"It is true--I know it well, father--and I suffer as much from this fear as from grief at my son"s arrest. But what is to be done? I could not instruct these young girls at home--for I have not the knowledge--I have only faith--and then my poor husband, in his blindness, makes game of sacred things, which my son, at least, respects in my presence, out of regard for me. Then, once more, father, come to my aid, I conjure you!
Advise me: what is to be done?"
"We cannot abandon these two young souls to frightful perdition," said the voice, after a moment"s silence: "there are not two ways of saving them: there is only one, and that is to place them in a religious house, where they may be surrounded by good and pious examples."
"Oh, father! if we were not so poor, or if I could still work, I would try to gain sufficient to pay for their board, and do for them as I did for Gabriel. Unfortunately, I have quite lost my sight; but you, father, know some charitable souls, and if you could get any of them to interest them, selves for these poor orphans--"
"Where is their father?"
"He was in India; but, my husband tells me, he will soon be in France.
That, however, is uncertain. Besides, it would make my heart bleed to see those poor children share our misery--which will soon be extreme--for we only live by my son"s labor."
"Have these girls no relation here?" asked the voice.
"I believe not, father."
"It was their mother who entrusted them to your husband, to bring them to France?"
"Yes, father; he was obliged to set out yesterday for Chartres, on some very pressing business, as he told me."
It will be remembered that Dagobert had not thought fit to inform his wife of the hopes which the daughters of Marshall Simon founded on the possession of the medal, and that he had particularly charged them not to mention these hopes, even to Frances.
"So," resumed the voice, after a pause of some moments" duration, "your husband is not in Paris."
"No, father; but he will doubtless return this evening or to-morrow morning."
"Listen to me," said the voice, after another pause. "Every minute lost for those two young girls is a new step on the road to perdition. At any moment the hand of G.o.d may smite them, for He alone knows the hour of our death; and were they to die in the state in which they now are, they would most probably be lost to all eternity. This very day, therefore, you must open their eyes to the divine light, and place them in a religious house. It is your duty--it should be your desire!"
"Oh, yes, father; but, unfortunately, I am too poor, as I have already told you."
"I know it--you do not want for zeal or faith--but even were you capable of directing these young girls, the impious examples of your husband and son would daily destroy your work. Others must do for these orphans, in the name of Christian charity, that which you cannot do, though you are answerable for them before heaven."
"Oh, father! if, thanks to you, this good work could be accomplished, how grateful I should be!"
"It is not impossible. I know the superior of a convent, where these young girls would be instructed as they ought. The charge for their board would be diminished in consideration of their poverty; but, however small, it must be paid and there would be also an outfit to furnish. All that would be too dear for you."
"Alas! yes, father."
"But, by taking a little from my poor-box, and by applying to one or two generous persons, I think I shall be able to complete the necessary sum, and so get the young girls received at the convent."
"Ah, father! you are my deliverer, and these children"s."
"I wish to be so--but, in the interest of their salvation, and to make these measures really efficacious, I must attach some conditions to the support I offer you."
"Name them, father; they are accepted beforehand. Your commands shall be obeyed in everything."
"First of all, the children must be taken this very morning to the convent, by my housekeeper, to whom you must bring them almost immediately."
"Nay, father; that is impossible!" cried Frances.
"Impossible? why?"
"In the absence of my husband--"
"Well?"
"I dare not take a such a step without consulting him."
"Not only must you abstain from consulting him, but the thing must be done during his absence."
"What, father? should I not wait for his return?"
"No, for two reasons," answered the priest, sternly: "first, because his hardened impiety would certainly lead him to oppose your pious resolution; secondly, because it is indispensable that these young girls should break off all connection with your husband, who, therefore, must be left in ignorance of the place of their retreat."
"But, father," said Frances, a prey to cruel doubt and embarra.s.sment, "it is to my husband that these children were entrusted--and to dispose of them without his consent would be--"
"Can you instruct these children at your house--yes or no?" interrupted the voice.
"No, father, I cannot."
"Are they exposed to fall into a state of final impenitence by remaining with you--yes or no?"
"Yes, father, they are so exposed."
"Are you responsible, as you take the place of their parents, for the mortal sins they may commit--yes or no?"
"Alas, father! I am responsible before G.o.d."
"Is it in the interest of their eternal salvation that I enjoin you to place them this very day in a convent?"
"It is for their salvation, father."
"Well, then, choose!"
"But tell me, I entreat you, father if I have the right to dispose of them without the consent of my husband?"
"The right! you have not only the right, but it is your sacred duty.
Would you not be bound, I ask you, to rescue these unfortunate creatures from a fire, against the will of your husband, or during his absence?
Well! you must now rescue them, not from a fire that will only consume the body, but from one in which their souls would burn to all eternity."
"Forgive me, I implore you, father," said the poor woman, whose indecision and anguish increased every minute; "satisfy my doubts!--How can I act thus, when I have sworn obedience to my husband?"
"Obedience for good--yes--but never for evil. You confess, that, were it left to him, the salvation of these orphans would be doubtful, and perhaps impossible."
"But, father," said Frances, trembling, "when my husband returns, he will ask me where are these children? Must I tell him a falsehood?"
"Silence is not falsehood; you will tell him that you cannot answer his question."
"My husband is the kindest of men; but such an answer will drive him almost mad. He has been a soldier, and his anger will be terrible, father," said Frances, shuddering at the thought.