The Wandering Jew — Complete
until now," cried Gabriel, clasping his hands together, "I knew not all
the gratitude that I owed to heaven!"
"And my wife! my child!" resumed Dagobert, in a trembling voice; "how
are they? have you news of them?"
"The accounts I received, three months ago, were excellent."
"No; it is too much," cried Dagobert; "it is too much!" The veteran
was unable to proceed; his feelings stifled his words, and fell back
exhausted in a chair.
And now Rose and Blanche recalled to mind that portion of their father's
letter which related to the child named Gabriel, whom the wife of
Dagobert had adopted; then they also yielded to transports of innocent
joy.
"Our Gabriel is the same as yours--what happiness!" cried Rose.
"Yes, my children! he belongs to you as well as to me. We have all
our part in him." Then, addressing Gabriel, the soldier added with
affectionate warmth: "Your hand, my brave boy! give me your hand!"
"Oh, sir! you are too good to me."
"Yes--that's it--thank me!--after all thou has done for us!"
"Does my adopted mother know of your return?" asked Gabriel, anxious to
escape from the praises of the soldier.
"I wrote to her five months since, but said that I should come alone;
there was a reason for it, which I will explain by and by. Does she
still live in the Rue Brise-Miche? It was there Agricola was born."
"She still lives there."
"In that case, she must have received my letter. I wished to write to
her from the prison at Leipsic, but it was impossible."
"From prison! Have you just come out of prison?"
"Yes; I come straight from Germany, by the Elbe and Hamburg, and I
should be still at Leipsic, but for an event which the Devil must have
had a hand in--a good sort of devil, though."
"What do you mean? Pray explain to me."
"That would be difficult, for I cannot explain it to myself. These
little ladies," he added, pointing with a smile to Rose and Blanche,
"pretended to know more about it than I did, and were continually
repeating: 'It was the angel that came to our assistance, Dagobert--the
good angel we told thee of--though you said you would rather have Spoil
sport to defend us--'"
"Gabriel, I am waiting for you," said a stern voice, which made the
missionary start. They all turned round instantly, whilst the dog
uttered a deep growl.
It was Rodin. He stood in the doorway leading to the corridor. His
features were calm and impassive, but he darted a rapid, piercing glance
at the soldier and sisters.
"Who is that man?" said Dagobert, very little prepossessed in favor
of Rodin, whose countenance he found singularly repulsive. "What the
mischief does he want?"
"I must go with him," answered Gabriel, in a tone of sorrowful
constraint. Then, turning to Rodin, he added: "A thousand pardons! I
shall be ready in a moment."
"What!" cried Dagobert, stupefied with amazement, "going the very
instant we have just met? No, by my faith! you shall not go. I have
too much to tell you, and to ask in return. We will make the journey
together. It will be a real treat for me."
"It is impossible. He is my superior, and I must obey him."
"Your superior?--why, he's in citizen's dress."
"He is not obliged to wear the ecclesiastical garb."
"Rubbish! since he is not in uniform, and there is no provost-marshal in
your troop, send him to the--"
"Believe me, I would not hesitate a minute, if it were possible to
remain."
"I was right in disliking the phi of that man," muttered Dagobert
between his teeth. Then he added, with an air of impatience and
vexation: "Shall I tell him that he will much oblige us by marching off
by himself?"
"I beg you not to do so," said Gabriel; "it would be useless; I know
my duty, and have no will but my superior's. As soon as you arrive in
Paris, I will come and see you, as also my adopted mother, and my dear
brother, Agricola."
"Well--if it must be. I have been a soldier, and know what subordination
is," said Dagobert, much annoyed. "One must put a good face on bad
fortune. So, the day after to-morrow, in the Rue Brise-Miche, my boy;
for they tell me I can be in Paris by to-morrow evening, and we set out
almost immediately. But I say--there seems to be a strict discipline
with you fellows!"
"Yes, it is strict and severe," answered Gabriel, with a shudder, and a
stifled sigh.
"Come, shake hands--and let's say farewell for the present. After all,
twenty-four hours will soon pass away."
"Adieu! adieu!" replied the missionary, much moved, whilst he returned
the friendly pressure of the veteran's hand.
"Adieu, Gabriel!" added the orphans, sighing also, and with tears in
their eyes.
"Adieu, my sisters!" said Gabriel--and he left the room with Rodin, who
had not lost a word or an incident of this scene.
Two hours after, Dagobert and the orphans had quitted the Castle for
Paris, not knowing that Djalma was left at Cardoville, being still
too much injured to proceed on his journey. The half-caste, Faringhea,
remained with the young prince, not wishing, he said, to desert a fellow
countryman.
We now conduct the reader to the Rue Brise-Miche, the residence of
Dagobert's wife.
CHAPTER XXVII. DAGOBERT'S WIFE.
The following scenes occur in Paris, on the morrow of the day when the
shipwrecked travellers were received in Cardoville House.
Nothing can be more gloomy than the aspect of the Rue Brise-Miche, one
end of which leads into the Rue Saint-Merry, and the other into the
little square of the Cloister, near the church. At this end, the street,
or rather alley--for it is not more than eight feet wide--is shut in
between immense black, muddy dilapidated walls, the excessive height of
which excludes both air and light; hardly, during the longest days
of the year, is the sun able to throw into it a few straggling beams;
whilst, during the cold damps of winter, a chilling fog, which seems to
penetrate everything, hangs constantly above the miry pavement of this
species of oblong well.
