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The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 5

by Eugène Sue · English · Gutenberg #33804 · 465,811 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 5

Author: Eugène Sue


        
Release date: September 22, 2010 [eBook #33804]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33804

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Christine Aldridge and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
        (Stanford University, SUL Books in the Public Domain)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS, ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS, VOL. 5 ***




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: "_'Cecily! Cecily!' Murmured a Voice_"
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel]




+The Mysteries of Paris.+

  _ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS
  BY MERCIER, BICKNELL, POITEAU,
  AND ADRIAN MARCEL._

                 _BY EUGENE SUE_


      _IN SIX VOLUMES
          VOLUME V._


       _PRINTED FOR
  FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.
          BOSTON_


     +Edition de Luxe+

_This edition is limited to one thousand copies,
of which this is_

         No.______




CONTENTS.


      CHAP.                                               PAGE
         I. THE PRESENTATION                                11
        II. MURPHY AND POLIDORI                             35
       III. THE CLERK'S OFFICE                              57
        IV. AVOID TEMPTATION                                69
         V. LA FORCE                                        99
        VI. PIQUE-VINAIGRE                                 114
       VII. MAITRE BOULARD                                 139
      VIII. FRANCOIS GERMAIN                               148
        IX. THE LIONS' DEN                                 169
         X. THE STORY-TELLER                               193
        XI. GRINGALET AND CUT-IN-HALF                      211




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                          PAGE
      "'CECILY! CECILY!' MURMURED A VOICE"      _Frontispiece_
      "SLOWLY DANCING AND WHIRLING AROUND ME"               26
      "THEN LEFT ME"                                       126
      "TOUCHED WITH HIS LIPS THROUGH THE GRATING"          167
      "THE SKELETON STAGGERED AT FIRST"                    243




THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.




CHAPTER I.

THE PRESENTATION.


A few days after the murder of Madame Seraphin, the death of the
Chouette, and the arrest of the gang of desperadoes taken by surprise at
Bras-Rouge's house, Rodolph paid another visit to the house in the Rue
du Temple.

We have already observed that, with the view of practising artifice for
artifice with Jacques Ferrand, discovering his hidden crimes, obliging
him to repair them, and inflicting condign punishment should the guilty
wretch, either by skill or hypocrisy, continue to evade the just
punishment of the laws, Rodolph had sent to fetch from one of the
prisons in Germany a young and beautiful creole, the unworthy wife of
the negro David. This female, lovely in person as depraved in mind, as
fascinating as dangerous, had reached Paris the preceding evening, and
had received the most minute instructions from Baron de Grauen.

The reader will recollect that in the last interview between Rodolph and
Madame Pipelet, the latter having very cleverly managed to propose
Cecily to Madame Seraphin, as a servant to the notary in place of Louise
Morel, her proposition had been so well received that the _femme de
charge_ had promised to speak to Jacques Ferrand on the subject; and
this she had done, in terms most flattering to Cecily, the very morning
of the day on which she (Madame Seraphin) had been drowned at the Isle
du Ravageur.

The motive for Rodolph's visit was, therefore, to inquire the result of
Cecily's introduction. To his great astonishment, he found, on entering
the lodge, that although eleven o'clock in the morning had struck by all
the neighbouring dials, Pipelet had not yet risen, while Anastasie was
standing beside his bed, offering him some sort of drink.

As Alfred, whose forehead and eyes were entirely concealed beneath his
huge cotton nightcap, did not reply to his wife's inquiries, she
concluded he slept, and therefore closed the curtains of his bed.
Turning around, she perceived Rodolph, and, as usual, gave him a
military salute, by lifting the back of her left hand up to her wig.

"Ah, my king of lodgers! Service to you! How are you? As for me, I'm
upset--bewildered--stupefied. Pretty doings have there been in the house
since you was here. And my poor Alfred,--obliged to keep his bed ever
since yesterday!"

"Why, what has happened?"

"Positively, don't you guess? Still going on in the old way with that
monster of a painter, who is more bitter than ever against Alfred. He
has quite muddled his brains, till I declare I don't know what to do
with him."

"Cabrion again?"

"Oh, _he'll_ never leave off."

"He must be the very devil!"

"Really, M. Rodolph, I shall very soon think so; for he always knows the
very instant I quit the house. Scarcely is my back turned, than there he
is, in the twinkling of an eye, worrying and tormenting my poor old dear
of a husband, who is as helpless and frightened as a babby. Only last
night, when I had just stepped out as far as M. Ferrand's the
notary's--Ah, there's pretty work there, too!"

"But Cecily?" said Rodolph, with some little impatience. "I called to
know--"

"Hold hard, my king of lodgers! Don't be in such a hurry, or you'll put
me out. And I've such a deal to tell you, I don't know when I shall have
done; and if once I'm interrupted in a story, I never know when to begin
again."

"There now, go on as fast as you can; I'm listening."

"Well, then, first and foremost, what do you think has happened in the
house? Ah, you'll never guess, so I'll tell you. Only imagine, old
Mother Burette's being taken up!"

"What, the female pawnbroker?"

"Oh, Lord, she seems to have had a curious mixture of trades: for
besides being a money-lender, she was a receiver of stolen goods, a
melter of gold and silver, a fortune-teller, a cheat, a dealer in
second-hand clothes, and any sort of contraband articles. The worst of
the story is that M. Bras-Rouge, her old sweetheart and our principal
lodger, is also arrested. I tell you the house is thoroughly upset with
these strange doings."

"Arrested! Bras-Rouge arrested?"

"That he was, I can promise you. Why, even his mischievous little imp of
a son--the lame boy we call Tortillard--has also been locked up. They
say that lots of murders have been planned and managed at his house,
which was the well-known resort of a gang of ruffians; that the
Chouette, one of Mother Burette's most particular friends, has been
strangled; and that, if assistance had not arrived in time, Mother
Mathieu, the dealer in precious stones for whom Morel worked, would also
have been murdered. Come, I think there's a pretty penn'orth of news for
you,--and cheap, too, at the price!"

"Bras-Rouge arrested and the Chouette dead!" murmured Rodolph to
himself, in deep astonishment at the tidings. "Well, the vile old hag
deserved her fate, and poor Fleur-de-Marie is at least avenged!"

"So that is the state of things here," continued Anastasie. "As for M.
Cabrion and his devil's tricks, I'll tell you all about it. Oh, you
never knew such a bold howdacious willin as he is! But you shall
hear,--I'll go straight on with my story. But there never,--no, there
never was his feller for inperence! So when Mother Burette was took up,
and we heard how that M. Bras-Rouge, our principal lodger, was quodded
also, I says to my old boy, 'Alfred, darling,' says I, 'you must toddle
off to the landlord and let him know as M. Bras-Rouge is in the stone
jug.' Well, Alfred goes; but in about two hours' time back he comes--in
such a state!--such a state! White as a sheet and puffing like an ox!"

"Why, what was the matter?"

"I'm a-going to tell you. I suppose, M. Rodolph, you recollect the high
wall about ten steps from here? Well, my poor, dear, darling husband was
going along thinking of nothing, when, quite by chance, he just looked
upon this wall. And what do you think he saw written in great staring
letters with a piece of charcoal?--why, 'Pipelet and Cabrion!'--the two
names joined together by a sort of true-lover's knot. (Ah, it is that
true-lover's knot which sticks so tight in the gizzard of my poor old
chick!) That sight rather upset him; but still he tried to act like a
man and not mind it. So on he went. But hardly had he proceeded ten
steps farther when, on the principal entrance to the Temple, there again
were the same hateful words, 'Pipelet and Cabrion,' united as before!
Still he walked on; but at every turn he saw the same detestable writing
on the walls, doors, and even shutters of houses! Everywhere Pipelet
and Cabrion danced before his eyes, for ever bound in the same tender
tie of love or friendship! My poor dear Alfred's head began to turn
around, and his eyes to grow dizzy; all sorts of horrid objects seemed
to meet him and laugh him to scorn. He fancied the very people in the
streets were laughing at him. So, quite confused and ashamed, he pulled
his hat over his face, and took the road towards the Boulevards,
believing that the scamp Cabrion would have confined his abominations to
the Rue du Temple. But no--not he! All along the Boulevards, wherever a
blank spot remained or a place could be found to hold the words, had he
written 'Pipelet and Cabrion!'--sometimes adding, 'till death!' At last
my poor dear man arrived at the house of the landlord, but so bewildered
and stupefied that, after hammering and stammering and bodgering about
without being able to utter a clear sentence, the landlord, having tried
for nearly half an hour to bring him sufficiently to his senses to say
what had made him come to his house, got quite in a passion, and called
him a stupid old fool, and told him to go home and send his wife or
somebody who could speak common sense. Well, poor dear Alfred left as he
was ordered, thinking, at any rate, he would return by a different road,
so as to escape those dreadful words that had so overcome him going. Do
you believe he could get rid of them, though? No; there they were, large
as life, scrawled upon every place, and united by the lover's band as
before."

"What, Pipelet and Cabrion still written along the walls?"

"Precisely so, my king of lodgers. The end of it was that my poor
darling came home to me regularly brain-struck, talked in the wildest
and most desperate way of leaving France, exiling himself for ever, and
no one knows what. Well, I persuaded him to tell me all that had
happened; then I did my best to quiet him, and persuade him not to
worry himself about such a beggar as that Cabrion; and when I found he
had grown a little calmer, I left him, and went to take Cecily to the
notary's, before I proceeded on to the landlord to finish poor Alfred's
message. Now, perhaps, you think I've done? But I haven't, though. No; I
had hardly quitted the place, than that abominable Cabrion, who must
have watched me out, sent a couple of impudent great creatures, who
pursued Alfred with the most determined villainy. Oh, bless you, it
makes my very hair stand on end when I think of it! I'll tell you all
about their proceedings another time; let me first finish about the
notary. Well, off I started with Cecily in a hackney-coach,--as you told
me to do, you know. She was dressed in her pretty costume of a German
peasant; for having only just arrived, she had not had time to procure
any other, which I was to explain to M. Ferrand, and beg of him to
excuse. You may believe me or not, just as you please, my king of
lodgers, but though I have seen some pretty girls in my time,--myself,
for instance,--yet I never saw one (not even myself) comparable to
Cecily. And then she has such a way of using those wicked black eyes of
hers! She throws into them a look--a look--that seems--to mean--I know
not what--only they seem to pierce you through, and make you feel so
strange; I never saw such eyes in my life! Why, there's my poor, dear,
darling Alfred, whose virtue has never been suspected; well, the first
time that she fixed her looks on him, the dear fellow turned as red as a
carrot, and nothing in the world could have induced him to gaze in her
face a second time. I'm sure for more than an hour afterwards he kept
fidgeting about in his chair, as though he were sitting upon nettles. He
told me afterwards he could not account for it, but that somehow the
look Cecily bestowed on him seemed to bring to his thoughts all the
dreadful stories that shameless Bradamanti used to tell about the female
savages, and which used to make my poor dear simpleton of an Alfred
blush to his very fingers' ends."

"But I want to hear what passed at the notary's. Never mind Alfred's
modesty just now, but tell me."

"I was just going, M. Rodolph. It was just seven o'clock in the evening
when we arrived at M. Ferrand's, and I told the porter to let his master
know that Madame Pipelet was there with the young woman she had spoke to
Madame Seraphin about, and by whose orders she had brought her. Upon
which the porter heaved a deep sigh, and asked me if I knew what had
happened to Madame Seraphin? I told him, 'No; I hadn't heard of anything
being the matter with her.' Ah, M. Rodolph, prepare for another strange
event,--a most astounding circumstance!"

"What can it be?"

"Why, Madame Seraphin was drowned while on a party of pleasure to which
she had gone with her relations."

"Drowned, and on a party of pleasure in the winter?" exclaimed Rodolph,
much surprised.

"Yes, drowned, M. Rodolph. For my part I must say that I was more
astonished than distressed at the news; for since that affair of poor
Louise, who was taken to prison entirely through her information, I
downright hated Madame Seraphin. So when I heard what had befallen her,
all I did was to say to myself, 'Oh, she's drowned, is she,--drowned?
Well, I don't mean to make myself ill with crying, that's very sure. I
sha'n't die of grief,--that's my disposition.'"

"And M. Ferrand?"

"The porter said at first he did not think I could see his master, and
begged me to wait in his lodge while he went to see. But he almost
directly came back to fetch me. We crossed the courtyard, and entered an
apartment on the ground floor, where a single miserable candle was
twinkling its best to light it, but without success. The notary was
sitting beside the fireplace, and on the hearth a few smouldering ashes
still sent out a small degree of warmth. But such a wretched hole I
never saw! It was my first view of M. Ferrand. Oh, my stars, what a
downright ugly fellow he is! Such a man as he might have offered to make
me Queen of Arabia before I would have played Alfred false."

"And tell me, did the notary appear much struck with Cecily when she
entered?"

"Why, how can any one tell what he thinks while he keeps those great
green spectacles on? Besides, a godly saint such as he passes for has no
business to know whether a woman is handsome or ugly. However, when we
both walked into the room and stood before him, he gave quite a spring
up from his seat. Most likely, he was astonished at Cecily's dress, for
she looked for all the world (only a hundred thousand times better) like
one of those 'buy-a-broom' girls with her short petticoats and her
handsome legs set off by her blue stockings with red clocks. My
conscience, what a leg she has! Such a slender ankle!--and then, oh,
such a calf! With a foot as small and delicate as an opera dancer's. I
can tell you that the notary seemed almost speechless with surprise,
after he had looked at her through his green specs from head to toe."

"Doubtless, as you say, he was struck by the whimsicality of Cecily's
costume."

"Well, maybe so; however, I felt that the critical moment had arrived,
and began to feel rather queer; fortunately, just as my courage began to
fail me, M. Rodolph, I recollected a maxim I learned from you, and that
got me safe through my difficulty."

"What maxim do you mean,--I don't remember teaching you any?"

"Don't you know?--'It is always enough for one to wish, for the other to
refuse; or, for one to desire, for the other to be unwilling.' 'So,'
said I to myself, 'here goes to rid my king of lodgers of his German
niece, and to burthen the hard-hearted master of poor Louise with her.
Now, then, for a good piece of shamming;' and, without giving the notary
breathing time, I began by saying, in a polite and insinuating tone, 'I
hope, sir, you'll excuse my niece being dressed as she is, but she has
only just arrived, and has brought nothing with her but the costume of
her country; and I am sure it don't lay in my power to provide her with
others; and, besides, it would not be worth while, since we have merely
called to thank you for having allowed Madame Seraphin to say you would
see Cecily, in consequence of the favourable character I had given her.
Still, sir, I don't think, after all, she would suit you.'"

"Capital, Madame Pipelet; go on."

"'And why so?' inquired the notary, who had established himself by the
warmest corner of the fire, and seemed to be looking very attentively at
us from over his green spectacles, 'why should you suppose your niece
not likely to suit me?' 'Because, sir, Cecily is already quite homesick;
she has only been here three days and yet she wants to go back; and so,
she says, she will, too, if she is obliged to beg her way, or sing songs
and sell little brooms, like the rest of her countrywomen.' 'But bless
me!' answered M. Ferrand, 'do you, who are her principal relation, mean
to allow of that?' 'I don't see how I am to hinder her, sir,' said I.
'Certainly, I am the nearest relation she has, for the poor thing is an
orphan, as I told good Madame Seraphin; but then she is twenty years of
age, and, of course, mistress of her own actions.' 'Stuff and nonsense!'
interrupted he, quite impatiently; 'don't tell me about being her own
mistress; at her time of life she is bound to obey her relations, and
take their advice in all things.' Upon which Cecily began to cry and to
creep up to me, all of a tremble, as if she was quite afraid of the
notary."

"And what said Jacques Ferrand further?"

"Oh, he kept muttering in a grumbling tone, 'A young creature at that
age left to her own guidance! Why, it would be the ruin of her! And, as
for begging her way back to Germany--a pretty idea! And you mean to call
yourself her aunt, and say that you would sanction such conduct?' 'All
right,' says I to myself; 'you are falling into the trap as neat as
ninepence, you miserly old hunks, and if I do not saddle you with
Cecily, my name is not what it is!' 'Yes,' cried I, in a discontented
voice, 'I'm her aunt, sure enough, and worse luck to me for having such
an encumbrance; I have difficulty enough to earn my bread, without
having a great overgrown girl like that, to take it out of my mouth; and
I would much rather she went back to her own country than stop here to
be a burthen to me. The deuce take people who can't manage to maintain
their own children, but just send them for others to work for and keep
without even so much as paying their travelling expenses!' And then, as
if Cecily were up to my schemes, and desirous of playing into my hands,
she burst out into such a fit of crying and sobbing as quite touched the
notary, who began in a sniffling, whining tone, as though preaching a
sermon, 'Let me tell you that you are accountable before Providence for
the charge he has entrusted to your care and keeping, and you are
answerable for any false step this poor girl may take. Now I am willing
to join you in a charitable action; and if your niece will promise me to
be honest, industrious, virtuous, pious, and, above all, never upon any
occasion to desire to leave the house, I will take pity on her, and
receive her into my service.' 'No, no!' said Cecily, crying more
violently than ever, 'I don't want to stop here with this gentleman; I
wish to go back to my home; and I will, too!'"

"Ah, ah," thought Rodolph, "her dangerous falsehood has not deserted
her,--the depraved creature has, evidently, fully comprehended the
instructions she received from Baron de Grauen." Then, speaking aloud,
the prince continued, "Did Cecily's resistance appear to displease M.
Jacques Ferrand?"

"Yes, M. Rodolph, it seemed to make him as savage as could be, and he
muttered something between his teeth I could not make out. Then he said,
abruptly, 'It is not what you would prefer, young woman, but what is
most suitable and creditable that is to be considered. Providence will
never forsake you, so long as you conduct yourself respectably and
virtuously, and carefully attend to your religious duties. You will be
here in a family as pious as it is strict in all such matters; and if
your aunt has any real regard for your welfare, she will take advantage
of my offer. Your wages will be trifling at first, but hereafter I may
be induced to increase them should your good behaviour render you
deserving of encouragement.' 'Bravo!' thinks I to myself, 'I've
regularly hooked the miser, and fixed him with Cecily as right as a
trivet. Why, you old curmudgeon! You old skinflint! You miserable,
hard-hearted old hypocrite! You know very well that Seraphin was your
slave for years, and yet you seem to have forgotten her death, and the
dreadful manner of it, as much as though nothing had happened.' Then I
said out loud, 'No doubt, sir, yours is a very good place, and one as
many would be thankful to have, but if this girl is so homesick, what am
I to do?' 'Oh, take no notice of it,' replied the notary, 'and it will
soon wear away. But make up your minds,--just say one way or the other;
if you decide upon your niece entering my service, bring her here
to-morrow evening at the same hour you came to-night; and my porter will
show her about the premises, and also explain her work to her. As for
her wages, I shall begin with twenty francs a month and her food.' 'Oh,
sir, I hope you will make it twenty-five francs,--twenty is really too
little!' 'No, no, not at present; by and by perhaps I may, if I am
satisfied. One thing, however, I must impress upon you, and that is,
that your niece will never go beyond these walls, neither will she be
allowed to receive any visitors.' 'Bless your heart, sir! Who could come
to see her? Why, she does not know a single soul in Paris, except
myself, and I am obliged to stay at home to mind my lodge. I have been
terribly put about to come out this evening, so you will see nothing of
me; and as for my niece, she will be as great a stranger to me as though
she was in her own country; and the best way to prevent her going out
will be to make her wear the costume of her country,--she could not
venture in the streets dressed in that manner.' 'You are quite right,'
replied the notary; 'it is, besides, always respectable to wear the
dress of our own country; your niece shall, therefore, continue to dress
as she now is.' 'Come, my girl,' said I to Cecily, who, with her head
hanging down, and her finger in the corner of her mouth, was keeping up
a continual weeping, 'come, make up your mind. A good place with a
worthy master is not to be found every day; so, if you choose to refuse
it, do, but don't look to me for any further support; I'll have nothing
to do with you, I can tell you!' Upon which Cecily, swelling as though
her heart would burst, replied, sobbing, 'Very well, then, if aunt was
so particular, she should stay, but only on condition that, if she did
not find herself comfortable, she might come away at the end of a
fortnight.' 'Don't be alarmed,' answered the notary, 'I shall not force
you to stop against your will. I can promise you there are too many
young persons would be thankful to have my situation; but I pity your
position as an orphan, and, therefore, give you the preference. There,
take your earnest money; and let your aunt bring you here about this
time to-morrow evening.' Cecily was too busy crying to take the two
francs' piece the old starvemouse offered, so I took it for her. We made
our courtesies and came away."

"You have managed admirably, Madame Pipelet; and I do not forget my
promise; here is what I promised you, if you managed to get this girl
taken off my hands."

"Wait till to-morrow before you give it me, my king of lodgers!" cried
Madame Pipelet, putting back the money Rodolph offered her; "perhaps,
when I go to take Cecily this evening, M. Ferrand may have changed his
mind."

