by Eugène Sue
Mrs. Grivois having drawn up one of the blinds, they found themselves in a vast court, across the centre of which ran a high wall, with a kind of porch upon columns, under which was a little door. Behind this wall, they could see the upper part of a very large building in freestone. Compared with the house in the Rue Brise-Miche, this building appeared a palace; so Blanche said to Mrs. Grivois, with an expression of artless admiration: “Dear me, madame, what a fine residence!”
“That is nothing,” replied Madame Grivois; “wait till you see the interior, which is much finer.”
When the coachman opened the door of the carriage, what was the rage of Mrs. Grivois, and the surprise of the girls, to see Spoil-sport, who had been clever enough to follow the coach. Pricking up his ears, and wagging his tail, he seemed to have forgotten his late offences, and to expect to be praised for his intelligent fidelity.
“What!” cried Mrs. Grivois, whose sorrows were renewed at the sight; “has that abominable dog followed the coach?”
“A famous dog, mum,” answered the coachman “he never once left the heels of my horses. He must have been trained to it. He’s a powerful beast, and two men couldn’t scare him. Look at the throat of him now!”
The mistress of the deceased pug, enraged at the somewhat unseasonable praises bestowed upon the Siberian, said to the orphans, “I will announce your arrival, wait for me an instant in the coach.”
So saying, she went with a rapid step towards the porch, and rang the bell. A woman, clad in a monastic garb, appeared at the door, and bowed respectfully to Mrs. Grivois, who addressed her in these few words, “I have brought you the two young girls; the orders of Abbe d’Aigrigny and the princess are, that they be instantly separated, and kept apart in solitary cells — you understand, sister — and subjected to the rule for impenitents.”
“I will go and inform the superior, and it will be done,” said the portress, with another bend.
“Now, will you come, my dear young ladies?” resumed Mrs. Grivois, addressing the two girls, who had secretly bestowed a few caresses upon Spoil sport, so deeply were they touched by his instinctive attachment; “you will be introduced to your relation, and I will return and fetch you in half an hour. Coachman keep that dog back.”
Rose and Blanche, in getting out of the coach, were so much occupied with Spoil-sport, that they did not perceive the portress, who was half hidden behind the little door. Neither did they remark, that the person who was to introduce them was dressed as a nun, till, taking them by the hand, she had led them across the threshold, when the door was immediately closed behind them.
As soon as Mrs. Grivois had seen the orphans safe into the convent, she told the coachman to leave the court-yard, and wait for her at the outer gate. The coachman obeyed; but Spoil-sport, who had seen Rose and Blanche enter by the little door, ran to it, and remained there.
Mrs. Grivois then called the porter of the main entrance, a tall, vigorous fellow and said to him: “Here are ten francs for you, Nicholas, if you will beat out the brains of that great dog, who is crouching under the porch.”
Nicholas shook his head, as he observed Spoil-sport’s size and strength. “Devil take me, madame!” said he; “’tis not so easy to tackle a dog of that build.”
“I will give you twenty francs; only kill him before me.”
“One ought to have a gun, and I have only an iron hammer.”
“That will do; you can knock him down at a blow.”
“Well, madame — I will try — but I have my doubts.” And Nicholas went to fetch his mallet.
“Oh! if I had the strength!” said Mrs. Grivois.
The porter returned with his weapon, and advanced slowly and treacherously towards Spoil-sport, who was still crouching beneath the porch. “Here, old fellow! here, my good dog!” said Nicholas striking his left hand on his thigh, and keeping his right behind him, with the crowbar grasped in it.
Spoil-sport rose, examined Nicholas attentively, and no doubt perceiving by his manner that the porter meditated some evil design, bounded away from him, outflanked the enemy, saw clearly what was intended, and kept himself at a respectful distance.
“He smells a rat,” said Nicholas; “the rascal’s on his guard. He will not let me come near him. It’s no go.”
“You are an awkward fellow,” said Mrs. Grivois in a passion, as she threw a five-franc piece to Nicholas: “at all events, drive him away.”
