Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Her anxiety was terrible. Resolved to follow the counsels of Abbe Dubois, she dreaded lest a word from Mrs. Grivois should put Dagobert on the scent — in which case all would be lost, and the orphans would remain in their present state of ignorance and mortal sin, for which she believed herself responsible.

  Dagobert, who held the hands of Rose and Blanche, left his seat as the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s waiting-woman entered the room and cast an inquiring glance on Frances.

  The moment was critical — nay, decisive; but Mrs. Grivois had profited by the example of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. So, taking her resolution at once, and turning to account the precipitation with which she had mounted the stairs, after the odious charge she had brought against poor Mother Bunch, and even the emotion caused by the unexpected sight of Dagobert, which gave to her features an expression of uneasiness and alarm — she exclaimed, in an agitated voice, after the moment’s silence necessary to collect her thoughts: “Oh, madame! I have just been the spectator of a great misfortune. Excuse my agitation! but I am so excited—”

  “Dear me! what is the matter?” said Frances, in a trembling voice, for she dreaded every moment some indiscretion on the part of Mrs. Grivois.

  “I called just now,” resumed the other, “to speak to you on some important business; whilst I was waiting for you, a poor young woman, rather deformed, put up sundry articles in a parcel—”

  “Yes,” said Frances; “it was Mother Bunch, an excellent, worthy creature.”

  “I thought as much, madame; well, you shall hear what has happened. As you did not come in, I resolved to pay a visit in the neighborhood. I go out, and get as far as the Rue St. Mery, when — Oh, madame!”

  “Well?” said Dagobert, “what then?”

  “I see a crowd — I inquire what is the matter — I learn that a policeman has just arrested a young girl as a thief, because she had been seen carrying a bundle, composed of different articles which did not appear to belong to her — I approached — what do I behold? — the same young woman that I had met just before in this room.”

  “Oh! the poor child!” exclaimed Frances, growing pale, and clasping her hands together. “What a dreadful thing!”

  “Explain, then,” said Dagobert to his wife. “What was in this bundle?”

  “Well, my dear — to confess the truth — I was a little short, and I asked our poor friend to take some things for me to the pawnbroker’s—”

  “What! and they thought she had robbed us!” cried Dagobert; “she, the most honest girl in the world! it is dreadful — you ought to have interfered, madame; you ought to have said that you knew her.”

  “I tried to do so, sir; but, unfortunately, they would not hear me. The crowd increased every moment, till the guard came up, and carried her off.”

  “She might die of it, she is so sensitive and timid!” exclaimed Frances.

  “Ah, good Mother Bunch! so gentle! so considerate!” said Blanche, turning with tearful eyes towards her sister.

  “Not being able to help her,” resumed Mrs. Grivois “I hastened hither to inform you of this misadventure — which may, indeed, easily be repaired — as it will only be necessary to go and claim the young girl as soon as possible.”

  At these words, Dagobert hastily seized his hat, and said abruptly to Mrs. Grivois: “Zounds, madame! you should have begun by telling us that. Where is the poor child? Do you know?”

  “I do not, sir; but there are still so many excited people in the street that, if you will have the kindness to step out, you will be sure to learn.”

  “Why the devil do you talk of kindness? It is my duty, madame. Poor child!” repeated Dagobert. “Taken up as a thief! — it is really horrible. I will go to the guard-house, and to the commissary of police for this neighborhood, and, by hook or crook, I will find her, and have her out, and bring her home with me.”

  So saying, Dagobert hastily departed. Frances, now that she felt more tranquil as to the fate of Mother Bunch, thanked the Lord that this circumstance had obliged her husband to go out, for his presence at this juncture caused her a terrible embarrassment.

