The Wandering Jew — Complete
"Well! you must agree with your husband to send these unfortunate girls
to some religious house where they may be instructed."
"We are too poor, father, to pay for their schooling, and unfortunately
my son has just been put in prison for songs that he wrote."
"Behold the fruit of impiety," said the voice, severely; "look at
Gabriel! he has followed my counsels, and is now the model of every
Christian virtue."
"My son, Agricola, has had good qualities, father; he is so kind, so
devoted!"
"Without religion," said the voice, with redoubled severity, "what you
call good qualities are only vain appearances; at the least breath of
the devil they will disappear--for the devil lurks in every soul that
has no religion."
"Oh! my poor son!" said Frances, weeping; "I pray for him every day,
that faith may enlighten him."
"I have always told you," resumed the voice, "that you have been too
weak with him. God now punishes you for it. You should have parted from
this irreligious son, and not sanctioned his impiety by loving him
as you do. 'If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,' saith the
Scripture."
"Alas, father! you know it is the only time I have disobeyed you; but I
could not bring myself to part from my son."
"Therefore is your salvation uncertain--but God is merciful. Do not fall
into the same fault with regard to these young girls, whom Providence
has sent you, that you might save them from eternal damnation. Do not
plunge them into it by your own culpable indifference."
"Oh, father! I have wept and prayed for them."
"That is not sufficient. These unfortunate children cannot have any
notion of good or evil. Their souls must be an abyss of scandal and
impurity--brought up as they have been, by an impious mother, and a
soldier devoid of religion."
"As for that, father," said Frances, with simplicity, "they are gentle
as angels, and my husband, who has not quitted them since their birth,
declares they have the best hearts in the world."
"Your husband has dwelt all his life in mortal sin," said the voice,
harshly; "how can he judge of the state of souls? I repeat to you, that
as you represent the parents of these unfortunates, it is not to-morrow,
but it is today, and on the instant, that you must labor for their
salvation, if you would not incur a terrible responsibility."
"It is true--I know it well, father--and I suffer as much from this fear
as from grief at my son's arrest. But what is to be done? I could not
instruct these young girls at home--for I have not the knowledge--I have
only faith--and then my poor husband, in his blindness, makes game of
sacred things, which my son, at least, respects in my presence, out of
regard for me. Then, once more, father, come to my aid, I conjure you!
Advise me: what is to be done?"
"We cannot abandon these two young souls to frightful perdition," said
the voice, after a moment's silence: "there are not two ways of saving
them: there is only one, and that is to place them in a religious house,
where they may be surrounded by good and pious examples."
"Oh, father! if we were not so poor, or if I could still work, I would
try to gain sufficient to pay for their board, and do for them as I did
for Gabriel. Unfortunately, I have quite lost my sight; but you, father,
know some charitable souls, and if you could get any of them to interest
them, selves for these poor orphans--"
"Where is their father?"
"He was in India; but, my husband tells me, he will soon be in France.
That, however, is uncertain. Besides, it would make my heart bleed
to see those poor children share our misery--which will soon be
extreme--for we only live by my son's labor."
"Have these girls no relation here?" asked the voice.
"I believe not, father."
"It was their mother who entrusted them to your husband, to bring them
to France?"
"Yes, father; he was obliged to set out yesterday for Chartres, on some
very pressing business, as he told me."
It will be remembered that Dagobert had not thought fit to inform his
wife of the hopes which the daughters of Marshall Simon founded on the
possession of the medal, and that he had particularly charged them not
to mention these hopes, even to Frances.
"So," resumed the voice, after a pause of some moments' duration, "your
husband is not in Paris."
"No, father; but he will doubtless return this evening or to-morrow
morning."
"Listen to me," said the voice, after another pause. "Every minute lost
for those two young girls is a new step on the road to perdition. At any
moment the hand of God may smite them, for He alone knows the hour of
our death; and were they to die in the state in which they now are, they
would most probably be lost to all eternity. This very day, therefore,
you must open their eyes to the divine light, and place them in a
religious house. It is your duty--it should be your desire!"
"Oh, yes, father; but, unfortunately, I am too poor, as I have already
told you."
"I know it--you do not want for zeal or faith--but even were you capable
of directing these young girls, the impious examples of your husband and
son would daily destroy your work. Others must do for these orphans, in
the name of Christian charity, that which you cannot do, though you are
answerable for them before heaven."
"Oh, father! if, thanks to you, this good work could be accomplished,
how grateful I should be!"
"It is not impossible. I know the superior of a convent, where these
young girls would be instructed as they ought. The charge for their
board would be diminished in consideration of their poverty; but,
however small, it must be paid and there would be also an outfit to
furnish. All that would be too dear for you."
"Alas! yes, father."
"But, by taking a little from my poor-box, and by applying to one or two
generous persons, I think I shall be able to complete the necessary sum,
and so get the young girls received at the convent."
