by Eugène Sue
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 shehad performed a religious duty in delivering up the girl's she waitedwith extreme fear her husband's return. Though blinded by her piouszeal, she could not hide from herself, that Dagobert would have goodreason to be angry; and then this poor mother had also, under theseuntoward 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 strengthto support this new and arduous trial. At length, she heard a stepupon the landing-place below, and, feeling sure this time that it wasDagobert, she hastily seated herself, dried her tears, and taking asack of coarse cloth upon her lap, appeared to be occupied withsewing--though her aged hands trembled so much, that she could hardlyhold the needle.
After some minutes the door opened, and Dagobert appeared. The soldier'srough countenance was stern and sad; as he entered, he flung his hatviolently upon the table, so full of painful thought, that he did not atfirst 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'sheart. I claimed her, and pretty loud too, I can tell you; but they saidto me, that the commissary must first come to our place in order--"here Dagobert paused, threw a glance of surprise round the room, andexclaimed abruptly: "Where are the children?"
Frances felt herself seized with an icy shudder. "My dear," she began ina feeble voice--but she was unable to continue.
"Where are Rose and Blanche! Answer me then! And Spoil-sport, who is nothere either!"
"Do not be angry."
"Come," said Dagobert, abruptly, "I see you have let them go out with aneighbor--why not have accompanied them yourself, or let them wait forme, if they wished to take a walk; which is natural enough, this roombeing so dull. But I am astonished that they should have gone out beforethey had news of good Mother Bunch--they have such kind hearts. But howpale you are?" added the soldier looking nearer at Frances; "what is thematter, 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 ofyour grief, poor wife! Is it because I spoke a little loud, in askingyou how you could let the dear children go out with a neighbor? Remembertheir dying mother entrusted them to my care--'tis sacred, you see--andwith them, I am like an old hen after her chickens," added he, laughingto 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 nottake any step with regard to the children without consulting me. Theyasked, 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 hasshe 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 restraininghimself, he added, in a tone of friendly reproach: "You do not know? Youcannot 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 Ishould return at any moment, so why not wait for me--eh, Frances? I askyou, why did they not wait for me? Answer me, will you!--Zounds! youwould make a saint swear!" cried Dagobert, stamping his foot; "answerme, I say!"
The courage of Frances was fast failing. These pressing and reiteratedquestions, which might end by the discovery of the truth, made herendure a thousand slow and poignant tortures. She preferred comingat once to the point, and determined to bear the full weight of herhusband's anger, like a humble and resigned victim, obstinately faithfulto the promise she had sworn to her confessor.
Not having the strength to rise, she bowed her head, allowed her arms tofall on either side of the chair, and said to her husband in a tone ofthe deepest despondency: "Do with me what you will--but do not ask whatis become of the children--I cannot answer you."
If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the soldier, he would nothave been more violently, more deeply moved; he became deadly pale; hisbald forehead was covered with cold sweat; with fixed and staring look,he remained for some moments motionless, mute, and petrified. Then, asif roused with a start from this momentary torpor, and filled with aterrific energy, he seized his wife by the shoulders, lifted her likea 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 hispowerful 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 unhappywoman, with that inflexible, yet mild obstinacy, peculiar to timidcharacters, when they act from convictions of doing right.
"Wretch!" cried the soldier; wild with rage, grief, despair, he liftedup his wife as if he would have dashed her upon the floor--but he wastoo brave a man to commit such cowardly cruelty, and, after that firstburst of involuntary fury, he let her go.
Overpowered, Frances sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and, by thefaint motion of her lips, it was clear that she was praying. Dagoberthad then a moment of stunning giddiness; his thoughts wandered; what hadjust happened was so sudden, so incomprehensible that it required someminutes to convince himself that his wife (that angel of goodness, whoselife had been one course of heroic self-devotion, and who knew what thedaughters of Marshal Simon were to him) should say to him: "Do not askme about them--I cannot answer you."
The firmest, the strongest mind would have been shaken by thisinexplicable fact. But, when the soldier had a little recovered himself,he began to look coolly at the circumstances, and reasoned thus sensiblywith himself: "My wife alone can explain to me this inconceivablemystery--I do not mean either to beat or kill her--let us try everypossibly method, therefore, to induce her to speak, and above all, letme try to control myself."
He took a chair, handed another to his wife, who was still on herknees, 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, interruptedby involuntary starts, which betrayed the boiling impatience hecould hardly restrain. "Understand me--this cannot pass over in thismanner--you know. I will never use violence towards you--just now, Igave way to a first moment of hastiness--I am sorry for it. Be sure, Ishall not do so again: but, after all, I must know what has become ofthese children. Their mother entrusted them to my care, and I did notbring them all the way from Siberia, for you to say to me: 'Do not askme--I cannot tell you what I have done with them.' There is no reason inthat. Suppose Marshal Simon were to arrive, and say to me, 'Dagobert,my children?' what answer am I to give him? See, I am calm--judgefor yourself--I am calm--but just put yourself in my place, and tellme--what answer am I to give to the marshal? Well--what say you! Willyou 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 toanswer 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 notfinding 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?" criedDagobert, clinching his fists convulsively upon his knees.
