The Wandering Jew — Complete
Marshal Simon's daughters."
Frances uttered a deep groan, and hid her face in her hands; while
Mother Bunch, who had drawn nigh, endeavored to console her. The
magistrate had listened to Dagobert with extreme astonishment, and he
now said to him with some severity: "Pray, sir, do not accuse unjustly
a man whose position is in the highest degree respectable--a priest,
sir?--yes, a priest? I warned you beforehand to reflect upon what you
advanced. All this becomes very serious, and, at your age, any levity in
such matters would be unpardonable."
"Bless me, sir!" said Dagobert, with impatience; "at my age, one has
common sense. These are the facts. My wife is one of the best and most
honorable of human creatures--ask any one in the neighborhood, and they
will tell you so--but she is a devotee; and, for twenty years, she has
always seen with her confessor's eyes. She adores her son, she loves me
also; but she puts the confessor before us both."
"Sir," said the commissary, "these family details--"
"Are indispensable, as you shall see. I go out an hour ago, to look
after this poor girl here. When I come back, the young ladies have
disappeared. I ask my wife to whom she has entrusted them, and where
they are; she falls at my feet weeping, and says: 'Do what you will with
me, but do not ask me what has become of the children. I cannot answer
you.'"
"Is thus true, madame?" cried the commissary, looking at Frances with
surprise.
"Anger, threats, entreaties, had no effect," resumed Dagobert; "to
everything she answered as mildly as a saint: 'I can tell you nothing!'
Now, sir, I maintain that my wife has no interest to take away these
children; she is under the absolute dominion of her confessor; she has
acted by his orders and for his purposes; he is the guilty party."
Whilst Dagobert spoke, the commissary looked more and more attentively
at Frances, who, supported by the hunchback, continued to weep bitterly.
After a moment's reflection, the magistrate advanced towards Dagobert's
wife, and said to her: "Madame, you have heard what your husband has
just declared."
"Yes, sir."
"What have you to say in your justification?"
"But, sir," cried Dagobert, "it is not my wife that I accuse--I do not
mean that; it is her confessor."
"Sir, you have applied to a magistrate; and the magistrate must act as
he thinks best for the discovery of the truth. Once more, madame,"
he resumed, addressing Frances, "what have you to say in your
justification?"
"Alas! nothing, sir."
"Is it true that your husband left these young girls in your charge when
he went out?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is it true that, on his return, they were no longer to be found?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is it true that, when he asked you where they were, you told him that
you could give him no information on the subject?"
The commissary appeared to wait for Frances' reply with kind of anxious
curiosity.
"Yes, sir," said she, with the utmost simplicity, "that was the answer I
made my husband."
"What, madame!" said the magistrate, with an air of painful
astonishment; "that was your only answer to all the prayers and commands
of your husband? What! you refused to give him the least information? It
is neither probable nor possible."
"It is the truth, sir."
"Well, but, after all, madame, what have you done with the young ladies
that were entrusted to your care?"
"I can tell you nothing about it, sir. If I would not answer my poor
husband, I certainly will not answer any one else."
"Well, sir," resumed Dagobert, "was I wrong? An honest, excellent woman
like that, who was always full of good sense and affection, to talk in
this way--is it natural? I repeat to you, sir that it is the work of her
confessor; act against him promptly and decidedly, we shall soon know
all, and my poor children will be restored to me."
"Madame," continued the commissary, without being able to repress a
certain degree of emotion, "I am about to speak to you very severely.
My duty obliges me to do so. This affair becomes so serious and
complicated, that I must instantly commence judicial proceedings on the
subject. You acknowledge that these young ladies have been left in your
charge, and that you cannot produce them. Now, listen to me: if you
refuse to give any explanation in the matter, it is you alone that will
be accused of their disappearance. I shall be obliged, though with great
regret, to take you into custody."
"Me!" cried Frances, with the utmost alarm.
"Her!" exclaimed Dagobert; "never! It is her confessor that I accuse,
not my poor wife. Take her into custody, indeed!" He ran towards her, as
if he would protect her.
"It is too late, sir," said the commissary. "You have made your charge
for the abduction of these two young ladies. According to your wife's
own declaration, she alone is compromised up to this point. I must
take her before the Public Prosecutor, who will decide what course to
pursue."
"And I say, sir," cried Dagobert, in a menacing tone, "that my wife
shall not stir from this room."
"Sir," said the commissary coolly, "I can appreciate your feelings; but,
in the interest of justice, I would beg you not to oppose a necessary
measure--a measure which, moreover, in ten minutes it would be quite
impossible for you to prevent."
These words, spoken with calmness, recalled the soldier to himself.
"But, sir," said he, "I do not accuse my wife."'
"Never mind, my dear--do not think of me!" said Frances, with the
angelic resignation of a martyr. "The Lord is still pleased to try me
sorely; but I am His unworthy servant, and must gratefully resign myself
to His will. Let them arrest me, if they choose; I will say no more in
prison than I have said already on the subject of those poor children."
"But, sir," cried Dagobert, "you see that my wife is out of her head.
You cannot arrest her."
