The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 4
by Eugène Sue · English · Gutenberg #33803 · 582,632 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 4
Author: Eugène Sue
Release date: September 22, 2010 [eBook #33803]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33803
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Christine Aldridge and the
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(Stanford University, SUL Books in the Public Domain)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS, ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS, VOL. 4 ***
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: _The Abduction._
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 IV._
_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. RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW 11
II. THE WILL 33
III. L'ILE DU RAVAGEUR 48
IV. THE FRESHWATER PIRATE 60
V. THE MOTHER AND SON 82
VI. FRANCOIS AND AMANDINE 101
VII. A LODGING-HOUSE 119
VIII. THE VICTIMS OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE 132
IX. THE RUE DE CHAILLOT 156
X. THE COMTE DE SAINT-REMY 170
XI. THE INTERVIEW 185
XII. THE SEARCH 204
XIII. THE ADIEUX 226
XIV. RECOLLECTIONS 239
XV. THE BOATS 262
XVI. THE HAPPINESS OF MEETINGS 273
XVII. DOCTOR GRIFFON 298
XVIII. THE PORTRAIT 305
XIX. THE AGENT OF SAFETY 315
XX. THE CHOUETTE 321
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
THE ABDUCTION _Frontispiece_
THE BRIGAND DASHED AT HIS BROTHER 87
HE EXHIBITED SUCH FEROCIOUS JOY 168
WAS ABOUT TO EMBRACE HIS FATHER 199
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
CHAPTER I.
RIGOLETTE'S FIRST SORROW.
Rigolette's apartment was still in all its extreme nicety; the large
silver watch placed over the mantelpiece, in a small boxwood stand,
denoted the hour of four. The severe cold weather having ceased, the
thrifty little needlewoman had not lighted her stove.
From the window, a corner of blue sky was scarcely perceptible over the
masses of irregularly built roofs, garrets, and tall chimneys, which
bounded the horizon on the other side of the street. Suddenly a sunbeam,
which, as it were, wandered for a moment between two high gables, came
for an instant to purple with its bright rays the windows of the young
girl's chamber.
Rigolette was at work, seated by her window; and the soft shadow of her
charming profile stood out from the transparent light of the glass as a
cameo of rosy whiteness on a silver ground. Brilliant hues played on her
jet black hair, twisted in a knot at the back of her head, and shaded
with a warm amber colour the ivory of her industrious little fingers,
which plied the needle with incomparable activity. The long folds of her
brown gown, confined at the waist by the bands of her green apron, half
concealed her straw-seated chair, and her pretty feet rested on the edge
of a stool before her.
Like a rich lord, who sometimes amuses himself in hiding the walls of a
cottage beneath splendid hangings, the setting sun for a moment lighted
up this little chamber with a thousand dazzling fires, throwing his
golden tints on the curtains of gray and green stuff, and making the
walnut-tree furniture glisten with brightness, and the dry-rubbed floor
look like heated copper; whilst it encircled in a wire-work of gold the
grisette's bird-cage. But, alas! in spite of the exciting splendour of
this sun-ray, the two canaries (male and female) flitted about uneasily,
and, contrary to their usual habit, did not sing a note. This was
because, contrary to her usual habit, Rigolette did not sing. The three
never warbled without one another; almost invariably the cheerful and
matin song of the latter called forth that of the birds, who, more lazy,
did not leave their nests as early as their mistress. Then there were
rivalries,--contentions of clear, sonorous, pearly, silvery notes, in
which the birds had not always the advantage.
Rigolette did not sing, because, for the first time in her life, she
experienced a sorrow. Up to this time, the sight of the misery of the
Morels had often affected her; but such sights are too familiar to the
poorer classes to cause them any very lasting melancholy. After having,
almost every day, succoured these unfortunates as far as was in her
power, sincerely wept with and for them, the young girl felt herself at
the same time moved and satisfied,--moved by their misfortunes, and
satisfied at having shown herself pitiful. But this was not a sorrow.
Rigolette's natural gaiety soon regained its empire; and then, without
egotism, but by a simple fact of comparison, she found herself so happy
in her little chamber, after leaving the horrible den of the Morels,
that her momentary sadness speedily disappeared.
This lightness of impression was so little affected by personal feeling,
that, by a mode of extremely delicate reasoning, the grisette considered
it almost a duty to aid those more unhappy than herself, that she might
thus unscrupulously enjoy an existence so very precarious and entirely
dependent on her labour, but which, compared with the fearful distress
of the lapidary's family, appeared to her almost luxurious.
"In order to sing without compunction, when we have near us persons so
much to be pitied," she said, naively, "we must have been as charitable
to them as possible."
Before we inform our reader the cause of Rigolette's first sorrow, we
are desirous to assure him, or her, completely as to the virtue of this
young girl. We are sorry to use the word virtue,--a serious, pompous,
solemn word, which almost always brings with it ideas of painful
sacrifice, of painful struggle against the passions, of austere
meditations on the final close of all things here below. Such was not
the virtue of Rigolette. She had neither deeply struggled nor meditated;
she had worked, and laughed, and sung. Her prudence, as she called it,
when speaking frankly and sincerely to Rodolph, was with her a question
of time,--she had not the leisure to be in love. Particularly lively,
industrious, and orderly, order, work, and gaiety had often, unknown to
herself, defended, sustained, saved her.
It may be deemed, perchance, that this morality is light, frivolous,
casual; but of what consequence is the cause, so that the effect
endures? Of what consequence are the directions of the roots of a plant,
provided the flower blooms pure, expanded, and full of perfume?
Apropos of our utopianisms, as to the encouragement, help, and
recompenses which society ought to grant to artisans remarkable for
their eminent social qualities, we have alluded to that protection of
virtue (one of the projects of the Emperor, by the way). Let us suppose
this admirable idea realised. One of the real philanthropists whom the
Emperor proposed to employ in searching after worth has discovered
Rigolette. Abandoned without advice, without aid, exposed to all the
perils of poverty, to all the seductions with which youth and beauty are
surrounded, this charming girl has remained pure; her honest,
hard-working life might serve for a model and example. Would not this
young creature deserve, not a mere recompense, not succour only, but
some impressive words of approbation and encouragement, which would give
her a consciousness of her own worth, exalt her in her own eyes, and lay
on her obligations for the future? At least she would know that she was
followed by eyes full of solicitude and protection in the difficult path
in which she is progressing with so much courage and serenity; she would
know that, if one day the want of work or sickness threatened to destroy
the equilibrium of the poor and occupied life, which depends solely on
work and health, a slight help, due to her former deserts, would be
given to her.
People, no doubt, will exclaim against the impossibility of this
tutelary surveillance, which would surround persons particularly worthy
of interest through their previous excellent lives. It seems to us that
society has already resolved this problem. Has it not already imagined
the superintendence of the police, for life or for a period, for the
most useful purpose of constantly controlling the conduct of dangerous
persons, noted for the infamy of their former lives? Why does not
society exercise also a superintendence of moral charity?
But let us leave the lofty stilts of our utopianisms, and return to the
cause of Rigolette's first sorrow.
With the exception of Germain, a well-behaved, open-hearted young man,
the grisette's neighbours had all, at first, begun on terms of
familiarity, believing her offers of good neighbourship were little
flirtations; but these gentlemen had been compelled to admit, with as
much astonishment as annoyance, that they found in Rigolette an amiable
and mirthful companion for their Sunday excursions, a pleasant
neighbour, and a kind-hearted creature, but not a mistress. Their
surprise and their annoyance, at first very great, gradually gave way
before the frank and even temper of the grisette; and then, as she had
sagaciously said to Rodolph, her neighbours were proud on Sundays to
have on their arms a pretty girl, who was an honour to them in every way
(Rigolette was quite regardless of appearances), and who only cost them
the share of the moderate pleasures, whose value was doubled by her
presence and nice appearance. Besides, the dear girl was so easily
contented! In her days of penury she dined well and gaily off a morsel
of warm cake, which she nibbled with all the might of her little white
teeth; after which, she amused herself so much with a walk on the
boulevards or in the arcades.
If our readers feel but little sympathy with Rigolette, they will at
least confess that a person must be very absurd, or very cruel, to
refuse once a week these simple amusements to so delightful a creature,
who, besides having no right to be jealous, never prevented her
cavaliers from consoling themselves for her cruelty by flirtations with
other damsels.
Francois Germain alone never founded any vain hopes on the familiarity
of the young girl, but, either from instinct of heart or delicacy of
mind, he guessed from the first day how very agreeable the singular
companionship of Rigolette might be made.
What might be imagined happened, and Germain fell passionately in love
with his neighbour, without daring to say a word to her of his love.
Far from imitating his predecessors, who, convinced of the vanity of
their pursuit, had consoled themselves with other loves, without being
on that account the less on good terms with their neighbour, Germain had
most supremely enjoyed his intimacy with the young girl, passing with
her not only his Sunday but every evening when he was not engaged.
During these long hours Rigolette was, as usual, merry and laughing;
Germain tender, attentive, serious, and often somewhat sad. This
sadness was his only drawback, for his manners, naturally good, were not
to be compared with the foppery of M. Girandeau, the commercial
traveller, alias bagman, or with the noisy eccentricities of Cabrion;
but M. Girandeau by his unending loquacity, and the painter by his
equally interminable fun, took the lead of Germain, whose quiet
composure rather astonished his little neighbour, the grisette.
Rigolette then had not, as yet, testified any decided preference for any
one of her beaux; but as she was by no means deficient in judgment, she
soon discovered that Germain alone united all the qualities requisite
for making a reasonable woman happy.
Having stated all these facts, we will inquire why Rigolette was sad,
and why neither she nor her birds sang. Her oval and fresh-looking face
was rather pale; her large black eyes, usually gay and brilliant, were
slightly dulled and veiled; whilst her whole look bespoke unusual
fatigue. She had been working nearly all the night; from time to time
she looked sorrowfully at a letter which lay open on a table near her.
This letter had been addressed to her by Germain, and contained as
follows:
"PRISON OF THE CONCIERGERIE.
"MADEMOISELLE:--The place from which I address you will
sufficiently prove to you the extent of my misfortune,--I am
locked up as a robber. I am guilty in the eyes of all the world,
and yet I am bold enough to write to you! It is because it
would, indeed, be dreadful to me to believe that you consider me
as a degraded criminal. I beseech you not to condemn me until
you have perused this letter. If you discard me, that will be
the final blow, and will indeed overwhelm me. I will tell you
all that has passed. For some time I had left the Rue du Temple,
but I knew through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom
you and I took such deep interest, were daily more and more
wretched. Alas, my pity for these poor people has been my
destruction! I do not repent it, but my fate is very cruel. Last
night I had stayed very late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with
business of importance. In the room in which I was at work was a
bureau, in which my employer shut up every day the work I had
done. This evening he appeared much disturbed and troubled, and
said to me, 'Do not leave until these accounts are finished, and
then put them in the bureau, the key of which I will leave with
you;' and then he left the room. When my work was done I opened
the drawer to put it away, when, mechanically, my eyes were
attracted by an open letter, on which I read the name of Jerome
Morel, the lapidary. I confess that, seeing that it referred to
this unfortunate man, I had the indiscretion to read this
letter; and I learnt that the artisan was to be arrested next
day on an overdue bill of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit
of M. Ferrand, who, under an assumed name, had imprisoned him.
This information was from an agent employed by M. Ferrand. I
knew enough of the situation of the Morel family to be aware of
the terrible blow which the imprisonment of their only support
must inflict upon them, and I was equally distressed and
indignant. Unfortunately I saw in the same drawer an open box,
with two thousand francs in gold in it. At this moment I heard
Louise coming up the stairs, and without reflecting on the
seriousness of my offence, but profiting by the opportunity
which chance offered, I took thirteen hundred francs, went to
her in the passage, and put the money in her hand, saying, 'They
are going to arrest your father to-morrow at daybreak, for
thirteen hundred francs,--here they are. Save him, but do not
say that the money comes from me. M. Ferrand is a bad man.' You
see, mademoiselle, my intention was good, but my conduct
culpable. I conceal nothing from you, but this is my excuse. By
dint of saving for a long time I had realised, and placed with a
banker, the sum of fifteen hundred francs, but the cashier of
the banker never came to the office before noon. Morel was to be
arrested at daybreak, and therefore it was necessary that she
should have the money so as to pay it in good time; if not, even
if I could have gone in the day to release him from prison,
still he would be arrested and carried off in presence of his
wife, whom such a blow must have killed. Besides, the heavy
costs of the writ would have been added to the expenses of the
lapidary. You will understand, I dare say, that all these new
misfortunes would not have befallen me if I had been able to
restore the thirteen hundred francs I had taken back again to
the bureau before M. Ferrand discovered anything; unfortunately,
I fell into that mistake. I left M. Ferrand's, and was no longer
under the impression of indignation and pity which had impelled
me to the step. I began to reflect upon all the dangers of my
position. A thousand fears then came to assail me. I knew the
notary's severity, and he might come after I left and search in
his bureau and discover the theft; for in his eyes--in the eyes
of the world--it is a theft. These thoughts overwhelmed me, and,
late as it was, I ran to the banker's to supplicate him to give
me my money instantly. I should have found an excuse for this
urgent request, and then I should have returned to M. Ferrand
and replaced the money I had taken. By an unlucky chance, the
banker had gone to Belleville for two days, to his
country-house, where he was engaged in some plantations.
Everything seemed to conspire against me. I waited for daybreak
with intense anxiety, and hastened to Belleville,--the banker
had just left for Paris. I returned, saw him, obtained my money,
hastened to M. Ferrand; everything was discovered. But this is
only a portion of my misfortunes. The notary at once accused me
of having robbed him of fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes,
which, he declared, were in the drawer of the bureau, with the
two thousand francs in gold. This was a base accusation,--an
infamous lie! I confess myself guilty of the first abstraction,
but, by all that is most sacred in the world, I swear to you,
mademoiselle, that I am innocent of the second. I never saw a
bank-note in the drawer. There were only two thousand francs in
gold, from which I took the thirteen hundred francs I have
mentioned. This is the truth, mademoiselle. I am under this
terrible accusation, and yet I affirm that you ought to know me
incapable of a lie. But will you,--do you believe me? Alas, as
M. Ferrand said, 'he who has taken a small sum may equally have
taken a large amount, and his word does not deserve belief.' I
have always seen you so good and devoted to the unhappy,
mademoiselle, and I know you are so frank and liberal-minded,
that your heart will guide you in the just appreciation of the
truth, I hope. I do not ask any more. Give credit to my words,
and you will find in me as much to pity as to blame; for, I
repeat to you, my intention was good, and circumstances
impossible to foresee have destroyed me. Oh, Mlle. Rigolette, I
am very unhappy! If you knew in the midst of what a set of
persons I am doomed to exist until my trial is over! Yesterday
they took me to a place which they call the depot of the
prefecture of police. I cannot tell you what I felt when, after
having gone up a dark staircase, I reached a door with an iron
wicket, which was opened and soon closed upon me. I was so
troubled in my mind that I could not, at first, distinguish
anything. A hot and fetid air came upon me, and I heard a loud
noise of voices mingled with sinister laughs, angry
exclamations, and depraved songs. I remained motionless at the
door for awhile, looking at the stone flooring of the apartment,
and neither daring to advance nor lift up my eyes, thinking
that everybody was looking at me. They were not, however,
thinking of me; for a prisoner more or less does not at all
disturb these men. At last I ventured to look up, and, oh, what
horrid countenances! What ragged wretches! What dirty and
bespattered garments! All the exterior marks of misery and vice!
There were forty or fifty seated, standing, or lying on benches
secured to the wall,--vagrants, robbers, assassins, and all who
had been apprehended during the night and day. When they
perceived me I found a sad consolation in seeing that they did
not recognise me as belonging or known to them. Some of them
looked at me with an insulting and derisive air, and then began
to talk amongst themselves in a low tone, and in some horrible
jargon, not one word of which did I understand. After a short
time one of the most brutal amongst them came, and, slapping me
on the shoulder, asked me for money to pay my footing. I gave
them some silver, hoping thus to purchase repose; but it was not
enough, and they demanded more, which I refused. Then several of
them surrounded me and assailed me with threats and
imprecations, and were proceeding to extremities, when,
fortunately for me, a turnkey entered, who had been attracted by
the noise. I complained to him, and he insisted on their
restoring to me the money I had given them already, adding that,
if I liked to pay a small fee, I should go to what is called the
pistole; that is, be in a cell to myself. I accepted the offer
gratefully, and left these ruffians in the midst of their loud
menaces for the future; 'for,' said they, 'we are sure to meet
again, when I could not get away from them.' The turnkey
conducted me to a cell, where I passed the rest of the night. It
is from here that I now write to you, Mlle. Rigolette. Directly
after my examination I shall be taken to another prison, called
La Force, where I expect to meet many of my companions in the
station-house. The turnkey, interested by my grief and tears,
has promised me to forward this letter to you, although such
kindnesses are strictly forbidden. I ask, Mlle. Rigolette, a
last service of your friendship, if, indeed, you do not blush
now for such an intimacy. In case you will kindly grant my
request, it is this: With this letter you will receive a small
key, and a line for the porter of the house I live in, Boulevard
St. Denis, No. 11. I inform him that you will act as if it were
myself with respect to everything that belongs to me, and that
he is to attend to your instructions. He will take you to my
room, and you will have the goodness to open my _secretaire_
with the key I send you herewith. In this you will find a large
packet containing different papers, which I beg of you to take
care of for me. One of them was intended for you, as you will
see by the address; others have been written of you, in happier
days. Do not be angry. I did not think they would ever come to
your knowledge. I beg you, also, to take the small sum of money
which is in this drawer, as well as a satin bag, which contains
a small orange silk handkerchief, which you wore when we used to
go out on Sundays, and which you gave me on the day I quitted
the Rue du Temple. I should wish that, excepting a little linen
which you will be so good as send to me at La Force, you would
sell the furniture and things I possess; for, whether acquitted
or found guilty, I must of necessity be obliged to quit Paris.
Where shall I go? What are my resources? God only knows. Madame
Bouvard, the saleswoman of the Temple, who has already sold and
bought for me many things, will perhaps take all the furniture,
etc., at once. She is a very fair-dealing woman, and this would
save you a great deal of trouble, for I know how precious your
time is. I have paid my rent in advance, and I have, therefore,
only to ask you to give a small present to the porter. Excuse,
mademoiselle, the trouble of these details; but you are the only
person in the world to whom I dare and can address myself. I
might, perhaps, have asked one of M. Ferrand's clerks to do this
service for me, as we were on friendly terms, but I feared his
curiosity as to certain papers. Several concern you, as I have
said, and others relate to the sad events in my life. Ah,
believe me, Mlle. Rigolette, if you grant me this last favour,
this last proof of former regard, it will be my only consolation
under the great affliction in which I am plunged; and, in spite
of all, I hope you will not refuse me. I also beg of you to give
me permission to write to you sometimes. It will be so
consoling, so comforting to me, to be able to pour out my heavy
sorrows into a kind heart. Alas, I am alone in the world,--no
one takes the slightest interest in me! This isolation was
before most painful to me. Think what it must be now! And yet I
am honest, and have the consciousness of never having injured
any one, and of always having, at the peril of my life,
testified my aversion for what is wicked and wrong; as you will
see by the papers, which I pray of you to take care of, and
which you may read. But when I say this, who will believe me? M.
Ferrand is respected by all the world; his reputation for
probity is long established; he has a just cause of accusation
against me, and he will crush me. I resign myself at once to my
fate. Now, Mlle. Rigolette, if you do believe me, you will not,
I hope, feel any contempt for me, but pity me; and you will,
perhaps, carry your generosity so far as to come one day,--some
Sunday (alas, what recollections that word brings up!)--some
Sunday, to see me in the reception-room of my prison. But no,
no; I never could dare to see you in such a place! Yet you are
so good, so kind, that--if--I am compelled to break off this
letter and send it to you at once, with the key, and a line for
the porter, which I write in great haste. The turnkey has come
to tell me that I am going directly before the magistrate.
Adieu, adieu, Mlle. Rigolette! Do not discard me, for my hope is
in you, and in you only!
"FRANCOIS GERMAIN.
"P. S.--If you reply, address your letter to me at the prison
of La Force."
We may now divine the cause of Rigolette's first sorrow.
Her excellent heart was deeply wounded at a misfortune of which she had
no suspicion until that moment. She believed unhesitatingly in the
entire veracity of the statement of Germain, the unfortunate son of the
Schoolmaster.
Not very strait-laced, she thought her old neighbour exaggerated his
fault immensely. To save the unhappy father of a family, he had
momentarily appropriated a sum which he thought he could instantly
refund. This action, in the grisette's eyes, was but generous.