"Not he, depend upon it! But where is she?"

"In the small room adjoining the apartments of the commandant; she will
not stir out after the orders you gave. She seems mild and gentle as a
lamb; but then, her eyes! Oh, dear! It is difficult to fancy her either
one or the other, when one looks at those--Talking of the commandant,
what a plotting, mysterious person he is! Would you believe it? When he
came here to superintend the packing up of his furniture, he told me
that if any letters came addressed to 'Madame Vincent,' they were for
him, and that I was to send them to the Rue Mondine, No. 5. The idea of
the pretty creature having his letters addressed as if for a female!
What a conceited jackanapes he is! But the best of it was, he asked me
what had become of his wood! 'Your wood?' said I, 'why don't you ask
after your forest when you are about it?' Oh, I said it so flat and
plain! A mean, grasping hound, to trouble himself to ask after two
pitiful loads of wood,--his wood, indeed! 'What has become of your
wood?' repeated I, still working him on, till he got quite white with
passion, 'why, I burnt it to keep your things from the damp, which would
otherwise have made mushrooms grow upon your fine embroidered cap, and
the mildew from rotting your smart, glittering _robe de chambre_, which
you must love so dearly, because you have put it on so many times when
you were fool enough to wait for those who never meant to come, but were
only laughing at you,--like the lady who made believe she was going to
pay you a visit, and then passed your door, though you had set it wide
open to show yourself decked in all your finery. Your wood, indeed! I
like that! You poor squeeze-penny of a commandant,--enough to disgust
one with men altogether.'"

A deep, plaintive groan, something between a grunt and a sigh, from the
bed on which Alfred reposed, here interrupted Madame Pipelet.

"Ah, there's the old duck beginning to stir; he will not be long before
he wakes now. Will you excuse me, my king of lodgers?"

"Certainly; but I have yet some particulars to inquire of you."

"Oh, very well," answered Madame Pipelet. Then going up to her husband,
she drew back the curtains, saying, "How are you by this time, my old
chick? Look! there's M. Rodolph, who has heard all about this fresh
villainy of Cabrion's, and is as sorry about it as can be."

"Ah, M. Rodolph," murmured Alfred, languidly turning his head towards
the announced visitor, "this time the monster has struck at my heart; I
shall quit this bed no more. I am now the object of all the placards of
this vast city; my name is blazoned upon every wall in Paris, linked
with that of a wretch unworthy of mention. Yes, _mossieur_, there you
may see 'Pipelet and Cabrion,' bound together by an enormous band of
union. Yes, I--I--the injured Pipelet--united in bonds of seeming amity
and intimacy with that fellow Cabrion! Oh, _mossieur_, pity me! My name
joined with his in the eyes of all the dwellers of this great
capital,--the leading city of Europe!"

"Ah, M. Rodolph knows all about that; but he has yet to be told of your
yesterday's adventures with those two singular women, or whatever they
were."

"Alas, monsieur," sighed Alfred, in a mournful voice, "he reserved his
master-stroke of wickedness and fiendish malice till the last. This,
however, passes all bounds, and human patience can bear no more!"

"Come, my dear M. Pipelet, calm yourself, and endeavour to relate this
fresh annoyance to me."

"All that he has hitherto done to vex and insult me is as nothing
compared to his last malignant scheme to break my heart and ruin my
peace. But now the shameless monster has gone the full extent of
fiendish provocation. I know not whether I have the power of describing
to you the scene of last night; when I attempt to speak, shame,
confusion, and outraged modesty seem to deprive me of voice and breath."

M. Pipelet, having managed with some difficulty to raise himself in his
bed, modestly buttoned his flannel waistcoat up to his throat, and began
in the following terms:

"My wife had just gone out, absorbed in the bitter reflections arising
from the sight of my name so disgracefully prostituted on every wall in
Paris; I sought to while away my solitary hours by attending to the new
soling of a boot twenty times commenced and as often abandoned,--thanks
to the unceasing persecutions of my pitiless persecutor. Well, sir, I
was sitting at a table with the boot on my arm, though my thoughts were
far otherwise engaged, when I saw the lodge door open and a female
enter. The person who had just come in was wrapped in a large hooded
cloak, and, without thinking any harm, I civilly rose from my seat, and
put my hand to my hat. Then I observed another female, also attired in a
similar cloak, with a large hood, enter the lodge and shut the door
after her. Although somewhat astonished at the familiarity of such a
proceeding, and the silence maintained by both the women, I rose a
second time from my chair, and a second time I lifted my hand to my hat.
And then, sir,--but no, no, I can never finish the recital; my wounded
modesty chokes my utterance."

"Come, come, old pet," said Madame Pipelet, encouragingly, "get on with
your story; we are all men here."

"Well, then," stammered forth Alfred, his face becoming scarlet as the
fullest blown peony, "then their mantles fell to the ground. And what do
you think I saw? Why, a couple of sirens, or nymphs, or witches of one
kind or the other, with no sort of clothing except a petticoat made of
leaves, while a wreath of similar descriptions decorated their heads.
And then the two advanced towards me with outstretched arms, as though
inviting me to throw myself into them."

"Oh, the impudent sluts!" exclaimed Anastasie.

"Their impure advances disgusted me," continued Alfred, animated with a
chaste indignation; "and, in conformity with a habit which has ever
attended the most critical moments of my life, I remained still and
motionless on my chair. Then, profiting by my surprise and stupor, the
two sirens came gently forward to a sort of low music, turning and
twisting and extending their arms and legs in all directions. I became
petrified, as though changed to stone; I waited their approach in silent
agony. They came nearer and nearer, till at last they wrapped me tight
in their arms."

"Did they, though?" cried Anastasie. "Oh, the hussies! I only wish I had
been there with my broomstick; I'd have taught them how to come hopping
and skipping, and holding out their arms for an innocent, virtuous,
married man to tumble into,--I would, the bold-faced beggars!"

[Illustration: "_Slowly Dancing and Whirling around Me_"
Original Etching by Porteau]

"When I felt myself in a manner half stifled between them, I gave myself
up for lost. My blood retreated from my heart,--I felt as if struck with
death; when one of the sirens--a great, fair girl, and the boldest of
the two--leaned upon my shoulder, took off my hat, and, still slowly
dancing and whirling around me, left me bald-headed and defenceless.
Then the other one, accompanying the action with all sorts of attitudes
and singular dances, and waving of the arms, draws out a pair of
scissors she must have hid somewhere,--for I'm quite sure she had no
pockets,--came close behind me, and grasping with one hand all my
remaining hair, snipped it all off with one cut of her huge scissors;
yes, all,--every lock,--every hair I had to cover my poor old head;
dancing, and wheeling, and balancing, first on one foot, then on the
other, swaying out legs and arms in all sorts of stage-struck ways; then
joining voices, the pair of audacious spirits began singing, ''Tis for
Cabrion,--for Cabrion; we take your locks for Cabrion,--your dear friend
Cabrion!' Whilst the second voice repeated in a louder strain, 'Your
head is shorn for Cabrion,--for Cabrion, your friend!'"

After a pause, interrupted by repeated sighs and groans, Alfred resumed:

"During this impudent spoliation I once ventured to raise my eyes, and
then I saw flat against the windows of the lodge the detestable
countenance of Cabrion, with his large beard and pointed-crowned hat. He
was laughing, too,--laughing with all his might. Oh, how I shuddered at
the horrible vision! To escape from so harrowing a sight I closed my
eyes. When I opened them again all had disappeared, and I found myself
seated on my chair, bald-headed and completely disfigured for life. You
see, monsieur, that, by dint of obstinacy, impudence, and cunning,
Cabrion has at length effected his fell design. But by what fearful,
what diabolical means, has he succeeded! He wishes the world to believe
he is my accepted friend; began by sticking up a notice here in my
immediate neighbourhood to the effect that he and I had entered into a
treaty of friendship! Then, not content with so infamous an assertion,
he has caused my name, in conjunction with his own, to be displayed on
every wall in Paris, binding them together with an enormous band of
union, so that at this moment the whole of this vast capital is
impressed with the most perfect belief of my close intimacy with this
scoundrel. Then he desired locks of my hair, and he has every hair off
my head,--no doubt with the view, the guilty view, of exhibiting them as
proofs of our sworn friendship. Thanks to the merciless exaction of his
bold-faced dancing women, my last lock is stolen. So now, monsieur, you
see plainly there is nothing left for me but to quit France,--my lovely
and beloved France,--in whose dear bosom I had hoped to live and die!"

And with these pathetic words Alfred clasped his hands, closed his eyes,
and threw himself back upon his bed.

"Oh, nonsense, you old duck!" cried Anastasie. "On the contrary, now the
villain has gained his point and stolen your hair, he will let you alone
for the future. He has no further cause to disturb and torment you."

"Let me alone?" exclaimed M. Pipelet, with a convulsive spring upwards.
"Oh, you know him not; he is insatiable. True, he has got the hair he so
much desired to obtain; but who can say what he may further require of
me?"

The appearance of Rigolette at the entrance to the lodge put a stop to
the lamentations of M. Pipelet.

"Stay where you are, mademoiselle!" cried he, faithful to his habitual
chaste delicacy. "Pray don't think of coming in, for I am undressed and
in bed!" So saying, he covered himself up almost to his eyes, while
Rigolette, surprised and bewildered, remained at the threshold of the
door.

"Oh, my pretty neighbour," said Rodolph, pitying her confusion, "I was
just coming up to speak with you. Can you wait for me one minute?" Then
addressing Anastasie, he said, "Pray let nothing prevent your taking
Cecily to Jacques Ferrand's this evening."

"Make yourself perfectly easy, my king of lodgers; at seven o'clock
precisely she shall be duly placed there. Now that Morel's wife is able
to get about, I will ask her to mind the lodge for me while I am away;
for, bless you, Alfred would not stay by himself,--not for a 'varsal
crown!"

The bright freshness of Rigolette's complexion was daily fading away,
while her once round, dimpled cheek had sunk and given place to a pale,
careworn countenance, the usually gay, mirthful expression of which had
changed into a grave, thoughtful cast, more serious and mournful still
since her meeting with Fleur-de-Marie at the gate of St. Lazare.

"I am so glad to see you," said Rigolette to Rodolph, when they were at
a convenient distance from the lodge of Madame Pipelet. "I have so much
to say to you; I have, indeed."

"Well, then, first of all, tell me of yourself and your health. Let me
look at this pretty face, and see whether it is as gay and blooming as
usual. No, indeed. I declare you have grown quite pale and thin; I am
sure you work too hard."

"Oh, no, indeed, M. Rodolph, it is not that. On the contrary, my work
does me good; it hinders me from thinking too much, for I am obliged to
attend to what I am about. But it is grief, M. Rodolph, and nothing
else, that has altered me so much. And how can I help it? Every time I
see that poor Germain, I grieve more and more."

"He is still as desponding as ever, then?"

"Oh, worse than ever, M. Rodolph. And what is the most distressing is,
that, whatever I try to do to cheer him up, takes quite the contrary
effect; it seems as though a spell hung over me!" And here the large,
dark eyes of Rigolette were filled with tears.

"How do you know, my dear neighbour?"

"Why, only yesterday I went to see him, and to take him a book he was
desirous of having; it was a romance we read together when we lived
happily as near neighbours and dear friends. Well, directly he saw the
book, he burst into tears; but that did not astonish me,--it seemed
natural enough. Poor fellow! I dare say it brought back to his
recollection those happy evenings when he used to sit beside the fire in
my nice, pretty little room; while now he was in a horrid prison, the
companion of vile and wicked men, who only jeered at his melancholy.
Poor, dear Germain! It is very, very hard!"

"Take courage, my dear friend," said Rodolph. "When Germain quits his
prison, and his innocence is proved, he will find his mother and many
dear friends, in whose society, as well as in yours, he will soon forget
his present sufferings, as well as the hard trials he has undergone."

"That's all very pleasant when it arrives, but that won't stop his
tormenting himself till it does. But that is not all, neither."

"What other uneasiness has he?"

"Why, he being the only innocent man among all the bad people there,
they are always annoying and behaving ill to him, because he will not
join in their idle and vicious amusements. The head turnkey, who is a
very good sort of man, advised me to recommend Germain, for his own
sake, not to keep himself at quite such a distance from his companions,
but to try and familiarise himself with these bad men. However, it is no
use trying; he cannot bring himself to endure their company or
conversation. And I am constantly tormented with the dread that some of
these days they will do him some harm out of spite."

Then all at once interrupting herself, and drying her tears, Rigolette
resumed:

"But, dear me, how selfish I am! I keep talking of my own concerns
without ever recollecting to speak to you about the Goualeuse."

"The Goualeuse!" exclaimed Rodolph, with surprise.

"I met her the day before yesterday, when I went to see Louise at St.
Lazare."

"The Goualeuse?"

"Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph."

"At St. Lazare?"

"She was leaving the prison in company with an elderly female."

"It cannot be," exclaimed Rodolph, in extreme astonishment; "you must be
mistaken."

"I assure you it was herself, M. Rodolph."

"You really must be in error."

"Oh, no, I was not mistaken; although she was dressed as a country girl
I recollected her again directly. She looked beautiful as ever, though
pale; and she had just the same melancholy look she used to have."

"How very strange that she should be in Paris without my having heard of
it! I can scarcely credit it. And what had she been doing at St.
Lazare?"

"I suppose, like myself, she had been to see some one confined there;
but I had not time to ask her many questions, for the person who was
with her seemed so very cross, and to be in such a hurry! Then it seems
you know the Goualeuse as well as myself, M. Rodolph?"

"I do, certainly."

"Oh, then, that settles the matter! And it must have been of you she
spoke."

"Of me?"

"Yes, indeed, M. Rodolph. For, you see, I was just mentioning to her
what had happened to poor Louise and Germain,--both so good, yet so
persecuted by that wicked Jacques Ferrand,--taking care to do as you bid
me, and not say a word of your being interested in their welfare so then
the Goualeuse told me if a generous person she knew were once acquainted
with their hard fate, and how little they deserved it, he would be sure
to assist them. And then I asked her the name of the person she alluded
to, and she named you, M. Rodolph."

"Oh, then, it was her, sure enough."

"You can't imagine how much surprised we both were at this discovery,
either of resemblance or name; and before we parted we agreed to let
each other know whether our M. Rodolph was one and the same. And it
seems you are the very identical Rodolph both of La Goualeuse and
myself. Are you not, neighbour?"

"I believe so; and I can, at least, assure you I take the greatest
possible interest in the fate of this poor girl,--still I am much
surprised to find, by what you say, that she is in Paris. And so great
is my astonishment that, had you not so faithfully related your
interview, I should have persisted in believing you were mistaken. But I
must say good-bye for the present,--what you tell me respecting La
Goualeuse obliges me to quit you. Be as careful as ever in not
mentioning to any one that there are certain unknown friends watching
over the welfare both of Louise and Germain, who will come forward at a
right moment and see them safe through their troubles; it is more
essential than ever that strict secrecy should be kept on this point. By
the way, how are the Morel family getting on?"

"Oh, extremely well, M. Rodolph. The mother has quite got about again,
and the children are daily improving. Ah, the whole family owe their
life and happiness to you! You are so good and so generous to them."

"And how is poor Morel himself? Does he get any better?"

"Oh, dear, yes; I heard of him yesterday, he seems from time to time to
have some lucid moments, and hopes are entertained of his madness being
curable. So be of good heart, neighbour, take care of yourself, and
good-bye for the present."

"But first tell me truly, are you quite sure you want for nothing? Are
you still able to maintain yourself with the profits of your needle?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, M. Rodolph. I work rather later at night to make up
for my lost time during the day. But it does not matter much, for if I
go to bed I don't sleep."

"Poor, dear neighbour! Why, you have grown sadly out of spirits. I am
afraid that Papa Cretu and Ramonette don't sing much, if they wait for
you to set them the example."

"You are right enough, M. Rodolph, my birds have quite left off singing,
as well as myself. Now I know you will laugh at me, but I'll tell you
what I firmly think and believe,--the poor little creatures are aware
that I am dull and out of spirits, and instead of singing and warbling
as if their little throats would burst for joy when they see me, they
just give a little gentle twitter, as though they would not disturb me
for the world, but would be so glad to console me if they had the power.
It is very stupid of me to fancy such things, is it not, M. Rodolph?"

"Not at all! And I am quite sure that your affectionate friends the
birds have observed your being less happy than usual."

"Well, I'm sure I shouldn't wonder! The poor, dear things are so very
clever," said Rigolette, innocently, delighted to find her own opinion
as to the sagacity of her companions in solitude thus powerfully
confirmed.

"Oh, I am quite sure about it, nothing is more intelligent than
gratitude. But once more, good-bye,--I shall see you again soon, I hope,
and by that time, I trust your pretty eyes will have grown brighter,
your cheeks regained their usual roses, and your merry voice have
recovered all its gaiety, till Papa Cretu and Ramonette will scarcely be
able to keep up with you."

"Heaven grant you may prove a true prophet, M. Rodolph!" said Rigolette,
heaving a deep sigh. "But, good-bye, neighbour, don't let me keep you."

"Fare you well, for the present!"

Rodolph, wholly at a loss to understand why Madame Georges should have
brought or sent Fleur-de-Marie to Paris without giving him the least
intimation of her intention, hastened home for the purpose of
despatching a special messenger to the farm at Bouqueval.

Just as he entered the Rue Plumet he observed a travelling carriage
drawn up before the entrance of his hotel. The vehicle contained Murphy,
who had that instant returned from Normandy, whither he had gone, as the
reader is already aware, to counteract the base schemes of the stepmother
of Madame d'Harville and her infamous confederate, Bradamanti.




CHAPTER II.

MURPHY AND POLIDORI.


Sir Walter Murphy's features were beaming with satisfaction. When he
alighted from the carriage he gave a brace of pistols to one of the
prince's servants, took off his long travelling coat, and, without
giving himself time to change his clothes, followed Rodolph, who
impatiently had preceded him to his apartment.

"Good news, monseigneur! Good news!" exclaimed the squire, when he was
alone with Rodolph; "the wretches are unmasked, M. d'Orbigny is saved.
You despatched me just in time; one hour later and another crime would
have been committed."

"And Madame d'Harville?"

"Is overjoyed at having again acquired her father's affection; and full
of happiness at having arrived, thanks to your advice, in time to snatch
him from certain death."

"So, then, Polidori--"

"Was, in this instance, the worthy accomplice of Madame d'Harville's
stepmother. But what a wretch is this stepmother! What _sang-froid_!
What audacity! And this Polidori! Ah, monseigneur, you have frequently
desired to thank me for what you call my proofs of devotion."

"I have always said proofs of friendship, my dear Murphy."

"Well, monseigneur, never--no, never--has this friendship been exposed
to a severer trial than in this present case!" said the squire, with an
air half serious, half pleasant.

"What mean you?"

"The disguises of the coalman, the peregrinations in the Cite, and all
that sort of thing, they have been as nothing, actually nothing, when
compared with the journey I have just made with that infernal Polidori."

"What do you mean? Polidori?"

"I have brought him back with me."

"With you?"

"With me: judge what company! During twelve hours side by side with the
man I most despise and hate in the world,--I'd as soon travel with a
serpent--any beast of antipathy!"

"And where is Polidori now?"

"In the house in the Allee des Veuves, under good and safe guard."

"Then he made no resistance to following you?"

"None. I offered him the choice between being apprehended at once by the
French authorities, or being my prisoner in the Allee des Veuves,--he
didn't hesitate for an instant."

"You are right; it is best to have him thus in our grasp. You are worth
your weight in gold, my dear old Murphy. But tell me all about your
journey; I am impatient to know how this shameless woman, and her
equally shameless accomplice, were at last unmasked."

"Nothing could be more simple. I had only to follow the letter of your
instructions in order to terrify and crush these wretches. Under these
circumstances, monseigneur, you have served, as you always do, persons
of worth, and punished the wicked, noble preserver that you are!"

"Sir Walter! Sir Walter! Do you recollect the flatteries of the Baron de
Grauen?" said Rodolph, smiling.

"Well, then, monseigneur, I will begin,--or, perhaps, you would prefer
first reading this letter of the Marquise d'Harville's, which will
inform you on every point that occurred previous to my arrival, which so
completely confounded Polidori."

"A letter! Pray let me have it immediately."

Murphy gave the letter of the marquise to Rodolph, adding:

"As we had agreed, instead of accompanying Madame d'Harville to her
father's, I alighted at a small inn quite close to the chateau, where I
was to wait until the marquise sent for me."

Rodolph read what follows with tender and impatient solicitude:

     "MONSEIGNEUR:--After all I owe you already, I now owe to you my
   father's life. I will allow facts to speak for themselves; they
   will say better than I can what fresh accumulations of gratitude
   to you I have added to those already amassed in my heart.
   Understanding all the importance of the advice you sent to me by
   Sir Walter Murphy, who overtook me on my way to Normandy a short
   distance from Paris, I travelled as speedily as possible to the
   Chateau des Aubiers. I know not why, but the countenances of the
   persons who received me appeared to me sinister. I did not see
   amongst them any one of the old servitors of our house; no one
   knew me. I was obliged to tell them my name.

