Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 889
“And what answer did you receive?” said the notary.
“That my deposition was not sufficient for the law to remove these young girls from the convent in which they were, and that inquiries would be made—”
“Yes, sir,” added Agricola, “and it was the same with regard to Mdlle. de Cardoville, detained as mad in a lunatic asylum, though in the full enjoyment of her reason. Like Marshal Simon’s daughters, she too has a claim to this inheritance. I took the same steps for her, as my father took for Marshal Simon’s daughters.”
“Well?” asked the notary.
“Unfortunately, sir,” answered Agricola, “they told me; as they did my father, that my deposition would not suffice, and that they must make inquiries.”
At this moment, Bathsheba, having heard the street-bell ring, left the Red Room at a sign from Samuel. The notary resumed, addressing Agricola and his father: “Far be it from me, gentlemen, to call in question your good faith; but I cannot, to my great regret, attach such importance to your accusations, which are not supported by proof, as to suspend the regular legal course. According to your own confession, gentlemen, the authorities, to whom you addressed yourselves, did not see fit to interfere on your depositions, and told you they would inquire further. Now, really, gentlemen, I appeal to you: how can I, in so serious a matter, take upon myself a responsibility, which the magistrates themselves have refused to take?”
“Yes, you should do so, in the name of justice and honor?” cried Dagobert.
“It may be so, sir, in your opinion; but in my view of the case, I remain faithful to justice and honor, by executing with exactness the last will of the dead. For the rest you have no occasion to despair. If the persons, whose interests you represent, consider themselves injured, they may hereafter have recourse to an action at law, against the person receiving as donee of the Abbe Gabriel — but in the meanwhile, it is my duty to put him in immediate possession of the securities. I should be gravely injured, were I to act in any, other manner.”
The notary’s observations seemed so reasonable, that Samuel, Dagobert and Agricola were quite confounded. After a moment’s thought, Gabriel appeared to take a desperate resolution, and said to the notary, in a firm voice —
“Since, under these circumstances, the law is powerless to obtain the right, I must adopt, sir, an extreme course. Before doing so, I will ask M. l’Abbe d’Aigrigny, for the last time, if he will content himself with that portion of the property which falls justly to me, on condition that the rest shall be placed in safe hands, till the heirs, whose names have been brought forward, shall prove their claim.”
“To this proposition I must answer as I have done already,” replied Father d’Aigrigny; “it is not I who am concerned, but an immense work of charity. I am, therefore, obliged to refuse the part-offer of the Abbe Gabriel, and to remind him of his engagements of every kind.”
“Then you refuse this arrangement?” asked Gabriel, in an agitated voice.
“Charity commands me to do so.”
“You refuse it — absolutely?”
“I think of all the good and pious institutions that these treasures will enable us to establish for the Greater Glory of the Lord, and I have neither the courage nor the desire to make the least concession.”
“Then, sir,” resumed the good priest, in a still more agitated manner, “since you force me to do it, I revoke my donation. I only intended to dispose of my own property, and not of that which did not belong to me.”
“Take care M. l’Abbe,” said rather d’Aigrigny; “I would observe that I hold in my hand a written, formal promise.”
“I know it, sir; you have a written paper, in which I take an oath never to revoke this donation, upon any pretext whatever, and on pain of incurring the aversion and contempt of all honest men. Well, sir! be it so,” said Gabriel, with deep bitterness; “I will expose myself to all the consequences of perjury; you may proclaim it everywhere. I may be hated and despised by all — but God will judge me!” The young priest dried a tear, which trickled from his eye.
“Oh! do not be afraid, my dear boy!” cried Dagobert, with reviving hope. “All honest men will be on your side!”
“Well done, brother!” said Agricola.
“M. Notary,” said Rodin, in his little sharp voice, “please to explain to Abbe Gabriel, that he may perjure himself as much as he thinks fit, but that the Civil Code is much less easy to violate than a mere promise, which is only — sacred!”