By one of those contradictions common to women, and especially to women
of her class, this young girl, who until then had not felt for Germain
more than her other neighbours, but a kind and mirthful friendship, now
experienced for him a decided preference. As soon as she knew that he
was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, his remembrance
effaced that of all his former rivals. Yet Rigolette did not all at once
feel intense love, but a warm and sincere affection, full of pity and
determined devotion,--a sentiment which was the more new with her in
consequence of the better sensations it brought with it.
Such was the moral position of Rigolette when Rodolph entered her
chamber, having first rapped very discreetly at the door.
"Good morning, neighbour," said Rodolph to Rigolette; "do not let me
disturb you."
"Not at all, neighbour. On the contrary, I am delighted to see you, for
I have had something to vex me dreadfully."
"Why, in truth, you look very pale, and appear as though you had been
weeping."
"Indeed, I have been weeping, and for a good reason. Poor Germain!
There--read!" And Rigolette handed the letter of the prisoner to
Rodolph. "Is not that enough to break one's heart? You told me you took
an interest in him,--now's the time to prove it!" she added, whilst
Rodolph was attentively reading the letter. "Is that wicked old M.
Ferrand at war with all the world? First he attacked that poor Louise,
and now he assails Germain. Oh, I am not ill-natured; but if some great
harm happened to this notary, I should really be glad! To accuse such an
honest young man of having stolen fifteen thousand francs from him!
Germain, too! He who was honesty itself! And such a steady, serious
young man; and so sad, too! Oh, he is indeed to be pitied, in the midst
of all these wretches in his prison! Ah, M. Rodolph, from to-day I begin
to see that life is not all _couleur-de-rose_."
"And what do you propose to do, my little neighbour?"
"What do I mean to do? Why, of course, all that Germain asks of me, and
as quickly as possible. I should have been gone before now, but for this
work, which is required in great haste, and which I must take instantly
to the Rue St. Honore, on my way to Germain's room, where I am going to
get the papers he speaks of. I have passed part of the night at work,
that I might be forward. I shall have so many things to do besides my
usual work that I must be excessively methodical. In the first place,
Madame Morel is very anxious that I should see Louise in prison. That
will be a hard task, but I shall try to do it. Unfortunately, I do not
know to whom I should address myself."
"I had thought of that."
"You, neighbour?"
"Here is an order."
"How fortunate! Can't you procure me also an order for the prison of
poor, unhappy Germain? He would be so delighted!"
"I will also find you the means of seeing Germain."
"Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph."
"You will not be afraid, then, of going to his prison?"
"Certainly not; although my heart will beat very violently the first
time. But that's nothing. When Germain was free, was he not always ready
to anticipate all my wishes, and take me to the theatre, for a walk, or
read to me of an evening? Well, and now he is in trouble, it is my turn.
A poor little mouse like me cannot do much, I know that well enough; but
all I can do I will do, that he may rely upon. He shall find that I am a
sincere friend. But, M. Rodolph, there is one thing which pains me, and
that is that he should doubt me,--that he should suppose me capable of
despising him! I!--and for what, I should like to know? That old notary
accuses him of robbery. I know it is not true. Germain's letter has
proved to me that he is innocent, even if I had thought him guilty. You
have only to see him, and you would feel certain that he is incapable of
a bad action. A person must be as wicked as M. Ferrand to assert such
atrocious falsehoods."
"Bravo, neighbour; I like your indignation."
"Oh, how I wish I were a man, that I might go to this notary and say to
him, 'Oh, you say that Germain has robbed you, do you? Well, then,
that's for you! And that he cannot steal from you, at all events?' And
thump--thump--thump, I would beat him till I couldn't stand over him."
"You administer justice very expeditiously," said Rodolph, smiling.
"Because it makes my blood boil. And, as Germain says in his letter,
all the world will side with his employer, because he is rich and looked
up to, whilst Germain is poor and unprotected, unless you will come to
his assistance, M. Rodolph,--you who know such benevolent persons. Do
not you think that something could be done?"
"He must await his sentence. Once acquitted, as I believe he will be, he
will not want for proofs of the interest taken in him. But listen,
neighbour; for I know I may rely on your discretion."
"Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I never blab."
"Well, then, no one must know--not even Germain himself--that he has
friends who are watching over him,--for he has friends."
"Really!"
"Very powerful and devoted."
"It would give him much courage to know that."
"Unquestionably; but perhaps he might not keep it to himself. Then M.
Ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard,--his suspicions would be
aroused; and, as he is very cunning, it would become very difficult to
catch him, which would be most annoying; for not only must Germain's
innocence be made clear, but his denouncer must be unmasked."
"I understand, M. Rodolph."
"It is the same with Louise; and I bring you this order to see her, that
you may beg of her not to tell any person what she disclosed to me. She
will know what that means."
"I understand, M. Rodolph."
"In a word, let Louise beware of complaining in prison of her master's
wickedness. This is most important. But she must conceal nothing from
the barrister who will come from me to talk with her as to the grounds
of her defence. Be sure you tell her all this."
"Make yourself easy, neighbour, I will forget nothing; I have an
excellent memory. But, when we talk of goodness, it is you who are so
good and kind. If any one is in trouble, then you come directly."
"I have told you, my good little neighbour, that I am but a poor clerk;
but when I meet with good persons who deserve protection, I instantly
tell a benevolent individual who has entire confidence in me, and they
are helped at once. That's all I do in the matter."
"And where are you lodging, now you have given up your chamber to the
Morels?"
"I live in a furnished lodging."
"Oh, how I should hate that! To be where all the world has been before
you, it is as if everybody had been in your place."
"I am only there at nights, and then--"
"I understand,--it is less disagreeable. Yet I shouldn't like it, M.
Rodolph. My home made me so happy, I had got into such a quiet way of
living, that I did not think it was possible I should ever know a
sorrow. And yet, you see--But no, I cannot describe to you the blow
which Germain's misfortune has brought upon me. I have seen the Morels,
and others beside, who were very much to be pitied certainly. But, at
best, misery is misery; and amongst poor folk, who look for it, it does
not surprise them, and they help one another as well as they can. To-day
it is one, to-morrow it is another. As for oneself, what with courage
and good spirit, one extricates oneself. But to see a poor young man,
honest and good, who has been your friend for a long time,--to see him
accused of robbery, and imprisoned and huddled up with criminals!--ah,
really, M. Rodolph, I cannot get over that; it is a misfortune I had
never thought of, and it quite upsets me."
"Courage, courage! Your spirits will return when your friend is
acquitted."
"Oh, yes, he must be acquitted. The judges have only to read his letter
to me, and that would be enough,--would it not, M. Rodolph?"
"Really, this letter has all the appearance of truth. You must let me
have a copy of it, for it will be necessary for Germain's defence."
"Certainly, M. Rodolph. If I did not write such a scrawl, in spite of
the lessons which good Germain gave me, I would offer to copy it myself;
but my writing is so large, so crooked, and has so many, many faults."
"I will only ask you to trust the letter with me until to-morrow
morning."
"There it is; but you will take great care of it, I hope. I have burnt
all the notes which M. Cabrion and M. Girandeau wrote me in the
beginning of our acquaintance, with flaming hearts and doves at the top
of the paper, when they thought I was to be caught by their tricks and
cajoleries; but this poor letter of Germain's I will keep carefully, as
well as the others, if he writes me any more; for they, you know, M.
Rodolph, will show in my favour that he has asked these small
services,--won't they, M. Rodolph?"
"Most assuredly; and they will prove that you are the best little friend
any one can desire. But, now I think of it, instead of going alone to
Germain's room, shall I accompany you?"
"With pleasure, neighbour. The night is coming on, and, in the evening,
I do not like to be alone in the streets; besides that, I have my work
to carry nearly as far as the Palais Royal. But perhaps it will fatigue
and annoy you to go so far?"
"Not at all. We will have a coach."
"Really! Oh, how pleased I should be to go in a coach if I had not so
much to make me melancholy! And I really must be melancholy, for this is
the first day since I have been here that I have not sung during the
day. My birds are really quite astonished. Poor little dears! They
cannot make it out. Two or three times Papa Cretu has piped a little to
try me; I endeavoured to answer him, but, after a minute or two, I
began to cry. Ramonette then began; but I could not answer one any
better than the other."
"What singular names you have given your birds: Papa Cretu and
Ramonette!"
"Why, M. Rodolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude,--my best friends;
and I have given them the names of the worthy couple who were the joy of
my childhood, and were also my best friends, not forgetting that, to
complete the resemblance, Papa Cretu and Ramonette were gay, and sang
like birds."
"Ah, now, yes, I remember, your adopted parents were called so."
"Yes, neighbour, they are ridiculous names for birds, I know; but that
concerns no one but myself. And besides, it was in this very point that
Germain showed his good heart."
"In what way?"
"Why, M. Girandeau and M. Cabrion--especially M. Cabrion--were always
making their jokes on the names of my birds. To call a canary Papa
Cretu! There never was such nonsense as M. Cabrion made of it, and his
jests were endless. If it was a cock bird, he said, 'Why, that would be
well enough to call him Cretu. As to Ramonette, that's well enough for a
hen canary, for it resembles Ramona.' In fact, he quite wore my patience
out, and for two Sundays I would not go out with him in order to teach
him a lesson; and I told him very seriously, that if he began his
tricks, which annoyed me so much, we should never go out together
again."
"What a bold resolve!"
"Yes, it was really a sacrifice on my part, M. Rodolph, for I was always
looking forward with delight to my Sundays, and I was very much tried by
being kept in all alone in such beautiful weather. But that's nothing. I
preferred sacrificing my Sundays to hearing M. Cabrion continue to make
ridicule of those whom I respected. Certainly, after that, but for the
idea I attached to them, I should have preferred giving my birds other
names; and, you must know, there is one name which I adore,--it is
Colibri.[1] I did not change, because I never will call those birds by
any other name than Cretu and Ramonette; if I did, I should seem to make
a sacrifice, that I forgot my good, adopted parents,--don't you think
so, M. Rodolph?"
[1] Colibri is a celebrated chanson of Beranger, the especial
poet of grisettes.--_English Translator_.
"You are right a thousand times over. And Germain did not turn these
names into a jest, eh?"
"On the contrary, the first time he heard them he thought them droll,
like every one else, and that was natural enough. But when I explained
to him my reasons, as I had many times explained them to M. Cabrion,
tears started to his eyes. From that time I said to myself, M. Germain
is very kind-hearted, and there is nothing to be said against him, but
his weeping so. And so, you see, M. Rodolph, my reproaching him with his
sadness has made me unhappy now. Then I could not understand why any one
was melancholy, but now I understand it but too well. But now my packet
is completed, and my work is ready for delivery. Will you hand me my
shawl, neighbour? It is not cold enough to take a cloak, is it?"
"We shall go and return in a coach."
"True; we shall go and return very quickly, and that will be so much
gained."
"But, now I think of it, what are you to do? Your work will suffer from
your visits to the prison."
"Oh, no, no; I have made my calculations. In the first place, I have my
Sundays to myself, so I shall go and see Louise and Germain on those
days; that will serve me for a walk and a change. Then, in the week, I
shall go again to the prison once or twice. Each time will occupy me
three good hours, won't it? Well, to manage this comfortably, I shall
work an hour more every day, and go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of
eleven o'clock; that will be a clear gain of seven or eight hours a
week, which I can employ in going to see Louise and Germain. You see I
am richer than I appear," added Rigolette, with a smile.
"And you have no fear that you will be overfatigued?"
"Bah! Not at all; I shall manage it. And, besides, it can't last for
ever."
"Here is your shawl, neighbour."
"Fasten it; and mind you don't prick me."
"Ah, the pin is bent."
"Well, then, clumsy, take another then,--from the pincushion. Ah, I
forgot! Will you do me a great favour, neighbour?"
"Command me, neighbour."
"Mend me a good pen, with a broad nib, so that when I return I may write
to poor Germain, and tell him I have executed all his commissions. He
will have my letter to-morrow morning in the prison, and that will give
him pleasure."
"Where are your pens?"
"There,--on the table; the knife is in the drawer. Wait until I light my
taper, for it begins to grow dusk."
"Yes, I shall see better how to mend the pen."
"And I how to tie my cap."
Rigolette lighted a lucifer-match, and lighted a wax-end in a small
bright candlestick.
"The deuce,--a wax-light! Why, neighbour, what extravagance!"
"Oh, what I burn costs but a very small trifle more than a candle, and
it's so much cleaner!"
"Not much dearer?"
"Indeed, they are not! I buy these wax-ends by the pound, and a half a
pound lasts nearly a year."
"But," said Rodolph, who was mending the pen very carefully, whilst the
grisette was tying on her cap before the glass, "I do not see any
preparations for your dinner."
"I have not the least appetite. I took a cup of milk this morning, and I
shall take another this evening, with a small piece of bread, and that
will be enough for me."
"Then you will not take a dinner with me quietly after we have been to
Germain's?"
"Thank you, neighbour; but I am not in spirits,--my heart is too
heavy,--another time with pleasure. But the evening when poor Germain
leaves his prison, I invite myself, and afterwards you shall take me to
the theatre. Is that a bargain?"
"It is, neighbour; and I assure you I will not forget the engagement.
But you refuse me this to-day?"
"Yes, M. Rodolph. I should be a very dull companion, without saying a
word about the time it would occupy me; for, you see, at this moment, I
really cannot afford to be idle, or waste one single quarter of an
hour."
"Then, for to-day I renounce the pleasure."
"There is my parcel, neighbour. Now go out first, and I will lock the
door."
"Here's a capital pen for you; and now for the parcel."
"Mind you don't rumple it; it is _pout-de-soie_, and soon creases. Hold
it in your hand,--carefully,--there, in that way; that's it. Now go, and
I will show you a light."
And Rodolph descended the staircase, followed by Rigolette.
At the moment when the two neighbours were passing by the door of the
porter's lodge they saw M. Pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, was
advancing towards them from the bottom of the passage, holding in one
hand the sign which announced his Partnership of Friendship with
Cabrion, and in the other the portrait of the confounded painter.
Alfred's despair was so overwhelming that his chin touched his breast,
so that the wide crown of his bell-shaped hat was easily seen. Seeing
him thus, with his head lowered, coming towards Rodolph and Rigolette,
he might have been compared to a ram, or a brave Breton, preparing for
combat.
Anastasie soon appeared on the threshold of the lodge, and exclaimed, at
her husband's appearance:
"Well, dearest old boy, here you are! And what did the commissary say to
you? Alfred, Alfred, mind what you're doing, or you'll poke your head
against my king of lodgers. Excuse him, M. Rodolph. It is that vagabond
of a Cabrion, who uses him worse and worse. He'll certainly turn my dear
old darling into a donkey! Alfred, love, speak to me!"
At this voice, so dear to his heart, M. Pipelet raised his head. His
features were impressed with a bitter agony.
"What did the commissary say to you?" inquired Anastasie.
"Anastasie, we must collect the few things we possess, embrace our
friends, pack up our trunk, and expatriate ourselves from Paris,--from
France,--from my beautiful France; for now, assured of impunity, the
monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere, throughout the length and
breadth of the departments of the kingdom."
"What, the commissary?"
"The commissary," exclaimed M. Pipelet, with fierce indignation,--"the
commissary laughed in my teeth!"
"At you,--a man of mature age, with an air so respectable that you would
appear as silly as a goose if one did not know your virtues?"
"Well, notwithstanding that, when I had respectfully deposed in his
presence my mass of complaints and vexations against that infernal
Cabrion, the magistrate, after having looked and laughed--yes, laughed,
and, I may add, laughed indecorously--at the sign and the portrait
which I brought with me as corroborative testimony,--the magistrate
replied, 'My good fellow, this Cabrion is a wag,--a practical joker. But
pay no attention to his pleasantries. I advise you to laugh at him, and
heartily, too, for really there is ample cause to do so.' 'To laugh at
it, sir-r-r!' I exclaimed,--'to laugh at it, when grief consumes
me,--when this scamp poisons my very existence; he placards me, and will
drive me out of my wits. I demand that they imprison, exile the
monster,--at least from my street!' At these words the commissary
smiled, and politely pointed to the door. I understood the magistrate,
sighed, and--and--here I am!"
"Good-for-nothing magistrate!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet.
"It is all over, Anastasie,--all is ended,--hope ceases. There's no
justice in France; I am really atrociously sacrificed."
And, by way of peroration, M. Pipelet dashed the sign and portrait to
the farther end of the passage with all his force. Rodolph and Rigolette
had in the shade smiled at M. Pipelet's despair. After having said a few
words of consolation to Alfred, whom Anastasie was trying to calm as
well as she could, the king of lodgers left the house in the Rue du
Temple with Rigolette, and they both got into a coach to go to Francois
Germain's.
CHAPTER II.
THE WILL.
Francois Germain resided No. 11 Boulevard St. Denis. It may not be amiss
to recall to the reader, who has probably forgotten the circumstance,
that Madame Mathieu, the diamond-matcher, whose name has been already
mentioned as the person for whom Morel the lapidary worked, lodged in
the same house as Germain. During the long ride from the Rue du Temple
to the Rue St. Honore, where dwelt the dressmaker for whom Rigolette
worked, Rodolph had ample opportunities of more fully appreciating the
fine natural disposition of his companion. Like all instinctively noble
and devoted characters, she appeared utterly unconscious of the delicacy
and generosity of her conduct, all she said and did seeming to her as
the most simple and matter-of-course thing possible.
Nothing would have been more easy than for Rodolph to provide liberally
both for Rigolette's present and future wants, and thus to have enabled
her to carry her consoling attentions to Louise and Germain, without
grieving over the loss of that time which was necessarily taken from her
work,--her sole dependence; but the prince was unwilling to diminish the
value of the grisette's devotion by removing all the difficulties, and,
although firmly resolved to bestow a rich reward on the rare and
beautiful qualities he hourly discovered in her, he determined to follow
her to the termination of this new and interesting trial. It is scarcely
necessary to say that, had the health of the young girl appeared to
suffer in the smallest degree from the increase of labour she so
courageously imposed on herself, in order to dedicate a portion of each
week to the unhappy daughter of the lapidary and the son of the
Schoolmaster, Rodolph would instantaneously have stepped forward to her
aid; and he continued to study with equal pleasure and emotion the
workings of a nature so naturally disposed to view everything on its
sunny side, so full of internal happiness, and so little accustomed to
sorrow that occasionally she would smile, and seem the mirthful creature
nature had made her, spite of all the grief by which she was surrounded.
At the end of about an hour, the _fiacre_, returning from the Rue St.
Honore, stopped before a modest, unpretending sort of house, situated
No. 11 Boulevard St. Denis. Rodolph assisted Rigolette to alight. The
young sempstress then proceeded to the porter's lodge, where she
communicated Germain's intentions, without forgetting the promised
gratuity.
Owing to the extreme amenity of his disposition, the son of the
Schoolmaster was unusually beloved, and the _confrere_ of M. Pipelet was
deeply grieved to learn that so quiet and well-conducted a lodger was
about to quit the house, and to that purpose the worthy porter warmly
expressed himself. Having obtained a light, Rigolette proceeded to
rejoin her companion, having first arranged with the porter that he
should not follow her up-stairs till a time she indicated should have
elapsed, and then merely to receive his final orders. The chamber
occupied by Germain was situated on the fourth floor. When they reached
the door, Rigolette handed the key to Rodolph, saying:
"Here, will you open the door? My hand trembles so violently, I cannot
do it. I fear you will laugh at me. But, when I think that poor Germain
will never more enter this room, I seem as though I were about to pass
the threshold of a chamber of death."
"Come, come, my good neighbour, try and exert yourself; you must not
indulge such thoughts as these."
"I know it is wrong; but, indeed, I cannot help it." And here Rigolette
tried to dry up the tears with which her eyes were filled.
Without being equally affected as his companion, Rodolph still
experienced a deep and painful emotion as he penetrated into this humble
abode. Well aware of the detestable pertinacity with which the
accomplices of the Schoolmaster pursued, and were possibly still
pursuing, Germain, he pictured to himself the many hours the unfortunate
youth was constrained to pass in this cheerless solitude. Rigolette
placed the light on the table. Nothing could possibly be more simple
than the fittings-up of the apartment itself. Its sole furniture
consisted of a small bed, a chest of drawers, a walnut-tree bureau, four
rush-bottomed chairs, and a table; white calico curtains hung from the
windows and around the bed. The only ornament the mantelpiece presented
was a water-bottle and glass. The bed was made; but, by the impression
left on it, it would seem that Germain had thrown himself on it without
undressing on the night previous to his arrest.
"Poor fellow!" said Rigolette, sadly, as she examined each minute detail
of the interior of the apartment; "it is very easy to see I was not near
him. His room is tidy, to be sure, but not as neat as it ought to be.
Everything is covered with dust. The curtains are smoke-dried, the
windows want cleaning, and the floor is not kept as it should be. Oh,
dear, what a difference! The Rue du Temple was not a better room, but it
had a much more cheerful look, because everything was kept so bright and
clean,--like in my apartment!"
