by Eugène Sue
Dagobert and Agricola finished their preparations in silence. They were both very pale, and solemnly grave. They felt all the danger of so desperate an enterprise.
The clock at Saint-Mery’s struck ten. The sound of the bell was faint, and almost drowned by the lashing of the wind and rain, which had not ceased for a moment.
“Ten o’clock!” said Dagobert, with a start. “There is not a minute to lose. Take the sack, Agricola.”
“Yes, father.”
As he went to fetch the sack, Agricola approached Mother Bunch, who was hardly able to sustain herself, and said to her in a rapid whisper: “If we are not here to-morrow, take care of my mother. Go to M. Hardy, who will perhaps have returned from his journey. Courage, my sister! embrace me. I leave poor mother to you.” The smith, deeply affected, pressed the almost fainting girl in his arms.
“Come, old Spoil-sport,” said Dagobert: “you shall be our scout.” Approaching his wife, who, just risen from the ground, was clasping her son’s head to her bosom, and covering it with tears and kisses, he said to her, with a semblance of calmness and serenity: “Come, my dear wife, be reasonable! Make us a good fire. In two or three hours we will bring home the two poor children, and a fine young lady. Kiss me! that will bring me luck.”
Frances threw herself on her husband’s neck, without uttering a word. This mute despair, mingled with convulsive sobs, was heart-rending. Dagobert was obliged to tear himself from his wife’s arms, and striving to conceal his emotion, he said to his son, in an agitated voice: “Let us go — she unmans me. Take care of her, my good Mother Bunch. Agricola — come!”
The soldier slipped the pistols into the pocket of his great coat, and rushed towards the door, followed by Spoil-sport.
“My son, let me embrace you once more — alas! it is perhaps for the last time!” cried the unfortunate mother, incapable of rising, but stretching out her arms to Agricola. “Forgive me! it is all my fault.”
The smith turned back, mingled his tears with those of his mother — for he also wept — and murmured, in a stifled voice: “Adieu, dear mother! Be comforted. We shall soon meet again.”
Then, escaping from the embrace, he joined his father upon the stairs.
Frances Baudoin heaved a long sigh, and fell almost lifeless into the needlewoman’s arms.
Dagobert and Agricola left the Rue Brise-Miche in the height of the storm, and hastened with great strides towards the Boulevard de l’Hopital, followed by the dog.
CHAPTER XIII. BURGLARY.
HALF-PAST ELEVEN HAD just struck, when Dagobert and his son arrived on the Boulevard de l’Hopital.
The wind blew violently, and the rain fell down in torrents, but notwithstanding the thickness of the watery clouds, it was tolerably light, thanks to the late rising of the moon. The tall, dark trees, and the white walls of the convent garden, were distinguishable in the midst of the pale glimmer. Afar off, a street lamp, acted on by the wind, with its red lights hardly visible through the mist and rain, swung backwards and forwards over the dirty causeway of the solitary boulevard.
At rare intervals, they heard, at a very great distance, the rattle and rumble of a coach, returning home late; then all was again silent.
Since their departure from the Rue Brise-Miche, Dagobert and his son had hardly exchanged a word. The design of these two brave men was noble and generous, and yet, resolute but pensive, they glided through the darkness like bandits, at the hour of nocturnal crimes.
Agricola carried on his shoulders the sack containing the cord, the hook, and the iron bar; Dagobert leaned upon the arm of his son, and Spoil sport followed his master.
“The bench, where we sat down, must be close by,” said Dagobert, stopping.
“Yes,” said Agricola, looking around; “here it is, father.”
“It is oily half-past eleven — we must wait for midnight,” resumed Dagobert. “Let us be seated for an instant, to rest ourselves, and decide upon our plan.”
After a moment’s silence, the soldier took his son’s hands between his own, and thus continued: “Agricola, my child — it is yet time. Let me go alone, I entreat you. I shall know very well how to get through the business; but the nearer the moment comes, the more I fear to drag you into this dangerous enterprise.”
“And the nearer the moment comes, father, the more I feel I may be of some use; but, be it good or bad, I will share the fortune of your adventure. Our object is praiseworthy; it is a debt of honor that you have to pay, and I will take one half of it. Do not fancy that I will now draw back. And so, dear father, let us think of our plan of action.”
“Then you will come?” said Dagobert, stifling a sigh.
“We must do everything,” proceeded Agricola, “to secure success. You have already noticed the little garden-door, near the angle of the wall — that is excellent.”
“We shall get by that way into the garden, and look immediately for the open paling.”
“Yes; for on one side of this paling is the wing inhabited by Mdlle. de Cardoville, and on the other that part of the convent in which the general’s daughters are confined.”
At this moment, Spoil-sport, who was crouching at Dagobert’s feet, rose suddenly, and pricked up his ears, as if to listen.
“One would think that Spoil-sport heard something,” said Agricola. They listened — but heard only the wind, sounding through the tall trees of the boulevard.
“Now I think of it, father — when the garden-door is once open, shall we take Spoil-sport with us?”
