The Wandering Jew — Complete

by Eugène Sue

  Suddenly, footsteps were heard in the garden of Dr. Baleinier; Adrienne withdrew abruptly, and disappeared behind some trees, saying: "Courage, memory, and hope!"

  All this had passed so rapidly that the young workwoman had no time to speak or move; tears, sweet tears, flowed abundantly down her pale cheeks. For a young lady, like Adrienne de Cardoville, to treat her as a sister, to kiss her hand, to tell her that she was proud to resemble her in heart—her, a poor creature, vegetating in the lowest abyss of misery—was to show a spirit of fraternal equality, divine, as the gospel words.

  There are words and impressions which make a noble soul forget years of suffering, and which, as by a sudden flash, reveal to it something of its own worth and grandeur. Thus it was with the hunchback. Thanks to this generous speech, she was for a moment conscious of her own value. And though this feeling was rapid as it was ineffable, she clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven with an expression of fervent gratitude; for, if the poor sempstress did not practise, to use the jargon of ultramontane cant, no one was more richly endowed with that deep religious sentiment, which is to mere dogmas what the immensity of the starry heaven is to the vaulted roof of a church.

  Five minutes after quitting Mdlle. de Cardoville, Mother Bunch, having left the garden without being perceived, reascended to the first story, and knocked gently at the door of the press-room. A sister came to open the door to her.

  "Is not Mdlle. Florine, with whom I came, still here, sister?" asked the needlewoman.

  "She could not wait for you any longer. No doubt, you have come from our mother the superior?"

  "Yes, yes, sister," answered the sempstress, casting down her eyes; "would you have the goodness to show me the way out?"

  "Come with me."

  The sewing-girl followed the nun, trembling at every step lest she should meet the superior, who would naturally have inquired the cause of her long stay in the convent.

  At length the inner gate closed upon Mother Bunch. Passing rapidly across the vast court-yard and approaching the porter's lodge, to ask him to let her out, she heard these words pronounced in a gruff voice: "It seems, old Jerome, that we are to be doubly on our guard to-night. Well, I shall put two extra balls in my gun. The superior says we are to make two rounds instead of one."

  "I want no gun, Nicholas," said the other voice; "I have my sharp scythe, a true gardener's weapon—and none the worse for that."

  Feeling an involuntary uneasiness at these words, which she had heard by mere chance, Mother Bunch approached the porter's lodge, and asked him to open the outer gate.

  "Where do you come from?" challenged the porter, leaning half way out of his lodge, with a double barrelled gun, which he was occupied in loading, in his hand, and at the same time examining the sempstress with a suspicious air.

  "I come from speaking to the superior," answered Mother Bunch timidly.

  "Is that true?" said Nicholas roughly. "You look like a sanctified scarecrow. Never mind. Make haste and cut!"

  The gate opened, and Mother Bunch went out. Hardly had she gone a few steps in the sweet, when, to her great surprise, she saw the dog Spoil sport run up to her, and his master, Dagobert, a little way behind him, arriving also with precipitation. She was hastening to meet the soldier, when a full, sonorous voice exclaimed from a little distance: "Oh my good sister!" which caused the girl to turn round. From the opposite side to that whence Dagobert was coming, she saw Agricola hurrying towards the spot.

  CHAPTER IX. THE ENCOUNTERS.

  At the sight of Dagobert and Agricola, Mother Bunch remained motionless with surprise, a few steps from the convent-gate. The soldier had not yet perceived the sempstress. He advanced rapidly, following the dog, who though lean, half-starved, rough-coated, and dirty, seemed to frisk with pleasure, as he turned his intelligent face towards his master, to whom he had gone back, after caressing Mother Bunch.

  "Yes, yes; I understand you, old fellow!" said the soldier, with emotion. "You are more faithful than I was; you did not leave the dear children for a minute. Yes, you followed them, and watched day and night, without food, at the door of the house to which they were taken—and, at length, weary of waiting to see them come forth, ran home to fetch me. Yes; whilst I was giving way to despair, like a furious madman, you were doing what I ought to have done—discovering their retreat. What does it all prove? Why, that beasts are better than men—which is well known. Well, at length I shall see them again. When I think that tomorrow is the 13th, and that without you, my did Spoil-sport, all would be lost—it makes me shudder. But I say, shall we soon be there? What a deserted quarter! and night coming on!"