   "I learned that for several days my father had been suffering
   greatly, and that my stepmother had just brought a physician
   from Paris. I had no doubt but this was Doctor Polidori.
   Desirous of being immediately conducted to my father, I inquired
   for an old _valet de chambre_ to whom he was much attached; he
   had quitted the chateau some time previously. This I learned
   from a house-steward who had shown me to my apartment, saying
   that he would inform my stepmother of my arrival. Was it
   illusion or suspicion? It seemed to me that my coming annoyed
   the people at the chateau where all was gloomy and sinister. In
   the bent of mind in which I was we seek to draw inferences from
   the slightest circumstances. I remarked in every part traces of
   disorder and neglect, as if it had been too much trouble to take
   care of a house which was so soon to be abandoned. My
   uneasiness--my anxiety increased at every moment.

   "After having established my daughter and her governess in an
   apartment, I was about to proceed to my father, when my
   stepmother entered the apartment. In spite of her artfulness,
   in spite of the control which she ordinarily exercised over
   herself, she appeared alarmed at my sudden arrival. 'M.
   d'Orbigny does not expect your visit, madame,' she said to me,
   'and he is suffering so much that a surprise may be fatal. I
   think it, therefore, best that he should not be told of your
   arrival, for he would be unable to account for it, and--'

   "I did not allow her to finish. 'A terrible event has occurred,
   madame,' I said, 'M. d'Harville is dead, in consequence of a
   fatal imprudence. After so deplorable a result, I could no
   longer remain in Paris in my own house, and I have, therefore,
   come to my father's, in order to pass the first days of my
   mourning.'

   "'A widow! Ah, that, indeed, is unexpected happiness!' exclaimed
   my stepmother, in a rage. From what you know, monseigneur, of
   the unhappy marriage which this woman had planned in order to
   avenge herself on me, you will comprehend the brutality of her
   remark.

   "'It is because I fear you might be as unexpectedly happy as
   myself, madame, that I came here,' was my (perhaps imprudent)
   reply. 'I wish to see my father.'

   "'That's impossible, at this moment!' she replied, turning very
   pale; 'the sight of you would cause a dangerous degree of
   excitement.'

   "'If my father is so seriously ill,' I observed, 'why was I not
   informed of it?'

   "'Such was M. d'Orbigny's will,' replied my stepmother.

   "'I do not believe you, madame! and I shall go and assure myself
   of the truth,' I said, and turned towards the door of my
   chamber.

   "'I tell you again that the unexpected sight of you may have a
   most prejudicial effect on your father!' she cried, coming
   before me so as to hinder my further progress; 'I will not allow
   you to go into his room, until I have informed him of your
   arrival with all the care and precaution which his situation
   requires.'

   "I was in a cruel perplexity, monseigneur. A sudden surprise
   might really be dangerous to my father, but this woman,--usually
   so calm, so self-possessed--seemed to me so overcome by my
   presence, I had so many reasons to doubt the sincerity of her
   solicitude for the health of him whom she had married from
   cupidity; and then, too, the presence of Doctor Polidori, the
   murderer of my mother, caused me altogether such extreme alarm
   that, believing my father's life menaced, I did not hesitate
   between the hope of saving him and the fear of causing him
   severe emotion. 'I will see my father, and that instantly!' I
   said to my stepmother. And although she tried to retain me by
   the arm, I went out of the room. Completely losing her presence
   of mind, this woman tried a second time, and almost by force, to
   prevent me from quitting the chamber. This incredible resistance
   increased my alarm, I disengaged myself from her grasp, and,
   knowing my father's apartment, I ran thither with all speed, and
   entered the room.

   "Oh, monseigneur, during my life I never can forget that scene,
   and the picture presented to my eyes. My father, scarcely to be
   recognised, pale and meagre, with suffering depicted in every
   feature, his head reclining on a pillow, was lying extended on a
   large armchair. At the corner of the fireplace, standing close
   to him, was Doctor Polidori, just about to pour into a cup,
   which a nurse presented to him, some drops of a liquor contained
   in a small glass bottle which he held in his hand. His long red
   beard gave even a more than usually sinister appearance to his
   physiognomy. I entered so hastily that he gave a look of
   surprise at my stepmother, who followed me with hasty steps; and
   instead of handing to my father the draught he had prepared for
   him, he suddenly placed the phial on the mantelpiece. Guided by
   an instinct for which I am unable to account, my first movement
   was to seize the phial. Remarking instantly the surprise and
   alarm of my stepmother and Polidori, I congratulated myself on
   my promptitude. My father, amazed, seemed irritated at the sight
   of me. I expected this. Polidori darted at me a ferocious scowl,
   and, in spite of the presence of my father and the nurse, I
   feared the wretch, seeing his crime so nearly disclosed, would
   have recourse to violence with me. I felt the necessity of
   support at a moment so decisive; and ringing the bell, one of my
   father's servants came in, whom I requested to tell my _valet de
   chambre_ (who had already been informed) to go and seek some
   things I had left at the little inn. Sir Walter Murphy was aware
   that, in order not to arouse my stepmother's suspicions, in case
   it should be necessary to give my orders in her presence, I
   should employ this means of requesting him to come to me. Such
   was the surprise of my father and stepmother, that the servant
   quitted the room before they could utter a word. I felt my
   courage then rise, for, in a few minutes, Sir Walter Murphy
   would be at my side.

   "'What does all this mean?' said my father to me, in a voice
   feeble, but still angry and imperious. 'You here, Clemence
   without my sending for you? Then, scarcely arrived, you seize
   the phial containing the draught the doctor was about to give
   me. Will you explain this madness?'

   "'Leave the room,' said my stepmother to the nurse. The woman
   obeyed. 'Compose yourself, my dear!' said my stepmother,
   addressing my father; 'you know how injurious the slightest
   emotion is to you. Since your daughter will come here in spite
   of you, and her presence is so disagreeable to you, give me your
   arm. I will lead you into the small salon, and then our good
   doctor will make Madame d'Harville comprehend how imprudent her
   conduct has been, to say the least of it.' And she gave her
   accomplice a meaning look. I at once saw through my stepmother's
   design. She was desirous of leading my father away, and leaving
   me alone with Polidori, who, in this extreme case, no doubt,
   would have used force to obtain from me the phial which might
   supply so evident a proof of his criminal designs.

   "'You are right,' said my father to my stepmother. 'Since I am
   thus pursued, even in my private apartments, without respect for
   my wishes, I will leave the place free to intruders.' And rising
   with difficulty, he took the arm that was offered to him by my
   stepmother, and went towards the salon.

   "At this moment Polidori advanced towards me; but I went close
   up to my father and said to him, 'I will explain to you why I
   have arrived so suddenly, and what may appear strange in my
   conduct. I became yesterday a widow; and it was yesterday,
   father, that I learned your life was threatened.' He was walking
   very much bent, but at these words he stopped, threw himself
   erect, and looking at me with intense surprise, said:

   "'You are a widow? My life is threatened? What does all this
   mean?'

   "'And who dares threaten the life of M. d'Orbigny, madame?'
   asked my stepmother, most audaciously.

   "'Yes, who threatens it?' added Polidori.

   "'You, sir!--you, madame!' I replied.

   "'What horror!' exclaimed my stepmother, advancing a step
   towards me.

   "'What I assert I will prove, madame!' I replied.

   "'Such an accusation is most frightful!' cried my father.

   "'I will leave the house this very moment, since I am exposed to
   such shameful calumnies,' said Doctor Polidori, with the
   apparent indignation of a man whose honour has been outraged.
   Beginning to feel the danger of his position, no doubt, he was
   desirous of effecting his escape. At the moment when he was
   trying to open the door, it opened, and he found himself face to
   face with Sir Walter Murphy."

Rodolph ceased reading, held out his hand to the squire, and said:

"Well done, my good old friend; your presence must have crushed the
scoundrel!"

"That's precisely the word, monseigneur. He turned livid, receded a
couple of paces, looking at me aghast; he seemed thunderstruck. To find
me at the further extremity of Normandy, in such a moment, he must have
thought he had a terrible dream. But go on, monseigneur; you will see
that this infernal Comtesse d'Orbigny had her share of the overwhelming
shame, thanks to what you told me as to her visit to the charlatan
Bradamanti--Polidori--in the house in the Rue du Temple; for, after all,
it was you who acted in this, I assure you, and you came in most happily
and opportunely to the rescue on this occasion."

Rodolph smiled, and continued reading Madame d'Harville's letter:

   "At the sight of Sir Walter Murphy, Polidori was panic-struck;
   my stepmother went on from one surprise to another; my father,
   agitated at this scene, weakened by his malady, was compelled to
   sit down in an armchair. Sir Walter double-locked the door by
   which he had entered; and placing himself before that which led
   to the next apartment, that Doctor Polidori might not escape, he
   said to my poor father, with a tone of the utmost respect, 'A
   thousand pardons, Monsieur le Comte, for the liberty I take, but
   an imperious necessity, dictated by your interest alone (and
   which you will speedily recognise), compels me to act thus. My
   name is Sir Walter Murphy, as this wretch can testify, who at
   the sight of me trembles in every limb. I am the private adviser
   of his royal highness Monseigneur the Grand Duke Regnant of
   Gerolstein.'

   "'Quite true!' stammered forth Doctor Polidori, overcome with
   fright. 'But then, sir, what have you come here for? What seek
   you?'

   "'Sir Walter Murphy,' I observed, addressing my father, 'is here
   with me to unmask the wretches whose victim you have so nearly
   been.' Then handing the phial to Sir Walter, I added, 'I was
   suddenly tempted to seize on this phial at the moment when
   Doctor Polidori was about to pour some drops of the liquor it
   contains into a draught he was about to offer to my father.'

   "'A practitioner in the neighbouring village shall analyse
   before you the contents of this bottle, which I will deposit in
   your hands, M. le Comte; and if it is proved to contain a slow
   and sure poison,' said Sir Walter Murphy to my father, 'you
   cannot have any further doubt as to the dangers you have run,
   and which the tender care of your daughter will most happily
   have averted.'

   "My poor father looked by turns at his wife, Doctor Polidori,
   and Sir Walter, with an air of doubt and anxiety; his features
   betrayed indescribable anguish. No doubt but he resisted with
   all his might increasing and terrible suspicions, fearing to be
   obliged to confess the infamy of my stepmother. At length,
   concealing his head in his hands, he exclaimed, 'Oh, this is,
   indeed, horrible!--impossible! Am I in a dream?'

   "'No, it is no dream!' cried my stepmother, audaciously;
   'nothing can be more real than this atrocious calumny, concerted
   beforehand to destroy an unhappy woman, whose only crime is that
   of consecrating her whole existence to you. Come, come, my dear,
   do not remain a moment longer here!' she continued, addressing
   my father; 'I do not suppose that your daughter will have the
   insolence to retain you here against your will.'

   "'Yes, yes, let me go!' said my father, highly excited; 'all
   this is not true--cannot be true! I will not hear any more, my
   brain cannot endure it. Fearful misgivings would arise in my
   mind, which would embitter the few days I have still to live,
   and nothing could console me for so horrible a discovery.'

   "My father seemed to suffer so much, to be so despairing that,
   at all hazards, I resolved on putting an end to this scene,
   which was so acutely trying for him. Sir Walter guessed my
   desire, but desirous of full and entire justice, he replied to
   my father, 'But a few words more, M. le Comte. You will, no
   doubt, suffer chagrin of a most painful kind, when you detect in
   the woman's conduct, whom you believe attached to you by
   gratitude, a system of most atrocious ingratitude,--in herself a
   hypocritical monster. But you will find your consolation in the
   affections of your daughter, who has never failed you.'

   "'This passes all bounds!' cried my stepmother, with rage. 'And
   by what right, sir, and on what proofs, dare you to base such
   infamous calumnies? You say the phial contains poison? I deny
   it, and will deny it until you prove the contrary. And even
   supposing Doctor Polidori has by mistake confounded one medicine
   with another, is that a reason why you should dare to accuse me
   of having sought--desired to be his accomplice? Oh, no, no! I
   cannot go on! An idea so horrible is already a crime! Once
   again, sir, I defy you to say upon what proofs you and madame
   here dare rely to support this shameful calumny!' said my
   stepmother, with incredible audacity.

   "'Yes, on what proofs?' exclaimed my poor father; 'the torture I
   undergo must have an end.'

   "'I am not here, sir, without proofs, M. le Comte,' replied Sir
   Walter; 'and these proofs, the answer of this wretch shall
   supply to you instantly.' Then Sir Walter spoke in German to
   Doctor Polidori, who seemed to have suddenly assumed a little
   assurance, but lost it as soon."

"What did you say to him?" inquired Rodolph of the squire, pausing from
his perusal of the letter.

"A few significant words, monseigneur, something like this: 'You have
escaped by flight from the sentence passed upon you by law and justice
in the Grand Duchy; you live in the Rue du Temple, under the false name
of Bradamanti; we know the infamous calling you pursue there. You
poisoned the count's first wife. Three days since Madame d'Orbigny went
to find you, in order to bring you here to poison her husband. His royal
highness is in Paris, and has proofs of all I now aver. If you confess
the truth in order to confound this wretched woman, you may hope, not
for pardon, but for an amelioration of the punishment you deserve. You
will accompany me to Paris, where I will deposit you in a safe place,
until his royal highness decides on what shall be done with you. If not,
one of two things: either his royal highness will demand and obtain your
delivery up to him, or this very moment I will send for the nearest
magistrate, this phial containing the poison shall be handed to him, you
will be apprehended on the spot, and a search be made instantly at your
domicile in the Rue du Temple; you know how utterly that must compromise
you, and then the justice of the French courts will take its course.
Choose therefore.' These disclosures, accusations, and threats, which he
knew to be so well founded, succeeding each other thus rapidly,
overwhelmed the scoundrel, who did not dream of my being so thoroughly
informed. In the hope of diminishing his expected punishment, he did not
hesitate to sacrifice his accomplice, and replied to me, 'Interrogate
me, and I will disclose the whole truth as regards this woman.'"

"Capital! Excellent! my dear Murphy. I expected no less of you."

"During my conversation with Polidori, the features of Madame
d'Harville's stepmother became greatly agitated. Although she did not
understand German, she saw, by the increasing dejection of her
accomplice, by his deprecating attitude, that I controlled him. In a
state of fearful anxiety, she endeavoured to catch Polidori's glance, in
order to inspire him with courage, or implore his discretion, but he
carefully avoided looking towards her."

"And the count?"

"His agitation was inexpressible! With his clenched hands he grasped
convulsively the arms of his chair, the perspiration stood on his brow,
and he scarcely breathed, whilst his burning and fixed eyes never
quitted mine; his agony was equal to his wife's. The remainder of Madame
d'Harville's letter will tell you the conclusion of this painful scene,
monseigneur."

Rodolph continued the perusal of Madame d'Harville's letter:

   "After a conversation in German, which lasted for some minutes,
   between Sir Walter Murphy and Polidori, Sir Walter said to the
   latter, 'Now reply. Was it not madame,' and he looked towards my
   stepmother, 'who, during the illness of the count's first wife,
   introduced you to him as a physician?'

   "'Yes, it was!' replied Polidori.

   "'In order that you might serve the horrid projects of madame,
   were you not criminal enough to render mortal, by your deadly
   prescriptions, the malady of the Countess d'Orbigny, which was
   but slight in the first instance?'

   "'Yes!' replied Polidori. My father heaved a painful sigh,
   raised both his hands to heaven, and let them fall perfectly
   overcome.

   "'Lies and infamies!' cried my stepmother; 'it is all false,--a
   plot got up to destroy me!'

   "'Silence, madame!' said Sir Walter Murphy, in an authoritative
   voice. Then continuing to address Polidori, 'Is it true that
   three days since madame was at your residence in the Rue du
   Temple, No. 17, where you lived under the assumed name of
   Bradamanti?'

   "'That is true.'

   "'Did not madame propose to you to come here to assassinate the
   Comte d'Orbigny, as you had assassinated his wife?'

   "'Alas! I cannot deny it!' said Polidori.

   "At this overwhelming revelation my father rose up, then,
   extending his arms to me, he exclaimed, in a broken voice, 'In
   the name of your unfortunate mother, pardon, pardon! I made her
   suffer much, but I swear to you I was a stranger to the crime
   which led her to the tomb!' and before I could prevent it, my
   father fell at my knees. When Sir Walter and I raised him he had
   fainted. I rang for the servants. Sir Walter took Polidori by
   the arm and led him out of the room with him, saying to my
   stepmother, 'Believe me, madame, it is best for you to leave
   this house within an hour, otherwise I will deliver you up to
   justice.' The wretched woman left the room in a state of rage
   and affright, which you will easily conceive. When my father
   recovered his senses, all that had occurred seemed to him a
   horrid dream. I was under the sad necessity of imparting to him
   my first suspicions as to my mother's premature death,
   suspicions which your knowledge of Doctor Polidori's earlier
   crimes had converted into certainty. I also told him how my
   stepmother had persecuted me to the time of my marriage, and
   what had been her object in making me marry M. d'Harville. In
   proportion as my father had shown himself weak with respect to
   this woman, so was he now pitiless towards her. He was desirous
   of handing Madame d'Orbigny over to the tribunals. I represented
   to him the horrible scandal of such a process, the publicity of
   which must be so distressing to him; and I induced him to allow
   her as much as was requisite for her to live upon. I had
   considerable difficulty in persuading my father to these terms,
   and he then wished me to dismiss her. This task was so painful
   that I requested Sir Walter to perform it for me, which he did."

"I consented with pleasure," interrupted Murphy.

"And what said this woman?"

"Madame d'Harville kindly solicited a pension of a hundred louis for
this woman: this appeared to me not only kindness, but weakness; it was
bad enough to allow her to escape from justice; and the count agreeing
with me, it was arranged that we should give her in all twenty-five
louis to maintain her until she should find some occupation. 'And to
what occupation can I, the Countess d'Orbigny, turn?' she asked me,
insolently. '_Ma foi!_ that is your affair,--you may do as a nurse or
housekeeper; but take my advice and seek some humbler, more obscure
occupation, for if you have the daring to mention your name--a name
which you owe to a crime--people will be astonished to see the Countess
d'Orbigny reduced to such a condition; they will then begin to make
inquiries, and you may judge what will be the result, if you are so
indiscreet as to say one word of the past. Hide yourself, therefore, at
a distance,--try and become forgotten; become Madame Pierre or Madame
Jacques, and repent if you can.' 'And do you suppose, sir,' she said,
having, no doubt, resolved on a piece of stage effect, 'do you suppose
that I shall not sue for the advantage which my marriage settlement
awards me?' 'Why, madame, nothing can be more just; it will be
dishonourable of M. d'Orbigny not to execute his promises, and forget
all you have done--and particularly all you wished to do towards him. Go
to law--go to law! Try for justice, and, no doubt, it will right you
with your husband.' A quarter of an hour after our conversation the
wretch of a woman was on the road to the neighbouring town."

"You are right, it is painful to leave such an abandoned creature
unpunished, but a law proceeding is impossible."

   "I easily persuaded my father to leave Aubiers the same day,"

resumed Rodolph, continuing the perusal of Madame d'Harville's letter,

   "as too many painful feelings were excited by his being where he
   was. His weak health will be benefited by a few days' change of
   air and scene, as the doctor saw, whom Polidori had succeeded,
   and for whom I sent from the neighbouring town. My father wished
   him to analyse the contents of the phial, without giving him any
   information as to what had passed. The doctor informed us that
   he must do this at home, and that in two hours we should know
   the result of his scrutiny; which was that several doses of this
   liquor, composed with devilish skill, would, within a certain
   time, cause death, without leaving any traces beyond those of an
   ordinary malady, which he mentioned. In a few hours,
   monseigneur, I go with my father and daughter to Fontainebleau,
   where we shall remain for some time; then my father wishes to
   return to Paris, but not to my house, for I could not reside
   there after the late appalling event. As I mentioned in the
   beginning of my letter, monseigneur, facts prove all I shall owe
   to your inexhaustible care and solicitude. Forewarned by you,
   aided by your advice, strong in the assistance of your excellent
   and high-couraged Sir Walter, I have been enabled to snatch my
   father from certain death, and am again assured of his love.
   Adieu, monseigneur, it is impossible for me to say more; my
   heart is too full, and I explain but faintly all I feel."

                                       "D'ORBIGNY D'HARVILLE."

   "I open my letter to repair something I had, I regret to say,
   forgotten. According to your noble suggestion, I went to the
   prison of St. Lazare, to visit the poor women prisoners, and I
   found there an unhappy girl in whom you are interested. Her
   angelic mildness, her pious resignation, were the admiration of
   the respectable women who superintend the prisoners. To say that
   she is called La Goualeuse is to urge you to obtain her liberty
   instantly. The poor girl will tell you under what circumstances
   she was carried off from the asylum in which you had placed her,
   and was put in prison, where, at least, the candour and
   sweetness of her disposition have been appreciated. Permit me,
   also, to recall to you my two future protegees, the unhappy
   mother and daughter despoiled by the notary Ferrand,--where are
   they? I pray of you to try and discover them, so that, on my
   return to Paris, I may pay the debt I have contracted towards
   all unfortunate beings."

