by Eugène Sue
“Do not think of me, general. With a kind word at the end, you might blow me up all the year round. But what has happened?”
The general’s countenance again darkened, as he answered rapidly: “I am looked down upon, and despised!”
“You?”
“Yes I. After all,” resumed the marshal bitterly, “why should I conceal from you this new wound? If I doubted you a moment, I owe you some compensation, and you shall know all. For some time past, I perceived that, when I meet any of my old companions in arms, they try to avoid me—”
“What! was it to this that the anonymous letter alluded?”
“Yes; and it spoke the truth,” replied the marshal, with a sigh of grief and indignation.
“But it is impossible, general — you are so loved and respected—”
“Those are mere words; I speak of positive facts. When I appear, the conversation is often interrupted. Instead of treating me as an old comrade, they affect towards me a rigorously cold politeness. There are a thousand little shades, a thousand trifles, which wound the heart, but which it is impossible to notice—”
“What you are now saying, general, quite confounds me,” replied Dagobert. “You assure me of it, and I am forced to believe you.”
“Oh, it is intolerable! I was resolved to ease my heart of it; so, this morning, I went to General d’Havrincourt, who was colonel with me in the Imperial Guard; he is honor and honesty itself. I went to him with open heart. ‘I perceive,’ said I, ‘the coldness that is shown me. Some calumny must be circulating to my disadvantage. Tell me all about it. Knowing the attack, I shall be able to defend myself—’
“Well, general?”
“D’Havrincourt remained impassible ceremoniously polite. To all my questions he answered coldly: ‘I am not aware, my lord duke, that any calumny has been circulated with regard to you.’— ‘Do not call me “my lord duke,” my dear D’Havrincourt; we are old fellow-soldiers and friends, my honor is somewhat touchy, I confess, and I find that you and our comrades do not receive me so cordially, as in times past. You do not deny it; I see, I know, I feel it.’ To all this D’Havrincourt answered, with the same coldness: ‘I have never seen any one wanting in respect towards you.’— ‘I am not talking of respect,’ exclaimed I, as I clasped his hand affectionately, though I observed that he but feebly returned the pressure; ‘I speak of cordiality, confidence, which I once enjoyed, while now I am treated like a stranger. Why is it? What has occasioned this change?’ — Still cold and reserved, he answered: ‘These distinctions are so nice, marshal, that it is impossible for me to give you any opinion on the subject.’ — My heart swelled with grief and anger. What was I to do? To quarrel with D’Havrincourt would have been absurd. A sense of dignity forced me to break off the interview, but it has only confirmed my fears. Thus,” added the marshal, getting more and more animated, “thus am I fallen from the esteem to which I am entitled, thus am I despised, without even knowing the cause! Is it not odious? If they would only utter a charge against me — I should at least be able to defend myself, and to find an answer. But no, no! not even a word — only the cold politeness that is worse than any insult. Oh! it is too much, too much! for all this comes but in addition to other cares. What a life is mine since the death of my father! If I did but find rest and happiness at home — but no! I come in, but to read shameful letters; and still worse,” added the marshal, in a heartrending tone, and after a moment’s hesitation, “to find my children grow more and more indifferent towards me— “Yes,” continued he, perceiving the amazement of Dagobert, “and yet they know how much I love them!”
“Your daughters indifferent!” exclaimed Dagobert, in astonishment. “You make them such a reproach?”
“Oh! I do not blame them. They have hardly had time to know me.”
“Not had time to know you?” returned the soldier, in a tone of remonstrance, and warming up in his turn. “Ah! of what did their mother talk to them, except you? and I too! what could I teach your children except to know and love you?”
“You take their part — that is natural — they love you better than they do me,” said the marshal, with growing bitterness. Dagobert felt himself so painfully affected, that he looked at the marshal without answering.
