CHAPTER XII. THE BURGOMASTER.

Dagobert's anxiety increased every moment. Certain that his horse had not
entered the shed of its own accord, he attributed the event which had
taken place to the spite of the brute-tamer; but he sought in vain for
the motive of this wretch's animosity, and he reflected with dismay, that
his cause, however just, would depend on the good or bad humor of a judge
dragged from his slumbers and who might be ready to condemn upon
fallacious appearances.
Fully determined to conceal, as long as possible, from the orphans the
fresh misfortunes, which had befallen them, he was proceeding to open the
door of their chamber, when he stumbled over Spoil-sport--for the dog had
run back to his post, after vainly trying to prevent the Prophet from
leading away Jovial. "Luckily the dog has returned; the poor little
things have been well guarded," said the soldier, as he opened the door.
To his great surprise, the room was in utter darkness.
"My children," cried he, "why are you without a light?" There was no
answer. In terror he groped his way to the bed, and took the hand of one
of the sisters; the hand was cold as ice.
"Rose, my children!" cried he. "Blanche! Give me some answer! you
frighten me." Still the same silence continued; the hand which he held
remained cold and powerless, and yielded passively to his touch.
Just then, the moon emerged from the black clouds that surrounded her,
and threw sufficient light into the little room, and upon the bed, which
faced the window, for the soldier to see that the two sisters had
fainted. The bluish light of the moon added to the paleness of the
orphans; they held each other in a half embrace, and Rose had buried her
head on Blanche's bosom.
"They must have fainted through fear," exclaimed Dagobert, running to
fetch his gourd. "Poor things! after a day of so much excitement, it is
not surprising." And moistening the corner of a handkerchief with a few
drops of brandy, the soldier knelt beside the bed, gently chafed the
temples of the two sisters, and held the linen, wet with the spirituous
liquor, to their little pink nostrils.
Still on his knees, and bending his dark, anxious face over the orphans,
he waited some moments before again resorting to the only restorative in
his power. A slight shiver of Rose gave him renewed hope; the young girl
turned her head on the pillow with a sigh; then she started, and opened
her eyes with an expression of astonishment and alarm; but, not
immediately recognizing Dagobert, she exclaimed: "Oh, sister!" and threw
herself into the arms of Blanche.
The latter also was beginning to experience the effect of the soldier's
care. The exclamation of Rose completely roused her from her lethargy,
and she clung to her sister, again sharing the fright without knowing its
cause.
"They've come to--that's the chief point," said Dagobert, "now we shall
soon get rid of these foolish fears." Then softening his voice, he added:
"Well, my children, courage? You are better. It is I who am here--me,
Dagobert!"
The orphans made a hasty movement, and, turning towards the soldier their
sweet faces, which were still full of dismay and agitation, they both, by
a graceful impulse, extended their arms to him and cried: "It is you,
Dagobert--then we are safe!"
"Yes, my children, it is I," said the veteran, taking their hands in his,
and pressing them joyfully. "So you have been much frightened during my
absence?"
"Oh, frightened to death!"
"If you knew--oh, goodness! if you knew--"
"But the lamp is extinguished--why is that?"
"We did not do it."
"Come--recover yourselves, poor children, and tell me all about it. I
have no good opinion of this inn; but, luckily, we shall soon leave it.
It was an ill wind that blew me hither--though, to be sure, there was no
other in the village. But what has happened?"
"You were hardly gone, when the window flew open violently, and the lamp
and table fell together with a loud crash."
"Then our courage failed--we screamed and clasped each other, for we
thought we could hear some one moving in the room."
"And we were so frightened, that we fainted away."
Unfortunately, persuaded that it was the violence of the wind which had
already broken the glass, and shaken the window, Dagobert attributed this
second accident to the same cause as the first, thinking that he had not
properly secured the fastening and that the orphans had been deceived by
a false alarm. "Well, well--it is over now," said he to them: "Calm
yourselves, and don't think of it any more."
"But why did you leave us so hastily, Dagobert?"
"Yes, now I remember--did we not hear a great noise, sister, and see
Dagobert run to the staircase, crying: 'My horse! what are they doing to
my horse?'"
"It was then Jovial who neighed?"
These questions renewed the anguish of the soldier; he feared to answer
them, and said, with a confused air: "Yes--Jovial neighed--but it was
nothing. By the by, we must have a light here. Do you know where I put my
flint and steel last evening? Well, I have lost my senses; it is here in
my pocket. Luckily, too, we have a candle, which I am going to light; I
want to look in my knapsack for some papers I require."
Dagobert struck a few sparks, obtained a light, and saw that the window
was indeed open, the table thrown down, and the lamp lying by the side of
the knapsack. He shut the window, set the little table on its feet again,
placed the knapsack upon it, and began to unbuckle this last in order to
take out his portfolio, which had been deposited along with his cross and
purse, in a kind of pocket between the outside and the lining. The straps
had been readjusted with so much care, that there was no appearance of
the knapsack having been disturbed; but when the soldier plunged his hand
into the pocket above-mentioned, he found it empty. Struck with
consternation, he grew pale, and retreated a step, crying: "How is
this?--Nothing!"
"What is the matter?" said Blanche. He made her no answer. Motionless, he
leaned against the table, with his hand still buried in the pocket. Then,
yielding to a vague hope--for so cruel a reality did not appear
possible--he hastily emptied the contents of the knapsack on the
table--his poor half-worn clothes--his old uniform-coat of the
horse-grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, a sacred relic for the
soldiers--but, turn and return them as he would, he found neither his
purse, nor the portfolio that contained his papers, the letters of
General Simon, and his cross.
In vain, with that serious childishness which always accompanies a
hopeless search, he took the knapsack by the two ends, and shook it
vigorously; nothing came out. The orphans looked on with uneasiness, not
understanding his silence or his movements, for his back was turned to
them. Blanche ventured to say to him in a timid voice: "What ails
you--you don't answer us.--What is it you are looking for in your
knapsack?"
Still mute, Dagobert searched his own person, turned out all his
pockets--nothing!--For the first time in his life, perhaps, his two
children, as he called them, had spoken to him without receiving a reply.
Blanche and Rose felt the big tears start into their eyes; thinking that
the soldier was angry, they darst not again address him.
"No, no! it is impossible--no!" said the veteran, pressing his hand to
his forehead, and seeking in his memory where he might have put those
precious objects, the loss of which he could not yet bring himself to
believe. A sudden beam of joy flashed from his eyes. He ran to a chair,
and took from it the portmanteau of the orphans; it contained a little
linen, two black dresses, and a small box of white wood, in which were a
silk handkerchief that had belonged to their mother, two locks of her
hair, and a black ribbon she had worn round her neck. The little she
possessed had been seized by the Russian government, in pursuance of the
confiscation. Dagobert searched and researched every article--peeped into
all the corners of the portmanteau--still nothing!
This time, completely worn out, leaning against the table, the strong,
energetic man felt himself giving way. His face was burning, yet bathed
in a cold sweat; his knees trembled under him. It is a common saying,
that drowning men will catch at straws; and so it is with the despair
that still clings to some shred of hope. Catching at a last
chance--absurd, insane, impossible--he turned abruptly towards the
orphans, and said to them, without considering the alteration in his
voice and features: "I did not give them to you--to keep for me?--speak?"
Instead of answering, Rose and Blanche, terrified at his paleness and the
expression of his countenance, uttered a cry. "Good heavens! what is the
matter with you?" murmured Rose.
"Have you got them--yes, or no?" cried in a voice of thunder the
unfortunate, distracted man. "If you have not--I'll take the first knife
I meet with, and stick it into my body!"
"Alas! You are so good: pardon us if we have done anything to afflict
you! You love us so much, you would not do us any harm." The orphans
began to weep, as they stretched forth their hands in supplication
towards the soldier.
