The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 3
by Eugène Sue · English · Gutenberg #33802 · 571,882 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 3
Author: Eugène Sue
Release date: September 22, 2010 [eBook #33802]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33802
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. 3 ***
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: _Took my head between his hands._
Original Etching by Mercier.]
+The Mysteries of Paris.+
_ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS
BY MERCIER, BICKNELL, POITEAU,
AND ADRIAN MARCEL._
_BY EUGENE SUE_
_IN SIX VOLUMES_
_VOLUME III._
_PRINTED FOR
FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
BOSTON_
+Edition de Luxe+
_This edition is limited to one thousand copies,
of which this is_
No.______
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE TEMPLE 11
II. THE ARREST 52
III. JACQUES FERRAND 108
IV. THE OFFICE 116
V. THE CLIENTS 137
VI. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 167
VII. REFLECTIONS 197
VIII. THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST 211
IX. ST. LAZARE 225
X. MONT SAINT-JEAN 240
XI. LA LOUVE AND LA GOUALEUSE 255
XII. THE PROTECTRESS 285
XIII. THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP 300
XIV. CECILY 313
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
TOOK MY HEAD BETWEEN HIS HANDS _Frontispiece_
DREW CAREFULLY OUT A SHEET OF PAPER 35
MOREL FELL BACK ON THE STOOL 83
HE WILL SCOLD YOU AWFULLY 134
M. D'HARVILLE HAD BLOWN HIS BRAINS OUT 222
LA GOUALEUSE IN THE PRISON 279
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
CHAPTER I.
THE TEMPLE.
To the deep snow which had fallen during the past night had succeeded a
very sharp wind, so that the ordinarily muddy pavement was hard and dry,
as Rigolette and Rodolph wended onwards to the immense and singular
bazar called the Temple, the young girl leaning unceremoniously on the
arm of her cavalier, who, on his part, appeared as much at his ease as
though they had been old familiar friends.
"What a funny old woman Madame Pipelet is!" observed the grisette to her
companion; "and what very odd things she says!"
"Well, I thought her remarks very striking, as well as appropriate."
"Which of them, neighbour?"
"Why, when she said 'Young people would be young people,' and '_Vive
l'amour!_'"
"Well?"
"Well! I only mean to say those are precisely my sentiments."
"Your sentiments?"
"Yes, I should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you,
taking '_Vive l'amour!_' for my motto."
"I dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please."
"Why, where would be the harm,--are we not near neighbours? Of course we
are, or else I should not be seen walking out with you in this manner in
broad day."
"Then you allow me to hope--"
"Hope what?"
"That you will learn to love me."
"Oh, bless you, I do love you already!"
"Really?"
"To be sure I do. Why, how can I help it? You are good and gay; though
poor yourself, you have done all in your power by interesting rich
people in the fate of the Morels; your appearance pleases me; and you
have altogether a nice look, and a sort of air such as one is glad to
find in a person we expect to go about with a great deal. So there, I
think, are abundant reasons for my loving you."
Then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter, Rigolette abruptly
exclaimed, "Look there, only look at that fat woman with the furred
shoes! What does she remind you of? I'll tell you,--of a great sack
being drawn along by two cats without tails!" and again she laughed
merrily.
"I would rather look at you, my pretty neighbour, than at all the fat
old women or tailless cats in Europe. I am so delighted to find you
already love me."
"I only tell you the truth; if I disliked you, I should speak just as
plainly. I cannot reproach myself with ever having deceived or flattered
any one; but, if a person pleases me, I tell them so directly."
Again interrupting the thread of her discourse, the grisette drew up
suddenly before the windows of a shop, saying, "Oh, do pray only look at
that pretty clock and those two handsome vases! I had already saved up
three francs and a half, and had put it in my money-box, to buy such a
set as that. In five or six years I might have been able to buy them."
"Saved up, do you say? Then, I suppose, you earn--"
"At least thirty sous a day,--sometimes forty; but I never reckon upon
more than thirty, which is the more prudent; and I regulate all my
expenses accordingly," said Rigolette, with an air as important as
though she was settling the financial budget.
"But with thirty sous a day, how do you manage to live?"
"Oh, bless you! that is easily reckoned. Shall I tell you how I manage,
neighbour? I fancy you are rather extravagant in your notions; so,
perhaps, it may serve as a lesson for you."
"Yes, pray do."
"Well, then, thirty sous a day make five and forty francs a month, do
they not?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, out of that I pay twelve francs for lodging; that leaves me
twenty-three francs for food, etc."
"Is it possible? Twenty-three francs for one month's food!"
"Yes, really, all that! Certainly, for such a person as myself, it does
seem an enormous sum; but then, you see, I deny myself nothing."
"Oh, you little glutton!"
"Ah! but then, remember, I include the food for both my birds in that
sum."
"Certainly it seems less exorbitant, when you come to reckon, for three
than for one; but just tell me how you manage day by day, that I may
profit by your good example."
"Well, then, be attentive, and I will go over the different things I
spend in it. First of all, one pound of bread, that costs four sous;
then two sous' worth of milk make six; four sous' worth of vegetables in
winter, or fruit and salad in summer,--I am very found of salad,
because, like vegetables, it is such a nice clean thing to prepare, and
does not soil the hands; there goes ten sous at once; then three sous
for butter, or oil and vinegar, to season the salad with, that makes
thirteen sous; a pail of nice fresh water,--oh, I must have that! it is
my principal extravagance,--that brings it to fifteen sous, don't you
see? Then add two or three sous a week for chickweed and seed for my
birds, who generally have part of my bread and milk; all this comes to
exactly twenty-three francs a month, neither more nor less."
"And do you never eat meat?"
"Meat, indeed! I should think not. Why, it costs from ten to twelve sous
a pound! A likely thing for me to buy! Besides, there is all the
nuisance and smell of cooking; instead of which, milk, vegetables, or
fruit, are always ready when you wish for them. I tell you what is a
favourite dish of mine, without being troublesome to prepare, and which
I excel in making."
"Oh, pray let me know what it is?"
"Why, I get some beautiful ripe, rosy apples, and put them at the top of
my little stove; when they are quite tender, I bruise them with a little
milk, and just a taste of sugar. It is a dish for an emperor. If you
behave well, I will let you taste it some day."
"Prepared by your hands, it can scarcely fail being excellent; but let
us keep to our reckoning. Let me see, we counted twenty-three francs for
living, etc., and twelve francs for lodging; that makes thirty-five
francs a month."
"Well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs I earn, there remains
from ten to fifteen francs a month for my wood and oil during the
winter, as well as for my clothes and washing; that is to say, for soap
and other requisites; because, excepting my sheets, I wash my own
things; that is another of my extravagances,--a good laundress would
pretty well ruin me; while, as I am a very quick and good ironer, the
expense is principally that of my own time. During the five winter
months I burn a load and a half of wood, while I consume about four or
five sous' worth of oil for my lamp daily; that makes it cost me about
eighty francs a year for fire and lights."
"So that you have, in fact, scarcely one hundred francs to clothe
yourself, and find you in pocket money."
"No more; yet out of that sum I managed to save my three francs and a
half."
"But your gowns, your shoes,--this smart little cap?"
"As for caps, I never wear one but when I go out, so that is not
ruinous; and, at home, I go bareheaded. As for my gowns and boots, have
I not got the Temple to go to for them?"
"Ah, yes, this convenient, handy Temple! So you buy there?"
"All sorts of pretty and excellent dresses. Why, only imagine, great
ladies are accustomed to give their old, cast-off gowns, etc., to their
maids. When I say old, I mean that, perhaps, they have worn them for a
month or two, just to ride out in the carriage. Well, and then the
ladies' maids sell them to the persons who have shops at the Temple for
almost nothing. Just look at the nice dark merino dress I have on; well,
I only gave fourteen francs for it, when, I make no doubt, it cost at
least sixty, and had scarcely been put on. I altered it to fit myself;
and I flatter myself it does me credit."
"Indeed, it does, and very great credit, too. Yes, I begin to see now,
thanks to the Temple, you really may contrive to make a hundred francs a
year suffice for your dress."
"To be sure; why, I can buy in the summer sweet pretty gowns for five or
six francs; boots, like these I have on, and almost new, for two or
three francs a pair; just look at my boots. Now, would not any one say
they had been made for me?" said Rigolette, suddenly stopping, and
holding up one of her pretty little feet, really very nicely set off by
the well-fitting boot she wore.
"It is, indeed, a charming foot; but you must have some difficulty in
getting fitted. However, I suppose, at the Temple, they keep shoes and
boots of all sizes, from a woman's to a child's."
"Ah, neighbour, I begin to find out what a terrible flatterer you are.
However, after what I have told you, you must see now that a young girl,
who is careful, and has only herself to keep, may manage to live
respectably on thirty sous a day; to be sure, the four hundred and fifty
francs I brought out of prison with me helped me on famously, for when
people saw that I had my own furniture in my apartments, they felt more
confidence in entrusting me with work to take home. I was some time,
though, before I met with employment. Fortunately for me, I had kept by
me as much money as enabled me to live three months without earning
anything."
"Shall I own to you that, under so gay and giddy a manner, I scarcely
expected to hear so much sound sense as that uttered by your pretty
mouth, my good neighbour?"
"Ah! but let me tell you that, when one is all alone in the world, and
has no wish to be under any obligation, it is quite necessary, as the
proverb says, to mind how we build our nest, to take care of it when it
is built."
"And certainly yours is as charming a nest as the most fastidious bird
could desire."
"Yes, isn't it? for, as I say, I never refuse myself anything. Now, I
consider my chamber as above my means; in fact, too handsome for one
like me; then I have two birds; always, at least, two pots of flowers on
my mantelpiece, without reckoning those on the window-ledges; and yet,
as I told you, I had actually got three francs and a half in my
money-box, towards the ornaments I hoped some day to be able to buy for
my mantelpiece."
"And what became of this store?"
"Oh, why, lately, when I saw the poor Morels so very, very wretched, I
said to myself, 'What is the use of hoarding up these stupid pieces of
money, and letting them lie idle in a money-box, when good and honest
people are actually starving for want of them?' So I took out the three
francs, and lent them to Morel. When I say lent, I mean I told him I
only lent them, to spare his feelings; but, of course, I never meant to
have them back again."
"Yes, but my dear neighbour, you cannot refuse to let them repay you,
now they are so differently situated."
"Why, no; I think if Morel were to offer them to me now, I should not
refuse them; it will, at any rate, enable me to begin my store for
buying the chimney ornaments I do so long to possess. You would scarcely
believe how silly I am; but I almost dream of a beautiful clock, such a
one as I showed you just now, and two lovely vases, one on each side."
"But, then, you should think a little of the future."
"What future?"
"Suppose you were to be ill, for instance."
"Me ill? Oh, the idea!" And the fresh, hearty laugh of Rigolette
resounded through the street.
"Well, why should you not be?"
"Do I look like a person likely to be sick?"
"Certainly I never saw a more bright or blooming countenance."
"Well, then, what could possibly have put it into your head to talk such
nonsense as to suppose I could ever be ill?"
"Nay, but--"
"Why, I am only eighteen years of age, and, considering the sort of life
I lead, there is no chance of such a thing. I rise at five o'clock,
winter or summer; I am never up after ten, or, at latest, eleven; I eat
sufficient to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very great
one; I do not suffer from exposure to cold; I work all day, singing as
merrily as a lark; and at night I sleep like a dormouse. My heart is
free, light, and happy. My employers are so well satisfied with what I
do for them, that I am quite sure not to want for work; so what is there
for me to be ill about? It really is too amusing to hear you try to talk
sense, and only utter nonsense! Me ill!" And, at the very absurdity of
the idea, Rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, so
loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman who was walking before her,
carrying a dog under his arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all
this mirth was excited by his presence.
Resuming her composure, Rigolette slightly curtseyed to the stout
individual, and pointing to the animal under his arm, said:
"Is your dog so very tired, sir?"
The fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and continued on his
way.
"My dear neighbour," said Rodolph, "are you losing your senses?"
"It is your fault if I am."
"How so?"
"Because you talk such nonsense to me."
"Do you call my saying that perhaps you might be ill, talking
foolishly?"
And, once more overcome by the irresistible mirth awakened by the
absurdity of Rodolph's suggestion, Rigolette again relapsed into long
and hearty fits of laughter; while Rodolph, deeply struck by this blind,
yet happy reliance upon the future, felt angry with himself for having
tried to shake it, though he almost shuddered as he pictured to himself
the havoc a single month's illness would make in this peaceful mode of
life. Then the implicit reliance entertained by Rigolette on the
stability of her employ, and her youthful courage, her sole treasures,
struck Rodolph as breathing the very essence of pure and contented
innocence; for the confidence expressed by the young dressmaker arose
neither from recklessness nor improvidence, but from an instinctive
dependence and belief in that divine justice which would never forsake a
virtuous and industrious creature,--a simple girl, whose greatest crime
was in relying too confidently on the blessed gifts of youth and health,
the precious boon of a heavenly benefactor. Do the birds of the air
remember, as they flit on gay and agile wing amidst the blue skies of
summer, or skim lightly over the sweet-smelling fields of blooming
lucerne, that bleak, cold winter must follow so much enjoyment?
"Then," said Rodolph to the grisette, "it seems you have no wish for
anything more than you already possess?"
"No, really I have not."
"Positively, nothing you desire?"
"No, I tell you. Stay, yes, now I recollect, there are those sweet
pretty chimney ornaments; but I shall be sure to have them some of these
days, though I do not know exactly when; but still, they do so run in my
head, that, sooner than be disappointed, I will sit up all night to
work."
"And besides these ornaments?"
"Oh, nothing more; no, I cannot recollect any one other thing I care for
more especially now."
"Why now, particularly?"
"Because, yesterday, if you had asked me the same question, I should
have replied, there was nothing I wanted more than an agreeable
neighbour in your apartments, to give me an opportunity of showing all
the little acts of kindness I have been accustomed to perform, and to
receive nice little attentions in return."
"Well, but you know, my dear neighbour, we have already entered into an
agreement to be mutually serviceable to each other; you will look after
my linen for me, and I shall clean up and polish your chamber for you;
and besides attending to my linen, you are to wake me every morning
early by tapping against the wainscot."
"And do you think you have named all I shall expect you to do?"
"What else can I do?"
"Oh, bless you, you have not yet come to the end of your services! Why,
do you not intend to take me out every Sunday, either to the Boulevards
or beyond the barriers? You know that is the only day I can enjoy a
little pleasure."
"To be sure I do; and when summer comes we will go into the country."
"No, no, I hate the country! I cannot bear to be anywhere but in Paris.
Yet I used, once upon a time, to go, out of good nature, with a young
friend of mine, who was with me in prison, to visit Meudon and St.
Germain. My friend was a very nice, good girl, and because she had such
a sweet voice, and was always singing, people used to call her the
Goualeuse."
"And what has become of her?"
"I don't know. She spent all the money she brought with her out of
prison, without seeming to have much pleasure for it; she was inclined
to be mournful and serious, though kind and sympathising to every one.
At the time we used to go out together I had not met with any work to
do, but directly I procured employment, I never allowed myself a
holiday. I gave her my address, but, as she never came to see me, I
suppose she, like myself, was too busy to spare the time. But I dare say
you don't care to hear any more about her; I only mentioned it because I
wanted to show you that it is no use asking me to go into the country
with you, for I never did, and never will go there, except with the
young friend I was telling you about; but whenever you can afford to
take me out to dinner or to the play, I shall be quite ready to
accompany you, and when it does not suit you to spend the money, or when
you have none to spend, why then we will take a walk, and have a good
look at the shops, which is almost the nicest thing I know, unless it is
buying at them. And I promise you, you shall have no reason to feel
ashamed of my appearance, let us go out among ever such company. Oh,
when I wear my dark blue levantine silk gown, I flatter myself I _do_
look like somebody! It is such a love of a dress, and fits me so
beautifully! I never wear it but on Sundays, and then I put on such a
love of a lace cap, trimmed with shaded orange-colour riband, which
looks so well with dark hair like mine; then I have some such elegant
boots of satin hue, made for me, not bought at the Temple! And last of
all comes such a shawl! Oh, neighbour, I doubt if you ever walked with
any one in such perfect beauty; it is a real _bourre-de-soie_, in
imitation of cashmere. I quite expect we shall be stared at and admired
by every one as we go along; the men will look back as they pass me, and
say, 'Upon my word that's an uncommon pretty-looking girl,--she is, 'pon
honour!' Then the women will cry, 'What a stylish-looking man! Do you
see that tall, thin person? I declare, he has such a fashionable
appearance that he might pass as somebody if he liked; what a becoming
and handsome moustachio he has!' And between ourselves, neighbour, I
quite agree with these remarks, and especially about the moustachio, for
I dearly love to see a man wear them. Unfortunately M. Germain did not
wear a moustachio, on account of the situation he held; I believe his
employer did not permit his young men to wear them. To be sure, M.
Cabrion did wear moustachios, but then, his were quite red, like his
great bushy beard, and I hate those huge beards; and besides, I did not
like Cabrion for two other reasons; one was, he used to play all kinds
of scampish tricks out in the street, and the other thing I disliked
was his tormenting poor old Pipelet as he did. Certainly, M. Giraudeau,
the person who lived next to me before M. Cabrion, was rather a
smart-looking man, and dressed very well; but then he squinted, and at
first that used to put me out very much, because he always seemed to be
looking past me at some one by my side, and I always found myself,
without thinking of it, turning around to see who it could be."
And here Rigolette indulged in another peal of merry laughter.
As Rodolph listened to all this childish and voluble talk, he felt
almost at a loss how to estimate the pretensions of the grisette to be
considered of first-rate prudence and virtue; sometimes the very absence
of all reserve in her communications, and the recollection of the great
bolt on her door, made him conclude that she bore a general and platonic
affection only for every occupant of the chamber adjoining her own, and
that her interest in them was nothing more than that of a sister; but
again he smiled at the credulity which could believe such a thing
possible, when the unprotected condition of the young dressmaker, and
the fascinations of Messrs. Giraudeau, Cabrion, and Germain were taken
into account. Still, the frankness and originality of Rigolette made him
pause in the midst of his doubts, and refuse to allow him to judge
harshly of the ingenuous and light-hearted being who tripped beside him.
"I am delighted at the way you have disposed of my Sundays," said
Rodolph, gaily. "I see plainly we shall have some capital treats."
"Stop a little, Mr. Extravagance, and let me tell you how I mean to
regulate our expenses; in the summer we can dine beautifully, either at
the Chartreuse or the Montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half
a dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden horses,--oh, I
do so love riding on horseback!--well, that will bring it altogether to
about five francs, not a farthing more, I assure you. Do you waltz?"
"Yes, very well."
"I am glad of that. M. Cabrion always trod on my toes, so that he quite
put me out; and then, too, by way of a joke, he used to throw
fulminating balls about on the ground; so at last the people at the
Chartreuse would not allow us to be admitted there."
"Oh, I promise you to be very well behaved whenever we are met together;
and as for the fulminating balls, I promise you never to have anything
to do with them; but when winter comes, how shall we manage then?"
"Why, in the winter we shall be able to dine very comfortably for forty
sous. I think people never care so much for eating in the winter as
summer; so then we shall have three francs left to pay for our going to
the play, for I shall not allow you to exceed a hundred sous for the
whole of our expenses, and that is a great deal of money to spend in
pleasure; but then, if you were out alone, it would cost you much more
at the tavern or billiard-rooms, where you would only meet a parcel of
low, ignorant men, smelling of tobacco enough to choke you. Is it not
much better for you to pass a pleasant day with a nice little, cheerful,
good-tempered companion, who, in return for the holiday you so agreeably
pass with her, will contrive to make up the extra expense she costs you
by hemming your handkerchiefs, and looking after your domestic affairs?"
"Nothing can be more advantageous, as far as I am concerned; but suppose
any of my friends should meet me walking with my pretty neighbour, what
then?"
"What then! Why, they would just look at you, and then at me; and then
they would smile and say, 'That's a lucky fellow, that Rodolph!'"
"You know my name, do you?"
"Why, of course, when I heard that the chamber adjoining mine was let,
I inquired the name of the person who had taken it."
"Yes, I dare say every one who met us out together would remark, as you
observe, what a lucky fellow I was; then the next thing would be to envy
me."
"So much the better."
"They would believe I was perfectly happy."
"Of course, of course they would."
"All the while I should only be so in appearance."