“Yes!” continued the other; “yes! it may be base and ungrateful — but no matter! — Twenty times I have felt jealous of the affectionate confidence which my children display towards you, while with me they seem always to be in fear. If their melancholy faces ever grow animated for a moment, it is in talking to you, in seeing you; while for me they have nothing but cold respect — and that kills me. Sure of the affection of my children, I would have braved and surmounted every difficulty—” Then, seeing that Dagobert rushed towards the door which led to the chamber of Rose and Blanche, the marshal asked: “Where are you going?”
“For your daughters, general.”
“What for?”
“To bring them face to face with you — to tell them: ‘My children, your father thinks that you do not love him.’ — I will only say that — and then you will see.”
“Dagobert! I forbid you to do it,” cried the marshal, hastily.
“I don’t care for that — you have no right to be unjust to the poor children,” said the soldier, as he again advanced towards the door.
“Dagobert, I command you to remain here,” cried the marshal.
“Listen to me, general. I am your soldier, your inferior, your servant, if you will,” said the old grenadier, roughly; “but neither rank nor station shall keep me silent, when I have to defend your daughters. All must be explained — I know but one way — and that is to bring honest people face to face.”
If the marshal had not seized him by the arm, Dagobert would have entered the apartment of the young girls.
“Remain!” said the marshal, so imperiously that the soldier, accustomed to obedience, hung his head, and stood still.
“What would you do?” resumed the marshal. “Tell my children, that I think they do not love me? induce them to affect a tenderness they do not feel — when it is not their fault, but mine?”
“Oh, general!” said Dagobert, in a tone of despair, “I no longer feel anger, in hearing you speak thus of your children. It is such grief, that it breaks my heart!”
Touched by the expression of the soldier’s countenance, the marshal continued, less abruptly: “Come, I may be wrong; and yet I ask you, without bitterness or jealousy, are not my children more confiding, more familiar, with you than with me?”
“God bless me, general!” cried Dagobert; “if you come to that, they are more familiar with Spoil-sport than with either of us. You are their father; and, however kind a father may be, he must always command some respect. Familiar with me! I should think so. A fine story! What the devil should they respect in me, who, except that I am six feet high, and wear a moustache, might pass for the old woman that nursed them? — and then I must say, that, even before the death of your worthy father, you were sad and full of thought; the children have remarked that; and what you take for coldness on their part, is, I am sure, anxiety for you. Come, general; you are not just. You complain, because they love you too much.”
“I complain, because I suffer,” said the marshal, in an agony of excitement. “I alone know my sufferings.”
“They must indeed be grievous, general,” said Dagobert, carried further than he would otherwise have gone by his attachment for the orphans, “since those who love you feel them so cruelly.”
“What, sir! more reproaches?”
“Yes, general, reproaches,” cried Dagobert. “Your children have the right to complain of you, since you accuse them so unjustly.”
“Sir,” said the marshal, scarcely able to contain himself, “this is enough — this is too much!”
“Oh, yes! it is enough,” replied Dagobert, with rising emotion. “Why defend unfortunate children, who can only love and submit? Why defend them against your unhappy blindness?”
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The marshal started with anger and impatience, but then replied, with a forced calmness: “I needs must remember all that I owe you — and I will not forget it, say what you will.”
“But, general,” cried Dagobert, “why will you not let me fetch your children?”
“Do you not see that this scene is killing me?” cried the exasperated marshal. “Do you not understand, that I will not have my children witness what I suffer? A father’s grief has its dignity, sir; and you ought to feel for and respect it.”
“Respect it? no — not when it is founded on injustice!”
“Enough, sir — enough!”
“And not content with tormenting yourself,” cried Dagobert, unable any longer to control his feelings, “do you know what you will do? You will make your children die of sorrow. Was it for this, that I brought them to you from the depths of Siberia?”
“More reproaches!”
“Yes; for the worst ingratitude towards me, is to make your children unhappy.”