He looked at them with haggard eye, without even seeing them; till, as
the delusion passed away, the reality presented itself to his mind with
all its terrible consequences. Then he clasped his hands together, fell
on his knees before the bed of the orphans, leaned his forehead upon it,
and amid his convulsive sobs--for the man of iron sobbed like a
child--these broken words were audible: "Forgive me--forgive!--I do not
know how it can be!--Oh! what a misfortune!--what a misfortune!--Forgive
me!"
At this outbreak of grief, the cause of which they understood not, but
which in such a man was heart-rending, the two sisters wound their arms
about his old gray head, and exclaimed amid their tears: "Look at us!
Only tell us what is the matter with you?--Is it our fault?"
At this instant, the noise of footsteps resounded from the stairs,
mingled with the barking of Spoil-sport, who had remained outside the
door. The nearer the steps approached, the more furious became the
barking; it was no doubt accompanied with hostile demonstrations, for the
host was heard to cry out in an angry tone: "Hollo! you there! Call off
your dog, or speak to him. It is Mr. Burgomaster who is coming up."
"Dagobert--do you hear?--it is the burgomaster," said Rose.
"They are coming upstairs--a number of people," resumed Blanche.
The word burgomaster recalled whatever had happened to the mind of
Dagobert, and completed, so to express it, the picture of his terrible
position. His horse was dead, he had neither papers nor money, and a day,
a single day's detention, might defeat the last hope of the sisters, and
render useless this long and toilsome journey.
Men of strong minds, and the veteran was of the number, prefer great
perils, positions of danger accurately defined, to the vague anxieties
which precede a settled misfortune. Guided by his good sense and
admirable devotion, Dagobert understood at once, that his only resource
was now in the justice of the burgomaster, and that all his efforts
should tend to conciliate the favor of that magistrate. He therefore
dried his eyes with the sheet, rose from the ground, erect, calm, and
resolute, and said to the orphans: "Fear nothing, my children; it is our
deliverer who is at hand."
"Will you call off your dog or no?" cried the host, still detained on the
stairs by Spoil-sport, who, as a vigilant sentinel, continued to dispute
the passage. "Is the animal mad, I say? Why don't you tie him up? Have
you not caused trouble enough in my house? I tell you, that Mr.
Burgomaster is waiting to examine you in your turn, for he has finished
with Morok."
Dagobert drew his fingers through his gray locks and across his
moustache, clasped the collar of his top-coat, and brushed the sleeves
with his hand, in order to give himself the best appearance possible; for
he felt that the fate of the orphans must depend on his interview with
the magistrate. It was not without a violent beating of the heart, that
he laid his hand upon the door-knob, saying to the young girls, who were
growing more and more frightened by such a succession of events: "Hide
yourselves in your bed, my children; if any one must needs enter, it
shall be the burgomaster alone."
Thereupon, opening the door, the soldier stepped out on the landing
place, and said: "Down, Spoil-sport!--Here!"
The dog obeyed, but with manifest repugnance. His master had to speak
twice, before he would abstain from all hostile movements towards the
host. This latter, with a lantern in one hand and his cap in the other,
respectfully preceded the burgomaster, whose magisterial proportions were
lost in the half shadows of the staircase. Behind the judge, and a few
steps lower, the inquisitive faces of the people belonging to the inn
were dimly visible by the light of another lantern.
Dagobert, having turned the dog into the room, shut the door after him,
and advanced two steps on the landing-place, which was sufficiently
spacious to hold several persons, and had in one corner a wooden bench
with a back to it. The burgomaster, as he ascended the last stair, was
surprised to see Dagobert close the door of the chamber, as though he
wished to forbid his entrance. "Why do you shut that door?" asked he in
an abrupt tone.
"First, because two girls, whom I have the charge of, are in bed in that
room; secondly, because your examination would alarm them," replied
Dagobert. "Sit down upon this bench, Mr. Burgomaster, and examine me
here; it will not make any difference, I should think."
"And by what right," asked the judge, with a displeased air, "do you
pretend to dictate to me the place of your examination?"
"Oh, I have no such pretension, Mr. Burgomaster!" said the soldier
hastily, fearing above all things to prejudice the judge against him:
"only, as the girls are in bed, and already much frightened, it would be
a proof of your good heart to examine me where I am."
"Humph!" said the magistrate, with ill-humor; "a pretty state of things,
truly!--It was much worth while to disturb me in the middle of the night.
But, come, so be it; I will examine you here." Then, turning to the
landlord, he added: "Put your lantern upon this bench, and leave us."
The innkeeper obeyed, and went down, followed by his people, as
dissatisfied as they were at being excluded from the examination. The
veteran was left alone with the magistrate.

CHAPTER XI. JOVIAL and DEATH.

Morok had led Jovial into the middle of the menagerie, and then removed
the cloth which prevented him from seeing and smelling. Scarcely had the
tiger, lion, and panther caught a glimpse of him than they threw
themselves, half famished, against the bars of their dens.
The horse struck with stupor, his neck stretched out, his eye fixed, and
trembling through all his limbs, appeared as if nailed to the ground; an
abundant icy sweat rolled suddenly down his flanks. The lion and the
tiger uttered fearful roarings, and struggled violently in their dens.
The panther did not roar, but her mute rage was terrific.
With a tremendous bound, at the risk of breaking her skull, she sprang
from the back of the cage against the bars; then, still mute, still
furious, she crawled back to the extreme corner of the den, and with a
new spring, as impetuous as it was blind, she again strove to force out
the iron grating. Three times had she thus bounded--silent,
appalling--when the horse, passing from the immobility of stupor to the
wild agony of fear, neighed long and loud, and rushed in desperation at
the door by which he had entered. Finding it closed he hung his head,
bent his knees a little, and rubbed his nostrils against the opening left
between the ground and the bottom of the door, as if he wished to inhale
the air from the outside; then, more and more affrighted, he began to
neigh with redoubled force, and struck out violently with his fore-feet.
At the moment when Death was about once more to make her spring, the
Prophet approached her cage. The heavy bolt which secured the grating was
pushed from its staple by the pike of the brute-tamer, and, in another
second, Morok was half way up the ladder that communicated with the loft.
The roaring of the lion and tiger, mingled with the neighing of Jovial,
now resounded through all parts of the inn. The panther had again thrown
herself furiously on the grating, and this time yielding with one spring,
she was in the middle of the shed.
The light of the lantern was reflected from the glossy ebon of her hide,
spotted with stains of a duller black. For an instant she remained
motionless, crouching upon her thick-set limbs, with her head close to
the floor, as if calculating the distance of the leap by which she was to
reach the horse; then suddenly she darted upon him.
On seeing her break from her cage Jovial had thrown himself violently
against the door, which was made to open inwards, and leaned against it
with all his might, as though he would force it down. Then, at the moment
when Death took her leap, he reared up in almost an erect position; but
she, rapid as lightning, had fastened upon his throat and hung there,
whilst at the same time she buried the sharp claws of her fore-feet in
his chest. The jugular vein of the horse opened; a torrent of bright red
blood spouted forth beneath the tooth of the panther, who, now supporting
herself on her hind legs, squeezed her victim up against the door, whilst
she dug into his flank with her claws, and laid bare the palpitating
flesh. Then his half-strangled neighing became awful.
Suddenly these words resounded: "Courage, Jovial!--I am at hand!
Courage!"
It was the voice of Dagobert, who was exhausting himself in desperate
exertions to force open the door that concealed this sanguinary struggle.
"Jovial!" cried the soldier, "I am here. Help! Help!"
At the sound of that friendly and well-known voice, the poor animal,
almost at its last gasp, strove to turn its head in the direction whence
came the accents of his master, answered him with a plaintive neigh, and,
sinking beneath the efforts of the panther, fell prostrate, first on its
knees, then upon its flank, so that its backbone lay right across the
door, and still prevented its being opened. And now all was finished. The
panther, squatting down upon the horse, crushed him with all her paws,
and, in spite of some last faint kicks, buried her bloody snout in his
body.
"Help! help! my horse!" cried Dagobert, as he vainly shook the door. "And
no arms!" he added with rage; "no arms!"
"Take care!" exclaimed the brute-tamer, who appeared at the window of the
loft; "do not attempt to enter it might cost you your life. My panther is
furious."