  Mrs. Grivois had left My Lord in the coach below, for the moments were precious. Casting a significant glance at Frances she handed her Abbe Dubois’ letter, and said to her, with strong emphasis on every word: “You will see by this letter, madame, what was the object of my visit, which I have not before been able to explain to you, but on which I truly congratulate myself, as it brings me into connection with these two charming young ladies.” Rose and Blanche looked at each other in surprise. Frances took the letter with a trembling hand. It required all the pressing and threatening injunctions of her confessor to conquer the last scruples of the poor woman, for she shuddered at the thought of Dagobert’s terrible indignation. Moreover, in her simplicity, she knew not how to announce to the young girls that they were to accompany this lady.

  Mrs. Grivois guessed her embarrassment, made a sign to her to be at her ease, and said to Rose, whilst Frances was reading the letter of her confessor: “How happy your relation will be to see you, my dear young lady!’

  “Our relation, madame?” said Rose, more and more astonished.

  “Certainly. She knew of your arrival here, but, as she is still suffering from the effects of a long illness, she was not able to come herself to-day, and has sent me to fetch you to her. Unfortunately,” added Mrs. Grivois, perceiving a movement of uneasiness on the part of the two sisters, “it will not be in her power, as she tells Mrs. Baudoin in her letter, to see you for more than a very short time — so you may be back here in about an hour. But to-morrow or the next day after, she will be well enough to leave home, and then she will come and make arrangements with Mrs. Baudoin and her husband, to take you into her house — for she could not bear to leave you at the charge of the worthy people who have been so kind to you.”

  These last words of Mrs. Grivois made a favorable impression upon the two sisters, and banished their fears of becoming a heavy burden to Dagobert’s family. If it had been proposed to them to quit altogether the house in the Rue Bris-Miche, without first asking the consent of their old friend, they would certainly have hesitated; but Mrs. Grivois had only spoken of an hour’s visit. They felt no suspicion, therefore, and Rose said to Frances: “We may go and see our relation, I suppose, madame, without waiting for Dagobert’s return?”

  “Certainly,” said Frances, in a feeble voice, “since you are to be back almost directly.”

  “Then, madame, I would beg these dear young ladies to come with me as soon as possible, as I should like to bring them back before noon.

  “We are ready, madame,” said Rose.

  “Well then, young ladies, embrace your second mother, and come,” said Mrs. Grivois, who was hardly able to control her uneasiness, for she trembled lest Dagobert should return from one moment to the other.

  Rose and Blanche embraced Frances, who, clasping in her arms the two charming and innocent creatures that she was about to deliver up, could with difficulty restrain her tears, though she was fully convinced that she was acting for their salvation.

  “Come, young ladies,” said Mrs. Grivois, in the most affable tone, “let us make haste — you will excuse my impatience, I am sure — but it is in the name of your relation that I speak.”

  Having once more tenderly kissed the wife of Dagobert, the sisters quitted the room hand in hand, and descended the staircase close behind Mrs. Grivois, followed (without their being aware of it), by Spoil-sport. The intelligent animal cautiously watched their movements, for, in the absence of his master, he never let them out of his sight.

  For greater security, no doubt, the waiting-woman of Madame de Saint Dizier had ordered the hackney-coach to wait for her at a little distance from the Rue Brise-Miche, in the cloister square. In a few seconds, the orphans and their conductress reached the carriage.

  “Oh, missus!” said the coachman, opening the door; “no offence, I hope — but you have the most ill-tempered
rascal of a dog! Since you put him into my coach, he has never ceased howling like a roasted cat, and looks as if he would eat us all up alive!” In fact, My Lord, who detested solitude, was yelling in the most deplorable manner.

  “Be quiet, My Lord! here I am,” said Mrs. Grivois; then addressing the two sisters, she added: “Pray, get in, my dear young ladies.”

  Rose and Blanche got into the coach. Before she followed them, Mrs. Grivois was giving to the coachman in a low voice the direction to St. Mary’s Convent, and was adding other instructions, when suddenly the pug dog, who had growled savagely when the sisters took their seats in the coach, began to bark with fury. The cause of this anger was clear enough; Spoil-sport, until now unperceived, had with one bound entered the carriage.

