Chapter XXX: The Insurgents

"H----, July, 1863.

"The Russians had scarcely vacated the village when the insurgents arrived. They marched through the streets, bearing a banner on which the national colours were surmounted by a white eagle painted on wood. They were a small band of men, armed for the most part with scythes and pike-staffs, while some had only heavy sticks with pointed iron ends. There were no uniforms. Each one was equipped and clad as circumstances had permitted at the time of his enrolment. Their forms were strong, and their faces expressed energy already clouded by dark despair. All knew that they were marching to certain death, and knew not what torture or misery awaited them.

"The body of Ivas had been cut down after the execution, but the gibbet still presented its gloomy front to the market-place. The chief of the insurgents saluted it, and inclined his head, and all his troop followed his example. It was a mute and solemn homage rendered to a martyr.

"I could not help feeling for these men a sentiment in which was mingled compassion, sympathy, and respect.

"The young commander recognized me, for he had seen me with Ivas at Warsaw. He was much affected to hear from me that the condemned man had been our mutual friend. 'One of our bravest,' murmured he; 'but our country demands such sacrifices. Oh, if only we were better armed!'

"Our conversation was not of long duration. The detachment had entered the village only to recruit, and succeeded in gaining a dozen volunteers. They also found some guns and swords, dating from 1831, covered with rust.

"This heroism in poverty transported me back several centuries to the times when the Israelites rose against Roman oppression. Here was the same self-sacrificing spirit, the same love of liberty. My eyes filled with tears, and thoughts came into my head that I had not before entertained.

"Let us go with them, thought I. Let us die in the ranks of these heroes. It is glorious to shed one's blood for his brothers.

"Yesterday I would have hesitated. To-day I felt around me such an empty void that the future appeared aimless, and the thought of action inspired me. I, who had refused money for the revolution, I would offer my life. This seems strange, does it not? But do not condemn me without reflection. It is necessary to seal the act of alliance, contracted between the Israelites and Poles. My example will prove that this alliance is accomplished.

"This letter, friend of my youth, is like my last testament.

"I recommend to you my mother. Let my brother Israelites know why I have taken this step. I owe to the mission that we have received from God to return again to the past of an elect people. This mission is, to be more noble, more devout, and more loving than other men.

"Farewell! You already know all I wish to say, for you have always been the confidante of my inmost thoughts. It is you who have inspired me with the resolution I have taken. If you had left me the shadow of a hope, I would, perhaps, have valued my life more; but you said one evening that a woman ought to be the wife of one man only, and as at the same time my brother Israelites have refused to listen to my voice, I am convinced that I am useless here below.

"Do not regret me. God will give me grace to meet death joyfully.

"To-morrow we leave here. I am well equipped. I have bought a horse and arms; I shall serve as a private soldier, for there are already too many leaders.

"God is great; the soul is immortal, and pure spirits may, perhaps, meet again in another world."

The reader has already divined that this was a letter addressed by Jacob to Mathilde. We have suppressed the commencement, which related to events spoken of in the preceding pages.

Henri Segel received it in his mail, and hastened to take it to his wife.

"What can it be?" asked he.

"A letter from Jacob," she replied, without hesitation, recognizing his writing.

She read it hastily.

"What has become of him," asked Henri again.

"He has joined the insurrection."

"Ah, it wanted only that! He has done us a great injury. The government will imagine that we are all more or less implicated in his folly. But is the thing certain?"

"There is no doubt whatever," and Mathilde read with a trembling voice a passage from the letter. The husband seeing her so agitated left her, and himself became thoughtful and gloomy.

The news spread from mouth to mouth over the city. Some refused to believe it, while others rejoiced at it. Jacob had no warm friends, and few were sorry for him.

The same evening Sofronof went in triumph to Muse.

"Well! He has joined the insurgents, this man that you accused me of suspecting without motive!"

"You jest. Was he not the enemy of the revolution?"

