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35. quickly, and look around. He had heard a slight noise in the bushes
near him. He raised his head and listened an instant, then leaned
toward the right, and then toward the left, without perceiving
anything; for the savage was lying flat on the ground, behind a pile
of branches. Feeling entirely reassured, he again raised his gun to
take aim. At the same moment, the Indian, with an infernal smile,
raised himself from the earth, and, just as Joseph was preparing to
immolate another enemy, he brandished his knife. A last shot was
heard, a last Indian fell; but Joseph had also fallen, struck to the
heart by the cowardly fiend. The wretch then proceeded to scalp
him, after which he plundered him of his clothes, in which he
arrayed himself.”
V.—LAMENTATION.
“Paralyzed with horror and fright, we thought no longer of saving
ourselves. My sister, in her despair, pressed her baby to her heart,
and threw herself at the foot of a crucifix, which she seized in her
hands, and mutely covered it with tears and kisses, while I, too,
utterly overcome, threw myself on my knees beside her, and mingled
my tears and prayers with hers. Poor mother! she did not tremble
for herself, but for her child—that dear little angel, whom she loved
so tenderly, whom she so adored. It was indeed a beautiful babe,
scarcely eighteen months old, and had already begun to lisp
‘Mamma.’ ‘O my God!’ cried my sister between her sobs, ‘if I must
die, I willingly give up my life; but save, oh! save my child!’ Then,
embracing it, and bathing it in her tears, she clasped it to her heart,
and sank to the floor insensible. Although more dead than alive
myself, I tried to sustain her, and had her in my arms, when Joseph’s
murderer entered, followed by his cruel companions. Without
uttering a word, he advanced toward us, and violently snatched the
child from its mother. She had not heard them enter the room, but,
when they tore the child away from her, she shuddered and
suddenly recovered her consciousness. The savages, exasperated at
having lost seven of their comrades, now only thought of blood and
36. vengeance. The assassin of Joseph, holding the child at arm’s
length, looked at it with the diabolical expression of a serpent
charming his victim before striking him. It was an angel in the grasp
of a demon. The monster smiled—Satan alone could have laughed
as he did. The baby, as if to supplicate his pity, smiled also, with that
angelic expression of innocence that would have moved the most
hardened and obdurate of hearts. But he, seizing it by the leg,
whirled it round for an instant, and then—oh! horror!—dashed its
head against the heavy edge of the huge stove. Its brains spattered
over its mother’s face. Like a tiger she sprang at the murderer of her
child. Maternal love gave her superhuman strength, and, seizing him
by the throat, she buried her fingers in his flesh. He tottered; his
face turned black, and he fell heavily to the floor, suffocated by the
strength of her desperate grasp. She would have undoubtedly
strangled him, had not another savage at that instant struck her a
blow on the head with his hatchet. My poor sister! her death was
indeed a cruel one, but her agony only lasted a moment—her
troubles are ended, and she is now in heaven. But I—what will
become of me? You see the condition that I am in. O my God, my
God! have pity on me.”
And the young girl, wringing her hands in despair, threw herself
sobbing into my arms, pressed me to her heart, and implored me
not to abandon her into the hands of these brutal savages. But, oh!
what is more heart-breaking than to witness misfortune without the
power of alleviating it! We spent the night in weeping and trying to
encourage her, but I could not help feeling at the time that it was
cruel to inspire her with a confidence that I had not; for I knew
these savages too well. I knew that the monsters never abandoned
their victims. The next day, my father tried in every way to conciliate
them, and then interceded in behalf of the young captive. He offered
any amount of ransom for her, but in vain; nothing would tempt
them. The effects of the liquor had not entirely worn off, and they
were sullen and obstinate. My father used in turn prayers and
threats to move them; but neither presents, prayers, nor threats
could rescue her from their merciless hands. The wretched girl threw
37. herself at their feet, and, embracing their knees, besought them to
listen to her supplications; but the monsters only replied to her
entreaties by bursts of laughter; and, in spite of her prayers, and
sobs, and supplications, they carried her off with them.[186]
“Alas!” said Mlle. Baby, looking sorrowfully at the young officer,
“are you surprised now at my sadness, and that I could not smile
and be gay after having witnessed such a scene?”
“The demons!” exclaimed the officer, stamping his foot in horror
and indignation. “This infamous, bloodthirsty race should be
exterminated—exterminated to the last man. Why did I not know
this sooner? Yesterday, a Potawatamie came to my quarters to sell
some furs. He asked three times as much as they were worth, and I
declined buying them. He hung around for some time, annoying me
very much, until I finally ordered him to leave. He refused to do so;
then, losing all patience with the fellow, I rose from my seat, and,
leading him to the door, I kicked him out. He went away muttering,
and threatening me with his knife. I had a stick in my hand, and I
now regret that I did not knock him down.”
