by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER LVII. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
To the charming freshness of the sisters' faces had succeeded a lividpallor. Their large blue eyes, now hollow and sunk in, appeared ofenormous dimensions. Their lips, once so rosy, were now suffused with aviolet hue, and a similar color was gradually displacing the transparentcarmine of their cheeks and fingers. It was as if all the roses in theircharming countenances were fading and turning blue before the icy blastof death.
When the orphans met, tottering and hardly able to sustain themselves,a cry of mutual horror burst from their lips. Each of them exclaimed, atsight of the fearful change in her sister's features. "Are you also ill,sister?" And then, bursting into tears, they threw themselves into eachother's arms, and looked anxiously at one another.
"Good heaven, Rose! how pale you are!"
"Like you, sister."
"And do you feel a cold shudder?"
"Yes, and my sight fails me."
"My bosom is all on fire."
"Sister, we are perhaps going to die."
"Let it only be together!"
"And our poor father?"
"And Dagobert?"
"Sister, our dream has come true!" cried Rose, almost deliriously, asshe threw her arms round Blanche's neck. "Look! look! the Angel Gabrielis here to fetch us."
Indeed, at this moment, Gabriel entered the open space at the end of theroom. "Heaven! what do I see?" cried the young priest. "The daughters ofMarshal Simon!"
And, rushing forward, he received the sisters in his arms, for they wereno longer able to stand. Already their drooping heads, their half-closedeyes, their painful and difficult breathing, announced the approach ofdeath. Sister Martha was close at hand. She hastened to respond to thecall of Gabriel. Aided by this pious woman, he was able to lift theorphans upon a bed reserved for the doctor in attendance. For fear thatthe sight of this mournful agony should make too deep an impression onthe other patients, Sister Martha drew a large curtain, and the sisterswere thus in some sort walled off from the rest of the room. Their handshad been so tightly clasped together, during a nervous paroxysm, that itwas impossible to separate them. It was in this position that the firstremedies were applied--remedies incapable of conquering the violenceof the disease, but which at least mitigated for a few moments theexcessive pains they suffered, and restored some faint glimmer ofperception to their obscured and troubled senses. At this moment,Gabriel was leaning over the bed with a look of inexpressible grief.With breaking heart, and face bathed in tears, he thought of the strangedestiny, which thus made him a witness of the death of these girls, hisrelations, whom but a few months before he had rescued from the horrorsof the tempest. In spite of his firmness of soul, the missionary couldnot help shuddering as he reflected on the fate of the orphans, thedeath of Jacques Rennepont, and the fearful devices by which M. Hardy,retired to the cloistered solitude of St. Herein, had become a memberof the Society of Jesus almost in dying. The missionary said to himself,that already four members of the Rennepont family--his family--had beensuccessively struck down by some dreadful fate; and he asked himselfwith alarm, how it was that the detestable interests of the Society ofLoyola should be served by a providential fatality? The astonishment ofthe young missionary would have given place to the deepest horror, couldhe have known the part that Rodin and his accomplices had taken, bothin the death of Jacques Rennepont, by exciting, through Morok, the evilpropensities of the artisan, and in the approaching end of Rose andBlanche, by converting, through the Princess de Saint-Dizier, thegenerous inspirations of the orphans into suicidal heroism.
Roused for a moment from the painful stupor in which they had beenplunged, Rose and Blanche half-opened their large eyes, already dulland faded. Then, more and more bewildered they both gazed fixedly at theangelic countenance of Gabriel.
"Sister," said Rose, in a faint voice, "do you see the archangel--as inour dreams, in Germany?"
"Yes--three days ago--he appeared to us."
"He is come to fetch us."
"Alas! will our death save our poor mother from purgatory?"
"Angel! blessed angel! pray God for our mother--and for us!" Untilnow, stupefied with amazement and sorrow, almost suffocated with sobs,Gabriel had not been able to utter a word. But at these words of theorphans, he exclaimed: "Dear children, why doubt of your mother'ssalvation? Oh! never did a purer soul ascend to its Creator. Yourmother? I know from my adopted father, that her virtues and couragewere the admiration of all who knew her. Oh! believe me; God has blessedher."
"Do you hear, sister?" cried Rose, as a ray of celestial joy illuminedfor an instant the livid faces of the orphans. "God has blessed ourmother."
"Yes, yes," resumed Gabriel; "banish these gloomy ideas. Take courage,poor children! You must not die. Think of your father."
"Our father?" said Blanche, shuddering; and she continued, with amixture of reason and wild excitement, which would have touched thesoul of the most indifferent: "Alas! he will not find us on his return.Forgive us, father! we did not think to do any harm. We wished, likeyou, to do something generous--to help our governess."
"And we did not think to die so quickly, and so soon. Yesterday, we weregay and happy."
"Oh, good angel! you will appear to our father, even as you haveappeared to us. You will tell him that, in dying--the last thought ofhis children--was of him."
"We came here without Dagobert's knowing it--do not let our father scoldhim."
"Blessed angel!" resumed the other sister in a still more feeble voice;"appear to Dagobert, also. Tell him, that we ask his forgiveness, forthe grief our death will occasion him."
"And let our old friend caress our poor Spoil-sport for us--our faithfulguardian," added Blanche, trying to smile.