"Yet he has enlisted under their banner. The Poles are all the same. The sight of their eaglet always has an irresistible attraction for them."

"It is nothing to me," replied Muse; "but I will not believe it without more ample information."

Just then Henri Segel arrived and confirmed the news. He had a dejected air, and was careful not to speak of the letter the colonel had had in his hand that morning. He well knew that all suspicious letters were read before the distribution of the post.

Mathilde's father also was much chagrined on hearing the news. Without deep feeling, he had, nevertheless, a certain affection for his cousin. Perhaps, also, he counted on him for restoring to health his daughter, whom he saw daily fade before his eyes. Without saying anything, he hastened to Mathilde at the hour when he was sure to find her alone. The servant said to him that she was ill, and had given orders to admit no one; but the father, using his authority, went straight to her bedroom. He found her with disordered hair, eyes red with weeping, and cheeks burning with fever. Mathilde was no longer the marble statue, cold, resigned, impassable, inert.

At the sight of an unexpected visitor she blushed with the timidity of a child. But her education had inculcated a respect, almost a veneration, for her father, who had repelled all familiarity, all confidence; she tried, with a forced smile, to conceal the violence of her grief.

"I pity Jacob," said the father abruptly. "He courts his ruin; I wish to save him."

"But how can you?" asked the daughter.

Samuel did not reply immediately. He took several steps about the room. It cost him something to be, for the first time in his life, frank with his child. Suddenly he stopped before her, and, looking at her fixedly, said:--

"Your secret is known to me. Common sense has until now commanded me to close my eyes. But the time has come to treat the wound by severe cauterization. Now or never. You love Jacob, and he loves you. This love has not died out. I believed that your childish affection would disappear, but, contrary to my expectations, it has remained permanent, and surpasses all my ideas of love. You are unhappy with Henri; he was not made for you; his spirit is earthly, and yours is exalted in a high degree."

"Nevertheless," said Mathilde, "I have nothing to say against Henri."

"You mean that he observes the proprieties; and yet he has let himself be fascinated by Muse, who deceives and despoils him. Do you wish to save Jacob? You can do it; you alone. I will arrange a divorce with Henri. He is anxious for it. Give your consent, and the thing is done; then I will marry you to Jacob, who will make you happy. You can live in Italy, and in a few years, when the country is again peaceful, you can return to Poland. I will obtain Jacob's amnesty; I have influence enough for that."

Mathilde kissed her father's hand, and said:--

"Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible."

"Why? Why?"

Mathilde replied with timidity:--

"I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?"

"No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do you want?"

Mathilde, sighing, replied:--

"I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness."

"Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you accept my proposition? Yes or no?"

"Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I will reply afterward."

Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said, "Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of weakness, and her heart beat violently.

"The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self."

Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an agitated voice:--

"I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please." Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging.

Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:--

"I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him, and excuse his retirement."

He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him.

When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear:--

"Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you needless annoyance."

Soon after Samuel appeared at the _salon_ of the Wtorkowskas. The siren was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening, forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement, he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska.

"I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an important matter that concerns you."

"Very good!" replied she, rising and taking his arm. "Come to my room."

When they were alone, Samuel asked:--

"No one can hear us, I hope? I wish to speak to you with entire frankness."

"Do as you would in your own house," replied she.

"To play a part is disagreeable to me, and so to open the matter I will tell you, without reserve, that I know that you are ruined, dear madame."

"Softly, softly!"

"Softly, softly! I am aware that your only fortune is your debts. Your only hope is your daughter. To find a rich husband is not so easy. I am sure that these are your opinions."

"We have several persons in view, monsieur."

"Who are they?"

"Count Bavorof."

"Bah! A Russian who has no fortune but his position. Beside, he is married. His wife lives in Paris, and has no wish to be free, and in Russia divorce can be obtained only by special influence. I do not think you would be willing to give Muse to the count."

"What nonsense you are talking."

"Who next?"