  Dagobert had held this discourse to Spoil-sport, as he walked along following the good dog, who kept on at a rapid pace. Suddenly, seeing the faithful animal start aside with a bound, he raised his eyes, and perceived the dog frisking about the hunchback and Agricola, who had just met at a little distance from the convent-gate.

  "Mother Bunch?" exclaimed both father and son, as they approached the young workwoman, and looked at her with extreme surprise.

  "There is good hope, M. Dagobert," said she with inexpressible joy. "Rose and Blanche are found!" Then, turning towards the smith, she added, "There is good hope, Agricola: Mdlle. de Cardoville is not mad. I have just seen her."

  "She is not mad? what happiness!" exclaimed the smith.

  "The children!" cried Dagobert, trembling with emotion, as he took the work-girl's hands in his own. "You have seen them?"

  "Yes; just now—very sad—very unhappy—but I was not able to speak to them."

  "Oh!" said Dagobert, stopping as if suffocated by the news, and pressing his hands on his bosom; "I never thought that my old heart could beat so!—And yet, thanks to my dog, I almost expected what has taken place. Anyhow, I am quite dizzy with joy."

  "Well, father, it's a good day," said Agricola, looking gratefully at the girl.

  "Kiss me, my dear child!" added the soldier, as he pressed Mother Bunch affectionately in his arms; then, full of impatience, he added: "Come, let us go and fetch the children."

  "Ah, my good sister!" said Agricola, deeply moved; "you will restore peace, perhaps life, to my father—and Mdlle. de Cardoville—but how do you know?"

  "A mere chance. And how did you come here?"

  "Spoil-sport stops and barks," cried Dagobert, who had already made several steps in advance.

  Indeed the dog, who was as impatient as his master to see the orphans, and far better informed as to the place of their retreat, had posted himself at the convent gate, and was beginning to bark, to attract the attention of Dagobert. Understanding his dog, the latter said to the hunchback, as he pointed in that direction with his finger: "The children are there?"

  "Yes, M. Dagobert."

  "I was sure of it. Good dog!—Oh, yes! beasts are better than men—except you, my dear girl, who are better than either man or beast. But my poor children! I shall see them, I shall have them once more!"

  So saying, Dagobert, in spite of his age, began to run very fast towards Spoil-sport. "Agricola," cried Mother Bunch, "prevent thy father from knocking at that door. He would ruin all."

  In two strides, the smith had reached his father, just as the latter was raising his hand to the knocker. "Stop, father!" cried the smith, as he seized Dagobert by the arm.

  "What the devil is it now?"

  "Mother Bunch says that to knock would ruin all."

  "How so?"

  "She will explain it to you." Although not so nimble as Agricola, Mother Bunch soon came up, and said to the soldier: "M. Dagobert, do not let us remain before this gate. They might open it, and see us; and that would excite suspicion. Let us rather go away—"

  "Suspicion!" cried the veteran, much surprised, but without moving from the gate; "what suspicion?"

  "I conjure you, do not remain there!" said Mother Bunch, with so much earnestness, that Agricola joined her, and said to his father: "Since sister rashes it, father, she has some reason for it
. The Boulevard de l'Hopital is a few steps from here; nobody passes that way; we can talk there without being interrupted."

  "Devil take me if I understand a word of all this!" cried Dagobert, without moving from his post. "The children are here, and I will fetch them away with me. It is an affair of ten minutes."

  "Do not think that, M. Dagobert," said Mother Bunch. "It is much more difficult than you imagine. But come! come!—I can hear them talk in the court-yard."

  In fact, the sound of voices was now distinctly audible. "Come father!" said Agricola, forcing away the soldier, almost in spite of himself. Spoil-sport, who appeared much astonished at these hesitations, barked two or three times without quitting his post, as if to protest against this humiliating retreat; but, being called by Dagobert, he hastened to rejoin the main body.