  The pug, exasperated by this boldness, forgetting his ordinary prudence, and excited to the utmost by rage and ugliness of temper, sprang at his muzzle, and bit him so cruelly, that, in his turn, the brave Siberian dog, maddened by the pain, threw himself upon the teaser, seized him by the throat, and fairly strangled him with two grips of his powerful jaws — as appeared by one stifled groan of the pug, previously half suffocated with fat.

  All this took place in less time than is occupied by the description. Rose and Blanche had hardly opportunity to exclaim twice: “Here, Spoil sport! down!”

  “Oh, good gracious!” said Mrs. Grivois, turning round at the noise. “There again is that monster of a dog — he will certainly hurt my love. Send him away, young ladies — make him get down — it is impossible to take him with us.”

  Ignorant of the degree of Spoil-sport’s criminality, for his paltry foe was stretched lifeless under a seat, the young girls yet felt that it would be improper to take the dog with them, and they therefore said to him in an angry tone, at the same time slightly touching him with their feet: “Get down, Spoil-sport! go away!”

  The faithful animal hesitated at first to obey this order. Sad and supplicatingly looked he at the orphans, and with an air of mild reproach, as if blaming them for sending away their only defender. But, upon the stern repetition of the command, he got down from the coach, with his tail between his legs, feeling perhaps that he had been somewhat over-hasty with regard to the pug.

  Mrs. Grivois, who was in a great hurry to leave that quarter of the town, seated herself with precipitation in the carriage; the coachman closed the door, and mounted his box; and then the coach started at a rapid rate, whilst Mrs. Grivois prudently let down the blinds, for fear of meeting Dagobert by the way.

  Having taken these indispensable precautions, she was able to turn her attention to her pet, whom she loved with all that deep, exaggerated affection, which people of a bad disposition sometimes entertain for animals, as if then concentrated and lavished upon them all those feelings in which they are deficient with regard to their fellow creatures. In a word. Mrs. Grivois was passionately attached to this peevish, cowardly, spiteful dog, partly perhaps from a secret sympathy with his vices. This attachment had lasted for six years, and only seemed to increase as My Lord advanced in age.

  We have laid some stress on this apparently puerile detail, because the most trifling causes have often disastrous effects, and because we wish the reader to understand what must have been the despair, fury, and exasperation of this woman, when she discovered the death of her dog — a despair, a fury, and an exasperation, of which the orphans might yet feel the cruel consequences.

  The hackney-coach had proceeded rapidly for some seconds, when Mrs. Grivois, who was seated with her back to the horses, called My Lord. The dog had very good reasons for not replying.

  “Well, you sulky beauty!” said Mrs. Grivois, soothingly; “you have taken offence, have you? It was not my fault if that great ugly dog came into the coach, was it, young ladies? Come and kiss your mistress, and let us make peace, old obstinate!”

  The same obstinate silence continued on the part of the canine noble. Rose and Blanche began to look anxiously at each other, for they knew that Spoil-sport was somewhat rough in his ways, though they were far from suspecting what had really happened. But Mrs. Grivois, rather surprised than uneasy at her pug-log’s insensibility to her affectionate appeals, and believing him to be sullenly crouching beneath the seat, stooped clown to take him up, and feeling one of his paws, drew it impatiently towards her whilst she said to him in a half-jesting, half angry tone: “Come, naughty fellow! you will give a pretty notion of your temper to these young ladies.”

  So saying, she took up the dog, much astonished at his unresisting torpor; but what was her fright, when, having placed him upon her lap, she saw that he was quite motionless.

  “An apoplexy!” cried she. “The dear creature ate too much — I was always afraid of it.”

  Turning round hastily, she exclaimed: “Stop, coachman! stop!” without reflecting that the coachman could not hear her. Then raising the cur’s head, still thinking that he was only in a fit, she perceived with horror the bloody holes imprinted by five or six sharp fangs, which left no doubt of the cause of his deplorable end.

  Her first impulse was one of grief and despair. “Dead!” she exclaimed; “dead! and already cold! Oh, goodness!” And this woman burst into tears.