"Because in the Rue du Temple he had the benefit of your advice and
assistance."
"Oh, pray look here!" cried Rigolette, pointing to the bed. "Only
see,--the poor fellow never went to bed at all the last night he was
here! How uneasy he must have been! See, he has left his handkerchief on
his pillow, quite wet with his tears! I can see that plainly enough."
Then, taking up the handkerchief, she added, "Germain has kept a small,
orange-coloured silk cravat I gave him once during our happy days. I
have a great mind to keep this handkerchief in remembrance of his
misfortune. Do you think he would be angry?"
"On the contrary, he would but be too much delighted with such a mark of
your affection."
"Ah, but we must not indulge in such thoughts now; let us attend to more
serious matters. I will make up a parcel of linen from the contents of
those drawers, ready to take to the prison, and Mother Bouvard, whom I
will send to-morrow, will see to the rest; but first of all I will open
the bureau, in order to get out the papers and money Germain wished me
to take charge of."
"But, now I think of it, Louise Morel gave me back yesterday the
thirteen hundred francs in gold she received from Germain, to pay the
lapidary's debt, which I had already discharged. I have this money about
me; it justly belongs to Germain, since he repaid the notary what he
withdrew from the cash-box. I will place it in your hands, in order that
you may add it to the sum entrusted to your care."
"Just as you like, M. Rodolph, although really I should prefer not
having so large a sum in my possession, really there are so many
dishonest people nowadays! As for papers, that's quite another thing;
I'll willingly take charge of as many papers as you please, but money is
such a dangerous thing!"
"Perhaps you are right; then I tell you what we will do--eh, neighbour?
I will be banker, and undertake the responsibility of guarding this
money. Should Germain require anything, you can let me know; I will
leave you my address, and whatever you send for shall be punctually and
faithfully sent."
"Oh, dear, yes, that will be very much better! How good of you to offer,
for I could not have ventured to propose such a thing to you! So that is
settled; I will beg of you, also, to take whatever this furniture sells
for. And now let us see about the papers," continued Rigolette, opening
the bureau and pulling out several drawers. "Ah, I dare say this is it!
See what a large packet! But, oh, good gracious, M. Rodolph, do pray
look what mournful words these are written on the outside!"
And here Rigolette, in a faltering voice, read as follows:
"'In the event of my dying by either a violent or natural death, I
request whoever may open this bureau to carry these papers to Mlle.
Rigolette, dressmaker, No. 17 Rue du Temple.' Do you think, M. Rodolph,
that I may break the seals of the envelope?"
"Undoubtedly; does not Germain expressly say that among the papers you
will find a letter particularly addressed to yourself?"
The agitated girl broke the seals which secured the outward cover, and
from it fell a quantity of papers, one of which, bearing the
superscription of Mlle. Rigolette, contained these words:
"MADEMOISELLE:--When this letter reaches your hands, I shall
be no more, if, as I fear, I should perish by a violent death,
through falling into a snare similar to that from which I lately
escaped. A few particulars herein enclosed, and entitled 'Notes
on My Life,' may serve to discover my murderers."
"Ah, M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, interrupting herself, "I am no longer
astonished poor Germain was so melancholy! How very dreadful to be
continually pursued by such ideas!"
"He must, indeed, have suffered deeply; but, trust me, his worst
misfortunes are over."
"Alas, M. Rodolph, I trust it may prove so! Still, to be in prison, and
accused of theft!"
"Make yourself quite easy about him; his innocence once proved, instead
of returning to his former seclusion and loneliness, he will regain his
friends. You, first and foremost, and then a dearly loved mother, from
whom he has been separated from his childhood."
"His mother! Has he, then, still a mother?"
"He has, but she has long believed him lost to her for ever. Imagine her
delight at seeing him again, cleared from the unworthy charge now
brought against him. You see I was right in saying that his greatest
troubles were over; do not mention his mother to him. I entrust you with
the secret, because you take so generous an interest in the fate of
Germain that it is but due to your devotedness that you should be
tranquillised as to his future fate."
"Oh, thank you, M. Rodolph! I promise you to guard the secret as
carefully as you could do."
Rigolette then proceeded with the perusal of Germain's letter; it
continued thus:
"'Should you deign, mademoiselle, to cast your eyes over these
notes, you will find that I have been unfortunate all my life,
always unhappy, except during the hours I have passed with you;
you will find sentiments I should never have ventured to express
by words fully revealed in a sort of memorandum, entitled "My
Only Days of Happiness." Nearly every evening, after quitting
you, I thus poured forth the cheering thoughts with which your
affection inspired me, and which only sweetened the bitterness
of a cup full even to overflowing. That which was but friendship
in you, was, in my breast, the purest, the sincerest love; but
of that love I have never spoken. No, I reserved its full
disclosure till the moment should arrive when I could be but as
an object of your sorrowing recollection. No, never would I have
sought to involve you in a destiny as thoroughly miserable as my
own. But, when your eye peruses these pages, there will be
nothing to fear from the power of my ill-starred fate. I shall
have been your faithful friend, your adoring lover, but I shall
no longer be dangerous to your future happiness in either sense.
I have but one last wish and desire, and I trust that you will
kindly accomplish it. I have witnessed the noble courage with
which you labour day by day, as well as the care and management
requisite to make your hard-earned gain suffice for your
moderate wants. Often have I shuddered at the bare idea of your
being reduced by illness (brought on, probably, by overattention
to your work) to a state too frightful to dwell upon. And it is
no small consolation to me to believe it in my power to spare
you, not only a considerable share of personal inconvenience,
but also to preserve you from evils your unsuspicious nature
dreams not of.'
"What does that last part mean, M. Rodolph?" asked Rigolette, much
surprised.
"Proceed with the letter; we shall see by and by."
Rigolette thus resumed:
"'I know upon how little you can live, and of what service even
a small sum would be to you in any case of emergency. I am very
poor myself, but still, by dint of rigid economy, I have managed
to save fifteen hundred francs, which are placed in the hands of
a banker; it is all I am worth in the world, but by my will,
which you will find with this, I have ventured to bequeath it to
you; and I trust you will not refuse to accept this last proof
of the sincere affection of a friend and brother, from whom
death will have separated you when this meets your eye.'
"Oh, M. Rodolph," cried Rigolette, bursting into tears, "this is too
much! Kind, good Germain, thus to consider my future welfare! What an
excellent heart he must have!"
"Worthy and noble-minded young man!" rejoined Rodolph, with deep
emotion. "But calm yourself, my good girl. Thank God, Germain is still
living! And, by anticipating the perusal of his last wishes, you will at
least have learned how sincerely he loved you,--nay, still loves you!"
"And only to think," said Rigolette, drying up her tears, "that I should
never once have suspected it! When first I knew M. Girandeau and M.
Cabrion, they were always talking to me of their violent love, and
flames, and darts, and such stuff; but finding I took no notice of them,
they left off wearying me with such nonsense. Now, on the contrary,
Germain never named love to me. When I proposed to him that we should be
good friends, he accepted the offer as frankly as it was made, and ever
after that we were always excellent companions and neighbours; but--now
I don't mind telling you, M. Rodolph, that I was not sorry Germain never
talked to me in the same silly strain."
"But still it astonished you, did it not?"
"Why, M. Rodolph, I ascribed it to his melancholy, and I fancied his low
spirits prevented his joking like the others."
"And you felt angry with him, did you not, for always being so sad?"
"No," said the grisette, ingenuously; "no, I excused him, because it was
the only fault he had. But now that I have read his kind and feeling
letter, I cannot forgive myself for ever having blamed him even for that
one thing."
"In the first place," said Rodolph, smiling, "you find that he had many
and just causes for his sadness; and secondly, that, spite of his
melancholy, he did love you deeply and sincerely."
"To be sure; and it seems a thing to be proud of, to be loved by so
excellent a young man!"
"Whose love you will, no doubt, return one of these days?"
"I don't know about that, M. Rodolph, though it is very likely, for poor
Germain is so much to be pitied. I can imagine myself in his place.
Suppose, just when I fancied myself despised and forsaken by all the
world, some one whom I loved very dearly should evince for me more
regard than I had ventured to hope for, don't you think it would make me
very happy?" Then, after a short silence, Rigolette continued, with a
sigh, "On the other hand, we are both so poor that, perhaps, it would
be very imprudent. Ah, well, M. Rodolph, I must not think of such
things. Perhaps, too, I deceive myself. One thing, however, is quite
sure, and that is, that so long as Germain remains in prison I will do
all in my power for him. It will be time enough when he has regained his
liberty for me to determine whether 'tis love or friendship I feel for
him. Until then it would only torment me needlessly to try to make up my
mind what I had better do. But it is getting late, M. Rodolph. Will you
have the goodness to collect all those papers, while I make up a parcel
of linen? Ah, I forgot the little bag containing the little
orange-coloured cravat I gave him. No doubt it is here--in this drawer.
Oh, yes, this is it. Oh, see, what a pretty bag! How nicely embroidered!
Poor Germain! I declare he has kept such a trifle as this little
handkerchief with as much care as though it had been some holy relic. I
well remember the last time I had it around my throat; and when I gave
it to him, poor fellow, how very pleased he was!"
At this moment some one knocked at the door.
"Who's there?" inquired Rodolph.
"Want to speak to Ma'am Mathieu," replied a harsh, hoarse voice, and in
a tone which is peculiar to the lowest orders. (Madame Mathieu was the
matcher of precious stones to whom we have before referred.)
This voice, whose accent was peculiar, awoke some vague recollections in
Rodolph's breast; and, desirous of elucidating them, he took the light,
and went himself to open the door. He found himself confronted by a man
who was one of the frequenters of the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, and
recognised him instantly, so deeply was the print of vice stamped upon
him, so completely marked on his beardless and youthful features. It was
Barbillon.
Barbillon, the pretended hackney-coachman, who had driven the
Schoolmaster and the Chouette to the hollow way of Bouqueval,--Barbillon,
the assassin of the husband of the unhappy milkwoman, who had set the
labourers of the farm at Arnouville on against La Goualeuse. Whether
this wretch had forgotten Rodolph's face, which he had never seen but
once at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, or that the change of dress
prevented him from recognising the Chourineur's conqueror, he did not
evince the slightest surprise at his appearance.
"What do you want?" inquired Rodolph.
"Here's a letter for Ma'am Mathieu, and I must give it to her myself,"
was Barbillon's reply.
"She does not live here,--it's opposite," said Rodolph.
"Thank ye, master. They told me the left-hand door; but I've mistook."
Rodolph did not recollect the name of the diamond-matcher, which Morel
the lapidary had only mentioned once or twice, and thus had no motive
for interesting himself in the female to whom Barbillon came with his
message; but yet, although ignorant of the ruffian's crimes, his face
was so decidedly repulsive that he remained at the threshold of the
door, curious to see the person to whom Barbillon brought the letter.
Barbillon had scarcely knocked at the door opposite to Germain's, than
it opened, and the jewel-matcher, a stout woman of about fifty, appeared
with a candle in her hand.
"Ma'am Mathieu?" inquired Barbillon.
"That's me, my man."
"Here's a letter, and I waits for an answer."
And Barbillon made a step forward to enter the doorway, but the woman
made him a sign to remain where he was, and unsealed the letter, which
she read by the light of the candle she held, and then replied with an
air of satisfaction:
"Say it's all right, my man, and I will bring what is required. I will
be there at the same hour as usual. My respects to the lady."
"Yes, missus. Please to remember the porter!"
"Oh, you must ask them as sent you; they are richer than I am." And she
shut the door.
Rodolph returned to Germain's room, when he saw Barbillon run quickly
down the staircase. The ruffian found on the boulevard a man of
low-lived, brutal appearance, waiting for him in front of a shop.
Although the passers-by could hear (it is true they could not
comprehend), Barbillon appeared so delighted that he could not help
saying to his companion:
"Come and 'lush a drain of red tape,' Nicholas; the old mot swallows the
bait, hook and all. She'll show at the Chouette's. Old Mother Martial
will lend a hand to peel her of the swag, and a'terwards we can box the
'cold meat' in your 'barkey.'"[2]
[2] "Come and let's have some brandy together, Nicholas. The
old woman falls easily into the snare. She will come to the
Chouette's; Mother Martial will help us to take her jewels from
her forcibly, and then we can remove the dead body away in your
boat."
"Let's mizzle,[3] then; for I must get back to Asnieres early, or else
my brother Martial will smell summut."
[3] "Let's be quick, then."
And the two robbers, after having exchanged these words in their own
slang, went towards the Rue St. Denis.
* * * * *
Some minutes afterwards Rigolette and Rodolph left Germain's, got into
the hackney-coach, and reached the Rue du Temple.
The coach stopped.
At the moment when the door opened, Rodolph recognised by the light of
the dram-shop lamps his faithful Murphy, who was waiting for him at the
door of the entrance.
The squire's presence always announced some serious and sudden event,
for it was he alone who knew at all times where to find the prince.
"What's the matter?" inquired Rodolph, quickly, whilst Rigolette was
collecting several things out of the vehicle.
"A terrible circumstance, monseigneur!"
"Speak, in heaven's name!"
"M. the Marquis d'Harville--"
"You alarm me!"
"Had several friends to breakfast with him this morning. He was in high
spirits, had never been more joyous, when a fatal imprudence--"
"Pray come to the point--pray!"
"And playing with a pistol, which he did not believe to be loaded--"
"Wounded himself seriously."
"Monseigneur!"
"Well?"
"Something dreadful!"
"What do you mean?"
"He is dead!"
"D'Harville! Ah, how horrible!" exclaimed Rodolph, in a tone so agonised
that Rigolette, who was at the moment quitting the coach with the
parcels, said:
"Alas! what ails you, M. Rodolph?"
"Some very distressing information I have just told my friend,
mademoiselle," said Murphy to the young girl, for the prince was so
overcome that he could not reply.
"Is it, then, some dreadful misfortune?" said Rigolette, trembling all
over.
"Very dreadful, indeed!" replied the squire.
"Yes, most awful!" said Rodolph, after a few moment's silence; then
recollecting Rigolette, he said to her, "Excuse me, my dear neighbour,
if I do not go up to your room with you. To-morrow I will send you my
address, and an order to go to see Germain in his prison. I will soon
see you again."
"Ah, M. Rodolph, I assure you that I share in the grief you now
experience! I thank you very much for having accompanied me; but I
shall soon see you again, sha'n't I?"
"Yes, my child, very soon."
"Good evening, M. Rodolph," added Rigolette, and then disappeared down
the passage with the various things she had brought away from Germain's
room.
The prince and Murphy got into the hackney-coach, which took them to the
Rue Plumet. Rodolph immediately wrote the following note to Clemence:
"MADAME:--I have this instant learned the sudden blow which has
struck you, and deprived me of one of my best friends. I forbear
any attempt to portray my horror and my regret. Yet I must
mention to you certain circumstances unconnected with this cruel
event. I have just learned that your stepmother, who has been,
no doubt, in Paris for several days, returns this evening to
Normandy, taking with her Polidori. No doubt but this fact will
convince you of the peril which threatens your father; and pray
allow me to give you some advice, which I think requisite. After
the appalling event of this morning, every one must but too
easily conceive your anxiety to quit Paris for some time; go,
therefore, go at once, to Aubiers, so that you may arrive there
before your stepmother, or, at least, as soon as she. Make
yourself easy, madame, for I shall watch at a distance, as well
as close, the abominable projects of your stepmother. Adieu,
madame; I write these few lines to you in great haste. My heart
is lacerated when I remember yesterday evening, when I left
him,--him,--more tranquil and more happy than he had been for a
very long time.
"Believe, madame, in my deep and lasting devotion,
"RODOLPH."
Following the prince's advice, three hours after she had received this
letter, Madame d'Harville, accompanied by her daughter, was on the road
to Normandy. A post-chaise, despatched from Rodolph's mansion, followed
in the same route. Unfortunately, in the troubled state into which this
complication of events and the hurry of her departure had driven her,
Clemence had forgotten to inform the prince that she had met
Fleur-de-Marie at St. Lazare.
Our readers may, perhaps, remember that, on the previous evening, the
Chouette had been menacing Madame Seraphin, and threatening to unfold
the whole history of La Goualeuse's existence, affirming that she knew
(and she spoke truth) where the young girl then was. The reader may also
recollect that, after this conversation, the notary, Jacques Ferrand,
dreading the disclosure of his criminal course, believed that he had a
strong motive for effecting the disappearance of La Goualeuse, whose
existence, once known, would compromise him fatally. He had, in
consequence, written to Bradamanti, one of his accomplices, to come to
him that they might together arrange a fresh plot, of which
Fleur-de-Marie was to be the victim. Bradamanti, occupied by the no less
pressing interests of Madame d'Harville's stepmother, who had her own
sinister motives for taking the charlatan with her to M. d'Orbigny,
finding it, no doubt, more profitable to serve his ancient female ally,
did not attend to the notary's appointment, but set out for Normandy
without seeing Madame Seraphin.
The storm was gathering over the head of Jacques Ferrand. During the day
the Chouette had returned to reiterate her threats; and to prove that
they were not vain, she declared to the notary that the little girl,
formerly abandoned by Madame Seraphin, was then a prisoner in St.
Lazare, under the name of La Goualeuse; and that if he did not give ten
thousand francs (400_l._) in three days, this young girl would receive
the papers which belonged to her, and which would instruct her that she
had been confided in her infancy to the care of Jacques Ferrand.
According to his custom, the notary denied all boldly, and drove the
Chouette away as an impudent liar, although he was perfectly convinced,
and greatly alarmed at the dangerous drift of her threats. Thanks to his
numerous connections, the notary found means to ascertain that very day
(during the conversation of Fleur-de-Marie and Madame d'Harville) that
La Goualeuse was actually a prisoner in St. Lazare, and so marked for
her good conduct that they were expecting her discharge every moment.
Thus informed, Jacques Ferrand, having determined on his deadly scheme,
felt that, in order to carry it into execution, Bradamanti's help was
more than ever indispensable; and thereon came Madame Seraphin's vain
attempts to see the doctor. Having at length heard, in the evening, of
the departure of the charlatan, the notary, driven to act by the
imminence of his fears and danger, recalled to mind the Martial family,
those freshwater pirates established near the bridge of Asnieres, with
whom Bradamanti had proposed to place Louise, in order to get rid of her
undetected. Having absolutely need of an accomplice to carry out his
deadly purposes against Fleur-de-Marie, the notary took every precaution
not to be compromised in case a fresh crime should be committed; and,
the day after Bradamanti's departure for Normandy, Madame Seraphin went
with all speed to the Martials.
CHAPTER III.
L'ILE DU RAVAGEUR.
The following scenes took place during the evening of the day in which
Madame Seraphin, in compliance with Jacques Ferrand the notary's orders,
went to the Martials, the freshwater pirates established at the point of
a small islet of the Seine, not far from the bridge of Asnieres.
The Father Martial had died, like his own father, on the scaffold,
leaving a widow, four sons, and two daughters. The second of these sons
was already condemned to the galleys for life, and of the rest of this
numerous family there remained in the Ile du Ravageur (a name which was
popularly given to this place; why, we will hereafter explain) the
Mother Martial; three sons, the eldest (La Louve's lover) twenty-five
years of age, the next twenty, and the youngest twelve; two girls, one
eighteen years of age, the second nine.
The examples of such families, in whom there is perpetuated a sort of
fearful inheritance of crime, are but too frequent. And this must be so.
Let us repeat, unceasingly, society thinks of punishing, but never of
preventing, crime. A criminal is sentenced to the galleys for life;
another is executed. These felons will leave young families; does
society take any care or heed of these orphans,--these orphans, whom it
has made so, by visiting their father with a civil death, or cutting off
his head? Does it substitute any careful or preserving guardianship
after the removal of him whom the law has declared to be unworthy,
infamous,--after the removal of him whom the law has put to death? No;
"the poison dies with the beast," says society. It is deceived; the
poison of corruption is so subtle, so corrosive, so contagious, that it
becomes almost invariably hereditary; but, if counteracted in time, it
would never be incurable. Strange contradiction! Dissection proves that
a man dies of a malady that may be transmitted, and then, by
precautionary measures, his descendants are preserved from the affection
of which he has been the victim. Let the same facts be produced in the
moral order of things; let it be demonstrated that a criminal almost
always bequeaths to his son the germ of a precocious depravity. Will
society do for the safety of this young soul what the doctor does for
the body, when it is a question of contending against hereditary
vitiation? No; instead of curing this unhappy creature, we leave him to
be gangrened, even to death; and then, in the same way as the people
believe the son of the executioner to be an executioner, perforce, also,
they will believe the son of a criminal also a criminal. And then we
consider that the result of an inheritance inexorably fatal, which is
really a corruption caused by the egotistical neglect of society. Thus,
if, in spite of the evil mark on his name, the orphan, whom the law has
made so, remains, by chance, industrious and honest, a barbarous
prejudice will still reflect on him his father's offences; and thus
subjected to undeserved reprobation, he will scarcely find employment.