"But my horse! my horse!" cried Dagobert, in a voice of agony.
"He must have strayed from his stable during the night, and pushed open
the door of the shed. At sight of him the panther must have broken out of
her cage and seized him. You are answerable for all the mischief that may
ensue," added the brute-tamer, with a menacing air; "for I shall have to
run the greatest danger, to make Death return to her den."
"But my horse! only save my horse!" cried Dagobert, in a tone of hopeless
supplication.
The Prophet disappeared from the window.
The roaring of the animals and the shouts of Dagobert, had roused from
sleep every one in the White Falcon. Here and there lights were seen
moving and windows were thrown open hurriedly. The servants of the inn
soon appeared in the yard with lanterns, and surrounding Dagobert,
inquired of him what had happened.
"My horse is there," cried the soldier, continuing to shake the door,
"and one of that scoundrel's animals has escaped from its cage."
At these words the people of the inn, already terrified by the frightful
roaring, fled from the spot and ran to inform the host. The soldier's
anguish may be conceived, as pale, breathless, with his ear close to the
chink of the door, he stood listening. By degrees the roaring had ceased,
and nothing was heard but low growls, accompanied by the stern voice of
the Prophet, repeating in harsh, abrupt accents: "Death! come here!
Death!"
The night was profoundly dark, and Dagobert did not perceive Goliath,
who, crawling carefully along the tiled roof entered the loft by the
attic window.
And now the gate of the court-yard was again opened, and the landlord of
the inn appeared, followed by a number of men. Armed with a carbine, he
advanced with precaution; his people carried staves and pitchforks.
"What is the row here?" said he, as he approached Dagobert. "What a
hubbub in my house! The devil take wild beast showmen, and negligent
fellows who don't know how to tie a horse to the manger! If your beast is
hurt, so much the worse for you; you should have taken more care of it."
Instead of replying to these reproaches, the soldier, who still listened
attentively to what was going on in the shed, made a sign to entreat
silence. Suddenly a ferocious roar was heard, followed by a loud scream
from the Prophet; and, almost immediately after, the panther howled
piteously.
"You are no doubt the cause of some great accident," said the frightened
host to the soldier; "did you not hear that cry? Morok is, perhaps,
dangerously wounded."
Dagobert was about to answer, when the door opened, and Goliath appeared
on the threshold.
"You may enter now," said he; "the danger is over."
The interior of the menagerie presented a singular spectacle. The
Prophet, pale, and scarcely able to conceal his agitation beneath an
apparent air of calmness, was kneeling some paces from the cage of the
panther, in the attitude of one absorbed in himself; the motion of his
lips indicating that he was praying. At sight of the host and the people
of the inn, he rose, and said in a solemn voice: "I thank thee, my
Preserver, that I have been able to conquer, by the strength which Thou
hast given me."
Then folding his arms, with haughty brow and imperious glance, he seemed
to enjoy the triumph he had achieved over Death, who, stretched on the
bottom of her den, continued to utter plaintive howlings. The spectators
of this scene, ignorant that the pelisse of the brute-tamer covered a
complete suit of armor, and attributing the cries of the panther solely
to fear, were struck with astonishment and admiration at the intrepidity
and almost supernatural power of this man. A few steps behind him stood
Goliath, leaning upon the ashen pikestaff. Finally, not far from the
cage, in the midst of a pool of blood, lay the dead body of Jovial.
At sight of the blood-stained and torn remains, Dagobert stood
motionless, and his rough countenance assumed an expression of the
deepest grief: then, throwing himself on his knees, he lifted the head of
Jovial; and when he saw those dull, glassy, and half-closed eyes, once so
bright and intelligent, as they turned towards a much-loved master, the
soldier could not suppress an exclamation of bitter anguish. Forgetting
his anger, forgetting the deplorable consequences of this accident, so
fatal to the interests of the two maidens, who would thus be prevented
from continuing their journey--he thought only of the horrible death of
his poor old horse, the ancient companion of his fatigues and wars, the
faithful animal, twice wounded like himself, and from whom for so many
years he had never been separated. This poignant emotion was so cruelly,
so affectingly visible in the soldier's countenance, that the landlord
and his people felt themselves for a moment touched with pity, as they
gazed on the tall veteran kneeling beside his dead horse.
But, when following the course of his regrets, he thought how Jovial had
also been the companion of his exile, how the mother of the orphans had
formerly (like her daughters) undertaken a toilsome journey with the aid
of this unfortunate animal, the fatal consequences of his loss presented
themselves on a sudden to his mind. Then, fury succeeding to grief, he
rose, with anger flashing from his eyes, and threw himself on the
Prophet; with one hand he seized him by the throat, and with the other
administered five or six heavy blows, which fell harmlessly on the coat
of mail.
"Rascal! you shall answer to me for my horse's death!" said the soldier,
as he continued his correction. Morok, light and sinewy, could not
struggle with advantage against Dagobert, who, aided by his tall stature,
still displayed extraordinary vigor. It needed the intervention of
Goliath and the landlord to rescue the Prophet from the hands of the old
grenadier. After some moments, they succeeded in separating the two
champions. Morok was white with rage. It needed new efforts to prevent
his seizing the pike to attack Dagobert.
"It is abominable!" cried the host, addressing the soldier, who pressed
his clinched fists in despair against his bald forehead. "You expose this
good man to be devoured by his beasts, and then you wish to beat him into
the bargain. Is this fitting conduct for a graybeard? Shall we have to
fetch the police? You showed yourself more reasonable in the early part
of the evening."
These words recalled the soldier to himself. He regretted his impetuosity
the more, as the fact of his being a stranger might augment the
difficulty of his position. It was necessary above all to obtain the
price of his horse, so as to be enabled to continue his journey, the
success of which might be compromised by a single day's delay. With a
violent effort, therefore, he succeeded in restraining his wrath.
"You are right--I was too hasty," said he to the host, in an agitated
voice, which he tried to make as calm as possible. "I had not the same
patience as before. But ought not this man be responsible for the loss of
my horse? I make you judge in the matter."
"Well, then, as judge, I am not of your opinion. All this has been your
own fault. You tied up your horse badly, and he strayed by chance into
this shed, of which no doubt the door was half-open," said the host,
evidently taking the part of the brute-tamer.
"It was just as you say," answered Goliath. "I can remember it. I left
the door ajar, that the beasts might have some air in the night. The
cages were well shut, and there was no danger."
"Very true," said one of the standers-by.
"It was only the sight of the horse," added another, "that made the
panther furious, so as to break out of its cage."
"It is the Prophet who has the most right to complain," observed a third.
"No matter what this or that person says," returned Dagobert, whose
patience was beginning to fail him, "I say, that I must have either money
or a horse on the instant--yes, on the instant--for I wish to quit this
unlucky house."
"And I say, it is you that must indemnify me," cried Morok, who had kept
this stage-trick for the last, and who now exhibited his left hand all
bloody, having hitherto concealed it beneath the sleeve of his pelisse.
"I shall perhaps be disabled for life," he added; "see what a wound the
panther has made here!"
Without having the serious character that the Prophet ascribed to it, the
wound was a pretty deep one. This last argument gained for him the
general sympathy. Reckoning no doubt upon this incident, to secure the
winning of a cause that he now regarded as his own, the host said to the
hostler: "There is only one way to make a finish. It is to call up the
burgomaster, and beg him to step here. He will decide who is right or
wrong."
"I was just going to propose it to you," said the soldier, "for, after
all, I cannot take the law into my own hands."
"Fritz, run to the burgomaster's!"--and the hustler started in all haste.
His master, fearing to be compromised by the examination of the soldier,
whose papers he had neglected to ask for on his arrival, said to him:
"The burgomaster will be in a very bad humor, to be disturbed so late. I
have no wish to suffer by it, and I must therefore beg you to go and
fetch me your papers, to see if they are in rule. I ought to have made
you show them, when you arrived here in the evening."
"They are upstairs in my knapsack; you shall have them," answered the
soldier--and turning away his head, and putting his hand before his eyes,
as he passed the dead body of Jovial, he went out to rejoin the sisters.
The Prophet followed him with a glance of triumph, and said to himself:
"There he goes!--without horse, without money, without papers. I could
not do more--for I was forbidden to do more--I was to act with as much
cunning as possible and preserve appearances. Now every one will think
this soldier in the wrong. I can at least answer for it, that he will not
continue his journey for some days--since such great interests appear to
depend on his arrest, and that of the young girls."
A quarter of an hour after this reflection of the brute-tamer, Karl,
Goliath's comrade, left the hiding-place where his master had concealed
him during the evening, and set out for Leipsic, with a letter which
Morok had written in haste, and which Karl, on his arrival, was to put
immediately into the post.
The address of this letter was as follows:
"A Monsieur Rodin, Rue du Milieu-des-Ursins, No, 11, A Paris, France."

CHAPTER X. THE SURPRISE.

The orphans, after reading the journal of their father, remained for some
moments silent, sad, and pensive, contemplating the leaves yellowed by
time. Dagobert, also plunged in a reverie, thought of his wife and son,
from whom he had been so long separated, and hoped soon to see again.
The soldier was the first to break the silence, which had lasted for
several minutes. Taking the leaves from the hand of Blanche, he folded
them carefully, put them into his pocket, and thus addressed the orphans:
"Courage, my children! you see what a brave father you have. Think only
of the pleasure of greeting him, and remember always the name of the
gallant youth, to whom you will owe that pleasure--for without him your
father would have been killed in India."
"Djalma! we shall never forget him," said Rose.
"And if our guardian angel Gabriel should return," added Blanche, "we
will ask him to watch over Djalma as over ourselves."
"Very well, my children; I am sure that you will forget nothing that
concerns good feeling. But to return to the traveller, who came to visit
your poor mother in Siberia, he had seen the general a month after the
events of which you have read, and at a moment when he was about to enter
on a new campaign against the English. It was then that your father
entrusted him with the papers and medal."
"But of what use will this medal be to us, Dagobert?"
"And what is the meaning of these words engraved upon it?" added Rose, as
she drew it from her bosom.
"Why it means, my children, that on the 13th of February, 1832, we must
be at No. 3, Rue Saint Francois, Paris."
"But what are we to do there?"
"Your poor mother was seized so quickly with her last illness, that she
was unable to tell me. All I know is, that this medal came to her from
her parents, and that it had been a relic preserved in her family for
more than a century."
"And how did our father get it?"
"Among the articles which had been hastily thrown into the coach, when he
was removed by force from Warsaw, was a dressing-case of your mother's,
in which was contained this medal. Since that time the general had been
unable to send it back, having no means of communicating with us, and not
even knowing where we were."
"This medal is, then, of great importance to us?"
"Unquestionably; for never, during fifteen years, had I seen your mother
so happy, as on the day the traveller brought it back to her. 'Now,' said
she to me, in the presence of the stranger, and with tears of joy in her
eyes, 'now may my children's future be brilliant as their life has
hitherto been miserable. I will entreat of the governor of Siberia
permission to go to France with my daughters; it will perhaps be thought
I have been sufficiently punished, by fifteen years of exile, and the
confiscation of my property. Should they refuse, I will remain here; but
they will at least allow me to send my children to France, and you must
accompany them, Dagobert. You shall set out immediately, for much time
has been already lost; and, if you were not to arrive before the 13th of
next February, this cruel separation and toilsome journey would have been
all in vain.'"
"Suppose we were one day after?"
"Your mother told me that if we arrived the 14th instead of the 13th, it
would be too late. She also gave me a thick letter, to put into the post
for France, in the first town we should pass through--which I have done."
"And do you think we shall be at Paris in time?"
"I hope so; still, if you are strong enough, we must sometimes make
forced marches--for, if we only travel our five leagues a day, and that
without accident, we shall scarcely reach Paris until the beginning of
February, and it is better to be a little beforehand."
"But as father is in--India, and condemned to death if he return to
France, when shall we see him?"
"And where shall we see him?"
"Poor children! there are so many things you have yet to learn. When the
traveller quitted him, the general could not return to France, but now he
can do so."
"And why is that?"
"Because the Bourbons, who had banished him, were themselves turned out
last year. The news must reach India, and your father will certainly come
to meet you at Paris, because he expects that you and your mother will be
there on the 13th of next February."
"Ah! now I understand how we may hope to see him," said Rose with a sigh.
"Do you know the name of this traveller, Dagobert?"
"No, my children; but whether called Jack or John, he is a good sort.
When he left your mother, she thanked him with tears for all his kindness
and devotion to the general, herself, and the children; but he pressed
her hands in his, and said to her, in so gentle a voice that I could not
help being touched by it: 'Why do you thank me? Did He not Say--LOVE YE
ONE ANOTHER!'"
"Who is that, Dagobert?"
"Yes, of whom did the traveller speak?"
"I know nothing about it; only the manner in which he pronounced those
words struck me, and they were the last he spoke."
"Love one another!" repeated Rose, thoughtfully.
"How beautiful are those words!" added Blanche.
"And whither was the traveller going?"
"Far, very far into the North, as he told your mother. When she saw him
depart, she said to me: 'His mild, sad talk has affected me even to
tears; whilst I listened to him, I seemed to be growing better--I seemed
to love my husband and my children more--and yet, to judge by the
expression of his countenance, one would think that this stranger had
never either smiled or wept!' She and I watched him from the door as long
as we could follow him with our eyes; he carried his head down, and his
walk was slow, calm, and firm; one might fancy that he counted his steps.
And, talking of steps, I remarked yet another thing."
"What was it, Dagobert?"
"You know that the road which led to our house way, always damp, because
of the overflowing of the little spring."
"Yes."
"Well, then, the mark of the traveller's footsteps remained in the clay,
and I saw that he had nails under his shoe in the form of a cross."
"How in the form of a cross?"
"Look!" said Dagobert, placing the tip of his finger seven times on the
coverlet of the bed; "they were arrange: thus beneath his heel:"
*
* * *
*
*
*
"You see it forms a cross."
"What could it mean, Dagobert?"
"Chance, perhaps--yes, chance--and yet, in spite of myself, this
confounded cross left behind him struck me as a bad omen, for hardly was
he gone when misfortune after misfortune fell upon us."
"Alas! the death of our mother!"
"Yes--but, before that, another piece of ill-luck. You had not yet
returned, and she was writing her petition to ask leave to go to France
or to send you there, when I heard the gallop of a horse. It was a
courier from the governor general of Siberia. He brought us orders to
change our residence; within three days we were to join other condemned
persons, and be removed with them four hundred leagues further north.
Thus, after fifteen years of exile, they redoubled in cruelty towards
your mother."
"Why did they thus torment her?"
"One would think that some evil genius was at work against her. A few
days later, the traveller would no longer have found us at Milosk; and if
he had joined us further on, it would have been too far for the medal and
papers to be of use--since, having set out almost immediately, we shall
hardly arrive in time at Paris. 'If they had some interest to prevent me
and my children from going to France,' said your mother, 'they would act
just as they have done. To banish us four hundred leagues further, is to
render impossible this journey, of which the term is fixed.' And the idea
overwhelmed her with grief."
"Perhaps it was this unexpected sorrow that was the cause of her sudden
illness."
"Alas! no, my children; it was that infernal cholera, who arrives without
giving you notice--for he too is a great traveller--and strikes you down
like a thunderbolt. Three hours after the traveller had left us, when you
returned quite pleased and gay from the forest, with your large bunches
of wild-flowers for your mother, she was already in the last agony, and
hardly to be recognized. The cholera had broken out in the village, and
that evening five persons died of it. Your mother had only time to hang
the medal about your neck, my dear little Rose, to recommend you both to
my care, and to beg that we should set out immediately. When she was
gone, the new order of exile could not apply to you; and I obtained
permission from the governor to take my departure with you for France,
according to the last wishes--"
The soldier could not finish the sentence; he covered his eyes with his
hand, whilst the orphans embraced him sobbing.