It was about eight o'clock in the evening; by the faint, reddish light
of the street lamp, hardly visible through the haze, two men, stopping
at the angle of one of those enormous walls, exchanged a few words
together.
"So," said one, "you understand all about it. You are to watch in the
street, till you see them enter No. 5."
"All right!" answered the other.
"And when you see 'em enter so as to make quite sure of the game, go up
to Frances Baudoin's room--"
"Under the cloak of asking where the little humpbacked workwoman
lives--the sister of that gay girl, the Queen of the Bacchanals."
"Yes--and you must try and find out her address also--from her
humpbacked sister, if possible--for it is very important. Women of her
feather change their nests like birds, and we have lost track of her."
"Make yourself easy; I will do my best with Hump, to learn where her
sister hangs out."
"And, to give you steam, I'll wait for you at the tavern opposite the
Cloister, and we'll have a go of hot wine on your return."
"I'll not refuse, for the night is deucedly cold."
"Don't mention it! This morning the water friz on my sprinkling-brush,
and I turned as stiff as a mummy in my chair at the church-door. Ah, my
boy! a distributor of holy water is not always upon roses!"
"Luckily, you have the pickings--"
"Well, well--good luck to you! Don't forget the Fiver, the little
passage next to the dyer's shop."
"Yes, yes--all right!" and the two men separated.
One proceeded to the Cloister Square; the other towards the further end
of the street, where it led into the Rue Saint-Merry. This latter
soon found the number of the house he sought--a tall, narrow building,
having, like all the other houses in the street, a poor and wretched
appearance. When he saw he was right, the man commenced walking
backwards and forwards in front of the door of No. 5.
If the exterior of these buildings was uninviting, the gloom and squalor
of the interior cannot be described. The house No. 5 was, in a special
degree, dirty and dilapidated. The water, which oozed from the wall,
trickled down the dark and filthy staircase. On the second floor, a wisp
of straw had been laid on the narrow landing-place, for wiping the feet
on; but this straw, being now quite rotten, only served to augment the
sickening odor, which arose from want of air, from damp, and from
the putrid exhalations of the drains. The few openings, cut at rare
intervals in the walls of the staircase, could hardly admit more than
some faint rays of glimmering light.
In this quarter, one of the most populous in Paris, such houses as
these, poor, cheerless, and unhealthy, are generally inhabited by
the working classes. The house in question was of the number. A dyer
occupied the ground floor; the deleterious vapors arising from his vats
added to the stench of the whole building. On the upper stories, several
artisans lodged with their families, or carried on their different
trades. Up four flights of stairs was the lodging of Frances Baudoin,
wife of Dagobert. It consisted of one room, with a closet adjoining, and
was now lighted by a single candle. Agricola occupied a garret in the
roof.
Old grayish paper, broken here and there by the cracks covered the crazy
wall, against which rested the bed; scanty curtains, running upon an
iron rod, concealed the windows; the brick floor, not polished, but
often washed, had preserved its natural color. At one end of this room
was a round iron stove, with a large pot for culinary purposes. On the
wooden table, painted yellow, marbled with brown, stood a miniature
house made of iron--a masterpiece of patience and skill, the work of
Agricola Baudoin, Dagobert's son.
A plaster crucifix hung up against the wall, surrounded by several
branches of consecrated box-tree, and various images of saints, very
coarsely colored, bore witness to the habits of the soldier's wife.
Between the windows stood one of those old walnut-wood presses,
curiously fashioned, and almost black with time; an old arm-chair,
covered with green cotton velvet (Agricola's first present to his
mother), a few rush bottomed chairs, and a worktable on which lay
several bags of coarse, brown cloth, completed the furniture of this
room, badly secured by a worm-eaten door. The adjoining closet contained
a few kitchen and household utensils.
Mean and poor as this interior may perhaps appear, it would not seem
so to the greater number of artisans; for the bed was supplied with
two mattresses, clean sheets, and a warm counterpane; the old-fashioned
press contained linen; and, moreover, Dagobert's wife occupied all to
herself a room as large as those in which numerous families, belonging
to honest and laborious workmen, often live and sleep huddled
together--only too happy if the boys and girls can have separate beds,
or if the sheets and blankets are not pledged at the pawnbroker's.
Frances Baudoin, seated beside the small stove, which, in the cold and
damp weather, yielded but little warmth, was busied in preparing her son
Agricola's evening meal.
Dagobert's wife was about fifty years of age; she wore a close jacket
of blue cotton, with white flowers on it, and a stuff petticoat; a white
handkerchief was tied round her head, and fastened under the chin. Her
countenance was pale and meagre, the features regular, and expressive of
resignation and great kindness. It would have been difficult to find a
better, a more courageous mother. With no resource but her labor, she
had succeeded, by unwearied energy, in bringing up not only her own
son Agricola, but also Gabriel, the poor deserted child, of whom, with
admirable devotion, she had ventured to take charge.
In her youth, she had, as it were, anticipated the strength of later