The Wandering Jew — Complete
"you will be introduced to your relation, and I will return and fetch
you in half an hour. Coachman keep that dog back."
Rose and Blanche, in getting out of the coach, were so much occupied
with Spoil-sport, that they did not perceive the portress, who was half
hidden behind the little door. Neither did they remark, that the person
who was to introduce them was dressed as a nun, till, taking them by
the hand, she had led them across the threshold, when the door was
immediately closed behind them.
As soon as Mrs. Grivois had seen the orphans safe into the convent, she
told the coachman to leave the court-yard, and wait for her at the
outer gate. The coachman obeyed; but Spoil-sport, who had seen Rose and
Blanche enter by the little door, ran to it, and remained there.
Mrs. Grivois then called the porter of the main entrance, a tall,
vigorous fellow and said to him: "Here are ten francs for you, Nicholas,
if you will beat out the brains of that great dog, who is crouching
under the porch."
Nicholas shook his head, as he observed Spoil-sport's size and strength.
"Devil take me, madame!" said he; "'tis not so easy to tackle a dog of
that build."
"I will give you twenty francs; only kill him before me."
"One ought to have a gun, and I have only an iron hammer."
"That will do; you can knock him down at a blow."
"Well, madame--I will try--but I have my doubts." And Nicholas went to
fetch his mallet.
"Oh! if I had the strength!" said Mrs. Grivois.
The porter returned with his weapon, and advanced slowly and
treacherously towards Spoil-sport, who was still crouching beneath the
porch. "Here, old fellow! here, my good dog!" said Nicholas striking
his left hand on his thigh, and keeping his right behind him, with the
crowbar grasped in it.
Spoil-sport rose, examined Nicholas attentively, and no doubt perceiving
by his manner that the porter meditated some evil design, bounded away
from him, outflanked the enemy, saw clearly what was intended, and kept
himself at a respectful distance.
"He smells a rat," said Nicholas; "the rascal's on his guard. He will
not let me come near him. It's no go."
"You are an awkward fellow," said Mrs. Grivois in a passion, as she
threw a five-franc piece to Nicholas: "at all events, drive him away."
"That will be easier than to kill him, madame," said the porter. Indeed,
finding himself pursued, and conscious probably that it would be useless
to attempt an open resistance, Spoil-sport fled from the court-yard into
the street; but once there, he felt himself, as it were, upon neutral
ground, and notwithstanding all the threats of Nicholas, refused to
withdraw an inch further than just sufficient to keep out of reach of
the sledge-hammer. So that when Mrs. Grivois, pale with rage, again
stepped into her hackney-coach, in which were My Lord's lifeless
remains, she saw with the utmost vexation that Spoil-sport was lying at
a few steps from the gate, which Nicholas had just closed, having given
up the chase in despair.
The Siberian dog, sure of finding his way back to the Rue Brise-Miche,
had determined, with the sagacity peculiar to his race, to wait for the
orphans on the spot where he then was.
Thus were the two sisters confined in St. Mary's Convent, which, as we
have already said, was next door to the lunatic asylum in which Adrienne
de Cardoville was immured.
We now conduct the reader to the dwelling of Dagobert's wife, who was
waiting with dreadful anxiety for the return of her husband, knowing
that he would call her to account for the disappearance of Marshal
Simon's daughters.
CHAPTER LII. THE INFLUENCE OF A CONFESSOR.
Hardly had the orphans quitted Dagobert's wife, when the poor woman,
kneeling down, began to pray with fervor. Her tears, long restrained,
now flowed abundantly; notwithstanding her sincere conviction that she
had performed a religious duty in delivering up the girl's she waited
with extreme fear her husband's return. Though blinded by her pious
zeal, she could not hide from herself, that Dagobert would have good
reason to be angry; and then this poor mother had also, under these
untoward circumstances, to tell him of Agricola's arrest.
Every noise upon the stairs made Frances start with trembling anxiety;
after which, she would resume her fervent prayers, supplicating strength
to support this new and arduous trial. At length, she heard a step
upon the landing-place below, and, feeling sure this time that it was
Dagobert, she hastily seated herself, dried her tears, and taking a
sack of coarse cloth upon her lap, appeared to be occupied with
sewing--though her aged hands trembled so much, that she could hardly
hold the needle.
After some minutes the door opened, and Dagobert appeared. The soldier's
rough countenance was stern and sad; as he entered, he flung his hat
violently upon the table, so full of painful thought, that he did not at
first perceive the absence of the orphans.
"Poor girl!" cried he. "It is really terrible!"
"Didst see Mother Bunch? didst claim her?" said Frances hastily,
forgetting for a moment her own fears.
"Yes, I have seen her--but in what a state--twas enough to break one's
heart. I claimed her, and pretty loud too, I can tell you; but they said
to me, that the commissary must first come to our place in order--"
here Dagobert paused, threw a glance of surprise round the room, and
exclaimed abruptly: "Where are the children?"
Frances felt herself seized with an icy shudder. "My dear," she began in
a feeble voice--but she was unable to continue.
"Where are Rose and Blanche! Answer me then! And Spoil-sport, who is not
here either!"
"Do not be angry."