"Oh! but," resumed Dagobert, with pride, after a moment of painful
silence, "it was then that you showed yourselves the brave daughters of
the general. Notwithstanding the danger, it was impossible to tear you
from your mother's bedside; you remained with her to the last, you closed
her eyes, you watched there all night, and you would not leave the
village till you had seen me plant the little wooden cross over the grave
I had dug for her."
Dagobert paused abruptly. A strange, wild neighing, mingled with
ferocious roarings, made the soldier start from his seat. He grew pale,
and cried: "It is Jovial! my horse! What are they doing to my horse?"
With that, opening the door he rushed down the stairs precipitately.
The two sisters clung together, so terrified at the sudden departure of
the soldier, that they saw not an enormous hand pass through the broken
panes, unfasten the catch of the window, push it violently open, and
throw down the lamp placed on the little table, on which was the
soldiers's knapsack. The orphans thus found themselves plunged into
complete darkness.

CHAPTER IX. THE CAGES.

Morok had prepared himself. Over his deer-skin vest he had drawn the coat
of mail--that steel tissue, as pliable as cloth, as hard as diamonds;
next, clothing his arms and legs in their proper armor, and his feet in
iron-bound buskins, and concealing all this defensive equipment under
loose trousers and an ample pelisse carefully buttoned, he took in his
hand a long bar of iron, white-hot, set in a wooden handle.
Though long ago daunted by the skill and energy of the Prophet, his tiger
Cain, his lion Judas, and his black panther Death, had sometimes
attempted, in a moment of rebellion, to try their fangs and claws on his
person; but, thanks to the armor concealed beneath his pelisse, they
blunted their claws upon a skin of steel, and notched their fangs upon
arms or legs of iron, whilst a slight touch of their master's metallic
wand left a deep furrow in their smoking, shrivelled flesh.
Finding the inutility of their efforts, and endowed with strong memory,
the beasts soon learned that their teeth and claws were powerless when
directed against this invulnerable being. Hence, their terrified
submission reached to such a point that, in his public representations,
their master could make them crouch and cower at his feet by the least
movement of a little wand covered with flame-colored paper.
The Prophet, thus armed with care, and holding in his hand the iron made
hot by Goliath, descended by the trapdoor of the loft into the large shed
beneath, in which were deposited the cages of his animals. A mere wooden
partition separated this shed from the stable that contained his horses.
A lantern, with a reflector, threw a vivid light on the cages. They were
four in number. A wide iron grating formed their sides, turning at one
end upon hinges like a door, so as to give ingress to the animal; the
bottom of each den rested on two axle-trees and four small iron castors,
so that they could easily be removed to the large covered wagon in which
they were placed during a journey. One of them was empty; the other three
contained, as already intimated, a panther, a tiger, and a lion.
The panther, originally from Java, seemed to merit the gloomy name of
Death, by her grim, ferocious aspect. Completely black, she lay crouching
and rolled up in the bottom of her cage, and her dark hues mingling with
the obscurity which surrounded her, nothing was distinctly visible but
fixed and glaring eyes--yellow balls of phosphoric light, which only
kindled, as it were, in the night-time; for it is the nature of all the
animals of the feline species to enjoy entire clearness of vision but in
darkness.
The Prophet entered the stable in silence: the dark red of his long
pelisse contrasted with the pale yellow of his straight hair and beard;
the lantern, placed at some height above the ground, threw its rays full
upon this man, and the strong light, opposed to the deep shadows around
it, gave effect to the sharp proportions of his bony and savage looking
figure.
He approached the cage slowly. The white rim, which encircled his
eyeball, appeared to dilate, and his look rivaled in motionless
brilliancy the steadily sparkling gaze of the panther. Still crouching in
the shade, she felt already the fascination of that glance; two or three
times she dropped her eyelids, with a low, angry howl; then, reopening
her eyes, as if in spite of herself, she kept them fastened immovably on
those of the Prophet. And now her rounded ears clung to her skull, which
was flattened like a viper's; the skin of her forehead became
convulsively wrinkled; she drew in her bristling, but silky muzzle, and
twice silently opened her jaws, garnished with formidable fangs. From
that moment a kind of magnetic connection seemed to be established
between the man and the beast.
The Prophet extended his glowing bar towards the cage, and said, in a
sharp, imperious tone: "Death! come here."
The panther rose, but so dragged herself along that her belly and the
bend of her legs touched the ground. She was three feet high, and nearly
five in length; her elastic and fleshy spine, the sinews of her thighs as
well developed as those of a race-horse, her deep chest, her enormous
jutting shoulders, the nerve and muscle in her short, thick paws--all
announced that this terrible animal united vigor with suppleness, and
strength with agility.
Morok, with his iron wand still extended in the direction of the cage,
made a step towards the panther. The panther made a stride towards the
Prophet. Morok stopped; Death stopped also.
At this moment the tiger, Judas, to whom Morok's back was turned, bounded
violently in his cage, as if jealous of the attention, which his master
paid to the panther. He growled hoarsely, and, raising his head, showed
the under-part of his redoubtable triangular jaw, and his broad chest of
a dirty white, with which blended the copper color, streaked with black,
of his sides; his tail, like a huge red serpent, with rings of ebony, now
clung to his flanks, now lashed them with a slow and continuous movement:
his eyes, of a transparent, brilliant green, were fixed upon the Prophet.
Such was the influence of this man over his animals, that Judas almost
immediately ceased growling, as if frightened at his own temerity; but
his respiration continued loud and deep. Morok turned his face towards
him, and examined him very attentively during some seconds. The panther,
no longer subject to the influence of her master's look, slunk back to
crouch in the shade.
A sharp cracking, in sudden breaks, like that which great animals make in
gnawing hard substances, was now heard from the cage of the lion. It drew
the attention of the Prophet, who, leaving the tiger, advanced towards
the other den.
Nothing could be seen of the lion but his monstrous croup of a reddish
yellow. His thighs were gathered under him, and his thick mane served
entirely to conceal his head. But by the tension and movement of the
muscles of his loins, and the curving of his backbone, it was easy to
perceive that he was making violent efforts with his throat and his
forepaws. The Prophet approached the cage with same uneasiness, fearing
that, notwithstanding his orders, Goliath had given the lion some bones
to gnaw. To assure himself of it, he said in a quick and firm voice:
"Cain!"
The lion did not change his position.
"Cain! come here!" repeated Morok in a louder tone. The appeal was
useless; the lion did not move, and the noise continued.
"Cain! come here!" said the Prophet a third time; but, as he pronounced
these words, he applied the end of the glowing bar to the haunch of the
lion.
Scarcely did the light track of smoke appear on the reddish hide of Cain,
when, with a spring of incredible agility, he turned and threw himself
against the grating, not crouching, but at a single bound--upright,
superb, terrifying. The Prophet being at the angle of the cage, Cain, in
his fury, had raised himself sideways to face his master, and, leaning
his huge flank against the bars, thrust between them his enormous fore
leg, which, with his swollen muscles, was as large as Goliath's thigh.
"Cain! down!" said the Prophet, approaching briskly.
The lion did not obey immediately. His lips, curling with rage, displayed
fangs as long, as large, and as pointed as the tusks of a wild boar. But
Morok touched those lips with the end of the burning metal; and, as he
felt the smart, followed by an unexpected summons of his master, the
lion, not daring to roar, uttered a hollow growl, and his great body sank
down at once in an attitude of submission and fear.
The Prophet took down the lantern to see what Cain had been gnawing. It
was one of the planks from the floor of his den, which he had succeeded
in tearing up, and was crunching between his teeth in the extremity of
his hunger. For a few moments the most profound silence reigned in the
menagerie. The Prophet, with his hands behind his back, went from one
cage to the other, observing the animals with a restless contemplative
look, as if he hesitated to make between them an important and difficult
choice.
From time to time he listened at the great door of the shed, which opened
on the court-yard of the inn. At length this door turned on its hinges,
and Goliath appeared, his clothes dripping with water.
