by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER XLVI. THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS.
WE WILL EXPLAIN presently what became of the letter, which Spoil-sport held between his teeth, and why he left his master, when the latter ran to meet Agricola. Dagobert had not seen his son for some days. Embracing him cordially, he led him into one of the rooms on the ground floor, which he usually occupied. “And how is your wife?” said the soldier to his son.
“She is well, father, thank you.”
Perceiving a great change in Agricola’s countenance, Dagobert resumed: “You look sad. Has anything gone wrong since I saw you last?”
“All is over, father. We have lost him,” said the smith, in a tone of despair.
“Lost whom?”
“M. Hardy.”
“M. Hardy! — why, three days ago, you told me you were going to see him.”
“Yes, father, I have seen him — and my dear brother Gabriel saw him and spoke to him — how he speaks! with a voice that comes from the heart! — and he had so revived and encouraged him, that M. Hardy consented to return amongst us. Then I, wild with joy, ran to tell the good news to some of my mates, who were waiting to hear the result of nay interview with M. Hardy. I brought them all with me to thank and bless him. We were within a hundred yards of the house belonging to the black-gowns—”
“Ali, the black-gowns!” said Dagobert, with a gloomy air. “Then some mischief will happen. I know them.”
“You are not mistaken, father,” answered Agricola, with a sigh. “I was running on with my comrades, when I saw a carriage coming towards us. Some presentiment told me that they were taking away M. Hardy.”
“By force!” said Dagobert, hastily.
“No,” answered Agricola, bitterly; “no — the priests are too cunning for that. They know how to make you an accomplice in the evil they do you. Shall I not always remember how they managed with my good mother?”
“Yes, the worthy woman! there was a poor fly caught in the spider’s web. But this carriage, of which you speak?”
“On seeing it start from the house of the black-gowns,” replied Agricola, “my heart sank within me; and, by an impulse stronger than myself, I rushed to the horses’ heads, calling on my comrades to help me. But the postilion knocked me down and stunned me with a blow from his whip. When I recovered my senses, the carriage was already far away.”
“You were not hurt?” cried Dagobert, anxiously, as he examined his son from top to toe.
“No, father; a mere scratch.”
“What did you next, my boy?”
“I hastened to our good angel, Mdlle. de Cardoville, and told her all. ‘You must follow M. Hardy on the instant,’ said she to me. ‘Take my carriage and post-horses. Dupont will accompany you; follow M. Hardy from stage to stage; should you succeed in overtaking him your presence and your prayers may perhaps conquer the fatal influence that these priests have acquired over him.’”
“It was the best advice she could give you. That excellent young lady is always right.”
“An hour after, we were upon our way, for we learned by the returned postilions, that M. Hardy had taken the Orleans road. We followed him as far as Etampes. There we heard that he had taken a cross-road, to reach a solitary house in a valley about four leagues from the highway. They told us that this house called the Val-de-St. Herem, belonged to certain priests, and that, as the night was so dark, and the road so bad, we had better sleep at the inn, and start early in the morning. We followed this advice, and set out at dawn. In a quarter of an hour, we quitted the high-road for a mountainous and desert track. We saw nothing but brown rocks, and a few birch trees. As we advanced, the scene became wilder and wilder. We might have fancied ourselves a hundred leagues from Paris. At last we stopped in front of a large, old, black-looking house with only a few small windows in it, and built at the foot of a high, rocky mountain. In my whole life I have never seen anything so deserted and sad. We got out of the carriage, and I rang the bell. A man opened the door. ‘Did not the Abbe d’Aigrigny arrive here last night with a gentleman?’ said I to this man, with a confidential air. ‘Inform the gentleman directly, that I come on business of importance, and that I must see him forthwith.’ — The man, believing me an accomplice, showed us in immediately; a moment after, the Abbe d’Aigrigny opened the door, saw me, and drew back; yet, in five minutes more, I was in presence of M. Hardy.”
“Well!” said Dagobert, with interest.