"Colonel Sofronof is madly in love."

"In the Russian fashion. Sofronof lives by his appointments and thefts. He possesses some land, mortgaged to its full value. Let him pass. Next?"

"The counsellor of state, Pikulinski."

"What! that old fool?"

"For a husband it does not matter."

"That is true. In marriage, foolishness is at times a good quality; but his little property is pledged to the Credit Foncier. Your counsellor is a nobody. His emoluments are too slender. Another?"

Madame Wtorkowska sighed deeply. She was at the end of her list, for it was hardly worth while to mention, after the counsellor, two petty officials who possessed only their titles and their brilliant uniforms. Naturally she dared not suggest Henri Segel to his father-in-law.

"Why, madame," replied Samuel, "are you lacking in sincerity, when I come to chat with you in the most confidential manner?"

"And whence comes, monsieur, this suddenly friendly guardianship for my daughter and myself?"

"Your question is logical. It may be possible that I am myself interested in the affair, and that may be the cause of my solicitude to serve you. Confess, then, with an open heart. Do not hesitate to mention the name of my son-in-law, whom you have so entangled."

"What do you mean? I cannot shut my door on Monsieur Segel."

"I know your plans, dear lady," replied Samuel laughing. "Let us show our cards and be friends. You have speculated--own it--on Mathilde's phthisis. You have even wished that her physician would confirm your hopes. Bitter deception! And during this time you have endeavoured to ensnare Henri, and you have made an easy conquest. Now, listen to me, madame. My daughter cannot be happy with him. I cede him to you. Take him. Try and persuade him to demand a divorce; the initiative will never come from Mathilde. You will have me for an accomplice. I give him up freely. Do what you wish, provided you rid me of him. Do you now understand the cause of my solicitude for you?"

Madame Wtorkowska was stupefied. She stood still a moment. Then her joy overcame her. She threw her arms around Samuel's neck, and kissed him several times; but, as he did not enjoy the caresses of elderly matrons, he freed himself from her embraces, and said:--

"Twenty or twenty-five years ago this exuberance of affection on your part would have charmed me. To-day it is too late. I am too old. What do you think of my proposition?"

"Dear benefactor," replied she, wiping the perspiration from her face with her handkerchief, "I cannot reply without consulting Emusia. In a few moments my rooms will be empty; she will see you herself. Wait here."

"With pleasure, madame; but I will light a cigar if you will permit it."

"Ten if you wish," replied the mother, closing the door on Samuel.

There were still some visitors in the _salon_. She made a secret sign to her daughter, and a few moments afterward Muse complained of a headache. Her admirers regretfully took their hats and left the house. The particulars of the interview were soon learned, and her delight was equal to that of her mother.

Nevertheless, before going to meet Samuel, she assumed a calm and dignified mien.

"Your mother has no doubt spoken of my proposition. Let us discuss, then, without restraint," said Mathilde's father.

"But, monsieur, the subject is so delicate, so embarrassing, so painful."

"Painful, mademoiselle, in what way? Not for you; nor for me, I think. Delicate. Yes! Let us treat it with delicacy."

"I like Mathilde so much," said Muse.

"Then you will give her a real proof of your friendship by delivering her of a husband who does not suit her, who will suit you, and who loves you."

Muse tried to appear very much embarrassed.

"Dear mademoiselle," said Samuel, "we can dispense with acting; you can gain nothing by it. I ask of you entire frankness. If you wish to succeed, you must act. Make Henri believe that Sofronof is a dangerous rival. I will tell everywhere that the colonel wishes to marry you at any price. Henri will be in despair; then push him to the end of the wall; exact a divorce, and advise him to take Mann for an intermediary between him and me."

"That is admirably planned," cried Madame Wtorkowska.

"Yes, the plan is excellent," added Muse, putting aside all embarrassment. "I am sure I shall play my part to the satisfaction of its author."

