The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 2
by Eugène Sue · English · Gutenberg #33801 · 598,043 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 2
Author: Eugène Sue
Release date: September 22, 2010 [eBook #33801]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33801
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Christine Aldridge and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(Stanford University, SUL Books in the Public Domain)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS, ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS, VOL. 2 ***
Produced by David Edwards, Christine Aldridge and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(Stanford University, SUL Books in the Public Domain)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.
2. Passages in Gothic Bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs.
3. Other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text.
[Illustration: "_He Took from the Bed a Large Plaid Shawl_"
Etching by Adrian Marcel, after the drawing by Frank T. Merrill]
+The Mysteries of Paris.+
_ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS
BY MERCIER, BICKNELL, POITEAU,
AND ADRIAN MARCEL._
_BY EUGENE SUE_
_IN SIX VOLUMES
VOLUME II._
_PRINTED FOR
FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
BOSTON_
_EDITION DE LUXE._
_Limited to One Thousand Copies._
No.______
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BALL 11
II. THE RENDEZVOUS 36
III. AN IDYL 61
IV. THE AMBUSCADE 74
V. THE RECTORY-HOUSE 88
VI. THE RENCOUNTER 99
VII. AN EVENING AT THE FARM 105
VIII. THE DREAM 150
IX. THE LETTER 159
X. THE HOLLOW WAY 195
XI. CLÉMENCE D'HARVILLE 201
XII. MISERY 256
XIII. JUDGMENT AND EXECUTION 286
XIV. RIGOLETTE 310
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"HE TOOK FROM THE BED A LARGE PLAID SHAWL" _Frontispiece_
"AT LENGTH ALIGHTED ON HER SHOULDER" 66
"'SO I HAVE BROUGHT TURK WITH ME'" 97
"'YOU MUST GIVE ME LEAVE'" 208
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
CHAPTER I.
THE BALL.
Belonging to one of the first families in France, still young, and with
a face that would have been agreeable had it not been for the almost
ridiculous and disproportionate length of his nose, M. de Lucenay joined
to a restless love of constant motion the habit of talking and laughing
fearfully loud upon subjects quite at variance with good taste or
polished manners, and throwing himself into attitudes so abrupt and
awkward that it was only by recalling who he was, that his being found
in the midst of the most distinguished societies in Paris could be
accounted for, or a reason assigned for tolerating his gestures and
language; for both of which he had now, by dint of long practice and
adherence, acquired a sort of free license or impunity. He was shunned
like the plague, although not deficient in a certain description of wit,
which told here and there amid the indescribable confusion of remarkable
phraseology which he allowed himself the use of; in fact, he was one of
those unintentional instruments of vengeance one would always like to
employ in the wholesale chastisement of persons who have rendered
themselves either ridiculous or abhorrent.
The Duchess de Lucenay, one of the most agreeable, and, at the same
time, most fashionable women in Paris (spite of her having numbered
thirty summers), had more than once furnished matter of conversation
among the scandal-dealers of Paris; but her errors, whatever they were
supposed to be, were pardoned, in consideration of the heavy drawback of
such a partner as M. de Lucenay.
Another feature in the character of this latter-named individual was a
singular affectation of the most absurd and unknown expressions,
relative to imaginary complaints and ridiculous infirmities he amused
himself in supposing you suffered from, and concerning which he would
make earnest inquiries, in a loud voice, and in the immediate presence
of a hundred persons. But possessed of first-rate courage, and always
ready to take the consequences of his disagreeable jokes, M. de Lucenay
had been concerned in various affairs of honour arising out of them,
with varied success; coming off sometimes victor, sometimes vanquished,
without being in any way cured of his unpleasant and annoying tricks.
All this premised, we will ask the reader to imagine the loud, harsh
voice of the personage we have been describing, shouting from the
distance at which he first recognised Madame d'Harville and Sarah:
"Holla! holla! who is that out there? Come, who is it? Let's see. What!
the prettiest woman at the ball sitting out here, away from everybody! I
can't have this; it is high time I returned from the other end of the
world to put a stop to such doings as this. I tell you what, marquise,
if you persist in thus concealing yourself from general view, and
cheating people from looking at you, I will set up a cry of fire! fire!
that shall bring every one out of the ballroom, around you."
And then, by way of terminating his discourse, M. de Lucenay threw
himself almost on his back beside the two ladies, crossed his left leg
over his right thigh, and held his foot in his hand.
"You have soon returned from Constantinople, my lord," observed Madame
d'Harville, fancying it was necessary to say something, and, at the same
time, drawing away from her unpleasant neighbour with ill-concealed
impatience.
"Ah, that is just what my wife said! 'Already back, my lord?' exclaimed
she, when she saw me alight from my travelling-carriage; 'Why, bless me,
I did not expect you so soon!' And, do you know, instead of flying to my
arms, as if the surprise had delighted her, she turned quite sulky, and
refused to appear with me at this, my first ball since my return! And,
upon my soul, I declare her staying away has caused a far greater
sensation than my presence,--droll, isn't it? 'Pon my life, I declare I
can't make it out. When she is with me, nobody pays the least attention
to me; but when I entered the room alone to-night, such a crowd came
humming and buzzing around me, all calling out at once, 'Where is Madame
de Lucenay? Is not she coming this evening? Oh, dear, what a
disappointment! How vexatious! How disagreeable!' etc., etc. And then,
marquise, when I come where you are, and expect, after returning all the
way from Constantinople, you will be overjoyed to see me, you look upon
me as if I were a dog running amidst an interesting game of ninepins;
and yet, for all I see, I am just as agreeable as other people."
"And it would have been so easy for you to have continued agreeable--in
the East," added Madame d'Harville, slightly smiling.
"Stop abroad, you mean, I suppose; yes, I dare say. I tell you I could
not, and I would not; and it is not quite what I like, to hear you say
so!" exclaimed M. de Lucenay, uncrossing his legs, and beating the crown
of his hat after the fashion of a tambourine.
"Well, for heaven's sake, my lord, be still, and do not call out so very
loudly," said Madame d'Harville, angrily, "or really you will compel me
to change my place."
"Change your place! Ah, to be sure! You want to take my arm, and walk
about the gallery a little; come along then, I'm ready."
"Walk with you! Certainly not! And pray let me beg of you not to meddle
with that bouquet--and have the goodness not to touch the fan either;
you will only break it, as you always do."
"Oh, bless you! talking of breaking fans, I am unlucky. Did my wife ever
show you a magnificent Chinese fan, given to her by Madame de Vaudémont?
Well, I broke that!" And, having delivered himself of these comforting
words, M. de Lucenay again threw himself back on the divan he had been
lounging on, but, with his accustomed gaucherie, contrived to pitch
himself over the back of it, on to the ground, grasping in his hand a
quantity of the floating wreaths of climbing plants which depended from
the boughs of the trees under which the party was sitting, and which he
had been, for some time, amusing himself with essaying to catch, as,
moved by the light breeze admitted into the place, they undulated
gracefully over his head. The suddenness of his fall brought down, not
only those he held, but the parent stems belonging to them; and poor De
Lucenay was so covered by the mass of foliage thus unexpectedly
obtained, that, ere he could thoroughly disengage himself from their
circling tendrils, he presented the appearance of some monarch of
May-day crowned with his leafy diadem. So whimsical an appearance as he
presented drew down roars of deafening, stunning laughter; much to the
annoyance of Madame d'Harville, who would quickly have got out of the
vicinity of so awkward and unpleasant a person had she not perceived M.
Charles Robert (the commandant of Madame Pipelet's accounts) advancing
from the other end of the gallery; and, unwilling to appear as though
going to meet him, she once more resumed her seat beside M. de Lucenay.
"I say, Lady Macgregor," vociferated the incorrigible De Lucenay,
"didn't I look preciously like a wild man of the woods, or the god Pan,
or a sylvan, or a naiad, or some of those savage creatures, with that
green wreath round my head? Oh, but talking of savages," added he,
abruptly approaching Sarah, "Lady Macgregor, I must tell you a most
outrageously indecent story. Just imagine that at Otaheite--"
"My lord duke--" interrupted Sarah, in a tone of freezing rebuke.
"Just as you like,--you are not obliged to hear my story if you don't
like it; you are the loser, that's all. Ah! I see Madame de Fonbonne out
there; I shall keep it for her; she is a dear, kind creature, and will
be delighted to hear it; so I'll save it for her."
Madame de Fonbonne was a fat little woman, of about fifty years of age,
very pretending, and very ridiculous. Her fat double chin rested on her
equally fat throat; and she was continually talking, with upturned eyes,
of her tender, her sensitive soul; the languor of her soul; the craving
of her soul; the aspirations of her soul. To these disadvantages, she
added the additional one of being particularly ill-dressed, upon the
present occasion, in a horrible-looking copper-coloured turban, with a
sprinkling of green flowers over it.
"Yes," again asserted De Lucenay, in his loudest voice, "that charming
anecdote shall be told to Madame de Fonbonne."
"May I be permitted, my lord duke, to inquire the subject of your
conversation?" said the lady thus apostrophised, who, hearing her name
mentioned, immediately commenced her usual mincing, bridling attempts to
draw up her chubby self, but, failing in the effort, fell back upon the
easier manoeuvre of "rolling up the whites of her eyes," as it is
commonly called.
"It refers, madame, to a most horribly indecent, revolting, and strange
story."
"Heaven bless me! and who dares--oh, dear me, who would venture--"
"I would, madame. I can answer for the truth of the anecdote, and that
it would make a stick or a stone blush to hear it; but, as I am aware
how dearly you love such stories, I will relate it to you. You must
know, then, that in Otaheite--"
"My lord," exclaimed the indignant lady, turning up her eyes with
indignant horror, "it really is surprising you can allow yourself to--"
"Now for those unkind looks you shall not hear my pretty story either,
though I had been reserving it for you. And, now I look at you, I can
but wonder that you, so celebrated for the taste and good style of your
dress, should have put that wretched thing on your head for a turban,
but which looks more like an old copper baking-dish spotted all over
with verdigris." So saying, the duke, as if charmed with his own wit,
burst into a loud and long peal of laughter.
"If, my lord," exclaimed the enraged lady, "you merely returned from the
East to resume your offensive jokes, which are tolerated because you are
supposed to be only half in your senses, all who know you are bound to
hope you intend to return as quickly as you came;" saying which she
arose, and majestically waddled away.
"I tell you what, Lady Macgregor, if I don't take devilish good care, I
shall let fly at that stupid old prude and pull her old stew-pan off her
head," said M. de Lucenay, thrusting his hands deep down into his
pockets as if to prevent their committing the retaliating mischief he
contemplated. "But no," said he, after a pause, "I won't hurt the
'sensitive soul,' poor innocent thing! Ha! ha! ha! Besides, think of her
being an orphan at her tender age!" And renewed peals of laughter
announced that the imagination of the duke had again found a fresh fund
of amusement in some reminiscence of Madame de Fonbonne; which, however,
soon gave place to an expression of surprise, as the figure of the
commandant, sauntering towards them, caught his eye.
"Holla!" cried he, "there's M. Charles Robert. I met him last summer at
the German baths; he is a deuced fine fellow,--sings like a swan. Now,
marquise, I'll show you some fun,--just see how I'll bother him. Would
you like me to introduce him to you?"
"Be quiet, if you can," said Sarah, turning her back most
unceremoniously upon M. de Lucenay, "and let us alone, I beg."
As M. Charles Robert, while affecting to be solely occupied in admiring
the rare plants on either side of him, continued to advance, M. de
Lucenay had cleverly contrived to get possession of Sarah's _flacon
d'esprit_, and was deeply and silently engaged in the interesting
employment of demolishing the stopper of the trinket.
Still M. Charles Robert kept on his gradual approach to the party he
was, in reality, making the object of his visit. His figure was tall and
finely proportioned; his features boasted the most faultless regularity;
his dress was in the first style of modern elegance; yet his
countenance, his whole person, were destitute of grace, or that
_distingué_ air which is more to be coveted than mere beauty, whether of
face or figure; his movements were stiff and constrained, and his hands
and feet large and coarse. As he approached Madame d'Harville his
insipid and insignificant countenance assumed, all at once, an
expression of the deepest melancholy, too sudden to be genuine;
nevertheless he acted the part as closely to nature as might be. M.
Robert had the air of a man so thoroughly wretched, so oppressed by a
multitude of sorrows, that as he came up to Madame d'Harville she could
not help recalling to mind the fearful mention made by Sarah touching
the violence to which grief such as his might drive him.
"How are you? How are you, my dear sir?" exclaimed the Duke de Lucenay,
interrupting the further approach of the commandant. "I have not had the
pleasure of seeing you since we met at the spas of ----. But what the
devil ails you,--are you ill?"
Hereupon M. Charles Robert assumed a languid and sentimental air, and,
casting a melancholy look towards Madame d'Harville, replied, in a tone
of deep depression:
"Indeed, my lord, I am very far from being well."
"God bless me! Why, what is the matter with you? Ah! I suppose that
confounded plaguy cough still sticks to you," said M. de Lucenay, with
an appearance of the most serious interest in the inquiry.
At this ridiculous question, M. Charles Robert stood for a moment as
though struck dumb with astonishment, but, quickly recovering himself,
said, while his face crimsoned, and his voice trembled with rage, in a
short, firm voice, to M. de Lucenay:
"Since you express so much uneasiness respecting my health, my lord, I
trust you will not fail calling to-morrow to know how I am."
"Upon my life and soul, my dear sir, I--but most certainly I will send,"
said the duke, with a haughty bow to M. Charles Robert, who, coolly
returning it, walked away.
"The best of the joke is," said M. de Lucenay, throwing himself again by
the side of Sarah, "that our tall friend there had no more of a spitting
complaint than the great Turk himself,--unless, indeed, I stumbled upon
the truth without knowing it. Well, he might have that complaint for
anything I know or care. What do you think, Lady Macgregor,--did that
great, tall fellow look, to you, as though he were suffering from _la
pituite_?"[1]
[1] A sort of viscous, phlegmy complaint.
Sarah's only reply was an indignant rising from her seat, and hasty
removal from the vicinage of the annoying Duke de Lucenay.
All this had passed with the rapidity of thought. Sarah had experienced
considerable difficulty in restraining her inclination to indulge in a
hearty fit of laughter at the absurd question put by the Duke de Lucenay
to the commandant; but Madame d'Harville had painfully sympathised with
the feelings of a man so ridiculously interrogated in the presence of
the woman he loved. Then, horror-struck as the probable consequences of
the duke's jest rose to her mind, led away by her dread of the duel
which might arise out of it, and still further instigated by a feeling
of deep pity for one who seemed to her misled imagination as marked out
for every venomed shaft of envy, malice, and revenge, Clémence rose
abruptly from her seat, took the arm of Sarah, overtook M. Charles
Robert, who was boiling over with rage, and whispered to him, as she
passed:
"To-morrow, at one o'clock, I will be there."
Then, regaining the gallery with the countess, she immediately quitted
the ball.
Rodolph, in appearing at this fête, besides fulfilling a duty imposed on
him by his exalted rank and place in society, was further influenced by
the earnest desire to ascertain how far his suspicions, as regarded
Madame d'Harville, were well founded, and if she were, indeed, the
heroine of Madame Pipelet's account. After quitting the winter garden
with the Countess de ----, he had, in vain, traversed the various salons
in the hopes of meeting Madame d'Harville alone. He was returning to the
hothouse when, being momentarily delayed at the top of the stairs, he
was witness to the rapid scene between Madame d'Harville and M. Charles
Robert after the joke played off by the Duke de Lucenay. The significant
glances exchanged between Clémence and the commandant struck Rodolph
powerfully, and impressed him with the firm conviction that this tall
and prepossessing individual was the mysterious lodger of the Rue du
Temple. Wishing for still further confirmation of the idea, he returned
to the gallery. A waltz was about to commence, and in the course of a
few minutes he saw M. Charles Robert standing in the doorway, evidently
revelling in the satisfaction of his own ideas; enjoying, in the first
place, the recollection of his own retort to M. de Lucenay (for M.
Charles Robert, spite of his egregious folly and vanity, was by no means
destitute of bravery), and, secondly, revelling in the triumph of thus
obtaining a voluntary assignation with Madame d'Harville for the morrow;
and something assured him that this time she would be punctual. Rodolph
sought for Murphy.
"Do you see that fair young man," said he, "standing in the midst of
that group out there?"
"You mean the tall individual who seems so much amused with his own
thoughts, do you not? Yes, yes, I see him."
"Endeavour to get sufficiently near to him to be enabled to whisper, so
that he alone can catch the words, while you carefully avoid allowing
him to see the person who utters them, this sentence, 'You are late, my
angel!'"
The squire gazed at Rodolph with a perplexed air.
"My lord, do you seriously wish me to do this?"
"Seriously, my dear Murphy, I do; and should he hastily turn around when
you have spoken, assume that incomparable air of perfect nonchalance for
which you are so justly celebrated, so as to prevent his being able to
fix upon you as the person who has spoken."
"Depend upon my perfect obedience, my lord, although I am far from
having the slightest idea of your intention in assigning to me such a
task."
Before the conclusion of the waltz, the worthy Murphy had contrived to
place himself immediately behind M. Charles Robert, while Rodolph,
posted in a situation most advantageous for watching the effect of this
experiment, carefully observed Murphy's movements. In a minute, M.
Charles Robert turned suddenly around, as though struck with
astonishment and wonder. The immovable squire stirred not a feature; and
certainly Murphy's tall, portly figure, bald head, and grave, composed
countenance, appeared the least likely of any in the room to be those of
a man taking part in such a trick; and, indeed, it was evident, from the
continued gaze of the commandant in every other part of the space they
stood in, that M. Charles Robert was far from suspecting his
respectable, middle-aged neighbour of giving utterance to a phrase so
disagreeably recalling the _quid pro quo_ of which Madame Pipelet had
been alike the cause and the heroine. The waltz concluded, Murphy
rejoined Rodolph.
"Well, my lord," said he, "that smart young gentleman jumped as though
he had trodden on a hornet's nest. The words I uttered appeared to have
the effect of magic on him."
"They were so far magical, my dear Murphy, as they assisted me to
discover a circumstance I was most anxious to find out."
Conviction thus painfully obtained, Rodolph could only deplore the
dangerous position in which Madame d'Harville had placed herself, and
which seemed to him fraught with fresh evils, from a vague presentiment
of Sarah's being either a sharer or a confidant in the transaction, and
with this discovery came the fresh pain of believing that he had now
found out the source of M. d'Harville's secret sorrow; the man he so
highly esteemed, and for whom he felt a brother's regard, was pining in
silence over the misconduct of a wife he so tenderly loved, yet who, in
spite of her many charming qualities, could sacrifice her own and her
husband's happiness for the sake of an object so every way unworthy.
Master of so important a secret, yet incapable of betraying it, unable
to devise any plan to open the eyes of Madame d'Harville, who seemed
rather to yield to than resist her unlicensed passion for her lover,
Rodolph found himself obliged to remain a passive witness to the utter
ruin of a woman he had so passionately adored with as much silence as
devotion; nay, whom, spite of his best efforts, he still loved. He was
roused from these reflections by M. de Graün.
"If your royal highness," said the baron, bowing, "will deign to grant
me a brief interview in one of the lower rooms, which is now quite
devoid of company, I shall have the honour to lay before you the
particulars you desired me to collect."
Rodolph signed to M. de Graün to conduct him to the place named, when
the baron proceeded with his recital, as follows:
"The only duchess to whose name the initials 'N.' and 'L.' can possibly
belong is Madame de Lucenay, whose maiden name was Normant. Her grace is
not here this evening. I have just seen M. de Lucenay, her husband, who,
it seems, left Paris five months ago, with the expressed intention of
travelling in the East during the next year or two, but has unexpectedly
returned within the last day or two."
It may be recollected that, during Rodolph's visit to the Rue du Temple,
he picked up, on the landing-place adjoining the door of the charlatan
dentist's apartments, a cambric handkerchief, richly embroidered and
trimmed with costly lace, and bearing in the corner a ducal coronet with
the initials "N. L." It will also be borne in mind that this elegant
indication of high rank was wetted with the bitter tears of its noble
owner. In pursuance of his instructions, but in total ignorance of the
circumstances suggesting them, M. de Graün had inquired the name of
every duchess then in Paris, and gleaned the information now repeated to
Rodolph, and which the latter perfectly comprehended. He had no reason
for interesting himself in the fate of Madame de Lucenay; but he could
not reflect without a shudder that, if it were really she who visited
the pretended doctor (but who, he felt assured, was no other than the
infamous Polidori), this wretch, having possessed himself of her real
name and address through the agency of Tortillard, might make a fearful
use of a secret which placed the duchess so completely in his power.
"Chance is a strange thing, my lord, is it not?" resumed M. de Graün.
"It is; but how does it apply to the present case?"
"Why, at the very instant that M. de Grangeneuve was giving me these
facts concerning M. and Madame de Lucenay, and was adding, rather
ill-naturedly, that the unlooked-for return of the duke must have proved
particularly disagreeable, not only to the duchess but to the Viscount
de Saint-Remy, one of the most elegant and fashionable men in Paris, his
excellency the ambassador came up and inquired whether your royal
highness would permit him to present the viscount to you, as, having
just been appointed on the legation to Gerolstein, he would be happy to
avail himself of the present opportunity of paying his court to your
highness."