“How imprudent!” said the young girl. “You ought not to have
provoked that Indian; don’t you know that a savage never forgets an
injury? He may wander around the fort for a year, spying all of your
movements, watching your footsteps, tracking you everywhere,
hiding in the woods and among the rushes in the river, until an
opportunity offers, and he will approach with all the finesse and
cunning of a serpent, spring upon you like a tiger, and strike you a
death-blow, when you least expect it. I see that you go every day
out of the fort to fish on the banks of the river. I advise you not to
go any more; it is not safe, and something terrible might happen to
you.”
“Pshaw!” said the young officer, “you are too timid. I saw the
fellow leave this morning with a number of warriors belonging to his
tribe; they were going to Quebec to sell the furs, which they could
not dispose of here.”
38. VI.—THE DREAM.
The clock in the salon had just struck one. Mme. Baby and her
daughter were seated sewing in the deep recess of an open window,
with a little work-table in front of them. M. Baby had gone away that
morning, to look after some land that he had just bought on the
other side of the river. The streets were deserted; nearly all the
inhabitants of the fort were at work in the fields in the vicinity. The
heat was intense. Not a breath agitated the trees in the garden,
whose motionless branches drooped languidly toward the earth, as if
imploring a refreshing breath or a drop of dew. A negro servant was
spreading some linen out to dry on the bushes, and put to flight, in
her perambulations, some chickens that were panting with the heat
under the sheltering foliage of the trees and shrubs. The silence was
only broken by the buzzing of insects, and the noisy whirr of the
grasshopper as it danced through the sunlight. The open window,
filled with bouquets, looked into the garden, and the pale,
melancholy face of Mlle. Baby could be seen between them, bending
over an open flower which imaged her loveliness in its fragrant
corolla. “Mamma,” said she at last, raising her head, “do you think
papa will be away a long time?”
“I think he will be back in four or five days at the latest,” replied
her mother. “But why do you ask such a question?”
“Oh! because I am so anxious to have him back again. I want
him to take us immediately to Quebec, instead of waiting until next
month. The trip will divert my thoughts; for, since those Indians
were here the other day with that poor girl they had captured, I
have not had a moment’s piece of mind. She is always before my
eyes. I see her everywhere; she follows me everywhere. I even saw
her in my dream last night. I thought I was sitting in the midst of a
gloomy and immense forest, near a wild, rushing river that dashed
over a precipice into a bottomless chasm a few steps from me. On
the opposite bank, which was covered with flowers, and charming to
behold, stood the young captive, pale and tranquil, in a halo of soft,
transparent light. She seemed to be in another world. She held in
39. her hands an open book, and, bending towards me, she slowly
turned over the leaves. She turned at least sixteen; then she
stopped and looked at me with an expression of the greatest sorrow
and distress, and made a sign to some one, who then seemed to be
standing near me, to cross the torrent. At the signal, all his limbs
trembled; his knees knocked together, and his eyes dilated, his
mouth gasped with terror, and a cold perspiration stood upon his
forehead. He tried to draw back, but an invincible power drew him
toward the abyss. He turned toward me, and besought my help
most piteously. I experienced the greatest commiseration for him,
and tried in vain to extend my hands to help him; invisible cords
bound all my limbs, and prevented any movement whatsoever.
Vainly he tried to cling to the cliffs along the shore; a relentless force
impelled him towards the abyss. He had already reached the middle
of the stream, whose deep and foaming waters roared around him,
as if impatient to swallow him up. He tottered at every step, and
came near losing his equilibrium; but, rallying his strength, he
struggled on. At last a great wave broke over him, and he lost his
balance. His feet slipped; he looked toward me with a glance of the
most inexpressible anguish, and fell. In an instant, he was borne to
the brink of the precipice; he threw out his hands, and grasped at a
piece of rock that jutted out of the water, burying his fingers in the
green and slimy moss which covered it. For an instant, he hung on
with the strength of despair; his body, stopped suddenly in its
precipitate course, appeared for an instant above the waves. The
foam and spray enveloped it like a cloud, and the wind from the fall
blew through his dank and dripping hair. His dilated eyes were
fastened on the rock, which little by little receded from his
convulsive grasp. Finally, with a terrible shriek, he disappeared in the
yawning gulf below. Transfixed with agony and horror, I looked
across at the young captive; but she, without uttering a word, wiped
away a tear, and silently pointed to the last page in the book, which
seemed to me to be covered with blood. I screamed aloud with
fright, and awoke with a start. My God! will it be a page in my life?”
40. VII.—BLOOD.
Scarcely had Mlle. Baby finished speaking, when the sound of
hasty footsteps was heard at the door, and a man, covered with
blood, and with a terrified look, rushed in. It was the young officer.
