XXXIII. THE ACCUSER…

XXXIII. THE ACCUSER

Baleinier, disconcerted for a moment by the unexpected presence of a magistrate, and by Rodin’s inexplicable attitude, soon recovered his presence of mind, and addressing his colleague of the longer robe, said to him: “If I make signs to you, sir, it was that, while I wished to respect the silence which this gentleman”--glancing at the magistrate--“has preserved since his entrance, I desired to express my surprise at the unexpected honor of this visit.”

“It is to the lady that I will explain the reason for my silence, and beg her to excuse it,” replied the magistrate, as he made a half-bow to Adrienne, whom he thus continued to address: “I have just received so serious a declaration with regard to you, madame, that I could not forbear looking at you for a moment in silence, to see if I could read in your countenance or in your attitude, the truth or falsehood of the accusation that has been placed in my hands; and I have every reason to believe that it is but too well founded.”

“May I at length be informed, sir,” said Dr. Baleinier, in a polite but firm tone, “to whom I have the honor of speaking?”

“Sir, I am juge d’instruction, and I have come to inform myself as to a fact which has been pointed out to me--”

“Will you do me the honor to explain yourself, sir?” said the doctor, bowing.

“Sir,” resumed the magistrate, M. de Gernande, a man of about fifty years of age, full of firmness and straightforwardness, and knowing how to unite the austere duties of his position with benevolent politeness, “you are accused of having committed--a very great error, not to use a harsher expression. As for the nature of that error, I prefer believing, sir, that you (a first rate man of science) may have been deceived in the calculation of a medical case, rather than suspect you of having forgotten all that is sacred in the exercise of a profession that is almost a priesthood.”

“When you specify the facts, sir,” answered the Jesuit of the short robe, with a degree of haughtiness, “it will be easy for me to prove that my reputation as a man of science is no less free from reproach, than my conscience as a man of honor.”

“Madame,” said M. de Gernande, addressing Adrienne, “is it true that you were conveyed to this house by stratagem?”

“Sir,” cried M. Baleinier, “permit me to observe, that the manner in which you open this question is an insult to me.”

“Sir, it is to the lady that I have the honor of addressing myself,” replied M. de Gernande, sternly; “and I am the sole judge of the propriety of my questions.”

Adrienne was about to answer affirmatively to the magistrate, when an expressive took from Dr. Baleinier reminded her that she would perhaps expose Dagobert and his son to cruel dangers. It was no base and vulgar feeling of vengeance by which Adrienne was animated, but a legitimate indignation, inspired by odious hypocrisy. She would have thought it cowardly not to unmask the criminals; but wishing to avoid compromising others, she said to the magistrate, with an accent full of mildness and dignity: “Permit me, sir, in my turn, rather to ask you a question.”

“Speak, madame.”

“Will the answer I make be considered a formal accusation?”

“I have come hither, madame, to ascertain the truth, and no consideration should induce you to dissemble it.”

“So be it, sir,” resumed Adrienne; “but suppose, having just causes of complaint, I lay them before you, in order to be allowed to leave this house, shall I afterwards be at liberty not to press the accusations I have made?”

“You may abandon proceedings, madame, but the law will take up your case in the name of society, if its rights have been inured in your person.”

“Shall I then not be allowed to pardon? Should I not be sufficiently avenged by a contemptuous forgetfulness of the wrongs I have suffered?”

“Personally, madame, you may forgive and forget; but I have the honor to repeat to you, that society cannot show the same indulgence, if it should turn out that you have been the victim of a criminal machination--and I have every reason to fear it is so. The manner in which you express yourself, the generosity of your sentiments, the calmness and dignity of your attitude, convince me that I have been well informed.”

“I hope, sir,” said Dr. Baleinier, recovering his coolness, “that you will at least communicate the declaration that has been made to you.”

“It has been declared to me, sir,” said the magistrate, in a stern voice, “that Mdlle. de Cardoville was brought here by stratagem.”

“By stratagem?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is true. The lady was brought here by stratagem,” answered the Jesuit of the short robe, after a moment’s silence.

“You confess it, then?” said M. de Gernande.

“Certainly I do, sir. I admit that I had recourse to means which we are unfortunately too often obliged to employ, when persons who most need our assistance are unconscious of their own sad state.”

“But, sir,” replied the magistrate, “it has also been declared to me, that Mdlle. de Cardoville never required such aid.”

“That, sir, is a question of medical jurisprudence, which has to be examined and discussed,” said M. Baleinier, recovering his assurance.

“It will, indeed, sir, be seriously discussed; for you are accused of confining Mdlle. De Cardoville, while in the full possession of all her faculties.”

“And may I ask you for what purpose?” said M. de Baleinier, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, and in a tone of irony. “What interest had I to commit such a crime, even admitting that my reputation did not place me above so odious and absurd a charge?”

“You are said to have acted, sir, in furtherance of a family plot, devised against Mdlle. de Cardoville for a pecuniary motive.”

“And who has dared, sir, to make so calumnious a charge?” cried Dr. Baleinier, with indignant warmth. “Who has had the audacity to accuse a respectable, and I dare to say, respected man, of having been the accomplice in such infamy?”

“I,” said Rodin, coldly.

“You!” cried Dr. Baleinier, falling back two steps, as if thunderstruck.

“Yes, I accuse you,” repeated Rodin, in a clear sharp voice.

“Yes, it was this gentleman who came to me this morning, with ample proofs, to demand my interference in favor of Mdlle. de Cardoville,” said the magistrate, drawing back a little, to give Adrienne the opportunity of seeing her defender.

Throughout this scene, Rodin’s name had not hitherto been mentioned. Mdlle. de Cardoville had often heard speak of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s secretary in no very favorable terms; but, never having seen him, she did not know that her liberator was this very Jesuit. She therefore looked towards him, with a glance in which were mingled curiosity, interest, surprise and gratitude. Rodin’s cadaverous countenance, his repulsive ugliness, his sordid dress, would a few days before have occasioned Adrienne a perhaps invincible feeling of disgust. But the young lady, remembering how the sempstress, poor, feeble, deformed, and dressed almost in rags was endowed notwithstanding her wretched exterior, with one of the noblest and most admirable hearts, recalled this recollection in favor of the Jesuit. She forgot that he was ugly and sordid, only to remember that he was old, that he seemed poor, and that he had come to her assistance. Dr. Baleinier, notwithstanding his craft, notwithstanding his audacious hypocrisy, in spite even of his presence of mind, could not conceal how much he was disturbed by Rodin’s denunciation. His head became troubled as he remembered how, on the first day of Adrienne’s confinement in this house, the implacable appeal of Rodin, through the hole in the door, had prevented him (Baleinier) from yielding to emotions of pity, inspired by the despair of this unfortunate young girl, driven almost to doubt of her own reason. And yet it was this very Rodin, so cruel, so inexorable, the devoted agent of Father d’Aigrigny, who denounced him (Baleinier), and brought a magistrate to set Adrienne at liberty--when, only the day before, Father d’Aigrigny had ordered an increase of severity towards her!

The lay Jesuit felt persuaded that Rodin was betraying Father d’Aigrigny in the most shameful manner, and that Mdlle. de Cardoville’s friends had bribed and bought over this scoundrelly secretary. Exasperated by what he considered a monstrous piece of treachery, the doctor exclaimed, in a voice broken with rage: “And it is you, sir, that have the impudence to accuse me--you, who only a few days ago--”

Then, reflecting that the retort upon Rodin would be self-accusation, he appeared to give way to an excess of emotion, and resumed with bitterness: “Ah, sir, you are the last person that I should have thought capable of this odious denunciation. It is shameful!”

“And who had a better right than I to denounce this infamy?” answered Rodin, in a rude, overbearing tone. “Was I not in a position to learn--unfortunately, too late--the nature of the conspiracy of which Mdlle. de Cardoville and others have been the victims? Then, what was my duty as an honest man? Why, to inform the magistrate, to prove what I set forth, and to accompany him hither. That is what I have done.”

“So, sir,” said the doctor, addressing the magistrate, “it is not only myself that this man accuses, but he dares also--”

“I accuse the Abbe d’Aigrigny,” resumed Rodin, in a still louder and more imperative tone, interrupting the doctor, “I accuse the Princess de Saint-Dizier, I accuse you, sir--of having, from a vile motive of self interest, confined Mdlle. de Cardoville in this house, and the two daughters of Marshal Simon in the neighboring convent. Is that clear?”

“Alas! it is only too true,” said Adrienne, hastily. “I have seen those poor children all in tears, making signs of distress to me.”

The accusation of Rodin, with regard to the orphans, was a new and fearful blow for Dr. Baleinier. He felt perfectly convinced that the traitor had passed clear over to the enemy’s camp. Wishing therefore to put an end to this embarrassing scene, he tried to put a good face on the matter, in spite of his emotion, and said to the magistrate:

“I might confine myself, sir, to silence--disdaining to answer such accusations, till a judicial decision had given them some kind of authority. But, strong in a good conscience I address myself to Mdlle. de Cardoville, and I beg her to say if this very morning I did not inform her, that her health would soon be sufficiently restored to allow her to leave this house. I conjure her, in the name of her well-known love of truth to state if such was not my language, when I was alone with her--”

“Come, sir!” said Rodin, interrupting Baleinier with an insolent air; “suppose that, from pure generosity, this dear young lady were to admit as much--what will it prove in your favor?--why, nothing at all.”

“What, sir,” cried the doctor, “do you presume--”

“I presume to unmask you, without asking your leave. What have you just told us? Why, that being alone with Mdlle. de Cardoville, you talked to her as if she were really mad. How very conclusive!”

“But, sir--” cried the doctor.

“But, sir,” resumed Rodin, without allowing him to continue, “it is evident that, foreseeing the possibility of what has occurred to-day, and, to provide yourself with a hole to creep out at, you have pretended to believe your own execrable falsehood, in presence of this poor young lady, that you might afterwards call in aid the evidence of your own assumed conviction. Come, sir! such stories will not go down with people of common sense or common humanity.”

“Come now, sir!” exclaimed Baleinier, angrily.

“Well, sir,” resumed Rodin, in a still louder voice, which completely drowned that of the doctor; “is it true, or is it not, that you have recourse to the mean evasion of ascribing this odious imprisonment to a scientific error? I affirm that you do so, and that you think yourself safe, because you can now say: ‘Thanks to my care, the young lady has recovered her reason. What more would you have?’”

“Yes, I do say that, sir, and I maintain it.”

“You maintain a falsehood; for it is proven that the lady never lost her reason for a moment.”

“But I, sir, maintain that she did lose it.”

“And I, sir, will prove the contrary,” said Rodin.

“You? How will you do that?” cried the doctor.

“That I shall take care not to tell you at present, as you may well suppose,” answered Rodin, with an ironical smile, adding with indignation: “But, really, sir, you ought to die for shame, to dare to raise such a question in presence of the lady. You should at least have spared her this discussion.”

“Sir!”

“Oh, fie, sir! I say, fie! It is odious to maintain this argument before her--odious if you speak truth, doubly odious if you lie,” said Rodin, with disgust.

“This violence is inconceivable!” cried the Jesuit of the short robe, exasperated; “and I think the magistrate shows great partiality in allowing such gross calumnies to be heaped upon me!”

“Sir,” answered M. de Gernande, severely, “I am entitled not only to hear, but to provoke any contradictory discussion that may enlighten me in the execution of my duty; it results from all this, that, even in your opinion, sir, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s health is sufficiently good to allow her to return home immediately.”

“At least, I do not see any very serious inconvenience likely to arise from it, sir,” said the doctor: “only I maintain that the cure is not so complete as it might have been, and, on this subject, I decline all responsibility for the future.”

“You can do so, safely,” said Rodin; “it is not likely that the young lady will ever again have recourse to your honest assistance.”

“It is useless, therefore, to employ my official authority, to demand the immediate liberation of Mdlle. de Cardoville,” said the magistrate.

“She is free,” said Baleinier, “perfectly free.”

“As for the question whether you have imprisoned her on the plea of a suppositious madness, the law will inquire into it, sir, and you will be heard.”

“I am quite easy, sir,” answered M. Baleinier, trying to look so; “my conscience reproaches me with nothing.”

“I hope it may turn out well, sir,” said M. de Gernande. “However bad appearances may be, more especially when persons of your station in society are concerned, we should always wish to be convinced of their innocence.” Then, turning to Adrienne, he added: “I understand, madame, how painful this scene must be to all your feelings of delicacy and generosity; hereafter, it will depend upon yourself, either to proceed for damages against M. Baleinier, or to let the law take its course. One word more. The bold and upright man”--here the magistrate pointed to Rodin--“who has taken up your cause in so frank and disinterested a manner, expressed a belief that you would, perhaps, take charge for the present of Marshal Simon’s daughters, whose liberation I am about to demand from the convent where they also are confined by stratagem.”

“The fact is, sir,” replied Adrienne, “that, as soon as I learned the arrival of Marshal Simon’s daughters in Paris, my intention was to offer them apartments in my house. These young ladies are my near relations. It is at once a duty and a pleasure for me to treat them as sisters. I shall, therefore, be doubly grateful to you, sir, if you will trust them to my care.”

“I think that I cannot serve them better,” answered M. de Gernande. Then, addressing Baleinier, he added, “Will you consent, sir, to my bringing these two ladies hither? I will go and fetch them, while Mdlle. de Cardoville prepares for her departure. They will then be able to leave this house with their relation.”

“I entreat the lady to make use of this house as her own, until she leaves it,” replied M. Baleinier. “My carriage shall be at her orders to take her home.”

“Madame,” said the magistrate, approaching Adrienne, “without prejudging the question, which must soon be decided by, a court of law, I may at least regret that I was not called in sooner. Your situation must have been a very cruel one.”

“There will at least remain to me, sir, from this mournful time,” said Adrienne, with graceful dignity, “one precious and touching remembrance--that of the interest which you have shown me. I hope that you will one day permit me to thank you, at my own home, not for the justice you have done me, but for the benevolent and paternal manner in which you have done it. And moreover, sir,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, with a sweet smile, “I should like to prove to you, that what they call my cure is complete.”

M. de Gernande bowed respectfully in reply. During the abort dialogue of the magistrate with Adrienne, their backs were both turned to Baleinier and Rodin. The latter, profiting by this moment’s opportunity, hastily slipped into the doctor’s hand a note just written with a pencil in the bottom of his hat. Baleinier looked at Rodin in stupefied amazement. But the latter made a peculiar sign, by raising his thumb to his forehead, and drawing it twice across his brow. Then he remained impassible. This had passed so rapidly, that when M. de Gernande turned round, Rodin was at a distance of several steps from Dr. Baleinier, and looking at Mdlle. de Cardoville with respectful interest.

“Permit me to accompany you, sir,” said the doctor, preceding the magistrate, whom Mdlle. de Cardoville saluted with much affability. Then both went out, and Rodin remained alone with the young lady.

After conducting M. de Gernande to the outer door of the house, M. Baleinier made haste to read the pencil-note written by Rodin; it ran as follows: “The magistrate is going to the convent, by way of the street. Run round by the garden, and tell the Superior to obey the order I have given with regard to the two young girls. It is of the utmost importance.”

The peculiar sign which Rodin had made, and the tenor of this note, proved to Dr. Baleinier, who was passing from surprise to amazement, that the secretary, far from betraying the reverend father, was still acting for the Greater Glory of the Lord. However, whilst he obeyed the orders, M. Baleinier sought in vain to penetrate the motives of Rodin’s inexplicable conduct, who had himself informed the authorities of an affair that was to have been hushed up, and that might have the most disastrous consequences for Father d’Aigrigny, Madame de Saint-Dizier, and Baleinier himself. But let us return to Rodin, left alone with Mdlle, de Cardoville.

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XXXIV. FATHER D’AIGRIGNY’S SECRETARY

Hardly had the magistrate and Dr. Baleinier disappeared, than Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose countenance was beaming with joy, exclaimed, as she looked at Rodin with a mixture of respect and gratitude, “At length, thanks to you, sir, I am free--free! Oh, I had never before felt how much happiness, expansion, delight, there is in that adorable word--liberty!”

Her bosom rose and fell, her rosy nostrils dilated, her vermilion lips were half open, as if she again inhaled with rapture pure and vivifying air.

“I have been only a few days in this horrible place,” she resumed, “but I have suffered enough from my captivity to make me resolve never to let a year pass without restoring to liberty some poor prisoners for debt. This vow no doubt appears to belong a little to the Middle Ages,” added she, with a smile; “but I would fain borrow from that noble epoch something more than its old windows and furniture. So, doubly thanks, sir!--for I take you as a partner in that project of deliverance, which has just (you see) unfolded itself in the midst of the happiness I owe to you, and by which you seem so much affected. Oh! let my joy speak my gratitude, and pay you for your generous aid!” exclaimed the young girl with enthusiasm.

Mdlle. de Cardoville had truly remarked a complete transfiguration in the countenance of Rodin. This man, lately so harsh, severe, inflexible, with regard to Dr. Baleinier, appeared now under the influence of the mildest and most tender sentiments. His little, half-veiled eyes were fixed upon Adrienne with an expression of ineffable interest. Then, as if he wished to tear himself from these impressions, he said, speaking to himself, “Come, come, no weakness. Time is too precious; my mission is not fulfilled. My dear young lady,” added he, addressing himself to Adrienne, “believe what I say--we will talk hereafter of gratitude--but we have now to talk of the present so important for you and your family. Do you know what is taking place?”

Adrienne looked at the Jesuit with surprise, and said, “What is taking place, sir?”

“Do you know the real motive of your imprisonment in this house? Do you know what influenced the Princess de Saint-Dizier and Abbe d’Aigrigny?”

At the sound of those detested names, Mdlle. de Cardoville’s face, now so full of happiness, became suddenly sad, and she answered with bitterness, “It is hatred, sir, that no doubt animated Madame de Saint-Dizier against me.”

“Yes, hatred; and, moreover, the desire to rob you with impunity of an immense fortune.”

“Me, sir! how?”

“You must be ignorant, my dear young lady, of the interest you had to be in the Rue Saint-Francois on the 13th February, for an inheritance?”

“I was ignorant, sir, of the date and details: but I knew by some family papers, and thanks to an extraordinary circumstance, that one of our ancestors--”

“Had left an enormous sum to be divided between his descendants; is it not so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But what unfortunately you did not know, my dear young lady, was that the heirs were all bound to be present at a certain hour on the 13th February. This day and hour once past, the absent would forfeit their claim. Do you now understand why you have been imprisoned here, my dear young lady?”

“Yes, yes; I understand it,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville; “cupidity was added to the hatred which my aunt felt for me. All is explained. Marshal Simon’s daughters, having the same right as I had have, like me, been imprisoned.”

“And yet,” cried Rodin, “you and they were not the only victims.”

“Who, then, are the others, sir?”

“A young East Indian.”

“Prince Djalma?” said Adrienne, hastily.

“For the same reason he has been nearly poisoned with a narcotic.”

“Great God!” cried the young girl, clasping her hands in horror. “It is fearful. That young prince, who was said to have so noble and generous a character! But I had sent to Cardoville Castle--”

“A confidential person, to fetch the prince to Paris--I know it, my dear young lady; but, by means of a trick, your friend was got out of the way, and the young Oriental delivered to his enemies.”

“And where is he now?”

“I have only vague information on the subject. I know that he is in Paris, and do not despair of finding him. I shall pursue my researches with an almost paternal ardor, for we cannot too much love the rare qualities of that poor king’s son. What a heart, my dear young lady! what a heart! Oh, it is a heart of gold, pure and bright as the gold of his country!”

“We must find the prince, sir,” said Adrienne with emotion; “let me entreat you to neglect nothing for that end. He is my relation--alone here--without support--without assistance.”

“Certainly,” replied Rodin, with commiseration. “Poor boy!--for he is almost a boy--eighteen or nineteen years of age--thrown into the heart of Paris, of this hell--with his fresh, ardent, half-savage passions--with his simplicity and confidence--to what perils may he not be exposed?”

“Well, we must first find him, sir,” said Adrienne, hastily; “and then we will save him from these dangers. Before I was confined here, I learned his arrival in France, and sent a confidential person to offer him the services of an unknown friend. I now see that this mad idea, with which I have been so much reproached, was a very sensible one. I am more convinced of it than ever. The prince belongs to my family, and I owe him a generous hospitality. I had destined for him the lodge I occupied at my aunt’s.”

“And you, my dear young lady?”

“To-day, I shall remove to a house, which I had prepared some time ago, with the determination of quitting Madame de Saint-Dizier, and living alone as I pleased. Then, sir, as you seem bent upon being the good genius of our family, be as generous with regard to Prince Djalma, as you have been to me and Marshal Simon’s daughters. I entreat you to discover the hiding-place of this poor king’s son, as you call him; keep my secret for me, and conduct him to the house offered by the unknown friend. Let him not disquiet himself about anything; all his wants shall be provided for; he shall live--like a prince.”

“Yes; he will indeed live like a prince, thanks to your royal munificence. But never was such kind interest better deserved. It is enough to see (as I have seen) his fine, melancholy countenance--”

“You have seen him, then, sir?” said Adrienne, interrupting Rodin.

“Yes, my dear young lady; I was with him for about two hours. It was quite enough to judge of him. His charming features are the mirror of his soul.”

“And where did you see him, sir?”

“At your old Chateau de Cardoville, my dear young lady, near which he had been shipwrecked in a storm, and whither I had gone to--” Rodin hesitated for a moment, and then, as if yielding to the frankness of his disposition, added: “Whither I had gone to commit a bad action--a shameful, miserable action, I must confess!”