An expression of impatience escaped Rodolph, who exclaimed:
"Nothing could have been less agreeable to me. However, it is impossible
to refuse. Let the count know, therefore, that I am ready to receive M.
de Saint-Remy."
Rodolph knew too well how to support his princely dignity to allow his
feelings to interfere with the courtesy and affability required on the
present occasion; added to which, the world gave M. de Saint-Remy as a
favoured lover to the Duchess de Lucenay, and this circumstance greatly
excited the curiosity of Rodolph.
The Viscount de Saint-Remy, conducted by the Count de ----, now
approached. He was an exceedingly handsome young man, of about
twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, with the most _distingué_
air and prepossessing physiognomy; his olive complexion had that rich,
soft glow of amber cast over its transparent surface, so remarkable in
the paintings of Murillo; his glossy black hair, parted over his left
temple, was worn smooth over his forehead, and fell in light and easy
curls down the sides of his face, almost concealing the pale,
well-shaped ear. The deep, dark eyelash contrasted well with the clear
eye it shaded, the crystal of which was tinged with that blue cast which
bestows so much and such charming expression to the Indian eye. By a
singular caprice of nature, the thick, silky moustache which graced his
lip was the only ornament of a similar description visible on his
countenance, the chin and cheeks being smooth as those of a young
maiden. Perhaps it might be vanity which dictated the narrow black satin
cravat placed so low as to reveal the perfect contour of a throat which,
for whiteness and symmetrical roundness, might have furnished a model
for the artist's studio. The long ends of his cravat were confined by a
single pearl, inestimable for its size, the beauty of its shape, and the
splendour of its colour,--so vivid, that an opal could scarcely have
rivalled its continued prismatic changes. The perfect taste, and
exquisite style of M. de Saint-Remy harmonised well with the magnificent
simplicity of this jewel.
Once seen, the face and figure of M. de Saint-Remy was never forgotten,
so entirely did it differ from the usual style of _élégants_. He spared
no expense in procuring the most faultless turnout, and his carriages
and horses were everywhere cited as models of taste and correct
judgment. He played high, but skilfully; while the annual amount of his
betting-book was never less than from two to three thousand louis. The
costly elegance of his mansion, in the Rue de Chaillot, was everywhere
spoken of and admired. There he gave the most exquisite dinner-parties.
The highest play followed, and the hospitable host would lose large and
heavy sums with the most perfect indifference, though it was known that
his fortune had been dissipated long ago. All the viscount's property
had been derived from his mother; while his father lived in utter
seclusion in the wilds of Anjou, upon an income of the most slender
description.
By way of accounting for the unbounded expenditure of M. de Saint-Remy,
many among the envious or ill-natured referred, as Sarah had done, to
the large fortune of the Duchess de Lucenay; but they forgot that,
setting aside the infamy of the idea, M. de Lucenay would naturally
direct the disposal of his wife's property, and that M. de Saint-Remy's
annual expenses were at least two hundred thousand francs. Suspicions
were entertained of his being deeply indebted to imprudent
money-lenders; for Saint-Remy had no further inheritance to look forward
to. Others, again, spoke of his great successes on the turf, and hinted,
in an undertone, dark stories of training-grounds, and jockeys bribed by
him to make the horses against which he had betted largely lose; but by
far the greater number of the crowd by which Saint-Remy was surrounded
was content to eat his dinners, and occasionally to win his rouleaux,
without troubling themselves with conjectures as to how the one was
provided, and where the other came from.
By birth and education he was fully entitled to the rank he occupied in
the fashionable world; he was lively, witty, brave, a most amusing
companion, obliging and complaisant to the wishes of others; he gave
first-rate bachelor dinners, and afterwards took every bet that was
offered him. What more was required to secure his popularity? He was an
universal favourite with the fair sex, and could boast the most unvaried
success in all his love affairs; he was young, handsome, gallant, and
unsparingly munificent upon all occasions where opportunities occurred
of marking his devotion towards the high-bred females with whom he
associated in the _grande monde_; in a word, thanks to the general
infatuation he excited, the air of mystery thrown over the source of the
Pactolus from which he derived his golden supplies rather embellished
him with a certain mysterious charm, which seemed but to add to his
attractions. Sometimes it would be said, with a careless smile, "What a
fellow that Saint-Remy is: he must have discovered the philosopher's
stone to be able to go the pace he does." And when it was known that he
had caused himself to be attached to the legation of France to the court
of Gerolstein, there were not wanting voices to assert that it was a
"devilish good way of making an honourable retreat." Such was M. de
Saint-Remy.
"Allow me," said the Count de ----, presenting M. de Saint-Remy, "to
introduce to your royal highness the Viscount de Saint-Remy, attached to
the embassy of Gerolstein."
The viscount bowed profoundly, saying:
"May I trust your royal highness will deign to pardon my impatience in
requesting the honour of this introduction during the present evening? I
am, perhaps, unduly hasty in my wishes to secure a gratification I have
so long aspired to."
"It will give me much pleasure, my lord, to welcome you to Gerolstein.
Do you propose going thither immediately?"
"Your royal highness being in Paris diminishes very materially my desire
to do so."
"I fear the peaceful contrast of our German courts will scarcely assort
with a life of Parisian fashion, such as you have always been accustomed
to."
"Permit me to assure your royal highness that the gracious kindness you
have now shown me, and which it shall be my study to merit a continuance
of in Gerolstein, would of itself far outweigh any attractions Paris
may have had for me."
"It will not be my fault, my lord, should you see cause to alter your
sentiments when at Gerolstein."
A slight inclination of Rodolph's head announced that the presentation
was concluded, upon which the viscount bowed and retired. The prince, a
practised physiognomist, was subject to involuntary likes and dislikes
upon the first interview with an individual, and these impulses were in
his case almost invariably borne out by after-circumstances. His first
sensation after the exchange of the very few words we have related
between himself and Saint-Remy was an unaccountable feeling of
repugnance and aversion for the gay and fascinating young man; to his
eye, the handsome features wore a sinister look, and danger seemed to
lurk even in his honeyed words and smooth, polished manner.
We shall hereafter meet M. de Saint-Remy under circumstances differing
widely and fearfully from the splendour of the position he occupied at
his first interview with Rodolph. It will then be seen how far these
presentiments were ill or well founded.
The presentation over, Rodolph, in deep meditation upon the singular
rencontres effected by the hand of chance, bent his steps towards the
winter garden. It was now the hour of supper, and the rooms were nearly
deserted. The most retired spot in the hothouse was at the end of a
clump of trees placed against the corner of a wall, and an enormous
banana, covered with climbing plants, effectually concealed a small side
door, masked by the trellis, and conducting to the banquetting-hall by a
long corridor. This door, which was scarcely a yard distant from the
tree above mentioned, had been left temporarily ajar. Sheltered by this
verdant screen, Rodolph seated himself, and was soon lost in a profound
reverie, when the sound of a well-known voice, pronouncing his name,
made Rodolph start. It was Sarah, who, seated with her brother Tom on
the other side of the clump of trees which effectually hid Rodolph from
their view, was conversing with him in the English language. The prince
listened attentively, and the following dialogue ensued:
"The marquise has just gone to show herself for a few minutes at Baron
de Nerval's ball," said Sarah; "she has luckily quitted this place
without once having an opportunity of exchanging a word with Rodolph,
who has been looking everywhere for her. I still dread the influence he
possesses over her, even unknown to herself,--an influence it has cost
me so much labour and difficulty to combat, and partly to destroy.
However, to-morrow will rid me of any further fears of a rival who, if
not effectually destroyed, might so powerfully derange and overthrow my
plans. Listen to me, brother, for it is of serious matters I would speak
to you. To-morrow witnesses the eternal ruin of my hated rival."
"You are mistaken, Sarah," answered Tom's well-remembered voice;
"Rodolph never loved the marquise; of that I am certain; your jealous
fears mislead you."
"It is time," returned Sarah, "that I enlightened you on this subject.
Many things occurred during your last journey, and as it is necessary to
take decisive steps even earlier than I had expected,--nay, this very
night,--so soon as we quit this place, it becomes indispensably
necessary we should take serious counsel together. Happily we are now
quite alone, for the gay butterflies of the night have found fresh
attraction around the supper-tables. Now, then, brother, give your close
and undivided attention to what I am about to say."
"Proceed, I am all impatience."
"Well, before Clémence d'Harville met Rodolph, I feel assured the
passion of love was wholly unknown to her, for what reason I have never
been able to discover. She entertains the most invincible repugnance and
aversion towards her husband, who perfectly adores her. There is some
deep mystery in this part of the business I have never succeeded in
fathoming. A thousand new and delightful emotions sprang up in the
breast of Clémence after she became acquainted with Rodolph; but I
stifled her growing love by the most frightful disclosures, or rather
ingeniously invented calumnies, concerning the prince. Still, the void
in her heart required an object to fill it, and chance having thrown M.
Charles Robert in her way during a morning call she was making at my
house, she appeared struck with his appearance, much after the manner in
which we are attracted by a fine picture. Unfortunately, however, this
man is as silly as he is handsome, though he certainly has a very
prepossessing _tout ensemble_. I praised him enthusiastically to Madame
d'Harville, exalted the nobleness of his sentiments, the elevation of
his mind, and, as I knew her weak side, I worked upon her sympathy and
pity, by representing him as loaded with every trouble and affliction
unrelenting fate could heap upon a devoted but most innocent head. I
directed M. Robert to assume a melancholy and sentimental air; to utter
only deep sighs, and to preserve a gloomy and unbroken silence in the
presence of Madame d'Harville. He carefully pursued the path marked out
by me, and, thanks to his vocal skill, his fine person and the constant
expression of silent suffering, so far engaged the interest of Madame
d'Harville, that, ere long, she transferred to my handsome friend the
warm and sympathising regard Rodolph had first awakened. Do you
comprehend me thus far?"
"Perfectly; proceed."
"Madame d'Harville and Robert met only upon terms of intimacy at my
house; to draw them more effectually together I projected devoting three
mornings in the week to music, and my mournful ally sighed softly as the
breath of evening while turning over the leaves of the music, ventured
to utter a few impassioned words, and even to slip two or three billets
among the pieces he copied out for the marquise to practise at home. I
own I was more fearful of his epistolary efforts than even his powers of
speech; but a woman always looks indulgently upon the first declaration
of love she receives; so far, therefore, the written nonsense of my
silly pupil did no harm, for, in obedience to my advice, his _billets
doux_ were very laconic. The great point was to obtain a rendezvous, and
this was no easy matter, for Clémence's principles were stronger than
her love; or, rather, her passion was not sufficiently deep to induce
her to sacrifice those principles. Unknown, even to herself, the image
of Rodolph still filled her heart, and seemed in a manner to preserve
her from yielding to her weak fancy for M. Charles Robert,--a fancy, as
I well knew, far more imaginary than real; but, led on by my continual
and exaggerated praises of this brainless Apollo, whom I persisted in
describing as suffering under the daily increase of every imaginary evil
I could invent, Clémence, vanquished by the deep despair of her dejected
adorer, consented one day, more from pity than love, to grant him the
rendezvous so long desired."
"Did she, then, make you her confidant?"
"She confessed to me her regard for M. Charles Robert,--nothing more;
neither did I seek to learn more; it would have annoyed and vexed her.
But, as for him, boiling over with love, or, rather, intoxicated with
pride, he came voluntarily to impart his good fortune, without, however,
entrusting me either with the time or place of the intended meeting."
"How, then, did you know it?"
"Why, Karl, by my order, hovered about the door of M. Robert during the
following day from an early hour; nothing, however, transpired till the
next day, when our love-stricken youth proceeded in a _fiacre_ to an
obscure part of the town, and finally alighted before a mean-looking
house in the Rue du Temple; there he remained for an hour and a half,
when he came out and walked away. Karl waited a long while to see
whether any person followed M. Charles Robert out of the house; but no
one came. The marquise had evidently failed in her appointment. This was
confirmed to me on the morrow, when the lover came to pour out all his
rage and disappointment. I advised him to assume even an increase of
wretchedness and despair. The plan succeeded; the pity of Clémence was
again excited; a fresh assignation was wrung from her, but which she
failed to keep equally with the former; the third and last rendezvous,
however, produced more decided effects, Madame d'Harville positively
going as far as the door of the house I have specified as the appointed
place; then, repenting so rash a step, returned home without having even
quitted the humble _fiacre_ in which she rode. You may judge by all
these capricious changes of purpose how this woman struggles to be free.
And wherefore? Why, because (and hence arises my bitter, deadly hatred
to Clémence d'Harville) because the recollection of Rodolph still
lingers in her heart, and, with pertinacious love she shrinks from aught
that she fancies breathes of preference for another; thus shielding
herself from harm or danger beneath his worshipped image. Now this very
night the marquise has made a fresh assignation with M. Charles Robert
for to-morrow, and this time I doubt not her punctuality; the Duke de
Lucenay has so grossly ridiculed this young man that, carried away by
pity for the humiliation of her admirer, the marquise has granted that
to compassion he would not else have obtained. But this time, I feel
persuaded she will keep her word, and be punctual to the appointed time
and hour."
"And how do you propose to act?"
"M. Charles Robert is so perfectly unable to comprehend the delicacy of
feeling which this evening dictated the marquise's resolution of meeting
him, that he is safe to rush with vulgar eagerness to the rendezvous,
and this will effectually ruin his plans, for pity alone has instigated
Clémence to take this compromising step. No love,--no infatuation has
hurried her into a measure so fatal to her future resolution. I know
every turn of her mind; and I am confident she will keep her appointment
solely from a courageous idea of generous devotion, but with a firm
resolve not for one instant to forget her duties as a wife and mother.
Now the coarse, vulgar mind of M. Charles Robert is sure to take the
fullest advantage of the marquise's concession in his favour. Clémence
will detest him from that instant; and the illusion once destroyed which
has bound herself and Charles Robert in bonds of imaginary sympathy, she
will fall again beneath the influence of her love for Rodolph, which I
am certain still nestles in her heart."
"Well?"
"Well! I would have her for ever lost to Rodolph, whose high sense of
honour and deep friendship for M. d'Harville I feel perfectly sure would
not have proved equal to preventing his returning the love of Clémence;
but I will so manage things that he shall henceforward look upon her
with loathing and disgust, as the guilty partner in a crime committed
without his participation. No, no! I know my man. He might pardon the
offence, but never the being excluded from his share in it."
"Then do you propose apprising the husband of all that is going on, so
that the prince should learn the disgraceful circumstances from the
publicity the affair would obtain?"
"I do. And the thing is so much the easier to accomplish as, from what
fell from Clémence to-night, I can learn that the marquis has vague and
undefined suspicions, without knowing on whom to fix them. It is now
midnight; we shall almost directly leave the ball, I will set you down
at the first café we meet with, whence you shall write M. d'Harville a
minute account of his wife's love affair, with the projected assignation
of to-morrow, with the time and place where it is arranged to take
place. Oh! but I forgot, I didn't state that the place of meeting is No.
17 Rue du Temple. And the time, to-morrow at one o'clock. The marquis is
already jealous of Clémence; well, he will by this information surprise
her under most suspicious circumstances; the rest follows as a matter of
course."
"But this is a most abominable mode of action," said Seyton, coldly.
"What! my trusty and well-behaved brother and colleague growing
scrupulous?" said Sarah, sarcastically. "This will never do; suppose my
modes of action are odious,--so be it. I trample on all and every thing
that interferes with my designs,--agreed. I do--I shall, till I have
secured my purpose. But let me ask you, Who thought of scruples when my
destruction was aimed at? Who thought of me or my feelings, let me ask
you? How have I been treated?"
"Say no more, sister,--say no more,--here is my hand, and you may safely
reckon upon my firm participation in all that concerns you, even to
writing the letter to M. d'Harville. But still I say, and repeat, such
conduct is horrible!"
"Never mind sermonising, but say, do you consent fully and entirely to
what I wish you, or do you not? Ay, or nay?"
"Since it must be so, M. d'Harville shall this night be fully instructed
as to all his wife's proceedings,--but--what is that? I fancied I heard
some one on the other side of this thicket,--there was a rustling of
leaves and branches," said Seyton, interrupting himself, and speaking to
Sarah in a low and suppressed voice.
"For heaven's sake," cried Sarah, uneasily, "don't stop to talk about
it, but quick! and examine the other side of this place!"
Seyton rose,--made the tour of the clump of trees,--but saw no one.
Rodolph had just disappeared by the side door, of which we have before
spoken.
"I must have made a mistake," said Seyton, returning; "there is no
appearance of any persons but ourselves being in this place."
"I thought there could not possibly be."
"Now, then, Sarah, hear what I have got to say on the subject of Madame
d'Harville, who, I feel quite satisfied, you make an object of
unnecessary apprehension, as far as it would be possible for her to
interfere with your schemes. The prince, moreover, has certain
principles nothing would induce him to infringe. I am infinitely more
alarmed, and with greater justice, too, as to what can have been his
intentions in conducting that young girl to his farm at Bouqueval, five
or six weeks ago. He is constant in his superintendence of her health
and comfort; is having her well educated, and, moreover, has been
several times to see her. Now we are altogether ignorant who she is or
where she came from; she seems, however, to belong only to the humbler
ranks of society; still, the exquisite style of her beauty, the fact of
the prince having worn the disguise he did when escorting her to the
farm, the increasing interest he seems to take in her welfare, all go to
prove that his regard for her is of no common description. I have,
therefore, in this affair anticipated your wishes; but to remove this
greater, and, as I believe, more serious obstacle to our plans, the
utmost circumspection was requisite to obtain information respecting the
lives and habits of these mysterious occupants of the farm, and
particularly concerning the girl herself. I have been fortunate enough
to learn nearly sufficient to point out what is to be done the moment
for action has arrived. A most singular chance threw that horrid old
woman in my way, to whom, as you remember, I once gave my address,
which she it seems has carefully preserved. Her connection with such
persons as the robber who attacked us during our late visit to the Cité
will powerfully assist us. All is provided for and preconsidered,--there
can be no proof against us,--and, besides, if, as seems evident, this
young creature belongs to the humblest class of society it is not very
probable she will hesitate between our offers and the splendid prospect
she may, perchance, picture to herself, for the prince, I have
ascertained, has preserved a strict incognito towards her. But to-morrow
shall decide the question otherwise,--we shall see,--we shall see."
"And these two obstacles overcome, then, Tom, for our grand project."
"There are many, and serious obstacles in the way; still, they may be
overcome."
"And would it not be a lucky chance if we should bring it to pass at the
very moment when Rodolph would be writhing under the double misery
occasioned by the disclosure of Madame d'Harville's conduct, and the
disappearance of the creature for whom he chooses to evince so deep an
interest? Would not that be an auspicious moment to persuade him that
the daughter, whose loss he daily more and more deplores, still lives?
And then--"
"Silence, sister," interrupted Seyton, "I hear the steps of the guests
from the supper-table, returning to resume the ball. Since you deem it
expedient to apprise the Marquis d'Harville of the morrow's rendezvous,
let us depart; it is past midnight."
"The lateness of the hour in which the anonymous information will reach
M. d'Harville, will but tend still more to impress him with an idea of
its importance."
And with these words Tom and Sarah quitted the splendid ball of the
ambassadress of the court of ----.
CHAPTER II.
THE RENDEZVOUS.
Determined at all risks to warn Madame d'Harville of the danger she was
incurring, Rodolph had quitted the winter garden without waiting to hear
the remainder of the conversation between Sarah and her brother, thus
remaining ignorant of their designs against Fleur-de-Marie, and of the
extreme peril which threatened the poor girl. But, spite of his earnest
desire to apprise the marquise of the plot laid against her peace and
honour, he was unable to carry his design into execution, for Madame
d'Harville, unable to bear up longer after the trying events of the
evening, had abandoned her original intention of visiting the
entertainment given by Madame de Nerval and gone direct home.
This contretemps ruined his hopes. Nearly the whole of the company
present at the ambassadress's ball had been invited to that of Madame de
Nerval's, and Rodolph drove rapidly thither, taking with him M. de
Graün, to whom he gave instructions to look for Madame d'Harville among
the guests, and to acquaint her that the prince, having something of the
utmost consequence to communicate to her without the least delay, would
walk onwards to the Hôtel d'Harville, and await her return home, when he
would say a few words at the carriage-door while her servants were
attending to the opening of the entrance-gates.
After much time spent in fruitless endeavours to find Madame d'Harville,
De Graün was compelled to return with the account of his ill success.
This failure made Rodolph despair of being able, now, to save the
marquise from impending ruin; his first thought had been to warn her of
the treachery intended, and so prevent the statement of Sarah, which he
had no means of keeping from the hands of M. d'Harville, from obtaining
the slightest credence. Alas! it was now too late. The infamous epistle
dictated by the Countess Macgregor had reached the Marquis d'Harville
shortly after midnight on the night in question.
* * * * *
It was morning; and M. d'Harville continued slowly to pace his
sleeping-apartment, the bed of which gave no indication of having been
used during the night, though the silken counterpane hung in fragments,
evidently proving that some powerful and devastating storm had possessed
the mind of its owner.
