The Wandering Jew — Complete
"You must pardon Agricola, madame," said the sewing girl, with one of
those half smiles, which rarely settled on her lips: "he is a poet, and
omitted no single perfection in the respectful and admiring description
which he gave of his protectress."
"And what induced you to come and speak to me?"
"The hope of being useful to you, madame. You received Agricola with so
much goodness, that I have ventured to go shares in his gratitude."
"You may well venture to do so, my dear girl," said Adrienne, with
ineffable grace; "until now, unfortunately, I have only been able to
serve your adopted brother by intention."
As they exchanged these words, Adrienne and Mother Bunch looked at each
other with increasing surprise. The latter was, first of all, astonished
that a person who passed for mad should express herself as Adrienne
did; next, she was amazed at the ease and freedom with which she herself
answered the questions of Mdlle. de Cardoville--not knowing that the
latter was endowed with the precious privilege of lofty and benevolent
natures, to draw out from those who approached her whatever sympathized
with herself. On her side, Mdlle. de Cardoville was deeply moved and
astonished to hear this young, low-born girl, dressed almost like a
beggar, express herself in terms selected with so much propriety. The
more she looked at her, the more the feeling of repugnance she at
first experienced wore off, and was at length converted into quite the
opposite sentiment. With that rapid and minute power of observation
natural to women, she remarked beneath the black crape of Mother Bunch's
cap, the smoothness and brilliancy of the fair, chestnut hair. She
remarked, too, the whiteness of the long, thin hand, though it displayed
itself at the end of a patched and tattered sleeve--an infallible proof
that care, and cleanliness, and self-respect were at least struggling
against symptoms of fearful distress. Adrienne discovered, also, in the
pale and melancholy features, in the expression of the blue eyes, at
once intelligent, mild and timid, a soft and modest dignity, which made
one forget the deformed figure. Adrienne loved physical beauty, and
admired it passionately, but she had too superior a mind, too noble a
soul, too sensitive a heart, not to know how to appreciate moral beauty,
even when it beamed from a humble and suffering countenance. Only, this
kind of appreciation was new to Mdlle. de Cardoville; until now, her
large fortune and elegant habits had kept her at a distance from persons
of Mother Bunch's class. After a short silence, during which the fair
patrician and the poor work-girl had closely examined each other,
Adrienne said to the other: "It is easy, I think, to explain the cause
of our mutual astonishment. You have, no doubt, discovered that I speak
pretty reasonably for a mad woman--if they have told you I am one. And
I," added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone of respectful commiseration,
"find that the delicacy of your language and manners so singularly
contrast with the position in which you appear to be, that my surprise
must be even greater than yours."
"Ah, madame!" cried Mother Bunch, with a welling forth of such deep and
sincere joy that the tears started to her eyes; "is it true?--they have
deceived me--you are not mad! Just now, when I beheld you so kind
and beautiful, when I heard the sweet tone of your voice, I could not
believe that such a misfortune had happened to you. But, alas! how is it
then, madame, that you are in this place?"
"Poor child!" said Adrienne, touched by the affectionate interest of
this excellent creature; "and how is it that you, with such a heart and
head, should be in such distress? But be satisfied! I shall not always
be here--and that will suffice to tell you, that we shall both resume
the place which becomes us. Believe me, I shall never forget how, in
spite of the painful ideas which must needs occupy your mind, on seeing
yourself deprived of work--your only resource--you have still thought of
coming to me, and of trying to serve me. You may, indeed, be eminently
useful to me, and I am delighted at it, for then I shall owe you
much--and you shall see how I will take advantage of my gratitude!" said
Adrienne, with a sweet smile. "But," resumed she, "before talking
of myself, let us think of others. Is your adopted brother still in
prison?"
"By this time, madame, I hope he has obtained his freedom; thanks to the
generosity of one of his comrades. His father went yesterday to offer
bail for him, and they promised that he should be released to-day. But,
from his prison, he wrote to me, that he had something of importance to
reveal to you."
