by Eugène Sue
“But, sir,” said Rodin advancing, “permit me—”
“Begone!” cried Dagobert, whose irritation and anxiety redoubled, as he thought how at any moment Marshal Simon might arrive in Paris. “Begone! Were it not for this lady, I would at least be revenged on some one.”
Rodin made a nod of intelligence to Adrienne, whom he approached prudently, and, pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of affectionate commiseration, he said to the latter: “I will leave you, sir, and the more willingly, as I was about to withdraw when you entered.” Then, coming still closer to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the Jesuit whispered to her, “Poor soldier! he is beside himself with grief, and would be incapable of hearing me. Explain it all to him, my dear young lady; he will be nicely caught,” added he, with a cunning air. “But in the meantime,” resumed Rodin, feeling in the side-pocket of his great-coat and taking out a small parcel, “let me beg you to give him this, my dear young lady. It is my revenge, and a very good one.”
And while Adrienne, holding the little parcel in her hand looked at the Jesuit with astonishment, the latter laying his forefinger upon his lip, as if recommending silence, drew backward on tiptoe to the door, and went out after again pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of pity; while the soldier, in sullen dejection, with his head drooping, and his arms crossed upon his bosom, remained deaf to the sewing-girl’s earnest consolations. When Rodin had left the room, Adrienne, approaching the soldier, said to him, in her mild voice, with an expression of deep interest, “Your sudden entry prevented my asking you a question that greatly concerns me. How is your wound?”
“Thank you, madame,” said Dagobert, starting from his painful lethargy, “it is of no consequence, but I have not time to think of it. I am sorry to have been so rough in your presence, and to have driven away that wretch; but ’tis more than I could master. At sight of those people, my blood is all up.”
“And yet, believe me, you have been too hasty in your judgment. The person who was just now here—”
“Too hasty, madame! I do not see him to-day for the first time. He was with that renegade the Abbe d’Aigrigny—”
“No doubt! — and yet he is an honest and excellent man.”
“He!” cried Dagobert.
“Yes; for at this moment he is busy about only one thing restoring to you those dear children!”
“He!” repeated Dagobert, as if he could not believe what he heard. “He restore me my children?”
“Yes; and sooner, perhaps, than you think for.”
“Madame,” said Dagobert, abruptly, “he deceives you. You are the dupe of that old rascal.”
“No,” said Adrienne, shaking her head, with a smile. “I have proofs of his good faith. First of all, it is he who delivers me from this house.”
“Is it true?” said Dagobert, quite confounded.
“Very true; and here is, perhaps, something that will reconcile you to him,” said Adrienne, as she delivered the small parcel which Rodin had given her as he went out. “Not wishing to exasperate you by his presence, he said to me: ‘Give this to that brave soldier; it is my revenge.’”
Dagobert looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as he mechanically opened the little parcel. When he had unfolded it, and discovered his own silver cross, black with age, and the old red, faded ribbon, treasures taken from him at the White Falcon Inn, at the same time as his papers, he exclaimed in a broken voice: “My cross! my cross! It is my cross!” In the excitement of his joy, he pressed the silver star to his gray moustache.
Adrienne and the other were deeply affected by the emotion of the old soldier, who continued, as he ran towards the door by which Rodin had gone out: “Next to a service rendered to Marshal Simon, my wife, or son, nothing could be more precious to me. And you answer for this worthy man, madame, and I have ill used him in your presence! Oh! he is entitled to reparation, and he shall have it.”
So saying, Dagobert left the room precipitately, hastened through two other apartments, gained the staircase, and descending it rapidly, overtook Rodin on the lowest step.
“Sir,” said the soldier to him, in an agitated voice, as he seized him by the arm, “you must come upstairs directly.”
“You should make up your mind to one thing or the other, my dear sir,” said Rodin, stopping good-naturedly; “one moment you tell me to begone, and the next to return. How are we to decide?”