“Speak, sir,” said Gabriel.
“Please to inform Abbe Gabriel,” resumed Rodin, “that a deed of gift, like that made in favor of Father d’Aigrigny, can only be cancelled for one of three reasons — is it not so?”
“Yes, sir, for three reasons,” said the notary.
“The first is in case of the birth of a child,” said Rodin, “and I should blush to mention such a contingency to the Abbe Gabriel. The second is the ingratitude of the donee — and the Abbe Gabriel may be certain of our deep and lasting gratitude. The last case is the non-fulfilment of the wishes of the donor, with regard to the employment of his gifts.
“Now, although the Abbe Gabriel may have suddenly conceived a very bad opinion of us, he will at least give us some time to show that his gifts have been disposed of according to his wishes, and applied to the Greater Glory of the Lord.”
“Now, M. Notary,” added Father d’Aigrigny, “it is for you to decide and say, if Abbe Gabriel can revoke the donation he has made.”
Just as the notary was going to answer, Bathsheba reentered the room, followed by two more personages, who appeared in the Red Room at a little distance from each other.
BOOK VI.
CHAPTER XXVI. A GOOD GENIUS.
THE FIRST OF the two, whose arrival had interrupted the answer of the notary, was Faringhea. At sight of this man’s forbidding countenance, Samuel approached, and said to him: “Who are you, sir?”
After casting a piercing glance at Rodin, who started but soon recovered his habitual coolness, Faringhea replied to Samuel: “Prince Djalma arrived lately from India, in order to be present here this day, as it was recommended to him by an inscription on a medal, which he wore about his neck.”
“He, also!” cried Gabriel, who had been the shipmate of the Indian Prince from the Azores, where the vessel in which he came from Alexandria had been driven into port: “he also one of the heirs! In fact, the prince told me during the voyage that his mother was of French origin. But, doubtless, he thought it right to conceal from me the object of his journey. Oh! that Indian is a noble and courageous young man. Where is he?”
The Strangler again looked at Rodin, and said, laying strong emphasis upon his words: “I left the prince yesterday evening. He informed me that, although he had a great interest to be here, he might possibly sacrifice that interest to other motives. I passed the night in the same hotel, and this morning, when I went to call on him, they told me he was already gone out. My friendship for him led me to come hither, hoping the information I should be able to give might be of use to the prince.”
In making no mention of the snare into which he had fallen the day before, in concealing Rodin’s machinations with regard to Djalma, and in attributing the absence of this latter to a voluntary cause, the Strangler evidently wished to serve the socius, trusting that Rodin would know how to recompense his discretion. It is useless to observe, that all this story was impudently false. Having succeeded that morning in escaping from his prison by a prodigious effort of cunning, audacity, and skill, he had run to the hotel where he had left Djalma; there he had learned that a man and woman, of an advanced age, and most respectable appearance, calling themselves relations of the young Indian, had asked to see him — and that, alarmed at the dangerous state of somnolency in which he seemed to be plunged, they had taken him home in their carriage, in order to pay him the necessary attention.
“It is unfortunate,” said the notary, “that this heir also did not make his appearance — but he has, unhappily, forfeited his right to the immense inheritance that is in question.”
“Oh! an immense inheritance is in question,” said Faringhea, looking fixedly at Rodin, who prudently turned away his eyes.
The second of the two personages we have mentioned entered at this moment. It was the father of Marshal Simon, an old man of tall stature, still active and vigorous for his age. His hair was white and thin. His countenance, rather fresh-colored, was expressive at once of quickness, mildness and energy.
Agricola advanced hastily to meet him. “You here, M. Simon!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, my boy,” said the marshal’s father, cordially pressing Agricola’s hand “I have just arrived from my journey. M. Hardy was to have been here, about some matter of inheritance, as he supposed: but, as he will still be absent from Paris for some time, he has charged me—”
“He also an heir! — M. Francis Hardy!” cried Agricola, interrupting the old workman.