"Unfortunately, I can give no other--either to him or you--no--not if Iwere to die for it."
Dagobert bounded from his chair at this answer, which was given withhopeless resignation. His patience was exhausted; but determined not toyield to new bursts of anger, or to spend his breath in useless menaces,he abruptly opened one of the windows, and exposed his burning foreheadto the cool air. A little calmer, he walked up and down for a fewmoments, and then returned to seat himself beside his wife. She, withher eyes bathed in tears, fixed her gaze upon the crucifix, thinkingthat she also had to bear a heavy cross.
Dagobert resumed: "By the manner in which you speak, I see that noaccident 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 toyou."
"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, aftertaking 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 fromme 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 Iam now forced to tell you. Listen to me well!" added Dagobert, in anagitated voice; "if these children are not restored to me before the13th of February--a day close at hand--I am in the position of aman that would rob the daughters of Marshal Simon--rob them, d'yeunderstand?" 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 poorchildren--you cannot tell what I have had to suffer on the road--mycares, my anxieties--I, a soldier, with the charge of two girls. It wasonly by strength of heart, by devotion, that I could go through withit--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 hisfirst 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, recallingthe oath which she had made to her confessor, and reflecting that theeternal salvation of the orphans was at stake, she reproached herselfinwardly with this evil temptation, which would no doubt be severelyblamed 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 ifthese young girls have braved so many dangers, to come hither, all theway from Siberia, it is that great interests are concerned--perhapsan immense fortune--and that, if they are not present on the 13thFebruary--here, in Paris, Rue Saint Francois--all will be lost--andthrough my fault--for I am responsible for your actions."
"The 13th February? Rue Saint Francois?" cried Frances, looking at herhusband with surprise. "Like Gabriel!"
"What do you say about Gabriel?"
"When I took him in (poor deserted child!), he wore a bronze medal abouthis neck."
"A bronze medal!" cried the soldier, struck with amazement; "a bronzemedal 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 addedhastily: "Does Gabriel know that this medal was found upon him?"
"I spoke to him of it at some time. He had also about him a portfolio,filled with papers in a foreign tongue. I gave them to Abbe Dubois, myconfessor, to look over. He told me afterwards, that they were of littleconsequence; and, at a later period, when a charitable person namedM. Rodin, undertook the education of Gabriel, and to get him into theseminary, Abbe Dubois handed both papers and medal to him. Since then, Ihave heard nothing of them."
When Frances spoke of her confessor a sudden light flashed across themind of the soldier, though he was far from suspecting the machinationswhich had so long been at work with regard to Gabriel and the orphans.But he had a vague feeling that his wife was acting in obedience to somesecret influence of the confessional--an influence of which he couldnot understand the aim or object, but which explained, in part at least,Frances's inconceivable obstinacy with regard to the disappearance ofthe orphans.
After a moment's reflection, he rose, and said sternly to his wife,looking fixedly at her: "There is a priest at the bottom of all this."
"What do you mean, my dear?"
"You have no interest to conceal these children. You are one of the bestof women. You see that I suffer; if you only were concerned, you wouldhave pity upon me."
"My dear--"
"I tell you, all this smacks of the confessional," resumed Dagobert."You would sacrifice me and these children to your confessor; but takecare--I shall find out where he lives--and a thousand thunders! I willgo and ask him who is master in my house, he or I--and if he doesnot answer," added the soldier, with a threatening expression ofcountenance, "I shall know how to make him speak."
"Gracious heaven!" cried Frances, clasping her hands in horror at thesesacrilegious words; "remember he is a priest!"
"A priest, who causes discord, treachery, and misfortune in my house, isas much of a wretch as any other; whom I have a right to call to accountfor the evil he does to me and mine. Therefore, tell me immediatelywhere are the children--or else, I give you fair warning, I will go anddemand them of the confessor. Some crime is here hatching, of whichyou are an accomplice without knowing it, unhappy woman! Well, I preferhaving to do with another than you."
"My dear," said Frances, in a mild, firm voice, "you cannot think toimpose by violence on a venerable man, who for twenty years has had thecare of my soul. His age alone should be respected."
"No age shall prevent me!"
"Heavens! where are you going? You alarm me!"
"I am going to your church. They must know you there--I will ask foryour confessor--and we shall see!"
"I entreat you, my dear," cried Frances, throwing herself in a frightbefore Dagobert, who was hastening towards the door; "only think, towhat you will expose yourself! Heavens! insult a priest? Why, it is oneof the reserved cases!"
These last words, which appeared most alarming to the simplicity ofDagobert's wife, did not make any impression upon the soldier. Hedisengaged himself from her grasp, and was going to rush out bareheaded,so high was his exasperation, when the door opened, and the commissaryof police entered, followed by Mother Bunch and a policeman, carryingthe bundle which he had taken from the young girl.
"The commissary!" cried Dagobert, who recognized him by his officialscarf. "Ah! so much the better--he could not have come at a fittermoment."