Agricola shook his head sorrowfully, and replied: “I knew by the very countenance of M. Hardy, that all was over. Addressing me in a mild but firm voice, he said to me: ‘I understand, I can even excuse, the motives that bring you hither. But I am quite determined to live henceforth in solitude and prayer. I take this resolution freely and voluntarily, because I would fain provide for the salvation of my soul. Tell your fellows that my arrangements will be such as to leave them a good remembrance of me.’ — And as I was about to speak, M. Hardy interrupted me, saying: ‘It is useless, my friend. My determination is unalterable. Do not write to me, for your letters would remain unanswered. Prayer will henceforth be my only occupation. Excuse me for leaving you, but I am fatigued from my journey!’ — He spoke the truth for he was as pale as a spectre, with a kind of wildness about the eyes, and so changed since the day before, as to be hardly the same man. His hand, when he offered it on parting from me, was dry and burning. The Abbe d’Aigrigny soon came in. ‘Father,’ said M. Hardy to him, ‘have the goodness to see M. Baudoin to the door.’ — So saying, he waved his hand to me in token of farewell, and retired to the next chamber. All was over; he is lost to us forever.”
“Yes,” said Dagobert, “those black-gowns have enchanted him, like so many others.”
“In despair,” resumed Agricola, “I returned hither with M. Dupont. This, then, is what the priests have made of M. Hardy — of that generous man, who supported nearly three hundred industrious workmen in order and happiness, increasing their knowledge, improving their hearts, and earning the benediction of that little people, of which he was the providence. Instead of all this, M. Hardy is now forever reduced to a gloomy and unavailing life of contemplation.”
“Oh, the black-gowns!” said Dagobert, shuddering, and unable to conceal a vague sense of fear. “The longer I live, the more I am afraid of them. You have seen what those people did to your poor mother; you see what they have just done to M. Hardy; you know their plots against my two poor orphans, and against that generous young lady. Oh, these people are very powerful! I would rather face a battalion of Russian grenadiers, than a dozen of these cassocks. But don’t let’s talk of it. I have causes enough beside for grief and fear.”
Then seeing the astonished look of Agricola, the soldier, unable to restrain his emotion, threw himself into the arms of his son, exclaiming with a choking voice: “I can hold out no longer. My heart is too full. I must speak; and whom shall I trust if not you?”
“Father, you frighten me!” said Agricola, “What is the matter?”
“Why, you see, had it not been for you and the two poor girls, I should have blown out my brains twenty times over rather than see what I see — and dread what I do.”
“What do you dread, father?”
“Since the last few days, I do not know what has come over the marshal — but he frightens me.”
“Yet in his last interviews with Mdlle. de Cardoville—”
“Yes, he was a little better. By her kind words, this generous young lady poured balm into his wounds; the presence of the young Indian cheered him; he appeared to shake off his cares, and his poor little girls felt the benefit of the change. But for some days, I know not what demon has been loosed against his family. It is enough to turn one’s head. First of all, I am sure that the anonymous letters have begun again.”
“What letters, father?”
“The anonymous letters.”
“But what are they about?”
“You know how the marshal hated that renegade, the Abbe d’Aigrigny. When he found that th
e traitor was here, and that he had persecuted the two orphans, even as he persecuted their mother to the death — but that now he had become a priest — I thought the marshal would have gone mad with indignation and fury. He wishes to go in search of the renegade. With one word I calmed him. ‘He is a priest,’ I said; ‘you may do what you will, insult or strike him — he will not fight. He began by serving against his country, he ends by becoming a bad priest. It is all in character. He is not worth spitting upon.’— ‘But surely I may punish the wrong done to my children, and avenge the death of my wife,’ cried the marshal, much exasperated.— ‘They say, as you well know, that there are courts of law to avenge your wrongs,’ answered I; ‘Mdlle. de Cardoville has lodged a charge against the renegade, for having attempted to confine your daughters in a convent. We must champ the bit and wait.”’
“Yes,” said Agricola, mournfully, “and unfortunately there lacks proof to bring it home to the Abbe d’Aigrigny. The other day, when I was examined by Mdlle. de Cardoville’s lawyer, with regard to our attempt on the convent, he told me that we should meet with obstacles at every step, for want of legal evidence, and that the priests had taken their precautions with so much skill that the indictment would be quashed.”