“You, sir?--at Cardoville House--to commit a bad action?” cried Adrienne, much surprised.

“Alas! yes, my dear young lady,” answered Rodin with simplicity. “In one word, I had orders from Abbe d’Aigrigny, to place your former bailiff in the alternative either of losing his situation or lending himself to a mean action--something, in fact, that resembled spying and calumny; but the honest, worthy man refused.”

“Why, who are you, sir?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more astonished.

“I am Rodin, lately secretary of the Abbe d’Aigrigny--a person of very little importance, as you see.”

It is impossible to describe the accent, at once humble and ingenuous, of the Jesuit, as he pronounced these words, which he accompanied with a respectful bow. On this revelation, Mdlle. de Cardoville drew back abruptly. We have said that Adrienne had sometimes heard talk of Rodin, the humble secretary of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, as a sort of obedient and passive machine. That was not all; the bailiff of Cardoville Manor, writing to Adrienne on the subject of Prince Djalma, had complained of the perfidious and dishonest propositions of Rodin. She felt, therefore, a vague suspicion, when she heard that her liberator was the man who had played so odious a part. Yet this unfavorable feeling was balanced by the sense of what she owed to Rodin, and by his frank denunciation of Abbe d’Aigrigny before the magistrate. And then the Jesuit, by his own confession, had anticipated, as it were, the reproaches that might have been addressed to him. Still, it was with a kind of cold reserve that Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed this dialogue, which she had commenced with as much frankness as warmth and sympathy.

Rodin perceived the impression he had made. He expected it. He was not the least disconcerted when Mdlle. de Cardoville said to him, as she fixed upon him a piercing glance, “Ah! you are M. Rodin--secretary to the Abbe d’Aigrigny?”

“Say ex-secretary, if you please, my dear young lady,” answered the Jesuit; “for you see clearly that I can never again enter the house of the Abbe d’Aigrigny. I have made of him an implacable enemy, and I am now without employment--but no matter--nay, so much the better--since, at this price, the wicked are unmasked, and honest people rescued.”

These words, spoken with much simplicity, and dignity, revived a feeling of pity in Adrienne’s heart. She thought within herself that, after all, the poor old man spoke the truth. Abbe d’Aigrigny’s hate, after this exposure, would be inexorable, and Rodin had braved it for the sake of a generous action.

Still Mdlle. de Cardoville answered coldly, “Since you knew, sir, that the propositions you were charged to make to the bailiff of Cardoville were shameful and perfidious, how could you undertake the mission?”

“How?” replied Rodin, with a sort of painful impatience; “why, because I was completely under Abbe d’Aigrigny’s charm, one of the most prodigiously clever men I have ever known, and, as I only discovered the day before yesterday, one of the most prodigiously dangerous men there is in the world. He had conquered my scruples, by persuading me that the End justifies the Means. I must confess that the end he seemed to propose to himself was great and beautiful; but the day before yesterday I was cruelly undeceived. I was awakened, as it were, by a thunder-peal. Oh, my dear young lady!” added Rodin, with a sort of embarrassment and confusion, “let us talk no more of my fatal journey to Cardoville. Though I was only an ignorant and blind instrument, I feel as ashamed and grieved at it as if I had acted for myself. It weighs upon me, it oppresses me. I entreat you, let us speak rather of yourself, and of what interests you--for the soul expands with generous thoughts, even as the breast is dilated in pure and healthful air.”

Rodin had confessed his fault so spontaneously, he explained it so naturally, he appeared to regret it so sincerely, that Adrienne, whose suspicions had no other grounds, felt her distrust a good deal diminished.

“So,” she resumed, still looking attentively at Rodin, “it was at Cardoville that you saw Prince Djalma?”

“Yes, madame; and my affection for him dates from that interview. Therefore I will accomplish my task. Be satisfied, my dear young lady; like you, like Marshal Simon’s daughters, the prince shall avoid being the victim of this detestable plot, which unhappily does not stop there.”

“And who besides, then, is threatened?”

“M. Hardy, a man full of honor and probity, who is also your relation, and interested in this inheritance, but kept away from Paris by infamous treachery. And another heir, an unfortunate artisan, who falling into a trap cleverly baited, has been thrown into a prison for debt.”

“But, sir,” said Adrienne, suddenly, “for whose advantage was this abominable plot, which really alarms me, first devised?”

“For the advantage of Abbe d’Aigrigny,” answered Rodin.

“How, and by what right! Was he also an heir?”

“It would take too long to explain it to you, my dear young lady. You will know all one day. Only be convinced that your family has no more bitter enemy that Abbe d’Aigrigny.”

“Sir,” said Adrienne, giving way to one last suspicion, “I will speak frankly to you. How can I have deserved the interest that you seem to take in me, and that you even extend to all the members of my family?”

“My dear young lady,” answered Rodin, with a smile, “were I to tell you the cause, you would only laugh at, or misapprehend me.”

“Speak, I beg of you, sir. Do not mistrust me or yourself.”

“Well, then, I became interested in you--devoted to you--because your heart is generous, your mind lofty, your character independent and proud. Once attached to you, those of your race, who are indeed themselves worthy of interest, were no longer indifferent to me. To serve them was to serve you also.”

“But, sir--admitting that you suppose me worthy of the too flattering praises you bestow upon me--how could you judge of my heart, my mind, my character?”

“I will tell you, my dear young lady; but first I must make another confession, that fills me with shame. If you were not even so wonderfully endowed, what you have suffered in this house should suffice to command the interest of every honest man--don’t you think so?”

“I do think it should, sir.”

“I might thus explain the interest I feel in you. But no--I confess it--that would not have sufficed with me. Had you been only Mdlle. de Cardoville--a rich, noble, beautiful young lady--I should doubtless have pitied your misfortune; but I should have said to myself, ‘This poor young lady is certainly much to be pitied; but what can I, poor man, do in it? My only resource is my post of secretary to the Abbe d’Aigrigny, and he would be the first that must be attacked. He is all-powerful, and I am nothing. To engage in a struggle with him would be to ruin myself, without the hope of saving this unfortunate person.’ But when I learnt what you were, my dear young lady, I revolted, in spite of my inferiority. ‘No,’ I said, ‘a thousand times, no! So fine an intellect, so great a heart, shall not be the victims of an abominable plot. I may perish in the struggle, but I will at least make the attempt.’”

No words can paint the mixture of delicacy, energy, and sensibility with which Rodin uttered these sentiments. As it often happens with people singularly repulsive and ill-favored, if they can once bring you to forget their ugliness, their very deformity becomes a source of interest and commiseration, and you say to yourself, “What a pity that such a mind, such a soul, should inhabit so poor a body!”--and you are touched and softened by the contrast.

It was thus that Mdlle. de Cardoville began to look upon Rodin. He had shown himself as simple and affectionate towards her as he had been brutal and insolent to Dr. Baleinier. One thing only excited the lively curiosity of Mdlle. de Cardoville--she wished to know how Rodin had conceived the devotion and admiration which she seemed to inspire.

“Forgive my indiscreet and obstinate curiosity, sir, but I wish to know--”

“How you were morally revealed to me--is it not so? Oh, my dear young lady! nothing is more simple. I will explain it to you in two words. The Abbe d’Aigrigny saw in me nothing but a writing-machine, an obtuse, mute, blind instrument--”

“I thought M. d’Aigrigny had more penetration.”

“And you are right, my dear young lady; he is a man of unparalleled sagacity; but I deceived him by affecting more than simplicity. Do not, therefore, think me false. No; I am proud in my manner--and my pride consists in never appearing above my position, however subaltern it may be! Do you know why? It is that, however haughty may be my superiors, I can say to myself, ‘They do not know my value. It is the inferiority of my condition, not me, that they humiliate.’ By this I gain doubly--my self-love is spared, and I hate no one.”

“Yes, I understand that sort of pride,” said Adrienne, more and more struck with Rodin’s original turn of mind.

“But let us return to what concerns you, my dear young lady. On the eve of the 13th of February, the Abbe d’Aigrigny delivered to me a paper in shorthand, and said to me, ‘Transcribe this examination; you may add that it is to support the decision of a family council, which has declared, in accordance with the report of Dr. Baleinier, the state of mind of Mdlle. de Cardoville to be sufficiently alarming to render it necessary to confine her in a lunatic asylum.’”

“Yes,” said Adrienne, with bitterness; “it related to a long interview, which I had with the Princess de Saint-Dizier, my aunt, and which was taken down without my knowledge.”

“Behold me, then, poring over my shorthand report, and beginning to transcribe it. At the end of the first ten lines, I was struck with stupor. I knew not if I were awake or dreaming. ‘What! mad?’ They must be themselves insane who dare assert so monstrous a proposition!--More and more interested, I continued my reading--I finished it--Oh! then, what shall I say? What I felt, my dear young lady, it is impossible to express. It was sympathy, delight, enthusiasm!”

“Sir,” said Adrienne.

“Yes, my dear young lady, enthusiasm! Let not the words shock your modesty. Know that these ideas, so new, so independent, so courageous which you expressed to your aunt with so much brilliancy, are, without your being aware of it, common to you and another person, for whom you will one day feel the most tender and religious respect.”

“Of whom do you speak, sir?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, more and more interested.

After a moment’s apparent hesitation, Rodin resumed, “No, no--it is useless now to inform you of it. All I can tell you, my dear young lady, is that, when I had finished my reading, I ran to Abbe d’Aigrigny’s, to convince him of the error into which he had fallen with regard to you. It was impossible then to find him; but yesterday morning I told him plainly what I thought. He only appeared surprised to find that I could think at all. He received my communications with contemptuous silence. I thought him deceived; I continued my remonstrances, but quite in vain. He ordered me to follow him to the house, where the testament of your ancestor was to be opened. I was so blind with regard to the Abbe d’Aigrigny, that it required the successive arrivals of the soldier, of his son, and of Marshal Simon’s father, to open my eyes thoroughly. Their indignation unveiled to me the extent of a conspiracy, plotted long ago, and carried on with terrible ability. Then, I understood why you were confined here as a lunatic; why the daughters of Marshal Simon were imprisoned in a convent. Then a thousand recollections returned to my mind; fragments of letters and statements, which had been given me to copy or decipher, and of which I had never been able to find the explanation, put me on the track of this odious machination. To express then and there the sudden horror I felt at these crimes, would have been to ruin all. I did not make this mistake. I opposed cunning to cunning; I appeared even more eager than Abbe d’Aigrigny. Had this immense inheritance been destined for me alone, I could not have shown myself more grasping and merciless. Thanks to this stratagem, Abbe d’Aigrigny had no suspicion. A providential accident having rescued the inheritance from his hands, he left the house in a state of profound consternation. For my part, I felt indescribable joy; for I had now the means of saving and avenging you, my dear young lady. As usual, I went yesterday evening to my place of business. During the absence of the abbe, it was easy for me to peruse the correspondence relative to the inheritance. In this way I was able to unite all the threads of this immense plot. Oh! then, my dear young lady, I remained, struck with horror, in presence of the discoveries that I made, and that I never should have made under any other circumstances.”

“What discoveries, sir?”

“There are some secrets which are terrible to those who possess them. Do not ask me to explain, my dear young lady; but, in this examination, the league formed against you and your relations, from motives of insatiable cupidity, appeared to me in all its dark audacity. Thereupon, the lively and deep interest which I already felt for you, my dear young lady, was augmented greatly, and extended itself to the other innocent victims of this infernal conspiracy. In spite of my weakness, I determined to risk all, to unmask the Abbe d’Aigrigny. I collected the necessary proofs, to give my declaration before the magistrate the needful authority; and, this morning, I left the abbe’s house without revealing to him my projects. He might have employed some violent method to detain me; yet it would have been cowardly to attack him without warning. Once out of his house, I wrote to him, that I had in my hands proof enough of his crimes, to attack him openly in the face of day. I would accuse, and he must defend himself. I went directly to a magistrate, and you know the rest.”

At this juncture, the door opened, and one of the nurses appeared, and said to Rodin: “Sir, the messenger that you and the magistrate sent to the Rue Brise-Miche has just come back.”

“Has he left the letter?”

“Yes, sir; and it was taken upstairs directly.”

“Very well. Leave us!” The nurse went out.

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XXXV. SYMPATHY

If it had been possible for Mdlle. de Cardoville to harbor any suspicion of the sincerity of Rodin’s devotion, it must have given way before this reasoning, unfortunately so simple and undeniable. How could she suppose the faintest complicity between the Abbe d’Aigrigny and his secretary, when it was the latter who completely unveiled the machinations of his master, and exposed them to the tribunals? when in this, Rodin went even further than Mdlle. de Cardoville would herself have gone? Of what secret design could she suspect the Jesuit? At worst, of a desire to earn by his services the profitable patronage of the young lady.

And then, had he not just now protested against this supposition, by declaring his devotion, not to Mdlle. de Cardoville--not to the fair, rich, noble lady--but to the high-souled and generous girl? Finally, as Rodin had said himself, could any but a miserable wretch fail to be interested in Adrienne’s fate? A strange mixture of curiosity, surprise, and interest, was joined with Mdlle. de Cardoville’s feelings of gratitude towards Rodin. Yet, as she recognized the superior mind under that humble exterior, she was suddenly struck with a grave suspicion. “Sir,” said she to Rodin, “I always confess to the persons I esteem the doubts they may have inspired, so that they may justify themselves, and excuse me, if I am wrong.”

Rodin looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as if mentally calculating the suspicions than she might entertain, and replied, after a moment’s silence: “You are perhaps thinking of my journey to Cardoville, of my base proposals to your good and worthy bailiff? Oh! if you--”

“No, no, sir,” said Adrienne, interrupting him; “you made that confession spontaneously, and I quite understand, that, blinded with regard to M. d’Aigrigny, you passively executed instructions repugnant to your delicacy. But how comes it, that, with your incontestable merits, you have so long; occupied so mean a position in his service?”

“It is true,” said Rodin, with a smile; “that must impress you unfavorably, my dear young lady; for a man of any capacity, who remains long in an inferior condition, has evidently some radical vice, some bad or base passion--”

“It is generally true, sir.”

“And personally true--with regard to myself.”

“What, sir! do you make this avowal?”

“Alas! I confess that I have a bad passion, to which, for forty years, I have sacrificed all chances of attaining to a better position.”

“And this passion, sir?”

“Since I must make the unpleasant avowal, this passion is indolence--yes, indolence--the horror of all activity of mind, of all moral responsibility, of taking the lead in anything. With the twelve hundred francs that Abbe d’Aigrigny gave me, I was the happiest man in the world; I trusted to the nobleness of his views; his thoughts became mine, his wishes mine. My work once finished, I returned to my poor little chamber, I lighted my fire, I dined on vegetables--then, taking up some book of philosophy, little known, and dreaming over it, I gave free course to my imagination, which, restrained all the day long, carried me through numberless theories to a delicious Utopia. Then, from the eminences of my intelligence, lifted up Lord knows whither, by the audacity of my thoughts, I seemed to look down upon my master, and upon the great men of the earth. This fever lasted for three or four hours, after which I had a good sleep; and, the next morning, I went lightly to my work, secure of my daily bread, without cares for the future, living content with little, waiting with impatience for the delights of my solitary evening, and saying to myself as I went on writing like a stupid machine: ‘And yet--and yet--if I chose!’--”

“Doubtless, you could, like others, surer than others, have reached a higher position,” said Adrienne, greatly struck with Rodin’s practical philosophy.

“Yes, I think I could have done so; but for what purpose?--You see, my dear young lady, what often renders people of some merit puzzles to the vulgar, is that they are frequently content to say: ‘If I chose!’”

“But, sir, without attaching much importance to the luxuries of life, there is a certain degree of comfort, which age renders almost indispensable, and which you seem to have utterly renounced.”

“Undeceive yourself, if you please, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, with a playful smile. “I am a true Sybarite; I require absolutely warm clothes, a good stove, a soft mattress, a good piece of bread, a fresh radish, flavored with good cheap salt, and some good, clear water; and, notwithstanding this complication of wants, my twelve hundred francs have always more than sufficed, for I have been able to make some little savings.”

“But now that you are without employment, how will you manage to live, sir?” said Adrienne, more and more interested by the singularities of this man, and wishing to put his disinterestedness to the proof.

“I have laid by a little, which will serve me till I have unravelled the last thread of Father d’Aigrigny’s dark designs. I owe myself this reparation, for having been his dupe; three or four days, I hope, will complete the work. After that, I have the certainty of meeting with a situation, in my native province, under a collector of taxes: some time ago, the offer was made me by a friend; but then I would not leave Father d’Aigrigny, notwithstanding the advantages proposed. Fancy, my dear young lady--eight hundred francs, with board and lodging! As I am a little of the roughest, I should have preferred lodging apart; but, as they give me so much, I must submit to this little inconvenience.”

Nothing could exceed Rodin’s ingenuity, in making these little household confidences (so abominably false) to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who felt her last suspicions give way.

“What, sir?” said she to the Jesuit, with interest; “in three or four days, you mean to quit Paris?”

“I hope to do so, my dear young lady; and that,” added he, in a mysterious tone, “and that for many reasons. But what would be very precious to me,” he resumed, in a serious voice, as he looked at Adrienne with emotion, “would be to carry with me the conviction, that you did me the justice to believe, that, on merely reading your interview with the Princess de Saint-Dizier, I recognized at once qualities quite unexampled in our day, in a young person of your age and condition.”

“Ah, sir!” said Adrienne, with a smile, “do not think yourself obliged to return so soon the sincere praises that I bestowed on your superiority of mind. I should be better pleased with ingratitude.”

“Oh, no! I do not flatter you, my dear young lady. Why should I? We may probably never meet again. I do not flatter you; I understand you--that’s all--and what will seem strange to you, is, that your appearance complete, the idea which I had already formed of you, my dear young lady, in reading your interview with your aunt: and some parts of your character, hitherto obscure to me, are now fully displayed.”

“Really, sir, you astonish me more and more.”

“I can’t help it! I merely describe my impressions. I can now explain perfectly, for example, your passionate love of the beautiful, your eager worship of the refinements of the senses, your ardent aspirations for a better state of things, your courageous contempt of many degrading and servile customs, to which woman is condemned; yes, now I understand the noble pride with which you contemplate the mob of vain, self-sufficient, ridiculous men, who look upon woman as a creature destined for their service, according to the laws made after their own not very handsome image. In the eyes of these hedge-tyrants, woman, a kind of inferior being to whom a council of cardinals deigned to grant a soul by a majority of two voices, ought to think herself supremely happy in being the servant of these petty pachas, old at thirty, worn-out, used up, weary with excesses, wishing only for repose, and seeking, as they say, to make an end of it, which they set about by marrying some poor girl, who is on her side desirous to make a beginning.”

Mdlle. de Cardoville would certainly have smiled at these satirical remarks, if she had not been greatly struck by hearing Rodin express in such appropriate terms her own ideas, though it was the first time in her life that she saw this dangerous man. Adrienne forgot, or rather, she was not aware, that she had to deal with a Jesuit of rare intelligence, uniting the information and the mysterious resources of the police-spy with the profound sagacity of the confessor; one of those diabolic priests, who, by the help of a few hints, avowals, letters, reconstruct a character, as Cuvier could reconstruct a body from zoological fragments. Far from interrupting Rodin, Adrienne listened to him with growing curiosity. Sure of the effect he produced, he continued, in a tone of indignation: “And your aunt and the Abbe d’Aigrigny treated you as mad, because you revolted against the yoke of such tyrants! because, hating the shameful vices of slavery, you chose to be independent with the suitable qualities of independence, free with the proud virtues of liberty!”

“But, sir,” said Adrienne, more and more surprised, “how can my thoughts be so familiar to you?”

“First, I know you perfectly, thanks to your interview with the Princess de Saint-Dizier: and next, if it should happen that we both pursue the same end, though by different means,” resumed Rodin, artfully, as he looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with an air of intelligence, “why should not our convictions be the same?”

“I do not understand you, sir. Of what end do you speak?”

“The end pursued incessantly by all lofty, generous, independent spirits--some acting, like you, my dear young lady, from passion, from instinct, without perhaps explaining to themselves the high mission they are called on to ful, fil. Thus, for example, when you take pleasure in the most refined delights, when you surround yourself with all that charms the senses, do you think that you only yield to the attractions of the beautiful, to the desire of exquisite enjoyments? No! ah, no! for then you would be incomplete, odiously selfish, a dry egotist, with a fine taste--nothing more--and at your age, it would be hideous, my dear young lady, it would be hideous!”

“And do you really think thus severely of me?” said Adrienne, with uneasiness, so much influence had this man irresistibly attained over her.

“Certainly, I should think thus of you, if you loved luxury for luxury’s sake; but, no--quite another sentiment animates you,” resumed the Jesuit. “Let us reason a little. Feeling a passionate desire for all these enjoyments, you know their value and their need more than any one--is it not so?”

“It is so,” replied Adrienne, deeply interested.

“Your gratitude and favor are then necessarily acquired by those who, poor, laborious, and unknown, have procured for you these marvels of luxury, which you could not do without?”

“This feeling of gratitude is so strong in me, sir,” replied Adrienne, more and more pleased to find herself so well understood, “that I once had inscribed on a masterpiece of goldsmith’s work, instead of the name of the seller, that of the poor unknown artist who designed it, and who has since risen to his true place.”

“There you see, I was not deceived,” went on Rodin; “the taste for enjoyment renders you grateful to those who procure it for you; and that is not all; here am I, an example, neither better nor worse than my neighbors, but accustomed to privations, which cause me no suffering--so that the privations of others necessarily touch me less nearly than they do you, my dear young lady; for your habits of comfort must needs render you more compassionate towards misfortune. You would yourself suffer too much from poverty, not to pity and succor those who are its victims.”

