Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

“The second expedition is but child’s play. To seize a little casket.”

  “What does the casket contain?” queried the Tire-Laine, all interest.

  “Only papers,” answered the Franc-Taupin, “besides a few trinkets of no value. Moreover, seeing you are scrupulous Catholics, I shall add, for the sake of the peace of your souls, that the casket which I wish to recover, was stolen from my brother-in-law. You will be aiding a restitution.”

  “Josephin, you are trying to deceive us!” remarked the Mauvais-Garçon. “People do not attach so much importance to a bunch of papers and worthless trinkets.”

  “When the casket is in our possession you may open it — if there be any valuables in it, they shall be yours.”

  “There is nothing to say to that,” rejoined Pichrocholle, looking at the Tire-Laine. “That’s fair, eh? We shall accept the proposition.”

  “Quite fair,” returned the latter. “But let us proceed in order. The abduction of the nun — by the navel of the Pope! I shiver at the bare thought. Should the cast of the dice not give me the letter of absolution, I remain guilty of a sacrilege!”

  “That is your risk,” answered the Franc-Taupin; “but if you gain the indulgence — there you are, my Catholic brother, safe for all eternity, whatever crimes you may commit.”

  “By the limbs of Satan! I know that well enough! It is that very thing that lures me.”

  “And me too,” put in the other brigand. “But how are we to manage things in order to enter the convent?”

  “I shall explain my plan to you. My brother-in-law is in hiding for fear of being arrested. My niece, who was taken to the Augustinian Convent, was compelled to take the vows to-day.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I had gone, as latterly I often get into the humor of doing, and planted myself before my sister’s house — and dreamed.”

  “To what end?”

  “In order to contemplate that poor house, deserted to-day, and where, every time I returned from the country, Bridget, her husband and her children gave me a pleasant reception. You devout fellows talk of paradise. That house was a paradise to me. So that, even to-day, I roamed into the neighborhood as an erring soul, my eyes fastened upon that closed window where I had so often seen the dear faces of my sister and her daughter smiling upon me when I knocked at their door—”

  The expression on the face, the tone of the voice of the Franc-Taupin, touched even the two bandits, hardened men though they were. Josephin smothered a sob and proceeded:

  “As I was saying a short while ago, I was roaming around the house when I saw a monk approaching me. Oh, a good monk! So pale, so worn that I had trouble to recognize him. But he, although he had met me only once, recognized me by my port and by the plaster on my eye. He asked me whether he could have a speedy word with my sister, or my brother-in-law. ‘My sister is dead, and my brother-in-law is in hiding,’ I answered the monk. He thereupon informed me that my niece was locked up in the convent of the Augustinian sisters, where he, an Augustinian monk, was her confessor; that, himself subjected several months to a rigorous sequestration, he had only just succeeded in coming out, seeing that the surveillance under which he was held had somewhat begun to relax. Poor monk, he looked so wan, so emaciated, so feeble that he could hardly keep himself on his feet. Uninformed concerning the misfortunes of our family, his errand was to impart to the parents of my niece what he knew about her. He ran the risk, in the event of his outing being discovered, of being pursued and punished. I took him to the place where my brother-in-law has found a safe retreat. On the way thither I learned the following from the monk: My niece took the veil to-day. According to the custom in such cases, she is to pass the night alone in prayer in the oratory of the Virgin, which is separated from the church of the convent by an enclosure of the cloister. Now, attention, my lads, to the directions that the monk gave me. The walls of the court-yard of the chapel run along St. Benoit’s Alley. Just before sunset, I went over the place and examined the walls. They are not very high. We can easily scale them, while one of us will keep watch on the outside.”

  “That shall be I!” broke in Grippe-Minaud nervously. “That post for me! I have the eye of a lynx and the ear of a mole!”

  “You shall be the watcher. Pichrocholle and I shall scale the wall. The monk will be waiting for me near the chapel, ready to aid us should anyone attempt to oppose my niece’s abduction. I shall find her in the oratory; she will follow me; we shall force open one of the garden gates; and before dawn I shall have the daughter with her father, who is in perfect safety. Immediately after, it will then be just early dawn, we shall undertake the second expedition.”

