by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE CONFESSIONAL
Nothing could be more gloomy than the appearance of St. Merely Church,on this dark and snowy winter's day. Frances stopped a moment beneaththe porch, to behold a lugubrious spectacle.
While a priest was mumbling some words in a low voice, two or threedirty choristers, in soiled surplices, were charting the prayers for thedead, with an absent and sullen air, round a plain deal coffin, followedonly by a sobbing old man and a child, miserably clad. The beadle andthe sacristan, very much displeased at being disturbed for so wretcheda funeral, had not deigned to put on their liveries, but, yawningwith impatience, waited for the end of the ceremony, so useless to theinterests of the establishment. At length, a few drops of holy waterbeing sprinkled on the coffin, the priest handed the brush to thebeadle, and retired.
Then took place one of those shameful scenes, the necessary consequenceof an ignoble and sacrilegious traffic, so frequent with regard to theburials of the poor, who cannot afford to pay for tapers, high mass,or violins--for now St. Thomas Aquinas' Church has violins even for thedead.
The old man stretched forth his hand to the sacristan to receive thebrush. "Come, look sharp!" said that official, blowing on his fingers.
The emotion of the old man was profound, and his weakness extreme; heremained for a moment without stirring, while the brush was claspedtightly in his trembling hand. In that coffin was his daughter, themother of the ragged child who wept by his side--his heart was breakingat the thought of that last farewell; he stood motionless, and his bosomheaved with convulsive sobs.
"Now, will you make haste?" said the brutal beadle. "Do you think we aregoing to sleep here?"
The old man quickened his movements. He made the sign of the cross overthe corpse, and, stooping down, was about to place the brush in the handof his grandson, when the sacristan, thinking the affair had lasted longenough, snatched the sprinkling-brush from the child, and made a sign tothe bearers to carry away the coffin--which was immediately done.
"Wasn't that old beggar a slow coach?" said the beadle to his companion,as they went back to the sacristy. "We shall hardly have time to getbreakfast, and to dress ourselves for the bang-up funeral of thismorning. That will be something like a dead man, that's worth thetrouble. I shall shoulder my halberd in style!"
"And mount your colonel's epaulets, to throw dust in the eyes of thewomen that let out the chairs--eh, you old rascal!" said the other, witha sly look.
"What can I do, Capillare? When one has a fine figure, it must be seen,"answered the beadle, with a triumphant air. "I cannot blind the women toprevent their losing their hearts!"
Thus conversing; the two men reached the sacristy. The sight of thefuneral had only increased the gloom of Frances. When she entered thechurch, seven or eight persons, scattered about upon chairs, aloneoccupied the damp and icy building. One of the distributors of holywater, an old fellow with a rubicund, joyous, wine-bibbing face, seeingFrances approach the little font, said to her in a low voice: "AbbeDubois is not yet in his box. Be quick, and you will have the first wagof his beard."
Though shocked at this pleasantry, Frances thanked the irreverentspeaker, made devoutly the sign of the cross, advanced some steps intothe church, and knelt down upon the stones to repeat the prayer, whichshe always offered up before approaching the tribunal of penance. Havingsaid this prayer, she went towards a dark corner of the church, in whichwas an oaken confessional, with a black curtain drawn across the grateddoor. The places on each side were vacant; so Frances knelt down in thatupon the right hand, and remained there for some time absorbed in bitterreflections.
In a few minutes, a priest of tall stature, with gray hair and a sterncountenance, clad in a long black cassock, stalked slowly along one ofthe aisles of the church. A short, old, misshapen man, badly dressed,leaning upon an umbrella, accompanied him, and from time to timewhispered in his ear, when the priest would stop to listen with aprofound and respectful deference.
As they approached the confessional, the short old man, perceivingFrances on her knees, looked at the priest with an air of interrogation."It is she," said the clergyman.
"Well, in two or three hours, they will expect the two girls at St.Mary's Convent. I count upon it," said the old man.
"I hope so, for the sake of their souls," answered the priest; and,bowing gravely, he entered the confessional. The short old man quittedthe church.
This old man was Rodin. It was on leaving Saint Merely's that he went tothe lunatic asylum, to assure himself that Dr. Baleinier had faithfullyexecuted his instructions with regard to Adrienne de Cardoville.
