by Eugène Sue
DAGOBERT’S ANXIETY INCREASED every moment. Certain that his horse had not entered the shed of its own accord, he attributed the event which had taken place to the spite of the brute-tamer; but he sought in vain for the motive of this wretch’s animosity, and he reflected with dismay, that his cause, however just, would depend on the good or bad humor of a judge dragged from his slumbers and who might be ready to condemn upon fallacious appearances.
Fully determined to conceal, as long as possible, from the orphans the fresh misfortunes, which had befallen them, he was proceeding to open the door of their chamber, when he stumbled over Spoil-sport — for the dog had run back to his post, after vainly trying to prevent the Prophet from leading away Jovial. “Luckily the dog has returned; the poor little things have been well guarded,” said the soldier, as he opened the door. To his great surprise, the room was in utter darkness.
“My children,” cried he, “why are you without a light?” There was no answer. In terror he groped his way to the bed, and took the hand of one of the sisters; the hand was cold as ice.
“Rose, my children!” cried he. “Blanche! Give me some answer! you frighten me.” Still the same silence continued; the hand which he held remained cold and powerless, and yielded passively to his touch.
Just then, the moon emerged from the black clouds that surrounded her, and threw sufficient light into the little room, and upon the bed, which faced the window, for the soldier to see that the two sisters had fainted. The bluish light of the moon added to the paleness of the orphans; they held each other in a half embrace, and Rose had buried her head on Blanche’s bosom.
“They must have fainted through fear,” exclaimed Dagobert, running to fetch his gourd. “Poor things! after a day of so much excitement, it is not surprising.” And moistening the corner of a handkerchief with a few drops of brandy, the soldier knelt beside the bed, gently chafed the temples of the two sisters, and held the linen, wet with the spirituous liquor, to their little pink nostrils.
Still on his knees, and bending his dark, anxious face over the orphans, he waited some moments before again resorting to the only restorative in his power. A slight shiver of Rose gave him renewed hope; the young girl turned her head on the pillow with a sigh; then she started, and opened her eyes with an expression of astonishment and alarm; but, not immediately recognizing Dagobert, she exclaimed: “Oh, sister!” and threw herself into the arms of Blanche.
The latter also was beginning to experience the effect of the soldier’s care. The exclamation of Rose completely roused her from her lethargy, and she clung to her sister, again sharing the fright without knowing its cause.
“They’ve come to — that’s the chief point,” said Dagobert, “now we shall soon get rid of these foolish fears.” Then softening his voice, he added: “Well, my children, courage? You are better. It is I who am here — me, Dagobert!”
The orphans made a hasty movement, and, turning towards the soldier their sweet faces, which were still full of dismay and agitation, they both, by a graceful impulse, extended their arms to him and cried: “It is you, Dagobert — then we are safe!”
“Yes, my children, it is I,” said the veteran, taking their hands in his, and pressing them joyfully. “So you have been much frightened during my absence?”
“Oh, frightened to death!”
“If you knew — oh, goodness! if you knew—”
“But the lamp is extinguished — why is that?”
“We did not do it.”
“Come — recover yourselves, poor children, and tell me all about it. I have no good opinion of this inn; but, luckily, we shall soon leave it. It was an ill wind that blew me hither — though, to be sure, there was no other in the village. But what has happened?”
“You were hardly gone, when the window flew open violently, and the lamp and table fell together with a loud crash.”
“Then our courage failed — we screamed and clasped each other, for we thought we could hear some one moving in the room.”
“And we were so frightened, that we fainted away.”
Unfortunately, persuaded that it was the violence of the wind which had already broken the glass, and shaken the window, Dagobert attributed this second accident to the same cause as the first, thinking that he had not properly secured the fastening and that the orphans had been deceived by a false alarm. “Well, well — it is over now,” said he to them: “Calm yourselves, and don’t think of it any more.”
“But why did you leave us so hastily, Dagobert?”
“Yes, now I remember — did we not hear a great noise, sister, and see Dagobert run to the staircase, crying: ‘My horse! what are they doing to my horse?’”