"To me?"
"Yes, madame. Should Agricola be released immediately by what means can
he communicate with you?"
"He has secrets to tell me!" resumed Mdlle. de Cardoville, with an air
of thoughtful surprise. "I seek in vain to imagine what they can be; but
so long as I am confined in this house, and secluded from every one, M.
Agricola must not think of addressing himself directly or indirectly
to me. He must wait till I am at liberty; but that is not all, he must
deliver from that convent two poor children, who are much more to be
pitied than I am. The daughters of Marshal Simon are detained there
against their will."
"You know their name, madame?"
"When M. Agricola informed me of their arrival in Paris, he told me they
were fifteen years old, and that they resembled each other exactly--so
that, the day before yesterday, when I took my accustomed walk, and
observed two poor little weeping faces come close to the windows of
their separate cells, one on the ground floor, the other on the first
story, a secret presentiment told me that I saw in them the orphans
of whom M. Agricola had spoken, and in whom I already took a lively
interest, as being my relations."
"They are your relations, madame, then?"
"Yes, certainly. So, not being able to do more, I tried to express by
signs how much I felt for them. Their tears, and the sadness of their
charming faces, sufficiently told me that they were prisoners in the
convent, as I am myself in this house."
"Oh! I understand, madame--the victim of the animosity of your family?"
"Whatever may be my fate, I am much less to be pitied than these two
children, whose despair is really alarming. Their separation is what
chiefly oppresses them. By some words that one of them just now said to
me, I see that they are, like me, the victims of an odious machination.
But thanks to you, it will be possible to save them: Since I have been
in this house I have had no communication with any one; they have not
allowed me pen or paper, so it is impossible to write. Now listen to me
attentively, and we shall be able to defeat an odious persecution."
"Oh, speak! speak, madame!"
"The soldier, who brought these orphans to France, the father of M.
Agricola, is still in town?"
"Yes, madame. Oh! if you only knew his fury, his despair, when, on his
return home, he no longer found the children that a dying mother had
confided to him!"
"He must take care not to act with the least violence. It would ruin
all. Take this ring," said Adrienne, drawing it from her finger, "and
give it to him. He must go instantly--are you sure that you can remember
a name and address?"
"Oh! yes, madame. Be satisfied on that point. Agricola only mentioned
your name once, and I have not forgotten it. There is a memory of the
heart."
"I perceive it, my dear girl. Remember, then, the name of the Count de
Montbron."
"The Count de Montbron--I shall not forget."
"He is one of my good old friends, and lives on the Place Vendome, No.
7."
"Place Vendome, No. 7--I shall remember."
"M. Agricola's father must go to him this evening, and, if he is not at
home, wait for his coming in. He must ask to speak to him, as if from
me, and send him this ring as a proof of what he says. Once with him, he
must tell him all--the abduction of the girls, the name of the convent
where they are confined, and my own detention as a lunatic in the asylum
of Dr. Baleinier. Truth has an accent of its own, which M. de Montbron
will recognize. He is a man of much experience and judgment, and
possessed of great influence. He will immediately take the necessary
steps, and to-morrow, or the day after, these poor orphans and myself
will be restored to liberty--all thanks to you! But moments are
precious; we might be discovered; make haste, dear child!"
At the moment of drawing back, Adrienne said to Mother Bunch, with so
sweet a smile and affectionate a tone, that it was impossible not to
believe her sincere: "M. Agricola told me that I had a heart like yours.
I now understand how honorable, how flattering those words were for me.
Pray, give me your hand!" added Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose eyes were
filling with tears; and, passing her beautiful hand through an opening
in the fence, she offered it to the other. The words and the gesture
of the fair patrician were full of so much real cordiality, that the
sempstress, with no false shame, placed tremblingly her own poor thin
hand in Adrienne's, while the latter, with a feeling of pious respect,
lifted it spontaneously to her lips, and said: "Since I cannot embrace
you as my sister, let me at least kiss this hand, ennobled by labor!"
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