The chamber in question was furnished with elegant simplicity, its only
ornaments consisting of a stand of modern arms and a range of shelves
furnished with a well-chosen collection of books. Yet a sudden frenzy,
or the hand of ungovernable rage, had reduced the quiet elegance which
ordinarily reigned to a scene of frantic disorder. Chairs, tables,
broken and overset; the carpet strewed with fragments of the crystal
lamp kept burning through the night; the wax-lights and gilded
chandelier which had contained them, lying around, gave manifest
evidence of a fearful scene.
M. d'Harville was about thirty years of age, with a fine, manly
countenance, whose usual expression was mild and prepossessing, but now
contracted, haggard, and livid. He had not changed his dress since the
preceding evening; his throat was bare, his waistcoat thrown open, and
on the torn and rumpled cambric of his shirt-front were drops of blood.
His rich, dark hair, which generally fell in curls around his face, now
hung in tangled wildness over his pale countenance. Wholly buried in
the misery of his own thoughts, with folded arms, drooping head, and
fixed, bloodshot eyes, M. d'Harville continued to pace his chamber;
then, stopping opposite his fireplace, in which, spite of the almost
unendurable severity of the frost of the past night, the fire had been
allowed to expire, he took from the marble mantelpiece the following
brief note, which he continued to read over and over with the most eager
attention by the wan, pale light of the cold glimmer of an early winter
morning:
"To-morrow, at one o'clock, your wife has appointed to meet
her favoured lover. Go to the Rue du Temple, No. 17, and you
will obtain every requisite confirmation of this intelligence.
"FROM ONE WHO PITIES YOU."
Whilst reading these words, perused, with such deep anguish and sickness
of heart, so many times through the long midnight hours, the blue, cold
lips of M. d'Harville appeared convulsively to spell each syllable of
this fatal _billet_.
At this moment the chamber door opened and a servant entered; the man
who now made his appearance was old, even gray-headed, but the
expression of his countenance was frank and honest. The noise of the man
entering disturbed not the marquis from his bitter contemplations; he
merely turned his head without altering his position, but still grasped
the letter in his clenched hands.
"What do you want?" inquired he, sternly, of the servant.
The man, instead of answering, continued to gaze with an air of painful
surprise at the disordered state of the room; then, regarding his master
more attentively, exclaimed:
"Blood on your clothes! My lord, my lord! How is this? You have hurt
yourself,--and all alone, too; why, my lord, did you not summon me, as
of old, when these attacks came on?"
"Begone!"
"I entreat your lordship's pardon, but your fire is out,--the cold is
intense,--indeed, I must remind your lordship that after your
late--your--"
"Will you be silent? Leave me I say!"
"Pray do not be angry, my lord," replied the trembling valet; "but, if
your lordship pleases to recollect, you appointed M. Doublet to be here
to-day at half past ten, and he is now waiting with the notary."
"Quite proper," said the marquis, with a bitter smile; "when a man is
rich he ought, he should look carefully to his affairs. Fortune is a
fine thing,--a very fine thing; or would be if it could but purchase
happiness." Then, resuming a cold and collected manner, he added:
"Show M. Doublet into my study."
"I have done so, my lord marquis."
"Then give me my clothes,--quick, I am in haste; I shall be going out
shortly. I--"
"But if your lordship would only--"
"Do as I desire you, Joseph," said M. d'Harville, in a more gentle tone;
then added, "Is your lady stirring yet?"
"I have not yet heard her ladyship's bell, my lord marquis."
"Let me know when she rings."
"I will, my lord."
"Heaven and earth, man, how slow you are!" exclaimed M. d'Harville,
whose raging thoughts almost chafed him into madness; "summon Philip to
assist you; you will keep me all day."
"My lord, please to allow me to set matters a little straight first,"
replied Joseph, sorrowfully; "I would much rather no one but myself
witnessed the state of your chamber, or they would wonder, and talk
about it, because they could not understand what had taken place during
the night, my lord."
"And if they were to find out, it would be a most shocking
affair,--would it not?" asked M. d'Harville, in a tone of gloomy irony.
"Thank God, my lord, not a soul in the house has the least suspicion of
it!"
"No one suspects it," repeated M. d'Harville, despondingly; "no
one,--that's well, for her at least; well, let us hope to keep the
secret."
And, while Joseph was occupying himself in repairing the havoc in his
master's apartment, D'Harville walked up to the stage of arms we before
mentioned, examined them with an expression of deep interest, then,
turning towards Joseph, with a sinister smile, said:
"I hope you have not omitted to clean the guns which are placed at the
top of the stand,--I mean those in my hunting-case."
"I had not your lordship's orders to do so," replied the astonished
servant.
"You had, sir, and have neglected them!"
"I humbly assure you, my lord--"
"They must be in a fine state!"
"Your lordship will please to bear in mind that it is scarcely a month
since they were regularly repaired and put in order for use by the
gunsmith."
"Never mind! As soon as I am dressed reach down my shooting-case; I will
examine the guns myself. I may very possibly go out shooting either
to-morrow or next day."
"I will reach them down directly, my lord."
The chamber being by this time replaced in its ordinary state, a second
_valet de chambre_ was summoned to assist Joseph.
His toilet concluded, M. d'Harville repaired to his study, where the
steward (M. Doublet) and his lawyer's clerk were awaiting him.
"We have brought the agreement that my lord marquis may hear it read
over," said the bowing clerk; "my lord will then only have to sign it,
and the affair is concluded."
"Have you perused it, M. Doublet?"
"I have, my lord, attentively."
"In that case I will affix my signature at once."
The necessary forms completed, the clerk withdrew, when M. Doublet,
rubbing his hands, and looking triumphantly, exclaimed:
"Now, then, by this last addition to your lordship's estates, your
manorial property cannot be less than a hundred and twenty-six thousand
francs per annum, in round numbers. And permit me to say, my lord
marquis, that a rent-roll of a hundred and twenty-six thousand francs
per annum is of no common occurrence nowadays."
"I am a happy man, am I not, M. Doublet? A hundred and twenty-six
thousand livres per annum! Surely the man owning such an income must be
blessed indeed,--sorrow or care cannot reach him through so golden a
shield!"
"And that is wholly independent of my lord's funded property, amounting
at least to two millions more; or reckoning--"
"Exactly; I know what you would say; without reckoning my other
blessings and comforts."
"Why, heaven be praised, your lordship is as rich in all earthly
blessings as in revenue. Not a precious gift but it has been largely
bestowed upon you; ay, and such as even money will not buy: youth,
uninterrupted health, the power of enjoying every happiness, amongst
which, or, rather, at the head of which," said M. Doublet, gracefully
smiling, and gallantly bowing, "place that of being the husband of so
sweet a lady as Madame la Marquise, and the parent of a lovely little
girl, who might be mistaken for a cherubim."
M. d'Harville cast a look of gloomy mistrust on the poor steward; who,
revelling in his own ecstasy at seeing the princely rent-roll committed
to his charge, exceeding all others in magnificent amount, was far from
perceiving the scowling brow of his master, thus congratulated on being
the happiest man alive, when, to his own view, a verier wretch, or more
complete bankrupt in happiness existed not. Striking M. Doublet
familiarly on the shoulder, and breaking into a wild, ironical laugh, M.
d'Harville rejoined:
"Then you think that with an income of two hundred and sixty thousand
livres, a wife like mine, and a daughter resembling a cherubim, a man
has nothing more to wish for?"
"Nay, my lord," replied the steward, with honest zeal, "you have still
to wish for the blessing of lengthened days, that you may be spared to
see mademoiselle married as happily as yourself. Ah, my lord, I may not
hope to see it, but I should be thankful to witness you and my honoured
lady surrounded by your grandchildren,--ay, and great-grandchildren
too,--why not?"
"Excellent, M. Doublet! A regular Baucis and Philemon idea. You have
always a capital illustration to your ideas."
"You are too good to me, my lord. Has your lordship any further orders
for me?"
"None. Stay, though; what cash have you in hand?"
"Twenty-nine thousand three hundred and odd francs for current expenses,
my lord marquis; but there is a heavy sum at the bank belonging to this
quarter's income."
"Well, bring me twenty thousand francs in gold, and, should I have gone
out, give them to Joseph for me."
"Does your lordship wish for them this morning?"
"I do."
"Within an hour the gold shall be here. You have nothing else to say to
me, my lord?"
"No, M. Doublet."
"A hundred and twenty-six thousand francs per annum, wholly
unincumbered," repeated the steward, as he was about to quit the room;
"this is a glorious day for me to see; I almost feared at one time that
we should not secure this desirable property. Your lordship's most
humble servant, I take my leave."
"Good morning, M. Doublet."
As the door closed upon the steward, M. d'Harville, overcome with the
mental agony he had repressed thus far, threw himself into an armchair,
leaned his elbows on the desk before which he sat, and covering his face
with his hands, for the first time since receiving the fatal _billet_,
gave vent to a flood of hot, burning tears.
"Cruel mockery of fate!" cried he, at length, "to have made me rich, but
to have given me only shame and dishonour to place within the gilded
frame: the perjury of Clémence, the disgrace which will descend upon my
innocent child. Can I suffer this? Or shall I for the sake of her
unoffending offspring spare the guilty mother from the opprobrium of an
exposure?" Then rising suddenly from his seat, with sparkling eyes and
clenched teeth he cried, in a deep, determined voice, "No, no! Blood,
blood! The fearful protection from laughter and derision. Ah, full well
I can now comprehend her coldness, her antipathy, wretched, wretched
woman!" Then, stopping all at once, as though melted by some tender
recollection, he resumed, in a hoarse tone, "Aversion! Alas! too well I
know its cause. I inspire her with loathing, with disgust!" Then, after
a lengthened silence, he cried, in a voice broken by sighs, "Yet, was it
my fault or my misfortune? Should she have wronged me thus for a
calamity beyond my power to avert? Surely I am a more fitting object for
her pity than scorn and hatred." Again rekindling into his excited
feelings, he reiterated, "Nothing but blood--the blood of both--can wash
out this guilty stain! Doubtless he, the favoured lover, has been
informed why she flies her husband's arms."
This latter thought redoubled the fury of the marquis. He elevated his
tightly compressed hands towards heaven, as though invoking its
vengeance; then, passing his burning fingers over his eyes as he
recollected the necessity that existed for concealing his emotion from
the servants of his establishment, he returned to his sleeping-apartment
with an appearance of perfect tranquillity. There he found Joseph.
"Well, in what state are the guns?"
"In perfect order. Please to examine them, my lord."
"I came for the purpose of so doing. Has your lady yet rung?"
"I do not know, my lord."
"Then inquire."
Directly the servant had quitted the room, M. d'Harville hastily took
from the gun-case a small powder-flask, some balls and caps; then,
locking the case, put the key in his pocket. Then going to the stand of
arms, he took from it a pair of moderate-sized Manton's pistols, loaded
them, and placed them without difficulty in the pockets of his morning
wrapper. Joseph returned with the intimation that Madame d'Harville was
in her dressing-room.
"Has your lady ordered her carriage?"
"My lord, I heard Mlle. Juliette say to the head-coachman, when he came
to inquire her ladyship's orders for the day, that, 'as it was cold, dry
walking, if her ladyship went out at all, she would prefer going on
foot.'"
"Very well. Stay,--I forgot. I shall not go out hunting before
to-morrow, or probably, next day. Desire Williams to look the small
travelling-britcska carefully over. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, my lord; it shall be attended to. Will not your lordship
require a stick?"
"No. Pray tell me, is there not a hackney coach-stand near here?"
"Quite close, my lord,--in the Rue de Lille."
After a moment's hesitation, the marquis continued: "Go and inquire of
Mlle. Juliette whether Madame d'Harville can see me for a few minutes."
Joseph obeyed.
"Yes," murmured the marquis, "I will see the cause of all my misery,--my
disgrace. I will contemplate the guilty mask beneath which the impure
heart conceals its adulterous designs. I will listen to the false lips
that speak the words of innocence, while deep dishonour lurks in the
candid smile,--a smile that seemed to me as that of an angel. Yet 'tis
an appalling spectacle to watch the words, the looks, of one who,
breathing only the sentiments of a chaste wife and mother, is about to
sully your name with one of those deep, deadly stains which can only be
washed out in blood. Fool that I am to give her the chance of again
bewildering my senses! She will look at me with her accustomed sweetness
and candour; greet me (all guilty as she is) with the same pure smile
she bestows upon her child, as, kneeling at her lap, it lisps its early
prayer. That look,--those eyes, mirrors of the soul,--the more modest
and pure the glance" (D'Harville shuddered with contempt) "the greater
must be the innate corruption and falsehood! Alas! she has proved
herself a consummate dissembler; and I--I--have been the veriest dupe!
Only let me consider with what sentiments must that woman look upon me,
if just previous to her meeting with her favoured lover I pay her my
accustomed visit, and express my usual devotion and love for her,--the
young, the virtuous wife, the tender, sensible, and devoted mother, as
until this wretched moment I would have died to prove her. Can I, dare
I, trust myself in her presence, with the knowledge of her being but too
impatient for the arrival of that blessed hour which conveys her to her
guilty rendezvous and infamous paramour? Oh, Clémence, Clémence, you in
whom all my hopes and fondest affections were placed, is this a just
return? No! no! no!" again repeated M. d'Harville, with rapidly
returning excitement. "False, treacherous woman! I will not see you! I
will not trust my ears to your feigned words! Nor you, my child. At the
sight of your innocent countenance I should unman myself, and compromise
my just revenge."
Quitting his apartment, M. d'Harville, instead of repairing to those of
the marquise, contented himself with leaving a message for her through
Mlle. Juliette, to the effect that he wished a short conversation with
Madame d'Harville, but that being obliged to go out just then, he should
be glad, if it assorted with Madame la Marquise's perfect convenience,
to breakfast with her at twelve o'clock.
"And so," said the unhappy M. d'Harville, "fancying that after twelve
o'clock I shall be safe at home, she will consider herself more at
liberty to follow out her own plans."
He then repaired to the coach-stand contiguous to his mansion, and
summoned a vehicle from the ranks.
"Now, coachee," said he, affecting to disguise his rank, "what's
o'clock?"
"All right, master," said the man, drawing up to the side of the
footway, "where am I to drive to? Let's have a right understanding, and
a look at the clock. Why, it's as close on half-after eleven as may be."
"Now, then, drive to the corner of the Rue St. Dominique, and wait at
the end of the garden wall which runs along there; do you understand?"
"Yes, yes,--I know."
M. d'Harville then drew down the blinds of the _fiacre_; the coachman
drove on, and soon arrived opposite the Hôtel d'Harville, from which
point of observation it was impossible for any person to enter or quit
the house without the marquis having a full view of them. One o'clock
was the hour fixed in the note; and with his eyes riveted on the
entrance-gates of the mansion, the marquis waited in painful suspense,
absorbed in a whirl of fearful thoughts and maddening conjectures. Time
stole on imperceptibly; twelve o'clock reverberated from the dome of St.
Thomas Aquinas, when the door opened slowly at the Hôtel d'Harville, and
Madame d'Harville herself came timidly forth.
"Already?" exclaimed the unhappy husband; "how punctual she is! She
fears to keep him waiting," cried the marquis, with a mixture of irony
and savage rage.
The cold was excessive; the pavement hard and dry. Clémence was dressed
in a black velvet bonnet, covered with a veil of the same colour, and a
thickly wadded pelisse of dark ruby satin, a large shawl of dark blue
cashmere fell to the very hem of her pelisse, which she lightly and
gracefully held up while crossing the street. Thanks to this movement,
the taper foot and graceful ankle of Madame d'Harville, cased in an
exquisitely fitting boot of black satin, were exposed to view.
It was strange, that amid the painful and bewildering ideas that crowded
the brain of D'Harville, he should have found one thought to waste upon
the beauty of his wife's foot; but so it was; and at the moment that was
about to separate them for ever, to his eager gaze that fairy foot and
well-turned ankle had never looked so charming; and then, as by a rapid
train of thought he recalled the matchless loveliness of his wife, and,
as he had ever believed till now, her purity, her mental graces, he
groaned aloud as he remembered that another was preferred to him, and
that the light figure that glided on before his fixed gaze, was but the
hollow spectre of fallen goodness, a lost, degraded creature, hastening
to steep her husband and infant in irremediable disgrace, for the
indulging of a base and guilty passion. Even in that wretched moment he
felt how dearly, how exclusively he had loved her; and for the first
time during the blow which had fallen on him, he knew that he mourned
the lovely woman almost equally with the virtuous mother and chaste
wife. A cry of rage and mingled fury escaped him, as he pictured the
rapture of her meeting with the lover of her choice; and a sharp,
darting pain quivered through his heart as he remembered that Clémence,
with all her youth and beauty, her countless charms, both of body and
mind, was lost to him for ever.
Hitherto his passionate grief had been unmixed by any alloy of self. He
had bewailed the sanctity of the marriage-vow trampled under foot, the
abandonment of all sworn and sacred duties; but his sufferings of rage,
jealousy, and regret almost overpowered him, and with much difficulty
was he able to command his voice sufficiently to say to the coachman,
while partially drawing up the blind:
"Do you see that lady in the blue shawl and black bonnet walking along
by the wall?"
"Yes, yes! I see her safe enough."
"Well, then, go slowly along, and keep up with her. Should she go to the
coach-stand I had you from, pull up; and when she has got into a
_fiacre_, follow it wherever it goes."
"All right,--I understand! Now this is what I call a good joke!"
M. d'Harville had conjectured rightly. Madame d'Harville repaired
directly to the coach-stand, and beckoning a _fiacre_ off the stand,
instantly got in, and drove off, closely followed by the vehicle
containing her husband.
They had proceeded but a very short distance, when the coachman took the
road to the church of St. Thomas Aquinas, and, to the surprise of M.
d'Harville, pulled up directly in front.
"What is this for? What are you about?"
"Why, master, the lady you told me to follow has just alighted here, and
a smart, tidy leg and foot of her own she has got. Her dress somehow
caught; so, you see, I couldn't help having a peep, nohow. This is
downright good fun though, this is!"
A thousand varied thoughts agitated M. d'Harville. One minute he fancied
that his wife, fearing pursuit, had taken this step to escape detection;
then hope whispered that the letter which had given him so much
uneasiness, might after all be only an infamous calumny; for if guilty,
what could be gained by this false assumption of piety? Would it not be
a species of sacrilegious mockery? At this suggestion a bright ray of
hope shot across the troubled mind of M. d'Harville, arising from the
striking contrast between Clémence's present occupation and the crime
alleged as her motive for quitting her home. Alas! this consolatory
illusion was speedily destroyed. Leaning in at the open window the
coachman observed:
"I say, master, that nice little woman you are after has got back into
her coach."
"Then follow quickly."
"I'm off! Now this is what I call downright good fun. Capital; hang me
if it ain't!"
The vehicle reached the Quais, the Hôtel de Ville, the Rue St. Avoye,
and, at last, Rue du Temple.
"I say," said the coachman, turning round to speak to M. d'Harville from
his seat, "master, just look. My mate, there, has stopped at No. 17; we
are about at 13. Shall I stop here or go on to 17?"
"Stop here."
"I say,--look'ee,--you'll lose your pretty lady. She has gone into the
alley leading to No. 17."
"Open the door."
"I'm coming, sir."
And quickly following the steps of his wife, M. d'Harville entered the
obscure passage up which she had disappeared. Madame d'Harville,
however, had so far the start as to have entered the house previously.
Attracted by the most devouring curiosity, Madame Pipelet, with her
melancholy Alfred and her friend the oyster-woman, were huddled close
together on the sill at the lodge door. The staircase was so dark that a
person just emerging from the daylight into the gloom of the passage
could not discern a single step of it; and Madame d'Harville, agitated
and almost sinking with apprehension, found herself constrained to apply
to Madame Pipelet for further advice how to proceed, saying, in a low,
tremulous voice:
"Which way must I turn, madame, to find the staircase of the house?"
"Stop, if you please. Pray, whom do you want?"
"I wish to go to the apartments of M. Charles, madame."
"Monsieur who?" repeated the old woman, feigning not to have heard her,
but in reality to afford sufficient leisure to her husband and her
friend thoroughly to scrutinise the unhappy woman's countenance, even
through the folds of her thick veil.
"M. Charles, madame," repeated Clémence, in a low, trembling tone, and
bending down her head, so as to escape the rude and insolent examination
to which her features were subjected.
"Ah! M. Charles; very well; you should have spoken so that one could
hear you. Well, my pretty dear, if you want M. Charles,--and a
good-looking fellow he is as ever won a woman's heart,--go straight on,
and the door will stare you in the face. Eh! eh! eh!" laughed out the
old woman, shaking her fat sides with spiteful glee, "it seems he has
not waited for nothing this time. Success to love and love-makings, and
a merry end to it!"
The marquise, ready to sink with confusion, began slowly to grope her
way up the dingy staircase.
"I say," bawled out the old shell-fish woman, "our commandant knows what
he is about, don't he? Leave him alone to choose a pretty girl. His marm
is a regular swell, ain't she?"
Had it not been requisite for her to run the gauntlet of the trio who
occupied the entrance-door, Madame d'Harville, ready to sink with shame
and terror, would gladly have retraced her steps. She made another
effort, and at last reached the landing-place, where, to her unutterable
consternation and surprise, she saw Rodolph waiting, impatiently, her
arrival. Instantly flying to meet her, he hastily placed a purse in her
hand, saying, in a hurried manner:
"Your husband knows all, and is now following your very steps."