"Well! is it done?" said the Prophet.
"Not without trouble. Luckily, the night is dark, it blows hard, and it
pours with rain."
"Then there is no suspicion?"
"None, master. Your information was good. The door of the cellar opens on
the fields, just under the window of the lasses. When you whistled to let
me know it was time, I crept out with a stool I had provided; I put it up
against the wall, and mounted upon it; with my six feet, that made nine,
and I could lean my elbows on the window-ledge; I took the shutter in one
hand, and the haft of my knife in the other, and, whilst I broke two of
the panes, I pushed the shutter with all my might."
"And they thought it was the wind?"
"Yes, they thought it was the wind. You see, the 'brute' is not such a
brute, after all. That done, I crept back into my cellar, carrying my
stool with me. In a little time, I heard the voice of the old man; it was
well I had made haste."
"Yes, when I whistled to you, he had just entered the supper-room. I
thought he would have been longer."
"That man's not built to remain long at supper," said the giant,
contemptuously. "Some moments after the panes had been broken, the old
man opened the window, and called his dog, saying: 'Jump out!'--I went
and hid myself at the further end of the cellar, or that infernal dog
would have scented me through the door."
"The dog is now shut up in the stable with the old man's horse." "Go on!"
"When I heard them close shutter and window, I came out of my cellar,
replaced my stool, and again mounted upon it. Unfastening the shutter, I
opened it without noise, but the two broken panes were stopped up with
the skirts of a pelisse. I heard talking, but I could see nothing; so I
moved the pelisse a little, and then I could see the two lasses in bed
opposite to me, and the old man sitting down with his back to where I
stood."
"But the knapsack--the knapsack?--That is the most important."
"The knapsack was near the window, on a table, by the side of a lamp; I
could have reached it by stretching out my arm."
"What did you hear said?"
"As you told me to think only of the knapsack, I can only remember what
concerns the knapsack. The old man said he had some papers in it--the
letter of a general--his money--his cross."
"Good--what next?"
"As it was difficult for me to keep the pelisse away from the hole, it
slipped through my fingers. In trying to get hold of it again, I put my
hand too much forward. One of the lasses saw it, and screamed out,
pointing to the window."
"Dolt!" exclaimed the Prophet, becoming pale with rage, "you have ruined
all."
"Stop a bit! there is nothing broken yet. When I heard the scream, I
jumped down from my stool, and got back into the cellar; as the dog was
no longer about, I left the door ajar, so that I could hear them open the
window, and see, by the light, that the old man was looking out with the
lamp; but he could find no ladder, and the window was too high for any
man of common size to reach it!"
"He will have thought, like the first time, that it was the wind. You are
less awkward than I imagined."
"The wolf has become a fox, as you said. Knowing where the knapsack was
to be found with the money and the papers, and not being able to do more
for the moment, I came away--and here I am."
"Go upstairs and fetch me the longest pike."
"Yes, master."
"And the red blanket."
"Yes, master."
"Go!"
Goliath began to mount the ladder; half-way up he stopped. "Master," said
he, "may I not bring down a bit of meat for Death?--you will see that
she'll bear me malice; she puts it all down to my account; she never
forgets, and on the first occasion--"
"The pike and the cloth!" repeated the Prophet, in an imperious tone. And
whilst Goliath, swearing to himself, proceeded to execute his
instructions, Morok opened the great door of the shed, looked out into
the yard, and listened.
"Here's the pike and the cloth," said the giant, as he descended the
ladder with the articles. "Now what must I do next?"
"Return to the cellar, mount once more by the window, and when the old
man leaves the room--"
"Who will make him leave the room?"
"Never mind! he will leave it."
"What next?"
"You say the lamp is near the window?"
"Quite near--on the table next to the knapsack."
"Well, then, as soon as the old man leaves the room, push open the
window, throw down the lamp, and if you accomplish cleverly what remains
to do--the ten florins are yours--you remember it all?"
"Yes, yes."
"The girls will be so frightened by the noise and darkness, that they
will remain dumb with terror."
"Make yourself easy! The wolf turned into a fox; why not a serpent?"
"There is yet something."
"Well, what now?"
"The roof of this shed is not very high, the window of the loft is easy
of access, the night is dark--instead of returning by the door--"
"I will come in at the window."
"Ay, and without noise."
"Like a regular snake!" and the giant departed.
"Yes!" said the Prophet to himself, after a long silence, "these means
are sure. It was not for me to hesitate. A blind and obscure instrument,
I know not the motives of the orders I have received: but from the
recommendations which accompany them--but from the position of him who
sends them--immense interests must be involved--interests connected with
all that is highest and greatest upon earth!--And yet how can these two
girls, almost beggars, how can this wretched soldier represent such
interests?--No matter," added he, with humility; "I am the arm which
acts--it is for the head, which thinks and orders, to answer for its
work."
Soon after the Prophet left the shed, carrying with him the red cloth,
and directed his steps towards the little stable that contained Jovial.
The crazy door, imperfectly secured by a latch, was easily opened. At
sight of a stranger Spoil-sport threw himself upon him; but his teeth
encountered the iron leggings of the Prophet, who, in spite of the
efforts of the dog took Jovial by his halter, threw the blanket over his
head to prevent his either seeing or smelling, and led him from the
stable into the interior of the menagerie, of which he closed the door.

CHAPTER VIII. EXTRACTS FROM GENERAL SIMON'S DIARY

Bivouac on the Mountains of Avers February the 20th, 1830.
"Each time I add some pages to this journal, written now in the heart of
India, where the fortune of my wandering and proscribed existence has
thrown me--a journal which, alas! my beloved Eva, you may never read--I
experience a sweet, yet painful emotion; for, although to converse thus
with you is a consolation, it brings back the bitter thought that I am
unable to see or speak to you.
"Still, if these pages should ever meet your eyes, your generous heart
will throb at the name of the intrepid being, to whom I am this day
indebted for my life, and to whom I may thus perhaps owe the happiness of
seeing you again--you and my child--for of course our child lives. Yes,
it must be--for else, poor wife, what an existence would be yours amid
the horrors of exile! Dear soul! he must now be fourteen. Whom does he
resemble? Is he like you? Has he your large and beautiful blue
eyes?--Madman that I am! how many times, in this long day-book, have I
already asked the same idle question, to which you can return no
answer!--How many times shall I continue to ask it?--But you will teach
our child to speak and love the somewhat savage name of Djalma."
"Djalma!" said Rose, as with moist eyes she left off reading.
"Djalma!" repeated Blanche, who shared the emotion of her sister. "Oh, we
shall never forget that name."
"And you will do well, my children; for it seems to be the name of a
famous soldier, though a very young one. But go on, my little Rose!"
"I have told you in the preceding pages, my dear Eva, of the two glorious
days we had this month. The troops of my old friend, the prince, which
daily make fresh advances in European discipline, have performed wonders.
We have beaten the English, and obliged them to abandon a portion of this
unhappy country, which they had invaded in contempt of all the rights of
justice, and which they continue to ravage without mercy, for, in these
parts, warfare is another name for treachery, pillage, and massacre. This
morning, after a toilsome march through a rocky and mountainous district,
we received information from our scouts, that the enemy had been
reinforced, and was preparing to act on the offensive; and, as we were
separated from them by a distance of a few leagues only, an engagement
became inevitable. My old friend the prince, the father of my deliverer,
was impatient to march to the attack. The action began about three
o'clock; it was very bloody and furious. Seeing that our men wavered for
a moment, for they were inferior in number, and the English
reinforcements consisted of fresh troops, I charged at the head of our
weak reserve of cavalry. The old prince was in the centre, fighting, as
he always fights, intrepidly; his son, Djalma, scarcely eighteen, as
brave as his father, did not leave my side. In the hottest part of the
engagement, my horse was killed under me, and rolling over into a ravine,
along the edge of which I was riding, I found myself so awkwardly
entangled beneath him, that for an instant I thought my thigh was
broken."