Frances was still kneeling in the interior of the confessional. Oneof the slides opened, and a voice began to speak. It was that ofthe priest, who, for the last twenty years had been the confessor ofDagobert's wife, and exercised over her an irresistible and all-powerfulinfluence.
"You received my letter?" said the voice.
"Yes, father.
"Very well--I listen to you."
"Bless me, father--for I have sinned!" said Frances.
The voice pronounced the formula of the benediction. Dagobert's wifeanswered "amen," as was proper, said her confider to "It is my fault,"gave an account of the manner in which she had performed her lastpenance, and then proceeded to the enumeration of the new sins,committed since she had received absolution.
For this excellent woman, a glorious martyr of industry and maternallove, always fancied herself sinning: her conscience was incessantlytormented by the fear that she had committed some incomprehensibleoffence. This mild and courageous creature, who, after a whole lifeof devotion, ought to have passed what time remained to her in calmserenity of soul, looked upon herself as a great sinner, and lived incontinual anxiety, doubting much her ultimate salvation.
"Father," said Frances, in a trembling voice, "I accuse myself ofomitting my evening prayer the day before yesterday. My husband, fromwhom I had been separated for many years, returned home. The joy and theagitation caused by his arrival, made me commit this great sin."
"What next?" said the voice, in a severe tone, which redoubled the poorwoman's uneasiness.
"Father, I accuse myself of falling into the same sin yesterday evening.I was in a state of mortal anxiety, for my son did not come home asusual, and I waited for him minute after minute, till the hour hadpassed over."
"What next?" said the voice.
"Father, I accuse myself of having told a falsehood all this week tomy son, by letting him think that on account of his reproaching me forneglecting my health, I had taken a little wine for my dinner--whereas Ihad left it for him, who has more need of it, because he works so much."
"Go on!" said the voice.
"Father, I accuse myself of a momentary want of resignation thismorning, when I learned that my poor son was arrested; instead ofsubmitting with respect and gratitude to this new trial which the Lordhath sent me--alas! I rebelled against it in my grief--and of this Iaccuse myself."
"A bad week," said the priest, in a tone of still greater severity, "abad week--for you have always put the creature before the Creator. Butproceed!"
"Alas, father!" resumed Frances, much dejected, "I know that I am agreat sinner; and I fear that I am on the road to sins of a still graverkind."
"Speak!"
"My husband brought with him from Siberia two young orphans, daughtersof Marshal Simon. Yesterday morning, I asked them to say their prayers,and I learned from them, with as much fright as sorrow, that they knownone of the mysteries of our holy faith, though they are fifteen yearsold. They have never received the sacrament, nor are they even baptized,father--not even baptized!"
"They must be heathens!" cried the voice, in a tone of angry surprise.
"That is what so much grieves me, father; for, as I and my husband arein the room of parents to these young orphans, we should be guilty ofthe sins which they might commit--should we not, father?"
"Certainly,--since you take the place of those who ought to watch
overtheir souls. The shepherd must answer for his flock," said the voice.
"And if they should happen to be in mortal sin, father, I and my husbandwould be in mortal sin?"
"Yes," said the voice; "you take the place of their parents; and fathersand mothers are guilty of all the sins which their children commit whenthose sins arise from the want of a Christian education."
"Alas, father! what am I to do? I address myself to you as I would toheaven itself. Every day, every hour, that these poor young girls remainheathens, may contribute to bring about their eternal damnation, may itnot, father?" said Frances, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
"Yes," answered the voice; "and the weight of this terribleresponsibility rests upon you and your husband; you have the charge ofsouls!"
"Lord, have mercy upon me!" said Frances weeping.
"You must not grieve yourself thus," answered the voice, in a softertone; "happily for these unfortunates, they have met you upon the way.They, will have in you and your husband good and pious examples--forI suppose that your husband, though formerly an ungodly person, nowpractices his religious duties!"
"We must pray for him, father," said Frances, sorrowfully; "grace hasnot yet touched his heart. He is like my poor child, who has also notbeen called to holiness. Ah, father!" said Frances, drying her tears,"these thoughts are my heaviest cross."
"So neither your husband nor your son practises," resumed the voice,in a tone of reflection; "this is serious--very serious. The religiouseducation of these two unfortunate girls has yet to begin. In yourhouse, they will have ever before them the most deplorable examples.Take care! I have warned you. You have the charge of souls--yourresponsibility is immense!"