“Really, sir,” said Adrienne, who began to feel herself under the fatal charm of Rodin, “the more I listen to you, the more I am convinced that you would defend a thousand times better than I could those ideas for which I was so harshly reproached by Madame de Saint-Dizier and Abbe d’Aigrigny. Oh! speak, speak, sir! I cannot tell you with what happiness, with what pride I listen.”

Attentive and moved, her eyes fixed on the Jesuit with as much interest as sympathy and curiosity, Adrienne, by a graceful toss of the head that was habitual to her, threw hack her long, golden curls, the better to contemplate Rodin, who thus resumed: “You are astonished, my dear young lady, that you were not understood by your aunt or by Abbe d’Aigrigny! What point of contact had you with these hypocritical, jealous, crafty minds, such as I can judge them to be now? Do you wish a new proof of their hateful blindness? Among what they called your monstrous follies, which was the worst, the most damnable? Why, your resolution to live alone and in your own way, to dispose freely of the present and the future. They declared this to be odious, detestable, immoral. And yet--was this resolution dictated by a mad love of liberty? no!--by a disordered aversion to all restraint? no!--by the desire of singularity?--no!--for then I, too, should have blamed you severely.”

“Other reasons have indeed guided me, sir, I assure you,” said Adrienne eagerly, for she had become very eager for the esteem with which her character might inspire Rodin.

“Oh! I know it well; your motives could only be excellent ones,” replied the Jesuit. “Why then did you take this resolution, so much called in question? Was it to brave established etiquette? no! for you respected them until the hate of Mme. de Saint-Dizier forced you to withdraw yourself from her unbearable guardianship. Was it to live alone, to escape the eyes of the world? no! you would be a hundred times more open to observation in this than any other condition. Was it to make a bad use of your liberty? no, ah, no! those who design evil seek for darkness and solitude; while you place yourself right before the jealous anal envious eyes of the vulgar crowd. Why then do you take this determination, so courageous and rare, unexampled in a young person of your age? Shall I tell you, my dear young lady? It is, that you wish to prove, by your example, that a woman of pure heart and honest mind, with a firm character and independence of soul, may nobly and proudly throw off the humiliating guardianship that custom has imposed upon her. Yes, instead of accepting the fate of a revolted slave, a life only destined to hypocrisy or vice, you wish to live freely in presence of all the world, independent, honorable, and respected. You wish to have, like man, the exercise of your own free will, the entire responsibility of all your actions, so as to establish the fact, that a woman left completely to herself, may equal man in reason, wisdom, uprightness, and surpass him indelicacy and dignity. That is your design, my dear young lady. It is noble and great. Will your example be imitated? I hope it may; but whether it be so or not, your generous attempt, believe me, will place you in a high and worthy position.”

Mdlle. de Cardoville’s eyes shone with a proud and gentle brightness, her cheeks were slightly colored, her bosom heaved, she raised her charming head with a movement of involuntary pride; at length completely under the charm of that diabolical man she exclaimed: “But, sir, who are you that can thus know and analyze my most secret thoughts, and read my soul more clearly than myself, so as to give new life and action to those ideas of independence which have long stirred within me? Who are you, that can thus elevate me in my own eyes, for now I am conscious of accomplishing a mission, honorable to myself, and perhaps useful to my sisters immersed in slavery? Once again, sir, who are you?”

“Who am I, madame?” answered Rodin, with a smile of the greatest good nature; “I have already told you that I am a poor old man, who for the last forty years, having served in the day time as a writing machine to record the ideas of others, went home every evening to work out ideas of his own--a good kind of man who, from his garret, watches and even takes some little share in the movement of generous spirits, advancing towards an end that is nearer than is commonly thought. And thus, my dear young lady, as I told you just now, you and I are both tending towards the same objects, though you may do the same without reflection, and merely in obedience to your rare and divine instincts. So continue so to live, fair, free, and happy!--it is your mission--more providential than you may think it. Yes; continue to surround yourself with all the marvels of luxury and art; refine your senses, purify your tastes, by the exquisite choice of your enjoyments; by genius, grace, and purity raise yourself above the stupid and ill-favored mob of men, that will instantly surround you, when they behold you alone and free; they will consider you an easy prey, destined to please their cupidity, their egotism, their folly.

“Laugh at them, and mock these idiotic and sordid pretensions. Be the queen of your own world, and make yourself respected as a queen. Love--shine--enjoy--it is your part upon earth. All the flowers, with which you are whelmed in profusion, will one day bear fruit. You think that you have lived only for pleasure; in reality, you will have lived for the noblest aims that could tempt a great and lofty soul. And so--some years hence--we may meet again, perhaps; you, fairer and more followed than ever; I, older and more obscure. But, no matter--a secret voice, I am sure, says to you at this moment, that between us two, however different, there exists an invisible bond, a mysterious communion, which nothing hereafter will ever be able to destroy!”

He uttered these final words in a tone of such profound emotion, that Adrienne started. Rodin had approached without her perceiving it, and without, as it were, walking at all, for he dragged his steps along the floor, with a sort of serpent motion; and he had spoken with so much warmth and enthusiasm, that his pale face had become slightly tinged, and his repulsive ugliness had almost disappeared before the brilliancy of his small sharp eyes, now wide open, and fixed full upon Adrienne. The latter leaned forward, with half-open lips and deep-drawn breath, nor could she take her eyes from the Jesuit’s; he had ceased to speak, and yet she was still listening. The feelings of the fair young lady, in presence of this little old man, dirty, ugly, and poor, were inexplicable. That comparison so common, and yet so true, of the frightful fascination of the bird by the serpent, might give some idea of the singular impression made upon her. Rodin’s tactics were skillful and sure. Until now, Mdlle. de Cardoville had never analyzed her tastes or instincts. She had followed them, because they were inoffensive and charming. How happy and proud she then was sure to be to hear a man of superior mind not only praise these tendencies, for which she had been heretofore so severely blamed, but congratulate her upon them, as upon something great, noble, and divine! If Rodin had only addressed himself to Adrienne’s self-conceit, he would have failed in his perfidious designs, for she had not the least spark of vanity. But he addressed himself to all that was enthusiastic and generous in her heart; that which he appeared to encourage and admire in her was really worthy of encouragement and admiration. How could she fail to be the dupe of such language, concealing though it did such dark and fatal projects?

Struck with the Jesuit’s rare intelligence, feeling her curiosity greatly excited by some mysterious words that he had purposely uttered, hardly explaining to herself the strange influence which this pernicious counsellor already exercised over her, and animated by respectful compassion for a man of his age and talents placed in so precarious a position, Adrienne said to him, with all her natural cordiality, “A man of your merit and character, sir, ought not to be at the mercy of the caprice of circumstances. Some of your words have opened a new horizon before me; I feel that, on many points, your counsels may be of the greatest use to me. Moreover, in coming to fetch me from this house, and in devoting yourself to the service of other persons of my family, you have shown me marks of interest which I cannot forget without ingratitude. You have lost a humble but secure situation. Permit me--”

“Not a word more, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, interrupting Mdlle. de Cardoville, with an air of chagrin. “I feel for you the deepest sympathy; I am honored by having ideas in common with you; I believe firmly that some day you will have to ask advice of the poor old philosopher; and, precisely because of all that, I must and ought to maintain towards you the most complete independence.”

“But, sir, it is I that would be the obliged party, if you deigned to accept what I offer.”

“Oh, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, with a smile: “I know that your generosity would always know how to make gratitude light and easy; but, once more, I cannot accept anything from you. One day, perhaps, you will know why.”

“One day?”

“It is impossible for me to tell you more. And then, supposing I were under an obligation to you, how could I tell you all that was good and beautiful in your actions? Hereafter, if you are somewhat indebted to me for my advice, so much the better; I shall be the more ready to blame you, if I find anything to blame.”

“In this way, sir, you would forbid me to be grateful to you.”

“No, no,” said Rodin, with apparent emotion. “Oh, believe me! there will come a solemn moment, in which you may repay all, in a manner worthy of yourself and me.”

This conversation was here interrupted by the nurse, who said to Adrienne as she entered: “Madame, there is a little humpback workwoman downstairs, who wishes to speak to you. As, according to the doctor’s new orders, you are to do as you like, I have come to ask, if I am to bring her up to you. She is so badly dressed, that I did not venture.”

“Bring her up, by all means,” said Adrienne, hastily, for she had recognized Mother Bunch by the nurse’s description. “Bring her up directly.”

“The doctor has also left word, that his carriage is to be at your orders, madame; are the horses to be put to?”

“Yes, in a quarter of an hour,” answered Adrienne to the nurse, who went out; then, addressing Rodin, she continued: “I do not think the magistrate can now be long, before he returns with Marshal Simon’s daughters?”

“I think not, my dear young lady; but who is this deformed workwoman?” asked Rodin, with an air of indifference.

“The adopted sister of a gallant fellow, who risked all in endeavoring to rescue me from this house. And, sir,” said Adrienne, with emotion, “this young workwoman is a rare and excellent creature. Never was a nobler mind, a more generous heart, concealed beneath an exterior less--”

But reflecting, that Rodin seemed to unite in his own person the same moral and physical contrasts as the sewing-girl, Adrienne stopped short, and then added, with inimitable grace, as she looked at the Jesuit, who was somewhat astonished at the sudden pause: “No; this noble girl is not the only person who proves how loftiness of soul, and superiority of mind, can make us indifferent to the vain advantages which belong only to the accidents of birth or fortune.” At the moment of Adrienne speaking these last words, Mother Bunch entered the room.

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XXXVI. SUSPICIONS

Mdlle. de Cardoville sprang hastily to meet the visitor, and said to her, in a voice of emotion, as she extended her arms towards her: “Come--come--there is no grating to separate us now!”

On this allusion, which reminded her how her poor, laborious hand had been respectfully kissed by the fair and rich patrician, the young workwoman felt a sentiment of gratitude, which was at once ineffable and proud. But, as she hesitated to respond to the cordial reception, Adrienne embraced her with touching affection. When Mother Bunch found herself clasped in the fair arms of Mdlle. de Cardoville, when she felt the fresh and rosy lips of the young lady fraternally pressed to her own pale and sickly cheek, she burst into tears without being able to utter a word. Rodin, retired in a corner of the chamber, locked on this scene with secret uneasiness. Informed of the refusal, so full of dignity, which Mother Bunch had opposed to the perfidious temptations of the superior of St. Mary’s Convent, and knowing the deep devotion of this generous creature for Agricola--a devotion which for some days she had so bravely extended to Mdlle. de Cardoville--the Jesuit did not like to see the latter thus laboring to increase that affection. He thought, wisely, that one should never despise friend or enemy, however small they may appear. Now, devotion to Mdlle. de Cardoville constituted an enemy in his eyes; and we know, moreover, that Rodin combined in his character rare firmness, with a certain degree of superstitious weakness, and he now felt uneasy at the singular impression of fear which Mother Bunch inspired in him. He determined to recollect this presentiment.

Delicate natures sometimes display in the smallest things the most charming instincts of grace and goodness. Thus, when the sewing-girl was shedding abundant and sweet tears of gratitude, Adrienne took a richly embroidered handkerchief, and dried the pale and melancholy face. This action, so simple and spontaneous, spared the work-girl one humiliation; for, alas! humiliation and suffering are the two gulfs, along the edge of which misfortune continually passes. Therefore, the least kindness is in general a double benefit to the unfortunate. Perhaps the reader may smile in disdain at the puerile circumstance we mention. But poor Mother Bunch, not venturing to take from her pocket her old ragged handkerchief, would long have remained blinded by her tears, if Mdlle. de Cardoville had not come to her aid.

“Oh! you are so good--so nobly charitable, lady!” was all that the sempstress could say, in a tone of deep emotion; for she was still more touched by the attention of the young lady, than she would perhaps have been by a service rendered.

“Look there, sir,” said Adrienne to Rodin, who drew near hastily. “Yes,” added the young patrician, proudly, “I have indeed discovered a treasure. Look at her, sir; and love her as I love her, honor as I honor. She has one of those hearts for which we are seeking.”

“And which, thank heaven, we are still able to find, my dear young lady!” said Rodin, as he bowed to the needle-woman.

The latter raised her eyes slowly, and locked at the Jesuit. At sight of that cadaverous countenance, which was smiling benignantly upon her, the young girl started. It was strange! she had never seen this man, and yet she felt instantly the same fear and repulsion that he had felt with regard to her. Generally timid and confused, the work-girl could not withdraw her eyes from Rodin’s; her heart beat violently, as at the coming of some great danger, and, as the excellent creature feared only for those she loved, she approached Adrienne involuntarily, keeping her eyes fixed on Rodin. The Jesuit was too good a physiognomist not to perceive the formidable impression he had made, and he felt an increase of his instinctive aversion for the sempstress. Instead of casting down his eyes, he appeared to examine her with such sustained attention, that Mdlle. de Cardoville was astonished at it.

“I beg your pardon, my dear girl,” said Rodin, as if recalling his recollections, and addressing himself to Mother Bunch, “I beg your pardon--but I think--if I am not deceived--did you not go a few days since to St. Mary’s Convent, hard by?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No doubt, it was you. Where then was my head?” cried Rodin. “It was you--I should have guessed it sooner.”

“Of what do you speak, sir?” asked Adrienne.

“Oh! you are right, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, pointing to the hunchback. “She has indeed a noble heart, such as we seek. If you knew with what dignity, with what courage this poor girl, who was out of work and, for her, to want work is to want everything--if you knew, I say, with what dignity she rejected the shameful wages that the superior of the convent was unprincipled enough to offer, on condition of her acting as a spy in a family where it was proposed to place her.”

“Oh, that is infamous!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, with disgust. “Such a proposal to this poor girl--to her!”

“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, bitterly, “I had no work, I was poor, they did not know me--and they thought they might propose anything to the likes of me.”

“And I tell you,” said Rodin, “that it was a double baseness on the part of the superior, to offer such temptation to misery, and it was doubly noble in you to refuse.”

“Sir,” said the sewing-girl, with modest embarrassment.

“Oh! I am not to be intimidated,” resumed Rod in. “Praise or blame, I speak out roughly what I think. Ask this dear young lady,” he added, with a glance at Adrienne. “I tell you plainly, that I think as well of you as she does herself.”

“Believe me, dear,” said Adrienne, “there are some sorts of praise which honor, recompense, and encourage; and M. Rodin’s is of the number. I know it,--yes, I know it.”

“Nay, my dear young lady, you must not ascribe to me all the honor of this judgment.”

“How so, sir?”

“Is not this dear girl the adopted sister of Agricola Baudoin, the gallant workman, the energetic and popular poet? Is not the affection of such a man the best of guarantees, and does it not enable us to judge, as it were, by the label?” added Rodin, with a smile.

“You are right, sir,” said Adrienne; “for, before knowing this dear girl, I began to feel deeply interested in her, from the day that her adopted brother spoke to me about her. He expressed himself with so much warmth, so much enthusiasm, that I at once conceived an esteem for the person capable of inspiring so noble an attachment.”

These words of Adrienne, joined to another circumstance, had such an effect upon their hearer, that her pale face became crimson. The unfortunate hunchback loved Agricola, with love as passionate as it was secret and painful: the most indirect allusion to this fatal sentiment occasioned her the most cruel embarrassment. Now, the moment Mdlle. de Cardoville spoke of Agricola’s attachment for Mother Bunch, the latter had encountered Rodin’s observing and penetrating look fixed upon her. Alone with Adrienne, the sempstress would have felt only a momentary confusion on hearing the name of the smith; but unfortunately she fancied that the Jesuit, who already filled her with involuntary fear, had seen into her heart, and read the secrets of that fatal love, of which she was the victim. Thence the deep blushes of the poor girl, and the embarrassment so painfully visible, that Adrienne was struck with it.

A subtle and prompt mind, like Rodin’s on perceiving the smallest effect, immediately seeks the cause. Proceeding by comparison, the Jesuit saw on one side a deformed, but intelligent young girl, capable of passionate devotion; on the other, a young workman, handsome, bold, frank, and full of talent. “Brought up together, sympathizing with each other on many points, there must be some fraternal affection between them,” said he to himself; “but fraternal affection does not blush, and the hunchback blushed and grew troubled beneath my look; does she, then, Love Agricola?”

Once on the scent of this discovery, Rodin wished to pursue the investigation. Remarking the surprise and visible uneasiness that Mother Bunch had caused in Adrienne, he said to the latter, with a smile, looking significantly at the needlewoman: “You see, my dear young lady, how she blushes. The good girl is troubled by what we said of the attachment of this gallant workman.”

The needlewoman hung down her head, overcome with confusion. After the pause of a second, during which Rodin preserved silence, so as to give time for his cruel remark to pierce the heart of the victim, the savage resumed: “Look at the dear girl! how embarrassed she appears!”

Again, after another silence, perceiving that Mother Bunch from crimson had become deadly pale, and was trembling in all her limbs, the Jesuit feared he had gone too far, whilst Adrienne said to her friend, with anxiety: “Why, dear child, are you so agitated?”

“Oh! it is clear enough,” resumed Rodin, with an air of perfect simplicity; for having discovered what he wished to know, he now chose to appear unconscious. “It is quite clear and plain. This good girl has the modesty of a kind and tender sister for a brother. When you praise him, she fancies that she is herself praised.”

“And she is as modest as she is excellent,” added Adrienne, taking bath of the girl’s hands, “the least praise, either of her adopted brother or of herself, troubles her in this way. But it is mere childishness, and I must scold her for it.”

Mdlle. de Cardoville spoke sincerely, for the explanation given by Rodin appeared to her very plausible. Like all other persons who, dreading every moment the discovery of some painful secret have their courage as easily restored as shaken, Mother Bunch persuaded herself (and she needed to do so, to escape dying of shame), that the last words of Rodin were sincere, and that he had no idea of the love she felt for Agricola. So her agony diminished, and she found words to reply to Mdlle. de Cardoville.

“Excuse me, madame,” she said timidly, “I am so little accustomed to such kindness as that with which you overwhelm me, that I make a sorry return for all your goodness.”

“Kindness, my poor girl?” said Adrienne. “I have done nothing for you yet. But, thank heaven! from this day I shall be able to keep my promise, and reward your devotion to me, your courageous resignation, your sacred love of labor, and the dignity of which you have given so many proofs, under the most cruel privations. In a word, from this day, if you do not object to it, we will part no more.”

“Madame, you are too kind,” said Mother Bunch, in a trembling voice; “but I--”

“Oh! be satisfied,” said Adrienne, anticipating her meaning. “If you accept my offer, I shall know how to reconcile with my desire (not a little selfish) of having you near me, the independence of your character, your habits of labor, your taste for retirement, and your anxiety to devote yourself to those who deserve commiseration; it is, I confess, by affording you the means of satisfying these generous tendencies, that I hope to seduce and keep you by me.”

“But what have I done?” asked the other, simply, “to merit any gratitude from you? Did you not begin, on the contrary, by acting so generously to my adopted brother?”

“Oh! I do not speak of gratitude,” said Adrienne; “we are quits. I speak of friendship and sincere affection, which I now offer you.”

“Friendship to me, madame?”

“Come, come,” said Adrienne, with a charming smile, “do not be proud because your position gives you the advantage. I have set my heart on having you for a friend, and you will see that it shall be so. But now that I think of it (a little late, you will say), what good wind brings you hither?”

“This morning M. Dagobert received a letter, in which he was requested to come to this place, to learn some news that would be of the greatest interest to him. Thinking it concerned Marshal Simon’s daughters, he said to me: ‘Mother Bunch, you have taken so much interest in those dear children, that you must come with me: you shall witness my joy on finding them, and that will be your reward.’”

Adrienne glanced at Rodin. The latter made an affirmative movement of the head, and answered: “Yes, yes, my dear young lady: it was I who wrote to the brave soldier, but without signing the letter, or giving any explanation. You shall know why.”

“Then, my dear girl, why did you come alone?” said Adrienne.

“Alas, madame! on arriving here, it was your kind reception that made me forget my fears.”

“What fears?” asked Rodin.

“Knowing that you lived here, madame, I supposed the letter was from you; I told M. Dagobert so, and he thought the same. When we arrived, his impatience was so great, that he asked at the door if the orphans were in this house, and he gave their description. They told him no. Then, in spite of my supplications, he insisted on going to the convent to inquire about them.”

“What imprudence!” cried Adrienne.

“After what took place the other night, when he broke in,” added Rodin, shrugging his shoulders.

“It was in vain to tell him,” returned Mother Bunch, “that the letter did not announce positively, that the orphans would be delivered up to him; but that, no doubt, he would gain some information about them. He refused to hear anything, but said to me: ‘If I cannot find them, I will rejoin you. But they were at the convent the day before yesterday, and now that all is discovered, they cannot refuse to give them up--”

“And with such a man there is no disputing!” said Rodin, with a smile.

“I hope they will not recognize him!” said Adrienne, remembering Baleinier’s threats.

“It is not likely,” replied Rodin; “they will only refuse him admittance. That will be, I hope, the worst misfortune that will happen. Besides, the magistrate will soon be here with the girls. I am no longer wanted: other cares require my attention. I must seek out Prince Djalma. Only tell me, my dear young lady, where I shall find you, to keep you informed of my discoveries, and to take measures with regard to the young prince, if my inquiries, as I hope, shall be attended with success.”