  The tears of the wicked are ominous. For a bad man to weep, he must have suffered much; and, with him, the reaction of suffering, instead of softening the soul, inflames it to a dangerous anger.

  Thus, after yielding to that first painful emotion, the mistress of My Lord felt herself transported with rage and hate — yes, hate — violent hate for the young girls, who had been the involuntary cause of the dog’s death. Her countenance so plainly betrayed her resentment, that Blanche and Rose were frightened at the expression of her face, which had now grown purple with fury, as with agitated voice and wrathful glance she exclaimed: “It was your dog that killed him!”

  “Oh, madame!” said Rose; “we had nothing to do with it.”

  “It was your dog that bit Spoil-sport first,” added Blanche, in a plaintive voice.

  The look of terror impressed on the features of the orphans recalled Mrs. Grivois to herself. She saw the fatal consequences that might arise from yielding imprudently to her anger. For the very sake of vengeance, she had to restrain herself, in order not to awaken suspicion in the minds of Marshal Simon’s daughters. But not to appear to recover too soon from her first impression, she continued for some minutes to cast irritated glances at the young girls; then, little by little, her anger seemed to give way to violent grief; she covered her face with her hands, heaved a long sigh, and appeared to weep bitterly.

  “Poor lady!” whispered Rose to Blanche. “How she weeps! — No doubt, she loved her dog as much as we love Spoil-sport.”

  “Alas! yes,” replied Blanche. “We also wept when our old Jovial was killed.”

  After a few minutes, Mrs. Grivois raised her head, dried her eyes definitively, and said in a gentle, and almost affectionate voice: “Forgive me, young ladies! I was unable to repress the first movement of irritation, or rather of deep sorrow — for I was tenderly attached to this poor dog he has never left me for six years.”

  “We are very sorry for this misfortune, madame,” resumed Rose; “and we regret it the more, that it seems to be irreparable.”

  “I was just saying to my sister, that we can the better fancy your grief, as we have had to mourn the death of our old horse, that carried us all the way from Siberia.”

  “Well, my dear young ladies, let us think no more about it. It was my fault; I should not have brought him with me; but he was always so miserable, whenever I left him. You will make allowance for my weakness. A good heart feels for animals as well as people; so I must trust to your sensibility to excuse my hastiness.”

  “Do not think of it, madame; it is only your grief that afflicts us.”

  “I shall get over it, my dear young ladies — I shall get over it. The joy of the meeting between you and your relation will help to console me. She will be so happy. You are so charming! and t
hen the singular circumstance of your exact likeness to each other adds to the interest you inspire.”

  “You are too kind to us, madame.”

  “Oh, no — I am sure you resemble each other as much in disposition as in face.”

  “That is quite natural, madame,” said Rose, “for since our birth we have never left each other a minute, whether by night or day. It would be strange, if we were not like in character.”

  “Really, my dear young ladies! you have never left each other a minute?”

  “Never, madame.” The sisters joined hands with an expressive smile.

  “Then, how unhappy you would be, and how much to be pitied, if ever you were separated.”

  “Oh, madame! it is impossible,” said Blanche, smiling.

  “How impossible?”

  “Who would have the heart to separate us?”

  “No doubt, my dear young ladies, it would be very cruel.”

  “Oh, madame,” resumed Blanche, “even very wicked people would not think of separating us.”

  “So much the better, my dear young ladies — pray, why?”

  “Because it would cause us too much grief.”

  “Because it would kill us.”

  “Poor little dears!”

  “Three months ago, we were shut up in prison. Well when the governor of the prison saw us, though he looked a very stern man, he could not help saying: ‘It would be killing these children to separate them;’ and so we remained together, and were as happy as one can be in prison.”

  “It shows your excellent heart, and also that of the persons who knew how to appreciate it.”

  The carriage stopped, and they heard the coachman call out “Any one at the gate there?”

  “Oh! here we are at your relation’s,” said Mrs. Grivois. Two wings of a gate flew open, and the carriage rolled over the gravel of a court-yard.