprised to see a stranger holding the hands of Rose and Blanche familiarly in his own. This surprise was natural, for Dagobert did not know that the missionary had saved the lives of the orphans, and had attempted to save his also.

  In the midst of the storm, tossed about by the waves, and vainly striving to cling to the rocks, the soldier had only seen Gabriel very imperfectly, at the moment when, having snatched the sisters from certain death, the young priest had fruitlessly endeavored to come to his aid. And when, after the shipwreck, Dagobert had found the orphans in safety beneath the roof of the Manor House, he fell, as we have already stated, into a swoon, caused by fatigue, emotion, and the effects of his wound — so that he had again no opportunity of observing the features of the missionary.

  The veteran began to frown from beneath his black bandage and thick, gray brows, at beholding a stranger so familiar with Rose and Blanche; but the sisters ran to throw themselves into his arms, and to cover him with filial caresses. His anger was soon dissipated by these marks of affection, though he continued, from time to time, to cast a suspicious glance at the missionary, who had risen from his seat, but whose countenance he could not well distinguish.

  “How is your wound?” asked Rose, anxiously. “They told us it was not dangerous.”

  “Does it still pain?” added Blanche.

  “No, children; the surgeon of the village would bandage me up in this manner. If my head was carbonadoes with sabre cuts, I could not have more wrappings. They will take me for an old milksop; it is only a blank wound, and I have a good mind to—” And therewith the soldier raised one of his hands to the bandage.

  “Will you leave that alone?” cried Rose catching his arm. “How can you be so unreasonable — at your age?”

  “Well, well! don’t scold! I will do what you wish, and keep it on.” Then, drawing the sisters to one end of the room, he said to them in a low voice, whilst he looked at the young priest from the corner of his eye: “Who is that gentleman who was holding your hands when I came in? He has very much the look of a curate. You see, my children, you must be on your guard; because—”

  “He?” cried both sisters at once, turning towards Gabriel. “Without him, we should not now be here to kiss you.”

  “What’s that?” cried the soldier, suddenly drawing up his tall figure, and gazing full at the missionary.

  “It is our guardian angel,” resumed Blanche.

  “Without him,” said Rose, “we must have perished this morning in the shipwreck.”

  “Ah! it is he, who—” Dagobert could say no more. With swelling heart, and tears in his eyes, he ran to the missionary, offered him both his hands, and exclaimed in a tone of gratitude impossible to describe: “Sir, I owe you the lives of these two children. I feel what a debt that service lays upon me. I will not say more — because it includes everything!”

  Then, as if struck with a sudden recollection, he cried: “Stop! when I was trying to cling to a rock, so as not to be carried away by the waves, was it not you that held out your hand to me? Yes — that light hair — that youthful countenance — yes — it was certainly you — now I am sure of it!”

  “Unhappily, sir, my strength failed me, and I had the anguish to see you fall back into the sea.”

  “I can say nothing more in the way of thanks than what I have already said,” answered Dagobert, with touching simplicity: “in preserving these children you have done more for me than if you had saved my own life. But what heart and courage!” added the soldier, with admiration; “and so young, with such a girlish look!”

  “And so,” cried Blanche, joyfully, “our Gabriel came to your aid also?”

  “Gabriel!” said Dagobert interrupting Blanche, and addressing himself to the priest. “Is your name Gabriel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gabriel!” repeated the soldier, more and more surprised. “And a priest!” added he.

  “A priest of the foreign missions.”

  “Who — who brought you up?” asked the soldier, with increasing astonishment.

  “An excellent and generous woman, whom I revere as the best of mothers: for she had pity on me, a deserted infant, and treated me ever as her son.”

  “Frances Baudoin — was it not?” said the soldier, with deep emotion.

  “It was, sir,” answered Gabriel, astonished in his turn. “But how do you know this?”

  “The wife of a soldier, eh?” continued Dagobert.

  “Yes, of a brave soldier — who, from the most admirable devotion, is even now passing his life in exile — far from his wife — far from his son, my dear brother — for I am proud to call him by that name—”

  “My Agricola! — my wife! — when did you leave them?”

  “What! is it possible! You the father of Agricola? — Oh! I knew not, until now,” cried Gabriel, clasping his hands together, “I knew not all the gratitude that I owed to heaven!”

  “And my wife! my child!” resumed Dagobert, in a trembling voice; “how are they? have you news of them?”

  “The accounts I received, three months ago, were excellent.”

  “No; it is too much,” cried Dagobert; “it is too much!” The veteran was unable to proceed; his feelings stifled his words, and fell back exhausted in a chair.

  And now Rose and Blanche recalled to mind that portion of their father’s letter which related to the child named Gabriel, whom the wife of Dagobert had adopted; then they also yielded to transports of innocent joy.

  “Our Gabriel is the same as yours — what happiness!” cried Rose.

