The Wandering Jew — Complete
with your situation. Every attention will be paid you. If this room
displeases you, I will see you have another."
"No--this or another--it is of little consequence," answered Adrienne,
with an air of the deepest dejection.
"Come, come! be of good courage. There is no reason to despair."
"Perhaps you flatter me," said Adrienne with the shadow of a smile.
"Return soon," she added, "my dear M. Baleinier! my only hope rests in
you now."
Her head fell upon her bosom, her hands upon her knees and she remained
sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, motionless, overwhelmed with woe.
"Mad!" she said when M. Baleinier had disappeared. "Perhaps mad!"
We have enlarged upon this episode much less romantic than it may
appear. Many times have motives of interest or vengeance or perfidious
machination led to the abuse of the imprudent facility with which
inmates are received in certain private lunatic asylums from the hands
of their families or friends.
We shall subsequently explain our views, as to the establishment of a
system of inspection, by the crown or the civil magistrates, for
the periodical survey of these institutions, and others of no less
importance, at present placed beyond the reach of all superintendence.
These latter are the nunneries of which we will presently have an
example.
CHAPTER XLVI. PRESENTIMENTS.
Whilst the preceding events took place in Dr. Baleinier's asylum, other
scenes were passing about the same hour, at Frances Baudoin's, in the
Rue Brise-Miche.
Seven o'clock in the morning had just struck at St. Mary church; the day
was dark and gloomy, and the sleet rattled against the windows of the
joyless chamber of Dagobert's wife.
As yet ignorant of her son's arrest, Frances had waited for him the
whole of the preceding evening, and a good part of the night, with the
most anxious uneasiness; yielding at length to fatigue and sleep, about
three o'clock in the morning, she had thrown herself on a mattress
beside the bed of Rose and Blanche. But she rose with the first dawn
of day, to ascend to Agricola's garret, in the very faint hope that he
might have returned home some hours before.
Rose and Blanche had just risen, and dressed themselves. They were alone
in the sad, chilly apartment. Spoil-sport, whom Dagobert had left in
Paris, was stretched at full length near the cold stove; with his long
muzzle resting on his forepaws, he kept his eye fixed on the sisters.
Having slept but little during the night, they had perceived the
agitation and anguish of Dagobert's wife. They had seen her walk up and
down, now talking to herself, now listening to the least noise that came
up the staircase, and now kneeling before the crucifix placed at one
extremity of the room. The orphans were not aware, that, whilst she
brayed with fervor on behalf of her son, this excellent woman was
praying for them also. For the state of their souls filled her with
anxiety and alarm.
The day before, when Dagobert had set out for Chartres, Frances, having
assisted Rose and Blanche to rise, had invited them to say their morning
prayer: they answered with the utmost simplicity, that they did not know
any, and that they never more than addressed their mother, who was in
heaven. When Frances, struck with painful surprise, spoke to them of
catechism, confirmation, communion, the sisters opened widely their
large eyes with astonishment, understanding nothing of such talk.
According to her simple faith, terrified at the ignorance of the young
girls in matters of religion, Dagobert's wife believed their souls to
be in the greatest peril, the more so as, having asked them if they had
ever been baptized (at the same time explaining to them the nature of
that sacrament), the orphans answered they did not think they had, since
there was neither church nor priest in the village where they were born,
during their mother's exile in Siberia.
Placing one's self in the position of Frances, you understand how much
she was grieved and alarmed; for, in her eyes, these young girls,
whom she already loved tenderly, so charmed was she with their sweet
disposition, were nothing but poor heathens, innocently doomed to
eternal damnation. So, unable to restrain her tears, or conceal her
horrors, she had clasped them in her arms, promising immediately to
attend to their salvation, and regretting that Dagobert had not thought
of having them baptized by the way. Now, it must be confessed, that this
notion had never once occurred to the ex-grenadier.
When she went to her usual Sunday devotions, Frances had not dared to
take Rose and Blanche with her, as their complete ignorance of sacred
things would have rendered their presence at church, if not useless,
scandalous; but, in her own fervent prayers she implored celestial mercy
for these orphans, who did not themselves know the desperate position of
their souls.
Rose and Blanche were now left alone, in the absence of Dagobert's wife.
They were still dressed in mourning, their charming faces seeming
even more pensive than usual. Though they were accustomed to a life of
misfortune, they had been struck, since their arrival in the Rue Brise
Miche, with the painful contrast between the poor dwelling which they
had come to inhabit, and the wonders which their young imagination had
conceived of Paris, that golden city of their dreams. But, soon this
natural astonishment was replaced by thoughts of singular gravity for
their age. The contemplation of such honest and laborious poverty made
the orphans have reflections no longer those of children, but of young
women. Assisted by their admirable spirit of justice and of sympathy for
all that is good, by their noble heart, by a character at once delicate
and courageous, they had observed and meditated much during the last
twenty-four hours.
"Sister," said Rose to Blanche, when Frances had quitted the room,
"Dagobert's poor wife is very uneasy. Did you remark in the night, how
agitated she was? how she wept and prayed?"
"I was grieved to see it, sister, and wondered what could be the cause."