"What! Has La Goualeuse, then, left the Bouqueval farm?" inquired
Murphy, as much astonished as Rodolph at this fresh discovery.

"Just now I was informed that she had been seen quitting St. Lazare,"
replied Rodolph. "I am quite bewildered on the subject; Madame Georges's
silence surprises and disturbs me. Poor little Fleur-de-Marie, what
fresh disasters can have befallen her? Send a man on horseback directly
to the farm, and write to Madame Georges that I beg of her to come to
Paris instantly. Request M. de Grauen to procure for me a permission to
visit St. Lazare. By what Madame d'Harville says to me, Fleur-de-Marie
must be confined there. Yet, no," he added, "she cannot be there, for
Rigolette saw her leave the prison with an aged woman. Could it be
Madame Georges? If not, who could be the woman that accompanied La
Goualeuse?"

"Patience, monseigneur; before the evening you will know all about it.
Then to-morrow you can interrogate that vagabond Polidori, who has, he
assures me, important disclosures to make,--but to you alone."

"This interview will be most odious to me!" said Rodolph, sorrowfully;
"for I have never seen this man since the fatal day when I--"

Rodolph, unable to finish, hid his face in his hands.

"But, monseigneur, why accede to Polidori's request? Threaten him with
the justice of the French law, or immediate surrender to your authority,
and then he will reveal to me what he now declares he will only reveal
to you."

"You are right, my worthy friend; for the presence of this wretch would
make my terrible recollections even still more distressing, connected as
they are with incurable griefs,--from my father's death to that of my
daughter. I know not how it is, but as I advance in life the more I seem
to miss that dear child. How I should have adored her! How very dear and
precious to me she would have been, this offspring of my first love, of
my earliest and purest beliefs--or, rather, my young illusions! I should
have poured out on this innocent creature those treasures of affection
of which her hateful mother is so unworthy; and it seems to me that, as
I have dreamt, this child, by the beauty of her mind, the charm of her
qualities, would have soothed and softened all my griefs, all these
pangs of remorse, which are, alas, attached to her fatal birth."

"Monseigneur, I see with grief the increasing empire which these
regrets, as vain as they are bitter, assume over your mind."

After some moments' silence, Rodolph said to Murphy:

"I will now make a confession to you, my old friend. I love--yes, I
passionately love--a woman worthy of the noblest, the most devoted
affection. Since my heart has again expanded to all the sweetness of
love, since I am thus again affected by tender emotions, I feel more
deeply than ever the loss of my daughter. I might have feared that an
attachment of the heart would weaken the bitterness of my regrets. It is
not so; all my loving qualities--my affections--are but the keener. I
feel myself better, more charitable; and more than ever is it afflicting
to me not to have my daughter to adore."

"Nothing more easily explained, monseigneur,--forgive me the
comparison,--but, as certain men have a joyous and benevolent
intoxication, so you have good and generous love."

"Still, my hatred of the wicked has become more intense; my aversion for
Sarah increases, in proportion, no doubt, to the grief I experience at
my daughter's death. I imagine to myself that that wretched mother must
have neglected her, and that, when once her ambitious hopes were ruined
by my marriage, the countess, in her pitiless selfishness, abandoned our
daughter to mercenary hands, and, perhaps, my child died from actual
neglect. It is my fault, also. I did not then think of the sacred duties
which paternity imposes. When Sarah's real character was suddenly
revealed to me, I ought instantly to have taken my daughter from her,
and watched over her with love and anxiety. I ought to have foreseen
that the countess would make but a very unnatural mother. It is my
fault,--yes, indeed, my fault."

"Monseigneur, grief distracts you! Could you, after the sad event you
know of, delay for a day the long journey imposed on you, as--"

"As an expiator! You are right, my friend," said Rodolph, greatly
agitated.

"You have not heard anything of the Countess Sarah since my departure,
monseigneur?"

"No; since those infamous plots which twice nearly destroyed Madame
d'Harville, I have heard nothing of her. Her presence here is hateful to
me,--oppresses me; it seems as though my evil demon was near me, and
some new misfortune threatens me."

"Patience, patience, monseigneur! Fortunately Germany is forbidden
ground to her, and Germany awaits us."

"Yes, we shall go very soon. At least, during my short residence in
Paris, I shall have accomplished a sacred vow, and have made some steps
in the meritorious path which an august and merciful will has traced for
my redemption. As soon as Madame Georges's son is restored to her tender
arms, free and innocent; as soon as Jacques Ferrand shall be convicted
and punished for his crimes; as soon as I am assured of the good
prosperity of all the honest and hard-working creatures who, by their
resignation, courage, and probity, have deserved my interest, we will
return to Germany, and then my journey will not have been wholly
unfruitful."

"Particularly if you achieve the exposure of that abominable wretch,
Jacques Ferrand, monseigneur,--the angular stone, the pivot on which
turn so many crimes."

"Although the end justifies the means, and scruples with such a
scoundrel are absurd, yet I sometimes regret that I have allowed Cecily
to become an instrument in working out this just and avenging
reparation."

"She ought to be here very shortly."

"She has arrived."

"Cecily?"

"Yes; I refused to see her. De Grauen has given her ample instructions,
and she has promised to comply with them."

"Will she keep that promise?"

"Why, everything conspires to make me think so. There is the hope of
ameliorating her future condition, and the fear of being instantly sent
back to Germany to prison; for De Grauen will not lose sight of her, and
the least defection on her part will cause her being handed over to
justice."

"True, she comes here as an escaped criminal, and when we know the
crimes that have led to her perpetual imprisonment, she would be at once
surrendered to our demand."

"And then, even if it were not her interest to aid our schemes, the task
which is assigned to her being one which can only be effected by
stratagem, perfidy, and the most devilish seduction, Cecily must be (and
the baron assures me she really is) overjoyed at such an opportunity for
playing off those infernal advantages with which she is so liberally
endowed."

"Is she as handsome as she was, monseigneur?"

"De Grauen declares that she is more attractive than ever; he told me
that he was really quite dazzled at her beauty, to which the Alsatian
costume she had chosen gave even more piquancy. The glance of this devil
in petticoats, he says, has still the same really magic expression."

"Why, monseigneur, I have never been what is called a dissipated fellow,
a man without heart or conduct, but if at twenty years of age I had met
with Cecily, even knowing her then to be as dangerous, as wicked as I do
now, I assure you I would not have answered for myself, if I had been
for any time exposed to the fire of her large, black, and brilliant
eyes, sparkling in the centre of her pale and ardent countenance. Yes,
by heaven! I dare not think of the extremities into which so fatal an
amour might have urged me."

"I am not astonished, my dear Murphy, for I know this woman. Moreover,
the baron was really frightened at the quickness with which Cecily
understood--or, rather guessed--the part, at once inciting and platonic,
which she was to play with the notary."

"But will she, think you, be introduced as easily as you wish,
monseigneur, by the intervention of Madame Pipelet? Individuals like
Jacques Ferrand are so suspicious."

"I had relied, with reason, on the sight of Cecily to overcome and
dissipate the notary's distrust."

"What! Has he already seen her?"

"Yesterday. And from what Madame Pipelet told me, I have no doubt but he
was fascinated by the creole, for he instantly took her into service."

"Then, monseigneur, the game is won, and ours."

"I hope so. A ferocious cupidity, a brutal passion, have impelled the
injurer of Louise Morel to the most odious crimes. It is in his passion
and his cupidity that he shall find the terrible punishment of his
crimes,--a punishment which, moreover, shall not be without fruit for
his victims, for you know the aim of all the Creole's wiles."

"Cecily! Cecily! Never did greater wickedness, never more dangerous
corruption, never blacker soul have served for the accomplishment of a
more strict morality, a more just result! And David, monseigneur, what
does he say to this arrangement?"

"Approves of everything. At the pitch of contempt and horror which he
has reached for this creature, he sees in her only the instrument of a
just vengeance. 'If this accursed woman ever could deserve any
commiseration after all the ill she has done me,' he said to me, 'it
would be by devoting herself to the remorseless punishment of this
scoundrel, whose exterminating demon she may become.'"

A servant having knocked at the door, Murphy went out, but soon returned
with two letters, only one of which was for Rodolph.

"A line from Madame Georges," he said, as he hastily perused it.

"Well, monseigneur, and La Goualeuse?"

"There can be no further doubt," exclaimed Rodolph, after having read,
"there is some dark plot afoot. On the evening of the day when the poor
girl disappeared from the farm, and at the instant when Madame Georges
was about to inform me of this event, a man unknown to her, sent express
and on horseback, came as from me to tell her that I was aware of the
sudden disappearance of Fleur-de-Marie, and that in a few days I should
take her back to the farm. In spite of this, Madame Georges, uneasy at
my silence with respect to her protegee, cannot, as she says, resist the
desire to hear how her dear daughter is, for so she calls her."

"It is very strange, monseigneur."

"What could be the motive for carrying off Fleur-de-Marie?"

"Monseigneur!" said Murphy, suddenly, "the Countess Sarah is no stranger
to this carrying off."

"Sarah! And what makes you think so?"

"Compare this event with her denunciations against Madame d'Harville."

"You are right!" cried Rodolph, struck with a sudden light, "it is
evident--now I understand. Yes, constantly the one calculation. The
countess persists in thinking that by breaking down all the affections
which she supposes me to form, she will make me feel the necessity of
attaching myself to her. This is as odious as it is absurd. Still, such
unworthy persecution must be put a stop to. It is not only myself, but
all that deserve respect, interest, and pity, that this woman assails.
Send M. de Grauen instantly and officially to the countess and let him
say that I have the certain assurance that she has been instrumental in
carrying off Fleur-de-Marie, and if she does not give me at once such
information as is necessary for me to find the poor girl, I will show no
mercy; and then M. de Grauen will go to the law officers of the crown."

"According to Madame d'Harville's letter, La Goualeuse must be in St.
Lazare."

"Yes, but Rigolette declares that she saw her free, and quit the prison.
There is some mystery which I must clear up."

"I will instantly go and give the Baron de Grauen your orders,
monseigneur. But allow me to open this letter, which comes from my
correspondent at Marseilles, to whom I had recommended the Chourineur,
as he was to facilitate the passage of the poor devil to Algeria."

"Well, has he set sail?"

"Monseigneur, it is really singular!"

"What is it?"

"After having waited for a long time at Marseilles for a ship to convey
him to Algeria, the Chourineur, who seemed every day more sad and
serious, suddenly protested, on the very day fixed for his embarkation,
that he should prefer returning to Paris."

"What a whim!"

"Although my correspondent had, as agreed, placed a considerable sum at
the disposal of the Chourineur, he had only taken sufficient for his
return to Paris, where he must shortly arrive."

"Then he will explain to us his change of resolution. But despatch De
Grauen immediately to the Countess Macgregor, and go yourself to St.
Lazare, and inquire about Fleur-de-Marie."

       *       *       *       *       *

After the lapse of an hour, the Baron de Grauen returned from the
Countess Sarah Macgregor's. In spite of his habitual and official
_sang-froid_, the diplomatist seemed overwhelmed; the groom of the
chambers had scarcely admitted him before Rodolph observed his paleness.

"Well, De Grauen, what ails you? Have you seen the countess?"

"Your royal highness must prepare for very painful intelligence--so
unexpected--the Countess Macgregor--"

"The countess, then, is dead?"

"No, but her life is despaired of; she has been stabbed with a
stiletto."

"Horrible!" exclaimed Rodolph. "Who committed the crime?"

"That is not ascertained; the murder was accompanied with robbery; a
large quantity of jewels have been stolen."

"And how is she now?"

"She has not recovered her senses yet; her brother is in despair."

"Send some one daily to make inquiries, my dear De Grauen."

At this moment Murphy entered, having returned from St. Lazare.

"Sad news!" said Rodolph to him; "Sarah has been stabbed."

"Ah, monseigneur, though very guilty, one must still pity her."

"Yes, such a fearful end! And La Goualeuse?"

"Set at liberty by the intercession of Madame d'Harville."

"That is impossible! for Madame d'Harville entreats me to take the
necessary steps for getting the poor, unhappy girl out of prison."

"Yet an elderly woman came to St. Lazare, bringing an order to set
Fleur-de-Marie at liberty, and they both quitted the prison together."

"As Rigolette said. But this elderly woman, who can she be? The Countess
Sarah alone can clear this up, and she is in no state to afford us
particulars."

"But her brother, Tom Seyton, may throw some light on it, he has always
been in his sister's confidence."

"His sister is dying, and if there is any fresh plot, he will not say a
word. But," added Rodolph, "we must learn the name of the person who
liberated Fleur-de-Marie, and then we shall arrive at something."

"True, monseigneur."

"Try, then, and find out this person, my dear De Grauen; and if you do
not succeed, put your M. Badinot on the scent."

"Your royal highness may rely on my zeal."

"Upon my word, monseigneur," said Murphy, "it is, perhaps, fortunate
that the Chourineur returns to us, his services may be useful."

"You are right; and now I am impatient to see my brave preserver arrive
in Paris, for I never can forget that I owe my life to him."




CHAPTER III.

THE CLERK'S OFFICE.


Several days had elapsed since Jacques Ferrand had taken Cecily into his
service. We will conduct the reader (who already knows the place) into
the notary's office, whilst his clerks are at breakfast. Unheard of,
extravagant, wonderful thing! Instead of the meagre and repulsive broth
brought each morning to these young men by the late Madame Seraphin, an
enormous cold roast turkey, placed in a large box, was enthroned in the
centre of one of the office-tables, flanked by two new loaves, a Dutch
cheese, and three bottles of wine; an ancient leaden inkstand served to
hold a mixture of pepper and salt. Each clerk, provided with a knife and
a strong appetite, awaited the arrival of the head clerk with hungry
impatience, without whom they could not, without a breach of etiquette,
begin to breakfast. A revolution so radical in Jacques Ferrand's office
bespoke some extraordinary domestic mutation. The following conversation
may throw some light on this phenomenon:

"Here is a turkey who did not expect when he was ushered into life ever
to appear on the breakfast-table of our governor's clerks."

"No more than the governor, when he was ushered into the life of a
notary, expected to give his clerks a turkey for breakfast."

"But, at least, the turkey is ours!" said the junior fag of the office,
with a greedy grin.

"Hop-the-Gutter, my friend, you forget yourself; this poultry is and
must be a stranger to you."

"And, like a good Frenchman, you should have a wholesome hatred of the
stranger."

"All that will come to your share may be his feet."

"Emblem of the velocity with which you run on the office errands."

"I thought I might at least have a right to the carcass to pick!"
muttered Hop-the-Gutter.

"Perchance, as an excessive favour, but not as a right; just as with the
Charter of 1814, which was but another carcass of liberty!" said the
Mirabeau of the office.

"Talking of carcasses," observed one youth, with brutal insensibility,
"may heaven receive the soul of Madame Seraphin! For since she was
drowned in her water-party of pleasure, we are no longer condemned to
eternal 'cag-mag.'"

"And, for a whole week, the governor, instead of giving us breakfast--"

"Allows us each two francs a day."

"It was that which made me say, 'Heaven receive the soul of Mother
Seraphin!'"

"Talking of Madame Seraphin, who has seen the servant who has come in
her place?"

"The Alsatian girl whom the portress of the house in which poor Louise
lived brought one evening, as the porter told us?"

"Yes."

"_Parbleu!_ It is quite impossible to get a glimpse of her; for the
governor is more resolute than ever in preventing us from entering into
the pavilion in the courtyard."

"And besides, as it is the porter who now cleans out the office, how can
one see this damsel?"

"Well, I've seen her."

"You?"

"When I say I've seen her, I've seen her cap; such a rum cap!"

"Oh, pooh! What sort?"

"It was cherry-coloured velvet, I think; a kind of skull-cap like the
'buy-a-broom' girls wear."

"Like the Alsaciennes? Why, that's simple enough, as she is an
Alsacienne!"

"I was passing across the yard the day before yesterday, and she was
leaning with her back against one of the windows of the ground floor."

"What! The yard?"

"No, donkey, no,--the servant! The panes of the lower part are so dirty
that I could not see much of the Alsacienne; but those in the middle of
the window were not so grubby, and I saw her cherry-coloured cap and a
profusion of curling hair as black as jet, for she had her head dressed
_a la Titus_."

"I'm sure the governor has not seen even as much as that through his
spectacles; for he is one who, as they say, if he were left alone with
one woman on the earth, then the world would end."

"That is not astonishing. 'He laughs best who laughs last!' And the more
so, as 'Punctuality is the politeness of monarchs!'"

"Jupiter! How stupid Chalamel is when he likes!"

"Deuce take it! Tell me where you go, and I'll tell you who you are!"

"Beautiful!"

"As for me, I think it is superstition which makes our governor more and
more hoggish."

"And, perhaps, it is as a penitence that he gives us forty sous a day
for our breakfast."

"He must, indeed, have taken leave of his senses."

"Or be ill."

"I have thought him very much bewildered these many days past."

"It is not that we see so much of him. He who, for our misery, was in
his study at sunrise, and always at our backs, is now two days without
even poking his nose into the office."

"That gives the head clerk so much to do."

"And we are obliged to die of hunger waiting for him this morning."

"What a change in the office!"

"How poor Germain would be astonished if any one told him, 'Only think,
old fellow, of the governor giving us forty sous for our breakfast.'
'Pooh! Impossible!' 'Quite possible! And I, Chalamel, announce the fact
in my own proper person.' 'What, you want to make me laugh?' 'Yes. Well,
this is the way it came about. For the two or three days which followed
the death of Madame Seraphin we had no breakfast at all; and, in one
respect, that was an improvement, because it was less nasty, but, in
another, our refection cost us money. Still we were patient, saying,
"The governor has no servant or housekeeper; as soon as he gets one we
shall resume the filthy paste gruel." No, by no means, my dear Germain;
the governor has a servant, and yet our breakfast continued buried in
the wave of oblivion. Then I was appointed as a deputation to inform the
governor of the griefs of our stomachs. He was with the chief clerk. "I
will not feed you any longer in the morning," he replied, in his harsh
tone, and as if thinking of something else; "my servant has no time to
prepare your breakfast." "But, sir, it was agreed that you should find
us in breakfasts." "Well, send for your breakfasts from some house, and
I will pay for it. How much is sufficient,--forty sous each?" he added;
all the time evidently thinking of something else, and saying forty sous
as he would say twenty sous or a hundred sous. "Yes, sir, forty sous
will be sufficient," cried I, catching the ball at the bound. "Be it so;
the head clerk will pay you and settle with me." And so saying, the
governor respectfully slammed the door in my face.' You must own,
messieurs, that Germain would be most extraordinarily astonished at the
liberality of the governor."

"Seriously, I think the governor is ill. For the last ten days he has
scarcely been recognisable; his cheeks are so furrowed you could hide
your fist in them."

"And so absent; you should just see him. The other day he lifted his
spectacles to read a deed, and his eyes were as red and glaring as fiery
coals."

"He was right. 'Short reckonings make long friends!'"

"Let me say a word. I will tell you, gentlemen, something very strange.
I handed this deed to the governor, and it was topsy-turvy."

"The governor? How strange! What could he mean by topsy-turvying thus?
Enough to choke him, unless, as you say, his habits are so completely
altered."

"Oh, what a fellow you are, Chalamel! I say I gave him the deed wrong
end up'ards."

"Wasn't he in a rage?"

"Not the slightest. He did not even notice it, but kept his great red
eyes fixed upon it for at least ten minutes, and then handed me back the
deed, saying, 'Very good!'"

"What, still topsy-turvy?"

"Yes."

"Then he couldn't have read it?"

"_Pardieu!_ not unless he can read upside down."

"How odd!"

"The governor looked so dull and cross at the moment that I did not dare
to say a word, and so I left him, just as if nothing had occurred."

"Well, four days ago I was in the head clerk's office; there came a
client, then two or three clients with whom the governor had
appointments. They got tired of waiting; and, at their request, I went
and knocked at his study door. No answer; so in I went."

"Well?"

"M. Jacques Ferrand had his arms crossed on his desk, and his bald and
not overdelicate forehead leaning on his hands. He never stirred."

"Was he asleep?"

"I thought so, and went towards him: 'Sir, there are clients waiting
with whom you have made appointments.' He didn't stir. 'Sir!' No answer.
Then I touched his shoulder, and he bounced up as if the devil had
bitten him. In his start his large green spectacles fell from his eyes
on to his nose, and I saw--you'll never believe it--"

"Well, what?"

"Tears."

"Oh, what nonsense!"

"Quite true."

"What! the governor snivel? No, I won't have that."

"When that's the case why cockchafers will play the cornet-a-piston."

"And cocks and hens wear top-boots."

"Ta, ta, ta, ta; all your folly will not prevent my having seen what I
did see as plain as I see you."

"Weeping?"