"Well, what does that signify? As long as people think you happy, what
does it matter whether you are really so or not? Men neither require nor
care for more than outward show."
"But your reputation might suffer."
Rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
"The reputation of a grisette!" said she. "Do you suppose that any
person believes in such a phenomenon? Ah, if I had either father,
mother, brother, or sister, for their sakes I should fear what people
might say of me, and be anxious about the world's opinion; but I am
alone in the world, and have no person to consider but myself, so, while
I know myself to be free from blame or reproach, I care not for what any
one may say of me, or think either."
"But still I should be very unhappy."
"What for?"
"To pass for being a happy as well as a lucky fellow, when, after the
fashion of Papa Cretu's dinner, I should be expected to make a meal off
a dry crust, while all the tempting dishes contained in a cookery-book
were being read to me."
"Oh, nonsense! you will be quite contented to live as I describe. You
will find me so grateful for every little act of kindness, so easily
pleased, and so little troublesome, that I know you will say, 'Why,
after all, I may as well spend my Sunday with her as with any one else.'
If you have any time in the evening, and have no objection to come and
sit with me, you can have the use of my fire and light. If it would not
tire you to read aloud, you would amuse me by reading some nice novel or
romance. Better do that than lose your money at cards or billiards;
otherwise, if you are occupied at your office, or prefer going to a
cafe, you can just bid me good night when you come in, if I happen still
to be up; but should I have gone to bed, why then I will wish you good
morning at an early hour next day, by tapping against your wainscot to
awaken you. Why, M. Germain, my last fellow lodger, used to pass all his
evenings with me in that manner, and never complained of their being
dull. He read me all Walter Scott's novels in the course of the winter,
which was really very amusing. Sometimes, when it chanced to be a wet
Sunday, he would go and buy something at the pastry-cook's, and we used
to have a nice little dinner in my room; and afterwards we amused
ourselves with reading; and we liked that almost as well as going to the
theatre. You see by this that I am not hard to please, but, on the
contrary, am always ready to do what I can to make things pleasant and
agreeable. And then you were talking about illness. Oh, if ever you
should be ill, then, indeed, I should be a comfort to you, a real Sister
of Charity! Only ask the Morels what sort of a nurse I am. You don't
half know your own good fortune, M. Rodolph; you have drawn a real prize
in the lottery of good luck to have me for a neighbour, I can assure
you."
"I quite agree with you; but I always was lucky. Apropos of your late
fellow lodger, M. Germain, where is he at present?"
"In Paris, I believe."
"Then you do not see much of him now?"
"No, he has never been to see me since he quitted the house."
"But where is he living? And what is he doing at present?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because," said Rodolph, smiling, "I am jealous of him, and I wish--"
"Jealous!" exclaimed Rigolette, bursting into a fit of laughter. "La,
bless you, there is no occasion for that, poor fellow!"
"But, seriously, my good neighbour, I wish most particularly to obtain
M. Germain's address, or to be enabled to meet him. You know where he
lives; and without any boast, I think I have good reason to expect you
would trust me with the secret of his residence, and to believe me quite
incapable of revealing again the information I ask of you, assuring you
most solemnly it is for his own interest more than mine I am solicitous
of finding him."
"And seriously, my good neighbour, although it is probable and possible
your intentions towards M. Germain are as you report them, I am not at
liberty to give you the address of M. Germain, he having strictly and
expressly forbidden my so doing to any person whatever; therefore, when
I refuse to tell _you_, you may be quite sure it is because I really am
not at liberty to do so; and that ought not to make you feel offended
with me. If you had entrusted me with a secret, you would be pleased,
would you not, to have me as careful of it, and determined not to reveal
it, as I am about M. Germain's affair?"
"Nay, but--"
"Neighbour, once and for all, do not say anything more on this subject.
I have made a promise which I will keep faithfully and honourably; so
now you know my mind, and if you ask me a hundred times, I shall answer
you just the same."
Spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young dressmaker
pronounced these last words with so much firmness that, to his great
regret, Rodolph perceived the impossibility of gaining the desired
information respecting Germain through her means; and his mind revolted
at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a betrayal of her
secret; he therefore, after a slight pause, gaily replied:
"Well, let us say no more about it, then; but, upon my life, I don't
wonder at you, who can so well keep the secrets of others, guarding your
own so closely."
"Me have secrets?" cried Rigolette. "I only wish I had some more secrets
of my own; it must be very amusing to have secrets."
"Do you really mean to assert that you have not a 'nice little secret'
about some love-affair?"
"Love-affair!"
"Are you going to persuade me you have never been in love?" said
Rodolph, looking fixedly at Rigolette, the better to read the truth in
her telltale features.
"Been in love? Why, of course I have, with M. Giraudeau, M. Cabrion, M.
Germain, and you!"
"Are you sure you loved them just as you do me, neither more nor less?"
"Oh, really, I cannot tell you so very exactly! If anything, I should
say less; because I had to become accustomed to the squinting eyes of M.
Giraudeau, the disagreeable jokes and red beard of M. Cabrion, and the
low spirits and constant dejection of M. Germain, for the poor young man
was very sad, and always seemed to have a heavy load on his mind, while
you, on the contrary, took my fancy directly I saw you."
"Come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be angry with me; I am
going to speak candidly and sincerely, like an old friend."
"Oh, don't be afraid to say anything to me; I am very good-natured; and
besides, I feel certain you are too kind; you could never have the heart
to say anything to me that would give me pain."
"You are quite right; but do tell me truly, have you never had any
lovers?"
"Lovers! I should think not! What time have I for such things?"
"What has time got to do with it?"
"Why, everything, to be sure. In the first place, I should be jealous as
a tigress; and I should be continually worrying myself with one idea or
another; and let me ask you whether you think it is likely I could
afford to lose two or three hours a day in fretting and grieving. And
then, suppose my lover were to turn out false! Oh, what tears it would
cost me; how wretched I should be! All that sort of thing would put me
sadly behindhand with my work, I can tell you."
"Well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of grief and sorrow
to their mistress."
"Oh, bless you! It would be still worse for me, if he were all goodness
and truth. Why, then I should not be able to live without him for a
single hour; and as most probably he would be obliged to remain all day
in his office, or shop, or manufactory, I should be like some poor,
restless spirit all the time of his absence. I should imagine all sorts
of things, picture to myself his being at that moment pleasantly engaged
in company with one he loved better than myself. And then, if he forsook
me, oh, Heaven only knows what I might be tempted to do in my despair,
or what might become of me. One thing is very certain, that my work
would suffer for it; and then what should I do? Why, quietly as I live
at present, it is much as I can manage to live by working from twelve to
fifteen hours a day. Where should I be, if I were to lose three or four
days a week by tormenting myself? How could I ever catch up all that
time? Oh, I never could; it would be quite impossible! I should be
obliged, then, to take a situation, to live under the control of a
mistress; but no, no, I will never bring myself to that,--I love my
liberty too well."
"Your liberty?"
"Yes, I might go as forewoman to the person who keeps the warehouse for
which I work; she would give me four hundred francs a year, with board
and lodging."
"And you will not accept it?"
"No, indeed! I should then be the slave and servant of another; whereas,
however humble my home, at least there is no one there to control me. I
am free to come and go as I please. I owe nothing to any one. I have
good health, good courage, good heart, and good spirits; and now that I
can say a good neighbour also, what is there left to desire?"
"Then you have never thought of marriage?"
"Marriage, indeed! Why, what would be the use of my thinking about it,
when, poor as I am, I could not expect to meet with a husband better off
than myself? Look at the poor Morels; just see the consequences of
burthening yourself with a family before you have the means of providing
for one; whilst, so long as there is only oneself to provide for, one
can always manage somehow."
"And do you never build castles in the air?--never dream?"
"Dream? Oh, yes!--of my chimney ornaments; but, besides them, what can I
have to wish for?"
"But, suppose now some relation you never heard of in your life were to
die, and leave you a nice little fortune--twelve hundred francs a year,
for instance--you have made five hundred sufficient to supply all your
wants?"
"Perhaps it might prove a good thing; perhaps a bad one."
"How could it be a bad one?"
"Because I am happy and contented as I am; but I do not know what I
might be if I came to be rich. I can assure you that, when, after a hard
day's work, I go to bed in my own snug little room, when my lamp is
extinguished, and by the glimmer of the few cinders left in my stove I
see my neat, clean little apartment, my curtains, my chest of drawers,
my chairs, my birds, my watch, my table covered with the work confided
to me, left all ready to begin the first thing in the morning, and I say
to myself, all this is mine,--I have no one to thank for it but
myself,--oh, neighbour, the very thoughts lull me into such a happy
state of mind that I fall asleep believing myself the most fortunate
creature on earth to be so surrounded with comforts. But, I declare,
here we are at the Temple! You must own it is a beautiful object?"
Although not partaking of the profound admiration expressed by Rigolette
at the first glimpse of the Temple, Rodolph was, nevertheless, much
struck by the singular appearance of this enormous bazar with its many
diverging passages and dependencies. Towards the middle of the Rue du
Temple, not far from the fountain which stands in the corner of a large
square, may be seen an immense parallelogram, built of wood, and
surmounted with a slated roof. This building is the Temple, bounded on
the left by the Rue du Petit Thouars, and on the right by the Rue
Percee; it leads to a large circular building,--a colossal rotunda,
surrounded with a gallery, forming a sort of arcade. A long opening,
intersecting this parallelogram in its length and breadth, divides it
into two equal parts, which are again divided and subdivided into an
infinity of small lateral and transverse openings, crossing each other
in all directions, and sheltered by the roof of the building from all
severity of weather. In this bazar new merchandise is generally
prohibited; but the smallest fragment of any sort of material, the
merest morsel of iron, brass, lead, or pewter, will here find both a
buyer and a seller.
Here are to be found dealers in pieces of every coloured cloth, of all
ages, qualities, shades, and capabilities, for the service of such as
wish to repair or alter damaged or ill-fitting garments. Some of the
shops present huge piles of old shoes, some trodden down of heel,
others twisted, torn, worn, split, and in holes, presenting a mass of
nameless, formless, colourless objects, among which are grimly visible
some species of fossil soles about an inch thick, studded with thick
nails, resembling the door of a prison and hard as a horse's hoof, the
actual skeletons of shoes whose other component parts have long since
been consumed by the devouring hand of Time. Yet all this mouldy, dried
up accumulation of decaying rubbish will find a willing purchaser, an
extensive body of merchants trading in this particular line.
Then there are the vendors of gimps, fringes, bindings, cords, tassels,
and edgings of silk, cotton, or thread, arising out of the demolition of
curtains past all cure and defying all reparation. Other enterprising
individuals devote themselves to the sale of females' hats and bonnets,
these articles only reaching their emporium by the means of the dealers
in old clothes, and after having performed the strangest journeys and
undergone the most surprising transformations, the most singular changes
of colour.
In order that the article traded in may not take up too much room in a
warehouse ordinarily the size of a large box, these bonnets are
carefully folded in half, then flattened and laid upon each other as
closely as they can be packed, with the exception of the brim. They are
treated in every respect the same as herrings, requiring to be stowed in
a cask. By these means it is almost incredible what a quantity of these
usually fragile articles may be accommodated in a small space of about
four feet square.
Should a purchaser present himself, the various specimens are removed
from the high pressure to which they have been exposed, the vendor, with
a _degage_ air, gives the crown a dexterous blow with his fist, which
makes the centre rise to its accustomed situation, then presses the
front out upon his knee, concluding by holding up, with an air of
intense satisfaction at his own ingenuity, an object so wild, so
whimsical, and withal so irresistibly striking, as to remind one of
those traditional costumes ascribed for ages past to fishwomen,
apple-women, or any whose avocation involves the necessity of carrying a
basket on the head.
Farther on, at the sign of the Gout du Jour, beneath the arcades of the
Rotunda, elevated at the end of the large opening which intersects the
Temple and divides it into two parts, are suspended myriads of vestments
of all colours, forms, and fashions, even more various and extraordinary
in their respective styles than the bonnets just described. There may be
seen stylish coats of unbleached linen, adorned with three rows of brass
buttons _a la hussarde_, and sprucely ornamented with a small fur collar
of fox-skin; great-coats, originally bottle-green, but changed, by age
and service, to the hue of the pistachio nut, edged with black braid,
and set off with a bright flaming lining of blue and yellow plaid,
giving quite a fresh and youthful appearance, and producing the most
genteel and tasty effect; coats that, when new, bore the appellation, as
regards their cut, of being _a queue de Morue_, of a dark drab colour,
with velvet, shag, or plush collar, and further decorated with buttons,
once silver-gilt, but now changed to a dull coppery hue. In the same
emporium may be observed sundry pelisses or polonaises of
maroon-coloured cloth, with cat-skin collar, trimmed with braiding, and
rich in brandenburgs, tassels, and cords. Not far from these are
displayed a great choice of dressing-gowns most artistically constructed
out of old cloaks, whose triple collars and capes have been removed, the
inside lined with remnants of printed cotton, the most in request being
blue or dark green, made up here and there with pieces of various
distinct shades, and embroidered with old braid, and lined with red
cotton, on which is traced a flowing design in vivid orange, collar and
cuffs similarly adorned; a cord for the waist, made out of an old
bell-rope, serves as a finish to these elegant _deshabilles_ so
exultingly worn by Robert Macaire. We shall briefly pass over a mass of
costumes more or less uncouth, in the midst of which may be found some
real and authentic relics of royalty or greatness, dragged by the
revolution of time from the palaces of the rich and mighty to the dingy
shelves of the Rotunda of the Temple.
These displays of old shoes, hats, and coats are the grotesque parts of
the bazar,--the place where rags and faded finery seek to set up their
claim to notice. But it must be allowed, or rather distinctly asserted,
that the vast establishment we are describing is of immense utility to
the poor or persons in mediocre circumstances. There they may purchase,
at an amazing decrease of price, most excellent articles, nearly new,
and whose wear has been little or none. One side of the Temple was
devoted to articles of bedding, and contained piles of blankets, sheets,
mattresses, and pillows. Farther on were carpets, curtains, every
description of useful household utensil. Close at hand were stores of
wearing apparel, shoes, stockings, caps, and bonnets, for all ages, as
well as all classes and conditions.
All these articles were scrupulously clean and devoid of anything that
could offend or shock the most fastidious person. Those who have never
visited this bazar will scarcely credit in how short a space of time,
and with how little money, a cart may be filled with every requisite for
the complete fitting out of two or three utterly destitute families.
Rodolph was particularly struck with the manner, at once attentive,
eager, and cheerful, of the various dealers, as, standing at the door of
their shops, they solicited the patronage and custom of the passers-by.
Their mode of address, at once familiar and respectful, seemed
altogether unlike the tone of the present day. Scarcely had Rigolette
and her companion entered that part of the place devoted to the sale of
bedding, than they were surrounded by the most seducing offers and
solicitations.
"Walk in, sir, and look at my mattresses, if you please," said one.
"They are quite new. I will just open a corner to show you how
beautifully white and soft the wool is,--more like the wool of a lamb
than a sheep."
"My pretty lady, step in and see my beautiful, fine white sheets. They
are better than new, for the first stiffness has been taken out of them.
They are soft as a glove, and strong as iron."
"Come, my new-married couple, treat yourselves to one of my handsome
counterpanes. Only see how soft, light, and warm it is,--quite as good
as eider-down,--every bit the same as new,--never been used twenty
times. Now, then, my good lady, persuade your husband to treat you to
one. Let me have the pleasure of serving you, and I will fit you up for
housekeeping as cheaply as you can desire. Oh, you'll be pleased, I
know,--you'll come again to see Mother Bouvard! You will find I keep
everything. I bought a splendid lot of second-hand goods yesterday. Pray
walk in and let me have the pleasure of showing them to you. Come, you
may as well see if you don't buy. I shall charge you nothing for looking
at them."
"I tell you what, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette, "this fat old
lady shall have the preference. She takes us for husband and wife. I am
so pleased with her for the idea that I decide upon laying out my money
at her shop."
"Well, then, let it be the fat old lady," said Rigolette. "I like her
appearance, too."
Rigolette and her companion then went into Mother Bouvard's. By a
magnanimity, perhaps unexampled before in the Temple, the rivals of
Mother Bouvard made no disturbance at the preference awarded to her. One
of her neighbours, indeed, went so far as to say:
[Illustration: _Drew carefully out a sheet of paper._
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.]
"So long as it is Mother Bouvard, and no one else, that has this
customer; she has a family, and is the dowager and the honour of the
Temple."
It was, indeed, impossible to have a face more prepossessing, more open,
and more frank than that of the dowager of the Temple.
"Here, my pretty little woman," she said to Rigolette, who was looking
at sundry articles with the eye of a connoisseur, "this is the
second-hand bargain I told you of: two bed furnitures and bedding
complete, and as good as new. If you would like a small old _secretaire_
very cheap, here is one (and Mother Bouvard pointed to one). I had it in
the same lot. I do not usually buy furniture, but I could not refuse
this, for the poor people of whom I had it appeared to be so very
unhappy! Poor lady! it was the sale of this piece of furniture which
seemed to cut her to the very heart. I dare say it was a family piece of
'furniture.'"
At these words, and whilst the shopkeeper was settling with Rigolette as
to the prices of the various articles of purchase, Rodolph was
attentively looking at the _secretaire_ which Mother Bouvard had pointed
out. It was one of those ancient pieces of rosewood furniture, almost
triangular in shape, closed by a front panel, which let down, and,
supported by two long brass hinges, served for a writing-table. In the
centre of this panel, which was inlaid with ornaments of wood of
different patterns, Rodolph observed a cipher let in, of ebony, and
which consisted of an M. and an R., intertwined and surmounted with a
count's coronet. He conjectured, therefore, that the last possessor of
this piece of furniture was a person in an elevated rank of society. His
curiosity increased, and he looked at the _secretaire_ with redoubled
scrutiny; he opened the drawers mechanically, one after the other, when,
having some difficulty in drawing out the last, and trying to discover
the obstacle, he perceived, and drew carefully out, a sheet of paper,
half shut up between the drawer and the bottom of the opening. Whilst
Rigolette was concluding her bargain with Mother Bouvard, Rodolph was
engrossed in examining what he had found. From the numerous erasures
which covered this paper, he perceived that it was the copy of an
unfinished letter. Rodolph, with considerable difficulty, made out what
follows:
"SIR: Be assured that the most extreme misery alone could compel
me to the step which I now take. It is not mistaken pride which
causes my scruples, but the absolute want of any and every claim
on you for the service which I am about to ask. The sight of my
daughter, reduced, as well as myself, to the most frightful
destitution, has made me throw aside all hesitation. A few words
only as to the cause of the misfortunes which have overwhelmed
me. After the death of my husband, all my fortune was three
hundred thousand francs (12,000_l._), which was placed by my
brother with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary; I received at
Angers, whither I had settled with my daughter, the interest of
this sum, remitted to me by my brother. You know, sir, the
horrible event which put an end to his days. Ruined, as it
seems, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he put an end to
his existence eight months since. After this sad event, I
received a few lines, written by him in desperation before this
awful deed. 'When I should peruse them,' he wrote, 'he should no
longer exist.' He terminated this letter by informing me that he
had not any acknowledgment of the sum which he had placed, in my
name, with M. Jacques Ferrand, as that individual never gave any
receipt, but was honour and piety itself; that, therefore, it
would be sufficient for me to present myself to that gentleman,
and my business would be regularly and satisfactorily adjusted.
As soon as I was able to turn my attention to anything besides
the mournful end of my poor brother, I came to Paris, where I
knew no one, sir, but yourself, and you only by the connection
that had subsisted between yourself and my husband. I have told
you that the sum deposited with M. Jacques Ferrand was my entire
fortune, and that my brother forwarded to me every six months
the interest which arose from that sum. More than a year had
elapsed since the last payment, and, consequently, I went to M.
Jacques Ferrand to ask the amount of him, as I was greatly in
want of it. Scarcely was I in his presence, than, without any
consideration of my grief, he accused my brother of having
borrowed two thousand francs of him, which he had lost by his
death, adding, that not only was suicide a crime before God and
man, but, also, that it was an act of robbery, of which he, M.