  It was now about five o'clock in the evening. A high wind swept thick masses of grayish, rainy cloud rapidly across the sky. The Boulevard de l'Hopital, which bordered on this portion of the convent-garden, was, as we before said, almost deserted. Dagobert, Agricola, and the serving girl could hold a private conference in this solitary place.

  The soldier did not disguise the extreme impatience that these delays occasioned in him. Hardly had they turned the corner of the street, when he said to Mother Bunch: "Come, my child, explain yourself. I am upon hot coals."

  "The house in which the daughters of Marshal Simon are confined is a convent, M. Dagobert."

  "A convent!" cried the soldier: "I might have suspected it." Then he added: "Well, what then? I will fetch them from a convent as soon as from any other place. Once is not always."

  "But, M. Dagobert, they are confined against their will and against yours. They will not give them up."

  "They will not give them up? Zounds! we will see about that." And he made a step towards the street.

  "Father," said Agricola, holding him back, "one moment's patience; let us hear all."

  "I will hear nothing. What! the children are there—two steps from me—I know it—and I shall not have them, either by fair means or foul? Oh! that would indeed be curious. Let me go."

  "Listen to me, I beseech you, M. Dagobert," said Mother Bunch, taking his hand: "there is another way to deliver these poor children. And that without violence—for violence, as Mdlle. de Cardoville told me, would ruin all."

  "If there is any other way—quick—let me know it!"

  "Here is a ring of Mdlle. de Cardoville's."

  "And who is this Mdlle. de Cardoville?"

  "Father," said Agricola, "it is the generous young lady, who offered to be my bail, and to whom I have very important matters to communicate."

  "Good, good," replied Dagobert; "we will talk of that presently. Well, my dear girl—this ring?"

  "You must take it directly, M. Dagobert, to the Count de Montbron, No. 7, Place Vendome. He appears to be a person of influence, and is a friend of Mdlle. de Cardoville's. This ring will prove that you come on her behalf, and you will tell him, that she is confined as a lunatic in the asylum next door to this convent, in which the daughters of Marshal Simon are detained against their will."

  "Well, well—what next?"

  "Then the Count de Montbron will take the proper steps with persons in authority, to restore both Mdlle. de Cardoville and the daughters of Marshal Simon to liberty—and perhaps, to-morrow, or the day after—"

  "To-morrow or the day after!" cried Dagobert; "perhaps?—It is to-day, on the instant, that I must have them. The day after to-morrow would be of much use! Thanks, my good girl, but keep your ring: I will manage my own business. Wait for me here, my boy."

  "What are you going to do, father?" cried Agricola, still holding back the soldier. "It is a convent, remember."

  "You are only a raw recruit; I have my theory of convents at my fingers' end. In Spain, I have put it in practice a hundred times. Here is what will happen. I knock; a portress opens the door to me; she asks me what I want, but I make no answer; she tries to stop me, but I pass on; once in the convent, I walk over it from top to bottom, calling my children with all my might."

  "But, M. Dagobert, the nuns?" said Mother Bunch, still trying to detain the soldier.

  "The nuns run after me, screaming like so many magpies. I know them. At Seville I fetched out an Andalusian girl, whom they were trying to keep by force. Well, I walk about the convent calling for Rose and Blanche. They hear me, and answer. If they are shut in, I take the first piece of furniture that comes to hand, and break open the door."

  "But, M. Dagobert—the nuns—the nuns?"

  "The nuns, with all their squalling, will not prevent my breaking open the door, seizing my children in my arms, and carrying them off. Should the outer door be shut, there will be a second smash—that's all. So," added Dagobert, disengaging himself from the grasp, "wait for me here. In ten minutes I shall be back again. Go and get a hackney-coach ready, my boy."

  More calm than Dagobert, and, above all, better informed as to the provisions of the Penal Code, Agricola was alarmed at the consequences that might attend the veteran's strange mode of proceeding. So, throwing himself before him, he exclaimed: "One word more, I entreat you."

  "Zounds! make haste!"

  "If you attempt to enter the convent by force, you will ruin all."

  "How so?"