"Well, I will be obliged to you if you do not make the play long. I am anxious for the end."

"I will do my best."

"I do not doubt that you will accomplish wonders," said Samuel, gallantly kissing her hand. "And now, mademoiselle, do not fail to tell me if I can be in any way useful to you at any time."

He then took his leave. Madame Wtorkowska conducted him to the antechamber, and then returned to throw herself in her daughter's arms. She laughed and wept by turns for very joy. Muse was more quiet, but no less delighted, and she passed part of the night making plans for the morrow.

The news soon spread through their circle of acquaintances that Mademoiselle Wtorkowska was soon to marry Colonel Sofronof. At first Henri shrugged his shoulders; but he heard it from so many different sources, with details added by this one and that one, that he grew uneasy, and, wishing to hear the rumour denied, hastened to Muse.

She received him coldly, and was so reticent on the subject that it seemed as if she were on her guard, and afraid of committing some indiscretion.

Segel thought that there must be some truth in the rumour. He became furiously angry, and the ingenious coquette soon brought about a quarrel. He took his hat, and she did not detain him; but at the door he paused, then returned, threw his hat on the floor, and seated himself again, filled with wrath.

A violent scene ensued. Her mother appeared as the _deus ex machina_. She reproached Henri with compromising her daughter, and called him selfish and heartless. The comedy waxed pathetic. Finally, Henri had to choose between a dismissal or a divorce. Vanquished and subdued, he promised to take at once the steps required by them.

Muse then feigned to shed tears, and he tried to console her. Her mother disappeared, leaving the lovers alone. Segel obtained some kisses, and advice to take Monsieur Mann as an intermediary, and he promised to see Mann at once. Mann, well instructed, at first resisted, moralized, and deplored the situation, but ended by consenting.

And yet, when Henri returned home, he experienced a strange feeling of repentance for his haste. Mathilde presented herself to his mind as calm, sweet, and pure; Muse, on the contrary, under a menacing aspect. The one he did not love, but esteemed; the other he loved, but did not esteem. He loved her, if a passion which was entirely sensual merits that name.

He saw himself in the future bound to a new companion, full of coquetry and schemes, and endowed with an unendurable mother-in-law. He saw the luxury with which he would have to surround them, and the slavery to which he would be doomed. He shivered with dread at the very idea. Unhappily for him, it was now too late to draw back.

Mathilde looked for an outburst the next morning at breakfast; but none came. Henri was unusually reserved, almost timid; he looked at his watch often, and under pretext of important business soon left the house.

Mann came to dinner, and informed Segel of the happy result of his negotiations. At table the couple, already morally divorced, seemed ill at ease. Mathilde taciturn, Henri almost mute, let Mann and two other guests do the talking. At dessert came Samuel, who amused the company for some time with his witty sayings. On leaving the table he took his daughter by the hand to lead her to the garden. He insisted on her putting on her hat, saying the sun was yet warm; then he conducted her to the street, where a carriage awaited them.

"My dear child," said the father, "we will take a short ride. It will do you good, for the air is fresh and agreeable this evening." A half-hour after, the carriage stopped at the door of her father's house.

"Here," said he, embracing Mathilde, "is your home. You will not return to Segel's. I have had your old room prepared for you."

The gordian knot was thus severed with the greatest simplicity. The young woman saw no more of her former husband. Aided by the English governess, she occupied herself with household cares. With what secret satisfaction she renewed her former life! Her springtime revived. But she was at times a prey to deep anxiety, for Jacob had not written since his letter of farewell, and all traces of him were lost.

The revolution, contrary to all expectations, took on larger proportions daily.

Owing to the assumed names which the chiefs and soldiers of the insurrection bore, all steps to ascertain Jacob's whereabouts proved fruitless.

Mathilde was almost in despair, yet she seemed to hear a voice say to her:--

"God will give him back to you."

From that time she believed in God.

Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months passed. At last, early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated.

"Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but not dangerously."

Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved.