Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “I think, between ourselves, that the princess only wished to frighten you, and hopes to succeed by persuasion. She has the misfortune to fancy herself a mother of the Church, and dreams of your conversion,” said the doctor, maliciously, for he now wished to tranquillize Adrienne at any cost; “but let us think no more about it. Your fire eyes must shine with all their lustre, to fascinate the minister that we are going to see.”

  “You are right, dear doctor; we ought always avoid grief, for it has the disadvantage of making us forget the sorrows of others. But here am I, availing myself of your kindness, without even telling you what I require.”

  “Luckily, we shall have plenty of time to talk over it, for our statesman lives at some distance.”

  “In two words, here’s the mystery,” answered Adrienne. “I told you what reasons I had to interest myself in that honest workman. This morning he came to me in great grief, to inform me that he was compromised by some songs he had written (for he is a poet), and that, though innocent, he was threatened with an arrest; and if they put him into prison, his family, whose sole support he is, would die of hunger. Therefore he came to beg me to procure bail for him, so that he might be left at liberty to work: I promised immediately, thinking of your interest with the minister; for, as they were already in pursuit of the poor lad, I chose to conceal him in my residence, and you know how my aunt has twisted that action. Now tell me, do you think, that, by means of your recommendation, the minister will grant me the freedom of this workman, bail being given for the same?”

  “No doubt of it. There will not be the shadow of a difficulty — especially when you have explained the facts to him, with that eloquence of the heart which you possess in perfection.”

  “Do you know, my dear Dr. Baleinier, why I have taken the resolution (which is perhaps a strange one) to ask you to accompany me to the minister’s?”

  “Why, doubtless, to recommend your friend in a more effective manner.”

  “Yes — but also to put an end, by a decisive step, to the calumnies which my aunt will be sure to spread with regard to me, and which she has already, you know, had inserted in the report of the commissary of police. I have preferred to address myself at once, frankly and openly, to a man placed in a high social position. I will explain all to him, who will believe me, because truth has an accent of its own.”

  “All this, my dear Mdlle. Adrienne, is wisely planned. You will, as the saw says, kill two birds with one stone — or rather, you will obtain by one act of kindness two acts of justice; you will destroy a dangerous calumny, and restore a worthy youth to liberty.”

  “Come,” said Adrienne, laughing, “thanks to this pleasing prospect, my light heart has returned.”

  “How true that in life,” said the doctor, philosophically, “everything depends on the point of view.”

  Adrienne was so completely ignorant of the forms of a constitutional government, and had so blind a confidence in the doctor, that she did not doubt for an instant what he told her. She therefore resumed with joy: “What happiness it will be! when I go to fetch the daughters of Marshal Simon, to be able to console this workman’s mother, who is now perhaps in a state of cruel anxiety, at not seeing her son return home!”

  “Yes, you will have this pleasure,” said M. Baleinier, with a smile; “for we will solicit and intrigue to such purpose, that the good, mother may learn from you the release of her son before she even knows that he has been arrested.”

  “How kind, how obliging you are!” said Adrienne. “Really, if the motive were not so serious, I should be ashamed of making you lose so much precious time, my dear M. Baleinier. But I know your heart.”

  “I have no other wish, than to prove to you my profound devotion, my sincere attachment,” said the doctor inhaling a pinch of snuff. But at the same time, he cast an uneasy glance through the window, for the carriage was just crossing the Place de l’Odeon, and in spite of the snow, he could see the front of the Odeon theatre brilliantly illuminated. Now Adrienne, who had just turned her head towards that side, might perhaps be astonished at the singular road they were taking.

  In order to draw off her attention by a skillful diversion, the doctor exclaimed suddenly: “Bless me! I had almost forgotten.”

  “What is the matter, M. Baleinier?” said Adrienne, turning hastily towards him.

  “I had forgotten a thing of the highest importance, in regard to the success of our petition.”

  “What is it, please?” asked the young girl, anxiously.