“Leave the room, sir!” cried the marshal, quite beside himself, and so terrible with rage and grief, that Dagobert, regretting that he had gone so far, resumed: “I was wrong, general. I have perhaps been wanting in respect to you — forgive me — but—”
“I forgive you — only leave me!” said the marshal, hardly restraining himself.
“One word, general—”
“I entreat you to leave me — I ask it as a service — is that enough?” said the marshal, with renewed efforts to control the violence of his emotions.
A deadly paleness succeeded to the high color which during this painful scene had inflamed the cheeks of the marshal. Alarmed at this symptom, Dagobert redoubled his entreaties. “I implore you, general,” said he, in an agitated mice, “to permit me for one moment—”
“Since you will have it so, sir, I must be the one to leave,” said the marshal, making a step towards the door.
These words were said in such a manner, that Dagobert could no longer resist. He hung his head in despair, looked for a moment in silent supplication at the marshal, and then, as the latter seemed yielding to a new movement of rage, the soldier slowly quitted the room.
A few minutes had scarcely elapsed since the departure of Dagobert, when the marshal, who, after a long and gloomy silence, had repeatedly drawn near the door of his daughters’ apartment with a mixture of hesitation and anguish, suddenly made a violent effort, wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and entered the chamber in which Rose and Blanche had taken refuge.
CHAPTER XLIX. THE TEST.
DAGOBERT WAS RIGHT in defending his children, as he paternally called Rose and Blanche, and yet the apprehensions of the marshal with regard to the coldness of his daughters, were unfortunately justified by appearances. As he had told his father, unable to explain the sad, and almost trembling embarrassment, which his daughters felt in his presence, he sought in vain for the cause of what he termed their indifference. Now reproaching himself bitterly for not concealing from them his grief at the death of their mother, he feared he might have given them to understand that they would be unable to console him; now supposing that he had not shown himself sufficiently tender, and that had chilled them with his military sternness; and now repeating with bitter regret, that, having always lived away from them, he must be always a stranger to them. In a word, the most unlikely suppositions presented themselves by turns to his mind, and whenever such seeds of doubt, suspicion, or fear, are blended with a warm affection, they will sooner or later develop themselves with fatal effect. Yet, notwithstanding this fancied coldness, from which he suffered so much, the affection of the marshal for his daughters was so true and deep, that the thought of again quitting them caused the hesitations which were the torment of his life, and provoked an incessant struggle between his paternal love and the duty he held most sacred.
The injurious calumnies, which had been so skillfully propagated, that men of honor, like his old brothers in arms, were found to attach some credit to them, had been spread with frightful pertinacity by the friends of the Princess de Saint-Dizier. We shall describe hereafter the meaning and object of these odious reports, which, joined with so many other fatal injuries, had filled up the measure of the marshal’s indignation. Inflamed with anger, excited almost to madness by this incessant “stabbing with pins” (as he had himself called it), and offended at some of Dagobert’s words, he had spoken harshly to him. But, after the soldier’s departure, when left to reflect in silence, the marshal remembered the warm and earnest expressions of the defender of his children, and doubt crossed his mind, as to the reality of the coldness of which he accused them. Therefore, having taken a terrible resolution in case a new trial should confirm his desponding doubts, he entered, as we before said, his, daughters’ chamber. The discussion with Dagobert had been so loud, that the sound of the voices had confusedly reached the ears of the two sisters, even after they had taken refuge in their bedroom. So that, on the arrival of their father, their pale faces betrayed their fear and anxiety. At sight of the marshal, whose countenance was also much agitated, the girls rose respectfully, but remained close together, trembling in each other’s arms. And yet there was neither anger nor severity on their father’s face — only a deep, almost supplicating grief, which seemed to say: “My children, I suffer — I have come to you — console me, love me! or I shall die!”