"Father, it is that which makes me wretched--I am at a loss what to do.Help me, and give me your counsels: for twenty years your voice has beento me as the voice of the Lord."
"Well! you must agree with your husband to send these unfortunate girlsto some religious house where they may be instructed."
"We are too poor, father, to pay for their schooling, and unfortunatelymy son has just been put in prison for songs that he wrote."
"Behold the fruit of impiety," said the voice, severely; "look atGabriel! he has followed my counsels, and is now the model of everyChristian virtue."
"My son, Agricola, has had good qualities, father; he is so kind, sodevoted!"
"Without religion," said the voice, with redoubled severity, "what youcall good qualities are only vain appearances; at the least breath ofthe devil they will disappear--for the devil lurks in every soul thathas no religion."
"Oh! my poor son!" said Frances, weeping; "I pray for him every day,that faith may enlighten him."
"I have always told you," resumed the voice, "that you have been tooweak with him. God now punishes you for it. You should have parted fromthis irreligious son, and not sanctioned his impiety by loving himas you do. 'If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,' saith theScripture."
"Alas, father! you know it is the only time I have disobeyed you; but Icould not bring myself to part from my son."
"Therefore is your salvation uncertain--but God is merciful. Do not fallinto the same fault with regard to these young girls, whom Providencehas sent you, that you might save them from eternal damnation. Do notplunge them into it by your own culpable indifference."
"Oh, father! I have wept and prayed for them."
"That is not sufficient. These unfortunate children cannot have anynotion of good or evil. Their souls must be an abyss of scandal andimpurity--brought up as they have been, by an impious mother, and asoldier devoid of religion."
"As for that, father," said Frances, with simplicity, "they are gentleas angels, and my husband, who has not quitted them since their birth,declares they have the best hearts in the world."
"Your husband has dwelt all his life in mortal sin," said the voice,harshly; "how can he judge of the state of souls? I repeat to you, thatas you represent the parents of these unfortunates, it is not to-morrow,but it is today, and on the instant, that you must labor for theirsalvation, if you would not incur a terrible responsibility."
"It is true--I know it well, father--and I suffer as much from this fearas from grief at my son's arrest. But what is to be done? I could notinstruct these young girls at home--for I have not the knowledge--I haveonly faith--and then my poor husband, in his blindness, makes game ofsacred things, which my son, at least, respects in my presence, out ofregard for me. Then, once more, father, come to my aid, I conjure you!Advise me: what is to be done?"
"We cannot abandon these two young souls to frightful perdition," saidthe voice, after a moment's silence: "there are not two ways of savingthem: there is only one, and that is to place them in a religious house,where they may be surrounded by good and pious examples."
"Oh, father! if we were not so poor, or if I could still work, I wouldtry to gain sufficient to pay for their board, and do for them as I didfor Gabriel. Unfortunately, I have quite lost my sight; but you, father,know some charitable souls, and if you could get any of them to interestthem, selves for these poor orphans--"
"Where is their father?"
"He was in India; but, my husband tells me, he will soon be in France.That, however, is uncertain. Besides, it would make my heart bleedto see those poor children share our misery--which will soon beextreme--for we only live by my son's labor."
"Have these girls no relation here?" asked the voice.
"I believe not, father."
"It was their mother who entrusted them to your husband, to bring themto France?"
"Yes, father; he was obliged to set out yesterday for Chartres, on somevery pressing business, as he told me."
It will be remembered that Dagobert had not thought fit to inform hiswife of the hopes which the daughters of Marshall Simon founded on thepossession of the medal, and that he had particularly charged them notto mention these hopes, even to Frances.
"So," resumed the voice, after a pause of some moments' duration, "yourhusband is not in Paris."
"No, father; but he will doubtless return this evening or to-morrowmorning."
"Listen to me," said the voice, after another pause. "Every minute lostfor those two young girls is a new step on the road to perdition. At anymoment the hand of God may smite them, for He alone knows the hour ofour death; and were they to die in the state in which they now are, theywould most probably be lost to all eternity. This very day, therefore,you must open their eyes to the divine light, and place them in areligious house. It is your duty--it should be your desire!"
"Oh, yes, father; but, unfortunately, I am too poor, as I have alreadytold you."