At this instant, the sharp tones of Madame Pipelet were heard crying
out, "Where are you going to, sir?"
"'Tis he!" exclaimed Rodolph, and then, almost forcing Madame d'Harville
up the second staircase, he added, in a rapid manner, "make all haste to
the very top of the house; on the fifth floor you will find a wretched
family, named Morel. Remember your sole business in coming hither was to
relieve their distress."
"I tell you, sir," screamed Madame Pipelet, "that unless you tell me
your name, you shall trample over me, as they walked over our brave men
at Waterloo, before I let you pass."
Having, from the entrance to the alley, observed Madame d'Harville stop
to speak to the porteress, the marquis had likewise prepared himself to
pass through some sort of questioning.
"I belong to the lady who just now entered," said the marquis.
"Bless me!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet, looking the picture of wonderment,
"why, that, of course, is a satisfactory answer. You can pass on, if you
please."
Hearing an unusual stir, M. Charles Robert had set the door of his
apartments ajar, and Rodolph, unwilling to be recognised by M.
d'Harville, whose quick, searching eye might have detected him, spite of
the murkiness of the staircase, hearing him rapidly ascending the
stairs, just as he reached the landing-place, dashed into the chamber of
the astonished commandant, locking the door after him. M. Charles
Robert, magnificently attired in his _robe de chambre_ of scarlet damask
with orange-coloured stripes, and Greek cap of embroidered velvet, was
struck with astonishment at the unexpected appearance of Rodolph, whom
he had not seen the preceding evening at the embassy, and who was upon
the present occasion very plainly dressed.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" asked he at length, assuming a
tone of killing haughtiness.
"Be silent!" replied Rodolph; and there was that in his voice and manner
that Charles Robert obeyed, even in spite of his own determination to
strike terror into the bold invader of his private moments.
A violent and continued noise, as of some heavy substance falling from
one stair to the other, resounded through the dull silence of the gloomy
staircase.
"Unhappy man! He has murdered her!" exclaimed Rodolph.
"Murdered!" ejaculated M. Charles Robert, turning very pale; "for the
love of Heaven, what is all this about?"
But, without heeding his inquiry, Rodolph partially opened the door, and
discovered little Tortillard half rolling, half limping, down the
stairs, holding in his hand the red silk purse Rodolph had just given to
Madame d'Harville. Tortillard, with another scrambling shuffle,
disappeared at the bottom of the last flight of stairs. The light step
of Madame d'Harville, and the heavier tread of her husband, as he
continued his pursuit of her from one story to another, could be
distinctly heard. Somewhat relieved of his worst fears, yet unable to
make out by what chance the purse so recently committed to Madame
d'Harville's hands should have been transferred to those of Tortillard,
Rodolph said, authoritatively, to M. Robert:
"Do not think of quitting your apartments for the next hour, I request!"
"Upon my life and soul, that is a pretty thing to say to a gentleman in
his own house," replied M. Robert in an impatient and wrathful tone. "I
ask you, again, what is the meaning of all this? Who the devil are you,
sir? And how dare you dictate to me, a gentleman?"
"M. d'Harville is informed of everything,--has followed his wife to your
very door,--and is now pursuing her to the upper part of the house."
"God bless me! Here's a situation!" exclaimed Charles Robert, with an
appearance of utter consternation. "But what is to be done? What is the
use of her going up-stairs? And how will she manage to get down again
unobserved?"
"Remain where you are, neither speak nor move until the porteress comes
to you," rejoined Rodolph, who hastened to give his final instructions
to Madame Pipelet, leaving the commandant a prey to the most alarming
apprehensions.
"Well! well!" cried Madame Pipelet, her face radiant with chuckling
exultation; "there's rare sport going on! The lady who came to visit my
fine gentleman on the first floor has been followed by another
gentleman, who seems rather in a passion,--the husband of that silly
young creature, I make no doubt. Directly the truth flashed across me, I
tells him to go straight up; for, thinks I, he'll be sure to murder our
commandant. That'll make a deal of talk in the neighbourhood; and folks
will come crowding to see the house, just as they did at No. 36 after
the man was killed there. Lord! I wonder the fighting has not begun
yet. I have been listening to hear them set to; but I can't catch the
least sound."
"My dear Madame Pipelet, will you do me a great favour?" said Rodolph,
putting five louis into her hand. "When this lady comes down-stairs, ask
her how she found the poor Morels. Tell her she has performed an act of
real charity in coming to see them, according to her promise, the last
time she called to inquire respecting them."
Madame Pipelet looked first at the money and then at Rodolph, with an
air of petrified astonishment.
"What am I to do with this money?" inquired she, at length; "do you give
it to me? Ah, I see! This handsome lady, then, does not come altogether
for the commandant?"
"The gentleman who followed her was her husband, as you justly supposed;
but, being warned in time, the poor lady went straight on to the Morels,
as though her only business here was to afford them succour. Now do you
understand!"
"I should think I did,--clear as noonday. 'A nod is as good as a wink,'
as the old woman said. I know! You want me to help you cheat the
husband? Lord bless you! I'm up to all those things,--quick as
lightning, silent as the grave! Go along with you! I'm a regular good
hand at keeping husbands in the dark; you might fancy I'd been used to
it all my life. But tell me--"
The huge hat of M. Pipelet was here observed sending its dark shadow
across the floor of the lodge.
"Anastasie," said Alfred, gravely, "you are like M. César Bradamanti;
you have no respect for anything or anybody. And let me tell you that
there are subjects that should never be made the subject of a jest, even
amongst the most familiar acquaintances."
"Nonsense, my old darling. Don't stand there rolling up your eyes, and
looking about as wise as a pig in a pound. You know well enough I was
only joking; you know well enough that no living soul beneath the canopy
of heaven can ever say I gave him a liberty. But that'll do; so let's
talk of this good gentleman's business. Suppose I do go out of my usual
way to save this young lady, I'm sure I do it solely to oblige our new
lodger, who, for his generosity, may well deserve to be called the king
of lodgers." Then, turning towards Rodolph, she added, "You shall see
how cleverly I will go to work. Just hide yourself there in that corner
behind the curtain. Quick,--quick! I hear them coming."
Rodolph had scarcely time to conceal himself ere M. and Madame
d'Harville descended the stairs. The features of the marquis shone with
happiness, mingled with a confused and astonished expression, while the
countenance of his wife, as she hung on his arm, looked calm but pale.
"Well, my good lady," cried Madame Pipelet, going out of her lodge to
address her, as she descended the last stair, "how did you find the poor
creatures,--I mean the Morels? Ah, I doubt not, such a sight made your
heart ache? God knows your charity was well bestowed! I told you the
other day, when you called to inquire about them, what a state of
starvation and misery they were in. Be assured, kind lady, these poor
things are fit objects of your bounty; you will never have to regret
coming to this out-of-the-way place to examine into their case. They
really are deserving all your kindness,--don't you think so, Alfred?"
Alfred, the strictness of whose ideas touching a due regard for all
conjugal duties made him revolt at the thoughts of helping to deceive a
husband, replied only by a sort of grumbling sound, as vague as
discordant.
"Please to excuse my husband, madame," resumed Madame Pipelet; "he has
got the cramp in his stomach, and cannot speak loud enough to be
understood, or he would tell you as well as myself that the poor people
you have so fortunately relieved will pray of the Almighty, night and
day, to bless and reward you, my worthy lady."
M. d'Harville gazed on his wife with feelings approaching to adoration,
as he exclaimed, "Angel of goodness, how has base slander dared to
disturb your heavenly work!"
"An angel!" repeated Madame Pipelet; "that she is, and one of the very
best heaven could send. There is not a better."
"Let us return home, I entreat!" said Madame d'Harville, who was
suffering acutely under the restraint she had put upon herself since
entering the house, and, now that the necessity for exertion was over,
found her strength rapidly forsaking her.
"Instantly," replied the marquis.
At the instant of their emerging into the open air from the obscurity of
the alley, M. d'Harville, observing the pale looks of his wife, said,
tenderly:
"Ah, Clémence, I have deep cause to solicit your pity and forgiveness."
"Alas! my lord," said the marquise, sighing deeply, "which of us has not
need of pardon?"
Rodolph quitted his hiding-place, deeply ruminating upon so terrible a
scene, thus intermingled with absurdity and coarseness, and pondering
over the curious termination to a drama, the commencement of which had
called forth such different passions.
"Well, now," exclaimed Madame Pipelet, "you must say I played my part
well. Didn't I send that donkey of a husband home with longer ears than
he came out with? Lord bless you! he'll put his wife under a glass case,
and worship her from this day forward. Poor, dear gentleman! I really
could not help feeling sorry for him. Oh! but about your furniture, M.
Rodolph; it has not come yet."
"I am now going to see about it. By the by, you had better go and inform
the commandant that he may venture out."
"True; I'll go and let the caged bird out. But what stuff and nonsense
for him to hire apartments of no more use to him than they are to the
King of Prussia! He is a fine fellow, he is, with his paltry twelve
francs a month. This is the fourth time he has been made a fool of."
Rodolph quitted the house, and Madame Pipelet, turning to her husband,
said, with a chuckling laugh, "Now, Alfred, the commandant's turn has
come; now for it! I mean to have a jolly good laugh at my gentleman,--up
and dressed for nothing."
Arrived at the apartments of M. Charles Robert, the porteress rang the
bell; the door was opened by the commandant himself.
"Commandant," said Anastasie, giving him a military salute, by placing
the back of her little fat hand against the front of her wig, "I have
come to set you free. Your friends have gone away arm in arm, happy as
doves, under your very nose. Well, you are out of a nice mess, thanks to
M. Rodolph. You ought to stand something very handsome to him for all he
has done upon the present occasion."
"Then this slim individual with the moustachios is called M. Rodolph, is
he?"
"Exactly so; neither more nor less."
"And who and what is the fellow?"
"Fellow, indeed!" cried Madame Pipelet, in a wrathful voice; "he is as
good as other men,--better than some I could mention. Why, he is a
travelling clerk, but the very king of lodgers; for, though he has only
one room, he does not haggle and beat folks down,--not he. Why, he gave
me six francs for doing for him,--six francs, mind, I say, without a
word. Think of that!--without ever offering me a sou less. Oh, he is a
lodger! I wish other people were at all like him!"
"There, there, that's enough; take the key."
"Shall I light the fire to-morrow, commandant?"
"No!"
"Next day?"
"No, no! Don't bother me."
"I say, commandant, if you recollect, I warned you that you would have
your trouble for your pains."
M. Charles Robert threw a glance at his grinning tormentor that spoke of
annihilation at least, and, dashing furiously by her, quitted the house,
wondering much how a mere clerk should have become acquainted with his
assignation with the Marquise d'Harville.
As the commandant left the alley, Tortillard came hobbling along.
"Well, what do you want?" said Madame Pipelet.
"Has the Borgnesse been to call upon me?" asked the young scamp, without
attending to the porteress's question.
"The Chouette? No, you ugly monster! What should she come for?"
"Why, to take me with her into the country, to be sure," said
Tortillard, swinging on the lodge gate.
"And what does your master say to it?"
"Oh, father managed all that. He sent this morning to M. Bradamanti, to
ask him to give me leave to go in the country,--the country,--the
country," sang or rather screamed the amiable scion of M. Bras Rouge,
beating time most melodiously on the window-panes.
"Will you leave off, you young rascal, or are you going to break my
window? Oh, here comes a coach!"
"Oh! oh! oh!" shrieked the urchin; "it is my dear Chouette! Oh, how nice
the ride in a coach!"
And, looking through the window, they saw reflected upon the red blind
of the opposite glass the hideous profile of the Borgnesse. She beckoned
to Tortillard, who ran out to her. The coachman descended from his box,
and opened the door; Tortillard sprang into the vehicle, which instantly
drove off.
Another person beside the Chouette was in the carriage. In the farther
corner, and wrapped in an old cloak with a furred collar, his features
shrouded by a black silk cap pulled down over his brows, sat the
Schoolmaster. His inflamed lids formed a horrible contrast with the
white globeless space beneath; and this fearful spectacle was rendered
still more hideous by the action of the severe cold upon his seamed and
frightful countenance.
"Now, small boy, squat yourself down on the pins of my man; you'll serve
to keep him warm," said the Borgnesse to Tortillard, who crouched like a
dog close to the feet of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette.
"Now, then, my coves," said the driver, "on we go to the 'ken' at
Bouqueval, don't we, La Chouette? You shall see whether I can 'tool a
drag' or not."
"And keep your pads on the move, my fine fellow; for we must get hold of
the girl to-night."
"All right, my blind un; we'll go the pace."
"Shall I give you a hint?" said the Schoolmaster.
"What about?"
"Why, cut it fine as you pass by the 'nabs' at the barrier; the meeting
might lead to disagreeable recollections. It is not every old
acquaintance it is worth while to renew our friendship with. You have
been wanted at the barriers for some time."
"I'll keep my weather-eye open," replied the driver, getting on his box.
It needs scarcely be told, after this specimen of slang, that the
coachman was a robber, one of the Schoolmaster's worthy associates. The
vehicle then quitted the Rue du Temple.
Two hours afterwards, towards the closing of a winter's day, the vehicle
containing the Chouette, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard, stopped
before a wooden cross, marking out the sunken and lonely road which
conducted to the farm at Bouqueval, where the Goualeuse remained under
the kind protection of Madame Georges.
CHAPTER III.
AN IDYL.
The hour of five had just struck from the church clock of the little
village of Bouqueval; the cold was intense, the sky clear, the sun,
sinking slowly behind the vast leafless woods which crowned the heights
of Ecouen, cast a purple hue over the horizon, and sent its faint,
sloping rays across the extensive plains, white and hard with winter's
frost.
In the country each season has its own distinctive features, its own
peculiar charm; at times the dazzling snow changes the whole scene into
immense landscapes of purest alabaster, exhibiting their spotless
beauties to the reddish gray of the sky. Then may be seen in the glimmer
of twilight, either ascending or descending the hill, a benighted farmer
returning to his habitation; his horse, cloak, and hat, are covered with
the falling snow. Bitter is the cold, biting the north wind, dark and
gloomy the approaching night; but what cares he? There, amid those
leafless trees, he sees the bright taper burning in the window of his
cheerful home; while from the tall chimney a column of dark smoke rolls
upwards through the flaky shower that descends, and speaks to the
toil-worn farmer of a blazing hearth and humble meal prepared by kind
affection to welcome him after the fatigues of his journey. Then the
rustic gossip by the fireside, on which the fagot burns and crackles,
and a peaceful, comfortable night's rest, amid the whistling of the
winds, and the barking of the various dogs at the different farms
scattered around, with the answering cry from the distant watch-dog.
Daylight opens upon a scene of fairy-land. Surely the tiny elves have
been celebrating some grand fête, and have left some of their adornments
behind them, for on each branch hang long spiracles of crystal,
glittering in the rays of a winter's sun with all the prismatic
brilliancy of the diamond. The damp, rich soil of the arable land is
laid down in furrows, where hides the timid hare in her form, or the
speckled partridge runs merrily. Here and there is heard the melancholy
tinkling of the sheep-bell hanging from the neck of some important
leader of the numerous flocks scattered over the verdant heights and
turfy valleys of the neighbourhood; while, carefully wrapped in his dark
gray cloak, the shepherd, seated under shelter of those knotted trunks
and interlaced branches, chants his cheerful lay, while his fingers are
busily employed weaving a basket of rushes.
Occasionally a more animated scene presents itself; distant echo gives
out the faint sound of the hunting-horn, and the cry of hounds; suddenly
a frightened deer bursts from the neighbouring forest, stands for a few
seconds in terrified alarm upon the frozen plain, then darts onward, and
is quickly lost amid the thickets on the opposite side. The trampling of
horses, the barking of dogs, are rapidly brought nearer by the breeze;
and now, in their turn, a pack of dogs with brown and tawny-spotted
skins issue from the brushwood from which the frightened deer but just
now came; they run eagerly over the sterile ground, the fallow fields,
with noses closely pointed to the ground they pursue with loud cries the
traces left by the flying deer. At their heels come the hunters in their
scarlet coats, bending over the necks of their swift steeds; they
encourage their dogs by their voices mingled with the notes of the horn.
Swift as lightning the brilliant cortège passes on; the noise
decreases; by degrees all is still; dogs, horses, and huntsmen are lost
in the tangled mazes of the forest, where the frightened stag had sought
and found a hiding-place. Then peace and calm resumed their reign; and
the profound stillness of these vast plains was interrupted only by the
monotonous song of the shepherd.
These sights,--these rustic views abounded in the environs of the
village of Bouqueval, which, spite of its proximity to Paris, was
situated in a sort of desert, to which there was no approach except by
cross-roads. Concealed during the summer among the trees, like a nest
amid the sheltering foliage, the farm which had become the home of the
poor Goualeuse was now utterly bereft of its leafy screen, and entirely
exposed to view. The course of the little river, now quite frozen over,
resembled a long silver riband stretched along the ever verdant meadows,
through which a number of fine cows were leisurely wending their way to
their stable. Brought home by the approach of night, flocks of pigeons
were successively arriving, and perching on the peaked roof of the
dove-house; while the immense walnut-tree, that during the summer
afforded an umbrageous screen both to the farmhouse and its numerous
out-buildings, stripped of its rich foliage, exhibited only bare
branches, through which could plainly be discerned the tiled roof of the
one, and the thatched tops of the others, overgrown with patches of moss
of mingled green and dingy brown.
A heavy cart, drawn by three strong, sturdy horses, with long, thick
manes and shining coats, with blue collars ornamented with bells and
tassels of red worsted, was bringing in a load of wheat from a
neighbouring rick. This ponderous machine entered the courtyard by the
large gate, while immense flocks of sheep were pressing eagerly round
the side entrances; both men and beasts appeared impatient to escape
from the severity of the cold, and to enjoy the comfort of repose. The
horses neighed joyously at the sight of their stable, the sheep bleated
their satisfaction at returning to their warm folds, while the hungry
labourers cast a longing look towards the kitchen windows, from which
streamed forth pleasant promise of a warm and savoury meal.
The whole of the exterior arrangements of the farm were indicative of
the most scrupulous order, neatness, and exactitude. Instead of being
covered with dirt and dust, scattered about, and exposed to the
inclemency of the season, the carts, rollers, harrows, etc., with every
agricultural implement (and some were of the last and best invention),
were placed, well cleaned and painted, under a vast shed, where the
carters were accustomed to arrange their cart-harness with the most
symmetrical attention to order and method. Large, clean, and well laid
out, the court-yard had none of those huge dung-heaps, those stagnant
pools of filthy water, which deface the finest establishments of La
Beauce or La Brie.
The poultry-yard, surrounded by a green trellising, received and shut in
all the feathered tribe, who after wandering in the fields all day,
returned home by a small door left open till all were collected, when it
was carefully closed and secured. Without dwelling too minutely upon
every detail, we shall merely observe, that in all respects this farm
passed most justly in the environs for a model farm, as much for the
excellency of the method by which it was conducted, and the abundant
crops it produced, as for the respectability and correct mode of life
which distinguished the various labourers employed there, who were soon
ranked among the most creditable and efficient workmen of the place.
The cause of all this prosperity shall be spoken of hereafter. Meanwhile
we will conduct the reader to the trellised gate of the poultry-yard,
which, for the rustic elegance of its perches and poultry-houses, was
noways inferior to the farm itself; while through the centre flowed a
small stream of clear, limpid water, the bed of which was laid down
with smooth pebbles, carefully cleansed from any obstructing substance.
A sudden stir arose among the winged inhabitants of this charming spot;
the fowls flew fluttering and cackling from their perches, the turkeys
gabbled, the guinea-fowls screamed, and the pigeons, forsaking their
elevated position on the summit of the dove-house, descended to the
sandy surface of the yard, and stood cooing and caressing each other
with every manifestation of joy. The arrival of Fleur-de-Marie had
occasioned all these ecstatic delights.
A more charming model than the Goualeuse could not have been desired by
Greuze or Watteau, had her cheeks possessed a little more _rondeur_ or
been visited by a brighter tinge; but, spite of their delicate paleness,
the expression of her features, the _tout ensemble_ of her figure, and
the gracefulness of her attitude would have rendered her worthy of
exercising the crayons of even the celebrated artists we have alluded
to.
The small round cap of Fleur-de-Marie displayed her fair forehead and
light, braided hair, in common with all the young girls in the environs
of Paris; above this cap, but still exposing the crown and ears, she
wore a large red cotton handkerchief, folded smoothly, and pinned behind
her head; while the long ends waving gracefully over her shoulders
formed a costume which, for graceful effect, might be envied by the
tasteful _coiffeurs_ of Italy or Switzerland. A handkerchief of
snow-white linen, crossed over her bosom, was half concealed by the high
and spreading front of her coarse cloth apron. A jacket of blue woollen
cloth with tight sleeves displayed her slender figure, and descended
half way down her thick skirt of dark-striped fustian; white cotton
stockings and tied shoes, partly covered by sabots, furnished with a
leather strap for the instep, completed this costume of rustic
simplicity, to which the natural grace of Fleur-de-Marie lent an
inexpressible charm.