“You will find me in my new house, Rue d’Anjou, formerly Beaulieu House. But now I think of it,” said Adrienne, suddenly, after some moments of reflection, “it would not be prudent or proper, on many accounts, to lodge the Prince Djalma in the pavilion I occupied at Saint-Dizier House. I saw, some time ago, a charming little house, all furnished and ready; it only requires some embellishments, that could be completed in twenty four hours, to make it a delightful residence. Yes, that will be a thousand times preferable,” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, after a new interval of silence; “and I shall thus be able to preserve the strictest incognito.”

“What!” cried Rodin, whose projects would be much impeded by this new resolution of the young lady; “you do not wish him to know who you are?”

“I wish Prince Djalma to know absolutely nothing of the anonymous friend who comes to his aid; I desire that my name should not be pronounced before him, and that he should not even know of my existence--at least, for the present. Hereafter--in a month, perhaps--I will see; circumstances will guide me.”

“But this incognito,” said Rodin, hiding his disappointment, “will be difficult to preserve.”

“If the prince had inhabited the lodge, I agree with you; the neighborhood of my aunt would have enlightened him, and this fear is one of the reasons that have induced me to renounce my first project. But the prince will inhabit a distant quarter--the Rue Blanche. Who will inform him of my secret? One of my old friends, M. Norval--you, sir--and this dear girl,” pointing to Mother Bunch, “on whose discretion I can depend as on your own, will be my only confidants. My secret will then be quite safe. Besides, we will talk further on this subject to-morrow. You must begin by discovering the retreat of this unfortunate young prince.”

Rodin, though much vexed at Adrienne’s subtle determination with regard to Djalma, put the best face on the matter, and replied: “Your intentions shall be scrupulously fulfilled, my dear young lady; and to-morrow, with your leave, I hope to give you a good account of what you are pleased to call my providential mission.”

“To-morrow, then, I shall expect you with impatience,” said Adrienne, to Rodin, affectionately. “Permit me always to rely upon you, as from this day you may count upon me. You must be indulgent with me, sir; for I see that I shall yet have many counsels, many services to ask of you--though I already owe you so much.”

“You will never owe me enough, my dear young lady, never enough,” said Rodin, as he moved discreetly towards the door, after bowing to Adrienne. At the very moment he was going out, he found himself face to face with Dagobert.

“Holloa! at last I have caught one!” shouted the soldier, as he seized the Jesuit by the collar with a vigorous hand.

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XXXVII. EXCUSES

On seeing Dagobert grasp Rodin so roughly by the collar, Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed in terror, as she advanced several steps towards the soldier: “In the name of Heaven, sir! what are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” echoed the soldier, harshly, without relaxing his hold on Rodin, and turning his head towards Adrienne, whom he did not know; “I take this opportunity to squeeze the throat of one of the wretches in the band of that renegade, until he tells me where my poor children are.”

“You strangle me,” said the Jesuit, in a stifled voice, as he tried to escape from the soldier.

“Where are the orphans, since they are not here, and the convent door has been closed against me?” cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder.

“Help! help!” gasped Rodin.

“Oh! it is dreadful!” said Adrienne, as, pale and trembling, she held up her clasped hands to Dagobert. “Have mercy, sir! listen to me! listen to him!”

“M. Dagobert!” cried Mother Bunch, seizing with her weak hands the soldier’s arm, and showing him Adrienne, “this is Mdlle. de Cardoville. What violence in her presence! and then, you are deceived doubtless!”

At the name of Mdlle. de Cardoville, the benefactress of his son, the soldier turned round suddenly, and loosened his hold on Rodin. The latter, crimson with rage and suffocation, set about adjusting his collar and his cravat.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” said Dagobert, going towards Adrienne, who was still pale with fright; “I did not known who you were, and the first impulse of anger quite carried me away.”

“But what has this gentleman done to you?” said Adrienne. “If you had listened to me, you would have learned--”

“Excuse me if I interrupt you, madame,” said the soldier to Adrienne, in a hollow voice. Then addressing himself to Rodin, who had recovered his coolness, he added: “Thank the lady, and begone!--If you remain here, I will not answer for myself.”

“One word only, my dear sir,” said Rodin.

“I tell you that if you remain, I will not answer for myself!” cried Dagobert, stamping his foot.

“But, for heaven’s sake, tell me the cause of this anger,” resumed Adrienne; “above all, do not trust to appearances. Calm yourself, and listen.”

“Calm myself, madame!” cried Dagobert, in despair; “I can think only of one thing, ma dame--of the arrival of Marshal Simon--he will be in Paris to-day or to-morrow.”

“Is it possible?” said Adrienne. Rodin started with surprise and joy.

“Yesterday evening,” proceeded Dagobert, “I received a letter from the marshal: he has landed at Havre. For three days I have taken step after step, hoping that the orphans would be restored to me, as the machinations of those wretches have failed.” He pointed to Rodin with a new gesture of impatience. “Well! it is not so. They are conspiring some new infamy. I am prepared for anything.”

“But, sir,” said Rodin advancing, “permit me--”

“Begone!” cried Dagobert, whose irritation and anxiety redoubled, as he thought how at any moment Marshal Simon might arrive in Paris. “Begone! Were it not for this lady, I would at least be revenged on some one.”

Rodin made a nod of intelligence to Adrienne, whom he approached prudently, and, pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of affectionate commiseration, he said to the latter: “I will leave you, sir, and the more willingly, as I was about to withdraw when you entered.” Then, coming still closer to Mdlle. de Cardoville, the Jesuit whispered to her, “Poor soldier! he is beside himself with grief, and would be incapable of hearing me. Explain it all to him, my dear young lady; he will be nicely caught,” added he, with a cunning air. “But in the meantime,” resumed Rodin, feeling in the side-pocket of his great-coat and taking out a small parcel, “let me beg you to give him this, my dear young lady. It is my revenge, and a very good one.”

And while Adrienne, holding the little parcel in her hand looked at the Jesuit with astonishment, the latter laying his forefinger upon his lip, as if recommending silence, drew backward on tiptoe to the door, and went out after again pointing to Dagobert with a gesture of pity; while the soldier, in sullen dejection, with his head drooping, and his arms crossed upon his bosom, remained deaf to the sewing-girl’s earnest consolations. When Rodin had left the room, Adrienne, approaching the soldier, said to him, in her mild voice, with an expression of deep interest, “Your sudden entry prevented my asking you a question that greatly concerns me. How is your wound?”

“Thank you, madame,” said Dagobert, starting from his painful lethargy, “it is of no consequence, but I have not time to think of it. I am sorry to have been so rough in your presence, and to have driven away that wretch; but ‘tis more than I could master. At sight of those people, my blood is all up.”

“And yet, believe me, you have been too hasty in your judgment. The person who was just now here--”

“Too hasty, madame! I do not see him to-day for the first time. He was with that renegade the Abbe d’Aigrigny--”

“No doubt!--and yet he is an honest and excellent man.”

“He!” cried Dagobert.

“Yes; for at this moment he is busy about only one thing restoring to you those dear children!”

“He!” repeated Dagobert, as if he could not believe what he heard. “He restore me my children?”

“Yes; and sooner, perhaps, than you think for.”

“Madame,” said Dagobert, abruptly, “he deceives you. You are the dupe of that old rascal.”

“No,” said Adrienne, shaking her head, with a smile. “I have proofs of his good faith. First of all, it is he who delivers me from this house.”

“Is it true?” said Dagobert, quite confounded.

“Very true; and here is, perhaps, something that will reconcile you to him,” said Adrienne, as she delivered the small parcel which Rodin had given her as he went out. “Not wishing to exasperate you by his presence, he said to me: ‘Give this to that brave soldier; it is my revenge.’”

Dagobert looked at Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise, as he mechanically opened the little parcel. When he had unfolded it, and discovered his own silver cross, black with age, and the old red, faded ribbon, treasures taken from him at the White Falcon Inn, at the same time as his papers, he exclaimed in a broken voice: “My cross! my cross! It is my cross!” In the excitement of his joy, he pressed the silver star to his gray moustache.

Adrienne and the other were deeply affected by the emotion of the old soldier, who continued, as he ran towards the door by which Rodin had gone out: “Next to a service rendered to Marshal Simon, my wife, or son, nothing could be more precious to me. And you answer for this worthy man, madame, and I have ill used him in your presence! Oh! he is entitled to reparation, and he shall have it.”

So saying, Dagobert left the room precipitately, hastened through two other apartments, gained the staircase, and descending it rapidly, overtook Rodin on the lowest step.

“Sir,” said the soldier to him, in an agitated voice, as he seized him by the arm, “you must come upstairs directly.”

“You should make up your mind to one thing or the other, my dear sir,” said Rodin, stopping good-naturedly; “one moment you tell me to begone, and the next to return. How are we to decide?”

“Just now, sir, I was wrong; and when I am wrong, I acknowledge it. I abused and ill-treated you before witnesses; I will make you my apologies before witnesses.”

“But, my dear sir--I am much obliged to you--I am in a hurry.”

“I cannot help your being in a hurry. I tell you, I must have you come upstairs, directly--or else--or else,” resumed Dagobert, taking the hand of the Jesuit, and pressing it with as much cordiality as emotion, “or else the happiness you have caused the in returning my cross will not be complete.”

“Well, then, my good friend, let us go up.”

“And not only have you restored me my cross, for which I have wept many tears, believe me, unknown to any one,” cried Dagobert, much affected; “but the young lady told me, that, thanks to you, those poor children but tell me--no false joy-is it really true?--My God! is it really true?”

“Ah! ah! Mr. Inquisitive,” said Rodin, with a cunning smile. Then he added: “Be perfectly tranquil, my growler; you shall have your two angels back again.” And the Jesuit began to ascend the stairs.

“Will they be restored to me to-day?” cried Dagobert, stopping Rodin abruptly, by catching hold of his sleeve.

“Now, really, my good friend,” said the Jesuit, “let us come to the point. Are we to go up or down? I do not find fault, but you turn me about like a teetotum.”

“You are right. We shall be better able to explain things upstairs. Come with me--quick! quick!” said Dagobert, as, taking the Jesuit by the arm, he hurried him along, and brought him triumphantly into the room, where Adrienne and Mother Bunch had remained in much surprise at the soldier’s sudden disappearance.

“Here he is! here he is!” cried Dagobert, as he entered. “Luckily, I caught him at the bottom of the stairs.”

“And you have made me come up at a fine pace!” added Rodin, pretty well out of breath.

“Now, sir,” said Dagobert, in a grave voice, “I declare, in presence of all, that I was wrong to abuse and ill-treat you. I make you my apology for it, sir; and I acknowledge, with joy, that I owe you--much--oh! very much and when I owe, I pay.”

So saying, Dagobert held out his honest hand to Rodin, who pressed it in a very affable manner, and replied: “Now, really--what is all this about? What great service do you speak of?”

“This!” said Dagobert, holding up the cross before Rodin’s eyes. “You do not know, then, what this cross is to me?”

“On the contrary, supposing you would set great store by it, I intended to have the pleasure of delivering it myself. I had brought it for that purpose; but, between ourselves, you gave me so warm a reception, that I had not the time--”

“Sir,” said Dagobert, in confusion, “I assure you that I sincerely repent of what I have done.”

“I know it, my good friend; do not say another word about it. You were then much attached to this cross?”

“Attached to it, sir!” cried Dagobert. “Why, this cross,” and he kissed it as he spoke, “is my relic. He from whom it came was my saint--my hero--and he had touched it with his hand!”

“Oh!” said Rodin, feigning to regard the cross with as much curiosity as respectful admiration; “did Napoleon--the Great Napoleon--indeed touch with his own hand--that victorious hand!--this noble star of honor?”

“Yes, sir, with his own hand. He placed it there upon my bleeding breast, as a cure for my fifth wound. So that, you see, were I dying of hunger, I think I should not hesitate betwixt bread and my cross--that I might, in any case, have it on my heart in death. But, enough--enough! let us talk of something else. It is foolish in an old soldier, is it not?” added Dagobert, drawing his hand across his eyes, and then, as if ashamed to deny what he really felt: “Well, then! yes,” he resumed, raising his head proudly, and no longer seeking to conceal the tears that rolled down his cheek; “yes, I weep for joy, to have found my cross--my cross, that the Emperor gave me with his victorious hand, as this worthy man has called it.”

“Then blessed be my poor old hand for having restored you the glorious treasure!” said Rodin, with emotion. “In truth,” he added, “the day will be a good one for everybody--as I announced to you this morning in my letter.”

“That letter without a signature?” asked the soldier, more and more astonished. “Was it from you?”

“It was I who wrote it. Only, fearing some new snare of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, I did not choose, you understand, to explain myself more clearly.”

“Then--I shall see--my orphans?”

Rodin nodded affirmatively, with an expression of great good-nature.

“Presently--perhaps immediately,” said Adrienne, with smile. “Well! was I right in telling you that you had not judged this gentleman fairly?”

“Why did he not tell me this when I came in?” cried Dagobert, almost beside himself with joy.

“There was one difficulty in the way, my good friend,” said Rodin; “it was, that when you came in, you nearly throttled me.”

“True; I was too hasty. Once more, I ask your pardon. But was I to blame? I had only seen you with that Abbe d’Aigrigny, and in the first moment--”

“This dear young lady,” said Rodin, bowing to Adrienne, “will tell you that I have been, without knowing it, the accomplice IN many perfidious actions; but as soon as I began to see my way through the darkness, I quitted the evil course on which I had entered, and returned to that which is honest, just and true.”

Adrienne nodded affirmatively to Dagobert, who appeared to consult her look.

“If I did not sign the letter that I wrote to you, my good friend, it was partly from fear that my name might inspire suspicion; and if I asked you to come hither, instead of to the convent, it was that I had some dread--like this dear young lady--lest you might be recognized by the porter or by the gardener, your affair of the other night rendering such a recognition somewhat dangerous.”

“But M. Baleinier knows all; I forgot that,” said Adrienne, with uneasiness. “He threatened to denounce M. Dagobert and his son, if I made any complaint.”

“Do not be alarmed, my dear young lady; it will soon be for you to dictate conditions,” replied Rodin. “Leave that to me; and as for you, my good friend, your torments are now finished.”

“Yes,” said Adrienne, “an upright and worthy magistrate has gone to the convent, to fetch Marshal Simon’s daughters. He will bring them hither; but he thought with me, that it would be most proper for them to take up their abode in my house. I cannot, however, come to this decision without your consent, for it is to you that these orphans were entrusted by their mother.”

“You wish to take her place with regard to them, madame?” replied Dagobert. “I can only thank you with all my heart, for myself and for the children. But, as the lesson has been a sharp one, I must beg to remain at the door of their chamber, night and day. If they go out with you, I must be allowed to follow them at a little distance, so as to keep them in view, just like Spoil-sport, who has proved himself a better guardian than myself. When the marshal is once here--it will be in a day or two--my post will be relieved. Heaven grant it may be soon!”

“Yes,” replied Rodin, in a firm voice, “heaven grant he may arrive soon, for he will have to demand a terrible reckoning of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, for the persecution of his daughters; and yet the marshal does not know all.”

“And don’t you tremble for the renegade?” asked Dagobert, as he thought how the marquis would soon find himself face to face with the marshal.

“I never care for cowards and traitors,” answered Rodin; “and when Marshal Simon returns--” Then, after a pause of some seconds, he continued: “If he will do me the honor to hear me, he shall be edified as to the conduct of the Abbe d’Aigrigny. The marshal knows that his dearest friends, as well as himself, have been victims of the hatred of that dangerous man.”

“How so?” said Dagobert.

“Why, yourself, for instance,” replied Rodin; “you are an example of what I advance.”

“Do you think it was mere chance, that brought about the scene at the White Falcon Inn, near Leipsic?”

“Who told you of that scene?” said Dagobert in astonishment.

“Where you accepted the challenge of Morok,” continued the Jesuit, without answering Dagobert’s question, “and so fell into a trap, or else refused it, and were then arrested for want of papers, and thrown into prison as a vagabond, with these poor children. Now, do you know the object of this violence? It was to prevent your being here on the 13th of February.”

“But the more I hear, sir,” said Adrienne, “the more I am alarmed at the audacity of the Abbe d’Aigrigny, and the extent of the means he has at his command. Really,” she resumed, with increasing surprise, “if your words were not entitled to absolute belief--”

“You would doubt their truth, madame?” said Dagobert. “It is like me. Bad as he is. I cannot think that this renegade had relations with a wild-beast showman as far off as Saxony; and then, how could he know that I and the children were to pass through Leipsic? It is impossible, my good man.”

“In fact, sir,” resumed Adrienne, “I fear that you are deceived by your dislike (a very legitimate one) of Abbe d’Aigrigny, and that you ascribe to him an almost fabulous degree of power and extent of influence.”

After a moment’s silence, during which Rodin looked first at Adrienne and then at Dagobert, with a kind of pity, he resumed. “How could the Abbe d’Aigrigny have your cross in his possession, if he had no connection with Morok?”

“That is true, sir,” said Dagobert; “joy prevented me from reflecting. But how indeed, did my cross come into your hands?”

“By means of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s having precisely those relations with Leipsic, of which you and the young lady seem to doubt.”

“But how did my cross get to Paris?”

“Tell me; you were arrested at Leipsic for want of papers--is it not so?”

“Yes; but I could never understand how my passports and money disappeared from my knapsack. I thought I must have had the misfortune to lose them.”

Rodin shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “You were robbed of them at the White Falcon Inn, by Goliath, one of Morok’s servants, and the latter sent the papers and the cross to the Abbe d’Aigrigny, to prove that he had succeeded in executing his orders with respect to the orphans and yourself. It was the day before yesterday, that I obtained the key of that dark machination. Cross and papers were amongst the stores of Abbe d’Aigrigny; the papers formed a considerable bundle, and he might have missed them; but, hoping to see you this morning, and knowing how a soldier of the Empire values his cross, his sacred relic, as you call it, my good friend--I did not hesitate. I put the relic into my pocket. ‘After all,’ said I, ‘it is only restitution, and my delicacy perhaps exaggerates this breach of trust.’”

“You could not have done a better action,” said Adrienne; “and, for my part, because of the interest I feel for M. Dagobert--I take it as a personal favor. But, sir,” after a moment’s silence, she resumed with anxiety: “What terrible power must be at the command of M. d’Aigrigny, for him to have such extensive and formidable relations in a foreign country!”

“Silence!” said Rodin, in a low voice, and looking round him with an air of alarm. “Silence! In heaven’s name do not ask me about it!”

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XXXVIII. REVELATIONS

Mdlle. de Cardoville, much astonished at the alarm displayed by Rodin, when she had asked him for some explanation of the formidable and far reaching power of the Abby d’Aigrigny, said to him: “Why, sir, what is there so strange in the question that I have just asked you?”

After a moment’s silence, Rodin cast his looks all around, with well feigned uneasiness, and replied in a whisper: “Once more, madame, do not question me on so fearful a subject. The walls of this house may have ears.”

Adrienne and Dagobert looked at each other with growing surprise. Mother Bunch, by an instinct of incredible force, continued to regard Rodin with invincible suspicion. Sometimes she stole a glance at him, as if trying to penetrate the mask of this man, who filled her with fear. At one moment, the Jesuit encountered her anxious gaze, obstinately fixed upon him; immediately he nodded to her with the greatest amenity. The young girl, alarmed at finding herself observed, turned away with a shudder.

“No, no, my dear young lady,” resumed Rodin, with a sigh, as he saw Mdlle. de Cardoville astonished at his silence; “do not question me on the subject of the Abbe d’Aigrigny’s power!”

“But, to persist, sir,” said Adrienne; “why this hesitation to answer? What do you fear?”

“Ah, my dear young lady,” said Rodin, shuddering, “those people are so powerful! their animosity is so terrible!”

“Be satisfied, sir; I owe you too much, for my support ever to fail you.”

“Ah, my dear young lady,” cried Rodin, as if hurt by the supposition; “think better of me, I entreat you. Is it for myself that I fear?--No, no; I am too obscure, too inoffensive; but it is for you, for Marshal Simon, for the other members of your family, that all is to be feared. Oh, my dear young lady! let me beg you to ask no questions. There are secrets which are fatal to those who possess them.”

“But, sir, is it not better to know the perils with which one is threatened?”

“When you know the manoeuvres of your enemy, you may at least defend yourself,” said Dagobert. “I prefer an attack in broad daylight to an ambuscade.”

“And I assure you,” resumed Adrienne, “the few words you have spoken cause me a vague uneasiness.”

“Well, if I must, my dear young lady,” replied the Jesuit, appearing to make a great effort, “since you do not understand my hints, I will be more explicit; but remember,” added he, in a deeply serious tone, “that you have persevered in forcing me to tell you what you had perhaps better not have known.”

“Speak, Sir, I pray you speak,” said Adrienne.

Drawing about him Adrienne, Dagobert, and Mother Bunch, Rodin said to them in a low voce, and with a mysterious air: “Have you never heard of a powerful association, which extends its net over all the earth, and counts its disciples, agents, and fanatics in every class of society which has had, and often has still, the ear of kings and nobles--which, in a word, can raise its creatures to the highest positions, and with a word can reduce them again to the nothingness from which it alone could uplift them?”

“Good heaven, sir!” said Adrienne, “what formidable association? Until now I never heard of it.”

“I believe you; and yet your ignorance on this subject greatly astonishes me, my dear young lady.”

“And why should it astonish you?”

“Because you lived some time with your aunt, and must have often seen the Abbe d’Aigrigny.”

“I lived at the princess’s, but not with her; for a thousand reasons she had inspired me with warrantable aversion.”