His right arm was broken, and hanging at his side.
“Hide me quickly,” cried he. “I am pursued by the Indians.”
“Up in the attic, quick,” said Mme. Baby to him, “and do not stir
for your life.”
In another moment, the savages had entered the room; but,
before they could say a word, Mme. Baby pointed to the next street,
and they went out again quickly, believing that the officer had
escaped in that direction. The admirable composure of Mme. Baby
had completely deceived them. Not a muscle of her face betrayed
her excessive agitation, and, happily, they did not have time to
notice the mortal pallor of the young girl, who, still leaning among
the flowers on the window-sill, had almost fainted away. It was one
of those moments of inexpressible anguish when a chill like death
strikes the heart. Mme. Baby hoped that the savages, fearing the
superintendent, would not dare to force themselves into the house;
and yet, who could stop them if they did, or who could foresee what
these barbarians, once having tasted blood, might do? She hoped
that their fruitless efforts might induce them to abandon their
search, or, if they persisted, that she would have sufficient time to
obtain help, in case they again entered the house. Making a sign to
a servant who was at work in the garden, she ordered him to run as
fast as he could, and notify some men belonging to the fort of the
danger which threatened them. Some anxious minutes elapsed, but
the savages did not return. “Do you think they have really gone?”
asked the young girl, in a low tone. A faint glimmer of hope
appeared in her countenance.
“Even if they should return,” answered Mme. Baby, “they would
not dare ...”
41. She did not finish, but leaning toward the window, she tried to
catch the sound of human voices which were heard in the distance.
Was it the help that she expected, or was it the voices of the Indians
coming back? She could not distinguish. The sound drew nearer and
nearer, and became more distinct as it approached. “They are our
men,” exclaimed Mlle. Baby. “Don’t you hear the barking of our
dog?” And she drew a long breath of relief, as if an immense weight
had been taken from her heart.
Mme. Baby did not reply; a faint smile played over her lips. She,
too, had heard the dogs barking; but another noise that she knew
only too well had also reached her ears. Very soon the voices
became so distinct that it was impossible to be deceived any longer.
“Here they are, here they are!” shrieked the young girl, sinking into
a seat near the window, as the different-colored feathers with which
the savages decorated their heads appeared between the trees.
“Don’t tremble so,” said Mme. Baby in a quiet voice to her
daughter, “or you will betray us. Look out of the window, and don’t
let them perceive your emotion.”
Courage and coolness at a critical moment are always admirable,
but when a woman possesses these qualities, they are sublime.
Calm and impassive, without even rising from her seat, Mme. Baby
tranquilly continued her work. The most practised eye could not
have detected the smallest trace of emotion, the least feverish
excitement or agitation, on her commanding and noble countenance.
A heroine’s heart beat in her woman’s breast, and it was thus that
she awaited the arrival of the savages. “Tell us where you have
concealed the white warrior,” cried the first one who entered the
room. It was the Potawatamie whom the young officer had so
imprudently offended. He was dripping with perspiration, and out of
breath with his long and fatiguing quest. You could see the rage and
exasperation of his disappointment in his ferocious glances, his
scowling brow, and the excitement that made every feature quiver.
“Comrade,” replied Mme. Baby, in a tranquil tone of voice, “you
know the superintendent well; and, if you have the misfortune to
misbehave in his house, you will get into trouble.”
42. The Indian hesitated a moment, then said, in a feigned mildness
of voice, “My white sister knows that the Potawatamie loves peace,
and that he never makes the first attack. The white warrior is on the
war-path, or the Potawatamie would not have pursued.”
“I have not hidden the white warrior,” answered Mme. Baby. “It is
useless to search here; you had better look elsewhere, or he will
escape you.”
The Indian did not reply, but, looking at Mme. Baby with a smile,
he pointed to a little stain on the floor that no one but an Indian
would have discovered. But the sharp eye of the savage had
detected there a trace of his enemy. It was a drop of blood, which
Mme. Baby had taken the precaution to wipe away most carefully.
“My sister has told the truth,” said the Indian, in an ironical tone.