Holding in one hand the two corners of her apron, with the other she
distributed handfuls of grain among the winged crowd by which she was
surrounded. One beautiful pigeon of a silvery whiteness, with beak and
feet of a rich purple colour, more presuming or more indulged than the
rest, after having flown several times around Fleur-de-Marie, at length
alighted on her shoulder; the young girl, as though well used to these
familiarities, continued, wholly undisturbed, to throw out continued
supplies of grain; but, half turning her head till its perfect outline
alone was visible, she gently raised her head, and smilingly offered her
small rosy lips to meet those of her fond, caressing friend. The last
rays of the setting sun shed a pale golden light over this innocent
picture.
While the Goualeuse was thus occupied with her rural cares, Madame
Georges and the Abbé Laporte, curé of Bouqueval, sitting by the fireside
in the neat little parlour of the farm, were conversing on the one
constant theme,--Fleur-de-Marie. The old curé, with a pensive,
thoughtful air, his head bent downwards, and his elbows leaning on his
knees, mechanically stretched his two trembling hands before the fire.
Madame Georges, laying aside the needlework on which she had been
occupied, kept an anxious eye on the abbé, as though eagerly waiting for
some observation from him. After a moment's silence:
"Yes," said he, "you are right, Madame Georges; it will be better for M.
Rodolph to question Marie, for she is so filled with deep gratitude and
devotion to him, that she will probably reveal to him what she persists
in concealing from us."
"Then, since you agree with me, M. le Curé, I will write, this very
evening, to the address he left with me,--the Allée des Veuves."
"Poor child," sighed the kind old man, "she ought to have been so happy
here! What secret grief can thus be preying on her mind?"
[Illustration: "_At Length Alighted on Her Shoulder_"
Original Etching by L. Poiteau]
"Her unhappiness is too deeply fixed to be removed even by her earnest
and passionate application to study."
"And yet she has made a most rapid and extraordinary progress since she
has been under our care, has she not?"
"She has, indeed; already she can read and write with the utmost
fluency, and is already sufficiently advanced in arithmetic to assist me
in keeping my farm accounts; and then the dear child is so active and
industrious, and really affords me so much assistance as both surprises
me and moves me to tears. You know that, spite of my repeated
remonstrances, she persisted in working so hard, that I became quite
alarmed lest such toil should seriously affect her health."
"I am thankful to hear from you," resumed the worthy curé, "that your
negro doctor has fully quieted your apprehensions respecting the cough
your young friend suffered from; he says it is merely temporary, and
gives no reason for uneasiness."
"Oh, that kind, excellent M. David! He really appeared to feel the same
interest in the poor girl that we did who know her sad story. She is
universally beloved and respected by all on the farm; though that is not
surprising, as, thanks to the generous and elevated views of M. Rodolph,
all the persons employed on it are selected for their good sense and
excellent conduct, from all parts of the kingdom; but were it not
so,--were they of the common herd of vulgar-minded labourers, they could
not help feeling the influence of Marie's angelic sweetness, and timid,
graceful manner, as though she were always deprecating anger, or
beseeching pardon for some involuntary fault. Unfortunate being! as
though she alone were to blame."
After remaining for several minutes buried in reflection, the abbé
resumed:
"Did you not tell me that this deep dejection of Marie's might be dated
from the time when Madame Dubreuil, who rents under the Duke de
Lucenay, paid her a visit during the feast of the Holy Ghost?"
"Yes, M. le Curé, I did. And yet Madame Dubreuil and her daughter Clara
(a perfect model of candour and goodness) were as much taken with our
dear child as every one else who approaches her; and both of them
lavished on her every mark of the most affectionate regard. You know
that we pass the Sunday alternately at each other's house; but it
invariably happens that, when we return from our Sunday excursion to
Arnouville, where Madame Dubreuil and her daughter reside, the
melancholy of my dear Marie seems augmented, and her spirits more
depressed than ever. I cannot comprehend why this should be, when Madame
Dubreuil treats her like a second daughter, and the sweet Clara loves
her with the tender affection of a sister."
"In truth, Madame Georges, it is a fearful mystery; what can occasion
all this hidden sorrow, when here she need not have a single care? The
difference between her present and past life must be as great as that
which exists between heaven and the abode of the damned. Surely, hers is
not an ungrateful disposition?"
"She ungrateful! Oh, no, M. le Curé! her sensitive and affectionate
nature magnifies the slightest service rendered her, and she appears as
though her gratitude could never be sufficiently evinced. There is, too,
in her every thought an instinctive delicacy and fineness of feeling
wholly incompatible with ingratitude, which could never be harboured in
so noble a nature as that of my charge. Dear Marie, how anxious does she
seem to earn the bread she eats, and how eagerly she strives to
compensate the hospitality shown her, by every exertion she can make, or
service she can render! And, then, except on Sunday, when I make it a
point she should dress herself with more regard to appearance to
accompany me to church, she will only wear the coarse, humble garments
worn by our young peasant girls; and yet there is in her such an air of
native superiority, so natural a grace, that one would not desire to see
her otherwise attired, would they, M. le Curé?"
"Ah, mother's pride! Beware!" said the old priest, smiling.
At these words, tears filled the eyes of Madame Georges; she thought of
her long-lost child, and of his possible destiny.
"Come, come, dear friend, cheer up! Look upon our dear Marie as sent by
a gracious Providence to occupy your maternal affections until the
blessed moment when he shall restore you your son; and, besides, you
have a sacred duty to perform towards this child of your adoption. Are
you not her baptismal godmother? And, believe me, when that office is
worthily discharged, it almost equals that of a mother. As for M.
Rodolph, he has discharged his obligation of godfather by anticipation,
for, in snatching her from the abyss of crime into which her misfortunes
and her helplessness had cast her, he may be said to have caused her
immortal existence to begin."
"Doubtless the poor thing has never received the sacrament of our holy
church. Do you think, M. le Curé, she is now sufficiently acquainted
with its sanctified purposes to be admitted to a participation of it?"
"I will take an opportunity of learning her sentiments on the subject as
we walk back to the rectory. I shall then apprise her that the holy
ceremony will take place probably in about a fortnight from hence."
"How gratefully she will receive such an information; her religious
feelings are the strongest I have ever met with."
"Alas, poor thing! she has deep and heavy expiation to make for the
errors of her past life."
"Nay, M. l'Abbé, consider. Abandoned so young, without resource, without
friends, almost without a knowledge of good or evil, plunged
involuntarily into the very vortex of crime, what was there to prevent
her from falling the bitter sacrifice she has been?"
"The clear, moral sense of right and wrong implanted by the Creator in
every breast should have withheld her; and, besides, we have no evidence
of her having even sought to escape from the horrible fate into which
she had fallen. Is there no friendly hand to be found in Paris to listen
to the cries of suffering virtue? Is charity so rare, so hard to obtain
in that large city?"
"Let us hope not, M. l'Abbé; but how to discover it is the difficulty.
Ere arriving at the knowledge of one kind, commiserating Christian,
think of the refusals, the rebukes, the denials to be endured. And,
then, in such a case as our poor Marie's, it was no passing temporary
aid that could avail her, but the steady, continued patronage and
support, the being placed in the way to earn an honest livelihood. Many
tender and pitying mothers would have succoured her had they known her
sad case, I doubt not, but it was first requisite to secure the
happiness of knowing where to meet with them. Trust me, I, too, have
known want and misery. But for one of those providential chances which,
alas! too late, threw poor Marie in the way of M. Rodolph,--but for one
of those casualties, the wretched and destitute, most commonly repulsed
with rude denial on their first applications, believe pity irretrievably
lost, and, pressed by hunger, fierce, clamorous hunger, often seek in
vice that relief they despair to obtain from commiseration."
At this moment the Goualeuse entered the parlour.
"Where have you been, my dear child?" inquired Madame Georges,
anxiously.
"Visiting the fruit-house, madame, after having shut up the hen-houses
and gates of the poultry-yard. All the fruit has kept excellently,--all
but those I ran away with and ate."
"Now, Marie, why take all this fatigue upon yourself? You should have
left all this tiring work to Claudine; I fear you have quite tired
yourself."
"No, no! dear Madame Georges; I wouldn't let Claudine help me for the
world. I take so much delight in my fruit-house,--the smell of the
beautiful ripe fruit is so delicious."
"M. le Curé," said Madame Georges, "you must go some day and see Marie's
fruit-house. You can scarcely imagine the taste with which she has
arranged it; each different variety of fruit is separated by rows of
grapes, and the grapes are again divided off by strips of moss."
"Oh, yes, M. le Curé; pray do come and see it," said the Goualeuse,
innocently; "I am sure you would be pleased with it. You would be
surprised what a pretty contrast the moss makes to the bright rosy
apples or the rich golden pears. There are some such lovely waxen
apples, quite a pure red and white; and really, as they lie surrounded
by the soft green moss, I cannot help thinking of the heads of little
cherubim just peeping out from the glorious clouds of heaven," added the
delighted Goualeuse, speaking with all the enthusiasm of an artist of
the work of her creation.
The curé looked at Madame Georges, then smilingly replied to
Fleur-de-Marie:
"I have already admired the dairy over which you preside, my child, and
can venture to declare it perfect in its way; the most particular
dairy-woman might envy you the perfection to which you have brought it.
Ere long, I promise myself the pleasure of visiting your fruit-house,
and passing a similar compliment on your skill in arrangement. You shall
then introduce me to those charming rosy apples and delicious golden
pears, as well as to the little cherubim pippins so prettily peeping
from their mossy beds. But see! the sun has already set; you will
scarcely have sufficient time to conduct me back to the rectory-house
and return before dark. Come, my child, fetch your cloak, and let us be
gone; or, now I think of it, do you remain at home this cold bitter
night, and let one of the farm servants go home with me."
"Oh, M. le Curé," replied the kind Madame Georges, "Marie will be quite
wretched if she is not allowed to accompany you; she so much enjoys the
happiness of escorting you home every evening."
"Indeed, Monsieur le Curé," added the Goualeuse, timidly raising her
large blue eyes to the priest's countenance, "I shall fear you are
displeased with me if you do not permit me to accompany you as usual."
"Well, then, my dear child, wrap yourself up very warm, and let us go."
Fleur-de-Marie hastily threw over her shoulders a sort of cloak of
coarse white cloth, edged with black velvet, and with a large hood, to
be drawn at pleasure over the head. Thus equipped, she eagerly offered
her arm to her venerable friend.
"Happily," said he, in taking it, "the distance is but trifling, and the
road both good and safe to pass at all hours."
"As it is somewhat later to-night than usual," said Madame Georges,
"will you have one of the farm-people to return with you, Marie?"
"Do you take me for a coward?" said Marie, playfully. "I am very much
obliged to you for your good opinion, madame. No, pray do not let any
one be called away on my account. It is not a quarter of an hour's walk
from here to the rectory. I shall be back long before dark."
"Well, as you like. I merely thought it would be company for you; for as
to fearing, thank heaven, there is no cause. Loose vagabond people,
likely to interrupt your progress, are wholly unknown here."
"And, were I not equally sure of the absence of all danger, I would not
accept this dear child's arm," added the curé, "useful as, I confess, I
find it."
And, leaning on Fleur-de-Marie, who regulated her light step to suit the
slow and laboured pace of the old man, the two friends quitted the farm.
A few minutes' walk brought the Goualeuse and the priest close to the
hollow road in which the Schoolmaster, the Chouette, and Tortillard,
were lying in ambush.
CHAPTER IV.
THE AMBUSCADE.
The church and parsonage of Bouqueval were placed on the side of a hill
covered with chestnut-trees, and commanded an entire view of the
village. Fleur-de-Marie and the abbé reached a winding path which led to
the clergyman's home, crossing the sunken road by which the hill was
intersected diagonally. The Chouette, the Schoolmaster, and Tortillard,
concealed in one of the hollows of the road, saw the priest and
Fleur-de-Marie descend into the ravine, and leave it again by a steep
declivity. The features of the young girl being hidden under the hood of
her cloak, the Chouette did not recognise her old victim.
"Silence, my old boy," said the old harridan to the Schoolmaster; "the
young 'mot' and the 'black slug' are just crossing the path. I know her
by the description which the tall man in black gave us; a country
appearance, neither tall nor short; a petticoat shot with brown, and a
woollen mantle with a black border. She walks every day with a
'devil-dodger' to his 'crib,' and returns alone. When she come back,
which she will do presently by the end of the road, we must spring upon
her and carry her off to the coach."
"If she cries for help," replied the Schoolmaster, "they will hear her
at the farm, if, as you say, the out-buildings are visible from here;
for you--you can see," he added, in a sullen tone.
"Oh, yes, we can see the buildings from here quite plainly," said
Tortillard. "It is only a minute ago that I climbed to the top of the
bank, and, lying down on my belly, I could hear a carter who was talking
to his horses in the yard there."
"I'll tell you, then, what we must do," said the Schoolmaster, after a
moment's silence. "Let Tortillard have the watch at the entrance to the
path. When he sees the young girl returning, let him go and meet her,
saying that he is the son of a poor old woman who has hurt herself by
falling down the hollow road, and beg the girl to come to her
assistance."
"I'm up to you, _fourline_; the poor old woman is your darling Chouette.
You're 'wide-awake!' My man, you are always the king of the 'downy ones'
(_têtards_). What must I do afterwards?"
"Conceal yourself in the hollow way on the side where Barbillon is
waiting with the coach. I will be at hand. When Tortillard has brought
the wench to you in the middle of the ravine, leave off whimpering and
spring upon her, put one 'mauley' round her 'squeeze,' and the other
into her 'patter-box,' and 'grab' her 'red rag' to prevent her from
squeaking."
"I know, I know, _fourline_; as we did with the woman at the canal of
St. Martin, when we gave her cold water for supper (drowned her), after
having 'prigged' her 'negress' (the parcel wrapped in black oil-skin)
which she had under her arm,--the same 'dodge,' isn't it?"
"Yes, precisely. But mind, grab the girl tight whilst Tortillard comes
and fetches me. We three will then bundle her up in my cloak, carry her
to Barbillon's coach, from thence to the plain of St. Denis, where the
man in black will await us."
"That's the way to do business, my _fourline_; you are without an equal!
If I could, I would let off a firework on your head, and illuminate you
with the colours of Saint Charlot, the patron of 'scragsmen.' Do you
see, you urchin? If you would be an 'out-and-outer,' make my husband
your model," said the Chouette, boastingly to Tortillard. Then,
addressing the Schoolmaster, "By the way, do you know that Barbillon is
in an awful 'funk' (fright)? He thinks that he shall be had up before
the 'beaks' on a swinging matter."
"Why?"
"The other day, returning from Mother Martial's, the widow of the man
who was scragged, and who keeps the boozing-ken in the Ile du Ravageur,
Barbillon, the Gros-Boiteux, and the Skeleton had a row with the husband
of the milkwoman who comes every morning from the country in a little
cart drawn by a donkey, to sell her milk in the Cité, at the corner of
the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie, close to the ogress's of the 'White
Rabbit,' and they 'walked into him with their slashers' (killed him with
their knives)."
The son of Bras Rouge, who did not understand slang, listened to the
Chouette with a sort of disappointed curiosity.
"You would like to know, little man, what we are saying, wouldn't you?"
"Yes. You were talking of Mother Martial, who is at the Ile du Ravageur,
near Asnières. I know her very well, and her daughter Calebasse and
François and Amandine, who are about as old as I am, and who are made to
bear everybody's snubs and thumps in the house. But when you talked of
'walking into (_buter_) any one,' that's slang, I know."
"It is; and, if you're a very good chap, I'll teach you to 'patter
flash.' You're just the age when it may be very useful to you. Would you
like to learn, my precious lambkin?"
"I rather think I should, too, and no mistake; and I would rather live
with you than with my old cheat of a mountebank, pounding his drugs. If
I knew where he hides his 'rat-poison for men,' I'd put some in his
soup, and then that would settle the quarrel between us."
The Chouette laughed heartily, and said to Tortillard, drawing him
towards her:
"Come, chick, and kiss his mammy. What a droll boy it is--a darling!
But, my manikin, how didst know that he had 'rat-poison for men'?"
"Why, 'cause I heard him say so one day when I was hid in the cupboard
in the room where he keeps his bottles, his brass machines, and where he
mixes his stuffs together."
"What did you hear him say?" asked the Chouette.
"I heard him say to a gentleman that he gave a powder to, in a paper,
'When you are tired of life, take this in three doses, and you will
sleep without sickness or sorrow.'"
"Who was the gentleman?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"Oh, a very handsome gentleman with black moustachios, and a face as
pretty as a girl's. He came another time; and then, when he left, I
followed him, by M. Bradamanti's order, to find out where he perched.
The fine gentleman went into the Rue de Chaillot, and entered a very
grand house. My master said to me, 'No matter where this gentleman goes,
follow and wait for him at the door. If he comes out again, still keep
your eye on him, until he does not come out of the place where he
enters, and that will prove that he lives there. Then Tortillard, my
boy, twist (_tortille_) yourself about to find out his name, or I will
twist your ears in a way that will astonish you.'"
"Well?"
"Well, I did twist myself about, and found out his name."
"How did you manage it?" inquired the Schoolmaster.
"Why, so. I'm not a fool; so I went to the porter at the house in the
Rue de Chaillot, where this gentleman had gone in and not come out
again. The porter had his hair finely powdered, with a fine brown coat
with a yellow collar trimmed with silver. So I says to him, 'Good
gentleman, I have come to ask for a hundred sous which the gentleman of
the house has promised me for having found his dog and brought it back
to him--a little black dog called Trumpet; and the gentleman with dark
features, with black moustachios, a white riding-coat, and light blue
pantaloons, told me he lived at No. 11 Rue de Chaillot, and that his
name was Dupont.' 'The gentleman you're talking of is my master, and his
name is the Viscount de St. Remy, and we have no dog here but yourself,
you young scamp; so "cut your stick," or I'll make you remember coming
here, and trying to do me out of a hundred sous,' says the porter to me;
and he gave me a kick as he said it. But I didn't mind that," added
Tortillard most philosophically, "for I found out the name of the
handsome young gentleman with black moustachios, who came to my master's
to buy the 'rat-poison for men' who are tired of living. He is called
the Viscount de St. Remy,--my--my--St. Remy," added the son of Bras
Rouge, humming the last words, as was his usual habit.
"Clever little darling--I could eat him up alive!" said the Chouette,
embracing Tortillard. "Never was such a knowing fellow. He deserves that
I should be his mother, the dear rascal does."
And the hag embraced Tortillard with an absurd affectation. The son of
Bras Rouge, touched by this proof of affection, and desirous of showing
his gratitude, eagerly answered:
"Only you tell me what to do, and you shall see how I'll do it."
"Will you, though? Well, then, you sha'n't repent doing so."
"Oh, I should like always to stay with you!"
"If you behave well, we may see about that. You sha'n't leave us if you
are a good boy."
"Yes," said the Schoolmaster, "you shall lead me about like a poor blind
man, and say you are my son. We will get into houses in this way, and
then--ten thousand slaughters!" added the assassin with enthusiasm; "the
Chouette will assist us in making lucky hits. I will then teach that
devil of a Rodolph, who blinded me, that I am not yet quite done for. He
took away my eyesight, but he could not, did not remove my bent for
mischief. I would be the head, Tortillard the eyes, and you the
hand,--eh, Chouette? You will help me in this, won't you?"
"Am I not with you to gallows and rope, _fourline_? Didn't I, when I
left the hospital, and learnt that you had sent the 'yokel' from St.
Mandé to ask for me at the ogress's--didn't I run to you at the village
directly, telling those chawbacons of labourers that I was your _rib_?"
These words of the "one-eyed's" reminded the Schoolmaster of an
unpleasant affair, and, altering his tone and language with the
Chouette, he said, in a surly tone:
"Yes, I was getting tired of being all by myself with these honest
people. After a month I could not stand it any longer; I was frightened.
So then I thought of trying to find you out; and a nice thing I did for
myself," he added, in a tone of increasing anger; "for the day after you
arrived I was robbed of the rest of the money which that devil in the
Allée des Veuves had given me. Yes, some one stole my belt full of gold
whilst I was asleep. It was only you who could have done it; and so now
I am at your mercy. Whenever I think of it, I can hardly restrain myself
from killing you on the spot--you cursed old robber, you!" and he
stepped towards the old woman.
"Look out for yourself, if you try to do any harm to the Chouette!"
cried Tortillard.
"I will smash you both--you and she--base vipers as you are!" cried the
ruffian, enraged; and, hearing the boy mumbling near him, he aimed at
him so violent a blow with his fist, as must have killed him if it had
struck him. Tortillard, as much to revenge himself as the Chouette,
picked up a stone, took aim, and struck the Schoolmaster on the
forehead. The blow was not dangerous, but very painful. The brigand grew
furious with passion, raging like a wounded bull, and, rushing forward
swiftly and at random, stumbled.
"What, break your own back?" shouted the Chouette, laughing till she
cried.
Despite the bloody ties which bound her to this monster, she saw how
entirely, and with a sort of savage delight, this man, formerly so
dreaded, and so proud of his giant strength, was reduced to impotence.