"Yes, weeping. And he was in such a precious rage at being surprised in
this lachrymose mood that he adjusted his spectacles in great haste, and
said to me, 'Get out--get out!' 'But, sir--' 'Get out!' 'Three clients
are waiting to whom you have given appointments, and--' 'I have not
time; let them go to the devil along with you!' Then he got up in a
desperate rage to turn me out, but I didn't wait, but went and dismissed
the clients, who were not by any means satisfied; but, for the honour of
the office, I told them that the governor had the whooping-cough."

This interesting conversation was interrupted by the head clerk, who
entered apparently quite overcome. His arrival was hailed by general
acclamation, and all eyes were sympathetically turned towards the
turkey with impatient anxiety.

"Without saying a word, seigneur, you have kept us waiting an infernally
long while," said Chalamel.

"Take care! Another time our appetite will not remain so subordinate."

"Well, gents, it was no fault of mine. I have had much to annoy
me,--more than you have. On my word and honour, the governor must be
going mad."

"Didn't I say so?"

"But that need not prevent one eating."

"On the contrary."

"We can talk just as well with something in our mouths."

"We can talk better," cried Hop-the-Gutter; whilst Chalamel, dissecting
the turkey, said to the head clerk:

"What makes you think that the governor is mad?"

"We have a right to suppose he is perfectly beside himself when he
allows us forty sous a head for our daily breakfast."

"I confess that has surprised me as much as yourselves, gents. But that
is nothing--absolutely nothing--to what has just now occurred."

"Really?"

"What! has the unhappy old gent become so decidedly lunatic that he
insists on our dining at the Cadran Bleu every day at his expense?"

"Theatre in the evening?"

"Then coffee, with punch to follow?"

"And then--"

"Gents, laugh as much as you please; but the scene I have just witnessed
is rather alarming than pleasant."

"Well, then, relate this scene to us."

"Yes, do. Don't mind your breakfast," observed Chalamel; "we are all
ears."

"And jaws, my lads. I think I see you whilst I am talking working away
with your teeth; and the turkey would be finished before my tale. By
your leave, patience, and the story shall come in with the dessert."

Whether it was the spur of appetite or curiosity which incited the young
men we will not decide, but they went through their gastronomic
operation with such celerity that the moment for the head clerk's
history came in no time. In order that they might not be surprised by
their employer, they sent Hop-the-Gutter into the adjoining room as a
sentinel, having liberally supplied him with the carcass and drumsticks
of the bird.

The head clerk then said to his colleagues, "You must know, in the first
place, the porter has been very uneasy, for he has frequently seen M.
Ferrand, in spite of the cold and rain, pace the garden at night for a
considerable time. Once he ventured to ask his master if he wanted
anything; but he sent him about his business in such a manner that he
has not again ventured to intrude himself."

"Perhaps the governor is a sleep-walker?"

"That is not probable. But, to continue; a short time since I wanted his
signature to several papers. As I was turning the handle of his door, I
thought I heard some one speaking. I stopped, and made out two or three
repressed sounds, like stifled groans. After pausing an instant in fear,
I opened the door, and saw the governor kneeling on the floor, his
forehead buried in his hands, and his elbows resting on the seat of one
of his old armchairs."

"Oh, it's all plain enough: he has turned pious, and was saying an extra
prayer."

"Well, then, it was a strong prayer enough. I heard stifled groans, and
every now and then he murmured between his teeth '_Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!
mon Dieu!_' like a despairing man. Then,--and this is very singular,--in
a movement which he made as if to tear his breast with his nails, his
shirt came partly open, and I saw on his hairy chest a small red
pocketbook fastened around his neck by a steel chain. When I saw that I
did not really know whether I ought to retreat or advance. I remained,
however, very much embarrassed, when he rose and suddenly turned around,
holding between his teeth an old check pocket-handkerchief; his
spectacles were left on the chair. Let me say, gents, that I never in my
life saw such a figure; he looked like one of the damned. I retreated
really in alarm. Then he--"

"Seized you by the throat?"

"You are quite wrong. He looked at me first with a bewildered air; then
letting fall his handkerchief, he threw himself into my arms,
exclaiming, 'Oh, I am very unhappy!'"

"What a farce!"

"Well, but that did not prevent his voice--in spite of his death's-head
look--from being so distressing, I may say so imploring--"

"Imploring! Come, come, no gammon! Why, there is no night-owl with a
cold in her head which is not music to the governor's voice."

"That may be; but yet at this moment his voice was so plaintive that I
was almost affected. 'Sir,' I said to him, believe me--' 'Let me!--let
me!' replied he, interrupting me. 'It is so consoling to be able to say
to any one that we are suffering!' He evidently mistook me for some
other person. You may suppose that when he thus addressed me I felt sure
it was a mistake, or that he had a brain fever. I disengaged myself from
him, saying, 'Sir, compose yourself, it is I!' Then he looked at me with
a stupid air, and exclaimed, 'Who is it? Who's there? What do you want
with me?' And he passed, at each question, his hand over his brow, as if
to dispel the cloud which obscured his mind."

"Which obscured his mind! Capital! Well spoken! We'll get up a melodrama
amongst us!

    "'Methinks a man with such a power of words,
      Should try his hand at melodrame!'"

"Chalamel, will you be quiet?"

"What could ail the governor?"

"_Ma foi!_ How can I tell? But of this I'm sure, that when he recovers
he'll sing to another tune, for he frowned terribly, and said to me
sharply, without giving me time to reply, 'What did you come for? Have
you been here long? Am I to be surrounded with spies? What did I say?
Reply--answer!' _Ma foi!_ he looked so savage that I replied, 'I heard
nothing, sir; I only this moment entered.' 'You are not deceiving me?'
'No, sir.' 'Well, what do you want?' 'Some signatures, sir.' 'Give me
the papers!' And then he signed and signed--without reading--half a
dozen notarial deeds; he who never put his initials to a deed without
spelling it over word by word, and twice over from one end to the other.
I remarked that from time to time his hand relaxed in the middle of his
signature, as if he were absorbed in some fixed idea; then he went on
signing very quick, and, as it were, convulsively. When all were signed
he told me to retire, and I heard him descend the small staircase which
leads from his room to the courtyard."

"I still ask what can be the matter with him?"

"Gentlemen, it is perhaps Madame Seraphin whom he regrets."

"He? What, he regret any one?"

"Now I think of it, the porter said that the cure of Bonne Nouvelle and
the vicar had called several times to see the governor, and he was
denied to them. Is not that surprising?--they who almost lived here!"

"What puzzles me is to know what the workpeople are at."

"They have been working at the pavilion three days running."

"And one evening they brought furniture covered up with a carpet."

"Perhaps he feels remorse for having put Germain into prison?"

"Talking of Germain, he will have some fine recruits in his prison, poor
fellow! For I read in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_ that the band of
robbers and assassins, whom they seized in the Champs Elysees, in one of
the small underground public-houses, had been locked up in La Force."

"Poor Germain! What society for him!"

"Louise Morel, too, will have her share of the recruits; for in this
gang, they say, there is a whole family of thieves."

"Then they will send the women to St. Lazare, where Louise is?"

"Perhaps it was some of that gang who stabbed the countess, one of the
governor's clients. He has often sent me to inquire after the state of
this countess, and seems much interested in her recovery."

"Did they let you enter the house and see the spot where the
assassination was committed?"

"Oh, no! I could not go farther than the entrance; and the porter was
not at all a person inclined to talk."

"Gents, gents, take your places; here's the gov'nor coming up!" shouted
Hop-the-Gutter, coming into the office with the carcass still in his
hand.

The young men instantly took their seats at their respective desks, over
which they bent, handling their pens with great dexterity; whilst
Hop-the-Gutter deposited his turkey's skeleton in a box filled with law
papers.

Jacques Ferrand entered the room. His red hair, mingled with gray,
escaping from beneath an old black silk cap, fell in disorder down each
side of his temples. Some of the veins which marbled his head appeared
injected with blood, whilst his face, his flat nose, his furrowed
cheeks, were all of ghastly paleness. The expression of his look,
concealed by his large green spectacles, could not be seen; but the
great alteration in the man's features announced the ravages of a
consuming passion.

He crossed the office slowly, without saying a word to one of the
clerks, or without even appearing to notice that they were there; then
went into the room in which the chief clerk was employed, traversed it
as well as his own cabinet, and again instantly descended the small
staircase which led to the courtyard.

Jacques Ferrand having left all the doors open behind him, the clerks
had a right to be astonished at the strange demeanour of their employer,
who had come up one staircase and gone down another without pausing for
a moment in any of the apartments he had mechanically traversed.




CHAPTER IV.

AVOID TEMPTATION!


It is night. Profound silence reigns in the pavilion inhabited by
Jacques Ferrand, interrupted only at intervals by gusts of wind and the
dashing of rain, which falls in torrents. These melancholy sounds seemed
to render still more complete the solitude of this abode. In a
sleeping-room in the first floor, very nicely and newly furnished, and
covered with a thick carpet, a young female is standing up before a
fireplace, in which there is a cheerful blaze. It is strange, but in the
centre of the door, carefully bolted, and which is opposite to the bed,
is a small glass door, five or six inches square, which opens from the
outside. A small reflecting lamp casts a half shadow in this chamber,
hung with garnet-coloured paper; the curtains of the bed and the window,
as well as the cover of the large sofa, are of silk and woollen damask
of the same colour. We are precise in the details of this demi-luxury so
recently imported into the notary's residence, because it announces a
complete revolution in the habits of Jacques Ferrand, who, until now,
was of the most sordid avarice, and of Spartan disregard (especially as
it concerned others) to everything that respected comfortable existence.
It is on this garnet-coloured ground that was shadowed forth the figure
of Cecily, which we will now attempt to paint.

Tall and graceful, the creole was in the full flower of her age. Her
spreading shoulders and hips made her waist appear so singularly small
that it seemed as if it could be easily spanned. As simple as it was
coquettish, her Alsatian costume was of singular taste, somewhat
theatrical,--but for that reason more capable of producing the effect
she desired. Her bodice, of black cassimere, half open on her full
bosom, was very long-waisted, with tight sleeves, plain back, and
slightly embroidered with purple wool down the seams, perfected by a row
of small cut silver buttons. A short petticoat, of orange merino, which
seemed of vast fullness, descended little lower than the knee; her
stockings were of scarlet, with blue clocks, as we see them in the
drawings of the old Flemish painters, who so complacently show us the
garters of their robust heroines.

No artist ever drew more perfect legs than were those of Cecily:
symmetrical and slim beneath the swelling calf, they terminated in a
small foot, quite at ease, and yet restrained in a small slipper of
black morocco, with silver buckles. Cecily was looking into the glass
over the mantelpiece. The slope of her bodice displayed her elegant and
dimpled neck of dazzling but not transparent whiteness.

Taking off her cap of cherry-coloured velvet to replace it with a
kerchief, she displayed her thick, magnificent head of hair, of lustrous
black, which, divided over her brows, and naturally curling, came down
only to the necklace of Venus, which unites the neck and shoulders.

It is necessary to know the inimitable taste with which the Creoles
twist around their heads their kerchiefs of bright hues, to have an idea
of the graceful head-dress of Cecily, and the piquant contrast of this
variegated covering of purple, blue, and orange, with the black silky
tresses, which, escaping from beneath the tight fold of the
nightkerchief, surrounded her pale but round and firm cheeks. With her
two arms raised above her head, she proceeded with the ends of her
fingers, as slender as spindles of ivory, to arrange a large rosette,
placed very low on the left side, almost over the ear.

Cecily's features were such as once seen it is impossible ever to
forget. A bold forehead, somewhat projecting, surmounts her face, which
was a perfect oval; her pearly white complexion, the satiny freshness of
the camelia leaf slightly touched by a sun-ray; her eyes, of almost
disproportionate size, have a singular expression, for their irises,
extremely large, black, and brilliant, hardly allow the blue
transparency of the orbits, at the two extremities of the lids, fringed
with long lashes, to be visible; her chin is very distinctly prominent;
her nose, straight and thin, ends in two delicate nostrils, which dilate
on the least emotion; her mouth, insolent and amorous, is of bright
purple.

We must imagine this colourless countenance, with its bright black
glance, its two red, pulpy, and humid lips, which glisten like wet
coral. Such was Cecily. Her infamous instincts, at first repressed by
her real attachment for David, not being developed till she reached
Europe, civilisation and the influence of northern climates had tempered
their violence.

We have already said that Cecily had scarcely reached Germany, when,
first seduced by a man of desperately depraved habits, she, unknown to
David, who loved her with equal idolatry and blindness, exercised and
turned to account, for a considerable time, all her seductive powers;
but soon the scandal of her adventures was raised abroad, and such
exposures ensued that she was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment.

To all this let there be joined a plastic, adroit, insinuating mind, an
intelligence so wonderful that in a year she spoke French and German
with perfect ease, sometimes even with natural eloquence; then add a
corrupted heart worthy of the courtesan queen of ancient Rome, an
audacity and courage proof against everything, instincts of diabolical
wickedness, and then we may understand the new servant of Jacques
Ferrand, the resolute being who had dared to venture into the wolf's
den.

Yes, strange anomaly! On learning from M. de Grauen the inciting and
platonic part she was to play with the notary, and what avenging ends
were to be derived from her seductions, Cecily had promised to go
through the character with love, or, rather, terrible hatred against
Jacques Ferrand, being sincerely indignant at the recital of the
infamous violence he had exercised against Louise,--a recital necessary
to be unfolded to the creole, to put her on her guard against the
hypocritical attempts of this monster. A few retrospective words as to
this latter are indispensable.

When Cecily was presented by Madame Pipelet as an orphan over whom she
did not desire to maintain any right, any control, the notary was,
perhaps, less smitten by the beauty of the creole than fascinated by her
irresistible look,--a look which, at the first interview, disturbed the
reason of Jacques Ferrand.

We have already said, in reference to the insensate boldness of some of
his words when conversing with Madame de Lucenay, that this man, usually
so completely master of himself, so calm, so cunning, so subtle, forgot
the cold calculations of his deep dissimulation when the demon of desire
darkened his better sense.

Besides, he had no cause to distrust the protegee of Madame Pipelet.
After her conversation with Alfred's spouse, Madame Seraphin had
proposed to Jacques Ferrand a young girl, almost destitute, to replace
Louise, and he had eagerly accepted the offer, in the hopes of taking
advantage of the isolated and precarious position of his new servant.
Moreover, far from being predisposed to mistrust, Jacques Ferrand found,
in the march of events, fresh motives for security.

All succeeded to his utmost wishes. The death of Madame Seraphin
released him from a dangerous accomplice; the death of Fleur-de-Marie
(he believed her dead) delivered him from a living proof of one of his
earliest crimes. Finally, thanks to the death of the Chouette, and the
unexpected murder of the Countess Macgregor (whose life was despaired
of), he no longer had these two women to fear, whose disclosures and
attacks might have been most disastrous to him.

The disposition, habits, and former life of Jacques Ferrand known and
displayed, the exciting beauty of the creole admitted, as we have
endeavoured to paint her, together with other facts we shall detail as
we proceed, will account, we presume, for the sudden passion, the
unbridled desire of the notary for this seductive and dangerous
creature. Then we must add, that if women of Cecily's stamp inspire
nothing but repugnance and disgust to men endued with tender and
elevated sentiments, with delicate and pure tastes, they exercise a
sudden action, a magic omnipotence, over men of brutal sensuality like
Jacques Ferrand. Thus a just, an avenging fatality, brought the creole
into contact with the notary, and a terrible expiation was beginning for
him. A fierce passion had urged him on to persecute, with pitiless
malice, an indigent and honest family, and to spread amongst them
misery, madness, and death. This passion was now to be the formidable
chastisement of this great culprit.

Although Jacques Ferrand was never to have his desires realised, the
creole took care not to deprive him of all hope; but the vague and
distant prospects she held out were so coloured by caprices that they
were an additional torture, and more completely enslaved him.

If we are astonished that a man of such vigour and audacity had not
recourse to stratagem or violence to triumph over the calculating
resistance of Cecily, we forget that Cecily was not a second Louise.
Besides, the day after her presentation to the notary, she had played
quite another part from that by aid of which she had been introduced to
her master, for he had not been the dupe of his servant two days.

Forewarned of the fate of Louise by the Baron de Grauen, and knowing
besides by what abominable means she had become the prey of the notary,
the creole, on entering this solitary house, had taken excellent
precautions for passing her first night there in perfect security. The
evening of her arrival, being alone with Jacques Ferrand, he, in order
not to alarm her, pretended scarcely to look at her, and rudely ordered
her to bed. She told him, _naively_, that she was afraid of thieves in
the night, but that she was resolute, and capable of defending herself;
at the same time drawing from her large woollen pelisse a small but
exceedingly keen stiletto, the sight of which set the notary thinking.

Believing that Cecily was afraid of robbers only, he showed her to the
late chamber of Louise; after having examined it, Cecily said,
trembling, she would sleep in a chair, because the door had neither lock
nor bolt. Jacques Ferrand, unwilling to compromise himself by rousing
Cecily's suspicions, promised a bolt should be fixed. The creole did not
go to bed.

In the morning the notary sent to her to show her how to set about her
work. He had promised himself to preserve for the first few days a
hypocritical reserve with respect to his new servant, in order to
inspire her with confidence; but smitten by her beauty, which by
daylight was even more striking, blinded, maddened by his desires, which
already got the better of him, he stammered out some compliments as to
the figure and beauty of Cecily. She, with keen sagacity, had judged
that, from her first interview with the notary, he was completely caught
in her spells; at the confession he made of his flame, she thought it
policy to cast aside at once her feigned timidity, and, as we have said,
to change her mask. The creole suddenly assumed a bold air. Jacques
Ferrand again complimented her beauty and her graceful figure.

"Look at me well!" said Cecily to him, in a bold tone. "Although I am
dressed as an Alsatian peasant, do I look like a servant?"

"What do you mean?" cried Jacques Ferrand.

"Look at this hand, does it appear accustomed to hard labour?" and she
presented a white, delicate hand, with long and slender fingers, with
nails as rosy and polished as agate, but whose root, slightly browned,
betrayed the creole blood. "And this foot, is it that of a servant?" and
she protruded a beautiful small foot, coquettishly shod, which the
notary had not before remarked, and from which he only removed his eyes
to gaze on Cecily with amazement. "I told my Aunt Pipelet what story I
chose; she knew nothing of my former life, and believes me reduced to my
present condition through the death of my parents, and takes me for a
servant,--but you, I hope, have too much sagacity to show her error,
dear master."

"Who, then, are you?" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more surprised
at her language.

"That is my secret. For reasons best known to myself I was obliged to
quit Germany in this attire. I wished to remain concealed in Paris for
some time, being as secluded as possible. My aunt, supposing me reduced
to misery, proposed to me your service, telling me of the solitary life
which I must of compulsion lead in your house, informing me that I
should never have leave to quit it. I accepted the offer
unhesitatingly,--without knowing it my aunt had anticipated my most
earnest desire. Who would think of looking for and finding me here?"

"And what have you done to compel you to seek concealment?"

"Agreeable sins, perhaps; but that is, also, my secret."

"And what are your intentions, mademoiselle?"

"What they always have been. But for your significant compliments as to
my shape and beauty, perhaps I should not have confessed so much to you;
although, no doubt, your clear-sightedness would, sooner or later, have
induced my confession. Now listen to me, my dear master. I have for the
moment accepted the condition--or, rather, the character--of a servant;
circumstances compelled me. I have courage enough to sustain the
character to the end, and will risk all the consequences. I will serve
you with zeal, activity, and respect, in order to retain my situation,
that is to say, a sure and unknown asylum. But on the least word of
gallantry, the least liberty you take with me, I will leave you,--not
from prudery, there is nothing of the prude about me, I fancy." And she
darted a look at the notary which had full effect. "No, I am no prude!"
she continued, with a provoking smile, which displayed her teeth of
dazzling whiteness. "Indeed, no, when I love, I do love! But be
discreet, and you will see that your unworthy servant has no desire but
honestly to discharge her duty as a servant.

"Now you have my secret, or, at least, a portion of it. But should you,
by any chance, desire to act as a gentleman, should you find me too
handsome to serve you, should you like to change parts, and become my
slave, be it so! Frankly speaking, I should prefer it, and had rather
you should feel paternally disposed towards me. That would not prevent
you from saying that you found me charming; this will be the recompense
of your devotion and discretion."

"The only one? The only one?" stammered Jacques Ferrand.

"The only one, unless solitude make me mad,--which is impossible, for
you will keep me company. Come, make up your mind,--no ambiguity. I
either serve you, or you shall serve me; if not, I leave your house, and
beg my aunt to find me another place. All this may, perhaps, appear
strange to you; but if you take me for an adventuress, without any means
of existence, you are wrong. In order that my aunt should be my
accomplice without knowing it, I have made her believe that I was so
poor that I could not purchase any other garments than those I now wear.
I have, however, as you see, a tolerably well filled purse; on this side
gold, on the other diamonds" (and Cecily displayed before the notary's
eyes a long, red silk purse, filled with gold, and through the meshes of
which he could also see several sparkling gems). "Unfortunately all the
money in the world could not purchase for me a retreat so secure as your
house,--so isolated, from the very solitude in which you live. Accept,
then, one or other of my offers, and you will do me a kindness. You see
I place myself almost at your discretion; for to say to you, I conceal
myself, is to say to you I am sought for. But I am sure you will not
betray me, even if you could."

