Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Like the woman yonder.” cried Adrienne, with a still wilder look, as she slowly raised her arm towards the window that was visible on the other side of the building.

  “Why — yes,” said M. Baleinier. “Like you, unhappy child, those women were young, fair, and sensible, but like you, alas! they had in them the fatal germ of insanity, which, not having been destroyed in time, grew, and grew, larger and ever larger, until it overspread and destroyed their reason.”

  “Oh, mercy!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose head was getting confused with terror; “mercy! do not tell me such things! — I am afraid. Take me from this place — oh! take me from this place!” she added, with a heartrending accent; “for, if I remain here, I shall end by going mad! No,” added she, struggling with the terrible agony which assailed her, “no, do not hope it! I shall not become mad. I have all my reason. I am not blind enough to believe what you tell me. Doubtless, I live differently from others; think differently from others; am shocked by things that do not offend others; but what does all this prove? Only that I am different from others. Have I a bad heart? Am I envious or selfish? My ideas are singular, I knew — yes, I confess it — but then, M. Baleinier, is not their tendency good, generous, noble! — Oh!” cried Adrienne’s supplicating voice, while her tears flowed abundantly, “I have never in my life done one malicious action; my worst errors have arisen from excess of generosity. Is it madness to wish to see everybody about one too happy? And again, if you are mad, you must feel it yourself — and I do not feel it — and yet — I scarcely know — you tell me such terrible things of those two women! You ought to know these things better than I. But then,” added Mdlle, de Cardoville, with an accent of the deepest despair, “something ought to have been done. Why, if you felt an interest for me, did you wait so long? Why did you not take pity on me sooner? But the most frightful fact is, that I do not know whether I ought to believe you — for all this may be a snare — but no, no! you weep — it is true, then! — you weep!” She looked anxiously at M. Baleinier, who, notwithstanding his cynical philosophy, could not restrain his tears at the sight of these nameless tortures.

  “You weep over me,” she continued; “so it is true! But (good heaven!) must there not be something done? I will do all that you wish — all — so that I may not be like those women. But if it should be too late? no, it is not too late — say it is not too late, my good M. Baleinier! Oh, now I ask your pardon for what I said when you came in — but then I did not know, you see — I did not know!”

  To these few broken words, interrupted by sobs, and rushing forth in a sort of feverish excitement, succeeded a silence of some minutes, during which the deeply affected physician dried his tears. His resolution had almost failed him. Adrienne hid her face in her hands. Suddenly she again lifted her head; her countenance was calmer than before, though agitated by a nervous trembling.

  “M. Baleinier,” she resumed, with touching dignity, “I hardly know what I said to you just now. Terror, I think, made me wander; I have again collected myself. Hear me! I know that I am in your power; I know that nothing can deliver me from it. Are you an implacable enemy? or are you a friend? I am not able to determine. Do you really apprehend, as you assure me, that what is now eccentricity will hereafter become madness — or are you rather the accomplice in some infernal machination? You alone can answer. In spite of my boasted courage, I confess myself conquered. Whatever is required of me — you understand, whatever it may be, I will subscribe to, I give you my word and you know that I hold it sacred — you have therefore no longer any interest to keep me here. If, on the contrary, you really think my reason in danger — and I own that you have awakened in my mind vague, but frightful doubts — tell it me, and I will believe you. I am alone, at your mercy, without friends, without counsel. I trust myself blindly to you. I know not whether I address myself to a deliverer or a destroyer — but I say to you — here is my happiness — here is my life — take it — I have no strength to dispute it with you!”

  These touching words, full of mournful resignation and almost hopeless reliance, gave the finishing stroke to the indecision of M. Baleinier. Already deeply moved by this scene, and without reflecting on the consequences of what he was about to do, he determined at all events to dissipate the terrible and unjust fears with which he had inspired Adrienne. Sentiments of remorse and pity, which now animated the physician, were visible in his countenance.

  Alas! they were too visible. The moment he approached to take the hand of Mdlle. de Cardoville, a low but sharp voice exclaimed from behind the wicket: “M. Baleinier!”

  “Rodin!” muttered the startled doctor to himself; “he’s been spying on me!”

  “Who calls you?” asked the lady of the physician.

  “A person that I promised to meet here this morning.” replied he, with the utmost depression, “to go with him to St. Mary’s Convent, which is close at hand.”

  “And what answer have you to give me?” said Adrienne with mortal anguish.

  After a moment’s solemn silence, during which he turned his face towards the wicket, the doctor replied, in a voice of deep emotion: “I am — what I have always been — a friend incapable of deceiving you.”

  Adrienne became deadly pale. Then, extending her hand to M. Baleinier, she said to him in a voice that she endeavored to render calm: “Thank you — I will have courage — but will it be very long?”

  “Perhaps a month. Solitude, reflection, a proper regimen, my attentive care, may do much. You will be allowed everything that is compatible with your situation. Every attention will be paid you. If this room displeases you, I will see you have another.”

  “No — this or another — it is of little consequence,” answered Adrienne, with an air of the deepest dejection.

  “Come, come! be of good courage. There is no reason to despair.”