The old wretch, by these feelings, justified that cold-blooded idea of
La Rochefoucauld's, that "there is something in the misfortunes of our
best friends which does not displease us." The disgusting brat, with his
tawny cheeks and weasel face, enjoyed and participated in the mirth of
the one-eyed hag. The Schoolmaster tripped again, and the urchin
exclaimed:
"Open your peepers, old fellow; look about you. You are going the wrong
way. What capers you are cutting! Can't you see your way? Why don't you
wipe your eye-glasses?"
Unable to seize on the boy, the athletic murderer stopped, struck his
foot violently on the ground, put his enormous and hairy fists to his
eyes, and then uttered a sound which resembled the hoarse scream of a
muzzled tiger.
"Got a bad cough, I'm afraid, old chap!" said Bras Rouge's brat. "You're
hoarse, I'm afraid? I have some capital liquorice which a _gen-d'arme_
gave me. P'raps you'd like to try it?" and, taking up a handful of sand,
he threw it in the face of the ruffian.
Struck full in his countenance by this shower of gravel, the
Schoolmaster suffered still more severely by this last attack than by
the blow from the stone. Become pale, in spite of his livid and
cicatrised features, he extended his two arms suddenly in the form of a
cross, in a moment of inexpressible agony and despair, and, raising his
frightful face to heaven, he cried, in a voice of deep suffering:
"_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_"
This involuntary appeal to divine mercy by a man stained by every crime,
a bandit in whose presence but very recently the most resolute of his
fellows trembled, appeared like an interposition of Providence.
"Ha! ha! ha!" said the Chouette, in a mocking tone; "look at the thief
making the crucifix! You mistake your road, my man. It is the 'old one'
you should call to your help."
"A knife! Oh, for a knife to kill myself! A knife! since all the world
abandons me!" shrieked the wretch, gnawing his fists for very agony and
rage.
"A knife!--there's one in your pocket, cut-throat, and with an edge,
too. The little old man in the Rue du Roule, you know, one moonlight
night, and the cattle-dealer in the Poissy road, could tell the 'moles'
all about it. But if you want it, it's here."
The Schoolmaster, when thus instructed, changed the conversation, and
replied, in a surly and threatening tone:
"The Chourineur was true; he did not rob, but had pity on me."
"Why did you say that I had 'prigged your blunt'?" inquired the
Chouette, hardly able to restrain her laughter.
"It was only you who came into my room," said the miscreant. "I was
robbed on the night of your arrival, and who else could I suspect? Those
country people could not have done such a thing."
"Why should not country people steal as well as other folks? Is it
because they drink milk and gather grass for their rabbits?"
"I don't know. I only know I'm robbed."
"And is that the fault of your own Chouette? What! suspect me? Do you
think if I had got your belt that I should stay any longer with you.
What a fool you are! Why, if I had chosen to 'pouch your blunt,' I
could, of course; but, as true as I'm Chouette, you would have seen me
again when the 'pewter' was spent, for I like you as well now with your
eyes white, as I did--you rogue, you! Come, be decent, and leave off
grinding your 'snags' in that way, or you'll break 'em."
"It's just as if he was a-cracking nuts," said Tortillard.
"Ha! ha! ha! what a droll baby it is! But quiet, now, quiet, my man of
men; let him laugh, it is but an infant. You must own you have been
unfair; for when the tall man in mourning, who looks like a mute at a
funeral, said to me, 'A thousand francs are yours if you carry off this
young girl from the farm at Bouqueval, and bring her to the spot in the
Plain of St. Denis that I shall tell you,' say, cut-throat, didn't I
directly tell you of the affair and agree to share with you, instead of
choosing some 'pal' with his eyesight clear? Why, it's like making you a
handsome present for doing nothing; for unless to bundle up the girl and
carry her, with Tortillard's assistance, you would be of no more use to
me than the fifth wheel to an omnibus. But never mind; for, although I
could have robbed you if I would, I like, on the contrary, to do you
service. I should wish you to owe everything to your darling
Chouette--that's my way, that is. We must give two hundred 'bob' to
Barbillon for driving the coach, and coming once before with the servant
of the tall man in mourning, to look about the place and determine where
we should hide ourselves whilst we waited for the young miss; and then
we shall have eight hundred 'bob' between us. What do you say to that
old boy? What! still angry with your old woman?"
"How do I know that you will give me a 'mag' when once the thing's done?
Why!--I"--said the ruffian, in a tone of gloomy distrust.
"Why, if I like, I need not give you a dump, that's true enough; for you
are on my gridiron, my lad, as I once had the Goualeuse; and so I will
broil you to my own taste, till the 'old one' gets the cooking of my
darling--ha! ha! ha! What, still sulky with your Chouette?" added the
horrible woman, patting the shoulder of the ruffian, who stood mute and
motionless.
"You are right," said he, with a sigh of concentrated rage; "it is my
fate--mine--mine! At the mercy of a woman and child whom but lately I
could have killed with a blow. Oh, if I were not afraid of dying!" said
he, falling back against the bank.
"What! a coward!--you--you a coward!" said the Chouette, contemptuously.
"Why, you'll be talking next of your conscience! What a precious farce!
Well, if you haven't more pluck than that, I'll 'cut' and leave you."
"And that I cannot have my revenge of the man who in thus making a
martyr of me has reduced me to the wretched situation in which I am!"
screamed the Schoolmaster, in a renewal of fury. "I am afraid of
death--yes, I own it, I am afraid. But if I were told, 'This man Rodolph
is between your arms--your two arms--and now you shall both be flung
into a pit,' I would say, 'Throw us, then, at once.' Yes, for then I
should be safe not to relax my clutch, till we both reached the bottom
together. I would fix my teeth in his face--his throat--his heart. I
would tear him to pieces with my teeth--yes, my teeth; for I should be
jealous of a knife!"
"Bravo, _fourline_! now you are my own dear love again. Calm yourself.
We will find him again, that wretch of a Rodolph, and the Chourineur
too. Come, pluck up, old man; we will yet work our will on them both. I
say it, on both!"
"Well, then, you will not forsake me?" cried the brigand to the Chouette
in a subdued tone, mingled, however, with distrust. "If you do leave me,
what will become of me?"
"That's true. I say, _fourline_, what a joke if Tortillard and I were to
'mizzle' with the 'drag,' and leave you where you are--in the middle of
the fields; and the night air begins to nip very sharp. I say, it would
be a joke, old cutpurse, wouldn't it?"
At this threat the Schoolmaster shuddered, and, coming towards the
Chouette, said tremulously, "No, no, you wouldn't do that, Chouette; nor
you, Tortillard. It would be too bad, wouldn't it?"
"Ha! ha! ha! 'Too bad,' says he, the gentle dear! And the little old man
in the Rue du Roule; and the cattle-dealer and the woman in Saint
Martin's Canal; and the gentleman in the Allée des Veuves; they found
you nice and amiable, I don't think--didn't they--with your
'larding-pin?' Why, then, in your turn, shouldn't you be left to such
tender mercy as you have showed?"
"I'm in your power, don't abuse it," said the Schoolmaster. "Come, come,
I confess I was wrong to suspect you. I was wrong to try and thump
Tortillard; and, you see, I beg pardon; and of you too, Tortillard. Yes,
I ask pardon of both."
"I will have you ask pardon on your knees for having tried to beat the
Chouette," said Tortillard.
"You rum little beggar, how funny you are!" said the Chouette, laughing
loudly; "but I should like to see what a 'guy' you will make of
yourself. So on your knees, as if you were 'pattering' love to your old
darling. Come, do it directly, or we will leave you; and I tell you that
in half an hour it will be quite dark, though you don't look as if you
thought so, old 'No-Eyes.'"
"Night or day, what's that to him?" said Tortillard, saucily. "The
gentleman always has his shutters closed."
"Then here, on my knees, I humbly ask your pardon, Chouette; and yours
also, Tortillard! Will not that content you?" said the robber, kneeling
in the middle of the highway. "And now will you leave me?"
This strange group, enclosed by the embankment of the ravine, and
lighted by the red glimmer of the twilight, was hideous to behold. In
the middle of the road the Schoolmaster, on his knees, extended his
large and coarse hands towards the one-eyed hag; his thick and matted
hair, which his fright had dishevelled, left exposed his motionless,
rigid, glassy, dead eyeballs--the very glance of a corpse. Stooping
deprecatingly his broad-spread shoulders, this Hercules kneels abjectly,
and trembles at the feet of an old woman and a child!
The old hag herself, wrapped in a red-checked shawl, her head covered
with an old cap of black lace, which allowed some locks of her grizzled
hair to escape, looked down with an air of haughty contempt and
domineering pride on the Schoolmaster. The bony, scorched, shrivelled,
and livid countenance of the parrot-nosed old harridan expressed a
savage and insulting joy; her small but fierce eye glistened like a
burning coal; a sinister expression curled her lips, shaded with long
straight hairs, and revealed three or four large, yellow, and decayed
fangs.
Tortillard, clothed in a blouse with a leathern belt, standing on one
leg, leaned on the Chouette's arm to keep himself upright. The bad
expression and cunning look of this deformed imp, with a complexion as
sallow as his hair, betokened at this moment his disposition--half
fiend, half monkey. The shadow cast from the declivity of the ravine
increased the horrid _tout ensemble_ of the scene, which the increasing
darkness half hid.
"Promise me,--oh, promise me--at least, not to forsake me!" repeated
the Schoolmaster, frightened by the silence of the Chouette and
Tortillard, who were enjoying his dismay. "Are you not here?" added the
murderer, leaning forward to listen, and advancing his arms
mechanically.
"Yes, my man, we are here; don't be frightened. Forsake you! leave my
love! the man of my heart! No, I'd sooner be 'scragged'! Once for all, I
will tell you why I will not forsake you. Listen, and profit. I have
always liked to have some one in my grip--beast or Christian. Before I
had Pegriotte (oh! that the 'old one' would return her to my clutch! for
I have still my idea of scaling off her beauty with my bottle of
vitriol)--before Pegriotte's turn, I had a brat who froze to death under
my care. For that little job, I got six years in the 'Stone Jug.' Then I
used to have little birds, which I used to tame, and then pluck 'em
alive. Ha! ha! but that was troublesome work, for they did not last
long. When I left the 'Jug,' the Goualeuse came to hand; but the little
brat ran away before I had had half my fun out of her carcass. Well,
then I had a dog, who had his little troubles as well as she had; and I
cut off one of his hind feet and one of his four feet; and you never saw
such a rum beggar as I made of him; I almost burst my sides with
laughing at him!"
"I must serve a dog I know of, who bit me one day, in the same way,"
said the promising Master Tortillard.
"When I fell in again with you, my darling," continued the Chouette, "I
was trying what I could do that was miserable with a cat. Well, now, at
this moment, you, old boy, shall be my cat, my dog, my bird, my
Pegriotte; you shall be anything to worry (_bête de souffrance_). Do you
understand, my love? Instead of having a bird or a child to make
miserable, I shall have, as it were, a wolf or a tiger. I think that's
rather a bright idea; isn't it?"
"Hag! devil!" cried the Schoolmaster, rising in a desperate rage.
"What, my pet angry with his darling old deary? Well, if it must be so,
it must. Have your own way; you have a right to it. Good night, blind
sheep!"
"The field-gate is wide open, so walk alone, Mister No-eyes; and, if you
toddle straight, you'll reach the right road somehow," said Tortillard,
laughing heartily.
"Oh, that I could die! die! die!" said the Schoolmaster, writhing and
twisting his arms about in agony.
At this moment, Tortillard, stooping to the ground, exclaimed, in a low
voice:
"I hear footsteps in the path; let us hide; it is not the young miss,
for they come the same way as she did."
On the instant, a stout peasant girl in the prime of youth, followed by
a large shepherd's dog, carrying on her head an open basket, appeared,
and followed the same path which the priest and the Goualeuse had taken.
We will rejoin the two latter, leaving the three accomplices concealed
in the hollow of the path.
CHAPTER V.
THE RECTORY-HOUSE.
The last rays of the sun were gradually disappearing behind the vast
pile of the Château d'Ecouen and the woods which surrounded it. On all
sides, until the sight lost them in the distance, were vast tracts of
land lying in brown furrows hardened by the frost--an extensive desert,
of which the hamlet of Bouqueval appeared to be the oasis. The sky,
which was serenely glorious, was tinted by the sunset, and glowed with
long lines of empurpled light, the certain token of wind and cold. These
tints, which were at first of a deep red, became violet; then a bluish
black, as the twilight grew more and more dark on the atmosphere. The
crescent of the moon was as delicately and clearly defined as a silver
ring, and began to shine beautifully in the midst of the blue and dimmed
sky, where many stars already had appeared. The silence was profound;
the hour most solemn. The curate stopped for a moment on the summit of
the acclivity to enjoy the calm of this delicious evening. After some
minutes' reflection, he extended his trembling hand towards the depths
of the horizon, half veiled by the shadows of the evening, and said to
Fleur-de-Marie, who was walking pensively beside him:
"Look, my child, at the vastness and extent to which we have no visible
limit; we hear not the slightest sound. Say, does not this silence give
us an idea of infinity and of eternity? I say this to you, Marie,
because you are peculiarly sensitive of the beauties of creation. I
have often been struck at the admiration, alike poetical and religious,
with which they inspire you,--you, a poor prisoner so long deprived of
them. Are you not, as I am, struck with the solemn tranquillity of the
hour?"
The Goualeuse made no reply. The curé, regarding her with astonishment,
found she was weeping.
"What ails you, my child?"
"My father, I am unhappy!"
"Unhappy!--you?--still unhappy!"
"I know it is ingratitude to complain of my lot after all that has been
and is done for me; and yet--"
"And yet?"
"Father, I pray of you forgive my sorrows; their expression may offend
my benefactors."
"Listen, Marie. We have often asked you the cause of these sorrows with
which you are depressed, and which excite in your second mother the most
serious uneasiness. You have avoided all reply, and we have respected
your secret whilst we have been afflicted at not being able to solace
your sorrows."
"Alas; good father, I dare not tell you what is passing in my mind. I
have been moved, as you have been, at the sight of this calm and
saddening evening. My heart is sorely afflicted, and I have wept."
"But what ails you, Marie? You know how we love you! Come, tell me all.
You should; for I must tell you that the time is very close at hand when
Madame Georges and M. Rodolph will present you at the baptismal font,
and take upon themselves the engagement before God to protect you all
the days of your life."
"M. Rodolph--he who has saved me?" cried Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her
hands; "he will deign to give me this new proof of affection! Oh,
indeed, my father, I can no longer conceal from you anything, lest I
should, indeed, deserve to be called and thought an ingrate."
"An ingrate! How?"
"That you may understand me, I must begin and tell you of my first day
at the farm."
"Then let us talk as we walk on."
"You will be indulgent to me, my father? What I shall say may perhaps be
wrong."
"The Lord has shown his mercy unto you. Be of good heart."
"When," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection, "I knew that,
on arriving here, I should not again leave the farm and Madame Georges,
I believed it was all a dream. At first I felt giddy with my happiness,
and thought every moment of M. Rodolph. Very often when I was alone, and
in spite of myself, I raised my eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there
and thank him. Afterwards--and I was wrong, father--I thought more of
him than God, attributing to him what God alone could do. I was
happy--as happy as a creature who had suddenly and entirely escaped from
a great danger. You and Madame Georges were so kind to me, that I
thought I deserved pity rather than blame."
The curé looked at the Goualeuse with an air of surprise. She continued:
"Gradually I became used to my sweet course of life. I no longer felt
fear when I awoke, of finding myself at the ogress's. I seemed to sleep
in full security, and all my delight was to assist Madame Georges in her
work, and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my father, as well
as to profit by your advice and exhortation. Except some moments of
shame, when I reflected on the past, I thought myself equal to all the
world, because all the world was so kind to me. When, one day--"
Here sobs cut short poor Fleur-de-Marie's narration.
"Come, come, my poor child, calm yourself. Courage, courage!"
The Goualeuse wiped her eyes, and resumed:
"You recollect, father, during the fêtes of the Toussaints, that Madame
Dubreuil, who superintends the Duke de Lucenay's farm at Arnouville,
came, with her daughter, to pass some time with us?"
"I do; and I was delighted to see you form an acquaintance with Clara
Dubreuil, who is a very excellent girl."
"She is an angel--an angel, father. When I knew that she was coming to
stay for some days at the farm, my delight was so great that I could
think of nothing else but the moment when she should arrive. At length
she came. I was in my room, which she was to share with me; and, whilst
I was putting it into nice order I was sent for. I went into the saloon,
my heart beating excessively, when Madame Georges, presenting me to the
pretty young lady, whose looks were so kind and good, said, 'Marie, here
is a friend for you.' 'I hope,' added Madame Dubreuil, 'that you and my
daughter will soon be like two sisters;' and hardly had her mother
uttered these words, than Mademoiselle Clara came and embraced me. Then,
father," continued Fleur-de-Marie, weeping, "I do not know what came
over me; but, when I felt the fresh and fair face of Clara pressed
against my cheek of shame, that cheek became scorching with
guilt--remorse. I remembered who and what I was;--I--I--to receive the
caresses of a good and virtuous girl!"
"Why, my child?"
"Ah, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, interrupting the curé with
painful emotion, "when M. Rodolph took me away from the Cité, I began
vaguely to be conscious of the depth of my degradation. But do you think
that education, advice, the examples I receive from Madame Georges and
yourself, have not, whilst they have enlightened my mind, made me, alas!
to comprehend but too clearly that I have been more culpable than
unfortunate? Before Clara's arrival, when these thoughts grew upon me,
I drove them away by seeking to please Madame Georges and you, father.
If I blushed for the past it was only in my own presence. But the sight
of this young lady of my own age, so charming, so virtuous, has conjured
up the recollection of the distance that exists between us; and, for the
first time, I have felt that there are wrongs which nothing can efface.
From that time the thought has haunted me perpetually, and, in spite of
myself, I recur to it. From that day I have not had one moment's
repose." The Goualeuse again wiped her eyes, that swam in tears.
After having looked at her for some moments with a gaze of the tenderest
pity, the curé replied:
"Reflect, my child, that if Madame Georges desired to see you the friend
of Mademoiselle Dubreuil, it was that she felt you were worthy of such a
confidence from your good conduct. Your reproaches, addressed to
yourself, seem almost to impugn your second mother."
"I feel that, father, and was wrong, no doubt; but I could not subdue my
shame and fear. When Clara was once settled at the farm, I was as sad as
I had before thought I should be happy, when I reflected on the pleasure
of having a companion of my own age. She, on the contrary, was all joy
and lightness. She had a bed in my apartment; and the first evening
before she went to bed she kissed me, saying that she loved me already,
and felt every kind sentiment towards me. She made me to call her Clara,
and she would call me Marie. Then she said her prayers, telling me that
she would join my name with hers in her prayers, if I would also unite
her name with mine. I did not dare to refuse; and, after talking for
some time, she went to sleep. I had not got into my bed, and,
approaching her bedside, I contemplated her angel face with tears in my
eyes; and then, reflecting that she was sleeping in the same chamber
with me--with one who had been at the ogress's, mixed up with robbers
and murderers, I trembled as if I had committed some crime, and a
thousand nameless fears beset me. I thought that God would one day
punish me. I went to sleep and had horrid dreams. I saw again those
frightful objects I had nearly forgotten--the Chourineur, the
Schoolmaster, the Chouette--that horrible, one-eyed woman who had
tortured my earliest infancy. Oh, what a night! _Mon Dieu!_--what a
night! What dreams!" said the Goualeuse, shuddering at their very
recollection.
"Poor Marie!" said the curé with emotion. "Why did you not earlier tell
me all this? I should have found comfort for you. But go on."
"I slept so late, that Mademoiselle Clara awoke me by kissing me. To
overcome what she called my coldness, and show her regard, she told me a
secret--that she was going to be married when she was eighteen to the
son of a farmer at Goussainville, whom she loved very dearly, and the
union had long been agreed upon by the two families. Then she added a
few words of her past life, so simple, calm, and happy! She had never
quitted her mother, and never intended to do so, for her husband was to
take part in the management of the farm with M. Dubreuil. 'Now, Marie,'
she said, 'you know me as well as if you were my sister. So tell me all
about your early days.'
"I thought when I heard the words that I should have died of them; I
blushed and stammered; I did not know what Madame Georges had said of
me, and I was fearful of telling a falsehood; I answered vaguely, that I
had been an orphan, educated by a very rigid person; and that I had not
been happy in my infancy; and that my happiness was dated from the
moment when I had come to live with Madame Georges; then Clara, as much
by interest as curiosity, asked me where I had been educated, in the
city or the country, my father's name, and, above all, if I remembered
anything of my mother. All these questions embarrassed as much as they
pained me, for I was obliged to reply with falsehood, and you have
taught me, father, how wicked it is to lie; but Clara did not think that
I was deceiving her; she attributed the hesitation of my answers to the
pain which my early sorrows renewed; she believed me and pitied me with
a sincerity that cut me to the soul. Oh, father, you never can know what
I suffered in this conversation, and how much it cost me only to reply
in language of falsehood and hypocrisy!"
"Unfortunate girl! The anger of heaven will weigh heavily on those who,
by casting you into the vile road of perdition, have compelled you to
undergo all your life the sad consequences of a first fault."