"Poor father!" said Blanche.
"This time, happily, nothing more dangerous ensued thanks to Djalma! You
see, Dagobert," added Rose, "that I remember the name." And she continued
to read,
"The English thought--and a very flattering opinion it was--that, if they
could kill me, they would make short work of the prince's army. So a
Sepoy officer, with five or six irregulars--cowardly, ferocious
plunderers--seeing me roll down the ravine, threw themselves into it to
despatch me. Surrounded by fire and smoke, and carried away by their
ardor, our mountaineers had not seen me fall; but Djalma never left me.
He leaped into the ravine to my assistance, and his cool intrepidity
saved my life. He had held the fire of his double-barrelled carbine; with
one load, he killed the officer on the spot; with the other he broke the
arm of an irregular, who had already pierced my left hand with his
bayonet. But do not be alarmed, dear Eva; it is nothing--only a scratch."
"Wounded--again wounded--alas!" cried Blanche, clasping her hands
together, and interrupting her sister.
"Take courage!" said Dagobert: "I dare say it was only a scratch, as the
general calls it. Formerly, he used to call wounds, which did not disable
a man from fighting, blank wounds. There was no one like him for such
sayings."
"Djalma, seeing me wounded," resumed Rose, wiping her eyes, "made use of
his heavy carbine as a club, and drove back the soldiers. At that
instant, I perceived a new assailant, who, sheltered behind a clump of
bamboos which commanded the ravine, slowly lowered his long gun, placed
the barrel between two branches, and took deliberate aim at Djalma.
Before my shouts could apprise him of his danger, the brave youth had
received a ball in his breast. Feeling himself hit, he fell bark
involuntarily two paces, and dropped upon one knee: but he still remained
firm, endeavoring to cover me with his body. You may conceive my rage and
despair, whilst all my efforts to disengage myself were paralyzed by the
excruciating pain in my thigh. Powerless and disarmed, I witnessed for
some moments this unequal struggle.
"Djalma was losing blood rapidly; his strength of arm began to fail him;
already one of the irregulars, inciting his comrades with his voice, drew
from his belt a huge, heavy kind of bill-hook, when a dozen of our
mountaineers made their appearance, borne towards the spot by the
irresistible current of the battle. Djalma was rescued in his turn, I was
released, and, in a quarter of an hour, I was able to mount a horse. The
fortune of the day is ours, though with severe loss; but the fires of the
English camp are still visible, and to-morrow the conflict will be
decisive. Thus, my beloved Eva, I owe my life to this youth. Happily, his
wound occasions us no uneasiness; the ball only glanced along the ribs in
a slanting direction."
"The brave boy might have said: "'A blank wound,' like the general,"
observed Dagobert.
"Now, my dear Eva," continued Rose, "you must become acquainted, by means
of this narrative at least, with the intrepid Djalma. He is but just
eighteen. With one word, I will paint for you his noble and valiant
nature; it is a custom of this country to give surnames, and, when only
fifteen, he was called 'The Generous'--by which was, of course, meant
generous in heart and mind. By another custom, no less touching than
whimsical, this name was reverted to his parent, who is called 'The
Father of the Generous,' and who might, with equal propriety, be called
'The Just,' for this old Indian is a rare example of chivalrous honor and
proud independence. He might, like so many other poor princes of this
country, have humbled himself before the execrable despotism of the
English, bargained for the relinquishment of sovereign power, and
submitted to brute force--but it was not in his nature. 'My whole rights,
or a grave in my native mountains!'--such is his motto. And this is no
empty boast; it springs from the conviction of what is right and just.
'But you will be crushed in the struggle,' I have said to him--'My
friend,' he answered, 'what if, to force you to a disgraceful act, you
were told to yield or die?'--From that day I understood him, and have
devoted myself, mind and body, to the ever sacred cause of the weak
against the strong. You see, my Eva, that Djalma shows himself worthy of
such a father. This young Indian is so proud, so heroic in his bravery,
that, like a young Greek of Leonidas' age, he fights with his breast
bare; while other warriors of his country (who, indeed, usually have
arms, breast, and shoulders uncovered) wear, in time of battle, a thick,
impenetrable vest. The rash daring of this youth reminds me of Murat,
King of Naples, who, I have so often told you, I have seen a hundred
times leading the most desperate charges with nothing but a riding-whip
in his hand."
"That's another of those kings I was telling you of, whom the Emperor set
up for his amusement," said Dagobert. "I once saw a Prussian officer
prisoner, whose face had been cut across by that mad-cap King of Naples'
riding-whip; the mark was there, a black and blue stripe. The Prussian
swore he was dishonored, and that a sabre-cut would have been preferable.
I should rather think so! That devil of a king; he only had one idea:
'Forward, on to the cannon!' As soon as they began to cannonade, one
would have thought the guns were calling him with all their might, for he
was soon up to them with his 'Here I am!' If I speak to you about him, my
children, it's because he was fond of repeating,--'No one can break
through a square of infantry, if General Simon or I can't do it.'"
Rose continued:
"I have observed with pain, that, notwithstanding his youth, Djalma is
often subject to fits of deep melancholy. At times, I have seen him
exchange with his father looks of singular import. In spite of our mutual
attachment, I believe that both conceal from me some sad family secret,
in so far as I can judge from expressions which have dropped from them by
chance.
"It relates to some strange event which their vivid imaginations have
invested with a supernatural character.
"And yet, my love, you and I have no longer the right to smile at the
credulity of others. I, since the French campaign, when I met with that
extraordinary adventure, which, to this day, I am quite unable to
understand--"
"This refers to the man who threw himself before the mouth of the
cannon," said Dagobert.
"And you," continued the maiden, still reading, "you, my dear Eva, since
the visits of that young and beautiful woman, whom, as your mother
asserted, she had seen at her mother's house forty years before."
The orphans, in amazement, looked at the soldier.
"Your mother never spoke to me of that, nor the general either, my
children; this is as strange to me as it is to you."
With increasing excitement and curiosity, Rose continued:
"After all, my dear Eva, things which appear very extraordinary, may
often be explained by a chance resemblance or a freak of nature. Marvels
being always the result of optical illusion or heated fancy, a time must
come, when that which appeared to be superhuman or supernatural, will
prove to be the most simple and natural event in the world. I doubt not,
therefore, that the things, which we denominate our prodigies, will one
day receive this commonplace solution."
"You see, my children--things appear marvelous, which at bottom are quite
simple--though for a long time we understand nothing about them."
"As our father relates this, we must believe it, and not be
astonished--eh, sister?"
"Yes, truly--since it will all be explained one day."
"For example," said Dagobert, after a moment's reflection, "you two are
so much alike, that any one, who was not in the habit of seeing you
daily, might easily take one for the other. Well! if they did not know
that you are, so to speak,'doubles,' they might think an imp was at work
instead of such good little angels as you are."
"You are right, Dagobert; in this way many things may be explained, even
as our father says." And Rose continued to read:
"Not without pride, my gentle Eva, have I learned that Djalma has French
blood in his veins. His father married, some years ago, a young girl,
whose family, of French origin, had long been settled at Batavia in the
island of Java. This similarity of circumstances between my old friend
and myself--for your family also, my Eva, is of French origin, and long
settled in a foreign land--has only served to augment my sympathy for
him. Unfortunately, he has long had to mourn the loss of the wife whom he
adored.
"See, my beloved Eva! my hand trembles as I write these words. I am
weak--I am foolish--but, alas! my heart sinks within me. If such a
misfortune were to happen to me--Oh, my God!--what would become of our
child without thee--without his father--in that barbarous country? But
no! the very fear is madness; and yet what a horrible torture is
uncertainty! Where may you now be? What are you doing? What has become of
you? Pardon these black thoughts, which are sometimes too much for me.
They are the cause of my worst moments--for, when free from them, I can
at least say to myself: I am proscribed, I am every way unfortunate--but,
at the other end of the world, two hearts still beat for me with
affection--yours, my Eva, and our child's!"