“It was then Jovial who neighed?”
These questions renewed the anguish of the soldier; he feared to answer them, and said, with a confused air: “Yes — Jovial neighed — but it was nothing. By the by, we must have a light here. Do you know where I put my flint and steel last evening? Well, I have lost my senses; it is here in my pocket. Luckily, too, we have a candle, which I am going to light; I want to look in my knapsack for some papers I require.”
Dagobert struck a few sparks, obtained a light, and saw that the window was indeed open, the table thrown down, and the lamp lying by the side of the knapsack. He shut the window, set the little table on its feet again, placed the knapsack upon it, and began to unbuckle this last in order to take out his portfolio, which had been deposited along with his cross and purse, in a kind of pocket between the outside and the lining. The straps had been readjusted with so much care, that there was no appearance of the knapsack having been disturbed; but when the soldier plunged his hand into the pocket above-mentioned, he found it empty. Struck with consternation, he grew pale, and retreated a step, crying: “How is this? — Nothing!”
“What is the matter?” said Blanche. He made her no answer. Motionless, he leaned against the table, with his hand still buried in the pocket. Then, yielding to a vague hope — for so cruel a reality did not appear possible — he hastily emptied the contents of the knapsack on the table — his poor half-worn clothes — his old uniform-coat of the horse-grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, a sacred relic for the soldiers — but, turn and return them as he would, he found neither his purse, nor the portfolio that contained his papers, the letters of General Simon, and his cross.
In vain, with that serious childishness which always accompanies a hopeless search, he took the knapsack by the two ends, and shook it vigorously; nothing came out. The orphans looked on with uneasiness, not understanding his silence or his movements, for his back was turned to them. Blanche ventured to say to him in a timid voice: “What ails you — you don’t answer us. — What is it you are looking for in your knapsack?”
Still mute, Dagobert searched his own person, turned out all his pockets — nothing! — For the first time in his life, perhaps, his two children, as he called them, had spoken to him without receiving a reply. Blanche and Rose felt the big tears start into their eyes; thinking that the soldier was angry, they darst not again address him.
“No, no! it is impossible — no!” said the veteran, pressing his hand to his forehead, and seeking in his memory where he might have put those precious objects, the loss of which he could not yet bring himself to believe. A sudden beam of joy flashed from his eyes. He ran to a chair, and took from it the portmanteau of the orphans; it contained a little linen, two black dresses, and a small box of white wood, in which were a silk handkerchief that had belonged to their mother, two locks of her hair, and a black ribbon she had worn round her neck. The little she possessed had been seized by the Russian government, in pursuance of the confiscation. Dagobert searched and researched every article — peeped into all the corners of the portmanteau — still nothing!
This time, completely worn out, leaning against the table, the strong, energetic man felt himself giving way. His face was burning, yet bathed in a cold sweat; his knees trembled under him. It is a common saying, that drown
ing men will catch at straws; and so it is with the despair that still clings to some shred of hope. Catching at a last chance — absurd, insane, impossible — he turned abruptly towards the orphans, and said to them, without considering the alteration in his voice and features: “I did not give them to you — to keep for me? — speak?”
Instead of answering, Rose and Blanche, terrified at his paleness and the expression of his countenance, uttered a cry. “Good heavens! what is the matter with you?” murmured Rose.
“Have you got them — yes, or no?” cried in a voice of thunder the unfortunate, distracted man. “If you have not — I’ll take the first knife I meet with, and stick it into my body!”
“Alas! You are so good: pardon us if we have done anything to afflict you! You love us so much, you would not do us any harm.” The orphans began to weep, as they stretched forth their hands in supplication towards the soldier.
He looked at them with haggard eye, without even seeing them; till, as the delusion passed away, the reality presented itself to his mind with all its terrible consequences. Then he clasped his hands together, fell on his knees before the bed of the orphans, leaned his forehead upon it, and amid his convulsive sobs — for the man of iron sobbed like a child — these broken words were audible: “Forgive me — forgive! — I do not know how it can be! — Oh! what a misfortune! — what a misfortune! — Forgive me!”
