by Eugène Sue
“Sister,” said Blanche, in a low voice, after some moments of silence, during which the tears seemed to mount to her eyes, “tell me what you are thinking of. You look so sad.”
“I think of the Golden City of our dreams,” replied Rose, almost in a whisper, after another short silence.
Blanche understood the bitterness of these words. Without speaking, she threw herself on her sister’s neck, and wept. Poor girls! the Golden City of their dreams was Paris, with their father in it — Paris, the marvellous city of joys and festivals, through all of which the orphans had beheld the radiant and smiling countenance of their sire! But, alas! the Beautiful City had been changed into a place of tears, and death, and mourning. The same terrible pestilence which had struck down their mother in the heart of Siberia, seemed to have followed them like a dark and fatal cloud, which, always hovering above them, hid the mild blue of the sky, and the joyous light of the sun.
The Golden City of their dreams! It was the place, where perhaps one day their father would present to them two young lovers, good and fair as themselves. “They love you,” he was to say; “they are worthy of you. Let each of you have a brother, and me two sons.” Then what chaste, enchanting confusion for those two orphans, whose hearts, pure as crystal, had never reflected any image but that of Gabriel, the celestial messenger sent by their mother to protect them!
We can therefore understand the painful emotion of Blanche, when she heard her sister repeat, with bitter melancholy, those words which described their whole situation: “I think of the Golden City of our dreams!”
“Who knows?” proceeded Blanche, drying her sister’s tears; “perhaps, happiness may yet be in store for us.”
“Alas! if we are not happy with our father by us — shall we ever be so?”
“Yes, when we rejoin our mother,” said Blanche, lifting her eyes to heaven.
“Then, sister, this dream may be a warning — it is so like that we had in Germany.”
“The difference being that then the Angel Gabriel came down from heaven to us, and that this time he takes us from earth, to our mother.”
“And this dream will perhaps come true, like the other, my sister. We dreamt that the Angel Gabriel would protect us, and he came to save us from the shipwreck.”
“And, this time, we dream that he will lead us to heaven. Why should not that happen also?”
“But to bring that about, sister, our Gabriel, who saved us from the shipwreck, must die also. No, no; that must not happen. Let us pray that it may not happen.”
“No, it will not happen — for it is only Gabriel’s good angel, who is so like him, that we saw in our dreams.”
“Sister, dear, how singular is this dream! — Here, as in Germany, we have both dreamt the same — three times, the very same!”
“It is true. The Angel Gabriel bent over us, and looked at us with so mild and sad an air, saying: ‘Come, my children! come, my sisters! Your mother waits for you. Poor children, arrived from so far!’ added he in his tender voice: ‘You have passed over the earth, gentle and innocent as two doves, to repose forever in the maternal nest.’”
“Yes, those were the words of the archangel,” said the other orphan, with a pensive air; “we have done no harm to any one, and we have loved those who loved us — why should we fear to die?”
“Therefore, dear sister, we rather smiled than wept, when he took us by the hand, and, spreading wide his beautiful white wings, carried us along with him to the blue depths of the sky.”
“To heaven, where our dear mother waited for us with open arms, her face all bathed in tears.”
“Oh, sweet sister! one has not dreams like ours for nothing. And then,” added she, looking at Rose, with a sad smile that went to the heart, “our death might perhaps end the sorrow, of which we have been the cause.”
“Alas! it is not our fault. We love him so much. But we are so timid and sorrowful before him, that he may perhaps think we love him not.”
So saying, Rose took her handkerchief from her workbasket, to dry her fears; a paper, folded in the form of a letter, fell out.
At this sight, the two shuddered, and pressed close to one mother, and Rose said to Blanche, in a trembling voice: “Another of these letters! — Oh, I am afraid! It will doubtless be like the last.”
“We must pick it up quickly, that it may not be seen,” said Blanche, hastily stooping to seize the letter; “the people who take interest in us might otherwise be exposed to great danger.”
“But how could this letter come to us?”
“How did the others come to be placed right under our hand, and always in the absence of our duenna?”
“It is true. Why seek to explain the mystery? We should never be able to do so. Let us read the letter. It will perhaps be more favorable to us than the last.” And the two sisters read as follows:-”Continue to love your father, dear children, for he is very miserable, and you are the involuntary cause of his distress. You will never know the terrible sacrifices that your presence imposes on him; but, alas! he is the victim of his paternal duties. His sufferings are more cruel than ever; spare him at least those marks of tenderness, which occasion him so much more pain than pleasure. Each caress is a dagger-stroke, for he sees in you the innocent cause of his misfortunes. Dear children, you must not therefore despair. If you have enough command over yourselves, not to torture him by the display of too warm a tenderness, if you can mingle some reserve with your affection, you will greatly alleviate his sorrow. Keep these letters a secret from every one, even from good Dagobert, who loves you so much; otherwise, both he and you, your father, and the unknown friend who is writing to you, will be exposed to the utmost peril, for your enemies are indeed formidable. Courage and hope! May your father’s tenderness be once more free from sorrow and regret! — That happy day is perhaps not so far distant. Burn this letter like all the others!”