“Yes; for if there is a watch-dog, he will settle him. And then he will give us notice of the approach of those who go the rounds. Besides, he is so intelligent, so attached to Rose and Blanche, that (who knows?) he may help to discover the place where they are. Twenty times I have seen him find them in the woods, by the most extraordinary instinct.”
A slow and solemn knell here rose above the noise of the wind: it was the first stroke of twelve.
That note seemed to echo mournfully through the souls of Agricola and his father. Mute with emotion, they shuddered, and by a spontaneous movement, each grasped the hand of the other. In spite of themselves, their hearts kept time to every stroke of the clock, as each successive vibration was prolonged through the gloomy silence of the night.
At the last strobe, Dagobert said to his son, in a firm voice: “It is midnight. Shake hands, and let us forward!”
The moment was decisive and solemn. “Now, father,” said Agricola, “we will act with as much craft and daring as thieves going to pillage a strong box.”
So saying, the smith took from the sack the cord and hook; Dagobert armed himself with the iron bar, and both advanced cautiously, following the wall in the direction of the little door, situated not far from the angle formed by the street and the boulevard. They stopped from time to time, to listen attentively, trying to distinguish those noises which were not caused either by the high wind or the rain.
It continued light enough for them to be able to see surrounding objects, and the smith and the soldier soon gained the little door, which appeared much decayed, and not very strong.
“Good!” said Agricola to his father. “It will yield at one blow.”
The smith was about to apply his shoulder vigorously to the door, when Spoil-sport growled hoarsely, and made a “point.” Dagobert silenced the dog with a word, and grasping his son’s arm, said to him in a whisper: “Do not stir. The dog has scented some one in the garden.”
Agricola and his father remained for some minutes motionless, holding their breath and listening. The dog, in obedience to his master, no longer growled, but his uneasiness and agitation were displayed more and more. Yet they heard nothing.
“The dog must have been deceived, father,” whispered Agricola.
“I am sure of the contrary. Do not move.”
After some seconds of expectation, Spoil-sport crouched down abruptly, and pushed his nose as far as possible under the door, snuffling up the air.
“They are coming,” said Dagobert hastily, to his son.
“Let us draw off a little distance,” replied Agricola.
“No,” said his father; “we must listen. It will be time to retire, if they open the door. Here, Spoil-sport! down!”
The dog obeyed, and withdrawing from the door, crouched down at the feet of his master. Some seconds after, they heard a sort of splashing on the damp ground, caused by heavy footsteps in puddles of water, and then the sound of words, which carried away by the wind, did not reach distinctly the ears of the soldier and the smith.
“They are the people of whom Mother Bunch told us, going their round,” said Agricola to his father.
“So much the better. There will be an interval before they come round again, and we shall have some two hours before us, without interruption. Our affair is all right now.”
By degrees, the sound of the footsteps became less and less distinct, and at last died away altogether.
“Now, quick! we must not lose any time,” said Dagobert to his son, after waiting about ten minutes; “they are far enough. Let us try to open the door.”
Agricola leaned his powerful shoulder against it, and pushed vigorously; but the door did not give way, notwithstanding its age.
“Confound it!” said Agricola; “there is a bar on the inside. I am sure of it, or these old planks would not have resisted my weight.”
“What is to be done?”
“I will scale the wall by means of the cord and hook, and open the door from the other side.”
So saying, Agricola took the cord, and after several attempts, succeeded in fixing the hook on the coping of the wall.
“Now, father, give me a leg up; I will help myself up with the cord; once astride on the wall, I can easily turn the hook and get down into the garden.”
The soldier leaned against the wall, and joined his two hands, in the hollow of which his son placed one of his feet, then mounting upon the robust shoulders of his father, he was able, by help of the cord, and some irregularities in the wall, to reach the top. Unfortunately, the smith had not perceived that the coping of the wall was strewed with broken bottles, so that he wounded his knees and hands; but, for fear of alarming Dagobert, he repressed every exclamation of pain, and replacing the hook, he glided down the cord to the ground. The door was close by, and he hastened to it; a strong wooden bar had indeed secured it on the inside. This was removed, and the lock was in so bad a state, that it offered no resistance to a violent effort from Agricola.
The door was opened, and Dagobert entered the garden with Spoil-sport.
“Now,” said the soldier to his son, “thanks to you, the worst is over. Here is a means of escape for the poor children, and Mdlle. de Cardoville. The thing is now to find them, without accident or delay. Spoil-sport will go before as a scout. Come, my good dog!” added Dagobert, “above all — fair and softly!”
Immediately, the intelligent animal advanced a few steps, sniffing and listening with the care and caution of a hound searching for the game.
By the half-light of the clouded moon, Dagobert and his son perceived round them a V-shaped grove of tall trees, at which several paths met. Uncertain which to choose, Agricola said to his father: “Let us take the path that runs alongside the wall. It will surely lead to some building.”
“Right! Let us walk on the strips of grass, instead of through the mud. It will make less noise.”
The father and son, preceded by the Siberian dog, kept for some time in a winding path, at no great distance from the wall. They stopped now and then to listen, or to satisfy themselves, before continuing their advance, with regard to the changing aspects of the trees and bushes, which, shaken by the wind, and faintly illumined by the pale light of the moon, often took strange and doubtful forms.