“That is just what the marshal thinks, my boy, and this increases his irritation at such injustice.”
“He should despise the wretches.”
“But the anonymous letters!”
“Well, what of them, father?”
“You shall know all. A brave and honorable man like the marshal, when his first movement of indignation was over, felt that to insult the renegade disguised in the garb of a priest, would be like insulting an old man or a woman. He determined therefore to despise him, and to forget him as soon as possible. But then, almost every day, there came by the post anonymous letters, in which all sorts of devices were employed, to revive and excite the anger of the marshal against the renegade by reminding him of all the evil contrived by the Abbe d’Aigrigny against him and his family. The marshal was reproached with cowardice for not taking vengeance on this priest, the persecutor of his wife and children, the insolent mocker at his misfortunes.”
“And from whom do you suspect these letters to come, father?”
“I cannot tell — it is that which turns one’s brain. They must come from the enemies of the marshal, and he has no enemies but the black-gowns.”
“But, father, since these letters are to excite his anger against the Abbe d’Aigrigny, they can hardly have been written by priests.”
“That is what I have said to myself.”
“But what, then, can be their object?”
“Their object? oh, it is too plain!” cried Dagobert. “The marshal is hasty, ardent; he has a thousand reasons to desire vengeance on the renegade. But he cannot do himself justice, and the other sort of justice fails him. Then what does he do? He endeavors to forget, he forgets. But every day there comes to him an insolent letter, to provoke and exasperate his legitimate hatred, by mockeries and insults. Devil take me! my head is not the weakest — but, at such a game, I should go mad.”
“Father, such a plot would be horrible, and only worthy of hell!”
“And that is not all.”
“What more?”
“The marshal has received other letters; those he has not shown me — but, after he had read the first, he remained like a man struck motionless, and murmured to himself: ‘They do not even respect that — oh! it is too much — too much!’ — And, hiding his face in his hands he wept.”
“The marshal wept!” cried the blacksmith, hardly able to believe what he heard.
“Yes,” answered Dagobert, “he wept like a child.”
“And what could these letters contain, father?”
“I did not venture to ask him, he appeared so miserable and dejected.”
“But thus harassed and tormented incessantly, the marshal must lead a wretched life.”
“And his poor little girls too! he sees them grow sadder and sadder, without being able to guess the cause. And the death of his father, killed almost in his arms! Perhaps, you will think all this enough; but, no! I am sure there is something still more painful behind. Lately, you would hardly know the marshal. He is irritable about nothing, and falls into such fits of passion, that—” After a moment’s hesitation, the soldier resumed: “I way tell this to you, my poor boy. I have just been upstairs, to take the caps from his pistols.”
“What, father!” cried Agricola; “you fear—”
“In the state of exasperation in which I saw him yesterday, there is everything to fear.”
“What then happened?”
“Since some time, he has often long secret interviews with a gentleman, who looks like an old soldier and a worthy man. I have remarked that the gloom and agitation of the marshal are always redoubled after one of these visits. Two or three times, I have spoken to him about it; but I saw by his look, that I displeased him, and therefore I desisted.