“The white warrior has not passed this way; that drop of blood, I
suppose, she put there to persuade the Indian that she had
concealed the white warrior.” Then, assuming a more serious tone,
he continued: “My sister, know well that the Potawatamie will do the
white warrior no harm; only show us where he is hidden, and we will
go away; we only want to take him pris ...” He stopped, and,
bending his head forward, looked through an open window at the
other end of the apartment; then, giving a hideous yell, he rushed
across the room, and leaped out of the window that opened into the
garden. His ferocious companions followed him, howling like a troop
of demons. Without seeing what had happened, Mme. Baby
understood all. The young officer, hearing the Indians return, and
believing himself lost, had the imprudence to jump out of one of the
windows into the garden. He ran toward a covered fountain in the
centre of the parterre to hide, when the Indian perceived him. How
can I describe the scene which followed? The pen drops from my
hand. In two bounds, they had reached him, and one of the
savages, striking him a terrible blow with his fist, sent him reeling to
the ground. He fell on his broken arm, and the excruciating pain
caused him to utter a deep groan. They then seized hold of him, and
bound his hands and feet. Poor young man! what resistance could
he make to his cruel enemies, with a broken arm, and totally
43. disabled and weakened by the loss of blood. He called for help, but
the echoes in the garden only answered his cries, and redoubled the
horror of the scene. Mlle. Baby, bereft of her senses, threw herself at
her mother’s feet, and, hiding her face on her knees, she covered
her ears with her hands, to shut out, if possible, from sight and
hearing the frightful tragedy. While the rest of the savages were
tying their victim down, the Potawatamie drew out his knife, and
deliberately commenced to sharpen it on a stone. His face betrayed
no excitement whatever; not even the horrible pleasure of gratifying
his vengeance, which caused his heart to palpitate with an infernal
joy, could change his stoical countenance. “My brother the white
warrior,” said he, continuing to whet his knife with the utmost
coolness, “knows very well that he can insult the Potawatamie with
impunity, because the Potawatamie is a coward, and would rather
run than fight.... Does my brother now wish to make peace with his
friend, the Potawatamie? He can speak if he wishes, and name his
terms, for he is free.” Then, suddenly assuming a ferocious air, he
straightened himself up, and, fixing his inflamed eyes on the young
officer, said: “My brother the white warrior can now chant his death-
song, because he must die.” And brandishing his knife, he plunged it
into his throat, while another of these monsters caught the blood in
a little copper kettle. The rest of the savages then kicked and
stamped upon the body with the most infernal yells and contortions.
The death-rattle of the poor victim, mingling with these howls,
reached the ears of the young girl, and she shook in a convulsion of
horror. At last it all ceased. The victim had been immolated. Pushing
aside the corpse with his foot, the Potawatamie, followed by his
companions, came again toward the house. “Ha! ha! so you would
not tell us where your friend, the white warrior, was?” cried the
Indian, as he entered the room. “Very well, since you love him so
much, you shall drink his blood.” Mme. Baby, pale as a marble
statue, drew herself up firmly. “You can kill me,” said she, “but you
can never make me drink it!” The young girl had fainted, and was
lying at her mother’s feet. They seized hold of Mme. Baby, and tried
44. to force open her mouth; but failing in their efforts, they threw the
contents of the vessel in her face, and left the house.[187]
VIII.—THE SERPENT.
Several months had elapsed since the events had taken place
which we have just narrated. It was night. In the centre of the
garden, a simple black cross had been erected on the spot where
the unfortunate young man had been massacred. No inscription
revealed to the passer-by either the name of the victim or the fatal
circumstances of his death. Alas! it was written for ever in characters
of blood on the hearts of the family. Every evening, the
superintendent, with his wife, children, and servants, assembled at
the foot of this cross, to pray for the repose of the soul of his
unfortunate friend. On this especial evening, all the family had as
usual visited the grave, and returned to the house, except the young
girl, who, dressed in deep mourning, still remained kneeling at the
foot of the sombre monument. She was very pale, and there was an
expression of the most ineffable sadness on her face. The evening
dew had almost entirely uncurled her long ringlets, which now hung
in disorder around her cheeks. You might have mistaken her for a
statue of grief. From the clear, high heaven above, the moon poured
floods of melancholy light. Its dreamy rays fell on the sod at the foot
of the cross and on the face of the young girl like a thought from
beyond the tomb—like a silent and grateful sigh from the innocent
victim whose memory had left so tender and anguishing an
impression in her soul. Her lips moved in ardent prayer—prayer, that
celestial solace of the grief-stricken heart, the smile of the angels
through the tears of earth. For a long time she thus silently held
communion with her God, breathing out her prayers with sighs and
tears, as she knelt at the foot of this cross, on the sod still damp
with the victim’s blood. At last she rose, and was about to leave,
when, raising her eyes for a moment, she thought she saw a shadow
moving across an opening in the wall of a shed near by. A cloud, at