And, instead of coming to his aid, to save him from discouragement,
despair, and, above all, the dangerous resentments of injustice, which
sometimes drive the most generous disposition to revolt to ill, society
will say:
"Let him go wrong if he will,--we shall watch him. Have we not gaolers,
turnkeys, and executioners?"
Thus for him who (and it is as rare as it is meritorious) preserves
himself pure in spite of the worst examples, is there any support, any
encouragement? Thus for him who, plunged from his birth in a focus of
domestic depravity, is vitiated quite young, what hope is there of cure?
"Yes, yes, I will cure him, the orphan I have made," replies society;
"but in my own way,--by and by. To extirpate the smallpox, to cut out
the imposthume, it must come to a head."
A criminal desires to speak.
"Prisons and galleys, they are my hospitals. In incurable cases there is
the executioner. As to the cure of my orphan," adds society, "I will
reflect upon it. Let the germ of hereditary corruption ripen; let it
increase; let it extend its ravages far and wide. When our man shall be
rotten to the heart, when crime oozes out of him at every pore, when a
robbery or desperate murder shall have placed him at the same bar of
infamy at which his father stood, then we will cure this inheritor of
crime,--as we cured his progenitor. At the galleys or on the scaffold
the son will find his father's seat still warm."
Society thus reasons; and it is astonished, and indignant, and
frightened, to see how robberies and murders are handed down so fatally
from generation to generation.
The dark picture which is now to follow--The Freshwater Pirates--is
intended to display what the inheritance of evil in a family may be when
society does not come legally or officially to preserve the unfortunate
victims of the law from the terrible consequences of the sentence
executed against the father.[4]
[4] In proportion as we advance in this work, its moral aim is
attacked with so much bitterness, and, as we think, with so much
injustice, that we ask permission to dwell a little on the
serious and honourable idea which hitherto has sustained and
guided us. Many serious, delicate, and lofty minds, being
desirous of encouraging us in our endeavours, and having
forwarded to us the flattering testimonials of their approval, it
is due, perhaps, to these known and unknown friends to reply over
again to the blind accusations which have reached, we may say,
even to the bosom of the legislative assembly. To proclaim the
odious immorality of our work is to proclaim decidedly, it
appears to us, the odiously immoral tendencies of the persons who
honour us with the deepest sympathies. It is in the name of these
sympathies, as well as in our own, that we shall endeavour to
prove, by an example selected from amongst others, that this work
is not altogether destitute of generous and practical ideas. We
gave, some time back, the sketch of a model farm founded by
Rodolph, in order to encourage, teach, and remunerate poor,
honest, and industrious labourers. We add to this: Honest men who
are unfortunate deserve, at least, as much interest as criminals;
yet there are numerous associations intended for the patronage of
young prisoners, or those discharged, but there is no society
founded for the purpose of giving succour to poor young persons
whose conduct has been invariably exemplary. So that it is
absolutely necessary to have committed an offence to become
qualified for these institutions, which are, unquestionably, most
meritorious and salutary. And we make a peasant of the Bouqueval
farm to say:
"It is humane and charitable not to make the wicked desperate,
but it is also requisite that the good should not be without
hope. If a stout, sturdy, honest fellow, desirous of doing well,
and of learning all he can, were to present himself at the farm
for young ex-thieves, they would say to him, 'My lad, haven't you
stolen some trifle, or been somewhat dissolute?' 'No!' 'Well,
then, this is no place for you.'"
This discordance of things had struck minds much superior to our
own, and, thanks to them, what we considered as an utopianism was
realised. Under the superintendence of one of the most
distinguished and most honourable men of the age, M. le Comte
Portalis, and under the able direction of a real philanthropist
with a generous heart and an enlightened and practical mind, M.
Allier, a society has been established for the purpose of
succouring poor and honest persons of the Department of the
Seine, and of employing them in agricultural colonies. This
single and sole result is sufficient to affirm the moral idea of
our work. We are very proud and very happy to have been met in
the midst of our ideas, our wishes, and our hopes by the founders
of this new work of charity; for we are one of the most obscure,
but most convinced, propagators of these two great truths,--that
it is the duty of society to prevent evil, and to encourage and
recompense good, as much as in it lies.
Whilst we are speaking of this new work of charity, whose just
and moral idea ought to have a salutary and fruitful result, let
us hope that its founders will perchance think of supplying
another vacancy, by extending hereafter their tutelary patronage,
or, at least, their solicitude, over young children whose fathers
have been executed, or condemned to an infamous sentence
involving civil death, and who, we will repeat, are made orphans
by the act and operation of the law. Such of these unfortunate
children as shall be already worthy of interest from their
wholesome tendencies and their misery will still more deserve
particular notice, in consequence of their painful, difficult,
and dangerous position. Let us add: The family of a condemned
criminal, almost always victims of cruel repulses, apply in vain
for labour, and are compelled, in order to escape universal
reprobation, to fly from the spot where they have hitherto found
work. Then, exasperated and enraged by injustice, already branded
as criminals, for faults of which they are innocent, frequently
at the end of all honourable resource, these unfortunates would
sink and die of famine if they remained honest. If they have, on
the other hand, already undergone an almost inevitable
corruption, ought we not to try and rescue them whilst there is
yet time? The presence of these orphans of the law in the midst
of other children protected by the society of whom we have
spoken, would be, moreover, a useful example to all. It would
show that if the guilty is unfailingly punished, his family lose
nothing, but rather gain in the esteem of the world, if by dint
of courage and virtues they achieve the re-establishing of a
tarnished name. Shall we say that the legislature desires to
render the chastisement still more terrible by virtually striking
the criminal father in the fortune of his innocent son? That
would be barbarous, immoral, irrational. Is it not, on the
contrary, of the highest moral consequence to prove to the people
that there is no hereditary succession of evil; that the original
stain is not ineffaceable?
Let us venture to hope that these reflections will appear
deserving of some attention from the new Society of Patronage.
Unquestionably it is painful to think that the state never takes
the initiative in these questions so vital and so deeply
interesting to social organisation.
The ancestor of the Martial family who first established himself on this
islet, on payment of a moderate rent, was a _ravageur_ (a
river-scavenger). The ravageurs, as well as the _debardeurs_ and
_dechireurs_ of boats, remain nearly the whole of the day plunged in
water up to the waist in the exercise of their trade. The _debardeurs_
bring ashore the floating wood. The _dechireurs_ break up the rafts
which have brought the wood. Equally aquatic as these other two
occupations, the business of a _ravageur_ is different. Going into the
water as far as possible, the _ravageur_, or mud-lark, draws up, by aid
of a long drag, the river sand from beneath the mud; then, collecting it
in large wooden bowls, he washes it like a person washing for gold dust,
and extracts from it metallic particles of all kinds,--iron, copper,
lead, tin, pewter, brass,--the results of the relics of all sorts of
utensils. The _ravageurs_, indeed, often find in the sand fragments of
gold and silver jewelry, brought into the Seine either by the sewers
which are washed by the stream, or by the masses of snow or ice
collected in the streets, and which are cast into the river. We do not
know by what tradition or custom these persons, usually honest and
industrious, are called by a name so formidable. Martial, the father,
the first inhabitant of this islet, being a _ravageur_ (and a sad
exception to his comrades), the inhabitants of the river's banks called
it the Ile du Ravageur.
The dwelling of these freshwater pirates was placed at the southern end
of the island. In daytime there was visible, on a sign-board over the
door:
"AU RENDEZVOUS DES RAVAGEURS.
GOOD WINE, GOOD EELS, AND FRIED FISH.
BOATS LET BY THE DAY OR HOUR."
We thus see that the head of this depraved family added to his visible
or hidden pursuits those of a public-house keeper, fisherman, and
letter of boats. The felon's widow continued to keep the house, and
reprobates, vagrants, escaped convicts, wandering wild-beast showmen,
and scamps of every description came there to pass Sundays and other
days not marked with a red letter in the calendar, in parties of
pleasure. Martial (La Louve's lover), the eldest son of the family, the
least guilty of all the family, was a river poacher, and now and then,
as a real champion, and for money paid, took the part of the weak
against the strong. One of his brothers, Nicholas, the intended
accomplice of Barbillon in the murder of the jewel-matcher, was in
appearance a _ravageur_, but really a freshwater pirate in the Seine and
its banks. Francois, the youngest son of the executed felon, rowed
visitors who wished to go on the river in a boat. We have alluded to
Ambroise Martial, condemned to the galleys for burglary at night with
attempt to murder. The eldest daughter, nicknamed Calabash
(_Calebasse_), helped her mother in the kitchen, and waited on the
company. Her sister, Amandine, nine years of age, was also employed in
the house according to her years and strength.
At the period in question it was a dull night out of doors; heavy, gray,
opaque clouds, driven by the wind, showed here and there in the midst of
their openings a few patches of dark blue spotted with stars. The
outline of the islet, bordered by high and ragged poplars, was strongly
and darkly defined in the clear haze of the sky and in the white
transparency of the river. The house, with its irregular gables, was
completely buried in the shade; two windows in the ground floor only
were lighted, and these windows showed a deep red light, which was
reflected like long trails of fire in the little ripples which washed
the landing-place close to the house. The chains of the boats which were
moored there made a continual clashing, that mingled unpleasantly with
the gusts of the wind in the branches of the poplars, and the hoarse
murmurs of the main stream.
A portion of the family was assembled in the kitchen of the house. This
was a large low-roofed apartment. Facing the door were two windows,
under which a long stove extended. To the left hand there was a high
chimney; on the right a staircase leading to the upper story. At the
side of this staircase was the entrance to a large room, containing
several tables for the use of the guests at the cabaret. The light of a
lamp, joined to the flame of the fire, was strongly reflected by a
number of saucepans and other copper utensils suspended against the
wall, or ranged on shelves with a quantity of earthenware; and a large
table stood in the middle of the kitchen. The felon's widow, with three
of her children, was seated in the corner near the fireplace.
This woman, tall and meagre, seemed about five and forty years of age.
She was dressed in black, with a mourning handkerchief tied about her
head, concealing her hair, and surrounding her flat, livid, and wrinkled
brows; her nose was long and straight; her cheek-bones prominent; her
cheeks furrowed; her complexion bilious and sallow; the corners of her
mouth, always curved downwards, rendered still harsher the expression of
her countenance, as chilling, sinister, and immovable as a marble mask.
Her gray eyebrows surmounted her dull blue eyes.
The felon's widow was employed with needlework, as well as her two
daughters. The eldest girl was tall and forbidding like her mother, with
her features, calm, harsh, and repulsive, her thin nose, her ill-formed
mouth, and her pale look. Her yellow complexion, which resembled a ripe
quince, had procured for her the name of Calabash (_Calebasse_). She was
not in mourning, but wore a brown gown, whilst a cap of black tulle did
not conceal two bands of scanty hair of dull and dingy light brown.
Francois, the youngest of the Martial sons, was sitting on a low stool
repairing an _aldrel_, a thin-meshed net forbidden to be used on the
Seine. In spite of the tan of his features, this boy seemed in perfect
health; a forest of red hair covered his head; his face was round, his
lips thick, his forehead projecting, his eyes quick and piercing. He was
not like his mother or his elder sister, but had a subdued and sly look,
as from time to time, through the thick mass of hair that fell over his
eyes, he threw a stealthy and fearful glance at his mother, or exchanged
a look of intelligence and affection with his little sister, Amandine.
The latter was seated beside her brother, and was occupied, not in
marking, but in unmarking, some linen stolen on the previous evening.
She was nine years old, and was as like her brother as her sister was
like her mother. Her features, without being more regular, were less
coarse than those of Francois. Although covered with freckles, her
complexion was remarkably clear, her lips thick and red, her hair also
red, but silky, and her eyes, though small, were of a clear bright blue.
When Amandine's look met that of her brother, she turned a glance
towards the door, and then Francois replied by sigh; after which,
calling his sister's attention by a slight gesture, he counted with the
end of his needle ten loops of the net. This was meant to imply, in the
symbolical language of children, that their brother Martial would not
return until ten o'clock that evening.
Seeing these two women so silent and ill-looking, and the two poor
little mute, frightened, uneasy children, we might suppose they were two
executioners and two victims. Calabash, perceiving that Amandine had
ceased from her occupation for a moment, said, in a harsh tone:
"Come, haven't you done taking the mark out of that shirt?"
The little girl bowed her head without making any reply, and, by the aid
of her fingers and scissors, hastily finished taking out the red cotton
threads which marked the letters in the linen.
After a few minutes Amandine, addressing the widow timidly, showed her
the shirt, and said:
"Mother, I have done it."
Without making any reply, the widow threw her another piece of linen.
The child did not catch it quickly enough, and it fell on the ground.
Her tall sister gave her, with her hand as hard as wood, a sharp slap on
the arm, saying:
"You stupid brat!"
Amandine resumed her seat, and set to work actively, after having
exchanged with her brother a glance of her eye, into which a tear had
started.
The same silence continued to reign in the kitchen. Without, the wind
still moaned and dashed about the sign in front of the house. This
dismal creaking, and the dull boiling of a pot placed over the fire,
were the only sounds that were heard. The two children observed, with
secret fright, that their mother did not speak. Although she was
habitually taciturn, this complete silence, and a certain drawing in of
the lips, announced to them that the widow was in what they called her
white passion, that is to say, was a prey to concentrated irritation.
The fire was going out for want of fuel.
"Francois, a log," said Calabash.
The young mender of forbidden nets looked into a nook beside the
chimney, and replied:
"There are no more there."
"Then go to the wood-pile," said Calabash.
Francois murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir.
"Do you hear me, Francois?" inquired Calabash, harshly.
The felon's widow laid on her knees a towel she was also unmarking, and
looked at her son. He had lowered his head, but he guessed he felt, if
we may use the expression, the fierce look his mother cast upon him,
and, fearful of encountering her dreaded countenance, the boy remained
without stirring.
"I say, are you deaf, Francois?" said Calabash, in an irritated tone.
"Mother, you see!"
The tall sister seemed to be happy in finding fault with the two
children, and to seek for them the punishment which the widow pitilessly
inflicted. Amandine, without being observed, gently touched her
brother's elbow, to make him quietly do what Calabash desired. Francois
did not stir. The elder sister still looked at her mother as demanding
the punishment of the offender, and the widow understood her. With her
long lean finger she pointed to a stick of stout and pliant willow
placed in a recess near the chimney. Calabash stooped forward, took up
this staff of chastisement, and handed it to her mother. Francois had
seen his mother's gesture, and, rising suddenly, sprung out of the reach
of the threatening stick.
"Do you want mother to break your back?" exclaimed Calabash.
The widow, still holding the willow stick in her hand, pinching her pale
lips together more and more, looked at Francois with a fixed eye, but
without uttering a syllable. By the slight tremor of Amandine's hands,
with her head bent downwards, and the redness which suddenly overspread
her neck, it was easy to see that the child, although habituated to such
scenes, was alarmed at the fate that threatened her brother, who had
taken refuge in a corner of the kitchen, and seemed frightened and
irritated.
"Mind yourself, mother's going to begin, and then it will be too late!"
said the tall sister.
"I don't care!" replied Francois, turning pale. "I'd rather be beaten as
I was the day before yesterday, than--go to the wood-pile--and at
night--again."
"And why?" asked Calabash, impatiently.
"I am--afraid of the wood-pile--I--" answered the boy, shuddering as he
spoke.
"Afraid--you stupid! And of what?"
Francois shook his head, but did not reply.
"Will you answer? What are you afraid of?"
"I don't know. But I am frightened."
"Why, you've been there a hundred times, and last night, too."
"I won't go there any more."
"Mother's going to begin."
"So much the worse for me," exclaimed the lad. "But she may beat me,
kill me, and I'll not go near the wood-pile--not at night."
"Once more--why not?" inquired Calabash.
"Why, because--"
"Because--?"
"Because there's some one--"
"There's some one--"
"Buried there!" said Francois, with a shudder.
The felon's widow, in spite of her impassiveness, could not repress a
sudden start; her daughter did the same. It seemed as though the two
women were struck with an electric shock.
"Some one buried by the wood-pile?" said Calabash, shrugging her
shoulders.
"I tell you that just now, whilst I was piling up some wood, I saw in a
dark corner near the wood-pile a dead man's bone; it was sticking a
little way out of the ground where it was damp, just by the corner,"
added Francois.
"Do you hear him, mother? Why, the boy's a fool!" said Calabash, making
a signal to the widow. "They are mutton-bones I put there for
washing-lye."
"It was not a mutton-bone," replied the boy, with alarm, "it was a dead
person's bones,--a dead man's bones. I saw quite plainly a foot that
stuck out of the ground."
"And, of course, you told your brother, your dear friend Martial, of
your grand discovery, didn't you?" asked Calabash, with brutal irony.
Francois made no reply.
"Nasty little spy!" said Calabash, savagely; "because he is as cowardly
as a cur, and would as soon see us scragged, as our father was scragged
before us."
"If you call me a spy, I'll tell my brother Martial everything!" said
Francois, much enraged. "I haven't told him yet, for I haven't seen him
since; but, when he comes here this evening, I'll--"
The child could not finish; his mother came up to him, calm and
inexorable as ever. Although she habitually stooped a little, her figure
was still tall for a woman. Holding the willow wand in one hand, with
the other the widow took her son by the arm, and, in spite of alarm,
resistance, prayers, and tears of the child, she dragged him after her,
and made him ascend the staircase at the further end of the kitchen.
After a moment's interval, there was heard heavy trampling, mingled with
cries and sobs. Some minutes afterwards this noise ceased. A door shut
violently; the felon's widow descended. Then, as impassive as ever, she
put the stick in its usual place, seated herself close to the fireplace,
and resumed her occupation, without saying a word.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FRESHWATER PIRATE.
After a silence of several minutes, the criminal's widow said to her
daughter:
"Go and get some wood; we will set the wood-pile to rights when Nicholas
and Martial return home this evening."
"Martial! Do you mean to tell him also that--"
"The wood, I say!" repeated the widow, abruptly interrupting her
daughter, who, accustomed to yield to the imperious and iron rule of her
mother, lighted a lantern, and went out.
During the preceding scene, Amandine, deeply disquieted concerning the
fate of Francois, whom she tenderly loved, had not ventured either to
lift up her eyes, or dry her tears, which fell, drop by drop, on to her
lap. Her sobs, which she dared not give utterance to, almost suffocated
her, and she strove even to repress the fearful beatings of her heart.
Blinded by her fast gathering tears, she sought to conceal her emotion
by endeavouring to pick the mark from the chemise given to her, but,
from the nervous trembling of her hand, she ran the scissors into her
finger sufficiently deep to cause considerable effusion of blood; but
the poor child thought much less of the pain she experienced than of the
certain punishment which awaited her for staining the linen with her
blood. Happily for her, the widow was too deeply absorbed in profound
reflection to take any notice of what had occurred. Calabash now
returned, bearing a basket filled with wood. To the inquiring look of
her mother, she returned an affirmative nod of the head, which was
intended to acquaint her with the fact of the dead man's foot being
actually above the ground. The widow compressed her lips, and continued
the work she was occupied upon; the only difference perceptible in her
being that she plied her needle with increased rapidity. Calabash,
meanwhile, renewed the fire, superintended the state of the cookery
progressing in the saucepan beside the hearth, and then resumed her seat
near her mother.
"Nicholas is not here yet," said she to her parent. "It is to be hoped
that the old woman who this morning engaged him to meet a gentleman from
Bradamanti has not led him into any scrape. She had such a very offhand
way with her; she would neither give any explanation as to the nature of
the business Nicholas was wanted for, nor tell her name, or where she
came from."
The widow shrugged her shoulders.
"You do not consider Nicholas is in any danger, I see, mother. And,
after all, I dare say you are quite right! The old woman desired him to
be on the Quai de Billy, opposite the landing-place, about seven o'clock
in the evening, and wait there for a person who wished to speak with
him, and who would utter the word 'Bradamanti' as a sort of countersign.
Certainly there is nothing very perilous in doing so much. No doubt
Nicholas is late from having to-day found, as he did yesterday,
something on the road. Look at this capital linen which he contrived to
filch from a boat, in which a laundress had just left it!" So saying,
she pointed to one of the pieces of linen Amandine was endeavouring to
pick the mark out of. Then, addressing the child, she said, "What do
folks mean when they talk of filching?"
"I believe," answered the frightened child, without venturing to look
up, "it means taking things that are not ours."
"Oh, you little fool! It means stealing, not taking. Do you
understand?--stealing!"
"Thank you, sister!"
"And when one can steal as cleverly as Nicholas, there is no need to
want for anything. Look at that linen he filched yesterday; how
comfortably it set us all up; and that, too, with no other trouble than
just taking out the marks; isn't it true, mother?" added Calabash, with
a burst of laughter, which displayed her decayed and irregular teeth,
yellow and jaundiced as her complexion.