“Well! yesterday, this gentleman came in the evening. He remained here until eleven o’clock, and his wife came to fetch him, and waited for him in a coach. After his departure, I went up to see if the marshal wanted anything. He was very pale, but calm; he thanked me, and I came down again. You know that my room is just under his. I could hear the marshal walking about as if much agitated, and soon after he seemed to be knocking down the furniture. In alarm, I once more went upstairs. He asked me, with an irritated air, what I wanted, and ordered me to leave the room. Seeing him in that way, I remained; he grew more angry, still I remained; perceiving a chair and table thrown down, I pointed to them with so sad an air that he understood me. You know that he has the best heart in the world, so, taking me by the hand, he said to me: ‘Forgive me for causing you this uneasiness, my good Dagobert; but just now, I lost my senses, and gave way to a burst of absurd fury; I think I should have thrown myself out of the window, had it been open. I only hope, that my poor dear girls have not heard me,’ added he, as he went on tip-toe to open the door which communicates with his daughters’ bedroom. When he had listened anxiously for a moment, he returned to me, and said: ‘Luckily, they are asleep.’ — Then I asked him what was the cause of his agitation, and if, in spite of my precautions, he had received any more anonymous letters. ‘No,’ replied he, with a gloomy air; ‘but leave me, my friend. I am now better. It has done me good to see you. Good — night, old comrade! go downstairs to bed.’ — I took care not to contradict him; but, pretending to go down, I came up again, and seated myself on the top stair, listening. No doubt, to calm himself entirely, the marshal went to embrace his children, for I heard him open and shut their door. Then he returned to his room, and walked about for a long time, but with a more quiet step. At last, I heard him throw himself on his bed, and I came down about break of day. After that, all remained tranquil.”
“But whatever can be the matter with him, father?”
“I do not know. When I went up to him, I was astonished at the agitation of his countenance, and the brilliancy of his eyes. He would have looked much the same, had he been delirious, or in a burning fever — so that, when I heard him say, he could have thrown himself out of the window, had it been open, I thought it more prudent to remove the caps from his pistols.”
“I cannot understand it!” said Agricola. “So firm, intrepid, and cool a man as the marshal, a prey to such violence!”
“I tell you that something very extraordinary is passing within him. For two days, he has not been to see his children, which is always a bad sign with him — to say nothing of the poor little angels themselves, who are miserable at the notion that they have displeased their father. They displease him! If you only knew the life they lead, dear creatures! a walk or ride with me and their companion, for I never let them go out alone, and, the rest of their time, at their studies, reading, or needlework — always together — and then to bed. Yet their duenna, who is, I think, a worthy woman, tells me that sometimes at night, she
has seen them shed tears in their sleep. Poor children! they have hitherto known but little happiness,” added the soldier, with a sigh.
At this moment, hearing some one walk hastily across the courtyard, Dagobert raised his eyes, and saw Marshal Simon, with pale face and bewildered air, holding in his two hands a letter, which he seemed to read with devouring anxiety.
CHAPTER XLVII. THE GOLDEN CITY.
WHILE MARSHAL SIMON was crossing the little court with so agitated an air, reading the anonymous letter, which he had received by Spoil-sport’s unexpected medium, Rose and Blanche were alone together, in the sitting room they usually occupied, which had been entered for a moment by Loony during their absence. The poor children seemed destined to a succession of sorrows. At the moment their mourning for their mother drew near its close, the tragical death of their grandfather had again dressed them in funereal weeds. They were seated together upon a couch, in front of their work-table. Grief often produces the effect of years. Hence, in a few months, Rose and Blanche had become quite young women. To the infantine grace of their charming faces, formerly so plump and rosy, but now pale and thin, had succeeded an expression of grave and touching sadness. Their large, mild eyes of limpid azure, which always had a dreamy character, were now never bathed in those joyous tears, with which a burst of frank and hearty laughter used of old to adorn their silky lashes, when the comic coolness of Dagobert, or some funny trick of Spoil-sport, cheered them in the course of their long and weary pilgrimage.
In a word, those delightful faces, which the flowery pencil of Greuze could alone have painted in all their velvet freshness, were now worthy of inspiring the melancholy ideal of the immortal Ary Scheffer, who gave us Mignon aspiring to Paradise, and Margaret dreaming of Faust. Rose, leaning back on the couch, held her head somewhat bowed upon her bosom, over which was crossed a handkerchief of black crape. The light streaming from a window opposite, shone softly on her pure, white forehead, crowned by two thick bands of chestnut hair. Her look was fixed, and the open arch of her eyebrows, now somewhat contracted, announced a mind occupied with painful thoughts. Her thin, white little hands had fallen upon her knees, but still held the embroidery, on which she had been engaged. The profile of Blanche was visible, leaning a little towards her sister, with an expression of tender and anxious solicitude, whilst her needle remained in the canvas, as if she had just ceased to work.