“That will be easier than to kill him, madame,” said the porter. Indeed, finding himself pursued, and conscious probably that it would be useless to attempt an open resistance, Spoil-sport fled from the court-yard into the street; but once there, he felt himself, as it were, upon neutral ground, and notwithstanding all the threats of Nicholas, refused to withdraw an inch further than just sufficient to keep out of reach of the sledge-hammer. So that when Mrs. Grivois, pale with rage, again stepped into her hackney-coach, in which were My Lord’s lifeless remains, she saw with the utmost vexation that Spoil-sport was lying at a few steps from the gate, which Nicholas had just closed, having given up the chase in despair.
The Siberian dog, sure of finding his way back to the Rue Brise-Miche, had determined, with the sagacity peculiar to his race, to wait for the orphans on the spot where he then was.
Thus were the two sisters confined in St. Mary’s Convent, which, as we have already said, was next door to the lunatic asylum in which Adrienne de Cardoville was immured.
We now conduct the reader to the dwelling of Dagobert’s wife, who was waiting with dreadful anxiety for the return of her husband, knowing that he would call her to account for the disappearance of Marshal Simon’s daughters.
CHAPTER LII. THE INFLUENCE OF A CONFESSOR.
HARDLY HAD THE orphans quitted Dagobert’s wife, when the poor woman, kneeling down, began to pray with fervor. Her tears, long restrained, now flowed abundantly; notwithstanding her sincere conviction that she had performed a religious duty in delivering up the girl’s she waited with extreme fear her husband’s return. Though blinded by her pious zeal, she could not hide from herself, that Dagobert would have good reason to be angry; and then this poor mother had also, under these untoward circumstances, to tell him of Agricola’s arrest.
Every noise upon the stairs made Frances start with trembling anxiety; after which, she would resume her fervent prayers, supplicating strength to support this new and arduous trial. At length, she heard a step upon the landing-place below, and, feeling sure this time that it was Dagobert, she hastily seated herself, dried her tears, and taking a sack of coarse cloth upon her lap, appeared to be occupied with sewing — though her aged hands trembled so much, that she could hardly hold the needle.
After some minutes the door opened, and Dagobert appeared. The soldier’s rough countenance was stern and sad; as he entered, he flung his hat violently upon the table, so full of painful thought, that he did not at first perceive the absence of the orphans.
“Poor girl!” cried he. “It is really terrible!”
“Didst see Mother Bunch? didst claim her?” said Frances hastily, forgetting for a moment her own fears.
“Yes, I have seen her — but in what a state — twas enough to break one’s heart. I claimed her, and pretty loud too, I can tell you; but they said to me, that the commissary must first come to our place in order—” here Dagobert paused, threw a glance of surprise round the room, and exclaimed abruptly: “Where are the children?”
Frances felt herself seized with an icy shudder. “My dear,” she began in a feeble voice — but she was unable to continue.
“Where are Rose and Blanche! Answer me then! And Spoil-sport, who is not here either!”
“Do not be angry.”
“Come,” said Dagobert, abruptly, “I see you have let them go out with a neighbor — why not have accompanied them yourself, or let them wait for me, if they wished to take a walk; which is natural enough, this room being so dull. But I am astonished that they should have gone out before they had news of good Mother Bunch
— they have such kind hearts. But how pale you are?” added the soldier looking nearer at Frances; “what is the matter, my poor wife? Are you ill?”
Dagobert took Frances’s hand affectionately in his own but the latter, painfully agitated by these words, pronounced with touching goodness, bowed her head and wept as she kissed her husband’s hand. The soldier, growing more and more uneasy as he felt the scalding tears of his wife, exclaimed: “You weep, you do not answer — tell me, then, the cause of your grief, poor wife! Is it because I spoke a little loud, in asking you how you could let the dear children go out with a neighbor? Remember their dying mother entrusted them to my care— ’tis sacred, you see — and with them, I am like an old hen after her chickens,” added he, laughing to enliven Frances.