"Come," said Dagobert, abruptly, "I see you have let them go out with a
neighbor--why not have accompanied them yourself, or let them wait for
me, if they wished to take a walk; which is natural enough, this room
being so dull. But I am astonished that they should have gone out before
they had news of good Mother Bunch--they have such kind hearts. But how
pale you are?" added the soldier looking nearer at Frances; "what is the
matter, my poor wife? Are you ill?"
Dagobert took Frances's hand affectionately in his own but the latter,
painfully agitated by these words, pronounced with touching goodness,
bowed her head and wept as she kissed her husband's hand. The soldier,
growing more and more uneasy as he felt the scalding tears of his wife,
exclaimed: "You weep, you do not answer--tell me, then, the cause of
your grief, poor wife! Is it because I spoke a little loud, in asking
you how you could let the dear children go out with a neighbor? Remember
their dying mother entrusted them to my care--'tis sacred, you see--and
with them, I am like an old hen after her chickens," added he, laughing
to enliven Frances.
"Yes, you are right in loving them!"
"Come, then--becalm--you know me of old. With my great, hoarse voice,
I am not so bad a fellow at bottom. As you can trust to this neighbor,
there is no great harm done; but, in future, my good Frances, do not
take any step with regard to the children without consulting me. They
asked, I suppose, to go out for a little stroll with Spoil-sport?"
"No, my dear!"
"No! Who is this neighbor, to whom you have entrusted them? Where has
she taken them? What time will she bring them back?"
"I do not know," murmured Frances, in a failing voice.
"You do not know!" cried Dagobert, with indignation; but restraining
himself, he added, in a tone of friendly reproach: "You do not know? You
cannot even fix an hour, or, better still, not entrust them to any one?
The children must have been very anxious to go out. They knew that I
should return at any moment, so why not wait for me--eh, Frances? I ask
you, why did they not wait for me? Answer me, will you!--Zounds! you
would make a saint swear!" cried Dagobert, stamping his foot; "answer
me, I say!"
The courage of Frances was fast failing. These pressing and reiterated
questions, which might end by the discovery of the truth, made her
endure a thousand slow and poignant tortures. She preferred coming
at once to the point, and determined to bear the full weight of her
husband's anger, like a humble and resigned victim, obstinately faithful
to the promise she had sworn to her confessor.
Not having the strength to rise, she bowed her head, allowed her arms to
fall on either side of the chair, and said to her husband in a tone of
the deepest despondency: "Do with me what you will--but do not ask what
is become of the children--I cannot answer you."
If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the soldier, he would not
have been more violently, more deeply moved; he became deadly pale; his
bald forehead was covered with cold sweat; with fixed and staring look,
he remained for some moments motionless, mute, and petrified. Then, as
if roused with a start from this momentary torpor, and filled with a
terrific energy, he seized his wife by the shoulders, lifted her like
a feather, placed her on her feet before him, and, leaning over her,
exclaimed in a tone of mingled fury and despair: "The children!"
"Mercy! mercy!" gasped Frances, in a faint voice.
"Where are the children?" repeated Dagobert, as he shook with his
powerful hands that poor frail body, and added in a voice of thunder:
"Will you answer? the children!"
"Kill me, or forgive me, I cannot answer you," replied the unhappy
woman, with that inflexible, yet mild obstinacy, peculiar to timid
characters, when they act from convictions of doing right.
"Wretch!" cried the soldier; wild with rage, grief, despair, he lifted
up his wife as if he would have dashed her upon the floor--but he was
too brave a man to commit such cowardly cruelty, and, after that first
burst of involuntary fury, he let her go.
Overpowered, Frances sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and, by the
faint motion of her lips, it was clear that she was praying. Dagobert
had then a moment of stunning giddiness; his thoughts wandered; what had
just happened was so sudden, so incomprehensible that it required some
minutes to convince himself that his wife (that angel of goodness, whose
life had been one course of heroic self-devotion, and who knew what the
daughters of Marshal Simon were to him) should say to him: "Do not ask
me about them--I cannot answer you."
The firmest, the strongest mind would have been shaken by this
inexplicable fact. But, when the soldier had a little recovered himself,
he began to look coolly at the circumstances, and reasoned thus sensibly
with himself: "My wife alone can explain to me this inconceivable
mystery--I do not mean either to beat or kill her--let us try every
possibly method, therefore, to induce her to speak, and above all, let
me try to control myself."
He took a chair, handed another to his wife, who was still on her
knees, and said to her: "Sit down." With an air of the utmost dejection,
Frances obeyed.
"Listen to me, wife," resumed Dagobert in a broken voice, interrupted
by involuntary starts, which betrayed the boiling impatience he
could hardly restrain. "Understand me--this cannot pass over in this
manner--you know. I will never use violence towards you--just now, I
gave way to a first moment of hastiness--I am sorry for it. Be sure, I
shall not do so again: but, after all, I must know what has become of
these children. Their mother entrusted them to my care, and I did not
bring them all the way from Siberia, for you to say to me: 'Do not ask
me--I cannot tell you what I have done with them.' There is no reason in
that. Suppose Marshal Simon were to arrive, and say to me, 'Dagobert,
my children?' what answer am I to give him? See, I am calm--judge
for yourself--I am calm--but just put yourself in my place, and tell