This romantic confidence, this sudden change of character, completely
upset all Jacques Ferrand's ideas. Who was this woman? Why did she
conceal herself? Was it chance alone that had brought her to him? If she
came with some secret aim, what could it be? Amongst all the ideas which
this singular adventure gave rise to in the notary's mind, the real
motive of the creole's presence did not occur to him. He had not, or,
rather, he believed he had no other enemies than the victims of his
licentiousness and his cupidity, and all these were in such miserable
circumstances that he could not suspect them capable of spreading any
net for him, of which Cecily should be the bait.

And then, moreover, what could be the motive of any such snare? No, the
sudden transformation of Cecily inspired Jacques Ferrand with one fear
only--he believed that this woman did not tell the truth, and was,
perhaps, an adventuress, who, thinking him rich, had introduced herself
into his house to wheedle and get money from him, and, perhaps, induce
him to marry her. But although his avarice at once revolted at this
idea, he perceived (and trembled) that his suspicions and reflections
were too late, for he might by one word have calmed his distrust by
sending away this woman from his house,--but this word he could not say.

These thoughts hardly occupied him a moment, so fascinated had he
become. He already loved, after his own fashion, and the idea of being
separated from this enchanting creature seemed impossible; and he felt
also a jealousy, which made him say to himself, "So long as she is
immured in my house, she can have no other lover." The boldness of her
language, the wantonness of her look, the freedom of her manner, all
revealed that she was not (as she had said) a prude. This conviction,
giving vague hopes to the notary, still more assured Cecily's empire. In
a word, Jacques Ferrand's passion choking the calm voice of reason, he
blindly resigned himself to all that might result.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was agreed that Cecily should only be the servant in appearance; thus
there would be no scandal. Besides, in order the more completely to
render his guest at her ease, he was not to engage any other servant,
but make up his mind to wait on her and on himself. The meals were
brought from a neighbouring tavern, the porter swept out and attended to
the office, and he paid for his clerks' breakfast. Then the notary would
furnish at once an apartment on the first floor, as Cecily wished. She
desired to pay for it, but he refused, and spent two thousand francs
(80_l._). This was enormous generosity, and proved the unheard-of
violence of his passion.

Then began the terrible life of this miserable wretch. Enclosed in the
impenetrable solitude of this house, inaccessible to all, more and more
under the galling yoke of his mad love, careless of penetrating the
secret of this singular woman; from a master he was made a slave,--he
was Cecily's valet, served her at meal-times, and took care of her
apartment. Forewarned by the baron that Louise had been overcome by a
narcotic, the creole drank only pure water, eating only of dishes with
which it was impossible to tamper. She had selected the apartment she
was to occupy, assuring herself that there was there no concealed
entrance. Besides, Jacques Ferrand soon discovered that Cecily was not a
woman whom he could assail with impunity; she was vigorous, agile, and
dangerously armed; thus a frenzied delirium alone could have incited him
to attempt force, and she was quite protected from this peril.

Yet, that she might not weary and utterly repulse the notary's passion,
the creole seemed sometimes touched by his assiduities, and flattered by
the control which she exercised over him. And, perceiving that he hoped,
by dint of proofs of devotion and self-denial, he should contrive to
make her overlook his age and ugliness, she amused herself with telling
him that, if she ever could love him, how excessive that love would be.
With this Jacques Ferrand's reason wandered, and he would frequently
walk in his garden at night absorbed in his own reflections. Sometimes
he gazed for hours into the bedroom of the creole; for she had allowed a
small window to be made in the door, which she frequently and
intentionally left open. Absorbed, lost, wandering, indifferent to his
most important interests, or the preservation of his reputation as an
austere, serious, and pious man,--a reputation usurped, it is true, but,
at the same time, acquired after long years of dissimulation and
chicanery,--he amazed his clerks by his aberration of mind, offended his
clients by his refusals to receive them, and abruptly refused the visits
of the priests, who, deceived by his hypocrisy, had been until then his
warmest champions.

We have said that Cecily was dressing her head before her glass. At a
slight noise in the corridor she turned her head towards the door. In
spite of the noise she had heard, Cecily continued her night toilet
tranquilly. She drew from her corsage, where it was placed almost like a
busk, a stiletto five or six inches long, enclosed in a case of black
shagreen, having a small ebony handle, with silver threads,--a plain
handle, but very fit for use; it was not a mere weapon for show. Cecily
took the dagger from its scabbard with excessive precaution, and laid it
on the marble mantelpiece. The blade, of finest temper and Damascus
steel, was triangular, with keen edges; and the point, as sharp as a
needle, would have pierced a shilling without turning the edge.
Impregnated with a subtle and rapid poison, the slightest puncture of
this poniard was mortal. Jacques Ferrand having one day alluded to the
danger of this weapon, the creole made in his presence an experiment,
_in anima vita_,--that is to say, on the unfortunate house-dog, which,
slightly pricked on the nose, fell and died in horrible convulsions. The
stiletto placed on the mantelpiece, Cecily took off her black bodice,
and was then, with her shoulders, neck, and arms denuded, like a lady in
her ball-dress. Like most of the creole women, she wore, instead of
stays, another bodice of stout linen, which fitted her figure very
closely; her orange-coloured petticoat, remaining attached to this sort
of white spencer, with short sleeves, and cut very low, formed a costume
less precise than the other, and harmonised wonderfully with the scarlet
stocking, and the coloured handkerchief, so coquettishly arranged around
the creole's head. Nothing could be more perfect, more beautifully
defined, than the graceful contour of her arms and shoulders. A heavy
sigh aroused Cecily's attention. She smiled, as she twisted around her
finger one of her curling tresses, which had escaped from beneath her
head-dress.

"Cecily! Cecily!" murmured a voice, which was plaintive though coarse.
And through the wicket was visible the pale and flat face of Jacques
Ferrand.

Cecily, silent until then, began to hum a creole air; the words of this
melody were sweet and expressive. Although repressed, the full
contra-alto of Cecily was heard above the noise of the torrents of the
rain and gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its very
foundation.

"Cecily! Cecily!" repeated Jacques Ferrand, in a tone of supplication.

The creole paused suddenly and turned her head around quickly, as if,
for the first time, she then heard the notary's voice; and going towards
the door,--

"What, dear master (she called him so in derision), you there?" she
said, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her
full and sarcastic voice.

"Oh, how beautiful you are!" murmured the notary.

"You think so?" said Cecily. "Doesn't my head-dress become me?"

"I think you handsomer every day."

"Only see how white my arm is."

"Monster, begone! Begone!" shouted Jacques Ferrand, furious.

Cecily burst into a loud fit of laughter.

"No, no, it is too much to suffer! Oh, if I were not afraid of death!"
said the notary, gloomily. "But to die is to renounce you altogether,
and you are so beautiful! I would rather, then, suffer--and look at
you."

"Look at me? Why, that's what the wicket was made for; and so we can
thus chat, like two friends in our solitude, which really is not irksome
to me, you are such a good master! What a dangerous confession I make
through the door!"

"Will you never open this door? You see how submissive I am; this
evening I might have tried to enter into your chamber with you, but I
did not do so."

"You are submissive for two reasons: in the first place, because you
know that, having, from the necessity of my wandering life, always had
the precaution to carry a stiletto, I can manage with a strong hand this
inestimable jewel, whose tooth is sharper than a viper's; and you know,
too, that, from the day in which I have to complain of you, I will quit
this roof for ever, leaving you a thousand times more enamoured than
ever,--since you have so greatly honoured your unworthy servant as to
say that you are enamoured of her."

"My servant? It is I who am your slave,--your mocked, derided, despised
slave!"

"That's true enough."

"And yet it does not move you?"

"It amuses me; the days, and especially the nights, are so long!"

"Accursed creature!"

"But, seriously, you look so perfectly wretched, your features have so
sensibly altered, that I am quite flattered at it. It is a poor triumph,
but you are the only one here."

"To hear that, and me consume in impotent rage!"

"Have you really any understanding? Why, I never said anything more
tender."

"Jeer at me,--jeer at me!"

"I do not jeer. I never before saw a man of your age in love after your
fashion; and, I must confess, a young and handsome man would be
incapable of these outrageous passions. An Adonis admires himself as
much as he admires us; he likes us, and we choose to notice
him,--nothing more simple. He has a claim to our love, but is hardly
grateful; but to show favour to a man like you, my master dear, would be
to take him from earth to heaven, to fulfil his wildest dreams, his most
insensate hopes. For if some being were to say to you, 'You love Cecily
to distraction, if I chose she should be yours next minute,' you would
suppose such a being endued with supernatural power, shouldn't you,
master dear?"

"Yes! Ah, yes!"

"Well, if you could convince me more satisfactorily of your passion, I
might, perchance, have the whimsical fancy to enact this supernatural
part myself in your favour. Do you comprehend?"

"I comprehend that you are still fooling me,--that you are still
pitiless."

"Perhaps,--for solitude creates so many singular fancies."

Until this moment Cecily's accent had been sarcastic, but she pronounced
these last words with a serious, reflecting tone, and accompanied them
with a look which made the notary start.

"Silence! Do not look at me thus,--you will drive me mad! I would rather
you denied me,--at least, I could then hate you,--drive you from my
house!" cried Jacques Ferrand, who again gave himself up to a vain hope.
"Yes, for I should then hope nothing from you. But, misery! Misery! I
know you well enough now to hope, in spite of myself, that one day I
might, from your very hate or proud caprice, obtain what I shall never
owe to your love. You bid me convince you of my passion,--do you not see
how unhappy I am? I will do all I can to please you. You desire to, be
concealed from all eyes, and from all eyes I conceal you, perchance at
the risk of compromising myself most seriously; for, indeed, I know not
who you are. I respect your secret,--I never speak to you of it. I have
interrogated you as to your past life, and you have given me no answer."

"Well, then, I was very wrong. I'll give you a mark of blind confidence,
oh, master, dear! And so, listen."

"Another bitter jest, no doubt."

"No, a serious tale. You ought, at least, to know the life of her to
whom you afford such generous hospitality." Then Cecily continued, in a
tone of hypocritical and lachrymose earnestness, "Daughter of a brave
soldier, brother of my Aunt Pipelet, I received an education, beyond my
condition. I was seduced, and then abandoned, by a rich young gentleman;
then, to escape the anger of my father, whose notions of honour were
most strict, I fled my native country." Then bursting into a loud fit of
laughter, Cecily added, "Now I hope that's what you call a very pretty
and particularly probable tale, for it has been very often told. Amuse
your curiosity with that until you get hold of some other story more
interesting."

"I was certain it was some cruel jest," said the notary, with
concentrated rage; "nothing touches you,--nothing. What must I do? Tell
me. I serve you like the lowest footboy, for you I neglect my dearest
interests,--I no longer know what I do. I am a subject of astonishment
and derision to my own clerks; my clients hesitate any longer to entrust
me with their affairs; I have severed my connection with some religious
persons whom I knew intimately. I dare not think of what the world will
say of my change of demeanour and habits. But you do not know,--no, you
do not know the fatal consequences my mad passion for you may entail on
me. Yet I give you ample proof of my devotion. Will you have more?
Speak! Is it gold you would have? They think me richer than I am, but
I--"

"What could I do with your gold?" asked Cecily, interrupting the notary,
and shrugging her shoulders; "living in this chamber, what is the use of
gold? Your invention is at fault."

"It is no fault of mine if you are a prisoner. Is this chamber
displeasing to you? Will you have one more splendid? Speak! Order!"

"Once more, what is the use? What is the use? Oh, if I might here
expect a beloved one, full of the love he inspires and participates, I
would have gold, silks, flowers, perfumes, all the wonders of luxury;
nothing could be too sumptuous, too enchanting to enshrine my love,"
said Cecily, with an impassioned voice.

"Well, these wonders of luxury, say but a word, and--"

"What's the use? What's the use? Why make a frame for which there is no
picture? And the adored one! Where is he,--where is he, master, dear?"

"True," exclaimed the notary, with bitterness, "I am old, I am ugly, I
can only inspire disgust and aversion. She overwhelms me with contempt,
jests at me,--and yet I have not the resolution, the power to send her
away. I have only the resolution to suffer!"

"Oh, silly old mourner! And what an absurd elderly gentleman, with his
sufferings!" cried Cecily, in a contemptuous and sarcastic tone; "he
only knows how to groan, to despair,--and yet he has been for ten days
shut up alone with a young woman in a lone house."

"But this woman scorns me,--this woman is armed,--this woman is shut
up!" groaned the notary, furiously.

"Well, conquer her scorn, make the dagger fall from her hands, compel
her to open the door which separates her from yourself! But not by brute
force, that would be useless."

"How, then?"

"By the strength of your passion."

"Passion! And can I inspire it?"

"Why, you are nothing but a lawyer, affecting piety,--I really pity you.
Is it for me to teach you your part? You are ugly,--be terrible, and one
may forget your ugliness. You are old,--be energetic, and one may forget
your age. You are repulsive,--become menacing. Since you cannot be the
noble steed that neighs proudly in the midst of his harem, do not
become the stupid camel that bends the knee and offers his back; be the
tiger! The old tiger, that roars in the midst of carnage, still excites
admiration; his tigress responds to him from the deepest recesses of the
desert."

At this language, which was not deficient in a sort of natural and hardy
eloquence, Jacques Ferrand shuddered; struck by the expression, wild and
almost fierce, which Cecily's features displayed, as, with her bosom
palpitating, her nostrils open, her mouth defying, she fastened on him
her large and brilliant black eyes. Never had she seemed to him more
fascinating, or more resplendently beautiful than at this moment.

"Speak,--speak again!" he exclaimed, with excitement. "For now you speak
in earnest. Oh, if I could--"

"One can do what one wishes," replied Cecily, sternly.

"But--"

"But I tell you, old as you are, if I were in your place I would
undertake to engage the affections of a young and handsome woman, and
once having achieved this result, what had been against me would turn to
my advantage. What pride, what triumph to say to oneself, I have made my
age and ugliness forgotten! The love that is shown me I do not owe to
pity, but to my spirit, my courage, and my skill. Yes, and now if there
were here some handsome young fellows, brilliant with grace and
attractions, the lovely woman, whom I have subdued by proofs of a
resistless and unbounded devotion, would not deign to cast a look at
them. No; for she would know that these elegant effeminates would fear
to compromise the tie of their cravat, or a curl of their hair, in
obedience to her caprices; whilst if she cast her handkerchief in the
midst of flames, on a signal from her her old tiger would rush into the
furnace with a roar of ecstasy."

"Yes, I would do it! Try! Try!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more
excited.

Cecily continued drawing nearer to the aperture, and fixing on Jacques
Ferrand a steadfast and penetrating look.

"For this woman would well know," continued the creole, "that she would
have some exorbitant caprice to satisfy,--that these dandies would look
at their money, if they had any, or, if they had not, at some other low
consideration, whilst her old tiger--"

"Would consider nothing,--nothing, I tell you.
Fortune,--honour,--he--he--would sacrifice all!"

"Really?" said Cecily, putting her lovely fingers on the bony fingers of
Jacques Ferrand, whose clutched hands, passed through the small glass
door, were clasping the top of the ledge. "Would not this woman be
ardently loved?" added Cecily. "If she had an enemy, and with a gesture
pointed him out to her old tiger, and said to him, Strike--"

"And he would strike!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, attempting to press
Cecily's fingers with his parched lips.

"Really, the old tiger would strike?" said the creole, placing her hand
gently on the hand of Jacques Ferrand.

"To possess you," cried the wretch, "I could commit a crime--"

"Ah, master," said Cecily, suddenly, and withdrawing her hand,
"go--go,--in my turn I scarcely know you,--you do not seem to me so ugly
as you did just now. But go--go!" and she left the aperture abruptly.

The artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an
appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry
and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to
forget the ugliness of Jacques Ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied
hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture:

"Cecily, come back,--come back! Bid me do what you will, I will be your
tiger."

"No, no, master!" said Cecily, still retreating. "And in order to forget
you, I will sing a song of my country."

"Cecily, return!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.

"No, no! Later, when I can without danger. But the light of this lamp
hurts my eyes,--a soft languor overcomes my senses!" and Cecily
extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose
increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment.

From the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture
that Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous circle
formed by the flickering blaze on the fire Cecily, in a position full of
softness and _abandonnement_, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet
damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious
preludes. The fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who appeared
thus in strong relief. To complete the tableau, the reader must call to
mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire
from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which
tremble on the ceiling and the walls. The storm without increased, and
roared loudly.

Whilst she preludised on her guitar, Cecily fixed her eyes immovably on
Jacques Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her.

"Now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. We
do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative,
without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a
symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and
pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you."

And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the
expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and
vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily's song:

    "Flowers--still flowers, everywhere.
    My lover is coming--my hope of happiness unnerves me.
    Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer
        shade.
    My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest
        flowers.
    The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses
        will keep them closed.
    Come--come--come--come, love! Come--come--come!"

These words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an
unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her
charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great
power, vibrations full of harmony. The impassioned look of Cecily, her
half closed, humid eyes fastened on Jacques Ferrand, were full of the
expression of expectation. Words of love, delicious music, together
conspired at the moment to bereave Jacques Ferrand of his reason; and,
half frenzied, he exclaimed:

"Mercy, Cecily, mercy! You will drive me distracted! Oh, be silent, or I
die! Oh, that I were mad!"

"Listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching
the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative:

    "If my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, I
        should tremble and die.
    If he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale
        cheek would become purple--my pale cheek would be on fire.
    Soul of my Soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not
        utter a word.
    Life of my Life, if thou wert here, I should expiring ask thy
        pardon.
    'Tis sweet to die for and with those we love.
    Angel, come--come to my heart--come--come--come!"

If the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she
put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the
music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her
guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the
door, where Jacques Ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying
tone, "Oh, come--come--come!" It would be impossible to depict the
electric look with which she accompanied these words. Jacques Ferrand
uttered a terrible cry.

"Oh, death! Death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking
the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage.

Agile as a panther, Cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if
she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to
Jacques Ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice:

"Well, then, I will confess I am excited by my song. I did not mean to
approach the door again, yet here I am, in spite of myself; for I hear
still the words you said just now, 'If you bade me strike, I would
strike.' You love me, then?"

"Will you have gold,--all my gold?"

"No, I have enough."

"Have you an enemy? I will kill him."

"I have no enemy."

"Will you be my wife? I'll marry you."

"I am married."

"What would you, then? Oh, what would you?"

"Prove to me that your passion for me is blind,--furious! And that you
would sacrifice all to it."

"Ah!--yes--all. But how?"

"I do not know,--but a moment since your eyes fascinated me. If again
you give me one of those marks of intense love, which excite the
imagination of a woman to madness, I know not of what I should not be
capable. Make haste, then, for I am capricious, and to-morrow, perhaps,
all the impression will be effaced."

"But what proof can I give you at this moment?" cried the notary.

"You are but a fool, after all!" replied Cecily, retreating from the
aperture with an air of disdain. "I was deceived,--I believed you
capable of energetic devotion. Goodnight! It's a pity!"

"Cecily, do not leave me! Return! What can I do?"

"I was but too much disposed to listen to you; you will never have such
another opportunity."

"But oh, tell me what you would have!" cried the notary, half mad.

"Eh! If you were as passionately in love as you say, you would find
means to persuade me. Good night!"

"Cecily."

"I will shut the door, instead of opening it."

"Cecily,--listen! I will give you yet another proof of my devotion."

"What is this proof of your love?" said the creole, who, having
approached the mantelpiece to resume her dagger, returned slowly towards
the door, lighted by the flame of the hearth. Then, unobserved by the
notary, she made sure of the action of an iron chain, which terminated
in two small knobs, one of which was screwed into the door, and the
other into the door-post.

"Listen!" said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice, "listen!
If I place my honour, my fortune, my life, at your mercy,--now, this
very instant,--will you then believe I love you?"

"Your honour, your fortune, your life! I do not comprehend you."

"If I confide to you a secret which may bring me to the scaffold, will
you then believe me?"

"You a criminal? You do but jest. What, then, of your austere
life,--your piety,--your honesty?"

"All--all a lie!"

"You pass for a saint, and yet you boast of these iniquities! No, there
is no man so craftily skilful, so fortunately bold, as thus to captivate
the confidence and respect of men; that were, indeed, a fearful defiance
cast in the teeth of society!"

"I am that man,--I have cast that sarcasm, that defiance, in the face of
society!" exclaimed the monster, in a tone of ecstatic pride.

"Jacques! Jacques! Do not speak thus!" said Cecily, with a tone of
emotion. "You make me mad!"

"My head for your love,--will you have it so?"