The widow received this pleasantry with cold indifference.
"Talking of fitting ourselves up without any expense," continued
Calabash, "it strikes me we might possibly do so at another shop. You
know quite well that an old man has come, within the last few days, to
live in the country-house belonging to M. Griffon, the doctor of the
hospital at Paris. I mean that lone house about a hundred steps from the
river's side, just opposite the lime-kilns,--eh, mother? You understand
me, don't you?"
The widow bowed her head, in token of assent.
"Well, Nicholas was saying yesterday that it was very likely a good job
might be made out of it," pursued Calabash. "Now I have ascertained,
this very morning, that there is good booty to be found there. The best
way will be to send Amandine to watch the place a little; no one will
take notice of a child like her; and she could pretend to be just
playing about, and amusing herself; all the time she can take notice of
everything, and will be able to tell us all she sees or hears. Do you
hear what I say?" added Calabash, roughly addressing Amandine.
"Yes, sister," answered the trembling child; "I will be sure to do as
you wish me."
"Yes, that is what you always say; but you never do more than promise,
you little slink! That time that I desired you to take a five-franc
piece out of the grocer's till at Asnieres, while I managed to keep the
man occupied at the other end of the shop, you did not choose to obey
me; and yet you might have done it so easily; no one ever mistrusts a
child. Pray what was your reason for not doing as you were bid?"
"Because, sister, my heart failed me, and I was afraid."
"And yet, the other day, you took a handkerchief out of the peddler's
pack, when the man was selling his goods inside the public-house. Pray
did he find it out, you silly thing?"
"Oh, but, sister, you know the handkerchief was for you, not me; and you
made me do it. Besides, it was not money."
"What difference does that make?"
"Oh, why, taking a handkerchief is not half so wicked as stealing
money!"
"Upon my word," said Calabash, contemptuously, "these are mighty fine
notions! I suppose it is Martial stuffs your head with all this rubbish.
I suppose you will run open-mouthed to tell him every word we have
said,--eh, little spy? But Lord bless you! We are not afraid of you or
Martial either; you can neither eat us nor drink us, that is one good
thing." Then, addressing herself to the widow, Calabash continued, "I
tell you what, mother, that fellow will get himself into no good by
trying to rule, and domineer, and lay down the law here, as he does;
both Nicholas and myself are determined not to submit to it. He sets
both Amandine and Francois against everything either you or I order them
to do. Do you think this can last much longer?"
"No!" said the mother, in a harsh, abrupt voice.
"Ever since his Louve has been sent to St. Lazare, Martial has gone on
like a madman, savage as a bear with every one. Pray is it our fault?
Can we help his sweetheart being put in prison? Only let her show her
face here when she comes out, and I'll serve her in such a way she
sha'n't forget one while! I'll match her! I'll--"
Here the widow, who had been buried in profound reflection, suddenly
interrupted her daughter by saying:
"You think something profitable might be got out of the old fellow who
lives in the doctor's house, do you not?"
"Yes, mother!"
"He looks poor and shabby as any common beggar!"
"And, for all that, he is a nobleman."
"A nobleman?"
"True as you're alive! And, what's more, he carries a purse full of
gold, spite of his always going into Paris, and returning, on foot,
leaning on an old stick, just for all the world like a poor wretch that
had not a sou in the world."
"How do you know that he has gold?"
"A little while ago I was at the post-office at Asnieres, to inquire
whether there was any letter for us from Toulon--"
At these words, which recalled the circumstance of her son's confinement
in the galleys, the brows of the widow were contracted with a dark
frown, while a half repressed sigh escaped her lips. Unheeding these
signs of perturbation, Calabash proceeded:
"I was waiting my turn, when the old man who lives at the doctor's house
entered the office. I knew him again directly, by his white hair and
beard, his dark complexion, and thick black eyebrows. He does not look
like one that would be easily managed, I can tell you; and, spite of his
age, he has the appearance of a determined old fool that would die
sooner than yield. He walked straight up to the postmistress. 'Pray,'
said he, 'have you any letters from Angers for M. le Comte de Remy?'
'Yes,' replied the woman, 'here is one.' 'Then it is for me,' said the
old man; 'here is my passport.' While the postmistress was examining it,
he drew out a green silk purse, to pay the postage; and, I promise you,
one end was stuffed with gold till it looked as large as an egg. I know
it was gold, for I saw the bright, yellow pieces shining through the
meshes of the purse; and I am quite certain there must have been at
least forty or fifty louis in it!" cried Calabash, her eyes glowing with
a covetous eagerness to possess herself of such a treasure. "And only to
think," continued she, "of a person, with all that money in his pocket,
going about like an old beggar! No doubt he is some old miser, too rich
to be able to count his hoards. One good thing, mother, we know his
name; that may assist us in gaining admittance into the house. As soon
as Amandine can find out for us whether he has any servants or not--"
A loud barking of dogs here interrupted Calabash.
"Listen, mother," cried she; "no doubt the dogs hear the sound of a boat
approaching; it must be either Martial or Nicholas."
At the mention of Martial's name, the features of Amandine expressed a
sort of troubled joy. After waiting for some minutes, during which the
anxious looks of the impatient child were fixed on the door, she saw, to
her extreme regret, Nicholas, the future accomplice of Barbillon, make
his appearance. The physiognomy of the youth was at once ignoble and
ferocious; small in figure, short in stature, and mean in appearance, no
one would have deemed him a likely person to pursue the dangerous and
criminal path he trod. Unhappily, a sort of wild, savage energy supplied
the place of that physical force in which the hardened youth was
deficient. Over his blue loose frock he wore a kind of vest, without
sleeves, made of goatskin, covered with long brown hair. As he entered,
he threw on the ground a lump of copper, which he had with difficulty
carried on his shoulder.
"A famous good night I have made of it, mother!" said he, in a hoarse
and hollow voice, after he had freed himself from his burden. "Look
there! There's a prize. Well, I've got three more lumps of copper, quite
as big as that, in my boat, a bundle of clothes, and a case filled with
something, I know not what, for I did not waste my time in opening it.
Perhaps I have been robbed on my way home; we shall see."
"And the man you were to meet on the Quai de Billy?" inquired Calabash,
while the widow regarded her son in silence.
The only reply made by the young man consisted in his plunging his hand
into the pocket of his trousers, and jingling a quantity of silver.
"Did you take all that from him?" cried Calabash.
"No, I didn't; he shelled out two hundred francs of his own accord; and
he will fork out eight hundred more as soon as I have--But that's
enough; let's, first of all, unload my boat; we can jabber afterwards.
Is not Martial here?"
"No," said his sister.
"So much the better; we will put away the swag before he sees it;
leastways, if he can be kept from knowing about it."
"What! Are you afraid of him, you coward?" asked Calabash, provokingly.
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders significantly; then replied:
"Afraid of him? No, I should rather think not! But I have a strong
suspicion he means to sell us,--that is my only fear; as for any other
sort of dread, my weazen-slicer (knife) has rather too keen an edge for
that!"
"Ah, when he is not here, you are full of boast and brag; but only let
him show his face, and you are quiet as a mouse!"
This reproach seemed quite thrown away upon Nicholas, who, affecting not
to have heard it, exclaimed:
"Come, come! Let's unload the boat at once. Where is Francois, mother?
He could help us a good deal."
"Mother has locked him up, after having preciously flogged him; and, I
can tell you, he will have to go to bed without any supper."
"Well and good as far as that goes; but still, he might lend a hand in
unloading the boat,--eh, mother? Because, then myself and Calabash could
fetch all in at once."
The widow raised her hand, and pointed with her finger towards the
ceiling. Her daughter perfectly comprehended the signal, and departed at
once to fetch Francois.
The countenance of the widow Martial had become less cloudy since the
arrival of Nicholas, whom she greatly preferred to Calabash, but by no
means entertaining for him the affection she felt for her Toulon son, as
she designated him; for the maternal love of this ferocious woman
appeared to increase in proportion to the criminality of her offspring.
This perverse preference will serve to account for the widow's
indifference towards her two younger children, neither of whom exhibited
any disposition to evil, as well as her perfect hatred of Martial, her
eldest son, who, although not leading an altogether irreproachable life,
might still have passed for a perfectly honest and well-conducted person
if placed in comparison with Nicholas, Calabash, or his brother, the
felon at Toulon.
"Which road did you take to-night?" inquired the widow of her son.
"Why, as I returned from the Quai de Billy, where, you know, I had to go
to meet the gentleman who appointed to see me there, I spied a barge
moored alongside the quay; it was as dark as pitch. 'Halloa!' says I,
'no light in the cabin? No doubt,' says I, 'all hands are ashore. I'll
just go on board, and have a look; if I meet any one, it's easy to ask
for a bit of string, and make up a fudge about wanting to splice my
oar.' So up the side I climbs, and ventures into the cabin. Not a soul
was there; so I began collecting all I could find: clothes, a great box,
and, on the deck, four quintals of copper. So, you may guess, I was
obliged to make two journeys. The vessel was loaded with copper and
iron; but here comes Francois and Calabash. Now, then, let's be off to
the boat. Here, you young un, you Amandine! Look sharp, and make
yourself useful; you can carry the clothes; we must get new things, you
know, before we can throw aside our old ones."
Left alone, the widow busied herself in preparations for the family
supper. She placed on the table bottles, glasses, earthenware, plates,
with forks and spoons of silver; and, by the time this occupation was
completed, her offspring returned heavily laden.
Little Francois staggered beneath the weight of copper which he carried
on his shoulders, and Amandine was almost buried beneath the mass of
stolen garments which she bore on her head, while Nicholas and Calabash
brought in between them a wooden case, on the top of which lay the
fourth lump of copper.
"The case,--the case!" cried Calabash, with savage eagerness. "Come,
let's rip it open, and know what's in it."
The lumps of copper were flung on the ground. Nicholas took the heavy
hatchet he carried in his belt, and introduced its strong iron head
between the lid and the box which he had set down in the middle of the
kitchen, and endeavoured with all his strength to force it open. The red
and flickering light of the fire illumined this scene of pillage, while,
from without, the loud gusts of the night wind increased in violence.
Nicholas, meanwhile, attired in his goatskin vest, stooped over the box,
and essayed with all his might to wrench off the top, breaking out into
the most horrible and blasphemous expressions, as he found the solidity
of the fastenings resist all his endeavours to arrive at a knowledge of
its contents; and Calabash, her eyes inflamed by covetousness, her
cheeks flushed by the excitement of plunder, knelt down beside the case,
on which she leaned her utmost weight, in order to give more power to
the action of the lever employed by Nicholas. The widow, separated from
the group by the table, on the other side of which she was standing, in
her eagerness to behold the spoils, threw herself almost across the
table, the better to gaze on the booty; her longing eyes sparkled with
eagerness to learn the value of it. And finally--though unhappily, too
true to human nature--the two children, whose naturally good
inclinations had so often triumphed over the sea of vice and domestic
corruption by which they were surrounded, even they, forgetting at once
both their fears and their scruples, were alike infected by the same
fatal curiosity.
Huddling close to each other, their eyes glittering with excitement, the
breathing short and quick, Francois and Amandine seemed of all the party
most impatient to ascertain the contents of the case, and the most
irritated and out of patience with the slow progress made by Nicholas in
his attempts to break it open. At length the lid yielded to the powerful
and repeated blows dealt on it by the vigorous arm of the young man, and
as its fragments fell on the ground a loud, exulting cry rose from the
joyful and almost breathless group, who, joining in one wild mass, from
the mother to the little girl, rushed forward, and with savage haste
threw themselves on the opened box, which, forwarded, doubtless, by some
house in Paris to a fashionable draper and mercer residing near the
banks of the river, contained a large assortment of the different
materials employed in female attire.
"Nicholas has not done amiss!" cried Calabash, unfolding a piece of
mousseline-de-laine.
"No, faith!" returned the plunderer, opening, in his turn, a parcel of
silk handkerchiefs; "I shall manage to pay myself for my trouble."
"Levantine, I declare!" cried the widow, dipping into the box, and
drawing forth a rich silk. "Ah, that is a thing that fetches a price as
readily as a loaf of bread."
"Oh, Bras Rouge's receiver, who lives in the Rue du Temple, will buy all
the finery, and be glad of it. And Father Micou, the man who lets
furnished lodgings in the Quartier St. Honore, will take the rest of the
swag."
"Amandine," whispered Francois to his little sister, "what a beautiful
cravat one of those handsome silk handkerchiefs Nicholas is holding in
his hand would make, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, yes; and what a sweet pretty _marmotte_ it would make for me!"
replied the child, in rapture at the very idea.
"Well, it must be confessed, Nicholas," said Calabash, "that it was a
lucky thought of yours to go on board that barge,--famous! Look, here
are shawls, too! How many, I wonder? One, two, three. And just see here,
mother! This one is real Bourre de Soie."
"Mother Burette would give at least five hundred francs for the lot,"
said the widow, after closely examining each article.
"Then, I'll be sworn," answered Nicholas, "if she'll give that, the
things are worth at least fifteen hundred francs. But, as the old
saying is, 'The receiver's as bad as the thief.' Never mind; so much the
worse for us! I'm no hand at splitting differences; and I shall be quite
flat enough this time to let Mother Burette have it all her own way, and
Father Micou also, for the matter of that; but then, to be sure, he is a
friend."
"I don't care for that, he'd cheat you as soon as another; I'm up to the
old dealer in marine stores. But then these rascally receivers know we
cannot do without them," continued Calabash, putting on one of the
shawls, and folding it around her, "and so they take advantage of it."
"There is nothing else," said Nicholas, coming to the bottom of the box.
"Now, let us put everything away," said the widow.
"I shall keep this shawl for myself," exclaimed Calabash.
"Oh, you will, will you?" cried Nicholas, roughly; "that depends whether
I choose to let you or not. You are always laying your clutches on
something or other; you are Madame Free-and-Easy!"
"You are so mighty particular yourself--about taking whatever you have a
fancy to, arn't you?"
"Ah, that's as different as different can be! I filch at the risk of my
life; and if I had happened to have been nabbed on board the barge, you
would not have been trounced for it."
"La! Well, don't make such a fuss,--take your shawl! I'm sure I don't
want it; I was only joking about it," continued Calabash, flinging the
shawl back into the box; "but you never can stand the least bit of fun."
"Oh, I don't speak because of the shawl; I am not stingy enough to
squabble about a trumpery shawl. One more or less would make no
difference in the price Mother Burette would give for the things; she
buys in the lump, you know," continued Nicholas; "only I consider that,
instead of calling out you should keep the shawl, it would have been
more decent to have asked me to give it you. There--there it is--keep
it--you may have it; keep it, I say, or else I'll just fling it into the
fire to make the pot boil."
These words entirely appeased Calabash, who forthwith accepted the shawl
without further scruple.
Nicholas appeared seized with a sudden fit of generosity, for, ripping
off the fag end from one of the pieces of silk, he contrived to separate
two silk handkerchiefs, which he threw to Amandine and Francois, who had
been contemplating them with longing looks, saying:
"There! that's for you brats; just a little taste to give you a relish
for prigging; it's a thing you'll take to more kindly if it's made
agreeable to you. And now, get off to bed. Come, look sharp, I've got a
deal to say to mother. There--you shall have some supper brought
up-stairs to you."
The delighted children clapped their hands with joy, and triumphantly
waved the stolen handkerchiefs which had just been presented to them.
"What do you say now, you little stupids?" said Calabash to them; "will
you ever go and be persuaded by Martial again? Did he ever give you
beautiful silk handkerchiefs like those, I should be glad to know?"
Francois and Amandine looked at each other, then hung down their heads,
and made no answer.
"Answer, can't you?" persisted Calabash, roughly. "I ask you whether you
ever received such presents from Martial?"
"No," answered Francois, gazing with intense delight on his bright red
silk handkerchief, "Brother Martial never gives us anything."
To which Amandine replied, in a low yet firm voice:
"Ah, Francois, that is because Martial has nothing to give anybody."
"He might have as much as other people if he chose to steal it, mightn't
he, Francois?" said Nicholas, brutally.
"Yes, brother," replied Francois. Then, as if glad to quit the subject,
he resumed his ecstatic contemplation of his handkerchief, saying:
"Oh, what a real beauty it is! What a fine cravat it will make for
Sundays, won't it?"
"That it will," answered Amandine. "And just see, Francois, how charming
I shall look with my sweet pretty handkerchief tied around my head,--so,
brother."
"What a rage the little children at the lime-kilns will be in when they
see you pass by!" said Calabash, fixing her malignant glances on the
poor children to ascertain whether they comprehended the full and
spiteful meaning of her words,--the hateful creature seeking, by the aid
of vanity, to stifle the last breathings of virtue within their young
minds. "The brats at the lime-kilns," continued she, "will look like
beggar children beside you, and be ready to burst with envy and jealousy
at seeing you two looking like a little lady and gentleman with your
pretty silk handkerchiefs."
"So they will," cried Francois. "Ah, and I like my new cravat ever so
much the better, Sister Calabash, now you have told me that the children
at the kilns will be so mad with me for being smarter than they; don't
you, Amandine?"
"No, Francois, I don't find that makes any difference. But I am quite
glad I have got such a nice new pretty _marmotte_ as that will make, all
the same."
"Go along with you, you little mean-spirited thing!" cried Calabash,
disdainfully; "you have not a grain of proper pride in you." Then,
snatching from the table a morsel of bread and cheese, she thrust them
into the children's hands, saying, "Now, get off to bed,--there is a
lanthorn; take care you don't set fire to anything, and be sure to put
it out before you go to sleep."
"And hark ye," added Nicholas, "remember that if you dare to say one
word to Martial of the box, the copper, or the clothes, I'll make you
dance upon red-hot iron; and, besides that, your pretty silk
handkerchiefs shall be taken from you."
After the departure of the children, Nicholas and his sister concealed
the box, with its contents, the clothes, and lumps of copper, in a sort
of cellar below the kitchen, the entrance to which was by a low flight
of steps not far from the fireplace.
"That'll do!" cried the hardened youth. "And now, mother, give us a
glass of your very best brandy; none of your poor, every-day stuff, but
some of the real right sort, and plenty of it. Faith! I think I've
earned a right to eat and to drink whatever you happen to have put by
for grand occasions. Come, Calabash, look sharp, and let's have supper.
Never mind Martial, he may amuse himself with picking the bones we may
leave; they are good enough for him. Now, then, for a bit of gossip over
the affair of the individual I went to meet on the Quai de Billy,
because that little job must be settled at once if I mean to pouch the
money he promised me. I'll tell you all about it, mother, from beginning
to end. But first give me something to moisten my throat. Give me some
drink, I say! Devilish hard to be obliged to ask so many times,
considering what I have done for you all to-day! I tell you I can stand
treat, if that's what you are waiting for."
And here Nicholas again jingled the five-franc pieces he had in his
pocket; then flinging his goatskin waistcoat and black woollen cap into
a distant part of the room, he seated himself at table before a huge
dish of ragout made of mutton, a piece of cold veal, and a salad. As
soon as Calabash had brought wine and brandy, the widow, still gloomy
and imperturbable, took her place at one side of the table, having
Nicholas on her right hand and her daughter on her left; the other side
of the table had been destined for Martial and the two younger children.
Nicholas then drew from his pocket a long and wide Spanish knife, with a
horn handle and a trenchant blade. Contemplating this murderous weapon
with a sort of savage pleasure, he said to the widow:
"There's my bread-earner,--what an edge it has! Talking of bread,
mother, just hand me some of that beside you."
"And talking of knives, too," replied Calabash, "Francois has found
out--you know what--in the wood-pile!"
"What do you mean?" asked Nicholas, not understanding her.
"Why, he saw--one of the feet!"
"Phew!" whistled Nicholas; "what, of the man?"
"Yes," answered the widow, concisely, at the same time placing a large
slice of meat on her son's plate.
"That's droll enough," returned the young ruffian; "I'm sure the hole
was dug deep enough; but I suppose the ground has sunk in a good deal."
"It must all be thrown into the river to-night," said the widow.
"That is the surest way to get rid of further bother," said Nicholas.
"Yes," chimed in Calabash, "throw it in the river, with a heavy stone
fastened to it, with part of an old boat-chain."
"We are not quite such fools as that either," returned Nicholas, pouring
out for himself a brimming glass of wine. Then, holding the bottle up,
he said, addressing the widow: "Come, mother, let's touch glasses, and
drink to each other. You seem a cup too low, and it will cheer you up."
The widow drew back her glass, shook her head, and said to her son:
"Tell me of the man you met on the Quai de Billy."
"Why, this is it," said Nicholas, without ceasing to eat and drink:
"When I got to the landing-place, I fastened my boat, and went up the
steps of the quay as the clock was striking seven at the military
bakehouse at Chaillot. You could not see four yards before you, but I
walked up and down by the parapet wall for a quarter of an hour, when I
heard footsteps moving softly behind me. I stopped, and a man,
completely wrapped up in a mantle, approached me, coughing as he
advanced. As I paused, he paused; and all I could make out of him was
that his cloak hid his nose, and his hat fell over his eyes."