“But how pale and agitated you are, my boy!” said the marshal’s father, looking round with astonishment. “What is the matter?”
“What is the matter?” cried Dagobert, in despair, as he approached the foreman. “The matter is that they would rob your granddaughters, and that I have brought them from the depths of Siberia only to witness this shameful deed!”
“Eh?” cried the old workman, trying to recognize the soldiers face, “you are then—”
“Dagobert.”
“You — the generous, devoted friend of my son!” cried the marshal’s father, pressing the hands of Dagobert in his own with strong emotion; “but did you not speak of Simon’s daughter?”
“Of his daughters; for he is more fortunate than he imagines,” said Dagobert. “The poor children are twins.”
“And where are they?” asked the old man.
“In a convent.”
“In a convent?”
“Yes; by the treachery of this man, who keeps them there in order to disinherit them.”
“What man?”
“The Marquis d’Aigrigny.”
“My son’s mortal enemy!” cried the old workman, as he threw a glance of aversion at Father d’Aigrigny, whose audacity did not fail him.
“And that is not all,” added Agricola. “M. Hardy, my worthy and excellent master, has also lost his right to this immense inheritance.”
“What?” cried Marshal Simon’s father; “but M. Hardy did not know that such important interests were concerned. He set out hastily to join one of his friends who was in want of him.”
At each of these successive revelations, Samuel felt his trouble increase: but he could only sigh over it, for the will of the testator was couched, unhappily, in precise and positive terms.
Father d’Aigrigny, impatient to end this scene, which caused him cruel embarrassment, in spite of his apparent calmness, said to the notary, in a grave and expressive voice: “It is necessary, sir, that all this should have an end. If calumny could reach me, I would answer victoriously by the facts that have just come to light. Why attribute to odious conspiracies the absence of the heirs, in whose names this soldier and his son have so uncourteously urged their demands? Why should such absence be less explicable than the young Indian’s, or than M. Hardy’s, who, as his confidential man has just told us, did not even know the importance of the interests that called him hither? Is it not probable, that the daughters of Marshal Simon, and Mdlle. de Cardoville have been prevented from coming here to-day by some very natural reasons? But, once again, this has lasted too long. I think M. Notary will agree with me, that this discovery of new heirs does not at all affect the question, which I had the honor to propose to him just now; namely whether, as trustee for the poor, to whom Abbe Gabriel made a free gift of all he possessed, I remain notwithstanding his tardy and illegal opposition, the only possessor of this property, which I have promised, and which I now again promise, in presence of all here assembled, to employ for the Greater Glory of the Lord? Please to answer me plainly, M. Notary; and thus terminate the scene which must needs be painful to us all.”
“Sir,” replied the notary, in a solemn tone, “on my soul and conscience, and in the name of law and justice — as a faithful and impartial executor of the last will of M. Marius de Rennepont, I declare that, by virtue of the deed of gift of Abbe Gabriel de Rennepont, you, M. l’Abbe d’Aigrigny, are the only possessor of this property, which I place at your immediate disposal, that you may employ the same according to the intention of the donor.”
These words pronounced with conviction and gravity, destroyed the last vague hopes that the representatives of the heirs might till then have entertained. Samuel became paler than usual, and pressed convulsively the hand of Bathsheba, who had drawn near to him. Large tears rolled down the cheeks of the two old people. Dagobert and Agricola were plunged into the deepest dejection. Struck with the reasoning of the notary, who refused to give more credence and authority to their remonstrances than the magistrates had done before him, they saw themselves forced to abandon every hope. But Gabriel suffered more than any one; he felt the most terrible remorse, in reflecting that, by his blindness, he had been the involuntary cause and instrument of this abominable theft.