Rose could hardly finish this passage; for some seconds her voice was
broken by sobs. There was indeed a fatal coincidence between the fears of
General Simon and the sad reality; and what could be more touching than
these outpourings of the heart, written by the light of a watch fire, on
the eve of battle, by a soldier who thus sought to soothe the pangs of a
separation, which he felt bitterly, but knew not would be eternal?
"Poor general! he is unaware of our misfortune," said Dagobert, after a
moment's silence; "but neither has he heard that he has two children,
instead of one. That will be at least some consolation. But come,
Blanche; do go on reading: I fear that this dwelling on grief fatigues
your sister, and she is too much affected by it. Besides, after all, it
is only just, that you should take your share of its pleasure and its
sorrow."
Blanche took the letter, and Rose, having dried her eyes, laid in her
turn her sweet head on the shoulder of her sister, who thus continued:
"I am calmer now, my dear Eva; I left off writing for a moment, and
strove to banish those black presentiments. Let us resume our
conversation! After discoursing so long about India, I will talk to you a
little of Europe. Yesterday evening, one of our people (a trusty fellow)
rejoined our outposts. He brought me a letter, which had arrived from
France at Calcutta; at length, I have news of my father, and am no longer
anxious on his account. This letter is dated in August of last year. I
see by its contents, that several other letters, to which he alludes,
have either been delayed or lost; for I had not received any for two
years before, and was extremely uneasy about him. But my excellent father
is the same as ever! Age has not weakened him; his character is as
energetic, his health as robust, as in times past--still a workman, still
proud of his order, still faithful to his austere republican ideas, still
hoping much.
"For he says to me, 'the time is at hand,' and he underlines those words.
He gives me also, as you will see, good news of the family of old
Dagobert, our friend--for in truth, my dear Eva, it soothes my grief to
think, that this excellent man is with you, that he will have accompanied
you in your exile--for I know him--a kernel of gold beneath the rude rind
of a soldier! How he must love our child!"
Here Dagobert coughed two or three times, stooped down, and appeared to
be seeking on the ground the little red and blue check-handkerchief
spread over his knees. He remained thus bent for some seconds, and, when
he raised himself, he drew his hand across his moustache.
"How well father knows you!"
"How rightly has he guessed that you would love us!"
"Well, well, children; pass over that!--Let's come to the part where the
general speaks of my little Agricola, and of Gabriel, my wife's adopted
child. Poor woman! when I think that in three months perhaps--but come,
child, read, read," added the old soldier, wishing to conceal his
emotion.
"I still hope against hope, my dear Eva, that these pages will one day
reach you, and therefore I wish to insert in them all that can be
interesting to Dagobert. It will be a consolation to him, to have some
news of his family. My father, who is still foreman at Mr. Hardy's, tells
me that worthy man has also taken into his house the son of old Dagobert.
Agricola works under my father, who is enchanted with him. He is, he
tells me, a tall and vigorous lad, who wields the heavy forge hammer as
if it were a feather, and is light-spirited as he is intelligent and
laborious. He is the best workman on the establishment; and this does not
prevent him in the evening, after his hard day's work, when he returns
home to his mother, whom he truly loves, from making songs and writing
excellent patriotic verses. His poetry is full of fire and energy; his
fellow-workmen sing nothing else, and his lays have the power to warm the
coldest and the most timid hearts."
"How proud you must be of your son, Dagobert," said Rose, in admiration;
"he writes songs."
"Certainly, it is all very fine--but what pleases me best is, that he is
good to his mother, and that he handles the hammer with a will. As for
the songs, before he makes a 'Rising of the People,' or a 'Marseillaise,'
he will have had to beat a good deal of iron; but where can this rascally
sweet Agricola have learned to make songs at all?--No doubt, it was at
school, where he went, as you will see, with his adopted brother
Gabriel."
At this name of Gabriel, which reminded them of the imaginary being whom
they called their guardian angel, the curiosity of the young girls was
greatly excited. With redoubled attention, Blanche continued in these
words:
"The adopted brother of Agricola, the poor deserted child whom the wife
of our good Dagobert so generously took in, forms, my father tells me, a
great contrast with Agricola; not in heart, for they have both excellent
hearts; but Gabriel is as thoughtful and melancholy as Agricola is
lively, joyous, and active. Moreover, adds my father, each of them, so to
speak, has the aspect, which belongs to his character. Agricola is dark,
tall, and strong, with a gay and bold air; Gabriel, on the contrary, is
weak, fair, timid as a girl, and his face wears an expression of angelic
mildness."
The orphans looked at each other in surprise; then, as they turned
towards the soldier their ingenuous countenances, Rose said to him; "Have
you heard, Dagobert? Father says, that your Gabriel is fair, and has the
face of an angel. Why, 'tis exactly like ours!"
"Yes, yes, I heard very well; it is that which surprised me, in your
dream."
"I should like to know, if he has also blue eyes," said Rose.
"As for that, my children, though the general says nothing about it, I
will answer for it: your fair boys have always blue eyes. But, blue or
black, he will not use them to stare at young ladies; go on, and you will
see why."
Blanche resumed:
"His face wears an expression of angelic mildness. One of the Brothers of
the Christian Schools, where he went with Agricola and other children of
his quarter, struck with his intelligence and good disposition, spoke of
him to a person of consequence, who, becoming interested in the lad,
placed him in a seminary for the clergy, and, since the last two years,
Gabriel is a priest. He intends devoting himself to foreign missions, and
will soon set out for America."
"Your Gabriel is a priest, it appears?" said Rose, looking at Dagobert.
"While ours is an angel," added Blanche.
"Which only proves that yours is a step higher than mine. Well, every one
to his taste; there are good people in all trades; but I prefer that it
should be Gabriel who has chosen the black gown. I'd rather see my boy
with arms bare, hammer in hand, and a leathern apron round him, neither
more nor less than your old grandfather, my children--the father of
Marshal Simon, Duke of Ligny--for, after all, marshal and duke he is by
the grace of the Emperor. Now finish your letter."
"Soon, alas, yes!" said Blanche; "there are only a few lines left." And
she proceeded:
"Thus, my dear, loving Eva, if this journal should ever reach its
destination, you will be able to satisfy Dagobert as to the position of
his wife and son, whom he left for our sakes. How can we ever repay such
a sacrifice? But I feel sure, that your good and generous heart will have
found some means of compensation.
"Adieu!--Again adieu, for to-day, my beloved Eva; I left off writing for
a moment, to visit the tent of Djalma. He slept peacefully, and his
father watched beside him; with a smile, he banished my fears. This
intrepid young man is no longer in any danger. May he still be spared in
the combat of to-morrow! Adieu, my gentle Eva! the night is silent and
calm; the fires of the bivouac are slowly dying out, and our poor
mountaineers repose after this bloody day; I can hear, from hour to hour,
the distant all's well of our sentinels. Those foreign words bring back
my grief; they remind me of what I sometimes forget in writing--that I am
faraway, separated from you and from my child! Poor, beloved beings! what
will be your destiny? Ah! if I could only send you, in time, that medal,
which, by a fatal accident, I carried away with me from Warsaw, you
might, perhaps, obtain leave to visit France, or at least to send our
child there with Dagobert; for you know of what importance--But why add
this sorrow to all the rest? Unfortunately, the years are passing away,
the fatal day will arrive, and this last hope, in which I live for you,
will also be taken from me: but I will not close the evening by so sad a
thought. Adieu, my beloved Eva! Clasp our child to your bosom, and cover
it with all the kisses which I send to both of you from the depths of
exile!"
"Till to-morrow--after the battle!"
The reading of this touching letter was followed by long silence. The
tears of Rose and Blanche flowed together. Dagobert, with his head
resting on his hand, was absorbed in painful reflections.
Without doors, the wind had now augmented in violence; a heavy rain began
to beat on the sounding panes; the most profound silence reigned in the
interior of the inn. But, whilst the daughters of General Simon were
reading with such deep emotion, these fragments of their father's
journal, a strange and mysterious scene transpired in the menagerie of
the brute-tamer.