"I know it--you do not want for zeal or faith--but even were you capableof directing these young girls, the impious examples of your husband andson would daily destroy your work. Others must do for these orphans, inthe name of Christian charity, that which you cannot do, though you areanswerable for them before heaven."
"Oh, father! if, thanks to you, this good work could be accomplished,how grateful I should be!"
"It is not impossible. I know the superior of a convent, where theseyoung girls would be instructed as they ought. The charge for theirboard would be diminished in consideration of their poverty; but,however small, it must be paid and there would be also an outfit tofurnish. All that would be too dear for you."
"Alas! yes, father."
"But, by taking a little from my poor-box, and by applying to one or twogenerous persons, I think I shall be able to complete the necessary sum,and so get the young girls received at the convent."
"Ah, father! you are my deliverer, and these children's."
"I wish to be so--but, in the interest of their salvation, and to makethese measures really efficacious, I must attach some conditions to thesupport I offer you."
"Name them, father; they are accepted beforehand. Your commands shall beobeyed in everything."
"First of all, the children must be taken this very morning tothe convent, by my housekeeper, to
whom you must bring them almostimmediately."
"Nay, father; that is impossible!" cried Frances.
"Impossible? why?"
"In the absence of my husband--"
"Well?"
"I dare not take a such a step without consulting him."
"Not only must you abstain from consulting him, but the thing must bedone during his absence."
"What, father? should I not wait for his return?"
"No, for two reasons," answered the priest, sternly: "first, becausehis hardened impiety would certainly lead him to oppose your piousresolution; secondly, because it is indispensable that these young girlsshould break off all connection with your husband, who, therefore, mustbe left in ignorance of the place of their retreat."
"But, father," said Frances, a prey to cruel doubt and embarrassment,"it is to my husband that these children were entrusted--and to disposeof them without his consent would be--"
"Can you instruct these children at your house--yes or no?" interruptedthe voice.
"No, father, I cannot."
"Are they exposed to fall into a state of final impenitence by remainingwith you--yes or no?"
"Yes, father, they are so exposed."
"Are you responsible, as you take the place of their parents, for themortal sins they may commit--yes or no?"
"Alas, father! I am responsible before God."
"Is it in the interest of their eternal salvation that I enjoin you toplace them this very day in a convent?"
"It is for their salvation, father."
"Well, then, choose!"
"But tell me, I entreat you, father if I have the right to dispose ofthem without the consent of my husband?"
"The right! you have not only the right, but it is your sacred duty.Would you not be bound, I ask you, to rescue these unfortunate creaturesfrom a fire, against the will of your husband, or during his absence?Well! you must now rescue them, not from a fire that will only consumethe body, but from one in which their souls would burn to all eternity."
"Forgive me, I implore you, father," said the poor woman, whoseindecision and anguish increased every minute; "satisfy my doubts!--Howcan I act thus, when I have sworn obedience to my husband?"
"Obedience for good--yes--but never for evil. You confess, that, wereit left to him, the salvation of these orphans would be doubtful, andperhaps impossible."
"But, father," said Frances, trembling, "when my husband returns, hewill ask me where are these children? Must I tell him a falsehood?"
"Silence is not falsehood; you will tell him that you cannot answer hisquestion."
"My husband is the kindest of men; but such an answer will drive himalmost mad. He has been a soldier, and his anger will be terrible,father," said Frances, shuddering at the thought.
"And were his anger a hundred times more terrible, you should be proudto brave it in so sacred a cause!" cried the voice, with indignation."Do you think that salvation is to be so easily gained on earth? Sincewhen does the sinner, that would walk in the way of the Lord, turn asidefor the stones and briars that may bruise and tear him?"
"Pardon, father, pardon!" said Frances, with the resignation of despair."Permit me to ask one more question, one only. Alas! if you do not guideme, how shall I find the way?"
"Speak!"
"When Marshal Simon arrives, he will ask his children of my husband.What answer can he then give to their father?"