"Ah, this, indeed, is love! Here, take my poniard,--you disarm me!"

Jacques Ferrand took, through the wicket, the dangerous weapon, with due
precaution, and flung it from him to a distance in the corridor.

"Cecily, you believe me, then!" he exclaimed with transport.

"Do I believe you?" said the creole, energetically pressing her
beautiful fingers on the clasped hands of Jacques Ferrand. "Oh, yes, I
do! For now, again, you look as you did a short time since, when my very
soul seemed fascinated by your gaze."

"Cecily, you will speak the words of, truth--and truth only--to me?"

"And can you doubt it for a moment? Ah, you will soon have ample proof
of my sincerity. But what you are about to tell me is quite true,--is it
not?"

"I repeat that you may believe each word I utter."

"So much the better, since you are enabled to prove your passion by the
avowal of them."

"And if I tell you all?"

"Then will I, in return, withhold nothing from you; for if, indeed, you
have this blind, this courageous confidence in me, Jacques, I will call
no more for the ideal lover of my song, but you,--my hero, my tiger! to
whom I will sing, 'Come--come--oh, come!'"

As Cecily uttered these words, with an air and voice of seductive
tenderness, she drew so close to the wicket that Jacques Ferrand could
feel the hot breath of the creole pass over his cheek, while her fresh,
full lip lightly touched his coarse, vulgar hand. "Call me your
tiger,--your slave,--what you will,--and if after that you but divulge
what I entrust to you, my life will be the consequence. Yes,
enchantress, a word from you, and I perish on a scaffold. My honour,
reputation, nay, my very existence, are henceforward in your hands."

"Your honour?"

"Yes, even so. But listen. About ten years ago I was entrusted with the
care of a child, and a sum of money for her use, amounting to two
hundred thousand francs; well, I wronged the little creature by
spreading a false report of her death, and then appropriated the money
to my own purposes."

"It was boldly and cleverly done! Who would ever have believed you
capable of such conduct?"

"Again. I had a cashier whom I detested, and I determined upon ruining
him one way or other. Well, one evening, under some great emergency, he
took from my cash-box a trifling amount of gold, which he paid back the
next day; but to wreak my malice on the object of my dislike, I accused
him of having stolen a large sum. Of course my testimony was believed,
and the wretched man was thrown into prison. Now is not my honour--my
very safety--at your will and pleasure? At your word both would be in
peril."

"Then you love me, Jacques,--oh, truly, blindly love me! Since you thus
surrender to me the most precious secrets of your heart, how plainly
does it prove the empire I must have over you! Ah, believe me, I will
not be niggardly in repaying you. Stoop that brow, from which have
emanated so many infernal schemes, that I may press it with my lips."

"Were the scaffold erected for me," cried the excited notary, "did death
stare me in the face, I would not now recall my words. But hearken to
what I have still to confess. The child I formerly wronged and forsook
has again crossed my path, her reappearance disquieted me, and I have
had her murdered."

"Murdered! and by your orders? But how--in what manner?"

"A few days since; it occurred thus: Near the bridge of Asnieres, at the
Isle du Ravageur, a man named Martial, for a bribe, contrived to sink
her in a boat made purposely with a false bottom. Are these particulars
sufficient? Will you believe me now?"

"Oh, fiend! demon! You terrify while you fascinate me! In what consists
your marvellous power and influence?"

"But listen further, for I have not yet finished my catalogue of crimes.
Previously to that a man had entrusted me with one hundred thousand
crowns. I contrived to waylay and blow out his brains, making it appear
he had fallen by his own hand. Afterwards, when his sister claimed the
money entrusted to my charge, I denied all knowledge of it. Now, then, I
have proclaimed myself a malefactor, guilty of every crime. Will you not
open your door, and admit a lover so ardent, so impatient as myself?"

"Jacques," exclaimed the creole, with much excitement, "I
admire,--love,--nay, adore you!"

"Let a thousand deaths come!" cried the notary, in a state of
enthusiastic delight impossible to describe, "I will brave them all! Oh,
you are right! Were I ever so young, so handsome, or so seducing, I
could not hope for joy such as now swells my heart. But delay not,
charmer of my soul,--give me the key, or yourself undo the bolts which
separate us. I can endure this torturing suspense no longer!"

The creole took from the lock, which she had carefully secured
beforehand, the key so ardently prayed for, and, handing it to the
notary through the aperture, said, in a languishing tone of utter
abandonnement:

"Jacques, my senses seem forsaking me,--my brain is on fire,--I know not
what I do or say."

"You are mine, then, at length, my adorable beauty!" cried he, with a
wild shout of savage exultation, and hastily turning the key in the
lock. But the firmly bolted door yielded not yet.

"Come, beloved of my heart!" murmured Cecily, in a languid voice; "bless
me with your presence,--come!"

"The bolt! The bolt!" gasped out Jacques Ferrand, breathless with his
exertions to force open the door.

"But what if you have been deceiving me?" cried the creole, as though a
sudden thought had seized her; "if you have only invented the secrets
with which you affect to entrust me, to mock at my credulity, to ensnare
my confidence?"

The notary appeared thunderstruck with surprise at this fresh expression
of doubt, at the very moment when he believed himself upon the point of
attaining his wishes; to find a new obstacle arise when he considered
success certain drove him almost furious. He rapidly thrust his hand
into his breast, opened his waistcoat, impatiently snapped a steel
chain, to which was suspended a small red morocco pocketbook, took it,
and showing it to Cecily, through the aperture, cried, in a thick,
palpitating voice:

"This book contains papers that would bring me to a scaffold; only undo
the bolts which deny me entrance to your presence, and this book, with
all its precious documents, is yours."

"Oh, then, let us seal the compact!" exclaimed Cecily, as, drawing back
the bolt with as much noise as possible with one hand, with the other
she seized the pocketbook.

But Jacques Ferrand permitted it not to leave his possession till he
felt the door yield to his pressure. But though it partially gave way,
it was but to leave an opening about half a foot wide, the solid chain
which passed across it above the lock preventing any person's entering
as completely as before. At this unexpected obstacle Jacques Ferrand
precipitated himself against the door and shook it with desperate fury,
while Cecily, with the rapidity of thought, took the pocket-book between
her teeth, opened the window, threw a large cloak out into the yard
below, and, light and agile as bold and daring, seized a knotted cord
previously secured to the balcony, and glided from her chamber on the
first floor to the court beneath, descending with the swiftness of an
arrow shot from a bow. Then wrapping herself hastily in the mantle, she
flew to the porter's lodge, opened the door, drew up the string, ran
into the street, and sprang into a hackney-coach, which, ever since
Cecily had been with Jacques Ferrand, came regularly every evening, in
case of need, by Baron Grauen's orders, and took up its station a short
distance from the notary's house. Directly she had entered the vehicle
it drove off at the topmost speed of the two strong, powerful horses
that drew it, and had reached the Boulevards ere Jacques Ferrand had
even discovered Cecily's flight.

We will now return to the disappointed wretch. From the situation of the
door he was unable to perceive the window by which the creole had
contrived to prepare and make good her flight; but concentrating all his
powers, by a vigorous application of his brawny shoulders Jacques
Ferrand succeeded in forcing out the chain which kept the door from
opening.

With furious impatience he rushed into the chamber,--it was empty. The
knotted cord was still suspended to the balcony of the window from which
he leaned; and then, at the other extremity of the courtyard, he saw by
means of the moon, which just then shone out from behind the stormy
clouds which had hitherto obscured it, the dim outline of the outer gate
swinging to and fro as though left open by some person having hastily
passed through. Then did Jacques Ferrand divine the whole of the scheme
so successfully laid to entrap him; but a glimmer of hope still
remained. Determined and vigorous, he threw his leg over the balcony,
let himself down in his turn by the cord, and hastily quitted the house.

The street was quite deserted,--not a creature was to be seen; and the
only sound his ear could detect was the distant rumbling of the wheels
of the vehicle that bore away the object of his search. The notary, who
supposed it to be the carriage of some person whose business or pleasure
took them late from home, paid no attention to this circumstance.

There was then no chance of finding Cecily, whose absence was the more
disastrous, as she carried with her the positive proof of his crimes. As
this fearful certainty came over him, he fell, struck with
consternation, on a bench placed against his door, where he long
remained, mute, motionless, and as though petrified with horror. His
eyes fixed and haggard, his teeth clenched, and his lips covered with
foam, tearing his breast, as though unconsciously, till the blood
streamed from it, he felt his very brain dizzy with thought, till his
ideas were lost in a fathomless abyss.

When he recovered from his stupor he arose and staggered onwards with an
unsteady and faltering step, like a person just aroused from a state of
complete intoxication. He violently shut the entrance door and returned
to the courtyard. The rain had by this time ceased, but the wind still
continued strong and gusty, and drove rapidly along the heavy gray
clouds which veiled without entirely excluding the brightness of the
moon, whose pale and sickly light shone on the house.

Somewhat calmed by the clear freshness of the night air, Jacques
Ferrand, as though hoping to find relief from his internal agitation by
the rapidity of his movements, plunged into the muddy paths of his
garden, walking with quick, hurried steps, and from time to time
pressing his clenched hands against his forehead. Heedless of the
direction he proceeded in, he at length reached the termination of a
walk, adjoining to which was a dilapidated greenhouse.

Suddenly he stumbled heavily against a mass of newly disturbed earth.
Mechanically he stooped down to examine the nature of the impediment
which presented itself; the deep hole which had been dug, and morsels of
torn garments lying by, told him with awful certainty that he stood by
the grave dug by poor Louise Morel to receive the remains of her dead
infant,--her infant, which was also the child of the heartless, hardened
wretch who now stood trembling and conscience-stricken beside this
fearful memento of his sensuality and brutal persecution of a poor and
helpless girl. And spite of his hardihood, his long course of sin and
seared conscience, a deadly tremor shook his frame, he felt an
instinctive persuasion that the hour of deep retribution was at hand.

Under other circumstances Jacques Ferrand would have trampled the humble
grave beneath his feet without remorse or concern, but now, exhausted by
the preceding scene, he felt his usual boldness forsake him, while fear
and trembling came upon him. A cold sweat bedewed his brow, his
tottering knees refused to support him, and he fell motionless beside
the open grave.




CHAPTER V.

LA FORCE.


We may, perhaps, be accused, from the space accorded to the following
scenes, of injuring the unity of our story by some episodical pictures;
but it seems to us that, at this moment particularly, when important
questions of punishment are engaging the attention of the legislature,
that the interior of a prison--that frightful pandemonium, that gloomy
thermometer of civilisation--will be an opportune study. In a word, the
various physiognomies of prisoners of all classes, the relations of kin
or affection, which still bind them to the world from which their gaol
walls separate them, appear to us worthy of interest and attention. We
hope, therefore, to be excused for having grouped about many prisoners
known to the readers of this history other secondary characters,
intended to put in relief certain ideas of criticism, and to complete
the initiation of a prison life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us enter La Force. There is nothing sombre or repulsive in the
aspect of this house of incarceration in the Rue du Roi de Sicile, in
the Marais. In the centre of one of the first courts there are some
clumps of trees, thickened with shrubs, at the roots of which there are
already, here and there, the green, precocious shoots of primroses and
snowdrops. A raised ascent, surmounted by a porch covered with
trellis-work, in which knotty stalks of the vine entwine, leads to one
of the seven or eight walks assigned to the prisoners. The vast
buildings which surround these courts very much resemble those of
barrack or manufactory kept with exceeding care. There are lofty facades
of white stone, pierced with high and large windows, which admit of the
free circulation of pure air.

The stones and pavement of the enclosures are kept excessively clean. On
the ground floor, the large apartments, warmed during the winter, are
kept well ventilated during the summer, and are used during the day as
places of conversation, work, or for the meals of the prisoners. The
upper stories are used as immense dormitories, ten or twelve feet high,
with dry and shining floors; two rows of iron beds are there arranged,
and excellent bedding it is, consisting of a palliasse, a soft and thick
mattress, a bolster, white linen sheets, and a warm woollen blanket. At
the sight of these establishments, comprising all the requisites for
comfort and health, we are much surprised, in spite of ourselves, being
accustomed to suppose that prisons are miserable, dirty, unwholesome,
and dark. This is a mistake.

It is such dogholes as that occupied by Morel the lapidary, and in which
so many poor and honest workmen languish in exhaustion, compelled to
give up their truckle-bed to a sick wife, and to leave, with hopeless
despair, their wretched, famishing children, shuddering with cold in
their infected straw--that is miserable, dark, dirty, and pestilent! The
same contrast holds with respect to the physiognomy of the inhabitants
of these two abodes. Incessantly occupied with the wants of their
family, which they can scarcely supply from day to day, seeing a
destructive competition lessen their wages, the laborious artisans
become dejected, dispirited; the hour of rest does not sound for them,
and a kind of somnolent lassitude alone breaks in upon their overtasked
labour. Then, on awakening from this painful lethargy, they find
themselves face to face with the same overwhelming thoughts of the
present, and the same uneasiness for the future.

But the prisoner, indifferent to the past, happy with the life he leads,
certain of the future (for he can assure it by an offence or a crime),
regretting his liberty, doubtless, but finding much compensation in the
actual enjoyment, certain of taking with him when he quits prison a
considerable sum of money, gained by easy and moderate labour, esteemed,
or rather dreaded, by his companions, in proportion to his depravity and
perversity, the prisoner, on the contrary, will always be gay and
careless.

Again, we ask, what does he want? Does he not find in prison good
shelter, good bed, good food, high wages,[1] easy work, and, especially,
society at his choice,--a society, we repeat, which measures his
consideration by the magnitude of his crimes? A hardened convict knows
neither misery, hunger, nor cold. What is to him the horror he inspires
honest persons withal? He does not see, does not know them. His crimes
made his glory, his influence, his strength, with the ruffians in the
midst of whom he will henceforward pass his life. Why should he fear
shame? Instead of the serious and charitable remonstrances which might
compel him to blush for and repent the past, he hears the ferocious
applauses which encourage him to theft and murder. Scarcely imprisoned,
he plans fresh crimes. What can be more logical? If discovered, and at
once apprehended, he will find the repose, the bodily supplies of a
prison, and his joyous and daring associates of crime and debauchery. If
his experience in crimes be less than that of others, does he for that
evince the less remorse? It follows that he is exposed to brutal
scoffing, infernal taunts, and horrible threats. And--a thing so rare
that it has become the exception to the rule--if the prisoner leaves
this fearful pandemonium with the firm resolution to return to the paths
of honesty by excessive labour, courage, patience, and honesty, and has
been able to conceal the infamy of his past career, the meeting with one
of his old comrades in gaol is sufficient to overturn this good
intention for the restoration of his character, so painfully struggled
for.

  [1] High wages, if we reflect that, with all expenses paid, a
  prisoner may gain from five to ten sous a day. How many workmen
  are there who can save such a sum?

And in this way: A hardened, discharged convict proposes a job to a
repentant comrade; the latter, in spite of bitter menaces, refuses this
criminal association; forthwith an anonymous information reveals the
life of the unfortunate fellow who was desirous, at every sacrifice, of
concealing and expiating a first fault by honourable behaviour. Then,
exposed to the contempt, or, at least, the distrust, of those whose
good-will he had acquired by dint of industry and probity, this man,
reduced to distress, and urged by want, yielding at length to incessant
temptations, although nearly restored to society, will again fall, and
for ever, into the depths of that abyss whence he had escaped with such
difficulty.

In the following scenes we shall endeavour to demonstrate the monstrous
and inevitable consequences of confinement in masses. After ages of
barbarous experiments and pernicious hesitations, it seemed suddenly
understood how irrational it is to plunge into an atmosphere of deepest
vice persons whom a pure and salubrious air could alone save. How many
centuries to discover that, in placing in dense contact diseased beings,
we redouble the intensity of their malignity, which is thus rendered
incurable! How many centuries to discover that there is, in a word, but
one remedy for this overwhelming leprosy which threatens
society,--isolation!

We should esteem ourselves happy if our feeble voice could be, if not
relied upon, at least spread amongst all those which, more imposing,
more eloquent than our own, demand with such just and impatient urgency
the entire and unqualified application of the cell system.

One day, perchance, society will know that wickedness is an accidental,
not an organic malady; that crimes are almost always the results of
perverted instincts, impulses, still good in their essence, but
falsified, rendered evil, by ignorance, egotism, or the carelessness of
governments; and that the health of the soul, like that of the body, is
unquestionably kept subordinate to the laws of a healthy and preserving
system of control.

God bestows on all passions that strive for predominance, strong
appetites, the desire to be at ease, and it is for society to balance
and satisfy these wants. The man who only participates in strength,
good-will, and health has a right--a sovereign right--to have his labour
justly remunerated, in a way that shall assure to him not the
superfluities, but the necessaries of life,--the means of continuing
healthy and strong, active and industrious, and, consequently, honest
and good, because his condition is rendered happy. The gloomy regions of
misery and ignorance are peopled with morbid beings with withered
hearts. Purify these moral sewers, spread instruction, the inducement to
labour, fair wages, just rewards, and then these unhealthy faces, these
perishing frames, will be restored to virtue, which is the health, the
life of the soul.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us now introduce the reader into the room in the prison of La Force
in which the prisoners are allowed to see persons who visit them. It is
a dark place, partitioned in its length into two equal parts, by a
narrow grated division. One of these divisions communicates with the
interior of the prison, and is the place for the prisoners. The other
communicates with the turnkey's lobby, and is devoted to the persons
admitted to visit the prisoners. These interviews and conversations take
place through the double iron grating of the reception room, in presence
of the turnkey, who remains in the interior, at the extremity of the
passage.

The appearance of the prisoners, who were in this room on the day in
question, offered great contrasts. Some were clad in wretched attire,
others seemed to belong to the working class, and some to the wealthy
citizen body. The same contrasts were remarkable amongst the visitors to
the prisoners, who were nearly all women. The prisoners generally appear
less downcast than the visitors, for, strange and sad to say, yet proved
by experience, there is but little sorrow or shame left after the
experience of three or four days spent in prison in society. Those who
most dreaded this hideous community habituate themselves to it quickly;
the contagion gains upon them. Surrounded by degraded beings, hearing
only the language of infamy, a kind of ferocious rivalry excites them;
and, either to emulate their companions in the struggle for brutalism,
or to make themselves giddy by the usual drunkenness, the newcomers
almost invariably display as much depravity and recklessness as the
_habitues_ of the prison.

Let us return to the reception-room. Notwithstanding the noisy hum of a
great many conversations carried on in undertones on each side of the
divisions, prisoners and visitors, after some experience, are able to
converse with each other without being for a moment disturbed by, or
attentive to, the conversation of their neighbours, which creates a kind
of secrecy in the midst of this noisy interchange of words, each being
compelled to hear the individual who addressed him, but not to hear a
word of what was said around him.

Amongst the prisoners called into the reception-room by visitors, the
one the farthest off from the turnkey was Nicholas Martial. To the
extreme depression with which he was seized on his apprehension, had
succeeded the most brazen assurance. Already the detestable and
contagious influence of a prison in common bore its fruits. No doubt,
had he been at once conveyed to a solitary cell, this wretch, still
under the influence of his first terror, and alone with the thought of
his crimes, fearful of impending punishment, might have experienced, if
not repentance, at least that wholesome dread from which nothing would
have distracted him.

And who knows what incessant, compulsory meditation may produce on a
guilty mind, reflecting on the crimes committed and the punishment that
is to follow? Far from this, thrown into the midst of a horde of
bandits, in whose eyes the least sign of repentance is cowardice,--or,
rather, treason,--which they make him dearly expiate; for, in their
savage obduracy, their senseless bravado, they consider every man as a
spy on them, who, sad and disconsolate, regretting his fault, does not
join in their audacious recklessness, and trembles at their contact.
Thrown into the midst of these miscreants, Nicholas Martial, who had for
a long time, by report, known the prison manners, overcame his weakness,
and wished to appear worthy of a name already celebrated in the annals
of robbery and murder.

Several old offenders had known his father, who had been executed, and
others his brother, who was at the galleys; he was received and
instantly patronised by these veterans in crime with savage interest.
This fraternal reception between murderer and murderer elevated the
widow's son; the praises bestowed on the hereditary infamy of his family
intoxicated him. Soon forgetting, in this horrible mood, the future that
threatened him, he only remembered his past crimes to glory in them, and
elevate himself still higher in the eyes of his companions. The
expression of Nicholas's physiognomy was then as insolent as that of his
visitor was disturbed and alarmed.

This visitor was Daddy Micou, the receiver and lodging-house keeper in
the Passage de la Brasserie, into whose abode Madame de Fermont and her
daughter, victims of Jacques Ferrand's cupidity, had been compelled to
retreat. Father Micou knew the penalties to which he was amenable for
having many a time and oft obtained at low prices the fruits of the
robberies of Nicholas and many others of his stamp. The widow's son
being apprehended, the receiver felt he was almost at the mercy of the
ruffian, who might impeach him as a regular buyer. Although this
accusation could not be supported by flagrant proofs, still it was not
the less dangerous, the less dreaded by Daddy Micou, and he had thus
instantly obeyed the orders which Nicholas had transmitted to him by a
discharged prisoner.