“In truth, my dear young lady, my remark was ill-judged. It was there, above all, and particularly in your presence, that they would keep silence with regard to this association--and yet to it alone did the Princess de Saint-Dizier owe her formidable influence in the world, during the last reign. Well, then; know this--it is the aid of that association which renders the Abbe d’Aigrigny so dangerous a man.

“By it he was enabled to follow and to reach divers members of your family, some in Siberia, some in India, others on the heights of the American mountains; but, as I have told you, it was only the day before yesterday, and by chance, that, examining the papers of Abbe d’Aigrigny, I found the trace of his connection with this Company, of which he is the most active and able chief.”

“But the name, sir, the name of this Company?” said Adrienne.

“Well! it is--” but Rodin stopped short.

“It is,” repeated Adrienne, who was now as much interested as Dagobert and the sempstress; “it is--”

Rodin looked round him, beckoned all the actors in this scene to draw nearer, and said in a whisper, laying great stress upon the words: “It is--the Society of Jesus!” and he again shuddered.

“The Jesuits!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, unable to restrain a burst of laughter, which was the more buoyant, as, from the mysterious precautions of Rodin, she had expected some very different revelation. “The Jesuits!” she resumed, still laughing. “They have no existence, except in books; they are frightful historical personages, certainly; but why should you put forward Madame de Saint-Dizier and M. d’Aigrigny in that character? Such as they are, they have done quite enough to justify my aversion and disdain.”

After listening in silence to Mdlle. de Cardoville Rodin continued, with a grave and agitated air: “Your blindness frightens me, my dear, young lady; the past should have given you some anxiety for the future, since, more than any one, you have already suffered from the fatal influence of this Company, whose existence you regard as a dream!”

“I, sir?” said Adrienne, with a smile, although a little surprised.

“You.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“You ask me this question! my dear young lady! you ask me this question!--and yet you have been confined here as a mad person! Is it not enough to tell you that the master of this house is one of the most devoted lay members of the Company, and therefore the blind instrument of the Abbe d’Aigrigny?”

“So,” said Adrienne, this time without smiling, “Dr. Baleinier”

“Obeyed the Abbe d’Aigrigny, the most formidable chief of that formidable society. He employs his genius for evil; but I must confess he is a man of genius. Therefore, it is upon him that you and yours must fix all your doubts and suspicions; it is against him that you must be upon your guard. For, believe me, I know him, and he does not look upon the game as lost. You must be prepared for new attacks, doubtless of another kind, but only the more dangerous on that account--”

“Luckily, you give us notice,” said Dagobert, “and you will be on our side.”

“I can do very little, my good friends; but that little is at the service of honest people,” said Rodin.

“Now,” said Adrienne, with a thoughtful air, completely persuaded by Rodin’s air of conviction, “I can explain the inconceivable influence that my aunt exercised in the world. I ascribed it chiefly to her relations with persons in power; I thought that she, like the Abbe d’Aigrigny, was concerned in dark intrigues, for which religion served as a veil--but I was far from believing what you tell me.”

“How many things you have got to learn!” resumed Rodin. “If you knew, my dear young lady, with what art these people surround you, without your being aware of it, by agents devoted to themselves! Every one of your steps is known to them, when they have any interest in such knowledge. Thus, little by little, they act upon you--slowly, cautiously, darkly. They circumvent you by every possible means, from flattery to terror--seduce or frighten, in order at last to rule you, without your being conscious of their authority. Such is their object, and I must confess they pursue it with detestable ability.”

Rodin had spoken with so much sincerity, that Adrienne trembled; then, reproaching herself with these fears, she resumed: “And yet, no--I can never believe in so infernal a power; the might of priestly ambition belongs to another age. Heaven be praised, it has disappeared forever!”

“Yes, certainly, it is out of sight; for they now know how to disperse and disappear, when circumstances require it. But then are they the most dangerous; for suspicion is laid asleep, and they keep watch in the dark. Oh! my dear young lady, if you knew their frightful ability! In my hatred of all that is oppressive, cowardly, and hypocritical, I had studied the history of that terrible society, before I knew that the Abbe d’Aigrigny belonged to it. Oh! it is dreadful. If you knew what means they employ! When I tell you that, thanks to their diabolical devices, the most pure and devoted appearances often conceal the most horrible snares.” Rodin’s eye rested, as if by chance, on the hunchback; but, seeing that Adrienne did not take the hint, the Jesuit continued: “In a word--are you not exposed to their pursuits?--have they any interest in gaining you over?--oh! from that moment, suspect all that surround you, suspect the most noble attachments, the most tender affections, for these monsters sometimes succeed in corrupting your best friends, and making a terrible use of them, in proportion to the blindness of your confidence.”

“Oh! it is impossible,” cried Adrienne, in horror. “You must exaggerate. No! hell itself never dreamed of more frightful treachery!”

“Alas, my dear young lady! one of your relations, M. Hardy--the most loyal and generous-hearted man that could be--has been the victim of some such infamous treachery. Do you know what we learned from the reading of your ancestor’s will? Why, that he died the victim of the malevolence of these people; and now, at the lapse of a hundred and fifty years, his descendants are still exposed to the hate of that indestructible society.”

“Oh, sir! it terrifies me,” said Adrienne, feeling her heart sink within her. “But are there no weapons against such attacks?”

“Prudence, my dear young lady--the most watchful caution--the most incessant study and suspicion of all that approach you.”

“But such a life would be frightful! It is a torture to be the victim of continual suspicions, doubts, and fears.”

“Without doubt! They know it well, the wretches! That constitutes their strength. They often triumph by the very excess of the precautions taken against them. Thus, my dear young lady, and you, brave and worthy soldier, in the name of all that is dear to you, be on your guard, and do not lightly impart your confidence. Be on your guard, for you have nearly fallen the victims of those people. They will always be your implacable enemies. And you, also, poor, interesting girl!” added the Jesuit, speaking to Mother Bunch, “follow my advice--fear these people. Sleep, as the proverb says, with one eye open.”

“I, sir!” said the work-girl. “What have I done? what have I to fear?”

“What have you done? Dear me! Do not you tenderly love this young lady, your protectress? have you not attempted to assist her? Are you not the adopted sister of the son of this intrepid soldier, the brave Agricola! Alas, poor, girl! are not these sufficient claims to their hatred, in spite of your obscurity? Nay, my dear young lady! do not think that I exaggerate. Reflect! only reflect! Think what I have just said to the faithful companion-in-arms of Marshal Simon, with regard to his imprisonment at Leipsic. Think what happened to yourself, when, against all law and reason, you were brought hither. Then you will see, that there is nothing exaggerated in the picture I have drawn of the secret power of this Company. Be always on your guard, and, in doubtful cases, do not fear to apply to me. In three days, I have learned enough by my own experience, with regard to their manner of acting, to be able to point out to you many a snare, device, and danger, and to protect you from them.”

“In any such case, sir,” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville, “my interests, as well as gratitude, would point to you as my best counsellor.”

According to the skillful tactics of the sons of Loyola, who sometimes deny their own existence, in order to escape from an adversary--and sometimes proclaim with audacity the living power of their organization, in order to intimidate the feeble-R-odin had laughed in the face of the bailiff of Cardoville, when the latter had spoken of the existence of the Jesuits; while now, at this moment, picturing their means of action, he endeavored, and he succeeded in the endeavor, to impregnate the mind of Mdlle. de Cardoville with some germs of doubt, which were gradually to develop themselves by reflection, and serve hereafter the dark projects that he meditated. Mother Bunch still felt considerable alarm with regard to Rodin. Yet, since she had heard the fatal powers of the formidable Order revealed to Adrienne, the young sempstress, far from suspecting the Jesuit of having the audacity to speak thus of a society of which he was himself a member, felt grateful to him, in spite of herself, for the important advice that he had just given her patroness. The side-glance which she now cast upon him (which Rodin also detected, for he watched the young girl with sustained attention), was full of gratitude, mingled with surprise. Guessing the nature of this impression, and wishing entirely to remove her unfavorable opinion, and also to anticipate a revelation which would be made sooner or later, the Jesuit appeared to have forgotten something of great importance, and exclaimed, striking his forehead: “What was I thinking of?” Then, speaking to Mother Bunch, he added: “Do you know where your sister is, my dear girl?” Disconcerted and saddened by this unexpected question, the workwoman answered with a blush, for she remembered her last interview with the brilliant Bacchanal Queen: “I have not seen my sister for some days, sir.”

“Well, my dear girl, she is not very comfortable,” said Rodin; “I promised one of her friends to send her some little assistance. I have applied to a charitable person, and that is what I received for her.” So saying, he drew from his pocket a sealed roll of coin, which he delivered to Mother Bunch, who was now both surprised and affected.

“You have a sister in trouble, and I know nothing of it?” said Adrienne, hastily. “This is not right of you, my child!”

“Do not blame her,” said Rodin. “First of all, she did not know that her sister was in distress, and, secondly, she could not ask you, my dear young lady, to interest yourself about her.”

As Mdlle. de Cardoville looked at Rodin with astonishment, he added, again speaking to the hunchback: “Is not that true, my dear girl!”

“Yes, sir,” said the sempstress, casting down her eyes and blushing. Then she added, hastily and anxiously: “But when did you see my sister, sir? where is she? how did she fall into distress?”

“All that would take too long to tell you, my dear girl; but go as soon as possible to the greengrocer’s in the Rue Clovis, and ask to speak to your sister as from M. Charlemagne or M. Rodin, which you please, for I am equally well known in that house by my Christian name as by my surname, and then you will learn all about it. Only tell your sister, that, if she behaves well, and keeps to her good resolutions, there are some who will continue to look after her.”

More and more surprised, Mother Bunch was about to answer Rodin, when the door opened, and M. de Gernande entered. The countenance of the magistrate was grave and sad.

“Marshal Simon’s daughters!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.

“Unfortunately, they are not with me,” answered the judge.

“Then, where are they, sir? What have they done with them? The day before yesterday, they were in the convent!” cried Dagobert, overwhelmed by this complete destruction of his hopes.

Hardly had the soldier pronounced these words, when, profiting by the impulse which gathered all the actors in this scene about the magistrate, Rodin withdrew discreetly towards the door, and disappeared without any one perceiving his absence. Whilst the soldier, thus suddenly thrown back to the depths of his despair, looked at M. de Gernande, waiting with anxiety for the answer, Adrienne said to the magistrate: “But, sir, when you applied at the convent, what explanation did the superior give on the subject of these young girls?”

“The lady superior refused to give any explanation, madame. ‘You pretend,’ said she, ‘that the young persons of whom you speak are detained here against their will. Since the law gives you the right of entering this house, make your search.’ ‘But, madame, please to answer me positively,’ said I to the superior; ‘do you declare, that you know nothing of the young girls, whom I have come to claim?’ ‘I have nothing to say on this subject, sir. You assert, that you are authorized to make a search: make it.’ Not being able to get any other explanation,” continued the magistrate, “I searched all parts of the convent, and had every door opened--but, unfortunately, I could find no trace of these young ladies.”

“They must have sent them elsewhere,” cried Dagobert; “who knows?--perhaps, ill. They will kill them--O God! they will kill them!” cried he, in a heart-rending tone.

“After such a refusal, what is to be done? Pray, sir, give us your advice; you are our providence,” said Adrienne, turning to speak to Rodin, who she fancied was behind her. “What is your--”

Then, perceiving that the Jesuit had suddenly disappeared, she said to Mother Bunch, with uneasiness: “Where is M. Rodin?”

“I do not know, madame,” answered the girl, looking round her; “he is no longer here.”

“It is strange,” said Adrienne, “to disappear so abruptly!”

“I told you he was a traitor!” cried Dagobert, stamping with rage; “they are all in a plot together.”

“No, no,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville; “do not think that. But the absence is not the less to be regretted, for, under these difficult circumstances, he might have given us very useful information, thanks to the position he occupied at M. d’Aigrigny’s.”

“I confess, madame, that I rather reckoned upon it,” said M. de Gernande; “and I returned hither, not only to inform you of the fruitless result of my search, but also to seek from the upright and honorable roan, who so courageously unveiled these odious machinations, the aid of his counsels in this contingency.”

Strangely enough, for the last few moments Dagobert was so completely absorbed in thought, that he paid no attention to the words of the magistrate, however important to him. He did not even perceive the departure of M. de Gernande, who retired after promising Adrienne that he would neglect no means to arrive at the truth, in regard to the disappearance of the orphans. Uneasy at this silence, wishing to quit the house immediately, and induce Dagobert to accompany her, Adrienne, after exchanging a rapid glance with Mother Bunch, was advancing towards the soldier, when hasty steps were heard from without the chamber, and a manly sonorous voice, exclaiming with impatience, “Where is he--where is he?”

At the sound of this voice, Dagobert seemed to rouse himself with a start, made a sudden bound, and with a loud cry, rushed towards the door. It opened. Marshal Simon appeared on the threshold!

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XXXIX. PIERRE SIMON

Marshal Pierre Simon, Duke de Ligny, was a man of tall stature, plainly dressed in a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to the throat, with a red ribbon tied to the top buttonhole. You could not have wished to see a more frank, honest, and chivalrous cast of countenance than the marshal’s. He had a broad forehead, an aquiline nose, a well formed chin, and a complexion bronzed by exposure to the Indian sun. His hair, cut very short, was inclined to gray about the temples; but his eyebrows were still as black as his large, hanging moustache. His walk was free and bold, and his decided movements showed his military impetuosity. A man of the people, a man of war and action, the frank cordiality of his address invited friendliness and sympathy. As enlightened as he was intrepid as generous as he was sincere, his manly, plebeian pride was the most remarkable part of his character. As others are proud of their high birth, so was he of his obscure origin, because it was ennobled by the fine qualities of his father, the rigid republican, the intelligent and laborious artisan, who, for the space of forty years, had been the example and the glory of his fellow-workmen. In accepting with gratitude the aristocratic title which the Emperor had bestowed upon him, Pierre Simon acted with that delicacy which receives from a friendly hand a perfectly useless gift, and estimates it according to the intention of the giver. The religious veneration of Pierre Simon for the Emperor had never been blind; in proportion as his devotion and love for his idol were instructive and necessary, his admiration was serious, and founded upon reason. Far from resembling those swashbucklers who love fighting for its own sake, Marshal Simon not only admired his hero as the greatest captain in the world, but he admired him, above all, because he knew that the Emperor had only accepted war in the hope of one day being able to dictate universal peace; for if peace obtained by glory and strength is great, fruitful, and magnificent, peace yielded by weakness and cowardice is sterile, disastrous, and dishonoring. The son of a workman, Pierre Simon still further admired the Emperor, because that imperial parvenu had always known how to make that popular heart beat nobly, and, remembering the people, from the masses of whom he first arose, had invited them fraternally to share in regal and aristocratic pomp.

When Marshal Simon entered the room, his countenance was much agitated. At sight of Dagobert, a flash of joy illumined his features; he rushed towards the soldier, extending his arms, and exclaimed, “My friend! my old friend!”

Dagobert answered this affectionate salute with silent emotion. Then the marshal, disengaging himself from his arms, and fixing his moist eyes upon him, said to him in so agitated a voice that his lips trembled, “Well, didst arrive in time for the 13th of February?”

“Yes, general; but everything is postponed for four months.”

“And--my wife?--my child?” At this question Dagobert shuddered, hung down his head, and was silent.

“They are not, then, here?” asked Simon, with more surprise than uneasiness. “They told me they were not at your house, but that I should find you here--and I came immediately. Are they not with you?”

“General,” said Dagobert, becoming deadly pale; “general--” Drying the drops of cold sweat that stood upon his forehead, he was unable to articulate a word, for his voice was checked in his parched throat.

“You frighten me!” exclaimed Pierre Simon, becoming pale as the soldier, and seizing him by the arm.

At this, Adrienne advanced, with a countenance full of grief and sympathy; seeing the cruel embarrassment of Dagobert, she wished to come to his assistance, and she said to Pierre Simon, in a mild but agitated voice, “Marshal, I am Mdlle. de Cardoville--a relation of your dear children.”

Pierre Simon turned around suddenly, as much struck with the dazzling beauty of Adrienne as with the words she had just pronounced. He stammered out in his surprise, “You, madame--a relation--of my children!”

He laid a stress on the last words, and looked at Dagobert in a kind of stupor.

“Yes, marshal your children,” hastily replied Adrienne; “and the love of those charming twin sisters--”

“Twin sisters!” cried Pierre Simon, interrupting Mdlle. de Cardoville, with an outburst of joy impossible to describe. “Two daughters instead of one! Oh! what happiness for their mother! Pardon me, madame, for being so impolite,” he continued; “and so little grateful for what you tell me. But you will understand it; I have been seventeen years without seeing my wife; I come, and I find three loved beings, instead of two. Thanks, madame: would I could express all the gratitude I owe you! You are our relation; this is no doubt your house; my wife and children are with you. Is it so? You think that my sudden appearance might be prejudicial to them? I will wait--but madame, you, that I am certain are good as fair--pity my impatience--will make haste to prepare them to receive me--”

More and more agitated, Dagobert avoided the marshal’s gaze, and trembled like a leaf. Adrienne cast down her eyes without answering. Her heart sunk within her, at thought of dealing the terrible blow to Marshal Simon.

The latter, astonished at this silence, looking at Adrienne, then at the soldier, became first uneasy, and at last alarmed. “Dagobert!” he exclaimed, “something is concealed from me!”

“General!” stammered the soldier, “I assure you--I--I--.”

“Madame!” cried Pierre Simon, “I conjure you, in pity, speak to me frankly!--my anxiety is horrible. My first fears return upon me. What is it? Are my wife and daughters ill? Are they in danger? Oh! speak! speak!”

“Your daughters, marshal,” said Adrienne “have been rather unwell, since their long journey--but they are in no danger.”

“Oh, heaven! it is my wife!”

“Have courage, sir!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, sadly. “Alas! you must seek consolation in the affection of the two angels that remain to you.”

“General!” said Dagobert, in a firm grave tone, “I returned from Siberia--alone with your two daughters.”

“And their mother! their mother!” cried Simon, in a voice of despair.

“I set out with the two orphans the day after her death,” said the soldier.

“Dead?” exclaimed Pierre Simon, overwhelmed by the stroke; “dead?” A mournful silence was the only answer. The marshal staggered beneath this unexpected shock, leaned on the back of a chair for support, and then, sinking into the seat, concealed his face with his hands. For same minutes nothing was heard but stifled sobs, for not only had Pierre Simon idolized his wife, but by one of those singular compromises, that a man long cruelly tried sometimes makes with destiny, Pierre Simon, with the fatalism of loving souls, thought he had a right to reckon upon happiness after so many years of suffering, and had not for a moment doubted that he should find his wife and child--a double consolation reserved to him after going through so much. Very different from certain people, whom the habit of misfortune renders less exacting, Simon had reckoned upon happiness as complete as had been his misery. His wife and child were the sole, indispensable conditions of this felicity, and, had the mother survived her daughters, she would have no more replaced them in his eyes than they did her. Weakness or avarice of the heart, so it was; we insist upon this singularity, because the consequences of these incessant and painful regrets exercised a great influence on the future life of Marshal Simon. Adrienne and Dagobert had respected the overwhelming grief of this unfortunate man. When he had given a free course to his tears, he raised his manly countenance, now of marble paleness, drew his hand across his blood-shot eyes, rose, and said to Adrienne, “Pardon me, madame; I could not conquer my first emotion. Permit me to retire. I have cruel details to ask of the worthy friend who only quitted my wife at the last moment. Have the kindness to let me see my children--my poor orphans!--” And the marshal’s voice again broke.

“Marshal,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, “just now we were expecting your dear children: unfortunately, we have been deceived in our hopes.” Pierre Simon first looked at Adrienne without answering, as if he had not heard or understood.--“But console yourself,” resumed the young girl; “we have yet no reason to despair.”

“To despair?” repeated the marshaling by turns at Mdlle. de Cardoville despair?--“of what, in heaven’s name?”

“Of seeing your children, marshal,” said Adrienne; “the presence of their father will facilitate the search.”

“The search!” cried Pierre Simon. “Then, my daughters are not here?”

“No, sir,” said Adrienne, at length; “they have been taken from the affectionate care of the excellent man who brought them from Russia, to be removed to a convent.”

“Wretch!” cried Pierre Simon, advancing towards Dagobert, with a menacing and terrible aspect; “you shall answer to me for all!”

“Oh, sir, do not blame him!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.

“General,” said Dagobert, in a tone of mournful resignation, “I merit your anger. It is my fault. Forced to absent myself from Paris, I entrusted the children to my wife; her confessor turned her head, and persuaded her that your daughters would be better in a convent than at our house. She believed him, and let them be conveyed there. Now they say at the convent, that they do not know where they are. This is the truth: do what you will with me; I have only to silently endure.”

“This is infamous!” cried Pierre Simon, pointing to Dagobert, with a gesture of despairing indignation. “In whom can a man confide, if he has deceived me? Oh, my God!”

“Stay, marshal! do not blame him,” repeated Mdlle. de Cardoville; “do not think so! He has risked life and honor to rescue your children from the convent. He is not the only one who has failed in this attempt. Just now, a magistrate--despite his character and authority--was not more successful. His firmness towards the superior, his minute search of the convent, were all in vain. Up to this time it has been impossible to find these unfortunate children.”

“But where’s this convent!” cried Marshal Simon, raising his head, his face all pale and agitated with grief and rage. “Where is it? Do these vermin know what a father is, deprived of his children?” At the moment when Marshal Simon, turning towards Dagobert, pronounced these words, Rodin, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, appeared at the open door of the chamber. On hearing the marshal’s exclamation, he started with surprise, and a flash of diabolical joy lit up his grim countenance--for he had not expected to meet Pierre Simon so opportunely.