  “Yes, my children! he belongs to you as well as to me. We have all our part in him.” Then, addressing Gabriel, the soldier added with affectionate warmth: “Your hand, my brave boy! give me your hand!”

  “Oh, sir! you are too good to me.”

  “Yes — that’s it — thank me! — after all thou has done for us!”

  “Does my adopted mother know of your return?” asked Gabriel, a
nxious to escape from the praises of the soldier.

  “I wrote to her five months since, but said that I should come alone; there was a reason for it, which I will explain by and by. Does she still live in the Rue Brise-Miche? It was there Agricola was born.”

  “She still lives there.”

  “In that case, she must have received my letter. I wished to write to her from the prison at Leipsic, but it was impossible.”

  “From prison! Have you just come out of prison?”

  “Yes; I come straight from Germany, by the Elbe and Hamburg, and I should be still at Leipsic, but for an event which the Devil must have had a hand in — a good sort of devil, though.”

  “What do you mean? Pray explain to me.”

  “That would be difficult, for I cannot explain it to myself. These little ladies,” he added, pointing with a smile to Rose and Blanche, “pretended to know more about it than I did, and were continually repeating: ‘It was the angel that came to our assistance, Dagobert — the good angel we told thee of — though you said you would rather have Spoil sport to defend us—’”

  “Gabriel, I am waiting for you,” said a stern voice, which made the missionary start. They all turned round instantly, whilst the dog uttered a deep growl.

  It was Rodin. He stood in the doorway leading to the corridor. His features were calm and impassive, but he darted a rapid, piercing glance at the soldier and sisters.

  “Who is that man?” said Dagobert, very little prepossessed in favor of Rodin, whose countenance he found singularly repulsive. “What the mischief does he want?”

  “I must go with him,” answered Gabriel, in a tone of sorrowful constraint. Then, turning to Rodin, he added: “A thousand pardons! I shall be ready in a moment.”

  “What!” cried Dagobert, stupefied with amazement, “going the very instant we have just met? No, by my faith! you shall not go. I have too much to tell you, and to ask in return. We will make the journey together. It will be a real treat for me.”

  “It is impossible. He is my superior, and I must obey him.”

  “Your superior? — why, he’s in citizen’s dress.”

  “He is not obliged to wear the ecclesiastical garb.”

  “Rubbish! since he is not in uniform, and there is no provost-marshal in your troop, send him to the—”

  “Believe me, I would not hesitate a minute, if it were possible to remain.”

  “I was right in disliking the phi of that man,” muttered Dagobert between his teeth. Then he added, with an air of impatience and vexation: “Shall I tell him that he will much oblige us by marching off by himself?”

  “I beg you not to do so,” said Gabriel; “it would be useless; I know my duty, and have no will but my superior’s. As soon as you arrive in Paris, I will come and see you, as also my adopted mother, and my dear brother, Agricola.”

  “Well — if it must be. I have been a soldier, and know what subordination is,” said Dagobert, much annoyed. “One must put a good face on bad fortune. So, the day after to-morrow, in the Rue Brise-Miche, my boy; for they tell me I can be in Paris by to-morrow evening, and we set out almost immediately. But I say — there seems to be a strict discipline with you fellows!”

  “Yes, it is strict and severe,” answered Gabriel, with a shudder, and a stifled sigh.

  “Come, shake hands — and let’s say farewell for the present. After all, twenty-four hours will soon pass away.”

  “Adieu! adieu!” replied the missionary, much moved, whilst he returned the friendly pressure of the veteran’s hand.

  “Adieu, Gabriel!” added the orphans, sighing also, and with tears in their eyes.

  “Adieu, my sisters!” said Gabriel — and he left the room with Rodin, who had not lost a word or an incident of this scene.

  Two hours after, Dagobert and the orphans had quitted the Castle for Paris, not knowing that Djalma was left at Cardoville, being still too much injured to proceed on his journey. The half-caste, Faringhea, remained with the young prince, not wishing, he said, to desert a fellow countryman.

  We now conduct the reader to the Rue Brise-Miche, the residence of Dagobert’s wife.

  CHAPTER XXVII. DAGOBERT’S WIFE.

  THE FOLLOWING SCENES occur in Paris, on the morrow of the day when the shipwrecked travellers were received in Cardoville House.

  Nothing can be more gloomy than the aspect of the Rue Brise-Miche, one end of which leads into the Rue Saint-Merry, and the other into the little square of the Cloister, near the church. At this end, the street, or rather alley — for it is not more than eight feet wide — is shut in between immense black, muddy dilapidated walls, the excessive height of which excludes both air and light; hardly, during the longest days of the year, is the sun able to throw into it a few straggling beams; whilst, during the cold damps of winter, a chilling fog, which seems to penetrate everything, hangs constantly above the miry pavement of this species of oblong well.