  “The casket that we are to take?”

  “Nothing easier. We shall go, all three, to Montaigu College, and shall ask the porter for the number of Abbot Lefevre’s chamber. He is the thief of the casket.”

  “Horns of Moses!” cried Grippe-Minaud crossing himself. “An Abbot! To raise our hands against another anointed of the Lord!”

  “Two sacrileges in one day!” added the Mauvais-Garçon shaking his head thoughtfully. “That weighs heavy on one’s conscience.”

  “What about the letter of absolution!” interjected the Franc-Taupin impatiently. “By the devil, whose frying pan you are afraid of, my precious Catholics! Have you faith — yes or no?”

  “That’s so,” responded Pichrocholle, “there is the schedule of absolution. It covers us! Thanks to its beneficent virtue, one of us shall be white as the inside of a snowball.”

  “Accordingly,” the Franc-Taupin proceeded, “we shall ask for Abbot Lefevre, under the pretext of some urgent matter that we must communicate to him; we go up to his room; we knock at the door. Our man will still be in bed. We throw ourselves upon him. You two bind and gag him. I shall look for the casket in question — and shall find it. I am certain of that. We then tie our Abbot to the bed, keeping him gagged all the while, lest he scream and give the alarm. We close the door after us — and we make tracks for the nearest place of safety.”

  “Oh, that would be the merest child’s play, provided no priest were concerned,” broke in the Tire-Laine; “besides the abduction of your niece, the violation of a sanctuary!”

  “Yesterday I despatched my seventh man,” put in the Mauvais-Garçon. “Accordingly, my conscience is not very well at ease, because, to obtain absolution for a murder, I would have to pay more than the murder fetches me. But a lay murder is but a peccadillo beside a sacrilege! — And then, if after the expedition that you propose to us, the dice should fail to give me the apostolic schedule? What then! St. Cadouin! I would dream only of the eternal flames ever after.”

  “That is your risk,” again replied Josephin imperturbably. “The hour approaches. Have you decided? Is it yes? Is it no? Must I look for assistance elsewhere?”

  “When will you deliver the letter to us?”

  “Just as soon as my niece is safely with her father, and the casket is in my hands. Agreed?”

  “And if you deceive us? If after the expeditions have been successfully carried out, you refuse to deliver the letter to us?”

  “By the bowels of St. Quenet! And if, taking advantage of a moment when I may not be on my guard, you should stab me to-night, that you may seize the letter before rendering me the services which I expect of you? The risks are equal, and compensate each other. Enough of words!”

  “Oh, Josephin, such a suspicion against me — me your old comrade in arms!”

  “By the confession! To take us — us who have drunk out of the same pot, for capable of so unworthy an action!”

  “God’s blood! Night draws near. We shall need some time to prepare for the escalade,” ejaculated the Franc-Taupin. “For the last time — yes or no?”

  The two bandits consulted each other for a moment with their eyes. At the end of the consultation Pichrocholle reached out his hand to the Franc-Taupin, saying:

  “Upon the word of a Mauvais-Garçon, and by the salvation of my
soul— ’tis done! You can count with me to the death.”

  “Upon the word of a Tire-Laine, and by the salvation of my soul— ’tis done! You may dispose of me.”

  “To work!” ordered the Franc-Taupin.

  Josephin left the tavern of the Black Grape accompanied by the two bandits.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE COTTAGE OF ROBERT ESTIENNE.

  THE COTTAGE OR country-house, that Robert Estienne owned near St. Ouen, on the St. Denis road, was located in a secluded spot, and at a considerable distance from the village. The byroad which led to the entrance of the residence ran upon a gate of grated iron near a little lodge occupied by the gardener and his wife. The principal dwelling rose in the center of a garden enclosed by a wall. The day after that on which the Franc-Taupin, the Mauvais-Garçon and the Tire-Laine held their conference at the tavern of the Black Grape, Michael, Robert Estienne’s gardener, having returned from the field late in the afternoon, and being not a little out of sorts at not finding his wife Alison at their home, the key of which she had carried away with her, was grumbling, storming and blowing upon his fingers numb with the December chill. Finally his wife, no doubt returning from the village, hove in sight, and wended her way towards the gate.