that moment passing over the moon, prevented her from
45. distinguishing what the object was. She waited a moment until the
cloud had passed over, when what was her astonishment to see a
human face in the aperture! It must be a robber, she thought, and
yet she knew positively that the gate was well secured. “He will find
himself nicely caught when the servants come to lock up,” said she
to herself. By degrees, however, the head was pushed more and
more through the air-hole, and gradually emerged from the
obscurity. At the same moment, the moonlight fell clear and full on
the face. The young girl actually shivered. She recognized it but too
well; it was impossible to be mistaken. It was he; she recognized
perfectly his copper skin, his hard, ferocious features, and his
yellowish eyes, rolling in their sockets. It was indeed the
Potawatamie, the murderer of the young officer.[188]
Her first thought was flight, but an invincible curiosity fastened
her to the spot. The Indian continued to work through the aperture;
one arm was already out, and he held something in his hand which
she could not discern. He tried for a long time to get through the air-
hole, which was too small for his body. Finally, while making a last
effort, he suddenly turned his head, and fixed his eyes with a very
uneasy expression on a little bush near him. He seemed undecided
what to do; then, letting go the object, he rested his hand on the
ground, and, pushing it against the earth with all his strength, tried
to force himself back again through the hole. But his broad
shoulders, compressed on both sides by the wall, held him like a
vice, and he could neither move one way nor another. Then his
uneasiness increased, and he looked again anxiously toward the
bushes. A slight rustling of the leaves was then perceptible, and a
small head emerged slowly from the shadow of the branches, and
extended itself toward the savage. It was a rattlesnake.[189]
Immovable and with fixed eyes, the Indian watched the least
movement of the reptile, which advanced softly and cautiously, as if
aware of the strength and power of his redoubtable adversary. When
within a few feet of the savage, it stopped, raised itself up, and,
throwing out its forked tongue, sprang toward his face; but, before
he could touch him, the Indian, as quick as thought, gave him a
46. violent blow with the hand that was free, and the reptile fell a short
distance from him. Then he began again to make every effort to
disengage himself; but in vain. The snake, now furious, advanced a
second time to recommence the attack, but with more caution than
before. Approaching still nearer to his enemy, he threw himself
forward with much greater violence, but without success; for the
hand of the savage sent him rebounding further off than before. The
Potawatamie then gathered all his strength for a final effort of
liberation, but of no avail: he remained fast in the opening of the air-
hole. Quick as lightning, the reptile, now foaming at the mouth, with
blazing eyes, and jaws swollen with rage, his forked tongue
extended, sprang with renewed strength toward his prey. His scaly
skin glistened and sparkled in the silvery light of the moon, and the
slight noise made by his rattles resembled the rustling of parchment,
and alone broke the silence of the night. This mortal combat in the
stillness of night, between a serpent and a savage more subtle than
the serpent, had an indescribable fascination; it was more like a
contest between two evil spirits, in the shadow of night, over some
unfortunate victim. The serpent now approached so near the Indian
that he could almost have seized him with his hand; he raised
himself a last time, and, throwing back his head, sprang forward.
The savage, guarding himself carefully with his one hand, had
followed with his eyes the least movement of the writhing body. It
was plain to see that the final fight had begun, and could only
terminate in the total vanquishment of one or the other of the
combatants. At the instant that the snake sprang like an arrow upon
his enemy, the Indian raised his hand; but this time the attack of the
reptile had been so rapid and instantaneous that, before he could
strike him a blow, his fangs had entered his cheek. A hoarse cry died
away in the throat of the savage, who, seizing the serpent with his
hand before he could escape, raised him to his mouth, and in his
rage tore him to pieces with his teeth. A vain reprisal—the blow had
been struck. A short time after, the most horrible cries and fearful
convulsions announced that the mortal venom had entered his veins.
The victim writhed with despair in the midst of his excruciating
agony. It was thought at first that he had finally succeeded in
47. getting out; but subsequently they found the body, enormously
swollen, still held in the aperture of the air-hole. His bloodshot eyes
were starting from their sockets, his face as black as ink, while his
gaping mouth revealed two rows of white teeth, to which still clung
the fragments of the reptile’s skin, and flakes of bloody foam.
Providence had indeed terribly avenged the assassination of the
young officer.
48. THE JESUITS IN PARIS.
A walk in the direction of the gloomy though now as ever
fashionable Faubourg St. Germain is not exactly one that a non-
fashionable person would ordinarily choose; nor does the Rue de
Sèvres in that quarter hold out any particular inducement for a foot-
passenger to traverse it.
However, it was to the Rue de Sèvres that, on the 18th of
January, 1873, I bent my steps; for at one o’clock precisely I had an
appointment to keep there with a Father of the Compagnie de Jésus;
and No. 35 in that street is the society’s headquarters.