“Just now, sir, I was wrong; and when I am wrong, I acknowledge it. I abused and ill-treated you before witnesses; I will make you my apologies before witnesses.”
“But, my dear sir — I am much obliged to you — I am in a hurry.”
“I cannot help your being in a hurry. I tell you, I must have you come upstairs, directly — or else — or else,” resumed Dagobert, taking the hand of the Jesuit, and pressing it with as much cordiality as emotion, “or else the happiness you have caused the in returning my cross will not be complete.”
“Well, then, my good friend, let us go up.”
“And not only have you restored me my cross, for which I have wept many tears, believe me, unknown to any one,” cried Dagobert, much affected; “but the young lady told me, that, thanks to you, those poor children but tell me — no false joy-is it really true? — My God! is it really true?”
“Ah! ah! Mr. Inquisitive,” said Rodin, with a cunning smile. Then he added: “Be perfectly tranquil, my growler; you shall have your two angels back again.” And the Jesuit began to ascend the stairs.
“Will they be restored to me to-day?” cried Dagobert, stopping Rodin abruptly, by catching hold of his sleeve.
“Now, really, my good friend,” said the Jesuit, “let us come to the point. Are we to go up or down? I do not find fault, but you turn me about like a teetotum.”
“You are right. We shall be better able to explain things upstairs. Come with me — quick! quick!” said Dagobert, as, taking the Jesuit by the arm, he hurried him along, and brought him triumphantly into the room, where Adrienne and Mother Bunch had remained in much surprise at the soldier’s sudden disappearance.
“Here he is! here he is!” cried Dagobert, as he entered. “Luckily, I caught him at the bottom of the stairs.”
“And you have made me come up at a fine pace!” added Rodin, pretty well out of breath.
“Now, sir,” said Dagobert, in a grave voice, “I declare, in presence of all, that I was wrong to abuse and ill-treat you. I make you my apology for it, sir; and I acknowledge, with joy, that I owe you — much — oh! very much and when I owe, I pay.”
So saying, Dagobert held out his honest hand to Rodin, who pressed it in a very affable manner, and replied: “Now, really — what is all this about? What great service do you speak of?”
“This!” said Dagobert, holding up the cross before Rodin’s eyes. “You do not know, then, what this cross is to me?”
“On the contrary, supposing you would set great store by it, I intended to have the pleasure of delivering it myself. I had brought it for that purpose; but, between ourselves, you gave me so warm a reception, that I had not the time—”
“Sir,” said Dagobert, in confusion, “I assure you that I sincerely repent of what I have done.”
“I know it, my good friend; do not say another word about it. You were then much attached to this cross?”
“Attached to it, sir!” cried Dagobert. “Why, this cross,” and he kissed it as he spoke, “is my relic. He from whom it came was my saint — my hero — and he had touched it with his hand!”
“Oh!” said Rodin, feigning to regard the cross with as much curiosity as respectful admiration; “did Napoleon — the Great Napoleon — indeed touch with his own hand — that victorious hand! — this noble star of honor?”
“Yes, sir, with his own hand. He placed it there upon my bleeding breast, as a cure for my fifth wound. So that, you see, were I dying of hunger, I think I should not hesitate betwixt bread and my cross — that I might, in any case, have it on my heart in death. But, enough — enough! let
us talk of something else. It is foolish in an old soldier, is it not?” added Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, and then, as if ashamed to deny what he really felt: “Well, then! yes,” he resumed, raising his head proudly, and no longer seeking to conceal the tears that rolled down his cheek; “yes, I weep for joy, to have found my cross — my cross, that the Emperor gave me with his victorious hand, as this worthy man has called it.”
“Then blessed be my poor old hand for having restored you the glorious treasure!” said Rodin, with emotion. “In truth,” he added, “the day will be a good one for everybody — as I announced to you this morning in my letter.”
“That letter without a signature?” asked the soldier, more and more astonished. “Was it from you?”