  M. Baleinier gave a cunning smile. “Every man,” said he, “has his weakness — ministers even more than others. The one we are going to visit has the folly to attach the utmost importance to his title, and the first impression would be unfavorable, if you did not lay great stress on the Minister.”

  “Is that all, my dear M. Baleinier?” said Adrienne, smiling in her turn. “I will even go so far as Your Excellency, which is, I believe, one of his adopted titles.”

  “Not now — but that is no matter; if you could even slide in a My Lord or two, our business would be done at once.”

  “Be satisfied! since there are upstart ministers as well as City-turned gentlemen, I will remember Moliere’s M. Jourdain, and feed full the gluttonous vanity of your friend.”

  “I give him up to you, for I know he will be in good hands,” replied the physician, who rejoiced to see that the carriage had now entered those dark streets which lead from the Place de l’Odeon to the Pantheon district; “I do not wish to find fault with the minister for being proud, since his pride may be of service to us on this occasion.”

  “These petty devices are innocent enough,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, “and I confess that I do not scruple to have recourse to them.” Then, leaning towards the door-sash, she added: “Gracious! how sad and dark are these streets. What wind! what snow! In which quarter are we?”

  “What! are you so ungrateful, that you do not recognize by the absence of shops, your dear quarter of the Faubourg Saint Germain?”

  “I imagine we had quitted it long ago.”

  “I thought so too,” said the physician, leaning forward as if to ascertain where they were, “but we are still there. My poor coachman, blinded by the snow, which is beating against his face, must have gone wrong just now — but we are all right again. Yes, I perceive we are in the Rue Saint Guillaume — not the gayest of streets by the way — but, in ten minutes, we shall arrive at the minister’s private entrance, for intimate friends like myself enjoy the privilege of escaping the honors of a grand reception.”

  Mdlle. de Cardoville, like most carriage-people, was so little acquainted with certain streets of Paris, as well as with the customs of men in office, that she did not doubt for a moment the statements of Baleinier, in whom she reposed the utmost confidence.

  When they left the Saint-Dizier House, the doctor had upon his lips a question which he hesitated to put, for fear of endangering himself in the eyes of Adrienne. The latter had spoken of important interests, the existence of which had been concealed from her. The doctor, who was an acute and skillful observer, had quite clearly remarked the embarrassment and anxiety of the princess and D’Aigrigny. He no longer doubted, that the plot directed against Adrienne — one in which he was the blind agent, in submission to the will of the Order — related to interests which had been concealed from him, and which, for that very reason, he burned to discover; for every member of the dark conspiracy to which he belonged had necessarily acquired the odious vices inherent to spies and informers — envy, suspicion, and jealous curiosity.

  It is easy to understand, therefore, that Dr. Baleinier, though quite determined to serve the projects of D’Aigrigny, was yet very anxious to learn what had been kept from him. Conquering his irresolution, and finding the opportunity favorable, and no time to be lost, he said to Adrienne, after a moment’s silence: “I am going perhaps to ask you a very indiscreet question. If you think it such, pray do not answer.”

  “Nay — go o
n, I entreat you.”

  “Just now — a few minutes before the arrival of the commissary of police was announced to your aunt — you spoke, I think, of some great interests, which had hitherto been concealed from you.”

  “Yes, I did so.”

  “These words,” continued M. Baleinier, speaking slowly and emphatically, “appeared to make a deep impression on the princess.”

  “An impression so deep,” said Adrienne, “that sundry suspicions of mine were changed to certainty.”

  “I need not tell you, my charming friend,” resumed M. Baleinier, in a bland tone, “that if I remind you of this circumstance, it is only to offer you my services, in case they should be required. If not — and there is the shadow of impropriety in letting me know more — forget that I have said a word.”

  Adrienne became serious and pensive, and, after a silence of some moments, she thus answered Dr. Baleinier: “On this subject, there are some things that I do not know — others that I may tell you — others again that I must keep from you: but you are so kind to-day, that I am happy to be able to give you a new mark of confidence.”