Jacques Ferrand, was the victim. I was indignant at such
language, for the remarkable probity of my poor brother was well
known; he had, it is true, unknown to me and his friends, lost
his fortune in hazardous speculations, but he had died with an
unspotted reputation, deeply regretted by all, and not leaving
any debt except to his notary. I replied to M. Ferrand, that I
authorised him at once to take the two thousand francs, which he
claimed from my brother, from the three hundred thousand francs
of mine, which had been deposited with him. At these words, he
looked at me with an air of utter astonishment, and asked me
what three hundred thousand francs I alluded to. 'To those which
my brother placed in your hands eighteen months ago, sir, and of
which I have, till now, received the interest paid by you
through my brother,' I replied, not comprehending his question.
The notary shrugged his shoulders, smiled disdainfully, as if my
words were not serious, and replied that, so far from depositing
any money with him, my brother had borrowed two thousand francs
from him.
"It is impossible for me to express to you my horror at this
reply. 'What, then, has become of this sum?' I exclaimed. 'My
daughter and myself have no other resource, and, if we are
deprived of that, nothing remains for us but complete
wretchedness. What will become of us?' 'I really don't know,'
replied the notary, coldly. 'It is most probable that your
brother, instead of placing this sum with me, as you say, has
used it in those unfortunate speculations in which, unknown to
any one, he was engaged.' 'It is false, sir!' I exclaimed. 'My
brother was honour itself, and, so far from despoiling me and my
daughter, he would have sacrificed himself for us. He would
never marry, in order that he might leave all he had to my
child.' 'Dare you to assert, madame, that I am capable of
denying a deposit confided in me?' inquired the notary, with
indignation, which seemed so honourable and sincere that I
replied, 'No, certainly not, sir; your reputation for probity is
well known; but yet I can never accuse my brother of so cruel an
abuse of confidence.' 'What are your proofs of this claim?'
inquired M. Ferrand. 'I have none, sir. Eighteen months since,
my brother, who undertook the management of my affairs, wrote to
me, saying, "I have an excellent opportunity of obtaining six
per cent.; send me your power of attorney to sell your stock, and
I will deposit the three hundred thousand francs, which I will
make up, with M. Jacques Ferrand, the notary." I sent the papers
which he asked for to my brother, and a few days afterwards he
informed me that the investment was made by you, and at the end
of six months he remitted to me the interest due.' 'At least,
then, you have some letters on this subject, madame?' 'No, sir;
they were only on family matters, and I did not preserve them.'
'Unfortunately, madame, I cannot do anything in this matter,'
replied the notary. 'If my honesty was not beyond all suspicion,
all attack, I should say to you, the courts of law are open to
you,--attack me; the judges will have to choose between the word
of an honourable man, who for thirty years has had the esteem of
worthy men, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after
being ruined in most foolish undertakings, has found refuge only
in suicide. I say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare,
and your brother's memory will be dishonoured! But I believe you
will have the good sense to resign yourself to a misfortune
which, no doubt, is very severe, but to which I am an entire
stranger.' 'But, sir, I am a mother! If my fortune is lost, my
daughter and I have nothing left but a small stock of furniture;
if that is sold, we have nothing left, sir,--nothing, but the
most frightful destitution staring us in the face.' 'You have
been cheated,--it is a misfortune, but I can do nothing in the
matter,' answered the notary. 'Once more, madame, your brother
has deceived you. If you doubt between his word and mine, attack
me; go to law, and the judges will decide.' I quitted the
notary's in the deepest despair. What could I do in this
extremity? I had no means of proving the validity of my claim; I
was convinced of the strict honour of my brother, and confounded
at the assertion of M. Ferrand, and having no person to whom I
could turn for advice (for you were travelling), and knowing
that I must have money to pay for legal opinions and advice, and
desiring to preserve the very little that I had left, I dared
not commence a suit at law. It was at this juncture--"
This sketch of the letter ended here, for what followed was covered with
ink erasures, which completely blotted out the lines. At the bottom of
the page, and in the corner, Rodolph found this kind of memorandum:
"To write to the Duchesse de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy."
Rodolph remained deeply thoughtful after the perusal of this fragment of
a letter, in which he had found two names whose connection struck him.
Although the fresh infamy which appeared to accuse Jacques Ferrand was
not proved, yet this man had proved himself so pitiless towards the
unhappy Morel, had behaved so shamefully to Louise, his daughter, that
the denial of a deposit, protected by certain impunity, on the part of
such a wretch, appeared to him by no means improbable. This mother, who
claimed a fortune which had disappeared so strangely, was, doubtless,
used to a life of ease and comfort. Ruined by a sudden blow, and knowing
no one in Paris, as the letter said, what must have been the existence
of these two females, perhaps utterly destitute and alone in the midst
of this vast metropolis!
The prince had, as we know, promised sure occupation to madame, by
giving her accidentally, and to employ her mind, a part to play in some
future work of charity, being certain to find sure misery for her to
curtail before his next meeting with that lady. He thought that,
perhaps, chance might bring before him some unfortunate and worthy
person, who would, as he trusted, interest the heart and imagination of
Madame d'Harville. The sketch of the letter which he held in his hands,
and the copy of which had, doubtless, never been sent to the person
whose assistance was implored, evinced a high and resigned mind, which
would revolt from an offer of alms. So, then, how many precautions, how
many plans, how much delicacy, must be employed to conceal the source of
such generous succour, or to make it accepted! And, then, how much
address to introduce oneself to such a female, in order to judge if she
really merited the interest which she seemed capable of inspiring!
Rodolph foresaw in the development of this mysterious affair a multitude
of new and touching emotions, which would singularly attract Madame
d'Harville in the way he had previously proposed to her.
"Well, husband," said Rigolette, gaily, to Rodolph, "what is there so
interesting in that piece of paper, which you are reading there?"
"My little wife," replied Rodolph, "you are very inquisitive; I will
tell you by and by. Have you bought all you want?"
"Yes; and your poor friends will be set up like kings. There is nothing
to do now but to pay; Madame Bouvard has made every allowance, I must do
her that credit."
"My little wife, an idea occurs to me; whilst I am paying, suppose you
go and choose the clothes for Madame Morel and her children? I confess
my ignorance on the subject of such purchases. You can tell them to
bring everything here, and then all the things will be together, and the
poor people will have everything at once."
"You are right, husband. Wait here, and I shall not be long; I know two
shopkeepers here, where I am a regular customer, and I shall find in
their shops all I require."
And Rigolette went out, saying:
"Madame Bouvard, take care of my husband, and do not flirt with him,
mind, whilst I am gone."
And then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden ran.
"I must say, sir," said Mother Bouvard to Rodolph, "that you have a
capital little manager there. _Peste!_ she knows how to make a bargain!
And then she is so prettily behaved and pretty-looking! red and white,
with those large, beautiful black eyes, and such hair!"
"Is she not charming? and ain't I a happy husband, Madame Bouvard?"
"As happy a husband as she is a wife, I am sure of that."
"You are not mistaken. But tell me how much I owe you."
"Your little lady would only give me three hundred and thirty francs for
the whole; as true as heaven's above us, I only make fifteen francs by
the bargain, for I did not try to get the things as cheaply as I might,
for I hadn't the heart to bate 'em down; the people who sold 'em seemed
so uncommon miserable!"
"Really! Were they the same people that you bought this little
_secretaire_ of?"
"Yes, sir; and it cuts my heart to think of it! Only imagine, the day
before yesterday there came here a young and still pretty girl, but so
pale and thin one could almost see through her; and you know that pains
people that have any feeling at all. Although she was, as they say, neat
as a new-made pin, her old threadbare black worsted shawl, her black
stuff gown, which was also worn bare, her straw bonnet, in the month of
January, for she was in mourning, all showed what we call great
distress, for I am sure she was a real lady. At last, blushing up to the
very eyes, she asked me if I would buy two beds and bedding complete,
and a little old _secretaire_. I said that, as I sold, of course I
bought, and that if they would suit me I would have them, but that I
must see the things. She then asked me to go with her to her apartment,
not far off, on the other side of the Boulevards, in a house on the Quay
of St. Martin's Canal. I left my niece in the shop, and followed the
lady until we reached a smallish house at the bottom of a court; we went
up to the fourth floor, and, the lady having knocked, the door was
opened by a young girl about fourteen years of age, who was also in
mourning, and equally pale and thin, but still very, very pretty, so
much so that I was quite astonished."
"Well, and this young girl?"
"Was the daughter of the lady in mourning. Though it was very cold, yet
a thin gown of black cotton with white spots, and a small, shabby
mourning shawl, that was all she had on her."
"And their rooms were wretched?"
"Imagine, sir, two little rooms, very neat, but nearly empty, and so
cold that I was almost froze; there was not a spark of fire in the
grate, nor any appearance of there having been any for a very long time.
All the furniture was two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers, an old
portmanteau, and the small _secretaire_, and on the chest was a parcel,
wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. This small parcel was all the mother
and child had left when their furniture was once sold. The landlord had
taken the two bedsteads, the chairs, a trunk, and a table, for what was
due to him, as the porter said, who had gone up-stairs with us. Then the
lady begged me fairly to estimate the mattresses, sheets, curtains, and
quilts; and, as I am an honest woman, sir, although it is my business to
buy cheap and sell dear, yet, when I saw the poor young thing with her
eyes full of tears, and her mother, who, in spite of her affected
calmness, seemed to be weeping in her heart, I offered for the things
fifteen francs more than they were worth to sell again, I swear I did; I
agreed, too, just to oblige them, to take this small _secretaire_,
although it is not a sort of thing I ever deal in."
"I will buy it of you, Madame Bouvard."
"Will you though? So much the better, sir, for it is else likely to stay
with me for some time; I took it, as I say, only to oblige the poor
lady. I told her then what I would give for the things, and I expected
that she would haggle a bit and ask me something more, I did. Then it
was that I saw she was not one of the common; she was in downright
misery, she was, and no mistake about it, I am sure! I says to her,
'It's worth so much,' She answers me, and says, 'Very well; let us go
back to your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not return
here again to this house.' Then she says to her daughter, who was
sitting on the trunk a-crying, 'Claire, take this bundle.' I remember
her name, and I'm sure she called her Claire. Then the young lady got
up, but, as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little
_secretaire_ she went down on her knees before it, and, dear heart! how
the poor thing did sob! 'Courage, my dear child; remember some one sees
you,' said her mother to her, in a low voice, but yet I heard her. You
may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwithstanding. When the
lady gave me the key of the little _secretaire_, I saw a tear in her red
eyes, and it seemed as if her very heart bled at parting with this old
piece of furniture; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not seem
downcast before strangers. Then she told the porter that I should come
and take away all that the landlord did not keep, and after that we came
back here. The young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her
hand the small bundle, which contained all they possessed in the world.
I handed them their three hundred and fifteen francs, and then I never
saw them again."
"But their name?"
"I don't know; the lady sold me the things in the presence of the
porter, and so I had no occasion to ask her name, for what she sold
belonged to her."
"But their new address?"
"I don't know that either."
"No doubt they know at their old lodging?"
"No, sir; for, when I went back to get the things, the porter told me,
speaking of the mother and daughter, 'that they were very quiet people,
very respectable, and very unfortunate,--I hope no misfortune has
happened to them! They appeared to be very calm and composed, but I am
sure they were quite in despair.' 'And where are they gone now to
lodge?' I asked. '_Ma foi_, I don't know!' was the answer; 'they left
without telling me, and I am sure they will not return here.'"
The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a moment vanished; how could
he go to work to discover these two unfortunate females, when all the
trace he had of them was that the young daughter's name was Claire, and
the fragment of a letter, of which we have already made mention, and at
the bottom of which were these words:
"To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?"
The only, and very remote chance of discovering the traces of these
unfortunates was through Madame de Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on
intimate terms with Madame d'Harville.
"Here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money," said Rodolph to the
shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs.
"I will give you the change, sir. What is your address?"
"Rue du Temple, No. 17."
"Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I know it."
"Have you ever been to that house?"
"Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman there, who lent money on
wages; it is not a very creditable business, to be sure, but that's no
affair of mine,--she sells, I buy, and so that's settled. Another time,
not six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a young man,
who lived on the fourth floor, and was moving away."
"M. Francois Germain, perhaps?" said Rodolph.
"Just so. Did you know him?"
"Very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his present address in
the Rue du Temple, so I do not know where to find him. But where shall
we find a cart to take the goods?"
"As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old Jerome is close by, my
regular commissionaire. If you wish to know the address of M. Francois
Germain, I can help you."
"What? Do you know where he lives?"
"Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to meet with him."
"Where?"
"At the notary's where he works."
"At a notary's?"
"Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier."
"M. Jacques Ferrand?" exclaimed Rodolph.
"Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a crucifix and some holy
boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy."
"But how did you know that M. Germain worked at this notary's?"
"Why, this way: this young man came to me to ask me to buy his little
lot of furniture all of a lump. So that time, too, though rather out of
my line, I bought all his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a
nice young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him. Well, I bought
him right clean out, and I paid him well; he was, no doubt, very well
satisfied, for, a fortnight afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed
furniture from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with him,
everything was packed: well, but, at the moment he was going to pay me,
lo and behold! he had forgotten his purse; but he looked so like an
honest man that I said to him, 'Take the things with you,--never mind, I
shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.' 'Very good,'
says he; 'but I am never at home, so call to-morrow in the Rue du
Sentier, at M. Jacques Ferrand's, the notary, where I am employed, and I
will pay you.' I went next day, and he paid me; only, what was very odd
to me was that he sold his things, and then, a fortnight afterwards, he
buys others."
Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this singular fact.
Germain was desirous of destroying every trace from the wretches who
were pursuing him: fearing, no doubt, that his removal might put them on
the scent of his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this
danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others.
The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in store for Madame
Georges, who would thus, at length, see again that son so long and
vainly sought.
Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips.
"Well, did not I tell you so?" she exclaimed. "I am not deceived: we
shall have spent six hundred and forty francs all together, and the
Morels will be set up like princes. Here come the shopkeepers; are they
not loaded? Nothing will now be wanting for the family; they will have
everything requisite, even to a gridiron, two newly tinned saucepans,
and a coffee-pot. I said to myself, since they are to have things done
so grandly, let them be grand; and, with all that, I shall not have lost
more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay as quickly as you can,
and let us be gone. It will soon be noon, and my needle must go at a
famous rate to make up for this morning."
Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.
At the moment when the grisette and her companion were entering the
passage, they were almost knocked over by Madame Pipelet, who was
running out, frightened, troubled, and aghast.
"Mercy on us!" said Rigolette, "what ails you, Madame Pipelet? Where are
you running to in that manner?"
"Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?" exclaimed Anastasie; "it is Providence
that sends you; help me to save the life of Alfred."
"What do you mean?"
"The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy on us! Run for me, and get
me two sous' worth of absinthe at the dram-shop,--the strongest, mind;
it is his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus,--that generally
sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse me, I can then return to
Alfred; I am all over in such a fluster."
Rigolette let go Rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop.
"But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?" inquired Rodolph, following the
porteress into the lodge.
"How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out to the mayor's, to
church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred so much trotting about; I
returned, and what should I see but the dear old cosset with his legs
and arms all in the air! There, M. Rodolph," said Anastasie, opening the
door of her dog-hole, "say if that is not enough to break one's heart!"
Lamentable spectacle! With his bell-crowned hat still on his head, even
further on than usual, for the ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt,
by violence, to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet's eyes,
who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his bed. The fainting
was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some slight gesticulations
with his hands, as if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and
then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with which he had been
bonneted.
"He kicks,--that's a beautiful symptom! He comes to!" exclaimed the
porteress, who, stooping down, bawled in his ears, "What's the matter
with my Alfred? It's his 'Stasie who is with him. How goes it now?
There's some absinthe coming, that will set you up." Then, assuming a
falsetto voice of much endearment, she added: "What, did they abuse and
assassinate him,--the dear old darling, the delight of his 'Stasie, eh?"
Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty groan, uttered the
fatal word:
"Cabrion!"
And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful
vision.
"Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?" exclaimed Madame Pipelet.
"Alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to
death. This monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days,
but he poisons his nights also,--he pursues him in his very sleep; yes,
sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may
Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse."
Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of Rigolette's
former neighbour.
"Alfred! answer me; don't remain mute, you frighten me," said Madame
Pipelet; "let's try and get you up. Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of
that vagabond fellow? You know that, when you think of that fellow, it
has the same effect on you that cabbage has,--it fills up your pylorus
and stifles you."
"Cabrion!" repeated M. Pipelet, pushing up, with an effort, the hat
which had fallen so low over his eyes, which he rolled around him with
an affrighted air.
Rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe.
"Thankee, ma'amselle, you are so kind!" said the old body; and then she
added, "Come, deary, suck this down, that will make you all right."
And Anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to M. Pipelet's lips,
contrived to make him swallow the absinthe. In vain did Alfred struggle
vigorously. His wife, taking advantage of the victim's weakness, held up
his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she introduced the
neck of the little bottle between his teeth, and compelled him to
swallow the absinthe, after which she exclaimed, triumphantly:
"Ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you're on your pins again, my ducky!"
And Alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his
eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents of alarm:
"Have you seen him?"
"Who?"
"Is he gone?"
"Who, Alfred?"
"_Cabrion!_"
"Has he dared--" asked the porteress.
M. Pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, like that
redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with an affirmative air.
"What! has M. Cabrion been here?" inquired Rigolette, repressing a
violent desire to laugh.
"What! has the monster been unchained on Alfred?" said Madame Pipelet.
"Oh, if I had been there with my broom, he should have swallowed it,
handle and all! But tell us, Alfred, all about this horrid affair."
M. Pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about to speak, and they
listened to the man with the bell-crowned hat in religious silence,
whilst he expressed himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep
emotion:
"My wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going out, according to
the request of monsieur," bowing to Rodolph, "to the mayor's, to church,
and the cook-shop."
"The dear old darling had had the nightmare all night, and I wished to
save him the journey," said Anastasie.
"This nightmare was sent me as a warning from on high," responded the
porter, religiously. "I had dreamed of Cabrion, and I was to suffer from
Cabrion. Here was I sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting on
an alteration which I wished to make in the upper leather of this boot
confided to my hands, when I heard a noise, a rustling, at the window of
my lodge,--was it a presentiment, a warning from on high? My heart beat,
I lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass, I saw--I saw--"
"Cabrion!" exclaimed Anastasie, clasping her hands.
"Cabrion!" replied M. Pipelet, gloomily. "His hideous face was there,
pressed close against the window, and he was looking at me with eyes
like a cat's--what do I say?--a tiger's! just as in my dream. I tried to
speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth; I tried to rise, I was nailed to
my seat. My boot fell from my hands, and, as in all the critical and
important events of my life, I remained perfectly motionless. Then the
key turned in the lock, the door opened,--Cabrion entered!"
"He entered? Owdacious monster!" replied Madame Pipelet, as much
astonished as her spouse at such audacity.
"He entered slowly," resumed Alfred, "stopped a moment at the threshold,
as if to fascinate me with his look, atrocious as it was, then he
advanced towards me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with
his eye, but not uttering a word,--straight, mute, and threatening as a
phantom!"
"I declare, my very heart aches to hear him," said Anastasie.
"I remained still more motionless, and glued to my chair; Cabrion still
advanced slowly towards me, fixing his eye as the serpent glares at the
bird; he so frightened me that, in spite of myself, I kept my eye on
him; he came close to me, and then I could no longer endure his
revolting aspect, it was too much, and I could not. I shut my eyes, and
then I felt that he dared to place his hands upon my hat, which he took
by the crown and lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. I began to
be seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there was a singing
in my ears, and I was completely fastened to my seat, and I closed my
eyes still closer and closer. Then Cabrion stooped, took my head between
his hands, which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered with
an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent wretch!"
Anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven.
"My enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my forehead; such a
monstrosity overcame and paralysed me. Cabrion profited by my stupor to
place my hat on my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it
down over my eyes, as you saw. This last outrage destroyed me; the
measure was full, all about me was turning around, and I fainted at the
moment when I saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as
quietly and slowly as he had entered."
Then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength, M. Pipelet fell
back in his chair, raising his hands to heaven in a manner of mute
imprecation. Rigolette went out quickly; she could not restrain herself
any longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. Rodolph had the
greatest difficulty to keep his countenance.
Suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as announces the arrival of a
mob, heard from the street, and a great noise came from the door at the
top of the entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard on
the steps of the door.
CHAPTER II.
THE ARREST.
"Good gracious! M. Rodolph," exclaimed Rigolette, running in, pale and
trembling, "a commissary of police and the guard have come here."
"Divine justice watches over me," said M. Pipelet, in a transport of
pious gratitude. "They have come to arrest Cabrion; unfortunately it is
too late."