“It was I who wrote it. Only, fearing some new snare of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, I did not choose, you understand, to explain myself more clearly.”
“Then — I shall see — my orphans?”
Rodin nodded affirmatively, with an expression of great good-nature.
“Presently — perhaps immediately,” said Adrienne, with smile. “Well! was I right in telling you that you had not judged this gentleman fairly?”
“Why did he not tell me this when I came in?” cried Dagobert, almost beside himself with joy.
“There was one difficulty in the way, my good friend,” said Rodin; “it was, that when you came in, you nearly throttled me.”
“True; I was too hasty. Once more, I ask your pardon. But was I to blame? I had only seen you with that Abbe d’Aigrigny, and in the first moment—”
“This dear young lady,” said Rodin, bowing to Adrienne, “will tell you that I have been, without knowing it, the accomplice IN many perfidious actions; but as soon as I began to see my way through the darkness, I quitted the evil course on which I had entered, and returned to that which is honest, just and true.”
Adrienne nodded affirmatively to Dagobert, who appeared to consult her look.
“If I did not sign the letter that I wrote to you, my good friend, it was partly from fear that my name might inspire suspicion; and if I asked you to come hither, instead of to the convent, it was that I had some dread — like this dear young lady — lest you might be recognized by the porter or by the gardener, your affair of the other night rendering such a recognition somewhat dangerous.”
“But M. Baleinier knows all; I forgot that,” said Adrienne, with uneasiness. “He threatened to denounce M. Dagobert and his son, if I made any complaint.”
“Do not be alarmed, my dear young lady; it will soon be for you to dictate conditions,” replied Rodin. “Leave that to me; and as for you, my good friend, your torments are now finished.”
“Yes,” said Adrienne, “an upright and worthy magistrate has gone to the convent, to fetch Marshal Simon’s daughters. He will bring them hither; but he thought with me, that it would be most proper for them to take up their abode in my house. I cannot, however, come to this decision without your consent, for it is to you that these orphans were entrusted by their mother.”
“You wish to take her place with regard to them, madame?” replied Dagobert. “I can only thank you with all my heart, for myself and for the children. But, as the lesson has been a sharp one, I must beg to remain at the door of their chamber, night and day. If they go out with you, I must be allowed to follow them at a little distance, so as to keep them in view, just like Spoil-sport, who has proved himself a better guardian than myself. When the marshal is once here — it will be in a day or two — my post will be relieved. Heaven grant it may be soon!”
“Yes,” replied Rodin, in a firm voice, “heaven grant he may arrive soon, for he will have to demand a terrible reckoning of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, for the persecution of his daughters; and yet the marshal does not know all.”
“And don’t you tremble for the renegade?” asked Dagobert, as he thought how the marquis would soon find himself face to face with the marshal.
“I never care for cowards and traitors,” answered Rodin; “and when Marshal Simon returns—” Then, after a pause of some seconds, he continued: “If he will do me the honor to hear me, he shall be edified as to the conduct of the Abbe d’Aigrigny. The marshal knows that his dearest friends, as well as himself, have been victims of the hatred of that dangerous man.”
“How so?” said Dagobert.
“Why, yourself, for instance,” replied Rodin; “you are an example of what I advance.”
“Do you think it was mere chance, that brought about the scene at the White Falcon Inn, near Leipsic?”
“Who told you of that scene?” said Dagobert in astonishment.
“Where you accepted the challenge of Morok,” continued the Jesuit, without answering Dagobert’s question, “and so fell into a trap, or else refused it, and were then arrested for want of papers, and thrown into prison as a vagabond, with these poor children. Now, do you know the object of this violence? It was to prevent your being here on the 13th of February.”
“But the more I hear, sir,” said Adrienne, “the more I am alarmed at the audacity of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, and the extent of the means he has at his command. Really,” she resumed, with increasing surprise, “if your words were not entitled to absolute belief—”
“You would doubt their truth, madame?” said Dagobert. “It is like me. Bad as he is. I cannot think that this renegade had relations with a wild-beast showman as far off as Saxony; and then, how could he know that I and the children were to pass through Leipsic? It is impossible, my good man.”