We will inform our readers that this mysterious personage was Jacques
Ferrand, the notary, who, anxious to get rid of Fleur-de-Marie, had,
that same morning, despatched Madame Seraphin to the Martials, whom he
hoped to find the ready instruments of his fresh crime.
"'Bradamanti,' said the man to me," continued Nicholas; "that was the
password agreed upon by the old woman, that I might know my man.
'Ravageur,' says I, as was agreed. 'Is your name Martial?' he asked.
'Yes, master.' 'A woman was at your isle to-day: what did she say to
you?' 'That you wished to speak to me on the part of M. Bradamanti.'
'You have a boat?' 'We have four, that's our number: boatmen and
ravageurs, from father to son, at your service.' 'This is what I want
you to do if you are not afraid--' 'Afraid of what, master?' 'Of seeing
a person accidentally drowned. Only you must assist with the accident.
Do you understand?' 'Perfectly, master; we must make some individual
have a draught of the Seine, as if by accident? I'll do it; only, as the
dish to be dressed is a dainty one, why, the seasoning will cost rather
dear.' 'How much for two?' 'For two? What! are there two persons who are
to have a mess of broth in the river?' 'Yes.' 'Five hundred francs a
head, master; that's not too dear.' 'Agreed, for a thousand francs.'
'Money down, master?' 'Two hundred francs now, and the rest afterwards.'
'Then you doubt me, master?' 'No; you may pocket the two hundred
francs, without completing the bargain.' 'And you may say, after it's
done, "Don't you wish you may get it?"' 'That as may be; but does it
suit you? yes or no. Two hundred francs down, and on the evening of the
day after to-morrow, here, at nine o'clock, I will give you the eight
hundred francs.' 'And who will inform you that I have done the trick
with these two persons?' 'I shall know; that is my affair. Is it a
bargain?' 'Yes, master.' 'Here are two hundred francs. Now listen to me;
you will know again the old woman who was at your house this morning?'
'Yes, master.' 'To-morrow, or next day at latest, you will see her come,
about four o'clock in the evening, on the bank in face of your island
with a young fair girl. The old woman will make a signal to you by
waving her handkerchief.' 'Yes, master.' 'What time does it take to go
from the bank-side to your island?' 'Twenty minutes, quite.' 'Your boats
are flat-bottomed?' 'Flat as your hand, master.' 'Then you must make,
very skilfully, a sort of large hole in the bottom of one of these
boats, so that, when you open it, the water may flow in rapidly. Do you
understand?' 'Quite well, master; how clever you are! I have by me a
worn-out old boat, half rotten, that I was going to break up, but it
will just do for this one more voyage.' 'You will then leave the island
with this boat, with the hole prepared; let a good boat follow you,
conducted by some one of your family. Go to the shore, accost the old
woman and the fair young girl, and take them on board the boat with the
hole in it; then go back towards your island; but, when you are at some
distance from the bank, pretend to stoop for some purpose, open the
hole, and leap into the other boat, whilst the old woman and the fair
young girl--' 'Drink out of the same cup,--that's it,--eh, master?' 'But
are you sure you will not be interrupted? Suppose some customers should
come to your house?' 'There is no fear, master. At this time, and
especially in winter, no one comes, it is our dead time of year; and, if
they come, that would not be troublesome; on the contrary, they are all
good friends.' 'Very well. Besides, you in no way compromise yourselves;
the boat will be supposed to have sunk from old age, and the old woman
who brings the young girl will disappear with her. In order to be quite
assured that they are drowned (by accident, mind! quite by accident),
you can, if they rise to the surface, or if they cling to the boat,
appear to do all in your power to assist them, and--' 'Help them--to
sink again! Good, master!' 'It will be requisite that the passage be
made after sunset, in order that it may be quite dark when they fall
into the water.' 'No, master; for if one does not see clear, how shall
we know if the two women swallow their doses at one gulp, or want a
second?' 'True; and, therefore, the accident will take place before
sunset.' 'All right, master; but the old woman has no suspicion, has
she?' 'Not the slightest. When she arrives, she will whisper to you:
"The young girl is to be drowned; a little while before you sink the
boat, make me a signal, that I may be ready to escape with you." You
will reply to the old woman in such a way as to avoid all suspicion.'
'So that she may suppose the young 'un only is going to swallow the
dose?' 'But which she will drink as well as the fair girl.' 'It's
"downily" arranged, master.' 'But mind the old woman has not the
slightest suspicion.' 'Be easy on that score, master; she will be done
as nicely as possible.' 'Well, then, good luck to you, my lad! If I am
satisfied, perhaps I shall give you another job.' 'At your service,
master.' Then," said the ruffian, in conclusion, "I left the man in the
cloak, and 'prigged the swag' I've just brought in."
We may glean from Nicholas's recital that the notary was desirous, by a
twofold crime, of getting rid at once of Fleur-de-Marie and Madame
Seraphin, by causing the latter to fall into the snare which she
thought was only spread for the Goualeuse. It is hardly necessary to
repeat that, justly alarmed lest the Chouette should inform
Fleur-de-Marie at any moment that she had been abandoned by Madame
Seraphin, Jacques Ferrand believed he had a paramount interest in
getting rid of this young girl, whose claims might mortally injure him
both in his fortune and in his reputation. As to Madame Seraphin, the
notary, by sacrificing her, got rid of one of his accomplices
(Bradamanti was the other), who might ruin him, whilst they ruined
themselves, it is true; but Jacques Ferrand believed that the grave
would keep his secrets better than any personal interests.
The felon's widow and Calabash had listened attentively to Nicholas, who
had not paused except to swallow large quantities of wine, and then he
began to talk with considerable excitement.
"That is not all," he continued. "I have begun another affair with the
Chouette and Barbillon of the Rue aux Feves. It is a capital job, well
planted; and if it does not miss fire, it will bring plenty of fish to
net, and no mistake. It is to clean out a jewel-matcher, who has
sometimes as much as fifty thousand francs in jewelry in her basket."
"Fifty thousand francs!" cried the mother and daughter, whose eyes
sparkled with cupidity.
"Yes--quite. Bras Rouge is in it with us. He yesterday opened upon the
woman with a letter which we carried to her--Barbillon and I--at her
house, Boulevard St. Denis. He's an out-and-outer, Bras Rouge is! As he
appears--and, I believe, is--well-to-do, nobody mistrusts him. To make
the jewel-matcher bite he has already sold her a diamond worth four
hundred francs. She'll not be afraid to come towards nightfall to his
cabaret in the Champs Elysees. We shall be concealed there. Calabash may
come with us, and take care of my boat along the side of the Seine. If
we are obliged to carry her off, dead or alive, that will be a
convenient conveyance, and one that leaves no traces. There's a plan for
you! That beggar Bras Rouge is nothing but a good 'un!"
"I have always distrusted Bras Rouge," said the widow. "After that
affair of the Rue Montmartre your brother Ambroise was sent to Toulon,
and Bras Rouge was set at liberty."
"Because he's so downy there's no proofs against him. But betray
others?--never!"
The widow shook her head, as if she were only half convinced of Bras
Rouge's probity. After a few moments' reflection she said:
"I like much better that affair of the Quai de Billy for to-morrow or
next day evening,--the drowning the two women. But Martial will be in
the way as usual."
"Will not the devil's thunder ever rid us of him?" exclaimed Nicholas,
half drunk, and striking his long knife savagely on the table.
"I have told mother that we had enough of him, and that we could not go
on in this way," said Calabash. "As long as he is here we can do nothing
with the children."
"I tell you that he is capable of one day denouncing us,--the villain!"
said Nicholas. "You see, mother, if you would have believed me," he
added, with a savage and significant air, "all would have been settled!"
"There are other means--"
"This is the best!" said the ruffian.
"Now? No!" replied the widow, with a tone so decided that Nicholas was
silent, overcome by the influence of his mother, whom he knew to be as
criminal, as wicked, but still more determined than himself.
The widow added, "To-morrow he will quit the island for ever."
"How?" inquired Nicholas and Calabash at the same time.
"When he comes in pick a quarrel with him,--but boldly, mind,--out to
his face, as you have never yet dared to do. Come to blows, if
necessary. He is powerful, but you will be two, for I will help you.
Mind, no steel,--no blood! Let him be beaten, but not wounded."
"And what then, mother?" asked Nicholas.
"We shall then explain afterwards. We will tell him to leave the island
next day; if not, that the scenes of the night before will occur over
and over again. I know him; these perpetual squabbles disgust him; until
now we have let him be too quiet."
"But he is as obstinate as a mule, and is likely enough to insist upon
staying, because of the children," observed Calabash.
"He's a regular hound; but a row don't frighten him," said Nicholas.
"One? No!" said the widow. "But every day--day by day--it is hell in
earth, and he will give way."
"Suppose he don't?"
"Then I have another sure means to make him go away,--this very night or
to-morrow at farthest," replied the widow, with a singular smile.
"Really, mother!"
"Yes, but I prefer rather to annoy him with a row; and, if that don't
do, why, then, it must be the other way."
"And if the other way does not succeed, either, mother?" said Nicholas.
"There is one which always succeeds," replied the widow.
Suddenly the door opened, and Martial entered. It blew so strong without
that they had not heard the barkings of the dogs at the return of the
first-born son of the felon's widow.
CHAPTER V.
THE MOTHER AND SON.
Unaware of the evil designs of his family, Martial entered the kitchen
slowly.
Some few words let fall by La Louve in her conversation with
Fleur-de-Marie have already acquainted the reader with the singular
existence of this man. Endowed with excellent natural instincts,
incapable of an action positively base or wicked, Martial did not,
however, lead a regular life: he poached on the water; but his strength
and his boldness inspired so much fear that the keepers of the river
shut their eyes on this irregularity.
To this illegal occupation Martial joined another that was equally
illicit. A redoubtable champion, he willingly undertook--and more from
excess of courage, from love of the thing, than for gain--to avenge in
pugilistic or single-stick encounters those victims who had been
overcome by too powerful opponents.
We should add that Martial was very particular in the selection of those
causes which he pleaded by strength of fist, and usually took the part
of the weak against the strong.
La Louve's lover was very much like Francois and Amandine. He was of
middle height, stout, and broad-shouldered; his thick red hair, cropped
short, came in five points over his open brow; his close, harsh, short
beard, his broad, bluff cheeks, his projecting nose, flattened at the
extremity, his blue and bold eyes, gave to his masculine features a
singularly resolute expression.
He was covered with an old glazed hat; and, despite the cold, he had
only a worn-out blouse over his vest, and a pair of velveteen trousers,
which had seen considerable service. He held in his hand a very thick,
knotted stick, which he put down beside him near the dresser.
A large dog, half terrier, half hound, with crooked legs and a black
hide, marked with bright red, came in with Martial, but he remained
close to the door, not daring to approach the fire, nor the guests who
were sitting at table, experience having proved to old Miraut (that was
the name of Martial's poaching companion) that he, as well as his
master, did not possess much of the sympathy of the family.
"Where are the children?" were Martial's first words, as he sat down to
table.
"Where they ought to be," replied Calabash, surlily.
"Where are the children, mother?" said Martial again, without taking the
slightest notice of his sister's reply.
"Gone to bed," replied the widow, in a harsh tone.
"Haven't they had their supper, mother?"
"What's that to you?" exclaimed Nicholas, brutally, after having
swallowed a large glass of wine to increase his courage, for his
brother's disposition and strength had a very strong effect on him.
Martial, as indifferent to the attacks of Nicholas as to those of
Calabash, then said to his mother, "I'm sorry the children are gone to
bed so soon."
"So much the worse," responded the widow.
"Yes, so much the worse; for I like to have them beside me when I am at
supper."
"And we, because they were troublesome and annoyed us, have sent them
off," cried Nicholas; "and if you don't like it, why, you can go after
them."
Martial, astonished, looked steadfastly at his brother. Then, as if
convinced of the futility of a quarrel, he shrugged his shoulders, cut
off a slice of bread and a piece of meat.
The dog had come up towards Nicholas, although keeping at a very
respectful distance; and the ruffian, irritated at the disdain with
which his brother treated him, and hoping to wear out his patience by
ill-using his dog, gave Miraut a savage kick, which made the poor brute
howl fearfully. Martial turned red, clasped in his hand the knife he
held, and struck violently on the table with the handle; but, again
controlling himself, he called the dog to him, saying, quietly, "Here,
Miraut!" The hound came, and crouched at his master's feet.
This composure quite upset Nicholas's plans, who was desirous of pushing
his brother to extremities, in order to produce an explosion. So he
added, "I hate dogs--I do; and I won't have this dog remain here."
Martial's only reply was to pour out a glass of wine, and drink it off
slowly. Exchanging a rapid glance with Nicholas, the widow encouraged
him by a signal to continue his hostilities towards Martial, hoping, as
we have said, that a violent quarrel would arise that would lead to a
rupture and complete separation.
Nicholas, then, taking up the willow stick which the widow had used to
beat Francois, went up to the dog, and, striking him sharply, said, "Get
out, you brute, Miraut!"
Up to this time Nicholas had often shown himself sulkily offensive
towards Martial, but he had never dared to provoke him with so much
audacity and perseverance. La Louve's lover, thinking they were desirous
of driving him to extremities for some secret motive, quelled every
impulse of temper.
At the cry of the beaten dog, Martial rose, opened the door of the
kitchen, made the dog go out, and then returned, and went on with his
supper. This incredible patience, so little in harmony with Martial's
usual demeanour, puzzled and nonplussed his aggressors, who looked at
each other with amazement. He, affecting to appear wholly unconscious of
what was passing around him, ate away with great appetite, keeping
profound silence.
"Calabash, take the wine away," said the widow to her daughter.
She hastened to comply, when Martial said, "Stay, I haven't done my
supper."
"So much the worse," said the widow, taking the bottle away herself.
"Oh, that's another thing!" answered La Louve's lover. And pouring out a
large glass of water, he drank it, smacking his tongue, and exclaiming,
"Capital water!"
This excessive calmness irritated the burning anger of Nicholas, already
heated by copious libations; but still he hesitated at making a direct
attack, well knowing the vast power of his brother. Suddenly he cried
out, as if delighted at the idea, "Martial, you were quite right to turn
the dog out. It is a good habit to begin to give way, for you have but
to wait a bit, and you will see us kick your sweetheart out just as we
have driven away your dog."
"Oh, yes; for if La Louve is impudent enough to come to the island when
she leaves gaol," added Calabash, who quite understood Nicholas's
motive, "I'll serve her out."
"And I'll give her a dip in the mud by the hovel at the end of the
island," continued Nicholas; "and, if she gets out, I'll give her a few
rattlers over the nob with my wooden shoe, the----"
This insult addressed to La Louve, whom he loved with savage ardour,
triumphed over the pacific resolutions of Martial; he frowned, and the
blood mounted to his cheeks, whilst the veins in his brow swelled and
distended like cords. Still, he had so much control over himself as to
say to Nicholas, in a voice slightly altered by his repressed wrath:
"Take care of yourself! You are trying to pick a quarrel, and you will
find a bone to pick that will be too tough for you."
"A bone for me to pick?"
"Yes; and I'll thrash you more soundly than I did last time."
"What! Nicholas," said Calabash, with a sardonic grin, "did Martial
thrash you? Did you hear that, mother? I'm not astonished that Nicholas
is so afraid of him."
"He walloped me, because, like a coward, he took me off my guard,"
exclaimed Nicholas, turning pale with rage.
"You lie! You attacked me unexpectedly; I knocked you flat, and then
showed you mercy. But if you talk of my mistress,--I say, mind you, of
my mistress,--this time I look it over,--you shall carry my marks for
many a long day."
"And suppose I choose to talk of La Louve?" inquired Calabash.
"Why, I'll pull your ears to put you on your guard; and if you begin
again, why, so will I."
"And suppose I speak of her?" said the widow, slowly.
"You?"
"Yes,--I!"
"You?" said Martial, making a violent effort over himself; "you?"
"You'll beat me, too, I suppose,--won't you?"
"No; but, if you speak to me unkindly of La Louve, I'll give Nicholas a
hiding he shall long remember. So now, mind! It is his affair as well as
yours."
"You?" exclaimed the ruffian, rising, and drawing his dangerous Spanish
knife; "you give me a hiding?"
[Illustration: _The Brigand dashed at his brother._
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.]
"Nicholas, no steel!" cried the widow, quickly, leaving her seat, and
trying to seize her son's arm; but he, drunk with wine and passion,
repulsed his mother savagely, and rushed at his brother.
Martial receded rapidly, laid hold of the thick, knotted stick which he
had put down by the dresser, as he entered, and betook himself to the
defensive.
"Nicholas, no steel!" repeated the widow.
"Let him alone!" cried Calabash, taking up the ravageur's hatchet.
Nicholas, still brandishing his formidable knife, watched for a moment
when he could spring on his brother.
"I tell you," he exclaimed, "you and your trollop, La Louve, that I'll
slash your eyes out; and here goes to begin! Help, mother! Help,
Calabash! Let's make cold meat of the scamp; he's been in our way too
long already!" And, believing the moment favourable for his attack, the
brigand dashed at his brother with his uplifted knife.
Martial, who was a dexterous cudgeller, retreated a pace rapidly,
raising his stick, which, as quick as lightning, cut a figure of eight,
and fell so heavily on the right forearm of Nicholas that he, seized
with a sudden and overpowering pain, dropped his trenchant weapon.
"Villain, you have broken my arm!" he shouted, grasping with his left
hand the right arm, which hung useless by his side.
"No; for I felt my stick rebound!" replied Martial, kicking, as he
spoke, the knife underneath the dresser.
Then, taking advantage of the pain which Nicholas was suffering, he
seized him by the collar, and thrust him violently backwards, until he
had reached the door of the little cellar we have alluded to, which he
opened with one hand, whilst, with the other, he thrust his brother into
it, and locked him in, all stupefied as he was with this sudden attack.
Then, turning round upon the two women, he seized Calabash by the
shoulders, and, in spite of her resistance, her shrieks, and a blow from
the hatchet, which cut his head slightly, he shut her up in the lower
room of the cabaret, which communicated with the kitchen.
Then addressing the widow, who was still stupefied with this
manoeuvre, as skilful as it was sudden, Martial said to her, calmly,
"Now, mother, you and I are alone."
"Yes, we are alone," replied the widow, and her usually immobile
features became excited, her sallow skin grew red, a gloomy fire lighted
up her dull eye, whilst anger and hate gave to her countenance a
terrible expression. "Yes, we two are alone now!" she repeated, in a
menacing voice. "I have waited for this moment; and at length you shall
know all that I have on my mind."
"And I will tell you all I have on my mind."
"If you live to be a hundred years old, I tell you you shall remember
this night."
"I shall remember it, unquestionably. My brother and sister have tried
to murder me, and you have done nothing to prevent them. But come, let
me hear what you have against me?"
"What have I?"
"Yes."
"Since your father's death you have acted nothing but a coward's part."
"I?"
"Yes, a coward's! Instead of remaining with us to support us, you went
off to Rambouillet, to poach in the woods with that man who sells game
whom you knew at Bercy."
"If I had remained here, I should have been at the galleys like
Ambroise, or on the point of going there like Nicholas. I would not be a
robber like the rest, and that is the cause of your hatred."
"And what track are you following now? You steal game, you steal
fish,--thefts without danger,--a coward's thefts!"
"Fish, like game, is no man's property. To-day belongs to one, to-morrow
to another. It is his who can take it. I don't steal. As to being a
coward--"
"Why, you fight--and for money--men who are weaker than yourself."
"Because they have beaten men weaker than themselves."
"A coward's trade,--a coward's trade!"
"Why, there are more honest pursuits, it is true. But it is not for you
to tell me this!"
"Then why did you not take up with those honest trades, instead of
coming here skulking and feeding out of my saucepans?"
"I give you the fish I catch, and what money I have. It isn't much, but
it's enough; and I don't cost you anything. I have tried to be a
locksmith to earn more; but when one has from one's infancy led a
vagabond life on the river and in the woods, it is impossible to confine
oneself to one spot. It is a settled thing, and one's life is decided.
And then," added Martial, with a gloomy air, "I have always preferred
living alone on the water or in the forest. There no one questions me;
whilst elsewhere men twit me about my father, who was (can I deny it?)
guillotined,--of my brother, a galley-slave,--of my sister, a thief!"
"And what do you say of your mother?"
"I say--"
"What?"
"I say she is dead."
"You do right; it is as if I were, for I renounce you, dastard! Your
brother is at the galleys; your grandfather and your father finished
their lives daringly on the scaffold, mocking the priest and the
executioner! Instead of avenging them you tremble!"
"Avenging them?"