I crossed the Seine at the Pont Royale, and soon found myself in
the main artery of the faubourg—the well-known Rue du Bac. I
splashed along with omnibuses that seemed determined to do their
best to destroy the roughly macadamized carriage-road; by huge
gaps in the façade, where the pétroleuse had been at work, and
where the dull-red walls looked as if the destroying element were
still lurking about them; by blue-coated and blue-hooded policemen,
who scrutinized one to an extent that made you debate within your
mind whether you had or had not picked the pocket of a passer-by,
or lately become affiliated to the Internationale. On, by the “Maison
Petit St. Thomas”—a large dry-goods establishment, the name of
which may bring back perhaps to some of our lady readers the
pleasant season passed a few years since in Paris, with its gay fêtes
and agreeable shopping excursions. On, till the plate-glass of the
store windows becomes less costly, and the fish and the charcuterie,
or ham and sausage shops, become more plentiful. On, till at last, to
49. right and left, “Rue de Sèvres,” in bold white letters on a blue
ground, tells me that I have reached my destination. To save time, I
thought it necessary to ask some one where the particular house
that I wanted was situated. I looked at a sergent de ville, but his
glances repelled me. I turned towards a cabman, but I fancied he
expected something more than I was prepared to give him; and
then, not in despair, but in the natural order of things, I had
recourse to the inevitable Parisian chestnut-man, who (I having
taken the precaution of buying two sous’ worth of damply-warm
chestnuts) willingly gave me all the information that I required.
The exterior of No. 35 Rue de Sèvres is as much like that of any
other house in Paris as you can well imagine. There is a certain
number of feet of stucco, relieved by oblong windows; and there are
two large portes cochères, or folding-doors, far apart from one
another, and looking incapable either of being opened or closed;
although, in point of fact, the one leads to the church, and the other
to the convent.
I entered, of course, by the last-named portal, and, passing
through the usual French courtyard, knocked at a glass door, from
whence it was evident that a brother porter within held
communication with the world without.
I presented my letter of introduction to him, and, while he was
making arrangements for the transmission of it to the rightful owner,
because it was raining heavily, and because I saw only one door
open, I entered by that door, and found myself uninvited and
unwittingly in the conciergerie, or porter’s lodge, itself.
The concierge and his occupation afforded me a good deal of
amusement, or, to speak less lightly, a good deal of room for
thought during part of the three-quarters of an hour that I was
destined to wait for the arrival of the priest with whom I had the
engagement. He has under his control the management of ten
brown wooden handles, attached to ten wires, which wires are
connected with ten different doors in different parts of the
establishment.
50. If a person want a confessor, he pulls the wire connected with
the church. If a lady desires advice, another pull opens the parlors to
her. If a priest wishes to come from the convent, another pull in
another direction is necessary. And as these pulls (except in the last
case) are invariably followed by a message sent through a speaking-
tube by the same brother porter, to inform the priest of the fact that
he is wanted; and as through the before-mentioned glass door and
otherwise he receives all letters, and answers all queries, both from
within and without, he has, I take it, a pretty hard time of it.
I had been too much absorbed at first to observe what was
taking place around me; but, after a little, I began to remark that
the priests, in passing to and fro through the conciergerie, bestowed
upon me more glances of earnest inquiry than I thought my
personal appearance actually warranted. At last the mystery was
solved by one father being so good as to tell me that seculars
generally waited in the parlors. I bowed, thanked him gratefully, and
went; but not before I had discovered that, if the pigeon-holes for
letters be a true test, there were fourteen or more priests resident in
the Rue de Sèvres at that particular time.
I was not sorry for the exchange of place. It was strangely
interesting to be sitting in those rooms where, so short a time since,
the Communists, under the command of an energetic young
gentleman named Citoyen Lagrange, took prisoner the good
Superior Father Olivaint and his Père Procureur, M. Caubert.
Strange to sit in those parlors, and gaze upon the large and well-
photographed portraits of those two men and martyrs, and to notice
the remarkable likeness existing between them. How both had the
same square forehead and firmly set, powerful mouth; and how both
looked—as they were—soldiers ready to die under the banner for
which they fought.
Ne pleurez pas sur moi,[190] cried Father Olivaint to the solitary
group of sympathizers whom he met on his way to the Préfecture de
Police.
51. No! mon père, we weep not, but rather thank God that the grand
old spirit of martyrdom has not yet died out among us!
Besides the thoughts which the past suggested to me, it was
interesting to note the living occupants of the rooms. One silver-
haired old gentleman, whom I afterwards found out to be the self-
same Père Alexis Lefebvre whom Lagrange left in charge of the
house, telling him to keep it au nom de la Commune, was holding a
very serious conversation with two or three gentlemen, the red
ribbons in whose button-holes declared them to be chevaliers de la
Legion d’Honneur. Another father was having quite a small reception
of middle-aged married ladies, who probably had, or desired to
have, sons either at the College of Vaugirard or at that of S.
Geneviève. Another—but stay! here is my particular father, to whose
kindness I owe it that I have been enabled to write this paper.
The Society of Jesus is so well known to the citizens of New York
that it would be superfluous for me to give any lengthened
description of the general principles of government upon which the
order is based. Suffice it to say, for the benefit of the uninitiated,
that, in common with other religious, they have a head resident at
the Roman court; provincials under him, among whom the
supervision of the different stations is divided; and superiors of
individual houses.
