Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Well, come! you are a very good sort of a man,” said Rose-Pompon, enchanted with Rodin’s philosophy. “But why will you not come and see Cephyse, and talk to her of Jacques?”

  “Of what use would it be to tell her what she knows already — that Jacques is in prison? What I should like, would be to get the worthy fellow out of his scrape.”

  “Oh, sir! only do that, only get Jacques out of prison,” cried Rose Pompon, warmly, “and we will both give you a kiss — me and Cephyse!”

  “It would be throwing kisses away, dear little madcap!” said Rodin, smiling. “But be satisfied, I want no reward to induce me to do good when I can.”

  “Then you hope to get Jacques out of prison?”

  Rodin shook his head, and answered with a grieved and disappointed air. “I did hope it. Certainly, I did hope it; but now all is changed.”

  “How’s that?” asked Rose-Pompon, with surprise.

  “That foolish joke of calling me M. Rodin may appear very amusing to you, my dear child. I understand it, you being only an echo. Some one has said to you: ‘Go and tell M. Charlemagne that he is one M. Rodin. That will be very funny.’”

  “Certainly, I should never myself have thought of calling you M. Rodin. One does not invent such names,” answered Rose-Pompon.

  “Well! that person with his foolish jokes, has done, without knowing it, a great injury to Jacques Rennepont.”

  “What! because I called you Rodin instead of Charlemagne?” cried Rose Pompon, much regretting the pleasantry which she had carried on at the instigation of Ninny Moulin. “But really, sir,” she added, “what can this joke have to do with the service that you were, about to render Jacques?”

  “I am not at liberty to tell you, my child. In truth, I am very sorry for poor Jacques. Believe me, I am; but do let me pass.

  “Listen to me, sir, I beg,” said Rose-Pompon; “if I told you the name of the person who told me to call you Rodin, would you interest yourself again for Jacques?”

  “I do not wish to know any one’s secrets, my dear child. In all this, you have been the echo of persons who are, perhaps, very dangerous; and, notwithstanding the interest I feel for Jacques Rennepont, I do not wish, you understand, to make myself enemies. Heaven forbid!”

  Rose-Pompon did not at all comprehend Rodin’s fears, and upon this he had counted; for after a second’s reflection, the young girl resumed: “Well, sir — this is too deep for me; I do not understand it. All I know is, that I am truly sorry if I have injured a good young man by a mere joke. I will tell you exactly how it happened. My frankness may be of some use.”

  “Frankness will often clear up the most obscure matters,” said Rodin, sententiously.

  “After all,” said Rose-Pompon, “it’s Ninny’s fault. Why does he tell me nonsense, that might injure poor Cephyse’s lover? You see, sir, it happened in this way. Ninny Moulin who is fond of a joke, saw you just now in the street. The portress told him that your name was Charlemagne. He said to me: ‘No; his name is Rodin. We must play him a trick. Go to his room, Rose-Pompon, knock at the door, and call him M. Rodin. You will see what a rum face he will make.’ I promised Ninny Moulin not to name him; but I do it, rather than run the risk of injuring Jacques.”

  At Ninny Moulin’s name Rodin had not been able to repress a movement of surprise. This pamphleteer, whom he had employed to edit the “Neighborly Love,” was not personally formidable; but, being fond of talking in his drink, he might become troublesome, particularly if Rodin, as was probable, had often to visit this house, to execute his project upon Sleepinbuff, through the medium of the Bacchanal Queen. The socius resolved, therefore, to provide against this inconvenience.

  “So, my dear child,” said he to Rose-Pompon, “it is a M. Desmoulins that persuaded you to play off this silly joke?”

  “Not Desmoulins, but Dumoulin,” corrected Rose. “He writes in the pewholders’ papers, and defends the saints for money; for, if Ninny Moulin is a saint, his patrons are Saint Drinkard and Saint Flashette, as he himself declares.”

  “This gentleman appears to be very gay.”

  “Oh! a very good fellow.”

  “But stop,” resumed Rodin, appearing to recollect himself; “ain’t he a man about thirty-six or forty, fat, with a ruddy complexion?”

  “Ruddy as a glass of red wine,” said Rose-Pompon, “and with a pimpled nose like a mulberry.”

  “That’s the man — M. Dumoulin. Oh! in that case, I am quite satisfied, my dear child. The jest no longer makes me uneasy; for M. Dumoulin is a very worthy man — only perhaps a little too fond of his joke.”

  “Then, sir, you will try to be useful to Jacques? The stupid pleasantry of Ninny Moulin will not prevent you?”

  “I hope not.”

  “But I must not tell Ninny Moulin that you know it was he who sent me to call you M. Rodin — eh, sir?”

  “Why not? In every case, my dear child, it is always better to speak frankly the truth.”

  “But, sir, Ninny Moulin so strongly recommended me not to name him to you—”

  “If you have named him, it is from a very good motive; why not avow it? However, my dear child, this concerns you, not me. Do as you think best.”

  “And may I tell Cephyse of your good intentions towards Jacques?”

  “The truth, my dear child, always the truth. One need never hesitate to say what is.”

  “Poor Cephyse! how happy she will be!” cried Rose-Pompon, cheerfully; “and the news will come just in time.”

  “Only you must not exaggerate; I do not promise positively to get this good fellow out of prison; I say, that I will do what I can. But what I promise positively is — for, since the imprisonment of poor Jacques, your friend must be very much straitened—”

  “Alas, sir!”

  “What I promise positively is some little assistance which your friend will receive to-day, to enable her to live honestly; and if she behaves well — hereafter — why, hereafter, we shall see.”

  “Oh, sir! you do not know how welcome will be your assistance to poor Cephyse! One might fancy you were her actual good angel. Faith! you may call yourself Rodin, or Charlemagne; all I know is, that you are a nice, sweet—”

  “Come, come, do not exaggerate,” said Rodin; “say a good sort of old fellow; nothing more, my dear child. But see how things fall out, sometimes! Who could have told me, when I heard you knock at my door — which, I must say, vexed me a great deal — that it was a pretty little neighbor of mine, who under the pretext of playing off a joke, was to put me in the way of doing a good action? Go and comfort your friend; this evening she will receive some assistance; and let us have hope and confidence. Thanks be, there are still some good people in the world!”

  “Oh, sir! you prove it yourself.”

  “Not at all! The happiness of the old is to see the young happy.”

  This was said by Rodin with so much apparent kindness, that Rose-Pompon felt the tears well up to her eyes, and answered with much emotion: “Sir, Cephyse and me are only poor girls; there are many more virtuous in the world; but I venture to say, we have good hearts. Now, if ever you should be ill, only send for us; there are no Sisters of Charity that will take better care of you. It is all that we can offer you, without reckoning Philemon, who shall go through fire and water for you, I give you my word for it — and Cephyse, I am sure, will answer for Jacques also, that he will be yours in life and death.”

  “You see, my dear child, that I was right in saying — a fitful head and a good heart. Adieu, till we meet again.”

  Thereupon Rodin, taking up the basket, which he had placed on the ground by the side of his umbrella, prepared to descend the stairs.

  “First of all, you must give me this basket; it will be in your way going down,” said Rose-Pompon, taking the basket from the hands of Rodin, notwithstanding his resistance. Then she added: “Lean upon my arm. The stairs are so dark. You might slip.”

  “I will accept your offer, my dear child, for I am
not very courageous.” Leaning paternally on the right arm of Rose-Pompon, who held the basket in her left hand, Rodin descended the stairs, and crossed the court-yard.

  “Up there, on the third story, do you see that big face close to the window-frame?” said Rose-Pompon suddenly to Rodin, stopping in the centre of the little court. “That is my Ninny Moulin. Do you know him? Is he the same as yours?”

  “The same as mine,” said Rodin, raising his head, and waving his hand very affectionately to Jacques Dumoulin, who, stupefied thereat, retired abruptly from the window.

  “The poor fellow! I am sure he is afraid of me since his foolish joke,” said Rodin, smiling. “He is very wrong.”

  And he accompanied these last words with a sinister nipping of the lips, not perceived by Rose-Pompon.

  “And now, my dear child,” said he, as they both entered the passage, “I no longer need you assistance; return to your friend, and tell her the good news you have heard.”

  “Yes, sir, you are right. I burn with impatience to tell her what a good man you are.” And Rose-Pompon sprung towards the stairs.

  “Stop, stop! how about my basket that the little madcap carries off with her?” said Rodin.

  “Oh true! I beg your pardon, sir. Poor Cephyse! how pleased she will be. Adieu, sir!” And Rose-Pompon’s pretty figure disappeared in the darkness of the staircase, which she mounted with an alert and impatient step.

  Rodin issued from the entry. “Here is your basket, my good lady,” said he, stopping at the threshold of Mother Arsene’s shop. “I give you my humble thanks for your kindness.”

  “For nothing, my dear sir, for nothing. It is all at your service. Well, was the radish good?”

  “Succulent, my dear madame, and excellent.”

  “Oh! I am glad of it. Shall we soon see you again?”

  “I hope so. But could you tell me where is the nearest post-office?”

  “Turn to the left, the third house, at the grocer’s.”

  “A thousand thanks.”

  “I wager it’s a love letter for your sweetheart,” said Mother Arsene, enlivened probably by Rose Pompon’s and Ninny Moulin’s proximity.

  “Ha! ha! ha! the good lady!” said Rodin, with a titter. Then, suddenly resuming his serious aspect, he made a low bow to the greengrocer, adding: “Your most obedient humble servant!” and walked out into the street.

  We now usher the reader into Dr. Baleinier’s asylum, in which Mdlle. de Cardoville was confined.

  CHAPTER XXXII. THE ADVICE.

  ADRIENNE DE CARDOVILLE had been still more strictly confined in Dr. Baleinier’s house, since the double nocturnal attempt of Agricola and Dagobert, in which the soldier, though severely wounded, had succeeded, thanks to the intrepid devotion of his son, seconded by the heroic Spoil sport, in gaining the little garden gate of the convent, and escaping by way of the boulevard, along with the young smith. Four o’clock had just struck. Adrienne, since the previous day, had been removed to a chamber on the second story of the asylum. The grated window, with closed shutters, only admitted a faint light to this apartment. The young lady, since her interview with Mother Bunch, expected to be delivered any day by the intervention of her friends. But she felt painful uneasiness on the subject of Agricola and Dagobert, being absolutely ignorant of the issue of the struggle in which her intended liberators had been engaged with the people of the asylum and convent. She had in vain questioned her keepers on the subject; they had remained perfectly mute. These new incidents had augmented the bitter resentment of Adrienne against the Princess de Saint Dizier, Father d’Aigrigny, and their creatures. The slight paleness of Mdlle. de Cardoville’s charming face, and her fine eyes a little drooping, betrayed her recent sufferings; seated before a little table, with her forehead resting upon one of her hands, half veiled by the long curls of her golden hair, she was turning over the leaves of a book. Suddenly, the door opened, and M. Baleinier entered. The doctor, a Jesuit, in lay attire, a docile and passive instrument of the will of his Order, was only half in the confidence of Father d’Aigrigny and the Princess de Saint-Dizier. He was ignorant of the object of the imprisonment of Mdlle. de Cardoville; he was ignorant also of the sudden change which had taken place in the relative position of Father d’Aigrigny and Rodin, after the reading of the testament of Marius de Rennepont. The doctor had, only the day before, received orders from Father d’Aigrigny (now acting under the directions of Rodin) to confine Mdlle. de Cardoville still more strictly, to act towards her with redoubled severity, and to endeavor to force her, it will be seen by what expedients, to renounce the judicial proceedings, which she promised herself to take hereafter against her persecutors. At sight of the doctor, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not hide the aversion and disdain with which this man inspired her. M. Baleinier, on the contrary, always smiling, always courteous, approached Adrienne with perfect ease and confidence, stopped a few steps from her, as if to study her features more attentively, and then added like a man who is satisfied with the observations he had made: “Come! the unfortunate events of the night before last have had a less injurious influence than I feared. There is some improvement; the complexion is less flushed, the look calmer, the eyes still somewhat too bright, but no longer shining with such unnatural fire. You are getting on so well! Now the cure must be prolonged — for this unfortunate night affair threw you into a state of excitement, that was only the more dangerous from your not being conscious of it. Happily, with care, your recovery will not, I hope, be very much delayed.” Accustomed though she was to the audacity of this tool of the Congregation, Mdlle. de Cardoville could not forbear saying to him, with a smile of bitter disdain: “What impudence, sir, there is in your probity! What effrontery in your zeal to earn your hire! Never for a moment do you lay aside your mask; craft and falsehood are ever on your lips. Really, if this shameful comedy causes you as much fatigue as it does me disgust and contempt, they can never pay you enough.”

  “Alas!” said the doctor, in a sorrowful tone; “always this unfortunate delusion, that you are not in want of our care! — that I am playing a part, when I talk to you of the sad state in which you were when we were obliged to bring you hither by stratagem. Still, with the exception of this little sign of rebellious insanity, your condition has marvellously improved. You are on the high-road to a complete cure. By-and-by, your excellent heart will render me the justice that is due to me; and, one day, I shall be judged as I deserve.”

  “I, believe it, sir; the day approaches, in which you will be judged as you deserve,” said Adrienne, laying great stress upon the two words.

  “Always that other fixed idea,” said the doctor with a sort of commiseration. “Come, be reasonable. Do not think of this childishness.”

  “What! renounce my intention to demand at the hands of justice reparation for myself, and disgrace for you and your accomplices? Never, sir — never!”

  “Well!” said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders; “once at liberty, thank heaven, you will have many other things to think of, my fair enemy.”

  “You forget piously the evil that you do; but I, sir, have a better memory.”

  “Let us talk seriously. Have you really the intention of applying to the courts?” inquired Dr. Baleinier, in a grave tone.

  “Yes, sir, and you know that what I intend, I firmly carry out.”

  “Well! I can only conjure you not to follow out this idea,” replied the doctor, in a still more solemn tone; “I ask it as a favor, in the name of your own interest.”

  “I think, sir, that you are a little too ready to confound your interest with mine.”

  “Now come,” said Dr. Baleinier, with a feigned impatience, as if quite certain of convincing Mdlle. de Cardoville on the instant; “would you have the melancholy courage to plunge into despair two persons full of goodness and generosity?”

  “Only two? The jest would be complete, if you were to reckon three: you, sir, and my aunt, and Abbe d’Aigrigny; for these are no doubt the generous persons in
whose name you implore my pity.”

  “No, madame; I speak neither of myself, nor of your aunt, nor of Abbe d’Aigrigny.”

  “Of whom, then, sir?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville with surprise.

  “Of two poor fellows, who, no doubt sent by those whom you call your friends, got into the neighboring convent the other night, and thence into this garden. The guns which you heard go off were fired at them.”

  “Alas! I thought so. They refused to tell me if either of them was wounded,” said Adrienne, with painful emotion.

  “One of them received a wound, but not very serious, since he was able to fly and escape pursuit.”

  “Thank God!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, clasping her hands with fervor.

  “It is quite natural that you should rejoice at their escape, but by what strange contradiction do you now wish to put the officers of justice on their track? A singular manner, truly, of rewarding their devotion!”

  “What do you say, sir?” asked Mdlle. de Cardoville.

  “For if they should be arrested,” resumed Dr. Baleinier, without answering her, “as they have been guilty of housebreaking and attempted burglary, they would be sent to the galleys.”

  “Heavens! and for my sake!”

  “Yes; it would be for you, and what is worse, by you, that they would be condemned.”

  “By me, sir?”

  “Certainly; that is, if you follow up your vengeance against your aunt and Abbe d’Aigrigny — I do not speak of myself, for I am quite safe; in a word, if you persist in laying your complaint before the magistrates, that you have been unjustly confined in this house.”

  “I do not understand you, sir. Explain yourself,” said Adrienne, with growing uneasiness.

  “Child that you are!” cried the Jesuit of the short robe, with an air of conviction; “do you think that if the law once takes cognizance of this affair, you can stop short its action where and when you please? When you leave this house, you lodge a complaint against me and against your family; well, what happens? The law interferes, inquires, calls witnesses, enters into the most minute investigations. Then, what follows? Why, that this nocturnal escalade, which the superior of the convent has some interest in hushing up, for fear of scandal — that this nocturnal attempt, I say, which I also would keep quiet, is necessarily divulged, and as it involves a serious crime, to which a heavy penalty is attached, the law will ferret into it, and find out these unfortunate men, and if, as is probable, they are detained in Paris by their duties or occupations, or even by a false security, arising from the honorable motives which they know to have actuated them, they will be arrested. And who will be the cause of this arrest? You, by your deposition against us.”