Half-past twelve struck as Agricola and his father reached a large iron gate which shut in that part of the garden reserved for the Superior — the same into which Mother Bunch had intruded herself, after seeing Rose Simon converse with Adrienne de Cardoville.
Through the bars of this gate, Agricola and his father perceived at a little distance an open paling, which joined a half-finished chapel, and beyond it a little square building.
“That is no doubt the building occupied by Mdlle. de Cardoville,” said Agricola.
“And the building which contains the chambers of Rose and Blanche, but which we cannot see from here, is no doubt opposite it,” said Dagobert. “Poor children! they are there, weeping tears of despair,” added he, with profound emotion.
“Provided the gate be but open,” said Agricola.
“It will probably be so — being within the walls.”
“Let us go on gently.”
The gate was only fastened by the catch of the lock. Dagobert was about to open it, when Agricola said to him: “Take care! do not make it creak on its hinges.”
“Shall I push it slowly or suddenly?”
“Let me manage it,” said Agricola; and he opened the gate so quickly, that it creaked very little; still the noise might have been plainly heard, in the silence of the night, during one of the lulls between the squalls of wind.
Agricola and his father remained motionless for a moment, listening uneasily, before they ventured to pass through the gate. Nothing stirred, however; all remained calm and still. With fresh courage, they entered the reserved garden.
Hardly had the dog arrived on this spot, when he exhibited tokens of extraordinary delight. Picking up his ears, wagging his tail, bounding rather than running, he had soon reached the paling where, in the morning, Rose Simon had for a moment conversed with Mdlle. de Cardoville. He stopped an instant at this place, as if at fault, and turned round and round like a dog seeking the scent.
Dagobert and his son, leaving Spoil-sport to his instinct, followed his least movements with intense interest, hoping everything from his intelligence and his attachment to the orphans.
“It was no doubt near this paling that Rose stood when Mother Bunch saw her,” said Dagobert. “Spoil-sport is on her track. Let him alone.”
After a few seconds, the dog turned his head towards Dagobert, and started at full trot in the direction of a door on the ground-floor of a building, opposite to that occupied by Adrienne. Arrived at this door, the dog lay down, seemingly waiting for Dagobert.
“No doubt of it! the children are there!” said Dagobert, hastening to rejoin Spoil-sport; “it was by this door that they took Rose into the house.”
“We must see if the windows are grated,” said Agricola, following his father.
“Well, old fellow!” whispered the soldier, as he came up to the dog and pointed to the building, “are Rose and Blanche there?”
The dog lifted his head, and answered by a joyful bark. Dagobert had just time to seize the mouth of the animal with his hands.
“He will ruin all!” exclaimed the smith. “They have, perhaps, heard him.”
“No,” said Dagobert. “But there is no longer any doubt — the children are here.”
At this instant, the iron gate, by which the soldier and his son had entered the reserved garden, and which they had left open, fell to with a loud noise.
“They’ve shut us in,” said Agricola, hastily; “and there is no other issue.”
For a moment, the father and son looked in dismay at each other; but Agricola instantly resumed: “The gate has perhaps shut of itself. I will make haste to assure myself of this, and to open it again if possible.”
“Go quickly; I will examine the windows.”
Agricola flew towards the gate, whilst Dagobert, gliding along the wall, soon reached the windows on the ground floor. They were four in number, and two of them were not grated. He looked up at the first story; it was not very far from the ground, and none of the windows had bars. It would then be easy for that one of the two sisters, who inhabited this story, once informed of their presence, to let herself down by means of a sheet, as the orphans had already done to escape from the inn
of the White Falcon. But the difficult thing was to know which room she occupied. Dagobert thought they might learn this from the sister on the ground floor; but then there was another difficulty — at which of the four windows should they knock?
Agricola returned precipitately. “It was the wind, no doubt, which shut the gate,” said he. “I have opened it again, and made it fast with a stone. But we have no time to lose.”
“And how shall we know the windows of the poor children?” said Dagobert, anxiously.
“That is true,” said Agricola, with uneasiness. “What is to be done?”
“To call them at hap-hazard,” continued Dagobert, “would be to give the alarm.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Agricola, with increasing anguish. “To have arrived here, under their windows, and yet not to know!”
“Time presses,” said Dagobert, hastily, interrupting his son; “we must run all risks.”
“But how, father?”
“I will call out loud, ‘Rose and Blanche’ — in their state of despair, I am sure they do not sleep. They will be stirring at my first summons. By means of a sheet, fastened to the window, she who is on the first story will in five minutes be in our arms. As for the one on the ground floor — if her window is not grated, we can have her in a second. If it is, we shall soon loosen one of the bars.”
“But, father — this calling out aloud?”
“Will not perhaps be heard.”
“But if it is heard — all will be lost.”
“Who knows? Before they have time to call the watch, and open several doors, the children may be delivered. Once at the entrance of the boulevard, and we shall be safe.”
“It is a dangerous course; but I see no other.”
“If there are only two men, I and Spoil-sport will keep them in check, while you will have time to carry off the children.”