  “Perhaps you flatter me,” said Adrienne with the shadow of a smile. “Return soon,” she added, “my dear M. Baleinier! my only hope rests in you now.”

  Her head fell upon her bosom, her hands upon her knees and she remained sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, motionless, overwhelmed with woe.

  “Mad!” she said when M. Baleinier had disappeared. “Perhaps mad!”

  We have enlarged upon this episode much less romantic than it may appear. Many times have motives of interest or vengeance or perfidious machination led to the abuse of the imprudent facility with which inmates are received in certain private lunatic asylums from the hands of their families or friends.

  We shall subsequently explain our views, as to the establishment of a system of inspection, by the crown or the civil magistrates, for the periodical survey of these institutions, and others of no less importance, at present placed beyond the reach of all superintendence. These latter are the nunneries of which we will presently have an example.

  CHAPTER XLVI. PRESENTIMENTS.

  WHILST THE PRECEDING events took place in Dr. Baleinier’s asylum, other scenes were passing about the same hour, at Frances Baudoin’s, in the Rue Brise-Miche.

  Seven o’clock in the morning had just struck at St. Mary church; the day was dark and gloomy, and the sleet rattled against the windows of the joyless chamber of Dagobert’s wife.

  As yet ignorant of her son’s arrest, Frances had waited for him the whole of the preceding evening, and a good part of the night, with the most anxious uneasiness; yielding at length to fatigue and sleep, about three o’clock in the morning, she had thrown herself on a mattress beside the bed of Rose and Blanche. But she rose with the first dawn of day, to ascend to Agricola’s garret, in the very faint hope that he might have returned home some hours before.

  Rose and Blanche had just risen, and dressed themselves. They were alone in the sad, chilly apartment. Spoil-sport, whom Dagobert had left in Paris, was stretched at full length near the cold stove; with his long muzzle resting on his forepaws, he kept his eye fixed on the sisters.

  Having slept but little during the night, th
ey had perceived the agitation and anguish of Dagobert’s wife. They had seen her walk up and down, now talking to herself, now listening to the least noise that came up the staircase, and now kneeling before the crucifix placed at one extremity of the room. The orphans were not aware, that, whilst she brayed with fervor on behalf of her son, this excellent woman was praying for them also. For the state of their souls filled her with anxiety and alarm.

  The day before, when Dagobert had set out for Chartres, Frances, having assisted Rose and Blanche to rise, had invited them to say their morning prayer: they answered with the utmost simplicity, that they did not know any, and that they never more than addressed their mother, who was in heaven. When Frances, struck with painful surprise, spoke to them of catechism, confirmation, communion, the sisters opened widely their large eyes with astonishment, understanding nothing of such talk.

  According to her simple faith, terrified at the ignorance of the young girls in matters of religion, Dagobert’s wife believed their souls to be in the greatest peril, the more so as, having asked them if they had ever been baptized (at the same time explaining to them the nature of that sacrament), the orphans answered they did not think they had, since there was neither church nor priest in the village where they were born, during their mother’s exile in Siberia.

  Placing one’s self in the position of Frances, you understand how much she was grieved and alarmed; for, in her eyes, these young girls, whom she already loved tenderly, so charmed was she with their sweet disposition, were nothing but poor heathens, innocently doomed to eternal damnation. So, unable to restrain her tears, or conceal her horrors, she had clasped them in her arms, promising immediately to attend to their salvation, and regretting that Dagobert had not thought of having them baptized by the way. Now, it must be confessed, that this notion had never once occurred to the ex-grenadier.

  When she went to her usual Sunday devotions, Frances had not dared to take Rose and Blanche with her, as their complete ignorance of sacred things would have rendered their presence at church, if not useless, scandalous; but, in her own fervent prayers she implored celestial mercy for these orphans, who did not themselves know the desperate position of their souls.

  Rose and Blanche were now left alone, in the absence of Dagobert’s wife. They were still dressed in mourning, their charming faces seeming even more pensive than usual. Though they were accustomed to a life of misfortune, they had been struck, since their arrival in the Rue Brise Miche, with the painful contrast between the poor dwelling which they had come to inhabit, and the wonders which their young imagination had conceived of Paris, that golden city of their dreams. But, soon this natural astonishment was replaced by thoughts of singular gravity for their age. The contemplation of such honest and laborious poverty made the orphans have reflections no longer those of children, but of young women. Assisted by their admirable spirit of justice and of sympathy for all that is good, by their noble heart, by a character at once delicate and courageous, they had observed and meditated much during the last twenty-four hours.

  “Sister,” said Rose to Blanche, when Frances had quitted the room, “Dagobert’s poor wife is very uneasy. Did you remark in the night, how agitated she was? how she wept and prayed?”

  “I was grieved to see it, sister, and wondered what could be the cause.”

  “I am almost afraid to guess. Perhaps we may be the cause of her uneasiness?”

  “Why so, sister? Because we cannot say prayers, nor tell if we have ever been baptized?”

  “That seemed to give her a good deal of pain, it is true. I was quite touched by it, for it proves that she loves us tenderly. But I could not understand how we ran such terrible danger as she said we did.”