"And then," resumed Rose, in a voice that was growing still fainter,"promise to appear to two other persons, that have been so kind tous--good Mother Bunch--and the beautiful Lady Adrienne."
"We forget none whom we have loved," said Blanche, with a last effort."Now, God grant we may go to our mother, never to leave her more!"
"You promised it good angel--you know you did--in the dream. You saidto us: 'Poor children--come from so far--you will have traversed theearth--to rest on the maternal bosom!'"
"Oh! it is dreadful--dreadful! So young--and no hope!" murmured Gabriel,as he buried his face in his hands. "Almighty Father! Thy views areimpenetrable. Alas! yet why should these children die this cruel death?"
Rose heaved a deep sigh and said in an expiring tone: "Let us be buriedtogether!--united in life, in death not divided--"
And the two turned their dying looks upon Gabriel, and stretched outtowards him their supplicating hands.
"Oh, blessed martyrs to a generous devotion!" cried the missionary,raising to heaven his eyes streaming with tears. "Angelic souls!treasures of innocence and truth! ascend, ascend to heaven--since Godcalls you to him, and the earth is not worthy to possess you!"
"Sister! father!" were the last words that the orphans pronounced withtheir dying voices.
And then the twins, by a last instinctive impulse, endeavored to claspeach other, and their eyes half-opened to exchange yet another glance.They shuddered twice or thrice, their limbs stiffened, a deep sighstruggled from their violet-colored lips. Rose and Blanche were bothdead! Gabriel and Sister Martha, after closing the eyes of the orphans,knelt down to pray by the side of that funeral couch. Suddenly agreat tumult was heard in the room. Rapid footsteps, mingled withimprecations, sounded close at hand, the curtain was drawn aside fromthis mournful scene, and Dagobert entered precipitately, pale, haggard,his dress in disorder. At sight of Gabriel and the Sister of Charitykneeling beside the corpses of his children, the soldier uttered aterrible roar, and tried to advance--but in vain--for, before Gabrielcould reach him, Dagobert fell flat on the ground, and his gray headstruck violently on the floor.
It is night--a dark and stormy night. One o'clock in the morning hasjust sounded from the church of Montmartre. It is to the cemetery ofMontmartre tha
t is carried the coffin which, according to the lastwishes of Rose and Blanche contains them both. Through the thick shadow,which rests upon that field of death, may be seen moving a pale light.It is the gravedigger. He advances with caution; a dark lantern is inhis hand. A man wrapped in a cloak accompanies him. He holds down hishead and weeps. It is Samuel. The old Jew--the keeper of the housein the Rue Saint-Francois. On the night of the funeral of JacquesRennepont, the first who died of the seven heirs, and who was buriedin another cemetery, Samuel had a similar mysterious interview with thegravedigger, to obtain a favor at the price of gold. A strange and awfulfavor! After passing down several paths, bordered with cypress trees, bythe side of many tombs, the Jew and the gravedigger arrived, at a littleglade, situated near the western wall of the cemetery. The night was sodark, that scarcely anything could be seen. After moving his lantern upand down, and all about, the gravedigger showed Samuel, at the foot of atall yew-tree, with long black branches, a little mound of newly-raisedearth, and said: "It is here."
"You are sure of it?"
"Yes, yes--two bodies in one coffin! it is not such a common thing."
"Alas! two in the same coffin!" said the Jew, with a deep sigh.
"Now that you know the place, what do you want more?" asked thegravedigger.
Samuel did not answer. He fell on his knees, and piously kissedthe little mound. Then rising, with his cheeks bathed in tears, heapproached the gravedigger, and spoke to him for some moments in awhisper--though they were alone, and in the centre of that desertedplace. Then began between those two men a mysterious dialogue, which thenight enveloped in shade and silence. The gravedigger, alarmed at whatSamuel asked him, at first refused his request.
But the Jew, employing persuasions, entreaties, tears, and at last theseduction of the jingling gold, succeeded in conquering the scruples ofthe gravedigger. Though the latter trembled at the thought of what hepromised, he said to Samuel in an agitated tone: "To-morrow night, then,at two o'clock."
"I shall be behind the wall," answered Samuel, pointing out the placewith the aid of a lantern. "I will throw three stones into the cemetery,for a signal."
"Yes, three stones--as a signal," replied the gravedigger shuddering,and wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.
With considerable remains of vigor, notwithstanding his great age,Samuel availed himself of the broken surface of the low wall, andclimbing over it, soon disappeared. The gravedigger returned home withhasty strides. From time to time, he looked fearfully behind him, asthough he had been pursued by some fatal vision.
On the evening after the funeral of Rose and Blanche, Rodin wrote twoletters. The first, addressed to his mysterious correspondent at Rome,alluded to the deaths of Jacques Rennepont, and Rose and Blanche Simon,as well as to the cession of M. Hardy's property, and the donationof Gabriel--events which reduced the claimants of the inheritance totwo--Mdlle. de Cardoville and Djalma. This first note written by Rodinfor Rome, contained only the following words: "Five from seven leavestwo. Announce this result to the Cardinal-Prince. Let him go on. Iadvance advance-advance!" The second note, in a feigned hand, wasaddressed to Marshal Simon, to be delivered by a sure messenger,contained these few lines: "If there is yet time, make haste to return.Your daughters are both dead. You shall learn who killed them."
