Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “We can run no danger by going to our governess in her room,” said Rose.

  “And if there were danger,” added Blanche, “we ought not to hesitate. So, Dagobert, be good! and let us pass.”

  Rodin, who had listened to what precedes, with sustained attention, suddenly started, as if a thought had struck him; his eye shone brightly, and an expression of fatal joy illumined his countenance.

  “Dagobert, do not refuse!” said Blanche. “You would do for us what you reproach us with wishing to do for another.”

  Dagobert had as it were, till now stood in the path of the Jesuit and the twins by keeping close to the door; but, after a moments reflection, he shrugged his shoulders, stepped to one side, and said calmly: “I was an old fool. Come, young ladies; if you find Madame Augustine in the house, I will allow you to remain with her.”

  Surprised at these words, the girls stood motionless and irresolute.

  “If our governess is not here, where is she, then?” said Rose.

  “You think, perhaps, that I am going to tell you in the excitement in which you are!”

  “She is dead!” cried Rose growing pale.

  “No, no — be calm,” said the soldier, hastily; “I swear to you, by your father’s honor, that she is not dead. At the first appearance of the disorder, she begged to be removed from the house, fearing the contagion for those in it.”

  “Good and courageous woman!” said Rose tenderly, “And you will not allow us—”

  “I will not allow you to go out, even if I have to lock you up in your room,” cried the soldier, again stamping with rage; then, remembering that the blunderhead’s indiscretion was the sole cause of this unfortunate incident, he added, with concentrated fury: “Oh! I will break my stick upon that rascal’s back.”

  So saying, he turned towards the door, where Rodin still stood, silent and attentive, dissembling with habitual impassibility the fatal hopes he had just conceived in his brain. The girls, no longer doubting the removal of their governess, and convinced that Dagobert would not tell them whither they had conveyed her, remained pensive and sad.

  At sight of the priest, whom he had forgotten for the moment, the soldier’s rage increased, and he said to him abruptly: “Are you still there?”

  “I would merely observe to you, my dear sir,” said Rodin, with that air of perfect good nature which he knew so well how to assume, “that you were standing before the door, which naturally prevented me from going out.”

  “Well, now nothing prevents you — so file off!”

  “Certainly, I will file off, if you wish it, my dear sir though I think I have some reason to be surprised at such a reception.”

  “It is no reception at all — so begone!”

  “I had come, my dear sir to speak to you—”

  “I have no time for talking.”

  “Upon business of great importance.”

  “I have no other business of importance than to remain with these children.”

  “Very good, my dear sir,” said Rodin, pausing on the threshold. “I will not disturb you any longer; excuse my indiscretion. The bearer of excellent news from Marshal Simon, I came—”

  “News from our father!” cried Rose, drawing nearer to Rodin.

  “Oh, speak, speak, sir!” added Blanche.

  “You have news of the marshal!” said Dagobert, glancing suspiciously at Rodin. “Pray, what is this news?”

  But Rodin, without immediately answering the question, returned from the threshold into the room, and, contemplating Rose and Blanche by turns with admiration, he resumed: “What happiness for me, to be able to bring some pleasure to these dear young ladies. They are even as I left them graceful, and fair, and charming — only less sad than on the day when I fetched them from the gloomy convent in which they were kept prisoners, to restore them to the arms of their glorious father!”

  “That was their place, and this is not yours,” said Dagobert, harshly, still holding the door open behind Rodin.

  “Confess, at least that I was not so much out of place at Dr. Baleinier’s,” said the Jesuit, with a cunning air. “You know, for it was there that I restored to you the noble imperial cross you so much regretted — the day when that good Mdlle. de Cardoville only prevented you from strangling me by telling you that I was her liberator. Aye! it was just as I have the honor of stating, young ladies,” added Rodin, with a smile; “this brave soldier was very near strangling me, for, be it said without offense, he has, in spite of his age, a grasp of iron. Ha, ha! the Prussians and Cossacks must know that better than I!”