The above note was written with so much cunning that, even supposing the orphans had communicated it to their father or Dagobert, it would at the worst have been considered a strange, intrusive proceeding, but almost excusable from the spirit in which it was conceived. Nothing could have been contrived with more perfidious art, if we consider the cruel perplexity in which Marshal Simon was struggling between the fear of again leaving his children and the shame of neglecting what he considered a sacred duty. All the tenderness, all the susceptibility of heart which distinguished the orphans, had been called into play by these diabolical counsels, and the sisters soon perceived that their presence was in fact both sweet and painful to their father; for sometimes he felt himself incapable of leaving them, and sometimes the thought of a neglected duty spread a cloud of sadness over his brow. Hence the poor twins could not fail to value the fatal meaning of the anonymous letters they received. They were persuaded that, from some mysterious motive, which they were unable to penetrate, their presence was often importunate and even painful to their father. Hence the growing sadness of Rose and Blanche — hence the sort of fear and reserve which restrained the expression of their filial tenderness. A most painful situation for the marshal, who deceived by inexplicable appearances, mistook, in his turn, their manner of indifference to him — and so, with breaking heart, and bitter grief upon his face, often abruptly quitted his children to conceal his tears!
And the desponding orphans said to each other: “We are the cause of our father’s grief. It is our presence which makes him so unhappy.”
The reader may new judge what ravages such a thought, when fixed and incessant, must have made on these young, loving, timid, and simple hearts. Haw could the orphans be on their guard against such anonymous communications, which spoke with reverence of all they loved, and seemed every day justified by the conduct of their father? Already victims of numerous plots, and hearing that they were surrounded by enemies, we can understand, how faithful to the advice of their unknown friend, they forbore to confide to Dagobert these letters, in which he was so justly appreciated. The object
of the proceeding was very plain. By continually harassing the marshal on all sides, and persuading him of the coldness of his children, the conspirators might naturally hope to conquer the hesitation which had hitherto prevented his again quitting his daughters to embark in a dangerous enterprise. To render the marshal’s life so burdensome that he would desire to seek relief from his torments in airy project of daring and generous chivalry, was one of the ends proposed by Rodin — and, as we have seen, it wanted neither logic nor possibility.
After having read the letter, the two remained for a moment silent and dejected. Then Rose, who held the paper in her hand, started up suddenly, approached the chimneypiece, and threw the letter into the fire, saying, with a timid air: “We must burn it quickly, or perhaps some great danger will ensue.”
“What greater misfortune can happen to us,” said Blanche, despondingly, “than to cause such sorrow to our father? What can be the reason of it?”
“Perhaps,” said Rose, whose tears were slowly trickling down her cheek, “he does not find us what he could have desired. He may love us well as the children of our poor mother, but we are not the daughters he had dreamed of. Do you understand me, sister?”
“Yes, yes — that is perhaps what occasioned all his sorrow. We are so badly informed, so wild, so awkward, that he is no doubt ashamed of us; and, as he loves us in spite of all, it makes him suffer.”
“Alas! it is not our fault. Our dear mother brought us up in the deserts of Siberia as well as she could.”
“Oh! father himself does not reproach us with it; only it gives him pain.”
“Particularly if he has friends whose daughters are very beautiful, and possessed of all sorts of talents. Then he must bitterly regret that we are not the same.”
“Dost remember when he took us to see our cousin, Mdlle. Adrienne, who was so affectionate and kind to us, that he said to us, with admiration: ‘Did you notice her, my children? How beautiful she is, and what talent, what a noble heart, and therewith such grace and elegance!’”
“Oh, it is very true! Mdlle. de Cardoville is so beautiful, her voice is so sweet and gentle, that, when we saw and heard her, we fancied that all our troubles were at an end.”
“And it is because of such beauty, no doubt, that our father, comparing us with our cousin and so many other handsome young ladies, cannot be very proud of us. And he, who is so loved and honored, would have liked to have been proud of his daughters.”
Suddenly Rose laid her hand on her sister’s arm, and said to her, with anxiety: “Listen! listen! they are talking very loud in father’s bedroom.”
“Yes,” said Blanche, listening in her turn; “and I can hear him walking. That is his step.”
“Good heaven! how he raises his voice; he seems to be in a great passion; he will perhaps come this way.”
And at the thought of their father’s coming — that father who really adored them — the unhappy children looked in terror at each other. The sound of a loud and angry voice became more and more distinct; and Rose, trembling through all her frame, said to her sister: “Do not let us remain here! Come into our room.”
“Why?”
“We should hear, without designing it, the words of our father — and he does not perhaps know that we are so near.”
“You are right. Come, come!” answered Blanche, as she rose hastily from her seat.
“Oh! I am afraid. I have never heard him speak in so angry a tone.”
“Oh! kind heaven!” said Blanche, growing pale, as she stopped involuntarily. “It is to Dagobert that he is talking so loud.”
“What can be the matter — to make our father speak to him in that way?”
“Alas! some great misfortune must have happened.”
“Oh, sister! do not let us remain here! It pains me too much to hear Dagobert thus spoken to.”
