"I believe you," said she; "but will others believe it? Seeing the child under your protection, what calumnies, think you, will be circulated?"

"Is it necessary, then, that I leave this poor innocent to hirelings?

And ought I to refuse to do my duty for fear of unjust criticism?"

"The child will never again find a mother, but I will place him in good hands. I will not hinder you from doing a good action, but I will save you from the blame which might attach to your good name. You may leave it to me," said his mother.

In his present mood, Jacob felt instinctively drawn toward Mathilde, and late in the evening he directed his steps to her house. The servants, accustomed to see him enter unannounced, opened the doors of the _salon_. He waited there for some time, looking at the closed piano, the stiffly-arranged furniture, and the withered flowers in the vases. Everything bore that air of desolation found in houses that have been closed for some time.

Clad in a long, trained peignoir, Mathilde appeared, gliding like a shadow, with slow and measured steps. She was very much changed since he last saw her. Her eyes shone with a feverish fire, and her cheeks were sunken. Her former soft la.s.situde had become a torpor. She offered him a cold, trembling hand. Jacob understood by this reception that here as elsewhere he had been slandered; but, happily, he was one of those characters whose clear conscience fortify them against all contumely.

"Have I come at an inopportune moment?" said he. "In that case, I will go."

"No. You could not arrive more opportunely. I was anxious to see you, monsieur."

"You are ill."

"Not the least in the world."

"Well, Mathilde, so many unfortunate things have happened to me lately, that I come to you to comfort my tortured heart."

"Your heart? It is in the Old Testament."

"I do not understand you. Do you doubt me?"

"Ah! I do not know. This doubt is killing me. I wish to know all the worst; then I can die. You used to be frank and sincere. Why do you deceive me now, like the others?"

"This is too much, Mathilde," said Jacob.

"Oh! I have proofs of your deceit," cried she. "Would it not be better to confide in me as a sister, and say, 'I love another, I am tired of contact with a corpse. I wish a living creature? I would have answered you thus: 'Go, be happy!' In losing you I would at least have kept my respect for you."

"Why do you not respect me now?"

"What! you dare to deny it?"

"Mathilde," replied Jacob gravely, "I a.s.sure you I have done nothing to merit these reproaches. I have never been guilty of forgetting you."

"How explain, then, your mysterious adventure; that woman, who is she?"

"You shall hear the truth," said Jacob. "Listen!" He then related the dark drama of which Lia was the heroine, not omitting the scene of the previous evening and the morning's death. The poor girl's fate made Mathilde weep, but at the same time she felt proud and happy. Her beloved was worthy of her deepest respect. When he had finished she could hardly refrain from throwing herself at Jacob's feet and asking pardon for her unjust suspicions.

"Forgive me," she cried, "for my foolish credulity. But the calumny was so well devised that it had all the appearance of truth. It was repeated to me as undoubtedly true."

"One thing astonishes me: it is that you did not come to me about it immediately. You were wrong not to demand an explanation."

"A long and frightful torture has punished me for my hesitation. The days that have pa.s.sed since then have been the bitterest of my existence. Your supposed infidelity poisoned all remembrances of the past, and I tried to tear your image from my heart."

"I could not have foreseen that a good action would have had such direful consequences," said Jacob sadly.

"How happy would I be could I adopt the orphan! Unfortunately, in this house I am a slave, a prisoner. I am respected, it is true, and the master surrounds me with luxury to gratify his vanity; he strews flowers on my path to dazzle the world; but in the midst of this perfumed atmosphere I am a captive, and very often envy the working women who live by labour, or in their poverty beg upon the streets. For a long time I have been abandoned. Henri Segel divides his days between the Russians and Muse. When I feel very ill the physician comes here.

Sometimes a beggar appears, and, you will not believe it, under this exterior wealth I am often without money, without a sou to give for charity."

She sighed, and continued:--

"To-day I live again; my soul is at peace once more. I have been given back the only man in the world who makes me love humanity and believe in virtue."