  "First of all, M. Dagobert," said Mother Bunch, "there are men in the convent. As I came out just now, I saw the porter loading his gun, and heard the gardener talking of his sharp scythe, and the rounds he was to make at night."

  "Much I care for a porter's gun and a gardener's scythe!"

  "Well, father; but listen to me a moment, I conjure you. Suppose you knock, and the door is opened—the porter will ask you what you want.'

  "I tell him that I wish to speak to the superior, and so walk into the convent."

  "But, M. Dagobert," said Mother Bunch, "when once you have crossed the court-yard, you reach a second door, with a wicket. A nun comes to it, to see who rings, and does not open the door till she knows the object of the visit."

  "I will tell her that I wish to see the lady superior."

  "Then, father, as you are not known in the convent, they will go and inform the superior."

  "Well, what then?"

  "She will come down."

  "What next?"

  "She will ask you what you want, M. Dagobert."

  "What I want?—the devil! my children!"

  "One minute's patience, father. You cannot doubt, from the precautions they have taken, that they wish to detain these young ladies against their will, and against yours."

  "Doubt! I am sure of it. To come to that point, they began by turning the head of my poor wife."

  "Then, father, the superior will reply to you that she does not know what you mean, and that the young ladies are not in the convent."

  "And I will reply to her, that they are in the convent witness—Mother Bunch and Spoil-sport."

  "The superior will answer, that she does not know you; that she has no explanations to give you; and will close the wicket."

  "Then I break it open—since one must come to that in the end—so leave me alone, I tell you! 'sblood! leave me alone!"

  "And, on this noise and violence, the porter will run and fetch the guard, and they will begin by arresting you."

  "And what will become of your poor children, then, M. Dagobert?" said Mother Bunch.

  Agricola's father had too much good sense not to feel the truth of these observations of the girl and his son; but he knew also, that, cost what it might, the orphans must be delivered before the morrow. The alternative was terrible—so terrible, that, pressing his two hands to his burning forehead, Dagobert sunk back upon a stone bench, as if struck down by the inexorable fatality of the dilemma.

  Agricola and the workwoman, deeply moved by this mute despair, exchanged a sad look. The smith, seating himself beside the soldier, said to him: "Do not be down-hearted, father. Remember what's been told you. By going with this ring of Mdlle. de Ca
rdoville's to the influential gentleman she named, the young ladies may be free by to-morrow, or, at worst, by the day after."

  "Blood and thunder! you want to drive me mad!" exclaimed Dagobert, starting up from the bench, and looking at Mother Bunch and his son with so savage an expression that Agricola and the sempstress drew back, with an air of surprise and uneasiness.

  "Pardon me, my children!" said Dagobert, recovering himself after a long silence. "I am wrong to get in a passion, for we do not understand one another. What you say is true; and yet I am right to speak as I do. Listen to me. You are an honest man, Agricola; you an honest girl; what I tell you is meant for you alone. I have brought these children from the depths of Siberia—do you know why? That they may be to-morrow morning in the Rue Saint-Francois. If they are not there, I have failed to execute the last wish of their dying mother."

  "No. 3, Rue Saint Francois?" cried Agricola, interrupting his father.

  "Yes; how do you know the number?" said Dagobert.

  "Is not the date inscribed on a bronze medal?"

  "Yes," replied Dagobert, more end more surprised; "who told you?"

  "One instant, father!" exclaimed Agricola; "let me reflect. I think I guess it. Did you not tell me, my good sister, that Mdlle. de Cardoville was not mad?"

  "Not mad. They detain her in this asylum to prevent her communicating with any one. She believes herself, like the daughters of Marshal Simon, the victim of an odious machination."

  "No doubt of it," cried the smith. "I understand all now, Mdlle. de Cardoville has the same interest as the orphans to appear to-morrow at the Rue Saint-Francois. But she does not perhaps know it."

  "How so?"

  "One word more, my good girl. Did Mdlle. de Cardoville tell you that she had a powerful motive to obtain her freedom by to-morrow?"

  "No; for when she gave me this ring for the Count de Montbron, she said to me: 'By this means both I and Marshal Simon's daughters will be at liberty either to-morrow or the day after—'"