It is peculiar, however, to the Society of Jesus that each provincial
has attendant upon him an officer called socius, whose care it is to
look after the pecuniary business of the province, and in many
kindred ways to assist his chief; but this office, I am informed, does
not confer any additional rank upon the holder.
The case is different, however, with some other officials of the
society, called “consulters,” who, as their name implies, are chosen
from among the number of the elder and more experienced
brethren.
The house in the Rue de Sèvres was reopened in the year 1853,
after having been considerably enlarged.
The main building consists of a plainly-built quadrangle, on the
north side of which, and in immediate connection with it, stands the
52. church, dedicated to the sacred name of Jesus. Running along all
the inner sides of the quadrangle, both on the ground and the other
two floors, is a lofty, well-ventilated corridor or cloister, adorned here
and there, after the usual manner of convents, with religious
paintings.
The piece of ground forming the natural centre of the quadrangle
is laid out with shrubbery, though without pretension to anything
more than neatness.
On the ground floor are situated the refectory, the kitchens, and
other offices; while the first and second floors are devoted
exclusively to the use of the fathers. The cells, like the corridors, are
lofty and well ventilated, but so simple in their arrangement as to
require no description.
The priests, in the true monastic spirit, sweep and keep clean
their own rooms and even the cloisters; and, from the general air of
cleanliness and order that pervades the place, it is evident that the
work is well done. This walk through the cloisters of the Jesuit house
in Paris would be uninteresting were it not for the remembrance of
one ne’er-to-be-forgotten room; and for the sake of the names
printed upon the cell doors, bringing back as they do to one’s mind
the recollection of past times and weary troubles; and the near
presence of men so many of whom have distinguished themselves in
working for the cause of holy church.
Tread softly, and be silent now, as ye approach yonder door that
bears no printed name; for the key that turns the jealous lock will
disclose that to thy gaze which should excite thy intensest feelings of
humility!
It is the “Martyrs’ Room,” where are kept the relics of the five
heroic men, each one of whom “pro lege Dei sui certavit usque ad
mortem et a verbis impiorum non timuit; fundatus enim erat supra
firmam petram.”[191]
Anatole de Beugy was arrested with the Père Ducoudray.
“Voilà un nom à vous faire couper le cou,” cried the officer in
charge of the party of arrest.
53. “Oh! j’espère,” replied the father calmly; “que vous ne me ferez
pas couper le cou à cause de mon nom.”
I imagine that the officer did not think more highly of F. de Beugy
after this. In fact, all through the time of his imprisonment, his
captors seem not to have liked him or his indomitable sang froid. His
coat is there, in this “Martyrs’ Room” (a secular one, by the bye),
and it is pierced with seventy-two Communist bullets—truly, a very
palpable proof of his enemies’ animosity.
When the Père Olivaint was on his way to execution, as he
descended the stairs of the prison of La Roquette, he found—how
naturally!—that he had his breviary tightly grasped in his hand.
“They have me,” perhaps he thought, “but they need not have this”;
and he presented the book to the concierge of the prison, who had
shown him some kindness. God knows what motives the man had,
but an officer of the National Guard snatched it from his hand, and
threw it into the flames of a fire near by.
The concierge recovered the breviary, or what remained of it,
and it is now in the “Martyrs’ Room.”
He who can look upon this relic without emotion must have a
very hard heart indeed!
Do any of us ever think that the spirit of penance—corporal
penance—is dying out amongst us? There are instruments of self-
mortification in this “Martyrs’ Room” that will convince us to the
contrary.
It is not a miracle—unless the world and life be all a miracle—if,
when men die wondrous deaths, wonderful things should follow
upon those deaths; and when we see a marble tablet in this
“Martyrs’ Room” telling how, not eighteen months ago, at Mass-time,
when the priest invoked the saints whose relics lay beneath the
altars in the church, a child was healed of a grievous disease, we
must not be surprised.
“Ecce ego vobiscum sum omnibus diebus usque ad
consummationem sœculi.”[192]
54. The beds from La Roquette are here—pieces of sacking,
stretched out by a contrivance something similar to that made use of
in the formation of camp-stools.
Here are the little silver cases in which the fathers concealed the
Blessed Sacrament, to be at last, as each anticipated, his viaticum.
But enough....
The church, as I before stated, is situated on the north side of
the quadrangle. It is Gothic, and of fair proportions, consisting of a
choir and two aisles. The only side chapel worthy of note is that
where repose the bodies of the PP. Olivaint, Ducoudray, Clerc,
Caubert, and De Beugy, murdered on the 24th and 26th of May,
1871, by the Communists of Paris. The walls, the floor, the whole
chapel, in fact, is literally covered with wreaths of blood-red
immortelles; while in front of what, in the event of their
canonization, will be the “Martyrs’ Altar,” are five white marble slabs,
bearing upon them the names of the five victims, together with the
incidents and date of their deaths.