“In fact, sir,” resumed Adrienne, “I fear that you are deceived by your dislike (a very legitimate one) of Abbe d’Aigrigny, and that you ascribe to him an almost fabulous degree of power and extent of influence.”
After a moment’s silence, during which Rodin looked first at Adrienne and then at Dagobert, with a kind of pity, he resumed. “How could the Abbe d’Aigrigny have your cross in his possession, if he had no connection with Morok?”
“That is true, sir,” said Dagobert; “joy prevented me from reflecting. But how indeed, did my cross come into your hands?”
“By means of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s having precisely those relations with Leipsic, of which you and the young lady seem to doubt.”
“But how did my cross get to Paris?”
“Tell me; you were arrested at Leipsic for want of papers — is it not so?”
“Yes; but I could never understand how my passports and money disappeared from my knapsack. I thought I must have had the misfortune to lose them.”
Rodin shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “You were robbed of them at the White Falcon Inn, by Goliath, one of Morok’s servants, and the latter sent the papers and the cross to the Abbe d’Aigrigny, to prove that he had succeeded in executing his orders with respect to the orphans and yourself. It was the day before yesterday, that I obtained the key of that dark machination. Cross and papers were amongst the stores of Abbe d’Aigrigny; the papers formed a considerable bundle, and he might have missed them; but, hoping to see you this morning, and knowing how a soldier of the Empire values his cross, his sacred relic, as you call it, my good friend — I did not hesitate. I put the relic into my pocket. ‘After all,’ said I, ‘it is only restitution, and my delicacy perhaps exaggerates this breach of trust.’”
“You could not have done a better action,” said Adrienne; “and, for my part, because of the interest I feel for M. Dagobert — I take it as a personal favor. But, sir,” after a moment’s silence, she resumed with anxiety: “What terrible power must be at the command of M. d’Aigrigny, for him to have such extensive and formidable relations in a foreign country!”
“Silence!” said Rodin, in a low voice, and looking round him with an air of alarm. “Silence! In heaven’s name do not ask me about it!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII. REVELATIONS.
MDLLE. DE CARDOVILLE, much astonished at the alarm displayed by Rodin, when she had asked him for some explanation of the formidable and far reaching power o
f the Abby d’Aigrigny, said to him: “Why, sir, what is there so strange in the question that I have just asked you?”
After a moment’s silence, Rodin cast his looks all around, with well feigned uneasiness, and replied in a whisper: “Once more, madame, do not question me on so fearful a subject. The walls of this house may have ears.”
Adrienne and Dagobert looked at each other with growing surprise. Mother Bunch, by an instinct of incredible force, continued to regard Rodin with invincible suspicion. Sometimes she stole a glance at him, as if trying to penetrate the mask of this man, who filled her with fear. At one moment, the Jesuit encountered her anxious gaze, obstinately fixed upon him; immediately he nodded to her with the greatest amenity. The young girl, alarmed at finding herself observed, turned away with a shudder.
“No, no, my dear young lady,” resumed Rodin, with a sigh, as he saw Mdlle. de Cardoville astonished at his silence; “do not question me on the subject of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s power!”
“But, to persist, sir,” said Adrienne; “why this hesitation to answer? What do you fear?”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, shuddering, “those people are so powerful! their animosity is so terrible!”
“Be satisfied, sir; I owe you too much, for my support ever to fail you.”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” cried Rodin, as if hurt by the supposition; “think better of me, I entreat you. Is it for myself that I fear? — No, no; I am too obscure, too inoffensive; but it is for you, for Marshal Simon, for the other members of your family, that all is to be feared. Oh, my dear young lady! let me beg you to ask no questions. There are secrets which are fatal to those who possess them.”
“But, sir, is it not better to know the perils with which one is threatened?”