The Wandering Jew — Complete
"Little by little, however, as Gabriel has the best heart in the world,
the vocation really came to him. That was natural enough--he was born
to console those who suffer, and devote himself for the unfortunate.
He would never have spoken to me of the past, had it not been for this
morning's interview. But then I beheld him, who is usually so mild and
gentle, become indignant, exasperated, against M. Rodin and another
person whom he accuses. He had serious complaints against them already,
but these discoveries, he says, will make up the measure."
At these words of Frances, Dagobert pressed his hand to his forehead, as
if to recall something to his memory. For some minutes he had listened
with surprise, and almost terror, to the account of these secret plots,
conducted with such deep and crafty dissimulation.
Frances continued: "When at last I acknowledged to Gabriel, that by the
advice of Abbe Dubois, my confessor, I had delivered to a stranger the
children confined to my husband--General Simon's daughters--the dear boy
blamed me, though with great regret, not for having wished to instruct
the poor orphans in the truths of our holy religion, but for having
acted without the consent of my husband, who alone was answerable before
God and man for the charge entrusted to him. Gabriel severely censured
Abbe Dubois' conduct, who had given me, he said, bad and perfidious
counsels; and then, with the sweetness of an angel, the dear boy
consoled me, and exhorted me to come and tell you all. My poor husband!
he would fain have accompanied me, for I had scarcely courage to
come hither, so strongly did I feel the wrong I had done you; but,
unfortunately, Gabriel is confined at the seminary by the strict order
of his superiors; he could not come with me, and--"
Here Dagobert, who seemed much agitated, abruptly interrupted his wife.
"One word, Frances," said he; "for, in truth, in the midst of so many
cares, and black, diabolical plots, one loses one's memory, and the head
begins to wander. Didst not tell me, the day the children disappeared,
that Gabriel, when taken in by you, had round his neck a bronze medal,
and in his pocket a book filled with papers in a foreign language?"
"Yes, my dear."
"And this medal and these papers were afterwards delivered to your
confessor?"
"Yes, my dear."
"And Gabriel never spoke of them since?"
"Never."
Agricola, hearing this from his mother, looked at her with surprise,
and exclaimed: "Then Gabriel has the same interest as the daughters of
General Simon, or Mdlle. de Cardoville, to be in the Rue Saint-Francois
to-morrow?"
"Certainly," said Dagobert. "And now do you remember what he said to us,
just after my arrival--that, in a few days, he would need our support in
a serious matter?"
"Yes, father."
"And he is kept a prisoner at his seminary! And he tells your mother
that he has to complain of his superiors! and he asked us for our
support with so sad and grave an air, that I said to him--"
"He would speak so, if about to engage in a deadly duel," interrupted
Agricola. "True, father! and yet you, who are a good judge of valor,
acknowledged that Gabriel's courage was equal to yours. For him so to
fear his superiors, the danger must be great indeed."
"Now that I have heard your mother, I understand it all," said Dagobert.
"Gabriel is like Rose and Blanche, like Mdlle. de Cardoville, like your
mother, like all of us, perhaps--the victim of a secret conspiracy of
wicked priests. Now that I know their dark machinations, their infernal
perseverance, I see," added the soldier, in a whisper, "that it requires
strength to struggle against them. I had not the least idea of their
power."
"You are right, father; for those who are hypocritical and wicked do as
much harm as those who are good and charitable, like Gabriel, do good.
There is no more implacable enemy than a bad priest."
"I know it, and that's what frightens me; for my poor children are
in their hands. But is all lost? Shall I bring myself to give them up
without an effort? Oh, no, no! I will not show any weakness--and yet,
since your mother told us of these diabolical plots, I do not know how
it is but I seem less strong, less resolute. What is passing around me
appears so terrible. The spiriting away of these children is no longer
an isolated fact--it is one of the ramifications of a vast conspiracy,
which surrounds and threatens us all. It seems to me as if I and those I
love walked together in darkness, in the midst of serpents, in the midst
of snares that we can neither see nor struggle against. Well! I'll
speak out! I have never feared death--I am not a coward and yet I
confess--yes, I confess it--these black robes frighten me--"
Dagobert pronounced these words in so sincere a tone, that his son
started, for he shared the same impression. And it was quite natural.
Frank, energetic, resolute characters, accustomed to act and fight in
the light of day, never feel but one fear--and that is, to be ensnared
and struck in the dark by enemies that escape their grasp. Thus,
Dagobert had encountered death twenty times; and yet, on hearing his
wife's simple revelation of this dark tissue of lies, and treachery, and
crime, the soldier felt a vague sense of fear; and, though nothing
was changed in the conditions of his nocturnal enterprise against the
convent, it now appeared to him in a darker and more dangerous light.
The silence, which had reigned for some moments, was interrupted by
Mother Bunch's return. The latter, knowing that the interview between
Dagobert, his wife, and Agricola, ought not have any importunate
witness, knocked lightly at the door, and remained in the passage with
Father Loriot.
"Can we come in, Mme. Frances?" asked the sempstress. "Here is Father
Loriot, bringing some wood."