A commissary of police, wearing his tricoloured scarf around his waist
underneath his black coat, entered the lodge. His countenance was
impressive, magisterial, and serious.
"M. le Commissaire is too late; the malefactor has escaped," said M.
Pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; "but I will give you his
description,--villainous smile, impudent look, insulting--"
"Of whom do you speak?" inquired the magistrate.
"Of Cabrion, M. le Commissaire; but, perhaps, if you make all haste, it
is not yet too late to catch him," added M. Pipelet.
"I know nothing about any Cabrion," said the magistrate, impatiently.
"Does one Jerome Morel, a working lapidary, live in this house?"
"Yes, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, putting herself into a
military attitude.
"Conduct me to his apartment."
"Morel, the lapidary!" said the porteress, excessively surprised; "why,
he is the mildest lambkin in the world. He is incapable of--"
"Does Jerome Morel live here or not?"
"He lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the attics."
"Lead me to his attic."
Then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied him, the magistrate
said:
"Let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not leave the entrance.
Send Justing for a hackney-coach."
The man left the lodge to put these orders in execution.
"Now," continued the magistrate, addressing himself to M. Pipelet, "lead
me to Morel."
"If it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, I will do that for
Alfred; he is indisposed from Cabrion's behaviour, which, just as the
cabbage does, troubles his pylorus."
"You or your husband, it is no matter which. Go forward."
And, preceded by Madame Pipelet, he ascended the staircase, but soon
stopped when he saw Rodolph and Rigolette following him.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he inquired.
"They are two lodgers in the fourth story," said Madame Pipelet.
"I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know that you belonged to the house,"
said he to Rodolph.
The latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of the magistrate,
said to him:
"You are going to see a family in a state of deep misery, sir. I do not
know what fresh stroke of ill fortune threatens this unhappy artisan,
but he has been cruelly tried last night,--one of his daughters, worn
down by illness, is dead before his eyes,--dead from cold and misery."
"Is it possible?"
"It is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet. "But
for this gentleman who speaks to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for
he has saved poor Morel from prison by his generosity, the whole family
of the lapidary must have died of hunger."
The commissary looked at Rodolph with equal surprise and interest.
"Nothing is more easily explained, sir," said Rodolph. "A person who is
very charitable, learning that Morel, whose honour and honesty I will
guarantee to you, was in a most deplorable and unmerited state of
distress, authorised me to pay a bill of exchange for which the bailiffs
were about to drag off to prison this poor workman, the sole support of
his numerous family."
The magistrate, in his turn, struck by the noble physiognomy of Rodolph,
as well as the dignity of his manners, replied:
"I have no doubt of Morel's probity. I only regret I have to fulfil a
painful duty in your presence, sir, who have so deeply interested
yourself in this family."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"From the services you have rendered to the Morels, and your language, I
see, sir, that you are a worthy person. Having, besides, no reason for
concealing the object of the warrant which I have to execute, I will
confess to you that I am about to apprehend Louise Morel, the lapidary's
daughter."
The recollection of the rouleau of gold, offered to the bailiffs by the
young girl, occurred to Rodolph.
"Of what is she then accused?"
"She lies under a charge of child-murder."
"She! she! Oh, her poor father!"
"From what you have told me, sir, I imagine that, under the miserable
circumstances in which this artisan is, this fresh blow will be terrible
for him. Unfortunately, I must carry out the full instructions with
which I am charged."
"But it is at present only an accusation?" asked Rodolph. "Proofs, no
doubt, are still wanting?"
"I cannot tell you more on that point. Justice has been informed of this
crime, or rather the presumptive crime, by the statement of an
individual most respectable in every particular, Louise Morel's master."
"Jacques Ferrand, the notary?" said Rodolph, with indignation.
"Yes, sir--"
"M. Jacques Ferrand is a wretch, sir!"
"I am pained to see that you do not know the person of whom you speak,
sir. M. Jacques Ferrand is one of the most honourable men in the world;
his rectitude is universally recognised."
"I repeat to you, sir, that this notary is a wretch. It was he who
sought to send Morel to prison because his daughter repulsed his
libidinous proposals. If Louise is only accused on the denunciation of
such a man, you must own, sir, that the charge deserves but very little
credit."
"It is not my affair, sir, and I am very glad of it, to discuss the
depositions of M. Ferrand," said the magistrate, coldly. "Justice is
informed in this matter, and it is for a court of law to decide. As for
me, I have a warrant to apprehend Louise Morel, and that warrant I must
put into execution."
"You are quite right, sir, and I regret that an impulse of feeling,
however just, should have made me forget for a moment that this was
neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. One word only: the
corpse of the child which Morel has lost is still in the attic, and I
have offered my apartments to the family to spare them the sad spectacle
of the dead body. You will, therefore, find the lapidary, and possibly
his daughter, in my rooms. I entreat you, sir, in the name of humanity,
do not apprehend Louise abruptly in the midst of the unhappy family only
a short time since snatched from their state of utter wretchedness.
Morel has had so many shocks during this night that it is really to be
feared his reason may sink under it; already his wife is dangerously
ill, and such a blow would kill him."
"Sir, I have always executed my orders with every possible
consideration, and I shall act similarly now."
"Will you allow me, sir, to ask you one favour? It is this: the young
female who is following us occupies an apartment close to mine, which, I
have no doubt, she would place at your disposal. You could, in the first
instance, send for Louise, and, if necessary, for Morel afterwards, that
his daughter may take leave of him. You will thus save a poor sick and
infirm mother from a very distressing scene."
"Most willingly, sir, if it can be so arranged."
The conversation we have just described was carried on in an undertone,
whilst Rigolette and Madame Pipelet kept away discreetly a few steps'
distance from the commissary and Rodolph. The latter then went to the
grisette, whom the presence of the commissary had greatly affrighted,
and said to her:
"My good little neighbour, I want another service from you,--I want you
to leave your room at my disposal for the next hour."
"As long as you please, M. Rodolph. You have the key. But, oh, say what
is the matter?"
"I will tell you all by and by. But I want something more; you must
return to the Temple, and tell them not to bring our purchases here for
the next hour."
"To be sure I will, M. Rodolph; but has any fresh misfortune befallen
the Morels?"
"Alas! yes, something very sad indeed, which you will learn but too
soon."
"Well, then, neighbour, I will run to the Temple. Alas, alas! I was
thinking that, thanks to your kindness, these poor people had been quite
relieved from their trouble!" said the grisette, who then descended the
staircase very quickly.
Rodolph had been very desirous of sparing Rigolette the distressing
scene of Louise Morel's arrest.
"Mon commissaire," said Madame Pipelet, "since my king of lodgers will
direct you, I may return to my Alfred. I am uneasy about him, for when I
left him he had hardly recovered from his indisposition which Cabrion
had caused."
"Go, go," said the magistrate, who was thus left alone with Rodolph.
They both ascended to the landing-place on the fourth story, at the door
of the chamber in which the lapidary and his family had been temporarily
established.
Suddenly the door opened. Louise, pale and in tears, came out quickly.
"Adieu, adieu, father!" she exclaimed. "I will come back again, but I
must go now."
"Louise, my child, listen to me a moment," said Morel, following his
daughter, and endeavouring to detain her.
At the sight of Rodolph and the magistrate, Louise and the lapidary
remained motionless.
"Ah, sir, you, our kind benefactor!" said the artisan, recognising
Rodolph, "assist me in preventing Louise from leaving us. I do not know
what is the matter with her, but she quite frightens me, she is so
determined to go. Now there is no occasion for her to return to her
master, is there, sir? Did you not say to me, 'Louise shall not again
leave you, and that will recompense you for much that you have
suffered?' Ah! at that kind promise, I confess that for a moment I had
forgot the death of my poor little Adele; but I must not again be
separated from thee, Louise, oh, never, never!"
Rodolph was wounded to the heart, and was unable to utter a word in
reply.
The commissary said sternly to Louise:
"Is your name Louise Morel?"
"Yes, sir," replied the young girl, quite overcome.
"You are Jerome Morel, her father?" added the magistrate, addressing the
lapidary.
Rodolph had opened the door of Rigolette's apartment.
"Yes, sir; but--"
"Go in there with your daughter."
And the magistrate pointed to Rigolette's chamber, into which Rodolph
had already entered.
Reassured by his preserver, the lapidary and Louise, astonished and
uneasy, did as the commissary desired them.
The commissary shut the door, and said with much feeling to Morel:
"I know that you are honest and unfortunate, and it is, therefore, with
regret that I tell you that I am here in the name of the law to
apprehend your daughter."
"All is discovered,--I am lost!" cried Louise, in agony, and throwing
herself into her father's arms.
"What do you say? What do you say?" inquired Morel, stupefied. "You are
mad! What do you mean by lost? Apprehend you! Why apprehend you? Who has
come to apprehend you?"
"I, and in the name of the law;" and the commissary showed his scarf.
"Oh, wretched, wretched girl!" exclaimed Louise, falling on her knees.
"What! in the name of the law?" said the artisan, whose reason, severely
shaken by this fresh blow, began to totter. "Why apprehend my daughter
in the name of the law? I will answer for Louise, I will,--this my
child, my good child, ain't you, Louise? What! apprehend you, when our
good angel has restored you to us to console us for the death of our
poor, dear little Adele? Come, come, this can't be. And then, to speak
respectfully, M. le Commissaire, they apprehend none but the bad, you
know; and my Louise is not bad. So you see, my dear, the good gentleman
is mistaken. My name is Morel, but there are other Morels; you are
Louise, but there are other Louises; so you see, M. le Commissaire,
there is a mistake, certainly some mistake!"
"Unhappily there is no mistake. Louise Morel, take leave of your
father!"
"What! are you going to take my daughter away?" exclaimed the workman,
furious with grief, and advancing towards the magistrate with a menacing
air.
Rodolph seized the lapidary by the arm, and said to him:
"Be calm, and hope for the best; your daughter will be restored to you;
her innocence must be proved; she cannot be guilty."
"Guilty of what? She is not guilty of anything. I will put my hand in
the fire if--" Then, remembering the gold which Louise had brought to
pay the bill with, Morel cried, "But the money--that money you had this
morning, Louise!" And he gave his daughter a terrible look.
Louise understood it.
"I rob!" she exclaimed; and her cheeks suffused with generous
indignation, her tone and gesture, reassured her father.
"I knew it well enough!" he exclaimed. "You see, M. le Commissaire, she
denies it; and I swear to you, that she never told me a lie in her life;
and everybody that knows her will say the same thing as I do. She lie!
Oh, no, she is too proud to do that! And, then, the bill has been paid
by our benefactor. The gold she does not wish to keep, but will return
it to the person who lent it to her, desiring him not to tell any one;
won't you, Louise?"
"Your daughter is not accused of theft," said the magistrate.
"Well, then, what is the charge against her? I, her father, swear to you
that she is innocent of whatever crime they may accuse her of, and I
never told a lie in my life either."
"Why should you know what she is charged with?" said Rodolph, moved by
his distress. "Louise's innocence will be proved; the person who takes
so great an interest in you will protect your daughter. Come, come!
Courage, courage! This time Providence will not forsake you. Embrace
your daughter, and you will soon see her again."
"M. le Commissaire," cried Morel, not attending to Rodolph, "you are
going to deprive a father of his daughter without even naming the crime
of which she is accused! Let me know all! Louise, why don't you speak?"
"Your daughter is accused of child-murder," said the magistrate.
"I--I--I--child-mur--I don't--you--"
And Morel, aghast, stammered incoherently.
"Your daughter is accused of having killed her child," said the
commissary, deeply touched at this scene; "but it is not yet proved that
she has committed this crime."
"Oh, no, I have not, sir! I have not!" exclaimed Louise, energetically,
and rising; "I swear to you that it was dead. It never breathed,--it was
cold. I lost my senses,--this is my crime. But kill my child! Oh, never,
never!"
"Your child, abandoned girl!" cried Morel, raising his hands towards
Louise, as if he would annihilate her by this gesture and imprecation.
"Pardon, father, pardon!" she exclaimed.
After a moment's fearful silence, Morel resumed, with a calm that was
even more frightful:
"M. le Commissaire, take away that creature; she is not my child!"
The lapidary turned to leave the room; but Louise threw herself at his
knees, around which she clung with both arms; and, with her head thrown
back, distracted and supplicating, she exclaimed:
"Father, hear me! Only hear me!"
"M. le Commissaire, away with her, I beseech you! I leave her to you,"
said the lapidary, struggling to free himself from Louise's embrace.
"Listen to her," said Rodolph, holding him; "do not be so pitiless."
"To her! To her!" repeated Morel, lifting his two hands to his forehead,
"to a dishonoured wretch! A wanton! Oh, a wanton!"
"But, if she were dishonoured through her efforts to save you?" said
Rodolph to him in a low voice.
These words made a sudden and painful impression on Morel, and he cast
his eyes on his weeping child still on her knees before him; then, with
a searching look, impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice,
clenching his teeth with rage:
"The notary?"
An answer came to Louise's lips. She was about to speak, but paused,--no
doubt a reflection,--and, bending down her head, remained silent.
"No, no; he sought to imprison me this morning!" continued Morel, with a
violent burst. "Can it be he? Ah, so much the better, so much the
better! She has not even an excuse for her crime; she never thought of
me in her dishonour, and I may curse her without remorse."
"No, no; do not curse me, my father! I will tell you all,--to you alone,
and you will see--you will see whether or not I deserve your
forgiveness."
"For pity's sake, hear her!" said Rodolph to him.
"What will she tell me,--her infamy? That will soon be public, and I can
wait till then."
"Sir," said Louise, addressing the magistrate, "for pity's sake, leave
me alone with my father, that I may say a few words to him before I
leave him, perhaps for ever; and before you, also, our benefactor, I
will speak; but only before you and my father."
"Be it so," said the magistrate.
"Will you be pitiless, and refuse this last consolation to your child?"
asked Rodolph of Morel. "If you think you owe me any gratitude for the
kindness which I have been enabled to show you, consent to your
daughter's entreaties."
After a moment's sad and angry silence, Morel replied:
"I will."
"But where shall we go!" inquired Rodolph; "your family are in the other
room."
"Where shall we go," exclaimed the lapidary, with a bitter irony, "where
shall we go? Up above,--up above, into the garret, by the side of the
body of my dead daughter; that spot will well suit a confession, will it
not? Come along, come, and we will see if Louise will dare to tell a lie
in the presence of her sister's corpse. Come! Come along!"
And Morel went out hastily with a wild air, and turning his face from
Louise.
"Sir," said the commissary to Rodolph, in an undertone, "I beg you for
this poor man's sake not to protract this conversation. You were right
when you said his reason was touched; just now his look was that of a
madman."
"Alas, sir, I am equally fearful with yourself of some fresh and
terrible disaster! I will abridge as much as I can this most painful
farewell."
And Rodolph rejoined the lapidary and his daughter.
However strange and painful Morel's determination might appear, it was
really the only thing that, under the circumstances, could be done. The
magistrate consented to await the issue of this conversation in
Rigolette's chamber; the Morel family were occupying Rodolph's
apartment, and there was only the garret at liberty; and it was into
this horrid retreat that Louise, her father, and Rodolph betook
themselves. Sad and affecting sight!
In the middle of the attic which we have already described, there lay,
stretched on the idiot's mattress, the body of the little girl who had
died in the morning, now covered by a ragged cloth. The unusual and
clear light, reflected through the narrow skylight, threw the figures of
the three actors in this scene into bold relief. Rodolph, standing up,
was leaning with his back against the wall, deeply moved. Morel, seated
at the edge of his working-bench, with his head bent, his hands hanging
listless by his sides, whilst his gaze, fixed and fierce, rested on, and
did not quit, the mattress on which the remains of his poor little Adele
were deposited. At this spectacle, the anger and indignation of the
lapidary subsided, and were changed to inexpressible bitterness; his
energy left him, and he was utterly prostrated beneath this fresh blow.
Louise, who was ghastly pale, felt her strength forsake her. The
revelation she was about to make terrified her. Still she ventured,
tremblingly, to take her father's hand,--that miserable and shrivelled
hand, withered and wasted by excess of toil. The lapidary did not
withdraw it, and then his daughter, sobbing as if her heart would burst,
covered it with kisses, and felt it slightly pressed against her lips.
Morel's wrath had ended, and then his tears, long repressed, flowed
freely and bitterly.
"Oh, father, if you only knew!" exclaimed Louise; "if you only knew how
much I am to be pitied!"
"Oh, Louise, this, this will be the heaviest bitter in my cup for the
rest of my life,--all my life long," replied the lapidary, weeping
terribly. "You, you in prison,--in the same bench with criminals; you so
proud when you had a right to be proud! No," he resumed in a fresh burst
of grief and despair, "no; I would rather have seen you in your shroud
beside your poor little sister!"
"And I, I would sooner be there!" replied Louise.
"Be silent, unhappy girl, you pain me. I was wrong to say so; I have
been too harsh. Come, speak; but in the name of Heaven, do not lie.
However frightful the truth may be, yet tell it me all; let me learn it
from your lips, and it will be less cruel. Speak, for, alas! our moments
are counted, they are waiting for you down below. Ah, just Heaven, what
a sad, sad parting!"
"My father, I will tell you all,--everything," replied Louise, taking
courage; "but promise me--and our kind benefactor must promise me
also--not to repeat this to any person,--to any person. If he knew that
I had told!--oh," and she shuddered as she spoke, "you would be
destroyed, destroyed as I am; for you know not the power and ferocity of
this man."
"What man?"
"My master!"
"The notary?"
"Yes," said Louise in a whisper, and looking around her as if she feared
to be overheard.
"Take courage," said Rodolph; "no matter how cruel and powerful this man
may be, we will defeat him! Besides, if I reveal what you are about to
tell us, it would only be in the interest of yourself or your father."
"And me too, Louise, if I speak, it would be in endeavouring to save
you. But what has this villain done?"
"This is not all," said Louise, after a moment's reflection; "in this
recital there will be a person implicated who has rendered me a great
service, who has shown the utmost kindness to my father and family; this
person was in the employ of M. Ferrand when I entered his service, and
he made me take an oath not to disclose his name."
Rodolph, believing that she referred to Germain, said to Louise:
"If you mean Francois Germain, make your mind tranquil, his secret shall
be kept by your father and myself."
Louise looked at Rodolph with surprise.
"Do you know him?" said she.
"What! was the good, excellent young man, who lived here for three
months, employed at the notary's when you went to his service?" said
Morel. "The first time you met him here, you appeared as if you had
never seen him before."
"It was agreed between us, father; he had serious reasons why he did not
wish it known that he was working at M. Ferrand's. It was I who told him
of the room to let on the fourth story here, knowing that he would be a
good neighbour for you."
"But," inquired Rodolph, "who, then, placed your daughter at the
notary's?"
"During the illness of my wife, I said to Madame Burette--the woman who
advanced money on pledges, who lived in this house--that Louise wished
to get into service in order to assist us. Madame Burette knew the
notary's housekeeper, and gave me a letter to her, in which she
recommended Louise as a very good girl. Cursed letter! it was the cause
of all our misfortune. This was the way, sir, that my daughter got into
the notary's service."
"Although I know some of the causes which excited M. Ferrand's hatred
against your father," said Rodolph to Louise, "I beg you to tell me as
shortly as possible what passed between you and the notary after your
entering into his service; it may, perhaps, be useful for your defence."
"When I first went into M. Ferrand's house," said Louise, "I had nothing
to complain of with respect to him. I had a great deal to do, and the
housekeeper often scolded me, and the house was very dull; but I endured
everything very patiently. Service is service, and, perhaps, elsewhere I
should have other disagreeables. M. Ferrand was a very stern-looking
person; he went to mass, and frequently had priests in his house. I did
not at all distrust him; for at first he hardly ever looked at me, spoke
short and cross, especially when there were any strangers. Except the
porter who lived at the entrance, in the same part of the house as the
office is in, I was the only servant, with Madame Seraphin, the
housekeeper. The pavilion that we occupied was isolated between the
court and the garden. My bedroom was high up. I was often afraid, being,
as I was, always alone, either in the kitchen, which is underground, or
in my bedroom. One day I had worked very late mending some things that
were required in a hurry, and then I was going to bed, when I heard
footsteps moving quietly in the little passage at the end of which my
room was situated; some one stopped at my door. At first I supposed it
was the housekeeper; but, as no one entered, I began to be alarmed. I
dared not move, but I listened; however, I heard no one; yet I was sure
that there was some one behind my door. I asked twice who was there, but
no one answered; I then pushed my chest of drawers against the door,
which had neither lock nor bolt. I still listened, but nothing stirred;
so at the end of half an hour, which seemed very long to me, I threw
myself on my bed, and the night passed quietly. The next morning I asked
the housekeeper's leave to have a bolt put on my door, which had no
fastening, telling her of my fright on the previous night, and she told
me I had been dreaming, and that, if I wanted a bolt, I must ask M.