“Yes, you are right in loving them!”
“Come, then — becalm — you know me of old. With my great, hoarse voice, I am not so bad a fellow at bottom. As you can trust to this neighbor, there is no great harm done; but, in future, my good Frances, do not take any step with regard to the children without consulting me. They asked, I suppose, to go out for a little stroll with Spoil-sport?”
“No, my dear!”
“No! Who is this neighbor, to whom you have entrusted them? Where has she taken them? What time will she bring them back?”
“I do not know,” murmured Frances, in a failing voice.
“You do not know!” cried Dagobert, with indignation; but restraining himself, he added, in a tone of friendly reproach: “You do not know? You cannot even fix an hour, or, better still, not entrust them to any one? The children must have been very anxious to go out. They knew that I should return at any moment, so why not wait for me — eh, Frances? I ask you, why did they not wait for me? Answer me, will you! — Zounds! you would make a saint swear!” cried Dagobert, stamping his foot; “answer me, I say!”
The courage of Frances was fast failing. These pressing and reiterated questions, which might end by the discovery of the truth, made her endure a thousand slow and poignant tortures. She preferred coming at once to the point, and determined to bear the full weight of her husband’s anger, like a humble and resigned victim, obstinately faithful to the promise she had sworn to her confessor.
Not having the strength to rise, she bowed her head, allowed her arms to fall on either side of the chair, and said to her husband in a tone of the deepest despondency: “Do with me what you will — but do not ask what is become of the children — I cannot answer you.”
If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the soldier, he would not have been more violently, more deeply moved; he became deadly pale; his bald forehead was covered with cold sweat; with fixed and staring look, he remained for some moments motionless, mute, and petrified. Then, as if roused with a start from this momentary torpor, and filled with a terrific energy, he seized his wife by the shoulders, lifted her like a feather, placed her on her feet before him, and, leaning over her, exclaimed in a tone of mingled fury and despair: “The children!”
“Mercy! mercy!” gasped Frances, in a faint voice.
“Where are the children?” repeated Dagobert, as he shook with his powerful hands that poor frail body, and added in a voice of thunder: “Will you answer? the children!”
“Kill me, or forgive me, I cannot answer you,” replied the unhappy woman, with that inflexible, yet mild obstinacy, peculiar to timid characters, when they act from convictions of doing right.
“Wretch!” cried the soldier; wild with rage, grief, despair, he lifted up his wife as if he would have dashed her upon the floor — but he was too brave a man to commit such cowardly cruelty, and, after that first burst of involuntary fury, he let her go.
Overpowered, Frances sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and, by the faint motion of her lips, it was clear that she was praying. Dagobert had then a moment of stunning giddiness; his thoughts wandered; what had just happened was so sudden, so incomprehensible that it required some minutes to convince himself that his wife (that angel of goodness, whose life had been one course of heroic self-devotion, and who knew what the daughters of Marshal Simon were to him) should say to him: “Do not ask me about them — I cannot answer you.”
The firmest, the strongest mind would have been shaken by this inexplicable fact. But, when the soldier had a little recovered himself, he began to look coolly at the circumstances, and reasoned thus sensibly with himself: “My wife alone can explain to me this inconceivable mystery — I do not mean either to beat or kill her — let us try every possibly method, therefore, to induce her to speak, and above all, let me try to control myself.”
He took a chair, handed another to his wife, who was still on her knees, and said to her: “Sit down.” With an air of the utmost dejection, Frances obeyed.
“Listen to me, wife,” resumed Dagobert in a broken voice, interrupted by involuntary starts, which betrayed the boiling impatience he could hardly restrain. “Understand me — this cannot pass over in this manner — you know. I will never use violence towards you — just now, I gave way to a first moment of hastiness — I am sorry for it. Be sure, I shall not do so again: but, after all, I must know what has become of these children. Their mother entrusted them to my care, and I did not bring them all the way from Siberia, for you to say to me: ‘Do not ask me — I cannot tell you what I have done with them.’ There is no reason in that. Suppose Marshal Simon were to arrive, and say to me, ‘Dagobert, my children?’ what answer am I to give him? See, I am calm — judge for yourself — I am calm — but just put yourself in my place, and tell me — what answer am I to give to the marshal? Well — what say you! Will you speak!”