Mdlle. de Cardoville was the first to perceive the presence of Rodin. She exclaimed, as she hastened towards him: “Oh! I was not deceived. He is still our providence.”

“My poor children!” said Rodin, in a low voice, to the young girls, as he pointed to Pierre Simon, “this is your father!”

“Sir!” cried Adrienne, following close upon Rose and Blanche. “Your children are here!”

As Simon turned round abruptly, his two daughters threw themselves into his arms. Here was a long silence, broken only by sobs, and kisses, and exclamations of joy.

“Come forward, at least, and enjoy the good you have done!” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, drying her eyes, and turning towards Rodin, who, leaning against the door, seemed to contemplate this scene with deep emotion.

Dagobert, at sight of Rodin bringing back the children, was at first struck with stupor, and unable to move a step; but hearing the words of Adrienne, and yielding to a burst of almost insane gratitude, he threw himself on his knees before the Jesuit, joined his hands together, and exclaimed in a broken voice: “You have saved me, by bringing back these children.”

“Oh, bless you, sir!” said Mother Bunch, yielding to the general current.

“My good friends, this is too much,” said Rodin, as if his emotions were beyond his strength; “this is really too much for me. Excuse me to the marshal, and tell him that I am repaid by the sight of his happiness.”

“Pray, sir,” said Adrienne, “let the marshal at least have the opportunity to see and know you.”

“Oh, remain! you that have saved us all!” cried Dagobert, trying to stop Rodin.

“Providence, you know, my dear young lady, does not trouble itself about the good that is done, but the good that remains to do,” said Rodin, with an accent of playful kindness. “Must I not think of Prince Djalma? My task is not finished, and moments are precious. Come,” he added, disengaging himself gently from Dagobert’s hold, “come the day has been as good a one as I had hoped.. The Abbe d’Aigrigny is unmasked; you are free, my dear young lady; you have recovered your cross, my brave soldier; Mother Bunch is sure of a protectress; the marshal has found his children. I have my share in all these joys, it is a full share--my heart is satisfied. Adieu, my friends, till we meet again.” So saying, Rodin waved his hand affectionately to Adrienne, Dagobert, and the hunchback, and withdrew, waving his hand with a look of delight on Marshal Simon, who, seated between his daughters, held them in his arms, and covered them with tears and kisses, remaining quite indifferent to all that was passing around him.

An hour after this scene, Mdlle. de Cardoville and the sempstress, Marshal Simon, his two daughters and Dagobert quitted Dr. Beleinier’s asylum.

In terminating this episode, a few words by way of moral, with regard to lunatic asylums and convents may not be out of place. We have said, and we repeat, that the laws which apply to the superintendence of lunatic asylums appear to us insufficient. Facts that have recently transpired before the courts, and other facts that have been privately communicated to us, evidently prove this insufficiency. Doubtless, magistrates have full power to visit lunatic asylums. They are even required to make such visits. But we know, from the best authority, that the numerous and pressing occupations of magistrates, whose number is often out of proportion with the labor imposed upon them, render these inspections so rare, that they are, so to speak, illusory. It appears, therefore, to us advisable to institute a system of inspections, at least twice a month, especially designed for lunatic asylums, and entrusted to a physician and a magistrate, so that every complaint may be submitted to a double examination. Doubtless, the law is sufficient when its ministers are fully informed; but how many formalities, how many difficulties must be gone through, before they can be so, particularly when the unfortunate creature who needs their assistance, already suspected, isolated, and imprisoned, has no friend to come forward in defence, and demand, in his or her name, the protection of the authorities! Is it not imperative, therefore, on the civil power, to meet these necessities by a periodical and well-organized system of inspection?

What we here say of lunatic asylums will apply with still greater force to convents for women, seminaries, and houses inhabited by religious bodies. Recent and notorious facts, with which all France has rung, have, unfortunately, proved that violence, forcible detention, barbarous usage, abduction of minors, and illegal imprisonment, accompanied by torture, are occurrences which, if not frequent, are at least possible in religious houses. It required singular accidents, audacious and cynical brutalities; to bring these detestable actions to public knowledge. How many other victims have been, and, perhaps still are, entombed in those large silent mansions, where no profane look may penetrate, and which, through the privileges of the clergy, escape the superintendence of the civil power. Is it not deplorable that these dwellings should not also be subject to periodical inspection, by visitors consisting, if it be desired, of a priest, a magistrate, and some delegate of the municipal authorities? If nothing takes place, but what is legal, human, and charitable, in these establishments, which have all the character, and incur all the responsibility, of public institutions, why this resistance, this furious indignation of the church party, when any mention is made of touching what they call their privileges? There is something higher than the constitutions devised at Rome. We mean the Law of France--the common law--which grants to all protection, but which, in return, exacts from all respect and obedience.

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Book VII

XL. The East Indian in Paris XLI. Rising XLII. Doubts XLIII. The Letter XLIV. Adrienne and Djalma XLV. The Consultation XLVI. Mother Bunch’s Diary XLVII. The Diary Continued XLVIII. The Discovery XLIX. The Trysting-Place of the Wolves L. The Common Dwelling-House LI. The Secret LII. Revelations

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XL. THE EAST INDIAN IN PARIS

Since three days, Mdlle. de Cardoville had left Dr. Baleinier’s. The following scene took place in a little dwelling in the Rue Blanche, to which Djalma had been conducted in the name of his unknown protector. Fancy to yourself a pretty, circular apartment, hung with Indian drapery, with purple figures on a gray ground, just relieved by a few threads of gold. The ceiling, towards the centre, is concealed by similar hangings, tied together by a thick, silken cord; the two ends of this cord, unequal in length, terminated, instead of tassels, in two tiny Indian lamps of gold filigreed-work, marvellously finished. By one of those ingenious combinations, so common in barbarous countries, these lamps served also to burn perfumes. Plates of blue crystal, let in between the openings of the arabesque, and illumined by the interior light, shone with so limpid an azure, that the golden lamps seemed starred with transparent sapphires. Light clouds, of whitish vapor rose incessantly from these lamps, and spread all around their balmy odor.

Daylight was only admitted to this room (it was about two o’clock in the afternoon) through a little greenhouse, on the other side of a door of plate-glass, made to slide into the thickness of the wall, by means of a groove. A Chinese shade was arranged so as to hide or replace this glass at pleasure. Some dwarf palm tress, plantains, and other Indian productions, with thick leaves of a metallic green, arranged in clusters in this conservatory, formed, as it were, the background to two large variegated bushes of exotic flowers, which were separated by a narrow path, paved with yellow and blue Japanese tiles, running to the foot of the glass. The daylight, already much dimmed by the leaves through which it passed, took a hue of singular mildness as it mingled with the azure lustre of the perfumed lamps, and the crimson brightness of the fire in the tall chimney of oriental porphyry. In the obscurity of this apartment, impregnated with sweet odors and the aromatic vapor of Persian tobacco, a man with brown, hanging locks, dressed in a long robe of dark green, fastened round the waist by a parti-colored sash, was kneeling upon a magnificent Turkey carpet, filling the golden bowl of a hookah; the long, flexible tube of this pipe, after rolling its folds upon the carpet, like a scarlet serpent with silver scales, rested between the slender fingers of Djalma, who was reclining negligently on a divan. The young prince was bareheaded; his jet-black hair, parted on the middle of his forehead, streamed waving about his face and neck of antique beauty--their warm transparent colors resembling amber or topaz. Leaning his elbow on a cushion, he supported his chin with the palm of his right hand. The flowing sleeve of his robe, falling back from his arm, which was round as that of a woman, revealed mysterious signs formerly tattooed there in India by a Thug’s needle. The son of Radja-sing held in his left hand the amber mouthpiece of his pipe. His robe of magnificent cashmere, with a border of a thousand hues, reaching to his knee, was fastened about his slim and well-formed figure by the large folds of an orange-colored shawl. This robe was half withdrawn from one of the elegant legs of this Asiatic Antinous, clad in a kind of very close fitting gaiter of crimson velvet, embroidered with silver, and terminating in a small white morocco slipper, with a scarlet heel. At once mild and manly, the countenance of Djalma was expressive of that melancholy and contemplative calmness habitual to the Indian and the Arab, who possess the happy privilege of uniting, by a rare combination, the meditative indolence of the dreamer with the fiery energy of the man of action--now delicate, nervous, impressionable as women--now determined, ferocious, and sanguinary as bandits.

And this semi-feminine comparison, applicable to the moral nature of the Arab and the Indian, so long as they are not carried away by the ardor of battle and the excitement of carnage, is almost equally applicable to their physical constitution; for if, like women of good blood, they have small extremities, slender limbs, fine and supple forms, this delicate and often charming exterior always covers muscles of steel, full of an elasticity, and vigor truly masculine. Djalma’s oblong eyes, like black diamonds set in bluish mother-of-pearl, wandered mechanically from the exotic flowers to the ceiling; from time to time he raised the amber mouthpiece of the hookah to his lips; then, after a slow aspiration, half opening his rosy lips, strongly contrasted with the shining enamel of his teeth, he sent forth a little spiral line of smoke, freshly scented by the rose-water through which it had passed.

“Shall I put more tobacco in the hookah?” said the kneeling figure, turning towards Djalma, and revealing the marked and sinister features of Faringhea the Strangler.

The young prince remained dumb, either that, from an oriental contempt for certain races, he disdained to answer the half-caste, or that, absorbed in his reverie, he did not even hear him. The Strangler became again silent; crouching cross-legged upon the carpet, with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, he kept his eyes fixed on Djalma, and seemed to await the reply or the orders of him whose sire had been surnamed the Father of the Generous. How had Faringhea, the sanguinary worshipper of Bowanee, the Divinity of Murder, been brought to seek or to accept such humble functions? How came this man, possessed of no vulgar talents, whose passionate eloquence and ferocious energy had recruited many assassins for the service of the Good Work, to resign himself to so base a condition? Why, too, had this man, who, profiting by the young prince’s blindness with regard to himself, might have so easily sacrificed him as an offering to Bowanee--why had he spared the life of Radja-sings son? Why, in fine, did he expose himself to such frequent encounters with Rodin, whom he had only known under the most unfavorable auspices? The sequel of this story will answer all these questions. We can only say at present, that, after a long interview with Rodin, two nights before, the Thug had quitted him with downcast eyes and cautious bearing.

After having remained silent for some time, Djalma, following with his eye the cloud of whitish smoke that he had just sent forth into space, addressed Faringhea, without looking at him, and said to him in the language, as hyperbolical as concise, of Orientals: “Time passes. The old man with the good heart does not come. But he will come. His word is his word.”

“His word is his word, my lord,” repeated Faringhea, in an affirmative tone. “When he came to fetch you, three days ago, from the house whither those wretches, in furtherance of their wicked designs, had conveyed you in a deep sleep--after throwing me, your watchful and devoted servant, into a similar state--he said to you: ‘The unknown friend, who sent for you to Cardoville Castle, bids me come to you, prince. Have confidence, and follow me. A worthy abode is prepared for you.’--And again, he said to you, my lord: ‘Consent not to leave the house, until my return. Your interest requires it. In three days you will see me again, and then be restored to perfect freedom.’ You consented to those terms, my lord, and for three days you have not left the house.”

“And I wait for the old man with impatience,” said Djalma, “for this solitude is heavy with me. There must be so many things to admire in Paris. Above all.”

Djalma did not finish the sentence, but relapsed into a reverie. After some moments’ silence, the son of Radja-sing said suddenly to Faringhea, in the tone of an impatient yet indolent sultan: “Speak to me!”

“Of what shall I speak, my lord?”

“Of what you will,” said Djalma, with careless contempt, as he fixed on the ceiling his eyes, half-veiled with languor. “One thought pursues me--I wish to be diverted from it. Speak to me.”

Faringhea threw a piercing glance on the countenance of the young Indian, and saw that his cheeks were colored with a slight blush. “My lord,” said the half-caste, “I can guess your thought.”

Djalma shook his head, without looking at the Strangler. The latter resumed: “You are thinking of the women of Paris, my lord.”

“Be silent, slave!” said Djalma, turning abruptly on the sofa, as if some painful wound had been touched to the quick. Faringhea obeyed.

After the lapse of some moments. Djalma broke forth again with impatience, throwing aside the tube of the hookah, and veiling both eyes with his hands: “Your words are better than silence. Cursed be my thoughts, and the spirit which calls up these phantoms!”

“Why should you fly these thoughts, my lord? You are nineteen years of age, and hitherto all your youth has been spent in war and captivity. Up to this time, you have remained as chaste as Gabriel, that young Christian priest, who accompanied us on our voyage.”

Though Faringhea did not at all depart from his respectful deference for the prince, the latter felt that there was something of irony in the tone of the half-caste, as he pronounced the word “chaste.”

Djalma said to him with a mixture of pride and severity: “I do not wish to pass for a barbarian, as they call us, with these civilized people; therefore I glory in my chastity.”

“I do not understand, my lord.”

“I may perhaps love some woman, pure as was my mother when she married my father; and to ask for purity from a woman, a man must be chaste as she.”

At this, Faringhea could not refrain from a sardonic smile.

“Why do you laugh, slave?” said the young prince, imperiously.

“Among civilized people, as you call them, my lord, the man who married in the flower of his innocence would be mortally wounded with ridicule.”

“It is false, slave! He would only be ridiculous if he married one that was not pure as himself.”

“Then, my lord, he would not only be wounded--he would be killed outright, for he would be doubly and unmercifully laughed at.”

“It is false! it is false. Where did you learn all this?”

“I have seen Parisian women at the Isle of France, and at Pondicherry, my lord. Moreover, I learned a good deal during our voyage; I talked with a young officer, while you conversed with the young priest.”

“So, like the sultans of our harems, civilized men require of women the innocence they have themselves lost.”

“They require it the more, the less they have of it, my lord.”

“To require without any return, is to act as a master to his slave; by what right?”

“By the right of the strongest--as it is among us, my lord.”

“And what do the women do?”

“They prevent the men from being too ridiculous, when they marry, in the eyes of the world.”

“But they kill a woman that is false?” said Djalma, raising himself abruptly, and fixing upon Faringhea a savage look, that sparkled with lurid fire.

“They kill her, my lord, as with us--when they find her out.”

“Despots like ourselves! Why then do these civilized men not shut up their women, to force them to a fidelity which they do not practise?”

“Because their civilization is barbarous, and their barbarism civilized, my lord.”

“All this is sad enough, if true,” observed Djalma, with a pensive air, adding, with a species of enthusiasm, employing, as usual, the mystic and figurative language familiar to the people of his country; “yes, your talk afflicts me, slave--for two drops of dew blending in the cup of a flower are as hearts that mingle in a pure and virgin love; and two rays of light united in one inextinguishable flame, are as the burning and eternal joys of lovers joined in wedlock.”

Djalma spoke of the pure enjoyments of the soul with inexpressible grace, yet it was when he painted less ideal happiness, that his eyes shone like stars; he shuddered slightly, his nostrils swelled, the pale gold of his complexion became vermilion, and the young prince sank into a deep reverie.

Faringhea, having remarked this emotion, thus spoke: “If, like the proud and brilliant king-bird of our woods, you prefer numerous and varied pleasures to solitary and monotonous amours--handsome, young, rich as you are, my lord, were you to seek out the seductive Parisians--voluptuous phantoms of your nights--charming tormentors of your dreams--were you to cast upon them looks bold as a challenge, supplicating as prayers, ardent as desires--do you not think that many a half-veiled eye would borrow fire from your glance? Then it would no longer be the monotonous delights of a single love, the heavy chain of our life--no, it would be the thousand pleasures of the harem--a harem peopled with free and proud beauties, whom happy love would make your slaves. So long constrained, there is no such thing as excess to you. Believe me, it would then be you, the ardent, the magnificent son of our country, that would become the love and pride of these women--the most seductive in the world, who would soon have for you no looks but those of languor and passion.”

Djalma had listened to Faringhea with silent eagerness. The expression of his features had completely changed; it was no longer the melancholy and dreaming youth, invoking the sacred remembrance of his mother, and finding only in the dew of heaven, in the calyx of flowers, images sufficiently pure to paint the chastity of the love he dreamed of; it was no longer even the young man, blushing with a modest ardor at the thought of the permitted joys of a legitimate union. No! the incitements of Faringhea had kindled a subterraneous fire; the inflamed countenance of Djalma, his eyes now sparkling and now veiled, his manly and sonorous respiration, announced the heat of his blood, the boiling up of the passions, only the more energetic, that they had been hitherto restrained.

So, springing suddenly from the divan, supple, vigorous, and light as a young tiger, Djalma clutched Faringhea by the throat exclaiming: “Thy words are burning poison!”

“My lord,” said Faringhea, without opposing the least resistance, “your slave is your slave.” This submission disarmed the prince.

“My life belongs to you,” repeated the half-caste.

“I belong to you, slave!” cried Djalma, repulsing him. “Just now, I hung upon your lips, devouring your dangerous lies.”

“Lies, my lord? Only appear before these women, and their looks will confirm my words.”

“These women love me!--me, who have only lived in war and in the woods?”

“The thought that you, so young, have already waged bloody war on men and tigers, will make them adore, my lord.”

“You lie!”

“I tell you, my lord, on seeing your hand, as delicate as theirs, but which has been so often bathed in hostile blood, they will wish to caress it; and they will kiss it again, when they think that, in our forests, with loaded rifle, and a poniard between your teeth, you smiled at the roaring of a lion or panther for whom you lay in wait.”

“But I am a savage--a barbarian.”

“And for that very reason you will have them at your feet. They will feel themselves both terrified and charmed by all the violence and fury, the rage of jealousy, the passion and the love, to which a man of your blood, your youth, your ardor must be subject. To-day mild and tender, to-morrow fierce and suspicious, another time ardent and passionate, such you will be--and such you ought to be, if you wish to win them. Yes; let a kiss of rage be heard between two kisses: let a dagger glitter in the midst of caresses, and they will fall before you, palpitating with pleasure, love, and fear--and you will be to them, not a man, but a god.”

“Dost think so?” cried Djalma, carried away in spite of himself by the Thug’s wild eloquence.

“You know, you feel, that I speak the truth,” cried the latter, extending his arm towards the young Indian.

“Why, yes!” exclaimed Djalma, his eyes sparkling, his nostrils swelling, as he moved about the apartment with savage bounds. “I know not if I possess my reason, or if I am intoxicated, but it seems to me that you speak truth. Yes, I feel that they will love me with madness and fury, because my love will be mad and furious they will tremble with pleasure and fear, because the very thought of it makes me tremble with delight and terror. Slave, it is true; there is something exciting and fearful in such a love!” As he spoke forth these words, Djalma was superb in his impetuous sensuality. It is a rare thing to see a young man arrive in his native purity, at the age in which are developed, in all their powerful energy, those admirable instincts of love, which God has implanted in the heart of his creatures, and which, repressed, disguised, or perverted, may unseat the reason, or generate mad excesses and frightful crimes--but which, directed towards a great and noble passion, may and must, by their very violence, elevate man, through devotion and tenderness, to the limits of the ideal.

“Oh! this woman--this woman, before whom I am to tremble--and who, in turn, must tremble before me--where is she?” cried Djalma, with redoubled excitement. “Shall I ever find her?”

“One is a good deal, my lord,” replied Faringhea, with his sardonic coolness; “he who looks for one woman, will rarely succeed in this country; he who seeks women, is only at a loss to choose.”

As the half-caste made this impertinent answer to Djalma, a very elegant blue-and-white carriage stopped before the garden-gate of the house, which opened upon a deserted street. It was drawn by a pair of beautiful blood-horses, of a cream color, with black manes and tails. The scutcheons on the harness were of silver, as were also the buttons of the servants’ livery, which was blue with white collars. On the blue hammercloth, also laced with white, as well as on the panels of the doors, were lozenge-shaped coats of arms, without crest or coronet, as usually borne by unmarried daughters of noble families. Two women were in this carriage--Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine.

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XLI. RISING

To explain the arrival of Mdlle. de Cardoville at the garden-door of the house occupied by Djalma, we must cast a retrospective glance at previous events. On leaving Doctor Baleinier’s, Mdlle. de Cardoville had gone to take up her residence in the Rue d’Anjou. During the last few months of her stay with her aunt, Adrienne had secretly caused this handsome dwelling to be repaired and furnished, and its luxury and elegance were now increased by all the wonders of the lodge of Saint-Dizier House. The world found it very strange, that a lady of the age and condition of Mdlle. de Cardoville should take the resolution of living completely alone and free, and, in fact, of keeping house exactly like a bachelor, a young widow, or an emancipated minor. The world pretended not to know that Mdlle. de Cardoville possessed what is often wanting in men, whether of age or twice of age--a firm character, a lofty mind, a generous heart, strong and vigorous good sense.