  It was about eight o’clock in the evening; by the faint, reddish light of the street lamp, hardly visible through the haze, two men, stopping at the angle of one of those enormous walls, exchanged a few words together.

  “So,” said one, “you understand all about it. You are to watch in the street, till you see them enter No. 5.”

  “All right!” answered the other.

  “And when you see ’em enter so as to make quite sure of the game, go up to Frances Baudoin’s room—”

  “Under the cloak of asking where the little humpbacked workwoman lives — the sister of that gay girl, the Queen of the Bacchanals.”

  “Yes — and you must try and find out her address also — from her humpbacked sister, if possible — for it is very important. Women of her feather change their nests like birds, and we have lost track of her.”

  “Make yourself easy; I will do my best with Hump, to learn where her sister hangs out.”

  “And, to give you steam, I’ll wait for you at the tavern opposite the Cloister, and we’ll have a go of hot wine on your return.”

  “I’ll not refuse, for the night is deucedly cold.”

  “Don’t mention it! This morning the water friz on my sprinkling-brush, and I turned as stiff as a mummy in my chair at the church-door. Ah, my boy! a distributor of holy water is not always upon roses!”

  “Luckily, you have the pickings—”

  “Well, well — good luck to you! Don’t forget the Fiver, the little passage next to the dyer’s shop.”

  “Yes, yes — all right!” and the two men separated.

  One proceeded to the Cloister Square; the other towards the further end of the street, where it led into the Rue Saint-Merry. This latter soon found the number of the house he sought — a tall, narrow building, having, like all the other houses in the street, a poor and wretched appearance. When he saw he was right, the man commenced walking backwards and forwards in front of the door of No. 5.

  If the exterior of these buildings was uninviting, the gloom and squalor of the interior cannot be described. The house No. 5 was, in a special degree, dirty and dilapidated. The water, which oozed from the wall, trickled down the dark and filthy staircase. On the second floor, a wisp of straw had been laid on the narrow landing-place, for wiping the feet on; but this straw, being now quite rotten, only served to augment the sickening odor, which arose from want of air, from damp, and from the putrid exhalations of the drains. The few openings, cut at rare intervals in the walls of the staircase, could hardly admit more than some faint rays of glimmering light.

  In this quarter, one of the most populous in Paris, such houses as these, poor, cheerless, and unhealthy, are generally inhabited by the working classes. The house in question was of the number. A dyer occupied the ground floor; the deleterious vapors arising from his vats added to the stench of the whole building. On the upper stories, several artisans lodged with their families, or carried on their different trades. Up four flights of stairs was the lodging of Frances Baudoin, wife of Dagobert. It consisted of one room, wit
h a closet adjoining, and was now lighted by a single candle. Agricola occupied a garret in the roof.

  Old grayish paper, broken here and there by the cracks covered the crazy wall, against which rested the bed; scanty curtains, running upon an iron rod, concealed the windows; the brick floor, not polished, but often washed, had preserved its natural color. At one end of this room was a round iron stove, with a large pot for culinary purposes. On the wooden table, painted yellow, marbled with brown, stood a miniature house made of iron — a masterpiece of patience and skill, the work of Agricola Baudoin, Dagobert’s son.

  A plaster crucifix hung up against the wall, surrounded by several branches of consecrated box-tree, and various images of saints, very coarsely colored, bore witness to the habits of the soldier’s wife. Between the windows stood one of those old walnut-wood presses, curiously fashioned, and almost black with time; an old arm-chair, covered with green cotton velvet (Agricola’s first present to his mother), a few rush bottomed chairs, and a worktable on which lay several bags of coarse, brown cloth, completed the furniture of this room, badly secured by a worm-eaten door. The adjoining closet contained a few kitchen and household utensils.

  Mean and poor as this interior may perhaps appear, it would not seem so to the greater number of artisans; for the bed was supplied with two mattresses, clean sheets, and a warm counterpane; the old-fashioned press contained linen; and, moreover, Dagobert’s wife occupied all to herself a room as large as those in which numerous families, belonging to honest and laborious workmen, often live and sleep huddled together — only too happy if the boys and girls can have separate beds, or if the sheets and blankets are not pledged at the pawnbroker’s.

  Frances Baudoin, seated beside the small stove, which, in the cold and damp weather, yielded but little warmth, was busied in preparing her son Agricola’s evening meal.

  Dagobert’s wife was about fifty years of age; she wore a close jacket of blue cotton, with white flowers on it, and a stuff petticoat; a white handkerchief was tied round her head, and fastened under the chin. Her countenance was pale and meagre, the features regular, and expressive of resignation and great kindness. It would have been difficult to find a better, a more courageous mother. With no resource but her labor, she had succeeded, by unwearied energy, in bringing up not only her own son Agricola, but also Gabriel, the poor deserted child, of whom, with admirable devotion, she had ventured to take charge.