“Alas! my dear—”
“It is of no use crying alas!” said the soldier wiping his forehead, on which the veins were swollen as if they would burst; “what am I to answer to the marshal?”
“Accuse me to him — I will bear it all — I will say—”
“What will you say?”
“That, on going out, you entrusted the two girls to me, and that not finding them on return you asked be about them — and that my answer was, that I could not tell you what had become of them.”
“And you think the marshal will be satisfied with such reasons?” cried Dagobert, clinching his fists convulsively upon his knees.
“Unfortunately, I can give no other — either to him or you — no — not if I were to die for it.”
Dagobert bounded from his chair at this answer, which was given with hopeless resignation. His patience was exhausted; but determined not to yield to new bursts of anger, or to spend his breath in useless menaces, he abruptly opened one of the windows, and exposed his burning forehead to the cool air. A little calmer, he walked up and down for a few moments, and then returned to seat himself beside his wife. She, with her eyes bathed in tears, fixed her gaze upon the crucifix, thinking that she also had to bear a heavy cross.
Dagobert resumed: “By the manner in which you speak, I see that no accident has happened, which might endanger the health of the children.”
“No, oh no! thank God, they are quite well — that is all I can say to you.”
“Did they go out alone?”
“I cannot answer you.”
“Has any one taken them away?”
“Alas, my dear! why ask me these questions? I cannot answer you.”
“Will they come back here?”
“I do not know.”
Dagobert started up; his patience was once more exhausted. But, after taking a few turns in the room, he again seated himself as before.
“After all,” said he to his wife, “you have no interest to conceal from me what is become of the children. Why refuse to let me know?”
“I cannot do otherwise.”
“I think you will change your opinion, when you know something that I am now forced to tell you. Listen to me well!” added Dagobert, in an agitated voice; “if these children are not restored to me before the 13th of February — a day close at hand — I am in the posit
ion of a man that would rob the daughters of Marshal Simon — rob them, d’ye understand?” said the soldier, becoming more and more agitated. Then, with an accent of despair which pierced Frances’s heart, he continued: “And yet I have done all that an honest man could do for those poor children — you cannot tell what I have had to suffer on the road — my cares, my anxieties — I, a soldier, with the charge of two girls. It was only by strength of heart, by devotion, that I could go through with it — and when, for my reward, I hoped to be able to say to their father: ‘Here are your children!—’” The soldier paused. To the violence of his first emotions had succeeded a mournful tenderness; he wept.
At sight of the tears rolling slowly down Dagobert’s gray moustache, Frances felt for a moment her resolution give way; but, recalling the oath which she had made to her confessor, and reflecting that the eternal salvation of the orphans was at stake, she reproached herself inwardly with this evil temptation, which would no doubt be severely blamed by Abbe Dubois. She answered, therefore, in a trembling voice: “How can they accuse you of robbing these children?”
“Know,” resumed Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, “that if these young girls have braved so many dangers, to come hither, all the way from Siberia, it is that great interests are concerned — perhaps an immense fortune — and that, if they are not present on the 13th February — here, in Paris, Rue Saint Francois — all will be lost — and through my fault — for I am responsible for your actions.”
“The 13th February? Rue Saint Francois?” cried Frances, looking at her husband with surprise. “Like Gabriel!”
“What do you say about Gabriel?”
“When I took him in (poor deserted child!), he wore a bronze medal about his neck.”
“A bronze medal!” cried the soldier, struck with amazement; “a bronze medal with these words, ‘At Paris you will be, the 13th of February, 1832, Rue Saint Francois?”
“Yes — how do you know?”
“Gabriel, too!” said the soldier speaking to himself. Then he added hastily: “Does Gabriel know that this medal was found upon him?”