  “Where the devil did you go to?” Michael called out to Alison as he saw her from a distance. “Could you not at least have left the key in the door? The devil take those forgetful women!”

  “I went — to confession,” answered the gardener’s wife avoiding her husband’s eyes, and pushing open the gate. “I took the key with me because you were afield.”

  “To confession! — To confession!” replied Michael with a growl. “And I was freezing to death.”

  “All the same I must see to my salvation. You sent me this morning with a letter to our master. The curate was good enough to wait for me at the confessional after dinner. I availed myself of his kindness.”

  “Very well. But, may the devil take it! I wish you would try to gain paradise without exposing me to be frozen to death.”

  The couple had barely stepped into the lodge when Michael stopped to listen in the direction of the gate and said, surprisedly:

  “I hear the gallop of a horse!”

  The brave Michael stepped out again, looked through the grating of the gate, recognized Robert Estienne, and called out:

  “Alison, come quick; it is our master!”

  Saying this the gardener threw open the gate to Robert Estienne. The latter alighted from his horse, and giving the reins to his servant said:

  “Good evening, Michael. Any news?”

  “Oh, monsieur, many things—”

  “Does my guest run any danger? Has any indiscretion been committed?”

  “No, thanks to God, monsieur. You may be easy on that score. You can rely upon my wife as upon myself. No one suspects at the village that there is anyone hiding at the house.”

  “What, then, has happened, since my last call? Alison brought me this morning a note from the friend to whom I am giving asylum. But although the note urged my coming here, it indicated nothing serious.”

  “No doubt the person who is here, monsieur, reserves for his own telling the news that he is no longer alone at the house.”

  “How is that?”

  “Day before yesterday, the tall one-eyed fellow who comes here from time to time, and always at night, called in broad daylight, mounted upon a little cart, drawn by a donkey and filled with straw. He told me to watch the cart, and he went in search of your guest. The two came out together, and out of the straw in the cart they pulled — a monk!”

  “A monk, say you! — A monk!”

  “Yes, monsieur, a young monk of the Order of Saint Augustine, who looked as if he had not another hour to live, so pale and weak was he.”

  “And what has become of him?”

  “He remained here, and your guest said to me: ‘Michael, I beg you to keep the arrival of the monk an absolute secret. I shall inform Monsieur Estienne of the occurrence. Your master will approve the measures I have taken.’”

  “Did you follow his recommendation?”

  “Yes, monsieur, but that is not all. Last night the big one-eyed fellow came back just before dawn. He was on horseback, and behind him, wrapped in a cloak on the crupper of his mount, he brought — a nun! I went immediately to notify your guest. He came out running, and almost fainted away at the sight of the nun. Bathed in tears he returned with her into the house, while the big one-eyed man rode off at a gallop. It was daylight by that time. Finally, towards noon to-day, the big one-eyed man returned once more, but this time clad in a peasant’s blouse and cap. He brought a little casket to your guest, and then went off—”

  Astounded at what the gardener was telling him, Robert Estienne walked up to the house, where he rapped in the nature of a signal — two short raps and then, after a short pause, a third. Instantly Christian opened the door.

  “My friend, what is the matter? What has happened?” cried Robert Estienne, struck by the profound change in the appearance of the artisan, who threw himself into the arms of his patron, murmuring between half-smothered sobs:

  “My daughter! — My daughter!”

  Robert Estienne returned Christian’s convulsive embrace, and under the impression that some irreparable misfortune had happened, he said in sympathetic accents:

  “Courage, my friend! Courage!”

  “She has been found!” cried Christian. The light of unspeakable joy shone in his eyes. “My child has been restored to me! She is here! She is with me!”

  “True?” asked Robert Estienne, and recalling the gardener’s words he added: “Was she the nun?”

  “It is Hena herself! But come, come, monsieur; my heart overflows with joy. My head swims. Oh, never have I needed your wise counsel as much as now! What am I now to do?”