  “Then I wish to know nothing,” said the doctor, with an air of humble deprecation, “for I should have the appearance of accepting a kind of reward; whilst I am paid a thousand times over, by the pleasure I feel in serving you.”

  “Listen,” said Adrienne, without attending to the delicate scruples of Dr. Baleinier; “I have powerful reasons for believing that an immense inheritance must, at no very distant period, be divided between the members of my family, all of whom I do not know — for, after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, those from whom we are descended were dispersed in foreign countries, and experienced a great variety of fortunes.”

  “Really!” cried the doctor, becoming extremely interested. “Where is this inheritance, in whose hands?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Now how will you assert your rights?”

  “That I shall learn soon.”

  “Who will inform you of it?”

  “That I may not tell you.”

  “But how did you find out the existence of this inheritance?”

  “That also I may not tell you,” returned Adrienne, in a soft and melancholy tone, which remarkably contrasted with the habitual vivacity of her conversation. “It is a secret — a strange secret — and in those moments of excitement, in which you have sometimes surprised me, I have been thinking of extraordinary circumstances connected with this secret, which awakened within me lofty and magnificent ideas.”

  Adrienne paused and was silent, absorbed in her own reflections. Baleinier did not seek to disturb her. In the first place, Mdlle. de Cardoville did not perceive the direction the coach was taking; secondly, the doctor was not sorry to ponder over what he had just heard. With his usual perspicuity, he saw that the Abbe d’Aigrigny was concerned in this inheritance, and he resolved instantly to make a secret report on the subject; either M. d’Aigrigny was acting under the instructions of the Order, or by his own impulse; in the one event, the report of the doctor would confirm a fact; in the other, it would reveal one.

  For some time, therefore, the lady and Dr. Baleinier remained perfectly silent, no longer even disturbed by the noise of the wheels, for the carriage now rolled over a thick carpet of snow, and the streets had become more and more deserted. Notwithstanding his crafty treachery, notwithstanding his audacity and the blindness of his dupe, the doctor was not quite tranquil as to the result of his machinations. The critical moment approached, and the least suspicion roused in the mind of Adrienne by any inadvertence on his part, might ruin all his projects.

  Adrienne, already fatigued by the painful emotions of the day, shuddered from time to time, as the cold became more and more piercing; in her haste to accompany Dr. Baleinier, she had neglected to take either shawl or mantle.

  For some minutes the coach had followed the line of a very high wall, which, seen through the snow, looked white against a black sky. The silence was deep and mournful. Suddenly the carriage stopped, and the footman went to knock at a large gateway; he first gave two rapid knocks, and then one other at a long interval. Adrienne did not notice the circumstance, for the noise was not loud, and the doctor had immediately begun to speak, to drown with his voice this species of signal.

  “Here we are at last,” said he gayly to Adrienne; “you must be very winning — that is, you must be yourself.”

  “Be sure I will do my best,” replied Adrienne, with a smile; then she added, shivering in spite of herself: “How dreadfully cold it is! I must confess, my dear Dr. Baleinier, that when I have been to fetch my poor little relations from the house of our workman’s mother, I shall be truly glad to find myself once more in the warmth and light of my own cheerful rooms, for you know my aversion to cold and darkness.”

  “It is quite natural,” said the doctor, gallantly; “the most charming flowers require the most light and heat.”

  Whilst the doctor and Mdlle. de Cardoville exchanged these few words, a heavy gate had turned creaking upon its hinges, and the carriage had entered a court-yard. The physician got down first, to offer his arm to Adrienne.

  CHAPTER XLIV. THE MINISTER’S CABINET.

  THE CARRIAGE HAD stopped before some steps covered with snow, which led to a vestibule lighted by a lamp. The better to ascend the steps, which were somewhat slippery, Adrienne leaned upon the doctor’s arm.