Judging that she would require faithful assistance in the internal management of her house, Adrienne had written to the bailiff of Cardoville, and his wife, old family servants, to come immediately to Paris: M. Dupont thus filled the office of steward, and Mme. Dupont that of housekeeper. An old friend of Adrienne’s father, the Count de Montbron, an accomplished old man, once very much in fashion, and still a connoisseur in all sorts of elegances, had advised Adrienne to act like a princess, and take an equerry; recommended for this office a man of good rearing and ripe age, who, himself an amateur in horses, had been ruined in England, at Newmarket, the Derby, and Tattersall’s, and reduced, as sometimes happened to gentlemen in that country, to drive the stage coaches, thus finding an honest method of earning his bread, and at the same time gratifying his taste for horses. Such was M. de Bonneville, M. de Montbron’s choice. Both from age and habits, this equerry could accompany Mdlle. de Cardoville on horseback, and better than any one else, superintend the stable. He accepted, therefore, the employment with gratitude, and, thanks to his skill and attention, the equipages of Mdlle. de Cardoville were not eclipsed in style by anything of the kind in Paris. Mdlle. de Cardoville had taken back her women, Hebe, Georgette, and Florine. The latter was at first to have re-entered the service of the Princess de Saint-Dizier, to continue her part of spy for the superior of St. Mary’s Convent; but, in consequence of the new direction given by Rodin to the Rennepont affair, it was decided that Florine, if possible, should return to the service of Mdlle. de Cardoville. This confidential place, enabling this unfortunate creature to render important and mysterious services to the people who held her fate in their hands, forced her to infamous treachery. Unfortunately, all things favored this machination. We know that Florine, in her interview with Mother Bunch, a few days after Mdlle. de Cardoville was imprisoned at Dr. Baleinier’s, had yielded to a twinge of remorse, and given to the sempstress advice likely to be of use to Adrienne’s interests--sending word to Agricola not to deliver to Madame de Saint Dizier the papers found in the hiding-place of the pavilion, but only to entrust them to Mdlle. de Cardoville herself. The latter, afterwards informed of these details by Mother Bunch, felt a double degree of confidence and interest in Florine, took her back into her service with gratitude, and almost immediately charged her with a confidential mission--that of superintending the arrangements of the house hired for Djalma’s habitation. As for Mother Bunch (yielding to the solicitations of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and finding she was no longer of use to Dagobert’s wife, of whom we shall speak hereafter), she had consented to take up her abode in the hotel on the Rue d’Anjou, along with Adrienne, who with that rare sagacity of the heart peculiar to her, entrusted the young sempstress, who served her also as a secretary, with the department of alms-giving.

Mdlle. de Cardoville had at first thought of entertaining her merely as a friend, wishing to pay homage in her person to probity with labor, resignation in sorrow, and intelligence in poverty; but knowing the workgirl’s natural dignity, she feared, with reason that, notwithstanding the delicate circumspection with which the hospitality would be offered, Mother Bunch might perceive in it alms in disguise. Adrienne preferred, therefore, whilst she treated her as a friend, to give her a confidential employment. In this manner the great delicacy of the needlewoman would be spared, since she could earn her livelihood by performing duties which would at the same time satisfy her praiseworthy instincts of charity. In fact, she could fulfil, better than any one, the sacred mission confided to her by Adrienne. Her cruel experience in misfortune, the goodness of her angelic soul, the elevation of her mind, her rare activity, her penetration with regard to the painful secrets of poverty, her perfect knowledge of the industrial classes, were sufficient security for the tact and intelligence with which the excellent creature would second the generous intentions of Mdlle. de Cardoville.

Let us now speak of the divers events which, on that day, preceded the coming of Mdlle. de Cardoville to the garden-gate of the house in the Rue Blanche. About ten o’clock in the morning, the blinds of Adrienne’s bedchamber, closely shut, admitted no ray of daylight to this apartment, which was only lighted by a spherical lamp of oriental alabaster, suspended from the ceiling by three long silver chains. This apartment, terminating in a dome, was in the form of a tent with eight sides. From the ceiling to the floor, it was hung with white silk, covered with long draperies of muslin, fastened in large puffs to the wall, by bands caught in at regular distances by plates of ivory. Two doors, also of ivory, admirably encrusted with mother-of-pearl, led, one to the bath-room, the other to the toilet-chamber, a sort of little temple dedicated to the worship of beauty, and furnished as it had been at the pavilion of Saint Dizier House. Two other compartments of the wall were occupied by windows, completely veiled with drapery. Opposite the bed, enclosing splendid fire-dogs of chased silver, was a chimney-piece of white marble, like crystallized snow, on which were sculptured two magnificent caryatides, and a frieze representing birds and flowers. Above this frieze, carved in openwork with extreme delicacy, was a marble basket, filled with red camellias. Their leaves of shining green their flowers of a delicate rosy hue, were the only colors that disturbed the harmonious whiteness of this virgin retreat. Finally, half surrounded by waves of white muslin, which poured down from the dome like a mass of light clouds, the bed was visible--very low, and resting on feet of carved ivory, which stood upon the ermine carpet that covered the floor. With the exception of a plinth, also in ivory, admirably inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the bed was entirely covered with white satin, wadded and quilted like an immense scent-bag. The cambric sheets, trimmed with lace, being a little disturbed on one side, discovered the corner of a white taffety mattress, and a light counterpane of watered stuff--for an equal temperature always reigned in this apartment, warm as a fine spring day.

From a singular scruple, arising from the same sentiment which had caused Adrienne to have inscribed on a masterpiece of goldsmith’s work the name of the maker instead of that of the seller, she had wished all these articles, so costly and sumptuous, to be manufactured by workmen chosen amongst the most intelligent, honest, and industrious of their class, whom she had supplied with the necessary materials. In this manner she had been able to add to the price of the work the profit usually gained by the middle man, who speculates in such labor; this notable augmentation of wages had spread happiness and comfort through a hundred necessitous families, who, blessing the munificence of Adrienne, gave her, as she said, the right to enjoy her luxury as a good action. Nothing could be fresher or more charming than the interior of this bedchamber. Mdlle. de Cardoville had just awoke; she reposed in the middle of this flood of muslin, lace, cambric, and white silk, in a position full of sweet grace. Never during the night did she cover that beautiful golden hair (a certain recipe, said the Greeks, for preserving it for a long while in magnificence). Every evening, her women arranged her long silky curls in flat tresses, forming two broad bands, which, descending sufficiently low almost entirely to conceal the small ear, the rosy lobe of which was alone visible, were joined to the large plait behind the head.

This head-dress, borrowed from Greek antiquity, set off to admiration the pure, fine features of Mdlle. de Cardoville, and made her look so much younger, that, instead of eighteen, one would hardly have given her fifteen years of age. Gathered thus closely about the temples, the hair lost its transparent and brilliant hues, and would have appeared almost brown, but for the golden tints which played here and there, amid the undulations of the tresses. Lulled in that morning torpor, the warm languor of which is so favorable to soft reveries, Adrienne leaned with her elbow on the pillow, and her head a little on one side, which displayed to advantage the ideal contour of her bared neck and shoulders; her smiling lips, moist and rosy, were, like her cheeks, cold as if they had just been bathed in ice-water; her snow-white lids half veiled the large, dark, soft eyes, which now gazed languidly upon vacancy, and now fixed themselves with pleasure upon the rosy flowers and green leaves in the basket of camellias. Who can paint the matchless serenity of Adrienne’s awaking--when the fair and chaste soul roused itself in the fair and chaste body? It was the awakening of a heart as pure as the fresh and balmy breath of youth, that made her bosom rise and fall in its white, immaculate purity. What creed, what dogma, what formula, what religious symbol, oh! paternal and divine Creator! can ever give a more complete idea of Thy harmonious and ineffable power, than the image of a young maiden awaking in the bloom of her beauty, and in all the grace of that modesty with which Thou hast endowed her, seeking, in her dreamy innocence, for the secret of that celestial instinct of love, which Thou hast placed in the bosom of all Thy creatures--oh! Thou whose love is eternal, and goodness infinite!

The confused thoughts which, since her sleep, had appeared gently to agitate Adrienne, absorbed her more and more; her head resting on her bosom, her beautiful arm upon the couch, her features without becoming precisely sad, assumed an expression of touching melancholy. Her dearest desire was accomplished; she was about to live independent and alone. But this affectionate, delicate, expansive, and marvellously complete nature, felt that God had not given her such rare treasures, to bury them in a cold and selfish solitude. She felt how much that was great and beautiful might be inspired by love, both in herself, and in him that should be worthy of her. Confiding in her courage, and the nobleness of her character, proud of the example that she wished to give to other women, knowing that all eyes would be fixed enviously upon her, she felt, as it were, only too sure of herself; far from fearing that she should make a bad choice, she rather feared, that she should not find any from whom to choose, so pure and perfect was her taste. And, even had she met with her own ideal, she had views so singular and so just, so extraordinary and yet so sensible, with regard to the independence and dignity of woman, that, inexorably determined to make no concession upon this head, she asked herself if the man of her choice would ever accept the hitherto unheard-of conditions that she meant to impose. In recalling to her remembrance the possible suitors that she had met in the world, she remembered also the dark, but true picture, which Rodin had drawn with so much caustic bitterness. She remembered, too, not without a certain pride, the encouragement this man had given her, not by flattery, but by advising her to follow out and accomplish a great, generous, and beautiful design. The current or the caprice of fancy soon brought Adrienne to think of Djalma. Whilst she congratulated herself on having paid to her royal kinsman the duties of a kingly hospitality, the young lady was far from regarding the prince as the hero of her future.

And first she said to herself, not unreasonably, that this half-savage boy, with passions, if not untamable, yet untamed, transported on a sudden into the midst of a refined civilization, would be inevitably destined to fiery trials and violent transformations. Now Mdlle. de Cardoville, having nothing masculine or despotic in her character, had no wish to civilize the young savage. Therefore, notwithstanding the interest, or rather because of the interest, which she felt for the young Indian, she was firmly resolved, not to make herself known to him, till after the lapse of two or three months; and she determined also, that, even if Djalma should learn by chance that she was his relation, she would not receive his visit. She desired, if not to try him, at least to leave him free in all his acts, so that he might expend the first fire of his passions, good or bad. But not wishing to abandon him quite without defence to the perils of Parisian life, she requested the Count de Montbron, in confidence, to introduce Prince Djalma to the best company in Paris, and to enlighten him by the counsels of his long experience. M. de Montbron had received the request of Mdlle. de Cardoville with the greatest pleasure, taking delight, he said, in starting his royal tiger in drawing-rooms, and bringing him into contact with the flower of the fine ladies and gentlemen of Paris, offering at the same time to wager any amount in favor of his half-savage pupil.

“As for myself, my dear Count,” said Adrienne to M. de Montbron, with her usual frankness, “my resolution is not to be shaken. You have told me the effect that will be produced in the fashionable world, by the first appearance of Prince Djalma, an Indian nineteen years of age, of surprising beauty, proud and wild as a young lion arriving from his forest; it is new, it is extraordinary, you added; and, therefore, all the coquetries of civilized life will pursue him with an eagerness which makes me tremble for him. Now, seriously, my dear count it will not suit me to appear as the rival of so many fine ladies, who are about to expose themselves intrepidly to the claws of the young tiger. I take great interest in him, because he is my cousin, because he is handsome, because he is brave, and above all because he does not wear that horrible European dress. No doubt these are rare qualities--but not sufficient to make me change my mind. Besides, the good old philosopher, my new friend, has given me advice about this Indian, which you, my dear Count, who are not a philosopher, will yet approve. It is, for some time, to receive visits at home, but not to visit other people--which will spare me the awkwardness of meeting my royal cousin, and allow me to make a careful choice, even amongst my usual society. As my house will be an excellent one, my position most unusual, and as I shall be suspected of all sorts of naughty secrets, I shall be in no want of inquisitive visitors, who will amuse me a good deal, I assure you.”

And as M. de Montbron asked, if the exile of the poor young Indian tiger was to last long, Adrienne answered: “As I shall see most of the persons, to whom you will introduce him, I shall be pleased to hear different opinions about him. If certain men speak well of him, and certain women ill, I shall have good hope of him. In a word, the opinion that I come to, in sifting the true from the false (you may leave that to my sagacity), will shorten or prolong the exile of my royal cousin.”

Such were the formal intentions of Mdlle. de Cardoville with regard to Djalma, even on the day she went with Florine to the house he occupied. In a word, she had positively resolved not to be known to him for some months to come.

After long reflecting that morning, on the chances that might yet offer themselves to satisfy the wants of her heart, Adrienne fell into a new, deep reverie. This charming creature, so full of life and youth, heaved a low sigh, raised her arms above her head, turned her profile towards the pillow, and remained for some moments as if powerless and vanquished. Motionless beneath the white tissues that wrapped her round, she looked like a fair, marble statue, visible beneath a light layer of snow. Suddenly, Adrienne raised herself up, drew her hand across her brow, and rang for her women. At the first silver tone of the bell, the two ivory doors opened. Georgette appeared on the threshold of the dressing-room, from which Frisky, a little black and-tan dog, with his golden collar, escaped with a joyful barking. Hebe appeared at the same time on the threshold of the bath-room. At the further end of this apartment, lighted from above, might be seen upon a green mat of Spanish leather, with golden ornaments, a crystal bath in the form of a long shell. The three only divisions in this masterpiece of glass work, were concealed by the elegant device of several large reeds in silver, which rose from the wide base of the bath, also of wrought silver, representing children and dolphins playing, among branches of natural coral, and azure shells. Nothing could be more pleasing than the effect of these purple reeds and ultramarine shells, upon a dull ground of silver; the balsamic vapor, which rose from the warm, limpid, and perfumed water, that filled the crystal shell, spread through the bath-room, and floated like a light cloud into the sleeping-chamber.

Seeing Hebe in her fresh and pretty costume, bringing her a long bathing gown, hanging upon a bare and dimpled arm, Adrienne said to her: “Where is Florine, my child?”

“Madame, she went downstairs two hours ago; she was wanted for something very pressing.”

“Who wanted her?”

“The young person who serves Madame as secretary. She went out this morning very early; and, as soon as she returned, she sent for Florine, who has not come back since.”

“This absence no doubt relates to some important affair of my angelic minister of succor,” said Adrienne, smiling, and thinking of the hunchback. Then she made a sign to Hebe to approach her bed.

About two hours after rising, Adrienne, having had herself dressed, as usual, with rare elegance, dismissed her women, and sent for Mother Bunch, whom she treated with marked deference, always receiving her alone. The young sempstress entered hastily, with a pale, agitated countenance, and said, in a trembling voice: “Oh, madame! my presentiments were justified. You are betrayed.”

“Of what presentiments do you speak, my dear child!” said Adrienne, with surprise. “Who betrays me?”

“M. Rodin!” answered the workgirl.

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XLII. DOUBTS

On hearing the accusation brought against Rodin, Mdlle. de Cardoville looked at the denunciator with new astonishment. Before continuing this scene, we may say that Mother Bunch was no longer clad in her poor, old clothes, but was dressed in black, with as much simplicity as taste. The sad color seemed to indicate her renunciation of all human vanity, the eternal mourning of her heart, and the austere duties imposed upon her by her devotion to misfortune. With her black gown, she wore a large falling collar, white and neat as her little gauze cap, with its gray ribbons, which, revealing her bands of fine brown hair, set off to advantage her pale and melancholy countenance, with its soft blue eyes. Her long, delicate hands, preserved from the cold by gloves, were no longer, as formerly, of a violet hue, but of an almost transparent whiteness.

Her agitated features expressed a lively uneasiness. Extremely surprised, Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed: “What do you say?”

“M. Rodin betrays you, madame.”

“M. Rodin? Impossible!”

“Oh, madame! my presentiments did not deceive me.”

“Your presentiments?”

“The first time I saw M. Rodin, I was frightened in spite of myself. My heart sank within me, and I trembled--for you, madame.”

“For me?” said Adrienne. “Why did you not tremble for yourself, my poor friend?”

“I do not know, madame; but such was my first impression. And this fear was so invincible, that, notwithstanding the kindness that M. Rodin showed my sister, he frightened me, none the less.”

“That is strange. I can understand as well as any one the almost irresistible influence of sympathies or aversions; but, in this instance--However,” resumed Adrienne, after a moment’s reflection, “no matter for that; how have these suspicions been changed to certainty?”

“Yesterday, I went to take to my sister Cephyse, the assistance that M. Rodin had given me, in the name of a charitable person. I did not find Cephyse at the friend’s who had taken care of her; I therefore begged the portress, to inform my sister that I would call again this morning. That is what I did; but you must excuse me, madame, some necessary details.”

“Speak, speak, my dear.”

“The young girl who had received my sister,” said Mother Bunch, with embarrassment, casting down her eyes and blushing, “does not lead a very regular life. A person, with whom she has gone on several parties of pleasure, one M. Dumoulin, had informed her of the real name of M. Rodin, who has a kind of lodging in that house, and there goes by the name of Charlemagne.”

“That is just what he told us at Dr. Baleinier’s; and, the day before yesterday, when I again alluded to the circumstance, he explained to me the necessity in which he was, for certain reasons, to have a humble retreat in that remote quarter--and I could not but approve of his motives.”

“Well, then! yesterday, M. Rodin received a visit from the Abbe d’Aigrigny.”

“The Abbe d’Aigrigny!” exclaimed Mdlle. de Cardoville.

“Yes, madame; he remained for two hours shut up with M. Rodin.”

“My child, you must have been deceived.”

“I was told, madame, that the Abbe d’Aigrigny had called in the morning to see M. Rodin; not finding him at home, he had left with the portress his name written on a slip of paper, with the words, ‘I shall return in two hours.’ The girl of whom I spoke, madame, had seen this slip of paper. As all that concerns M. Rodin appears mysterious enough, she had the curiosity to wait for M. d’Aigrigny in the porter’s lodge, and, about two hours afterwards, he indeed returned, and saw M. Rodin.”

“No, no,” said Adrienne, shuddering; “it is impossible. There must be some mistake.”

“I think not, madame; for, knowing how serious such a discovery would be, I begged the young girl to describe to me the appearance of M. d’Aigrigny.”

“Well?”

“The Abbe d’Aigrigny, she told me, is about forty years of age. He is tall and upright, dresses plainly, but with care; has gray eyes, very large and piercing, thick eyebrows, chestnut-colored hair, a face closely shaved, and a very decided aspect.”

“It is true,” said Adrienne, hardly able to believe what she heard. “The description is exact.”

“Wishing to have all possible details,” resumed Mother Bunch, “I asked the portress if M. Rodin and the Abbe d’Aigrigny appeared to be at variance when they quitted the house? She replied no, but that the Abbe said to M. Rodin, as they parted at the door: ‘I will write to you tomorrow, as agreed.’”

“Is it a dream? Good heaven!” said Adrienne, drawing her hands across her forehead in a sort of stupor. “I cannot doubt your word, my poor friend; and yet it is M. Rodin who himself sent you to that house, to give assistance to your sister: would he have wilfully laid open to you his secret interviews with the Abbe d’Aigrigny? It would have been bad policy in a traitor.”

“That is true, and the same reflection occurred to me. And yet the meeting of these two men appeared so dangerous to you, madame, that I returned home full of terror.”

Characters of extreme honesty are very hard to convince of the treachery of others: the more infamous the deception, the more they are inclined to doubt it. Adrienne was one of these characters, rectitude being a prime quality of her mind. Though deeply impressed by the communication, she remarked: “Come, my dear, do not let us frighten ourselves too soon, or be over-hasty in believing evil. Let us try to enlighten ourselves by reasoning, and first of all remember facts. M. Rodin opened for me the doors of Dr. Baleinier’s asylum; in my presence, he brought, his charge against the Abbe d’Aigrigny; he forced the superior of the convent to restore Marshal Simon’s daughters, he succeeded in discovering the retreat of Prince Djalma--he faithfully executed my intentions with regard to my young cousin; only yesterday, he gave me the most useful advice. All this is true--is it not?”

“Certainly, madame.”

“Now suppose that M. Rodin, putting things in their worst light, had some after-thought--that he hopes to be liberally rewarded, for instance; hitherto, at least, he has shown complete disinterestedness.”

“That also is true, madame,” said poor Mother Bunch, obliged, like Adrienne, to admit the evidence of fixed facts.

“Now let us look to the possibility of treachery. Unite with the Abbe d’Aigrigny to betray me! Betray me?--how? and for what purpose? What have I to fear? Is it not the Abbe d’Aigrigny, on the contrary, is it not Madame de Saint-Dizier, who have to render an account for the injuries they have done me?”

“But, then, madame, how do you explain the meeting of these two men, who have so many motives for mutual aversion? May there not be some dark project still behind? Besides, madame, I am not the only one to think so.”

“How is that?”

“This morning, on my return, I was so much agitated, that Mdlle. Florine asked me the cause of my trouble. I know, madame, how much she is devoted to you.”

“Nobody could be more so; only recently, you yourself informed me of the signal service she rendered, during my confinement at Dr. Baleinier’s.”

“Well, madame, this morning, on my return, thinking it necessary to have you informed as soon as possible, I told all to Mdlle. Florine. Like me--even more, perhaps--she was terrified at the meeting of Rodin and M. d’Aigrigny.

“After a moment’s reflection, she said to me: ‘It is, I think, useless to disturb my mistress at present; it can be of no importance whether she is informed of this treachery two or three hours sooner or later; during that time I may be able to discover something more. I have an idea, which I think a good one. Make my excuses to my mistress; I shall soon be back.’ Then Florine sent for a hackney-coach, and went out.”

“Florine is an excellent girl,” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, with a smile, for further reflection had quite reassured her: “but, on this occasion, I think that her zeal and good heart have deceived her, as they have you, my poor friend. Do you know, that we are two madcaps, you and I, not to have thought of one thing, which would have put us quite at our ease?”

“How so, madame?”

“The Abbe d’Aigrigny fears M. Rodin; he may have sought him out, to entreat his forbearance. Do you not find this explanation both satisfactory and reasonable?”