At this outbreak of grief, the cause of which they understood not, but which in such a man was heart-rending, the two sisters wound their arms about his old gray head, and exclaimed amid their tears: “Look at us! Only tell us what is the matter with you? — Is it our fault?”
At this instant, the noise of footsteps resounded from the stairs, mingled with the barking of Spoil-sport, who had remained outside the door. The nearer the steps approached, the more furious became the barking; it was no doubt accompanied with hostile demonstrations, for the host was heard to cry out in an angry tone: “Hollo! you there! Call off your dog, or speak to him. It is Mr. Burgomaster who is coming up.”
“Dagobert — do you hear? — it is the burgomaster,” said Rose.
“They are coming upstairs — a number of people,” resumed Blanche.
The word burgomaster recalled whatever had happened to the mind of Dagobert, and completed, so to express it, the picture of his terrible position. His horse was dead, he had neither papers nor money, and a day, a single day’s detention, might defeat the last hope of the sisters, and render useless this long and toilsome journey.
Men of strong minds, and the veteran was of the number, prefer great perils, positions of danger accurately defined, to the vague anxieties which precede a settled misfortune. Guided by his good sense and admirable devotion, Dagobert understood at once, that his only resource was now in the justice of the burgomaster, and that all his efforts should tend to conciliate the favor of that magistrate. He therefore dried his eyes with the sheet, rose from the ground, erect, calm, and resolute, and said to the orphans: “Fear nothing, my children; it is our deliverer who is at hand.”
“Will you call off your dog or no?” cried the host, still detained on the stairs by Spoil-sport, who, as a vigilant sentinel, continued to dispute the passage. “Is the animal mad, I say? Why don’t you tie him up? Have you not caused trouble enough in my house? I tell you, that Mr. Burgomaster is waiting to examine you in your turn, for he has finished with Morok.”
Dagobert drew his fingers through his gray locks and across his moustache, clasped the collar of his top-coat, and brushed the sleeves with his hand, in order to give himself the best appearance possible; for he felt that the fate of the orphans must depend on his interview with the magistrate. It was not without a violent beating of the heart, that he laid his hand upon the door-knob, saying to the young girls, who were growing more and more frightened by such a succession of events: “Hide yourselves in your bed, my children; if any one must needs enter, it shall be the burgomaster alone.”
Thereupon, opening the door, the soldier stepped out on the landing place, and said: “Down, Spoil-sport! — Here!”
The dog obeyed, but with manifest repugnance. His master had to speak twice, before he would abstain from all hostile movements towards the host. This latter, with a lantern in one hand and his cap in the other, respectfully preceded the burgomaster, whose magisterial proportions were lost in the half shadows of the staircase. Behind the judge, and a few steps lower, the inquisitive faces of the people belonging to the inn were dimly visible by the light of another lantern.
Dagobert, having turned the dog into the room, shut the door after him, and advanced two steps on the landing-place, which was sufficiently spacious to hold several persons, and had in one corner a wooden bench with a back to it. The burgomaster, as he ascended the last stair, was surprised to see Dagobert close the door of the chamber, as though he wished to forbid his entrance. “Why do you shut that door?” asked he in an abrupt tone.
“First, because two girls, whom I have the charge of, are in bed in that room; secondly, because your examination would alarm them,” replied Dagobert. “Sit down upon this bench, Mr. Burgomaster, and examine me here; it will not make any difference, I should think.”
“And by what right,” asked the judge, with a displeased air, “do you pretend to dictate to me the place of your examination?”
“Oh, I have no such pretension, Mr. Burgomaster!” said the soldier hastily, fearing above all things to prejudice the judge against him: “only, as the girls are in bed, and already much frightened, it would be a proof of your good heart to examine me where I am.”
“Humph!” said the magistrate, with ill-humor; “a pretty state of things, truly! — It was much worth while to disturb me in the middle of the night. But, come, so be it; I will examine you here.” Then, turning to the landlord, he added: “Put your lantern upon this bench, and leave us.”