"Yes, by showing yourself a real Martial, spitting at the headsman's
knife and the red cassock, and ending like father, mother, brother,
sister--"
Accustomed as he was to the savage excitement of his mother, Martial
could not forbear shuddering. The countenance of the widow as she
uttered the last words was fearful. She continued, with increasing
wrath:
"Oh, coward! and even worse than coward! You wish to be honest! Honest?
Why, won't you ever be despised, repulsed, as the son of an assassin or
the brother of a felon? But you, instead of rousing your revenge and
wrath, this makes you frightened! Instead of biting, you run away! When
they guillotined your father, you left us,--coward! And you knew we
could not leave the island to go into the city, because they call after
us, and pelt us with stones, like mad dogs. Oh, they shall pay for it, I
can tell you,--they shall pay for it!"
"A man?--ten men would not make me afraid! But to be called after by all
the world as the son and brother of criminals! Well, I could not endure
it. I preferred going into the woods and poaching with Pierre, who sells
game."
"Why didn't you remain in the woods?"
"I returned because I got into trouble with a keeper, and besides on the
children's account, because they are of an age to take to evil from
example."
"And what is that to you?"
"To me? Why, I will not allow them to become depraved like Ambroise,
Nicholas, and Calabash."
"Indeed!"
"And if they were left with you, then they would not fail to become so.
I went apprentice to try and gain a livelihood, so that I might take
them into my own care and leave the island with the children; but in
Paris everything was known, and it was always, 'You son of the
guillotined!' or, 'You brother of the felon!' I had battles daily, and I
grew tired of it."
"But you didn't grow tired of being honest,--that answered so well!
Instead of having the pluck to come to us, and do as we do,--as the
children will do, in spite of you,--yes, in spite of you! You think to
cajole them with your preaching! But we are always here. Francois is
already one of us, or nearly. Let the occasion serve, and he'll be one
of the band."
"I tell you, no!"
"You will see,--yes! I know what I say. He has vice in him; but you
spoil him. As to Amandine, as soon as she is fifteen she will begin on
her own account! Ah, they throw stones at us! Ah, they pursue us like
mad dogs! They shall see what our family is made of! Except you,
dastard; for here you are the only one who brings down shame upon
us!"[5]
[5] These frightful facts are, unfortunately, not exaggerated.
The following is from the admirable report of M. de Bretigneres
on the Penitentiary Colony of Mettray (March 12, 1843):
"The civil condition of our colonists it is important to state. Amongst
them we count thirty-two natural children; thirty-four whose fathers and
mothers are re-married; fifty-one whose parents are in prison; 124 whose
parents have not been pursued by justice, but are in the utmost
distress. These figures are eloquent, and full of instruction. They
allow us to go from effects to causes, and give us the hope of arresting
the progress of an evil whose origin is thus arrived at. The number of
parents who are criminals enable us to appreciate the education which
the children have received under the tutelage of such instructors.
Taught evil by their fathers, the sons have become wicked by their
orders, and have believed they were acting properly in following their
example. Arrested by the hand of the law, they resign themselves to
share the destiny of their family in prison, to which they only bring
the emulation of vice; and it is absolutely necessary that a ray of
divine light should still exist within these rude and coarse natures, in
order that all the germs of honesty should not be utterly destroyed."
"That's a pity!"
"And as you may be spoiled amongst us, why, to-morrow you shall leave
this place, and never return to it."
Martial looked at his mother with surprise, then, after a moment's
silence, said, "Was it for this that you tried to get up a quarrel with
me at supper?"
"Yes, to show you what you might expect if you would stay here in spite
of us,--a hell upon earth,--I tell you, a hell! Every day a quarrel and
blows--struggles. And we shall not be alone as we were this, evening;
we shall have friends who will help us. And you will not hold out for a
week."
"Do you think to frighten me?"
"I only tell you what will happen."
"I don't heed it. I shall stay!"
"You will stay?"
"Yes."
"In spite of us?"
"In spite of you, of Calabash, of Nicholas, and all blackguards like
him."
"Really, you make me laugh."
From the lips of this woman, with her repulsive and ferocious look,
these words were horrible.
"I tell you I will remain here until I find the means of gaining my
livelihood elsewhere with the children. Alone, I should not long be
unemployed, for I could return to the woods; but, on their account, I
may be some time in finding what I am seeking for. In the meanwhile,
here I remain."
"Oh, you remain until the moment when you can take away the children?"
"Exactly as you say."
"Take away the children?"
"When I say to them 'Come!' they will come; and quickly too, I promise
you."
The widow shrugged her shoulders, and replied:
"Listen! I told you a short time since that, even if you were to live
for a hundred years, you should recollect this night. I will explain
those words. But, before I do so, have you quite made up your mind?"
"Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand times over, yes!"
"In a little while, however, you will say 'No! No! No! A thousand times,
no!' Listen to me attentively! Do you know the trade your brother
follows?"
"I have my suspicions; but I do not wish to know."
"You shall know. He steals!"
"So much the worse for him!"
"And for you!"
"For me?"
"He commits robberies at night, with forcible entry,--burglary; a case
of the galleys. We receive what he plunders. If we are discovered, we
shall be sentenced to the same punishment as he is, as receivers, and
you too. They will sweep away the whole family, and the children will be
turned out into the streets, where they will learn the trade of their
father and grandfather as well as here."
"I apprehended as a receiver,--as your accomplice? Where's the proofs?"
"No one knows how you live. You are vagabondising on the water; you have
the reputation of a bad fellow; you dwell with us, and who will believe
that you are ignorant of our thefts and receivings?"
"I will prove the contrary."
"We will accuse you as our accomplice."
"Accuse me! And why?"
"To pay you off for staying amongst us against our will."
"Just now you tried to make me frightened in one way, now you are trying
another tack. But it won't do. I will prove that I never robbed. I
remain."
"Ah! You remain? Listen then, again! Do you remember last year a person
who passed the Christmas night here?"
"Christmas night?" said Martial, trying to recall his memory.
"Try and remember,--try!"
"I do not recollect."
"Don't you recollect that Bras Rouge brought here in the evening a
well-dressed man, who was desirous of concealing himself?"
"Yes, now I remember. I went up to bed and left him taking his supper
with you. He passed the night here, and, before daybreak, Nicholas took
him to St. Ouen."
"You are sure Nicholas took him to St. Ouen?"
"You told me so next morning."
"On Christmas night you were here?"
"Yes; and what of that?"
"Why, that night this man, who had a good deal of money about him, was
murdered in this house."
"Mur--! He! Here?"
"And robbed and buried by the little wood-pile."
"It is not true!" cried Martial, becoming pale with horror, and unable
to believe in this fresh crime of his family. "You mean to frighten me.
Once more, it is not true?"
"Ask Francois what he saw this morning in the wood-pile."
"Francois! And what did he see?"
"A man's foot sticking out of the ground. Take a lantern; go and
convince your eyes!"
"No," said Martial, wiping his brow, which had burst forth in a cold
sweat. "No, I do not believe you. You say it to--"
"To prove to you that, if you remain here in spite of us, you risk every
moment being apprehended as an accomplice in robbery and murder. You
were here on Christmas night, and we shall declare that you helped us to
do this job. How will you prove the contrary?"
"Merciless wretch!" said Martial, hiding his face in his hands.
"Now will you go?" said the widow, with a devilish smile.
Martial was overwhelmed. He, unfortunately, could not doubt what his
mother had said to him. The wandering life he led, his dwelling with so
criminal a family, must induce the most horrible suspicions of him, and
these suspicions would be converted into certainty in the eyes of
justice, if his mother, brother, and sister declared him to be their
accomplice. The widow was rejoiced at the depression of her son:
"You have one means of getting out of the difficulty: denounce us!"
"I ought, but I will not; and you know that right well."
"That is why I have told you all this. Now, will you go?"
Martial, wishing to soften this hag, said to her, in a subdued voice:
"Mother, I do not believe you are capable of this murder!"
"As you please; but go!"
"I will go on one condition."
"No condition at all!"
"You shall put the children apprentices somewhere in the country."
"They shall remain here!"
"But, mother, when you have made them like Nicholas, Calabash, Ambroise,
my father,--what good will that be to you?"
"To make good 'jobs' by their assistance. We are not too many now.
Calabash will remain here with me to keep the cabaret. Nicholas is
alone. Once properly instructed, Francois and Amandine will help him.
They have already been pelted with stones,--young as they are,--and they
must revenge themselves!"
"Mother, you love Calabash and Nicholas, don't you?"
"Well, if I do, what then?"
"Suppose the children imitate them, and their crimes are detected?"
"Well, what then?"
"They will come to the scaffold, like my father."
"What then? What then?"
"And does not their probable fate make you tremble?"
"That fate will be mine, neither better nor worse. I rob, they rob; I
kill, they kill. Whoever takes the mother will take the young ones; we
will not leave each other. If our heads fall, theirs will fall in the
same basket, and we shall all take leave at once! We will not retreat!
You are the only coward in the family, and we drive you from us!"
"But the children,--the children!"
"The children will grow up, and, but for you, they would have been quite
formed already. Francois is almost ready, and, when you are gone,
Amandine will make up for lost time."
"Mother, I entreat of you, consent to having the children sent away from
here, and put in apprenticeship at a distance."
"I tell you that they are in apprenticeship here!"
The felon's widow uttered these last words so immovably that Martial
lost all hope of mollifying this soul of bronze.
"Since it is so," he replied, "hear me in my turn, mother,--I remain!"
"Ha! ha!"
"Not in this house. I shall be assassinated by Nicholas, or poisoned by
Calabash. But, as I have no means of lodging elsewhere, I and the
children will occupy the hovel at the end of the island; the door of
that is strong, and I will make it still more secure. Once there, I will
barricade myself, and, with my gun, my stick, and my dog, I am afraid of
no one. To-morrow morning I will take the children with me. During the
day they will be with me, either in my boat or elsewhere; and, at night,
they shall sleep near me in the hovel. We can live on the fish I catch
until I find some means of placing them, and find it I will."
"Oh! That's it, is it?"
"Neither you, nor my brother, nor Calabash can prevent this, can you? If
your robberies and murders are discovered during my abode on the island,
so much the worse; but I'll chance it. I will declare that I came back
and remained here in consequence of the children, to prevent them from
becoming infamous. They will decide. The children shall not remain
another day in this abode; and I defy you and your gang to drive me from
this island!"
The widow knew Martial's resolution, and the children, who loved their
eldest brother as much as they feared her, would certainly follow him
unhesitatingly whenever and wherever he called them. As to himself, well
armed and most determined, always on his guard, in his boat during the
day, and secure and barricaded in the hovel on the island at night, he
had nothing to fear from the malevolence of his family.
Martial's project, then, might be realised in every particular; but the
widow had many reasons for preventing its execution. In the first place,
as honest work-people sometimes consider the number of their children as
wealth, in consequence of the services which they derive from them, the
widow relied on Amandine and Francois to assist her in her atrocities.
Then, what she had said of her desire to avenge her husband and son was
true. Certain beings, nurtured, matured, hardened in crime, enter into
open revolt, into war of extermination, against society, and believe
that, lay fresh crimes, they shall avenge themselves for the just
penalties which have been exacted from them and those belonging to them.
Then, too, the sinister designs of Nicholas against Fleur-de-Marie, and
afterwards against the jewel-matcher, might be thwarted by Martial's
presence.
The widow had hoped to effect an immediate separation between herself
and Martial, either by keeping up and aiding Nicholas's quarrel, or by
disclosing to him that, if he obstinately persisted in remaining in the
island, he ran the risk of being suspected as an accomplice in many
crimes.
As cunning as she was penetrating, the widow, perceiving that she had
failed, saw that she must have recourse to treachery to entrap her son
in her bloody snare, and she therefore replied, after a lengthened
pause, with assumed bitterness:
"I see your plan. You will not inform against us yourself, but you will
contrive that the children shall do so."
"I?"
"They know now that there is a man buried here; they know that Nicholas
has robbed. Once apprenticed they would talk, we should be apprehended,
and we should all suffer,--you with us. That is what would happen if I
listened to you, and allowed you to place the children elsewhere. Yet
you say you do not wish us any harm? I do not ask you to love me; but do
not hasten the hour of our apprehension!"
The milder tone of the widow made Martial believe that his threats had
produced a salutary effect on her, and he fell into the fearful snare.
"I know the children," he replied; "and I am sure that, in desiring them
to say nothing, not a word will they say. Besides, in one way or
another, I shall be always with them, and I will answer for their
silence."
"Can we answer for the chatter of children, especially in Paris, where
people are so curious and so gossiping? It is as much that they should
not betray us, as that they should assist us in our plans, that I desire
to keep them here."
"Don't they go sometimes to the villages, and even to Paris? Who could
prevent them from talking if they were inclined to talk? If they were a
long way off, why, so much the better; for what they would then say
would do us no harm."
"A long way off,--and where?" inquired the widow, looking steadfastly at
her son.
"Let me take them away,--where is no consequence to you."
"How will you and they live?"
"My old master, the locksmith, is a worthy man, and I will tell him as
much as he need know, and, perhaps, he will lend me something for the
sake of the children; with that I will go and apprentice them a long way
off. We will leave in two days, and you will hear no more of us."
"No, no! I prefer their remaining with me. I shall then be perfectly
sure of them."
"Then I will take up my quarters in the hovel on the island until
something turns up. I have a way and a will of my own, and you know it."
"Yes, I know it. Oh, how I wish you were a thousand miles away! Why
didn't you remain in your woods?"
"I offer to rid you of myself and the children."
"What! Would you leave La Louve here, whom you love so much?" asked the
widow, suddenly.
"That's my affair. I know what I shall do. I have my plans."
"If I let you take away Amandine and Francois, will you never again set
foot in Paris?"
"Before three days have passed, we shall have departed, and be as dead
to you."
"I prefer that to having you here, and always distrusting you and them.
So, since I must give way, take them, and be off as quickly as possible,
and never let me see you more!"
"Agreed!"
"Agreed! Give me the key of the cellar, that I may let Nicholas out!"
"No; let him sleep his liquor off, and I'll give you the key to-morrow
morning."
"And Calabash?"
"Ah, that's another affair! Let her out when I have gone. I can't bear
the sight of her."
"Go, and may hell confound you!"
"That's your farewell, mother?"
"Yes."
"Fortunately your last!" said Martial.
"My last!" responded the widow.
Her son lighted a candle, then opened the kitchen door, whistled to his
dog, who ran in, quite delighted at being admitted, and followed his
master to the upper story of the house.
"Go,--your business is settled!" muttered the widow, shaking her
clenched hand at her son, as he went up the stairs; "but it is your own
act."
Then, by Calabash's assistance, who brought her a bundle of false keys,
the widow unlocked the cellar door where Nicholas was, and set him at
liberty.
CHAPTER VI.
FRANCOIS AND AMANDINE.
Francois and Amandine slept in a room immediately over the kitchen, and
at the end of a passage which communicated with several other apartments
that were used as "company rooms" for the guests who frequented the
cabaret. After having eaten their frugal supper, instead of putting out
their lantern, as the widow had ordered them, the two children watched,
leaving their door ajar, for their brother Martial's passing on his way
to his own chamber.
Placed on a crippled stool, the lantern shed its dull beams through the
transparent horn. Walls of plaster, with here and there brown deal
boards, a flock-bed for Francois, a little old child's bed, much too
short, for Amandine, a pile of broken chairs and dismembered benches,
mementoes of the turbulent visitors to the cabaret of the Isle du
Ravageur,--such was the interior of this dog-hole.
Amandine, seated at the edge of the bed, was trying how to dress her
head _en marmotte_, with the stolen silk handkerchief, the gift of her
brother Nicholas. Francois was on his knees, holding up a piece of
broken glass to his sister, who, with her head half turned, was employed
in spreading out the large rosette which she had made in tying the two
ends of the kerchief together. Wonder-struck at this head-dress,
Francois for an instant neglected to present the bit of glass in such a
way that her face could be reflected in it.
"Lift the looking-glass higher," said Amandine; "I can't see myself at
all now! There, that's it,--that'll do! Hold it so a minute! Now I've
done it! Well, look! How have I done my head?"
"Oh, capitally,--excellently! What a handsome rosette! You'll make me
just such a one for my cravat, won't you?"
"Yes, directly. But let me walk up and down a little. You can go before
me--backwards--holding the glass up, just in that way. There--so! I can
then see myself as I walk."
Francois then went through this difficult manoeuvre to the great
satisfaction of Amandine, who strutted up and down in all her pride and
dignity, under the large bow of her head attire.
Very simple and unsophisticated under any other circumstances, this
coquetry became guilt when displayed in reference to the produce of a
robbery of which Francois and Amandine were not ignorant. Another proof
of the frightful facility with which children, however well disposed,
become corrupted almost imperceptibly when they are continually immersed
in a criminal atmosphere.
Then, the sole mentor of these unfortunate children, their brother
Martial, was by no means irreproachable himself, as we have already
said. Incapable, it is true, of a theft or a murder, still he led a
vagabond and ill-regulated life. Undoubtedly his mind revolted at the
crimes of his family. He loved these two children very fondly, and
protected them from ill-treatment, endeavouring to withdraw them from
the pernicious influences of the family; but not taking his stand on the
foundations of rigorous and sound morality, his advice was but an
ineffective safeguard to these children. They refused to commit certain
bad actions, not from honest sentiments, but in order to obey Martial,
whom they loved, and to disobey their mother, whom they dreaded and
hated.
As to ideas of right and wrong, they had none, familiarised as they were
with the infamous examples which they had every day under their eyes;
for, as we have said, this country cabaret, haunted by the refuse of the
lowest order, was the theatre of most disgraceful orgies and most
disgusting debaucheries; and Martial, opposed as he was to thefts and
murders, appeared perfectly indifferent to these infamous saturnalia.
It may be supposed, therefore, that the instincts of morality in these
children were doubtful and precarious, especially those of Francois, who
had reached that dangerous time of life when the mind pauses, and,
oscillating between good and evil, might be in a moment lost or saved.
* * * * *
"How well you look in that handkerchief, sister!" said Francois; "it is
very pretty. When we go to play on the shore by the chalk-burner's
lime-kiln you must dress yourself in this manner, to make the children
jealous who pelt us with stones and call us little guillotines. And I
shall put on my nice red cravat, and we will say to them, 'Never mind,
you haven't such pretty silk handkerchiefs as we have!'"
"But, I say, Francois," said Amandine, after a moment's reflection, "if
they knew that the handkerchiefs we wear were stolen, they would call us
little thieves."
"Well, and what should we care if they did call us little thieves?"
"Why, not at all, if it were not true. But now--"
"Since Nicholas gave us these handkerchiefs, we didn't steal them!"
"No; but he took them out of a barge; and Brother Martial says no one
ought to steal."
"But, as Nicholas states, that is no affair of ours."
"Do you think so, Francois?"
"Of course I do."
"Still, it seems to me that I would rather the person who really owns
them had given them to us. What do you say, Francois?"
"Oh, it's all one to me! They were given to us, and so they're ours."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Why, yes--yes; make yourself easy about that."
"So much the better, then, for we are not doing what Brother Martial
forbids, and we have such nice handkerchiefs!"
"But, Amandine, if he had known the other day that Calabash had made you
take the plaid handkerchief from the peddler's pack whilst his back was
turned?"
"Oh, Francois, don't talk about it; I have been so very sorry. But I was
really forced to do it, for my sister pinched me until the blood came,
and looked at me so--oh, in such a way! And yet my heart failed me
twice, and I thought I never could do it. The peddler didn't find it
out; yet, if they had caught me, Francois, I should have been sent to
prison."
"But you weren't caught; so it's just the same as if you had not
stolen."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes."
"And in prison how unhappy we must be."
"On the contrary--"
"How do you mean on the contrary?"
"Why, you know the fat cripple who lodges at Father Micou's, the man who
buys all Nicholas's things, and keeps a lodging-house in the Passage de
la Brasserie?"
"A fat cripple?"
"Why, yes, who came here the end of last autumn from Father Micou, with
a man who had monkeys and two women."
"Ah, yes, a stout, lame man, who spent such a deal of money."
"I believe you; he paid for everybody. Don't you recollect the rows on
the water when I pulled them, and the man with the monkeys brought his
organ, that they might have music in the boat?"
"Yes; and in the evening the beautiful fireworks they let off,
Francois?"
"And the fat cripple was not stingy, either. He gave me ten sous for
myself. He drank nothing but our best wine, and they had chickens at
every meal. He spent full eighty francs."
"So much as that, Francois?"
"Oh, yes!"
"How rich he must be!"
"Not at all. What he spent was money he had gained in prison, from which
he had just come."
"Gained all that money in prison?"
"Yes; he said he had seven hundred francs beside, and that, when that
was all gone, he should try another good 'job;' and if he were taken, he
didn't care, because he should go back to his jolly 'pals in the Stone
Jug,' as he said."
"Then he wasn't afraid of prison, Francois?"