"Ah, ah! how goes it, Daddy Micou?" said the brigand.

"At your service, my good fellow," replied the receiver, eagerly. "As
soon as I saw the person you sent to me, I directly--"

"Oh, you are becoming ceremonious, daddy!" said Nicholas, with
impatience. "Why is this, because I'm in trouble?"

"No, no, my lad,--no, no!" replied the receiver, who was not anxious to
seem on terms of familiarity with this ruffian.

"Come, come, be as familiar as usual, or I shall think you have
forgotten our intimacy, and that would break my heart."

"Well, well," said Micou, with a groan, "I directly went about your
little commissions."

"That's all right, daddy. I knew well enough that you would not forget
your friends. And my tobacco?"

"I have left two pounds at the lodge, my boy."

"Is it good?"

"Cannot be better."

"And the knuckle of ham?"

"Left at the lodge, also, with a four-pound white loaf; and I have added
something that will surprise you, in the shape of a dozen hard eggs and
a Dutch cheese."

"This is what I call doing the thing like a friend! And the wine?"

"Six bottles of capital. But, you know, you will only have one bottle a
day."

"Well, that can't be helped, and so one must make up one's mind to it."

"I hope you are satisfied with me, my boy?"

"Certain, and I shall be so again, and for ever, Father Micou; for the
ham, the cheese, the eggs, and the wine will only last just so long as
it takes to swallow them; but, as a friend of mine remarked, when they
are gone there'll be more where they came from, thanks to you, who will
always do the handsome thing so long as I do the same."

"What! You expect--"

"That in two or three days you will renew my little stock, daddy dear."

"Devil burn me if I do! It's all very good for once--"

"For once! What d'ye mean, man? Why, ham and wine are always good, you
know that very well."

"Certainly, but I have not undertaken to feed you in delicacies."

"Oh, Daddy Micou, that's shabby--indecent. What, refuse me ham! One who
has so often brought you 'double tresse' (stolen lead)!"

"Hush, hush! You mischievous fellow," cried the alarmed receiver.

"No, I'll put the question to the big-wig (the judge). I'll say to him,
only imagine now, sir, that Daddy Micou--"

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed the receiver, seeing with equal alarm and anger
that Nicholas was much disposed to abuse the influence which their
guilty companionship gave him. "I'll agree--I will renew your provision
when it is consumed."

"That's all right, and what's fair. And you mustn't forget, too, to send
some coffee to mother and Calabash, who are at St. Lazare; they like a
cup in a morning, and they'll miss it."

"What more? Would you ruin me, you extortionate fellow?"

"Oh, just as you like, Daddy Micou,--don't say another word, but I shall
ask the big-wig--"

"Well, then, they shall have the coffee," said the receiver,
interrupting him. "But devil take you! Accursed be the day when I first
knew you!"

"Old boy, I say quite the contrary. I am delighted to have your valuable
acquaintance at this particular moment. I revere you as a nursing
father."

"I hope you have nothing more to ask of me?" said Micou, with
bitterness.

"Yes; say to my mother and sister that, if I was frightened when they
apprehended me, I am no longer so, but as determined as they two are."

"I'll say so. Anything more?"

"Stay another moment or two. I forgot to ask you for a couple of pairs
of warm woollen stockings,--you'd be sorry if I caught cold, shouldn't
you?"

"I should be glad if you were dead."

"Thank ye, daddy, thank ye! But that pleasure is yet to come, and to-day
I'm alive and kicking, and inclined to take things easy. If they serve
me as they did my father, at least I shall have enjoyed my life while it
lasted."

"It's a nice life, yours is!"

"Superb! Since I have been here I've enjoyed myself like a king. If we
had lamps and fireworks, they would have lighted them up, and fired them
off in my honour, when they knew I was the son of the famous Martial who
was guillotined."

"How affecting! What a glorious parentage!"

"Why, d'ye see, there are many dukes and marquises. Why, then, shouldn't
we have our nobility, too?--such as us!" said the ruffian, with bitter
irony.

"To be sure, and Charlot (the headsman) will give you your letters of
nobility on the Place du Palais."

"You may be sure it won't be the gaol chaplain. But in prison we should
have the nobility of top-sawyers (noted robbers) to be thought much of;
if not, you are looked upon as nobody at all. You should only see how
they behave to those who are not tip-tops and give themselves airs. Now
there's in here a chap called Germain, a young fellow, who appears
disgusted with us, and seems to despise us all. Let him take care of his
hide! He's a sulky hound, and they say he is a 'nose' (a spy); if he is,
they'll screw his nose around, just by way of warning."

"Germain? A young man called Germain?"

"Yes; d'ye know him? Is he one of us? If so, in spite of his looks,
we--"

"I don't know him; but if he is the Germain I have heard speak of, his
affair is settled."

"How?"

"Why, he has only just escaped from a plot which Velu and the
Stout-Cripple laid for him lately."

"Why?"

"I don't know, but they said that in the country somewhere he had
tricked one of their pals."

"I was sure of it, Germain is a spy. Well, we'll spy him! I'll go and
tell our friends; that'll set them sharper against him. By the way, how
does Gros-Boiteux get on with your lodgers?"

"Thank heaven, I have got rid of him,--a blackguard! You'll see him here
to-day or to-morrow."

"All right; how we shall laugh! He's a boy who is never taken aback!"

"It's because I knew that he would find this Germain here that I said
his affair was settled,--if it's the same chap."

"Why have they got hold of the Gros-Boiteux?"

"For a robbery committed with a discharged convict, who wanted to turn
honest and work. Well, you see, the Gros-Boiteux soon got him in a
string; he is such a vicious devil, the Boiteux! I am certain it was he
who broke open the trunk of the two women who live in the little room
on my fourth floor."

"What women?--ah, yes, two women! You was smitten by the young 'un, I
remember, you old vagabond, because you thought her so nice."

"They'll not smite anybody any more, for by this time the mother must be
dead, and the daughter is scarcely alive. I shall lose a fortnight's
rent, and I sha'n't give a sou to pay for their burial. I've had so many
losses, without talking of the little matters you entreat me to give you
and your family, that my affairs are quite disarranged. I've had the
luck of it this year."

"Pooh, pooh! You are always complaining, old gentleman; you who are as
rich as Croesus. But don't let me detain you."

"You're polite."

"You'll call and tell me how mother and Calabash are when you bring me
my other provisions?"

"Yes, if I must."

"Ah, I'd nearly forgot; whilst you're about it, bring me a new cap, of
plaid velvet, with an acorn at top; mine's regularly done for."

"Come, now, you're laughing at me."

"No, daddy, by no means; I want a plaid velvet cap. That's my wish."

"Then you're resolved to make a beggar of me?"

"Come, I say, Micou, don't get out of temper about it. It's only yes or
no,--I do not force you, but--you understand?"

The receiver, reflecting that he was at the mercy of Nicholas, rose,
fearing that if he prolonged his visit he would be exposed to fresh
demands.

"You shall have your cap," he replied; "but mind, if you ask me for
anything more, I will give you nothing,--let what will occur, you'll
suffer as much as I shall."

"Make your mind easy, I'll not make you sing (force you to give money
under the threat of certain disclosures) more than is sufficient for you
not to lose your voice; for that would be a pity, you sing so well."

The receiver went away, shrugging his shoulders with rage, and the
turnkey conducted Nicholas back to the interior of the prison.

At the moment when Micou quitted the reception-room, Rigolette entered
it. The turnkey, a man about forty years of age, an old soldier, with
stern and marked features, was dressed in a round jacket, with a blue
cap and trousers; two silver stars were embroidered on the collar and
facings of his jacket. At the sight of the grisette the face of this man
brightened up, and assumed an expression of benevolence. He had always
been struck by the grace, gentleness, and touching kindness with which
Rigolette consoled Germain when she came there to see him. Germain was,
besides, not an ordinary prisoner; his reserve, his peaceable demeanour,
and his melancholy inspired the persons about the prison with deep
interest,--an interest which they did not manifest, for fear of exposing
him to the ill-treatment of his brutal companions, who, as we have said,
looked upon him with mistrusting hate. It was raining in torrents, but,
thanks to her goloshes and umbrella, Rigolette had boldly faced the wind
and rain.

"What a shocking day, my poor girl!" said the turnkey, kindly. "It
requires a good deal of courage to leave home such weather as this."

"When we think as we come along of the pleasure we shall give a poor
prisoner, we don't think much about the weather, sir."

"I need not ask you whom you have come to see?"

"Certainly not. And how is poor Germain?"

"Why, my dear, I have seen many prisoners; they have been sad for a
day,--two days, perhaps,--and then gradually got into the same way as
the others; and those who were most out of sorts at first often ended
by becoming the merriest of all. But M. Germain, is not one of these, he
has still that melancholy air."

"How sorry I am to hear it!"

"When I'm on duty in the yards, I look at him from the corner of my eye,
he is always alone. I have already told you that you should advise him
not to do so, but to resolve on conversing with the others, or it will
end with his becoming suspected and ill-used by them. We keep a close
look-out, but a mischievous blow is soon given."

"Oh, sir, is there any danger threatens him?" cried Rigolette.

"Not precisely, but these ruffians see that he is not one of them, and
hate him because he has an honest and proud look."

"Yet I advised him to do what you told me, sir, and make up his mind to
talk to some of the least wicked! But he cannot help it, he cannot get
over his repugnance."

"He is wrong--wrong! A struggle is so soon begun."

"Can't he, then, be separated from the others?"

"For the last two or three days, since I have seen their ill-will
towards him, I advised him to place himself what we call _a la
pistole_,--that is, in a room."

"Well?"

"I had not thought of one thing. A whole row of cells is undergoing
repair, and the others are full."

"But these wretches may kill him!" said Rigolette, her eyes filling with
tears. "And if, by chance, he had any protectors, what could they do for
him, sir?"

"Nothing, but enable him to obtain what these debtors who can pay for it
obtain,--a chamber, _a la pistole_."

"Alas, then, he is lost, if they hate him in prison."

"Oh, don't be downhearted, we will look well to him. But I repeat, my
dear, do advise him to familiarise himself a little,--the first step is
half the battle."

"I will advise him as strongly as I can, sir. But for a good and honest
heart it is very hard, you know, to familiarise itself with such
people."

"Of two evils we must choose the least. Now I will fetch M. Germain. But
now I think of it," said the turnkey, "there are only two visitors; wait
until they are gone, there'll not be any more to-day, for it is two
o'clock. I will then fetch M. Germain, and you can talk at your ease. I
can then, when you are alone, let him come into the passage, so that you
will be separated by one grating instead of two. Won't that be better?"

"Ah, sir, how kind you are, and how much I thank you!"

"Hush! Do not let any one hear you, or they may be jealous. Sit down
there at the end of the bench, and when this man and woman have gone, I
will tell M. Germain."

The turnkey returned to his post inside the grating, and Rigolette sat
down very melancholy at the end of the visitors' bench.

Whilst the grisette is awaiting the coming of Germain, we will allow the
reader to overhear the conversation of the prisoners who remained there
after the departure of Nicholas Martial.




CHAPTER VI.

PIQUE-VINAIGRE.


The prisoner who was beside Barbillon was a man about forty-five years
of age, thin, mean-looking, with a keen, intelligent, jovial, merry
face. He had an enormous mouth, almost entirely toothless; and, when he
spoke, he worked it from side to side, very much after the style of
those orators who are accustomed to harangue from booths at fairs. His
nose was flat, his head disproportionately large and nearly bald; he
wore an old gray knit worsted waistcoat, a pair of trousers of
indescribable colour, torn and patched in a thousand places; his feet,
half wrapped up in pieces of old linen, were thrust into wooden shoes.

This man, Fortune Gobert, called Pique-Vinaigre, formerly a juggler, a
convict freed after condemnation for the crime of uttering false money,
was charged with having broken from gaol and committed violent burglary.
Having been confined but very few days in La Force, Pique-Vinaigre
already filled the office of story-teller, to the general satisfaction
of his fellow prisoners. Now story-tellers have become very rare, but
formerly each ward had usually, for a slight general subscription, its
official story-teller, who, by his narrations, made the long winter
evenings appear less tedious when the prisoners went to bed at sunset.

If it be curious to note the desire for these fictions which these
outcasts display, it is yet a more singular thing to reflect upon the
hearing of these recitals. Men corrupted to the very marrow, thieves,
and murderers, prefer especially the histories in which are expressed
generous, heroic sentiments, recitals in which weakness and goodness are
avenged in fierce retribution. It is the same thing with women of lost
reputation; they are singularly fond of simple, touching, and
sentimental details, and almost invariably refuse to read obscene books.

Pique-Vinaigre excelled in that kind of heroic tales in which weakness,
after a thousand trials, concludes by triumphing over persecution. He
possessed, besides, a deep fund of satire, which had procured for him
his name, his repartees being very frequently ironical or merry. He had
just entered the reception-room. Opposite to him, on the other side of
the grating, was a female of about thirty-five years of age, of pale,
mild, and interesting countenance, meanly but cleanly clad. She was
weeping bitterly, and held a handkerchief to her eyes. Pique-Vinaigre
looked at her with a mixture of impatience and affection.

"Come, Jeanne," he said, "do not play the child. It is sixteen years
since we met, and to keep your handkerchief up to your eyes is not the
way for us to know each other again."

"Brother--my poor, dear Fortune! I am choking--I cannot speak."

"Ah, nonsense! What ails you?"

His sister repressed her sobs, wiped her eyes, and, looking at him with
astonishment, replied, "What ails me? What, when I find you again in
prison, where you have already been fifteen years!"

"True. It is six months to-day since I left Melun; and I didn't call
upon you in Paris because the capital was forbidden to me."

"Why did you leave Beaugency when you were under surveillance?"

"In the first place, Jeanne, since the gratings are between us, you
must fancy I have embraced you, squeezed you in my arms, as a man ought
to do who has not seen his sister for an eternity. Now let us talk. A
prisoner at Melun, who is called the Gros-Boiteux, told me that there
was at Beaugency an old convict of his acquaintance, who employed the
freed prisoners in a factory of white lead. Those who work at it in a
month or two catch the lead-colic. One in three of those attacked die.
It is true that others die also; but they take their time about it and
get on, sometimes as long as a year or even eighteen months. Then the
trade is better paid than most others, and there are fellows who hold
out at it for two or three years. But they are elders--patriarchs--of
the white-leaders. They die, it is true, but that is all."

"And why did you choose a trade so dangerous that they die at it?"

"What could I do? When I went to Melun for that well-known job of the
forged coin I was a thimble-rigger. As in gaol there was no scope for my
line of business, and I am not stronger than a good stout flea, they put
me to making children's toys. There was a tradesman in Paris who found
it very advantageous to have his wooden trumpets and swords made by the
prisoners. Why, I must have made half the wooden swords used by the
children of Paris; and I was great in the trumpet line. Rattles,
too,--why, with two of my manufacture I could have set on edge the teeth
of a whole battalion! Well, when my time was up I was a first-rate maker
of penny trumpets, and my only resource was making child's playthings.
Now, supposing that a whole town, young and old, were inclined to play
tur-tu-tu-tu on my trumpets, I should still have had a good deal of
trouble to earn a livelihood; and then I could not have induced a whole
population to continue playing the trumpet from morning to night."

"You are still such a jester!"

"Better joke than cry. Well, then, seeing that at forty leagues from
Paris my trade of juggler was no more useful to me than my trumpets, I
requested the surveillance at Beaugency, intending to become a
white-leader. It is a trade that gives you indigestion enough to send
you mad; but until one bursts one lives, and that is always something,
and it was better than turning thief. I am neither brave nor strong
enough to thieve, and it was from pure accident that I did the thing I
have just mentioned to you."

"And yet you had the courage to take up with a deadly trade! Come now,
Fortune, you wish to make yourself out worse than you are."

"I thought that the malady would have so little to take hold of in me
that it would go elsewhere, and that I should become one of the
patriarchal white-leaders. Well, when I came out of prison, I found my
earnings had considerably increased by telling stories."

"So you told us. You remember how it amused poor old mother?"

"Dear soul! She never suspected that I was at Melun?"

"Never. She thought you had gone abroad."

"Why, my girl, my follies were my father's fault, who dressed me up as a
clown to help in his mountebank displays, to swallow tow and spit fire,
which did not allow me spare time to form acquaintance with the sons of
the peers of France; and so I fell into bad company. But to return to
Beaugency. When once I had left Melun, like the rest, I thought I must
see some fun; if not, what was the use of my money? Well, I reached
Beaugency, with scarcely a sou in my pocket. I asked for Velu, the
friend of Gros-Boiteux, the head of the manufactory. Your servant! There
was no longer any white-lead factory; it had killed eleven persons in
the year, and the old convict had shut up shop. So here I was in the
middle of this city, with my talent for trumpet-making as my only means
of existence, and my discharge from prison as my only certificate of
recommendation. I did my best to procure work, but in vain. One called
me a thief, another a beggar, a third said I had escaped from gaol; all
turned their backs upon me. So I had nothing to do but die of hunger in
a city which I was not to leave for five years. Seeing this, I broke my
ban, and came to Paris to utilise my talents. As I had not the means to
travel in a coach and four, I came begging and tramping all the way,
avoiding the _gens-d'armes_ as I would a mad dog. I had luck, and
reached Auteuil without accident. I was very tired, hungry as a wolf,
and dressed, as you may see, not in the height of the fashion." And
Pique-Vinaigre glanced comically at his rags. "I had not a sou, and was
liable to be taken up as a vagabond. Well, _ma foi!_ an occasion
presented itself; the devil tempted me, and, in spite of my cowardice--"

"Enough, brother,--enough!" said his sister, fearing lest the turnkey
might hear his dangerous confession.

"Are you afraid they listen?" he said. "Be tranquil; I have nothing to
conceal. I was taken in the act."

"Alas!" said Jeanne, weeping bitterly; "how calmly you say this!"

"If I spoke warmly what should I gain by it? Come, listen to reason,
Jeanne. Must I have to console you?"

Jeanne wiped her eyes and sighed.

"Well, to go back to my affair," continued Pique-Vinaigre. "I had nearly
reached Auteuil, in the dusk. I could not go any farther, and I did not
wish to enter Paris but at night; so I sat down behind a hedge to rest
myself, and reflect on my plan of campaign. My reflections sent me to
sleep, and when the sound of voices awoke me it was night. I listened.
It was a man and woman, who were talking as they went along on the other
side of the hedge. The man said to the woman, 'Who do you think would
come and rob us? Haven't we left the house alone a hundred times?'
'Yes,' replied the woman; 'but then we hadn't a hundred francs in the
drawers.' 'Who knows that, you fool?' says the husband. 'You are right,'
replies the wife; and on they went. _Ma foi!_ the occasion seemed to me
too favourable to lose, and there was no danger. I waited until they got
a little farther on, and then came from behind the hedge, and, looking
twenty paces behind me, I saw a small cottage, which I was sure must be
the house with the hundred francs, as it was the only habitation in
sight. Auteuil was about five hundred yards off. I said to
myself,'Courage, old boy,--there is no one. Then it is night; if there
is no watch-dog (you know I was always afraid of dogs), why, the job is
as good as done.' Luckily there was no dog. To make sure I knocked at
the door. Nothing. This encouraged me. The shutters were closed on the
ground floor, but I put my stick between and forced them. I got into the
window, and in the room the fire was still alight. So I saw the drawers,
but no key. With the tongs I forced the lock, and under a heap of linen
I found the prize, wrapped in an old woollen stocking. I did not think
of taking anything else, but jumping out of the window, I alighted on
the back of the garde-champetre, who was returning home."

"What a misfortune!"

"The moon had risen. He saw me jump from the window and seized me. He
was a fellow who could have eaten a dozen such as I was. Too great a
coward to resist, I surrendered quietly. I had the stocking still in my
hand, and he heard the money chink, took it, put it in his game bag, and
made me accompany him to Auteuil. We reached the mayor's with a crowd of
blackguards and _gens-d'armes_. The owners of the cottage were fetched,
and they made their depositions. There was no means of denial; so I
confessed everything and signed the depositions, and they put on me
handcuffs, and I was brought here."

"In prison again, and for a long time, perhaps?"

"Listen to me, Jeanne, for I will not deceive you. I may as well tell
you at once; for it is no longer an affair of prison."

"Why not?"

"Why, the relapse, the breaking in and entry into a dwelling-house at
night, the lawyer told me, is a complete affair, and I shall have
fifteen or twenty years at the galleys, and the public exposure into the
bargain."

"The galleys,--and you so weak? Why, you'll die!"

"And suppose I had been with the white-lead party?"

"But the galleys,--the galleys!"

"It is a prison in the open air, with a red shirt instead of a brown
one; and then I have always had a curiosity to see the sea!"

"But the public exposure! To be subject to the contempt of all the
world! Oh, my poor brother!" And the poor woman wept bitterly.

"Come, come, Jeanne, be composed; it is an

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