"Yes, yes; come in, my good girl," said Agricola, whilst his father
wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
The door opened, and the worthy dyer appeared, with his hands and arms
of an amaranthine color; on one side, he carried a basket of wood, and
on the other some live coal in a shovel.
"Good-evening to the company!" said Daddy Loriot. "Thank you for having
thought of me, Mme. Frances. You know that my shop and everything in it
are at your service. Neighbors should help one another; that's my motto!
You were kind enough, I should think, to my late wife!"
Then, placing the wood in a corner, and giving the shovel to Agricola,
the worthy dyer, guessing from the sorrowful appearance of the different
actors in this scene, that it would be impolite to prolong his visit,
added: "You don't want anything else, Mme. Frances?"
"No, thank you, Father Loriot."
"Then, good-evening to the company!" said the dyer; and, addressing
Mother Bunch, he added: "Don't forget the letter for M. Dagobert. I
durstn't touch it for fear of leaving the marks of my four fingers and
thumb in amaranthine! But, good evening to the company!" and Father
Loriot went out.
"M. Dagobert, here is a letter," said Mother Bunch. She set herself to
light the fire in the stove, while Agricola drew his mother's arm-chair
to the hearth.
"See what it is, my boy," said Dagobert to his son; "my head is so heavy
that I cannot see clear." Agricola took the letter, which contained only
a few lines, and read it before he looked at the signature.
"At Sea, December 25th, 1831.
"I avail myself of a few minutes' communication with a ship bound
direct for Europe, to write to you, my old comrade, a few hasty
lines, which will reach you probably by way of Havre, before the
arrival of my last letters from India. You must by this time be at
Paris, with my wife and child--tell them--I am unable to say more
--the boat is departing. Only one word; I shall soon be in France.
Do not forget the 13th February; the future of my wife and child
depends upon it.
"Adieu, my friend! Believe in my eternal gratitude.
"SIMON."
"Agricola--quick! look to your father!" cried the hunchback.
From the first words of this letter, which present circumstances made so
cruelly applicable, Dagobert had become deadly pale. Emotion, fatigue,
exhaustion, joined to this last blow, made him stagger.
His son hastened to him, and supported him in his arms. But soon the
momentary weakness passed away, and Dagobert, drawing his hand across
his brow, raised his tall figure to its full height. Then, whilst his
eye sparkled, his rough countenance took an expression of determined
resolution, and he exclaimed, in wild excitement: "No, no! I will not
be a traitor; I will not be a coward. The black robes shall not frighten
me; and, this night, Rose and Blanche Simon shall be free!"
CHAPTER XII. THE PENAL CODE.
Startled for a moment by the dark and secret machinations of the black
robes, as he called them, against the persons he most loved, Dagobert
might have hesitated an instant to attempt the deliverance of Rose and
Blanche; but his indecision ceased directly on the reading of Marshal
Simon's letter, which came so timely to remind him of his sacred duties.
To the soldier's passing dejection had succeeded a resolution full of
calm and collected energy.
"Agricola, what o'clock is it?" asked he of his son.
"Just struck nine, father."
"You must make me, directly, an iron hook--strong enough to support my
weight, and wide enough to hold on the coping of a wall. This stove will
be forge and anvil; you will find a hammer in the house; and, for iron,"
said the soldier, hesitating, and looking around him, "as for iron--here
is some!"
So saying, the soldier took from the hearth a strong pair of tongs, and
presented them to his son, adding: "Come, my boy! blow up the fire, blow
it to a white heat, and forge me this iron!"
On these words, Frances and Agricola looked at each other with surprise;
the smith remained mute and confounded, not knowing the resolution
of his father, and the preparations he had already commenced with the
needlewoman's aid.
"Don't you hear me, Agricola," repeated Dagobert, still holding the pair
of tongs in his hand; "you must make me a hook directly."
"A hook, father?--for what purpose?"
"To tie to the end of a cord that I have here. There must be a loop at
one end large enough to fix it securely."
"But this cord--this hook--for what purpose are they?"
"To scale the walls of the convent, if I cannot get in by the door."
"What convent?" asked Frances of her son.
"How, father?" cried the latter, rising abruptly. "You still think of
that?"
"Why! what else should I think of?"
"But, father, it is impossible; you will never attempt such an
enterprise."
"What is it, my child?" asked Frances, with anxiety. "Where is father
going?"
"He is going to break into the convent where Marshal Simon's daughters
are confined, and carry them off."
"Great God! my poor husband--a sacrilege!" cried Frances, faithful to
her pious traditions, and, clasping her hands together, she endeavored
to rise and approach Dagobert.
The soldier, forseeing that he would have to contend with observations
and prayers of all sorts, and resolved not to yield, determined to cut
short all useless supplications, which would only make him lose precious
time. He said, therefore, with a grave, severe, and almost solemn air,
which showed the inflexibility of his determination: "Listen to me,
wife--and you also, my son--when, at my age, a man makes up his mind to
do anything, he knows the reason why. And when a man has once made up
his mind, neither wife nor child can alter it. I have resolved to do my
duty; so spare yourselves useless words. It may be your duty to talk to
me as you have done; but it is over now, and we will say no more about
it. This evening I must be master in my own house."