"On the contrary; he told Calabash that they were a party of friends and
merrymakers all together; and that he had never had a better bed and
better food than when he was in prison. Good meat four times a week,
fire all the winter, and a lump of money when he left it; whilst there
are fools of honest workmen who are starving with cold and hunger, for
want of work."
"Are you sure he said that, Francois,--the stout lame man?"
"I heard him, for I was rowing him in the punt whilst he told his story
to Calabash and the two women, who said that it was the same thing in
the female prisons they had just left."
"But then, Francois, it can't be so bad to steal, if people are so well
off in prison."
"Oh, the deuce! I don't know. Here it is only Brother Martial who says
it is wrong to steal; perhaps he is wrong."
"Never mind if he is, Francois. We ought to believe him, for he loves us
so much!"
"Yes, he loves us; and, when he is by, there is no fear of our being
beaten. If he had been here this evening, our mother would not have
thrashed me so. An old beast! How savage she is! Oh, how I hate
her--hate her! And how I wish I was grown up, that I might pay her back
the thumps she gives us, especially to you, who can't bear them as well
as I can."
"Oh, Francois, hold your tongue; it quite frightens me to hear you say
that you would beat mother!" cried the poor little child, weeping, and
throwing her arms around her brother's neck, and kissing him
affectionately.
"It's quite true, though," answered Francois, extricating himself gently
from Amandine. "Why are my mother and Calabash always so savage to us?"
"I do not know," replied Amandine, wiping her eyes with the back of her
hand. "It is, perhaps, because they sent Brother Ambroise to the
galleys, and guillotined our father, that they are unjust towards us."
"Is that our fault?"
"Oh, no! But what would you have?"
"_Ma foi!_ If I am always to have beatings,--always, always, at last I
should rather steal, as they do, I should. What do I gain by not being a
thief?"
"Ah, what would Martial say to that?"
"Ah, but for him, I should have said yes a long time ago, for I am tired
of being thumped for ever; why, this evening, my mother was more savage
than ever; she was like a fury! It was pitch dark. She didn't say a
word; and I felt nothing but her clammy hand holding me by the scruff of
my neck, whilst with the other she beat me; and whilst she did so, her
eyes seemed to glare in the dark."
"Poor Francois! for only having said you saw a dead man's bone by the
wood-pile."
"Yes, a foot that was sticking out of the ground," said Francois,
shuddering with fright; "I am quite sure of it."
"Perhaps there was a burying-ground there once."
"Perhaps; but then, why did mother say she'd be the death of me, if I
said a word about the bone to our Brother Martial? I rather think it is
some one who has been killed in a quarrel, and that they have buried him
there, that no one might know anything about it."
"You are right; for don't you remember that such a thing did nearly
happen once?"
"When?"
"Don't you remember once when M. Barbillon wounded with a knife that
tall man, who is so very thin, that he showed himself for money?"
"Oh, the walking skeleton, as they call him? Yes; and mother came and
separated them; if she hadn't, I think Barbillon would have killed the
tall, thin man. Did you see how Barbillon foamed at the mouth? and his
eyes seemed ready to start from his head. Oh, he does not mind who he
cuts and slashes with his knife,--he's such a headstrong, passionate
fellow!"
"So young and so wicked, Francois?"
"Tortillard is much younger, and he would be quite as wicked as he, if
he were strong enough."
"Oh, yes, he's very, very wicked! The other day he beat me, because I
would not play with him."
"He beat you, did he? Then, the first time he comes--"
"No, no, Francois; it was only in jest."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, quite sure."
"Very well, then, for, if not--But I don't know how he manages, the
scamp! But he always has so much money. He's so lucky! When he came
here with the Chouette, he showed us pieces of gold of twenty francs;
and didn't he look knowing as he said, 'Oh, you might have the same, if
you were not such little muffs!'"
"Muffs?"
"Yes; in slang that means fools, simpletons."
"Yes, to be sure."
"Forty francs in gold! What a many fine things I could buy with that!
Couldn't you, Amandine?"
"That I could."
"What should you buy?"
"Let's see," said the little girl, bending her head, and meditating. "I
should first buy Brother Martial a good thick outside coat, that would
keep him warm in his boat."
"But for yourself,--for yourself."
"I should like a crucifixion, like those image-sellers had on Sunday,
you know, under the church porch at Asnieres."
"Yes; and, now I think of it, we must not tell mother or Calabash that
we went into a church."
"To be sure, for she has always forbidden us to go into a church. What a
pity! For church is such a nice place inside, isn't it, Francois?"
"Yes; and what beautiful silver candlesticks!"
"And the picture of the holy Virgin, how kind she looks!"
"And did you look at the fine lamps, and the handsome cloth on the large
table at the bottom, when the priest was saying mass with his two
friends, dressed like himself, and who gave him water and wine?"
"Tell me, Francois, do you remember last year, at the Fete-Dieu, when we
saw from here the little communicants, with their white veils, pass over
the bridge?"
"What nice nosegays they had!"
"How they sang in a soft tone, holding the ribands of their banners!"
"And how the silver lace of their banners shone in the sunshine! What a
deal of money it must have cost!"
"Oh, how beautiful it was! Wasn't it, Francois?"
"I believe you! And the communicants with their bows of white satin on
the arm, and their wax candles, with red velvet and gold on the part by
which they hold them."
"And the little boys had their banners, too, hadn't they, Francois? Ah,
Francois, how I was thumped that day for asking our mother why we did
not go in the procession, like the other children!"
"And it was then she forbade us from ever going into a church when we
should go into the town, or to Paris; 'Unless it was to rob the
poor-box, or the pockets of the people who were hearing mass,' Calabash
said, grinning, and showing her nasty yellow teeth. Oh, what a bad thing
she is!"
"Oh, and as for that, they should kill me before I would rob in a
church; and you, too, Francois?"
"There, or anywhere; what difference does it make, when once one has
made up one's mind?"
"Why, I don't know; but I should be so frightened, I could never do it."
"Because of the priests?"
"No; but because of the portrait of the holy Virgin, who seems so kind
and good."
"What consequence is a portrait? It won't eat or drink, you silly
child!"
"That's very true; but then I really couldn't. It is not my fault."
"Talking of priests, Amandine, do you remember that day when Nicholas
gave me two such hard boxes on the ear, because he saw me make a bow to
the curate, who passed on the bank? I had seen everybody salute him, and
so I saluted him; I didn't think I was doing any wrong."
"Yes; but then, you know, Brother Martial said, as Nicholas did, that
there was no occasion to salute the priests."
At this moment Francois and Amandine heard footsteps in the passage.
Martial was going to his chamber, without any mistrust, after his
conversation with his mother, believing that Nicholas was safely locked
up until the next morning. Seeing a ray of light coming from out the
closet in which the children slept, Martial came into the room. They
both ran to him, and he embraced them affectionately.
"What! Not in bed yet, little gossips?"
"No, brother, we waited until you came, that we might see you, and wish
you good night," said Amandine.
"And then we heard you speaking very loud below, as if there were a
quarrel," added Francois.
"Yes," said Martial, "I had some dispute with Nicholas, but it was
nothing. Besides, I am glad to see you awake, as I have some good news
for you."
"For us, brother?"
"Should you like to go away from here, and come with me a long way off?"
"Oh, yes, brother!"
"Yes, brother!"
"Well, then, in two or three days we shall all three leave the island."
"Oh, how delightful!" exclaimed Amandine, clapping her hands with joy.
"And where shall we go to?" inquired Francois.
"You will see, Mr. Inquisitive; no matter; but where you will learn a
good trade, which will enable you to earn your living, be sure of that."
"Then I sha'n't go fishing with you any more, brother?"
"No, my boy, you will be put apprentice to a carpenter or locksmith. You
are strong and handy, and with a good heart; and working hard, at the
end of a year you may already have earned something. But you don't seem
to like it: why, what ails you now?"
"Why, brother,--I--"
"Come, come! Speak out."
"Why, I'd rather not leave you, but stay with you, and fish, and mend
your nets, than go and learn a trade."
"Really?"
"Why, to be shut up in a workshop all day is so very dull; and then it
must be so tiresome to be an apprentice."
Martial shrugged his shoulders.
"So, then, you would rather be an idler, a scamp, a vagabond,--eh?" said
he, in a stern voice; "and then, perhaps, a thief?"
"No, brother; but I should like to live with you elsewhere, as we live
here, that's all."
"Yes, that's it; eat, drink, sleep, and amuse yourself with fishing,
like an independent gentleman,--eh?"
"Yes, I should like it."
"Very likely; but you must prefer something else. You see, my poor dear
lad, that it is quite time I took you away from here; for, without
perceiving it, you have become as idle as the rest. My mother was
right,--I fear you have vice in you. And you, Amandine, shouldn't you
like to learn some business?"
"Oh, yes, brother; I should like very much to learn anything rather than
stay here. I should dearly like to go with you and Francois."
"But what have you got on your head, my child?" inquired Martial,
observing Amandine's very fine head-dress.
"A handkerchief that Nicholas gave me."
"And he gave me one, too," said Francois, with an air of pride.
"And where did these handkerchiefs come from? I should be very much
surprised to learn that Nicholas bought them to make you a present of."
The two children lowered their eyes, and made no reply. After a second,
Francois said, with a resolute air, "Nicholas gave them to us. We do not
know where they came from, do we, Amandine?"
"No, no, brother," replied Amandine, stammering, and turning very red,
not daring to look Martial in the face.
"Don't tell lies," said Martial, harshly.
"We don't tell lies," replied Francois, doggedly.
"Amandine, my child, tell the truth," said Martial, mildly.
"Well, then, to tell the whole truth," replied Amandine, timidly, "these
fine handkerchiefs came out of a box of things that Nicholas brought in
this evening in his boat."
"And which he had stolen?"
"I think so, brother,--out of a barge."
"So then, Francois, you lie?" said Martial.
The boy bent down his head, but made no reply.
"Give me this handkerchief, Amandine; and yours, too, Francois."
The little girl took off her head-dress, gave a last look at the large
bow, which was not untied, and gave the handkerchief to Martial,
repressing a sigh of regret. Francois drew his slowly out of his pocket,
and then gave it to his brother, as his sister had done.
"To-morrow morning," he said, "I will return these handkerchiefs to
Nicholas. You ought not to have taken them, children. To profit by a
robbery is as if one robbed oneself."
"It is a pity those handkerchiefs were so pretty!" said Francois.
"When you have learned a trade, and earn money by your work, you will
buy some as good. Go to bed, my dears,--it is very late."
"You are not angry, brother?" said Amandine, timidly.
"No, no, my love, it is not your fault. You live with ill-disposed
persons, and you do as they do unconsciously. When you are with honest
persons, you will do as they do; and you'll soon be with such, or the
devil's in it. So now, good night!"
"Good night, brother!"
Martial kissed the children. They were now alone.
"What's the matter with you, Francois,--you seem very sorrowful!" said
Amandine.
"Why, brother has taken my nice handkerchief; and besides, didn't you
hear what he said?"
"What?"
"He means to take us with him, and put us apprentice."
"And ain't you glad?"
"_Ma foi_, no!"
"Would you rather stay here and be beaten every day?"
"Why, if I am beaten I am not made to work. I am all day in the boat,
fishing, or playing, or waiting on the customers, who sometimes give me
something, as the stout lame man did. It is much more amusing than to be
from morning till night shut up in a workshop working like a dog."
"But didn't you understand? Why, brother said that if we remained here
longer we should become evil-disposed."
"Ah! bah! That's all one to me, since the other children call us already
little thieves,--little guillotines! And then to work is too tiresome!"
"But here they are always beating us, brother!"
"They beat us because we listen to Martial more than to any one else."
"Oh, he is so kind to us!"
"Yes, he is kind,--very kind,--I don't say he ain't; and I am very fond
of him. No one dares to be unkind to us when he is by. He takes us out
with him,--that's true; but that's all; he never gives us anything."
"Why, he has nothing. What he gains he gives our mother to pay for his
eating, drinking, and lodging."
"Nicholas has something. You may be sure if we attend to what he and
mother say, they would not make our lives so uncomfortable, but give us
pretty things, as they did to-day. They would not distrust us, and we
should have money like Tortillard."
"But we must steal for that; and how that would grieve dear, good
Martial!"
"Well, so much the worse!"
"Oh, Francois! And then we should be taken up and put into prison."
"To be in a prison or shut up in a workshop all day is the same thing.
Besides, the Gros-Boiteux says they amuse themselves very much in
prison."
"But how sorry Martial would be; only think of that! And then it is on
our account that he returned here, and remains with us! For himself only
he would not have any difficulty, but could go again and be a poacher in
the woods which he is so very fond of."
"Oh, if he'll take us with him into the woods," said Francois, "that
would be better than anything else. I should be with him I am so fond
of, and should not work at any business that would tire me."
The conversation of Francois and Amandine was interrupted. Some one
outside double-locked their door.
"They have fastened us in," said Francois.
"Oh, what can it be for, brother? What are they going to do to us?"
"It is Martial, perhaps."
"Listen, listen,--how his dog barks!" said Amandine, listening.
After a few minutes, Francois added:
"It sounds as if some one were knocking at his door with a hammer.
Perhaps they want to force it open!"
"Yes; but how the dog barks still!"
"Listen, Francois! It is as if they were nailing something. Oh, dear,
oh, dear, how frightened I am! What are they doing to our brother? And
how the dog howls still!"
"Amandine, I hear nothing now," said Francois, going towards the door.
The two children held their breath, and listened anxiously.
"They are coming from my brother's room," said Francois, in a low voice;
"I hear them walking in the passage."
"Let us throw ourselves on our beds; mother would kill us if she found
us out of bed," said Amandine, terrified.
"No," said Francois, still listening; "they have just passed by our
door, and are running down the staircase."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear, what can it be?"
"Ah, now they are opening the kitchen door."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, yes; I know the sound."
"Martial's dog is still howling," said Amandine, listening. Suddenly she
exclaimed, "Francois, our brother calls us."
"Martial?"
"Yes; don't you hear him? Don't you hear him now?"
And at this moment, in spite of the thickness of the two closed doors,
the powerful voice of Martial, who called to the children from his room,
reached them.
"Indeed, we can't go to him; we are locked in," said Amandine. "They
must be doing something wrong to him, as he calls us."
"Oh, as to that, if I could hinder them," exclaimed Francois,
resolutely, "I would, even if they were to cut me to pieces!"
"But our brother does not know that they have double-locked our door,
and he will believe that we would not go to his help. Call out to him
that we are locked in, Francois."
The lad was just going to do as his sister bade him, when a violent blow
was struck outside the shutter of the window of the room in which the
two children were.
"They are coming in by the window to kill us!" cried Amandine, and, in
her fright, she threw herself on her bed and hid her head between her
hands.
Francois remained motionless, although he shared his sister's terror.
However, after the violent blow we have mentioned, the shutter was not
opened, and the most profound silence reigned throughout the house.
Martial had ceased calling to the children.
A little assured, and excited by intense curiosity, Francois ventured to
open the window a little way, and tried to look out through the leaves
of the blind.
"Mind, brother!" said Amandine, in a low voice, and sitting up when she
heard Francois open the shutter.
"Can you see anything?" she added.
"No, the night is too dark."
"Don't you hear anything?"
"No, the wind is too high."
"Come in, then; come in."
"Oh, now I see something!"
"What?"
"The light of a lantern, which moves backwards and forwards."
"Who's carrying it?"
"I can only see the light. Ah, she comes nearer,--she is speaking!"
"Who?"
"Listen,--listen! It is Calabash."
"What does she say?"
"She says the ladder must be fixed securely."
"Oh, it was then in taking away the high ladder that was placed against
our shutter that they made that noise just now."
"I don't hear anything now."
"What have they done with the ladder?"
"I can't see it now."
"Can you hear anything?"
"No."
"Francois, perhaps they are going to use it to enter our Brother
Martial's room by the window!"
"Very likely."
"If you could open our window a little more you might see."
"I am afraid."
"Only a little bit."
"Oh, no, no! If mother saw us!"
"It is so dark, there is no danger."
Francois, much against his will, did as his sister requested, and
pushing the shutter back, looked out.
"Well, brother?" said Amandine, surmounting her fears, and approaching
Francois on tiptoe.
"By the gleam of the lantern," said he, "I see Calabash, who is holding
the foot of the ladder, which is resting against Martial's window."
"Well?"
"Nicholas is going up the ladder with his axe in his hand. I see it
glitter."
"Ah, you are not in bed, then, but watching us!" exclaimed the widow,
addressing Francois and his sister from outside. As she was returning to
the kitchen she saw the light, which escaped through the open window.
The unfortunate children had neglected putting out the lantern.
"I am coming," added the widow, in a terrible voice; "I am coming to
you, you little spies!"
Such were the events which passed in the Isle du Ravageur on the evening
of the day before that on which Madame Seraphin was to take
Fleur-de-Marie thither.
CHAPTER VII.
A LODGING-HOUSE.
The Passage de la Brasserie, a dark street, narrow, and but little
known, although situated in the centre of Paris, runs at one end into
the Rue Traversiere St. Honore, and at the other into the Cour St.
Guillaume.
Towards the middle of this damp thoroughfare, muddy, dark, and
unwholesome, and where the sun but rarely penetrates, there was a
furnished house (commonly called a _garni_, lodging-house, in
consequence of the low price of the apartments). On a miserable piece of
paper might be read, "Chambers and small rooms furnished." To the right
hand, in a dark alley, was the door of a store, not less obscure, in
which constantly resided the principal tenant of this _garni_.
Father Micou was ostensibly a dealer in old metal ("marine stores"), but
secretly purchased and received stolen metal, iron, lead, brass, and
tin. When we mention that Father Micou was connected in business and
friendship with the Martial family, we give a tolerable idea of his
morality. The tie that binds--the sort of affiliation, the mysterious
communion, which connects--the malefactors of Paris, is at once curious
and fearful. The common prisons are the great centres whence flow, and
to which reflow, incessantly those waves of corruption which gradually
gain on the capital, and leave there such pernicious waifs and strays.
Father Micou was a stout man, about fifty years of age, with a mean and
cunning countenance, a mulberry nose, and wine-flushed cheeks. He wore
a fur cap and an old green long-skirted coat. Over his small stove, near
which he was standing, there was a board fastened to the wall, and
bearing a row of figures, to which were affixed the keys of the chambers
of the absent lodgers. The panes of glass in the door which opened on to
the street were so painted that from the outside no one could see what
was going on within.
The whole of this extensive store was very dark. From the damp walls
there hung rusty chains of all sizes; and the floor was strewed with
iron and other metals. Three blows struck at the door in a particular
way attracted the attention of the landlord, huckster, receiver.
"Come in!" he cried.
It was Nicholas, the son of the felon's widow. He was very pale, his
features looked even more evil than they did on the previous evening,
and yet he feigned a kind of overgaiety during the following
conversation. (This scene takes place on the day after his quarrel with.
Martial.)
"Ah, is it you, my fine fellow?" said Micou, cordially.
"Yes, Father Micou, I have come to see you on a trifle of business."
"Then shut the door,--shut the door."
"My dog and cart are there outside with the stuff."
"What do you bring me, double tripe (sheet lead)?"
"No, Father Micou."
"What is it, scrapings? but no, you're too downy now, you've left off
work. Perhaps it is a bit of hard (iron)?"
"No, Daddy Micou, it's some flap (sheet copper). There must be, at
least, a hundred and fifty pounds weight, as much as my dog could
stagger along with."
"Go and fetch the flap, and let's weigh it."
"You must lend a hand, daddy, for I've hurt my arm."
And, at the recollection of his contest with his brother Martial, the
ruffian's features expressed, at once, the resentment of hatred and
savage joy, as if his vengeance were already satisfied.
"What's the matter with your arm, my man?"
"Nothing,--only a sprain."
"You must heat an iron in the fire, and plunge it red-hot into the
water, then put your arm in the water as hot as you can bear it. It is
an iron-dealer's remedy, but none the worse for that."
"Thank ye, Father Micou."
"Go and fetch the flap, and I'll come and help you, idle-bones."
At twice the copper was brought out of the cart, drawn by an enormous
dog, and conveyed into the shop.
"That cart of yours is a good idea," said the worthy Micou, as he
adjusted the wooden frames of an enormous pair of scales that hung from
a beam in the ceiling.
"Yes; when I've anything to bring, I put my dog and cart into the punt,
and harness them as we come along. A hackney-coach might, perhaps, tell
a tale, but my dog never chatters."
"And they're all pretty well at home,--eh?" inquired the receiver,
weighing the copper; "mother and sister, both pretty bobbish?"
"Yes, Father Micou."
"And the little uns?"
"Yes, the little uns, too. And your nephew, Andre, where is he?"
"Don't mention him; he was out on a spree yesterday. Barbillon and
Gros-Boiteux brought him back this morning. He is out for a walk now
towards the General Post-office in the Rue St. Jacques Rousse
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