  “Nor I either, sister. We have always tried not to displease our mother, who sees and hears us.”

  “We love those who love us; we are resigned to whatever may happen to us. So, who can reproach us with any harm?”

  “No one. But, perhaps, we may do some without meaning it.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, and therefore I thought: We may perhaps be the cause of her uneasiness.”

  “How so?”

  “Listen, sister! yesterday Madame Baudoin tried to work at those sacks of coarse cloth there on the table.”

  “Yes; but in about an half-hour, she told us sorrowfully, that she could not go on, because her eyes failed her, and she could not see clearly.”

  “So that she is not able to earn her living.”

  “No — but her son, M. Agricola, works for her. He looks so good, so gay, so frank, and so happy to devote himself for his mother. Oh, indeed! he is the worthy brother of our angel Gabriel!”

  “You will see my reason for speaking of this. Our good old Dagobert told us, that, when we arrived here, he had only a few pieces of money left.”

  “That is true.”

  “Now both he and his wife are unable to earn their living; what can a poor old soldier like him do?”

  “You are right; he only knows how to love us, and take care of us, like his children.”

  “It must then be M. Agricola who will have to support his father; for Gabriel is a poor priest, who possesses nothing, and can render no assistance to those who have brought him up. So M. Agricola will have to support the whole family by himself.”

  “Doubtless — he owes it to father and mother — it is his duty, and he will do it with a good will.”

  “Yes, sister — but he owes us nothing.”

  “What do you say, Blanche?”

  “He is obliged to work for us also, as we possess nothing in the world.”

  “I had not thought of that. True.”

  “It is all very well, sister, for our father to be Duke and Marshal of France, as Dagobert tells us, it is all very well for us to hope great things from this medal, but as long as father is not here, and our hopes are not realized, we shall be merely poor orphans, obliged to remain a burden to this honest family, to whom we already owe so much, and who find it so hard to live, that—”

  “Why do you pause, sister?”

  “What I am about to say would make other people laugh; but you will understand it. Yesterday, when Dagobert’s wife saw poor Spoil-sport at his dinner, she said, sorrowfully: ‘Alas! he eats as much as a man!’ — so that I could almost have cried to hear her. They must be very poor, and yet we have come to increase their poverty.”

  The sisters looked sadly at each other, while Spoil-sport pretended not to know they were talking of his voracity.

  “Sister, I understand,” said Rose, after a moment’s silence. “Well, we must not be at the charge of any one. We are young, and have courage. Till our fate is decided, let us fancy ourselves daughters of workmen. After all, is not our grandfather a workman? Let us find some employment, and earn our own living. It must be so proud and happy to earn one’s living!”

  “Good little sister,” said Blanche, kissing Rose. “What happiness! You have forestalled my thought; kiss me!”

  “How so?”

  “Your project is mine exactly. Yesterday, when I heard Dagobert’s wife complain so sadly that she had lost her sight. I looked into your large eyes, which reminded me of my own, and said to myself: ‘Well! this poor old woman may have lost her sight, but Rose and Blanche Simon can see pretty clearly’ — which is a compensation,” added Blanche, with a smile.

  “And, after all,” resumed Rose, smiling in her turn, “the young ladies in question are not so very awkward, as not to be able to sew up great sacks of coarse cloth — though it may chafe their fingers a little.”

  “So we had both the same thought, as usual; only I wished to surprise you, and waited till we were alone, to tell you my plan.”

  “Yes, but there is something teases me.”

  “What is that?”

  “First of all, Dagobert and his wife will be sure to say to us: ‘Young ladies, you are not fitted for such work. What, daughters of a Marshal of France sewing up great ugly bags!’ And then, if
we insist upon it, they will add: ‘Well, we have no work to give you. If you want any, you must hunt for it.’ What would Misses Simon do then?”

  “The fact is, that when Dagobert has made up his mind to anything—”

  “Oh! even then, if we coax him well—”

  “Yes, in certain things; but in others he is immovable. It is just as when upon the journey, we wished to prevent his doing so much for us.”

  “Sister, an idea strikes me,” cried Rose, “an excellent idea!”

  “What is it? quick!”

  “You know the young woman they call Mother Bunch, who appears to be so serviceable and persevering?”

  “Oh yes! and so timid and discreet. She seems always to be afraid of giving offence, even if she looks at one. Yesterday, she did not perceive that I saw her; but her eyes were fixed on you with so good and sweet an expression, that tears came into mine at the very sight of it.”

  “Well, we must ask her how she gets work, for certainly she lives by her labor.”

  “You are right. She will tell us all about it; and when we know, Dagobert may scold us, or try to make great ladies of us, but we will be as obstinate as he is.”

  “That is it; we must show some spirit! We will prove to him, as he says himself, that we have soldier’s blood in our veins.”

  “We will say to him: ‘Suppose, as you say, we should one day be rich, my good Dagobert, we shall only remember this time with the more pleasure.”

  “It is agreed then, is it not, Rose? The first time we are alone with Mother Bunch, we must make her our confidant, and ask her for information. She is so good a person, that she will not refuse us.”

  “And when father comes home, he will be pleased, I am sure, with our courage.”