The Wandering Jew — Complete
me--what answer am I to give to the marshal? Well--what say you! Will
you speak!"
"Alas! my dear--"
"It is of no use crying alas!" said the soldier wiping his forehead,
on which the veins were swollen as if they would burst; "what am I to
answer to the marshal?"
"Accuse me to him--I will bear it all--I will say--"
"What will you say?"
"That, on going out, you entrusted the two girls to me, and that not
finding them on return you asked be about them--and that my answer was,
that I could not tell you what had become of them."
"And you think the marshal will be satisfied with such reasons?" cried
Dagobert, clinching his fists convulsively upon his knees.
"Unfortunately, I can give no other--either to him or you--no--not if I
were to die for it."
Dagobert bounded from his chair at this answer, which was given with
hopeless resignation. His patience was exhausted; but determined not to
yield to new bursts of anger, or to spend his breath in useless menaces,
he abruptly opened one of the windows, and exposed his burning forehead
to the cool air. A little calmer, he walked up and down for a few
moments, and then returned to seat himself beside his wife. She, with
her eyes bathed in tears, fixed her gaze upon the crucifix, thinking
that she also had to bear a heavy cross.
Dagobert resumed: "By the manner in which you speak, I see that no
accident has happened, which might endanger the health of the children."
"No, oh no! thank God, they are quite well--that is all I can say to
you."
"Did they go out alone?"
"I cannot answer you."
"Has any one taken them away?"
"Alas, my dear! why ask me these questions? I cannot answer you."
"Will they come back here?"
"I do not know."
Dagobert started up; his patience was once more exhausted. But, after
taking a few turns in the room, he again seated himself as before.
"After all," said he to his wife, "you have no interest to conceal from
me what is become of the children. Why refuse to let me know?"
"I cannot do otherwise."
"I think you will change your opinion, when you know something that I
am now forced to tell you. Listen to me well!" added Dagobert, in an
agitated voice; "if these children are not restored to me before the
13th of February--a day close at hand--I am in the position of a
man that would rob the daughters of Marshal Simon--rob them, d'ye
understand?" said the soldier, becoming more and more agitated. Then,
with an accent of despair which pierced Frances's heart, he continued:
"And yet I have done all that an honest man could do for those poor
children--you cannot tell what I have had to suffer on the road--my
cares, my anxieties--I, a soldier, with the charge of two girls. It was
only by strength of heart, by devotion, that I could go through with
it--and when, for my reward, I hoped to be able to say to their father:
'Here are your children!--'" The soldier paused. To the violence of his
first emotions had succeeded a mournful tenderness; he wept.
At sight of the tears rolling slowly down Dagobert's gray moustache,
Frances felt for a moment her resolution give way; but, recalling
the oath which she had made to her confessor, and reflecting that the
eternal salvation of the orphans was at stake, she reproached herself
inwardly with this evil temptation, which would no doubt be severely
blamed by Abbe Dubois. She answered, therefore, in a trembling voice:
"How can they accuse you of robbing these children?"
"Know," resumed Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, "that if
these young girls have braved so many dangers, to come hither, all the
way from Siberia, it is that great interests are concerned--perhaps
an immense fortune--and that, if they are not present on the 13th
February--here, in Paris, Rue Saint Francois--all will be lost--and
through my fault--for I am responsible for your actions."
"The 13th February? Rue Saint Francois?" cried Frances, looking at her
husband with surprise. "Like Gabriel!"
"What do you say about Gabriel?"
"When I took him in (poor deserted child!), he wore a bronze medal about
his neck."
"A bronze medal!" cried the soldier, struck with amazement; "a bronze
medal with these words, 'At Paris you will be, the 13th of February,
1832, Rue Saint Francois?"
"Yes--how do you know?"
"Gabriel, too!" said the soldier speaking to himself. Then he added
hastily: "Does Gabriel know that this medal was found upon him?"
"I spoke to him of it at some time. He had also about him a portfolio,
filled with papers in a foreign tongue. I gave them to Abbe Dubois, my
confessor, to look over. He told me afterwards, that they were of little
consequence; and, at a later period, when a charitable person named
M. Rodin, undertook the education of Gabriel, and to get him into the
seminary, Abbe Dubois handed both papers and medal to him. Since then, I
have heard nothing of them."
When Frances spoke of her confessor a sudden light flashed across the
mind of the soldier, though he was far from suspecting the machinations
which had so long been at work with regard to Gabriel and the orphans.
But he had a vague feeling that his wife was acting in obedience to some
secret influence of the confessional--an influence of which he could
not understand the aim or object, but which explained, in part at least,
Frances's inconceivable obstinacy with regard to the disappearance of
the orphans.
After a moment's reflection, he rose, and said sternly to his wife,
looking fixedly at her: "There is a priest at the bottom of all this."
"What do you mean, my dear?"
"You have no interest to conceal these children. You are one of the best
of women. You see that I suffer; if you only were concerned, you would
have pity upon me."
"My dear--"
"I tell you, all this smacks of the confessional," resumed Dagobert.