"Oh, yes, they were indeed cruel, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie,
bitterly, "for my shame is ineffaceable. As Clara talked to me of the
happiness that awaited her,--her marriage, her peaceful joys of home, I
could not help comparing my lot with hers; for, in spite of the kindness
showered upon me, my fate must always be miserable. You and Madame
Georges, in teaching me what virtue is, have taught me the depth of that
abasement into which I had fallen; nothing can take from me the brand of
having been the refuse of all that is vilest in the world. Alas! if the
knowledge of good and evil was to be so sad to me, why not have
abandoned me to my unhappy fate?"
"Oh, Marie, Marie!"
"Father, I speak ill, do I not? Alas! I dare not confess it; but I am at
times so ungrateful as to repine at the benefits heaped upon me, and to
say to myself, 'If I had not been snatched from infamy, why,
wretchedness, misery, blows, would soon have ended my life; and, at
least, I should have remained in ignorance of that purity which I must
for ever regret.'"
"Alas! Marie, that is indeed fatal! A nature ever so nobly endowed by
the Creator, though plunged but for one day in the foul mire from which
you have been extricated, will preserve for ever the ineffaceable
stigma."
"Yes, yes, my father," cried Fleur-de-Marie, full of grief, "I must
despair until I die!"
"You must despair of ever tearing out this frightful page from the book
of your existence," said the priest, in a sad and serious voice; "but
you must have faith in the infinite mercy of the Almighty. Here, on
earth, my poor child, there are for you tears, remorse, expiation; but,
one day, there,--up there," and he raised his hand to the sky, now
filling with stars, "there is pardon and everlasting happiness."
"Pity, pity, _mon Dieu_! I am so young, and my life may still endure so
long," said the Goualeuse, in a voice rent by agony, and falling at the
curé's knees almost involuntarily.
The priest was standing at the top of the hill, not far from where his
"modest mansion rose;" his black cassock, his venerable countenance,
shaded by long white locks, lighted by the last ray of twilight, stood
out from the horizon, which was of a deep transparency,--a perfect
clearness: pale gold in the west, sapphire over his head. The priest
again elevated towards heaven one of his tremulous hands, and gave the
other to Fleur-de-Marie, who bedewed it with her tears. The hood of her
gray cloak fell at this moment from her shoulders, displaying the
perfect outline of her lovely profile,--her charming features full of
suffering, and suffused with tears.
This simple and sublime scene offered a strange contrast,--a singular
coincidence with the horrid one which, almost at the same moment, was
passing in the ravine between the Schoolmaster and the Chouette.
Concealed in the darkness of the sombre cleft, assailed by base fears, a
fearful murderer, carrying on his person the punishment of his crimes,
was also on his knees, but in the presence of an accessory, a sneering,
revengeful Fury, who tormented him mercilessly, and urged him on to
fresh crimes,--that accomplice, the first cause of Fleur-de-Marie's
misery.
Of Fleur-de-Marie, whose days and nights were embittered by never-dying
remorse; whose anguish, hardly endurable, was not conceivable;
surrounded from her earliest days by degraded, cruel, infamous outcasts
of society; leaving the walls of a prison for the den of the
ogress,--even a more horrid prison; never leaving the precincts of her
gaol, or the squalid streets of the Cité; this unhappy young creature
had hitherto lived in utter ignorance of the beautiful and the good, as
strange to noble and religious sentiments as to the magnificent
splendour of nature. Then all that was admirable in the creature and in
the Creator was revealed in a moment to her astonished soul. At this
striking spectacle her mind expanded, her intelligence unfolded itself,
her noble instincts were awakened; and because her mind expanded,
because her intelligence was unfolded, because her noble instincts were
awakened, yet the very consciousness of her early degradation brings
with it the feeling of horror for her past life, alike torturing and
enduring,--she feels, as she had described, that, alas! there are stains
which nothing can remove.
"Ah, unhappiness for me!" said the Goualeuse, in despair; "my whole life
has long to run, it may be; were it as long, as pure as your own,
father, it must henceforth be blighted by the knowledge and
consciousness of the past; unhappiness for me for ever!"
"On the contrary, Marie, it is happiness for you,--yes, happiness for
you. Your remorse, so full of bitterness, but so purifying, testifies
the religious susceptibility of your mind. How many there are who, less
nobly sensitive than you, would, in your place, have soon forgotten the
fact, and only revelled in the delight of the present. Believe me, every
pang that you now endure will tell in your favour when on high. God has
left you for a moment in an unrighteous path, to reserve for you the
glory of repentance and the everlasting reward reserved for expiation.
Has he not said himself, 'Those who fight the good fight and come to me
with a smile on their lips, they are my chosen; but they who, wounded in
the struggle, come to me fainting and dying, they are the chosen amongst
my chosen!' Courage, then, my child! Support, help, counsel,--nothing
will fail you. I am very aged, but Madame Georges and M. Rodolph have
still many years before them; particularly M. Rodolph, who has taken so
deep an interest in you, who watches your progress with so much
anxiety."
[Illustration: "'_So I Have Brought Turk with Me_'"
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel]
The Goualeuse was about to reply, when she was interrupted by the
peasant girl whom we have already mentioned, who, having followed in the
steps of the curé and Marie, now came up to them. She was one of the
peasants of the farm.
"Beg your pardon, M. le Curé," she said to the priest, "but Madame
Georges told me to bring this basket of fruit to the rectory, and then I
could accompany Mlle. Marie back again, for it is getting late. So I
have brought Turk with me," added the dairy-maid, patting an enormous
dog of the Pyrenees, which would have mastered a bear in a struggle.
"Although we never have any bad people about us here in the country, it
is as well to be careful."
"You are quite right, Claudine. Here we are now at the rectory. Pray
thank Madame Georges for me."
Then addressing the Goualeuse in a low tone, the curé said to her, in a
grave voice:
"I must go to-morrow to the conference of the diocese, but I shall
return at five o'clock. If you like, my child, I will wait for you at
the rectory. I see your state of mind, and that you require a lengthened
conversation with me."
"I thank you, father," replied Fleur-de-Marie. "To-morrow I will come,
since you are so good as to allow me to do so."
"Here we are at the garden gate," said the priest. "Leave your basket
there, Claudine; my housekeeper will take it. Return quickly to the farm
with Marie, for it is almost night, and the cold is increasing.
To-morrow, Marie, at five o'clock."
"To-morrow, father."
The abbé went into his garden. The Goualeuse and Claudine, followed by
Turk, took the road to the farm.
CHAPTER VI.
THE RENCOUNTER.
The night set in clear and cold. Following the advice of the
Schoolmaster, the Chouette had gone to that part of the hollow way which
was the most remote from the path, and nearest to the cross-road where
Barbillon was waiting with the hackney-coach. Tortillard, who was posted
as an advanced guard, watched for the return of Fleur-de-Marie, whom he
was desirous of drawing into the trap by begging her to come to the
assistance of a poor old woman. The son of Bras Rouge had advanced a few
steps out of the ravine to try and discern Marie, when he heard the
Goualeuse some way off speaking to the peasant girl who accompanied her.
The plan had failed; and Tortillard quickly went down into the ravine to
run and inform the Chouette.
"There is somebody with the young girl," said he, in a low and
breathless tone.
"May the hangman squeeze her weasand, the little beggar," exclaimed the
Chouette in a rage.
"Who's with her?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"Oh, no doubt, the country wench who passed along the road just now,
followed by a large dog. I heard a woman's voice," said Tortillard.
"Hark!--do you hear? There's the noise of their sabots," and, in the
silence of the night, the wooden soles sounded clearly on the ground
hardened by the frost.
"There are two of 'em. I can manage the young 'un in the gray mantle,
but what can we do with t'other? _Fourline_ can't see, and Tortillard
is too weak to do for the companion--devil choke her! What can be done?"
asked the Chouette.
"I'm not strong, but, if you like, I'll cling to the legs of the
country-woman with the dog. I'll hold on by hands and teeth, and not let
her go, I can tell you. You can take away the little one in the
meantime, you know, Chouette."
"If they cry or resist, they will hear them at the farm," replied the
Chouette, "and come to their assistance before we can reach Barbillon's
coach. It is no easy thing to carry off a woman who resists."
"And they have a large dog with them," said Tortillard.
"Bah! bah! If it was only that, I could break the brute's skull with a
blow of my shoe-heel," said the Chouette.
"Here they are," replied Tortillard, who was listening still to the echo
of their footsteps. "They are coming down the hollow now."
"Why don't you speak, _fourline_?" said the Chouette to the
Schoolmaster. "What is best to be done, long-headed as you are, eh? Are
you grown dumb?"
"There's nothing to be done to-day," replied the miscreant.
"And the thousand 'bob' of the man in mourning," said the Chouette;
"they are gone, then? I'd sooner--Your knife--your knife, _fourline_! I
will stick the companion, that she may be no trouble to us; and, as to
the young miss, Tortillard and I can make off with her."
"But the man in mourning does not desire that we should kill any one."
"Well, then, we must put the cold meat down as an extra in his bill. He
must pay, for he will be an accomplice with us."
"Here they come--down the hill," said Tortillard, softly.
"Your knife, lad!" said the Chouette, in a similar tone.
"Ah, Chouette," cried Tortillard, in alarm, and extending his hands to
the hag, "that is too bad--to kill. No!--oh, no!"
"Your knife, I tell you!" repeated the Chouette, in an undertone,
without paying the least attention to Tortillard's supplication, and
putting her shoes off hastily. "I have taken off my shoes," she added,
"that I may steal on them quietly from behind. It is almost dark; but I
can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and I will do for the
other."
"No," said the felon; "to-day it is useless. There will be plenty of
time to-morrow."
"What! you're afraid, old patterer, are you?" said the Chouette, with
fierce contempt.
"Not at all," replied the Schoolmaster. "But you may fail in your blow
and spoil all."
The dog which accompanied the country-woman, scenting the persons hidden
in the hollow road, stopped short, and barked furiously, refusing to
come to Fleur-de-Marie, who called him frequently.
"Do you hear their dog? Here they are! Your knife!--or, if not--" cried
the Chouette, with a threatening air.
"Come and take it from me, then--by force," said the Schoolmaster.
"It's all over--it's too late," added the Chouette, after listening for
a moment attentively; "they have gone by. You shall pay for that,
gallows-bird," added she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice.
"A thousand francs lost by your stupidity!"
"A thousand--two thousand--perhaps three thousand gained," replied the
Schoolmaster, in a tone of authority. "Listen, Chouette! Do you go back
to Barbillon, and let him drive you to the place where you were to meet
the man in mourning. Tell him that it was impossible to do anything
to-day, but that to-morrow she shall be carried off. The young girl goes
every evening to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance
which to-day led her to meet with any one. To-morrow we shall have a
more secure opportunity. So to-morrow do you return and be with
Barbillon at the cross-road in his coach at the same hour."
"But thou--thou?"
"Tortillard shall lead me to the farm where the young girl lives. I will
cook up some tale--say we have lost our road, and ask leave to pass the
night at the farm in a corner of the stable. No one could refuse us
that. Tortillard will examine all the doors, windows, and ins and outs
of the house. There is always money to be looked for amongst these
farming people. You say the farm is situated in a lone spot; and, when
once we know all the ways and outlets, we need only return with some
safe friends, and the thing is done as easy--"
"Always 'downy!' What a head-piece!" said the Chouette, softening. "Go
on, _fourline_."
"To-morrow morning, instead of leaving the farm, I will complain of a
pain which prevents me from walking. If they will not believe me, I'll
show them the wound which I have always had since I smashed the 'loop of
my darbies,' and which is always painful to me. I'll say it is a burn I
had from a red-hot bar when I was a workman, and they'll believe me.
I'll remain at the farm part of the day, whilst Tortillard looks about
him. When the evening comes on, and the little wench goes out as usual
with the priest, I'll say I'm better, and fit to go away. Tortillard and
I will follow the young wench at a distance, and await your coming to us
here. As she will know us already, she will have no mistrust when she
sees us. We will speak to her, Tortillard and I; and, when once within
reach of my arms, I will answer for the rest. She's caught safe enough,
and the thousand francs are ours. That is not all. In two or three days
we can 'give the office' of the farm to Barbillon and some others, and
share with them if they get any 'swag,' as it will be me who put them on
the 'lay.'"
"Well done, No-Eyes! No one can come up to you," said the Chouette,
embracing the Schoolmaster. "Your plan is capital! Tell you what,
_fourline_, when you are done up and old, you must turn consulting
'prig'; you will earn as much money as a 'big-wig.' Come, kiss your old
woman, and be off as quick as you may, for these joskins go to sleep
with their poultry. I shall go to Barbillon; and to-morrow, at four
o'clock, we will be at the cross-road with the 'trap,' unless he is
nabbed for having assisted Gros-Boiteux and the Skeleton to 'do for' the
milk-woman's husband in the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie. But if he can't
come, another can, for the pretended hackney-coach belongs to the man in
mourning who has used it before. A quarter of an hour after we get to
the cross-road, I will be here and wait for you."
"All right! Good-by till to-morrow, Chouette."
"I had nearly forgot to give the wax to Tortillard, if there is any lock
to get the print of at the farm. Here, chickabiddy, do you know how to
use it?" said the one-eyed wretch to Tortillard, as she gave him a piece
of wax.
"Yes, yes, my father showed me how to use it. I took for him the print
of the lock of the little iron chest which my master, the quack doctor,
keeps in his small closet."
"Ah, that's all right; and, that the wax may not stick, do not forget to
moisten the wax after you have warmed it well in your hand."
"I know all about it," replied Tortillard.
"To-morrow, them, _fourline_," said the Chouette.
"To-morrow," replied the Schoolmaster.
The Chouette went towards the coach. The Schoolmaster and Tortillard
quitted the hollow way, and bent their steps towards the farm, the
lights which shone from the windows serving to guide them on their way.
Strange fatality, which again brought Anselm Duresnel under the same
roof with his wife, who had not seen him since his condemnation to hard
labour for life!
CHAPTER VII.
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
Perhaps a more gratifying sight does not exist than the interior of a
large farm-kitchen prepared for the evening meal, especially during the
winter season. Its bright wood fire, the long table covered with the
savoury, smoking dishes, the huge tankards of foaming beer or cider,
with the happy countenances scattered round, speak of peaceful labour
and healthful industry. The farm-kitchen of Bouqueval was a fine
exemplification of this remark. Its immense open chimney, about six feet
high and eight feet wide, resembled the yawning mouth of some huge oven.
On the hearth blazed and sparkled enormous logs of beech or oak; and
from this prodigious brazier there issued forth such a body of light, as
well as heat, that the large lamp suspended from the centre beam sunk
into insignificance, and was rendered nearly useless. Every variety of
culinary utensils, sparkling in all the brightness of the most elaborate
cleanliness, and composed invariably of copper, brass, and tin, glowed
in the bright radiance of the winter fire, as they stood ranged with the
utmost nicety and effect on their appropriate shelves. An old-fashioned
cistern of elaborately polished copper showed its bright face, polished
as a mirror; and close beside stood a highly polished bread-trough and
cover, composed of walnut-tree wood, rubbed by the hand of housewifery
till you could see your face in it and from which issued a most tempting
smell of hot bread. A long and substantial table occupied the centre of
the kitchen; a tablecloth, which, though coarse in texture, vied with
the falling snow for whiteness, covered its entire length; while for
each expected guest was placed an earthenware plate, brown without, but
white within, and by its side a knife, fork, and spoon, lustrous as
silver itself. In the midst of the table, an immense tureen of vegetable
soup smoked like the crater of a volcano, and diffused its savoury
vapours over a dish of ham and greens, flanked by a most formidable
array of mutton, most relishly stewed with onions and potatoes. Below
was placed a large joint of roast veal, followed by two great plates of
winter salad, supported by a couple of baskets of apples; and a similar
number of cheeses completed the arrangements of the table. Three or four
stone pitchers filled with sparkling cider, and a like quantity of
loaves of brown bread, equal in size to the stones of a windmill, were
placed at the discretionary use of the supping party.
An old, shaggy, black shepherd dog, almost toothless, the superannuated
patriarch of all the canine tribe employed on the farm, was, by reason
of his great age and long services, indulged with permission to enjoy
the cheering warmth of the chimney-corner; but, using his privilege with
the utmost modesty and discretion, this venerable servitor, who answered
to the pastoral name of Lysander, lay quietly stretched out in a secure
side-nook, his nose resting on his paws, watching with the deepest
attention the various culinary preparations which preceded the supper.
The bill of fare thus presented to the reader, as the ordinary mode of
living at the farm of Bouqueval, may strike some of our readers as
unnecessarily sumptuous; but Madame Georges, faithfully following out
the wishes of Rodolph, endeavoured by all possible means to improve the
comforts of the labourers on the farm, who were always selected as being
the most worthy and industrious individuals of their district. They
were well paid, liberally treated, and so kindly used that to be
engaged on the Bouqueval farm was the highest ambition of all the best
labourers in that part of the country--an ambition which most
essentially promoted the welfare and advantage of the masters they then
served; for no applicant for employment at Bouqueval could obtain a
favourable hearing, unless he came provided with most satisfactory
testimonials from his last employer.
Thus, though on a very small scale, had Rodolph created a species of
model farm, which had for its aim not only the improvement of animals
and agricultural operations, but, above all, improving the nature of man
himself; and this he effected by making it worth their while to be
active, honest, and intelligent.
After having completed all the preparations for supper, and placed on
the table a jug of wine to accompany the dessert, the farm-cook sounded
the welcome tocsin, which told all that the cheering meal was prepared,
and, their evening toil concluded, they might freely enjoy the delights
of wholesome and temperate refreshment. Ere the sound had ceased to
vibrate on the ear, a merry, joyous throng, composed of men and maidens
to the number of twelve or fifteen, crowded around the table; the men
had open, manly countenances, the women looked healthy and
good-humoured, while the young girls belonging to the party wore the
brightest glow of youth and innocence. Every face was lighted up with
frank gaiety, content, and the satisfaction arising from the
consciousness of having well fulfilled one's duty. Thus happily prepared
in mind and body to do justice to the excellent fare set before them,
the happy party took their appointed places at table.
The upper end was occupied by an old, white-haired labourer, whose fine,
bold, yet sensible expression of face, bespoke him a descendant of the
ancient Gaulish mothers of the soil.
Father Châtelain (for so was this Nestor called) had worked on the farm
from his early childhood. When Rodolph purchased the farm, the old
servant had been strongly recommended to him, and he was forthwith
raised to the rank of overlooker, and, under the orders of Madame
Georges, general superintendent of all outdoor work; and unbounded,
indeed, was the influence possessed by Father Châtelain by virtue of his
age, his knowledge, and experience.
Every one having taken their seat, Father Châtelain, having fervently
invoked a blessing, then, in pursuance of an ancient and pious custom,
marked one of the loaves with the figure of a cross, and cut off a large
slice as the share of the Virgin or the poor, then, pouring out a glass
of wine with a similar consecration to charitable purposes, he
reverently placed both bread and wine on a plate placed in the centre of
the table purposely to receive them. At this moment the yard dogs barked
furiously; old Lysander replied by a low growl, and, curling back his
upper lip, displayed two or three still formidable fangs.
"Some person is passing near the wall of the courtyard," observed Father
Châtelain.
Scarcely had the words been uttered, than the bell of the great gate
sounded.
"Who can this possibly be at so late an hour?" said the old labourer;
"every one belonging to the place is in. Go and see who it is, Jean
René."
The individual thus addressed was a stout, able-bodied young labourer on
the farm, who was then busily employed blowing his scalding hot soup,
with a force of lungs that Æolus himself might have envied; but, used to
prompt obedience, in a moment the half-raised spoon was deposited in its
place, and, half stifling a sigh of regret, he departed on his errand.
"This is the first time our good Madame Georges and Mlle. Marie have
failed paying a visit to the warm chimney-corner, and looking on whilst
we took our supper, for this long time," said Father Châtelain. "I am
hungry as a hunter, but I shall not relish my supper half so well."
"Madame Georges is in the chamber of Mlle. Marie, who found herself
somewhat indisposed on her return from escorting M. le Curé to the
rectory," replied Claudine, the girl who had conducted La Goualeuse back
from the rectory, and thus unconsciously frustrated the evil designs of
the Chouette.
"I trust Mlle. Marie is only indisposed, not seriously ill, is she,
Claudine?" inquired the old man, with almost paternal anxiety.
"Oh, dear, no, Father Châtelain! God forbid! I hope and believe our dear
mademoiselle is only just a little struck with the cold of the night,
and her walk perhaps fatigued her. I trust she will be quite well by
to-morrow; indeed Madame Georges told me as much, and said that, if she
had had any fears, she should have sent to Paris for M. David, the negro
doctor, who took such care of mademoiselle when she was so ill. Well, I
cannot make out how any one can endure a black doctor! For my part I
should not have the slightest confidence in anything he said or did. No,
no! if one must have a doctor, let it be a Christian man with a white
skin; but a downright blackamoor! O saints above! why, the very sight of
him by my bedside would kill me!"
"But did not this Monsieur David cure Mlle. Marie from the long illness
with which she suffered when she first came here?" inquired the old man.
"Yes, Father Châtelain, he certainly did."
"Well?"