"When Marshal Simon arrives, you will let me know immediately, andthen--I will see what is to be done. The rights of a father are onlysacred in so far as he make use of them for the salvation of hischildren. Before and above the father on earth, is the Father in heaven,whom we must first serve. Reflect upon all this. By accepting what Ipropose to you, these young girls will be saved from perdition; theywill not be at your charge; they will not partake of your misery; theywill be brought up in a sacred institution, as, after all, the daughtersof a Marshal of France ought to be--and, when their father arrives atParis, if he be found worthy of seeing them again, instead of findingpoor, ignorant, half savage heathens, he will behold two girls, pious,modest, and well informed, who, being acceptable with the Almighty, mayinvoke His mercy for their father, who, it must be owned, has great needof it--being a man of violence, war, and battle. Now decide! Will you,on peril of your soul, sacrifice the welfare of these girls in thisworld and the next, because of an impious dread of your husband'sanger?"
Though rude and fettered by intolerance, the confessor's language was(taking his view of the case) reasonable and just, because the honestpriest was himself convinced of what he said; a blind instrument ofRodin, ignorant of the end in view, he believed firmly, that, in forcingFrances to place these young girls in a convent, he was performing apious duty. Such was, and is, one of the most wonderful resources of theorder to which Rodin belonged--to have for accomplices good and sincerepeople, who are ignorant of the nature of the plots in which they arethe principal actors.
Frances, long accustomed to submit to the influence of her confessor,could find nothing to object to his last words. She resigned herself tofollow his directions, though she trembled to think of the furious angerof Dagobert, when he should no longer find the children that a dyingmother had confided to his care. But, according to the priest's opinion,the more terrible this anger might appear to her, the more she wouldshow her pious humility by exposing herself to it.
"God's will be done, father!" said she, in reply to her confessor."Whatever may happen, I wilt do my duty as a Christian--in obedience toyour commands."
"And the Lord will reward you for what you may have to suffer in theaccomplishment of this meritorious act. You promise then, before God,that you will not answer any of your husband's questions, when he asksyou for the daughters of Marshal Simon?"
"Yes, father, I promise!" said Frances, with a shudder.
"And will preserve the same silence towards Marshal Simon himself, incase he should return, before his daughters appear to me sufficientlygrounded in the faith to be restored to him?"
"Yes, father," said Frances, in a still fainter voice.
"You will come and give me an account of the scene that takes placebetween you and your husband, upon his return?"
"Yes, father; when must I bring the orphans to your house?"
"In an hour. I will write to the superior, and leave the letter with myhousekeeper. She is a trusty person, and will conduct the young girls tothe convent."
After she had listened to the exhortations of her confessor, andreceived absolution for her late sins, on condition of performingpenance, Dagobert's wife left the confessional.
The church was no longer deserted. An immense crowd pressed into it,drawn thither by the pomp of the grand funeral of which the beadlehad spoken to the sacristan two hours before. It was with the greatestdifficulty that Frances could reach the door of the church, now hungwith sumptuous drapery.
What a contrast to the poor and humble train, which had that morning sotimidly presented themselves beneath the porch!
The numerous clergy of the parish, in full procession, advancedmajestically to receive the coffin covered with a velvet pall; thewatered silks and stuffs of their copes and stoles, their splendidsilvered embroideries, sparkled in the light of a thousand tapers. Thebeadle strutted in all the glory of his brilliant uniform and flashingepaulets; on the opposite side walked in high glee the sacristan,carrying his whalebone staff with a magisterial air; the voice of thechoristers, now clad in fresh, white surplices, rolled out in burstsof thunder; the trumpets' blare shook the windows; and upon thecountenances of all those who were to have a share in the spoils of thisrich corpse, this excellent corpse, this first-class corpse, a lookof satisfaction was visible, intense and yet subdued, which suitedadmirably with the air and attitude of the two heirs, tall, vigorousfellows with florid complexions, who, without overstepping the limitsof a charming modesty of enjoyment, seemed to cuddle and hug themselvesmost comfortably in their mourning cloaks.
Notwithstanding her simplicity
and pious faith, Dagobert's wife waspainfully impressed with this revolting difference between the receptionof the rich and the poor man's coffin at the door of the house ofGod--for surely, if equality be ever real, it is in the presence ofdeath and eternity!
The two sad spectacles she had witnessed, tended still further todepress the spirits of Frances. Having succeeded with no small troublein making her way out of the church, she hastened to return to theRue Brise-Miche, in order to fetch the orphans and conduct them to thehousekeeper of her confessor, who was in her turn to take them to St.Mary's Convent, situated, as we know, next door to Dr. Baleinier'slunatic-asylum, in which--Adrienne de Cardoville was confined.