Ferrand for it. When I asked him, he shrugged up his shoulders, and said
I was crazy; so I did not dare say any more about it. Some time after
this, the misfortune about the diamond happened. My father in his
despair did not know what to do. I told Madame Seraphin of his distress,
and she replied; 'Monsieur is so charitable, perhaps he will do
something for your father.' The same afternoon, when I was waiting at
table, M. Ferrand said to me, suddenly, 'Your father is in want of
thirteen hundred francs; go and tell him to come to my office this
evening, and he shall have the money.' At this mark of kindness I burst
into tears, and did not know how to thank him, when he said, with his
usual bluntness, 'Very good, very good; oh, what I do is nothing!' The
same evening, after my work, I came to my father to tell him the good
news; the next day--"
"I had the thirteen hundred francs, giving him my acceptance in blank at
three months' date," said Morel. "I did like Louise, and wept with
gratitude, called this man my benefactor. Oh, what a wretch must he be
thus to destroy the gratitude and veneration I entertained for him!"
"This precaution of making you give him a blank acceptance, at a date
falling due so soon that you could not meet it, must have raised your
suspicion?" said Rodolph.
"No, sir, I only thought the notary took it for security, that was all;
besides, he told me that I need not think about repaying this sum in
less than two years; but that, every three months, the bill should be
renewed for the sake of greater regularity. It was, however, duly
presented here on the day it became due, but, as you may suppose, was
not paid. The usual course of law was followed up, and judgment was
obtained against me in the name of a third party. All this I was desired
not to feel any uneasiness respecting, as it had been caused by an error
on the part of the officer in whose hands the bill had been placed."
"His motive is very evident," said Rodolph; "he wished to have you
entirely in his power."
"Alas, sir, it was from the very day in which he obtained judgment that
he commenced! But, go on, Louise, go on. I scarcely know where I am. My
head seems giddy and bewildered, and at times my memory entirely fails
me. I fear my senses are leaving me, and that I shall become mad. Oh,
this is too much--too hard to bear!"
Rodolph having succeeded in tranquillising the lapidary, Louise thus
proceeded:
"With a view to prove my gratitude to M. Ferrand for all his kindness
towards my family, I redoubled my endeavours to serve him well and
faithfully. From that time the housekeeper appeared to take an utter
aversion to me, and to embrace every opportunity of rendering me
uncomfortable, continually exposing me to anger by withholding from me
the various orders given by M. Ferrand. All this made me extremely
miserable, and I would gladly have sought another place; but the
knowledge of my father's pecuniary obligation to my master prevented my
following my inclinations.
"The money had now been lent about three months, and, though M. Ferrand
still continued harsh and unkind to me in the presence of Madame
Seraphin, he began casting looks of a peculiar and embarrassing
description at me whenever he could do so unobserved, and would smile
and seem amused when he perceived the confusion it occasioned me."
"Take notice, I beg, sir, that it was at this very time the necessary
legal proceedings, for enabling him at any moment to deprive me of my
liberty, were going on."
"One day," said Louise, in continuation, "the housekeeper went out
directly after dinner, contrary to her usual custom; the clerks, none of
whom lived in the house, were dismissed from further duty for the day,
and retired to their respective homes; the porter was sent out on a
message, leaving M. Ferrand and myself alone in the house. I was doing
some needlework Madame Seraphin had given me, and by her orders was
sitting in a small antechamber, from whence I could hear if I was
wanted. After some time the bell of my master's bedroom rang; I went
there immediately, and upon entering found him standing before the fire.
As I approached he turned around suddenly and caught me in his arms.
Alarm and surprise at first deprived me of power to move; but, spite of
his great strength, I at last struggled so successfully, that I managed
to free myself from his grasp, and, running back with all speed to the
room I had just quitted, I hastily shut the door, and held it with all
my force. Unfortunately, the key was on the other side."
"You hear, sir,--you hear," said Morel to Rodolph, "the manner in which
this generous benefactor behaved to the daughter of the man he affected
to serve!"
"At the end of a few minutes," continued Louise, "the door yielded to
the efforts of M. Ferrand. Fortunately, the lamp by which I had been
working was within my reach, and I precipitately extinguished it. The
antechamber was at some distance from his bedchamber, and we were,
therefore, left in utter darkness. At first he called me by name; but,
finding that I did not reply, he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with
rage and passion, 'If you try to escape from me, your father shall go to
prison for the thirteen hundred francs he owes, and is unable to pay.' I
besought him to have pity on me, promised to do all in my power to serve
him faithfully, and with gratitude for all his goodness to my family,
but declared that no consideration on earth should induce me to disgrace
myself or those I belonged to."
"There spoke my Louise," said Morel, "or, rather, as she would have
spoken in her days of proud innocence. How, then, if such were your
sentiments--But go on, go on."
"I was still concealed by the darkness, which I trusted would preserve
me, when I heard the door closed which led from the antechamber, and
which my master had contrived to find by groping along the wall. Thus,
having me wholly in his power, he returned to his chamber for a light,
with which he quickly returned, and then commenced a fresh attack, the
particulars of which, my dearest father, I will not venture to
describe; suffice it, that promises, threats, violence, all were tried;
but anger, fear, and despair armed me with fresh strength, and, while I
continually eluded his grasp, and fled for safety from room to room, his
rage at my determined resistance knew no bounds. In his fury he even
struck me with such frenzied violence as to leave my features streaming
with blood."
"You hear! you hear!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his clasped hands
towards heaven, "and are crimes like this to go unpunished? Shall such a
monster escape and not pay a heavy penalty for his wickedness?"
"Trust me," said Rodolph, who seemed profoundly meditating on what he
heard, "trust me, this man's time and hour will come. But continue your
painful narration, my poor girl, and shrink not from telling us even its
blackest details."
"The struggle between us had now gone on so long that my strength began
to fail me. I was conscious of my own inability to resist further, when
the porter, who had returned home, rang the bell twice,--the usual
signal when letters arrived and required to be fetched from his hands.
Fearing that, if I did not obey the summons, the porter would bring the
letters himself, M. Ferrand said, 'Go; utter but one word, and to-morrow
sees your father in prison. If you endeavour to quit this house, the
consequences will fall on him; and, as for you, I will take care no one
shall take you into their house, for, without exactly affirming it, I
will contrive to make every one think you have robbed me. Then, should
any person refer to me for your character, I shall speak of you as an
idle, unworthy girl whom I could keep no longer.'
"The following day after this scene, spite of the menaces of my master,
I ran home to complain to my father of the unkind usage I received,
without daring, however, to tell him all. His first desire was for me
to quit the house of M. Ferrand without delay. But, then, a prison
would close upon my poor parent; added to which, my small earnings had
become indispensably necessary to our family since the illness of my
mother, and the bad character promised me by M. Ferrand might possibly
have prevented me from finding another service for a very long time."
"Yes," said Morel, with gloomy bitterness, "we were selfish and cowardly
enough to allow our poor child to return to that accursed roof. Oh, I
spoke truly when I said, 'Want, want, what mean, what degrading acts do
you not force us to commit!'"
"Alas, dear father, did you not try by every possible means to procure
these thirteen hundred francs? And, that being impossible, there was
nothing left but to submit ourselves to our fate."
"Go on, go on; your parents have been your executioners, and we are far
more guilty than yourself of all the fearful consequences!" exclaimed
the lapidary, concealing his face with his hands.
"When I next saw my master," said Louise, "he had resumed the harsh and
severe manner with which he ordinarily treated me. He made not the
slightest reference to the scene I have just related, while his
housekeeper persisted in her accustomed tormenting and unkind behaviour
towards me, giving me scarcely sufficient food to maintain my strength,
and even locking the bread up so that I could not help myself to a
morsel; she would even carry her cruelty so far as to wilfully spoil and
damage the morsels left by herself and M. Ferrand for my repasts, I
always taking my meals after my master and the housekeeper, who
invariably sat down to table together. My nights were as painful as my
days. I durst not indulge in sleep, lest I should be surprised by the
entrance of the notary. I had no means of securing my chamber door, and
the chest of drawers with which I used to fasten myself in had been
taken away, leaving me only a small table, a chair, and my box. With
these articles I barricaded the door as well as I could, and merely lay
down in my clothes, ready to start up at the least noise. Some time
elapsed, however, without my having any further alarm as regarded M.
Ferrand, who seemed to have altogether forgotten me, and seldom bestowed
even a look on me. By degrees my fears died away, and I became almost
persuaded I had nothing more to dread from the persecutions of my
master. One Sunday I had permission to visit my home, and with extreme
delight hastened to announce the happy change that had taken place to my
parents. Oh, how we all rejoiced to think so! Up to that moment, my dear
father, you know all that occurred. What I have still to tell you,"
murmured Louise, as her voice sunk into an inarticulate whisper, "is so
dreadful that I have never dared reveal it."
"I was sure, ah, too sure," cried Morel, with a wildness of manner and
rapidity of utterance which startled and alarmed Rodolph, "that you were
hiding something from me. Too plainly did I perceive, by your pale and
altered countenance, that your mind was burthened with some heavy
secret. Many a time have I said so to your mother; but she, poor thing!
would not listen to me, and even blamed me for making myself
unnecessarily miserable. So you see, that weakly, and selfish to escape
from trouble ourselves, we allowed our poor, helpless child to remain
under this monster's roof. And to what have we reduced our poor girl?
Why, to be classed with the felons and criminals of a prison! See, see
what comes of parents sacrificing their children. And, then, too, be it
remembered--after all--who knows? True, we are poor--very poor, and may
be guilty--yes, yes, quite right, guilty of throwing our daughter into
shame and disgrace. But, then, see how wretched and distressed we were!
Besides, such as we--" Then, as if suddenly striving to collect his
bewildered ideas, Morel struck his forehead, exclaiming, "Alas! I know
not what I say. My brain burns and my senses seem deserting me. A sort
of bewilderment seems to come over me as though I were stupefied with
drink. Alas, alas! I am going mad!" So saying, the unhappy man buried
his face between his hands.
Unwilling that Louise should perceive the extent of his apprehensions as
regarded the agitated state of the lapidary, and how much alarm he felt
at his wild, incoherent language, Rodolph gravely replied:
"You are unjust, Morel; it was not for herself alone, but for her aged
and afflicted parent, her children, and you, that your poor wife dreaded
the consequences of Louise's quitting the notary's house. Accuse no one;
but let all your just anger, your bitter curses, fall on the head that
alone deserves it,--on that hypocritical monster who offered a weak and
helpless girl the alternative of infamy or ruin; perhaps destruction;
perhaps death to those she most tenderly loved,--on the fiend who could
thus abuse the power he held, thus prey upon the tenderest, holiest
feelings of a loving daughter, thus shamelessly outrage every moral and
religious duty. But patience; as I before remarked, Providence
frequently reserves for crimes so black as this a fearful and astounding
retribution."
As Rodolph uttered these words, he spoke with a tone so expressive of
his own conviction of the certain vengeance of Heaven, that Louise gazed
at her preserver with a surprise not unmingled with fear.
"Go on, my poor girl," resumed Rodolph, addressing Louise; "conceal
nothing from us: it is more important than you can be aware that you
should relate the most minute details of your sad story."
Thus encouraged, Louise proceeded:
"I began, therefore, as I told you, to regain my tranquillity, when one
evening both M. Ferrand and his housekeeper went out. They did not dine
at home. I was quite alone in the house. As usual, my allowance of
bread, wine, and water was left for me, and every place carefully
locked. When I had finished my work, I took the food placed for me, and,
having made my meal, I retired to my bedroom, thinking it less dull than
remaining down-stairs by myself. I took care to leave a light in the
hall for my master, as when he dined out no one ever sat up for him.
Once in my chamber, I seated myself and commenced my sewing; but,
contrary to my usual custom, I found the greatest difficulty in keeping
myself awake. A heavy drowsiness seemed to steal over, and a weight like
lead seemed to press on my eyelids. Alas, dear father!" cried Louise,
interrupting herself as though frightened at her own recital, "I feel
sure you will not credit what I am about to say, you will believe I am
uttering falsehoods; and yet, here, over the lifeless body of my poor
little sister, I swear to the truth of each word I speak."
"Explain yourself, my good girl," said Rodolph.
"Indeed, sir," answered Louise, "you ask me to do that I have been
vainly trying to accomplish during the last seven months. In vain have I
racked my brains to endeavour to account for the events of that fatal
night. Sometimes I have almost grown distracted while trying to clear up
this fearful and mysterious occurrence."
"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed the lapidary, suddenly rousing from one of
those fits of almost apathetic stupor into which he had occasionally
fallen from the very commencement of this narration, "what dreadful
thing is she going to tell us?"
"This lethargic feeling," continued Louise, "so completely overpowered
me, that, unable any longer to resist it, I at length, contrary to my
usual custom, fell asleep upon my chair. This is all I recollect
before--before--Oh, forgive me, father, forgive me! indeed, indeed, I am
not guilty; yet--"
"I believe you--I believe you; but proceed."
"I know not how long I slept; but when I awoke it was to shame and
dishonour, for I found M. Ferrand beside me."
"'Tis false! 'tis false!" screamed the lapidary, in a tone of frenzied
violence. "Confess that you yielded to violence or to the dread of
seeing me dragged to prison, but do not seek to impose on me by
falsehoods such as this."
"Father! father! I call Heaven to witness I am telling you the truth
only."
"I tell you 'tis a base falsehood. Why should the notary have wished to
throw me in prison, since you had freely yielded to his wishes?"
"Yielded! Oh, no, dear father, I would have died first! So deep was my
sleep that it resembled that of death. It may seem to you both
extraordinary and impossible, and I assure you that, up to the present
hour, I myself have never been able to understand it or account for
it--"
"But I can do so at once," said Rodolph, interrupting Louise. "This
crime alone was wanting to complete the heavy calendar of that man's
offences. Accuse not your daughter, Morel, of seeking to deceive you.
Tell me, Louise, when you made your meal, before ascending to your
chamber, did you not remark something peculiar in the taste of the wine
given you to drink? Try and recollect this circumstance."
After reflecting a short time, Louise replied:
"Yes, I do indeed remember," answered she, "that the wine and water left
for me as usual had a somewhat bitter taste; but I did not pay much
attention to it, because the housekeeper would frequently, when
spitefully inclined, amuse herself with throwing salt or pepper into
what I drank."
"But, on the day you were describing, your wine had a bitter taste?"
"It had, sir, but not sufficiently so to prevent my drinking it; and I
attributed it to the wine being turned."
Morel, with fixed eye and haggard look, listened both to the questions
of Rodolph and the answers of Louise without appearing to understand to
what they tended.
"And before falling asleep on your chair, did not your head seem
unusually heavy, and your limbs weary?"
"Oh, yes, sir, I felt a fullness and throbbing in my temples, an icy
coldness seemed to fill my veins, and a feeling of unusual discomfort
oppressed me."
"Wretch, villainous wretch!" exclaimed Rodolph. "Are you aware, Morel,
what this man made your poor child take in her wine?"
The artisan gazed at Rodolph without replying to his question.
"His accomplice, the housekeeper, had mingled in Louise's drink some
sort of stupefying drug, most probably opium, by which means both the
bodily and mental powers of your unfortunate daughter were completely
paralysed for several hours; and when she awoke from this lethargic
state it was to find herself dishonoured and disgraced."
"Ah, now," exclaimed Louise, "my misfortune is explained. You see, dear
father, I am less guilty than you thought me. Father! dear, dear father!
look upon me, bestow one little look of pity and of pardon on your poor
Louise!"
But the glance of the lapidary was fixed and vacant; his honest mind
could not comprehend the idea of so black, so monstrous a crime as that
ascribed to the notary, and he gazed with blank wonder at the words he
heard, as though quite unable to affix any meaning to them. And besides,
during the latter part of the discourse, his intellect became evidently
shaken, his ideas became a shapeless, confused mass of wandering
recollections; a mere chaotic mass of griefs and sorrows possessed his
brain, and he sank into a state of mental prostration, which is to
intellect what darkness is to the sight,--the formidable symptoms of a
weakened brain. After a pause of some length, Morel replied, in a low,
hasty tone:
"Yes, yes; it is bad, very, very bad; cannot be worse!" and then
relapsed into his former apathy; while Rodolph, watching him with pained
attention, perceived that the energy, even of indignation, was becoming
exhausted within the mind of the miserable father, in the same manner as
excess of grief will frequently dry up the relief of tears. Anxious to
put an end as quickly as possible to the present trying scene, Rodolph
said to Louise:
"Proceed, my poor child, and let us have the remainder of this tissue of
horrors."
"Alas, sir! what you have heard is as nothing to that which follows.
When I perceived M. Ferrand by my side I uttered a cry of terror. My
first impulse was to rush from the room, but M. Ferrand forcibly
detained me; and I still felt so weak, so stupefied with the medicine
you speak of as having been mingled in my drink, that I was powerless as
an infant. 'Why do you wish to escape from me now?' inquired M. Ferrand,
with an air of surprise which filled me with dread. 'What fresh caprice
is this? Am I not here by your own free will and consent?' 'Oh, sir!'
exclaimed I, 'this is most shameful and unworthy, to take advantage of
my sleep to work my ruin; but my father shall know all!' Here my master
interrupted me by bursting into loud laughter. 'Upon my word, young
lady,' said he, 'you are very amusing. So you are going to say that I
availed myself of your being asleep to effect your undoing. But who do
you suppose will credit such a falsehood? It is now four in the morning,
and since ten o'clock last night I have been here. You must have slept
long and soundly not to have discovered my presence sooner. Come, come,
no more attempts at shyness, but confess the truth, that I came hither
with your perfect good-will and consent. You must be less capricious or
we shall not keep good friends, I fear. Your father is in my power. You
have no longer any cause to fly me. Be obedient to my wishes and we
shall do very well together; but resist me, and the consequences shall
fall heavily on you, and your family likewise.' 'I will tell my dear
father of your conduct,' sobbed I; 'he will avenge me, and the laws will
punish you.' M. Ferrand looked at me as though at a loss to comprehend
me. 'Why, you have lost your senses,' cried he; 'what, in Heaven's name,
can you tell your father? That you thought proper to invite me to your
bedroom? But, invent any tale you please, you will soon find what sort
of a reception it will meet with. Why, your father will not look at you,
much more believe you.' 'But you know,' cried I, 'you well know, sir, I
gave no permission for your being here. You are well aware you entered
my chamber without my knowledge, and are now here against my will.'
'Against your will! And is it possible you have the effrontery to utter
such a falsehood, to dare insinuate that I have employed force to gain
my ends? Do you wish to be convinced of the folly of such an imputation?
Why, by my orders, Germain, my cashier, returned here last night at ten
o'clock to complete some very important papers, and until one o'clock
this morning he was writing in the chamber directly under yours; would
he not then have been sure to have heard the slightest sound, much less
the repetition of such a struggle as we had together a little while ago,
my saucy little beauty, when you were not quite in as complying a humour
as I found you in last evening? Germain must have heard you during the
stillness of the night had you but called for assistance. Ask him, when
you see him, whether any such sound occurred; he will tell you no, and
that he worked on uninterruptedly during the very hours you are accusing
me of forcibly entering your bedchamber.'"
"Ah!" cried Rodolph, "the villain had evidently taken every precaution
to prevent detection."
"He had, indeed. As for me, sir," continued Louise, "I was so
thunderstruck with horror at these assertions of M. Ferrand, that I knew
not what to reply. Ignorant of my having taken anything to induce sleep,
I felt wholly unable to account for my having slept so unusually heavy
and long. Appearances were strongly against me; what would it avail for
me to publish the dreadful story? No one would believe me innocent. How,
indeed, could I hope or expect they should, when even to myself the
events of that fatal night continued an impenetrable mystery?"
Even Rodolph remained speechless with horror at this fearful revelation
of the diabolical hypocrisy of M. Ferrand.
"Then," said he, after a pause of some minutes, "you never ventured to
inform your father of the infamous treatment you had received?"
"No," answered she, "for I dreaded lest he might suppose I had willingly
listened to the persuasions of my master; and I also feared that, in the
first burst of his indignation, my poor father would forget that not
only his own freedom, but the very existence of his family, depended
upon the pleasure of M. Ferrand."
"And probably," continued Rodolph, desirous if possible to save Louise
the painful confession, "probably, yielding to constraint, and the dread
of endangering the safety of your father and family by a refusal, you
continued to be the victim of this monster's brutality?"
Louise spoke not, but her cast-down eyes, and the deep blushes which
dyed her pale cheek, answered most painfully in the affirmative.
"And was his conduct afterwards less barbarous and unfeeling than
before?"
"Not in the least. And when, by chance, my master had the cure and
vicaire of Bonne Nouvelle to dine with him, the better to avert all
suspicion from himself, he would scold me severely in their presence,
and even beg M. le Cure to admonish me, assuring him that some day or
other I should fall into ruin; that I was a girl of free and bold
manners, and that he could not make me keep my distance with the young
men in his office; that I was an idle, unworthy person, whom he only
kept out of charity and pity for my father, who was an honest man with a
large family, whom he had greatly served and obliged. With the exception
of that part of the statement which referred to my father, the rest was
utterly false. I never, by any chance, saw the clerks belonging to his
office, as it was situated in a building entirely detached from the
house."
"And, when alone with M. Ferrand, how did he account for his treatment
of you before the cure?"
"He assured me he was only jesting. However, the cure believed him, and
reprehended me very severely, saying that a person must be vicious
indeed to go astray in so godly a household, where I had none but the
most holy and religious examples before my eyes. I knew not what answer
to make to this address; I felt my cheeks burn and my eyes involuntarily
cast down. All these indications of shame and confusion were construed
to my disadvantage, until, at length, sick at heart, and weary, and
disgusted, my very life seemed a burden to me, and many times I felt
tempted to destroy myself; but the thoughts of my parents, my poor
brothers and sisters, that my small earnings helped to maintain,
deterred me from ending my sorrows by death. I therefore resigned myself
to my wretched fate, finding one consolation, amidst the degradation of
my lot, in the thought that, at least, I had preserved my father from
the horrors of a prison. But a fresh misfortune overwhelmed me; I became
_enceinte_. I now felt myself lost indeed. A secret presentiment assured
me that, when M. Ferrand became aware of a circumstance which ought, at
least, to have rendered him less harsh and cruel, he would treat me
even more unkindly than before. I was still, however, far from expecting
what afterwards occurred."
At this moment, Morel, recovering from his temporary abstraction, gazed
around him, as though trying to collect his ideas, then, pressing his
hand upon his forehead, looked at his daughter with an inquiring glance,
and said:
"I fancy I have been ill, or something is wrong with my
head--grief--fatigue--tell me, my child--what were you saying just now?
I seem almost unable to recollect."
"When," continued Louise, unheeding her father's look, "when M. Ferrand
discovered that I was likely to become a mother--"
Here the lapidary waved his hand in despairing agony, but Rodolph calmed
him by an imploring look.
"Yes, yes," said Morel, "let me hear all; 'tis fit and right the tale
should be told. Go on, go on, my girl, and I will listen from beginning
to end."
Louise went on. "I besought M. Ferrand to tell me by what means I should
conceal my shame, and the consequence of a crime of which he was the
author. Alas, dear father, I can scarcely hope or believe you will
credit what I am about to tell you."
"What did he say? Speak."
"Interrupting me with much indignation and well-feigned surprise, he
affected not to understand my meaning, and even inquired whether I had
not lost my senses. Terrified, I exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, what is to become
of me? Alas, if you have no pity on me, pity at least the poor infant
that must soon see the light!'
"'What a lost, depraved character!' cried M. Ferrand, raising his
clasped hands towards heaven. 'Horrible, indeed! Why, you poor, wretched
girl, is it possible that you have the audacity to accuse me of
disgracing myself by any illicit acquaintance with a person of your
infamous description? Can it be that you have the hardihood to lay the
fruits of your immoral conduct and gross irregularity at my door,--I,
who have repeated a hundred times, in the presence of respectable
witnesses, that you would come to ruin some day, vile profligate that
you are? Quit my house this instant, or I will drive you out!'"
Rodolph and Morel were struck with horror; a system of wickedness like
this seemed to freeze their blood.
"By Heaven!" said Rodolph, "this surpasses any horrors that imagination
could have conceived."
Morel did not speak, but his eyes expanded fearfully, whilst a
convulsive spasm contracted his features. He quitted the stool on which
he was sitting, opened a drawer suddenly, and, taking out a long and
very sharp file, fixed in a wooden handle, he rushed towards the door.
Rodolph, guessing his thoughts, seized his arm, and stopped his
progress.
"Morel, where are you going? You will do a mischief, unhappy man!"
"Take care," exclaimed the infuriated artisan, struggling, "or I shall
commit two crimes instead of one!" and the madman threatened Rodolph.
"Father, it is our benefactor!" exclaimed Louise.
"He is jesting at us; he wants to save the notary," replied Morel, quite
crazed, and struggling with Rodolph. At the end of a second, the latter
disarmed him, carefully opened the door, and threw the file out on the
staircase. Louise ran to the lapidary, embraced him, and said:
"Father, it is our benefactor! You have raised your hand against
him,--recover yourself."
These words recalled Morel to himself, and hiding his face in his hands,
he fell mutely on his knees before Rodolph.
[Illustration: _Morel fell back on the stool._
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.]
"Rise, rise, unhappy father," said Rodolph, in accents of great
kindness; "be patient, be patient, I understand your wrath and share
your hatred; but, in the name of your vengeance, do not compromise your
daughter!"
"Louise!--my daughter!" cried the lapidary, rising, "but what can
justice--the law--do against that? We are but poor wretches, and were we
to accuse this rich, powerful, and respected man, we should be laughed
to scorn. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed convulsively, "and they would be
right. Where would be our proofs?--yes, our proofs? No one would believe
us. So, I tell you--I tell you," he added, with increased fury, "I tell
you that I have no confidence but in the impartiality of my knife."
"Silence, Morel! your grief distracts you," said Rodolph to him
sorrowfully; "let your daughter speak; the moments are precious; the
magistrate waits; I must know all,--all, I tell you; go on, my child."
Morel fell back on the stool, overwhelmed with his anguish.
"It is useless, sir," continued Louise, "to tell you of my tears, my
prayers. I was thunderstruck. This took place at ten o'clock in the
morning in M. Ferrand's private room. The curate was coming to breakfast
with him, and entered at the moment when my master was assailing me with
reproach and accusations. He appeared much put out at the sight of the
priest."
"What occurred then?"
"Oh, he soon recovered himself, and exclaimed, call him by name, 'Well,
Monsieur l'Abbe, I said so, I said this unhappy girl would be undone.
She is ruined, ruined for ever; she has just confessed to me her fault
and her shame, and entreated me to save her. Only think that, from
commiseration, I have received such a wanton into my house!' 'How,' said
the abbe to me with indignation, 'in spite of the excellent counsels
which your master has given you a hundred times in my presence, have
you really sunk so low? Oh, it is unpardonable! My friend, my friend,
after the kindness you have evinced towards this wretched girl and her
family, any pity would be weakness. Be inexorable,' said the abbe, the
dupe, like the rest of the world, of M. Ferrand's hypocrisy."
"And you did not unmask the scoundrel on the spot?" asked Rodolph.
"Ah, no! monsieur, I was terrified, my head was in a whirl, I did not
dare, I could not pronounce a word,--yet I was anxious to speak and
defend myself. 'But sir--' I cried. 'Not one word more, unworthy
creature,' said M. Ferrand, interrupting me. 'You heard M. l'Abbe. Pity
would be weakness. In an hour you leave my house!' Then, without
allowing me time to reply, he led the abbe into another room. After the
departure of M. Ferrand," resumed Louise, "I was almost bereft of my
senses for a moment. I was driven from his house, and unable to find any
home elsewhere, in consequence of my condition, and the bad character
which my master would give with me. I felt sure, too, that in his rage
he would send my father to prison; and I did not know what to do. I went
to my room, and there I wept bitterly. At the end of two hours M.
Ferrand appeared. 'Is your bundle made up?' said he. 'Pardon,' I
exclaimed, falling at his feet, 'do not turn me from your house in my
present condition. What will become of me? I have no place to turn to.'
'So much the better; this is the way that God punishes loose behaviour
and falsehood.' 'Dare you say that I tell falsehood?' I asked,
indignantly, 'dare you say that it is not you who have caused my ruin?'
'Leave my house this moment, you wretch, since you persist in your
calumnies!' he replied in a terrible voice; 'and to punish you I will
to-morrow send your father to the gaol.' 'Well, no, no!' said I,
terrified; 'I will not again accuse you, sir; that I promise you; but
do not drive me away from the house. Have pity on my father. The little
I earn here helps to support my family. Keep me here; I will say
nothing. I will endeavour to hide every thing; and when I can no longer
do so, oh, then, but not till then, send me away!' After fresh
entreaties on my part, M. Ferrand consented to keep me with him; and I
considered that a great favour in my wretched condition. During the time
that followed this cruel scene, I was most wretched, and miserably
treated; only sometimes M. Germain, whom I seldom saw, kindly asked me
what made me unhappy; but shame prevented me from confessing anything to
him."
"Was not that about the time when he came to reside here?"
"Yes, sir, he was looking out for an apartment near the Rue du Temple or
de l'Arsenal. There was one to let here, and I told him of that one
which you now occupy, sir, and it suited him exactly. When he quitted
it, about two months ago, he begged me not to mention his new address
here, but that they knew it at M. Ferrand's."
The necessity under which Germain was to conceal himself from those who
were trying to find him explained all these precautions to Rodolph.
"And it never occurred to you to make a confidant of Germain?" he said
to Louise.
"No, sir, he was also a dupe to the hypocrisy of M. Ferrand; he called
him harsh and exacting; but he thought him the honestest man on the face
of the earth."
"When Germain was lodging here, did he never hear your father at times
accuse the notary of desiring to seduce you?"
"My father never expressed his fears before strangers; and besides, at
this period, I deceived his uneasiness, and comforted him by the
assurances that M. Ferrand no longer thought of me. Alas! my poor father
will now forgive me those falsehoods? I only employed them to
tranquillise your mind, father dear, that was all."
Morel made no reply; he only leaned his forehead on his two arms,
crossed on his working-board, and sobbed bitterly.
Rodolph made a sign to Louise not to address herself to her father, and
she continued thus:
"I led from this time a life of tears and perpetual anguish. By using
every precaution, I had contrived to conceal my condition from all eyes;
but I could not hope thus to hide it during the last two months. The
future became more and more alarming to me, as M. Ferrand had declared
that he would not keep me any longer in the house; and therefore I
should be deprived of the small resources which assisted our family to
live. Cursed and driven from my home by my father, for, after the
falsehoods I had told him to set his mind at ease, he would believe me
the accomplice, and not the victim of M. Ferrand, what was to become of
me? where could I find refuge or place myself in my condition? I then
had a criminal idea; but, fortunately, I recoiled from putting it into
execution. I confess this to you, sir, because I will not keep any thing
concealed, not even that which may tell against myself; and thus I may
show you the extremities to which I was reduced by the cruelty of M.
Ferrand. If I had given way to such a thought, would he not have been
the accomplice of my crime?"
After a moment's silence, Louise resumed with great effort, and in a
trembling voice:
"I had heard say by the porteress that a quack doctor lived in the
house,--and,--"
She could not finish.
Rodolph recollected that, at his first interview with Madame Pipelet, he
had received from the postman, in her absence, a letter written on
coarse paper, in a feigned hand, and on which he had remarked the traces
of tears.
"And you wrote to him, unhappy girl, three days since? You wept over
your letter; and the handwriting was disguised."
Louise looked at Rodolph in great consternation.
"How did you know that, sir?"
"Do not alarm yourself; I was alone in Madame Pipelet's lodge when they
brought in the letter; and I remarked it quite accidentally."
"Yes, sir, it was mine. In this letter, which bore no signature, I wrote
to M. Bradamanti, saying that, as I did not dare to go to him, I would
beg him to be in the evening near the Chateau d'Eau. I had lost my
senses. I sought fearful advice from him; and I left my master's house
with the intention of following them; but, at the end of a minute, my
reason returned to me, and I saw what a crime I was about to commit. I
returned to the house, and did not attend the appointment I had written
for. That evening an event occurred, the consequences of which caused
the misfortune which has overwhelmed me. M. Ferrand thought I had gone
out for a couple of hours, whilst, in reality, I had been gone but a
very short time. As I passed before the small garden gate, to my great
surprise I saw it half open. I entered by it, and took the key into M.
Ferrand's private room, where it was usually kept. This apartment was
next to his bedroom, the most retired place in the house; and it was
there he had his private meetings with clients and others, transacting
his every-day business in the office. You will see, sir, why I give you
these particulars. As I very well knew the ways of the apartments, after
having crossed the dining-room, which was lighted up, I entered into the
salon without any candle, and then into the little closet, which was on
this side of his sleeping-room. The door of this latter opened at the
moment when I was putting the key on a table; and the moment my master
saw me by the light of the lamp, which was burning in his chamber, then
he suddenly shut the door on some person whom I could not see, and
then, in spite of the darkness, rushed towards me and, seizing me by the
throat as if he would strangle me, said, in a low voice, and in a tone
at once savage and alarmed, 'What! listening!--spying at the door! What
did you hear? Answer me,--answer directly, or I'll strangle you.' But,
suddenly changing his idea, and not giving me time to say a word, he
drove me back into the dining-room; the office door was open, and he
brutally thrust me in and shut the door."
"And you did not hear the conversation?"
"Not a word, sir; if I had known that there was any one in his room with
him, I should have been careful not to have gone there. He even forbade
Madame Seraphin from doing so."
"And, when you left the office, what did he say to you?"
"It was the housekeeper who let me out, and I did not see M. Ferrand
again that night. His violence to me, and the fright I had undergone,
made me very ill indeed. The next day, at the moment when I went
down-stairs, I met M. Ferrand, and I shuddered when I remembered his
threats of the night before; what then was my surprise when he said to
me calmly, 'You knew that I forbid any one to enter my private room when
I have any person there; but, for the short time longer you will stay
here, it is useless to scold you any more.' And then he went into his
study. This mildness astonished me after his violence of the previous
evening. I went on with my work as usual, and was going to put his
bedchamber to rights. I had suffered a great deal all night, and was
weak and exhausted. Whilst I was hanging up some clothes in a dark
closet at the end of the room near the bed, I was suddenly seized with a
painful giddiness, and felt as if I should lose my senses; as I fell, I
tried to support myself by grasping at a large cloak which hung against
the wainscot; but in my fall I drew this cloak down on me, and was
almost entirely covered by it. When I came to myself, the glass door of
the above closet was shut. I heard M. Ferrand's voice,--he was speaking
aloud. Remembering the scene of the previous evening, I thought I should
be killed if I stirred. I suppose that, hidden by the cloak which had
fallen on me, my master did not perceive me when he shut the door of
this dark wardrobe. If he found me, how could I account for, and make
him believe, this singular accident? I, therefore, held my breath, and
in spite of myself, overheard the conclusion of this conversation which,
no doubt had begun some time."
"And who was the person who was talking with the notary and shut up in
this room with him?" inquired Rodolph of Louise.
"I do not know, sir; I did not recognise the voice."
"And what were they saying?"
"No doubt they had been conversing some time; but all I heard was this:
'Nothing more easy,' said the unknown voice; 'a fellow named Bras Rouge
has put me, for the affair I mentioned to you just now, in connection
with a family of "fresh-water pirates,"[1] established on the point of a
small islet near Asnieres. They are the greatest scoundrels on earth;
the father and grandfather were guillotined; two of the sons were
condemned to the galleys for life; but there are still left a mother,
three sons, and two daughters, all as infamous as they can possibly be.
They say that at night, in order to plunder on both sides of the Seine,
they sometimes come down in their boats as low as Bercy. They are
ruffians, who will kill any one for a crown-piece; but we shall not want
their aid further than their hospitality for your lady from the country.
The Martials--that is the name of these pirates--will pass in her eyes
for an honest family of fishers. I will go, as if from you, to pay two
or three visits to your young lady. I will order her a few comforting
draughts; and at the end of a week or ten days, she will form an
acquaintance with the burial-ground of Asnieres. In villages, deaths are
looked on as nothing more than a letter by the post, whilst in Paris
they are a little more curious in such matters. But when do you send
your young lady from the provinces to the isle of Asnieres, for I must
give the Martials notice of the part they have to play?' 'She will
arrive here to-morrow, and next day I shall send her to them,' replied
M. Ferrand; 'and I shall tell her that Doctor Vincent will pay her a
visit at my request.' 'Ah, Vincent will do as well as any other name,'
said the voice."
[1] We shall hear more particulars of these worthies in another
chapter.
"What new mystery of crime and infamy?" said Rodolph, with increased
astonishment.
"New? No, sir, you will see that it is in connection with another crime
that you know of," resumed Louise, who thus continued: "I heard a
movement of chairs,--the interview had ended. 'I do not ask the secret
of you,' said M. Ferrand, 'you behave to me as I behave to you.' 'Thus
we may mutually serve without any power mutually to injure each other,'
answered the voice. 'Observe my zeal! I received your letter at ten
o'clock last night, and here I am this morning. Good-by, accomplice; do
not forget the isle of Asnieres, the fisher Martial, and Doctor Vincent.
Thanks to these three magic words, your country damsel has only eight
days to look forward to.' 'Wait,' said M. Ferrand, 'whilst I go and undo
the safety-bolt, which I have drawn to in my closet, and let me look out
and see that there is no one in the antechamber, in order that you may
go out by the side path in the garden by which you entered.' M. Ferrand
went out for a moment, and then returned; and I heard him go away with
the person whose voice I did not know. You may imagine my fright, sir,
during this conversation, and my despair at having unintentionally
discovered such a secret. Two hours after this conversation, Madame
Seraphin came to me in my room, whither I had gone, trembling all over,
and worse than I had been yet. 'My master is inquiring for you,' said
she to me; 'you are better off than you deserve to be. Come, go
down-stairs. You are very pale; but what you are going to hear will give
you a colour.' I followed Madame Seraphin, and found M. Ferrand in his
private study. When I saw him, I shuddered in spite of myself, and yet
he did not look so disagreeable as usual. He looked at me steadfastly
for some time, as if he would read the bottom of my thoughts. I lowered
my eyes. 'You seem very ill?' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied, much
surprised at being thus addressed. 'It is easily accounted for,' added
he; 'it is the result of your condition and the efforts you make to
conceal it; but, in spite of your falsehoods, your bad conduct, and your
indiscretion yesterday,' he added, in a milder tone, 'I feel pity for
you. A few days more, and it will be impossible to conceal your
situation. Although I have treated you as you deserve before the curate
of the parish, such an event in the eyes of the world will be the
disgrace of a house like mine; and, moreover, your family will be deeply
distressed. Under these circumstances I will come to your aid.' 'Ah!
sir,' I cried, 'such kind words from you make me forget everything.'
'Forget what?' asked he, hastily. 'Nothing,--nothing,--forgive me, sir!'
I replied, fearful of irritating him, and believing him kindly disposed
towards me. 'Then attend to me,' said he; 'you will go to see your
father to-day, and tell him that I am going to send you into the country
for two or three months, to take care of a house which I have just
bought. During your absence I will send your wages to him. To-morrow you
will leave Paris. I will give you a letter of introduction to Madame
Martial, the mother of an honest family of fishers, who live near
Asnieres. You will say you came from the country and nothing more. You
will learn hereafter my motive for this introduction, which is for your
good. Madame Martial will treat you as one of the family, and a medical
man of my acquaintance, Dr. Vincent, will give you all you require in
your situation. You see how kind I am to you!'"
"What a horrible snare!" exclaimed Rodolph; "I see it all now. Believing
that overnight you had listened to some secret, no doubt very important
for him, he desired to get rid of you. He had probably an interest in
deceiving his accomplice by describing you as a female from the country.
What must have been your alarm at this proposal?"