"I am almost afraid to guess. Perhaps we may be the cause of her
uneasiness?"
"Why so, sister? Because we cannot say prayers, nor tell if we have ever
been baptized?"
"That seemed to give her a good deal of pain, it is true. I was quite
touched by it, for it proves that she loves us tenderly. But I could not
understand how we ran such terrible danger as she said we did."
"Nor I either, sister. We have always tried not to displease our mother,
who sees and hears us."
"We love those who love us; we are resigned to whatever may happen to
us. So, who can reproach us with any harm?"
"No one. But, perhaps, we may do some without meaning it."
"We?"
"Yes, and therefore I thought: We may perhaps be the cause of her
uneasiness."
"How so?"
"Listen, sister! yesterday Madame Baudoin tried to work at those sacks
of coarse cloth there on the table."
"Yes; but in about an half-hour, she told us sorrowfully, that she could
not go on, because her eyes failed her, and she could not see clearly."
"So that she is not able to earn her living."
"No--but her son, M. Agricola, works for her. He looks so good, so gay,
so frank, and so happy to devote himself for his mother. Oh, indeed! he
is the worthy brother of our angel Gabriel!"
"You will see my reason for speaking of this. Our good old Dagobert told
us, that, when we arrived here, he had only a few pieces of money left."
"That is true."
"Now both he and his wife are unable to earn their living; what can a
poor old soldier like him do?"
"You are right; he only knows how to love us, and take care of us, like
his children."
"It must then be M. Agricola who will have to support his father; for
Gabriel is a poor priest, who possesses nothing, and can render no
assistance to those who have brought him up. So M. Agricola will have to
support the whole family by himself."
"Doubtless--he owes it to father and mother--it is his duty, and he will
do it with a good will."
"Yes, sister--but he owes us nothing."
"What do you say, Blanche?"
"He is obliged to work for us also, as we possess nothing in the world."
"I had not thought of that. True."
"It is all very well, sister, for our father to be Duke and Marshal of
France, as Dagobert tells us, it is all very well for us to hope great
things from this medal, but as long as father is not here, and our hopes
are not realized, we shall be merely poor orphans, obliged to remain a
burden to this honest family, to whom we already owe so much, and who
find it so hard to live, that--"
"Why do you pause, sister?"
"What I am about to say would make other people laugh; but you will
understand it. Yesterday, when Dagobert's wife saw poor Spoil-sport at
his dinner, she said, sorrowfully: 'Alas! he eats as much as a man!'--so
that I could almost have cried to hear her. They must be very poor, and
yet we have come to increase their poverty."
The sisters looked sadly at each other, while Spoil-sport pretended not
to know they were talking of his voracity.
"Sister, I understand," said Rose, after a moment's silence. "Well, we
must not be at the charge of any one. We are young, and have courage.
Till our fate is decided, let us fancy ourselves daughters of
workmen. After all, is not our grandfather a workman? Let us find some
employment, and earn our own living. It must be so proud and happy to
earn one's living!"
"Good little sister," said Blanche, kissing Rose. "What happiness! You
have forestalled my thought; kiss me!"
"How so?"
"Your project is mine exactly. Yesterday, when I heard Dagobert's wife
complain so sadly that she had lost her sight. I looked into your large
eyes, which reminded me of my own, and said to myself: 'Well! this poor
old woman may have lost her sight, but Rose and Blanche Simon can see
pretty clearly'--which is a compensation," added Blanche, with a smile.
"And, after all," resumed Rose, smiling in her turn, "the young ladies
in question are not so very awkward, as not to be able to sew up great
sacks of coarse cloth--though it may chafe their fingers a little."
"So we had both the same thought, as usual; only I wished to surprise
you, and waited till we were alone, to tell you my plan."
"Yes, but there is something teases me."
"What is that?"
"First of all, Dagobert and his wife will be sure to say to us: 'Young
ladies, you are not fitted for such work. What, daughters of a Marshal
of France sewing up great ugly bags!' And then, if we insist upon it,
they will add: 'Well, we have no work to give you. If you want any, you
must hunt for it.' What would Misses Simon do then?"
"The fact is, that when Dagobert has made up his mind to anything--"
"Oh! even then, if we coax him well--"
"Yes, in certain things; but in others he is immovable. It is just as
when upon the journey, we wished to prevent his doing so much for us."
"Sister, an idea strikes me," cried Rose, "an excellent idea!"
"What is it? quick!"
"You know the young woman they call Mother Bunch, who appears to be so
serviceable and persevering?"
"Oh yes! and so timid and discreet. She seems always to be afraid
of giving offence, even if she looks at one. Yesterday, she did not
perceive that I saw her; but her eyes were fixed on you with so good and
sweet an expression, that tears came into mine at the very sight of it."
"Well, we must ask her how she gets work, for certainly she lives by her
labor."
"You are right. She will tell us all about it; and when we know,
Dagobert may scold us, or try to make great ladies of us, but we will be
as obstinate as he is."
"That is it; we must show some spirit! We will prove to him, as he says
himself, that we have soldier's blood in our veins."