“Perhaps so, madame,” said Mother Bunch, after a moment’s reflection; “yes, it is probable.” But after another silence, and as if yielding to a conviction superior to every possible argument, she exclaimed: “And yet, no; believe me, madame, you are deceived. I feel it. All appearances may be against what I affirm; yet, believe me, these presentiments are too strong not to be true. And have you not guessed the most secret instincts of my heart? Why should I not be able to guess the dangers with which you are menaced?”

“What do you say? what have I guessed?” replied Mdlle. de Cardoville, involuntarily impressed by the other’s tone of conviction and alarm.

“What have you guessed?” resumed the latter. “All the troublesome susceptibility of an unfortunate creature, to whom destiny has decreed a life apart. If I have hitherto been silent, it is not from ignorance of what I owe you. Who told you, madame, that the only way to make me accept your favors without blushing, was to give me some employment, that would enable me to soothe the misfortunes I had so long shared? Who told you, when you wished me to have a seat at your table, and to treat as your friend the poor needlewoman, in whose person you sought to honor, resignation and honest industry--who told you, when I answered with tears of gratitude and regret, that it was not false modesty, but a consciousness of my own ridiculous deformity, that made me refuse your offer? Who told you that, but for this, I should have accepted it proudly, in the name of all my low-born sisters? But you replied to me with the touching words: ‘I understand your refusal, my friend; it is not occasioned by false modesty, but by a sentiment of dignity that I love and respect.’ Who told you,” continued the workgirl, with increasing animation, “that I should be so happy to find a little solitary retreat in this magnificent house, which dazzles me with its splendor? Who guided you in the choice of the apartment (still far too good) that you have provided for me? Who taught you, that, without envying the beauty of the charming creatures that surround you, and whom I love because they love you, I should always feel, by an involuntary comparison, embarrassed and ashamed before them? Who told you therefore to send them away, whenever you wished to speak with me? Yes! who has revealed to you all the painful and secret susceptibilities of a position like mine! Who has revealed them to you? God, no doubt! who in His infinite majesty creates worlds, and yet cares for the poor little insect hidden beneath the grass. And you think, that the gratitude of a heart you have understood so well, cannot rise in its turn to the knowledge of what may be hurtful to you? No, no, lady; some people have the instinct of self preservation; others have the still more precious instinct that enables them to preserve those they love. God has given me this instinct. I tell you that you are betrayed!” And with animated look, and cheeks slightly colored with emotion, the speaker laid such stress upon the last words, and accompanied them with such energetic gesture, that Mdlle. de Cardoville already shaken by the girl’s warmth, began almost to share in her apprehensions. Then, although she had before learned to appreciate the superior intelligence of this poor child of the people, Mdlle. de Cardoville had never till now heard her friend express herself with so much eloquence--an eloquence, too, that was inspired by the noblest sentiments. This circumstance added to the impression made upon Adrienne. But at the moment she was about to answer, a knock was heard at the door of the room, and Florine entered.

On seeing the alarmed countenance of her waiting-maid, Mdlle. de Cardoville said hastily: “Well, Florine! what news? Whence come you, my child?”

“From Saint-Dizier House, madame.”

“And why did you go there?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville, with surprise.

“This morning,” said Florine, glancing at the workgirl, “madame, there, confided to me her suspicions and uneasiness. I shared in them. The visit of the Abbe d’Aigrigny to M. Rodin appeared to me very serious. I thought, if it should turn out that M. Rodin had been during the last few days to Saint-Dizier House, there would be no longer any doubt of his treachery.”

“True,” said Adrienne, more and more uneasy. “Well?”

“As I had been charged to superintend the removal from the lodge, I knew that several things had remained there. To obtain admittance, I had to apply to Mrs. Grivois. I had thus a pretext for returning to the hotel.”

“What next, Florine, what next?”

“I endeavored to get Mrs. Grivois to talk of M. Rodin; but it was in vain.”

“She suspected you,” said the workgirl. “It was to be anticipated.”

“I asked her,” continued Florine, “if they had seen M. Rodin at the hotel lately. She answered evasively. Then despairing of getting anything out of her,” continued Florine, “I left Mrs. Grivois, and that my visit might excite no suspicion, I went to the pavilion--when, as I turn down the avenue--whom do I see? why, M. Rodin himself, hastening towards the little garden-door, wishing no doubt to depart unnoticed by that way.”

“Madame, you hear,” cried Mother Bunch, clasping her hands with a supplicating air; “such evidence should convince you.”

“M. Rodin at the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose glance, generally so mild, now suddenly flashed with vehement indignation. Then she added, in a tone of considerable emotion, “Continue, Florine.”

“At sight of M. Rodin, I stopped,” proceeded Florine, “and keeping a little on one side, I gained the pavilion without being seen. I looked out into the street, through the closed blinds, and perceived a hackney coach. It was waiting for M. Rodin, for, a minute after, he got into it, saying to the coachman, ‘No. 39, Rue Blanche.’

“The prince’s!” exclaimed Mdlle. de Cardoville.

“Yes, madame.”

“Yes, M. Rodin was to see him to-day,” said Adrienne, reflecting.

“No doubt he betrays you, madame, and the prince also; the latter will be made his victim more easily than you.”

“Shame! shame!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, on a sudden, as she rose, all her features contracted with painful anger. “After such a piece of treachery, it is enough to make us doubt of everything--even of ourselves.”

“Oh, madame! is it not dreadful?” said Mother Bunch, shuddering.

“But, then, why did he rescue me and mine, and accuse the Abbe d’Aigrigny?” wondered Mdlle. de Cardoville. “Of a truth, it is enough to make one lose one’s reason. It is an abyss--but, oh! how frightful is doubt!”

“As I returned,” said Florine, casting a look of affectionate devotion on her mistress, “I thought of a way to make all clear; but there is not a minute to lose.”

“What do you mean?” said Adrienne, looking at Florine with surprise.

“M. Rodin will soon be alone with the prince,” said Florine.

“No doubt,” replied Adrienne.

“The prince always sits in a little room that opens upon a greenhouse. It is there that he will receive M. Rodin.”

“What then?” resumed Adrienne.

“This greenhouse, which I had arranged according to your orders, has only one issue--by a door leading into a little lane. The gardener gets in that way every morning, so as not to have to pass through the apartments. Having finished his work, he does not return thither during the day.”

“What do you mean? what is your project?” said Adrienne, looking at Florine with growing surprise.

“The plants are so disposed, that, I think, if even the shade were not there, which screens the glass that separates the saloon from the greenhouse, one might get near enough to hear what was passing in the room, without being seen. When I was superintending the arrangements, I always entered by this greenhouse door. The gardener had one key, and I another. Luckily, I have not yet parted with mine. Within an hour, you may know how far to trust M. Rodin. If he betrays the prince, he betrays you also.”

“What say you?” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville.

“Set out instantly with me; we reach the side door; I enter alone, for precaution sake--if all is right, I return--”

“You would have me turn spy?” said Mdlle. de Cardoville, haughtily, interrupting Florine. “You cannot think it.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” said the girl, casting down her eyes, with confused and sorrowful air; “you had suspicions, and me seems ‘tis the only way to confirm or destroy them.”

“Stoop to listen to a conversation--never!” replied Adrienne.

“Madame,” said Mother Bunch, suddenly, after same moments’ thought, “permit me to tell you that Mdlle. Florine is right. The plan proposed is a painful one, but it is the only way in which you can clear up, perhaps, for ever, your doubts as to M. Rodin. Notwithstanding the evidence of facts, in spite of the almost certainty of my presentiments, appearances may deceive us. I was the first who accused M. Rodin to you. I should not forgive myself all the rest of my life, did I accuse him wrongfully. Beyond doubt, it is painful, as you say, madame, to listen to a conversation--” Then, with a violent effort to console herself, she added, as she strove to repress her tears, “Yet, as your safety is at stake, madame--for, if this be treachery, the future prospect is dreadful--I will go in your place--to--”

“Not a word more, I entreat you,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, interrupting. “Let you, my poor friend, do for me what I thought degrading to do myself? Never!”

Then, turning to Florine, she added, “Tell M. de Bonneville to have the carriage got ready on the instant.”

“You consent, then!” cried Florine, clasping her hands, and not seeking to conceal her joy; and her eyes also became full of tears.

“Yes, I consent,” answered Adrienne, with emotion. “If it is to be war--war to the knife, that they would wage with me--I must be prepared for it; and, come to think of it, it would only be weakness and folly not to put myself on my guard. No doubt this step costs me much, and is very repugnant to me, but it is the only way to put an end to suspicions that would be a continual torment to me, and perhaps to prevent still greater evils. Yes! for many important reasons, this interview of M. Rodin with Prince Djalma may be doubly decisive to me--as to the confidence, or the inexorable hate, that I must henceforth feel for M. Rodin. So, Florine, quick!--my cloak and bonnet, and the carriage. You will go with me. As for you, my dear, pray wait for me here,” she added, turning to the work girl.

Half an hour after this conversation, Adrienne’s carriage stopped, as we have before seen, at the little garden-gate of the house in the Rue Blanche. Florine entered the greenhouse and soon returned to her mistress. “The shade is down, madame. M. Rodin has just entered the prince’s room.” Mdlle. de Cardoville was, therefore, present, though invisible, at the following scene, which took place between Rodin and Djalma.

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XLIII. THE LETTER

Some minutes before the entrance of Mdlle. de Cardoville into the greenhouse, Rodin had been introduced by Faringhea into the presence of the prince, who, still under the influence of the burning excitement into which he had been plunged by the words of the half-caste, did not appear to perceive the Jesuit. The latter, surprised at the animated expression of Djalma’s countenance, and his almost frantic air, made a sign of interrogation to Faringhea, who answered him privately in the following symbolical manner:--After laying his forefinger on his head and heart, he pointed to the fire burning in the chimney, signifying by his pantomimic action that the head and heart of Djalma were both in flames. No doubt Rodin understood him, for an imperceptible smile of satisfaction played upon his wan lips; then he said aloud to Faringhea, “I wish to be alone with the prince. Let down the shade and see that we are not interrupted.” The half-caste bowed, and touched a spring near the sheet of plate-glass, which slid into the wall as the blind descended; then, again bowing, Faringhea left the room. It was shortly after that Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine entered the greenhouse, which was now only separated from the room in which was Djalma, by the transparent thickness of a shade of white silk, embroidered with large colored birds. The noise of the door, which Faringhea closed as he went out, seemed to recall the young Indian to himself; his features, though still animated, recovered their habitual expression of mildness and gentleness; he started, drew his hand across his brow, looked around him, as if waking up from a deep reverie, and then, advancing towards Rodin, with an air as respectful as confused, he said to him, using the expression commonly applied to old men in his country, “Pardon me, father.” Still following the customs of his nation, so full of deference towards age, he took Rodin’s hand to raise it to his lips, but the Jesuit drew back a step, and refused his homage.

“For what do you ask pardon, my dear prince?” said he to Djalma.

“When you entered, I was in a dream; I did not come to meet you. Once more, pardon me, father!”

“Once more, I forgive you with all my heart, my dear prince. But let us have some talk. Pray resume your place on the couch, and your pipe, too, if you like it.”

But Djalma, instead of adopting the suggestion, and throwing himself on the divan, according to his custom, insisted on seating himself in a chair, notwithstanding all the persuasions of “the Old Man with the Good Heart,” as he always called the Jesuit.

“Really, your politeness troubles me, my dear prince,” said Rodin; “you are here at home in India; at least, we wish you to think so.”

“Many things remind me of my country,” said Djalma, in a mild grave tone. “Your goodness reminds me of my father, and of him who was a father to me,” added the Indian, as he thought of Marshal Simon, whose arrival in Paris had been purposely concealed from him.

After a moment’s silence, he resumed in a tone full of affectionate warmth, as he stretched out his hand to Rodin, “You are come, and I am happy!”

“I understand your joy, my dear prince, for I come to take you out of prison--to open your cage for you. I had begged you to submit to a brief seclusion, entirely for your own interest.”

“Can I go out to-morrow?”

“To-day, my dear prince, if you please.”

The young Indian reflected for a moment, and then resumed, “I must have friends, since I am here in a palace that does not belong to me.”

“Certainly you have friends--excellent friends,” answered Rodin. At these words, Djalma’s countenance seemed to acquire fresh beauty. The most noble sentiments were expressed in his fine features; his large black eyes became slightly humid, and, after another interval of silence, he rose and said to Rodin with emotion: “Come!”

“Whither, dear prince?” said the other, much surprised.

“To thank my friends. I have waited three days. It is long.”

“Permit me dear prince--I have much to tell you on this subject--please to be seated.”

Djalma resumed his seat with docility. Rodin continued: “It is true that you have friends; or rather, you have a friend. Friends are rare.”

“What are you?”

“Well, then, you have two friends, my dear prince--myself, whom you know, and one other, whom you do not know, and who desires to remain unknown to you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” answered Rodin, after a moment’s embarrassment. “Because the happiness he feels in giving you these proofs of his friendship and even his own tranquillity, depend upon preserving this mystery.”

“Why should there be concealment when we do good?”

“Sometimes, to conceal the good we do, my dear prince.”

“I profit by this friendship; why should he conceal himself from one?” These repeated questions of the young Indian appeared to puzzle Rodin, who, however, replied: “I have told you, my dear prince, that your secret friend would perhaps have his tranquillity compromised, if he were known.”

“If he were known--as my friend?”

“Exactly so, dear prince.”

The countenance of Djalma immediately assumed an appearance of sorrowful dignity; he raised his head proudly, and said in a stern and haughty voice: “Since this friend hides himself from me, he must either be ashamed of me, or there is reason for me to be ashamed of him. I only accept hospitality from those who are worthy of me, and who think me worthy of them. I leave this house.” So saying, Djalma rose with such an air of determination, that Rodin exclaimed: “Listen to me, my dear prince. Allow me to tell you, that your petulance and touchiness are almost incredible. Though we have endeavored to remind you of your beautiful country, we are here in Europe, in France, in the centre of Paris. This consideration may perhaps a little modify your views. Listen to me, I conjure you.”

Notwithstanding his complete ignorance of certain social conventionalisms, Djalma had too much good sense and uprightness, not to appreciate reason, when it appeared reasonable. The words of Rodin calmed him. With that ingenuous modesty, with which natures full of strength and generosity are almost always endowed, he answered mildly: “You are right, father. I am no longer in my own country. Here the customs are different. I will reflect upon it.”

Notwithstanding his craft and suppleness, Rodin sometimes found himself perplexed by the wild and unforseen ideas of the young Indian. Thus he saw, to his great surprise, that Djalma now remained pensive for some minutes, after which he resumed in a calm but firm tone: “I have obeyed you, father: I have reflected.”

“Well, my dear prince?”

“In no country in the world, under no pretext, should a man of honor conceal his friendship for another man of honor.”

“But suppose there should be danger in avowing this friendship?” said Rodin, very uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. Djalma eyed the Jesuit with contemptuous astonishment, and made no reply.

“I understand your silence, my dear prince: a brave man ought to defy danger. True; but if it should be you that the danger threatens, in case this friendship were discovered, would not your man of honor be excusable, even praiseworthy, to persist in remaining unknown?”

“I accept nothing from a friend, who thinks me capable of denying him from cowardice.”

“Dear prince--listen to me.”

“Adieu, father.”

“Yet reflect!”

“I have said it,” replied Djalma, in an abrupt and almost sovereign tone, as he walked towards the door.

“But suppose a woman were concerned,” cried Rodin, driven to extremity, and hastening after the young Indian, for he really feared that Djalma might rush from the house, and thus overthrow all his projects.

At the last words of Rodin the Indian stopped abruptly. “A woman!” said he, with a start, and turning red. “A woman is concerned?”

“Why, yes! suppose it were a woman,” resumed Rodin, “would you not then understand her reserve, and the secrecy with which she is obliged to surround the marks of affection she wishes to give you?”

“A woman!” repeated Djalma, in a trembling voice, clasping his hands in adoration; and his beautiful countenance was expressive of the deepest emotion. “A woman!” said he again. “A Parisian?”

“Yes, my dear prince, as you force me to this indiscretion, I will confess to you that your friend is a real Parisian--a noble matron, endowed with the highest virtues--whose age alone merits all your respect.”

“She is very old, then?” cried poor Djalma, whose charming dream was thus abruptly dispelled.

“She may be a few years older than I am,” answered Rodin, with an ironical smile, expecting to see the young man express a sort of comical disappointment or angry regret.

But it was not so. To the passionate enthusiasm of love, which had for a moment lighted up the prince’s features, there now succeeded a respectful and touching expression. He looked at Rodin with emotion, and said to him in a broken voice: “This woman, is then, a mother to me?”

It is impossible to describe with what a pious, melancholy, and tender charm the Indian uttered the word mother.

“You have it, my dear prince; this respectable lady wishes to be a mother to you. But I may not reveal to you the cause of the affection she feels for you. Only, believe me--this affection is sincere, and the cause honorable. If I do not tell you her secret, it is that, with us, the secrets of women, young or old, are equally sacred.”

“That is right, and I will respect it. Without seeing her, I will love her--as I love God, without seeing Him.”

“And now, my dear prince, let me tell you what are the intentions of your maternal friend. This house will remain at your disposal, as long as you like it; French servants, a carriage, and horses, will be at your orders; the charges of your housekeeping will be paid for you. Then, as the son of a king should live royalty, I have left in the next room a casket containing five hundred Louis; every month a similar sum will be provided: if it should not be found sufficient for your little amusements, you will tell me, and it shall be augmented.”

At a movement of Djalma, Rodin hastened to add: “I must tell you at once, my dear prince, that your delicacy may be quite at ease. First of all, you may accept anything from a mother; next, as in about three months you will come into possession of an immense inheritance, it will be easy for you, if you feel the obligation a burden--and the sum cannot exceed, at the most, four or five thousand Louis--to repay these advances. Spare nothing, then, but satisfy all your fancies. You are expected to appear in the great world of Paris, in a style becoming the son of a king who was called the Father of the Generous. So once again I conjure you not to be restrained by a false delicacy; if this sum should not be sufficient--”

“I will ask for more. My mother is right; the son of a monarch ought to live royally.”

Such was the answer of the Indian, made with perfect simplicity, and without any appearance of astonishment at these magnificent offers. This was natural. Djalma would have done for others what they were doing for him, for the traditions of the prodigal magnificence and splendid hospitality of Indian princes are well known. Djalma had been as moved as grateful, on hearing that a woman loved him with maternal affection. As for the luxury with which she nought to surround him, he accepted it without astonishment and without scruple. This resignation, again, somewhat disconcerted Rodin, who had prepared many excellent arguments to persuade the Indian to accept his offers.

“Well, then, it’s all agreed, my dear prince,” resumed the Jesuit. “Now, as you must see the world, it’s just as well to enter by the best door, as we say. One of the friends of your maternal protectress, the Count de Montbron, an old nobleman of the greatest experience, and belonging to the first society, will introduce you in some of the best houses in Paris.”

“Will you not introduce me, father?”

“Alas! my dear prince, look at me. Tell me, if you think I am fitted for such an office. No! no; I live alone and retired from the world. And then,” added Rodin, after a short silence, fixing a penetrating, attentive, and curious look upon the prince, as if he would have subjected him to a sort of experiment by what follows; “and then, you see, M. de Montbron will be better able than I should, in the world you are about to enter, to enlighten you as to the snares that will be laid for you. For if you have friends, you have also enemies--cowardly enemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamous manner, and have made sport of you. And as, unfortunately, their power is equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you to try to avoid them--to fly, instead of resisting them openly.”

At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them, Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness; his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkled with lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance, expressed themselves so terribly on a human face. His upper lip, blood red, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and close set teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air of such animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed: “What is the matter, prince? You frighten me.”

Djalma did not answer. Half leaning forward, with his hands clinched in rage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fear of yielding to a burst of terrific fury. At this moment, the amber mouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; the violent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian, was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, he was endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered to dust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.

“In the name of heaven, what is the matter, prince?” cried Rodin.

“Thus would I crush my cowardly enemies!” exclaimed Djalma, with menacing and excited look. Then, as if these words had brought his rage to a climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strode about the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he sought for some weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which he endeavored to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth, whilst his jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wild beast, thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserved a great and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts of sanguinary ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch by horror of treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to those gigantic Indian hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, must make of Djalma what he really was a hero.

Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosity of passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivable circumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit’s great surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma’s fury was calmed thus instantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamed of his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenance remained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far more formidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin: “Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies.”

“In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?”

“Kill the cowards!”

“Kill them! you must not think of it.”

“Faringhea will aid me.”

“Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does not kill an enemy like a hunted tiger.”

“One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accursed dog,” replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.

“Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous,” said Rodin, in a grave voice; “what pleasure can you find in striking down creatures as cowardly as they are wicked?”

“To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty.”

“So prince, you seek for revenge.”

“I do not revenge myself on a serpent,” said the Indian, with haughty bitterness; “I crush it.”

“But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in that manner. If we have cause of complaint--”

“Women and children complain,” said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: “men strike.”

“Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takes your cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be good reason, punishes.”

“In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner.”

“Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies, have you not?--Well! suppose it were thanks to the devotion of the venerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and that she were to ask you to forgive them--she, who saved you from their hands--what would you do then?”

The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation, Rodin continued: “I might say to you that I know your enemies, but that in the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I would conceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that if the respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it either right or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so--until she has pronounced, I must be silent.”

Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment, Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: “A man with a letter, not finding you at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comes from the Abbe d’Aigrigny.

“Certainly,” answered Rodin. “That is,” he added, “with the prince’s permission.”

Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.

“You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morning a very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered it to be sent on.”

A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which he delivered to Rodin--and the half-caste again withdrew.

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