"Ah! but for all that, Father Châtelain, a doctor with a black face is
enough to terrify any one--I should scream myself into fits if he were
to come rolling up the great whites of his eyes at me."
"But is not this M. David the same person who cured Dame Anica of that
dreadful wound in her leg, which had confined her to her bed for upwards
of three years?"
"Yes, exactly so, Father Châtelain; he certainly did set old Dame Anica
up again."
"Well, then, my child?"
"Nay, but only think!--a black man! and when one is ill, too! when one
can so ill bear up against such horrid things. If he were only a little
dark, or even deep brown, but quite, quite a black--all black--oh,
Father Châtelain, I really cannot bring myself to think of it!"
"Tell me, my child, what colour is your favourite heifer Musette?"
"Oh, white--white as a swan, Father Châtelain; and such a milcher! I can
say that for the poor thing without the least falsehood, a better cow we
have not got on the farm."
"And your other favourite, Rosette?"
"Rosette? Oh, she is as black as a raven, not one white hair about her I
should say; and, indeed, to do her justice, she is a first-rate milcher
also. I hardly know which is the best, she or my pretty Musette."
"And what coloured milk does she give?"
"Why, white, of course, Father Châtelain; I really thought you knew
that."
"Is her milk as white and as good as the milk of your snowy pet,
Musette?"
"Every bit as good in colour and quality."
"Although Rosette is a black cow?"
"To be sure! why, Father Châtelain, what difference can it possibly make
to the milk whether the cow that gives it is black, white, red, or
brown?"
"How, then, my good girl, can it in any way signify whether a doctor has
a black or white skin, or what his complexion may be?"
"Well," answered Claudine, fairly hunted into a corner from which no
argument could rescue her,--"well, as regards what makes a black doctor
not so good as a white one, it is--it is, because a black skin is so
very ugly to look at, and a white one is so much more agreeable to one's
eyes; I'm sure I can't think of any other reason, Father Châtelain, if I
try for ever; but with cows the colour of the skin makes not the very
least difference, of that you may be assured; but, then, you know
there's a deal of difference between a cow and a man."
These not very clear physiognomical reflections of Claudine, touching
the effect of light or dark skins in the human and animal race, were
interrupted by the return of Jean René, blowing his fingers with
animation as he had before blown his soup.
"Oh, how cold! how cold it is this night!" exclaimed he, on entering;
"it is enough to freeze one to death; it is a pretty deal more snug and
comfortable in-doors than out this bitter night. Oh, how cold it is!"
"Why,--
'The frost that cometh from North and East
Biteth the most and ceaseth the least.'
Don't you know that, my lad?" said the old superintendent Châtelain.
"But who was it that rang so late?"
"A poor blind man and a boy who leads him about, Father Châtelain."
"And what does this poor blind man want?" inquired Châtelain.
"The poor man and his son were going by the cross-road to Louvres, and
have lost themselves in the snow; and as the cold is enough to turn a
man into an icicle, and the night is pitch dark, the poor blind father
has come to entreat permission for himself and lad to pass the night on
the farm; he says he shall be for ever thankful for leave to lie on a
little straw under a hovel, or in any out-building."
"Oh, as for that, I am quite sure that Madame Georges, who never refuses
charity to any unfortunate being, will willingly permit them to do so;
but we must first acquaint her with it; go, Claudine, and tell her the
whole story." Claudine disappeared.
"And where is this poor man waiting?" asked Father Châtelain.
"In the little barn just by."
"But why in the barn? why put him there?"
"Bless you, if I had left him in the yard, the dogs would have eaten him
up alive! Why, Father Châtelain, it was no use for me to call out
'Quiet, Médor! come here, Turk! down, Sultan!' I never saw dogs in such
a fury. And, besides, we don't use our dogs on the farm to fly at poor
folks, as they are trained to do at other places."
"Well, my lads, it seems that the 'share for the poor' has not been laid
aside in vain to-night. But try and sit a little closer; there, that'll
do; now put two more plates and knives and forks for this blind
traveller and his boy, for I feel quite certain what Madame Georges's
answer will be, and that she will desire them to be housed here for the
night."
"It is really a thing I can't make out," said Jean René, "about the dogs
being so very violent, especially Turk, who went with Claudine this
evening to the rectory. Why, when I stroked him, to try and pacify him,
I felt his coat standing up on end like so many bristles of a porcupine.
Now, what do you say to that, eh, Father Châtelain--you who know almost
everything?"
"Why, my lad, I, 'who know everything,' say just this, that the beasts
know far more than I do, and can see farther. I remember, in the autumn,
when the heavy rains had so swollen the little river, I was returning
with my team-horses one dark night--I was riding upon Cuckoo, the old
roan horse, and deuce take me if I could make out any spot it would be
safe to wade through, for the night was as dark as the mouth of a pit.
Well, I threw the bridle on old Cuckoo's back, and he soon found what,
I'll answer for it, none of us could have discovered. Now, who taught
the dumb brute to know the safe from the unsafe parts of the stream, let
me ask you?"
"Ay, Father Châtelain, that's what I was waiting to ask you. Who taught
the old roan to discover danger and escape from it so cleverly?"
"The same Almighty wisdom which instructs the swallow to build in our
chimneys, and guides the marten to make his nest among the reeds of our
banks, my lad. Well, Claudine," said the ancient oracle of the kitchen
to the blooming dairymaid, who just then entered, bearing on her arms
two pairs of snowy white sheets, from which an odoriferous smell of sage
and thyme was wafted along,--"well, I make no doubt but Madame Georges
has sent permission for these poor creatures, the blind man and his
child, to sleep here, has she not?"
"These sheets are to prepare beds for them, in the little room at the
end of the passage," said Claudine.
"Go and bid them come in, then, Jean René; and you, Claudine, my good
girl, put a couple of chairs near the fire--they will be glad of a good
warm before sitting down to table."
The furious barking of the dogs was now renewed, mingled with the voice
of Jean René, who was endeavoring to pacify them; the door of the
kitchen was abruptly opened, and the Schoolmaster and Tortillard entered
with as much precipitation as though they feared a pursuit from some
dangerous foe.
"For the love of heaven, keep off your dogs!" cried the Schoolmaster, in
the utmost terror; "they have been trying to bite us!"
"They have torn a great bit out of my blouse," whined Tortillard,
shivering with cold and pale with fear.
"Don't be frightened, good man," said Jean René, shutting the door
securely; "but I never before saw our dogs in such a perfect fury--it
must be the cold makes them so spiteful; perhaps, being half frozen,
they fancied biting you would serve to warm them--there is no knowing
what mere animals may mean by what they do."
"Why, are you going to begin, too?" exclaimed the old farmer, as
Lysander, who had hitherto lain perfectly happy in the radiance of the
glowing fire, started up, and, growling fiercely, was about to fly at
the strangers. "This old dog is quiet enough, but, having heard the
other dogs make such a furious noise, he thinks he must do the same.
Will you lie down and be quiet, you old brute? Do you hear, sir? lie
down!"
At these words from Father Châtelain, accompanied by a significant
motion of the foot, Lysander, with a low, deep growl of dissatisfaction,
slowly returned to his favourite corner by the hearth, while the
Schoolmaster and Tortillard remained trembling by the kitchen-door, as
though fearful of approaching farther. The features of the ruffian were
so hideous, from the frightful effects produced by the cold, that some
of the servants in the kitchen shuddered with alarm, while others
recoiled in disgust; this impression was not lost on Tortillard, who
felt reassured by the terrors of the villagers, and even felt proud of
the repulsiveness of his companion. This first confusion over, Father
Châtelain, thinking only of worthily discharging the duties of
hospitality, said to the Schoolmaster:
"Come, my good friend--come near the fire and warm yourself thoroughly,
and then you shall have some supper with us; for you happened to come
very fortunately, just as we were sitting down to table. Here, sit down,
just where I have placed your chair. But what am I thinking about?"
added the worthy old labourer. "I ought to have spoken to your son, not
you, seeing that it has pleased God to take away your eyesight--a heavy
loss, a heavy loss; but let us hope all for your good, my friend, though
you may not now think so. Here, my boy, lead your father to that snug
place in the chimney-corner."
"Yes, kind sir," drawled out Tortillard, with a nasal twang and canting,
hypocritical tone; "may God bless you for your charity to the poor
blind! Here, father, take my arm; lean on my shoulder, father; take
care, take care, gently;" and, with affected zeal and tenderness, the
urchin guided the steps of the brigand till they reached the indicated
spot. As the pair approached Lysander, he uttered a low, growling noise;
but as the Schoolmaster brushed past him, and the sagacious animal had
full scent of his garments, he broke out into one of those deep howls
with which, it is asserted by the superstitious, dogs frequently
announce an approaching death.
"What, in the devil's name, do all these cursed animals mean by their
confounded noise?" said the Schoolmaster to himself. "Can they smell the
blood on my clothes, I wonder? for I now recollect I wore the trousers I
have on at present the night the cattle-dealer was murdered."
"Did you notice that?" inquired Jean René of Father Châtelain. "Why, I
vow that, as often as old Lysander had caught scent of the wandering
stranger, he actually set up a regular death-howl."
And this remark was followed up by a most singular confirmation of the
fact; the cries of Lysander were so loud and mournful that the other
dogs caught the sound (for the farmyard was only separated from the
kitchen by a glazed window in the latter), and, according to the custom
of the canine race, they each strove who should outdo the other in
repeating and prolonging the funereal wail, which, according to vulgar
belief, always foretells death. Though but little given to superstitious
dread, the farm-people looked from one to another with a feeling of
wonder not unmixed with awe. Even the Schoolmaster himself, diabolically
hardened as he was, felt a cold shudder steal over him at the thought
that all these fatal sounds burst forth upon the approach of him--the
self-convicted murderer! while Tortillard, too audacious and hardened to
enter into such alarms, with all the infidelity in which he had been
trained, even from his mother's arms, looked on with delighted mockery
at the universal panic, and was, perhaps, the only person present devoid
of an uneasy feeling; but, once freed from his apprehensions of
suffering from the violence of the animals, he listened even with
pleasure to the horrible discord of their long-drawn-out wailings, and
felt almost tempted to pardon them the fright they had originally
occasioned him, in consideration of the perfect terror they had struck
into the inhabitants of the farm, and for the gratification he derived
from the convulsive horror of the Schoolmaster. But after the momentary
stupor had passed away Jean René again quitted the kitchen, and the loud
cracking of his whip soon put an end to the prophetic howlings of Médor,
Turk, and Sultan, and quickly dispersed them to their separate kennels,
and as the noise ceased, the gloomy cloud passed away from the kitchen,
and the peasants looked up with the same honest cheerfulness they had
worn upon the entrance of the two travellers. Ere long they had left off
wondering at the repulsive ugliness of the Schoolmaster, and only
thought with pity of his great affliction, in being blind; they
commiserated the lameness of the poor boy, admired the interesting
sharpness of his countenance, the deep, cute glance of his ever-moving
eye, and, above all, loaded him with praises for the extreme care and
watchfulness with which he attended to his afflicted parent. The
appetite of the labourers, which had been momentarily forgotten, now
returned with redoubled violence, and for a time nothing could be heard
but the clattering of plates and rattling of knives and forks. Still,
however busily employed with their suppers, the servants assembled round
the table, both male and female, could not but remark, with infinite
pleasure, the tender assiduity of the lad towards the blind creature who
sat beside him. Nothing could exceed the devoted affection and filial
care with which Tortillard prepared his meat for him, cutting both that
and his bread with most accurate nicety, pouring out his drink, and
never attempting even to taste a morsel himself, till his father
expressed himself as having completed his supper. But, for all this
dutiful attention, the young ruffian took ample and bitter revenge.
Instigated as much by an innate spirit of cruelty as the desire of
imitation natural to his age, Tortillard found an equal enjoyment with
the Chouette in having something to torment (_a bête de souffrance_);
and it was a matter of inexpressible exultation to his wretched mind
that he, a poor, distorted, crippled, abject creature, should have it in
his power to tyrannise over so powerful and ferocious a creature as the
Schoolmaster,--it was like torturing a muzzled tiger. He even refined
his gratification, by compelling his victim to endure all the agonies he
inflicted, without wincing or exhibiting the slightest external sign of
his suffering. Thus he accompanied each outward mark of devoted
tenderness towards his supposed parent, by aiming a severe kick against
the Schoolmaster's legs, on one of which there was (in common with many
who had long worked in the galleys) a deep and severe wound, the effect
of the heavy iron chain worn during the term of punishment around the
right leg; and, by way of compelling the miserable sufferer to exercise
a greater degree of stoical courage, the urchin always seized the moment
when the object of his malice was either drinking or speaking.
"Here, dear father! here is a nice peeled nut," said Tortillard, placing
on the plate of his supposed parent a nut carefully prepared.
"Good boy," said old Châtelain, smiling kindly at him. Then, addressing
the bandit, he added: "However great may be your affliction, my friend,
so good a son is almost sufficient to make up even for the loss of
sight; but Providence is so gracious, he never takes away one blessing
without sending another."
"You are quite right, kind sir! My lot is a very hard one, and, but for
the noble conduct of my excellent child, I--"
A sharp cry of irrepressible anguish here broke from the quivering lips
of the tortured man; the son of Bras Rouge had this time aimed his blow
so effectually, that the point of his heavy-nailed shoe had reached the
very centre of the wound, and produced unendurable agony.
"Father! dear father! what is the matter?" exclaimed Tortillard, in a
whimpering voice; then, suddenly rising, he threw both his arms round
the Schoolmaster's neck, whose first impulse of rage and pain was to
stifle the limping varlet in his Herculean grasp; and so powerfully did
he compress the boy's chest against his own, that his impeded
respiration vented itself in a low moaning sound. A few minutes, and
Tortillard's last prank would have been played; but, reflecting that the
lad was for the present indispensable to the furtherance of the schemes
he had on hand, the Schoolmaster, by a violent effort, controlled his
desire to annihilate his tormentor, and contented himself with pushing
him off his shoulders back into his own chair. The sympathising group
around the table were far from seeing through all this, and merely
considered these close embraces as an interchange of paternal and filial
tenderness, while the half suffocation and deadly pallor of Tortillard
they attributed to emotion caused by the sudden illness of his beloved
father.
"What ailed you just now, my good man?" inquired Father Châtelain; "only
see, you have quite frightened your poor boy. Why, he looks pale as
death, and can scarcely breathe. Come, my little man; you must not take
on so--your father is all right again."
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen all," replied the Schoolmaster,
controlling himself with much difficulty, for the pain he was still
enduring was most excruciating. "I am better now. I'll tell you, with
your kind leaves, all about it. You see I am by trade a working
locksmith, and, one day that I was employed in beating out a huge bar of
red hot iron, it fell over on my two legs, and burnt them so dreadfully
that it has never healed; unfortunately, just now, I happened to strike
the leg that is worst against the table, and the sudden agony it
occasioned me drew forth the sudden cry which so much disturbed all this
good company, and for which I humbly beg pardon."
"Poor dear father!" whined out Tortillard, casting a look of fiendish
malice at the shivering Schoolmaster, and wholly recovered from his late
attack of excessive emotion. "Poor father! you have indeed got a bad leg
nobody can cure. Ah, kind gentlemen, I hope you will never have such a
shocking wound, and be obliged to hear all the doctors say it never will
get well. No! never--never. Oh, my dear, dear father! how I wish I could
but suffer the pain instead of you!"
At this tender, moving speech, the females present expressed the utmost
admiration for the dutiful speaker, and began feeling in their vast
pockets for some more substantial mark of their regard.
"It is unlucky, my honest friend," said old Châtelain, addressing the
Schoolmaster, "you had not happened to come to this farm about three
weeks ago, instead of to-night."
"And why so, if you please?"
"Because we had staying for a few days in the house a celebrated Paris
doctor, who has an infallible remedy for all diseases of the legs. A
worthy old woman, belonging to our village, had been confined to her
bed upwards of three years with some affection of the legs. Well, this
doctor, being here, as I said, heard of the case, applied an unguent to
the wounds, and now, bless you, she is as surefooted, ay, and as swift,
too, as any of our young girls; and the first holiday she makes she
intends walking to the house of her benefactor, in the Allée des Veuves,
at Paris, to return her grateful thanks. To be sure it is a good step
from hence, but then, as Mother Anica says--Why, what has come over you
again, my friend? Is your leg still so painful?"
The mention of the Allée des Veuves had recalled such frightful
recollections to the Schoolmaster, that, involuntarily, a cold shudder
shook his frame, while a fearful spasm, by contracting his ghastly
countenance, made it appear still more hideous.
"Yes," replied he, trying to conceal his emotion, "a sudden darting pain
seized me, and--Pray excuse my interrupting your kind and sensible
discourse, and be pleased to proceed."
"It really is a great pity," resumed the old labourer, "that this
excellent doctor should not be with us at present; but I tell you what,
he is as good as he is skilful, and I am quite sure if you let your
little lad conduct you to his house when you return to Paris, that he
will cure you. His address is not difficult to recollect, it is 17 Allée
des Veuves. Even should you forget the number, it will not matter, for
there are but very few doctors in the neighbourhood, and no other negro
surgeon,--for, only imagine, this clever, kind, and charitable man is a
black, but his heart is white and good. His name is David,--Doctor
David,--you will be able to remember that name, I dare say."
The features of the Schoolmaster were so seamed and scarred that it was
difficult to perceive when his colour varied. He did, however, on the
present occasion, turn ghastly pale as he first heard the exact number
mentioned of Rodolph's house, and afterwards the description of the
black doctor,--of David, the negro surgeon, who, by Rodolph's orders,
had inflicted on him the fearful punishment, the terrible results of
which were each hour more painfully developed. Father Châtelain,
however, was too much interested in his subject to notice the deadly
paleness of the Schoolmaster, and proceeded with his discourse:
"When you leave us, my poor fellow, we will be sure to write his address
on a slip of paper and give it to your son, for I know that, besides
putting you in a certain way to be cured of your painful wound, it would
be gratifying to M. David to be able to relieve your sufferings. Oh, he
is so good,--never so happy as when he has rendered any person a
service. I wish he had not always that mournful and dejected look. I
fear he has some heavy care near his heart; and he is so good, so full
of pity for all who suffer. Well, well, Providence will bless him in
another world; but come, friend, let us drink to the health and
happiness of your future benefactor,--here take this mug."
"No, thank you!" returned the Schoolmaster, with a gloomy air; "none for
me. I--I am not thirsty, and I never drink unless I am."
"Nay, friend, but this is good old wine I have poured out for you; not
cider," said the labourer. "Many tradespeople do not drink as good.
Bless your heart, this farm is not conducted as other farms are,--what
do you think of our style of living, by the by? have you relished your
supper?"
"All very good," responded the Schoolmaster mechanically, more and more
absorbed in the painfulness of his ideas.
"Well, then, as we live one day, so we do another. We work well, we live
well, we have a good conscience, and an equally good bed to rest upon
after the labours of the day. Our lives roll on in peace and
contentment. There are seven labourers constantly employed on the farm,
who are paid almost double wages to what others get; but then I can
venture to assert, that if we are paid double, we do as much work among
us as fourteen ordinary labourers would do. The mere husbandry servants
have one hundred and fifty crowns a year, the dairy-women and other
females engaged about the place sixty crowns, and a tenth share of the
produce of the farm is divided among us all. You may suppose we do not
idle away much time, or fail to make hay while the sun shines, for
Nature is a bountiful mother, and ever returns a hundredfold to those
who assiduously seek her favour; the more we give her, the more she
returns."
"Your master cannot get very rich if he treats you and pays you thus
liberally," said the Schoolmaster.
"Oh, our master is different to all others, and has a mode of repaying
himself peculiarly his own."
"From what you say," answered the blind man, hoping by engaging in
conversation to escape from the gloominess of his own thoughts, "your
master must be a very extraordinary person."
"Indeed he is, my good man, a most uncommon master to meet with. Now, as
chance has brought you among us, and a strange though a lucky chance for
you it has proved, lying out of the highroad as this village does, it is
so very seldom any stranger ever finds it out. Well, I was going to say,
here you are, and no fault to find with your quarters, is there? Now, in
all human probability, when you turn your back upon the place you will
never return to it, but you shall not depart without hearing from me a
description of our master and all he has done for the farm, upon
condition that you promise to repeat it again wherever you go, and to
whomsoever you may meet with. You will see, I mean, I beg pardon, you
will then be able to understand."
"I listen to you," answered the Schoolmaster; "proceed."
"And I can promise you you will not be throwing away your time by
listening," replied the venerable Châtelain. "Now, one day our master
thought all at once: 'Here am I, rich enough to eat two dinners a day if
I liked, but I don't. Now, suppose I were to provide a meal for those
who have none at all, and enable such as can hardly procure half a
dinner to enjoy as much good food as they desired, would not that be
better than over-indulging myself? So it shall be,' says he, and away he
goes to work, and, first thing, he buys this farm, which was not much of
a concern then, and scarcely kept a couple of ploughs at work; and,
being born and bred on the place, I ought to know something about it.
Next, master made considerable additions to the farm. I'll tell you all
about that by and by. At the head of the farm he placed a most worthy
and respectable female, who had known a great deal of trouble in her
past life--master always chose out people for their goodness and their
misfortunes--and, when he brought the perso
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