  These few words reminded Dagobert and the twins of the services which Rodin had really rendered them; and though the marshal had heard Mdlle. de Cardoville speak of Rodin as of a very dangerous man, he had forgotten, in the midst of so many anxieties, to communicate this circumstance to Dagobert. But this latter, warned by experience, felt, in spite of favorable appearances, a secret aversion for the Jesuit; so he replied abruptly: “The strength of my grasp has nothing to do with the matter.”

  “If I allude to that little innocent playfulness on your part, my dear sir,” said Rodin, in his softest tone, approaching the two sisters with a wriggle which was peculiar to him; “if I allude to it, you see, it was suggested by the involuntary recollection of the little services I was happy enough to render you.” Dagobert looked fixedly at Rodin, who instantly veiled his glance beneath his flabby eyelids.

  “First of all,” said the soldier, after a moment’s silence, “a true man never speaks of the services he has rendered, and you come back three times to the subject.”

  “But Dagobert,” whispered Rose, “if he brings news of our father?”

  The soldier made a sign, as if to beg the girl to let him speak, and resumed, looking full at Rodin: “You are cunning, but I’m no raw recruit.”

  “I cunning?” said Rodin, with a sanctified air.

  “Yes, very. You think to puzzle me with your fine phrases; but I’m not to be caught in that way. Just listen to me. Some of your band of black-gowns stole my cross; you returned it to me. Some of the same band carried off these children; you brought them back. It is also true that you denounced the renegade D’Aigrigny. But all this only proves two things: first, that you were vile enough to be the accomplice of these scoundrels; and secondly, that, having been their accomplice, you were base enough to betray them. Now, those two facts are equally bad, and I suspect you most furiously. So march off at once; your presence is not good for these children.”

  “But, my dear sir—”

  “I will have no buts,” answered Dagobert, in an angry voice. “When a man of your look does good, it is only to hide some evil; and one must be on guard.”

  “I understand your suspicions,” said Rodin coolly, hiding his growing disappointment, for he had hoped it would have been easy to coax the soldier; “but, if you reflect, what interest have I in deceiving you? And in what should the deception consist?”

  “You have some interest or other in persisting to remain here, when I tell you to go away.”

  “I have already had the honor of informing you of the object of my visit, my dear sir.”

  “To bring news of Marshal Simon?”

  “That is exactly the case. I am happy enough to have news of the marshal. Yes, my dear young ladies,” added Rodin, as he again approached the two sisters, to recover, as it were, the ground he had lost, “I have news of your glorious father!”

  “Then come to my room directly, and you can tell it to me,” replied Dagobert.

  “What! you would be cruel enough to deprive these dear ladies of the pleasure—”

  “By heaven, sir!” cried Dagobert, in a voice of thunder, “you will make me forget myself. I should be sorry to fling a man of your age down the stairs. Will you be gone?”

  “Well, well,” said Rodin mildly, “do not be angry with a poor old man. I am really not worth the trouble. I will go with you to your room, and tell you what I have to communicate. You wi
ll repent not having let me speak before these dear young ladies; but that will be your punishment, naughty man!”

  So saying, Rodin again bowed very low, and, concealing his rage and vexation, left the room before Dagobert, who made a sign to the two sisters, and then followed, closing the door after him.

  “What news of our father, Dagobert?” said Rose anxiously, when the soldier returned, after a quarter of an hours absence.

  “Well, that old conjurer knows that the marshal set out in good spirits, and he seems acquainted with M. Robert. How could he be informed of all this? I cannot tell,” added the soldier, with a thoughtful air; “but it is only another reason to be on one’s guard against him.”

  “But what news of our father?” asked Rose.

  “One of that old rascal’s friends (I think him a rascal still) knows your father, he tells me, and met him five-and-twenty leagues from here. Knowing that this man was coming to Paris, the marshal charged him to let you know that he was in perfect health, and hoped soon to see you again.”

  “Oh, what happiness!” cried Rose.

  “You see, you were wrong to suspect the poor old man, Dagobert,” added Blanche. “You treated him so harshly!”

  “Possibly so; but I am not sorry for it.”

  “And why?”

  “I have my reasons; and one of the best is that, when I saw him came in, and go sidling and creeping round about us, I felt chilled to the marrow of my bones, without knowing why. Had I seen a serpent crawling towards you, I should not have been more frightened. I knew, of course, that he could not hurt you in my presence; but I tell you, my children, in spite of the services he has no doubt rendered us, it was all I could do to refrain from throwing him out of the window. Now, this manner of proving my gratitude is not natural, and one must be on one’s guard against people who inspire us with such ideas.”

  “Good Dagobert, it is your affection for us that makes you so suspicious,” said Rose, in a coaxing tone; “it proves how much you love us.”

  CHAPTER LV. THE IMPROVISED HOSPITAL

  AMONG A GREAT number of temporary hospitals opened at the time of the cholera in every quarter of Paris, one had been established on the ground-floor of a large house in the Rue du Mont-Blanc. The vacant apartments had been generously placed by their proprietor at the disposal of the authorities; and to this place were carried a number of persons, who, being suddenly attacked with the contagion, were considered in too dangerous a state to be removed to the principal hospitals.

  Two days had elapsed since Rodin’s visit to Marshal Simon’s daughters. Shortly after he had been expelled, the Princess de Saint-Dizier had entered to see them, under the cloak of being a house-to-house visitor to collect funds for the cholera sufferers.

  Choosing the moment when Dagobert, deceived by her lady-like demeanor, had withdrawn, she counselled the twins that it was their duty to go and see their governess, whom she stated to be in the hospital we now describe.

  It was about ten o’clock in the morning. The persons who had watched during the night by the sick people, in the hospital established in the Rue du Mont-Blanc, were about to be relieved by other voluntary assistants.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said one of those newly arrived, “how are we getting on? Has there been any decrease last night in the number of the sick?”

  “Unfortunately, no; but the doctors think the contagion has reached its height.”

  “Then there is some hope of seeing it decrease.”

  “And have any of the gentlemen, whose places we come to take, been attacked by the disease?”

  “We came eleven strong last night; we are only nine now.”

  “That is bad. Were these two persons taken off rapidly?”

  “One of the victims, a young man of twenty-five years of age, a cavalry officer on furlough, was struck as it were by lightning. In less than a quarter of an hour he was dead. Though such facts are frequent, we were speechless with horror.”

  “Poor young man!”

  “He had a word of cordial encouragement and hope for every one. He had so far succeeded in raising the spirits of the patients, that some of them who were less affected by the cholera than by the fear of it, were able to quit the hospital nearly well.”

  “What a pity! So good a young man! Well, he died gloriously; it requires as much courage as on the field of battle.”

  “He had only one rival in zeal and courage, and that is a Young priest, with an angelic countenance, whom they call the Abbe Gabriel. He is indefatigable; he hardly takes an hour’s rest, but runs from one to the other, and offers himself to everybody. He forgets nothing. The consolation; which he offers come from the depths of his soul, and are not mere formalities in the way of his profession. No, no, I saw him weep over a poor woman, whose eyes he had closed after a dreadful agony. Oh, if all priests were like him!”

  “No doubt, a good priest is most worthy of respect. But! who is the other victim of last night?”

  “Oh! his death was frightful. Do not speak of it. I have still the horrible scene before my eyes.”

  “A sudden attack of cholera?”

  “If it had only been the contagion, I should not so shudder at the remembrance.”

  “What then did he die of?”

  “It is a string of horrors. Three days ago, they brought here a man, who was supposed to be only attacked with cholera. You have no doubt heard speak of this personage. He is the lion-tamer, that drew all Paris to the Porte-Saint-Martin.”

  “I know the man you mean. Called Morok. He performed a kind of play with a tame panther.”

  “Exactly so; I was myself present at a similar scene, which a stranger, an Indian, in consequence of a wager, was said at the time, jumped upon the stage and killed the panther.”

  “Well, this Morok, brought here as a cholera-patient, and indeed with all the symptoms of the contagion, soon showed signs of a still more frightful malady.”

  “And this was—”

  “Hydrophobia.”

  “Did he become mad?”

  “Yes; he confessed, that he had been bitten a few days before by one of the mastiffs in his menagerie; unfortunately, we only learnt this circumstance after the terrible attack, which cost the life of the poor fellow we deplore.”

  “How did it happen, then?”

  “Morok was in a room with three other patients. Suddenly seized with a sort of furious delirium, he rose, uttering ferocious cries, and rushed raving mad into the passage. Our poor friend made an attempt to stop him. This kind of resistance increased the frenzy of Morok, who threw himself on the man that crossed his path, and, tearing him with his teeth, fell down in horrible convulsions.”

  “Oh! you are right. ’Twas indeed frightful. And, not withstanding every assistance this victim of Morok’s—”

  “Died during the night, in dreadful agony; for the shock had been so violent, that brain-fever almost instantly declared itself.”

  “And is Morok dead?”

  “I do not know. He was to be taken to another hospital, after being fast bound in the state of weakness which generally succeeds the fit. But, till he can be removed he has been confined in a room upstairs.”

  “But he cannot recover.”

  “I should think he must be dead by this time. The doctors did not give him twenty-four hours to live.”

  The persons engaged in this conversation were standing in an ante-chamber on the ground-floor, in which usually assembled those who came to offer their voluntary aid to the sick. One door of this room communicated with the rest of the hospital, and the other with the passage that opened upon the courtyard.

  “Dear me!” said one of the two speakers, looking through the window. “See what two charming girls have just got out of that elegant carriage. How much alike they are! Such a resemblance is indeed extraordinary.”

  “No doubt they are twins. Poor young girls! dressed in Mourning. They have perhaps lost father or mother.”

  “One would imagine they are coming t
his way.”

  “Yes, they are coming up the steps.”

  And indeed Rose and Blanche soon entered the antechamber, with a timid, anxious air, though a sort of feverish excitement was visible in their looks. One of the two men that were talking together, moved by the embarrassment of the girls, advanced toward them, and said, in a tone of attentive politeness: “Is there anything I can do for you, ladies?”

  “Is not this, sir,” replied Rose, “the infirmary of the Rue du Mont Blanc?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “A lady, called Madame Augustine du Tremblay, was brought here, we are told, about two days ago. Could we see her?”

  “I would observe to you, miss, that there is some danger in entering the sick-wards.”

  “It is a dear friend that we wish to see,” answered Rose, in a mild and firm tone, which sufficiently expressed that she was determined to brave the danger.

  “I cannot be sure, miss,” resumed the other, “that the person you seek is here; but, if you will take the trouble to walk into this room on the left, you will find there the good Sister Martha; she has the care of the women’s wards, and will give you all the information you can desire.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Blanche, with a graceful bow; and she and her sister entered together the apartment which had been pointed out to them.

  “They are really charming,” said the man, looking after the two sisters, who soon disappeared from his view. “It would be a great pity if—”

  He was unable to finish. A frightful tumult, mingled with cries of alarm and horror, rose suddenly from the adjoining rooms. Almost instantly, two doors were thrown open, and a number of the sick, half-naked, pale, fleshless, and their features convulsed with terror, rushed into the antechamber, exclaiming: “Help! help! the madman!” It is impossible to paint the scene of despairing and furious confusion which followed this panic of so many affrighted wretches, flying to the only other door, to escape from the perils they dreaded, and there, struggling and trampling on each other to pass through the narrow entrance.