The Wandering Jew — Complete

by Eugène Sue

  "Father made a good choice," continued Rose. "She is the widow of an old officer, who was with him in the wars."

  "When we were out of spirits," said Blanche, "you should have seen her uneasiness and grief, and how earnestly she set about consoling us."

  "I have seen the tears in her eyes when she looked at us," resumed Rose. "Oh! she loves us tenderly, and we return her affection. With regard to that, Dagobert, we have a plan as soon as our father comes back."

  "Be quiet, sister!" said Blanche, laughing. "Dagobert will not keep our secret."

  "He!"

  "Will you keep it for us, Dagobert?"

  "I tell you what," said the soldier, more and more embarrassed; "you had better not tell it to me."

  "What! can you keep nothing from Madame Augustine?"

  "Ah, Dagobert! Dagobert!" said Blanche, gayly holding up her finger at the soldier; "I suspect you very much of paying court to our governess."

  "I pay court?" said the soldier—and the expression of his face was so rueful, as he pronounced these words, that the two sisters burst out laughing.

  Their hilarity was at its height when the door opened and Loony advanced into room announcing, with a loud voice, "M. Rodin!" In fact, the Jesuit glided almost imperceptibly into the apartment, as if to take possession of the ground. Once there, he thought the game his own, and his reptile eyes sparkled with joy. It would be difficult to paint the surprise of the two sisters, and the anger of the soldier, at this unexpected visit.

  Rushing upon Loony, Dagobert seized him by the collar, and exclaimed: "Who gave you leave to introduce any one here without my permission?"

  "Pardon, M. Dagobert!" said Loony, throwing himself on his knees, and clasping his hands with an air of idiotic entreaty.

  "Leave the room!—and you too!" added the soldier, with a menacing gesture, as he turned towards Rodin, who had already approached the girls, with a paternal smile on his countenance.

  "I am at your orders, my dear sir," said the priest, humbly; and he made a low bow, but without stirring from the spot.

  "Will you go?" cried the soldier to Loony, who was still kneeling, and who, thanks to the advantages of this position, was able to utter a certain number of words before Dagobert could remove him.

  "M. Dagobert," said Loony in a doleful voice, "I beg pardon for bringing up the gentleman without leave; but, alas, my head is turned, because of the misfortune that happened to Madame Augustine."

  "What misfortune?" cried Rose and Blanche together, as they advanced anxiously towards Loony.

  "Will you go?" thundered Dagobert, shaking the servant by the collar, to force him to rise.

  "Speak—speak!" said Blanche, interposing between the soldier and his prey. "What has happened to Madame Augustine?"

  "Oh," shouted Loony, in spite of the cuffs of the soldier. "Madame Augustine was attacked in the night with cholera, and taken—"

  He was unable to finish. Dagobert struck him a tremendous blow with his fist, right on the jaw, and, putting forth his still formidable strength, the old horse-grenadier lifted him to his legs, and with one violent kick bestowed on the lower part of his back, sent him rolling into the ante chamber.

  Then turning to Rodin, with flushed cheek and sparkling eye, Dagobert pointed to the door with an expressive gesture, and said in an angry voice: "Now, be off with you and that quickly!"

  "I must pay my respects another time, my dear sir," said Rodin, as he retired towards the door, bowing to the young girls.

  CHAPTER LIV. DUTY.

  Rodin, retreating slowly before the fire of Dagobert's angry looks, walked backwards to the door, casting oblique but piercing glances at the orphans, who were visibly affected by the servant's intentional indiscretion. (Dagobert had ordered him not to speak before the girls of the illness of their governess, and that was quite enough to induce the simpleton to take the first opportunity of doing so.)

  Rose hastily approached the soldier, and said to him: "Is it true—is it really true that poor Madame Augustine has been attacked with the cholera?"

  "No—I do not know—I cannot tell," replied the soldier, hesitating; "besides, what is it to you?"

  "Dagobert, you would conceal from us a calamity," said Blanche. "I remember now your embarrassment, when we spoke to you of our governess."

  "If she is ill, we ought not to abandon her. She had pity on our sorrows; we ought to pity her sufferings."

  "Come, sister; come to her room," said Blanche, advancing towards the door, where Rodin had stopped short, and stood listening with growing attention to this unexpected scene, which seemed to give him ample food for thought.

  "You will not leave this room," said the soldier, sternly, addressing the two sisters.

  "Dagobert," replied Rose, firmly, "it is a sacred duty, and it would be cowardice not to fulfil it."

  "I tell you that you shall not leave the room," said the soldier, stamping his foot with impatience.

  "Dagobert," replied Blanche, with as resolute an air as her sister's, and with a kind of enthusiasm which brought the blood to her fair cheek, "our father, when he left us, give us an admirable example of devotion and duty. He would not forgive us were we to forget the lesson."

  "What," cried Dagobert, in a rage, and advancing towards the sisters to prevent their quitting the apartment; "you think that if your governess had the cholera, I would let you go to her under the pretext of duty?—Your duty is to live, to live happy, for your father's sake—and for mine into the bargain—so not a word more of such folly!"

  "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!"
<
br />   "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 will 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!"