My kind guide—the priest whom I have elsewhere described as
being “my particular father”—having now shown me all that was
necessary of the house and chapel, returned with me to his cell,
and, in some very interesting conversations then and on my
succeeding visits, soon gave me an idea of the important works
undertaken by his society in Paris.
“We are,” said he, “quite a military order. Fighting is as much our
business as it is the soldier’s; and I will even go so far as to say that
he is no true Jesuit who does not fight. Of enemies, as you may
imagine, there is no lack whatever; but, undoubtedly, here our bête
noire is socialism; for you know in Paris, as indeed elsewhere, it has
ever been our aim to undertake, if possible, the education of the
male portion of society. And this, unfortunately, happens to be the
favorite work of the socialists also; for, however faulty their code of
moral philosophy may be in other respects, they have at least
grasped the fact that to educate the affluent youth of a country is to
form the intellect of a rising generation. However,” concluded my
55. instructor laughingly, “we have never been very popular in European
society.”
“No,” I answered abstractedly; for I was thinking just then of the
sacred name which the order bears—of him who was “Virum
dolorum et scientem infirmitatem”;[193] and my thoughts reverted to
the martyr shrine that I had so lately seen in the chapel. “But
perhaps you, who have in such a special manner enrolled yourselves
under the banner of the sacred name of Jesus, have received of him
a greater share than others of the shame of the cross.”
The father’s reply was a very practical one. “My dear sir,” said he,
“nothing of the kind. The world dislikes us because we persist in
teaching, and because it knows perfectly well that all our teaching is
impregnated to the core with that particular kind of Catholicity which
it hates—the Catholicity, I mean, whose first principle is devotion
and implicit obedience to the Holy See.”
It will be seen, therefore, from the foregoing fragment of
conversation, that the Jesuits’ work in Paris is for the most part the
Catholic education of the upper classes.
The fathers in the Rue de Sèvres do, in one way and another, a
good deal of work, although but little, perhaps, of a character that
directly identifies itself with the peculiar animus of the order to
which I have alluded. They are popular as confessors, and this
involves a good deal of labor.
They direct two confraternities of men, each numbering
respectively upwards of two hundred members. One is for the
fathers of families, and the other for young men. Each society meets
in the chapel upon alternate Thursdays for Mass and instruction.
Again, the Jesuits render every assistance that lies in their power to
the parochial clergy; and thus the fathers become, now conductors
of missions, and now Lenten or Advent preachers.
At the Rue de Sèvres are given retreats, not only to their own
brethren and the secular clergy, but also, and on a large scale, to
private individuals—men whom care has driven to seek refuge in the
contemplation of the treasures laid up for them in heaven.
56. Jesuits, whose duty calls them to places en route to which Paris
becomes a natural resting-place, find a haven in the Rue de Sèvres.
The provincial resides here when he is in Paris; and, finally, a few
men who, at a moment’s notice, are available to be sent anywhere
to meet a sudden emergency, make for the time this most
interesting house their home.
In a dark, narrow street in close proximity to the Pantheon—in a
street that, in its unlikeness to some other parts of the city, reminds
one of the Paris of history—is situated the College of S. Geneviève.
This is the chief educational establishment of the order; the other
being that of the school of the Immaculate Conception at Vaugirard
—a village on the southwest side of Paris.
In concluding this chapter in the life of what, next to holy church
itself, must ever be considered the most wonderful organization that
the world has ever seen, I cannot do better than append a brief
account of the character of the work done in these two houses.
The Ecole S. Geneviève, founded in the year 1854, proposes for
its object the preparation of youths for admission into the various
professional colleges in France. That the work is a success may be
seen in the fact that, in 1872-1873, sixty-four students were actually
admitted from thence to the military academy at St. Cyr, while
twenty-three more were declared “admissibles”; that the same
school sent sixteen boys to the Ecole Centrale, to be educated as
engineers, seven to the Ecole Navale, and twenty-three to the
Polytechnique; and, lastly, that, exclusive of these, many more have
been admitted into other similar establishments in Paris or
elsewhere. The aggregate number of students appears, from the
statistics put into my hands, to exceed four hundred and fifty.
The present rector of S. Geneviève is the immediate successor of
the Père Ducoudray; and it is a noteworthy fact that three out of the
five men killed under the Commune were connected with the school;
the other two being PP. Caubert and Clerc. The services of the last-
named father must have been extremely valuable; for, previous to
his admission to the Society of Jesus, he had been for many years a
naval officer.