Their conversation was continued for a long time. Tea was served at the usual hour, and the Englishwoman arrived, but she had a bad cold and her presence was a constraint. Absorbed in each other, they forgot the world. Mathilde went to the piano, which had been closed for several days, and the celebration of their reconciliation ended with the polonaise of Chopin (A-dur).

When Jacob found himself some distance down the street he went back to look at the house he had just left as if he had a presentiment of not returning.

CHAPTER XXVII.

JACOB IN FLIGHT.

Warsaw presented a strange sight. From all its doors the population hurried toward the forests. The combat had been precipitated, and they rushed eagerly to death.

The Russians paid no attention to this exodus. They did not wish to oppose it.

At the Chateau de Bruhl they repeated the saying: "When the abscess is ripe it must surely burst!" The cold-blooded authorities did not say that this abscess was the result of a purulent malady, engendered by unbridled oppression. They cared neither for the suffering which it produced in ripening, nor for the blood which was lost in bursting.

In the interior of the capital everything seemed to be in a normal condition. Only the initiated recognized in the streets the gladiators vowed to death, for the fever in their souls was concealed by a deceitful calm. From time to time, rumours were secretly circulated that companies had been formed under the very nose of the Russian troops, that Muscovite detachments had been beaten, that the insurgents had taken such a village, that here and there the national flag had been ostentatiously displayed and the revolutionary government proclaimed.

Gromof alone persisted in declaring the revolutionary movement premature, and sought to check the torrent. Vain efforts; the dikes were broken, and the rallying word was "Liberty or death!"

Thoughtful men, however, foresaw the imminent explosion of Muscovite vengeance. A barbarous and savage repression began, like that of 1794, in the time of Kosciusko. Then some concealed themselves in the thickets, while others fell into the hands of the police. Houses were searched, and in some cases destroyed, during the hunt for insurgents.

Roofs were broken in and floors pulled up, and often, in default of finding the guilty, the innocent were made to suffer in their stead.

The citadel was crowded with prisoners. Every day files of the unfortunates, including n.o.bles of high degree, left for Siberia, and chains commenced to be lacking, so many were imprisoned.

And during these horrors the groves put forth joyously their green leaves, the turf was carpeted with flowers, and the lark sang in the clear azure heaven; but the doom of the destroyer was over all.

Russia prepared her saturnalias to celebrate a definite victory. By hundreds of thousands the soldiers tracked the insurgents, who were scattered in bands without camps, without money, without arms or powder. Yet victory was delayed for a whole year.

One might attribute the rage of the Russian government to the humiliation of the army, if the slowness of the man[oe]uvres had not, as we have already said, been premeditated. The Russians wished to crush Poland, but they wished it to appear as if the revolution had been entirely a surprise. Since 1863 her vengeance had increased in ferocity, redoubled under a thousand pretexts. Her cruelty had now become systematic. And the civilized world a.s.sisted at this frightful execution by looking on with cold indifference at such sufferings.

Jacob saw in his imagination the dark future of Poland,--a future become a perpetual present. He was almost desperate at his impotency to stay the impending disaster. To despair, succeeded apathy. What good was life, thought he, without high aim. And, alas, all the ways towards this end were closed to him! He tried vainly to become absorbed in reading, but his brain seemed congealed. A heavy slumber like a lethargy overtook him. When he opened his eyes the lamp was out, and the morning light filled the room. He opened the windows. The sky was sad and sombre, like his soul. In the silence of the new-born day he heard steps on his staircase; some one knocked at his door. He opened the door, and a man quickly entered. A long cloak covered him completely, and his hat was drawn over his eyes. It was Kruder.

"You know all, do you not? Then you are all ready?" cried he.

"All--what?"

"There's not a minute to lose. It is four o'clock. You have an hour and a half, or two hours at the most, before you."

"What is it, then?" asked Jacob.

"There is no use beating about the bush with a man like you. In two hours they are coming to arrest you."