"Ah, father! you are my deliverer, and these children's."
"I wish to be so--but, in the interest of their salvation, and to make
these measures really efficacious, I must attach some conditions to the
support I offer you."
"Name them, father; they are accepted beforehand. Your commands shall be
obeyed in everything."
"First of all, the children must be taken this very morning to
the convent, by my housekeeper, to whom you must bring them almost
immediately."
"Nay, father; that is impossible!" cried Frances.
"Impossible? why?"
"In the absence of my husband--"
"Well?"
"I dare not take a such a step without consulting him."
"Not only must you abstain from consulting him, but the thing must be
done during his absence."
"What, father? should I not wait for his return?"
"No, for two reasons," answered the priest, sternly: "first, because
his hardened impiety would certainly lead him to oppose your pious
resolution; secondly, because it is indispensable that these young girls
should break off all connection with your husband, who, therefore, must
be left in ignorance of the place of their retreat."
"But, father," said Frances, a prey to cruel doubt and embarrassment,
"it is to my husband that these children were entrusted--and to dispose
of them without his consent would be--"
"Can you instruct these children at your house--yes or no?" interrupted
the voice.
"No, father, I cannot."
"Are they exposed to fall into a state of final impenitence by remaining
with you--yes or no?"
"Yes, father, they are so exposed."
"Are you responsible, as you take the place of their parents, for the
mortal sins they may commit--yes or no?"
"Alas, father! I am responsible before God."
"Is it in the interest of their eternal salvation that I enjoin you to
place them this very day in a convent?"
"It is for their salvation, father."
"Well, then, choose!"
"But tell me, I entreat you, father if I have the right to dispose of
them without the consent of my husband?"
"The right! you have not only the right, but it is your sacred duty.
Would you not be bound, I ask you, to rescue these unfortunate creatures
from a fire, against the will of your husband, or during his absence?
Well! you must now rescue them, not from a fire that will only consume
the body, but from one in which their souls would burn to all eternity."
"Forgive me, I implore you, father," said the poor woman, whose
indecision and anguish increased every minute; "satisfy my doubts!--How
can I act thus, when I have sworn obedience to my husband?"
"Obedience for good--yes--but never for evil. You confess, that, were
it left to him, the salvation of these orphans would be doubtful, and
perhaps impossible."
"But, father," said Frances, trembling, "when my husband returns, he
will ask me where are these children? Must I tell him a falsehood?"
"Silence is not falsehood; you will tell him that you cannot answer his
question."
"My husband is the kindest of men; but such an answer will drive him
almost mad. He has been a soldier, and his anger will be terrible,
father," said Frances, shuddering at the thought.
"And were his anger a hundred times more terrible, you should be proud
to brave it in so sacred a cause!" cried the voice, with indignation.
"Do you think that salvation is to be so easily gained on earth? Since
when does the sinner, that would walk in the way of the Lord, turn aside
for the stones and briars that may bruise and tear him?"
"Pardon, father, pardon!" said Frances, with the resignation of despair.
"Permit me to ask one more question, one only. Alas! if you do not guide
me, how shall I find the way?"
"Speak!"
"When Marshal Simon arrives, he will ask his children of my husband.
What answer can he then give to their father?"
"When Marshal Simon arrives, you will let me know immediately, and
then--I will see what is to be done. The rights of a father are only
sacred in so far as he make use of them for the salvation of his
children. Before and above the father on earth, is the Father in heaven,
whom we must first serve. Reflect upon all this. By accepting what I
propose to you, these young girls will be saved from perdition; they
will not be at your charge; they will not partake of your misery; they
will be brought up in a sacred institution, as, after all, the daughters
of a Marshal of France ought to be--and, when their father arrives at
Paris, if he be found worthy of seeing them again, instead of finding
poor, ignorant, half savage heathens, he will behold two girls, pious,
modest, and well informed, who, being acceptable with the Almighty, may
invoke His mercy for their father, who, it must be owned, has great need
of it--being a man of violence, war, and battle. Now decide! Will you,
on peril of your soul, sacrifice the welfare of these girls in this
world and the next, because of an impious dread of your husband's
anger?"
Though rude and fettered by intolerance, the confessor's language was
(taking his view of the case) reasonable and just, because the honest
priest was himself convinced of what he said; a blind instrument of
Rodin, ignorant of the end in view, he believed firmly, that, in forcing
Frances to place these young girls in a convent, he was performing a
pious duty. Such was, and is, one of the most wonderful resources of the
order to which Rodin belonged--to have for accomplices good and sincere
people, who are ignorant of the nature of the plots in which they are
the principal actors.
Frances, long accustomed to submit to the influence of her confessor,
could find nothing to object to his last words. She resigned herself to
follow his directions, though she trembled to think of the furious anger
of Dagobert, when he should no longer find the children that a dying