"There is no charge, proof, or indication against the other person whom
you accuse, and whose character should be his protection. If I take
your wife, she may perhaps be restored to you after a preliminary
examination. I regret," added the commissary, in a tone of pity, "to
have to execute such a mission, at the very moment when your son's
arrest--"
"What!" cried Dagobert, looking with speechless astonishment at his wife
and Mother Bunch; "what does he say? my son?"
"You were not then aware of it? Oh, sir, a thousand pardons!" said the
magistrate, with painful emotion. "It is distressing to make you such a
communication."
"My son!" repeated Dagobert, pressing his two hands to his forehead. "My
son! arrested!"
"For a political offence of no great moment," said the commissary.
"Oh! this is too much. All comes on me at once!" cried the soldier,
falling overpowered into a chair, and hiding his face with his hands.
After a touching farewell, during which, in spite of her terror, Frances
remained faithful to the vow she had made to the Abbe Dubois--Dagobert,
who had refused to give evidence against his wife, was left leaning
upon a table, exhausted by contending emotions, and could not help
explaining: "Yesterday, I had with me my wife, my son, my two poor
orphans--and now--I am alone--alone!"
The moment he pronounced these words, in a despairing tone, a mild sad
voice was heard close behind him, saying timidly: "M. Dagobert, I am
here; if you will allow me, I will remain and wait upon you."
It was Mother Bunch!
Trusting that the reader's sympathy is with the old soldier thus left
desolate, with Agricola in his prison, Adrienne in hers, the madhouse,
and Rose and Blanche Simon in theirs, the nunnery; we hasten to assure
him (or her, as the case may be), that not only will their future steps
be traced, but the dark machinations of the Jesuits, and the thrilling
scenes in which new characters will perform their varied parts, pervaded
by the watching spirit of the Wandering Jew, will be revealed in Part
Second of this work, entitled: THE CHASTISEMENT.
BOOK IV.
PART SECOND.--THE CHASTISEMENT.
PROLOGUE.--THE BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF TWO WORLDS.
I. The Masquerade II. The Contrast III. The Carouse IV. The
Farewell V. The Florine VI. Mother Sainte-Perpetue VII. The
Temptation VIII. Mother Bunch and Mdlle. De Cardoville IX.
The Encounters--The Meeting XI. Discoveries XII. The Penal
Code XIII. Burglary
As the eagle, perched upon the cliff, commands an all-comprehensive
view--not only of what happens on the plains and in the woodlands, but
of matters occurring upon the heights, which its aerie overlooks, so may
the reader have sights pointed out to him, which lie below the level of
the unassisted eye.
In the year 1831, the powerful Order of the Jesuits saw fit to begin
to act upon information which had for some time been digesting in their
hands.
As it related to a sum estimated at no less than thirty or forty
millions of francs, it is no wonder that they should redouble all
exertions to obtain it from the rightful owners.
These were, presumably, the descendants of Marius, Count of Rennepont,
in the reign of Louis XIV. of France.
They were distinguished from other men by a simple token, which all, in
the year above named, had in their hands.
It was a bronze medal, bearing these legends on reverse and obverse:
VICTIM
of
L. C. D. J.
Pray for me!
PARIS,
February the 13th, 1682.
IN PARIS
Rue St Francois, No. 3,
In a century and a half
you will be.
February the 13th, 1832.
PRAY FOR ME!
Those who had this token were descendants of a family whom, a hundred
and fifty years ago, persecution scattered through the world, in
emigration and exile; in changes of religion, fortune and name. For this
family--what grandeur, what reverses, what obscurity, what lustre, what
penury, what glory! How many crimes sullied, how many virtues honored
it! The history of this single family is the history of humanity!
Passing through many generations, throbbing in the veins of the poor
and the rich, the sovereign and the bandit, the wise and the simple, the
coward and the brave, the saint and the atheist, the blood flowed on to
the year we have named.
Seven representatives summed up the virtue, courage, degradation,
splendor, and poverty of the race. Seven: two orphan twin daughters of
exiled parents, a dethroned prince, a humble missionary priest, a man
of the middle class, a young lady of high name and large fortune, and a
working man.
Fate scattered them in Russia, India, France, and America.
The orphans, Rose and Blanche Simon, had left their dead mother's grave
in Siberia, under charge of a trooper named Francis Baudoin, alias
Dagobert, who was as much attached to them as he had been devoted to
their father, his commanding general.
On the road to France, this little party had met the first check, in the
only tavern of Mockern village. Not only had a wild beast showman, known
as Morok the lion-tamer, sought to pick a quarrel with the inoffensive
veteran, but that failing, had let a panther of his menagerie loose
upon the soldier's horse. That horse had carried Dagobert, under General
Simon's and the Great Napoleon's eyes, through many battles; had borne
the General's wife (a Polish lady under the Czar's ban) to her home of
exile in Siberia, and their children now across Russia and Germany, but
only to perish thus cruelly. An unseen hand appeared in a manifestation
of spite otherwise unaccountable. Dagobert, denounced as a French spy,
and his fair young companions accused of being adventuresses to help his
designs, had so kindled at the insult, not less to him than to his old