The crash of some article, hurled with violence and broken to pieces in the next room, so frightened the orphans, that, pale and trembling with emotion, they rushed into their own apartment, and fastened the door. We must now explain the cause of Marshal Simon’s violent anger.
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE STUNG LION.
THIS WAS THE scene, the sound of which had so terrified Rose and Blanche. At first alone in his chamber, in a state of exasperation difficult to describe, Marshal Simon had begun to walk hastily up and down, his handsome, manly face inflamed with rage, his eyes sparkling with indignation, while on his broad forehead, crowned with short-cut hair that was now turning gray, large veins, of which you might count the pulsations, were swollen almost to bursting; and sometimes his thick, black moustache was curled with a convulsive motion, not unlike that which is seen in the visage of a raging lion. And even as the wounded lion, in its fury, harassed and tortured by a thousand invisible darts, walks up and down its den with savage wrath, so Marshal Simon paced the floor of his room, as if bounding from side to side; sometimes he stooped, as though bending beneath the weight of his anger; sometimes, on the contrary, he paused abruptly, drew himself up to his full height, crossed his arms upon his vigorous chest, and with raised brow, threatening and terrible look, seemed to defy some invisible enemy, and murmur confused exclamations. Then he stood like a man of war and battle in all his intrepid fire.
And now he stamped angrily with his foot, approached the chimney-piece, and pulled the bell so violently that the bell-rope remained in his hand. A servant hastened to attend to this precipitate summons. “Did you not tell Dagobert that I wished to speak to him?” cried the marshal.
“I executed your grace’s orders, but M. Dagobert was accompanying his son to the door, and—”
“Very well!” interrupted Marshal Simon, with an abrupt and imperious gesture.
The servant went out, and his master continued to walk up and down with impatient steps, crumpling, in his rage, a letter that he held in his left hand. This letter had been innocently delivered by Spoil-sport, who, seeing him come in, had run joyously to meet him. At length the door opened, and Dagobert appeared. “I have been waiting for you a long time, sirrah!” cried the marshal, in an irritated tone.
Dagobert, more pained than surprised at this burst of anger, which he rightly attributed to the constant state of excitement in which the marshal had now been for some time past, answered mildly: “I beg your pardon, general, but I was letting out my son—”
“Read that, sir!” said the marshal abruptly, giving him the letter.
While Dagobert was reading it, the marshal resumed, with growing anger, as he kicked over a chair that stood in his way: “Thus, even in my own house, there are wretches bribed to harass me with incredible perseverance. Well! have you read it, sir?”
“It is a fresh insult to add to the others,” said Dagobert, coolly, as he threw the letter into the fire.
“The letter is infamous — but it speaks the truth,” replied the marshal. Dagobert looked at him in amazement.
“And can you tell who brought me this infamous letter” continued the marshal. “One would think the devil had a hand in it — for it was your dog!”
“Spoil-sport?” said Dagobert, in the utmost surprise.
“Yes,” answered the marshal, bitterly; “it is no doubt a joke of your invention.”
“I have no heart for joking, general,” answered Dagobert, more and more saddened by the irritable state of the marshal; “I cannot explain how it happened. Spoil-sport is a good carrier, and no doubt found the letter in the house—”
“And who can have left it there? Am I surrounded by traitors? Do you keep no watch? You, in whom I have every confidence?”
“Listen to me, general—”
But the marshal proceeded, without waiting to hear him. “What! I have made war for five-and-twenty years, I have battled with armies, I have struggled victoriously through the evil times of exile and proscription, I have withstood blows from maces of iron — and now I am to be killed with pins! Pursued into my own house, harassed with impunity, worn out, tortured every minute, to gra
tify some unknown, miserable hate! — When I say unknown, I am wrong — it is d’Aigrigny, the renegade, who is at the bottom of all this, I am sure. I have in the world but one enemy, and he is the man. I must finish with him, for I am weary of this — it is too much.”
“But, general, remember he is a priest—”
“What do I care for that? Have I not seen him handle the sword? I will yet make a soldier’s blood rise to the forehead of the traitor!”
“But, general—”
“I tell you, that I must be avenged on some one,” cried the marshal, with an accent of the most violent exasperation; “I tell you, that I mast find a living representative of these cowardly plots, that I may at once make an end of him! — They press upon me from all sides; they make my life a hell — you know it — and you do nothing to save me from these tortures, which are killing me as by a slow fire. Can I have no one in whom to trust?”
“General, I can’t let you say that,” replied Dagobert, in a calm, but firm voice.
“And why not?”
“General, I can’t let you say that you have no one to trust to. You might end perhaps in believing it, and then it would be even worse for yourself, than for those who well know their devotion for you, and would go through fire and water to serve you. I am one of them — and you know it.”
These simple words, pronounced by Dagobert with a tone of deep conviction, recalled the marshal to himself; for although his honorable and generous character might from time to time be embittered by irritation and grief, he soon recovered his natural equanimity. So, addressing Dagobert in a less abrupt tone, he said to him, though still much agitated: “You are right. I could never doubt your fidelity. But anger deprives me of my senses. This infamous letter is enough to drive one mad. I am unjust, ungrateful — yes, ungrateful — and to you!”