"It was like a violent blow; it quite bereft me of sense. I could not
reply, but looked at M. Ferrand aghast; my head began to wander. I
should, perhaps, have risked my life by telling him that I had overheard
his projects in the morning, when fortunately I recollected the fresh
perils to which such an avowal would expose me. 'You do not understand
me, then?' he said, impatiently. 'Yes, sir,--but,' I added, all
trembling, 'I should prefer not going into the country.' 'Why not? You
will be taken every care of where I send you.' 'No, no, I will not go; I
would rather remain in Paris, and not go away from my family; I would
rather confess all to them, and die with them, if it must be so.' 'You
refuse me, then?' said M. Ferrand, repressing his rage, and looking
fixedly at me. 'Why have you so suddenly changed your mind? Not a minute
ago you accepted my offer.' I saw that if he guessed my motive I was
lost, so I replied that I did not then think that he desired me to leave
Paris and my family. 'But you dishonour your family, you wretched girl!'
he exclaimed, and unable any longer to restrain himself, he seized me by
the arms, and shook me so violently that I fell. 'I will give you until
the day after to-morrow,' he cried, 'and then you shall go from here to
the Martials, or go and inform your father that I have turned you out of
my house, and will send him to gaol to-morrow.' He then left me,
stretched on the floor, whence I had not the power to rise. Madame
Seraphin had run in when she heard her master raise his voice so loud,
and with her assistance, and staggering at every step, I regained my
chamber, where I threw myself on my bed, and remained until night, so
entirely was I prostrated by all that had happened. By the pains that
came on about one o'clock in the morning, I felt assured that I should
be prematurely a mother."
"Why did you not summon assistance?"
"Oh, I did not dare. M. Ferrand was anxious to get rid of me, and he
would certainly have sent for Dr. Vincent, who would have killed me at
my master's instead of killing me at the Martials, or else M. Ferrand
would have stifled me, and said that I had died in my confinement. Alas,
sir, perhaps these were vain terrors, but they came over me at this
moment and caused my suffering; otherwise I would have endured the
shame, and should never have been accused of killing my child. Instead
of calling for help, and for fear my cries should be heard, I stuffed my
mouth full with the bedclothes. At length, after dreadful anguish,
alone, in the midst of darkness, the child was born, and,--dead,--I did
not kill it!--indeed, I did not kill it,--ah, no! In the midst of this
fearful night I had one moment of bitter joy, and that was when I
pressed my child in my arms."
And the voice of Louise was stifled with sobs.
Morel had listened to his daughter's recital with a mournful apathy and
indifference which alarmed Rodolph. However, seeing her burst into
tears, the lapidary, who was still leaning on his work-board with his
two hands pressed against his temples, looked at Louise steadfastly, and
said:
"She weeps,--she weeps,--why is she weeping?" Then, after a moment's
hesitation, "Ah, yes,--I know, I know,--the notary,--isn't it? Go on my
poor Louise,--you are my daughter,--I love you still,--just now I did
not recognise you,--my eyes were darkened with my tears,--oh, my
head,--how badly it aches,--my head, my head!"
"You do not believe me guilty, do you, father, do you?"
"Oh, no, no!"
"It is a terrible misfortune; but I was so fearful of the notary."
"The notary? Ah, yes, and well you might be; he is so wicked, so very
wicked!"
"But you will forgive me now?"
"Yes, yes."
"Really and truly?"
"Yes--ah, yes! Ah! I love you the same as ever,--although I cannot--not
say--you see--because--oh, my head, my head!"
Louise looked at Rodolph in extreme alarm.
"He is suffering deeply; but let him calm himself. Go on."
Louise, after looking twice or thrice at Morel with great disquietude,
thus resumed:
"I clasped my infant to my breast, and was astonished at not hearing it
breathe. I said to myself, 'The breathing of a baby is so faint that it
is difficult to hear it.' But then it was so cold. I had no light, for
they never would leave one with me. I waited until the dawn came, trying
to keep it warm as well as I could; but it seemed to me colder and
colder. I said to myself then; 'It freezes so hard that it must be the
cold that chills it so.' At daybreak I carried my child to the window
and looked at it; it was stiff and cold. I placed my mouth to its mouth,
to try and feel its breath. I put my hand on its heart; but it did not
beat; it was dead."
And Louise burst into tears.
"Oh! at this moment," she continued, "something passed within me which
it is impossible to describe. I only remember confusedly what
followed,--it was like a dream,--it was at once despair, terror, rage,
and above all, I was seized with another fear; I no longer feared M.
Ferrand would strangle me, but I feared that, if they found my child
dead by my side, I should be accused of having killed it. Then I had but
one thought, and that was to conceal the corpse from everybody's sight;
and then my dishonour would not be known, and I should no longer have to
dread my father's anger. I should escape from M. Ferrand's vengeance,
because I could now leave his house, obtain another situation, and gain
something to help and support my family. Alas! sir, such were the
reasons which induced me not to say any thing, but try and hide my
child's remains from all eyes. I was wrong, I know; but, in the
situation in which I was, oppressed on all sides, worn out by suffering,
and almost mad, I did not consider to what I exposed myself if I should
be discovered."
"What torture! what torture!" said Rodolph with deep sympathy.
"The day was advancing," continued Louise, "and I had but a few moments
before me until the household would be stirring. I hesitated no longer,
but, wrapping up the unhappy babe as well as I could, I descended the
staircase silently, and went to the bottom of the garden to try and make
a hole in the ground to bury it; but it had frozen so hard in the night
that I could not dig up the earth. So I concealed the body in the bottom
of a sort of cellar, into which no one entered during the winter, and
then I covered it up with an empty box which had held flowers, and
returned to my apartment, without any person having seen me. Of all I
tell you, sir, I have but a very confused recollection. Weak as I was,
it is inexplicable to me how I had strength and courage to do all I did.
At nine o'clock Madame Seraphin came to inquire why I had not risen. I
told her that I was so very ill, and prayed of her to allow me to remain
in bed during the day, and that on the following day I should quit the
house, as M. Ferrand had dismissed me. At the end of an hour's time, he
came himself. 'You are worse to-day. Ah! that is the consequence of your
obstinacy,' said he; 'if you had taken advantage of my kind offer, you
would to-day have been comfortably settled with some worthy people, who
would have taken every care of you; but I will not be so cruel as to
leave you without help in your present situation; and this evening
Doctor Vincent shall come and see you.' At this threat I shuddered; but
I replied to M. Ferrand that I was wrong to refuse his offers the
evening before, and that I would now accept them; but that, being too
ill to move then, I could not go until the day after the next to the
Martials, and that it was useless to send for Doctor Vincent. I only
sought to gain time, for I had made up my mind to leave the house, and
go the next day to my father, whom I hoped to keep in ignorance of all.
Relying on my promise, M. Ferrand was almost kind to me, and, for the
first time in his life, recommended Madame Seraphin to take care of me.
I passed the day in mental agony, trembling every instant lest the body
of my child should be accidentally discovered. I was only anxious that
the frost should break up, so that, the ground not being so hard, I
might be able to dig it up. The snow began to fall, and that gave me
some hopes. I remained all day in bed, and when the night came, I waited
until every one should be asleep, and then I summoned strength enough to
rise and go to the wood-closet, where I found a chopper, with which I
hoped to dig a hole in the ground which was covered with snow. After
immense trouble I succeeded, and then, taking the body, I wept bitterly
over it, and buried it as well as I could in the little box that had
held flowers. I did not know the prayer for the dead; but I said a Pater
and an Ave, and prayed to the good God to receive it into Paradise. I
thought my courage would fail me when I was covering the mould over the
sort of bier I had made. A mother burying her own child! At length I
completed my task, and ah, what it cost me! I covered the place all over
with snow, that it might conceal every trace of what I had done. The
moon had lighted me; yet, when all was done, I could hardly resolve to
go away. Poor little innocent!--in the icy ground,--beneath the snow!
Although it was dead, yet I still seemed to fear that it must feel the
cold. At length I returned to my chamber; and when I got into bed I was
in a violent fever. In the morning M. Ferrand sent to know how I found
myself. I replied that I was a little better, and that I felt sure I
should be strong enough to go next day into the country. I remained the
whole of the day in bed, hoping to acquire a little strength, and in the
evening I arose and went down into the kitchen to warm myself. I was
then quite alone, and then went out into the garden to to say a last
prayer. As I went up to my room I met M. Germain on the landing-place of
the study in which he wrote sometimes, looking very pale. He said to me
hastily, placing a rouleau of money in my hand, 'They are going to
arrest your father to-morrow morning for an over-due bill of thirteen
hundred francs; he is unable to pay it; but here is the money. As soon
as it is light, run to him. It was only to-day that I found out what
sort of a man M. Ferrand is; and he is a villain. I will unmask him.
Above all, do not say that you have the money from me.'
"M. Germain did not even give me time to thank him, but ran quickly
down-stairs. This morning," continued Louise, "before any one had risen
at M. Ferrand's, I came here with the money which M. Germain had given
me to save my father; but it was not enough, and but for your
generosity, I could not have rescued him from the bailiff's hands.
Probably, after I had left, they went into my room and, having
suspicions, have now sent to arrest me. One last service, sir," said
Louise, taking the rouleau of gold from her pocket, "will you give back
this money to M. Germain; I had promised him not to say to any one that
he was employed at M. Ferrand's; but, since you know it, I have not
broken my confidence. Now, sir, I repeat to you before God, who hears
me, that I have not said a word that is not quite true; I have not tried
to hide my faults, and--"
But, suddenly interrupting herself, Louise exclaimed with alarm:
"Sir, sir, look at my father! what can be the matter with him?"
Morel had heard the latter part of this narration with a dull
indifference, which Rodolph had accounted for by attributing it to the
heavy additional misfortune which had occurred to him. After such
violent and repeated shocks, his tears must have dried up, his
sensibility have become lost; he had not even the strength left to feel
anger, as Rodolph thought; but Rodolph was mistaken. As the flame of a
candle which is nearly extinguished dies away and recovers, so Morel's
reason, already much shaken, wavered for some time, throwing out now and
then some small rays of intelligence, and then suddenly all was
darkness.
Absolutely unconscious of what was said or passing around him, for some
time the lapidary had become quite insane. Although his hand-wheel was
placed on the other side of his working-table, and he had not in his
hands either stones or tools, yet the occupied artisan was feigning the
operations of his daily labour, and affecting to use his implements. He
accompanied this pantomime with a sort of noise with his tongue against
the roof of his mouth, in imitation of the noise of his lathe in its
rotatory motions.
"But, sir," said Louise again, with increasing fright, "look, pray look
at my father!"
Then, approaching the artisan, she said to him:
"Father! father!"
Morel gazed on his daughter with that troubled, vague, distracted,
wandering look which characterises the insane, and without discontinuing
his assumed labour, he replied, in a low and melancholy tone:
"I owe the notary thirteen hundred francs; it is the price of Louise's
blood,--so I must work, work, work!--oh, I'll pay, I'll pay, I'll pay!"
"Can it be possible? This cannot be,--he is not mad,--no, no!" exclaimed
Louise, in a heart-rending voice. "He will recover,--it is but a
momentary fit of absence!"
"Morel, my good fellow," said Rodolph to him, "we are here. Your
daughter is near you,--she is innocent."
"Thirteen hundred francs!" said the lapidary, not attending to Rodolph,
but going on with his sham employment.
"My father!" exclaimed Louise, throwing herself at his feet, and
clasping his hands in her own, in spite of his resistance, "it is I--it
is your Louise!"
"Thirteen hundred francs," he repeated, wresting his hands from the
grasp of his daughter. "Thirteen hundred francs,--and if not," he added,
in a low and as it were, confidential tone, "and if not, Louise is to be
guillotined."
And again he imitated the turning of his lathe.
Louise gave a piercing shriek.
"He is mad!" she exclaimed, "he is mad! and it is I--it is I who am the
cause! Oh! Yet it is not my fault,--I did not desire to do ill,--it was
that monster."
"Courage, courage, my poor girl," said Rodolph, "let us hope that this
attack is but momentary. Your father has suffered so much; so many
troubles, all at once, were more than he could bear. His reason wanders
for a moment; it will soon be restored."
"But my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, my brothers, what will
become of them all?" exclaimed Louise, "Now they are deprived of my
father and myself, they must die of hunger, misery and despair!"
"Am I not here?--make your mind, easy; they shall want for nothing.
Courage, I say to you. Your disclosure will bring about the punishment
of a great criminal. You have convinced me of your innocence, and I have
no doubt but that it will be discovered and proclaimed."
"Ah, sir, you see,--dishonour, madness, death,--see the miseries which
that man causes, and yet no one can do any thing against him! Nothing!
The very thought completes all my wretchedness."
"So far from that, let the contrary thought help to support you."
"What mean you, sir?"
"Take with you the assurance that your father, yourself, and your family
shall be avenged."
"Avenged!"
"Yes, that I swear to you," replied Rodolph, solemnly; "I swear to you
that his crimes shall be exposed, and this man shall bitterly expiate
the dishonour, madness, and death which he has caused. If the laws are
powerless to reach him, if his cunning and skill equal his misdeeds,
then his cunning must be met by cunning, his skill must be counteracted
by skill, his misdeeds faced by other misdeeds, but which shall be to
his but a just and avenging retribution, inflicted on a guilty wretch by
an inexorable hand, when compared to a cowardly and base murder."
"Ah, sir, may Heaven hear you! It is no longer myself whom I seek to
avenge, but a poor, distracted father,--my child killed in its birth--"
Then, trying another effort to turn Morel from his insanity, Louise
again exclaimed:
"Adieu, father! They are going to lead me to prison, and I shall never
see you again. It is your poor Louise who bids you adieu. My father! my
father! my father!"
To this distressing appeal there was no response. In that poor,
destroyed mind there was no echo,--none. The paternal cords, always the
last broken, no longer vibrated.
* * * * *
The door of the garret opened; the commissary entered.
"My moments are numbered, sir," said he to Rodolph. "I declare to you
with much regret that I cannot allow this conversation to be protracted
any longer."
"This conversation is ended, sir," replied Rodolph, bitterly, and
pointing to the lapidary. "Louise has nothing more to say to her
father,--he has nothing more to hear from his daughter,--he is a
lunatic."
"I feared as much. It is really frightful!" exclaimed the magistrate.
And approaching the workman hastily, after a minute's scrutiny, he was
convinced of the sad reality.
"Ah, sir," said he sorrowfully to Rodolph, "I had already expressed my
sincerest wishes that the innocence of this young girl might be
discovered; but after such a misfortune I will not confine myself to
good wishes,--no,--no! I will speak of this honest and distressed
family; I will speak of this fearful and last blow which has overwhelmed
it; and do not doubt but that the judges will have an additional motive
to find the accused innocent."
"Thanks, thanks, sir!" said Rodolph; "by acting thus it will not be a
mere duty that you fulfil, but a holy office which you undertake."
"Believe me, sir, our duty is always such a painful one that it is most
grateful to us to be interested in any thing which is worthy and good."
"One word more, sir. The disclosures of Louise Morel have fully
convinced me of her innocence. Will you be so kind as inform me how her
pretended crime was discovered, or rather denounced?"
"This morning," said the magistrate, "a housekeeper in the service of M.
Ferrand, the notary, came and deposed before me that, after the hasty
departure of Louise Morel, whom she knew to be seven months advanced in
the family way, she went into the young girl's apartment, and was
convinced that she had been prematurely confined; footsteps had been
traced in the snow, which had led to the detection of the body of a
new-born child buried in the garden. After this declaration I went
myself to the Rue du Sentier, and found M. Jacques Ferrand most
indignant that such a scandalous affair should have happened in his
house. The cure of the church Bonne Nouvelle, whom he had sent for, also
declared to me that Louise Morel had owned her fault in his presence one
day, when, on this account, she was imploring the indulgence and pity of
her master; that, besides, he had often heard M. Ferrand give Louise
Morel the most serious warnings, telling her that, sooner or later, she
would be lost,--'a prediction,' added the abbe, 'which has been
unfortunately fulfilled.' The indignation of M. Ferrand," continued the
magistrate, "seemed to me so just and natural, that I shared in it. He
told me that, no doubt, Louise Morel had taken refuge with her father. I
came hither instantly, for the crime being flagrant, I was empowered to
proceed by immediate apprehension."
Rodolph with difficulty restrained himself when he heard of the
indignation of M. Ferrand, and said to the magistrate:
"I thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness, and the support
you promise Louise. I will take care that this poor man, as well as his
wife's mother, are sent to a lunatic asylum."
Then, addressing Louise, who was still kneeling close to her father,
endeavouring, but vainly, to recall him to his senses:
"Make up your mind, my poor girl, to go without taking leave of your
mother,--spare her the pain of such a parting. Be assured that she shall
be taken care of, and nothing shall in future be wanting to your family,
for a woman shall be found who will take care of your mother and occupy
herself with your brothers, and sisters, under the superintendence of
your kind neighbour, Mlle. Rigolette. As for your father, nothing shall
be spared to make his return to reason as rapid as it is complete.
Courage! Believe me, honest people are often severely tried by
misfortune, but they always come out of these struggles more pure, more
strong, and more respected."
* * * * *
Two hours after the apprehension of Louise, the lapidary and the old
idiot mother were, by Rodolph's orders, taken to the Bicetre by David,
where they were to be kept in private rooms and to receive particular
care. Morel left the house in the Rue du Temple without resistance;
indifferent as he was, he went wherever they led him,--his lunacy was
gentle, inoffensive, and melancholy. The grandmother was hungry, and
when they showed her bread and meat she followed the bread and meat. The
jewels of the lapidary, entrusted to his wife, were the same day given
to Madame Mathieu (the jewel-matcher), who fetched them. Unfortunately
she was watched and followed by Tortillard, who knew the value of the
pretended false stones in consequence of the conversation he had
overheard during the time Morel was arrested by the bailiffs. The son of
Bras Rouge discovered that she lived, Boulevard Saint-Denis, No. 11.
Rigolette apprised Madeleine Morel, with considerable delicacy, of the
fit of lunacy which had attacked the lapidary, and of Louise's
imprisonment. At first, Madeleine wept bitterly, and uttered terrible
shrieks; then, the first burst of her grief over, the poor creature,
weak and overcome, consoled herself as well as she could by seeing that
she and her children were surrounded by the many comforts which she owed
to the generosity of their benefactor.
As to Rodolph, his thoughts were very poignant when he considered the
disclosures of Louise. "Nothing is more common," he said, "than this
corrupting of the female servant by the master, either by consent or
against it; sometimes by terror and surprise, sometimes by the imperious
nature of those relations which create servitude. This depravity,
descending from the rich to the poor, despising (in its selfish desire)
the sanctity of the domestic hearth,--this depravity, still most
deplorable when it is voluntarily submitted to, becomes hideous,
frightful, when it is satisfied with violence. It is an impure and
brutal slavery, an ignoble and barbarous tyranny over a fellow-creature,
who in her fright replies to the solicitations of her master by her
tears, and to his declarations with a shudder of fear and disgust. And
then," continued Rodolph, "what is the consequence to the female? Almost
invariably there follow degradation, misery, prostitution, theft, and
sometimes infanticide! And yet the laws are, as yet, strangers to this
crime! Every accomplice of a crime has the punishment of that crime;
every receiver is considered as guilty as the thief. That is justice.
But when a man wantonly seduces a young, innocent, and pure girl,
renders her a mother, abandons her, leaving her but shame, disgrace,
despair, and driving her, perchance, to infanticide, a crime for which
she forfeits her life, is this man considered as her accomplice? Pooh!
What, then, follows? Oh, 'tis nothing,--nothing but a little
love-affair! the whim of the day for a pair of bright eyes. Then she is
left, and he looks out for the next. Still more, it is just possible
that the man may be of an original, an inquisitive turn, perhaps, at
the same time, an excellent brother and son, and may go to the bar of
the criminal court and see his paramour tried for her life! If by chance
he should be subpoenaed as a witness, he may amuse himself by saying
to the persons desirous of having the poor girl executed as soon as
possible, for the greater edification of the public morals, 'I have
something important to disclose to justice.' 'Speak!' 'Gentlemen of the
jury,--This unhappy female was pure and virtuous, it is true. I seduced
her,--that is equally true; she bore me a child,--that is also true.
After that, as she has a light complexion, I completely forsook her for
a pretty brunette,--that is still more true; but, in doing so, I have
only followed out an imprescriptible right, a sacred right which society
recognizes and accords to me.' 'The truth is, this young man is
perfectly in the right,' the jury would say one to another; 'there is no
law which prevents a young man from seducing a fair girl, and then
forsaking her for a brunette; he is a gay young chap, and that's all.'