The marshal’s countenance was at this moment so expressive, that, the first impulse of fear once surmounted, the sisters were about to throw themselves into his arms; but remembering the recommendations of the anonymous letter, which told them how painful any effusion of their tenderness was to their father, they exchanged a rapid glance, and remained motionless. By a cruel fatality, the marshal at this moment burned to open his arms to his children. He looked at them with love, he even made a slight movement as if to call them to him; but he would not attempt more, for fear of meeting with no response. Still the poor children, paralyzed by perfidious counsels, remained mute, motionless, trembling!
“It is all over,” thought he, as he gazed upon them. “No chord of sympathy stirs in their bosom. Whether I go — whether I remain — matters not to them. No, I am nothing to these children — since, at this awful moment, when they see me perhaps for the last time, no filial instinct tells them that their affection might save me still!”
During these terrible reflections, the marshal had not taken his eyes off his children, and his manly countenance assumed an expression at once so touching and mournful — his look revealed so painfully the tortures of his despairing soul — that Rose and Blanche, confused, alarmed, but yielding together to a spontaneous movement, threw themselves on their father’s neck, and covered him with tears and caresses. Marshal Simon had not spoken a word; his daughters had not uttered a sound; and yet all three had at length understood one another. A sympathetic shock had electrified and mingled those three hearts. Vain fears, false doubts, lying counsel, all had yielded to the irresistible emotion which had brought the daughters to their father’s arms. A sudden revelation gave them faith, at the fatal moment when incurable suspicion was about to separate them forever.
In a second, the marshal felt all this, but words failed him. Pale, bewildered, kissing the brows, the hair, the hands of his daughters, weeping, sighing, smiling all in turn, he was wild, delirious, drunk with happiness. At length, he exclaimed: “I have found them — or rather, I have never lost them. They loved me, and did not dare to tell me so. I overawed them. And I thought it was my fault. Heavens! what good that does! what strength, what heart, what hope! — Ha! ha!” cried he, laughing and weeping at the same time, whilst he covered his children with caresses; “they may despise me now, they may harass me now — I defy them all. My own blue eyes! my sweet blue eyes! look at me well, and inspire me with new life.”
“Oh, father! you love us then as much as we love you?” cried Rose, with enchanting simplicity.
“And we may often, very often, perhaps every day, throw ours
elves on your neck, embrace you, and prove how glad we are to be with you?”
“Show you, dear father, all the store of love we were heaping up in our hearts — so sad, alas! that we could not spend it upon you?”
“Tell you aloud all that we think in secret?”
“Yes — you may do so — you may do so,” said Marshal Simon, faltering with joy; “what prevented you, my children? But no; do not answer; enough of the past! — I know all, I understand all. You misinterpreted my gloom, and it made you sad; I, in my turn, misinterpreted your sadness. But never mind; I scarcely know what I am saying to you. I only think of looking at you — and it dazzles me — it confuses me — it is the dizziness of joy!”
“Oh, look at us, father! look into our eyes, into our hearts,” cried Rose, with rapture.
“And you will read there, happiness for us, and love for you, sir!” added Blanche.
“Sir, sir!” said the marshal, in a tone of affectionate reproach; “what does that mean? Will you call me father, if you please?”
“Dear father, your hand!” said Blanche, as she took it, and placed it on her heart.
“Dear father, your hand!” said Rose, as she took the other hand of the marshal. “Do you believe now in our love and happiness?” she continued.
It is impossible to describe the charming expression of filial pride in the divine faces of the girls, as their father, slightly pressing their virgin bosoms, seemed to count with delight the joyous pulsations of their hearts.
“Oh, yes! happiness and affection can alone make the heart beat thus!” cried the marshal.
A hoarse sob, heard in the direction of the open door, made the three turn round, and there they saw the tall figure of Dagobert, with the black nose of Spoil-sport reaching to his master’s knee. The soldier, drying his eyes and moustache with his little blue cotton handkerchief, remained motionless as the god Terminus. When he could speak, he addressed himself to the marshal, and, shaking his head, muttered, in a hoarse voice, for the good man was swallowing his tears: “Did I not tell you so?”