  “Dear me! how you tremble,” said he.

  “Yes,” replied she, shuddering, “I feel deadly cold. In my haste, I came out without a shawl. But how gloomy this house appears,” she added, pointing to the entrance.

  “It is what you call the minister’s private house, the sanctum sanctorum, whither our statesman retires far from the sound of the profane,” said Dr. Baleinier, with a smile. “Pray come in!” and he pushed open the door of a large hall, completely empty.

  “They are right in saying,” resumed Dr. Baleinier, who covered his secret agitation with an appearance of gayety, “that a minister’s house is like nobody else’s. Not a footman — not a page, I should say — to be found in the antechamber. Luckily,” added he, opening the door of a room which communicated with the vestibule,

  “‘In this seraglio reared, I know the secret ways.’”

  Mdlle. de Cardoville was now introduced into an apartment hung with green embossed paper, and very simply furnished with mahogany chairs, covered with yellow velvet; the floor was carefully polished, and a globe lamp, which gave at most a third of its proper light, was suspended (at a much greater height than usual) from the ceiling. Finding the appearance of this habitation singularly plain for the dwelling of a minister, Adrienne, though she had no suspicion, could not suppress a movement of surprise and paused a moment on the threshold of the door. M. Baleinier, by whose arm she held, guessed the cause of her astonishment, and said to her with a smile:

  “This place appears to you very paltry for ‘his excellency,’ does it not? If you knew what a thing constitutional economy is! — Moreover, you will see a ‘my lord,’ who has almost as little pretension as his furniture. But please to wait for me an instant. I will go and inform the minister you are here, and return immediately.”

  Gently disengaging himself from the grasp of Adrienne, who had involuntarily pressed close to him, the physician opened a small side door, by which he instantly disappeared. Adrienne de Cardoville was left alone.

  Though she could not have explained the cause of her impression, there was something awe-inspiring to the young lady in this large, cold, naked, curtainless room; and as, by degrees, she noticed certain peculiarities in the furniture, which she had not at first perceived, she was seized with an indefinable feeling of uneasiness.

  Approaching the cheerless hearth, she perceived with surprise that an iron grating completely enclosed the opening of the chimney, and that the tongs and shovel were fastened with iron chains. Already astonished by this singularity, she was about mechanically to draw towards her
an armchair placed against the wall, when she found that it remained motionless. She then discovered that the back of this piece of furniture, as well as that of all the other chairs, was fastened to the wainscoting by iron clamps. Unable to repress a smile, she exclaimed: “Have they so little confidence in the statesman in whose house I am, that they are obliged to fasten the furniture to the walls?”

  Adrienne had recourse to this somewhat forced pleasantry as a kind of effort to resist the painful feeling of apprehension that was gradually creeping over her; for the most profound and mournful silence reigned in this habitation, where nothing indicated the life, the movement and the activity, which usually surround a great centre of business. Only, from time to time, the young lady heard the violent gusts of wind from without.

  More than a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and M. Baleinier did not return. In her impatient anxiety, Adrienne wished to call some one to inquire about the doctor and the minister. She raised her eyes to look for a bell-rope by the side of the chimney-glass; she found none, but she perceived, that what she had hitherto taken for a glass, thanks to the half obscurity of the room, was in reality a large sheet of shining tin. Drawing nearer to it, she accidentally touched a bronzed candlestick; and this, as well as a clock, was fixed to the marble of the chimney-piece.

  In certain dispositions of mind, the most insignificant circumstances often assume terrific proportions. This immovable candlestick, this furniture fastened to the wainscot, this glass replaced by a tin sheet, this profound silence, and the prolonged absence of M. Baleinier, had such an effect upon Adrienne, that she was struck with a vague terror. Yet such was her implicit confidence in the doctor, that she reproached herself with her own fears, persuading herself that the causes of them were after all of no real importance, and that it was unreasonable to feel uneasy at such trifles.