'Now, gentlemen of the jury, this unhappy girl is said to have killed
her child,--I will say our child,--because I abandoned her; because,
finding herself alone and in the deepest misery, she became frightened,
and lost her senses! And wherefore? Because having, as she says, to
bring up and feed her child, it was impossible that she could continue
to work regularly at her occupation, and gain a livelihood for herself
and this pledge of our love! But I think these reasons quite unworthy of
consideration, allow me to say, gentlemen of the jury. Could she not
have gone to the Lying-in Hospital, if there was room for her? Could she
not, at the critical moment, have gone to the magistrate of her district
and made a declaration of her shame, so that she might have had
authority for placing her child in the Enfants Trouves? In fact, could
she not, whilst I was playing billiards at the coffee-house, whilst
awaiting my other mistress, could she not have extricated herself from
this affair by some genteeler mode than this? For, gentlemen of the
jury, I will admit that I consider this way of disposing of the pledge
of our loves as rather too unceremonious and rude, under the idea of
thus quietly escaping all future care and trouble. What, is it enough
for a young girl to lose her character, brave contempt, infamy, and have
an illegitimate child? No; but she must also educate the child, take
care of it, bring it up, give it a business, and make an honest man of
it, if it be a boy, like its father; or an honest girl, who does not
turn wanton like her mother. For, really, maternity has its sacred
duties, and the wretches who trample them under foot are unnatural
mothers, who deserve an exemplary and notable punishment; as a proof of
which, gentlemen of the jury, I beg you will unhesitatingly hand over
this miserable woman to the executioner, and you will thus do your duty
like independent, firm, and enlightened citizens. _Dixi!_' 'This
gentleman looks at the question in a very moral point of view,' will say
some hatmaker or retired furrier, who is foreman of the jury; 'he has
done, i'faith, what we should all have done in his place; for the girl
is very pretty, though rather pallid in complexion. This gay spark, as
the song says:
"'"Has kissed and has prattled with fifty fair maids,
And changed them as oft, do you see;"
and there is no law against that. As to this unfortunate girl, after
all, it is her own fault! Why did she not repulse him? Then she would
not have committed a crime,--a monstrous crime! which really puts all
society to the blush.' And the hatter or the furrier would be
right,--perfectly right. What is there to criminate this gentleman? Of
what complicity, direct or indirect, moral or material, can he be
charged? This lucky rogue has seduced a pretty girl, and he it is who
has brought her there; he does not deny it; where is the law that
prevents or punishes him? Society merely says: There are gay young
fellows abroad,--let the pretty girls beware! But if a poor wretch,
through want or stupidity, constraint, or ignorance of the laws which he
cannot read, buys knowingly a rag which has been stolen, he will be sent
to the galleys for twenty years as a receiver, if such be the punishment
for the theft itself. This is logical, powerful reasoning,--'Without
receivers there would be no thieves, without thieves there would be no
receivers.' No, no more pity, then--even less pity--for him who excites
to the evil than he who perpetrates it. Let the smallest degree of
complicity be visited with terrible punishment! Good; there is in that a
serious and fertile thought, high and moral. We should bow before
Society which had dictated such a law; but we remember that this
Society, so inexorable towards the smallest complicity of crime against
things, is so framed that a simple and ingenuous man, who should try to
prove that there is at least moral similarity, material complicity,
between the fickle seducer and the seduced and forsaken girl, would be
laughed at as a visionary. And if this simple man were to assert that
without a father there would, in all probability, not be offspring,
Society would exclaim against the atrocity,--the folly! And it would be
right,--quite right; for, after all, this gay youth who might say these
fine things to the jury, however little he might like tragic emotions,
might yet go tranquilly to see his mistress executed,--executed for
child-murder, a crime to which he was an accessory; nay more, the
author, in consequence of his shameless abandonment! Does not this
charming protection, granted to the male portion of society for certain
gay doings suggested by the god of Love, show plainly that France still
sacrifices to the Graces, and is still the most gallant nation in the
world?"
CHAPTER III.
JACQUES FERRAND.
At the period when the events were passing which we are now relating, at
one end of the Rue du Sentier a long old wall extended, covered with a
coat of whitewash, and the top garnished with a row of broken
flint-glass bottles; this wall, bounding on one side the garden of
Jacques Ferrand, the notary, terminated with a _corps de logis_ facing
the street, only one story high, with garrets. Two large escutcheons of
gilt copper, emblems of the notarial residence, flanked the worm-eaten
_porte cochere_, of which the primitive colour was no longer to be
distinguished under the mud which covered it. This entrance led to an
open passage; on the right was the lodge of an old porter, almost deaf,
who was to the body of tailors what M. Pipelet was to the body of
boot-makers; on the left a stable, used as a cellar, washhouse,
woodhouse, and the establishment of a rising colony of rabbits belonging
to the porter, who was dissipating the sorrows of a recent widowhood by
bringing up these domestic animals. Beside the lodge was the opening of
a twisting staircase, narrow and dark, leading to the office, as was
announced to the clients by a hand painted black, whose forefinger was
directed towards these words, also painted in black upon the wall, "The
Office on the first floor."
On one side of a large paved court, overgrown with grass, were empty
stables; on the other side, a rusty iron gate, which shut in the garden;
at the bottom the pavilion, inhabited only by the notary. A flight of
eight or ten steps of disjointed stones, which were moss-grown and
time-worn, led to this square pavilion, consisting of a kitchen and
other underground offices, a ground floor, a first floor, and the top
rooms, in one of which Louise had slept. The pavilion also appeared in a
state of great dilapidation. There were deep chinks in the walls; the
window-frames and outside blinds, once painted gray, had become almost
black by time; the six windows on the first floor, looking out into the
courtyard, had no curtains; a sort of greasy and opaque deposit covered
the glass; on the ground floor there were visible through the
window-panes more transparent, faded yellow cotton curtains, with red
bindings.
On the garden side the pavilion had only four windows. The garden,
overgrown with parasitical plants, seemed wholly neglected. There was no
flower border, not a bush; a clump of elms; five or six large green
trees; some acacias and elder-trees; a yellowish grass-plat, half
destroyed by moss and the scorch of the sun; muddy paths, choked up with
weeds; at the bottom, a sort of half cellar; for horizon, the high,
naked, gray walls of the adjacent houses, having here and there
skylights barred like prison windows,--such was the miserable appearance
of the garden and dwelling of the notary.
To this appearance, or rather reality, M. Ferrand attached great
importance. In the eyes of the vulgar, carelessness about comfort almost
always passes for disinterestedness; dirt, for austerity. Comparing the
vast financial luxury of some notaries, or the costly toilets of their
wives, to the dull abode of M. Ferrand, so opposed to elegance, expense,
or splendour, clients felt a sort of respect for, or rather blind
confidence in, a man who, according to his large practice and the
fortune attributed to him, could say, like many of his professional
brethren, my carriage, my evening party, my country-house, my box at
the opera, etc. But, far from this, Jacques Ferrand lived with rigid
economy; and thus deposits, investments, powers of attorney, in fact,
all matters of trust and business requiring the most scrupulous and
recognised integrity, accumulated in his hands.
Living thus meanly as he did, the notary lived in the way he liked. He
detested the world, show, dearly purchased pleasures; and, even had it
been otherwise, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his dearest
inclinations to the appearances which he found it so profitable to
assume.
A word or two on the character of the man. He was one of the children of
the large family of misers. Misers are generally exhibited in a
ridiculous and whimsical light; the worst do not go beyond egotism or
harshness. The greater portion increase their fortune by continually
investing; some (they are but few) lend at thirty per cent.; the most
decided hardly venture any risk with their means; but it is almost an
unheard-of thing for a miser to proceed to crime, even murder, in the
acquisition of fresh wealth.
That is easily accounted for; avarice is especially a negative passion.
The miser, in his incessant calculations, thinks more of becoming richer
by not disbursing; in tightening around him, more and more, the limits
of strict necessity, than he does of enriching himself at the cost of
another; he is especially the martyr to preservation. Weak, timid,
cunning, distrustful, and, above all, prudent and circumspect, never
offensive, indifferent to the ills of his neighbour,--the miser at least
never alludes to these ills,--he is, before all and above all, the man
of certainty and surety; or, rather, he is only a miser because he
believes only in the substantial, the hard gold which he has locked up
in his chest. Speculations and loans, on even undoubted security, tempt
him but little, for, how improbable soever it may be, they always offer
a chance of loss, and he prefers rather to lose the interest of his
money than expose his capital. A man so timorous will, therefore, seldom
have the savage energy of the wretch who risks the galleys or his neck
to lay hands on the wealth of another.
Risk is a word erased from the vocabulary of the miser. It is in this
sense that Jacques Ferrand was, let us say, a very singular exception,
perhaps a new variety of the genus Miser; for Jacques Ferrand did risk,
and a great deal. He relied on his craft, which was excessive; on his
hypocrisy, which was unbounded; on his intellect, which was elastic and
fertile; on his boldness, which was devilish, in assuring him impunity
for his crimes, and they were already numerous.
Jacques Ferrand was a twofold exception. Usually these adventurous,
energetic spirits, which do not recoil before any crime that will
procure gold, are beset by turbulent passions--gaming, dissipation,
gluttony, or other pleasures. Jacques Ferrand knew none of these violent
and stormy desires; cunning and patient as a forger, cruel and resolute
as an assassin, he was as sober and regular as Harpagon. One passion
alone was active within him, and this we have seen too fatally exhibited
in his early conduct to Louise. The loan of thirteen hundred francs to
Morel at high interest was, in Ferrand's hands, a snare--a means of
oppression and a source of profit. Sure of the lapidary's honesty, he
was certain of being repaid in full some day or other. Still Louise's
beauty must have made a deep impression on him to have made him lay out
of a sum of money so advantageously placed.
Except this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved gold only. He loved gold for
gold's sake; not for the enjoyments it procured,--he was a stoic; not
for the enjoyments it might procure,--he was not sufficiently poetical
to enjoy speculatively, like some misers. With regard to what belonged
to himself, he loved possession for possession's sake; with regard to
what belonged to others, if it concerned a large deposit, for instance,
liberally confided to his probity only, he experienced in returning this
deposit the same agony, the same despair, as the goldsmith, Cardillac,
did in separating himself from a casket of jewels which his own
exquisite taste had fashioned into a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of art. With the
notary, his character for extreme probity was his _chef-d'oeuvre_ of
art; a deposit was to him a jewel, which he could not surrender but with
poignant regrets. What care, what cunning, what stratagems, what skill,
in a word, what art, did he use to attract this sum into his own strong
box, still maintaining that extreme character for honour, which was
beset with the most precious marks of confidence, like the pearls and
diamonds in the golden diadems of Cardillac. The more this celebrated
goldsmith approached perfection, they say, the more value did he attach
to his ornaments, always considering the last as his _chef-d'oeuvre_,
and being utterly distressed at giving it up. The more Jacques Ferrand
grew perfect in crime, the more he clung to the open and constant marks
of confidence which were showered upon him, always considering his last
deceit as his _chef-d'oeuvre_.
We shall see in the sequel of this history that, by the aid of certain
means really prodigious in plan and carrying out, he contrived to
appropriate to himself, with impunity, several very considerable sums.
His secret and mysterious life gave him incessant and terrible emotions,
such as gaming gives to the gambler. Against all other men's fortunes
Jacques Ferrand staked his hypocrisy, his boldness, his head; and he
played on velvet, as it is called, far out of the reach of human
justice, which he vulgarly and energetically characterised as a chimney
which might fall on one's head; for him to lose was only not to gain;
and, moreover, he was so criminally gifted that, in his bitter irony, he
saw a continued gain in boundless esteem, the unlimited confidence
which he inspired, not only in a multitude of rich clients, but also in
the smaller tradespeople and workmen of his district. A great many of
these placed their money with him, saying, "He is not charitable, it is
true; he is a devotee, and that's a pity; but he is much safer than the
government or the savings-banks." In spite of his uncommon ability, this
man had committed two of those mistakes from which the most skilful
rogues do not always escape; forced by circumstances, it is true, he had
associated with himself two accomplices. This immense fault, as he
called it, had been in part repaired; neither of his two associates
could destroy him without destroying themselves, and neither would have
reaped from denunciation any other profit but of drawing down justice on
themselves as well as on the notary; on this score he was quite easy.
Besides, he was not at the end of his crimes, and the disadvantages of
accompliceship were balanced by the criminal aid which at times he still
obtained.
A few words as to the personal appearance of M. Ferrand, and we will
introduce the reader into the notary's study, where we shall encounter
some of the principal personages in this recital.
M. Ferrand was fifty years of age, but did not appear forty; he was of
middle height, with broad and stooping shoulders, powerful, thickset,
strong-limbed, red-haired, and naturally as hirsute as a bear. His hair
was flat on his temples, his forehead bald, his eyebrows scarcely
perceptible; his bilious complexion was almost concealed by innumerable
red spots, and, when strong emotion agitated him, his yellow and murky
countenance was injected with blood, and became a livid red. His face
was as flat as a death's head, as is vulgarly said; his nose thick and
flat; his lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed incised
in his face, and, when he smiled with his villainous and revolting air,
his teeth seemed as though supplied by black and rotten fangs. His
pallid face had an expression at once austere and devout, impassible and
inflexible, cold and reflective; whilst his small, black, animated,
peering, and restless eyes were lost behind large green spectacles.
Jacques Ferrand saw admirably well; but, sheltered by his glasses, he
had an immense advantage; he could observe without being observed; and
well he knew how often a glance is unwittingly full of meaning. In spite
of his imperturbable audacity, he had met twice or thrice in his life
certain potent and magnetic looks, before which his own had compulsorily
been lowered; and in some important circumstances it is fatal to lower
the eyes before the man who interrogates, accuses, or judges you. The
large spectacles of M. Ferrand were thus a kind of covert retrenchment,
whence he could reconnoitre and observe every movement of the enemy; and
all the world was the notary's enemy, because all the world was, more or
less, his dupe; and accusers are but enlightened or disgusted dupes. He
affected a negligence in his dress almost amounting to dirtiness, or
rather, he was naturally so; his chin shaven only every two or three
days, his grimy and wrinkled head, his broad nails encircled in black,
his unpleasant odour, his threadbare coat, his greasy hat, his coarse
neckcloth, his black-worsted stockings, his clumsy shoes, all curiously
betokened his worthiness with his clients, by giving him an air of
disregard of the world, and an air of practical philosophy, which
delighted them.
They said: "What tastes, what passions, what feelings, what weaknesses,
must the notary sacrifice to obtain the confidence he inspires! He
gains, perhaps, sixty thousand francs (2,400_l._) a year, and his
household consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. His only
pleasure is to go on Sundays to mass and vespers, and he knows no opera
comparable to the grave chanting of the organ, no worldly society which
is worth an evening quietly passed at his fireside corner with the cure
of the parish after a frugal dinner; in fine, he places his enjoyment
in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in religion."
Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M. Jacques Ferrand.
CHAPTER IV.
THE OFFICE.
The office of M. Ferrand resembled all other offices, and his clerks all
other clerks. It was approached through an antechamber, furnished with
four old chairs. In the office, properly so-called, surrounded by rows
of shelves, ornamented with pasteboard boxes, containing the papers of
the clients of M. Ferrand, five young men, stooping over black wooden
desks, were laughing, gossiping, or scribbling perpetually. A
waiting-room, also filled with pasteboard boxes, and in which the chief
clerk was constantly stationed, and another room, which, for greater
secrecy, was kept unoccupied, between the notary's private room and the
waiting-room, completed the total of this laboratory of deeds of every
description.
An old cuckoo-clock, placed between the two windows of the office, had
just struck two o'clock, and a certain bustle prevailed amongst the
clerks; a part of their conversation will inform the reader as to the
cause of this excitement.
"Well, if any one had told me that Francois Germain was a thief," said
one of the young men, "I should have said, 'That's a lie!'"
"So should I."
"And I."
"And I. It really quite affected me to see him arrested and led away by
the police. I could not eat any breakfast; but I have been rewarded by
not having to eat the daily mess doled out by Mother Seraphin, for, as
the song goes:
'To eat the allowance of old Seraphin,
One must have a twist indeed.'"
"Capital! why, Chalamel, you are beginning your poetry already."
"I demand Chalamel's head!"
"Folly apart, it is very terrible for poor Germain."
"Seventeen thousand francs (680_l._) is a lump of money!"
"I believe you!"
"And yet, for the fifteen months that Germain has been cashier, he was
never a farthing deficient in making up his books."
"I think the governor was wrong to arrest Germain, for the poor fellow
swore that he had only taken thirteen hundred francs (52_l._) in gold,
and that, moreover, he brought back the thirteen hundred francs this
morning, to return them to the money-chest, at the very moment when our
master sent for the police."
"Ah, that's the bore of people of such ferocious honesty as our
governor, they have no pity!"
"But they ought to think twice before they ruin a poor young fellow,
who, up to this time, has behaved with strict honesty."
"M. Ferrand said he did it for an example."
"Example? What? It is none to the honest, and the dishonest know well
enough what they expose themselves to if they are found out in any
delinquencies."
"Our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the police officers."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, this morning there was poor little Louise, and now poor Germain."
"I confess that Germain's affair was not quite clear to me."
"But he confessed?"
"He confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred francs, certainly; but
he declared most vehemently that he had not taken the other fifteen
thousand francs in bank-notes, and the other seven hundred francs which
are short in the strong box."
"True; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn't he confess
another?"
"Exactly so; for a man is as much punished for five hundred francs as he
is for fifteen thousand francs."
"Yes; only they retain the fifteen thousand francs, and, when they leave
prison, this forms a little fund to start upon; and, as the swan of
Cambrai sings:
'To get a jolly lot of "swag"
A cove must dip deep in the lucky-bag.'"
"I demand Chalamel's head!"
"Can't you talk sense for five minutes?"
"Ah, here's Jabulot! won't he be astonished?"
"What at, my boys? what at? Anything fresh about poor Louise?"
"You would have known, roving blade, if you had not been so long in your
rounds."
"What, you think it is but a step from here to the Rue de Chaillot?"
"I never said so."
"Well, what about that gallant don, the famous Viscount de Saint-Remy?"
"Has he not been here yet?"
"No."
"Well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me word by his _valet de
chambre_, that he would come here directly. But he didn't seem best
pleased, the servant said. Oh, my boys! such a lovely little house,
furnished most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the olden
time that Faublas writes about. Oh, Faublas! he is my hero--my model!"
said the clerk, putting down his umbrella and taking off his clogs.
"You are right, Jabulot; for, as that sublime old blind man, Homer,
said:
'Faublas, that amorous hero, it is said,
Forsook the duchess for the waiting-maid.'"
"Yes; but then, she was a theatrical 'waiting-maid,' my lads."
"I demand Chalamel's head!"
"But about this Viscount de Saint-Remy? Jabulot says his mansion is
superb."
"Pyramidic!"
"Then, I'll be bound, he has debts not a few, and arrests to match, this
viscount."
"A bill of thirty-four thousand francs (1,360_l._) has been sent here by
the officer. It is made payable at the office. This is his creditors'
doing; I don't know why or wherefore."
"Well, I should say that this dandy viscount would pay now, because he
came from the country last night, where he has been concealed these
three days, in order to escape from the bailiffs."
"How is it, then, that they have not seized the furniture already?"
"Why? oh, he's too cunning! The house is not his own; all the furniture
is in the name of his _valet de chambre_, who is said to let it to him
furnished; and, in the same way, his horses and carriages are in his
coachman's name, who declares that he lets to the viscount his splendid
turn-out at so much a month. Ah, he's a 'downy' one, is M. de
Saint-Remy! But what were you going to tell me? what has happened here
fresh?"
"Why, imagine the governor coming in here two hours ago in a most awful
passion. 'Germain is not here?' he exclaimed. 'No, sir.' 'Well, the
rascal has robbed me last night of seventeen thousand francs!' says the
governor."
"Germain--rob--ah, come, that's 'no go!'"
"You will hear. 'What, sir, are you sure? but it cannot be,' we all
cried out. 'I tell you, gentlemen,' said the governor, 'that yesterday I
put in the drawer of the bureau at which he writes, fifteen notes of one
thousand francs each, and two thousand francs in gold, in a little box,
and it is all gone.' At this moment old Marriton, the porter, came in,
and he said, 'Sir, the police are coming; where is Germain?' 'Wait a
bit,' said the gove
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