The innkeeper obeyed, and went down, followed by his people, as dissatisfied as they were at being excluded from the examination. The veteran was left alone with the magistrate.
CHAPTER XIII. THE JUDGEMENT.
THE WORTHY BURGOMASTER of Mockern wore a cloth cap, and was enveloped in a cloak. He sat down heavily on the bench. He was a corpulent man, about sixty, with an arrogant, morose countenance; and he frequently rubbed with his red, fat fist, eyes that were still swollen and blood shot, from his having been suddenly roused from sleep.
Dagobert stood bareheaded before him, with a submissive, respectful air, holding his old foraging cap in his hands, and trying to read in the sullen physiognomy of his judge what chance there might be to interest him in his favor — that is, in favor of the orphans.
In this critical juncture, the poor soldier summoned to his aid all his presence of mind, reason, eloquence and resolution. He, who had twenty times braved death with the utmost coolness — who, calm and serene, because sincere and tried, had never quailed before the eagle-glance of the Emperor, his hero and idol — now felt himself disconcerted and trembling before the ill-humored face of a village burgomaster. Even so, a few hours before, he had submitted, impassive and resigned, to the insults of the Prophet — that he might not compromise the sacred mission with which a dying mother had entrusted him — thus showing to what a height of heroic abnegation it is possible for a simple and honest heart to attain.
“What have you to say in your justification? Come, be quick!” said the judge roughly, with a yawn of impatience.
“I have not got to justify myself — I have to make a complaint, Mr. Burgomaster,” replied Dagobert in a firm voice.
“Do you think you are to teach me in what terms I am to put my questions?” exclaimed the magistrate, in so sharp a tone that the soldier reproached himself with having begun the interview so badly. Wishing to pacify his judge, he made haste to answer with submission:
“Pardon me, Mr. Burgomaster, I have ill-explained my meaning. I only wished to say that I was not wrong in this affair.”
“The Prophet says the co
ntrary.”
“The Prophet?” repeated the soldier, with an air of doubt.
“The Prophet is a pious and honest man,” resumed the judge, “incapable of falsehood.”
“I cannot say anything upon that subject; but you are too just, and have too good a heart, Mr. Burgomaster, to condemn without hearing me. It is not a man like you that would do an injustice; oh, one can see that at a glance!”
In resigning himself thus to play the part of a courtier, Dagobert softened as much as possible his gruff voice, and strove to give to his austere countenance a smiling, agreeable, and flattering expression. “A man like you,” he added, with redoubled suavity of manner, “a respectable judge like you, never shuts his ears to one side or the other.”
“Ears are not in question, but eyes; and, though mine smart as if I had rubbed them with nettles, I have seen the hand of the brute-tamer, with a frightful wound on it.”
“Yes, Mr. Burgomaster, it is very true; but consider, if he had shut his cages and his door, all this would not have happened.”
“Not so; it is your fault. You should have fastened your horse securely to the manger.”
“You are right, Mr. Burgomaster, certainly, you are right,” said the soldier, in a still more affable and conciliating voice. “It is not for a poor devil like me to contradict you. But supposing my horse was let loose out of pure malice, in order that he might stray into the menagerie — you will then acknowledge that it was not my fault. That is, you will acknowledge it if you think fit,” hastily added the soldier “I have no right to dictate to you in anything.”
“And why the devil should any one do you this ill-turn?”
“I do not know, Mr. Burgomaster — but—”
“You do not know — well, nor I either,” said the burgomaster impatiently. “Zounds! what a many words about the carcass of an old horse!”
The countenance of the soldier, losing on a sudden its expression of forced suavity, became once more severe; he answered in a grave voice, full of emotion: “My horse is dead — he is no more than a carcass — that is true; but an hour ago, though very old, he was full of life and intelligence. He neighed joyously at my voice — and, every evening, he licked the hands of the two poor children, whom he had carried all the day — as formerly he had carried their mother. Now he will never carry any one again; they will throw him to the dogs, and all will be finished. You need not have reminded me harshly of it, Mr. Burgomaster — for I loved my horse!”