  Christian and his patron had all this while remained at the entrance of the vestibule. They walked into a contiguous apartment.

  “For heaven’s sake, my dear Christian, be calm,” remarked Robert Estienne. “Let me know what has happened. Needless to add that my advice and friendship are at your service.”

  Recovering his composure, and wiping with the back of his hand the tears that inundated his face, the artisan proceeded to explain:

  “You are aware of the arrest of my wife, my daughter and my eldest son at our house. I would also have been arrested had I been found at home. My brother-in-law, who lingered in the neighborhood of my house, notified me of the danger I ran, and made me retrace my steps. Thanks to Josephin and yourself I found a safe refuge, first in Paris itself, and then here, in this retreat which seemed to you to offer greater security.”

  “Did I not by all that but repay a debt of gratitude? Your hospitality to John Calvin is probably the principal cause of the persecution that you and your family have been the victims of. Despite my pressing solicitations, Princess Marguerite, whose influence alone has hitherto protected me against my enemies, declined to attempt aught in your behalf. Cardinal Duprat said to her: ‘Madam, the man in whom you are interesting yourself is one of the bitterest enemies of the King and the Church. If we succeed in laying hands upon that Christian Lebrenn he shall not escape the gallows, which he has long deserved!’ Such set animosity towards you, a workingman and obscure artisan, passes my comprehension.”

  “I now know the cause of that bitter animosity, Monsieur Estienne. Before proceeding with my narrative, the revelation is due to you. It may have its bearings upon the advice that I expect from you.”

  Christian opened the casket that contained the chronicles of his family, brought to him that very noon by the Franc-Taupin. He took from the casket a scroll of paper and placed it in Robert Estienne’s hand, saying:

  “Kindly read this, monsieur. The manuscripts to which this note refers are the family chronicles that I have occasionally spoken of to you.”

  Robert Estienne took the note and read:

  “IGNATIUS LOYOLA, GENERAL OF THE
SOCIETY OF JESUS

  “A. M. D. G.

  “(Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam)

  “Despite the incorrectness of their style and other defects of form, the within manuscripts may, especially since the invention of the printing press, become a weapon of great mischief.

  “This narrative, transmitted from century to century at the domestic hearth to obscure generations of common people could not, before the invention of the printing press, have any evil effect further than to perpetuate execrable traditions within a single family. It is so no longer. These rhapsodies are stamped with the race hatred borne by the Gauls towards the Franks, the conquered towards the conquerors, the serf towards the seigneur, the subject towards the Crown and the Church. To-day these rhapsodies could be multiplied indefinitely through the printing press, and thus diffused among the evil-minded people, ever but too prone to rebellion against the pontifical and royal authorities. Enlightened by these narratives upon historical events that should forever be a closed book to them, if they are to entertain a feeling of blind submission, a sense of respect, and a wholesome dread for the throne and the altar, the evil-minded common people would in the future engage with ever greater audacity in those revolts that not a single century has hitherto been wholly free from, — a state of things that the Society of Jesus, with the aid of God, will reduce to order.

  “Therefore, it is urgent that these manuscripts be destroyed without delay, as proposed by our beloved son Lefevre, and that the traditions of the Lebrenn family be shattered by the following means:

  “To cause the father and mother to be sentenced as heretics. The proofs of their heresy are plentiful. The torture and the pyre for the infamous wretches.

  “To lock up in a convent the son and the daughter (Hena and Hervé) now in Paris, and compel them to take the vows.

  “As to the youngest son, Odelin, fifteen years of age, and at present traveling in Italy with Master Raimbaud, an armorer, who is also reported to be a heretic, the return of the lad to Paris must be awaited, and then the identical course pursued towards him — capture him, lock him up in a convent, and compel him to take the vows. He is fifteen years old. Despite the taint of his early bringing-up, it will be easy to operate upon a child of that age. If, contrary to all likelihood, he can not be reduced to reason, he shall be kept in the convent until eighteen. Then he shall be pronounced guilty of heresy, and burned alive.