So, when the notary, after having examined and verified the amount of securities contained in the cedar box, said to Father d’Aigrigny: “Take possession, sir, of this casket—” Gabriel exclaimed, with bitter disappointment and profound despair: “Alas! one would fancy, under these circumstances, that an inexorable fatality pursues all those who are worthy of interest, affection or respect. Oh, my God!” added the young priest, clasping his hands with fervor, “Thy sovereign justice will never permit the triumph of such iniquity.”
It was as if heaven had listened to the prayer of the missionary. Hardly had he spoken, when a strange event took place.
Without waiting for the end of Gabriel’s invocation, Rodin, profiting by the decision of the notary, had seized the casket in his arms, unable to repress a deep aspiration of joy and triumph. At the very moment when Father d’Aigrigny and his socius thought themselves at last in safe possession of the treasure, the door of the apartment in which the clock had been heard striking was suddenly opened.
A woman appeared upon the threshold.
At sight of her, Gabriel uttered a loud cry, and remained as if thunderstruck. Samuel and Bathsheba fell on their knees together, and raised their clasped hands. The Jew and Jewess felt inexplicable hopes reviving within them.
All the other actors in this scene appeared struck with stupor. Rodin — Rodin himself — recoiled two steps, and replaced the casket on the table with a trembling hand. Though the incident might appear natural enough — a woman appearing on the threshold of a door, which she had just thrown open — there was a pause of deep and solemn silence. Every bosom seemed oppressed, and as if struggling for breath. All experienced, at sight of this woman, surprise mingled with fear, and indefinable anxiety — for this woman was the living original of the portrait, which had been placed in the room a hundred and fifty years ago. The same head-dress, the same flowing robe, the same countenance, so full of poignant and resigned grief! She advanced slowly, and without appearing to perceive the deep impression she had caused. She approached one of the pieces of furniture, inlaid with brass, touched a spring concealed in the moulding of gilded bronze, so that an upper drawer flew open, and taking from it a sealed parchment envelope, she walked up to the table, and placed this packet before the notary, who, hitherto silent and motionless, received it mechanically from her.
Then, casting upon Gabriel, who seemed fascinated by her presence, a long, mild, melancholy look, this woman directed her steps towards the hall, the door of which had remained open. As she passed near Samuel and Bathsheba, who were still kneeling, she stopped an instant, bowed her fair head towards them, and looked at them with tender solicitude. Then, giving them her hands to kiss, she glided away as slowly as she had entered — throwing a last glance upon Gabriel. The departure of this woman seemed to break the spell under which all present had remained for the last few minutes. Gabriel was the first to speak, exclaiming, in an agitated voice. “It is she — again — here — in this house!”
“Who, brother?” said Agricola, uneasy at the pale and almost wild looks of the missionary; for the smith had not yet remarked the strange resemblance of the woman to the portrait, though he shared in the general feeling of amazement, without being able to explain it to himself. Dagobert and Faringhea were in a similar state of mind.
“Who is this woman?” resumed Agricola, as he took the hand of Gabriel, which felt damp and icy cold.
“Look!” said the young priest. “Those portraits have been there for more than a century and a half.”
He pointed to the paintings before which he was now seated, and Agricola, Dagobert, and Faringhea raised their eyes to either side of the fireplace. Three exclamations were now heard at once.
“It is she — it is the same woman!” cried the smith, in amazement, “and her portrait has been here for a hundred and fifty years!”
“What do I see?” cried Dagobert, as he gazed at the portrait of the man. “The friend and emissary of Marshal Simon. Yes! it is the same face that I saw last year in Siberia. Oh, yes! I recognize that wild and sorrowful air — those black eyebrows, which make only one!”
“My eyes do not deceive me,” muttered Faringhea to himself, shuddering with horror. “It is the same man, with the black mark on his forehead, that we strangled and buried on the banks of the Ganges — the same man, that one of the sons of Bowanee told me, in the ruins of Tchandi, had been met by him afterwards at one of the gates of Bombay — the man of the fatal curse, who scatters death upon his passage — and his picture has existed for a hundred and fifty years!”