"You would sacrifice me and these children to your confessor; but take
care--I shall find out where he lives--and a thousand thunders! I will
go and ask him who is master in my house, he or I--and if he does
not answer," added the soldier, with a threatening expression of
countenance, "I shall know how to make him speak."
"Gracious heaven!" cried Frances, clasping her hands in horror at these
sacrilegious words; "remember he is a priest!"
"A priest, who causes discord, treachery, and misfortune in my house, is
as much of a wretch as any other; whom I have a right to call to account
for the evil he does to me and mine. Therefore, tell me immediately
where are the children--or else, I give you fair warning, I will go and
demand them of the confessor. Some crime is here hatching, of which
you are an accomplice without knowing it, unhappy woman! Well, I prefer
having to do with another than you."
"My dear," said Frances, in a mild, firm voice, "you cannot think to
impose by violence on a venerable man, who for twenty years has had the
care of my soul. His age alone should be respected."
"No age shall prevent me!"
"Heavens! where are you going? You alarm me!"
"I am going to your church. They must know you there--I will ask for
your confessor--and we shall see!"
"I entreat you, my dear," cried Frances, throwing herself in a fright
before Dagobert, who was hastening towards the door; "only think, to
what you will expose yourself! Heavens! insult a priest? Why, it is one
of the reserved cases!"
These last words, which appeared most alarming to the simplicity of
Dagobert's wife, did not make any impression upon the soldier. He
disengaged himself from her grasp, and was going to rush out bareheaded,
so high was his exasperation, when the door opened, and the commissary
of police entered, followed by Mother Bunch and a policeman, carrying
the bundle which he had taken from the young girl.
"The commissary!" cried Dagobert, who recognized him by his official
scarf. "Ah! so much the better--he could not have come at a fitter
moment."
CHAPTER LIII. THE EXAMINATION.
"Mistress Frances Baudoin?" asked the magistrate.
"Yes, sir--it is I," said Frances. Then, perceiving the pale and
trembling sewing-girl, who did not dare to come forward, she stretched
out her arms to her. "Oh, my poor child!" she exclaimed, bursting into
tears; "forgive--forgive us--since it is for our sake you have suffered
this humiliation!"
When Dagobert's wife had tenderly embraced the young sempstress, the
latter, turning towards the commissary, said to him with an expression
of sad and touching dignity: "You see, sir, that I am not a thief."
"Madame," said the magistrate, addressing Frances, "am I to understand
that the silver mug, the shawl, the sheets contained in this bundle--"
"Belong to me, sir. It was to render me a service that this dear girl,
who is the best and most honest creature in the world, undertook to
carry these articles to the pawnbroker's."
"Sir," said the magistrate sternly to the policeman, "you have committed
a deplorable error. I shall take care to report you, and see that you
are punished. You may go, sir." Then, addressing Mother Bunch, with an
air of real regret, he added: "I can only express my sorrow for what has
happened. Believe me, I deeply feel for the cruel position in which you
have been placed."
"I believe it, sir," said Mother Bunch, "and I thank you." Overcome by
so many emotions, she sank upon a chair.
The magistrate was about to retire, when Dagobert, who had been
seriously reflecting for some minutes, said to him in a firm voice:
"Please to hear me, Sir; I have a deposition to make."
"Speak, Sir."
"What I am about to say is very important; it is to you, in your quality
of a magistrate, that I make this declaration."
"And as a magistrate I will hear you, sir."
"I arrived here two days ago, bringing with me from Russia two girls who
had been entrusted to me by their mother--the wife of Marshal Simon."
"Of Marshal Simon, Duke de Ligny?" said the commissary, very much
surprised.
"Yes, Sir. Well, I left them here, being obliged to get out on pressing
business. This morning, during my absence, they disappeared--and I am
certain I know the man who has been the cause of it."
"Now, my dear," said Frances, much alarmed.
"Sir," said the magistrate, "your declaration is a very serious one.
Disappearance of persons--sequestration, perhaps. But are you quite
sure?"
"These young ladies were here an hour ago; I repeat, sir, that during my
absence, they have been taken away."
"I do not doubt the sincerity of your declaration, sir; but still it is
difficult to explain so strange an abduction. Who tells you that these
young girls will not return? Besides, whom do you suspect? One word,
before you make your accusation. Remember, it is the magistrate who
hears you. On leaving this place, the law will take its course in this
affair."
"That is what I wish, Sir; I am responsible for those young ladies to
their father. He may arrive at any moment, and I must be prepared to
justify myself."
"I understand all these reasons, sir; but still have a care you are not
deceived by unfounded suspicions. Your denunciation once made, I may
have to act provisionally against the person accused. Now, if you should
be under a mistake, the consequences would be very serious for you; and,
without going further," said the magistrate, pointing to Mother Bunch,
with emotion, "you see what are the results of a false accusation."
"You hear, my dear," cried Frances, terrified at the resolution of
Dagobert to accuse Abbe Dubois; "do not say a word more, I entreat you."
But the more the soldier reflected, the more he felt convinced that
nothing but the influence of her confessor could have induced Frances to
act as she had done; so he resumed, with assurance: "I accuse my wife's
confessor of being the principal or the accomplice in the abduction of